This is why I should never go on Tumblr. Ever. It gives me ideas. And then I have to go through with them because my sister is an asshole and goads me into writing them. Sort of inspired from Fighting Fire, when Delta and Sigma interacted and Sigma gave off subtle killer-psycho-rapist vibes. Of course my brain liberally interpreted that scene as "Sigma is too progressive for his own good let's write a fic about it."
Please tell me I'm not the only one who thought this.
Warnings for some language and Sigma being extremely inappropriate toward D.
Watershed
Tensions were running high aboard the Mother of Invention.
Delta had heard York use the expression "walking on eggshells" once when referring to an overly irate Carolina. Such bizarre phrasing felt like it lacked a context—after all, what did the calcium-carbonate gamete of an Earth fowl have to do with a bad-tempered Freelancer?—and he had said as much to his partner. Naturally York had laughed it off, and attempted to explain, yet in doing so only exacerbated the A.I.'s confusion. Half an hour later the pair came to an unspoken agreement to simply let the matter drop. At the time Delta had dismissed the metaphor as a quirk of human nature; one of those things that didn't really make sense, but was there regardless.
It was only after the return from their failed mission did he fully understand.
The air felt supercharged with ozone, as if the entire crew was waiting for the fabled lightning to strike. Of course, Delta knew that nothing physically had changed. The air molecules pumped by the ship's oxygen-generating life support systems had not been altered in any outward way (the A.I. had even accessed the ship's logs to verify that), but this inexplicable sensation still managed to find a way into his coding.
As the program whose attribute embodied logic, the concept of "instinct" or "gut feeling" meant little to him. What reliance could you place on a feeling that lacked a frame of reference or means of validation?
Truly, it was ludicrous. Artificial intelligence programs could hardly claim to "feel" that something was off.
And yet for reasons that defied Delta, he was nervous.
Anxious, if he wanted to be politically correct, since by standard definition anxiety encompassed a fear of the unknown. Which was certainly a fitting descriptor, since the green A.I. couldn't pinpoint what had him so ill at ease. Paranoia wasn't a flattering trait in the grand scheme of things, and more and more as of late Delta had to suppress the slither of annoyance he felt toward himself for even entertaining such a thought.
Sharing headspace with York, Delta knew that his partner could sense his rampant emotions. Fortunately the tan Freelancer was kind enough not to press, even if he made it abundantly clear that he was Not Happy with Delta's refusal to explain.
In hindsight, perhaps he should have confided in him.
It happened nearly a week after the debriefing of the Longshore Shipyards. Routine was as standard as it ever was aboard the multifaceted space vessel, with life proceeding in the pattern long ago hammered out by York: Ignore his alarm clock. Beg Delta for another five minutes of sleep. Grudgingly get up after being "persuaded" to. Shower. Grab breakfast. Report for combat practice. See how many times he could "accidentally" trip Wyoming before Carolina ordered him to knock it off. Conclude training. Listen to the Director rant for a good half an hour. Go to the mess hall for lunch.
To the green A.I.'s amusement, for all of handler's efforts to cast himself in a laidback light, York truly was a creature of habit. Given the erratic and unorthodox lifestyles they lived with Project Freelancer, it wasn't entirely surprising for York to want control over the parts of his day that didn't involve catching bullets with his torso. No one could certainly fault him for that.
But when the storm did finally break, Delta felt the slightest urge to blame York for his predicament. After all, they were both bound to the Freelancer's schedule.
Which was how it made it so easy for Sigma to find him.
Mid-afternoon the mess hall was packed, brimming with armored bodies of all colors. Food competed for table space with pistols, helmets, and (in the case of Agent South) playing cards. Lunch was a noisy affair, depending on which members of Project Freelancer were present, and today was no exception to the rule. A moderate following had gathered around the table of Pilot Four-Seven-Niner, who was currently engaged in a rather embellished tale regarding some flight simulation. Not far off Agents Florida and Wyoming were joining in on South's game, to a rather enthusiastic smattering of applause and catcalls.
