A/N: This originally came from a very old LJ prompt languishing in a folder somewhere. 'Live on your toes, love on your knees, die on your feet'.
However, like most of the things I write, York and Carolina decided to have a mind of their own and this was the result.
I wrote this while half dizzy from fever, so if any of you little flamees are making excuses on how your work can't be presentable due to '-insert ridiculous excuse here-' y'all can go try those excuses on someone who will believe them.
Inching along the wall, reaching the corner and darting through an alleyway, Delta being his source of direction as York skidded past the enemy and to some semblance of safety. That sweet but all too brief high of success- he was far beyond being a ragged street kid, but even though the stakes were higher and the name conveniently changed from "lock pick and thief" to "infiltration specialist" he still felt the childish thrill of his first success layered upon the years of missions in the military that had lead him to Project Freelancer in the first place.
And the adrenaline he got from it wasn't half bad, either.
It was Delta's voice in the back of his mind that kept him from going too far, allowing his pride to get the better of him and his normally leveled head. Of course, D could only go so far, and it was quick thinking on his AI's part that had kept him alive in many a situation.
Unfortunately, not enough- instinctively he reached to the left side of his face to trace the worn, rippled scar despite the fact that he was wearing his helmet, his thoughts turning blacker and more bitter by the second.
They had challenged him to beat them, and he had lost, cursed with the constant reminder of that loss day in and day out. Even though others couldn't see it when he wore his helmet, he always knew it was there. It was a curse, a bad omen, for not long afterwards…
Bullet casings on the floor, shards of glass.
Cutting into his bare feet, smeared prints of blood wherever he walked.
Holding her close, feeling the last faint beats of her heart.
Breathing shallow, the last flickering, wicked gleam of the AI as her armor shut down.
Lunging for nothing but air, fury past any sort of rational thought.
Raw screams, howling until he could barely speak.
"You did this to her!"
"I'm Ilana," she said, her eyes focused on the floor rather than him, "Ilana Duarte."
"Agent Carolina was a liability to us, to the program as a whole. Make sure that no one finds the evidence."
Standing on the tips of her toes to give him a kiss; with a laugh her pulled her into his arms and carried her to bed.
Hair scattered across the floor, her eyes red and feverish in frenzy.
"What are you doing?"
She barely registered his presence, the scissors close to her scalp.
"Making them go away. Get out of my head."
"But they're not in your head. Your helmet is gone, 'Lina."
"They're never gone, York. They'll never leave, don't you see that?"
"Do you have any regrets, York?" She sat up; disrupting the sheets that half covered her body.
"No," he said, pulling her closer to him, "Otherwise I wouldn't have ended up here with you."
