This is true:
On his official file within the Project Freelancer database, David [REDACTED], codenamed Agent Washington is listed as having four sisters, all younger than him.
This is also true:
Agent Washington actually has three sisters and a brother, although he wasn't aware of it, because the message informing him about this development arrived the day after he walked into the office of one Aiden Price.
This is true:
Aiden Price asked Agent Washington to recount the story of an incident with a childhood bully in the bathroom. David had shoved the bully into the mirror, even though it had been years since the bullying had ceased.
The Counselor observed that this seemed to indicate that David had a tendency to hold a grudge.
David didn't tell Price that the bully had taken up picking on his youngest sibling.
This is the lie:
Franklin Delano [REDACTED] and his sisters receive a message from the UNSC.
It tells them that David's ship was shot down in the middle of the war, and that David is MIA.
The message is phrased so that they know not to expect David home again, but also not to expect a body home to bury.
The message says their brother is a hero.
They buy a grave anyway, and have a memorial service. Some people tell them that they shouldn't give up hope, but Franklin and his sisters know better. Even in Iowa, they know how bad the war is, know how even UNSC armor can't protect a body in the vacuum of space forever.
Months go by, and Franklin turns eighteen.
He signs up for the army that day.
The registering officer marks his name down as Franklin Delano Donut, since Donut decides that the family last name was boring, and he wants something more interesting.
There is a small flag in his file, alerting Aiden Price that Agent Washington's sibling is in the war. Price takes note, sets the computers to make sure that the two never meet, and then goes back to his business. It seems easy enough, especially when Private Donut gets assigned to Blood Gulch.
Those same computers will be fried by Agent Washington in his assault on the Freelancer Compound years later, deleting those alerts.
Not that Malcolm Hargrove would have listened to them anyway, but they might have helped.
But Franklin, from here-on-out known as Donut, doesn't know all this when he signs his name on the dotted line.
All he knows is this:
He's going to be a space marine like his brother.
He's going to be a hero.
This is true:
Agent Washington has a knot of anger in his chest, and he's never learned to pick it loose.
When he is a kid, it's large and it's raw. He is tired of bullies, he's tired of his sisters coming home with bruises, he's tired of small towns and nothing happening, and he pushes a boy's face into a mirror, and the knot only seems to grow and grow.
He joins the army and then there's Freelancer, and for a while things seem to be alright. There's Connie and Maine and Carolina and York. In the early days even the twins don't fight as much, and Wyoming's comments are funny instead of obnoxious and he thinks he's fighting the war for the right reasons. He skates down the hallways and laughs with his friends and for a while, he can pretend that knot doesn't exist.
And then Epsilon.
Epsilon is all of his neurons firing at once, Epsilon is a thousand memories being dumped into his head at one time, pushing aside all the things that make him him in favor of all the things that make Leonard Church (AlphaDirectorEpsilonAlliosonTexBetaALLISON) and he's drowning in memories that aren't his, can't be his, he hasn't died, Tex hasn't died, Epsilon screams in his head and there's pain and there's confusion, and then…
And then there's nothing but snow and a mountainside and no one comes for him.
The knot coils all the tighter in his stomach.
He works for Freelancer still, because where else can he go? Epsilon has shown him all the secrets; he knows that his family think he's dead, that the rare communications he's been receiving from them for years are generated by FILSS and the Counselor to keep him in line, and maybe, he thinks, maybe it's for the best. He's not the boy who left with bruised knuckles and a smile for his sisters.
He's a soldier with a mind that's been fractured into a thousand pieces, and the cracks filled in with the memories of a fragment of an echo of a broken man.
He shows his anger openly, lets the Counselor see it, although he doesn't admit its causes, and he lets them use him, lets them think they know him, and he doesn't realize that, despite his secrets, they understand him until South shoots him in the back and he hears the words Recovery Two.
He hates them even more, but he keeps lying, keeps pretending. He plans revenge—on South now, as well as the Director and the Counselor and everyone else within Freelancer whose names and faces he knows—and he sleeps fitfully, dreaming of a life that was never his more often than he dreams of his own family.
