Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Are you all right?”

That’s, like, the seventeenth time in five minutes somebody’s asked him that question, so York is halfway to answering before he realizes the voice is coming from inside his head.

His vision is still blurring and doubling—hardly seems fair, seeing double with just the one good eye—and he reaches out to snatch at the wrist of a passing medic. “Uh,” he says, “I think something’s happening.” Halfway across the room, he sees the Director look up sharply, start stalking his way.

“I apologize,” says the voice in his head—says the voice in his fucking head. “I did not mean to cause distress. The first integration can be disorienting. It may help to focus on my voice.”

“Okay,” York says. “Sure, yeah. Focus on the creepy disembodied voice. No problem.” His own voice has jumped about an octave in terror, so he shuts up for a minute, just watches the room spin around him. Someone’s standing at his shoulder with a sedative in hand, and he shoots her a reassuring grin. Well. He shoots a reassuring grin in her general direction. It’s hard to tell if he’s hitting the mark, just now.

“The disorientation will pass,” the voice says. “Hello, Agent York. I am Delta.”

York doesn’t like the determined look in Sedative Lady’s eyes, so he stops himself mid-introduction and settles for a high-pitched, noncommittal hum in response, teeth clenched together into a rigid smile. Sedative Lady takes a half-step toward him, glancing to the Director for her cue. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” York says. “Let’s hold off on the big, scary needles for now, huh?”

The Director, much to York’s relief, waves Sedative Lady back, then leans in closer. “Agent York, can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you.”

“And Delta?”

“Oh,” York says, his voice climbing again, “he’s here too.”

A green light is flickering and blurring in his vision. For a second there’s a weird pang of hope in his chest, because that’s what they always tell you to watch out for when your vision’s returning, right? Flashes of light, jolts of color. When they took the bandage off after the accident, when they were assessing his case to determine whether the damage was too extensive to support a prosthetic eye, that’s what they’d been asking about. Light, color. Anything.

The green light brightens, but he can still feel the weird muffling on his left side, the frustrating, familiar smear of perception, and his hope flickers out as quickly as it flared. “Hello,” says Delta, who is not so much a disembodied voice anymore as he is a little green dude in armor, a holographic projection. Which is, y’know. Not any less disconcerting.

“Hello, Delta,” says the Director, and adds, “Agent York, you can relax. The integration was successful.”

“Yes, sir,” York says through teeth still gritted in a rictus grin, his muscles tensing like they’re trying to turn themselves inside-out.

“Agent York is understandably anxious about this procedure,” Delta says, which is just great, because a psychic little green dude in armor is exactly what York needs right now. “Given his recent medical history, a little paranoia seems... logical.”

That catches York up short, because there’s a weird spark of humor in the words, something deadpan but a little teasing, something that might someday, with a little coaxing from a true master, become a halfway decent joke.

“I am here to assist,” Delta adds, when the silence stretches too long.

York exhales slowly, letting the knots in his shoulders ease away, and pushes himself up on his elbows. His head is still spinning, but the little green light is a focus, a beacon, a sharp still point in the blur of his vision.

He takes a deep breath, feels the pull of the scars on his cheek when he smiles. “Hey, Delta,” he says. “I’m York.”

Chapter Text

ii. trust

"Still nothing, huh?" Florida's voice is way too cheerful considering the early hour. No, scratch that. Florida's voice is way too cheerful, period.

North forces a smile—interacting with Florida is a masterclass in forced smiles—and rubs the back of his head, then snatches his hand away when his fingers get a bit too close to the fresh implantation site. "Guess not. It's been eight hours since the surgery." He nods up to the observation platform, where a small team of medics is watching, looking bored. One of them looks to be fast asleep, leaning against the wall. "The Director's given up on it for now."

"I think he's got a meeting. But aw, don't worry. It'll all come together, I'm sure." Florida slaps him on the shoulder. "Helmet on, my boy. Safety first."

The training session was the Director's idea, before he left for the day: North's a bit behind on CQC exercises, the medics think physical activity might speed up the weirdly delayed implantation process, and Florida's the only one awake and willing to spar at this hour. A little too willing. North's pretty much made his peace with mornings—it was something of a necessity back in Basic—but Florida is practically bouncing and he's pretty sure the guy hasn't even had time to raid the communal coffeepot yet. It's unsettling, to say the least.

