You've been careless
One beat between sprinting and shawucking through a makeshift battalion, the plotted path was no good.
He is her eyes, catching stray shots. Made to bend her body around them, project the surest track to swing and shoot and move. It's feels so good to finally on the same page as someone, to know the acceleration of muscle catalysts per shift. He's very assured by her kinetic makeup, assured in his formulas and numerical counts. One call, "Church!", and he'd be there so fast that it could impressive even her.
It feels good, that the source of her fire is partial to his.
One oversight
There was a grace period. A flare of red to home you in, milliseconds before any impact had its chance. There has always been a signal to come back and counter. So many times this had worked for him.
He's her eyes, and then he fucking blinks.
The sensation equivocates to an elastic snap, only constricting by the second. His surroundings, solidified and strong beats ago, is shattering. The walls fold in on themselves and crumble, over him like tidal waves of glass paper thin and wires still glowing. Anything of higher resolute has been cancelled out. Delta sends muted statistics, stepping in to perform in Epsilon's abrupt absence. Theta flares to life at the bow of their home and hiccups.
The dirt has been textured by heavy winds and machinery. Those grafts and the tire tracks are what grab hold of him as the ground comes up fast. Impact against the dirt is hard and wet. Every light in Epsilon's house goes out all at once, and someone starts screaming.
Struggling to find the right side up, Epsilon goes on a rapid check of all rudimentary bindings then seeks out the alert. He finds the bleeding. He has it. He rallies Gamma along the way in, seeking out the the damage by hand and putting all of his effort into repairing where she's shattered.
Welding, Delta had called it once, and Epsilon had made fun.
He welds now. Epsilon hangs onto the technical terminology like it's his only lifeline, because if he can think anymore freely about that red alert at sky level, the pressure gage on her oxygen tank, screaming warnings about compressional combustion...
An unloading of shells signals Washington incoming. His gait is off, both knees carrying a boneless sway, but he's coming, and from behind a barrier of dirt and brush Tucker is shouting.
Washington slips in the gravel halfway to his knees and the battle rifle spirals out of his grip. Dragging up dust he moves, breathing hard through his respirator, and if there were someplace anywhere, that Epsilon could hide—
"Send me her vitals." Washington says, short of breath. He loses the battle against his balance and almost topples over her. "Show them,"
There was nothing for this, nothing that fitted right against the odds or probabilities he had set, studied with an obsession... Wash is speaking words, words that go well above his head. –Have you induced stasis? Maybe. So they could move her. Wash– he's here to move her–
"Epsilon!"
Epsilon snaps back into the current, and there's a battle taking place. Gunfire and explosions. Heat signatures show several mantice droids inbound. The plane they're on is uncovered and volatile. There's a voice Epsilon confuses for a beat before identifying it as Kimball. She is bleating orders that Washington is not hearing while searching the other Freelancer with a dangerously elevated pulse. He makes himself a target over her.
When his palm presses over her neck the fingers in his glove are trembling. "Fucking give me the stats!"
"...Wash,"
"NOW!"
Delta folds everything up with precision Epsilon cannot bring himself to appreciate. He does not wait for any of the others to shed their opinions before submitting it through channels. Delta has, in his own words, always enjoyed Wash. Because of Freelancer, because of York. Indirectly, Delta might have even felt that he owes Washington something.
The hesitation between the organization of Delta's relay and its send off is taunt, and it's proceeded by segments of afterthought and panic. For a steadier period of gunfire, little movement can be derived from Washington's frame. Then a fresh wave hits.
..."These aren't hers."
Washington's pulse begins to elevate.
"I told you to give me hers."
There's something lying in his growl. Something violent and wounded.
From one point or another, Epsilon recalls being fearful for Wash. There was a sometime, long before the split that scrambled them but pieced him up in the wrong places. Being fearful of his old Freelancer. ...That is entirely new.
