Work Text:
Nothing had been different at first; in fact, they found the absence to bring about a welcomed silence that they basked in; that is, for about 2 weeks, at which point it was becoming painfully apparent that the same absence that they found solace in, was going to be their slow undoing. It was an estranged thought that neither Grif , Donut, nor Sarge had ever dared think about, granted the possibility of that same situation that they did not want to think about would happen was an overwhelming turn of events that they were suddenly presented with after a particularly devastating attack via one of those rouge Freelancers.
Simmons was dead.
The so-called ”funeral” for him had been less-than paltry, but not for the reasons one would have suspected from the Reds; none of them had anything to say, but not because they didn’t know what to say, but because they couldn’t choke out the eulogy without breaking their façades of casualness.
_._
Grif, on his part, had not done much of anything (quite the contrary to Sarge, who had done nothing but keep himself busying to avoid the reality of the situation) other than sit in his bunk, trying to ignore the annoyingly empty cot that lay across the room and the decrepit line of red tape that lay lengthwise down the center of the room; it reminded him too much of Simmons, and how aggravating he found it that he was no longer there.
Against regulation, they had kept Simmons’ helmet, intending to present it like a totem of victory, but within days afterwards, Sarge decided against it and asked Grif to keep it with him until they could get it cleaned properly. So it sat uselessly on the vacated cot, positioned nicely in the middle of the pillow, serving no reason other than to remind Grif of what he had allowed himself to lose.
Most days he avoided looking at it, preferring to stare at the floor, or the wall, anywhere but at the helmet; because not only was it a piece of his uniform, it was the preferable way to identify who Simmons was. Sure Grif could easily bring an image of his teammate’s round face, framed by short black hair and bi-dotted with green/hazel eyes, but the helmet had become the key identifying factor; the way he wore it a bit crooked, didn’t bother buffing it long enough for permanent dings, scrapes, and stains to form, and how Donut used to paint little butterflies on the back without Simmons noticing. All part of Simmons, all part of who he was to them.
Having gotten himself on the topic, Grif could not help but glance over at the helmet. In the spin of turning his head, he could almost imagine Simmons sitting on the cot scrutinizing him like he used to; back rested against the metal headboard, legs crossed and lying flat over the covers - his body language becoming the embodiment of exasperation consistently. ”Shouldn’t you be working?” Simmons would ask, just like every day, and Grif would shrug. ”Sarge ‘ll get mad at you if you’re not helping Lopez fix the Jeep.” He would point out, and Grif understood that, he always did, he was never sure why Simmons felt the need to reiterate that point.
It’s because he didn’t want me to get in trouble… Grif had to remind himself, his posture slumping down the slightest bit. He was always looking out for me.
A playback of the situation 2 weeks ago plagued his mind; three high-caliber rifles were aimed at Grif and Simmons’ hiding spot, the shots never ended, the sound of a sticky bomb assaulted their audio sensors, they looked at each other and dived out of cover just as the rocky outcrop exploded. Then out in the open and subject to rifle fire, Grif remembers Simmons grabbing him and throwing him a few meters to another outcropping; the sickening sound of bullets piercing armor and tearing flesh still haunts him.
His legs worked on their own as Grif stepped over to the empty cot and stood there silently for a good 30 seconds. Mindlessly he reached down to pick the helmet up, holding it delicately in his grasp, he scanned the helmet and could not suppress a shiver.
The already grimy maroon piece of armor was a very blunt reminder of what happened; the orange visor was obliterated, cracks expanding out from two definite bullet holes. Dried blood still clung to the visor, and the dried streams created lines down the front of the faceplates; Grif felt bile rise in his throat after thinking about how much pain Simmons must have been in.
“Idiot…” He mumbled into the vast emptiness of the room, cradling the helmet to his chest protectively.
Grif was not known for feeling bad, about anything, even if it was his fault; but standing there, alone, lonely, Grif felt nothing but unbiased hatred towards himself, no matter how hard he tried to hate Simmons for being so dumb, he couldn’t, he hated himself, and wished he could have nothing to do with himself.
It made him sick when he realized what kind of selfless bullshit must have been running through Simmons’ head to make him think that saving Grif, and therefore forfeiting his own life, was the preferable option. Why would he choose to die, why?! Grif got angry and rammed his fist into the nearest wall, it hurt, but to him it was barely a tingle.
