Red vs Blue – Until it is no more
She was alone.
It was okay. She was used to being alone. She'd been alone for the last ten years, since Project Freelancer was torn apart at its seams. There'd been a short disruption to that solitude when she'd picked up Wash and his ragtag group of simulation soldiers in order to retrieve Epsilon. Then she'd dragged them halfway across the planet several times over, and when she and Epsilon were finally on the same wavelength, and after nearly a month of searching finally revealed the Director's location, after all the shit she and they had gone through, they all left. The red simulation soldiers, the blue simulation soldiers, and adopted simulation-fucking-soldier Washington. They abandoned her.
But that was okay too. She was used to being abandoned as well.
Epsilon had stuck with her for a while. But after the way he blew up at the residents of Valhalla, he was more quiet, moody, and guilt-ridden than he was driven, and with his mind more on those whom he called friends than on the eminent confrontation with the man who sired him, she saw little use for him. She forcefully removed him from her suit and implanted him in a new cybernetic body before shipping him back to his base. Besides, she didn't truly need him at that point; she had the Director's coordinates. And she could handle all the dirty work herself.
Despite what Epsilon had been through, all the horrors he'd had to live, he wasn't a soldier. He wasn't an Agent. And she couldn't trust him to see the job all the way through. Because more than anything else, Epsilon wanted answers. Whereas she? She just wanted it all to end.
So there she was, at the end of the road. Just one of the many rundown, wasted-away bases Project Freelancer had erected across the worlds. No different or unique than any of the other scattered dozen-or-so Offsite Storage Facilities, if not for one precious cargo that the structure held within.
The Director.
Epsilon had tracked him down through Command's extensive database to this location, one of the more tropical regions of the planet. The security was laughably incompetent, even as little as there was, more focused on insulting one another than on their surroundings.
They had reminded her very briefly of the simulation soldiers. Perhaps it was for that reason they were still breathing when she entered the building. It was craggly and faded, a sort of weathered feel to it that betrayed its relatively new age, and after following its relatively straightforward path down a set of stairs and through a few hallways, she was stopped by what seemed to be a security guard on watch. She'd asked him politely where exactly the Director was in the building, and after slamming his head repeatedly into a wall (because he 'wasn't gonna tell her' and he 'didn't respond to threats'), she had a location.
She stood in front of the door – large, metal, white tagged 'A' above the frame – at the end of a long hallway. Dim light, uncleared of dirt and mold, flickered along the length. Several pipes were tucked into the ceiling corners carrying air, water, and waste into and out of the facility.
The door was open. White light shone through, obscuring the contents of the room within. She scowled, etching lines deep in her face, and she began to walk forward. Her long strides carried her through the length of the hallway, her armored boots thundering beneath her, rattling the grating spread across the unfinished flooring. The advanced visor of the custom-fitted Rogue-style helmet dimmed slightly as she stepped through the doorway, standard-issue Magnum M6 held low at the ready.
The room was painted a pristine white – which was probably more to blame for the blinding glare than any actual lighting – and was almost hospital-like in its intensity. She was confused for only a moment as to why such a room would be there, because as soon as she fully scanned the room right-to-left, she saw the reason why. A small white bed sat against the right wall. Several monitors sat by the bed. And an old man lay underneath the bed's sheets, halfway sitting up and leaning back against the pillows at the head of the mattress.
His pale face was sharper, bonier than it had been since she'd last seen him so many years ago in the mission room. His hair had more silver than brown. But the steely gaze that lay just underneath a thin frame of wire and two circles of glass was what most separated him from being a simple weak old man, and the Director of Project Freelancer.
"Hello, Amelia," he said without preamble or surprise. However aged he may have appeared, the power that ran undercurrent his southern-tinged drawl was as strong as it ever had been. "May I call you Amelia?" It was not a question, not really; it was the subtlest of orders, and thinly-veiled attempt to assert himself over her and over the inevitable conversation. If she were a weaker woman, a less intelligent woman – if she wasn't who she was, than she may have unknowingly allowed him such a foothold.
But she was Agent goddamn Carolina. "No, you may not," she replied coldly, her voice tinny though the helmet's speakers.
"In that case," the Director said, unperturbed, "it has been a long time since we've last seen each other, Agent Carolina. Death seems to have been suiting you very well."