He hates the Director even more for that.
This is true: By the time Agent Washington arrives in Valhalla with a hollowed out version of Maine at his back, he doesn't remember a time when he wasn't angry.
He remembers Simmons—he doesn't know the other two. A man in pink armor and a brown robot.
He shoots them both, and ignores Simmons' cries. He doesn't stop to think about it—the human is a Sim Trooper, they're a dime a dozen. The robot… it's a robot. And not even a true AI like the Alpha.
This is a lie: He doesn't lose sleep over them.
Wash yells, "Freckles, shake!" And the world falls apart.
He wakes up, and the world is upside down. The Blues are gone (TuckerCabooseTuckerCabooseTuckerCaboose), Grif and Simmons as well. He's with Sarge and Lopez and Donut now, and he feels like he's drowning.
The others are prisoners of the Resistance. Wash punches walls and bags full of sand until his knuckles bleed and he doesn't talk to the others much.
Doctor Grey mentions his implants and he flinches away. Locus says they're alike, that they're soldiers. Wash dreams about shooting Donut and he throws up because Donut brings him food from the cafeteria when he misses meals because he was in the training room and Donut makes awkward comments and translates Lopez's Spanish in such a way that Wash knows it's wrong, but he shot him anyways.
They don't acknowledge it; not really, it just hangs over them in a way that makes it hard for Wash to breathe, sometimes.
One day he's punching the sandbags, going over the fight in his head again, remembering the way that bullets were flying, about how he trusted Felix, how they should have shot him when they said he was a Freelancer, it would have been so easy, and then they'd all be here, and he wouldn't have that fear in the pit of his stomach about the others.
It had been easier when he was the heartless bastard who had been trying to kill them, he thinks hysterically, and he stumbles back, cradling his head slightly as the familiar headaches start up again.
"Hey Wash! Heads up!" A small icepack collides with his chest, which Wash only barely manages to catch. His head snaps up, and he sees Donut waving at him.
"You really should wrap those before you do that," Donut chides him cheerfully. "Protection is very important!"
Wash mentally groans, but puts the ice on his knuckles anyways. "Thanks."
"No problem-o, Wash!" Donut says. "My big brother used to do the same thing! Only he punched people usually. My sisters and I'd take turns making sure he remembered to get patched up. He was pretty terrible at looking after himself."
Wash glances up. "You have siblings?"
"Yep! Youngest of five!" Donut chirps. "What about you, Mr. Mystery Man?"
Wash can't help but laugh slightly. "Oldest. I've got younger sisters." He blinks for a moment, surprised by his honesty. He must be more tired than he realized. He tries not to think about his family much; contacting them was out of the question. At least he couldn't be tempted here; with communication to the outside world impossible.
They've mourned him for years and he isn't the kid who'd left them. He isn't even the same person he was when he joined Freelancer. He's changed so much, and he knows that's due to these ridiculous soldiers he calls his friends.
Tucker. Caboose. Grif. Simmons. The reminder is colder than the ice on his hands. He's failed them, and it hurts. He needs to find them, and fast, before they get themselves hurt. This war isn't their business; they've never seen war like this, unlike him, and even unlike Sarge.
"Chorus to Wash!" Donut says, waving his hand in front of Wash's face. "You with us?"
Wash flinches slightly behind his helmet. "Yes, sorry."
"It's cool!" He pauses. "I worry about them too. It's okay."
Wash sighs. "Aren't you due at for your appointment with Doctor Grey?"
"Already came and went!" Donut says. "And you haven't eaten all day, so she told me to drag your behind to the mess hall!"
"Donut—"
"No excuses!" Donut propels him forward, being surprisingly strong. Although Wash isn't actually sure why he's so surprised—Donut's throwing ability has to come from somewhere.
Sitting down to dinner with Donut and Sarge is possibly one of the most surreal experiences of Wash's life. He keeps his head down and just eats his rations, allowing the Reds to happily fill in the gaps.