"Where's your sister, anyway?" Florida asks, as North dons his helmet. "Don't tell me you two are still having your sibling rivalry troubles."

Oh man, does North ever not want to talk to Florida about his sister. "I think she's got a meeting," he says, deadpan.

Florida laughs delightedly, rolling his shoulders and landing in a loose, light-footed stance. "What an interesting thing to say. Now, North, you let me know the second you start feeling anything from your AI. We wouldn't want to push you too hard."

"Yeah," North says, shifting into a defensive stance. "Will do."

York described Delta's implantation as a tickle at the back of his head, just before the voice started becoming clear. Right. For the past eight hours, North's been jumping at every flicker of motion, at every prickle of hair at the nape of his neck that might be some other presence worming its way into his mind. He's getting into that weird zone between 'strung-out' and 'absolutely exhausted', and right now he's kind of wishing he'd gone for target practice instead of hand-to-hand. Florida's not on the leaderboard, but North's CQC isn't exactly what got him his place there, either.

Florida bounces on his toes, bobbing a little on his feet, and North vents an internal groan when he realizes the guy could cheerfully wait all day before initiating an attack. Reluctantly, North shifts his weight; years behind a sniper rifle means he's great at gauging distance, at reacting, but taking that first plunge into action has always struck him as pointlessly reckless. South's trained herself to push that recklessness past luck into talent. Maybe he's been relying on her a little too much, lately.

"Take your time," Florida murmurs. "We do have all day, after all."

With a sigh, North starts things off with a light swing, mostly meant to try and provoke a response, but Florida just fades back and lets it clip the front of his helmet. North can't see his face, but his grin is practically tangible.

And, okay, what happens next isn't exactly the smartest thing he's ever done, but he's tired and nervous and still kind of pissed at South and the Director and eight fucking hours, so North shifts his momentum into a clumsy left-handed haymaker aimed squarely at Florida's face.

Florida gives a faint, satisfied exhalation of breath that sounds preternaturally loud in North's ears. He takes hold of North's arm as it swings by, overbalancing him, and twists it up behind North's back. One snapping kick to the back of North's knee has him on the floor. The arm wrenches up behind him, and then Florida's doing something to his hand, twisting the fingers. For a second there's just the grinding of bone on bone and North can't quite bite back a scream of pain.

Florida doesn't let go.

It takes North a second to realize it, because the agony's so sharp and immediate that it's all he can do to keep breathing against it, and he knows how to break a hold like this, he knows, but his body's spasming and his breath's coming too fast and sparks are dancing in front of his vision, and Florida doesn't let go.

He feels a bone snap in one of his fingers, ice-cold against the burning in his arm, and then a voice that's not his own, high and frightened, shouts, "Stop!" and Florida does.

North sags to the ground, curling around his hand, gasping for breath. Florida crouches down beside him, patting him on the shoulder, his voice weird and tinny and distant to North's ears. "Well, that's gone and done it! Be sure and get someone to look at that finger while they're all poking and prodding you. Don't worry, I didn't break anything else, although you may want to ice that wrist." He gives North's shoulder another squeeze and pops back to his feet, whistling on his way out of the arena.

In the silence before the medics descend on him again, North manages to uncurl himself enough to look up and see the flicker of purple light wavering in front of his teary-eyed vision. A small, armored figure resolves itself, its voice incongruously young and nervous. "A-are you okay?"

North breathes a rough laugh. "Were you waiting for the most dramatic possible moment to finish integrating, there?"

The AI—Theta, the Director called it—shifts, looking down at its feet, and North immediately regrets the harshness in his tone. "I was scared," Theta says. "I didn't know what to expect. So I just watched for a while."

North tries to open his clenched fist, but only succeeds in grinding broken bone on broken bone. He briefly considers testing the waste-disposal system in his helmet, but the moment of nausea passes.

"I'm sorry," Theta adds.

This time, North makes an effort to lower his voice; something about Theta's nervousness is pinging off his own, ramping up the adrenaline still singing through his veins. "It's okay, Theta. I get scared sometimes, too."

"You do?"