"You could say that about a lot of people."
"Indeed." His gaze broke from hers dismissively, and he looked at the wall to his left. Carolina followed his gaze and found a multitude of video feeds splayed across a large holographic screen. They broadcasted crystal-clear images of building fronts, hallways, and wide crate-filled warehouses, a good deal of them appearing in disrepair. One feed showed the hallway she'd come down. "I was surprised to see," he continued conversationally, "that you no longer had your team with you when you arrived. I was not expecting you to show up alone."
Carolina bristled and bared her teeth like a lion within the confines of her suit. "Them – they are not my team. I had a team, Director, and those backwater simulation soldiers will never be enough to match them even in memory. Those ones ran with their tails between their legs when the situation got too inconvenient for them, nevermind the stakes."
His steel-grey eyes peered at her, cutting through the shaded protection of her visor with ease and locking with her own. "And what of Agent Washington?" he probed. "He was with you as well, if I am not mistaken."
Her jaw was clenched as she ground out, "He's not an Agent anymore."
"So he abandoned you as well," he observed. "How very interesting."
"Washington left on his own merits, for his own reasons," she countered heatedly. She didn't much like the younger Freelancer, given how annoyingly emotional and sullen he could be, and it was true that she had felt some betrayal when he left with the others – but she did hold some respect for the man. He was a Freelancer who had managed to put his past behind him. Break the cycle of misery and death and move on with his life. Seek out some form of enjoyment with those simulation soldiers, men whom he truthfully seemed to regard as friends. She didn't approve of it, and she didn't like it, but she did respect it. "All of which had nothing to do with you."
"Carolina, I am not so arrogant to believe that I am the cause of every strife and worry of those I employed."
"Don't be so arrogant to act like it wasn't your hand that ruined so many lives," she snapped back. The Director frowned and regarded her for several long, silent moments.
"Choices were made by many, and by many of you. It was not by my hand alone that many from Project Freelancer met their unfortunate circumstances."
"'Unfortunate circumstances'?" Carolina repeated nastily. "Is that what society's upper echelons call 'death'?"
The frown became more pronounced, taking on a more sinister edge. "Agent Carolina, I warn you – I do not take such disrespect well."
"And I – don't – care," she bit out. "I defected from you and everything you represented ten years ago, Director, and was presumed deceased after just three. What the hell can you do to me – Court Martial a dead woman? Kill a dead woman?" Her grip tightened around her Magnum pistol and she lifted it meaningfully. "I don't think so."
He looked back at her weapon not with fear, or even surprise at what its presence meant, but with disapproval. Disdain. "I do not wish to have you killed, Carolina. Nor do I wish for you to me." His eyes rose back to her visor and, when the aqua-armored Agent failed to respond, said, "Is it so surprising that I do not wish harm on you? Despite your temper, you were by and large one of my most valuable operatives. Even now, it would be a waste to simply dispose of you."
Carolina could do little more than stare at him, dumbfounded. The Director was…acknowledging her. Complimenting her, even. She had come to kill him, wipe his filthy existence of the face of the universe, and he was…
Wasn't that what she wanted, all those years ago? Recognition for her triumphs? Praise for all she had accomplished underneath his employment? Wasn't that what she had longed for? Wasn't that why she so hated Agent Texas?
To make it worse, she couldn't even tell for sure if he was being sincere. Honesty had never been a defining trait of the Director, and to simply take him on his word was the action of a fool. Even more a fool was the one who allowed his words to control them.
"Waste implies value," she said bitingly. "Implies that you might miss it if it were gone. And I was gone. The only difference between my death and the others' was that I didn't – and won't ever – die by your hand. You are to blame - for all of it. All of the horrors and death."
"These things that you so casually condemn me for, Agent Carolina, were done for a reason." He sounded agitated. Frustrated. She could see his long fingers curled into fists around his bedsheets. "Perhaps it was not the best way, and perhaps not everything that happened should have happened as it did, but keep this in mind, Agent:
"The end always justifies the means. The war continues to rage around us even now, and each day thousands more fall prey to the vicious battles. I am a practical man, and for one who has been from the beginning attempting to ensure the survival of the human race, it is not even a question to sacrifice the few to save the many. If you came searching for an apology, or an admission of guilt at the actions that I have taken over the years, you will find yourself sorely disappointed. They may not have been the best of decisions, and they may have been looked down upon and damned, but the methods I used were used with only the best of intentions. To develop the AI. To improve our soldiers and our fighting forces. To help us put an end to this long and bloody war." Spent after the long-winded speech, he collapsed back against his pillow taking large, deep breaths. He seemed weak – sick, perhaps.