He's been learning a lot about them over the past few weeks. Sarge's war stories are long-winded and ridiculous and improbable and definitely exaggerated, but he recognizes several battles, and comes to the shocking conclusion that the man was once an OST. Which raises the question of how the hell did he end up in Blood Gulch, the one true believer of the war between the Reds and Blues?
Donut cheerfully will talk about anything.
Today, however, his topic of choice is his hometown in Iowa. When he mentions it, Wash can't help but pause, surprised by the mention of his old state. Then he shakes his head and keeps eating. It's not too shocking—Iowa's a big state. There's a lot of people in it.
He doesn't notice the hint of worry yet, but he does find himself glancing at Donut's face, trying to see past the scarring, realizing that something about him is familiar.
He's never asked about Donut's scars; Wash certainly wouldn't want to open himself up to questions about his own. But he's seen scars like that before, only cleaner.
It looks like a grenade had landed directly on Donut's face. Something about it reminds him of York, but Donut's eyes are both still clear and usable. However, the scarring is a lot rougher and more extensive than York's. Wash wonders what kind of medical attention was available for a Sim Trooper, that the scars were that bad. Surely a lot of those were preventable?
Remembering that several of Donut's scars were caused by him, he looks away, swallowing his guilt. Not noticing his discomfort, Sarge, who is more scarred than anyone Wash has ever seen, yells at Donut for trying to host Wine and Cheese Hour, while "Grif and Simmons are been corrupted by the Blues, damn it!"
Stomach settling slightly as he allows himself to be distracted by the Red banter, Wash goes back to his meal, and tries not to laugh as Donut recounts a story about his high school baseball team. The man's gift for accidental innuendo, it seems, had started years ago.
And he'd nearly put a stop to it, just for the crime of being in the way. He's glad when he finishes his meal; the food has long since lost all taste.
Wash has four sisters; Michelle, Jacqueline, Martha, and Eleanor.
None of those names are exactly uncommon, he reminds himself the first time Donut mentions his sister Martha. Wash's head nearly snaps up, but he stops himself.
A coincidence, he reminds himself.
Just like it's a coincidence that Donut's big brother was in the military before he died, years ago. Just like it's a coincidence that Donut has four siblings.
Wash has four sisters; he clings to this, because he doesn't have a brother. It's just a coincidence.
He keeps going; keeps fighting, keeps reporting do Doyle and listening to Dr. Grey fuss over his implants and his scars, keeps staring at maps of Chorus, trying to track rebel movements and figure out where his friends are.
"Hey Wash, think you could teach me to throw those knives of yours?" Donut asks one day, after a normal day running some of the Chorus soldiers through drills.
Wash blinks, and then eyes Donut. Donut does have a hell of an aim. It might be interesting to try.
"Sure," he says, gesturing Donut over to the range.
"Awesome!" He takes the knife and held it like Wash shows him. "You know, my brother David always wanted to learn knives. Our dad wouldn't let him, but for his eighteenth birthday my sisters and I saved up and bought him a set."
A good set; the handles were balanced perfectly. It had come with an instruction manual too; Mitch's contribution, no doubt, since none of his other siblings have enough common sense to remember that Wash had absolutely no idea what to do with them and they weren't included in normal military training. He'd gone off to the recruitment station the next day, his siblings' voices cheering behind him, wishing him well.
Wash's knees nearly buckle out from under him. No. It can't be. It doesn't make sense. He goes through the lesson on auto-pilot, going through every single thing that Donut's ever told him about his life with a fine-toothed comb.
It doesn't make sense.
But Donut had a brother named David who died in the war, and has a sister named Martha, and there are two other siblings who Wash is terrifying certain are named Jaqueline and Michelle, and he's from Iowa, and the coincidences are too many to be anything but a part of something bigger.
Wash needs to say something, but he doesn't know what he could say. He still doesn't understand what's happening, and he wants to scream.
His nightmares are filled with the same scene over and over again.