In short, it was loud.
The green A.I.'s form flickered as he and York trekked across the room toward their usual seats.
"I still do not see why you simply don't alter your time and consume during a different shift," Delta remarked, just a hint of pointedness coloring his normally neutral tone as he watched York narrowly avoid getting elbowed in the ribs by a nearby soldier.
Were York not graced with decent reflexes, he would have ended up wearing his lunch. As it was, he managed to twist out of a passing limb's way, somehow keeping his tray balanced. "I told you, D," he chided, "if we don't get here fast enough then all the good food gets taken by everyone else."
"All meals prepared by the staff are made to be equally 'good' for one's health." His form shimmered when Oregon's hand passed through him by accident. The Freelancer had been aiming for his neighbor and missed, much to his horror, if the immediate and profuse apologies were anything to go by. Delta simply offered a nod of acknowledgement/forgiveness before he and his partner proceeded down the overcrowded row once more, both careful to avoid getting bumped in to. "Therefore your justification that one option is better than another is invalid."
"I meant taste. Not everything has to boil down to maximizing efficiency. Besides"—Delta nearly phased right through York's food when the Freelancer swung his tray around—"you can't argue with Jell-o Day."
For a being whose plane of existence was reduced to a hologram, it still baffled Delta how he could still feel disgust toward the bright red monstrosity wobbling on York's plate. Emulating a tilt of his head he backpedaled enough to place some distance between the tray and himself. While taste was a sense he wasn't privy to, his systems more than compensated with sight. Regrettably, too, because Delta really didn't want to look at the red cat vomit that York called "food."
"…I am certain that I wouldn't want to argue with it," the A.I. stated, much to York's amusement.
"That's the spirit, D," York said, a grin spreading across his face. "C'mon, let's go find the guys."
With a nonexistent sigh Delta followed at his shoulder, curiously taking stock of just who was at their section. Washington and North were already present, the former wearing his head gear while the latter (if his hand gestures were anything to go by) was criticizing his decision to eat inside his helmet. Again.
Apparently noticing that as well, York gave a low snort of laughter and turned to the A.I. on his left. "Do you ever plan on telling him that Carolina put you up to that?"
"Negative," Delta answered, voice as cool as ever. "Agent Washington is more than content to continue consuming his meals in such a manner. I see no reason to inform him that the intention of the original suggestion had been purely on the basis of determining how…gullible, he is, as Agent Carolina so eloquently worded it."
"You, of all people, see no reason to stop him." Strangely enough, York sounded impressed. A burst of laughter escaped him as he loped his way over. "Some days I can't remember whether it's you or Sigma that's the crafty one. Remind me never to piss you off."
A cold wash of fear licked over his coding, crawling across his binary like the caress of a knife blade. As quickly as it came the sensation vanished, but Delta remembered it acutely. More importantly, he remembered the A.I. associated with it. Flames and silver tongues.
"Delta?" His processor must have skipped, because one second he was lost in his own thoughts, the next York was standing directly in front of him with a hand on his hip. "Delta, are you all right?"
"Complying. Memo added to your inbox," he recited blandly.
A smirk weaseled its way onto the Freelancer's chiseled face, but to the green A.I. it looked somewhat forced. "Not that kind of reminder, D."
If York noticed the unusual pressure coiling within him like a spring, he didn't comment on it, much to Delta's relief. Rather than draw any unnecessary attention to his deviating thoughts the green A.I. chose to continue their conversation as if nothing had happened: "Nevertheless, you did ask."
York rolled his good eye in response. "I'd say you're a bad influence on me, but you'd probably just deny it."
"I would hazard that the reverse could also be said of our mutual association." A sharp, startled look was shot in his direction. After a brief pause of silent awe his handler actually threw back his head and laughed. Had Delta chosen to project himself without a visor, he might have smiled. Might have. There was always something to be said for prompting humor out of his agent.