"So that's your justification," she practically spat at him; she was incensed at his attitude, and at the small sign of weakness he had exhibited. "That's why you created Project Freelancer. But what about later? What about the Agents, when you started having us turn on one another? When Maine began killing all of us, and when Wyoming killed…"
The Director took several more breaths and idly dashed the sweat from his brow. "When Wyoming killed Agent York," he finished, voice even again. "It was regrettable, but some of them were becoming loose ends. They would have destroyed the Project, and destroyed any hope of Humans winning the war. I couldn't have that."
Carolina stared down at the man in the bed. Her jaw was clenched. If they could be seen, her knuckles would have been white from the grip she had on her pistol. It was all she could do not to end him where he lay. "So you had them killed."
"I had them removed from the equation," he corrected dispassionately. As if he said it a different way, it meant something different – made it acceptable.
She shook with rage.
This was not below the Director's notice, and he looked at her with what seemed to be worry. It was well done for such a foreign expression, a small part of her acknowledged, and would have looked genuine on a normal human being. "Is something the matter, Agent?"
She broke.
She covered the distance between the door, where she had been standing, to the side of the bed in four long strides; she stopped and in one smooth motion curled one hand around the thin clothes that clad the Director's pale body and the other lining her Magnum up with his skull. He grunted in discomfort as her movements jostled him, but did not cry out. "You are goddamn right something's the fucking matter," she hissed directly in front of his face. "You are the matter. You made the conscious decision to murder my teammates because you were trying to cover your ass," she spat, jerking him forward with each point and almost cracking his skull against her helmet.
"Carolina-"
"No," she snarled. "Your words don't matter. Your reasons don't matter. I came here to do one thing, and I've let you talk too much as it is." The muzzle of her pistol ground meaningfully into his temple.
"So," he said evenly, "you do not have care for my reasons."
"No."
"So you do not care for the continued existence of the human race? You do not care for the end of this war – the very war you were bred to fight?"
"No. With you gone, there might be more dead. But there'll sure as hell be a lot less tortured by their own kind."
The Director was silent. His jaw was clenched, stretching his pale skin out against sharp bone, and his steel-grey eyes were hard and unforgiving as he looked back at her. "If you kill me, Agent Carolina, you will have become no better than myself. You claim to be sick of me for killing so many, but if you kill me, you'll have guaranteed the deaths of millions."
"I. Don't. Care. Anymore."
"Then if you do not care, Agent Carolina, perhaps you should pull the trigger and damn me – damn me for the death of the one man you-"
He was cut off by the crack of a gunshot. His head jerked back away from her and he slumped to the side, hanging halfway out of the bed. Red blanketed his sheets and painted the corner wall. His voice was silent. His accusing eyes were blank. Brain matter and bone lay intermingled with the blood.
Carolina breathed. Short, halting breaths. Her eyes danced from the wall, the bed, the Director, and her gun. She swallowed. And in jerky movements she dropped the Magnum to the bedsheets.
"Just because I loved York," she said, features and voice still vibrating with rage, "doesn't mean I couldn't kill you for anyone else, too." For Maine. For North Dakota. For Washington. For Epsilon. For Texas. For all of them.
She watched for a few long, silent moments as blood spread and dripped to the white tiled floor. Then, slowly and deliberately, she sat down against the wall, arms loose at her sides for the first time in a long time, her legs splayed out uncaringly like a child.
The floor must have been angled slightly, for the blood pooled oddly, winding across and under the mattress and repooling on the other side – her side. Some of it collected on her right hand, painting the back of her gloves' knuckles and fingers crimson.
On her face, she wore a smile.
Her left hand rose to her helmet and she depressed a small button on the side – her com-link. "Agent Carolina to Command," she said clearly, "Agent Carolina to Command."
"This is Command," a fuzzy female voice answered shortly after. "Freelancer Agent Carolina, you are flagged as deceased, as well as a criminal and a threat."
"I'm not dead anymore," she interrupted. The speaker didn't even pause a beat.
