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This is true: A gun goes off, and Simmons yells.
“Why did you do that? What's wrong with you?”
Donut doesn’t say a word, he lays there on the ground, and Agent Washington doesn’t feel a thing except that same feeling of anger that hasn’t left him since leaving prison. He doesn’t spare the pink body a moment’s thought. He doesn’t know that one. He’s just a sim trooper. Why should he care?
This is true: Years later, in a rented car as they drive down a willow-lined driveway towards a house painted pink, there’s a silent agreement among Wash and Donut when they go home. Wash is driving, and they look at each other, and they nod.
They will not mention what happened all those years ago to their sisters.
This is a lie: When Wash tells the truth, it’s like a weight lifted from his chest, and he is happy.
When Wash had left all those years ago, a new set of knives in his backpack and his siblings yelling goodbye behind him, he’d never thought he would have called the farm home again.
Home had become people with Freelancer; home had been destroyed with Epsilon; home had been the Blues; home had been the Sim Troopers. And then home had become this; Tucker on one side, Junior on another, his sisters and his brother, the Reds and Blues and Carolina all crowded around one table, Shadow and Mikey the cat underfoot.
Joel is climbing all over Donut, poking at his scars and demanding to know all the stories behind them. Joel’s fanaticism for the Red Team hasn’t faded, much to Sarge’s delight and Niner’s despair.
“What’s this one from?” Joel demands, indicating Donut’s largest scar, the one that Tex left with a grenade.
“Simmons thought the grenade was a spider,” Grif says.
Simmons splutters. “You thought so too!”
“A grenade?” Joel’s eyes were huge. “Whoa.”
“That was a glorious victory for the Red Army!” Sarge says proudly.
“Uncle Donut getting blown up was a victory?” Shannon asks.
“No! But we did capture Tex!” Sarge beams.
“Whoa,” the kids all say, eyes wide. They’ve all heard stories about Tex, and are suitably impressed.
“What about that big one on your stomach?” Joel asks.
Wash doesn’t even think to look up, not realizing which scar his nephew is talking about.
“What, the one from when Wash shot Donut?” Grif’s the one to speak, and suddenly, everything changes.
There’s a clatter of glass breaking, and Wash’s head jerks up just in time to see all three of his sisters turn towards him, horrified.
Jackie’s covering her mouth with her hand. Martha’s already stopped looking at him, and is demanding something to Lopez in Spanish. Mitch is staring at Wash like she’s never seen him in her life.
The table’s descended into pure silence. Even Joel seems to realize something is wrong, shifting awkwardly on Donut’s lap.
“Kids,” Mitch says, mouth twisting into a caricature of her normal smile. Junior looks concerned too. “Why don’t you guys go out back and play? I’ll call you when it’s time for desert.”
Niner shoots her a look, but doesn’t say anything. Slowly, the kids all move away from the table, drifting towards the backdoor.
Mitch’s smile inches away as the kids move out of sight, and disappears completely when the door closes.
“Please tell me that Grif’s not talking about that scar,” Mitch says, standing up slowly, and Wash hasn’t heard her this angry in his whole life. “Not the one that nearly killed him, if Doc hadn’t been there?”
“That’s not true at all!” Doc said. “I didn’t get to Donut for weeks! It was his armor that kept him alive long enough for me to help him.” Then his eyes widened slightly, as he realizes what he’s saying. “I mean—”
Martha crosses the room in a moment, and Wash stands up from his seat, and takes a single step back, knowing what’s going to happen next. “You fucker!” Wash rolls with the punch as best he can, but Martha’s strong from years hauling lumber, and she’s always been the fighter of the family.
“Martha!” Jackie grabs her, trying to hold her back, but Jackie’s tiny and Martha’s strong, and Wash falls onto the floor, seeing stars. His lip is bleeding, and Martha’s shouting, and everyone’s yelling, and he hopes that the kids aren’t seeing this.
“Stop that!” Mitch’s voice is loud and commanding, and Wash thinks that she could stop an entire platoon brawling with it. “Martha!”
Wash looks up, blinking, and he sees Donut is helping Jackie hold Martha back. And guilt twists in his stomach again, because he deserves this.
Martha is frozen in their arms, held in place by Mitch’s fury.
Donut looks pale. “Stop it! All of you!” He yells.
“Quiet, Frank,” Mitch says. “Martha, sit down.”
“But—”
“Sit down.” Mitch walks over and crosses her arms. Tucker helps Wash to his feet, but the Reds and Blues are oddly subdued except Donut, who’s shaking with barely contained fury.