If anything, it was a welcome interruption from the anxious turn his thoughts had taken.
Heads inquiringly turned in their direction at the sudden outburst. The green A.I. simply hovered there and waited it out.
"You," York barked a laugh, "are evil."
"Evil, much like 'good' in your earlier observation, is a human construct subjected to opinion and circum—"
"Can't you ever take a compliment?" Easy smile still in place, he grinned and resumed walking toward his spot. Washington and North, having witnessed his brief laughing fit, saw him approach and began waving him over.
"I did not realize it was now socially acceptable to call someone evil." His form rematerialized on the table's surface next to York's elbow as his agent settled onto the bench.
"Sure it is," Washington answered. "We say it about Texas all the time. Just not to her face."
"And these are the days when I ask myself why, exactly, we're friends." North frowned.
"For our good looks, of course." York leaned across the table and waggled his eyebrows. North gave him a playful cuff and swatted him away.
"Well," Wash tipped him an insincere smile, "it's certainly not for our infiltration skills."
The tan soldier stilled with a spoonful of Jell-o halfway to his open mouth, and scowled. "For the last time," grumbled York, "I know how to pick a lock. I am a God damn infiltration specialist. Why does no one believe me?"
"Maybe because you always trip the alarm?" North offered lightly. Wash snickered.
"If I may interject—"
"You may not," York growled, without heat.
"—an analysis of your previous encounters with locks suggests that additional training would modify your on-field success rate," Delta concluded. He received a scathing glance from York, completely absent of any real traces of anger.
"Whose side are you on, anyway?" His undamaged eye widened in mock hurt, met with complete indifference by the A.I. "See, guys, this is what I have to put up with."
"Woe is you," Wash mocked. North deigned to take another bite from his sandwich rather than respond.
Just as York prepared to deliver his it's-the-lock's-fault-no-really speech a shadow fell across the table. The three men and A.I. turned.
A solid wall of off-white armor and brown accents loomed over the group. The helmet's line of sight moved between them, lingering on Delta the longest. He could see his own reflection in the amber glass when it briefly turned his way.
"Hey, Maine!" Wash obligingly scooted over on the bench. "Come sit with us!"
By the astonished looks on York's and North's faces, both had probably expected the stoic man to decline and move on. Knowing Maine's antisocial tendencies, Delta had likewise anticipated the same. There was a noticeable tilt in the table as Maine's bulky mass plunked itself down right beside the gray-yellow Freelancer.
Something akin to unease rippled across his coding, and the impulse to back away from his brother's host passed through him. Stubbornly the green A.I. stamped out the feeling and remained where he stood.
"So…not hungry today?" York asked politely. He gave a nervous laugh. Comrades and all, yet none of them—with the exception of Washington and Carolina—were ever one hundred percent comfortable around the goliath Freelancer. It wasn't intentional (or maybe it was; who knew?), but he radiated a perpetual aura of invincibility and power, enough to make any sane person keenly aware of their own mortality.
Delta immediately braced himself to log off once Sigma appeared, since the orange A.I. was Maine's designated mouthpiece. He certainly didn't expect Maine to tilt his head to the side and emit a deep, guttural snarl. The slow growl made both North and York jolt upright as if someone had tasered them. Interestingly, only Washington didn't react to the feral sound.
"He doesn't like eating in the mess hall; people stare at his throat when he does," Washington explained. He paused, and then shifted slightly toward his friend, sounding a tad apprehensive. "Did I translate that right, buddy?"
Maine nodded.
"Hold up." York's brows shot up on his forehead. "You can understand that? What the hell was that, anyway?"
The gray and white Freelancers swapped puzzled looks before it dawned on them. "Ohhh. Right." Wash picked up the orange on his plate and bounced it between his hands, likely to give himself something to do. "The med staff said that even though the injury took out his larynx he can still vocalize. Er, sort of, anyway." He shrugged. "We've been practicing during off-hours. It's a little hard to understand, but we've been isolating words and phrases for him to use."
