"You'll be fine, Wash."
York slapped his unarmored back and snaked an arm around Wash's neck to pull him into a headlock. Wash squawked in alarm as York tousled his bleached hair roughly, and his face flushed a bit red in embarrassment.
The nervousness and anxiety that accumulated like a lead weight in his gut over the last few days since he received the vague orders seemed to lessen, at least for the moment, at York's familiar response. It had been weeks since York had last teased him, poking fun at his juvenile habits or slip-ups; Wash never realized how much he missed it, not with everything moving so quickly.
"Hey, York—!" Wash's response was cut off as York pulled him to his chest in something that resembled a hug, but it was too desperate, too tight to be truly comforting.
York tucked his nose into Wash's soft hair, ignoring the scent of sweat and fear that always seemed pungent in the recycled air of the ship, and breathed quietly, "You'll be just fine."
"York." Wash started to say, but then York was pushing him away, a tight smile straining his once easy expression, the dark smudges beneath his eyes seemed to deepen in the harsh lighting.
Washington clenched his hands at his side, masking his anxiety from York. Things were changing so quickly, too fast for Washington to keep track, and too many people changed with it: Connie, Maine, Carolina. Wash was left straggling behind, purposefully left out of the loop as no other agent deemed him worthy of being a confidant. He was always the rookie in their eyes.
Wash forced a grin in response, "Yeah, I'll be fine."
York smiled in response, easy and natural as the shadows fled from his eyes for a moment, a respite before battle, a calm before the storm. The taller man bodily pushed Wash down the hallway of the medical wing, toward the operating room doors, chuckling lightly as he ribbed Wash about something random, skateboarding in the halls at night or a missing rubber ducky.
Delta never flickered by York's shoulder; Wash didn't know if he was silent or offline, either way he was grateful for the moment of normality. A moment of comradeship in the Project that was common before Agent Texas, before the Director started using the Agents as lab rats in an experiment, before everything went to hell.
Carolina was still in a coma, no one knew when she would wake up, no one knew if she would wake up. Wash would find York by her side whenever he swung by to visit no matter the hour, sometimes York would be in sweats and a tee with his hair still dripping from the showers, other times he'd be standing at attention at the foot of her bed, armor singed and dented from missions or practice. The golden gleam of his visor had made his expression inscrutable. Wash had never questioned the man, never even entered the room; it felt too personal, as if he was intruding on something.
Agent Maine refused to speak to Washington, and they were never sent on mission together; no doubt the Director didn't want Washington slowing down the AI enhanced soldier. It'd been a long time since Wash could understand Maine anyway.
Through the whirl of dark thoughts, Washington's good-natured smile never faltered, despite how brittle it was in front of gritted teeth. York didn't notice, just ruffled his hair and called him rookie like always. He was always better at hiding than York.
"I'll be fine."
The last words Wash spoke to his very dear friend was nothing but a bitter lie.
…
Agent Washington closed his eyes.
Epsilon awoke in a dead man's head.
There was no time between the moment Alpha's consciousness fractured into pieces and the moment Epsilon startled to awareness in Agent Washington's implant, the canals of his immature-nervous-hopeful mind.
Washington —DavidEpsilonAlphaLeonard— opened his mouth and screamed.
They remembered everything.
…
Washington did not remember the crash.
The screams, the explosions that rocked the ship, the way he was tossed around the recovery bay and pinned beneath the crush of bent metal that used to be the bed, he didn't remember it. He didn't remember the flash of gratitude toward the Director that he had mandated his agents remain in armor after implantation.
Washington remembered the twins.
The two of them were there, wary and angry, by his side when he awoke —when Wash awoke, the whispers pushed back—. Then, between one breath and the next, they were gone. All of them were gone.
Washington remembered the feeling of his chest and arm being pinned, forcing every breath into an excruciating exercise of control and willpower. His mind was in fragments of shattered emotion and memories, but he was sure —Wash knew— that his team would come for him, York or Maine or North or Carolina —not South, envy and anger, nor Connie, dead and gone— would use the power enhancements of their armor to lift the twisted metal and they would explain what—in the hell happened to my ship.
Time passed and the sirens whined down to a deafening silence. There were no more screams. The red emergency lights continued to flash, circling the remnants of the recovery bay, simultaneously blinding Wash and allowing the darkness to consume him, over and over. His armor shone red in the brief flashes of light, but he couldn't tell if it was wet, too. He was numb.
Time passed, and no one came.
The whispers were growing louder.
Wash turned on his radio—short distance, only between the helmets, not tapped by Command, keep it safe, safe from them, can't let them know I know— and tried to articulate words when he could barely string together two thoughts, when every breath hurt from more than just fractured ribs and caved in chest armor —she was gone, killed in action, I have to get her back, I can try again, I'll get it right this time.
"Maine." Wash gasped the name over the secure frequency, one that all the Freelancers on Alpha team would receive an alert when it was active.
—red flooding on white armor, stark, growls, he always had my back on missions, I had his, but an AI, Agent Carolina would be best suited for, burning ambition, SIGMA, different, not safe, betrayal, stop stop stop, ambition without the restraints of morality is—
"North." Wash croaked out the name after the overwhelming wave of fragments, voices, and cold fear that flooded his rational mind. What happened to him? WHAT DID THEY DO.