Jackie’s eyes aren’t horrified any more. Instead they’re cold. Calculating. She’s in science mode, Wash knows. She’s remembering everything, rolling every moment of his and Donut’s interactions over in her mind, looking for the truth, trying to understand. But she only lets go of Martha when Martha makes for the big arm chair by the door.
“We’ll get out of the way,” Carolina says. “This is a family—”
“You’re family,” Martha snaps. “All of you.” It’s a terrifyingly strong sentiment, coming from Martha. Her eyes haven’t left Wash once.
“You can leave if you want,” Mitch says, softer.
No one leaves. No one moves so much as an inch.
“Was it an accident?” Mitch asks. Starting simple, offering Wash a way out. Wash wants to take it, wants it with every bone in his body.
But he knows that it won’t stand up.
So he forces himself to tell the truth.
“No,” he says, and he stands firm under Mitch’s glare. There’s no point in shrinking. He’s done what he’s done, and all he can do is hope that Tucker’s motel room is still available for him to go to while he tries to figure out where he goes next.
“Was it in the war?” Mitch demands. “Kimball said it was a civil war before it was the pirates, was it that?”
“Mitch, stop this! It’s fine. I’m fine!” Donut says.
Mitch’s mouth is a thin, dangerous line. “If it’s fine, why did you two lie about it?”
“Because we knew you guys would react like this!” Donut’s hands are on his hips, and he was standing as tall as he could, which still gave Mitch a good five inches on him.
“React like what?” Mitch asks.
“Martha punched him!”
“I deserved that, Donut,” Wash says.
“You nearly died,” Martha snaps, leaning forward. “What the fuck David?”
“He didn’t mean to!” Donut says.
Simmons coughs. “Well, he kind of did.” Donut’s head rotates, and he actually glares at Simmons.
Martha looks at Wash the same way she used to look at the people who picked on Jackie before the hallway monitors would have to peel her off them and send her to the principal’s office again.
“He didn’t know who I was!” Donut throws his arms into the air. “I’m the one who got shot here, don’t I get a say in this?”
“No!” Jackie and Martha chorus together. Martha’s getting to her feet.
“Stop it!” Mitch yells, pointing at Martha. “And sit down. No fighting in the house.” She turns to Wash again, and her voice is dangerously calm. “What happened?”
Wash’s voice comes out clipped, just like he was making a report, back in the army. “I’d been given an offer to retrieve the Epsilon unit in exchange for my release from prison—”
“You were in prison?” Mitch raises her hand, stopping Jackie’s outburst. She doesn’t take her eyes off Wash.
Wash wonders how many of Jackie’s theories he’s proving right. He knows she has ideas about what happened to him during the war.
“Keep going.” Mitch says. Her eyes haven’t softened at all.
Wash forces himself to keep speaking, as if he isn’t narrating his own nightmares. “The Meta and I—” Mitch finally cracks at the mention of the Meta, and Wash realizes that Niner must have told her something about Freelancer after all. “—went to Red Base. Simmons, Donut, and Lopez were there.” Wash swallows. “And I shot Lopez.” Martha’s on her feet, and Donut looks like he’s a second from tackling her to stop her from punching Wash again. “And then I shot Donut.”
“Why?” Jackie asks. She’s still cold.
Wash looks right at Donut, who gives him a slight grin and a nod. It doesn’t help.
“They were in the way,” he says.
“What the fuck?” Martha demands. “He was in the way?”
“He didn’t know—” Donut defends him.
“That doesn’t make it better!” Mitch shouts. She looks like she’s an inch away from punching him herself.
Martha moves towards Wash. Donut blocks her.
“They told us you were a hero, you know,” Martha hisses. “Gave us a fucking flag, told us you were doing great things. Saving the world. But no. You were off killing people because they were in your way.”
“Stop that!” Donut yells, and he’s crying, damn it, his baby brother’s crying, and it’s Wash’s fault again. “Martha, quit it!”
“Like hell!” Martha isn’t willing to fight Donut, so she can’t get to Wash.
“Martha!” Mitch says.
“Oh, stop playing fucking peacemaker! You’re as mad at him as I am!” Martha seethes.
“It’s fine, Donut,” Wash says. “She’s right.”
“No, she’s not!” Donut snaps. “You saved us! You helped us! They’re not being fair!”
“Frank,” Jackie says quietly. “You nearly died.”
“But I didn’t!” Donut twirls to face her. “I lived!”