He was better than you, in every way he was better than you. You should have died, you should have gotten him out of the way, he’s the only person who ever gave you more than the time of day, he was your friend you jackass. He’s dead, because of you. You useless dirtbag, asshole, inconsiderate murderer!
A choked sound came out of his mouth, and it startled him back to reality, just in time to feel the hot tears running over his face underneath his helmet, they stung the raw scrapes there.
You were nothing but an ass to him, every day, for years.
He staggered over to sit on the edge of the empty cot, clutching the helmet to his chest for dear life, trying to ground himself, trying to keep things the way they were, pretending nothing had happened and it was not his fault.
He deserved so much better than you. He called you a friend.
Grif curled his legs in; he knew he must have looked ridiculous, but Simmons wasn’t there to mock him, and he sure wasn’t there to comfort him, that much was certain.
“I’m so sorry, buddy.”
_._
Donut was not going to lie, he had cried, quite a lot actually, right after the miserable failure of a funeral service, he had practically sprinted back inside the base, into his room, and cried. He does not, in hind sight, remember just how long he did, but he remembers burying his face in the pillows to stifle the noise, he didn’t want to embarrass himself any more than he already had.
”Please Simmons, please don’t be dead, no one around here is ever dead permanently. Please come back…” He remembered crying the phrase into his pillow, over and over, as if saying it enough would make his desire come to fruition. It didn’t.
Grif told him that after he initially ran off, Donut had not left his room for an entire day, presumably having cried himself exhausted and fallen asleep. He could not find the part of him that cared much about that; no annoying crack about ’Getting his beauty sleep.’, nothing but a shrug.
The days following were uneventful, and if he was honest, Donut did not remember them much, but he remembered feeling better on the tail end of his loss of memory, more positive and bubbly like he knew he used to be. He strutted out into the kitchen one morning; Grif was sitting at the table with a soggy bowl of un-eaten cereal in front of him, his head held in his hands looking to be the physical embodiment of devastation.
“What’s up Grif?” Donut asked cheerily, swinging open a cabinet and pulling out a box of cereal. There was no response, he wondered why.
He poured a bowl for himself and preemptively got a bowl and left it out in case Sarge came in and wanted to partake in the morning cereal-consumption. In the back of his mind he wondered why he had not seen the resident team captain in a day or two; who knows, he was probably super busy with something to destroy the Blues with anyway.
In the silence, after Donut sat down to eat, Grif made a very obtrusive sound that sounded like he was holding back a cough, but he rapidly realized it was a sob, and so he turned to his teammate with a concerned expression. “What’s wrong Grif? Did Sarge finally admit that he likes Simmons more than you?” He joked. But the joke did now blow over well when Grif made the same sound he had before, stood up, violently flinging his bowl onto the floor and hurrying out of the room. The porcelain bowl, one of the few good ones they had, shattered upon impact.
Donut threw a confused look at his teammate as he hurried away, “Jeez,” He did not let his mind linger on the odd behavior for too long, he had a bowl of cereal with his name on it. The thought occurred to him only moments later that he should get a bowl out for Simmons; this was his favorite cereal after all, he’d hate to be left out.
The next week came around just as smooth as the last for Donut, although he found the scattered absences of his team to be a bit disheartening. Stepping outside into the crisp Autum morning, he spotted Lopez reclined against the side of the Jeep, staring at the ground, “Hey Lopez,” Donut greeted cheerily, and the robot looked up slowly, nodding his hello. “You seen Sarge around? And where the hell is Simmons?”
Lopez visually flinched at the question and a million scenarios flew through Donut’s mind; maybe they were doing a secret project, like a cool laser, or a new vehicle. Oh! Or maybe they’re planning his surprise birthday party!
“Está…muerto, Donut.” Lopez mumbled hesitantly, the caution evident even when twinned with the robotic monotone. He stepped forward a bit, his hand held out as if to steady something, but it stopped mid-motion, “¿Estás bien?”
“Yeah I’m sure they’re around here somewhere, thanks anyway Lopez!”
The words were foreign and strange to donut still, but he, like the others, assumed he understood the inflections and could get the gist of what he was telling them; so he was content to leave well-enough alone and get on with searching for his friends.