He's in Valhala, and he's watching himself kill Donut.
He reaches down and pulls off the helmet.
Eleanor's face looks up at him, but there's a scar that covers the entire side of her face and her hair is short and—
And he's Donut.
He wakes up and he runs laps until he's exhausted enough to sleep again, and then he collapses.
And then one day, he opens a door, and he's looking right at the Reds and Blues.
After the dust is settled; after they've exposed Felix and Locus and stopped the war and Doctor Grey has patched up Tucker, Wash goes to Carolina.
"Hey Wash," she's not wearing her armor, and Wash tries not to stare at the long, cordlike scars that wrap around her arms. He doesn't remember those from Freelancer.
"Hey," he says, clearing his throat. "I was wondering, could I talk to Epsilon for a bit?"
She raises an eyebrow at him, and he tries not to wilt under her look. He doesn't avoid Epsilon, exactly. It's hard to—for an AI, the guy sure likes to make his presence known. And he is, as Tucker so eloquently loves to put it, is a bit of a dick. He and Wash have interacted, but they still usually don't go out of their way to talk to each other.
It's hard to forgive someone for breaking your mind so badly that half the time you still get your mother's face confused with a different woman. Wash doesn't even know if he can trust his own memories anymore, and a part of him can't help but blame the AI just a bit.
But that's not what matters.
"Yeah, sure!" Church flickers into existence, and follows Wash out of the room.
Wash isn't sure where to start. "Do you—do you have my Freelancer files?" It's a safe guess; he knows Epsilon seems to absorb information and memories like a sponge absorbs water. Just being near Freelancer equipment probably gave him enough information about Wash to answer all of his questions.
"Yeah, sure, I've got them. I've got everyone's files. Why? Want me to read out your psych profile? Because let me tell you, the Counselor sure loved to talk shit in the margins of these things, this guy was a serious—"
"No, that's not it," Wash interrupts, although a part of him wonders how much he'd be able to piece together from those old reports. But it's not important. He has something more important to think of now. "I just—I've been thinking about my family a lot lately, and those files are really the only way I can figure out what they've been up to."
"Oh yeah, sure, let me take a look." Wash squinted at Epsilon, wondering how long it would take the AI to drop this seemingly helpful behavior.
"Alright, let's see what we've got here. Mom and Dad, moved into a retirement home just before we hit Chorus. Lovely place, there's pictures. Mitch is married with two kids; yikes those are some ugly children." Wash feels like he should defend his nieces or nephews, but, given that Epsilon is failing to provide visuals, he doesn't really have a leg to stand on. Besides, that's not what he's here to know. "Then we've got Jackie; graduated top of her class. She went for psychology, how's that for a kicker? Martha adopted a dog, and that's literally all I can find on her; her Facebook is nothing but dog. I don't have allergies, but I feel like I'm developing one just looking at it. And…" Suddenly, Epsilon flickers slightly.
"What?" Wash asks, but he already thinks he knows what's about to happen.
"Donut?" Epsilon's voice rises so high it could be called a shriek quite easily. "Ellie is Donut?"
Wash freezes for a moment, before he realizes that Epsilon has Wash's memories too, as well as giving Wash his own. His fists clench for a minute, almost angry at the small intrusion, despite everything else that's happened.
"You're sure?" He can't help but hate how desperate he sounds.
"Yes, I'm sure! Holy fucking shit dude, you shot your brother!"
Yes, he did. He shot his brother. His little brother, who was the best pitcher on his little league team, and who was ridiculously fond of James Bond movies, and made terrible cheese sandwiches that, apparently eventually turned into wine and cheese hours.
He falls onto the ground without realizing what's happening.
"Oh, shit. Wash!"
Wash can't breathe; he shot Donut. He shot his brother. His brother had nearly died, just because Wash was angry and impatient and he was in the way.
"Are you fucking kidding me? A panic attack? Aren't you supposed to be a badass freelancer? I can't fucking believe it!" Church is howling in the background, which is the exact opposite of helpful. Wash tries to say so, but he really can't get words out. "Alright D, fine, ugh. Uh, Wash, count with me? Or something. Shit, how does this work?"
