A/N Hi! FictionalIdiot here bringing you the sequel to Fall from Grace, Dusty Helmets. This prologue is the writing equivalent to an establishing shot. There's still plenty more on the way! I really hope you guys enjoy. I also hope CS doesn't kill me for uploading this without her EXPRESSED permission but, eh, can't have em all.

Prologue

Simmons didn't wake up.

Wash's hand on his shoulder didn't help, and the vaguely reassuring lies from Carolina about how she'd seen weaker men than Simmons pull through worse than this were lost on him. All he could see, all day, every day, was the gentle tick, tick, tick of the pacesetter they used to monitor the cyborgs heartbeat, and the weirdly purple dish soap on his middle right knuckle. Even on the rarity when he wasn't in the room (falling asleep at Simmons' side and waking up in his own room- courtesy of Caboose), he could hear the off-beat low noise that so often seemed like a countdown, hitting zero at any second.

"And we're sure Aloe Vera won't work?" he asked one day.

"Yes, we're sure," Tucker sighed from next to him. "Just as we're sure CPR and milk doesn't work. In fact, we're just as sure as we were five minutes ago, and when we actually tried Aloe Vera."

Grif winced, once again suddenly remembering that no, he wasn't the only one anxious about Simmons here. Tucker, Wash and Carolina were probably the most stressed out of them all, and he remembered, again, that he was doing nothing but nope whilst the other three tried desperately for ways to bring him out of unconsciousness. Again, he vowed to do more, think more, try something to help, but again he realised that he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to leave.

He cursed himself, almost cursed Simmons, before realising what he was doing and cursed Epsilon instead. Damn him, damn him, damn him to whatever hell there was. All Grif could do was hope AI could feel pain.

Perhaps even half of what he was feeling now.

[...]

Caboose was alone. Again.

Church… killed Church. If he could be bothered to, he'd be so confused- but if he looked up, he'd see the module Simmons made and if he saw the module he'd remember everything that happened and he didn't want to remember, he wanted to go back to last week and never come here again. He wanted Church to go, the mean Church who hurt Simmons, but he wanted him to stay, the want for company refusing to let him be in the cold of the night.

He buried his head into his pillow, refusing to let the tightness in his chest escape, before his determination flickered, and the sadness, again, filled his life with a presence that wasn't… quite… there…

He didn't care if Washingtub heard and pushed the door open, attempting to speak with him. He didn't care if Tucker came too, if he talked to Caboose. And if they tried to shake him, their voices becoming louder and louder, then all he'd do was bury himself further away. Because if Church was gone, again, what was there to do?

[...]

Every night Wash would awake him from his sleep, calming him with soft words and understanding gazes and gentle hands that combed through his hair. And Tucker would let himself be held, grasping onto the warmth the ex-freelancer provided as if it would slip through his fingers like sand- and who was to say it wouldn't? Church was taken from Caboose, their only hope of getting him back being Simmons, who was in no position to salvage the torn remains of Church himself, being in a coma and all that.

Wash's platinum hair glinted in the light from the synthetic moon, his grey-blue eyes meeting Tucker's with nothing but a tense sadness and stress lying within the storm. His insides screwed up (like he did everyday) and he looked away, knowing that these nightmares weren't helping- the exact opposite, in fact. The ex-Freelancer needed his sleep, rushing around to make sure the base was fortified, taking care of Caboose and Grif and… himself. Wash's usually warm coppery lemony scent was a salty sort of sweet from stress, and tracing the scars that adorned his arms with a finger, Tucker couldn't help but notice how drawn they seemed, how the lines framing his storm-cloud eyes were more pronounced. Because of him.

A familiar pair of warm, muscled, scarred arms wrapped themselves around his middle, and he leaned back out of habit, accepting the comfort wordlessly.

[...]

Sarge was the only one with medical training who hadn't turned traitor (dirtbag). He'd had to deal with bullet wounds and healing unit failure occasionally but he couldn't do it. Fixing… saving Simmons wasn't possible to him. Luckily, with the life of his second in command on the line, he'd called in a favour from people who were very indebted to them.

A familiar chirpy, female voice piped up from behind the red ex-CO. "It's good to finally arrive here! I've heard so much about this place! I love it! It's so… so…" The happy-go-lucky tone and cheerful exterior threw their entire situation into sharp relief. Grey should know, which her smarts and psychoanalysis and fancy majigery that this is not a good day to fall into depression.

Grey seemed to realise that. The smartest woman on Chorus knelt down next to Sarge. It was one of her rare, more serious moments. "I'm sorry for what's happened. Really. I can't imagine what your going through. All the people I saw die… I had no real relation. I learned to distance myself. To see someone you know so well like this… I don't need psychoanalysis to know you must be dying inside. It helps, but it's all too obvious you're not in the mood to have me poking around in your brain at the moment. I'll need him in a minute, but you have your time. Goodbye for now sir."

As the mad woman left the room, Sarge realised how… how senseless he'd been. "I think it's time I changed, Simmons."

[...]

Simmons was asleep. Fully aware of everything around him and forced to remain… in this state. In a state of unconscious mental shutdown, a version of Simmons, a subroutine usually relegated to system maintenance would sit and record. It was a failsafe program and recently, it had been upgraded so the AI was controlled by Simmons. He'd been here, stuck inside an empty black void for most of the past week.

Right now, he watched Sarge sit over his semi-human body. Grif was in bed- Caboose had moved him there, Simmons heard it happen every day. If he could move he'd chuckle. But he couldn't.

"It's good to finally arrive here!" Sarge had called in Dr. Grey from Chorus. He couldn't fix Simmons himself, so he practically wasted the time of the smartest woman on Chorus to save Simmons' life. Sarge did that, braved conversation with a girl for him. He was cared about. He was loved.

It was all he'd ever wanted.

Plus there was the added bonus of Grif confessing to Simmons while he slept, a thousand times over. He already had a thousand quips he could use but he knew the first thing he'd do when he woke up. Hug Grif. Sarge was sombre. Dr. Grey had a very depressing talk about how sad everyone was and Sarge sat there in complete contemplation. "I think it's time I changed, Simmons."

What? "I've been so… so… senseless and cruel recently. But I've had a change of heart. I know you can hear me and on any other day I'd be yelling for you to get off your lazy ass and start telling us everything that happened in there… but today… just for today… I'll let you have this one. Get some rest kiddo. We know you're fighting the good fight, so we'll send in reinforcements."

He practically glowed with pride- kiddo. He had a family- Sarge finally saw him as the son to him Simmons dreamed of being. Maintenance- the subroutine AI- glanced up in questioning, but he waved it down. Now was a time to simply relish in the fact that he was loved. It was a warm feeling, embracing him like a golden blanket.

"Dr. Grey! I'm ready. Take him, but know if you don't bring him back in time for tomorrow morning… Kimball won't blame me in introducing your face to the dangerous end of my shotgun. Got that?"

"I won't let you down sir."

Simmons chuckled in his mind. "Hey. That's my line."

A/N 2: CS- FI's right. Many mistakes were made, and much surgery was done. What we ended up with (after I re-upload this edited version) is a Frankenstein of a fic.

Seriously, FI. Paragraphs are a thing.

Please review and follow if you want to see more! Thanks!