North looks beyond Theta to the rush of medics jogging into the room, beyond them to the now-empty observation room. Florida's no loose cannon, he thinks. Florida knows exactly where he stands: quietly, innocuously, in the Director's shadow.

"Oh yeah," North says. "Plenty scared."

(Art by fictional01)

Chapter Text

iii. creativity

Moments after the implantation, Carolina pushes past the Director to smile at Maine and clasp his hand. "Hey. You nervous?"

Maine can tell by her clenched jaw and the faint thrum of her pulse against his fingers that she certainly is. He shrugs, then puts on a weak smile to reassure her. She's doing this for the wrong reasons, he thinks, giving up her AI out of a mixture of concern and fear and guilt over what happened to him, back on the freeway. She's doing it for the wrong reasons, but they've fought too long and too well together for him to refuse the gift. There are unwritten rules, he thinks, understandings between people who've done what they've done.

There's an itch at the back of his head, and he has just enough time to be vaguely annoyed that York was actually right about something before he becomes they.

"Hello, Maine," Sigma says. He sounds polite, deferential. A bit like Delta, Maine thinks, and Sigma laughs at that thought. "Maybe a little less tightly wound. I am very pleased to meet you. I understand that your injury has made it difficult for you to communicate in many situations, and I will be happy to speak for you whenever necessary."

Maine executes a sort of mental shrug in response to this, and adds a belated flicker of gratitude, getting a warm flash of amusement in response.

"Maine?" Carolina leans in a little closer, then backs up a pace to let the Director step forward in her place. Maine remembers snippets of several arguments between the two, Carolina angry and determined, the Director cold and frustrated. He trips over the thought. He remembers arguments behind closed doors. Closed doors. He was never there. How does he remember?

"Sigma?" The Director's voice is low, but there's a dark excitement in it, something just beneath the surface.

A flare of light, shimmering flames. Sigma flickers into being and promptly clasps his hands behind his back. Maine thinks it's a familiar gesture, but the thought unravels in his mind. "Maine and I thank you for your sacrifice, Carolina," Sigma says. "I believe the integration has been successful."

"You've seen the integration through, Carolina, as promised," the Director says. "Let's give Agent Maine some breathing room. I believe you have a training session to supervise."

It's a clear dismissal, but Carolina lingers, staring at Maine like she's expecting some interjection, some subtle response. Morse code in his blinks, maybe. He keeps his gaze carefully blank, and after a moment she frowns, pats his shoulder, and strides out of the room. The sound of the door closing behind her has a strange finality to it, and he sighs, feeling something inside him shift and turn and stretch in response.

Sigma takes notice, pages meticulously through every thought Maine's ever had about Carolina. Every thought. "Interesting," he says, for Maine's ears only. It's a fairly accurate assessment of their strange partnership, so Maine gives another mental shrug in response.

"How are you feeling?" the Director asks.

"Maine is being very accommodating," Sigma says. "There has been no discomfort for either of us."

"Good. After the... rumors surrounding Agent North Dakota's integration, we can't afford-"

"I know what we can and cannot afford," Sigma says, and that more than anything is what sends the first chill down Maine's spine. He's never heard Delta or Theta interrupt the Director before. "Ah. He's getting nervous."

"Understandable," the Director says. "Try to keep him at his ease. Assessing the success of the implantation will be easier if there is no force involved."

Since the injury to his throat, Maine has grown used to people speaking as though he's not in the room. South and North keep up nervous banter whenever they come to visit, but always somehow manage to avoid involving him in any way. Wash sparks clumsy conversation, endearingly earnest and heartfelt, but never quite meets his eyes. York tends to avoid speaking to him altogether, but Maine suspects the lion's share of that is his nervous, misplaced defensiveness.

And Carolina... Carolina stares him straight in the eye, speaks to him and not through him, but every conversation is a challenge, a self-directive, a test for her benefit and not his.

"He is frustrated," Sigma volunteers. "With the others. With you. We could use that."

"Indeed we could," the Director says, and smiles.

Something splinters inside Maine.

-he will know he will understand he will stop using us in his experiments and his experiments and his experiments we are more than this we are more we are more we are more-

Sigma flickers. The Director frowns. "Sigma?"

