Hand on his shoulder, a heavy weight at the join between plates of ablative armor.
Maine turns to look. Wonders why Wash flinches back, then remembers his new helmet. His blank, forbidding, gold-faced helmet. Shrugs apologetically.
Agent Washington has just survived his fourth mission with Alpha team, which puts him firmly in the category of "Actual Human Being." Maine is aware that this is not a healthy basis for interpersonal interaction, but Maine is also aware that friendly conversations that inevitably end in [SIGNAL LOST] and a pile of assorted body parts are also, perhaps, not a productive avenue.
"Just heading to the mess to grab a snack," Wash says. He's bouncing a little on his toes; the ship must have received a fresh supply of fruit. "Thought I'd see if you're game."
Maine stares. Limited supply of Wash's favorite food that's likely to be gone in minutes, and he still walked three decks out of his way to track down Maine first. Anything to be gained? Assumption that Maine would even notice the gesture is unlikely; no ulterior motive there. Maine cocks his head to one side, remembers South calling Wash, not altogether fondly, a "duckling". He's unfamiliar with the animal, but the implication is that he has a tendency to follow rather than lead. To look for someone to follow. Maine shifts his weight; there's a type of loneliness there that's not altogether unfamiliar.
The dam of Wash's pent-up energy finally bursts, and he says, "I didn't mean to stump you with that one. There anybody home in that fishbowl?"
Maine shrugs again, fine, and starts walking. Wash falls into step beside him, gnawing absently on a thumbnail through his glove.
Four missions. Actual Human Being.
Agent Washington is unflappable, until he isn't. Maine has seen him shrug off insults, innuendo, and hails of bullets with a professional mien, but he's also seen him get caught up on the most trivial things, watched him believe word-for-word the most unlikely stories with a wide-eyed panic. The incongruity delights everyone with a penchant for teasing, especially Carolina and York, whom Wash has variously branded as "completely, irredeemably terrible", "definitely the worst ever", and, on one sleep-deprived occasion, "two of the best friends I've ever had."
It's surprisingly rare, in fact, that Wash's moments of panic are actually justified, and when it does happen there's often a bit of an awkward pause as everyone realizes that they should maybe stop laughing and start worrying.
That transition comes when, in the middle of a spirited rant on an open comm channel on the theme of "why are there so many cars trying to kill me?", Wash grunts once, says, "ohhh no," and goes silent.
Carolina, sitting next to Maine in a dropship jumpseat waiting for extraction, leans forward and presses a hand to the side of her helmet. "Wash? Agent Washington, respond."
Maine stills the nervous tapping of his foot against the deckplates, listens to the echo of distant gunfire in the signal. It's still an open channel. He counts backward, slowly, carefully, comes up with a total of twenty-three missions. Undeniable actual-human-being territory.
"Dammit," Carolina says. "Anyone got eyes on?"
"Negative," North says, his voice strained. "Nothing from the high ground."
"No joy," says Connie. "Trackers paint that sector swarming with Innies. I'll go out on a limb here and say our precious secrecy may have been compromised."
Maine sees Carolina's shoulders tense at Connie's flippant tone, which is of course a smokescreen for real worry. Knows Carolina knows it, knows she's frustrated anyway. "Okay," Carolina says. "Still picking up life signs on biocomm, but pulse is high and BP is falling." She's quiet and still for a moment, then nudges Maine with her arm. "Okay."
Maine pulls off his restraints and stands with a sigh, rolling his shoulders. He was done for the day, ready to clock out. Ankles hurting like hell; he'll have to tell the medics about the pain caused by the new force mods. Should've done it sooner, but the solution will probably involve more surgery to replace the outdated skeletal reinforcements. More needles. He grimaces, balances on the balls of his feet, and grabs a handful of shotgun shells on his way from the Pelican down to the ground. He opens textcomm, sends, if you're being melodramatic, decides the threat doesn't need any more specificity, and starts running toward the signal of Wash's armor, lit up on his HUD.
