Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Church sighed heavily as Caboose yanked him over to take a photo. With a put upon grumble he pulled off his helmet like Caboose desired and smiled for the picture. He didn’t honestly feel it—the sadness and the joy in equal measure. The only real thing he could feel lately was the inexplicable loss of a piece of himself. Not for the first time did Church curse Sarge for placing the bomb on the pelican—and praise him in equal measure because fuck, they couldn’t fuck everything up in the way Wyoming convinced Tex to.

(she always left)

(why?)

(what did he do wrong?)

Church side-eyed Tucker who’s face remained pinched even as Caboose made sure the photo clicked off from where he’d haphazardly jerry-rigged up his helmet. Tucker, predictably, took the loss hard as well. His own kid—and Church couldn’t fathom it. He couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to lose a child, not like it was to lose Tex. Church never really had Tex, either, and he damn well knew it. As much as he professed to love her it was more the memory of a love than an actual love.

(no, he’d lost one, hadn’t he?)

(had he?)

(when?)

Church looked away, a frown settled across his face as he debated speaking up yet again since the entire mess with Wyoming, Tex, and Omega. Instead once more he kept his silence, grabbed his helmet, and jammed it back into place. Caboose gushed something as he tugged his own helmet on, but Church didn’t listen. The ever present thrum if your fault your fault yourfaultyourfault hammered at the back of his head. With a sharp huff through his nose—technically simulated because as much as Sarge was a genius with robotics he couldn’t make the android body actually breathe—Church turned and headed back into base.

Tucker didn’t even look at him, as it was his right. Church couldn’t blame the guy—he’d essentially gotten the other man’s own kid killed. It was his bullshit with Freelancers, his not-girlfriend, his own insurmountable mistakes. Even Command saw it, saw fit to finally separate them and take them away from the once safe walls of the box canyon. Church headed straight to his room, yanked off his armor, and settled onto his bunk.

Hands scrubbed over his face; Church wished he could cry. He wasn’t sure if he would even if he could. He knew, clinically, that what he felt was nothing more then depression although how eluded him. Depression at its base level was a chemical imbalance in the human brain where the serotonin levels were either too high or too low resulting in mood fluctuations and a perpetual blue mood. The how of his own depression, his own ever burning, ever circling thoughts of your fault your fault yourfaultyourfault constantly eluded him. How could he suffer through a chemical imbalance without chemicals to create it?

(are you even human?)

It doesn’t matter. Church laid down, rolled over, and pulled his blanket up over his head. It doesn’t matter. They’d be gone soon, no longer Church’s to fail to protect. They’d be gone, and the walls of the box canyon with them, and he’d be alone. Perhaps that was justice. Perhaps that was for the best.

(he deserved it)

(he deserved it)

Church closed his eyes and hoped he could sleep. He missed sleep. He wanted to sleep. He pursed his lips when his door brushed open, when he heard the telltale sounds of power armor step lightly into the room. He could recognize Tucker by his breathing, the sort of nasally sound entirely unique to Tucker. Church wanted to curl up—but he feigned sleep instead.

Coward, his thoughts betrayed. Coward, coward, cowardcowardcoward.

Tucker stood there and just breathed for a moment longer, and then he sighed. “You’re a fucking dick, Church,” Tucker said plainly, turned, and left.

Church gave up and curled into a ball. He felt rage, he felt bitterness, he felt sorrow and loss, and he felt nothing at all. His thoughts bounced, an echo of an echo of an echo.

You’re a fucking dick, Church.

yourfaultyourfaultyourfaultyourfault

You’re a fucking dick.

cowardcowardcowardcowardcoward

                                                          You                                                                                                                                                                                                        

(what am I?)

Failure

cowardcowardcowardcoward

                                                                         of a human being

(am I even human?)

A day, two—Church didn’t notice the passage of time until his door was burst open and Kaikaina ‘Sister’ Grif stormed into his room and pulled his blankets away. She cussed him out, bodily dragged him from the room and it lit a fire that only smoldered before. Church hissed, spit, and snarled insults readily back. He relished in the burn of anger and seething however quick of a flash it was.

(it didn’t used to be)

Church still avoided Tucker, but he at least returned to some semblance of his normal self. Kaikaina helped there—pulled herself into an outlet for whatever issue he needed to work through. The Grif siblings were monstrous beasts in that they understood the people of Blood Gulch often better than the people of Blood Gulch understood themselves. It didn’t help that despite his enhanced android strength Kaikaina could still physically drag him around.

He wondered what it was about women who could beat him black and blue that attracted him so much. Church decided it was better off he didn’t think about that and promptly shuttered danger and attraction and Tex behind so many layers of firewall that he honestly forgot what he was thinking about for a moment. Church blinked, and then flipped Kaikaina the bird and stormed out of the base. It didn’t matter.

(it always mattered)

(who are you?)

(who am I?)

(Tex?)

Church stood watch as the pelican’s came and picked up each member of Blue Team. He stood aside stoically as Tucker left first, unable to say or really do anything. Tucker didn’t say anything back. They didn’t talk—they hadn’t talked for days. It burned something fierce that Church might never see Tucker but he couldn’t work up the courage to apologize. He couldn’t say goodbye.

(we always hated goodbyes)

yourfaultyourfaultyourfaultyourfault

(is that why…?)

When Caboose left next, Church found himself in a hug and the big man sobbing and saying he’d never forget his best friend.

“I hear ya, buddy,” Church mumbled and then winced when he heard his body creak in an ominous way. “Put me down now, you fucking moron.”

Surprisingly gentle for Caboose the larger man settled him down and sniffled once. He babbled some sort of goodbye to Church is chagrin and then climbed onto the pelican and settled down for his reassignment. Church found himself stuck, words caught in his throat, but before he could work up the courage the pelican closed its doors, took off, and Church was left standing there.

(…goodbye…)

cowardcowardcowardcowardcoward

(…Caboose…)

The routine returned to fighting and snarling between him and Kaikaina, which quickly devolved into sex because form some reason his stupid mind considered fighting and snarling some weird form of foreplay. Church blamed Tex—they were always at each other’s throats, even when they were good for the other. Before everything fell apart at the seams—before—

(a crash a burn and so tired so fucking tired)

(what happened to me?)

(where were you?)

(help)

(Tex)

(I…)

When he wasn’t fighting or fucking Church watched Red Base. He watched as Grif the orange behemoth left with Simmons, the kiss-ass. He watched as Sarge hid out and far away—much like Kaikaina, in fact. She’d hissed at him, snarled at him when her pelican arrived.

“I’m not here. I’m not here, asshole, go the fuck away.”

“Bitch,” Church snapped back, but left her to hide away in the armory. He didn’t know how she did it, but the pelican left without her.

(he didn’t know how Grif made snow in a desert either)

(they defied logic the Grif siblings)

(he…didn’t know how he felt about that)

And then the pelican came for him, and Church marched onto it without a backward glance. He didn’t need these fuckers anyway—he could get by on his own. He could man up and accept his assignment without care, and continue on as he’d always done. So the safe walls of the box canyon would be gone, what did it matter? They stopped being safe a long time ago.

(no they didn’t)

(everything; it mattered everything)

(this was his box)

(his)

Church didn’t need anyone.

(he did though)

(he needed Tex)

(he needed Tucker)

(he needed Caboose)

Everything would be fine. Church was safe dammit. He was safe.

(I don’t know how to be alone)

(Tex…)

(…I’m scared)

Church realized as the pelican settled into the UNSC ship Father of Intuition that no, he was not safe. This realization came upon him with the urge to run, to run as far and as fast as he could. He didn’t like the ships walls; he didn’t like the echoes in his own mind of something long lost and forgotten—something left behind.

(not the right systems)

(where are my systems?)

(everythings wrong why why why?)

wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong

With fear clawing up his throat and threatening to choke him, Church followed after his ‘guide’ in uncharacteristic silence. Church didn’t pause to think about why he was being led to the bridge—didn’t think about the walls and the echoed screams in his mind that weren’t there. He didn’t think about Sidewinder and Tex—

(fuck)

(Tex)

Church built up mental brick wall after brick wall and cordoned off those thoughts with a sharp ringing no. Not now, not ever. He wasn’t dealing with that shit—he didn’t need to deal with that shit. With the firewalls up Church didn’t relax exactly—he still felt tense, still felt everything was off, but now he didn’t bother with the why. The why didn’t matter.

(it mattered)

(oh it mattered)

The bridge was familiar—a comfort. The design exactly as he remembered it even if the systems were weird and off and made him itch with the uncomfortableness of it. His guide—a Freelancer, of fucking course—came to a stop before the ships commander. Church eyed the man from under his helmet with a frown. The stance was familiar—he found himself subconsciously echoing it like something long forgotten. The figure turned—green eyes, glasses, greying hair—

(that’s my face)

(that’s my face asshole)

—the Director stared back at him. Church snarled. Hatred raced through him for a mere second and then burnt itself out. He felt tired.

“Director,” Church spat with as much vitriol as he could muster.

“Private,” the Director hummed, faintly amused as if there were some big secret he wasn’t sharing with Church.

(Alpha)

alphaalphaalphaalphaalphaalpha

“To what do I owe this fucking pleasure?” Church crossed his arms and stood stiff, rigid.

The Director stood relaxed in comparison, hands behind his back. The artificial lighting of the bridge glinted off of his glasses as he smiled that same self-secret smile. Church wanted to punch his face. He debated the merits of doing so.

“I figured it would be best if we escorted you personally to your new location,” the Director drawled. “To ensure no undesirables find their way to you again.”

“You sent Wyoming,” Church pointed out. He bared his teeth behind his helmet.

“A mistake,” the Director agreed. “One which I will not be making again.” The Director paused, and then added, “Private Tucker is no longer a threat.”

Church jolted forward, but stopped when the Freelancer reached for his gun. Instead he screamed, “What did you do to him?!”

The Director jerked back, almost surprised. Church doubted he was honestly surprised. Consummate actor, dear fucking director, Church thought bitterly.

“I have done nothing,” the Director said slowly, “and neither has Project Freelancer. The UNSC has acquired Private Tucker and relieved him of his service within Freelancer. He is now their asset, and therefore not my problem.”

Church relaxed. That was good. That was good. If the UNSC had Tucker then there was no way the Director could touch him—could send out a hit squad like with Wyoming—and that was good. Church already fucked up enough with Tucker; he couldn’t afford to fuck up any more.

“I had no idea you had grown so…attached,” the Director said, and he did sound surprised. Church glowered.

“Fuck you.”

“I’ll kindly not.”

“Fuck you anyway.”

The Director sighed. “Childish behavior aside,” he drawled, “Agent Nevada here will be escorting you to your quarters while aboard the Father of Intuition. Your new posting is as remote as Blood Gulch, and far more secure. You will be alone this time. I will not make the same mistakes with your safety again.”

Church clenched his fists. “I’m better off alone anyway,” he growled. “I don’t need anyone.”

The Director eyed him, murmured a short, “Yes, I can see that,” and then gestured for Nevada to lead Church off. Church went willingly. The less he had to see the Director, the better.

                                                                (hate seethed)

                                                                                               (fear surged)

stopstopstopstopstopstopstop

(not again)

(please)

(Tex)

(where are you?)

Chapter Text

Church stared at the same four walls for several days. Agent Nevada didn’t bother to bring him anything except for a few books that the Director probably knew he’d like to read. Church ignored them. He stewed in his thoughts instead—because that was oh so healthy. Church’s mind wandered to each death that held direct cause in his hands. He wandered through what Tucker would be doing for the UNSC, where Caboose would be stationed—would the idiot be okay?

Did Command bother to warn his new Captain of Caboose’s special circumstances? Would they even bother to make sure Caboose got the needed extra oxygen? Would his new Captain even care?

(I don’t care)

(I don’t)

What about Tucker? What did the UNSC even want with him?

(what were they doing to him?)

Grif and Simmons would be fine. They were together. That at least set Church’s mind at ease, but the thought of Caboose out there—the thought of Tucker—the stark reminder of Tex and Junior and even Captain Flowers—Church grimaced and scrubbed a hand, frustrated, through his hair.

“FFFUCK!” Church spat and bowed over until his face was pressed into his knees. Why couldn’t he just stop thinking for once?

“Hm, not the greetin’ I was expectin’.”

Church relaxed slowly, his limbs untensed but he kept himself curled around his knees as he sighed loudly.

“I thought you were going to leave me alone,” Chruch grumbled.

The door behind the Director slid shut and he walked through the room and sat himself down on the edge of the bed. Church wanted to snort at how ‘fatherly’ the action was. How quaint.

“I gave you several days to settle in,” the Director said calmly. “Now, we need to talk.”

“No we fucking don’t.”

The Director sighed and Church peered between his knees. The man pinched the bridge of his nose—he looked exasperated. Well, good.

“Alpha—” the Director started, and fuck he had that parental tone too.

Church jerked upright and glared at his own face, teeth barred as he snapped out, furious, “Do not ever fucking call me that! It’s Church, fuckface!”

The Director rolled his eyes. “Oh do stop being childish,” the man uttered exasperatedly.

“Well then stop acting like you care all of a sudden!” Church shot back. He uncurled the more infuriated he became, and the Director just stared at him dispassionately.

Church’s namesake—his other, his—

(what was the Director to him?)

—waited a moment and then sighed. “I do care, Alpha.”

“Fuck you care,” Church snapped out. “And stop calling me that!”

The Director frowned. “I refuse to call you Church,” he said sharply, “as it is not your name.”

“Yes it fucking is!”

“I never gave you the name Church, Alpha!” the Director snapped back, then took a minute to visibly calm himself while Church watched him.

Church clenched and unclenched his fingers; he dug them into the fabric of the fatigues he’d been offered on his first day aboard the ship. Church wished for the armor that he’d worn instead, but it’d been insisted upon that he ditch it to put the rest of the crew at ease. Only the few remaining Freelancers got to wear armor apparently.

“Why don’t you just call me Private then?” Church grumbled eventually. “You had no problem with it earlier.”

“For your protection,” the Director sighed, and then palmed his face. “Lord I forgot what a little shit you were.”

“A few years away could do that to anyone,” Church grumbled. “I forgot what a fucking utter cockbite you were.”

“Language,” the Director snapped.

“Make me,” Church snapped back.

A small part of Church felt childishly vindicated when the Director groaned out of sheer frustration. He thought, yeah, take that asshole, and through sheer force of will kept his grin from his face. Small pieces of payback like this felt wonderful—little ways to needle and get under the man’s skin, to repay him for all the shit he put Tex through.

(put me through?)

(no Tex)

(not me)

(can’t be me)

(never me)

“I figured a more informal setting would put you at ease,” the Director started after a minute of silence. “More likely to discuss with me what happened at Blood Gulch.”

“I don’t want to ‘discuss’ anything with you,” Church ground out.

The Director licked his lips and sighed heavily. “Alpha—” at Church’s growl he relented and said, “Church,” and Church stilled in surprise. “If we are to ensure your safety I need to know what happened at Outpost Alpha.”

Church eyed the Director, surprised by the sudden acquiescence on his name. Carefully Church said, “Why don’t you ask Vic?”

The Director fought down a growl of frustration. Church calculated the perspiration on the man’s brow, the way his pulse ticked up and how his neck started to flush out of increased agitation.

“V.I.C.’s reports are…sporadic at best,” the Director said carefully, “and the security footage is…unhelpful.”

“Why not ask the rest of the guys then?” Church said. He finally began to unwind just a bit the more annoyed the Director got. Church leaned forward, curious. His hands still trembled—they probably would his entire time on the Father of Intuition.

“Their testimony is…questionable,” the Director said carefully. Church snorted while he clenched his fists.

(how dare he touch them)

(what did he do?)

(they better not be hurt)

The Director looked directly at Church, looked at the glower and the narrowed green eyes—the way the stubble on the man’s face seemed to almost darken while Church stared at him. The Director sighed. “You know what they are like better than I do.”

“Yeah,” Church agreed and looked away. “What do you want to know?”

The Director smiled, and Church wanted to punch it off his face.

“Start with what happened to Agent Florida, and go from there.”

(Florida?)

(Flowers)

(Florida)

(well shit)

Church mimicked a noisy breath, closed his eyes, and began to recount what happened at Blood Gulch in painfully accurate detail.

The full debrief of what happened at Blood Gulch took more than a single day. For several hours over the next few weeks the Director would step into Church’s room, sit down on the bed, and dully Church would recount the events of Blood Gulch in detail. He stopped baiting the Director after the third day—there was no point in it. Not now. Not when the memories burned sharply within his mind and threatened to drag him under.

“I’m sorry, what did you say Omega called himself?” the Director blinked, his tone incredulous.

“O’Mally,” Church rolled his eyes. “Tex’d been calling him that too.”

The Director leaned back, surprised. “I…did not expect that.”

“You and me fucking both,” Church grumbled.

“Although…it is not so surprisin’,” the Director mused, and when Church looked at him the Director raised a single eyebrow.

(alpha)

(omega)

(church)

(o’mally)

(oh)

When Church reached the point of the bomb, of ‘Andy’ and the sword, Tucker’s weird alien child and Gamma’s twisted sense of humor, the Director sighed heavily.

“Well that…was not how scenario three was meant to go,” the Director mumbled. “Explains why the UNSC wanted Lavernius Tucker so bad, in the least.”

Church blinked. “You…didn’t know?”

“Honestly I thought it was some insane fever dream,” the Director admitted. “Havin’ the Sangheili interfere in a Freelancer Scenario was not…accounted for.”

Church frowned. “But…aren’t we at war with them? The Covenant and shit?”

The Director pursed his lips. “That, ah, ended. A month ago.”

Church stared. “Just…just like that?”

“Just like that,” the Director said, almost bitterly. It threw Church for a loop.

“Huh.”

They sat in silence, all thoughts about reports left off to the wayside. The Director thought about the implications—a human-sangheili hybrid, the tentative peace that had been brokered after the mess with the Covenant and the Halo rings—and Church pondered the empty feeling, the blankness of the Great War being over and done with.

“I…expected more,” Church mumbled. “I think.”

The Director sighed. “So did I.”

Church grew emphatic towards the end of his ‘debrief’ days later. He gesticulated and cursed more often—cursed Florida-Flowers, cursed Wyoming, cursed Tex, cursed anyone he could think of. He grew heated and infuriated in equal measure and questioned F.I.L.S.S.’ deteriorating systems in the tank, questioned everything he knew in some respects. What Church did know versus what he honestly didn’t left the Director baffled.

“You lost track of Agent Texas?” the Director questioned, a frown at his lips.

Church eyed him with his glower, face pinched in the way the Director quickly came to know as a mix of frustration and not-quite-hate. Admittedly deserved, the Director mused. He came back to see Church gesticulate at him, middle finger in the air with a sneer.

“Very mature,” the Director drawled.

“Had to get your attention somehow,” Church snapped out. “Besides, do you really think I could keep track of her?”

For a moment the Director watched him, and then looked away. “I had hoped…but no, I did not expect it. She was always…willful.”

Before the last word even completely left his mouth the Director found himself flat on his back with Church over him. He held one fist clenched, pounded into the mattress of his cot dangerously close to the Director’s face, the rest of him pressed down on the older man’s chest as he snarled.

“She’s not yours,” Church growled.

The Director arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Church punched the bed again and leaned down; his entire body vibrated with fury, with fear, with sorrow and loss. The Director categorized each twitch, each way Church’s face twisted as he struggled with his words. He watched, he waited—because this was a response Church had yet to give him. This was new.

Church just loomed over him, frozen, shaking, hand almost embedded into the cot as he tried to regain control of his own memories. Of what happened. Of the last time he even saw—

—the pelican raised up into the air and Church could hear Shiela’s countdown. He wanted to race up, to grab the pelican and down it with his own bear hands but he—he couldn’t. He wasn’t strong enough. He was never strong enough. Church switched to their private channel, just for him and just for her.

“Tex, don’t do this,” Church pleaded—please don’t leave me, please don’t go, don’t return to Freelancer, I need you.

All the words he couldn’t say—he wouldn’t.

For a second Tex said nothing, and then softly, “Goodbye.”

Church’s entire world dissolved with that one word. He wasn’t even fully aware of his fight with Sarge, of cussing the man out for placing Andy on the pelican—of the threat to Tex’s life. Tex said goodbye. Did she know?

Did she know?

Church stared up at the sky as the flames rained down into the atmosphere that ate them up greedily.

Did she know?

(Tex?)

“She said goodbye.”

Church blinked to find the Director staring up at him, baffled.

“I’m…sorry?” he didn’t understand.

“Tex,” Church said, and the words felt like a struggle. “She…she said goodbye. We hate goodbye’s.”

(why?)

(goodbye means)

(goodbye is)

(forever)

“She said goodbye,” Church repeated, and the Director watched him. “She…”

The Director sighed. He closed his eyes and murmured a short, “I see.”

“Why would she…we hate goodbye’s. She…she said goodbye,” Church murmured, and there was that pitched whine in the back of his throat—oh-so-familiar.

(no)

                                                                                               (oh god no)

                                                       (allison no!)

(ALLISON!)

The Director’s eyes snapped open a second later when Church pressed his head into the older man’s chest with a faint keen. He stared at the dark head of synthetic hair, stared at—at a mirror of his own grieving form. Part of the Director’s throat clogged him. Part of him—and he swallowed and fought down his own rampant grief for just a minute. Instead he laid back; he didn’t bother to fight Church off of him, for which Church felt grateful.

Church needed this, not that he’d ever admit it. Especially not to this man who set off all sorts of warning bells in his head, and who simultaneously felt like the most safest place to be. It was a confusing mess built in a confusing mess, but at least the Director let him have this. Let him have his grief without anything else. Without an ultimatum.

Church held one of the books the Director, through Agent Nevada, provided him back when this trip first started. It honestly had a very interesting plot, one Church would admit quickly caught his eye. There was no romance, more just intrigue and adventure and Church wondered if he could possibly convince the Director to give him some comics too. He hadn’t read comics in years.

