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As Simmons waits for the medic to arrive, he stares at the backs of the Meta and Agent Washington, not really seeing them, still reeling from the way the gray-armored agent had so casually shot Lopez and Donut.
Lopez, he could understand; Lopez was a robot, and robots didn't die so much as get damaged, and damage could be repaired. Lopez would be fine as soon as Sarge returned and pieced him back together.
Donut though...
Simmons pushes the image of darker red seeping over lighter red into the deepest, darkest reaches of his mind to analyze later (with later meaning “at a point forever in the future”, which in layman's terms meant “never”).
Instead, he analyzes Agent Washington’s actions, past and present, searching for the trigger to the change in the Freelancer’s demeanor. Simmons thought they'd been friends. Washington had gone along with Sarge's whims, demoting Grif, helping them out against the Meta, and now he was working with the white-armored behemoth and nothing made sense.
Simmons finds himself wondering what happened at Freelancer Command after Washington activated the EMP, and he speculates that maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with how neither Washington nor Church made it to the rendezvous (and Simmons tries not to speculate on how they never went back for either of them, even if Church was a Blue, or if leaving them behind had something to do with Washington’s cold fury).
Simmons is too scared to ask. He doesn't think Washington would answer anyway, and he wonders if the Freelancer will shoot him too once he's outlived his usefulness.
(Probably, a large part of his mind points out. Maybe not, a smaller part posits. You were the only person he knew in the canyon, and he didn't shoot you.)
Simmons knows he can't count on surviving this. Not with the Meta around. The Meta, he knows for certain, will have no qualms about killing him for even the slightest misstep, and so Simmons sits there, staring unseeingly at the yellow-on-gray and orange-on-white armors of his captors, and tries not to cry. Instead, he focuses on breathing as slowly and shallowly as possible, trying to exist without movement or making a sound.
It works for a little while (all of ten minutes, thirty-eight seconds) until the Meta growls something and stamps. Simmons jumps and flinches as the Meta rounds on him, giant gun-knife raised to bisect him, and Simmons knows this is it, this is the end of the line for him, and he never even told Grif that he—
“Meta, no.”
Washington’s voice cuts through the silence in the canyon like a frozen scalpel, all sharp edges and the promise of pain, and the Meta draws back, snarling, to round on the agent.
Washington doesn't flinch.
“Go patrol the canyon if you can't stand waiting.”
The Meta rumbles something that sounds like a question.
“Kill them.”
The Meta snorts, apparently appeased, and ambles away.
Simmons shudders and slowly exhales the breath he didn’t realise he’d held, starting up the breathing exercises to keep his anxiety from overwhelming him. He remembers breathing in time with Donut as they counted together. Donut who was like a little sister, only not terrifying to talk to because he wasn't a girl-girl (though Simmons couldn't shake the feeling that by phrasing it that way, Donut would get on his case about it being grossly heteronormative and pretty offensive for certain minorities—not that Donut is offended because he understands that it's really hard to unlearn all the internalized phobias we unconsciously learn just by living in a heteronormative society, and also that Simmons is still learning the pertinent vocabulary to discuss these things respectfully—right before giving Simmons a whole library of recommended reading on the topic... except he won't this time because Donut is dead, and Simmons should really stop thinking about him in present tense).
He can’t stop thinking about Donut who was always happy to make new friends and who’d thought that Agent Washington character was so cool and wondered if the Freelancer would be willing to share some secret agent tips and tricks. Donut, who was looking forward to meeting that “super secretive secret agent Agent Washington” and hoping for some tips on one-upping his one-liners. Donut, who had been shot for no reason Simmons could see aside from simply being there.
But there had to have been a reason. Agent Washington always had a reason. And before he could think better of it, Simmons asks, “Why did you shoot Donut?”
The gray-armored agent does not move, and Simmons is wondering if Washington is ignoring him or if he even heard, if he should try asking again a bit louder, when the Freelancer replies, his tone flat and disinterested, “He was in the way.”
Simmons is flabbergasted. “He didn't mean to be,” he says before his sense of self-preservation can catch up to his mouth. “He would've gotten out of the way if you'd just asked!”
“And I've had enough of asking,” Washington replies, and Simmons knows he isn’t imagining the anger barely concealed by the levelness of the agent’s tone, and it pisses Simmons off.
“So, what?! You're just going to go around shooting people that get in your way?!”
Washington moves for the first time in hours, only enough to look over his shoulder at where Simmons sits against the cliff wall, one eye still watching the canyon. “Yes,” he states, the reply as bland as if Simmons had asked him about the weather.
“What...?! What... what’s wrong with you?!”
Washington tilts his visor and looks at Simmons for a long moment, and Simmons thinks he's about to answer when the Meta reappears and growls something unintelligible. But Washington understands it, and his rifle is up and pointing at Simmons in the time it takes Simmons to blink.
“The medic is here. Get moving.”
“Where?”
“Back to the body.”
Simmons’ only rebellion is to mutter under his breath, “You mean Donut.”
“You mean his corpse,” Washington replies, and Simmons hates him for it.