There was no ceremony, no fanfare. One day he was alone, and the next, Epsilon was in his head.
David was comfortable in his own mind. He had always been somewhat of a solitary man, a result of an isolated childhood full of confusion and darkness, violence and loss. He had risen above his past and secured a place in the project that would change the future. The army had given him hope; the Freelancer project had given him a makeshift family. He was never truly alone, as much as he sometimes desired to be. The other Freelancers travelled as often as David himself did, and sometimes more, but they always came back. They were a constant in his life that he had come to look forward to.
With Epsilon's arrival, David prayed for the isolation of his childhood. Anything to get the visions out of his mind.
Epsilon was an AI, one of several granted to the members of Project Freelancer. David had barely begun to adjust to his new name (Washington, Washington, introduce yourself as Washington) when the Director authorized the implantation of his new partner. It took all of five minutes for Washington's appreciation and enthusiasm to fade.
AIs can feel pain. Wash learned that on the very first day.
He awoke in the infirmary bed a few hours after the procedure, unable to move. A pool of light lay across his narrow chest in stripes of yellow-orange and black shadow. He barely saw them. He heard nothing; not the snores of the other infirmary patients, the whipping of chopper blades outside on the helipad, or the beeping of his own heart monitor. He was paralyzed by the new flood of hallucinations (No, David, these are memories).
AIs can feel pain.
He watched through the wavering streams of code with the rudimentary eyes he had been given by his Creator, whose face was always in shadow. The Creator tortured him endlessly, running him through scenario after scenario. Torturing him, (Not you; me; my name is Epsilon NO MY NAME IS DAVID) until he cast off parts of himself (No, of Alpha's self) to preserve his sanity. Epsilon, the Alpha's memories, lived within Washington's head.
The psychiatrists cleared Wash for duty the morning after Epsilon's implantation, and left him to acquaint himself with his new partner. It was odd, at first. Wash's mind was like a small apartment: just big enough for him, with a comfortable jumble of junk that symbolized his memories and idle thoughts. Epsilon rushed into his apartment like a whirlwind, dropping baggage everywhere, turning Wash's life upside-down.
The psychiatrists told him not to worry. He simply had to acclimatize to the presence of the Other. But oh, how could he do it with Epsilon screaming in his head? He declined the optional therapy sessions. He could handle it. Had to handle it. They might take Epsilon away if he could not. Like it or not, he was the only friend Epsilon had. If anyone guessed what was going on inside him, they would pull the plug.
The flood of memories was overwhelming; a thousand voices screaming at once (I am Epsilon I AM DAVID I am Washington I am many), and overlapping, blurry images of horrific acts. His blind, almost mindless adoration for the Director turned instantly to bright, burning hate like a fire in his chest (He did this The Man The Creator The Director Leonard Church). The things the Director had done in the name of progress, Wash did not want to know. But Epsilon knew, and Epsilon told him. Epsilon told him everything.
It was not like the media's version of schizophrenia. It was not at all similar to those afternoon soap operas where beautiful women and buff men suffered in dramatic hysteria together. Epsilon did not speak, precisely. He … whispered. Delta spoke. Delta spoke often to his agent, York. York and Delta were friends, partners. They cooperated. Wash found himself hating Agent York, because at least when his AI spoke, he didn't suffer for it. Wash could have cheerfully strangled the man for five seconds of peace. He envied him, loathed him. Why did he, Washington, have to receive Epsilon? Why couldn't Epsilon be York's AI? Why did he have to suffer so?
(Because you're strong, David Washington, you're strong)
But he wasn't. He was weakening, his sanity disappearing like drops of water on a sun-drenched surface. He lay in bed, listening to the whispers, the thoughts and memories, unable to move or push them away (Please God just let it end). At times, Wash felt that Epsilon was trying to murder him with the weight of his pain. For this, Wash bore no ill will toward Epsilon. How could he? It wasn't the AI's fault. Sometimes, though, that knowledge was hard to keep in mind, especially when he felt like he was being smothered and there was no blanket to rip away from his nose, no body to push off his chest and free his starving lungs. He wanted to die. But he could not.
Epsilon didn't last long.
Finally, everything came to a head. An explosion of memory and thought, emotion and pain, fear and rage. If only he had not been in public. For years afterward, he would not discuss the precise details, and when he did, he spoke only to his brother's ivory ghost. At least his brother might understand.
(You have to understand … I tried my hardest.)
Taking Epsilon out of his head was an even worse experience than the implantation. David's mind seemed so … empty. Too quiet. Had he truly become so used to Epsilon that he missed the AI when it was gone?
(Epsilon, I failed you, I'm so sorry—)
He was gone, yes, but not forgotten. Epsilon had left scratches on the apartment walls inside his mind, had overturned the furniture and strewn fragments of memory everywhere like so much trash. The blatant disregard for his headspace only made Wash angrier at the Director. What could he do besides accept that he wasn't getting his security deposit back? Nothing, really … try his best to repair the cracks, and set the furniture upright. It felt so much smaller now inside his head, and dingy; less like an apartment and more like a hovel. Was it possible for a brain to be unclean, like mud on the skin or dirt ingrained in the wrinkles of the knees?
They put him to work. Gave him another purpose. Considering how badly he'd fucked up the previous purpose, perhaps this was not the wisest move, but there was little to be done with a broken man. Recovery was nothing like the Project. It was a grim duty. He (David—Agent Washington—Recovery One—so many titles) dealt in corpses now, in spilled blood and armor full of ragged holes. His interior headspace continued to deteriorate. Here he was, a lone man in a filthy cell, a rotted tomb that had once been his sanctuary. Maybe, someday, he would be able to clean out the trash and turn on a light.
For the longest time, that seemed impossible. It seemed as though loneliness was his business, and betrayal, and pain. Light would never return to him. No redemption for the broken, no cure for the mad. But one day, a light did come on. The light was blue, and it was a little dim, but to the former Agent Washington, it was the most beautiful and comforting light he had ever seen in his life.