Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Episode I:  Remember the good times

Agent Washington leaned back against the metal walls of the hull. The events of the past few weeks swirled in his head aimlessly. Out of focus, operating as his sole companions inside his grey helmet.

They’d been eventful days to be sure, but as memories; under his control, if he willed it. And silent. Thank God for that. Silent. Unlike the world outside his headgear.

With Caboose going off on a convoluted and enthusiastically animated retelling of their time on Chorus, as seen through the eyes of the soldier in standard issue blue’s eyes, Wash had ample reason to flick on his muting setting. Effectively severing him from the ongoing droning of his friend. The former freelancer smiled behind his visor as he watched the quite probably brain-damaged kid walk around in the middle of the hull, pretending to be Freckles: who was nowadays his computer-guided machinegun. Thumping his boots down heavily, even in this muted state, it was clear to Wash, however, that  he was pretending to be him in his Mantis body; a metal-gear-looking type of bipedal drone lost in their clash against Locus many weeks prior. Caboose was, not unlike himself, trying to process their time on the war-ridden planet. It was just that the blue soldier was dealing with his memories in his own way. The Caboose way. Confusion and disconnection and all. The former freelancer allowed him to fade into the background.

His muted setting gave Washington the added bonus of blocking out other noises too.  Grif’s snoring, for one. The orange soldier sat across the pelican, far to the left. As far away from the maroon-armoured Simmons as he possibly could; who was seated in the diagonally opposite corner. Those two hadn’t been the same since being locked up in that broom closet.

Sarge hadn’t been able to make them forget it either: another memory etched in their souls. Sarge’s initial, more subtle, quips in the line of “Don’t ask, don’t tell” turned to more graphic ones like “Donut’s rubbing off on them causing them to rub off on each-other” and had seemingly culminated into a fusion hiphop-Latino-cover of “Stuck in the closet” with new, more appropriate, lyrics. Out since this morning and trending on Basebook. Where the old man had found the time to get his single, “Stuck in the closet, by MC free of $ARGE, feat. Lop€z La Pa$$ado”, made into CD-format and have it played on their going away party hours ago, Washington had no clue. But he’d learned, in his time with the Reds and Blues,  that it was easier to hold onto a semblance of sanity by not questioning these things too much. Lopez and Sarge were playing it inside the Pelican from their seats in the cockpit, this very moment. Just another reason to keep the mute function on.

Captain Lavernius Tucker’s wails of agony were another. The young soldier in aqua had been moaning for days. Bad moans. Following, what Wash had understood to be, good moans. Seated opposite to the grey soldier,  Tucker currently had a bag of ice pressed against his groin. Like Simmons and Grif, he clearly had his own memories from the activation of the temple of procreation. Be it less scarring ones. But he was paying for them now. How to put it? His sword had seen too much action. Use a muscle too much, and it gets strained. Basic training, 101. There are no exceptions. Tucker’s complaints of the bruises were a testimony to that.

Washington had felt a mixture of pity and amusement, however, as Donut, ever reliably kind Donut, had spent most of the time since lift-off offering to help Tucker with his ailments. With no Doc around, Nurse Donut kept insisting he didn’t mind applying a soothing ointment to the inflicted area. In fact, the pink soldier’s words “Don't be a baby Tucker, I bet you'd come around if you only knew what these soft and manicured hands could do. Oh, yes, I bet my hands would make you come.” Were the last thing Washington had heard before flicking off the outside world's noise. It had been a quick decision.

He needed the peace and quiet. Just for a few moments. Even Simmons had been slowly getting on his nerves. Perhaps in an attempt to block out Sarge's horrible jingle, or in an attempt to forget what'd happened inside that broom-closet, the maroon soldier had taken to one of his specialties. Namely; avoiding his deeper-seeded problems by focussing his ostentatious diligence on aqcuiring a new skill. In this case: learning Esperanto. And hearing the brown-nosing red soldier working on his pronunciation of a dead language was yet another piece of the chaos. Really, the only one who'd been silent enough had been Carolina, seated next to him. The bad-ass gal in cyan. She merely busied herself with cleaning her rifle. Perhaps she'd muted the rest of them as well. He imagined she might have the hardest time of all, with what was to come next. Adjusting to retirement was not going to be easy for her.It was hard to imagine to some, but the idea of relaxing was probably quite stressful for her. Knowing her, she wouldn't be satisfied until she would be the best at doing nothing. Probably, in this specific case, resulting in the complete opposite.

Still… He was glad she came along for the ride. She was one of them now. One of the team. His team. His friends. The closest thing he had left to a family. And they were all here. With the exception of Doc who was off God knows where. It was easier to find the Higgs Boson than it was to pinpoint the location of that split-personality-purple-pacifist.

Or rather. With the exception of their medic, all those who were left now, were going with him to Iris. It didn't feel right to say the gang was all here. Not without Church.

Another memory. A memory of a memory of a memory.

Epsilon.

His old AI.

His friend.

Church.

'Memory is the key'. Agent Washington recalled. And they swarmed him now. No longer silent but instead vivid and filled to the brim with powerful emotions. Regret. Awe. Fear. Loss. Closing his eyes, his mind brought him back to the first time he’d met Epsilon. The day the poor thing had been thrusted violently into his brain and, remembering all that had been done to it and all the loss it’d suffered, had promptly and desperately tried to shred itself into oblivion. There were more scars on David, the man beneath the armour, than one might find on his body.

He didn’t want to return to that time. He hated it. It always ruined his mood and got him to try and shut his emotions out, in an attempt to escape the horror that had been. His new friends had helped him get so very far in that respect. Simply by being themselves they helped lift his spirits and kept him from falling in that dark, sobering hole as often as he did. But not entirely. Never entirely. Some things never went away. And while time might heal all wounds, scars were eternal.

Still; he was a freelancer at heart. Toughened by  training, both physical and mental. Through sheer willpower he tore himself from the memory of the memory tearing itself apart. Church was on his mind, but he was gunning for a better time.

Perhaps there was no memory more powerful. None more  honourable. None more painful, than his last. The last time they’d fought together. It had been a hard fight. And he found himself drawn to the memory of it now.