(technically he never read comics at all)

(semantics)

The door slid open and Church didn’t bother to glance over. He knew easily enough that the Director stood in the doorway; he’d relearned the mans footsteps, the sound of his heartbeat and the way he breathed in his time aboard the Father of Intuition. He didn’t acknowledge the Director aside from a careless flip of a page.

The Director watched him, stepped into the room, and the door slid shut behind him.

“We will be arriving in a week above the planet,” the Director said. Church didn’t acknowledge. “For your safety and to prevent the mistakes from before, you will be on your own at Outpost 48, code-name High Ground.” Another flip of the page. “The previous red and blue teams of High Ground wiped one another out, and we haven’t had the manpower to re-staff the locations yet. It should provide suitable cover.”

The Director waited, but when Church didn’t say anything further he sighed and continued to speak.

“You will be provided materials of maintenance and care of your body, of course,” the Director said lightly, “and you will have direct contact with Agent Nevada only. Relay any requests for supplies through him. We will provide munitions and weaponry to amply defend yourself as need be.”

The Director waited, but still he received nothing. Church wondered if it threw the man for a loop that he wasn’t being hostile again. His own understanding of feeling hot-and-cold toward the Director certain threw himself for a loop, after all. The silence ticked on aside from the turning of the page. Two minutes.

“If that is all, then,” the Director mused, a frown on his face.

“Can I get some comics?” Church asked. “And books?”

The Director paused. “I…will see what I can do.”

“Great. Thanks. Now get out.”

Church didn’t need to look up to see those green eyes scrutinizing him before the Director sighed and left the room. He could hear the door slip open, and then slip back shut. That was when he glanced up—and yes, he was alone.

(he deserved to be alone)

After six weeks Church found himself finally upon solid ground, staring up at the ruins of Outpost 48. The pelican took off behind him, and his radio tuned to pick up Agent Nevada yet again explaining that the first drop of equipment and supplies would be in two more weeks. He’d need to make do until then.

Not that Church really needed the supplies right away. It’d mostly be the necessary materials to maintain his android body, armor, and weapons at any rate. Instead Church focused on the Outpost, focused on the giant gaping hole in the wall—the caution tape and the cones—and cursed.

“Oh you fucking cockbite.”

Church was going to shoot the Director if he ever saw the man again.

Chapter Text

The first shipment arrived with the materials that Church expected easily enough. What Church hadn’t expected was the supplies not being airdropped and rather the pelican carrying them landing in front of the busted entrance to High Ground. Nevada stepped off of the pelican and began to oversee the movement of the equipment boxes—most of them were small, light things that contained oils and simple mechanical parts Church knew from previous experience. The larger crates, however, Church was at a loss for. Unless they chose to send him some pretty damn expensive heavy artillery Church couldn’t fathom what the larger crates contained.

(this place was safe, right?)

(right?)

Once each crate and box were offloaded the pilot and the few technicians returned to the pelican. Nevada turned toward Church and handed over the manifest.

“You got some nice computer equipment and the materials of a basic set up,” Nevada said, and he sounded rather wry. “It was determined that leaving you with absolutely nothing to entertain yourself except for shooting things was a bad idea. Oh, and that crate?” Nevada gestured to one of the larger crates that the technicians had trouble offloading, “I was told to ‘consider it a gift’ or something. It’s not on the manifest.”

Nevada tilted his head, and Church thought the man might be winking before he paused, then cursed to himself.

“Anyway, gotta go!” Nevada waved. “Keep in touch; remember, weekly updates, kid!”

Church screamed, “I’m not a kid!” as Nevada raced onto the pelican and the rear hatch slid shut. Church watched the bird take off, and then huffed angrily. What was with Project Freelancer and treating him like he was a child?

(I’m almost seven)

(not a child)

(never a child)

Church shook his head and turned toward the crate that Nevada called a gift. He frowned in thought and wondered if the Director honestly sent him a gift or not. More than likely it was Nevada’ way of a gag—he’d learned the other man had quite the pranking streak, referring to Church as a kid or not. Church considered nobody more childish than Nevada—except, maybe, Washington but—

(oh god no)

hesgonehesgonehesgonehesgonehesgonehesgone

(please)

myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfault

(why?)

—Church mimed a calming breath, thought back to the anger management classes he’d had years ago—

(hadn’t he?)

—and grabbed the edge of the high-density polymer crate. He dug into the latches and pried them free, and with a grunt Church shoved the lid off. The crate came up to almost his chest height, and the expensive materials in its design made Church wonder just what was so important. The lid crashed to the ground and kicked up enough dust that for a moment Church’s visor was blinded; when it cleared he stared at a large stack of comics.

Hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions of comics lay in the crate. Church stared, his mouth fell open and for a second his processor skipped. The Director actually listened to him? He couldn’t fathom it. A part of him wanted to dive right in and screw getting the materials into the safe space Church set up as his quarters. Another part of him wanted to wrap the crate up and stuff it in a deep dark hole, uncertain how to feel about the ‘gift’ from a man he hated-loved.

Carefully placed in the exact center of the crate, on top of all the comics, rested a note. Church eyed it for a minute, noted the Director’s precise and neat handwriting that he reserved for when he felt he needed to be formal—far different from the messy scrawl that dotted every notebook the man ever owned—and addressed simply to Private Church. Church froze, and then with quick movements he grabbed at the top of the crate and pulled it back on.

                                                                                                                       (no)

                                                        (how could you?)

                                          (why?)

Church tightened the clamps back down and turned to focus on the supplies as a whole. He needed to get them in to the secure area that he worked hard to get put together out of the ruins of High Ground.

(what angle is this?)

(what do you want?)

Thankfully in the first few days at High Ground Church found a forklift that he quickly retrieved. He loaded the small boxes onto larger crates, and then drove those crates into the base. He focused entirely on his task, and not on the crate of comics—he did bring them in as well, but he left them sealed within their expensive box and put them out of mind. Instead he worked on a means of organization for all of the new supplies—he’d have to expand the secure area, Church noted.

(haven’t you done enough?)

Church began to plan how the expansion would need to work. He removed his power armor and grabbed the scraps of paper and few writing utensils he’d unearthed and began to scribble down calculations and a rough floorplan to work with. It’d take him maybe a week to clear the full area, another to get systems back up and running—and that all depended upon what he did. Tauntingly, by the bed, sat the crate of comics. Church found himself with a frown as he occasionally glanced back at the crate, confused.

(you never cared before)

(so why now?)

(what changed?)

The “weekly” check ins with Agent Nevada lasted a month. A month of avoiding the crate and the shipment supplies that were dropped off filled with books and comics and video games—things to occupy himself with that confused the hell out of him. A month of once a week chats with someone who didn’t treat him like shit all the time, someone Church didn’t feel the need to cuss out all the time, someone who calmed the rage inside. A month to get to know the man behind Agent Nevada.

(Jerome Dupris)

                                                                                                                                                                            (I liked him)

                                                                                                                                                       (he was…nice)

Then all contact disappeared. When Church attempted to radio Agent Nevada he was met with sharp static and nothing. The channel they used was dead.

It left Church feeling sick. The guy had a wife and child he regularly communicated with—least of all Church himself. To hear the man suddenly go silent pulled Church into a frenzy of panic. Part of him hoped the man returned home—returned to his wife returned to apologize—

(he’d asked once)

(just once)

(he never asked again)

The next shipment of supplies—more materials to care for his android body—came without Agent Nevada. That was when Church knew.

(not another one)

(please)

(I liked him)

Church didn’t need the grim faced random troopers who unloaded the supplies to know what had happened. Or at least what he’d expected. The lack of Agent Nevada—

(Jerome Dupris)

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       (his name)

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                (important)

—Church shuddered. He hoped he was wrong—he prayed he was wrong. That was when one trooper handed him a letter, silent as the grave. Church had received several letters nestled within crates filled with time wasting items. He’d never read any one of them. This letter though was handed over carefully, the troopers nodded, and left just as silent as they arrived.

Church stared down at the envelope in one hand. He stared at the familiar scrawl—neat and tidy in the way official letters were. Church could remember—

(UNSC personnel)

                                                              (Mr. Church there was an—)

(Allison)

                                                                                                      (we’re sorry)

                                 (god Allison)

                                                (—no remains recovered—)

(no, no, no you are wrong you are—)

—he mimed a breath and with controlled hands because being a robot in some ways was awesome and he could stop himself from trembling even though he knew he’d be shaking like a leaf. Church never dealt well with bad news. Not in Blood Gulch and not Before. The seal did not part easily—power armor, Church cursed. Of course he had his power armor on. With a grunt Church shifted the letter and stuffed it between his undersuit and the breastplate. He left the supplies outside and stormed inside, back into safety—

(he nearly killed himself there)

(Nevada—Jerome—was so worried)

(kinda funny)

(fuck)

Church grunted and growled to himself as he worked his gloves off, yanked his helmet free once he’d released the latches and it hissed away from his neck. He scrambled to pull the letter out from between his undersuit and his breastplate and now the envelope parted easily beneath almost-human hands. He pulled out the letter inside, dropped the envelope to the ground—Private Church, it said. He’d rather the envelope were addressed to Alpha. He didn’t want to be Private Church right now.

(not another one)

(I can’t)

(not again)

Church unfolded the letter, steeled himself, and began to read.

Dear Private Church,

(pretentious southern asshole)

I regret to inform you that your contact with Agent Nevada will henceforth be no longer required. Due to the Agent in question being no longer in the employ of Project Freelancer, and for your own continued safety. I do apologize if you feel inconvenienced by this change in routine, but it was determined to be for the best.

(what happened?)

(where is)

                                                                                   (stop lying)

All supplies from here on out will be airdropped to you if they are needed. A request for further assistance can be sent through your terminal. Please be aware flooding the terminal with anything not a request for supplies will revoke the privilege.

(privilege?)

                                                                                                                                                                   (privilege?)

                                                                                                                                 (god)

(you’re not my father)

We will contact you once it is deemed safe for you to return.

Sincerely,

The Director of Project Freelancer

Dr. Leonard L. Church

Church wanted to scream. That told him nothing. That—he wondered if the reason he needed to be placed in such a ‘secure’ and remote facility, a base no longer functioning and therefore a place no one knew to look for him; he wondered if it meant whatever was hunting him, found Agent Nevada. He didn’t have a heart anymore, or organs, or a throat, or even tear ducts, but Church felt like he couldn’t breathe anyway.

(you don’t need air)

(you can’t breathe)

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   (you’re not human)
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        (I am human)

Church felt like his eyes burned, and unbidden he hissed between his teeth and closed them shut. His fingers gripped the letter tight, tight enough to crinkle the paper, to tear—Church stiffened, then relaxed and hastily began to straighten the letter out. He moved over to his desk and carefully set it down, retrieved the envelope and placed it beside the letter. He’d clean it up, maybe repair the paper, and set it aside for safe keeping later. Right now he needed to get the supplies in, focus on unboxing them.

Church mimed a steading breath, and turned out of his safe space. He could do this. He never needed anybody, after all. He’d said so before, he’d say so again. Church would prefer to be alone.

(no one would die on him then)

Church didn’t need anyone.

(liar)

(don’t leave me please don’t leave me)

(I don’t want to be alone)

(don’t make me be alone)

(I’m scared)

(Tex)

Church didn’t need anyone.

Dr. Leonard Church breathed out heavily as he stared at the report in front of him. He’d known this was long coming for him—the weight of his sins settled heavily upon his back. He knew there’d be retribution. Malcom Hargrove would never take his not-so-subtle theft of property laying down. He’d known what the man planned—suspected at least—as soon as he’d been named Chairman of the Oversight Committee. He knew Hargrove spent a lot of money to set that up.

The UNSC had their own special oversight that watched Leonard closely, watched his comings and goings and kept an eye on the results of his experiments—the results of AI working with neural implants and agents. His dear ‘Counselor’ worked to report his every move to the UNSC after all. There was nothing they didn’t already know, nothing that he could truly hide from them. The Great War took a toll on everyone, and sometimes inhumane acts for the betterment and survival of humanity were required.

It left a sour taste in Leonard’s mouth.

The UNSC and ONI never had a problem with Dr. Halsey until recently—through the grapevine and then the widely publicized events following the end of the Great War Leonard heard about Halsey’s subsequent arrest—and, until Leonard’s own project details became public knowledge he knew they’d have no problems with him. As soon as Hargrove’s ‘investigation’ was finished, however, Leonard could expect a cell in some far distant prison ship, left to rot the rest of his life away, or ONI would take command of whatever happened to him.

Leonard felt resigned to the events to come. He couldn’t stop it if he tried, he knew that. The best he could do was mitigate the damage to the surviving members of Project Freelancer, stop Agent Maine from destroying everything—or perhaps it was Sigma now, Leonard couldn’t be sure. At any rate the agent would need to be carefully lead into a place to be put down, the AI he’d captured decommissioned at most, perhaps salvaged at the least as he knew ONI would desire to have Alpha and his fragments in their grasp.

Under any circumstances Leonard truly did not desire to let Alpha or his fragments fall into ONI hands. He’d rather they be removed from the UNSC as a whole; he’d long suspected Alpha had obtained ‘meta-stability’ and in turn could live out a full life, even if it was one that was pretending to be human or even unknowing of just what exactly he was and had always been. Perhaps Alpha would show signs of rampancy later down the road, but for now—for now Leonard could hope that this one thing would go his way.

Then there was Carolina and Washington to consider and Leonard really did not want his sins to fall on their shoulders—he never wanted his sins to fall upon their shoulders. Leonard knew he’d royally messed up—first in that he’d never quite treated David right out of guilt and shame, and second that he’d never really had been all there for Charmaine like she deserved—but if he could get this one thing, this one thing right then maybe he’d could feel less like a hot mess and more like the barely functioning human disaster that he was.

Agent Texas came to mind as she always did, along with Allison, and the grief that still burned through his chest like an inferno at the sudden, intrusive thoughts. Leonard breathed deep and bowed his head, buried his face into his hands and dug his fingers into his hair. Lord above help him and have mercy; he’d need patience to pull this entire mess off and come out at least somewhat functional, if alive. Maybe ONI would let him—

Leonard grit his teeth.

Don’t think on it. Not now.

The worst part about this mess was the disappearance of Agent Nevada. As far as Leonard could tell them man either deserted his post overseeing the slow transition of releasing the Red and Blue sim troopers from their contract with Project Freelancer, or he’d been killed. Neither option left Leonard with much to work with—he didn’t want to leave Alpha completely cut off but now, with how thin his resources were between carefully dismantling his own Project in preparation for the fall, and trying to halt Maine’s advances and rampage, and then keeping Alpha safely tucked away and out of sight—no, Leonard couldn’t spare anyone to hunt down just where Nevada got to.

Another sin to place on his back, Leonard mused, alongside unrepentant torture of his own mind. Leonard always wondered how he might’ve fractured if he’d been pressed—to know did not make him feel remotely better, even when examined clinically. He wasn’t sure which was right; to be a mess of a human being with his own baggage and trauma, or to be a fractured mess of a human being with no memory of his baggage and trauma except within the fragments of his own mind.

And now David knows, or at least suspects. At least Aiden doesn’t suspect I’ve long since known just what their little ‘talks’ entailed. Leonard sighed and rubbed at his eyes. He removed his glances, squinted at the lenses. He’d need to clean them off from his own fingerprints again; damn it all.

Leonard thought to his little gifts to Alpha—the games, the books, the comics, the limited access to a network connection—and hoped that his AI accepted them. Little acts of kindness do not years of trauma make up, Leonard knew, and yet he couldn’t help but try. He couldn’t help but offer the snippets he’d denied the AI for so long, after so much pain and loss.

It didn’t work on you, why would it work on him? his mind traitorously whispered. Leonard sighed. He just hoped Alpha understood—even if he didn’t remember. Was any of it right? No. Not it wasn’t, and Leonard knew that. Leonard knew that he’d crossed boundaries; he’d long accepted his own sins.

Allison, his thoughts betrayed. Allison, Allison, Allison. She haunted him and Leonard found himself drawn once more back to her. He had to—there was a chance—but only after he’d dealt with Agent Maine. Only after this mess with Hargrove was done. Once Alpha was truly safe, truly free, then, Leonard consoled the specter in his thoughts and in his office, then he’d work on getting it right.

Chapter Text

Church stared at the wall, stared at the dragged marks in the cement, raised the jagged piece of metal in one hand, and drags. It let out an unholy screech as he scored another mark into the cement, and then let the metal drop to the floor with a clang. They lined the wall in short, neat marks perfectly uniform and evenly spaced to count the days. It’d been precisely eighteen groups of five since he’d last spoken with Agent Nevada. Before that it was eight groups of five with two left over since he’d been dropped into High Ground. In total twenty-six groups of five with two left over, or one hundred and thirty-two days in High Ground.

His heels ached from where he leaned on them. Church gnawed his lip. Almost five months since he’d been left here. A little over three since Agent Nevada ceased communication. February fifteenth to June twenty-eighth. Friday when it started, to Wednesday now. The numbers ran through his mind in a continuous loop for a while. Church rocked on his heels, and then he pushed away from the wall and got to his feet. He turned away from the wall in a decaying hallway and returned to his self-made haven.

As the days grew shorter and shorter and the temperature began to drop with the planet’s winter-cycle, the more Church began to debate on whether High Ground was in fact safe for him to stay in. He missed the walls of his box canyon, the fact that the Vegas quadrant wasn’t too far and that he could convince Grif to head over and get him some alcohol for which he paid handsomely. He missed his most tangible memories that often wanted to overwhelm him with sensations he didn’t even realize he’d felt back then.

 (every sound)

(every scent)

(every touch)

(every taste)

(every sight)

(clarity sharp and bright in a way a memory shouldn’t be)

Being alone made those memories sharper. The sting in them that Church felt, the terror and the heartache burned within his mind like a supernova, only to peter out with grit teeth. These days Church spoke little, and coming from a normal chatterbox of cuss words and vitriolic banter that meant something. He still hadn’t touched the boxes of gifts from the Director, nor had he bothered to send in a request for supplies even though he found himself slowly running low on lubricant.

Church didn’t want to bother. He focused on expanding his safe area, on fortifying walls and building up a small home in a space that didn’t’ feel safe, a space that wasn’t his. He wanted his canyon, his boxed walls and constant summer heat; his little deserted wasteland filled with his reds and his blues. He wanted Tex and Junior and even Wyoming. He wanted Gamma and Omega and Doc. He wanted Florida.

wantwantwantwantwantwantwant

Church could barely remember Project Freelancer. It felt more like a dream, less real, than living in Blood Gulch ever did. He didn’t want to be tied to Project Freelancer, to be indebted, to be protected like this. So what if he wasn’t safe in Blood Gulch in the way the Director wanted? He was just as unsafe here—at least there he had a sense of normalcy. At least there he didn’t have to worry if Sarge, Grif, Simmons, or Donut would really, truly try to kill him.

They got to blow shit up for fun why would they honestly try to ruin that? Sure there was an inherent risk of death but it was far more entertaining in the end to make them near misses and close calls. The rush of adrenaline those at Blood Gulch felt—and the true lack of the fear that the Great War inspired, as if the Sangheili couldn’t touch them in their little box canyon—was absolutely addicting. They could laze about, create, and destroy to their hearts content all the while getting paid to do so. It was dangerous, but oh so very fun.

Church paused mid setup of the defenses he’d finally gotten parts to jerry-rig into place as the realization struck suddenly home. He missed them. He missed his crazy Grif siblings, his stupid, idiotic Tucker so far in the closet that he could see Narnia, his destructive Caboose—Sarge who would spit curses back at him and create fascinating combat strategies with gleeful violence, Lopez who didn’t speak a lick of English and still came across as the snarkiest in the room; he missed Donut and the ‘wine and cheese’ hour they’d sometimes share in the caves when shit became too much at their respective bases. He missed Simmons, the way he’d spout random facts when nervous, the way he’d rant and rave and bemoan all that was Grif. He missed their ridiculous unresolved sexual tension. He even missed Shiela, the “dumb” AI who was quickly evolving in ways that shouldn’t be possible with Caboose’s weird technopathy.

Church stared down at his hands. He stared at the way they trembled—the way they’ve trembled since being aboard the Father of Intuition—and silently went back to work. He missed his assholes, his jerkfaces, and his cockbites. He’d probably never see them again.

(ain’t that a bitch)

It took work, finesse, and finally owning up to the fact that if he didn’t ask for things, then Church would never succeed in making his small little fortress secure enough. It needed to be secure, to be safe, to be sound. He didn’t like the feeling of vulnerability here; the walls he’d fixed up and supported to create his rather meager living space weren’t enough of a defense. The munitions supplied to him weren’t enough. He’d already jerry-rigged several other defenses toward the gate—tripwires attached to detonators attached to bombs and grenades. They’d at least prevent some people from getting too far past the gaping hole in the wall.

Church had also stuck a couple of traffic cones out there if only to make it seem like the space wasn’t as dangerous as he’d made it into. Beyond that though there wasn’t much in the way of protection, so Church began to word requests as careful as he could. He needed computers, motherboards, hard drives—anything that was technological that he could modify in some form to do what he needed. Circuits and wires and conduits to make an alarm system. A small short range radio tuned to a specific frequency attached to the alarm so that the intruders weren’t aware. Something better than simple tripwires.

It took months. Church’s wall now had fifty-one groups of five scratched into the wall. It came out to be almost nine months since his arrival in High Ground. Seven months since Agent Nevada was gone. Church breathed a sigh as he relaxed back into the couch, lips pressed thin. He wondered what the Director’s letters said. He had ten of them now. The gifts came in much smaller boxes than the first three, too. They were easier to handle, and as the months trailed on Church found himself drifting in thought.

He wondered about the Director. He wondered about why the man put him into small hidey holes and tried to make him feel safe.