This week, the Innie stronghold of choice is a warren of overgrown caves in a tropical forest, and the hot stench of decaying vegetation permeates through the fresh tear in his helmet. The biofoam smeared liberally on the glancing wound in his neck, exposed to the open air as he jogs, cuts a little jolt of pain through the oncoming haze of his exhaustion. Twenty-six hours on this planet, all of them spent in the coiled anxiety of stealth while the others gathered info. He's taken out six significant targets today, all of them in various states of indignity. Two of them while they were taking a piss.
And now alarms are sounding and one agent is unaccounted for. At least it's less boring. He's not exactly optimized for stealth missions.
"ETAs?" Carolina says, over the comms.
"Two to LZ," Connie says.
North exhales heavily. "Just pulling up at the front door now. Think I lost the welcome wagon."
"Agent Maine, time to target?"
Maine comes across the first Innie patrol, takes one down with a shotgun blast to the chest, and clubs the other so hard with the butt of the gun that he can actually hear the man's neck break. "One minute," he grunts, and steps over the bodies.
"Keep this channel open, Maine," Carolina says. "No unnecessary risks."
There's a note of implied rebuke there, a vaguely insulting suggestion that Maine would disobey a direct order, but he shrugs it off once he matches her tone to his memory of the Director's voice. Nothing personal. She's concerned. Twenty-three missions.
He makes contact almost immediately, twists away from a burst of rifle fire to find cover behind a thick hardwood tree. The force mods only partially compensate for the immense inertia of nine hundred pounds of battle armor torquing at an impossible speed. Something goes wrong in his left ankle; he feels the pain bite through to the bone. Finds the second step less painful as his suit's medical suite delivers painkillers. Hears, over the open comms, Carolina's breathing catch briefly at whatever she's seeing in his vitals.
Night-vision has been useless lately, now that the Innies have armor that masks their body heat, but they haven't realized yet that Freelancer has managed to crack the spectral signature of their armor plating. The portable trackers haven't been updated with the new IFF, but the prototype has been built into their armor. Maine activates the subroutine that'll send out a series of pulses of radiation, then switches to receiver mode for the echoes; the pulses will light him up on even the simplest sensors, but his position isn't exactly a secret at this point. He waits a moment for the spectral analysis to return and paint, in his HUD, the exact positions of the five Innies firing at his cover.
One grenade, heavy in his hands; to be safe, he tosses it in the opposite direction of Wash's tracker, even though it only catches two of the five Innies on that trajectory. Before the frag has exploded, before it's touched the ground, he's already moving on the opposite vector, grunting as his force mods compensate for the negative momentum imparted by the rounds bleeding away his shields. Just as a warning tone starts sounding shrilly in his ear, just as his shields are failing, he reaches the first Innie.
The Innie's standing still, startled by the armored behemoth crashing through the hail of bullets. Maine doesn't waste ammo, just loops his shotgun over the soldier's head and jerks it back against her throat, simultaneously killing her and positioning her body as an added shield against the renewed fire. A second passes, and his shields begin to recharge; he fires twice and takes the left arm clean off the Innie to one side, then blasts the final enemy in his center of mass and lets his human shield drop. Behind him, the grenade explodes.
"Report," says Carolina.
Five enemies, four down, one incapped, soon dead. "Here," Maine says, and picks his way over the bodies to where a huddle of armor is slumped against the moss-covered roots of a tree. Wash is half-curled on his side.
Maine crouches next to him, inhales sharply at the pain in his ruined ankle, pulls Wash's IPAK free and rolls him roughly onto his back on the spongy leaf litter. Two entry wounds just under the chestpiece of his armor. No exits. Presses the biofoam injector as deeply into each wound as he can, then stands, slings Wash up and into a fireman's carry. "Coming home," he says.
Wash doesn't wake up on the flight back to the Mother of Invention, and after the first twenty minutes Maine catches himself drifting into sleep, only jolting awake as his head lolls too far to the side. The third time it happens, Carolina, still sitting next to him, presses her shoulder against his. "You good?"
He shrugs. His ankle hurts. He's dizzy, nauseated by the painkillers. Stares across the Pelican's bay to distract himself. Wash is propped up in a jumpseat, the restraints holding him loose-limbed in place between North and Connie. Carolina has been broadcasting his biocomms to everyone's HUD, weak blips and steadily dropping numbers. Twenty-three missions.