—kind, brother, twin, sniper, watcher, protector, always put others first but still competitive, wants to impress, taught me the ins and outs of sniping but I was never as good as him or Wyoming, Agent North Dakota with his relaxed temperament would nurture, naive trust, THETA, the remnants of childish innocence are the first to be—
"York, please." He wanted it to stop, the flashes, the voices, he wanted to be fine.
—joker, lock picker, always one step behind Carolina, always has her back, worried about me, told me I'd be fine, Agent York's bold personality best compliments, objective logic, DELTA, if he broke rules, looked deeper, would have figured it out, what was happening to me, to alpha, I remember, it hurt, why couldn't he just—
"Carolina. I—I need—."
—red pigtails, yard with tall grass backed up to corn fields, big tree, tire swing, tears in her eyes, she sniffed and looked at me, come on, she took my hand and—
"Allison…"
—Stop it. You're going to make me late. They're waiting for me—
Time passed, and someone came. His recovery beacon was activated during the crash and broadcasted his location to Command. It took them five hours to finally show up —using you as bait, waiting for you to die, both failed— and they told him that he would be fine.
—Don't worry. You'll see me again.—
—Don't say— —DON'T SAY—
—I hate goodbyes.—
There was no reply on the radio, but even in his shattered state, Wash could tell the difference between static and the near silent sound of someone breathing.
Wash was lost and no one came to find him.
…
What is your name?
…
"Agent Washington."
No! Don't say a word. Don't tell them. They'll kill you.
Epsilon's voice rang out in a distorted tone as if from a damaged, old recording, that hiccuped and stuttered through the alarming words; Agent Washington shook his head roughly in a vain attempt to banish the phantom.
"How are you feeling?"
There was only one right answer.
"Fine," Washington mumbled even as his hands fisted in his short hair, his own blood and skin trapped beneath his ragged bitten fingernails, "I'm fine."
He wasn't. The deep furrows of new scars and the red of fresh scratches around his implant attested to that. He knew it. The Counsellor knew it.
That day he was certified Article Twelve.
…
What is your name?
"…"
…
He was certified Article Twelve.
Then he was Recovery One.
He never kept track of the time in between. It was all written in his file and the people who wanted to know could fucking figure it out for themselves. He didn't want to know.
There was little time after the crash he believed himself to be Wash. Agent Washington was an agent in Alpha Team of Project Freelance, lead by the Director on the ship the Mother of Invention. Agent Washington's CO was Agent Carolina —red hair, pig tails, watch what I can do daddy, see what Da—, now deceased, and his fellow agents turned rogue or died.
But he was not Agent Washington anymore than he was David; he was certified article twelve. And he was fine.
He thinks he remembers flashes, of screaming and banging on the door. —the corners were soft, the lights were recessed in the ceiling, and everything was whitewhitewhite, safe, from what, where was she, what did they do to her, he had to find her, he had to find Alli—
There were bits and pieces of — my fault, all dead, all killed, my fault, why can't I be better, why can't I save anyone, because of me, never good enough, nonononononono— pain and he would awake to find deep scratches still oozing blood sluggishly on his arms, his neck, anywhere his could reach. As if his subconscious had been trying to rip the skin off his bones to reveal the rot beneath, to release the rivers in his veins and let it sweep away all meaning, all sense of being.
When he was whole, mostly, he tried to ignore the whispers, the voices that began as a trickle, a small leak in the hastily fortified sanity of Wash's mind. But as the hours passed, sometimes days if he was lucky, the leak cracked the dam, and the bloody water, thickened with mud and panic, flooded in as the walls came down.
They gave him pills when he refused to sleep, when he was afraid of the nightmares and memories not his own, frightened of losing himself if he succumbed to the vulnerability of rest. They tied him down when his body thrummed with restless energy, when all he wanted to run and run and run. They tried to help.
Nothing they did stopped the flood.
Nothing stopped the whispers and phantoms that encroached like shadows.
Sometimes, he would awaken to blood on his hands, blood staining the cuffs of his stark white sleeves that familiar deep red, and fragmented images that flashed behind his eyelids and wish he had succeeded. Succeeded in stopping everything, succeeded in losing himself.
He never recalls the other times, just a few rumors he'd overhear from the gossiping orderlies and nurses outside his locked room.
"Did you hear him last night?"
"Who?"
"The patient. He was talking again, making demands and stuff."
"Like what? Same things as before?"
"Yeah, he started asking to speak to some UNSC higher ups, again. But this time he started spouting names and designations and pass codes to prove he was who he said he was."
The man chuckled lightly, as if it was a humorous tale told over a steaming drink in a cafe, not in an empty hallway of a psych ward. "Oh, really?"
The woman laughed, anxiously; her high pitched voice wavering into a titter as she spoke softer. "Yeah, he had a really bad Southern accent and everything, like something out of one of those old westerns." Her voice lowered to a whisper, but he would still hear her voice clearly from his position behind the door, knees tucked to his chest, arms around his shoulders, the flaky blood rubbing off on the white pajamas. Her voice echoed as he shut his eyes.
"I checked those codes this morning, Greg." It came out in a terrified rush.
"What, really? Wait, did you get our systems locked dow—"
"And I got through! I passed through every security check point and password with what he was saying until some woman named Phyllis or something called me the Direc—"
He stopped listening. If someone wanted to know, they could read his file. It knew much more about him than he did, anyway.
He was certified article twelve. Then he was reassigned as Recovery one.
The time in between didn't matter.
…
What is your name?
"I grow tired of your questions."
What is your name?
"I am Dr. Leonard Church, and I demand you release me."
...