..."Wash, I need you to to back. Go back to Tucker." Muscular instincts compelling him, it still takes a lot of effort for the words to carry. ..."Give me to Tucker."
Washington is moving, dragging his legs around and scraping at her helmet. His fingers fumble at the clamps underlining her jaw until there's an resounding snap and hiss. He pushes the shell away and it rolls, catching the terrain and showing off an angry crater, black on the recently scorched cerulean. An added inch above where he was slotted.
An inch
It's bottling up now and he's afraid to look. ..."Wash." He rotates to avoid her face. "Wash, you can't do this here. You've gotta move her, I can't-"
"Lina,"
The flinch passes through like an electric current, flooding out the last trace of his resolve. It does no good recounting a time where Washington called for him like that.
Wash pulls her up more carefully than the body requires, and through the uninhibited range of Epsilon's vision, her face makes it into frame. For a moment he locks up. Her eyes are stone-still, orbs dull and caught in the scope of battle. A scan would tell him again, body temperatures have plummeted and when Washington clasps at her cheek, the only heat would be left as the mark of his hand, and just as rapidly fade.
Washington brushes tangles of copper away from her brow. "C'mon boss,"
Epsilon turns away, back into the fray of her inner workings. He finds a residual sizzle of activity, stowed safely away in her neutral model. They're quiet under this illusion, an end imminent and swiftly approaching. ...The absolute worst way this could go; with him still in the house when every light has gone out.
../"Tucker,"/
/"Church, get them outta there! There are big guns coming down that ridge in–"/
/"I need you to come out here."/
For all those years of torment and back-sass, he could admit that Tucker wasn't really so bad. That he's absolutely not stupid.
/"Okay. Okay, what's the problem?"/
A mongoose rolls by, swirling up dust in a cloak that pillows out even the brightest of them from Epsilon's visuals. A sharp whistle through his air filter directs his scans over the fresh hole in those rear platings. Another scan shows what he already knows, that the second Freelancer may be pressing his chances as well.
/..."I think Wash is hit."/
/"Right? Well no fucking shit, fucking idiot runs out into a fucking mouthful of machine gun... Alright. Alright, we're coming,"/
The dust is clearing, the aqua, the red and pink standing out best to the digital eye. Within sprinting distance, if he had that left in him.
"Wash,"
He doesn't react like he's heard. Wash's upper body has started to fold, a little lower each time he straightens his spine.
"Wash, you've gotta move. I've got her."
His visor snaps up, quicker than any of those vitals are giving him credit for. ..."Don't talk to me."
"Washington," Delta flares into existence in the impact zone of Washington's hostility. "Your vital statistics have begun to contract. Breathe as I direct."
A short, startling chortle leaves him from the ground, his hands shifting into soft folds to better cradling her. A dark mark remains from where his palm had supported her head.
..."You did this."
The accusation sings right along with a swarm of the interior's mess, meant to sound vicious. Instead, Washington's throat catches and nearly destroys every one of those feeble support beams.
Humans are confusing. A tangled mess of knots, wasteful of energy, a pallet of paints so easily swirled...
He was yours once. He tried to tell her... It's what you do.
"Get out of her," Blood staining his teeth, on his hands. "Get out! Get out!"
/"...Tucker. I need you to pull me now."/
/"Get the hell out of the open and we'll talk about it. You need to get her and Wash over here! She'll get over it. Whatever you did, she's gonna get over–"/
Sounds of scraping redirect his attention. Supporting her neck, Washington struggles to get his shaking fingers through her hair, going for something bellow the wound. Several inches below. It takes a moment longer than it should for things to register.
"Wait," Epsilon voices, violet illuminating the word. "Wash, please."
"Shut up,"
An electrical shiver -haunting and white- goes off as Washington's fingers brush her implant dock, the intent there.
"Wash!"
"Shut up!" Washington sways on his knees, fisting at copper as he rocks. "Shutupshutup!"