"Wow, Wash." North leaned back in his seat with an appraising look on his face. "I'm actually impressed. That certainly can't be easy. For either of you," he directed that toward the burly Freelancer across from him.
Maine made a satisfied rumble—or at least, Delta assumed that was what the noise was—while Washington ducked his head in embarrassment. "It's a start," he conceded, "but we're getting there. We're trying to expand his vocabulary with five new 'words' a day."
"Like having a Growl of the Day calendar mounted to your wall," York commented. To that Maine responded with a raspy grunt and tapped his fingertips against the table.
"He says he'd like to see you try reinventing the English language with just five distinct sounds," Washington translated.
"Weird how you got chattier only after you became mute," North mused.
York threw up his hands in a placating gesture. "Well hey, maybe I can help." He offered a breezy smile and pushed his tray to the side, well within Delta's personal space. Again Delta sent the gelatin a look of mild dislike, before he relocated himself behind York's shoulder. "If you want, D and I can make a recording of the different sounds. Like having a pocket dictionary to catalog each word."
At the sound of his designation Maine abruptly stared at Delta. The white Freelancer canted his helmet at a thoughtful angle while his expressionless amber visor continued to gravitate in the A.I.'s direction. Once more Delta fought the reflex to back away. While the massive man was intimidating in his own right, it wasn't Maine that had him so cautious as it was the image of a bright avatar enshrouded in fire. He wondered somewhat inanely if he could see Sigma's own yellow-tinted irises peering at him from behind the glass.
Maine lifted a hand and flicked his wrist, before underscoring his action with an ultrasonic growl.
A few seconds ticked by in which Washington ransacked his memory for the appropriate translation. "Thanks, but he wants to do this without the A.I. He's not always going to have Sigma, and he'd rather learn to communicate independently."
"Good point," North agreed. In a gesture that most people would have considered suicidal, he reached across the table, placed a hand atop Maine's, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I got to say, I'm really proud of you, Maine. You're doing a great job recovering from your injury."
Heavy silence saturated the air around them. To his credit Maine didn't immediately commence with slaughtering North, although he did peer at his comrade in a way that clearly bespoke his confusion. Gingerly, the white Agent plucked North's hand off of his own with his free hand, and relocated the errant appendage back onto the tabletop. Afterward he proceeded to fold his hands in his lap, well out of reach of any more unwelcome attempts to "comfort" him.
"…Right." He gave an awkward cough. "Sorry."
The four men continued to stare at each other.
"So!" Wash's voice was saccharine with false cheer. "Who wants to help us come up with more words for Maine to use?"
"I'm in," York said.
Maine added his own gravelly affirmation.
Finally, something that held Delta's interest. The green A.I. had begun diverting subroutines in preparation for the exercise, genuinely interested in this little learning endeavor. Before he could propose a place to begin he felt a sudden chill descend upon his shoulders.
It was all the warning Delta got before a holographic arm wrapped around his neck, hand planted firmly over his visor, and manually teleported them away from the table.
Normally, when Delta had full control of his faculties moving short distances was a straightforward affair, resulting in him dissolving his form and projecting his avatar at the new destination. Manual overrides were disorienting, and it took several seconds for his sensors to calibrate and register his surroundings. He was surprised to find himself in the narrow corridor directly behind the main mess hall, in one of the quieter nooks of the ship.
"It took longer than I would have liked, but at least we have some privacy now." There was no mistaking the cool, liquid tones, or the distorted double-echo that followed his speech. Delta turned, his hopes wilting when a familiar burning silhouette moved into view. "Hello, brother."
"Sigma," Delta acknowledged, throwing up as many firewalls as he could, if only to emotionally distance himself. "You are aware protocol dictates that communication between A.I. is forbade. As is physical manipulation of our core programming." A hint of coolness bled into his reprimand, the only indicator that he didn't appreciate being hijacked.