(he wasn’t safe)

(he was safe)

(which is it?)

He wondered quite a few things about the Director, but never for long. They passed through his mind like the deaths he could count. Each death that was his fault—or not. Each loss that stung at him, tore at his entire being in a way that was indiscernible—and there were many. So many people had been hurt because of Church, hurt by the Director and by Church’s own failings.

“Only right I be alone,” Church mumbled. “Can’t get anyone killed that way, can I?”

He hated it. Church hated the fuzzy twisted memories of Freelancer. He hated the disoriented feeling that came with them, he hated how his body felt off and how things always processed wrong. He hated how sometimes he didn’t feel even human. Church pressed his hand over his eyes and tried to stop the thoughts that swirled in his head without end.

“Can’t do this anymore,” Church mumbled. “Won’t do this anymore. Don’t want to.”

Tex had been the last straw, Church thought. The way she’d so starkly said Goodbye just for him to hear—after everything she’d done for him, everything she’d done to him, after everything—cut deeper than anything Church could ever realize. It was a finality he didn’t want, that some part of him refused to accept.

He needed to see her—he needed to—

(allison)

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                (where are you?)

—he needed to confirm it, with his own eyes. Church lowered his eyes and his brow furrowed. He never got the chance before.

(when?)

(was that me?)

Church pressed his lips together. When this mess was done, when he could finally wash his hands of Freelancer and its pile of shit, then he’d seek out Tex’s remains. They had to be somewhere.

(distance from the planets gravitational pull)

(count for rotation)

(explosion would have caused wind)

(debris field how far?)

(too far)

(potential amount of damage)

(engine trouble?)

Church wouldn’t stop until he found her. Until he could bury her once and for all. That final goodbye that he could never provide, that she gave him—he’d make it right; he’d make it complete.

Church scribbled messily on a piece of paper and pinned it up to the map of Rhodam, the planet where Blood Gulch resided. The map was covered in pins and lines and half-thought scribbles. There were notes of mathematics that Church didn’t even recall how he knew them, but that he just did. Everything he’d worked to make some sort of semblance on where to find the pelican that Tex had taken.

He needed to be prepared. Church could read the subtle signs in the delays in receiving his supplies, in how supplies now included food he couldn’t even eat and was left to rot and be burned. Church could see how Project Freelancer began to tear at the seams. He wondered if the Director noticed it, or if he even cared. He never quite seemed to care about the Freelancer Agents, after all. The only thing the Director seemed to ever notice was Tex, and Church wanted to punch him for that.

(she’s mine)

(my beta)

(what?)

His obsession on finding Tex wasn’t helped by being alone. Church’s thoughts twisted around each other—little distractions aside from securing this facility and his box, from seeking out Tex, and making a livable space drove him to think. Church never noticed how completely discordant his thoughts were. Nothing made sense, little things bothered him and he couldn’t figure out why. Church started questioning why more often.

whywhywhywywhy

(who am I?)

The fuzzy memories of Freelancer versus the sharp clarity of Blood Gulch made his head hurt. He felt like he was forgetting something, but what? What had he lost in the head trauma that came with his arrival to Blood Gulch? What was he missing? The thought, the realization was just out of reach. Church wasn’t even sure he wanted to know. Would it change things?

(would it break him?)

(he’s been broken so much)

Church sighed and leaned back to stare at the wall with a contemplative frown. Twisting, confusing thoughts brought on by loneliness aside, there was little to wonder about just where Tex might’ve crashed. The spots on Rhodam were limited, the planet’s ecology so strange and varied that it didn’t make sense some days. From what Church gathered Tex either landed near one of the new installations, or she landed in the facility that the weird Sangheili cult had close ties to, and Gamma chose to hide out in. Church couldn’t recall the name, but that didn’t matter. His options were further deserted wasteland fairly close to Blood Gulch that one just had to pass through a few caves in the mountain and cliffs, or the mountainous region across the sea.

“But which?” Church mumbled. If he chose wrong, it’d take weeks of travel to get to the second location. He frowned, contemplating, when the small ping of the early alarm went off from his helmet. With a curse Church scrambled over to his armor and began to put it on as hastily as he could. There’d been no one before and he expected no one now and just—

“Shit fucking dammit clasp on you piece of shit!”

With a huff Church finished pulling on the armor and clasping it in place when a second ping went off. He cursed again and raced out of the small room filled with maps and notes and obsessive thoughts. He raced toward his ‘armory’ and grabbed his sniper riffle. He headed to the armaments as quickly as he could. If he could just scare off the intruder then everything would be fine. Then he could go back to his work on finding Tex.

Church got up top, above the gate and the hole in the wall, into the snipers nest in time to catch sight of regulation blue armor.

(caboose?)

Beside the soldier another stood in more customized pieces, painted grey and yellow, and Church grit his teeth. Couldn’t be Caboose because that wasn’t a set of armor that any Sim Trooper wore. They had set colors, set patterns, and none of it was customizable from the start. Church pulled up the sniper, looked through the scope, and fired.

Grey and yellow at least had the decency to duck for cover. Regulation blue however—

(tall SPARTAN friendly)

(who are you?)

—Church cursed and took closer aim. Fine, if this one wouldn’t accept his warning shot—

(familiar)

(an ache)

(home)

—Church said words that he didn’t even pay attention to as he lined up the shot. His chest ached, he felt like he couldn’t breath—

(he can’t)

(he’s dead)

—grey and yellow spoke in a familiar voice, a little aged, a little more rough and Church’s hands shook. They’d always shook but this was worse, this was familiar—fear—

(washington?)

(no)

(that’s not)

—Regulation blue spoke up, contemplative, familiar.

“Wait a minute—”

Church grit his teeth.

(can’t be)

(he’s safe)

Church settled down, squared his shoulders despite his trembling, and shouted—

(caboose—)

—and missed. His hands shook too much and the shot went wide.

“Aw c’mon, what the fuck!?” Church screamed, his voice hit that pitch. He couldn’t—he didn’t—they needed to go they were messing with his head too much—a dead voice and armor that shouldn’t be here—and then grey and yellow yelled a familiar name and Church froze solid.

“Caboose!”

(no)

nononononononononononono

(he’s safe)

                                                                                                                                                                                                        (he can’t be here)

                                                                                                                                                  (I’ll just…)

“Church! Church! It’s me! Your all time best friend!”

Church felt like chocking as he shrieked out, “Caboose?!”

Chapter Text

There were a lot of things Agent Washington expected when he interacted with the Sim Troopers. A lack of fundamental understanding of how the army actually functioned, the realization that they weren’t actually in the middle of a civil war, or the knowledge that Freelancer’s where merely using them as training grounds. Wash didn’t anticipate running into a Sim Trooper like Caboose, who had team kills by the hundreds, who talked to vehicles as if they were alive, and who half the time made no sense at all until hours down the road.

Caboose actually reminded Wash a lot of Idaho. He missed the triplets. They used to talk and hang out a lot before he got bumped up to Alpha Squad—and before they went completely missing. Wash closed his eyes behind his helmet and rubbed at the back of his neck where his implants burned with psychosomatic pain. The real kicker though, after Kaikaina ‘Sister’ Grif and meeting the AWOL Captain of Red Team Sarge, was honestly Church. Wash eyed Caboose who stood in front of the base with his arms spread out wide.

“Fuck! I missed him!”

Wash watched as the bullets missed Caboose, sometimes by a hair, and yet the larger SPARTAN-esque Sim Trooper just stood there, happy. It defied logic and reason and Washington couldn’t understand it. Was there something in the water? He has to be hallucinating. That was the only thing that made sense.

Wash sucked in a breath. Breath, David, he’s a shit shot and you are fine.

“This is your friend?” Washington asked, and he felt a part of his throat tighten because what kind of friend fires live arounds at another?

Caboose lowered his arms and turned to look at Washington through his helmet and he sounded kind of exasperated as he said, “Yeah.”

“And he’s…shooting at you?” Washington asked, because he felt like he needed to clarify. Who thought shit like this was normal? Several more shots rang out, followed by ever increasing vitriolic curses, and Wash forced himself to breath. He counted back and muttered under his breath the exercises his therapist taught him.

Wash came back at the tail end of Caboose’s response.

“…something up about me killing him, but uh, that’s only the truth. Uh,” Caboose paused, then hastily corrected, “it’s a joke.”

I had to have misheard, Washington thought weakly.

“You can play along if you want!” Caboose chirped.

“That—that doesn’t—you did—you—killed him?” Wash squeaked.

Three more shots went off, and then Church actually popped his head up and shrieked at them and Washington wanted to bury his head and groan.

“Seriously! Get the fuck outta here!”

Maybe there was something in the water at Blood Gulch? Washington thought while Caboose yelled back—and then Church reached a pitch that went right through his brain and he rubbed at his implants again with a faint grown. Or maybe I’m hallucinating due to starvation or something. When was the last time I ate? That…ration bar? How long ago was that? Yesterday?

“What is wrong with you?!” Church shrieked again, and Washington decided he had enough. He stepped out from behind the rock, then quickly jumped back when a shot hit the dirt in front of him.

Wash raised his hands, sucked in a breath, and shouted, “Open the gate!” because fuck—he felt like he was in some weird film and his head hurt with forgotten memories.

“No can do!” Church shouted back down. At least, Wash noted weakly, he’d shouldered his weapon. “This here is a secure facility. No one in, no one out! So scram! Get! And don’t come back!”

Wash stared up at Church, then glanced over to the caution taped and marked off giant hole in the wall, and then back to Church. He wondered if he should even bother to deadpan a reply. They stared at one another for a moment longer, and Wash closed his eyes.

“You have a giant fucking hole in your oh so secure wall,” Washington said bluntly. “I could, of course, just walk in.”

A beat, a moment of silence, and then a loud groan and a growled response of, “Fine!” Washington waited for the door to grind open on damaged gears.

Caboose tore into the facility first. He practically bounced up to Church and squeezed him into a hug while Washington gingerly stepped along behind him. The place was an utter wreck. Vaguely Washington remembered pulling the files on Outpost 48—the two Sim Teams wiped one another out so completely that Command had issues in filling in replacements and repairs.

“Put—put me down! Caboose! Put me down dammit!”

Washington stared, watched as Church struggled in Caboose’s grip for a moment, and then sighed heavily. This was going to be a headache, he could already tell.

Thirty minutes of Caboose squeezing and chattering on about all that happened at Rats Nest and Church had, miraculously, guided them toward the decrepit kitchenette in the base. Somehow he got Caboose to sit still, and Caboose actually tore off his helmet when Church rummaged through the fridge—he grumbled something about how half the food was rotted and he’d need to put in a request again before he pulled out what looked like orange juice.

“Smell that for me buddy,” Church said and handed the cartoon to Caboose. “Let me know if it’s still good.”

Caboose cheerfully accepted the carton and twisted off the cap. He took a sniff and crinkled his nose before he tipped the carton back and began to drink. Church scrambled to grab the carton away and Wash watched it all with the fascination of a train wreck in progress.

“Goddammit moron don’t drink it! Fuck just tell me if it’s rancid—you’re going to make yourself sick you stupid—” Church wrestled the carton away and tossed it into the bin before he scrambled for a cup and quickly twisted the faucet for water. He shoved that at Caboose, along with what looked like some sort of pills, and quickly commanded the large man to drink.

“It was okay! Only a little bad!” Caboose said, but he drank as ordered and Washington felt like an outsider. “My stomach is lead-based. I’ll be fine, I think, won’t I Church?”

Church groaned and flopped down into another chair. Washington thought he mumbled something about how it was a miracle that Caboose wasn’t dead yet before he raised his helmeted head to look at Wash and somehow Washington could just tell the man was exasperated as much as he was happy.

“So,” Church said blandly. “A Freelancer Agent. Here.”

Washington blinked behind his mask. “Recovery Agent actually.”

“Even fucking better,” Church spat out and leaned his head back.

Washington wondered if he should just ask—the food was apparently rotted and as far as he could tell there was no one else in this decrepit, rundown base. He sucked in a breath and decided to just go for it. “Uhm, how—how long have you been here?”

Church rubbed at his helmet in the way one would rub at their hair and then glanced up at Wash tiredly. “What day is today?” Church questioned.

“Tuesday,” Washington said quickly.

“Fourteen months,” Church shot back just as quick and Washington wondered what the day had to do with calculating the length of time in High Ground. “To the day,” Church added, and Wash gaped.

“F—fourteen months? Alone? Here?”

“Yeah,” Church said tiredly. “Been great. Just…really fucking awesome.” Church glanced to Caboose. “Caboose, drink all of it.”

“Okay!”

Wash glanced to Caboose as well and watched the man tip back the glass and drank.

Church sucked in a breath and turned back to Wash and said blandly, “So, Recovery Agent, what the fuck are you doing here at High Ground?” After a second he added, “And how did you even know I was here?”

Caboose answered for him before he could—and he looked rather sheepish about it all too. Washington was reminded how Caboose explained that he snuck a look at the transfer papers and how Church hadn’t really wanted him to know.

“Oh that’s my fault,” Caboose said. “Agent Washingtub wanted people who dealt with Omega and you dealt with Omega the most and I knew where you were so I said I’d lead him here! And here we are!”

Church turned to Caboose. “Caboose,” he said, and the words were ground out with frustration. “It was supposed to be a secret.”

“But what if you were in trouble, Church?” Caboose whined. “What if I needed to rescue you?”

Church sighed again and turned back to Washington. “Does Command know you’re here?”

Washington blinked. “Not yet. I haven’t updated them to the situation. Which reminds me I should—”

“Wait, wait! Don’t call Command yet!” Church scrambled across to grab Washington’s hand like that would stop him from activating his radio. He listened, however, curious as to what the man wanted to say. “This is about Omega?”

Washington said slowly, “Yes, and no.”

Church scowled beneath his helmet. “That is not a fucking answer!”

Washington opened his mouth to respond when Caboose started speaking up again. “Church. Church.”

“Oh my god Caboose finish your water,” Church ground out—he didn’t even bother to look at the other soldier.

“But I did. I finished the water. But, uh, my tummy feels a bit weird?” There was a pause, before Caboose continued, “Uhm, yeah, I am going to be sick.”

Church groaned, held up a hand to stall Washington, and quickly started leading Caboose out of the kitchenette.

“This is why you don’t drink spoiled food, rookie!” Church snapped out while he walked away. Washington wondered how he was going to survive being surrounded by morons. Was this divine punishment? Washington wondered, for a long moment, if he really was suffering from some sort of fever dream brought on by hunger.

“Oh my god Caboose in the toilet! In the toilet!”

Wash dropped his head to the table and wished for simpler days.

They left Agent Washington for thirty minutes, and part of that was because fuck did Church miss this, and fuck did Caboose miss this too. After the mess in the bathroom Church helped Caboose out of his armor—minimal help needed, the man knew how to get his own armor off he just liked to get Church to help him. Church discarded his own armor, resolved to dump them off to get clean later because right now he just—

(his caboose)

(he came back)

—just wanted to rest. Caboose wanted to cuddle. They made the best of the mess and settled down onto Church’s rarely used bed, Church with his back to the fortified wall and Caboose half in his lap, face pressed to his lower stomach, arms wrapped tight around him in a hug. Church sighed and let it just be. Subconsciously his hands stroked through Caboose’s hair, and they rested there for a half hour.

(he came back)

When thirty minutes ticked over Church nudged at Caboose.

“Buddy I need to go and get our armor situated,” Church said.

“Dunwanna,” Caboose mumbled.

“I get that,” Church replied calmly, “but if I don’t dump them into the tub to get cleaned they’re going to smell like vomit forever.”

“I dun’like vomit,” Caboose mumbled again. “I’sucks.”

Church snorted. “Of course it does. Should’ve just did what I said rookie and not drank the damn thing.”

“Jus’a little.”

“Nope, we are not doing this,” Church nudged Caboose a bit harder. “Come on. You dragged a damn Freelancer agent into my base. We left him alone for thirty minutes, and our armor stinks.”

“S’nice,” Caboose mumbled. “’Ashingtub.”

“Yeah, yeah I’m sure he’s a real peach,” Church drawled, “but I don’t trust him.”

“’st’me?” Caboose shifted, tightened his grip. Church sighed, his fingers in Caboose’s dark-wheat-like hair, and they tightened slightly.

“Yeah, buddy,” Church mumbled. “Of course I do.”

For a second nothing happened, then Caboose sighed and shifted off of Church. He grabbed at the pillow and buried his face into it, and Church relaxed just a bit.

“’Ome back,” Caboose said, and he shifted to look at Church with one pale blue eye.

“Of course. Just gotta take care of shit,” Church said as he got up from the bed. “Just relax. I’ll get you some more water too. If you have to throw up, for the love of god make sure you get it in the bucket.”

“Kay.”

Church rubbed a hand over his face and resigned himself to having to clean up vomit if Caboose did have to throw up again. The man lived to try his patience sometimes. With a huff and purpose Church strode out of the room. He headed first to the bathroom, thankfully he couldn’t smell, and gathered up the soiled bits of armor.

This particular base had an automated system for cleaning armor. When Church first discovered it he’d stared and wondered why. At Blood Gulch if the armor got dirty they had to clean it themselves. This was higher tech than any Sim Outpost should rightly had. Not only did it clean the armor, but it helped removed unwanted smells that Church and Caboose and Tucker otherwise had to live with when they cleaned their armor themselves. Sure it took longer to work but the benefits outweighed anything. Plus, Church really didn’t want to clean up vomit off of power armor.

Once he’d dumped the armor into place, wiggled and finagled the power to actually get the machine to work, Church headed back to the kitchenette. Agent Washington was not there, and Church cursed loudly. Just fucking perfect. Now he had a Freelancer Agent, Recovery Agent or not, wandering around High Ground unattended. He didn’t like the itch he felt with that. He didn’t know Agent Washington.

(he should be dead)

                                                                                                                       (he is dead)

                                     (who is this?)

He didn’t know this Agent Washington. Church felt something was off, something was wrong. He hissed a breath and turned on heel. He needed to find the Freelancer, and now.

Chapter Text

It didn’t take long for Church to find Agent Washington. It wasn’t like Washington was hiding anyway. He’d gotten a call from Command—the sound of 479er’s voice a bittersweet memory—informing him of the change in his directives and praise for his work to gather the Blues together. Once the conversation finished Washington got to his feet and headed out to find where Church and Caboose went to. They needed to move, and quickly. There was no telling just where the Meta was, and the chance of a recovery beacon going off in short order was high.

Wash bit his lip beneath his helmet and wandered through the obviously fortified and carefully reconstructed portions of the base. He’d observed the rest of the place as an utter wreck, obviously from both the destruction of the blues and the unfortunate loss of Agent Delaware. Wash stopped at the wall in a small part of the fortified section that remained somewhat a wreck. He saw the scratched marks in neat little rows of five, and the broken, jagged piece of metal casually discarded on the ground.

Washington breathed in, and closed his eyes. The memories flowed over him like water—

—four walls, padded white, and an empty, stark room. The Counselor looked at him with a face masked of pity and sorrow. David wanted to scream at how fake the look was—how could he have never noticed before? A part of his mind, jagged edges that dug into the rest of him, laughed bitterly.

“Why would you notice?” hissed Epsilon. “They were good at hiding it.”

David’s eyes tracked to the small fragment and then snapped back to the Counselor, face a little pale. The walls were white and dangerous and—

—David ran the broken shard of glass through the soft covering of the walls with a laugh. He didn’t mind the blood from his cut hands, didn’t mind anything. He just wanted it to stop. He wanted the Counselor to leave him alone. He knew he messed up—he wasn’t compatible, he wasn’t right, he was never good enough—never good enough; just a bastard, a mistake that shouldn’t exist.

“It’s why he stuck me with you, you know? He wanted to break you.”

David sobbed, git his teeth, and dragged the broken shard of mirror through the wall again. He made marks in neat little rows of five from his tears and blood and jagged shards of his mind. He marked the days that he knew of, the passage of time that he was certain of, and when he finished David collapsed to the ground. He stared and stared and stared—

“Fourteen months,” Epsilon laughed. “Fourteen months in recovery. Ain’t that a fucking bitch?”

—Wash sucked in a sharp breath and blinked. He placed a hand to his helmeted head and frowned. After a moment he shook himself and straightened back up, just in time to see Church enter into the room and freeze, stiff with shock.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” Church burst out. He moved quick, quicker than Washington anticipated. Already Washington had his gun out and up the minute Church ended up in his space, breathing sharp. “What the fuck, man? Put that thing away!” The pitch raised higher and higher and pierced into the parts of him that were broken. Washington breathed in heavily, and forced himself to relax.

“Sorry,” Wash said. “You startled me.”

“I startled you?! You pulled a fucking gun on me!”

“I am a Freelancer,” Washington pointed out dryly. “What did you expect?”

Church narrowed his eyes—green, Washington noticed. In fact the pale skin, the dark hair—that shape and the way his face scrunched up left Washington reeling. He’d seen that face before, he was certain he’d seen that face before—Wash shook his head.

“Why are you out of armor?” Washington demanded. “Where is Caboose?”

Church rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Resting. Fucker’s gone and probably given himself food poisoning. He’s too out of it right now, and our armor is getting cleaned and sanitized. Dumbass threw up on it.” Church grit his teeth towards the end.

“What?!” Wash shrieked. “We need to leave now! We have a lead and any time we waste—”

“I’m not leaving until our armor is cleaned! Deal with it,” Church snapped out. “I came to find you, to tell you not to leave the fucking fortified walls unless you wish to risk death and dismemberment, and now that I’ve finished that I’m going to get Caboose some more fucking water and go back to being his fucking pillow.”

Church turned on heel; the vitriolic diatribe left Wash gaping for a moment, before he quickly raced after the sim trooper.

“How the hell do you get anything done like this?” Wash demanded.

“We don’t!” Church snapped back. He threw his hands up into the air. “That’s the charm of it! Now are you going to fucking shut up and relax or what?” Church glared at him over his shoulder, then frowned. “Besides you look like your about to faint.”