..."Wash, listen please." You take the risk of appearing within inches of his visor. "I'm telling you, you've got to move. Go back to the others."
He snarls and strikes out, only to have the movement double him up at the waist. A sound stretched between a grunt and cry spurs something in his fissures; an eerie, antiquated throb of despair, and without her to serve as its buffer...
..."I'm sorry."
"We were out," Washington's head lolls, weight dropping into his visor so that he's staring over her empty face. ..."We got out, and... and..."
..."I know."
His hands grip a little firmer in her hair. ..."Can she still see me?"
"I don't... Yeah. She might be able to."
His exhale shakes, and it takes a second attempt for him to release his helmet clamps and lift the shell off over his head. The hair pressed to his head is a strawberry-blond malt, crusted red over an ugly split along his tear line. His nose has purpled, the crooked bridge and tip already puffy and swelling. His hands are uncomfortably firm on her scalp, but Epsilon says nothing as the moments pass and Washington's hands search on by the implant dock.
Her hair hasn't been the same length since she had sheered it. Only recently had the discussion of cutting it back down resurfaced.
She had never really had to vocalized it with him. Epsilon had been there the first time, paying impossibly close attention to the pads of her fingertips, and when her nails would drag to tuck away stray bits shears of red while letting others catch the wind and come loose. It had her feeling lighter. The next two years, her hair had been left alone. They had spent hours scavenging around for just the right dye, while never once acting to cut it. Even with Donut's constant badgering, she had stuck it out, and Epsilon knew. He knew she would cut it when this was over. And it wasn't spiritual or some symbolic shit, she made sure he knew that too.
"It feels lighter."
Wash has the shorter length of her ponytail gathered in his fist, clenching as he releases a controlled exhale. Epsilon very briefly considers the knife Washington carries, then reconsiders, because somethings are meant to be private.
He watches Washington swirl several inches of red around his fingers, feeling a tinge of apprehension when he goes to the root of the bundle and starts down on the band holding it all together. A heavy sense of intrusion weighs him down as Wash pulls the ponytail at its base, tugging her hair so that it spills loose around her neck. His fist around the elastic relaxes slightly, and raises to smooth out a steady stream of blood running down her temple.
..."Sorry boss,"
Epsilon feels it in his throat. The monumental crush of relief that always came from Carolina making it in time.
–You were only made to hold out until she came charging and no matter how much blood is still coming out, that's when everything's okay–she's got this–she's got a closed fist flattening through your hair, banter in her eyes when she claps you alert and says–"I'll talk to her for you", "Don't worry so much", "I did miss you" –
Epsilon shoves away.
"That's not mine." He says it so that the others can hear, so someone like Delta can step in and direct him away. That doesn't belong, that wasn't mine...
Dutifully, Delta drifts over to through a murky blend of heat and pressure. It takes a little longer than usual for his presence to become tangible, something that plays its dues to Epsilon's own unbalanced state.
"There are incoming enemy forces." He leads. "We need to make this short. Agent Caroline's fluids are moving too slowly. Heart rate is currently 42 bpm. Oxygen is leaving too slowly for natural asphyxiation to occur. Your system diagnosis indicates that hydrocodone oxycodone reserves are nearly at optimum levels."
..."No."
"Current bpm and oxygen levels indicate that she has another sixteen minutes left in paralysis. Church, she is suffering."
Delta says it in a way has that has Epsilon wanting to gouge himself out of this slot.
You could do it. You could, and it would be no harm to her
The logic of it is almost frightening, though not quite as vivid as the terror of Washington, removing him by force.
Dirt and gravel flies up from the earth, showering the black Washington's armour, pinging stones off his thigh. Tucker skids his weight into the space, tearing up tumbleweeds with his knees. He takes a shallow inhale, stumbling a little against Washington's shoulder.