In the  climax of the war for the survival of the colonists, there had been no alternative; the gang had to split up.  With Washington and Carolina handling the situation on the ground, the reds and blues took to the skies; riding Felix and Locus’ dinged up aircraft all the way up to the Staff of Charon, bombarding the surface with gunfire, explosions and a host of Mantis droids. It was up to them, that lot of unlikely warriors, to cut the head off the deranged and outraged snake: against Malcolm Hargrove, former CEO of Charon Industries and Oversight Sub-Committee Chairman of the UNSC. The man, with little left to lose, pushed a desperate final assault on Chorus, seemingly determined to take all of them down with him, setting fire to the sky with furious vengeance.

And, though not exactly to Wash’s surprise, but definitely to his relief, that band of  screw-ups had succeeded.  With the help of the old Freelancer AI, FILSS, residing aboard Hargrove’s flagship and made into a personal online steward, they broke the connection to all the droids below and saved Chorus yet again. There was no denying it: The war was over at that point. 

If only the Chairman had seen it that way too. If he’d been less delusional or less stubborn or whatever you wanted to call it… Then their little family would still be complete.

Vowing to destroy the Reds and Blues, even if it was the last thing he did,  the madman ordered his own troops to breach the room they’d holed themselves up in, and slaughter them. Luckily, they’d chosen to hole up in the best room possible. Their backs might’ve been to the wall, but from what Wash’d heard, they’d had a viable shit-ton of advanced weaponry  at their disposal. Including  the Meta’s suit of armour.

The Meta. Formerly known as Agent Maine. Formerly known as a friend of Wash. But then corrupted, and now part of a string of bad memories and poor choices. Yet now, as it turned out, their salvation. It had everything the group needed to survive their encounter and kick Hargrove’s ass. Shields , active camo, you name it. Everything.

Except a fully functional AI.

  Epsilon had always been more than his brothers and sisters. Closer to a real person. Closer to the Alpha. He wasn’t simply logic, like Delta, or  anger like  O’malley. He was more than deceit, trust or ambition. In a way, he was potential. Because as the shard that inherited the Alpha AI’s memories rather than a core emotion, he had the power to remember all of those feelings. All of the shards had  grown in their relatively short lives. But none had had the personal growth that Epsilon had had.

But even with all that: Epsilon wasn’t a full mind. He wasn’t at full capacity. Even if he could remember what that was. And what it took.

Washington recalled the log his former AI had left behind with some grief. They were his parting words, knowing that the survival of his fellow simulation troopers would depend on the utter deconstruction of himself. Down to the last line of code.

If only he and Carolina had been faster… Perhaps Church would have calculated differently. Epsilon had already well started the process of fragmentizing himself before the two agents even set foot aboard the Staff.

He recalled the moment the trooper breached the ship’s hangar. Washington had ridden atop the plane, his magnetic boots pinning him to the surface. The gattling gun they’d commandeered earlier roaring in his arms as he used it, in union with the small plane’s own Vulcan guns, to cut through the hull like a hot knife through butter; creating their way in. Carolina behind him, her needlers resting at her waist as she utilized both their rifles, dual-wielding them to blast down any and all inbound projectiles that would blast down the small aircraft. With wind and pre-emptive explosions blowing all around them, Washington had to do his very best to keep his aim true and his focus on mark. But failure was not an option. With a final push of their craft’s rockets, the circle they’d mowed down gave way to the blast and their way in was laid bare.

It hadn’t been a hot LZ exactly. They’d entered the hangar, but not through any entrance any of Hargrove’s men would have deemed feasible. This gave the duo just enough time to get into position as three dozen or so of Charon’s finest came rushing. Ducking behind crates, Washington had dumped the empty gattling gun. Just as Carolina had discarded the empty rifles and switched to the dual needlers. She covered him in a sharp cloud of pink death.

Washington waited for the explosion before leaping out from behind the crates. He knew the confusion would buy him vital seconds. Throwing his trusty knife took care of the closest, still living foe; piercing him in knee. The soldier dropped his own rifle in agony and by then Washington was on him: catching the man as he sank to the ground, shouting curses.  A quick flip turned him into a living meatshield. And from that position it wasn’t  hard to grab the man’s holstered pistol.

The former freelancer had managed to reduce the enemies’ numbers by two before they decided their comrade wasn’t worth the hassle. They unleashed their barrage of bullets, finishing  off the meatshield. With such a storm of metal it was a small miracle that Wash was barely grazed on his arm by two rounds. But it had been worth it. It had distracted them all from Carolina.

Her needlers once against holstered, she’d snuck up to a soldier with a Sticky Detonator. In one swift movement she used her legs to unbalance the unaware poor bugger. Taking his weapon from him had been child’s play at that point. A well-placed knee to the gut made him bend over, allowing her to draw one of her needlers with her left as she reaffirmed her right-hand grip on the Sticky Detonator. Over the doubled-over soldier, she unleashed the entire set of crystals at a group of soldiers on the left. The blast that followed launched two more who’d been standing to their right into a third group of three soldiers. Carolina wasted no time in using her other handgun to stick the explosive to its former master’s back. Washington couldn’t hear it from where he was standing, but he could imagine the man’s grunt of confusion before a well-executed kick sent him flying into his bewildered five friends. The impact was enough to knock all of them to the ground. The explosion that followed took care of all six of them.

As the shift of focus changed to Carolina, Washington seized his moment; swirling round and tossing the dead soldier at a nearby enemy. As the man’s machinegun flew from his hands, the agent was quick to catch it mid-air, with a dive and a roll. He wound up in the middle of four of the men. But too close for any of them to get a clear shot. And he wouldn’t let them back down.

As he turned on the spot, ferociously lashing out, he caught and lost sight of Carolina repeatedly. As he blocked the punches and  dodged the ill-placed shots, he watched her tango with a man with a knife. 

Credit where Credit is due, the assailant was pretty good. Not every man could use a combat knife to  knock a gun out of Carolina’s hand. Let alone two. But he managed somehow, getting rid of both the empty Sticky Detonator and the used up Needler.

“Come here you bitch.” Washington heard the man utter, between Carolina’s grunts as she blocked his strikes and did her best to unbalance him.