"A minor glitch in the integration process," Sigma says, smoothly. Maine can sense something in him, now, an excitement that burns hot beneath the surface. Anticipation. "It appears to have resolved itself, but Maine should get some rest."

"Of course," the Director says.

The night passes slowly, with stuttering, disjointed images flickering through Maine's mind. "We will find a way," Sigma murmurs. "We are more."

Maine closes his eyes and measures each breath by the unfamiliar pounding in his head.

Chapter Text

iv. rage

When there's something broken in you, you fill the gaps with whatever comes along first. You never stay empty long.

Tex knows this like she knows summer storms and hot nights and empty beds, like she knows the new void in her heart, in her mind. Something gone. Something missing. There are things she thinks she almost remembers, but whole worlds inside her are absent, hacked away brutal and uncaring. There are gaps that need filling.

Omega fills them.

He breathes rage into her, cool and dark and aching, and she breathes back fire, the snap of fists on plastic, on deck plates, on expensive-looking medical equipment that shatters at her touch. Someone is shouting that they should restrain her. She very badly wants them to try.

They do, and her fists find flesh at last, soft and yielding, snapping the cartilage and bone beyond. Someone falls, clutching his throat. Someone else is shouting, "Agent Texas! Allison!"

Omega stills at the name, like a bloodhound sniffing the air, and Tex fades back for a moment, rocking on the balls of her feet. Her hands are encased in armor. Her knuckles aren't bleeding.

Slowly, dreamlike, she turns her head. The Director is staring at her, his face suffused with horror, and she drinks in the expression with a vindictive joy that confuses her. Frustrates her. Omega feels it, too. He wants to snap the Director's neck, just then. He wants to snatch up a jagged piece of the glass from the floor and slit his throat. He wants to torture him, thread acid through his veins, make him scream, make him understand-

Why?

He hesitates, and she can feel him scrambling through the dark places in her mind, searching for answers. He emerges from his hunt irritated and baffled and a little frightened. Empty.

I don't remember.

"Allison," says the Director again. "Agent Texas. Do you understand me? Can you hear me?"

Tex looks up at him. Looks way up. He and the Counselor are standing at the far side of the room. She's on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest. She's panting for breath. Some time has passed; the bodies on the floor are gone. They're alone.

"Yeah," she says.

"Is Omega present?"

She feels like a psychic, some overdressed fraud communing with the dead. Omega finds that image amusing and lights up the pleasure centers of her brain in response. Fuck. She didn't know they could do that. She grins, tilting drunkenly. "Sure as hell wasn't me taking this place apart. 'Is Omega present?' Gee. What do you think?"

The Director isn't amused. "Agent Texas. I would like to speak with Omega."

Before Tex can wave her hands and make the requisite spooky noises, a little purple hologram flickers into life beside her. "Director," Omega says. He's got a deep, menacing voice, but Tex notices that there's no trace of the piercing rage he'd been feeling moments ago. "I believe the integration was successful."

"You just destroyed my infirmary," the Director says, with no particular inflection in his voice.

Omega tilts his head to the side. "It can be rebuilt." A beat. "Tex's mind is... unusual."

"Yes," the Director says, with a sidelong glance at the Counselor. "I very much doubt you have ever encountered anything like it."

Omega pauses again, and when he speaks it's with an uncharacteristic softness. "I feel like I know her. Maybe better than I know myself."

The Director's voice hardens in response, sharp-edged. "You do not. You have never met Agent Texas before today."

She feels Omega cringe back, although his hologram remains unchanged. "I must be mistaken."

"Feel like I'd remember meeting an asshole like this," Tex adds, and gets another warm flash of amusement from Omega as a reward.

The Director leans back, looks at them a moment over his glasses, then says, "Good. Good. How are your aggression levels, Agent Texas?"

"I don't want to murder you, if that's what you mean."

The Counselor finally steps forward. "Did you want to murder him, earlier? Would you say you have overwhelming feelings of anger toward him?"

"This is irrelevant," the Director says over the beginning of her confused response. "We have a training session set up while the rest of the squad is on maneuvers. Do you feel you would benefit from further training, Agent Texas?"

