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“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” Simmons shrieks, the bodies of Donut and Lopez laying dormant to either side of him.
Dead.
Agent Washington, gun still smoking, stands just several feet in front of him, the Meta backing him up only slightly further away.
He’s scared – Wash and the Meta both have their guns trained on him – but he’s also angry, pissed, grieving, and for a terrifying moment he forgets to be afraid and aims his rifle at Wash.
The Meta growls and Simmons whimpers, attention shifting to the giant even as Wash begins to slowly approach him, weapon still at the ready.
“Stand down,” Wash commands, and Simmons thinks he’s addressing him as he continues his approach, but it’s the Meta he’s speaking to. “I’ll take it from here.”
“Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Simmons demands, focusing his gun at him instead of the Meta as he becomes a nearer and nearer threat. “We helped with your Freelancer bullshit and this is how you repay us?”
“It’s because of your help that you’re still standing. I don’t want to have to shoot you, Simmons,” Wash says, now directly in front of Simmons, who scoffs in response. “Just tell us where the Epsilon unit is.”
Simmons isn’t thinking, he reasons. He’s on autopilot, brain drowning in fear and adrenaline.
That’s the only explanation for why he, normally a kiss-ass and, yes, a coward, takes a hand off his gun to draw the energy sword at his thigh and slice clean through the barrel of Wash’s rifle.
The Meta growls again, only it’s more like a roar, and Simmons screams in answer, sword fizzling out and going dormant in his hand.
“I said,” Wash snarls to the Meta, throwing the useless remains of his rifle to the ground as Simmons starts to run away, fight giving into flight. “Back off.”
Wash catches up fast, Simmons wading knee deep through the stream running the canyon, course for Red Base interrupted as he’s tackled from behind.
“Fuck!” he yells, losing hold of his gun and dropping it into the water.
Washington wrestles him to the ground, Simmons struggling just enough to be on his back with Wash straddling him, holding his head under the water, hands around his throat and choking him.
Simmons is still holding onto the hilt of his sword, he realizes, flailing under the water. He twists and bucks, trying to knock Wash off so he can gain the advantage, but Wash has no trouble keeping him pinned. Desperate, Simmons strikes out, attempting to use the hilt as brass knuckles, something to give his punch more weight, only for the blade to spring to life last second.
The blade connects with Wash’s visor, cracks and splinters spidering from the point of impact. Wash moves with the momentum, slumping to the side, and Simmons uses the opportunity to push him off and scramble away, sword deactivating again as Wash yells.
Simmons makes it to the bank when he feels a sharp pain just above his hip, followed by a splash in the shallows at his feet. Pausing in his retreat, he investigates and finds a knife among the rocks. Hand to his side, he feels for a tear in his Kevlar, sighs with relief when he finds none; it will probably leave a bruise, but it didn’t pierce the armor.
There’s a growl from behind him that stops Simmons in his tracks, breathe shaky on the exhale and panicked on the inhale as his adrenaline wears off, plunging into terror. Looking over his shoulder, he expects to see the Meta, but it’s just Wash, slowly rising from where he was crouched in the water, hands griping the sides of his helmet.
Frozen, he watches as Wash removes his helmet, breath stopping altogether at the pure fury in his eyes. There’s a cut above his eye, but it isn’t bleeding, cauterized from the plasma of his blade. Wash drops his helmet into the stream and pulls out another knife, marching towards Simmons with purpose.
He tries to run, but his body won’t listen to him and he distantly realizes that he’s having a panic attack as his knees buckle and give out. He forces his sword arm to move, trying to get another hit on Wash, but he’s moving too slow and can’t focus on activating the weapon. Wash effortlessly counters with his knife, and follows it up with stabbing through the Kevlar covering his hand, this time with enough force to puncture the armor. It doesn’t hurt, and Simmons idly wonders if he’s too numb with fear to feel, but it was his robotic hand. Right.
Wash twists his knife in further, and Simmons watches as if it’s happening to someone else as his fingers twitch and let go of the hilt of his sword. Then, Wash places his free hand on Simmons’ chest plate and he looks up to his face only to discover that there’s something more terrifying than all of Wash’s rage focused in his eyes;
Neutrality.
Complete detachment, as if he’s just following the motions, going through the most mundane task, even as he’s taking his knife and stabbing through Simmons’ armor, just above his hip and he is numb now, unable to feel the pain as the blade pierces his bruised skin. He can feel the heat, though, of his blood spilling out and he sobs, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the nothing staring back as Wash watches him.
He removes his knife, quickly, efficiently, but it feels like a million years, and even longer, an eon, as Simmons falls backwards, gasping for breath and human hand to his wound, robotic one still twitching as he tries not to exsanguinate.
Wash is standing above him, the position of the alien sun making it impossible to see his face and Simmons is grateful. He crouches down, silent for a moment as he struggles on the ground.
“You’re going to tell me where the Epsilon unit is,” he demands, voice monotone.
Simmons nods weakly, just before passing out.