"Then I am required to congratulate you on your recovery. However, you are still flagged as a criminal and a threat," she said. "Please state your coordinates for immediate retrieval."
Carolina almost laughed.
It was over – she'd done what she'd come to do. And now, they wanted her to turn herself in? Lock her up? Not fucking likely.
"Agent Carolina to Command, override code 237. Director Approval 6-B. Password: A-L-L-I-S-O-N."
There was a long silence after that. It was to be expected. The code was used by the Director when he effectively expunged a Freelancer's records from Command's database; when they'd dabbled in too many illegal endeavors that even Command would have to step in soon, the code was used, and any wrongs and all wrongs were wiped from their history. The Red was removed.
Most recently, it had been used for Agent Maine; when he had been out of his mind, attacking his fellow Freelancers when he'd been dubbed the Meta.
Epsilon had told her the code, as well as the following user access authorization and password, when they were still together, before she'd removed him and shipped him home. He'd remembered a lot about his past life in such a short period of time.
She looked up at the body on the bed and her lazy smile grew a little more.
Static flared in her earpiece and the female voice came again, saying, "Override code acknowledged." Silence. Static. "How may we help you, Agent Carolina?"
"I need you to connect me with the Blue Team in Outpost 17, codename Valhalla."
"Acknowledged. Processing." There were several seconds of static. Then – "Request failed. There is no record of a 'blue team' in Outpost 17."
Carolina sighed angrily. "Then connect me to the Red Team, Command."
"Acknowledged," the voice said smoothly. "Processing…confirmed. Request completed – connecting to Red Team, Outpost 17-B."
There were three long, dull beeps before the static finally cleared and a male voice spoke. "Hullo this is Red Base, Minor Junior Private Negative First Class Grif speaking, how may I help you."
She was a little surprised that the slacker of the group even answered the call. She would have expected him to ignore it to his wit's end. "Idiot," she greeted, "go get Wash for me."
There was a pause, and a contemplative hum from the other line, before he spoke up again in a very casual sort of voice, "Who's this?"
"You know damn well who it is," she snapped, "so go – get – Wash."
"Can I take a message?"
"Grif, I swear…" She was fairly certain she understood why the red Sargent so often wanted excuses to physically injure and/or kill his orange subordinate. It was a very tempting idea about now. She didn't need this shit – she'd just killed the Director, fuck you very much, and all she wanted was to talk to the only competent one in the canyon.
"I'm just saying," Grif said a little defensively. "I mean, I'm, like, super comfortable right now. I'm on the couch, I've got my Oreo Diet in full swing, we just got a new TV-"
"Grif!"
"Okay, okay! Jesus, lady, I'm going already. Just-" There was some fumbling on the line, and several grunts. She idly wondered if it was the strain of lifting himself of the couch. "-just let me put some pants on first."
"I so did not need to know that."
"Eh." She could almost hear the shrug that went with it. "Tucker's all the way over on his base, there's a girl on the phone – someone has to be obscene."
"Well, thank you for taking the burden," she said. "Now go get Wash."
Grif gave a short laugh at the blatant sarcasm. "Heard you the first time."
Click.
Elevator music began playing.
She impatiently drummed her fingers against the floor, slicking the tips with blood. She glanced at the video feeds of the bases and storage facilities. She recognized a few of them – the one the Reds and Blues had taken her to. Freelancer Headquarters. Both desolate. She wondered what happened to the Mother of Invention after it had crashed. Had it been repaired? Or turned into a base?
It was another ten minutes before the line finally picked up again.
"This is Private Church," Washington said. "May I ask who's calling? Grif wasn't really forthcoming with a name. And I apologize in advance if he said anything offensive or idiotic."
"He did," Carolina confirmed, "but that's just his nature. And thanks for the apology. Are you stuck being responsible for all of those idiot simulation troopers now, Wash?"
"Carolina?" He sounded surprised.
"Obviously."
A groan. "Shit, give me a minute-" There was a fumbling on the line again, and when he spoke up next, his voice was more distant. "Grif! Grif! Go get Church!"
"You are Church!"
"Don't play that shit with me right now, Red – go get him!"
"Oh, come on," Grif wined loudly. "I was just over there!"
