There was very little blood from South, you see.
It was quite disappointing. After all the pain she'd caused, all the people she'd betrayed, all the minds she had tipped over the edge… just a tiny, quick spurt of blood from the back of the helmet hardly seemed fair. Her helmet, yes, must have caught most of it –you don't get shot in the head and just bleed a tiny bit, that would be silly. Head wounds are supposed to bleed a lot, right?
She also took a long, long time to fall properly.
Her knees buckled almost instantly and she wasn't standing up right, but it had taken her head such a long time to hit the ground. Her knees had buckled, her grip on her weapon loosened and her posture was less rigid… why was there such a time difference between the bang and the thump? Had armour lock started already, making what should have been fluid and uncontrolled movements stiff like the joints on the limbs of an old doll? Or was the mind quick to process what was happening, slowing down time and allowing the eyes to absorb every minute detail?
No one witnessed the light leaving her eyes.
That was always supposed to happen. When someone died, their loved one would cradle them in their arms and watch as the light left their eyes. Maybe because South didn't have any loved ones left, having murdered, betrayed and abandoned everyone who had ever cared for her, it was only fitting that her bright, cold eyes going dull was hidden from the world behind an emotionless visor. But you see, anyone who had already seen this happen knew exactly what to expect, and it wasn't hard to create an image with a good imagination.
Wash felt the irrational urge to laugh.
To laugh and laugh and laugh and scream at her horrible corpse, throw everything she had ever said to him, every hint that she might have loved him, every rejection, every tender touch and vicious punch right back into her bloody, lifeless face. To yell and accuse and demand answers, answers to all the questions he'd been asking himself since she left him that night, not a goodbye and not even bothering with an excuse.
The idiots surrounding him talked.
Wash allowed himself to run on autopilot, shrug off an accusation of madness or two and explain who South was in the most dispassionate terms he could manage. Delta observed him coolly, but in the end, none of their opinions mattered. Not right now, not when it was over, when she could stop haunting his mind with maybes and what could have beens that were irrelevant because they never were and never could be.
Finally, he just needed some more closure.
"Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go blow up this dead body."
A/N: Hello friends, have some crazy Wash. I think this is going a bit far, even for me but… well, I kind of like it. I think this may or may not be the final part of the 'Just Memories' series which started with Afterdark. Thanks for reading, constructive criticism is always welcomed.