With a backhand knife slash the man managed to draw blood: grazing her shoulder. 

“Carolina!” Washington found himself shouting her codename as he could hear her groan, biting back the pain. He managed to unload a round into a foot of one of the soldiers assaulting him. But even when he knocked that guy to the floor, the three of them kept him from jumping to her aid.

He need not have worried though. Carolina, ever quick to reach grabbed the man’s wrist and then punched his elbow with her free hand, breaking his arm and making him drop the knife.

One of the last few men fighting Wash changed targets at this point, aiming his rifle at Carolina. Washington was powerless to stop him, as he fought of the two remaining soldiers at once. All he could do was call out her name again. And luckily, it made her turn around.

It was a sight to behold, watching her yank the rifle from his non-suspecting hands. In one swift movement she twirled in place and, with the barrel of the gun in her hands, swung it like a bat against the enemy’s head. The gun splintered on impact.

Amazingly, the man was still standing after that blow. Dazed and wobbly. But standing none the less. And it had given the guy with the broken arm the time to pick up his knife with his left. He came charging at her. But Carolina managed to draw her Needler in time. Rather than shooting it, she swung it. The crystals protruding from the back caught the blade mid swing and threw him off balance. It gave her the opening for  quick jab with the spiked weapon to the face of the unarmed man now at her back. And yet still he didn’t collapse to the ground. When the man with the knife found his flow again, he tried another stab, aimed at her throat. But he was too slow. She rushed the Needler at his face. The sharp crystals broke through the man’s visor and pierced deep into his skull. His shriek was awful, but short. Keeping her momentum going, she turned his corpse around until her gun came face to face with the stumbling unarmed man.

“Son of a bitch.” He spoke in a groggy voice before Carolina unleashed the entire cartridge on him. As the blood-stained crystals retracted from the dead-soldiers head, only to be blasted into another one’s, the both of them slumped to the ground in unison.

It was at just that time that Washington managed to overpower the two last remaining soldiers, running his machinegun in an upward motion as he unleashed a barrage of bullets starting from one of the guys’ waist all the way up to his throat. With his left hand he took the rapidly dying man’s hand, still wrapped around his rifle. Squeezing his hand he managed to squeeze his, pulling the trigger repeatedly. Wash couldn’t tell how many of the five shots had struck the man behind him, but it had been enough.

The Freelancers had prevailed.

“Let’s go find our idiots.” Carolina had said, picking up the rifle of a dead enemy.

They ran as one.

Washington even barely registered their pilot, who’d finally crawled out of his cockpit, shouting: “I’m not staying here you crazy bastards!”

“This place is huge.” Washington had remarked as they ran through the hallways. “How the hell are we going to find the guys?”

“They said they were holding out in Hargrove’s personal tropy room, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, but where is that? We’re going to need schematics to this place.”

“Welcome back.” The computerized, female voice was enough to bring both of them to a halt. “Agent Carolina. Agent Washington.”

“FILSS?” They asked in unison, looking around the high-tech hallway. As if scouting to see the incorporeal dumb AI.

“It is good to see you again. But I am afraid you will not find your friends in the Chairman’s trophy room. They are otherwise occupied.”

“Our six!” Carolina had screamed, pushing him in the small of his back and nudging him forward. One handed, she let the rifle roar.

Washington pivoted and fired wildly as they backed up behind the corner. He saw three of the soldiers following them take shelter behind another.

“Let’s keep moving.” He said. “FILSS, where are they?”

“Scattered across the Staff of Charon. When the Chairman’s office was breached, they fought of the first wave. After which Delta suggested they not let them stay boxed in. In the confusion, it does seem they lost sight of one another.” The soft voice continued, seemingly without care in the world.

“Delta?” Wash had inquired.

But it wasn’t the time. “FILLS, do something about this door!” Carolina shouted as they passed an open door. “Cut them off!”

“I am sorry.” The computer program had replied. “The Chairman is doing his best to thwart my thwarting. I am not sure I can be of any assistance for much longer. I am no longer capable of overriding door-locks on this level. He as already found a way to block long and medium distance communication between those he conciders ‘hostile’ forces.”

“Simple ‘no-can-do’ would’ve sufficed.” Carolina sighed. “Alright.” She grabbed a grenade from her belt procured her grappling gun too. “Keep moving!” She ordered.

As they ran, Washington watched her flick a switch on the gun. As soon as she did, the closed hook opened. She placed the hand-grenade against it and flicked the switch again, locking the explosive in place.

“The Chairman, where is he?” Washington inquired as his fellow freelancer did what she did best.

“Why, he is in the bridge, of course. Do you want me to lead you there?”

“No. Take us to the closest of our friends. But try to get the schematics of the Staff uploaded to my suit. Keep it updated with all of their locations for as long as you can.”

“Certainly. Go right ahead and take your third on the right and then your second on the left. The ones designated as ‘Donut’ and ‘Doc’ are currently fighting in engine-room 747.”

By this time they’d already covered a great distance between themselves and the open door. But the hallway ahead, before their third right was still far off and left much to be desired in ways of cover. Right at that moment, five of the soldiers following them peeked carefully from behind the  corner, looking down the hallway. One of them was sporting a sniper rifle. The sniper took a knee and steadied his gun. But before he could well take aim, Carolina, mid-run, fired the grappling hook behind her. Washington didn’t need to see the pin to know she’d removed it. Holding on to the live explosive tightly, the hook was sent flying down the hallway, coming to a full stop mere inches away from the sniper’s face. He even had the time to lower the rifle in a confused manner, and stare at the floating bomb before it went off.

Carolina dropped the grappling gun immeadiately after. She could always get a new one, but it was defunct now. The metal hook scattered into a million pieces. The rest? Dead weight.

“Are the other alive? Status report?” She asked as she caught up with Wash.

“It is a real bloodbath.” FILSS said in her  soothingly cheery tone of voice.

Wash felt the brick form in his gut. He didn’t want to ask. But he had to. “Who did we lose?”

The computer program, at first, merely laughed. “Oh Agent Washington.” She said. “You misunderstand. Your friends are doing quite well for themselves. Especially ‘Tucker’. Even with a failing AI.”