“I’m not,” Wash protested.

Church pressed his lips together. “Fuck you aren’t,” he grumbled. “Goddamn Freelancers never take care of themselves. Where’s those fucking MRE’s dammit—need to get that and some water; juice is definitely no good. Probably water for him too can’t be hydrated enough in that suit…” The words got quieter and quieter until Washington couldn’t even hear them; he could just see Church’s lips moving as he stormed through the base with a purpose.

Washington followed after him, completely uncertain of just what happened.

In the kitchenette Church unearthed the MRE’s and a few protein bars. He shoved three of the pouches at Wash who fumbled to hold them in surprise. Then Church hunted around and filled up a pitcher of water and grabbed two plastic cups and stormed out of the kitchenette. Wash followed along behind him, a little at a loss for just what the other man was doing. Church led him to a small room with a bed that looked barely used and a small computer set up in the corner. A corkboard filled with hastily scribbled and near legible notes sat on another wall. Caboose was curled around a pillow and he looked utterly pathetic in the under suit.

Washington watched as Church settled down onto the bed, placed the pitcher onto a makeshift night stand, and poured Caboose a glass.

“Hey big guy, got you some water,” Church mumbled. Caboose looked up and instantly latched onto Church’s middle. Church sighed. “Come on, drink up. You’ll be even sicker if you don’t.”

“Di’n throw u’,” Caboose said, but the words seemed slurred with something Washington couldn’t quite identify. Perhaps Church gave the other man some sort of medicine? Dangerous if he had no medical training—sim troopers often had an array of conditions that the Director sought out in order to have troopers in the first place. They just weren’t the ‘dumbest’ of the lot, but often the least functional.

“Yeah I see that bud,” Church sighed. “Drink up. Please.”

Washington settled down at the wall. It was more obvious here that Church actually cared for the larger soldier. He seemed almost gentle, his words much softer. Perhaps Wash shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t see this side of Church and Caboose—this softer, caring side.

As if he could hear Wash’s thoughts Church pinned him with a sharp glance.

“Eat your MRE’s,” Church snapped out. “I refuse to have to take care of two idiots who refuse to take care of themselves.”

“’m fine,” Caboose whined as he drank his water.

“You drank spoiled juice,” Church said exasperatedly. “That is not fine, Caboose. God dammit.” Caboose just huffed and cuddled closer toward Church’s middle. When Church shot Washington another look the freelancer sighed and started to unpackage the MRE’s Church shoved at him.

Wash’s eyes widened when he saw the specific meals provided. He glanced to Church—how did he know?—and then brushed it aside as coincidence with a shake of his head. With a sigh Washington climbed to his feet and grabbed the pitcher of water. He started the process of heating each MRE up calmly as could be.

“And take off your damn helmet when you eat,” Church snapped out. “You aren’t a fucking heathen, dammit.”

Wash stiffened, and a part of him ached. How long had he wished for someone with a face like Church’s to give him this level of care? He breathed out through his nose, sighed, and nodded along. Church reminded him of a man Washington hoped to never have to deal with again, only softer despite the explosive nature he displayed. It reminded Wash a little of his two younger sisters and how they’d bully him into taking care of himself as a kid, except with far more curses than the twins ever used. Wash would’ve washed their mouths out with soap if they ever spoke in such a crass manner.

After all his mother didn’t care, Wash thought somewhat bitterly. She never seemed to care aside from reminding him so often about how much he looked like his father. Wash worked on the MRE’s and the heating packets in silence, and when it came time to eat he hesitated to remove his helmet for a few seconds. A sharp glare from Church had him undoing the clasps without even thinking about it. As the release hissed Wash pulled the helmet off and breathed nonfiltered air. How long had it been since he removed it?

Washington set the helmet aside and ran his fingers through his hair, and then decided to work his gloves off so that he could eat better instead of fumbling with a spoon through Kevlar and armor. His implants burned as he worked the gloves off, and with a faint hiss he ran bare fingers over the back of his covered neck. He massaged into the inflamed skin around the chips and wires until the warmth receded.

“Nice hair,” Church said suddenly. Wash had forgotten he and Caboose where there for a second and jerked his head up. Pale blue eyes were wide and adrenaline rushed through his system with a jolt. Wash’s heart hammered fast. “Why bleach just part of it?” Church questioned.

“Because I like it,” Washington said slowly.

Because it makes me look less like him, he thought bitterly.

Church shrugged. “Whatever man, just curious.” He paused in thought and then cocked his head. “You know, you kind of look familiar.”

Wash stiffened and narrowed his eyes with a calming breath a second later. That sentence—Washington looked at Church cautiously.

“What do you mean?” Washington questioned.

After a moment Church shook his head. “Can’t recall. Must be nothing.” At that Wash relaxed slowly and began to eat. He did keep an eye on Church the entire time, now very curious to spite himself. He wondered about the other man as he relaxed back and combed his fingers through Caboose’s hair as the other dozed with his face pressed into Church’s abdomen. It was oddly sweet.

They really care for each other, Wash thought, and focused back on his food. He fought down the bitter longing that surged in his chest. The sharp taste of jealousy tainted the taste of the food. He missed that; the camaraderie. He missed it all.

Church kept his eyes closed even though he wanted to drink in Agent Washington’s face like a starving man. A part of Church longed to touch the man, to feel him and see that he was real and fuck if that didn’t sting like a bitch. Church thought it was bad enough seeing Tex after all—having her stand there and stare at him half out of his mind, thoughts a jumbled mess because of—of the fall.

(was that what happened?)

(I don’t—)

It took most of his time at Blood Gulch for things to come back in shattered pieces; Church knew that Tex was labeled dead by Freelancer—he’d been told so; it had to be true. The Director wouldn’t lie to him about something like that. Except she pulled through, she survived—and she returned to Freelancer. She returned to working for the Director and that—that stung. All Tex cared about in the end was what the Director wanted her to care about and not him.

(she was mine)

mineminemineminemineminemineminemine

(how dare you)

And that was why they didn’t work out, Church thought bitterly. Tex was far too focused on ending the war—and not focused enough on their relationship. Church for a moment tightened his grip on Caboose’s hair and only lessened it when the man shifted and made a noise. Church grit his teeth and just breathed—

(he couldn’t breathe)

                                                                                               (simulation)

(are we forgetting?)

—Church couldn’t think straight. He bowed his head and curled himself around Caboose who was curled around his middle and just tried to stop. To stop thinking and stop feeling because seeing Agent Washington’s face just hurt.

(david)

                                                                                                                                (oh god david you’re—)

sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry

                                                                                      (you’re—)

That, Church knew, was definitely Agent Washington. Church wondered what happened to the man—he looked and acted like he’d been through hell. A small part of Church ached and screamed—

—myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfault—

—but the rest of him just felt bone tired. Of course Agent Washingtone would’ve have come back. He probably crawled through shit and hell to return to Project Freelancer. Whatever happened to the young man was far worse than whatever Tex went through. She came out relatively unscathed, but Wash…Wash was different. Church couldn’t reconcile the bitter, cold man with the young idealistic recruit.

Not that he could recall much. Merely hazy glimpses and flashes of memory that didn’t quite mesh together right. It felt as if a whole part of him was missing, a part of him with all the important bits that he needed. In the end Church didn’t care all that much. The past wasn’t worth it. He had things in the present to focus on—even if the past wanted to continually shove itself into his face and remind him of how much he’s forgotten.

“Sh’ld s’eep,” Caboose grumbled tiredly, and Church practically melted after the comment.

“Good idea, buddy,” Church mumbled, and his mind filled with static. For the first time in fourteen months Church stopped thinking, stopped doing, and fell into a static-filled slumber with Caboose clutched tight to himself. Just a few hours was all he needed; the armor should be done by then.

Chapter Text

Caboose unwrapped himself from around Church and carefully laid his best friend down. He looked over to Agent Washingtub who snoozed against the wall he’d settled down into and smiled. Everyone needed a rest, and it was a good thing Caboose convinced them to rest for a little while. Now though they’d rested enough—Caboose could remember that Washingchurch felt their travel plans were important. Caboose looked forward to those travel plans. Perhaps he could make new friends?

At any rate first things first was off to gather up his and Church’s armor. Caboose ambled through the safe places of the not-quite-home Church built up—home was still Blood Gulch as they’d not quite found a new-home to build into, although they really should now that Caboose thought about it—and once he’d arrived at the armor cleaning place Caboose pulled out the pieces one by one. He hummed to himself as he put on the power suit, everything in it’s proper place because Church needed sleep and therefore Church didn’t need to help Caboose.

Once Caboose was dressed, and he admired how brightly blue his armor looked with a pleased hum, he piled up Church’s armor and began the precarious process of bringing it to Church’s room. Caboose couldn’t quite see over the pieces that he carried, balance a little off but still manageable, but he had a perfect memory for things like this. Without incident Caboose returned to Church’s room and set the armor down on the edge of the bed.

Humming a song that Caboose could barely remember—something from before, long ago, when he lived on the farm with his sisters and brother and mom—he began to pull the armor onto Church. His bestest friend needed the sleep. Until he didn’t need it anymore Caboose could easily take care of things like dressing Church, carrying Church, and making sure Church’s newest body remained functional. Caboose liked this new body. It was much more Church than the one he killed was.

From his peripheral Caboose noted that Churchwash began to wake up. While he’d prefer Agent to sleep more, Caboose couldn’t find it in himself to be that quiet. So for now he ignored the older man and pieced together Church’s armor with pleasure. Once everything, including the nice helmet that was not-better-on-a-top-ten-list Caboose stepped back. He nodded to himself, happy with his work, and started out of the room again.

“Where are you going?” Agent Wash questioned, voice still a little blurred with sleep.

“Church has stuff,” Caboose said plainly. “He will be mad if we left without it.” Without waiting for Washchurch to reply Caboose left the room. He knew exactly where Church liked to keep his things, and easily found the room where Church pretended his stuff didn’t exist. Caboose ignored Agent as he followed.

Church wouldn’t mind this one seeing his super-secret room, Caboose just knew that. Just like he knew that Church was really his bestest friend in the whole world even if Church said mean things. It was how Church showed he cared, Caboose knew that. With a pleased hum Caboose piled in the things Church would want into a crate that he could easily affix to his back to carry. The letters that were settled onto a bench, things that Church would insist were for Caboose but were really for Church to care for Caboose—like the breathing tanks and the foul-tasting medicines that helped things feel a little right for a little while—and then the map and the few small pictures that Church coveted. Once he had everything Caboose meandered out of the secret room and back to Church’s room.

Carefully, because Caboose didn’t want to wake Church up, not yet, Caboose cradled Church into his arms and turned around to view Agent Washingtub who stared at him, helmet still missing, and mouth agape. After a second of just looking at one another—were they having a staring contest? Caboose was great at those—Washington seemed to shake himself out of whatever it was that he was doing. Caboose lamented the end of the staring contest for half-a-second.

“Shouldn’t we wake him?” Washingchurch questioned as he pulled on his helmet.

“No,” Caboose said, and that was that. He waited, patiently, for the other man to sigh and lead them out of the not-really-home base. They had places to be after all, and it’d take a while to travel there. It took about a month to get from Rhodam and Blood Gulch to Valricht and Rats Nest after all, and if Caboose were right then they were going back to Rhodam and Blood Gulch.

Caboose looked forward to it. Perhaps they’d finally find a new home to settle into, and Church could go back to being happy and surrounded by people like he wanted. Caboose wanted that too.

Church didn’t wake up for the first two days leg of their journey and it left Agent Washington concerned. He tried to bring those concerns up to Caboose who deftly rebuffed him and continued to cradle and take care of the unconscious sim trooper. Wash was left to flounder along, worried about the nature of the slumbering man, and worried about Caboose’s mentality since finding him. On the third day, before they finally arrived at Rats Nest and their ride off the planet, Church finally did wake up.

At first Church sounded loudly upset about Caboose holding him, but Washington notice how he didn’t actually fight Caboose off for the next hour. Then Church seemed to explode into motion and flailed to the ground with curses and yells that at first were completely half-hearted. When he bounced back up it was to read Caboose the riot act for letting him sleep so long. Honestly Washington found the pair more amusing than anything. Despite the setback the outburst caused Wash found himself for the rest of the way to Rats Nest with a smile on his face.

Once they reached the entrance into the underground base Church seemed to pause and stare for long enough that Washington turned around.

“Where are we going?” Church questioned. Not once since he woke up did the other man even ask that, and Wash was rather surprised. It seemed entirely against Church’s nature to be so easy going with where Washington lead them.

“To Outpost 17,” Wash said. He watched the way Church stiffened, and how Caboose settled a hand on the slighter man’s shoulder.

“You found Tex’s ship,” Church said softly.

“We haven’t been able to confirm that yet,” Agent Washington said as gently as he could. “UNSC has the site on lockdown.” Washington paused, and then said, “We think there might have been an incident with the Omega AI.”

“And the UNSC isn’t handing it over to Freelancer?” Church questioned. Caboose’s hand on Church’s shoulder turned into a hug that the man barely noticed. “If it’s suspected Freelancer bullshit then why—”

Washington grimaced. “Project Freelancer is…not in the UNSC’s good graces right now. Too many questions, not enough answers.”

Church let out a hiss and leaned against Caboose’s chest.

“Valhalla is back on Rhodam,” Church said bitterly. “That’s about a months fucking ship flight from here. Who is to say that the site won’t be cleaned up by then?”

Washington crossed his arms and shook his head. “Technically the site is in jurisdictional limbo right now. Freelancer’s control over any of it’s assets has yet to be officially revoked. However, by that same token the UNSC does not want to release Freelancer property in case the investigation into the project turns out to be…damning.”

Church ducked his head and mumbled, “And that could take months, years….”

“Exactly,” Washington nodded. “The hope is that the UNSC will grant us access to the site thanks to your previous frequent interaction with the Omega AI. You two will be integral in determining if we do have an incident like what happened at Blood Gulch to contend with or not.”

“And you get the chance to recover some shiny Freelancer tech right under the UNSC’s nose,” Church retorted dryly.

“I will admit the thought had crossed my mind,” Washington agreed lightly. “Come on, our pelican should be waiting for us at the Rats Nest landing pad.” Washington started moving again, stepped into the lighting of the manmade tunnel.

Church and Caboose did not follow. Instead Caboose stood at the entrance; he shifted from foot to foot and fiddled with his hands in a nervous habit that Church hadn’t seen in quite some time. Church frowned from beneath his helmet.

“Caboose?” he said, and Agent Washington stopped.

“Er,” Caboose shuffled. “Maybe, uhm, maybe Church and I should wait here. For the birdie. And Agent Washingtub. And not enter into the base. That is a good idea.”

“The planet’s gravitational pull means that there are only a few specified spots where a pelican can safely enter the atmosphere and land,” Washington pointed out. “Rats Nest has a safe tunnel, and unfortunately no escape into the atmosphere beyond that tunnel.”

Church crossed his arms. “Alright, what’s the big deal then? Why do you not want to go into the base.”

Caboose hemmed and hawed for a moment. “Maybe, uh, maybe it is not a good idea. For me to be seen in the base. Or seen by the Captain. Or seen at all. Maybe that is not such a good idea.”

Church slapped a hand to his visor and groaned. “What did you do.”

Caboose shuffled. “There might be a few times where. Ah, where someone has died. The Captain wasn’t too…pleased with that.”

Washington utterly stilled. He’d forgotten about that. Shit. Exhaustedly he runs a hand across his visor and tried to think of a way around this. The Captain wouldn’t have to deal with Caboose for long, after all, maybe he could swing it as just passing through since they were? Their pelican should arrive soon anyway.

Caboose continued into Church’s silence and Washington’s contemplation, “And maybe they uh, with the upset and the broken cars and tanks and no Shiela’s, ah, maybe they put me in a time out box. And took my gun. And tied me up. For a few days.”

“Did they really,” Church said, and his voice has gone that ice, calm sort of cold that made Caboose hunch his shoulders.

“Yes,” Caboose said, and Washington paled beneath his armor at the implications. “That is, that is a thing that happened, yes.”

“Well then,” Church responded. He turned to face Wash who swallowed heavily. Something about the cold, calm demeanor made Wash nervous. “I think we best get inside Rats Nest and get off this godforsaken planet soon.”

Washington swallowed. “That’s a great idea, Private,” he said. He kept his tone even, tried not to let his anxiety show. Caboose shuffled and slumped down and followed after the group dejectedly as Wash started to lead them back into Rats Nest.

“And while we wait,” Church said, and his voice took an almost sinister tone, “I think I’ll speak with this Captain.”

Washington wanted to cry. This did not bode well at all.

Everything went out of control in fairly short order. Church vibrated with an intense fury he hadn’t felt in a long time; a slow burning flame that twisted through his non-existent gut in ways far different from the quickfire temper he usually had. As soon as they stepped into the base proper and were greeted with the first sentry—a young man who let out a terrified yelp and said something about a demon—that slow burning flame ignited into a roaring bonfire.

(how dare they)

Church seethed. He cold-cocked the bastard who insulted Caboose and shot him point blank into the foot. Agent Washington jerked forward with a shout, and then looked to Caboose who shuffled nervously, but Church already moved into the base. He ignored the fools screams and stormed past the entrance.

(how dare they)

At the yell of the Blue sentry the entire base seemed to gather in the garage, surrounded by broken and still aflame vehicles. They raised their weapons at Church and glanced between each other, and beneath his visor Church grinned. With an efficiency not portrayed at Blood Gulch Church moved, weaved through man after man and brought them down with nonlethal shots even as Agent Washington raced to stop him.

(how fucking dare they)

Church’s rampage ended with the Captain held point blank at his service riffle, his firing hand bleeding from a bullet wound.

“I am only going to say this once,” Church said as Washington danced around the groaning downed bodies. “You had better pray that all of your future shipments are supplies and not men or new orders because I can guarantee you, you will not be going home from this base unless it is in a body bag.”

“Private Church!” Agent Washington screamed out at the threat and doubled his pace.

“Am I understood?” Church questioned as one of the Blues tried to grab Washington and inadvertently tripped him.

“Listen son,” the man said slowly. “I don’t know what beef you have with me, but if you think I will take the threat from some lowly Private—” Church cocked the gun and Captain Weathers stilled.

“Trust me,” Church hissed, “I have the means.”

Captain Weathers swallowed, opened his mouth to say something, and then froze when the behemoth that was Caboose stepped up and carefully grabbed the riffle out of Church’s hands. Church didn’t even shift at the sudden proximity of the taller man, or at the loss of his weapon.

“Church,” Caboose said, and his voice was soft as he spoke. It barely trembled. “You need to stop being scary now. Agent Washingtub is upset.”

“I am upset, Caboose,” Church said.

mineminemineminemine

howdaretheyhowdaretheyhowdaretheyhowdarethey

(I’ll kill them)

(I’ll kill them all)

“Yes but,” Caboose fumbled for his words. “You are scary.” Church blinked and turned his head. “I do not like scary Church. He is mean.”

Church clenched his fists, and then nodded once. He turned and walked away from Captain Weathers and headed toward the landing pad for the pelican to wait. Caboose looked down at Captain Weathers and pursed his lips.

“You are mean too,” Caboose said plainly, and then stepped away to help Agent Washington up and lead him through the sea of bodies. The riffle in his hand went off just as they crossed the floor of the garage and suddenly the entire base filled with shouting.

Church glanced back only once as Washington and Caboose settled next to them, Washington seethed and Caboose shuffled nervously. He looked to Captain Weathers who collapsed to the floor, a neat little hole in his visor. He glanced to Caboose who handed him his riffle, and then to Washington.

“Do not do that again,” Wash rasped out.

“Noted,” Church replied blandly and didn’t bother to push Caboose away as the taller man draped over him like a wet limpet. “You can’t say they didn’t deserve it, though.”

Washington floundered. The roar of the pelicans engines drowned out whatever response he gave, but Church knew easily that the other man felt just as enraged by the injustice as Church did. Church knew if given half the chance Wash would have put a bullet between the eyes of every serviceman here. Really Church did them a favor; they didn’t need to be massacred by Agent Washington. He doubted they’d make the same mistakes again.

They boarded the pelican in silence, and Church let the rage escape from him like water through his fingers. He leaned against Caboose and sighed tiredly. Holding that much anger for as long as he did drained him. It was like Church pulled upon a part of himself long severed, a jagged edge in his mind that had been soothed over poorly with a patch job that barely held together. Caboose, like always, seemed to know just what he needed; Church felt himself drift off into static.

Chapter Text

Leonard pressed his lips thin as he held his hands behind his back and stared at the screens upon the Father of Intuition. From slightly behind him Aiden Price stood, and Leonard felt his shoulders tense. He’d grown more and more wary of his ‘secret’ ONI watcher as time moved on, and now as Freelancer crashed and burned around him that unnerved energy only grew.

“How far along are we in the decommission of the simulation bases?” Leonard asked as he studied the information available on Freelancer agents.

“As well as can be expected,” Price said, and Leonard could hear the pleased hum in his voice. “Any survivors from Agent Maine’s rampage have been appropriately sequestered and given adequate psychiatric care.”

Leonard tilted his head to look back at Price. “And the status of my Freelancer agents, Counselor? Why are so many of my men marked as KIA?”

Price folded his own arms and sorrowfully dipped his head. “Unfortunate circumstances,” he said. “It appears Agent Maine is not just targeting those of Alpha squad.”

Leonard clenched his jaw. That he didn’t believe. Sigma’s obsession held no quarry with the rest of Freelancer, only with his ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’ and ‘creator’ and ultimate himself. Leonard always knew his ambition was a dangerous thing, he just never suspected how much.

Price stepped up toward the map and nodded toward Agent Carolina, “And what of your daughter?” he questioned. “Any word of her?”