"Wash!" Carolina is there, a hand on his back. "Wash, it's okay, everything's fine. Epsilon, what's wrong?"
"He's freaking out because he shot Donut! Even though it was years ago!"
"Wash?" Carolina's voice is clear, cutting through the layers in his head. "Wash, Donut's okay. He's fine. He's with Caboose and Lopez. He's alive. He's fine. You're on Chorus. Everything's fine."
No, it's not fine. But Wash doesn't tell Carolina that.
Wash leaves his armor off when he goes to find Donut.
He pauses a moment to look in the mirror, trying to remember what he looked like, back before he shipped out.
He wonders if Donut ever thought that he had a resemblance to his long-dead brother, or if the pink soldier has always dismissed those thoughts as ghosts haunting him.
He swallows, his throat tight.
He owes Donut this. He deserves to realize that the big brother he's told Wash about; the one he called a hero, who he misses and has mourned for years, is actually the guy who shot him just because it was convenient.
Donut's sitting alone today, which Wash is grateful for. He slips into the seat next to Donut, and stares at his own hands.
"My family thinks I'm dead," he blurts out. Donut looks at him, surprised. "Freelancer sent them something, telling them I died when I signed up. I didn't know for years; Freelancer gave us messages every now and then, but they weren't real. It was all a lie. And when I found out, I didn't even think about talking to them. There was too much happening in my head for me to even think about them. And when I did, it was—it had been years. They'd thought I was dead for years. How do you go back after that? After everything that's different? I told myself it was better that way."
"And is it?" Donut asks, surprisingly serious. Wash wonders if he knows where this is going.
"Not really," Wash laughs slightly, running his hands through his hair. "But it's… it's hard to figure out how to start."
"Start what?" Donut's eyebrow went up, curious.
"My name is David," Wash says, and sees Donut's face freeze. "And I'm so, so sorry—"
"David!" Before Wash can even finish his sentence, Donut's pounced on him, wrapping his arms around him. "Holy shit, you're alive!" Donut's laughing, squeezing him so tightly that it's more like being hugged by Caboose than by his little brother.
Wash is lost for words. Of all the reactions he'd prepared for, this was not one of them.
"You missed Mitch's wedding! Oh man! She's going to be so pissed at you! And Mom and Dad! Man, they're going to be so happy!"
"Wait, what?" Wash gasps out.
"Aren't you mad?"
"Why would I be mad?" Donut lets go of him, frowning in confusion.
"I shot you."
"Yeah, and Tex stuck a grenade to the side of my face," Wash stares as his brother waved his protest aside with a literal wave of his hand. "No big deal. It's cool."
"It's not—" Wash sputters, "It's not cool!"
"Hey, I'm the one who got shot here, buster! I get to decide!" Donut waves his finger in front of Wash's face.
"Who got shot, did I miss something?" Tucker asks, sliding into the seat across from them.
"Wash shot me!" Donut says cheerfully.
Tucker stares at them. "Is this… news?"
"Oh, Wash is just having a resurge of guilt because he figured out he's my long lost brother," Donut says, so matter-of-factly that Wash really wishes he was eating something so he could choke.
"Wait, what?" Tucker yelps.
"Really, we should have seen it coming," Donut says, grinning at Wash. "I mean, our good looks are so similar it has to be genetic."
Wash buries his head in his hands. "Oh god."
"Cheer up, Wash," Tucker sounds like he's trying not to laugh.
"Are you in the mood for more legwork, Private Tucker?" Wash says, voice slightly muffled by his hands.
"Hey, fuck you! I'm a Captain, now, remember?"
"Aw, that's right. No more Privates for you, Tucker," Donut says, and Tucker and Wash both make slight choking noises.
Suddenly, Tucker makes a sound of delight. "Wait, so does this mean that your last name is Donut?"
Wash sets his head down on the table and laughs.