"Then you should have gotten him when you got me!" Washington rebuked. "You knew who the hell called, you should've known to grab us both! Now get going or I'll give Sarge his blueprints for cybernetic killer bats back!"
"Alright, I'm going! Fuck!"
A heavy sigh, the fumbling again, and Washington spoke up, clearer, "Sorry about that."
"It's about what I would have expected," she replied. Washington scoffed. "And it sounds like you're having fun, at least."
"Fun. Yeah. Right. You know, I think it's impossible for you to use the word 'fun' without sounding mocking."
"Well, that's okay – because I was mocking you."
"I got that," he said flatly. "Mind telling me why you called the Red Base when you wanted to talk to me? I'm kind of on the Blue Team, you know. Different side of the canyon."
"Command couldn't connect to 17-A," she explained. "Apparently, they have no record of a 'blue team' at the Valhalla Outpost."
Washington gave a frustrated sigh, and groaned. "Those fucking cockbites. Is that why they started up that monthly shopping schedule?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Oh, just Sarge – should have known something was up. When we got back, he volunteered to order supplies for both teams for the next month, as long as we'd do the same the month after, and so on. He said that 'with our loss' we'd need to 'get our heads on straight' and that he'd take care of the food for the canyon."
"And you fell for that. Honestly, Wash, I think you're slipping," she told him, humor evident in her voice.
"Yeah, don't remind me. He probably had Simmons screw with our profiles while we were grabbing Epsilon; he did take longer than the others to show up. And they apparently did something like that when I was with them at Freelancer Command, so it's not completely out of the question."
"Stop sulking, Wash. Besides, I've got something that should cheer you up."
"Really." He sounded doubtful. Then in a more cognizant tone, he said, "Oh, yeah – why the hell would you be taking a social call in the middle of the mission? I mean, unless you're pinned down and decided to throw us one last goodbye. Would I be right to assume you completed your objective?"
She looked back up to the body. The flow of blood had slowed considerably, but the Director wasn't about to be confused with a living person anymore.
"Well," she said pleasantly, "I'm not pinned down. But he certainly looks dead. Unless you can survive your brain being splattered all over a wall?"
"Well," he said, "I might be able to. I've still got York's Healing Unit armor enhancement, you know. But I don't think most other people could live through that, no."
"Maine might have. He was tough enough."
"Yeah, well, the Meta's currently at the bottom of the frozen sea up in Sidewinder, so I don't think it particularly matters what he 'could have' survived."
Carolina hummed in agreement, but said nothing. Maine seemed to be a rather sore topic for Washington, if the bite in his voice was anything to go by. But truthfully, Maine was a bit of a sore topic for her as well – he had been something of a friend to her. Not in the same capacity or way that York was, but the giant of a man was definitely one of the few she'd counted as a friend. It was why she'd given him her Sigma AI when he'd become permanently silenced. And the way he broke and began killing everyone…well, it had hurt.
"Hey, Carolina?"
"You talk too much, Wash."
"I was just – I mean…" He took a breath, rattling static across the line, and said, "You didn't deny it. One last goodbye, I mean."
The smile had not left her; a pleased, contented little upturn of her pouting lips, almost foreign to those who knew her. "No," she said, "I don't suppose I did."
"…oh."
The amount of emotion he managed to put into that one expression was baffling; there was realization, and surprise, regret, pain – a host of others she wasn't competent enough to recognize. Emotions had never been her strong suit, save for anger. Red hair, hot temper.
As the silence crept on, as Washington digested the fact that in a short time he would be going from second-to-last Freelancer to the very last, she thought. Simple, idle thoughts, nothing more.
How would they take it? How would they act when she was gone? Would they understand why?
Washington's voice brought her back to the world. "It occurs to me that, if we were ever a real team, one who worked together and cared about each other, I'd probably find this news very upsetting." Carolina let out a bitter-sounding chuckle. "I won't pretend I can talk you out of it, but, you know – are you sure?"
She looked down at her hand – smeared in the Director's blood. They'd always been covered in blood, even before she'd joined Project Freelancer. So much blood. So much death.
"I am," she said.
"Okay. Well, uh – okay." There was a pause, and Washington cleared his throat. "Church should be here in a minute. Are you up to talking with him for a few?"
"I suppose I should," she consented.