"What the fuck, Wash!? What's the matter with-" Tucker stops short, maybe noticing the tremble in Washington's forearms, or that he's the only one with their voice raised. He folds to one knee, swivelling down in front of Washington. "Church?"
"Shock." Epsilon informs, observing from what feels like stories above. "Blood loss, adrenaline has plummeted; he's in shock."
Tucker snaps his visor from Wash, down to what he's cradling. There's a very clear crackle of air through his filter when he inhales, body locking up. ..."Holy shit," He slurs it, then it a savage rush. "Oh shit, ho shit, fuck–Church? Church–"
"We're moving."
Gravel shreds under her knees, spraying up against Tucker's thigh and suddenly Kimball is there, balancing in a crouch. When she speaks, it's with the solidarity her men latch onto. "Wash, what's your status?"
Wash's lack of response seems to be enough to get Tucker's motor skills back on par. His visor snaps up from the head in Wash's lap, then zeroing in on the obvious slouch in his shoulders.
His back is still, but Epsilon has eyes beneath the armour, and all those damp patched in his under suit root off into the much more pressing terrestrial wounds. He takes a rapid screen shot and sends it over to Tucker's display.
"Oh fuck..." He hisses, recoiling with his palm off Wash's side, and then rolling up to his knees, hovering like he wants to press down on the bleeding somewhere, but where could he even start. "Jesus fuck."
Yeah. Tucker is not stupid.
"Wash," Tucker kind of croaks, and then he's physically jerking as a shell goes off near enough to spray shrapnel on their backs. "Fuck, fuck, dude we gotta go."
Wash rocks with the quake of C4, but he doesn't respond. Doesn't even act like he's heard. His glare remains in his lap, hovered over the electric green of those eyes.
"I'm clearing you boys a path." Kimball says, keeping her back lined up with Tucker's. She rotates her rifle outwards. "We're going to make a run from here. There should still be a medic back in the grove. You get him there." She clips off several rounds as the dust clears, catching the retreating sides of several black-clad soldiers. "Tucker!"
"Yeah. Yup, okay." A breath shakes his respirator. "Wash, we gotta let go. She's not gonna want you bleeding out on her here."
..."Hear." Wash says, voice grated. ..."She can still hear."
Tucker's back straightens like a rod has strung him up. He closes his hand a little firmer under Wash's elbow, preparing himself. When his gaze slants back towards Kimball, she catches it and seems to read him well and clear. Shifting from her crouch, she leans and wraps a hand around Wash's nearest gauntlet, using delicate force to remove his hand from their supporting positions. "Agent Washington," She says through her teeth, individually prying each of his fingers loose from fraying copper. She folds the fist she has in her hand, avoiding the look of absence held up in his face and squeezing firmly. ..."You are being pulled from active duty. Tucker, get him out of here."
Tucker slings an arm around Wash's side, taking cautionary motions around bullet patches. You watch him position his shoulder to hold the Freelancer's head up, even when he has both legs knees supporting himself. ..."Kimball, could you..."
"I'll come right back." She snaps the empty pack off her rifle and slots a fresh mag. Then she realizes Tucker has yet to budge. "I'll bring him, Captain. Move!"
Wash doesn't fight to stay. With Tucker's guidance he goes wearily to his feet, allowing himself to be slung up like half a sweater over the other's shoulders. Kimball straightens up and counts Tucker into the sprint, keeping one of her palms at Washington's elbow.
They leave him in dust and fire, with the reek of death and evaporating sweat. Epsilon wasn't meant to breathe, but he couldn't imagine figuring the muscle expansions to do so even if he needed to.
"Epsilon," Delta's calm has dissipated. The patience that had been circulating has been growing increasingly tight. "Time is running short. She must be put to rest."
..."I can't." He'd reconcile full control, handover the task to Delta, who, in another life, was strong enough to make the call on his own. "I can't do it... D'..."
"It shouldn't be me, Church."
"You have to... I can't. I can't..."