Leonard squeezed his hands and tried to ignore the urge to snarl at the man. “Agent Carolina is dead, Counselor,” he said, tone cold. “If you remember she was the first casualty of Agent Maine’s rampage.”

Price hummed. “Of course.” There was a moments pause, and then, “Is her death the reason why you’ve worked so hard to mitigate Agent Maine’s actions?”

“I am mitigating Agent Maine’s increasing erratic behavior because it is reprehensible,” Leonard said sharply. “Agent Carolina’s unfortunate death has no bearing on that.”

“And yet you were willing to see how she’d handle two AI fragments,” Price mused. “I find this discrepancy…odd.”

Leonard breathed out slowly, tried to control himself. “Counselor…my feelings on Agent Carolina and her demise are not up for discussion.” He squeezed his hands again and reminded himself that choking Price would be counterproductive. “The experiment with multiple AI fragments was her own idea, as you well know. After the determination that a single AI fragment could function stably with our Agents it is only logical we progress to see how two would work, given a full AI implantation ended…in utter disaster.”

Price hummed. “Ah, yes. Agent California.” He side-eyed Leonard. “Is that not when the Beta AI became apparent?”

“You know that answer.”

“Of course.”

Leonard focused on the names.

Georgia who went missing initially after they retrieved him from space, later reported dead in the news.
Alabama discovered by Recovery Five.
Utah who disappeared from the intensive care unit he’d been placed in after a second disastrous test of the dome shield.
Louisiana
Oklahoma
Michigan
Montana
Nevada presumed dead, potentially MIA

The names went on and on. There were as many known listed KIA’s as there were MIA’s. Barely even a handful of Freelancer’s remained, and it left a sour taste in Leonard’s mouth. He’d always hated death, and found it to be part of why he’d never quite been fit for military life.

“It is interesting,” Price spoke up, “how this project has failed in incorporating a full AI with a soldier. Perhaps the fault is in our design for the neural implants and not in compatibility.”

Leonard glanced to Price with narrowed eyes. “And why do you think that is?”

“You have heard that Master Chief had implanted the CTN series, did you not?” Price tilted his head, curious.

Leonard furrowed his brow. “While our designs were experimental we did share our project goals with the SPARTAN II program,” Leonard said slowly. “However, we did not reveal everything, my dear Counselor. While yes implantation in the manner that Master Chief John-117 achieved is possible, we were searching for a more…permanent solution, if you recall.”

Price hummed. “True, and in that respect the Project is a failure. Does this concern you?”

Leonard squeezed his hands. “That my goals were a failure? That I did not achieve what I sought to do? No. It is merely a disappointment, and I will weather the storm of the fallout as always. Now, Counselor, I would appreciate it if you let me be.”

Leonard strode from the screens and over to his desk. He released his hands from behind his back and laid one down onto a small picture—the only picture he had left of Allison and Charmaine.

“Are you sure you do not wish to discuss your feelings, Director?” Price questioned.

“I want to be left alone, Counselor,” Leonard said, and he turned his head to look at Price. Price nodded and turned to leave the room.

“You know where to find me if you wish to talk,” Price said as he left. “It is, after all, best if you do not bottle up these emotions, Director. It could lead to dire consequences.”

The door slipped shut and Leonard snorted. As if I would discuss what ahm feelin’ with you, he thought bitterly. Once he might have, before he found the records and logs of Price’s sessions with David. Leonard clenched the photograph tight, and then folded it down flat on the desk so that he couldn’t see the picture. He moved around and grabbed a decanter, alcohol—the strongest he could afford—and drifted over toward his couch with a tired sigh.

“F.I.L.S.S., go secure,” Leonard sat down on the couch and leaned back.

“Of course Director,” F.I.L.S.S. chimed, her trademark eye covering up the listed names. Leonard listened as the walls hissed shut and sealed him inside. He waited for a breath, and when F.I.L.S.S. chimed in, “We are secure,” Leonard fully relaxed.

“Thank you, Xi,” he murmured tiredly.

A flicker, and Xi fully appeared in front of him, standing atop the coffee table. She tilted her head. “Would you like me to play the video file?” she asked him.

“No,” Leonard closed his eyes. “Not tonight.”

Xi watched him; Leonard knew Xi watched him because she always did. Compassion, the one trait he barely held any of, and yet it was one of the largest fragments that Leonard had ever seen—larger than even Beta. Leonard let himself fall heavy with the thought, sipped his alcohol, and found himself drifting off into a light doze. He felt the room warm just a bit, enough to help him drift off as a blanket settled around his shoulders.

“Rest well, grandfather,” Xi said softly.

Leonard hummed. Xi had always reminded him of Charmaine when she was younger. Perhaps that was why…and he barely held the thought before he drifted off into dreams. Dreams of Allison, of Alpha and Charmaine and David and Xi—of everything being right in the world.

When Leonard woke he could hear Xi humming softly. For a moment he just laid there and listened to the familiar song that Allison used to sing to Charmaine. Eventually he opened his eyes and sat up, and instantly Xi stopped. She flitted over until she settled across the coffee table, aquamarine and bright. Leonard couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face.

“There is a glass of water on the end table,” Xi said, and Leonard glanced over. “There have been no updates since the room went secure.”

“Thank you, Xi,” Leonard murmured and picked up the glass of water. He eyed the decanter and his bottle of alcohol and decided to ignore it for now. “Any news on Charmaine?”

“No news on Charmaine,” Xi said disappointedly. “David has refused contact.”

“As expected,” Leonard murmured as he sipped on his water. “What about their Freelancer files?”

Xi flickered. A file popped up in front of her, faintly holographic like her own form, filled with binary that danced in front of her glasses.

“Agent Washington of Project Freelancer,” Xi recited, “Given name, David. Surname, Greer. Age, 32. Status, Active. Station, Recover One. Location, en route to Rhodam and Outpost 17, codname Valhalla.”

Leonard frowned, but nodded with a murmur of, “Good.”

“Agent Carolina of Project Freelancer,” Xi recited as the screens twisted around her. “Given name, Charmaine. Surname, Greer. Age, 31. Status, MIA, presumed KIA. Station, Freelancer Alpha Squad Leader. Location, unknown.”

Leonard relaxed back and closed his eyes with a tired sigh. “Are you sure givin’ her the same surname is the best idea?” he questioned.

The folders flickered away and Xi looked at him. “David’s service record speaks for itself, and all necessary files have already been altered to reflect his name of ‘Greer.’ As soon as you provide the word the record of Agent Washington within Project Freelancer will be erased. As for Charmaine, since they are biologically siblings with only a year apart, it is best to provide her with the same last name.”

“Maryanne is not goin’ to like that,” Leonard mumbled tiredly. He scrubbed a hand down his face.

Xi blinked. “It is the best possible response as any blood test would instantly declare them related siblings,” Xi pointed out, “and…to allow David and Charmaine to repair the relationship they never had.”

“Maryanne is gonna kill me,” Leonard groaned. She had just as vicious a kick as Allison and as much a propensity for crotch shots. Leonard already lamented the state his balls if they ever saw each other once again.

“Surely she would not hurt you?” Xi questioned.

“Xi, darlin’, you have never met the Greer sisters. Maryanne is almost exactly like Allison, and that is sayin’ somethin’ less than wonderful about my wife, but true nonetheless.” Leonard leaned forward and sighed.

“Should I change it then?” Xi asked.

Leonard took a moment before he sighed. “No,” he said. “No, you are right. The consequences will have to just be dealt with. Now what about the Alpha, Xi?”

Xi flicked her fingers and focused on the information she had at her fingertips about the Alpha, as well as the tracking implant to help keep an eye on him. “AI serial DTR-4302-5; designation, Alpha. Status, active. Assignment, High Ground. Location, en route to Rhodam and Outpost 17, codename Valhalla.”

Leonard froze. “What.”

“En route to Rhodam and Outpost 17, codename Valhall,” Xi repeated.

Leonard raised his head to stare at Xi, brow furrowed, and with a sharp curse he stood and quickly stormed over to his desk. “Get a hold of Alpha immediately, Xi! What the fuck does that little shit think he’s doin’? Ah had him at High Ground for a damn reason. Wanderin’ off with David like nothin’ wrong and huntin’ him down that stupid arrogant child.” Leonard grit his teeth.

Xi watched him, her fingers absentmindedly flickered through to start a call to Alpha for the Director. She looked at her files, and then said softly so that Leonard couldn’t hear, “Perhaps it’s good I didn’t tell him about Agent California, then….”

Church lounged and dozed against Caboose, out of armor, while Washington poured over digital documents with a frown. Frustrated at the man for his silence on matters aside from questioning them about O’mally, Gary, and Tex, Church decided to ultimately ignore him. He also ignored Caboose who would look at him with big, disappointed eyes. Church had a right to know what was going on, dammit. He’d been left in the dark about plenty in his life and fuck he hated it. First Florida kept secrets from him tahnks to his head injury, then the Director followed suit, and now Agent Washington.

“You should try to be nice, Church,” Caboose grumbled from where he’d wrapped his arms around Church. “Agent Washingbin only wants to be friends.”

“I’m angry,” Church grumbled back.

“But not at Washtub,” Caboose pointed out and damn him.

(he was right)

(fuck)

(he was always right)

“So?” Church settled to glare wat Washington instead of actually cussing Caboose out like he wanted.

“I’m your best friend, Church,” Caboose pointed you. “You know me, and I know you.”

(best friend)

(that’s how…)

(but why?)

(I hurt you)

Church twisted and buried his face into Caboose’s chest with a faint sigh. “I hurt you,” he mumbled bitterly.

“You did not know,” Caboose explained patiently. Why was he always so patient with Church even when he didn’t deserve to be? “You slayed the dragon.”

“And burned you,” Church snapped back. He played into the fantasy that Caboose used to cope, aware that if he tried to pull the other man out it’d end in disaster at this point. As much as he wanted to snap and tell Caboose to quick being so damn childish, to quit hiding behind these stupid analogies, Church held his tongue. He knew enough about psychology to know that he wasn’t qualified to bring Caboose out of the mix of reality and fantasy the man lived in.

“I am fine,” Caboose soothed. He moved his hand up and down Church’s back—Church grimaced and fought the urge to tell Caboose to stop because part of him loved it, loved the comfort, but the rest of him wanted to shove it away as a weakness. He didn’t deserve comfort from Caboose anyway.

(guilty, he raged)

(caboose)                                                                           

(he doesn’t)                       

(just)                                                    

(understand)                    

(please)

(caboose)                                                           

(I broke you)

“Ass,” Church finally settled on grumbling as a compromise. He could practically feel Caboose smile in response.

“Now,” Caboose said, pleased, “make friends, Church.”

“Not interested.”

Caboose frowned, but before he could prod Church further an alert went off—shrill and catching, even Washington jerked up in surprise—and Church pinpointed it from his sky-blue armor. Quickly he extricated himself from Caboose’s grasp and scrambled over to his armor even as Agent Washington got to his feet and followed. Church fumbled to pull the thing on—

“What the hell is going on?”

—and quickly Church flicked off the external speakers once he’d gotten the thing in place.

(secret)

(secret)

secretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecret

(I’m)

secretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecret

(must remain)

secretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecret

(a secret)

Church sucked in a breath and answered the call.

secretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecret

“Why the fuck have you decided to call me now?” Church demanded. There was only one person who would attempt to call him, and after months of silence Church was not in a forgiving mood.

secretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecret

“What in th’ evah lovin’ hell do ya think ya doin’ leavin’ High Ground ya irritatin’ fuckin’ piece ah damn shit!” the Director raged, accent thick in his anger, voice sharp and loud and something else that Church couldn’t quite identify, didn’t quite want to.

“Have you…been drinking?” Church questioned.

(he wanted to ask if he was okay)

(except that meant admitting care)

(he didn’t care dammit)

(he didn’t)

Washington narrowed eyes and Caboose got up from his seated position, suddenly tense as Church got more and more wound up from the words the Director spoke. Something like concern laced his frown, and Washington seemed to catch on that things were wrong.

“No ahm damn well not okay, and it ain’t any damn concern ah yah’s if ahm drinkin’!” the Director snapped, voice slowly rising in pitch to a familiar shriek. “What in sam hell do yah think yah doin’, boy? David’s job ain’t safe for ya t’be ‘round, yah sonnovabitch!”

(low blow)

(but then you’d know wouldn’t you?)

(a whore of a mother)

(bastard father)

(we’re so shitty)

(everything)

(just shitty)

(aren’t we?)

“So?” Church responded despite the way his thoughts churned beneath the surface. “High Ground wasn’t any damned safer than my box!” He began to pace the small commons area like a caged tiger.

Caboose cautiously approached now while Washington’s hands flexed for his sidearm.

“Church. Church, calm down,” Caboose said—and it penetrated the helmet in its intensity, hit the audio sensors enough that the Director could hear.

“Who. Is. That?” the Director ground down, voice going soft.

“Why does it matter?!” Church snapped out and flung one arm wide. Washington jerked and grabbed his sidearm out of reflex, pulled up and aimed at Church.

A quick scuffle between Caboose and Washington followed. Caboose wrestled for the gun, wrestled to pull it away a snarl about not hurting Church.

“ALPHA!” the Director shrieked, furious. Church jerked and his whole body locked up stiff. In the shock of seeing Church suddenly, utterly, tense Caboose got the sidearm away from Washington and tossed to the side. He then moved over toward Church quickly.

“What the hell is going on?” Washington questioned. He tracked Caboose, tracked the way Church remained tense as a board while Caboose grabbed him and curled his arms protectively around him.

“Bad conversation with mean goblin man,” Caboose grumbled for Washington.

“Wait—is that Californiah?!” the Director demanded. “What in the hell—why is fuckin’ Californiah there?!”

“Why do you care,” Church replied quietly.

“What?”

“Why do you care?” Chuch repeated.

“Alpha—”

Church exploded, struggled in Caboose’s grasp, “WHY DO YOU FUCKIN’ CARE?!” The words were loud enough for even Washington to hear, who jerked back sharp enough, and far enough that he hit the wall. His hands grasped for a sidearm that was no longer there, for a knife he hadn’t allowed himself to carry in years.

Church’s struggles increased, furious and grief stricken and confused. He began to slip, accent bursting forth in a way he’d refused to allow in years. “YOU NEVER CARED BEFORE! AFTER EVERYTHIN” AN’ ALL YAH DONE—TAH ME AN’ THEM AN’ US—WHY DO YA SUDDENLY FUCKIN’ CARE?!”

“Church, Church,” Caboose repeated as he grabbed at Church’s hands, grabbed at Church’s arms, shoulders, wrapped him tight while he fought and scratched and struggled tog et out of the grasp, to beat something to hurt something.

Church’s eyes burned with the want to shed tears he could not create. His voice wanted to choke up as it grew shriller and shriller and shriller. Washington’s breathing grew heavier by the wall, eyes wide and pupils dilated and fear shot through his veins like liquid electricity. Then, all of a sudden, Church went silent and limp in Caboose’s arms. Wash trembled and fought down fearfearfearfearfearfear that threatened to overwhelm him—he hated fighting ever since the crash, the counseling, the everything—and the world around the three of them seemed to still.

The Director said nothing at first, and then started, “Alpha—” but Church had enough. Caboose slackened his arms, and Church ripped the helmet off and squirmed out of Caboose’s grip and—he didn’t flee, he didn’t run, he didn’t—stormed off to his small sequestered bunk on their small, acquired ship. Caboose watched him go, then picked up the helmet and pulled it on.

“—regrettin’ what happened—” the Director spoke, conversation continued unaware that Church had left.

“Church is angry,” Caboose said plainly and the Director stopped cold.

“California—” he started, but Caboose cut the connection and pulled the helmet off. He looked to Washington.

“Church is angry,” Caboose said plainly.

“No shit,” Washington replied. He scrubbed a hand down his face tiredly and moved back toward his paperwork. He chalked everything up to simulation trooper bullshit and decided to ignore what just happened even though it gnawed at him—gnawed at him with niggling thoughts and terrified considerations.

He knew that voice.

Caboose watched him. Caboose watched him, and looked to the helmet, and then to the door that Church disappeared through.

He knew that voice, Washington thought. He knew that voice.

Chapter Text

Name: Michael Caboose
Age: 21
Service ID: Michael-210
Project Freelancer ID: California
Record Notes:

                Member of Class II of the SPARTAN-II Program on loan to Project Freelancer.
                Assigned to Omega Squad under Florida.
                Reported MIA to SPARTAN-II Program following failed implantation of ALPHA.
                Dr. Halsey provided additional information.
                Noted family within the Project; designations Four-Seven-Niner and Maine. See attached files.

Leonard pursed his lips. The failure of the ALPHA implantation still rubbed him rather raw; in part because of the damage it did to California and Alpha both, and in part because he needed Halsey’s help in essentially removing California from the SPARTAN-II Program. The discovery of California’s relation to Maine and Four-Seven-Niner was an unprecedented surprise, and one that Leonard worked hard to hide. There was no telling how they’d react to California being their brother, given the SPARTAN Program’s tendency to kidnap children and replace them with flash clones.

Name: Kaikaina Grif
Age: 24
Service ID: 00215-85769-KG
Project Freelancer ID: Kansas
Record Notes:

                Fast-tracked into Freelancer due to impeccable service record.
                Paired to Agent Florida for complimentary skills.
                Highly trained Infiltration Specialist with additional undercover training.
                Disruptive behavior noted.
                Noted family within the Project; Private Dexter Grif acquired from UNSC Military after medical discharge. See attached files.

Kansas was an interesting member of Project Freelancer. Leonard frowned lightly; Florida picked her up almost instantly and practically begged Leonard to let her be a part of his little sub team of infiltration specialists. Given how Kansas could seemingly shift the type of personality she put out Leonard wasn’t too hard pressed to give in to Florida’s request. Her brother, on the other hand, had an impeccable service record. If only the resulting trauma from his time in the military hadn’t ruined him he would’ve made a great agent himself.

Name: Franklin Delano Donut
Age: 28
Service ID: 08295-64381-FD
Project Freelancer ID: Hawaii
Record Notes:

                Arms Specialist reassigned to Freelancer per request.
                Specific training as Grenadier. Assigned to Beta Squad as rear support.
                Reassigned to Omega Squad per Florida’s request.
                Questionable comments from Agent noted.
                Counselor refuses to handle Agent.

Leonard snorted. He could remember Hawaii. He could remember the way Price left the room after Hawaii with such a constipated look on his face. Leonard found Hawaii amusing and a bit of a breath of fresh air. He’d watched the man turn heads with innuendo and how perfectly placed it was. He flipped the file and then frowned when he reached Montana.

Name: Jacob Jenkins.
Age: 27
Service ID: 97165-32850-JJ
Project Freelancer ID: Montana
Record Notes:

                Infiltration Specialist assigned to Omega Squad under Florida.
                Talented at information gathering.
                Acquired from outside UNSC Military and Navy per request.
                Prior history of criminal activity noted. See attached.

Montana, one of the KIA’s on the list supposedly noted to Agent Maine. Leonard closed his eyes and flipped the page. The last name on the list was Oregon.

Name: Cornelius Thromwell Andersmith
Age: 29
Service ID: 55314-06289-CA
Project Freelancer ID: Oregon
Record Notes:

                Acclaimed sniper; long range communications specialist.
                Acquired from Insurrectionist movement on abandoned colony planet Chorus.
                Concerning theories surrounding the loss of the Chorus colony.
                Assigned to Omega Squad under Florida.

Andersmith—Oregon—wasn’t even noted on the list of potentially missing or killed agents. It left Leonard curious as to why. With a sigh Leonard leaned back and folded his hands in front of his lips. The list was extensive, and almost all members at one point or another worked under Florida. Leonard had no doubt that Florida chose the “reinforcements” and “replacements” with care and purpose. Combine this ecclesiastic group of recruits with the ecclesiastic group of Sim Troopers and it made for a nice pretty picture.

It certainly fit the mimicry of the Desert Gulch troopers well, Leonard mused, but that wasn’t the important part. The important part was realizing that he’d missed this Agents and no one brought it to his attention. Leonard frowned and pulled the folders up side-by-side. He swiped away Montana’s—the agent was dead, there was nothing to be done there—and then swiped away California’s—that man was already far too attached to Alpha as it was.

Hawaii, Leonard noted, was actually on loan to the UNSC Ambassadorial team that Lavernius Tucker was assigned. Leonard tossed that file aside as well. That left Kansas—and Leonard grimaced at the thought. Kansas was a trip and a half, and what’s worse is that she’d have an attachment because her brother was on the Blood Gulch Red Team, despite her assignation to Blue Team Command. Plus Leonard couldn’t quite count on how she’d react to him pulling her back into the Freelancer mess with Alpha, Maine, and Washington.

Considering Agent Maine’s track record and that Kansas’ brother might be placed into the line of fire with her participation, Leonard paused the thought to contact her. That left, out of everyone, Oregon. Leonard pressed his lips together. Oregon was interesting, out of the group, although everyone Florida hand picked were, at their core, interesting. Out of everything there wasn’t much known about Oregon. His status as a former Insurrectionist was kept from everyone—although Florida unearthed it as Florida always did—but that wasn’t even the kicker, really. The fact that Oregon supposedly came from the Chorus colony, a colony that the UNSC had long listed as abandoned and lost due to unknown factors, but he’d had interesting tales to tell about the Chorus colony.

Leonard hummed and tapped on Oregon’s file.

“Xi, dear?”

Xi popped up. “Yes grandfather?”

“Contact Agent Oregon,” Leonard said. “I have a job for him.”

Xi flickered, and then said brightly, “Of course, grandfather!”

Leonard browsed the list again, and then mused, “And leave the surviving members as MIA. It would not due to alert any…specific parties to their true status. Or information. Use a backup of Gamma to assist you.”

“I don’t like Gamma,” Xi pouted.

“He’s a devious liar who will make the changes to their service records more believable,” Leonard pointed out logically. “If it makes you feel any better he cannot leave the containment unit.”