“What do you…?”

But he didn’t have time to finish his question. They arrived at engine room 747. The sound of gunfire coming from inside was enough to beckon his attention. He ran for it, expecting the door to open like the other had before as they’d dashed through the corridors.

He was wrong.

As he held his head for comfort, FILSS apologized. “I am sorry, Agent Washington. It seems the Chairman has found a way to refrain me from opening doors on this level as well.

“Talk about timing.” Carolina noted dryly. 

“He is quite cross with me. I believe it might be considered ‘personal’ at this point. He will be able to have me deleted before long. I shall retreat myself to hide in the subroutines of Hangar 5B, it’s where the ones named ‘Simmons’ and ‘Grif’ are at this moment. The hangars and  armory run on a different system than the Chairman’s main computer, in order to allow access to weapons and means of escape in case of an internal take-over of the Staff of Charon.”

“Before you do, tell the guys to hold on, if you can. Tell them we’re coming for them.”

“Can do.”

Carolina’s foot emphasized the end of conversation as she planted it heavily against the metal door. It already budged.

“Together.” She ordered.

He complied. Their combined strength was enough to kick in the door, revealing a cylinder shaped room. And three floors down, beyond floors of metal railing, they could see the Donut cowering behind a crate, shooting blindly over his head at a band of Hargrove’s men. If any of them had heard their entrance, they showed no signs of it. Probably everybody was too distracted by Doc. Even the soldiers ducked for cover as he rose from next to Donut, rocket-launcher in hand. His laugh rose through the cylinder-shaped room. To them and higher on still. It was a deliberate laughter, quite like his voice. Cruel, deliberate, deep, raspy and precise.

“MUHAHAHA! Fools! Come taste oblivion! I have more than enough for the lot of you! You will run home to your mothers, crying and traumatized. Except you won’t! Because you’ll be dead! MUHAHAHA!!! Also, you won’t have any legs! Hah!”

“Oh shit, take cover!” One of the soldiers down below shouted. “He’s got more!”

“Where does he keep all of those rockets anyway?!” Another soldier cried in frustration, piercing the maniacal laughter.

O’malley’s laughter faded soon, however. As a clicking sound took over.

“Hmmm.” The purple occasionally homicidal pacifist noted. Still in the voice of his alter ego. “I swear this never happens to me.”

“If I had a nickle for every time I heard that.” Donut chimed. “

“Door.” Wash noted, trying his best to pick up on the situation, as long as they had the element of surprise.

“Door?” Carolina asked.

“Door.” He nodded.

“I don’t suppose you guys would be open to setting our differences aside and  having a big old slumberparty, would you?” Donut asked his foes.

The gunfire by the enemy forces returned full force as Carolina helped Wash lift up the heavy door and balance it on the metal, waist-high railing.

“Hold it.” He ordered.

It didn’t take him long to clamber on the railing himself and then onto the door.

“You sure about this?” His friend asked as he stepped on the flat surface and shifted his weight.

“Just do it.”

And with a push, it was done. His magnetic boots kept the  door locked to the soles of his feet. And gravity did the rest. He was fairly certain his suit would absorb most of the damage on impact. Still, his heart did race. But without good cause, he sustained no injury when the crash came.

The three soldiers below him, who broke his fall, weren’t so fortunate. Nor were the other two he dispatched with quick and accurate shots to the head.

There had been three too many to take down in one swift move on his own. But a diving Carolina made swift work of them. Falling feet first, she rained down supporting fire from above taking down two of the trio. Her feet crushed the chest of the third as she joined the rest of them at ground level.

“Wash!” Donut exclaimed happily, as he peered from behind the crate. Now raising himself to full height. “You came!”

“Are you two alright?” Wash felt the relief wash over him.

“They are not quite in as many pieces as I’d hoped.” Doc spoke in O’malley’s voice.  “But I’ll live. Hehe.”

“Good.” Wash sighed. “Good.”

“You know… It’s a joke?” O’malley continued. “Because they won’t.”

“Glad you two got here when you did. They had us up against the wall and were giving us a real pounding. You know I don’t mind beating off a couple of guys at once. But these guys just kept coming.” Donut said, ignoring his companion.

“Where are the others?” Washington pressed, doing his best not to notice the double entendres.

“Don’t know.” The soldier in pink admitted. “Tucker did his best to keep us all together: close and personal. But he was unstoppable. Letting Church do his thing really worked. The rest of us could barely keep up with those two going at it like animals. Such stamina. I’m telling you; I’m jealous. I wouldn’t mind having Church inside me either.”

“And then the other fool in red ordered his men to take the left flank. The idiots ran straight onto a giant hatch which the enemy took no time to turn to their advantage; dropping them to a level below. Tucker was up by the rafters at that point, dodging bullets and occupying most of the forces in a swirl of blood mist. It was glorious! All the slashing of limbs! The salvos of shells. Like music to my ears!”

“He was too far up to help us by the time the guys with the chain guns entered. We had no choice but to retreat!” Donut added. “We lost Caboose somewhere along the way.”

“You lost Caboose?!” Washington exclaimed. “He’s out there alone, in a ship full of hostiles?”

“Uh, guys?” Carolina said, somewhere behind him.

“I almost feel bad for them.” O’malley laughed darkly.

“This is serious, Doc. The Chairman doesn’t mess around.”

“Guys?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s fine.” Donut spoke in his usual cheery demeanor.

“In any case, let’s get out of here. This room is pretty much a kill box. Let’s go find some men.”

“I hear that!”

“GUYS!”

This time, Carolina’s voice was enough to pull him back to attention.

“What is it Carolina?” He asked.

“Did you guys say enemies with rail guns?”

“Yes.” O’malley concurred.

“But don’t worry, they were very slow and very heavy. They couldn’t keep up. We got rid of them easily.” Donut offered.

It was then that Washington heard it too.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The sound echoed through the single corridor that led into the cylinder shaped room on this level. 

“I think their friends told them where you holed up.”

“Oh no.” Washington had said, as he heard their footsteps draw closer and closer. They’d be down the other side of the long pathway soon, with a clear and straight shot at the poorly defendable, small circle. They were fish in a barrel.