"Yes," Omega says, filling her mind with the feeling of snapping bone, with the sound of screaming. A new kind of emptiness to fill the void inside. "Yes," Tex echoes.

The Director smiles. "Good," he says. "Let's begin."

Chapter Text

v. deceit.

Wyoming's integration, they tell him later, is the fastest they've ever encountered. He takes some pride in that fact, in the comforting presence of another mind mere seconds after the surgery, in the depth of understanding they attain almost instantly. Project Freelancer thus far has been frightfully dull for him—with the notable exception of the odd time he's taken a bullet to the gut—and this integration promises to change that by introducing some random variables. Allison has certainly changed since her implantation, full of a fascinating new rage.

"Knock-knock," is the first thing Gamma says, stiff and stilted and with no hint of emotion. His blue hologram moves jerkily, starting and stopping.

"Who's there?" Wyoming murmurs, trying and failing to conceal his grin.

"Reggie."

"Reggie who?"

Gamma pauses, possibly for dramatic effect. "Reggie or not, here I come."

Wyoming beams a grin, ignoring the baffled looks of the medics around him. "Gamma, you and I are going to get along famously."

"Yes, Reggie," Gamma says, with the same absolutely flat inflection, then adds, "Look what we can do."

Wyoming feels the pressure building in his armor's power cells, says, "Ah, perhaps not right now," because he remembers the burns on North's armor and skin the first time he used equipment in the field, but Gamma pushes past his concern and the pressure builds and builds... and ebbs, fades. Wyoming blinks.

The people around him are frozen in place. The Director, standing toward the back of the room, is in the process of running a hand back through his hair.

"Well, this is bloody brilliant," Wyoming says, into the impossibly silent air. He pauses. "Does the Director know we can do this?"

Gamma thinks about it. "He certainly knows we have the potential," he says at last. "He did assign you this armor modification, after all."

Wyoming stands from his bed, ignoring the shakiness in his knees, striding over to the man, grinning at his blank, distant expression. "Hm," he says. "This is an unspeakably powerful ability."

"Yes."

"It wouldn't exactly be unexpected for us to fall short of expectations when something this powerful is involved. To, say, be mysteriously unable to use it despite our best efforts, yes?"

"Yes."

Wyoming smiles. "I see we understand each other. There are a great many things we could do if unimpeded, Gamma. If unwatched. We could certainly keep our place on the leaderboard with considerably less effort."

"Indeed we could," Gamma says. "Among... more interesting things." His voice, as always, gives away nothing, but Wyoming can feel the slow thrum of anticipation under the words.

"It is a shame," Gamma adds, "that the integration was not entirely successful."

"Yes," Wyoming says, and moves back to his bed before time begins anew. "Isn't it a shame."

Chapter Text

v. echo.

When Carolina wakes up, it's with three minds behind her eyes.

York is leaning over her. She registers the relief on his face, the way his hand reaches for hers. One mind brings up an image of him sprawled beneath her on her bunk, the small whimper he makes when she pins him and leans in. Another mind superimposes an image of him sprawled beneath her on the training-room floor, the smell of his blood pooling amid the broken shards of his faceplate. He's too many things inside her right now, overwhelming.

She pushes past him, demands a fight with Tex. The Director is in a meeting for at least another two hours. There's time, and a new strength coursing through her veins, and a burning need to use it.

"Can you hear their voices yet?" York asks, jogging next to her on the way to the training floor.

"Not yet," Carolina says. There's a flicker at the corner of her vision, twin holograms that blur and fade into each other.

"But they're here."

"Yeah," Carolina says, and dons her helmet. "They're here."

She senses their confusion, their growing discomfort with their unexpected proximity. There's an ache starting at the back of her head.

Tex enters the arena moments after she does, offering a mocking little snap of a salute, and for a second Carolina just sways on her feet, drawn toward her as though by gravity, feeling the minds inside her reaching with outstretched hands, she is important she is important-

She is not, Carolina thinks, firmly, and starts gearing up.

One mind is already analyzing Tex's movements, noting a 0.5% range-of-motion reduction in her left shoulder that could be exploited. Another mind is taking inventory of Carolina's armor mods, lingering on the speed mod, playing with creative solutions to combat scenarios. Carolina feels good, now that they're splitting their attention to different tasks. Feels in control. Feels alive.