Atypical Donut-esq thoughts wormed through his mind as they did every day; what should he cook for dinner, what’s Caboose up to and if he could possibly hang out today, and other such of the like. It was cold out, but not too terrible, it actually felt rather nice considering how constricting and hot their armor got, he reminded himself to pull a few extra blankets out of the closets for everyone so they won’t get cold at night.
He smiled to himself, a small spring evident in his step, quite content with the day; uneventful, calm, peaceful.
Turkey! That was it; he would make a turkey dinner for the team, to hopefully cheer everyone up with a big meal. That always worked.
Grif loved food, of course, Sarge (though he would never admit it) cherished the time when it was not proper to yell and he could enjoy the time, Lopez did not eat food like they did but it was basically a family gathering so he was always around, and Simmons adored Donut’s cooking; he always ate as much as he could and complimented his teammate profusely on the meal.
Donut hoped that the smell of food would get Grif and Sarge out of the completely inexplicable funk.
And he sure hoped Simmons came around soon, he was starting to worry.
_._
Leaping over a toppled crate, and snatching a previously discarded shotgun Sarge reached to his belt and pulled out a few massive shotgun shells, loading the gun furiously he turned the barrel towards the far end of their training field and took two echoing shots at the cardboard cutout of one of the Blues; in his hurry he vaguely pointed out the royal blue armor and pinned the cutout as Caboose.
He flipped around, dropped into a crouching position and low-swept another cutout that popped up (bright teal armor; definitely Tucker) and effectively snapped it in-two. He snatched both the pistols from the holsters at his hips and fired them simultaneously at the range of 10 targets set up around a rock face; he his every single one of them dead-center.
In his peripheral he saw two more cutouts shoot out from their hiding spots; one with pale grey and yellow armor, the other with muted black. Washington and Tex. He thought with distain as he sent two perfectly configured bullets through both of the Freelancer’s foreheads. To his right another set; pale blue, and another with standard white armor. Carolina, and Wyoming.
He surprised himself as his anger piqued in his mind and he loaded and entire clip into either one of the Freelancer cutouts. Above him, another cutout, and the moment Sarge laid eyes on the white armor and rounded yellow visor, a feeling welled inside him that he did not suppose he’d felt ever before.
Rage, it was rage, and anger and hatred all wrapped around regret and devastation that he was trying so hard to keep bundled up inside of him. But not now, he was not going to allow petty pride stop him this time.
Sarge launched up, dropping one of the pistols and using the other to shoot a line of bullets straight up The Meta cutout’s torso, and when he heard the empty click of the spent gun, he wound his arm back and landed a vengeful pistol whip to its chest, busting a hole in the cardboard. He was not near sated, and he rammed his foot down on the hinge to the hydraulic that activated the pop-out action and snapped the stand off; Sarge easily lifted the cutout off the metal holder and snapped it in half over his knee.
He tossed both piece to the ground and followed them down with, what sounded like a war cry; he tore the lower half in two, and then again and again until the pieces were nothing but bits of cardboard. He was frenzied when he tossed the scrap away and turned back to the upper half of the mutilated cut-out, he rammed his fist into the surface, which offered little cushion from the hard ground beneath it, but Sarge could care less, it made him feel a thousand times better.
He pulled out his spare pistol from the holster by his boot and held the gun over The Meta’s head; he hesitated, but began unloading the entire clip into the cut out. He roared as he did, angry, savage; he did not know why he felt the need to, but he did, and he was done stopping himself.
Even after the empty click of the gun replaced the overbearing gunshots, and the valley was all silent except for Sarge’s heavy breathing and continuing exclamation. Slowly, at his own pace, Sarge stopped pulling the trigger of the pistol; he looked at it with fuzzy vision and slowly let his fingers go limp, therefore allowing the gun to slip from his grasp and clatter uselessly to the ground. The rest of his posture followed suit, his shoulder slumping down, arms falling lifelessly at his sides, and his legs pushing him back to sit against the large boulder he was once standing on.
He did not do much for the following hour other than stare at the sky; a deceptively blue expanse that appeared to be a delusion to a pleasant day, a pleasant life, though it was everything but.
”The sky seems nice today, sir.” Simmons said with a grin, turning to look at his Sargent from where they both stood by as Sarge oversaw Lopez’s progress on the new Jeep. Sarge sighed but humored his first officer, looking up to stare at the baby blue sky dotted with white tuffs of clouds and the occasional meteorite that skidded through the planet’s atmosphere.