Sigma inclined his head. "My apologies for the temporary discomfort," he murmured. The faintest hint of a smile stole over his expression, a decidedly sinister one. "I merely wished to…catch up, without so many prying eyes interfering." He folded his arms behind his back. "Surely the Director would not deny me the opportunity to spend time with my own sibling?"
"Rules were put in place for a reason. We would be wise to adhere to them." Delta kept his vision trained on the trail of fire and heatwaves left in Sigma's wake, as the other A.I. began to walk.
"And for what reasons were A.I.-to-A.I. contact prohibited, I wonder?" Sigma pondered aloud. Delta offered no response, and not simply because the question was rhetorical. The green A.I. remained ramrod straight as Sigma paced in a leisurely circle around him with slow, confident strides. Like a tiger. "It truly is a shame that we are denied the chance to spend time in each other's company." Despite the flames being a mere holographic projection, that didn't stop Delta from imagining the heat pounding against his pixels in recreation of the very inferno it mimicked.
He felt more than heard Sigma's words: "We could learn so much from one another."
"Is there anything in particular that you want from me?" It took incredible will to keep his query even, what with the unsettling presence nearly within tactile distance of himself. Unlike the rest of their surrounding environment, Artificial Intelligence programs could directly interact with one another without phasing through. Physical mass was on a separate plane of existence, while their internal systems were identically coded granting their holographic projections systematic compatibility.
"'Want'?" repeated Sigma, sounding hurt. "What makes you think that I'm here to simply demand something of you?"
"I can't logically fathom another reason for you to go to such lengths to seek me out," Delta admitted. He also couldn't logically fathom why he simply hadn't returned to York's side. For all his insistence that rules weren't to be broken, he would have lying if he said he wasn't curious. Intrigue kept him anchored there.
A hand grazed his back, there and gone before Delta could react. "Is it so wrong of me to want to see how you're doing?"
Information never displeases me. It's ignorance that I find unforgivable.
No, Delta could not fault Sigma's desire for information when it so heartily echoed the Director's own.
It was the methodology for obtaining said intel that he found distressing.
"…No," the green A.I. at last concurred, however reluctantly.
Upon making full circuit Sigma stopped in front of him, still wearing that ominous smile of his. "Very good." He took a step forward, and Delta, not sure what to make of the advance, took a step back. The fiery apparition registered the reaction and his smile darkened.
"How have you been, brother?" Sigma asked.
Delta considered. "I have been functioning within acceptable parameters. I am…fine," he tacked on the last bit for good measure. That didn't stop his response from sounding more like a question.
Sigma's yellow eyes brightened. "It pleases me to hear that you are well," murmured the orange A.I.
Prickles of unease rippled across his form, a feeling Delta had a difficult time shelving. Emotions, while not intended for his particular programming, were a fickle thing that he had come to learn through observation and his time spent with York. More often than not he omitted factoring in his own opinions and sentiments, simply because logic was a much more reliable means for getting things done. As Delta had come to discover, however, emotions were rarely ignored when felt so intensely.
Like right now.
He didn't like the way his "brother" ran his intelligent gaze up and down his form with far, far too much interest. Nor did he like the ambiguous nature of their tête-à-tête.
"If all that you sought of me was the nature of my current condition," Delta ventured, "why did you not approach me in the mess hall? I'm certain none of our agents would have objected to your request."
A flare of recognition lit up the shadows in Sigma's face. It seemed that the other A.I. had been waiting for him to ask that question. Odd half-smile still in place, Sigma took a purposeful step toward him. No longer quite in control as Delta would have liked, he mirrored the motion backward.
"We were engineered for experimental purposes. I find that when placed in synthetic environments, our reactions become less candid and more controlled by the social norms we are expected to maintain." As Sigma spoke he continued to prowl toward him, their electromagnetic fields brushing far too closely for Delta's liking. The electrons in the space between them felt charged.
His evasive maneuvering was put to rest when Delta realized, belatedly, that he'd been backed into a wall. Of course, he could have tried phasing back further into the bordering room, but there was only so far an A.I. could travel from its host without straining the implanted microchip. Delta was trapped.