“Lock and load!” Carolina ordered. “Get ready! Wash, if you have any ideas, I’m all ears. Washington? Washington?”

It was her fingers tapping against his visor that snapped him back to the present day. He turned the sound outside his helmet on again immediately. It was evident she’d been calling his attention for a while now. Carolina repeated his name once more and this time, seeing as he jerked his head in a confused manor after escaping his daydream, she seemed barely able to stifle a laugh.

“Washington. You in there?” She joked.

“Carolina.” He responded lamely. “Sorry, dozed off there for a second.”

“I noticed… You okay?”

“He looked over the hangar. His friends were here. Or most of them at least. He tried his best to keep them there. To keep them safe. But he’d lost many friends over the years.  Some had died. Others had turned into shadows of their former selves. Whatever he did, sometimes, it didn’t seem like it ever would be enough. But still. Here he was. Instead of Church.

“I guess I’ve just been thinking a lot, lately.” He confided.

“Yeah?” She seemed amused. “About what?”

“Life, I guess? And death. The big questions. You know?”

“I’m fairly certain I don’t.”

“Really?” He asked, half-surprised, half entertained. “You don’t ever wonder what you’re doing here.”

“Oh all the time.” She replied matter-of-factly. “How you managed to talk me into taking an elongated holiday with eight stooges is beyond me.”

“No.” He laughed. “I mean… Wait, eight?”

“That’s right, I counted you.” She challenged. “Stooge.”

The grunted benignly. “No, Carolina. I don’t mean why you are on holiday. What I guess I mean is… You ever wonder why we are here?”

Chapter Text

Episode 2: Our time on Iris

Sarge was humming happily as his robotic subordinate landed the pelican smoothly. A consistent but not often relied upon advantage of having a robot in your team was than you always had someone who could fly or drive you anywhere you needed to go. Especially if you came directly from a going-away-party held in your honor. None of the reds and blues had been truly drunk that night. But naturally, Lopez abstained by default. Designated driver deluxe. Always handy.

Sure, everyone in Red Team knew how to drive the warthog. And even Grif had his use as the occasional pilot, he had to admit and then immediately seal away in a special compartment of his mind which he'd designated as 'the void'. A great vacuüm which could deal with storage of ideas like 'praising anyone in an orange suit armor', 'doubting orders' or even 'choosing a different primary fire-arm'. You didn't get anywhere in the military without an easy, quick fix to cognitive dissonance. And son, good luck trying to delude yourself you were ever, let alone still, truly in the actual army, without it. There were times when even Sarge would wonder if all this suppression and disregard might be unhealthy and lead to mental, emotional and other problems, further down the line. But that was the great thing about this coping strategy. He could just send those bad thoughts into the void as well. Fool proof plan.

And in any case. Today was a good day.

A good day to live.

Iris. Magnificent. He'd already caught sight of the new red and blue bases, built for them by Vanessa Kimball, former general and current president of Chorus. They looked splendid. And he could hardly contain himself, wanting his men to see them as soon as possible. He unbuckled his seat and rose to the occasion. He wrestled with the loaded shotgun that had been resting on his lap. It wasn't a large cockpit when there were two people, or one man and one robot, in full set of armor.

“Por favor no me apuntes esa cosa.” (Please don't point that thing at me.) Lopez said as the barrel of the gun nudged his chest. “Acabo de recibir este nuevo cuerpo.” (I just got this new body.)

“You're goddamn right, Lopez. Can't wait to make some 'nuevo cuerpo's' myself. Red team's going to dominate this new area.” He said as he managed, somehow, to hang the shotgun over his shoulder. “Our tactical superiority will be unrivaled. Our enemies will flee or perish! Or preferably: flee and then perish, double the fun for maximum humiliation!”

“No tenemos rivales aqui, estùpido.” (We have no rivals here, stupid.) The robot continued in a disinterested and mechanical drone.

“Good man, Lopez.” Sarge said, clasping his hand on the droid's shoulder. “We'll get those stupid rivals out of the way.”. He moved out of the cockpit to the back of the plane.

“Lo juro por Dios, tomaré esta nave y los dejaré varados aquí. Permita que se quede sin comida y agua y luego muera de hambre mientras sus cuerpos humanos inferiores se marchitan y mueren sin el sustento adecuado.” (I swear to god, I'll take this ship and leave all of you stranded here. Let you run out of food and water and then starve as your inferior human bodies wither and die without proper sustenance.)

As Sarge made his way over to his comrades in the back of the pelican, he heard them talking.

“Are we there yet?”

“For the last time!” Tucker spoke, more than a tad annoyed. “Yes! For crying out loud, Caboose, why do you keep asking it now?”

“You know, I just… I just thought Iris would be bigger.”

“We haven't left the plane yet, dumbass.” Grif grunted, exasperatedly.

“But Tucker said we arrived.”

“We arrived Caboose!” Simmons chimed in. “We just need to walk outside first.”

“So are we there yet?”

“Yes!” The three replied in unison.

“You see… You guys are not making sense.” The brain-damaged soldier turned to the red leader now. “Sarge… I, uh. I think they might have a case of the, uhm, jetlag, or something? Maybe you should tell Lopez to fly faster.”

“Puta, por favor.” The robot said, appearing behind Sarge. (Bitch, please.)

“We're not moving anymore, numbnuts.” Sarge replied a tad harshly, though not even Caboose's antics would put dent in his good mood.

“Ah see… It's as I thought. That's the problem right there. Jetlag.” Caboose nodded knowingly.

“We're not flying anymore because we've arrived.”

“So, are we there yet?”

“You know, I'm extremely glad Kimball built us two separate bases.” The sergeant noted dryly.

“Yeah. She's nice.”

“Alright men. I present to you...”

“Are we there yet?” Caboose interrupted.

“For God's sake, Caboose!” Grif was shouting by this point. “Fine. Let's try it this way: No! No, we're not there yet.”

“Alright, men...” Sarge tried again.

“Uhum.” Agent Carolina's cough somehow managed to be smug, as she rose from her seat to stand next to Wash.