"Yeah, you should," he affirmed. "Listen, he's been pissed since he got back here in that shuttle. Ranting and raving – you know how he is. Anyway, just – just break it to him gently, if you can. Out of all of us here, he's the one who probably cares about you the most."
"Or at all."
Washington gave a snort of laughter. "Something like that." He sobered up and continued more seriously, "So will you do that for me?"
Carolina sighed and let her head fall back to the wall behind her; she stared up at the bright white lights set into the ceiling. "I suppose I can try. Though subtlety was never really my thing."
"There's no need to be subtle," he replied testily. "This isn't a mission, Carolina. It's about being a human being and breaking bad news gently. Easily. You know, the exact opposite of how you normally operate."
"Flatterer."
"Yeah, well – there's a girl on the line and Tucker's in the other base. Someone has to be." Carolina couldn't help the snorting laugh that escaped her. "Hm? Something funny?"
"No."
"You know, when I was with the Meta, Gamma shared some of his knock-knock jokes. Want to hear-"
"No, no I do not. The very last thing I want to hear are Wyoming and Gamma's terrible jokes." She paused for a second, then after repeating what she had just said to herself, added, "actually, it's not even the very last thing I want to hear – because if we get to the end of this call and you try and tell me a joke, so help me, I will come back as a ghost and shove your head straight up your ass."
"They're actually not bad when you don't have Wyoming in there," he defended halfheartedly. There was some shuffling on the other line, and a loud and angry voice was heard in the background. "Sounds like Church's here. Give me a second, I'll head him off before he comes in shouting." There was a small click, and the elevator music started up again.
It was another few minutes of blankly staring at the ceiling until the line opened back up.
"So he's dead then?" Epsilon – Leonard L. Church – started off immediately.
"Yes," Carolina replied simply.
"Good. Finally." The relief in his voice was almost palpable; she knew the feeling. It was over. "So are you going to be coming back here and chilling with us like Wash or are you wandering off somewhere? Because I'd totally get that if you did, being you and all. And what the fuck is up with Wash, anyway? He was acting weird." There was a pause. "He's still acting weird, actually – Wash, what the fuck are you looking at, man? You're making me nervous. And we've already got Donut for that."
"Church."
"You know, I was pissed the fuck off for a while there," he continued, not hearing her. "Kind of a dick move to rip me out and throw me back here – hurt like a bitch, too – but I guess I can understand why you did it. It wasn't like I was helping much at the time."
"Church."
"But it also meant I had to deal with these idiots that much sooner. You know what I was just doing before Grif came over and told me you'd called? Putting out a fire. On the canyon wall. I don't have any idea how, but Caboose managed to set the rocks on fire, and now I have to deal with that shit. I mean, what the fuck?"
"Church."
"Anyway – yeah, sorry. Did you want to talk about something in particular? Did you need some help or something?"
"No, I'm okay. Sitting in a pool of blood, but-"
"Wait, what? Are you okay?"
"His blood, Church," she explained. "The Director's. Not mine."
"Oh." He let out a relieved-sounding sigh. "That's okay, then. Kind of gross, but whatever. So you're not hurt or anything? Not dying slowly?"
"I'm fine. A little hungry, but I'll manage."
"Tell me about it - I'm always hungry. But I'm a goddamn computer program inside a robot, so it's not like I can just grab a sandwich and chow down. So what's up, then?"
Carolina looked down at the blood on the floor, streaked and blotched from her movements, and at the blood that still stained wet on her armor's hand. She rubbed her fingers together, smearing the crimson across more of the black Kevlar-laced glove. She licked her lips and swallowed. "I was talking with Wash."
"Yeah, I know. And?"
"And I told him I wouldn't be coming back."
"Oh. That's too bad." He sounded disappointed. He didn't sound upset, though, which was good. She didn't want him to break. "Well, like I said – I get it. Don't hold it against you. All that shit. Gonna go for the whole 'lone wolf' thing for a while?"
"No, Church." She hesitated. She wasn't sure how to say this, how to let him know without just blurting it out; how the hell were you supposed to tell someone you're planning to take your own life? "I…I won't be leaving, either."
"So…what? You're just gonna stay in that piece-of-shit run-down base for the rest of your life? I mean, I can understand settling down, but that's some low fucking standards for…" He trailed off abruptly. She could hear him breathing. "…Carolina?"
"Yes, Church?"