Martha grabs Wash by the arm, her fingers leaving bruises. “Was it worth it?” She demanded. “You fucking shot him and left him to die, so tell me. Was it worth it?”
“Martha!” Donut shoves her back. Why was he defending him? Wash thinks, dizzy. He might have hit his head too hard.
“Answer the fucking question, David!”
“No,” Wash says flatly. “No it wasn’t. I did a lot of terrible things. But I—what I did there—I don’t—I can never—”
“Stop it,” Mitch says. “David, just—” She closes her eyes. “Just tell us. You regret it?”
“Yeah he fucking does!” Tucker finally speaks up. “He has nightmares about this shit!” Wash flinches.
“Wash?” Mitch asks.
“Yes.” Wash says.
Mitch plays with her wedding ring absently, spinning it on her finger. “I think we all need to process this,” she says quietly. “I’m going to make sure the kids are fine. Martha—go clear your head.”
“Fine,” Martha says, and stomps out the front door, heading for her shed. Shadow whines, nudging Wash’s leg, as if sensing something’s wrong.
“Go,” Wash says to her. The dog whines pitifully again, and then follows Mitch towards the shed.
Jackie also goes for the door. “I think—I’ll be back tomorrow,” Jackie says, not looking at Wash. Wash thinks her cheeks are wet. The door closes.
Wash turns around, and Mitch is gone.
“You really got screwed up, didn’t you?” Niner is looking at him with knowing eyes. “They’ll come around, Wash.”
“They’re mad,” Wash says flatly. “They deserve to be.”
“They might have reacted better had you not hidden it from them for years,” Niner pointed out. “Probably not, but still. But they’ll forgive you. They might not be as easy-going as Donut, but they’ll forgive you.”
Wash nods.
Tucker grabs his arm. “Let’s go home,” Tucker says.
Wash let himself be dragged past the kids, who were playing on the large swing set in the backyard—the same swing set that Wash had used to push Donut on when they were kids, while Mitch and Jackie had played on the see-saw, Jackie practicing somersaults in the grass in front of them.
Wash hasn’t thought about that in years. He clings to it, not sure how many happy memories of his sisters he’ll have left after tonight.
Wash dreams of Valhalla.
Gunshots.
Blood.
Pink armor.
“What’s wrong with you?”
A knot of anger in his chest that never goes away, that feeling of betrayal deep in his bones, and he lashes out, they’re in the way, they’re nothing to him.
Pink armor.
Blood.
Gunshots.
He wakes up, and he goes into the living room, where Mitch is waiting.
“Mitch,” he says, standing in the doorway.
“You were screaming Frank’s name,” Mitch still isn’t looking at him.
Wash swallows. “I was?”
Mitch nods. “Martha’s still mad,” she says. “But she’s calmed down.” She finally looks up. “You’re not hurt, right?”
“I’ve had worse,” Wash says.
“Andi’s told me about your worse, David,” Mitch says.
Wash flinches. “How much—”
“Bits and pieces,” Mitch says. “Some she told me before she knew you were my brother. Others she told me to explain a few things.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Wash asks.
“I wanted you to tell me yourself,” Mitch says, looking tired. “I wanted you to trust us.”
Wash looks away. “Mitch—the things I’ve done—’
“Are bad,” Mitch says. “I get it. And… it’s not okay. What you did. But Frank’s forgiven you.”
“He forgives too easily,” Wash says tightly.
“He always did,” Mitch replies. “Remember when he made cookies for that kid you shoved into a mirror? Even though he’d kicked Frank’s ribs so hard they were purple? That’s who he is.”
“Didn’t Martha put stuff in the cookies?” Wash frowns.
“Probably,” Mitch says, smiling thinly. “She holds grudges the best of any of us. Except you of course.”
Wash flinches.
“Look. It’s not okay. But Donut yelled at me for a straight hour about how we didn’t have the right to hold grudges for him. Not with you.” Mitch gets to her feet. And then she pulls him into a hug.
Wash freezes.
He hadn’t expected this. He has a bag packed and ready to go—Tucker doesn’t know about it. He’s been writing his goodbye message in his head.
“Martha won’t stay mad forever,” Mitch says, misunderstandings why he’s freezing up. “And Jackie’s already calling every therapist she knows. She… she thinks it might be good if we all talk to someone. As a family.” She pulls away. “But I think we need to know the whole story David. No more vague answers. No more avoiding it.” Her mouth is a thin, stubborn line, but her eyes are soft again, and Wash nearly melts in relief.
“You need to tell us about what happened at Project Freelancer.”