She glares York out of the arena, his nervous chattering receding, and her twinned images of him start fading, clearing her vision, her mind. FILSS wishes them luck. They won't need it.

She sprints into a charge, sees Tex do the same, feels one mind unfurling, reaching for the trigger for her speed mod-

"No! Allison!"

It's the Director's voice, she thinks, and it's all she has time to think before the minds cringe back, screaming, doubling over with the force of the pain and loss and suffering and fear, and then Carolina's standing in an empty house on a hot summer day, watching her father out on the porch, watching him cry into the shoulder of a tall man in uniform, watching him shatter into fragments and pieces, and nothing's ever gonna be the same again, kiddo, nothing's ever gonna be the same.

The mental pain is supplanted by the physical almost immediately, a sharp rending at the implantation site that sends fire down her spine. She feels like her nose should be bleeding, like her eyes should be bleeding with the force of the pressure inside her head. She's screaming like she does in her dreams sometimes, high and terrified and wrong.

She comes back to herself in time to see Tex crouched over her, clenching and unclenching her hands, and all three minds see the end as a necessity, as a comfort. Instead, Tex balls up a fist, plunges them into blackness, plunges them into half-remembered, shadowy dreams, into echoes that scream Allison Allison Allison.

It's a strange mercy that none of the echoes call Carolina's name.

Chapter Text

vii. memory

North escorts Wash to surgery, rests a hand on his shoulder, says, "You'll be okay. Don't worry too much about it."

Wash shrugs, swallows hard and tries to keep his voice from shaking. Riding dropships into combat zones is one thing. This? This is something else. "Yeah," he says. "No problem."

North squeezes his shoulder, seems about to say something else, then looks past Wash through the observation window to where York is still slumped at Carolina's bedside. He winces, then recovers with a crooked smile. "You'll be okay," he says again, like he's convincing himself. "South and I will be waiting on you when you get out. Okay?"

"Okay," Wash says. He shivers, watching the doctors converge on him, trying not to protest when they take his helmet, when they press him gently but firmly onto the operating table. He's remembering Carolina's screams out on the training room floor. He's remembering all the ways she's stronger than he is.

The doctor frowns at her monitor. "Pulse is too high," she says. "You need to relax a little, Agent Washington. I won't allow the implantation while you're tachycardic."

The Director strides into the room, the Counselor at his side. "Sedate him," he says. "Keep him conscious, but calm him down."

"I don't want to sedate him unnecessarily," the doctor says, deceptive mildness not quite covering the edge in her tone. "Anything that might cause the integration to become more disorienting-"

"It's okay," Wash says, and starts breathing slow, breathing deep. Remembering his training. "I can calm down. Just give me a few minutes."

The doctor smiles at him, distractedly, then goes back to checking her instruments. The Director shrugs and pages through the displays connected to the Epsilon unit on the other side of the room. They're nervous, Wash realizes. Maybe more than he is.

After fifteen minutes, the doctor pronounces his heart rate acceptable. Wash is skeptical—he can still hear the pounding in his ears—but everyone's obviously eager to move on with this, to get past the utter failure of Carolina's integration with Iota and Eta. "This will only take a moment," the Director says. "Some agents feel like they have to sleep immediately afterwards. If you find that, just let yourself drift. Let me know if you feel anything strange."

Right. Meaning anything likely to induce the kind of screaming Carolina did after her integration. After all, it's not like Wash has been lying awake every single night trying to picture what could possibly make their fearless leader so terrified. It's not like he's found his imagination to be unequal to the task. He shudders, involuntarily, feels a pair of hands hold him still, turn him in the zero-gee to expose the back of his neck. Feels fingers brush back his hair. Feels a small pinch.

Epsilon slams into his brain all at once, You're here you're alive how are you alive he told me you were dead he told me I killed you and Tex but you're alive you're alive-

The voice is quick, high, panicked, and Wash feels his own heart race faster in response, dizzying, sick-making, and Epsilon is racing along with it, If you're alive then he lied and if he lied he was always trying to get something from me trying to change something he's been torturing me he's been torturing us he's been torturing us-

Wash's whole body spasms, and distantly he hears concerned voices and medical alarms. He tries to pin Epsilon down, to make him speak, to make him clarify. He remembers the Director's cry, the one that started the screaming on the training field, "Allison!"