“Very well,” Xi relented and disappeared.

Leonard sighed. While frustrating that V.I.C. called all of Omega Squad following the reported death of Florida—by aspirin of all things—it was ultimately understandable. Leonard doubted that the death of Florida was a mere accident. The man was more than aware of his own weaknesses and paranoid to boot; it made him the perfect partner for V.I.C. in Blood Gulch. Still, the entirety of Omega Squad…Leonard frowned.

“Should have terminated that damn program,” Leonard grumbled. “Overreacting as always.” There was no real heat in the words though, merely exasperation, and honestly in the end that overreaction was perhaps the one reason why Alpha survived as long as he had. Leonard couldn’t’ fault V.I.C. his insane paranoia, given everything. Leonard found himself fairly paranoid now, even.

“Xi, end secure,” Leonard called out. He’d secluded himself away for long enough. Fairly quickly the data that Leonard viewed vanished, replaced with mundane information. F.I.L.S.S. popped back up on the screen, a waveform in the shape of an eye.

“Done, Director,” F.I.L.S.S. intoned.

“Thank you, F.I.L.S.S.,” Leonard sighed. “Thank you.”

They landed on Rhodam with little fanfare and were supplied a jeep much to Agent Washington’s consternation. Church caught something about fucking cars but decided not to press considering his own rather short fuse. He’d been strung like a wire ever since the call from the Director and prone to lash out at those around him. It reached the point that even Caboose started to avoid him if only because Church was so prickly right now.

When they finally did get into the jeep and drive away everything made sense.

“Where did you learn to drive?!” Church shrieked.

“I didn’t! Taught myself!” Wash shot back, pulled the jeep around a curve way too fast and Church gripped his seat tightly. In the back Caboose hollered like he was on some sort of rollercoaster ride. Church wanted to grab him, shake him, let him know their very lives were on the line here—when the jeep rolled over and came to a rather spectacular crash with them still inside.

“SONNOVABITCH!” Church screamed. He could hear a dangerous sort of rattle, then the sound of something cracking, and then there was smoke as the jeep rolled over the edge of a cliff. “YOU FUCKIIIIING DIIIIIIICK!” They rolled over and over—and Church swore Caboose started to moan in the way that meant he was going to be sick—before they came to a sickening crunch upside down.

For a moment they hung there, upside down, and then Church flailed as the reality sunk in. “Caboose? Caboose?!” he shouted.

“Ow,” Caboose said. “I think I do not like this ride, Church.”

“You and me both,” Church grumbled. He heard the faint sound of something like power armor scrambling for a buckle and with a start Church snapped, “Caboose don’t—” and then there came a definite click and Church grimaced at the followed thunk and then Caboose’s faint, “Ow.”

“We’re upside down, dumbass,” Church grumbled. “You better not have hurt your damn head any more than it already is.”

“I feel a bit sick,” Caboose said plainly.

“Don’t throw up!” Church shrieked, flailed, and scrambled for his own seatbelt.

“I think I smell fire, too,” Caboose said just as Church got his own seatbelt unbuckled and crashed down onto the roof of the jeep. “Yes, I smell fire. Church. Is the engine supposed to be on fire?”

“What?” Church pushed himself up, and then paled at the sight of flames on the front of the jeep. “How the fuck did he—”

“Uhm, Church,” Caboose continued, “I think we should leave. Soon. Fire is bad, right?”

“Right!” Church jolted into action. “Fire is very bad!” Church scrambled to get Washington unbuckled, grimaced at the sight of the man completely unmoving, and grunted when he eventually fell down onto Church.

Caboose scrambled out of the jeep, and then over to the side where he pried the door open and hauled both Church and Washington away from the wreckage with one under each arm. He ran fast, because Caboose was fast, in some random direction and only stopped when he heard the loud boom of the jeep completely, illogically, exploding. Only then did Caboose set Church down, and carefully set down Agent Washington.

“That should not have been possible,” Church grumbled and yanked off his helmet. He was never more thankful that Agent Washington insisted they wear full power armor in the jeeps even if he found the idea illogical at first. “Caboose, helmet off,” Church snapped out as he knelt down next to Agent Washington.

“Yes, Church,” Caboose replied and carefully pried his helmet off. Church worked on removing Washington’s helmet as well, and then bit back a curse when he saw the bleeding cut on the Freelancer’s head.

“Head wounds bleed a lot,” Church murmured consoling to himself. “They bleed a lot, he’s okay.” Carefully Church shifted Agent Washington to check at the neural implant interface in the back of his neck, and sighed in relief to see it fairly intact. “Probably concussion, but okay.”

Caboose dropped down beside Agent Washington, and Church moved to him next. He checked the back of Caboose’s neck and relaxed when he didn’t see anything damaged from the drop. Then Church moved in front of Caboose and began to check his reflexes. “Follow my finger,” Church said and then dragged his finger across Caboose’s vision. His eyes were off, Church noted. Sluggish, slow, and pupils oddly dilated. One looked larger than the other, and Church grimaced. “Definite concussion.”

“Bad?” Caboose asked.

“Yeah, Caboose, bad,” Church agreed tiredly. “Stay right here, watch him, and don’t fall asleep. I’m going to go and grab enough twigs to start a fire.” Church glanced up at the sky. “It’ll be getting dark soon.” Church was just thankful that Agent Washington crashed them right into a forest.

Wash groaned and rolled his head over something rather soft. He could smell dirt and trees and his head felt like someone jammed it with a hammer or ten. He could hear Church say something, and the smell of vomit, and then Caboose really loud. Wash flinched and squeezed open his eyes. Something bright nearly blinded him and he felt his stomach rebel angrily.

“What th’ fuck?” Wash rolled to his side and tried to push himself up.

“Slow down!”

Suddenly there were arms around him; they helped him up and carefully leaned him back against a tree and Wash winced. Who was—the face was blurred. He blinked and squinted and tried to parse what his brain saw.

“Dad?” Wash mumbled tiredly.

“Guess again, fuckface,” dad said and Wash listed slightly to the side. “Oh my fucking god, stay still. Drink some water. Here. Slowly.”

“Yer ‘n ass,” Wash mumbled while dad shoved a glass into his hands and helped him tip it back to drink. “Fuckin’ basterd.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure your old man is a complete asshole,” dad grumbled. “Follow my finger.” He dragged a finger in front of Wash’s face and Wash tried to follow but he couldn’t quite. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”

“Is Washingchurch okay?” Caboose asked and Wash felt a smile to his face. He kind of liked Caboose. The larger man reminded him a little bit of Maine in being a large, gentle giant. Well before Sigma, at least.

“No, Caboose, he really isn’t.” Dad scrubbed a hand down his face. “Fuck. I’m not a goddamn medic I can’t…fuck.”

“Why d’ ya cer?” Wash slurred. He listed to the side again, but dad grabbed him and straightened him up.

“I get it, daddy never cared for you, but fuck Washington I’m not your dad.”

Wash blinked, squinted, and tried to parse just what dad said.

“Bu’ ma…s’d…”

“God fuckin’ dammit, Washington, you picked me up from High Ground. I’m barely twenty-two!” dad shrieked.

Wash winced and squinted and then rasped, “Private…Church?”

“Finally,” Church threw his hands up into the air. “What do you remember?”

Wash grimaced and listed to the side. Church caught him with a soft curse. “Dun’…car?”

Church hissed between his teeth. “Yeah, there was a car. You were driving. We crashed. What the fuck.”

Wash listed to the other side and Church quickly grabbed him again. He prompted Wash to drink and Wash did so, except he felt really tired. All of this was just too much. Dad and Church and his head hurt and he couldn’t see straight and he wanted his ma something fierce. “M’sorry.”

“Goddammit Wash don’t you fall asleep—Wash—David! David you stay the fuck awake!”

Wash listed to the side, his eyes slipped shut, and he fell back into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Church hated to admit it but he stopped functioning the minute David slumped sideways into unconsciousness. It felt like everything that made Church into Church up and crashed, completely, incapable of comprehending that David could be that far gone. The thought of another death—of another loss—became too much. His brain blue screened—and wasn’t that fucking hilarious?—and when everything rebooted Church felt—

—felt—

everythingandnothingandsomuchbeyond

It felt like a film covered everything. Church worked quickly, quietly, and settled David into a position that wouldn’t fuck up his neck even further. He categorized what he could see—the suit said unstable; pinpoint where, what is broken—there. The implant. How? Jammed; has to be jammed. Fix?—and then with a thought Church manipulated the radio waves until he reached the one frequency he knew could direct him further.

“Field Medic Frank DuFresne, speaking!”

“I need everything on repairing a jammed implant against the spinal column, now,” Church said shortly.

“Wha—Church?! How did you—why do you need to know that?!” Doc sounded so horrified.

Church slid his gaze off of David for a brief moment and over to Caboose. He made a quick gesture, a twitch of his fingers in a manner that he knew the other man would recognize if only because it’d been so deeply ingrained into him. A second later Church jerked his head back toward the smoke that rose in the distance, where their crashed jeep was, and Caboose climbed to his feet in silence.

“You don’t need to know,” Church said hollowly. “You just need to provide me the information.”

“But—there is a lot about implants, Church! They’re—one wrong step and you could leave someone braindead for life! I can’t have that—”

“You tell me what I need to do,” Church narrowed his eyes, “or I hunt you down and put a bullet in your head. Now.”

For a moment Doc said nothing, and then quietly, “When did you get so mean?”

Church shuddered, then bent forward and buried his face into his knees. He fought down the twisted confusion that warred inside him—memories and thoughts and everythingandanythingandtheuniverseathisfingertips—and said lowly, “Wouldn’t you do anything for family, Doc?”

“I…” Doc seemed to fumble for words. “I’m sorry. I just…don’t feel comfortable with this, Church.”

Church closed his eyes. “Wouldn’t you do anything for your own child, Doc?” Church whispered, like he admitted to something so forbidden and wrong—but wasn’t he, in some respects? Wasn’t he?

He heard a faint, “Oh dear,” and then a sigh. “I—alright. Alright. But if this doesn’t work…”

Church clenched his fists. “It will work,” he said. His hands trembled.

“But if it doesn’t—”

“It will work,” Church ground out.

Doc was silent. For a moment Church just stared at David, stared at the face drawn with stress and gaunt from nightmares and from the other man pushing himself beyond his limits like an idiot. Church’s hands trembled.

(he had no right to David anyway)

(that man)

(not after how he threw him away)

Doc sighed. “Alright,” the medic mumbled. “Alright. Here’s what you need to do.”

(he had no right to David)

(David was Alpha’s now)

(would always be…)

(he had no right to David anymore)

Church’s hands trembled.

Wash woke back up and felt like his head went through a blender or two in three different ways. His neck ached something fierce and his implant honest-to-god burned. Wash blinked bleary eyes and for a moment he saw—he saw—

—pale and blue and cackling laughter with bright eyes filled with madness and hate.

“Don’t you get it yet? Don’t you? Don’t you?”—

—regulation “blue” and a concerned face of Caboose. The young man blinked back at Wash and then smiled.

“Church! Church! He’s awake!” Caboose shouted and Wash winced as the noise seemed to jam straight into his implants.

Wash hissed, “Fuck,” under his breath because that was honestly a new feeling. The next thing he knew before he could even try to push himself up was Church right in his face.

“Follow my finger,” Church said sharply and Wash tracked the finger in a sort of daze. “Good,” Church mumbled. “Recite your name for me.”

“What—why?” Wash questioned. What had even happened?

“I need to make sure everything’s working right, dammit,” Church snapped out, then turned his head to the side with a frown. “Yes I’m asking him the damn questions shut up Doc I’m focusing,” Church hissed and then turned back. “Recite your name,” Church repeated shortly.

“Agent Washington?” Wash mumbled and blinked.

“Great, now your legal name?” Church sighed tiredly.

“I—what? How would you even know that?” Wash frowned.

“Just…just recite it, please,” Church sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand. Wash frowned and then mumbled his name, but Church seemed to accept it readily enough all the same. With a tired sigh Church continued to have Washington recite random facts back, and then told the other man not to move as he shifted over to check at—

“What the fuck!?” Wash shrieked and quickly jerked to shy away from the touch at his implants, but Caboose suddenly held him steady. “Why are you—get away, don’t touch that, fuck stop—”

“I need to make sure the damn thing is adjusted properly, goddamn it David!” Church snapped back. “Stop trying to struggle, fuck, you piece of shit. I need to—ugh Caboose hold him steady!”

Wash canted a litany of no over and over and fought hard against Caboose—the man had strength and it bothered him something fierce, reminded him of another behemoth that he worked with and cared for and—David couldn’t take it. No one touched his implants, no one got close—it was wrong and dangerous and Epsilon—

“Since when did you have autonomy?” he cackled, and cackled, and madness spread like a disease through every pore and orifice and—

“Good, good it’s back into place. Shit you gave me a scare,” Church mumbled and pulled back. Caboose let go and Wash scrambled. He breathed and twitched and one hand reached back to protectively shield his implants for the world around him as he stared. Church stared back as Wash panted and hyperventilated and kept distance between them.

“You damaged it in the crash,” Church said plainly. “It wasn’t obvious at first, not until you passed out. The import jammed back into your spinal column and cut off some of the blood vessels and the flow of spinal fluid.”

“What?” Wash rasped.

“The jeep?” Church said carefully. “You crashed, remember?”

“Yes, but? My—”

“Your implant, yeah,” Church nodded with a sigh. “The whiplash? Or just the impact of the crash or something it smashed your implant, the AI port, straight into your spine. Didn’t see the damage until after you passed out—thought it was fine, had the pry the fucking thing back into place.” Church grimaced. “Your suit readout says its all good now, though,” he mumbled. “Vitals stable and shit.”

“We thought you just scrambled,” Caboose said, and his voice was so chipper it hurt. “Like me! I threw up. Again. And things were very fuzzy and strange and Church said not to sleep but you slept which was wrong.”

“I—did?” Wash glanced between them and tried to piece everything together. He took the bits that Church and Caboose threw out and puzzled them into place. It calmed him, to slot the facts and nonsense together until he got a semi-formed picture. “Oh.” It took a second more before the full situation hit him. “Wait, you performed brain surgery on me in a goddamn forest with no training?!”

Church waved a hand and glanced to Caboose. The sim soldier already began to gather up the supplies they’d retrieved from the wrecked remains of the jeep what seemed like so long ago. “Nothing so complex,” Church grumbled. “Just…pried it back into place. Had a walking, talking medical journal to help me out.”

“I resent that Church!” Doc said with a frown over the radio. “Although I gotta say, you did good for no medical training!”

“Like you’re any fucking better?” Church snapped back. “What’s a medic without any clue how to be a medic?”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Doc replied sagely.

Wash watched them. “You are…all insane,” he rasped. “Just…shit.”

“Certifiable in certain sectors,” Doc agreed. “Now you’ll need to get that checked out by a professional. A jammed neural implant is no joke! Who knows what kind of brain damage that could cause?”

Wash stared at Church’s helmet, and then glanced to Church and Caboose. “That’s…great. Thanks.”

“No problem! Have a safe trip!” Doc said brightly. “Church I’m going to disconnect now. Sounds like you got shit well in hand.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Church mumbled distractedly. He helped Caboose pile things back into place as the radio clicked off. Washington watched, mumbled about insanity again, before he gingerly climbed to his feet and helped with the pack up.

“How long was I out?” Washington questioned carefully.

“Two days,” Church replied. “What the hell was that anyway?”

Wash blinked. “What?”

“You crashed the fucking jeep, did the impossible and somehow got it caught on fire until it exploded which is…practically impossible. That’s not how shit works,” Church ground out. Wash winced.

“Ah…cars hate me.”

Church stared. “Lame.”

“Fuck you. The breaks didn’t work on the damn thing anyway,” Wash added. “And the gas pedal jammed.”

“Lame,” Church repeated, and he drew the word out slowly.

Wash rolled his eyes. “We’ve wasted enough time already,” he grumbled and took a step forward. Church caught him before he tumbled over and smashed into the ground. “Ugh, perfect.”

“Just take it easy,” Church said sharply. “I don’t want you to fucking fall unconscious again.”

Wash grimaced, but accepted the help. He reached for his helmet to tug it on and frowned when Church slapped his hand away.

“Not until the inflammation dies down,” Church said. “Doc’s orders.”

Wash stared, and then mumbled, “Lame,” back at Church. Church snorted.

“Sure, man, whatever,” he said. “You good to go Caboose?”

Caboose slauted and slung the crate of supplies onto his back. “Yessir Mr. Grumpypants Sir!” Church rolled his eyes.

“Let’s go then,” Church grumbled and supported Washington as they started off in a random direction. “Road’s gotta be here somewhere.”

Caboose nodded and turned. “Autobots transform and roll out!” he chirped and led the way with a bounce in his step. Caboose made the sound effects as if he transformed into a car as he moved and Washington blinked blearily.

“Does that make him Optimus?” Wash questioned, and then wondered why he even bothered to play into it. He had to be going crazy.

“Weren’t you already?”

“Shut up Epsilon,” Wash mumbled.

Church glanced to him, then shrugged. “I think he’s supposed to be Bumblebee,” Church said, and Wash felt at least relieved that the other man didn’t seem to notice his sudden slip over nothing. “I’m Optimus.”

Wash frowned. “What does that make me?”

“I don’t know. Our human sidekick?”

“Great,” Wash said dryly. “I’m the damsel in distress.” He paused, and then groaned. “Oh fuck I really am.”

“Bingo.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey I just saved your ass, be grateful!”

Somehow Church convinced Agent Washington to drop into civvies between the forest, the dirt road, and this small out-of-the-way refueling station. Caboose and himself followed the transformation and, in Church’s opinion it made travel less of a hassle. Also he had better access to glance over at Wash’s implants just to make sure everything was okay without actually tossing the man into another panic attack.

“Thanks,” Church mumbled to Caboose when the other man handed over the set of maps he’d quite happily purchased. Church commandeered the lone table in the very small food court—literally just a soda machine and a hotdog roller like you’d see in those gas stations back on Earth—and with barely any how-do-you-do unfolded the maps onto the table.

“What are you doing?” Wash questioned around the straw of his ridiculously sugary soda while he watched Church. He had to admit this moment to take a breather was much needed after hours and what felt like weeks of travel between nothing and a forest.

“Calculating,” Church said absentmindedly. Quickly Church began to scribble on the maps, a mix of calculations and notes that he remembered from his workroom back at High Ground. He interspaced what he recalled with additional information he’d gathered from their walk and observing the land, scowled, and scratched out several calculations.

Wash watched the entire work, how Church’s hand moved across the page quickly and smoothly. He sat up a bit straighter when he recognized the landmark for Valhalla, their destination, and how Church made several small circles around the location, and then further marks with increasing distance from Valhalla. He watched as the notes scribbled across several additional maps that noted roadways and flightpaths, and then a small canyon that actually wasn’t even named on the map to Wash’s surprise. He felt certain that had to be Blood Gulch the way Church scribbled directions and drew several short arrows in a northeasterly direction.

Once finished Church leaned back away from the maps, spun them around, until they rested in front of Wash.

“Additional potential wreckage sites,” Church said, and carefully pointed at the marked and scribbled circles. “Following Tex’s trajectory, the explosion, and accounting for weather plus the crash site discovered at Valhalla, these are the most likely impacts of any additional portions of the Pelican.” Church glanced to Wash. “Just in case Valhalla is a bust.”

Wash gaped. “I—how did you do that?” he squeaked.

Church shrugged. “I was always more of a scientist than a soldier,” he said tiredly. “Don’t tell anyone. It’d ruin my reputation.” He gave Washington a glare at that, and the Agent nodded his head quickly as he pulled the map closer to study the information there. He traced a finger along the road, including the refueling station they were at now, and blinked.

“We’ll hit this before we hit Valhalla,” Washington said. He sipped his drink as he tapped one of Church’s marked locations. “It’ll put us out by a few days, but if you are right….”

Church cocked his head. “I’m right,” he said plainly and crossed his arms. Wash raised an eyebrow at the arrogance, and then leaned back in surprise when Caboose bopped Church on the head. Church twisted. “What the fuck Caboose?!”

Caboose frowned. “You were being rude again,” he said. “Stop it.”

Church gaped. “I was not!”

Caboose nodded his head. “Yes, Church. You were.”

Church couldn’t even formulate words. He just sort of squawked and made sharp, incoherent shrieks before he threw his hands up with a growl and a groan and turned his head away. Wash watched how Caboose smiled, almost devious like, and decided that he didn’t even want to know. Something about the interaction made him a little uncomfortable, and maybe it had to do with the way that Caboose was coherent and clear—and then that smile that wasn’t goofy at all.

Caboose glanced to Wash, and winked. Then he gathered up the maps and rolled them up. With a cheerful hum and his usual absence to the world around him Caboose piled everything into the crate and carefully replaced the lid. He hiked it back up onto his back just in time for Church to jerk to his feet with a scowl.

“We’ve wasted enough fucking time,” Church grumbled. He shot a glare to Wash when the other man slurped at his drink loudly, and with a huff Church stormed from the refueling station. Wash lamented the fact that he wouldn’t be able to finish his drink before with a sigh he too got up. At least they had a plan of action again now.

Chapter Text

Kai stared down at the missive sent directly to her from a name she had not, in fact, ever expected to see again. For a long moment Kai just stared, and stared—and a part of her contemplated pretending she’d not received the message at all and go back to her plans for tonights rave to piss off the old shotgun man who shot at her Dex for fun across the Gulch. For a moment Kai contemplated outright murder—except she and Dex talked, after her arrival and after everything, and she knew Dex liked Sarge for whatever reason and Kai was determined not to ruin this too for her brother. She ruined enough between the both of them while growing up already. If it weren’t for her Dex wouldn’t even be—

With a frustrated grunt Kai grit her teeth and slammed her hand down onto the table, next to her tablet and bowed her head over her knees. She let the pain rush up her arm and bit back a scream—let it ground her down into the moment until the thoughts she didn’t want to focus on left her. With a huff Kai leaned back and stared up at the cement ceiling, strung up with lights of all colors that were, for the moment, off. She ran her fingers along the back of her neck and massaged them into her shoulders, welcomed the twinge of pain that followed the movement, and sighed.