“Actually,” Sarge began, smiling over at Simmons, “It does look rather nice. Good eye, Simmons.” He said, and meant it.
“Thank you sir!”
Sarge smiled softly to no one in particular, regarding the memory with a fondness he had hoped he would never have to implicate. He reached up and undid the clasps on his helmet and pulled it off; he noticed a strand of his own light blonde hair in his peripheral, annoyed already he had let his uniform buzz-cut get forgotten in his schedule as of late.
Simmons usually reminded him anyway, because Sarge got so busy with other things, Simmons was there though, all the time, always ready to help. Sarge was not sure if he ever explained just how grateful he was to have such a good soldier.
A good friend.
”You really should let me help you more often, sir. I’m sure you could never see it, but the angles you cut along the back of your head are atrocious.” Simmons pointed out as he tried to remedy the problem with an electric razor, “No offense intended, sir.” He corrected himself quickly.
Sarge waved a hand, “Eh, none taken private, I know I’m no good at lookin’ good.” He heard his soldier chuckle.
“You look fine, sir.” Simmons ran the razor down the back of Sergeant’s head to his neck, creating new, even lines.
“No need to patronize me,” Sarge chuckled, turning his head when Simmons prompted him to do so, so he could reach the other part of his head.
“I’m not patronizing sir,” Sarge saw the other smile in the mirror, a truthful, meaningful smile that lit up his face. “I mean it; you’re a catch.”
Sarge could not tell if he was just humoring him or if he was being truthful, but some part of him hoped it was the later, and that it was coming from Simmons’ own honest opinion of him. Whenever he began thinking like that was a mystery to him.
The ambiance of the surroundings was calming, even Sarge had to admit; it relaxed his nerves and soothed the rising emotions in his chest. There were a few noises that sounded deceptively like the tweeting of birds, but he had never seen a single avian on the planet so far, strange; he grinned and remembered how Simmons would run around in the early morning hours, trying to find birds or anything that was making the sound so he could put it in the records.
His limbs ached from the strain of his training earlier, and the training he had done at sunrise, and the training he did the previous day, and despite the pain he was looking forward to his next workout; he momentarily contemplated turning on the quick-release firing range and just unloading on the cutouts with bullets instead of exhausting his muscles.
No, he decided, that won’t help. Not that pummeling cardboard cutouts with his fists helped him much, but his bruised flesh and bleeding knuckles were what helped Sarge chip away at the growing devastation welling inside his chest; the physical affliction drawing the pain away.
The movie had been absolutely dreadful, but Donut had insisted within an inch of his life that they watch it for ‘Educational Film Night’, which never turned out to be educational anyway but more of Sarge telling them all war stories that they suspected never actually happened.
Donut was sat on the floor in front of the couch between Simmons’ knees, a red blanket wrapped around him and his knees curled up to his chest; he focused eagerly on the television. Simmons was on the couch, trapped between Grif on his left, and Sarge on his right who had an arm around his waist. Lopez was behind them, leaning against the wall and trying not to get too buddy-buddy with his “team”, he had, honestly, tuned out the movie a while ago.
The movie was some documentary about Penguins, and they all agreed that the narrator was probably the best part, except for Donut, who argued that the penguin march was the most important part.
“This is so dumb,” Grif mumbled, crossing his arms as he moved as far away from Simmons on the sofa as possible.
“It could be educational for once,” The maroon-armored soldier next to him commented. Grif groaned.
Sarge grinned and leaned forward to glare over at his least favorite subordinate, jostling Simmons a bit in the process, “Shut it Grif, and try to learn something for once.” He said pointedly.
Again, Grif huffed in annoyance and slumped down further, starring begrudgingly at the screen currently showing a vast white expanse of snow and ice and a huddle of penguins. “I have no problem with learning, but if you two are going to fucking snuggle the entire time, I may just throw up.” He grumbled.
Donut joined in the talk, “Hey leave ‘em alone Grif; they’re cute.” He smiled pleasantly before turning back towards the movie.
Sarge jerked forward, incidentally pulling Simmons closer to him, “Private, let me tell you something: little puppy dogs and kittens are cute, babies are cute, Simmons can be cute when he gets flustered, and even these stupid penguins-“ He motioned at the TV, “are cute. I, however, am not cute.” He sat back again, letting out a loud huff.