"You're not planning on staying there for the rest of your life, are you."
"Well, technically, I would-"
"Fuck that!" Church exploded. "Fuck that, Carolina – you've just killed the big fucking bad guy of your life! You've done it – ended it – gotten rid of the cause of all your grief, my grief, fucking Washington's grief of the past ten years! The – the guy who caused your friends to get murdered, who caused York to get murdered – you've managed to do the first good thing for Project Freelancer since it fucking began, and after this, you just wanna die? Give up? No. No – fuck that. Wash, do you believe this horseshit she's – what the fuck're you shaking your head for?!"
"Church," Carolina attempted.
"No, Carolina," he ground out. "You've lived through over ten years of absolute shit for this moment, to feel this free, and-"
"And maybe that's how I want it to end," she said loudly, cutting him off and flipping the argument. "Maybe I want to live my last minutes feeling like this, when I feel that free. Maybe I want to die peacefully, for the first time in my life, and do it on my own damn terms. Maybe I want the ability to make the last decision that matters now that I don't follow anyone's orders."
"Carolina, you-"
"No, you don't get it, Church," she pressed. "This is not a discussion. This was not a last cry for help. I am not some little girl wishing that someone would save me from this dark and depressing fucking void that is my life. This is my decision that I made a long fucking time ago, and even if you could somehow magically get here in time to stop me, I'd stuff you in a hard drive and do it anyway. And somehow, I don't think it's something you're going to want to see firsthand."
Church, for his part, was silent. He was silent for a while, and she could only imagine what he was thinking about. Agent Texas, perhaps. It was several minutes of low static before he spoke again. His voice was low, chastised, resigned.
"You don't have to do that, Carolina," he said weakly.
She shook her head. "Yes, Church, I do. I really do. With the Director dead…" Her hand curled into a fist. Blood dripped from her palm. "…there's only the Counselor left. And he was a toady; he wasn't part of it, not like the Director was. He can be helped, still. Things can start being rebuilt."
"But you can do that too, you can help-"
"No, I can't. I can't – Church, I don't build things up, okay? I don't create things." She opened her hand and stared down at the blood and swallowed. "I take things down. I destroy them. I'm not the sort of person who can help you with that.
"You can do it, though. You've got all the brilliance of the Director without his worst traits, without his pride and arrogance. And Wash can help you." She paused and took a few deep relaxing breaths. "There weren't many good Freelancers in the Project; I wasn't. Maine wasn't. South wasn't, and even Texas wasn't, not really. But North was. York was. And Washington was." She looked up at the corpse of Leonard Church, hanging awkwardly over the other side of the bed. "They were soldiers, sure, and they were Freelancers just like the rest of us – but they weren't killers. Not those three. Not like the rest of us. And you can trust Wash now. He trusts you guys enough."
Silence.
Then – "So there's no chance of talking you out of it. Not the slightest chance of you not…" He trailed off.
"None. Like you said, Church – the big bad guy is dead. Now there's only me left. The last murdering psychotic piece of shit of Project Freelancer." She returned her gaze to the ceiling – white and pristine – and the smile returned to her lips. "But thank you for trying, Church. Really."
"Yeah," he said, loudly and abruptly. "Yeah. No, no problem. I mean, old friend wants to fucking kill herself, sounds good to me. See you around and all that shit. Here, Wash," he finished as sharply as he started, voice hard and bitter as he yanked the receiver from his ear and, in a dull crackle of static and background noise, handed it off to his teammate.
She could hear Washington's breath on the line, but it was a minute before he spoke; something crashed in the background, and several inventive swearwords were heard as Church's voice faded as he walked away.
"You know," Washington said finally, solemn, "he's going to take this pretty hard."
"I heard."
"Don't suppose you care enough about the kid to reconsider?"
"No," Carolina said. "And technically he's older than you."
"He's an AI that's been 'alive' a grand total of ten years. I think I got him beat by two decades."
"He's an AI created from the Director of Project Freelancer, who was old enough to be your father. I think he's got about two decades on you."
"Whatever. But seriously, he's probably going to be in a rut because of this for a good while. It's not going to be a lot of fun for me."
"Oh, chin up, Wash. You're not a rookie drinking all your food through your helmet's liquid port anymore. You're a big boy, you'll be fine. And make sure you do something with your life. Don't just waste it in some box canyon in the middle of nowhere. I understand the need to relax and settle, but you can do more than that. I told Church to start making things better – told him you'd help him out."