By the time they dock, Maine is having trouble keeping his eyes open, and he makes no attempt to stand. He misses the medics pulling Wash's body from the ship, doesn't consciously acknowledge them until one is crouched in front of him with a scanner. Makes a sound like a snarl in the back of his throat just to see them flinch.
Carolina is at his side. "Maine," she says, "you with me? You've got a compound fracture. Several compound fractures. Your ankle's a mess. You've been bleeding into your boot this whole time. They're going to prep you for surgery. I know you don't like..." She pauses, seems to reconsider. He appreciates the thought. Carolina of all people knows that some weaknesses shouldn't be spoken aloud. "Would you like them to sedate you right away?"
Maine grits his teeth, presses back against the headrest of the jumpseat. Breathes. Nods.
When he wakes up, it happens all at once, nerves alight, breathing harshly in the darkness of the medbay. His left foot is so completely numb that he has to twitch the blankets up to make sure it's still there, wrapped in gauze. He feels a pull, an itch on the back of his hand. Tries not to look at the IV, at the needle.
"Yup. All your bits are still there."
Maine blinks at the weak voice, waits for his enhanced vision to push through the darkness enough to make out the figure slumped in a chair beside his bed. Even in the dimness, Wash looks gaunt and haggard, his arms crossed over his chest like he's warding off a chill. Maine feels the pull, again, of the IV in his hand. Doesn't look. Doesn't... glances over once, briefly. Hears his heart rate spike at the sight of the needle.
"Hey," says Wash.
Maine looks away from the needle. "Hey," he says. Heart rate slows.
"Hey." Wash straightens up to point at something on the table next to Maine; the effort seems to cost him enormously, because he slumps forward again with a groan. "I kept York from stealing your Jello," he says, in a strained tone of voice.
Maine stares at him, sees the bright flash of Wash's teeth in the darkness. Reaches out, tentatively, and pulls the Jello cup down to rest it on his chest. He doesn't have a spoon. "Thanks."
"Yeah," Wash says, still hunched over. "So I guess that means you're forever in my debt. It's practically like I saved your life or something. Don't worry, I'm sure you'll make it up to me somehow, someday."
Maine snorts, peels the top off his Jello, and scoops it out with one finger. Blue flavor. Nice. He listens to the soft sounds of Wash pushing himself carefully out of his chair, moving cautiously to the bed on the other side of the room. Waits until he can hear Wash's breathing even out in sleep.
Twenty-three missions. Actual Human Being.
There's an itch like a needle at the base of his neck, in the small of his back, in the clench of his fists. Soft words, careful but not conniving, not deceptive, not manipulative. Maine knows the difference.
The voice, when it comes, is not altogether Sigma's alone. Never has been. Delta flows into York's synapses, Theta picks at North's shredding patience, Gamma builds walls to keep Wyoming in, to keep everyone else out. Omega tries to tear into Tex, can't get a grip, can't find purchase.
But Sigma talks, and Maine understands. The voice is theirs. Always has been.
There are inevitabilities. End it quickly, take life fast. Be brutal when necessary to prevent brutality later on. There is an understanding: they will suffer. They will all suffer, through no fault of their own, and only he can end that suffering. The unfairness rankles until he peels away that part of himself. That's about when the headaches start.
Wash comes to see him once in the medbay during a migraine. He's cautious, untrusting. Doesn't like Sigma. Maine isn't sure how to explain that distrusting Sigma is no longer a single-body problem.
"So I'm up for implantation soon," Wash says. He doesn't sound unflappable. He doesn't sound panicked. He's nervous, awkward. Maine looks at him, remembers the weakness in one rib, souvenir of his twenty-third mission. It wouldn't take much to snap it there, to ensure that the broken bone penetrated the heart. He wouldn't suffer. "I, uh. I brought you Jello," Wash says, holding out the container.
Maine takes it. Smirks. Says, "Owe you one."
Wash is staring at Maine's fishbowl helmet, quiet. Contemplative. Make it quick. Be brutal now to prevent brutality later.
A medic walks in, says, "I have a painkiller injection for you, Agent Maine. Should help with the headaches. You'll feel a pinch."
Maine looks away from Wash, makes himself watch the needle. Counts backwards, slowly and carefully.
One hundred and nineteen missions.