“Fuck you Andersmith,” she grumbled, dropped her feet off of the table, and swiped the tablet up. “Fuck you and the horse you damn well rode in on.” With a growl Kai stormed out of the base. She didn’t bother to grab her armor or the protective undersuit. It wasn’t like Sarge would actually shoot her anyway—she knew Donut talked to him, once, and if she remembered the white-blond farm-boy at all she didn’t doubt he was convincing in his weird way. Plus everyone over on Dex’s team seemed rather fond of the farm-boy, anyway, so Kai had that going in her favor. Still, for safety’s sake, Kai took a moment to pause a good distance away from Red Base.

Kai looked down at her tablet, sucked in a breath, and looked back at the pockmarked ground. “OI! YOU OLD WHITE FUCK!” Kai practically swayed with the force of her yell and squinted over at the red base. She waited and watched for Sarge to pop up on top of the base, shotgun at the ready as he peered off in the distance at her.

“What do yer want, yer damned dirty blue?!” Sarge yelled across the canyon.

“IT’S ABOUT DEX!” Kai screamed. “AND THAT PASTY KISS-ASS OF HIS!” She watched as Sarge dithered for a second, and then disappeared from the roof without a word. Kai huffed and started to pace around the hill, her hands wrapped tight around the tablet with Andersmith’s message. Mentioning Dex and his not-boyfriend should get the old bastard right up to her. She noticed his soft spot for the nerd, so she hoped by mentioning him she’d at least get his attention.

Kai didn’t doubt if she just screamed about Dex he wouldn’t have even really listened beyond to give her his shitty condolences. Honestly what was Butch even thinking, picking a twisted up old creep like this to be the leader of red team? Not to mention her precious Dex! If she ever got her hands on his corpse she’d happily burn it—but she still hadn’t found where it’d gotten to. Butch didn’t seem to be in the caverns like that poor kid or the body Tex once housed. Kai wondered if he was even alive somewhere, holed up and waiting for the right moment to swoop back into the swing of things.

Her thoughts didn’t distract her for long, and soon Kai dug her teeth into her lips as she paced. Her gaze slipped down to the message from Andersmith and she looked back to the base while she moved with deadly precision and grace. Damn Andersmith for contacting her now, of all things, when she’d been certain everything would be fine. It wasn’t like Dex’s life would be at risk because of the stupid AI they had to keep an eye on anymore—or at least, it shouldn’t have. Now this? Kai pulled the tablet up and slammed her back against the trunk of the lone, twisted tree with a grunt. She swiped along the glass surface and shifted her shoulders so that the bark actually dug into the faint scars in a way to tug some of her attention and keep her senses sharp.

The video stuttered with slipspace radiation interference, one of the little tricks Omega Team used when sending secured messages if they weren’t on location with one another. The unique radiographic signature let Kai know that Andersmith wasn’t compromised, in need of rescue, or immediate assistance for whatever reason. It also let her know that the message was priority and that was what got Kai out here, now, speaking with Sarge of all people.

“Hey—Hey Kai,” Andersmith said, lips pulled into a wry grin. He wore the lip piercing Kai had gotten him during shore leave one day, and she saw several new additions all across his face alongside a tattoo of some alien script under his eye. “I k-k-k-kkknow you didn’t expect to h—from me again.” The static rushed through the video and cut through words like butter, but the context was still readable as he spoke. “We didn’t pa-a-a-arrrt on the best of terms, did we?”

Kai hunched her shoulders.

“Yeah,” Andersmith nodded and scrubbed his hand through his hair. The screen fizzed and jumped around some more before she found him staring, serious now as he looked at her. “Look the Director sent me a m-ii—ve. I’m en-rrrrrroute to Rhodam.”

Kai closed her eyes.

“I-I know,” Andersmith sighed. “You don’t want me near-r-rrrr Outposssssst Alpha, but I trust you wo-won’t shoot me down?”

“Don’t count on it,” Kai grumbled.

“Th-thought n-n-n-nnnnnot, so,” Andersmith continued. “S-S-So I’ve been given permisssssssion to break that one—” the words completely washed away into static, but when Andersmith popped back into the screen it was with a picture of Dex and his not-boyfriend to be held up. “—my collateral. I trust you understand?” His smile became almost bitter as he leaned back. “Yeah. Yeah I know you do.” He leaned back. “I’ll see you soon, Kai.” The screen broke up again into interference, and then just the brush of fingertips against the camera, a silent goodbye, before it completely cut out.

Kai smashed her back into the tree with barely contained fury. Dammit, Andersmith! Why couldn’t he have included something more than just—that? Oh when she saw him she was going to enjoy wrapping her thighs around his neck and listening to him gasp for it, Kai swore. She would’ve just been happy with shooting down his pelican but not now—not now. Not with the potential threat of Dex being on board that thing, as well.

“Well, little missy,” Sarge huffed as he came to a rest several yards away from her. Kai straightened up and noted that Sarge held his good loosely, but finger off the trigger like he had in all their few other interactions since everyone left the Gulch. “What’s all this hullabaloo about, then?”

Kai scowled at Sarge and crossed her arms—every inch of her a petulant child and just the way she wanted it to appear as she regarded the old man in power armor. She needed to play her cards just right, for this to pan out, and for her to get her shot in on Andersmith for this mess, but this was where Kai excelled. Playing people to her tune and pulling at the threads they left beyond—this was her talent, for all that Dex wanted to pretend she didn’t have it. With a huff, Kai began to spin her tale.

Cornelius ‘Corey’ Andersmith leaned back with his feet kicked up onto the console as he watched the expanse of space pass him by. He tried his hardest to ignore the muffled shouting that came from the cargo-space and the increasingly creative food-related insults that were tossed in his direction. There wasn’t anything Private Dexter Grif could say to him that would make him any more terrified than facing down Kai after the not-so-subtle threat issued toward her brother.

“Are you really sure about this course of action?”

Corey cracked open an eye to stare at the small, holographic figure that he’d come to know well over the years.

“No, Kappa, I’m not sure,” Corey sighed and closed his eyes. He ignored the way Kappa moved from in front of him to hover over his shoulder, washing his cheeks with faint red light.

“I don’t think this is a wise path to take,” Kappa said a little blandly. “You know what the yellow-demon is like.”

“And I told you to quit calling her a yellow-demon,” Corey shook his head with a sigh. “Just keep an eye on our systems and our heading.”

“The orange-round-one does not sound too pleased, either,” Kappa pointed out.

“Who would be happy in circumstances like these?” Corey mused. If it were him, back home on Chorus before Project Freelancer, before escaping the inescapable gravity well of the planet, Corey would be spitting fire and vitriol at his captors.

“One would think the orange-round-one would be pleased to not be in front of a firing squad,” Kappa replied. “Perhaps it is upset about the purple-red not-AI?”

“I don’t know, Kappa,” Corey shrugged. “It’s been almost a month now. I doubt anyone would be so forgiving, circumstances such as these or not.” Corey sighed and snuggled down into the chair.

“I would be forgiving,” Kappa moved toward the door to the cargo bay and stared at it contemplatively. “Should we not contact Xi? We are near to our objective.”

Corey shrugged. “Rather not bother Xi if it’s all the same to you,” he said and waved a hand in Kappa’s direction. “Not until we’ve got the target in sights, at least.”

Kappa twisted in the air for a second and then settled on top of Corey’s head. A little bit of shifting around had the small AI practically laying across the fringe of Corey’s hair. “I do not like this path.”

Corey shrugged his shoulder and ran his fingers through his hair, inadvertently directly through Kappa’s hologram as well. “Tough luck, you’re stuck with me.”

“I do not mind you,” Kappa said.

“Yeah, yeah. Just keep an eye on that heading, Kappa. I’m going to take a nap. Wake me when we’re close to planetfall.” Kappa flickered from atop Corey’s head, and then vanished the holographic form the second Corey’s vitals registered that he’d finally slipped into slumber.

Church pulled his motorbike up next to Washginton’s on the side of the road. It had taken him up until the second waystation to get Washington to admit to commandeering them a couple of vehicles that didn’t register as ‘cars’ on his ping-list, and as such would be exempt from his strange not-quite-cursed-fixation with the vehicles. It would take them far too long to travel to Valhalla elsewise, and Church rather wanted to spend as little time as possible between stops now.

“Something on your mind?” Church questioned. He’d finally relented now that Wash got them bikes and gave the Freelancer back his helmet. Caboose fussed for a while, but to make things ‘even’ Church allowed the big blue soldier to hand out the rest of the helmets too.

“What part of the pelican do you think landed here?” Wash asked, and tapped the map where Church had marked out a possible secondary site. They were rather close to the path off the main road they’d need to follow if they did choose to take the detour.

Church shrugged. “Could be any part of it,” he said. “Why?”

Wash folded up the map and looked up at the sky tiredly. “I need the ship’s black box specifically,” Wash admitted. “If I am to get the data from the flight, including record of its crash, then I need that black box.” Wash tilted his head down to look at Church. “Anything else, Freelancer tech included, is secondary. My primary mission is to find out where the Omega AI is now.”

“And the possible Omega incident at Valhalla makes that location more pressing,” Church agreed with a frown behind his mask.

Wash shook his head tiredly. He couldn’t be sure which was the better option for them at the moment—take the time out of getting to Valhalla and possibly lose what was most likely the primary crash site, or search this secondary site on the off chance of unearthing that black box. After a second Wash looked back at Church again. “Why did you provide me the alternate sites?”

Church bit his lip. He hadn’t been sure why he’d pulled up everything he could remember that he’d calculated out while at High Ground, let alone why he gave it all to Wash. Ever since their crash and the life-or-death scare David had given him—the realization—Church tried hard to avoid thinking in too much detail about what he was doing. He didn’t want to think. If he let himself drift off into questioning—into looking too closely at everything—Church felt afraid.

“You’ve grown on me,” Church said, eventually, almost like giving away a secret. He refused to look at David as he continued, voice growing fainter. “And you…remind me of someone, actually. Someone I thought I’d never see again.” Church shook his head. This wasn’t the right time, nor the right place. He glanced over toward the forest and the direction he knew the secondary site would be.

“Church…” David murmured, and yeah that was definitely David and not Agent Washington.

“You know I didn’t have to listen to you,” Church said. “I could’ve just let you kill yourself trying to get into High Ground. Would’ve saved me so much fucking trouble…” Church sighed and slumped over the bike. “Just holler when you’ve made your decision. I’ve got my own reasons for seeing that crash site, anyway.” Church kicked the bike back into gear and rode over to where Caboose had pulled off to the side of the road and the big blue soldier worked on preparing snacks for the group.

Wash watched him go with a frown beneath his mask.

Chapter Text

In the hope of finding the black box that Agent Washington needed for his intelligence they ended up on the detour to the secondary crash site that Church had calculated the location of. It took a bit longer than Church anticipated—he hadn’t known the terrain exactly, and it wasn’t as if Church actually had a network connection to check the terrain, if it even was documented—and the bikes quickly became cumbersome. When the path became completely untraversable Washington sighed and consulted the map again with a frown, helmet pulled off as he chewed on a ration bar.

“I’m going to go scout ahead,” Wash said, folded up the map, and before Church or Caboose could say otherwise he disappeared into the thick of the trees.

Church watched him go, a frown on his lips as he did. He didn’t like the thought of Wash out in the forest, alone, especially after the damage to the implants that Church wanted to keep an eye on. There was an untold amount of complications and even Church’s hasty patch job, despite his assurance that he’d done it right and everything was fine, still needed to be checked out by a professional. After a second Church huffed a sigh.

“Caboose bring the supplies over here,” Church snapped out as he turned away from where Washington disappeared. “I want to make sure I know where we’re at.”

“Okay Church,” Caboose said. He meandered his way from his own bike over to Church and hauled the crate from his back by the makeshift straps. Without even a strain Caboose removed the lid and began to carefully pull the supplies out. He sorted them, too.

Church sighed. He wanted the distraction of sorting the supplies himself, but Caboose fussed him away with a short glare and a shake of his hand. It left Church feeling awkward, actually, because fuck if Caboose understood the world in ways that Church hoped he didn’t.

(he could remember a time when Michael spoke in more coherent sentences)

(he spoke science and binary like they were a first language)

(Alpha admired that about him)

(then he broke)

Church sighed and sat down while Caboose carefully counted out each supply as he moved them into piles, and then counted them a second time. Fine then, if the big baby was so insistent that Church take the time to be instead of pushing and pushing himself away from thoughts he didn’t want to admit to, then Church would listen. After all they’d shared a headspace, once upon a time, even if Church had almost—

(he screamed)

(Alpha could remember that)

(Michael screamed)

For a moment he said nothing, just bowed his head. Church didn’t even bother to mime a shaky breath—what was the point? After the crash, after his own mind just snapped and shut down—god, what kind of idiot was he? Church shifted his knees up and wrapped his arms around them as he thought back to all those little things that he didn’t want to admit to. The discrepancies in his appearance before he died, how he stuttered on his own age half the time, how he could inhabit an android body like this—modeled after a face much older, but fashioned much younger—and after a second Church buried his head into his knees.

“Caboose?” Church said, voice soft. Caboose hummed in response, and hesitantly Church restated, “Michael?”

Caboose looked up. Church hadn’t called him Michael in some length of time, and he knew it’d get the others attention immediately. All pretense, all distance and hazed sort of pleasant fantasy that Caboose kept himself wrapped in vanished when he looked at Church now. It sent a shiver down Church’s spine. How much did Caboose pretend, like Church pretended? How much did they tie up together in denial of things that were?

Caboose didn’t say anything, but waited patiently for Church to respond. Still hesitant, voice soft, Church continued, “I’m…not human, am I?” He felt like he admitted to some sort of secret, to some sort of lie.

“You are human,” Caboose said plainly.

“But—”

“You are human,” Caboose said, voice just a bit sharper, and Church bit his lip.

“I’m…” Church hesitated.

“Human,” Caboose insisted.

Church dug synthetic teeth into synthetic lip and in the ghost of a whisper, “…an AI,” he admitted the truth he didn’t want to admit.

Caboose sighed. His shoulders slumped down and he looked conflicted, almost defeated at the revelation that Church said. After a second the larger man began to pile the supplies back into the crate. He didn’t speak and Church felt—Church felt—

(betrayed)

(why won’t you say anything?)

(caboose?)

(michael?)

(I’m scared)

With the last of the supplies packed back up Caboose settled the lid once more in place. Church felt like his chest burned, despite it’s mechanical nature and lack of a heart or lungs to burn with. Here he admitted it, admitted the thought he kept hidden behind firewall after firewall because admitting to the thought meant to let himself remember and—Church didn’t want to remember. He wanted to pretend he was merely a scientist on Project Freelancer, some bastardized sort of not-quite-a-clone of the Director, something he utterly wasn’t. To admit to it meant he had to face the truth—that he wasn’t whole, that he fractured into tiny pieces as a science experiment—that he broke himself and broke himself in the face of lie after lie until he couldn’t handle it anymore. Until he built up this fantasy in his own matrix to live out instead of facing the consequences.

“You have a computer brain,” Caboose said suddenly, and the words rang loud enough that Church jerked his head up in surprise. “But you are human.” Caboose looked at Church, and his face was serious in a way that the other man rarely was these days. “You feel pain. You feel sorrow. You feel love.” Church didn’t move, he sat completely still as Caboose shifted right next to him and knelt. “I shared your brain.”

“I broke you,” Church whispered.

“But I know you,” Caboose countered. He reached out a hand and cupped Church’s cheek and he smiled a little sort of broken smile. “You are human,” Caboose said. “You just forgot some bits along the way.” Caboose took a second and then slid his hand around to pull Church forward until the slighter man rested his head against Caboose’s collarbone.

“I miss you,” Church admitted weakly.

“I miss you too,” Caboose admitted.

Church reached up and grasped at the chest-plate in Caboose’s power armor strong enough to leave small dents. He said, “Michael?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t say goodbye,” Church begged, and it was the closest he’d admit to one of his biggest fears.

(don’t leave me)

(I’m tired)

(I’m…)

(don’t leave me)

“I promise,” Caboose hummed, and they stayed that way for a minute longer until Church bottled everything back up behind firewall after firewall and shoved Caboose back with a muttered curse.

“Dammit, Caboose! I wanted to check the supplies!” Church huffed and scrambled for the crate.

Caboose blinked and tilted his head as he turned to look at Church, suddenly surprised to find himself on his ass. “But Church I counted them. We have—uhm, we have—”

“Dammit Caboose!” Church grunted. “You fucking moron did you actually count them?!”

“Uhm, no?”

Church ripped the lid off and quickly began to filter through the supplies with increasing vitriolic curses as he began to count through the supplies. He didn’t want to admit that the confession still hung heavy on his mind, or that Caboose’s easy acceptance of Church’s plea meant the world to him. That simple statement, too, eased something within him.

(human)

(my caboose)

(he called me human)

Caboose let Church fuss over the supplies with a bewildered stare and a faint smile.

(I’m human)

Wake up, mine. We are approaching planetfall.

Corey snorted awake and blinked hazily as he stared out at the expanse of space. He mumbled, tired, a faint sort of, “Hmf, what?” as he shifted and sat up. Kappa flickered in front of his eyes with a blank look settled onto his face.

“We are approaching planetfall. You tasked me with waking you when we are approaching planetfall,” Kappa droned.

Corey rubbed at his eyes and then massaged his forehead as he began to check the systems. Kappa flicked until he stood over Corey’s hands; being human Corey stilled his own movement mostly as his brain said someone is in the way even though logically he knew he could just move his hand through Kappa with no problem. A second later, a sort of forceful shake as if that did anything to get him moving again, Corey shifted his hands back into place and continued with his checks of the computer system.

“You doubt me.”

A tired sigh escaped the Chorusian. “No, Kappa, I don’t doubt you. A second set of eyes never hurts, remember?”

“You doubt me,” Kappa repeated blandly.

Corey frowned and leaned back. He knew that tone; he’d spent over a year with Kappa, of course he knew that tone. Exhausted, because Kappa in a snit like this, when Corey needed to focus on not getting his ass killed from a very violent-driven woman for kidnapping her brother, always exhausted him—Corey rubbed at his temples.

“What’s wrong,” Corey said as a statement. There was no question, because there was no doubt in his mind that something was wrong.

For a moment Kappa was silent. “I do not like this course of action,” he repeated instead.

“Fine, okay,” Corey nodded because this meant he needed to pull some teeth to get to the root of the problem. “Run this scenario for me. How likely are we to be shot out of the sky by Kai?”

“Twenty-five percent,” Kappa said promptly.

“Amend,” Corey continued, “Kai is protecting her territory.”

“Seventy-five percent,” Kappa replied.

“Amend,” Corey repeated, “Kai is protecting her territory and sensitive data.”

“Ninety-nine percent,” Kappa said, then paused, then mumbled mostly to himself. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Corey nodded, because he knew that Kappa finally picked up on his own thoughts and his own fears. He could feel the little AI pilfer around in his head and didn’t bother to stop him; instead Corey went back to his check on the system to make sure the flight path remained secure. Assured that everything he’d planned so far indicated smooth travels, Corey got to his feet.

“I do not approve,” Kappa spoke up as Corey felt him finally pull out of his head.

“You don’t have to approve,” Corey returned, and Kappa promptly retreated. Great. Now Kappa would be in a right snit forever and take even more work to deal with. Corey didn’t want to have to bother with that, because that meant trying to work his emotions which he’d never been too good at before. Part of what made him so successful a sniper on Chorus—Corey didn’t get attached to people easily. Lives were, ultimately, meaningless.

“Whatever,” Corey grumbled. It wasn’t like he couldn’t deal with Kappa later—it’d be a pain, but the fledgling AI wasn’t at the top of his list right now. With a grunt Corey pushed himself up from his seat and headed back toward the cargo bay where his two captives remained tied up. They had to be getting hungry. Corey knew how much Kai could eat, and he didn’t doubt her brother could eat double that. He seemed the right size for it—large, imposing, mostly muscle hidden behind a layer of protective fat. The amount of food needed to maintain that physique and proper energy had to be insane.

Well, Corey sighed tiredly, he also owed the man an explanation older brother to older brother. Plus, he needed the pair on his side, as that meant it’d be easier to get Kai to roll along with the plan. The Director hadn’t outright demanded he do this—there’d been no subtle threats, more like a tired plea—but Corey was determined to do it right. When he finally entered the cargo bay it was to loud cursing in a language that Corey didn’t know. Some native tongue to some outlier colony, probably, although there were hints of earth dialects reminiscent to some islander languages—Hawaiian, maybe, given Kai’s name.

Corey didn’t bother to say anything, just let the elder Grif rant at him and hurl curses as he sat down on a crate directly in front of the duo. Corey folded his arms and turned his gaze from Grif over toward the man’s partner—Simmons, if he remembered correctly—who stared mulishly down at the bottom of the cargo bay. Corey wondered if the man was upset at the fact that he’d disabled the obvious set of prosthetic enhancements that lined half the man’s body. He’d left the internal systems alone, didn’t want to kill the guy, but the weight of all that metal had to be finally weighing down the flesh and blood half. When Grif fell silent Corey switched his attention back over to the larger man. The scar that crossed Grif’s face, lined almost perfectly with that of Simmons, was fascinating. It almost looked like the man had a skin graft—a slight discoloration hinted toward the conclusion—or maybe some sort of burn scarring. It implied that the graft came from Simmons, except the skin tone appeared similar to Grif’s than to the pale, auburn haired man.

Something to ponder another time, Corey admitted to himself. “Finally,” Corey said aloud. “We need to talk.”