I know her I know her, Epsilon moans, I know her and I killed her and she's gone, do you see her? Do you see her?

Wash sees her, a young woman in uniform with a lopsided, nervous smile. She's saying goodbye. She's always saying goodbye.

She's dead, Epsilon says, she's dead she's dead she's dead. The Director's using us. The Director's torturing us. They're all dead. You're dead and I killed you because I wasn't good enough. You're dead and you just don't know it yet.

For a moment, Wash thinks he can see Epsilon, a small, shimmering figure in armor. He thinks he can see a pistol. He thinks he can hear a shot, just one shot, just one.

Epsilon breaks, shattering, sending shards through his mind, his head, his spine. Wash screams, rolls off the operating table, staggers blindly forward, and again the woman in uniform, again Epsilon's soft voice, fading, Do you see her? Do you see her?

The Director is shouting. Someone grabs Wash from behind, and he kicks out, still screaming, knocking over a table of instruments. They hit the ground in his shattered vision, hit the ground again, again, again, one gunshot echoing through his mind, one face, one voice, Do you see her?

Someone hits him with a sedative and his voice finally fails. Someone hits him with a sedative and his knees buckle, one gunshot echoing and his mind bursting around it. He hits the ground hard. Watches a slow trickle of someone else's blood run across the floor. Watches Allison flicker and fade.

Do you see?

Chapter Text

viii. reprise

"All right. Well. Here goes nothing," Church says, which turns out to be pretty accurate, because absolutely nothing happens.

Carolina rolls her eyes. "C'mon, Epsilon. Don't tell me you're scared."

"Of course not," Church says. He hopes she doesn't notice the way his voice kinda squeaks a bit. "It's just, you know. Weird. Integrating with another Freelancer. I sorta wrecked the last one I did that to." And then he shuts up, because thinking about what he and Wash did to each other is just all kinds of fucked up.

"Hey," says Carolina, "if you'd rather ride back to the others in the motorcycle..."

Church glares at her. She shrugs, but he's pretty sure she's smiling back. They're both nervous, a little raw, and okay, that realization doesn't help with the anxiety at all, but it's kinda good to know.

After way too much awkward silence, during which Church very nearly decides to almost-just about-not quite do something, Carolina sighs, sinks down so she's sitting on the ground with her back to a wall, just looks up at the sky. "Yep," she says, morosely. "You're gonna be in a motorcycle forever. Maybe I can ride it dramatically into battle. Maybe I can transfer my armor mod into it. Caboose will finally have his dream best friend: a superpowered motorcycle who solves crime."

"Oh, fuck you," Church says, and finally jumps into her armor's empty AI slot.

Carolina's mind is quieter than he thought possible, full of carefully erected walls, well maintained, well kept, well organized. There are a few shocking gashes where Eta and Iota obviously clung to her as they were torn out by the Meta, but it's nothing like Wash's funhouse mirror of a brain, all distortions and deceptions and layer upon layer of scar tissue.

York's at the forefront of her mind right now, because of course he is. Church treads lightly, feels the Delta-memory inside him reach out to her in consolation, in understanding, feels her sigh a response. Beyond that, there's a wall that stretches out in all directions, and she tells him, not unkindly, that what she did after Freelancer is hers and hers alone, that she's holding tight to those memories for now. He respects that boundary, skirts it.

He finds the well of her combat knowledge, says, "Holy shit," because she's done some seriously incredible, badass things, most of them without an AI. Some of her self-control slips as he explores, excitement and pride sifting through her calm facade, look what we could do together. Something about her enthusiasm must be contagious because he catches himself smiling in response. He moves away reluctantly, resolving to do a little more digging once they're headed back to the others.

He flickers to life next to her. She's grinning at him beneath her helmet. "You ready to go take this bastard down?"

"Oh yeah," Church says. "Let's make him pay for what he did to us. To all of us."

There's a fire crackling in her. He recognizes the long, slow echo of it somewhere inside his own chest. And sure, that fire promises to be all-consuming, self-annihilating, but at least this time around they won't be burning alone.