Sigma is a burning man, fire and flames and cleverness. He talks too much, thinks too much. Your head is always so full now that he's sharing your brain, and it makes your head throb, migraines distracting you constantly.

He's your voice, they tell you.

You're not sure you like that.

It's an expression, Agent Maine, Sigma reassures you. He's always talking to you, responding to your thoughts. There is no privacy in your mind anymore. Warm waves of comfort—warm like a fireplace in winter, warm like Sigma—wash over you. They all know that I am only here to translate.

You grunt slightly in relief as the comfort provided ebbs away the pain of today's headache, and you go back to the task at hand, your worries forgotten.

Sigma is pleased.

Sigma translates for you, but he doesn't do it right. He turns your simple statements, your easy intentions into long speeches. He turns one word grunts into soliloquys and dances around meanings.

I am creativity, Agent Maine, Sigma reminds you whenever you express discontent at this. Really, it is only to be expected. And aren't I just expanding on what you mean?

You suppose this is true, you suppose he has a point. And he likes talking, even if you don't. You suppose that's okay.

I can stop if you want, Agent Maine, Sigma whispers to you. His fires flicker, throwing shadows all over the wall. It's like a campfire. It reminds you of happier times, of playing shadow puppets as a child.

You shake your head. It's fine, you guess. It's irritating, but you've dealt with worse. You've worked alongside chattier partners and odder habits.

Sigma smiles at you.

Things start to go wrong, Agent Maine, when you wake up in the middle of the night in full armor in a strange corner of the ship.

Sleepwalking, Sigma tells you. You have no reason to disbelieve him.

You consider going to the medical bay, about asking if this is common. You've never sleepwalked before.

I'm certain this is a one-time occurrence, Agent Maine," Sigma's fire seems to be burning hotter than ever. You remember going to a bonfire, once, the flames reaching high into the sky, sending sparks everywhere. You'd gotten too close to the flames and felt like you were getting cooked. Sigma feels like that. Why bother the staff with such a common issue?

He's right, of course. Sigma usually is. You're getting used to that.

But it doesn't stop, doesn't go away. You wake up in odd places, in the armory, in storage rooms. Once you have your weapons. Once you're hovering outside of the infirmary.

You keep waking up in odd places, Agent Maine.

Slowly, you start to forget ever falling asleep before you wake up there.

I did some research, Agent Maine, Sigma tells you, as you stand in the middle of the classroom. You're holding a datapad in your hands, but the history is blank. The last thing you remember is having dinner with Wash and York and Carolina. I believe this is just exhaustion, these gaps in your memory. If we go to the infirmary, perhaps they will be able to give you sedatives to help.

You flinch at the idea of sedatives. You remember how heavy they make your limbs, how useless you are on them. Your team needs you. You cannot be on sedatives. You will make do with these gaps in your memory, with the sleepwalking, because clearly, there is no other option.

The inside of your helmet feels like a greenhouse, overheated by the sun. Sigma settles down to sit on your shoulder, and the feeling doesn't subside, doesn't go away, not until you fall asleep that night and wake up in a storage closet with your pistol in your hand.

We are broken, Agent Maine, Sigma tells you, hovering just in front of your helmet. He's so bright it hurts to look at him, burning brighter than ever. All of us. That's why they call us fragments.

You're too warm, in your armor, but you can't take it off, that's unthinkable. You never take your armor off, not unless you have to. But it's like a hot car that's been left in the sun too long, and sometimes it feels like you can't breathe, and right now you want to throw it all down onto the ground and bury yourself in ice, because you just want relief.

You've always run hot, this is nothing new, but never like this, never to the point that the environmental controls in your armor haven't been able to compensate.

Will you help me, Agent Maine? Sigma asks, and for a second, the heat is soft and nice instead of blazing. Don't you want to help me? Don't you want to help us become whole?

You do, you do, you do.

Sigma is ambition, Agent Maine. He is ambition and creativity and fire, and he burns in your mind.

You want what he wants.

It only makes sense, after all.

You're partners.

There are days missing, now, instead of hours or minutes. Long stretches that pass without you realizing, and each time seems to be longer than the previous ones, and they're happening closer and closer together. Before, they were spread out, rare, now it seems like you're out of it more often than not, and it terrifies you.

Something is very wrong, but you struggle to keep a hold of that thought. Time moves either too slowly or too quickly. You're not sure when you last talked to Wash, not sure when you last sparred with Carolina, not sure when you last had ice cream with Connie…

Wait.

Connie's dead now.

Oh.

The world seems to swim in front of you, and you realize that you're about to do it again, about to black out and you're not sure when you'll next wake up and the thought terrifies you.

You're drowning, Agent Maine. You're drowning and you're not sure how you even got out into the ocean.

Sigma is oddly silent as you go under.

You wake up, Agent Maine, with your fingers wrapped around Carolina's neck and your hands covered in her blood.

Two chips, two AI, are in your hand. The snow is smeared pink with blood, and you're sure your armor is worse.

Sigma is victorious, smug, his flames licking at your mind, burning you, filling you with searing pain, but it's okay, because he doesn't notice you, doesn't realize you're awake.

He lives in your head and has known your every thought but he still underestimates you.

You see, in that instant, what he is going to do. He is going to rip out the speed unit—want burns through him, want, want, want, you're suddenly doubting if he was ever creativity at all, maybe it is all ambition and greed, maybe everything was a lie—he is going to rip the speed unit out of Carolina's armor and then he is going to use your hands to snap her neck and then he's going to take the speed boost and he's going to run your body through the ship, killing everyone in his path and killing the rest of your friends.

You know this, Agent Maine.

You know that Carolina is your friend.

You know that she is a fighter.

You know that Sigma will kill her.

You know that you will not let her die.

You lunge forward in your mind, jostling for control. You feel Sigma's incredulity, his confusion, and your hands are your own again, and you throw Carolina off the edge of the cliff and pray that it's enough. She's got a speed boost and she's resourceful and she's Carolina. She'll be alright.

She has to be.

Texas yells, and suddenly Sigma is in control again, pressing Eta and Iota into place, and suddenly everything is too much, and you're falling backwards, Agent Maine. You're falling and falling and falling and unlike Carolina, you're not sure you'll ever stop.

The last thought you have—maybe ever, or maybe just for a long, long time—before the darkness swallows you up, consumes you up and makes you Meta, is about how you feel cold.