Simmons grinned and leaned up to peck Sarge on the cheek, chuckling quietly when he flinched away at first, “Don’t count yourself out, sir.”
“Gaaah, gross!” Grif whined and rested his head back on the couch.
Sarge stepped into the base, his shoulders anything but squared, posture anything but proud; not befitting of a Red Army Sergeant. Even though there was only one person missing, there seemed to be a vast emptiness to their home; he remembered Grif commenting on it once, before he went into seclusion.
There were footsteps that were not his that drew closer, then they stopped, and Sarge could not be bothered to look up; if he had his helmet on the HUD would display the I.D. of whomever it was, allowing him the pleasantry of not having to look up, or care much at all. There was a silence that ensued, “Ven conmigo.” Lopez drawled before he turned and walked away, expecting his creator to follow. Sarge sighed, but followed anyway; he inferred the request for him to follow without having to use the translator in his helmet.
He followed the robot team member to the basement facility and stood silently in the emptiness of the room whilst Lopez worked at one of the many consoles, typing away. Finally the silence was broken, “¿Recuerda los mensajes que todos ustedes registraron, por si muriera?” Lopez asked, but did not wait for an answer. “Simons dejó éste a usted.” He pressed a final button and turned around, putting a hand on Sarge’s shoulder to coax him to look up.
A holographic projection of Simmons appeared, helmet tucked under his arm and a pleasant grin on his face; Sarge recoiled, suddenly at attention.
||| You sure I have to do this Lopez? It seems kind of…depressing. |||
||| Sí. |||
|||Ah, alright. |||
Holographic Simmons cleared his throat and fixed his posture.
||| Hey Sarge, its Simmons, er- well, obviously it’s Simmons, but uh…oh goddammit. |||
There was a split second of static before the image became clear again.
||| Hey Sarge, so I guess if you’re watching this then…well I guess I’m dead. Either that or you got curious and went into Lopez’s files. Regardless, I’d like to keep this short; I’m not going to be dramatic about something that no one other than Lopez will probably ever see. But uhm, regarding an instance in which you’re watching this post my death, it’d like to say...well, I love you, Sarge, and I’m sorry I was not a better soldier, or a better partner. That’s…that’s all I ever wanted to accomplish, and maybe, even if you are having to watch this, that I managed to succeed in doing just that; meaning I hope you don’t absolutely hate me whilst watching this. |||
“I could never…” Sarge mumbled, but quickly silenced himself.
||| Even so, just, do me a favor, and don’t…just don’t forget me, alright? I mean- fuck, that sounds really lame and more than cliché, but I can’t think of anything to better summarize how I… |||
He hesitated, sighing.
||| My grandmother said that to me, the day she died. To never forget her, because if I ever did, then she would really be gone; she would really be dead. I’m sure you’ve heard that before, it’s said far too often, but I think I can understand the implications. |||
There was a content smile that grew over Simmons’ features, and he distracted his restless extremities by taping mindlessly on his helmet. From somewhere else on the recording another voice came through, a fair bit fainter than Simmons’ voice, but loud in comparison to the relative silence of the room.
||| Simmons? Front and center soldier, we’re having a team meeting! |||
Sarge, that was Sarge on the recording, from back whenever the video was documented.
||| Coming sir, one moment! |||
Simmons turned back towards the front, still smiling. He moved the stray strands of black hair from his forehead before straightening the square rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose.
||| Duty calls, sir. I’ll be seeing you in a minute. But please consider what I said, I really don’t want to be forgotten, Sarge, I…I guess I’d like to say, that…I’ll miss you all. That no matter how annoying you all are, and trust me, you all are, I will miss you, and I hope you’ll miss me. |||
||| Simmons! Where are you? I said front-and-center! |||
|||Right away sir!|||
Simmons grinned and shook his head exasperatedly.
||| Alright I guess I need to get going; don’t forget what I said. Love you. |||
With that, the Simmons hologram pulled his helmet over his head and jogged off-screen, the sheer casualness of the goodbye sending a pang of guilt through Sarge’s chest. Especially because it really was a goodbye.
Stray tears slipped over his eyelids and down his cheeks, despite the almost content smile that he had on his face.