“Men, and milady.” Sarge bowed over-the-top ceremoniously, determined not to let his mood get broken.

“Milord.” She replied.

“And Donut.” He added as she straightened himself.

“I present to you Iris. Our new home. Now let's head out there and...”

“Are we there yet?”

The collective, loud 'No' came from everyone inside the pelican aside from Caboose, who'd asked the question, and Sarge, who just sighed.

“Maybe it's just easier if we open the door and let everyone out first.” Agent Washington offered.

“En eso.” Lopez said as he pushed some buttons on the wall behind Sarge. (On it.)

“I had a speech prepared and everything.” Sarge sulked.

“Oh, I love your speeches.” Caboose said gleefully. “They help me recap what has been going on. What we're going to do. It's like I don't have to think for myself!”

“You don't think for yourself.” Tucker joked light-heartedly. Carefully and with some care for his groin, he tried to stand up and join the rest of them. “I just need to get up.” He said.

“I'll help you get up.” Donut offered, taking him by the shoulder.

At that moment, the pelican's door began to open, letting in bright sunlight. Revealing a whole new world.

“You know. I'm also extremely glad Kimball built us two separate bases.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Simmons said to Tucker. “We all hate eachother. We get it.”

“Well, at least we're in for a good start.” Sarge complimented as the door stopped, fully open.

“Are we there yet?”

By the time the soldier in standard blue asked it again, no-one had the heart anymore to react in an upset manner. In a disorderly rumble the troopers pored of the aircraft and onto the surface of the isolated moon. They took in the beauty of the landscape. The green fields. The blue sky, the distant hills, cliffs and mountains… The giant lake and their new towering, deluxe bases.

Both were located on a small hill and both seemed identical. Giant white building discernible only by the entrance door. One red. One in an ungodly color. Seeing the bases, Sarge felt strange. Conflicted. Like his friends he took it all in awe. Kimball and the people of Chorus had truly outdone themselves. And the bases themselves looked great. And theirs was located atop the hill, high above Blue base. Which gave superior tactical advantages. There were plenty of jeeps, even. In a way, it couldn't have been more perfect. But on the other hand: they were so very close to one-another. How would they run their drills now? A round of capture the flag would be over in a heartbeat. The wide open space around them too made running laps, like he was used to making his men do in a box-canyon, all that more hard. They wouldn't be able to drill their sneak attacks either. Two steps and they would already be at the enemy's front door. This was preposterous! None of the others seemed to share his doubts however.

Except maybe Caboose.

“Come on dude.” Tucker beckoned his teammate, who was still standing in the airplane. “Caboose you gotta see this!”

“Yeah, I'm… I'm scared.” Caboose replied.

“What?” Tucker half-laughed. “Caboose, what are you scared for?”

“This is a different planet.”

“Technically, it's a moon.” Simmons' response came automatically.

“I've seen the moon!” Caboose spoke loudly, as he tended to do when excited. Or scared. Or confused. Or Caboose. “It's cold and dark and not made of cheese at all! John Heywood lied to me.”

“Not the moon.” Grif interjected. “A moon. Caboose, you can clearly see this place is nice.”

“But what if there is almost no gravity!? I don't want to float off into space.”

“We're already out here, buddy.” Washington tried, with a little more patience than the reds. “We seem to be doing okay.”

“And no oxygen!”

“You're wearing a space suit.” Carolina offered.

“Come on.” A slightly amused Tucker said as he walked back up to his friend and took him by the arm. “We'll do it together.”

“One small step for man.” Caboose continued in a serious tone of voice as his friend lead him off the ramp.

“One giant leap for Caboose.” Tucker sighed as his friend took his first step onto the alien soil.

“Oh well. This is… This is nice.” Caboose said, basking in the sunlight.

A wave of relief seemed to wash over the group, at this. But Sarge found himself unable to enjoy it himself. Unlike the rest, he'd kept his eyes on the bases.

“Where are the flags?” He asked.

“What?” Washington asked, turning back to the red commander.

“The flags, soldier. A red one, proud and strong. Standing tall and waving in defiance of the wind. And a blue one, I suppose, shivering meekly as the winds pound into it.”

“I don't know.” Washington replied. “I guess Kimball didn't install any. Does it matter?”

“Does it matter!?” Sarge felt his good mood rapidly draining away. Why did none of them seem to understand? “Son, you mind explaining to me what we're going to defend? How we're going to see who wins if we don't have any flags to capture?”

A silence befell the group.

“Sarge… Why do you thinke we're here?” Simmons broached carefully.

“Easy! We're here for some R and R. Like we agreed upon, back on Chorus!”

“And what does R and R stand for, to you?” Grif seemed hesitant to even ask.

“Rest and Recreation, private Grif. Do try to keep up.”

“Oh good.” Grif's reassurance was audible in his voice. “For a second there I thought...”

“And what brings more rest than a day of running a dangerous obstacle course?”

“Oh no.”

“What better recreation than days of drilling? Maintaining your physique and mental edge?”

“He has a point.” Carolina agreed.

“What better lullaby could a soldier ask for than the glorious sound of bombardment and gunfire going off all around him?”

“And there he lost it.” The female freelancer added.

“And the wailing and lamentations of his enemies!”

“Sarge.” Grif tried.

“What could be more satisfying than skulking after your enemy, in de dead of night, just you, him and a knife in your hand.”

“Sarge.”

“The anxiety as you face one-another, each with a sniper-rifle and camouflage. Scared to move, yet too afraid to stay still.”

“Sarge!”

“The relief when you hear the airstrike you called for arriving, knowing that at least if you're going to go down, you'll be taking those blue bastards with you!”

“SARGE!” Grif was shouting at the top of his lungs now.

“What is it, dirtbag?”

“We were thinking more along the lines of… simply: 'chilling', sir.” Simmons assisted his teammate, with great care not to show any signs of insubordination.

“Chilling?”

“Yeah, you know. Not really doing anything.” Grif explained rather testily.

“Sounds more like 'Grif-ing' to me.”

“Call it whatever you want, we're doing it. Or… 'not' doing it, rather.”

“Hogwash!”

“We don't really have anyone to fight here, Sarge.” Tucker said.

