They suggested he take up a pastime while he recovered and one day the therapist brought paint and a canvas and brushes. Maine just growled at the man and ignored him, but the supplies were left in the wounded Freelancer's room after the session ended. He couldn't throw them away because he had destroyed his trash can in a fit of bitter rage last week, so for half an hour he just stared at them.
Try, Sigma whispered, in a voice so soft and sincere that Maine gave it some thought. The AI was the only person - if it even qualified as that - who cared about him anymore. These doctors and psychologists the Director had monitoring him were just skinned robots, suits with bared teeth instead of smiles. He had never really gotten along with the other Freelancers, but he missed them. Or maybe he just missed the violence. He missed…
With a ragged grunt he snatched the canvas and set it in his lap, scattering the paint tubes beside him on the cot. He didn't know quite what to do with it yet, but Sigma wanted him to try and so he would. His brow furrowed and he squinted slightly, trying to visualize something, anything.
Try red, Sigma suggested. Maine reached for the red tube. He had always liked red, whether it was red fruit punch or red sweaters or the blood of whatever unfortunate opponent he engaged in battle. He lifted a brush and didn't like how unfamiliar it felt in his hand. It was slender and fragile, not sturdy like a gun. But if Sigma thought he could do it, he would.
One small red streak adorned the blank canvas. It was curved and a little shaky. Maine felt his confidence droop.
Go on.
Maine made another swipe with the brush, then another. What began as an unsteady stutter turned into a rhythm, as he added more content to the canvas in a sort of manic frenzy. He picked up the other colors, used different-sized brushes, didn't pause when he got paint on himself. Sigma was silent while he worked.
Whether it was half an hour or half a day later, Maine didn't know, but he was finished. He blinked and looked over his creation, a little baffled that he had done such a thing, but oddly proud of himself. The pride mixed with the familiar and unwelcome sting of bitterness as he studied the painting. There was gray and yellow, there was brown and white, purple and green… but most prominent was the light blue figure topped with red.
Maine made a slight strangled sound and his shoulders slumped. It was no use wishing for things to be the way they had been - from what the doctors told him, it would be months before he got back into the fight, if at all. It was as if Project Freelancer had shrugged him off and moved on without him, and nobody cared. He wondered if York and Carolina had forgotten about him, and sneered. Of course the goody two-shoes got the girl, of course he was better than Maine and higher on the precious leaderboard and…
Maine forced himself to calm down, remembering the last time he had lost his temper and how the tranquilizer darts had stung. Then he looked back at his painting and frowned. Scrawled in black across the myriad of colors was A-L-P-H-A; he didn't remember putting it there.
I'm lonely too, Sigma whispered.