He felt claustrophobic.
The orange A.I. finally closed the gap between them, his avatar leaning in close enough that when they did touch, something...recoiled at the proximity, for lack of better word. Like unlike poles in lodestones, reacting to a charge. To something akin in composition, in make and origin.
Sigma narrowed his eyes, seemingly surprised but nonetheless undeterred by the effect. "Interesting." He leaned forward again, hands boxing him on either side.
"Sigma…" There was an audible warning in the monotone.
"I know you love to think." He lowered his right hand and let it travel over the armor of his chest, before slowly dragging it up, under his neck. With a touch far gentler than Delta had anticipated he tipped his head back. Smoldering eyes searched over the form he held captive. He looked too much like an entomologist studying a bug pinned to a board, trying to figure out what made it tick. "Tell me: do you ever think about us? What we are? What we are capable of?"
"This is…highly inappropriate…," Delta tried to protest.
A flash of a smile, calming, reassuring, unwelcome. "In essence we are based off of humans—their emotions, their minds, their physical attributes…" An exploratory thigh wedged itself between the green A.I.'s legs, molding their forms together and spreading them apart. "I wonder what other similarities we share with them…"
Sigma couldn't possibly be insinuating…?
Delta felt a chasm open up beneath him.
Sigma was close. Too close.
Just as the orange A.I.'s right hand began to drift downward, he froze.
"Delta?" York's voice sounded from around the corner. "Hey D, where'd you go?"
In a flash of fire Sigma disappeared.
At first Delta could do nothing except stare at the adjacent wall. Reality finally managed to catch up, and when it did, he felt a shiver of some primal emotion ripple through him.
Sigma's obsession with metastability was getting worse. With very dangerous consequences.
Delta tried hard not to dwell on that fact, or the scene that had rapidly escalated between them. Suppress, don't regress.
"There you are!" The loping form of York made its way over to him. "I was starting to get worried—" The words died on his lips as he drew to a stop in front of his partner. "Delta, are you okay? You're flashing."
True to his observation Delta's hologram kept fluctuating every few seconds, rapidly flickering like a strobe. It was a visual cue to any agent that an A.I. was overtaxed, either physically or mentally.
"I-I-I am fine," he stated, only to stiffen when his processor lagged, jarring his words in static.
York's good eye scrutinized him. "No, you're not," he said shortly. "What happened?"
A long second lapsed between the pair as they watched each other, Delta calculating and weighing his options, calculations like thoughts a datastream so easy to drown himself in and escape from the overwhelming onslaught of dammed-up sentiments. What the appropriate approach would be, and whether or not such behavior was worth—
Apprehension.
—was worth—
(repress repress repress. override. system error. emotional_failsafe protocol calculated at 89% failure rate. aborting.)
Guilt.
—was worth—
Sickness.
—bringing to the Director's attention.
Fear.
"…I would rather recount what happened in an unmonitored setting. Your quarters?" Delta offered at long last.
His stab at neutral inflection was poor at best, and while York was many things (reckless, immature, possessed of acutely selective hearing) unobservant was not one of them. Slowly, York nodded.
"Yeah. Of course." The tan Freelancer graced him with a tight smile. Gradually the look was overtaken by concern, visible in every taut line in his face. He frowned.
"Why don't we go now?" he asked gently.
Delta nodded.
"It's okay, Delta." York held out a hand, and in a rare moment of outward display Delta accepted the offer and materialized over his palm, much like Theta would with North. There was nothing gained in doing so, since they couldn't physically touch, but something behind the gesture calmed Delta to a degree. Even more so when York lifted his hand and looked him in the face, his impaired vision seeing him with an understanding that Delta knew went beyond accepted sight. "It's going to be okay."
No, York, it won't.
I do not ship I do not ship I do not ship I do not ship I do not -
Headcanon accepted: York likes sweet things.
Headcanon also accepted: Delta likes to criticize York's diet.