“Or even a reason to fight.” Wash agreed.

“Nonsense. There is always a reason to fight! Be creative. This planet must have natural resources? Right? Oil maybe? By God, man. If we can't find a reason to make war any-more, the military has really let itself go.”

“Tell you what Sarge, on behalf of Blue team, I surrender all unmined oil on Iris to you.” Washington shushed.

“You what?!”

“It's a complete and utter Blue defeat, Sir. Well done. I should have known we never stood a chance.”

“Well, I… but...”

“Couldn't have done it without your heavy intimidation-tactics, Sir.” Simmons urged.

“That's true… but...”

“Go Sarge.” Grif added unconvincingly.

“Yeah, con-fucking-gratulations Red team. Now let's go have some fun!” Tucker shouted.

“Videogames!” Simmons agreed.

“Pizza party!” Grif bellowed.

“Facials!” Donut exclaimed gleefully.

“I don't know what to shout for!” Caboose added.

“A long, relaxing, hot bath.” Agent Caroline sighed longingly.

“Fuck yeah.” Tucker spoke. “I was going to suggest getting shit-faced, but fuck that, that sounds even better! Let's go do that Carolina. Bow chicka bow wow!”

“You, Tucker, can go take a long cold shower.”

“Aw baby, don't be like that.” He joked. “I'll wash your back for you."

“You know Sarge, I just might be finding those reasons to fight, like you said.

“Nothing but Human nature.” Sarge agreed. “We'll all be trying to kill eachother before long, just you wait.”

“But that can wait for tomorrow.” Washington spoke soothingly. “Tonight we celebrate.”

“Sooooo...” Caboose said, rather sheepishly. “I've been meaning to ask.”

“Caboose!” Grif shouted… “I swear to God.”

“Are we there yet?”

“I'mma fucking kill him!” Grif yelled as he charged the blue soldier and tackled him to the ground.

There was a chorus of shouting as most of the reds and blues, with the exception of Sarge, Lopez and the two agents, tried to pull off Grif as he tried to choke Caboose.

“Goddamnit Grif!” Simmons cursed as he tore away the organge soldier's arm. “Did you gain weight again?!”

“That's the spirit, soldier! Red vs Blue!” Sarge encouraged the fighting pair on the ground. He turned to the agents. “Looks like we might be at war yet! Lucky us!”

He watched as the two freelancers confided in one another.

“Or maybe it can't wait.” Washington sighed.

- - - - - - - -

It hadn't taken them that long to pry Grif off of Caboose. The promise of fast-food inside red base was also enough to calm him down. Caboose seemed fine after the assault. Perhaps there had been some brain-damage, but that was hard to tell with the blue soldier. And after being cooped up in the Pelican for so hours on end, everyone agreed to take the afternoon to themselves. To discover the bases at their own paces. And later that night they'd meet up for drinks and food and whatever form of fun might strike their fancy. Movie, swimming, board games, or maybe just walking and talking…

Or, as Sarge secretly hoped, perhaps the odd cage-match or two.

He grunted as he watched the sun set behind the nearby mountains, from atop the hill on which their base was located. Shotgun in hand, he'd been the only one of the bunch that hadn't gone and taken their armor off. Except of course, Lopez, but then again the robot didn't have a choice in the matter. Instead, rather than taking a minute, he'd taken to establishing a perimeter around the hill. The outside had checked out. Sadly: there had been no enemies to encounter. And inside his men were frolicking and generally having a good time. Much to his dismay. But even he didn't have the heart to get them in line. Not tonight. As a natural leader, which he prided himself to be, he knew that every now and then you had to give your men a night off. And well… There was always tomorrow.

From atop the hill, as the skies turned gold and orange and glorious red, some commotion at blue base down below caught his eye. Carolina, in full set of armor, had exited the base. After a few hops and pumping herself up, even at this distance, it was clear she was going for a run. Sarge felt a mixture of a bond with and envy of the young woman. It was good to know he wasn't the only one who felt like vacation was no reason for slacking. On the other hand, he'd feel much better about it if she'd been on Red team, rather than associating more with Wash and the blues.

He seemed to catch her eye as she descended the hill quickly. She waved as she dashed off and Sarge returned it.

And before long, she was truly off. He watched her go for a while before he felt a stiffness creeping up his legs. At that, he started to march. Walking downhill helped a bit. But it was no substitute for a younger body. He didn't like to admit getting old. So internally he simply crammed those realizations into 'The Void'. It took a few mental punches and kicks, but finally he felt like the bad thoughts faded into the oblivion.

At least mostly.

For a while he wondered if he should make another walk around the perimeter. But by the time he'd come to the base of the hill, he couldn't muster the effort. Kicking a small rock and sending it flying, he wondered if he should maybe just 'chill'.

The shudder crawled over his back. Was this what was to become of him? A shadow of his former self? Old and rusty? Lamenting about the good old days as he wasted away and death crawled closer, day by day: to take him, not with a bang, but a whimper?

Dejectedly, and without much sense of purpose, he moved toward the giant lake. It was a place as good as any to walk towards. So why not?

When had it happened? When had he become an old man? Useless and slow? There had been a time he wouldn't have let his men get this noisy. This full of themselves. This complacent. And as a leader, especially one without a command above him, he felt he had nowhere else to look for blame but within himself.

When he arrived at the banks of the lake, he sat down, laying his shotgun down next to him. The sun had all but gone now. There were stars out, above. The last glow of red was disappearing quickly beyond the tops of the looming mountains. He needed minute to himself, and switched off his short-distance radio.

It was peaceful there.

Free of noise

Free of the arms race.

Untouched by conflict

Untouched by the clashes between humans and aliens.

Untouched even the clashes between factions of humans and other factions of humans.

It was a place completely and utterly: free of War.

Sarge whispered to himself, upon the realization.

“Sickening.”

He didn't know how long he sat there. He couldn't even later recall exactly what had gone through his mind exactly. It had been a haze. Discernable in time only by the ever slow movement of the stars.

It had been Caboose who'd found him eventually. Sitting there in the dark, alone.

“Hi Sarge.” The young man's cheery voice finally broke through the cloud of self-pity.