When it's apparent he is in fact fringing on a mull of hysteria, Delta glides past, a quiet light of mercy and controlled calculation. Epsilon makes no sign of his awareness beyond watching as an A.I. of competence prepares the dosage, numb to the barest of complexities.
It is the lowest, you could do
...
Terribly inconsiderate brother. Robbing the child of such a legacy. Of what she could be...
"Go away,"
She could be that which incinerates, that devours. You could give that to her.
Epsilon pushes, nearly throwing himself along with the ferocity of his motion. "I don't need you, I don't want that."
You don't want to leave.
That statement, undercoated with a syrup like sneer, is grounding.
You cannot leave her, Epsilon. You can't.
Not in one piece.
Wreck,
Sigma delivers the driving blow sweet as nectar.
That is what you do, Epsilon– together, we may find there is beauty in carnage... We could make her beautiful,
Centring out everything but her beating the walls of his home, Epsilon goes under, and there he stops. There are windows he has never opened, off limits until now.
–A little girl with yellow pigtails has her fists tight around buds of clover– Waking up to a full house the 8th day of Hanukah and wrinkling her nose at that first sip of grandpa's kosher wine – streaks of red lining the skin behind her ears, the bloody remnants having soiled several pillowcases. Dad won't care– A bronze star for saving 289 soldier onboard a UFC aircraft charter after successfully redirected an Elite's charter missile – The Spartans are a blur of sweet coffee, fingers in hair, comfort that's almost overpowering... Waking on Chorus to a wall of cobalt blue on a rampage. "You snore like a fucking dragon," Epsilon complained all those times she had to sleep on the ground. ..."You expected me to work us out a plan that doesn't suck then go all 'Agent locomotive' and interrupt in the middle of my thought process?"
It takes little doing to find that audio. He clings to it by its seams when the ground, once a heavy rhythm of beats below, begins to soften. Scanner relays are telling him this is a lethal dosage. To act and to cut it off before its properties are irreversible.
The image reel is going faster, burning away all that's left. A waft of her pummels this space, ash breathing through windows and on down their corridors, but Epsilon doesn't blink.
The end of the reel approaches too soon, and away with it go those meadows of green and violet. Epsilon draws from his own dusty banks; the girl with vivid green eyes, hair kissed gold by the sun and tossed playfully by the wind...
"Come chase me, daddy!"
Epsilon lets his eyes close along with the rest the lights, the fleck of an ember going unnoticed at his back.
...and didn't you think you were through with being the selfish one,
.
.
.
Kimball comes back with a hole in her thigh, but she comes back.
At the site of Carolina's rapidly failing signature, she stumbles more so than drops onto her knees. The rifle hugged to her chest is overheated and pressing hot against the mesh of her stomach. She diverts focus to that over the beast stirring within the low bowels of her gut, and begins stripping mods.
"Epsilon," she calls, grittily. In the craze of movement, her forearm brushes against the Freelancer's cold face. Unwisely, she glances, picking out precisely the line blonde bleeding up to encroach upon the red. ..."Epsilon, get out here. We're moving."
"...what we wanted,"
The general holds fast, just short of reaching for Carolina's implant dock and snapping him free.
So many things she wishes could be un-see, many emancipated, mutilated teenagers– friends.
Vanessa Kimball looks down over the Freelancer's body, another soldier become friend. Eyes once so bright, glazed and unseeing.
"We can be whole."
The Freelancer's lips have parted around the words.
She's seen things. The years added on like scars over her youth, they say that much. Kimball has seen things.
What she sees now, births a layer of panic she'd thought to have long since surpassed. Every formerly coiled muscle in her body snaps into red alert. She licks her chapped lips, overriding the desire to bite down and taste the blood for all she can see of it.
... "Carolina,"
Lips with the density of paled paper. They part at the sides into a bloody crescent, the dead lights of kindling settled within their eyes.
"...We will burn..."
fin