Chapter Text
B-322 used to have a name. Wilbur, it remembers. It can vaguely recall someone, a little one, perhaps, calling it out as it ran in grass much softer than it’s felt in years.
B-323 had a name as well. Tommy. It remembers saying the word for the first time. It remembers a lot of things about ‘3. Remembers holding it. Remembers playing with it. Remembers gentle hands, someone larger, perhaps a superior, teaching ‘2 how to feed it.
Remembers desperately trying to figure it out once its instructor was gone.
Luckily, ‘3 is big enough to feed itself. It is still little, still stupid, and still unable to go on missions that are more important than a level D. But it’s getting bigger. Perhaps one day ‘2 won’t have to take care of it. It’s not sure how it feels about that.
“‘2,” the echoey not-quite-voice sounds in its head. “You aren’t eating your rations.”
‘2 snaps out of its reflection, giving an affectionate nod to the little one. Since when did ‘3 start taking care of it instead of the other way around? It will have to work on staying focused. It swallows a squirt of nutritional gel. It thinks it remembers a different type of gel before, although it might just be making things up now.
“I have a mission today,” ‘3 reports, words sparkling with pride.
“What mission?” ‘2 sends back, relieved and concerned in equal measure. Nothing good ever comes to birds who don’t go on missions, but nothing good sometimes comes to those who do.
“Equipment check in sector HH.”
‘2 is satisfied with that answer. Sector HH is on the outskirts of their land, but it’s so swampy barely anyone ever comes to challenge it. The only reason they’re able to check it routinely is because they have birds who can simply fly over the tricky mud.
“You will behave?”
“Yes, B-322.”
‘2 sends back its feeling of humour. ‘3 doesn’t have to use its full number since nobody else can hear them, but it appreciates it nonetheless. At least if the little one miraculously regains the ability to speak, it will know what to say. They’d probably kill it anyway, though.
‘2 arrives back at camp two days later. It went on a more dangerous mission than ‘3 did, and its squad ended up stranded in enemy territory. It is expecting some form of punishment, perhaps whipping or burning? It hopes nobody touches its wings again. That one always feels the worst.
Nobody approaches the failed squad, though. All of the superiors are arguing with one another very loudly. ‘2 isn’t supposed to listen, isn’t supposed to understand anything other than its direct orders. But it would like to know if it has to wait for punishment or if it can get some much-needed sleep right away.
“They’re all gone–”
“–just a couple squads–”
“–a message–”
“–squad B6-7 can’t fend for themselves, we might as well let them–”
‘3’s in squad B6. Has something happened to the little one?
‘2 ignores all protocol and approaches its superiors. They’re all too caught up in their discussion to notice the wayward weapon breaking form.
There is a man who can’t be much older than it, but he is a superior, so it doesn’t particularly matter. He has dark blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, about the same colour as ‘3’s but much longer than the weapons are allowed to have theirs. Everyone looks at him when he starts talking, so ‘2 does as well.
“Why worry so much? We’ve got plenty of older birds who are far more useful, as well as younger ones to take their place. Let’s just terminate the squads and be done with it.”
“Sir, that’s over 100 weapons–”
“Weapons that are in the wrong hands. You’ve seen what these things are capable of. If we don’t act now, we risk the enemy hijacking them, and then we’re in a much worse position than 100 birds down.”
Terminate. They want to terminate B-323. Because the enemy has it. But they can’t terminate ‘3. ‘3 is… well, ‘2 isn’t quite sure what ‘3 is anymore, but it knows it’s something special.
The superiors are reaching a hesitant agreement. ‘2 has to act now before it’s too late. It claps its hands together, a sound too loud in the bustling room. All eyes go to it, some with curiosity, some with disgust, others with boredom.
It holds its palms together in front of it, a forbidden gesture to give a superior. It is asking for a mission. Birds sometimes ask each other this way, but the superiors know what they’re doing. It is no weapon’s place to question their judgment.
But it’s B-323.
And somehow B-323 is impossibly important to B-322.