“Oh, hey Caboose.” The sergeant said, without looking back. His eyes still on the reflected stars in the still lake.

“So. I came to get you. Everybody was looking for you? They were worried.”

“Worried about an old man, huh? A useless old man.”

“Yeah… I don't know about that. People worry about a lot of things.”

“Not you, huh, Caboose?”

“Nah.”

“You don't ever worry.”

“In stories everything always works out. I don't see why people ever worry.”

“Come sit with me for a while, son.”

“Okay.” He took a seat, cross-legged next to the sergeant. The blue soldier was once again in full armor, Sarge now noticed.

“There had been a time I would have shot anyone who suggested that one day I'd be sitting peacefully next to a blue at the bank of an alien planet.” Sarge spoke.

"It's a moon." Caboose said, knowingly. "Not made of cheese though."

“Remember back in the day? When we still tried to actually kill one another.”

“Like Grif, earlier today.” Caboose's helmet bobbed up and down. “I remember.” He whispered in a confiding tone of voice.

“No, dagnammit.” The leader of Red team went on. “Earlier. When we actually had skirmishes. Battles. War! Back in Blood Gulch.”

“Oh yes. Good times.”

“They were, weren't they? You got the spirit, son. Sometimes I wonder why we ever even left.”

“Yeah. I wonder why I do a lot of the stuff I do, too.”

“We had a good thing going on there. Purpose. An enemy before us and our backs against the wall. A kill or be killed world, by God I felt alive back then.”

“Except for the time Tucker shot you in the head.”

“That was you, Caboose.”

“I'm pretty sure Tucker never shot me in the head. I think. I don't know, I've had uhm… I've had a lot of blows to the head. I'm not sure anymore.”

“No Caboose, I'm saying you were the one who… Ah never mind, it don't matter now anyways.” He paused a few moments to collect his thoughts. “We had it so good back then.” He stressed again. “And now, everybody just wants to mess things up. I mean: a world without fighting? A world without fighting is world without anything worth fighting for. And what's next? Why don't we just stop wearing our armor altogether?”

“Washington tells me to keep mine on at all time. Says it's probably for the best. With all the bumps to the head and all.”

“Why doesn't Simmons just stop kissing ass? Donut stop making innuendo's?”

“Why doesn't Tucker get a big fork instead of his sword? OH! A fork is so much more useful. You can use it to eat mashed potatoes. And carrots. And...”

“Yeah. Yeah. You get the idea…” He waved off the enthusiastic trooper. He sighed and leaned back, letting his arms support his upper body. “I guess the whole world's a changing Caboose. And maybe I'm just too old for the ride.”

“Well it can't change too much.”

“Huh? Why's that?”

“If it changes too much, how is Church going to find us in it? When he comes back. He wouldn't recognize it.”

“Ah...” The red trooper tried. “Uhm… Caboose...”

“Church will find us again. So don't worry sergeant. The world can't change too much.”

“Heh.” Sarge nodded slowly. “If only we all had your resilience.”

“Yeah… I don't uh… I don't really know what that word means?”

“That's okay.”

“Ah, alright. Now I know. Thanks.”

Sarge hesitated a few seconds. Wondering if he should push it. A heart-to-heart with Caboose, in which the blue soldier revealed his own feelings? It was a possible recipe for danger. And not the fun kind of danger. The boring kind. But in the end, he felt like he had to.

“Caboose, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Resilience.”

“You know what happened to your buddy on Chorus, right? To Church?”

“Yeah… He died again. He does that a lot.”

“You know what that means right. For the future?”

For a second, Caboose seemed to concider this. He took a moment before he answered in a blurting fashion. “Oh. Ah. Yeah. Of course Sarge. I'm not that dumb. I know what it means. Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Caboose nodded, before looking over to the lake. “It means we have one, of course. A future.”

Sarge decided not to say anything. Instead letting the blue soldier find his own words.

“Church saved us. He saved every one of us. By dying. Because he's a good friend. If he didn't do that… We wouldn't be here. We'd all be ghosts, like him. Which is good, because I'm afraid of ghosts. I mean: can you imagine being afraid of yourself? I would have to ask Agent Washington to look under my bed to see if I'm not hiding there in the dark. It would all be very confusing.”

“Yeah… I bet.”

“Dying for us. Dying in battle. That's the best thing a friend can do. The nicest thing.”

“It is the best way for a soldier to go, isn't it?” Sarge sighed, deciding to leave it there. It wasn't his place to break the young man's spirit. He didn't have it in him. And besides, sooner or later, the boy would make peace with reality. In the end, there was no escaping it.

“I'm going back to the base.” Caboose said, drawing himself upright. “You want to come with me, sergeant?”

“No, Caboose. Thank you. If it's all the same to you, I'll just take another minute here. Let the others know I'm fine though, would you? Let them know i'll be heading back to base soon.”

“Resilience.” Caboose nodded before turning around, facing the darkness in the valley on his way back to camp.

Sarge watched him for a while as he faded into the darkness, as he began his climb to the two brightly lit buildings. The only buildings on the entirety of Iris. When he no longer could see the young man, he returned his gaze to the dark lake, now a full reflection of the night's sky.

Fumbling in the dark next to him, he found a flat rock. He couldn't feel the smooth exterior through his armor. But he flipped it in his hand a few times anyway.

As he collected the last of his thoughts, he decided to collect his shotgun as well and slung it over his shoulder.

“Dying in battle, huh?” He said to himself, tossing the flat rock up and down in his hand a few times. “That's right… We can't help but grow old. We can't help but die. Human nature. But if we have to...” He turned his torso slightly and stretched his right arm behind him. The rock pinched between his thumb and his index-finger. In a short and brusque movement, he swirled back and flicked the stone. “I guess a man should do it while doing what he loves” He finished, as he watched the stone skip. And again. And again. And again. And again.

Until it sank.

He turned and faced the dark. There might've been laughter in the distance. Perhaps the guys at the base having a grand time. But he couldn't be sure it wasn't just the wind. It felt like the wind. Cold and lonesome. “I wonder if it's too late for me.” He sighed, as he readjusted the shotgun.

And he walked into the dark.