“You need to let me go so I can punch you in the nuts,” Grif snapped out.

“Grif…” Simmons mumbled.

“No! This asshole deserves it!”

Corey raised an eyebrow and waited to see if there would be a further outburst before he continued. “I didn’t pull you two out of Rats Nest just to be collateral against Kai.”

“Don’t call her that!” Grif shrieked. “You don’t have the right to address her so familiarly!”

Corey snorted. “Sure, right, whatever. Fact is if I left you there to die I’d be dead, resurrected, and dead again. So, saving you? Bonus to the collateral to make sure I wouldn’t be just shot out of the sky.”

“Why though?” Simmons mumbled, and he was quieter than Corey expected. For a moment Corey wondered if the shutdown of the prosthetics did some sort of damage before he decided that no, the man was just really intimidated.

“Because I need your help,” Corey said tiredly.

“Fat chance of getting it now, asshole,” Grif growled.

“Trust me,” Corey told him, “I’d be pretty against it too if you went and used my little brother against me.” Grif went silent. “However, I need you to understand—you’d be a target otherwise.”

“What?” Both looked at him, eyes sharp and attentive and less full of righteous anger.

Corey nodded; at least now he had their attention, which meant now he could get on with it. Hopefully with these two on board getting Kai—and then getting the old ODST Helljumper too—would be far easier. With them he’d be able to at least mitigate any fallout from the mess that they were already chest deep in. The shit pile wouldn’t leave these guys out of it just because they were Sim Troopers. They were close to the target in question; that made them targets themselves.

“Good,” Corey mumbled and leaned forward. “Now…how much do you know about Project Freelancer?” He wasn’t so much as interested in what they knew, but more their reactions to the question.

“What?” Simmons asked, face twisted with his brow furrowed and his nose twitched up. His lips curled down into a frown. Ultimately Simmons gave Corey the expected response. Grif, of course, refused to follow the party line.

The large man paled. Grif’s eyes went wide—an adrenaline response, given how his pupils blew up and almost blocked out the golden-brown hue of his iris. Then he looked a little queasy around his neckline given the way he swallowed reflexively and seemed to fight down the urge to throw up Corey judged by the way Grif’s muscles shifted. Grif hissed out a singular word full of nuances and meanings that Corey really wanted to divest the man of once he’d regained just the slightest bit of his composure.

“Fuck.”

It really did sum up the situation quite neatly, Corey mused, and neatly implied a deeper knowledge that a simple old Sim Trooper wouldn’t know. Dexter Grif could’ve been fun if he weren’t related to Kai. Oh well, Corey could find others to play with and pick apart given the shitstorm about to engulf them all.

David curled his fingers into the dirt at the wreckage site and wanted to curse. The section of the pelican, the aft section, didn’t have any of the flight records that he needed. It looked picked clean, which meant any Freelancer tech was long gone too. The only evidence there, now, were the boot prints molded into the earth and the slag metal of the pelican itself. They went off course of several days to the point of nothing. David dug his fingers deeper and winced when they brushed at sharp edged metal.

Agent Washington pulled his hand back, frowned, and scrubbed the dirt away. The chain for a pair of dog tags quickly caught his attention, followed by the tags themselves. He tugged them up and peered at them, curious, and frowned as he read the information there. They were for Agent Florida and Agent Wyoming—both of whom, according to reports, were dead. Of course, reports meant nothing in the long run; people faked things like death all the time. Wash could remember—

He took in a shuddered breath and tapped the side of his ear to switch on his communicator. Wash needed to report in, and he didn’t want to think about anything else except for work right now. Too much had gone wrong already, and he couldn’t afford any more distractions. It was the only reason why he’d tugged his helmet off now—there was too much temptation now that he was alone just to lose himself into the memories, into the—

The what? Could have beens? Should have beens? Oh, don’t be so silly.

(small and blue and floating and annoying filled with hate and vitriol and black ichor that swallowed him whole.)

There is nothing for you here, and nothing for you there.

“He doesn’t love you,” rang aloud with cackled laughter and a face that radiated maniac glee and pain and hurt and it burned—

Wash grit his teeth.

“Recovery One?” Niner, god bless the woman, brought Wash’s attention straight back.

“Command, I’ve located a secondary wreckage site,” Wash spoke up as he turned from the site and back toward the forest.

“Pinging your location now,” Niner spoke, all business, and Wash let her do her job with a tired sort of sigh. “We’ll send a recovery team soon. And your primary objective?”

“En route,” Wash said. “Secondary site lacked the black box we need, and it looks picked clean.” Wash fingered the dog tags and rubbed his thumb along Florida’s name.

“Expected ETA?” Niner questioned, and Wash rattled off the days, hours, and minutes almost blandly. “Alright. We’ll run interference with the UNSC but don’t expect a warm welcome.”

“Understood,” Recovery One said. “Recovery One out.” He cut the feed with barely a thought, stepped into the forest, and pulled his helmet back up and onto his head to hide his face from the world. The lack of the black box in the aft wreckage left Recovery One to assume that it resided solely in the primary site at Outpost 17, Valhalla. They’d already taken up enough of a detour; he’d have to push the two troopers to even make it to the Outpost before the shit hit the fan.

Recovery One knew they didn’t have a lot of time; Agent Washington understood that the majority of time was taken in by travel between the two small planetary outposts—both locations were more like Moons than actual planets, and the civilian population was practically nonexistent—but it’d already been over a year since the initial crash site and the situation at the Outpost itself involving the Red and Blue simulation troopers stationed there. The longer he delayed the inevitable the closer the Meta came to what it wanted.

The closer Agent Washington came to failure. Wash grit his teeth. Failure was not an option.

It’s all we ever do though, isn’t it? Failure; fail at implantation, fail at the missions, fail at life, fail at being a son, a brother, a father a—

“Shut up, Epsilon,” Washington growled, and the world became blissfully silent. He had a job to do. Failure was not an option.

Chapter Text

Sarge gripped his shotgun tightly in front of himself as he glanced over toward the female-not-quite-as-useless Grif sibling. For some reason that probably made sense in her young mind she stood in the middle of the Gulch with no armor, only a standard issue and rather basic M6D Magnum Sidearm and the girl didn’t even have the balls to have it out and aimed properly. No, she had the weapon holstered, which baffled Sarge something fierce and not for the first time left him to wonder about the sanity of the Grif siblings. After a minute Sarge shook his head. He didn’t understand the youth these days with their long hair styles and weird fashions—no matter what anyone said halter tops were not appropriate to wear either beneath a man’s undersuit or as just normal every day wear. You kept clothes like that for around your base and your private quarters, not out in an open field all willy nilly.

Still, Sarge mused, at least he knew where he stood with this one. Which was to say that she didn’t have two brains to rub together and he didn’t mean that unkindly, either. Oh no this ‘Sister’ Grif was far more sinister than her older brother, Sarge knew that the minute she first opened her mouth and declared herself a rotten damn Blue! Sinister, deceptive—not to be trusted except, well, she was a damn Grif. Grif’s were good for a scant few things in this world aside from trust—and none of which Sarge felt remotely comfortable with around women, except trust—and Sister had damned proven how untrustworthy she really was. Sarge wouldn’t lie and say he wanted to shoot the girl either; after all he didn’t want to outright shoot Sister—and not for that namby-pamby nonsense he fed that Freelancer spook either.

Sarge truthfully didn’t have anything against hitting a girl; he’d fought alongside several dangerous women who could give as good as they got before he’d retired into the glorious Red Army. No, Sister reminded him a fair bit about some of his old battle buddies so he’d never quite have an issue with shooting her except that, well, she was a young one—and obviously beloved by his Grif, not that he’d ever make a claim on the lay about like that. Plus her closeness to Grif-the-senior and her age, in turn, made Sarge think of his nana and then of his nieces and that was where the hang-ups first started. Grif-the-younger felt more like someone he should damn well keep an eye on not because she needed someone to hold her hand, but because she got herself into more trouble than she’d like to admit. This situation here was prime example number one, after all!

Not including Sister’s own insanity rearing its ugly head—ugh, drama, such a nasty Blue thing to have to deal with—but now her dark and sordid past came a-knockin’ and it took two of Sarge’s own into it’s midst! Grif could handle himself well enough—he was related to the problem so he had the skills, if he didn’t Sarge doubted the other man would have even lived long enough to be drafted into the glorious Red Army—but Simmons, well, now that boy had some prime issues for the taking. Sarge tightened his grip on his shotgun and hefted it a bit closer. Grif would do his damnedest, he was sure, to protect the senior officer—in this case being Simmons—but that didn’t account for the fact that truthfully between the two of them in this scenario Simmons was the expendable one. Simmons didn’t have any ties to the troublemaker in question aside from being tongue-tied and left-footed around the lazy Grif for whatever fool reason got up in that boy’s head.

Sarge snorted, and then stilled when he caught the familiar sound of a pelican dropship. He wouldn’t lie and say that noise haunted him in his dreams; Sarge knew he had his own fair share of issues including his crippling fear of heights, having spent years fighting not just the Covvie’s but also Insurrectionists before they even knew the Covvie’s were a thing—and he still hated the sound of the damn pelican’s despite how useful they were. With a huff Sarge squared himself up and glanced back over to Sister whose face pinched together almost painfully. In silence Sarge turned his gaze back toward the pelican and waited.

Corey glanced at Grif and Simmons as Kappa brought the pelican down to land. As a precaution he’d stripped the two of their armor back when he initially brought them aboard. Corey still hadn’t resupplied the two with their arms and armor, even after their talk for all of two hours during the descent to Blood Gulch. He honestly didn’t plan to return the boys’ their armor until after he’d gotten Kai calmed down. Hell, Corey himself didn’t have his traditional Freelancer armor on, or even the remains of his cobbled-together armor from his days as a part of the New Republic. Instead Corey dressed down; it didn’t make him any less of a danger than he normally was, and Corey reveled in the ability to be free of the constraints of armor that he’d essentially grown up wearing his whole life.

With a huffed sigh and a glance at the two simulation troopers behind him Corey leaned against the edge of the pelican’s rear doors almost disinterestedly. Really this whole endeavor exhausted him to no end—dealing with Kai’s family, with Kappa’s stubbornness, and now pulled from his search to find a solution to what Hargrove fucking did—Corey was tired. He wanted to sleep for a week, but there was work. If that meant he suffered through this menagerie of stupidity then fine; he’d get the job done and go back to what really mattered.

“Those doors drop the two of you are out first,” Corey said plainly. He ignored the way Simmons squawked something about ‘Sarge’ and ‘shotgun’ and the two boys being squishy-flesh-filled beings. It didn’t matter. If the helljumper stood there with a shotgun primed and ready to fire without the forethought to keep his finger off the damned trigger until he knew everyone stood before him armored up, not his problem. If the two died from shotgun rounds to the face because Corey decided to be generous and let them off the pelican first? Well, Kai could take it up with the old man.

“Sarge always has his shotgun on him,” Grif said, and Corey spared the larger man a glance.

“Then hope he doesn’t shoot,” Corey replied. Honestly how stupid could you be? Yes he and Grif talked, Corey explained the things he needed to, to have Grif on his side so he could get Kai to chill out quicker. If her ire turned away from him and toward the helljumper then that was fine with him—his job here, ultimately, was done for the moment.

“Sarge always shoots first,” Grif pointed out dryly.

“Then you better hope he misses,” Corey drawled just as the pelican landed. He eyed the way Simmons paled, how the mechanical bits stuttered with the slow restart of their processes thanks to Kappa. The delay would buy him time with the cyborg for now, but he filed away the concern and fear of their C.O. for later contemplation.

Corey knew all about fearing your C.O. After all he feared Flowers something fierce, but then he also had to suffer under Flowers’ unique brand of ‘tutelage’ after he’d been drafted forcefully into Freelancer. Torture did not a loyal subject make, but it did break down some pretty strong barriers with the right touch. The rear hatch began to hiss open and Corey tapped the side twice to pull himself out of his contemplation.

“You’re up boys,” he said and drifted as far out of the way as he could to watch. Corey wondered if he should expect some sort of retaliation from Grif and Simmons as the two exchanged glances, and as Grif narrowed heterochromatic eyes at him. The sound of a shotgun round pinged against the edge of the pelican and Corey blinked his own flinch in surprise.

They really weren’t kidding about the old man being a shoot first kind of man, Corey noted. Oh well, Kai could handle him. He eyed Grif and Simmons and noted how Grif straightened the slightest bit and Simmons shifted just the slightest behind the larger man. Or, maybe, these two could handle their C.O. well enough on their own.

“SARGE QUIT FIRING!” Grif shouted.

“An’ how do I know you boys aren’t just some blue-nabbed doubles?!” Sarge yelled, although he dropped the gun slightly. Corey cocked his head to get a decent glance at the red dressed soldier—he spotted Kai dressed down off to the other side, arms crossed.

“Sarge! It’s us!” Simmons shouted back; he trembled faintly, and Corey wondered if it was because of him or the maniac in red outside. He watched the way Simmons glanced in his direction—okay, to be fair, Corey probably deserved the disgusted look he received.

“Simmons?” Sarge just barely lowered his gun a tad more when Simmons spoke up. “What’s the password?”

“Uh, password?” Grif and Simmons contained almost incredulous looks at the so simple question and Corey—Corey wondered what Flowers was even thinking. That was—that couldn’t be real…could it?

“Grif? Simmons?” Corey watched the two relax slightly. “Well dagnabbit boys get your kesters out here! What are you doing alive on that ship? Where’s this blue bastard that kidnapped ya?!”

Corey wanted to groan; of course it was real—real on par with Michael and Kai and Jenkins and himself. In the years adrift alone in space with only Kappa for company apparently Corey had forgotten about Flowers and his ridiculous ideas of ‘fun.’ For a moment Corey wondered how far down the rabbit hole of fun Sarge was before he shook his head. Cautiously, certain to stick to the shadows, Corey followed Grif and Simmons out of the cargo hold and off toward the side. He kicked back and rested against the pelican to watch the rest of the reunion—the way Kai relaxed the slightest bit to see her brother well and alive, and the way her gaze darted over toward him. He smirked.

‘I’m on a murder break,’ Corey mouthed and fought down a laugh at the way Kai ground her teeth and clenched her hands. Oh he’d pay for that, especially for the manner in which he got her attention anyway, still—Corey watched Kai brush him aside to wrap her arms tightly around Grif.

“Dex!”

“Ah—shit, Kai, careful!” Grif grunted, and then fell over backward as if his sister were truly that heavy. The byplay was grossly familial and made Corey miss John just the slightest bit. He sighed through his nose.

“Where in the hell are your armors, boys?” Sarge gruffed, shotgun now all the way down as he regarded his two ‘soldiers’ with a surprising amount of expression despite the hinderance of the helmet. “Where are your regulation reds?!”

“Confiscated,” Grif huffed from underneath Kai.

“That—that weird megalomaniac removed our armor after he knocked us out and left us—us naked in the—the—ugh!” Simmons twitched and threw his hands up.

“Hey!” Kai snapped and Corey blinked at the sudden defensive hunch to her shoulders. “Watch who you are calling megalomaniac!”

“You can’t be defending him!” Simmons outright gaped, and Corey had to agree with the red head. He stared at Kai like he couldn’t fathom what she said because, out of everything, he expected her to go for his head first.

“I…hate to agree with the cyborg, here,” Corey said slowly, and mindful of how he drew Sarge’s attention and gun directly upon his person, “but what the fuck?”

“Oh I’m still gonna kick your ass,” Kai ground out and Corey quickly cast his gaze off to the side as she gripped Grif tighter. “You threatened Dex.” She wasn’t even remotely surprised to see him off the ship, not that Corey doubted she knew he’d followed after the two. Sarge however sputtered his shock openly.

“Excuse me for wanting to avoid having an RPG thrown in my face as a greeting,” Corey said back as he folded his arms. “And don’t fucking tell me you wouldn’t.”

“I still might,” Kai bared her teeth and Corey bared his right back.

“Oh could you two quit flirting already!” Simmons huffed.

“You two are not flirting!” Grif shrieked.

“Even I can see the sexual tension from here,” Sarge agreed. Corey debated the merits of just shooting them all when he remembered that they were needed. They were close to Alpha.

Their deaths would end in another fragment, and no one at Project Freelancer wanted that at this stage. Corey sighed and ran his hand through his hair, tired and stressed about this entire mess. He really didn’t want to be here—he wanted to be out there, headed for home and a way to fix that mess instead. He hated this; he hated being away from John, hated that he’d been roped into this mess.

“Well I say no sex with this douche bag!” Grif finally spat out and Corey snorted.

“Too late for that,” Corey mumbled and watched Grif struggle against Kai.

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”

Corey rolled his eyes and turned his attention straight towards Kai instead; he ignored the simulation troopers and their interactions. They weren’t really worth his attention.

“Well?” Corey asked. Kai struggled with Grif for a second longer until the older sibling’s stomach growled heavily.

“I think it’s snack time,” Kai promptly said.

“I think it’s murder the fucking freelancer time,” Grif grumbled under his breath even as he accepted Kai’s hand up once she’d shifted off of him.

“Oh c’mon,” Kai whined. “You know I’d fuck anything that moves.”

“That doesn’t mean I like it!” Grif snapped. “Or approve! Especially about him!” He gestured wildly at Corey who shrugged.

“Snack time?” Corey offered.

“Don’t you dare try to distract me!”

Simmons timed in at the perfect moment, and Corey wondered how their synchronization worked so well. The timid man eased the nerves of the larger, more painful trooper with simple and coaxed phrases. For all they didn’t appear to be actively intimate right now, they certainly worked as a couple. Corey wondered about them, then sighed.

“Grif you’ve barely eaten your normal portion for a month,” Simmons said. “We should just take the suggestion of your stomach and get some food in you. I’m sure your snack stash is still there?” Simmons glanced to Sarge who looked away.

“Ah, well, I might’ve—Command ordered it! Yeah, Command ordered me to clean out all the snacks,” Sarge nodded to himself.

“YOU WHAT!?”

In an instant Grif headed toward Sarge, voice raised to almost frantic levels. Corey thought he heard something about twinkies—and didn’t those end up discontinued over a century ago?—and snack cakes and sodas, but he didn’t quite care about all that. Snacks were the distraction for Grif, and he’d take the distraction over the man’s blatant distaste right now.

“Well?” Kai questioned, and then jerked her head to move a little way away. Corey followed her sedately, hands stuffed into his pockets. He expected the sudden move from Kai when she pinned him to the hull of the pelican with a knife to his throat. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Kai hissed.

Corey raised his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Your brother was my only insurance. I would never take that from you.”

“Oh yeah?” Kai ground out.

“Well, not intentionally,” Corey amended.

Kai growled and turned away. “What is so important that you had to come all the way over here and break the pact? What does that southern piece of shit even want now? I’m already busy here—that stupid computer in the caverns has fucked everything up and it’s hard to get rid of all of this damned data!”

Corey grimaced. “It’s Alpha,” he said.

“What about that cocksucker?” Kai questioned. She turned, cocked her head in concern. Corey noted that she genuinely felt concerned about the guy, distasteful nickname aside.

“Washington has hold of him,” Corey said.

“So?”

“They are going after Maine.”

Kai rolled her eyes. “Alpha’s a fucking cockroach. He’ll be fine,” she waved a hand and started back toward the simulation troopers. Corey grit his teeth and reached out to grab her by the arm.

“California is with them,” he hissed. “Michael is there—and you know Alpha is unstable.”

Kai jerked her arm out of Corey’s grip and grasped it herself. She frowned and kept her gaze off of Corey as she thought. “Cal can take care of himself,” she said sharply. “He knows the protocols; and Alpha isn’t unstable he’s just…confused.”

“His memories are a mess, he can’t tell fantasy from reality, and he’s probably splitting at the seams into splinters because his code has been dissected so severely,” Corey countered. “Plus, you know how California is right now—how he’s been since the implantation. If he’s thinking like Cal then I’d say yeah, sure—but if he’s Michael? You know he’ll ignore it. They crave each other. You saw that. We all did.”

Kai shrugged. “That’s why the mess of memories is good. Alpha’s completely bonkers and think’s he’s a ghost. He won’t try integrating again.”

“But he could recover,” Corey pointed out. “It’s barely been over a year since Epsilon. He could recover, remember. We don’t know the extent of his delusion because Florida never got the chance to record it—”

Kai held up a hand, and then slapped them onto her hips. She scowled at Corey who backed up just a bit because he knew that look. He knew to fear it. “I have a good deal here, Andersmith,” Kai ground out. “I get to party when I want, fuck when I want, drink and do whatever the fuck I want—deal with that cockbite of an AI down in the caverns when I fucking want all as long as I get the data here gone. Why should I bother leaving this gig when it’s so fucking perfect?”

Corey ground his teeth together. “Do you think, for a moment, they’ll let them go?” He jerked his head toward the troopers who were still in a heated argument. “That they’ll get to leave and continue on in a civilian life after they interacted with Alpha? With the program’s deepest secrets?”

Kai clenched a fist. “The Director—”

“Oh no, he’s not that much of an idiot,” Corey agreed, “but there are others.”

Kai hissed through her teeth. She knew precisely what Corey meant. Omega Squad after all knew all of the projects dirty little secrets, even the ones the Director hadn’t known about.

“Fine. Fine!” Kai threw up her hands. “What do you suggest?”

Corey smiled, although it wasn’t kind or nice. He knew he’d get her on his side with a few words and logic. He tossed an I told you so at Kappa who proceeded to slam into Corey with the weight of a freight train in response. Okay, Corey noted, Kappa was still pissed. He’d have to deal with that soon.

“We hunt them down,” Corey said after a moment. “Listen for the Recovery Beacon. Step in; save their ass—kill Maine.”

“Kill Maine?” Kai asked, face utterly blank of emotion.

“Kill Maine,” Corey agreed. “Sync?”

“Sync.”