"I'm offended that you chose to speak for me like that."
"Shut up, Wash," she said with a laugh. "Seriously, it'll work out. It'll be good for you, you know? Make something good have come out of Project Freelancer."
"Oh, I don't know," he hemmed and hawwed. "I can't promise you anything. It's actually kind of nice here, once you get used to the raging insanity."
"Wash."
"Yeah, yeah." He sighed. "Look – I can't give you a salute or any sort of send-off gesture over the coms, but if you wanted, I could get the guys together for a proper sort of send-off a little bit later. I was thinking a six-gun salute with the reds and the blues."
"Six? Weren't there more of you?"
"Yeah, but…well, Doc's a pacifist; he refuses to even hold a gun. And Donut's gone off on vacation, I don't know where." There was a pause. "And Grif would be on top of the hill, right in our line of fire."
"Wow," she said, amused, "Sarge must like you."
"More than the others, yeah. Except when I beat him and his team almost single-handedly – then he likes Church better."
"Make it a five-gun salute and throw Tucker on the hill, too."
A laugh. "What happened – he hit on you too many times?"
"Way too many."
Another laugh. "Fair enough," he said, chuckling. "I suppose we'll have a celebration or a funeral or something as well. Just for an excuse to have cake. And I guess after that, I'll see if I can't start calling in favors. As it stands, I'm dead right now. Can't change much or start rebuilding the reputation of Freelancers if I'm dead."
"You'd be surprised at what a dead man can accomplish."
"No, I wouldn't. And a dead man can't do anything worthwhile if he's sticking to legalities, which I plan to do from now on. Think I had enough of breaking federal and federation laws in my lifetime; think I'll walk the straight and narrow from here on out."
That was good. Become a good person, do good things. He might be able to make up for the things he did – the things they all did.
"And Carolina?" he asked, breaking her thoughts.
"Hm?"
"Thanks," he said awkwardly. "For calling before you went through with it."
"Yeah, well…everyone wants to be remembered, you know."
"Yeah." His voice was soft. "Say 'hi' to the guys for me, will you? I don't plan on seeing them for a while."
"I'll do that." Carolina closed her eyes and smiled for them, one last time. "Goodbye, David."
"Goodbye, Amelia."
Click.
Static.
And silence.
The smile lingered on her lips, even as her jaw began to tremble. She swallowed thickly and blinked rapidly – but she wasn't going to cry. She was Agent goddamn Carolina, and Carolina did not cry. She had no reason to cry.
She lifted both hands up to her helmet and depressed the latches on either side; there was a hiss of escaped oxygen and with a popping noise it detached from her armor, and she tossed it to the side. She breathed in deeply, the smell of iron-tinged oxygen inflating her lungs and coating her tongue.
She wished she could feel the wind on her face. She wished she could smell the sea. But if all she could smell was recycled oxygen mixed with the metallic taint of the Director's blood – well, that would do just fine for her last moments. That'd do just fine.
She thumbed the latches on her chest plate, and the armor swung open revealing a small compartment. A small screen was set into the metal next to a square keypad.
Every Freelancer-issued suit was equipped with explosives built into the armor. In the event of a fallen Agent, a comrade would have two options: strip them and take the armor back to Freelancer Command for processing, or activate the detonation sequence and destroy the armor – and the body within. With the armor being as cumbersome as it was, the latter option was usually the one taken. Washington had done it to dozens of them when Maine had been on his rampage, including North and York.
She licked her lips, tasted the blood in the air, and punched in the corresponding keys.
A number flashed on the screen.
00:20
Not much time to have second thoughts. Not much time to do anything.
00:18
That was okay, though. She had nothing left to do.
00:16
She'd finished it. She'd avenged her teammates. Gotten revenge.
00:14
She hoped Church and Wash would listen to what she said. They could do good, those two. Especially if they ditched the morons.
00:12
And she hoped they'd be happy to see her. She'd missed York – she'd missed them all.
00:10
She closed her eyes one last time, and waited for the end.
The clock counted down.
00:05
'and my agency, as it always has,
00:04
will continue to deal with what is.
00:03
00:02
00:01
Until it is no more.'