Chapter Text
The hospitals at Chorus had improved dramatically in the last year or so since the end of the civil war, and the extra support and resources coming from off planet were almost certainly the cause of this. Now, not only were medicines and vaccinations once again available for the planet’s denizens in proper quantities, but there were countless support groups and services cropping up to help those affected (which was everyone, really) learn to cope.
Maine, after spending the last few years with his own personal baggage watching the planet destroy itself from the inside, had been finally convinced by a friend of sorts to attend one such group.
~
“General Doyle General Hospital.” They’d said, sliding a small scrap of paper across the table towards Maine, who merely grunted in response and raised an eyebrow. Nothing about that name brought him any sense of security or faith, and really, he’d found the whole notion rather ridiculous. Didn’t need therapy. Talking never did him any good, not even when it was an option.
“They’ll have people who can speak sign.” A small, encouraging gesture towards the note accompanied the dismissive tone of the words, and they had leant back, taking a swig from the mostly-empty mug of coffee in their hands. “I’m sure you’re not the only one who’s lost your voice in a war.”
Maine had stared at the note, his eyes narrowing at the scrawled writing which detailed not just the location of the hospital in question, but also instructions on how to get there, including specific dates, times, and modes of transport. His gaze had snapped back up to the person opposite, eyes still narrowed. He knew what this meant; this wasn’t a suggestion anymore.
They had smiled not unkindly, but certainly in a cocky, knowing sort of way. They finished their drink, then stood and left the room.
~
The travel was, for the most part, uneventful. He kept to himself, trying not to let the unwanted attention from passers by get to him too much (which was, for Maine, rather easy). People crossed streets to avoid him, stared at him, whispered amongst themselves and behind his back in mixed reactions of fear and occasional admiration as he passed. He’s sure he even saw a small group of about five young soldiers leave the transport bus before they’d even found seats at the mere sight of him.
Maine understood it all, to an extent: someone of his size and stature (nearing 7ft and built like a bulldozer) wasn’t exactly a normal sight amongst the still-recovering population of Chorus, many of which barely reached his chest in height. That, the stark-white mohawk, and the scarred up appearance of his already less than friendly face gave him quite the intimidation factor, especially to the younger residents. He’s not sure if leaving his armour at home was a wise decision or not.
General Doyle General Hospital itself was no better. If anything, it was far worse merely due to what it was: a hospital. He now had the discomfort of being surrounded by the staff and technicians, and the stench of disinfectant and sterilizer did little to calm his nerves. He was far too tense, he knew that much, and so, apparently, did just about everyone else. They gave him plenty of distance as he sat near the edge of the waiting room for his appointment time to come up. Good thing he’d brought a datapad with him, because he had quite a wait.
---
A hushed set of voices far closer than he expected dragged his attention away from the game on his datapad. His eyes flicked up briefly to get a general idea of who and where the sound was coming from before scanning the room nonchalantly for a moment, then returning to the screen in an effort to not be too obvious. There were two women, sitting only five or six feet away to his left, leaning close with all the body language of gossiping rookies in the mess hall.
That’s not what gets him to take a second look.
The flash of colours on the opposite side of the waiting area, now moving out of sight down one of the corridors makes him take another, longer look. Recognition hits him like a brick, and there’s an almost instantaneous bubble of frustration and anger which wells up from somewhere deep in his stomach, escaping him in a hushed, but still very present growl. The Reds and Blues.
He’d seen the news when it happened. Who hadn’t ? Everyone praised and revered them for their work exposing and then taking down Charon. Even Maine himself had drunk cheers to their name in celebration. The service was undoubtedly one of great importance and benefit to the planet of Chorus, and many continued to celebrate them in the months which followed, even after they disappeared.
Then the attacks started.
Countless assaults across multiple UNSC-controlled outposts and settlements; the theft of power generators, attacked and ultimately shut off, resulting in far more casualties than anyone needed so soon after everything; ambushes on UNSC supply vessels; and then towards the end, the bombing on the supply depot. It was safe to say that the Reds and Blues had the capacity for great impact, but this was not what Chorus needed at this time.
They were considered heroes, figureheads of Chorus' fight for its independence following the great civil war, and so these targeted attacks were typically considered as a huge 'Fuck You' towards the UNSC; something embraced by many, however those still weary from the war who wished for a more peaceful, diplomatic conclusion things this time around were left feeling uncertain yet again.
There'd been a local article published a few days ago supposedly clearing their names. Something to do with an imposter group left over from the now infamous Project Freelancer being responsible. Maine knew well enough of the simulation outposts, as foggy as his memories were, but it still sounded like a load of media drivel. An excuse to save face so they weren't cast out, and it seemed to be working well enough.
The small horde of young soldiers follows after them down the corridor, making a horrific sort of hiccuping sound (maybe it was giggling?) as they run back out a few moments later and huddle together near the corner.
"Do you think he'll give us an autograph if we ask nicely?"
Maine was trying his best not to listen. He didn't care. He didn't want to think about them being here, but they were very loud.
" Ohh , I want Captain Tucker to sign my armour with his energy sword!"
Disgusting. He'd rather hoped that glorified lighter had been lost by now.
"Wait-- wait no, do you think he'd give me, like, a tattoo with it or something?"
Maine can't help the look of disdain as he prods idly at his datapad, watching the coloured balls on the screen cascade.
"Jess, no way, that's stupid. But you know," The kids voice takes on a tone Maine isn't awfully keen on. "You might be able to--"
Enough, Maine thinks as he stands up rather suddenly, huffing a sigh and straightening his jumper. The group of kids glance over to him and freeze, staring like caught prey before hobbling off to wherever it is they should be (or at least, somewhere that isn't there ). It was time for his appointment anyway.