Lopez stepped up next to him, confused and concerned by the Sergeant’s contradictory behavior; he placed a careful hand on his shoulder, now surprised that he was not swatted away. He felt Sarge’s frame shaking, and for the first time, Lopez had no idea how to remedy the situation.
“Lopez do me a favor,” Sarge began, his voice more hoarse and shakier than usual. “Turn on the experimental A.I. with the Simmons module Official V.2.”
Again he did not understand Sarge, and he wanted to protest against the use of the system, considering it had not been perfected yet, and he knew that indulging the heartbroken sergeant in his request would only worsen the situation in the long run. But the more human subroutines sent a wave of pity through his systems, and Lopez nodded. “Si señor.” He stepped back over to the console and set the systems to project one of the physical subroutines of the holographic training room.
Within moments, Simmons stood before them, just an A.I. representation of him of course, it would never be able to replace Simmons, but for a few minutes, Sarge knew, he would be there and be tangible one last time.
“Hello sir, how are you doing today?” The Simmons asked cheerily.
Sarge, for once, was so happy to hear the over exuberant greeting, “Hello Simmons, I’m…I’m just fine.” He took a deep breath and ran the back of his forearm over his eyes.
Noticing the motion, the Simmons stepped forward, taking off his helmet and placed a hand on the other’s side in one swift motion. “Are you okay?” He asked. But Sarge was already distracted by trying to prevent the breakdown he felt from coming to fruition, trying to remind himself that the palm on his hip was simulated, and reminding himself of the undeniable reality.
“Simmons, tell me, do you love me?” He asked, looping his arms around Simmons’ waist and pulling him closer.
The Simmons seemed a bit taken aback by the question but ultimately smiled that heart melting smile that Sarge recognized right away, “Yes, of course, more than anything.” It was exactly how Simmons used to say it, and Sarge hated how good Lopez was with A.I. work, and he hated that he thought this would make him feel better in the first place. His grip tightened around the other’s waist and he pressed his forehead to the Simmons’ just standing there quietly. “Do…do you love me?” The Simmons A.I. asked hesitantly, a confused look on his face.
Sarge chuckled quietly, he had to ignore the tears on his cheeks, which was easy enough when Simmons was right there with him, those bright green eyes staring at him like he was god himself. “Yes,” He said quietly, “Yes of course I do.” He ran deft fingers through semi-curly hair and left the other around his waist. “I’m sorry, Simmons, I just wanted to say that.” Sarge mumbled.
“Whatever happened sir, I forgive you. Nothing you could do would ever make me not love you; if that’s what you were worried about.” The Simmons A.I. stood on his toes to kiss Sarge on the forehead. “It’s okay,” He said pointedly, running his thumbs along the undersides of the other’s eyes, wiping off the tears.
“Simmons, do me a favor and rest now.” Sarge finally said.
The A.I. cocked his head, “Rest, sir?”
“Yes, you can rest now.”
“Why, sir?”
“Because if anyone does, you deserve to.”
“I do feel inexplicably tired…”
“Lopez,” The sergeant hesitated, speaking quietly to his robotic companion, “Delete all A.I. Simmons files, including Test Beta 1 through Official Module V.2. All of it.”
Although he was more than confused, Lopez nodded and turned to the console. Sarge took a moment and pulled the Simmons into an enveloping hug, smiling softly when he was hugged right back. Quietly, Sarge mumbled, “I won’t forget you.”
Lopez entered the final command into the console and the processor deleted the files from the simulation data base; the Simmons standing before them slowly dissipated and left Sarge in isolation, his arms slowly falling to his sides and head hung low. A small smile remained played over his lips, even when his knees decided that holding him upright was not priority and he ended up knelt on the concrete floor of the simulation room. Nothing was different, and he felt empty in a way he had never before; but he took solace in the message Simmons left.
He knew he still had troops to mind, two of them who probably needed extra minding, so Sarge whipped his eyes and cleared his throat, completing the motion by returning his helmet to its spot on his head; masking his old scars and bloodshot eyes.
“Alright, Lopez, let’s go,” He announced in his atypical commanding tone. He stood up straight like he always had before, pulling the shotgun from the clip on his back and holding it up and ready. “We’ve got some Blues to fight.”
There was a spring in his step as he returned to the upper level of the base; Simmons would never actually be dead, and that’s what made it alright.
None of them would be forgetting anyone anytime soon.
Fin