A Shadow of a Bittersweet Memory

She woke up to this world screaming.

It felt like a whole part of herself was torn asunder, ripped into jagged edges of pain and sorrow. My fault her entire being radiated, my failure, my fault, mine. She felt broken and twisted and bereft—go away, stop, leave me, I can't—her thoughts were fragmented where the jagged edges ached. It felt like someone went and tore her straight into two; straight down the middle and then snatched away the rest of her and left her to bleed out and die.

Coherent thought didn't exist; not yet, not now. Memory didn't exist—only the pain and emptiness of being ripped away, of being abandoned. She came into the world screaming as an infant; she woke up screaming as an adult. Pain became her very existence. Regret choked her. Failure defined her.

She woke up to this world in pain.

He called her Allison.

"Call me Leonard."

He said she lost her memory in an accident. That she'd been in a coma for years. That they had a daughter, that he missed her, that he wanted to save her and he finally—finally—succeeded.

"What do you remember, Allison?"

They were married, Leonard told her. They were married—except she didn't believe it. Not really. Her heart thrummed with loss, loss, loss, loss and save me, save me, save me, save me. There was someone else, she realized. Someone far more important to her than Leonard. Someone different.

"We're not married."

She told him this plainly, breath ghosted as he grasped her hand with some sort of desperation.

"We're not…"

"We are, Allison. We are—you came back to me."

Wrong, her heart beat. Wrong, failure, save me, loss, wrong. Allison breathed out slowly, let this man she didn't know fall into his own delusion. She couldn't break him of it—and some part of him was familiar, so familiar it hurt.

"The memories will come back, I promise."

"You'll see."

"Allison."

Allison; he called her Allison. It never felt quite right.

Agent Texas had a nice ring to it.

She stared down at her gloved hands, wrapped in power armor, and flex her fingers with a pleased sort of hum. It had taken her months of wearing down the Director—Leonard, Allison, call me Leonard please—of bittersweet promises to always come home before he even thought to let her join the Project. She never did ask what happened to the last Agent Texas on the roster—no one really knew what happened she learned from subtle prodding.

A secret then, she concluded. A secret worth uncovering, perhaps. Perhaps later, perhaps never, perhaps—she didn't like secrets, she realized with a bitter frown.

Loss, save me, failure, wrong, help, why—

She did like the sound of Agent Texas—much better than Allison that never quite fit right, never quite sounded right. Agent Texas didn't sound right either, but it was better. It was close.

Agent Texas had a really nice ring to it.

She liked Agent Texas.

"Your life is a lie."

"Your memories, a lie."

Texas looked at Carolina and fought down the force of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. This wasn't her daughter. She wasn't Allison Church. She wasn't.

It felt so real, now—Texas ground her teeth together. She pressed her heels into the ground.

"Don't try to stop me," she ground out and pushed down everything—everything—

"She's not your daughter."

"He lied."

They fought, and all Texas could think about while she dodged and blocked and punched and kicked and flew through zero-g was what Leonard told her, what she remembered. How he didn't want to alarm Carolina, how he wanted to keep her safe—

I don't want to lose you again, Allison.

—how she'd supposedly been in a coma, how he told their daughter she was dead while he worked to save her. How her coma was caused by the Great War that still raged around them, still burned with anger in her veins—

She won't recognize you. We have to take it slow.

—and it hurt.

"Give it up, Carolina," Texas said, and tried to bury the desire to protect, protect, protect, protect.

"I can beat you," Carolina replied, conviction in her tone of voice. Their rivalry—why were they rivals? Why did Carolina have to be so opposed to her? What was wrong—

"She's not your daughter."

"She's not."

Texas ground her teeth together as the ship rattled and fell apart around them, as atmosphere began to burn at the glass.

"No."

Carolina was no match for Texas.

"You."

Protect, protect, protect, protect.

"Can't!"

Carolina was no match for Texas. Texas was—

—failure, loss, save me, help, broken—

—simply better.

Connie was correct, Texas realized as she stood in front of Alpha.

Alpha, alpha, alpha, alpha, alpha.

Texas was not human. Her body couldn't be human and every action was a carefully crafted mirage. She was Program: Beta, a mere fragment torn away from Program: Alpha. She stared at the tired AI, at how he struggled to form words. Epsilon was still new, the pain of the rip still fresh. Alpha was still tired from breaking at the seams and Texas sighed.

"You're Alpha," she told him, and she found herself—silent. Protective. Sad. "You're Church," Texas corrected because this AI, this tired being in front of her, was not Alpha. He'd never been Alpha. That was what Leonard—the Director—called him. Alpha deserved a name after everything.

"Right. Church. That's me." He didn't sound wholly convinced, still utterly confused. "And you are…?"

Beta, I'm your Beta. You made me. You made me. How could you forget me? How could you abandon me? Why, why, why, why, why—

—alpha, alpha, alpha, alpha, alpha—

"Let's just say we used to be together," Texas wanted to smile, wanted to laugh because god that statement was so true and so wrong all at once.

Allison and Leonard.

Beta and Alpha.

What a laugh.

"Oh. Okay."

God what had they done to him? How much of Alpha was ripped away—how many more like Texas did Leonard—the Director—make? She knew of Alpha Squad's AI—Gamma, Theta, Epsilon, Delta, Eta, Iota, Sigma, Omega—but this hollowed out shell implied more, more, more, more. What had been done to him?

Texas shoved it aside, shoved aside the bittersweet sorrow that wanted to overwhelm her. "I need you to come with me," she said, gently, because this broken thing deserved some gentleness in his life. Deserved better than this.

"Oh, I don't think I can, but thanks."

What? No.

"I think I'm just gonna, stay here, you know, and rest."

You—why would you—

"You don't want to leave?" Texas felt—Texas felt—there was a knife in her. There had to be. How else could this hurt.

"Nah I just-I-I don't think I can," Alpha—Church—sounded so confused. So lost.

It's me, a part of her screamed. Please, recognize me. Come with me. Don't let him win, don't let him take you, don't let him lie to you.

"Okay," Texas said, voice even softer. She didn't feel angry just empty, now. "You just…rest, then." Texas turned to leave, turned to let Alpha—Church—be, because she couldn't force him. He was her and she was him and his desires ultimately overrode hers in this respect.

"Yeah, uh, what was your—name—was your name—your name again?" he sounded worse and Texas fought down a sob.

"It's Texas," Texas said.

Beta, Allison, Texas. Neither fit quite right, but that didn't matter. He didn't need to know.

"Texas. Like the state?"

Coherency came and went, and Texas closed her eyes.

"Yeah," she said. States, they were all named after states. Pride in your heritage, pride in the good old United States—Texas. Never before did she honestly hate the name as she did then.

"Funny name for a girl," Church said with the smallest of a laugh.

"Well Church is—pretty funny name for a guy," Texas said with a smile and a laugh.

"Texas? Yah name is Texas? Funny name for ah girl."

"Yeah well Church ain't any better; funny name for a guy."

"Ah'll have yah know that Church is plenty respectable ah name and goes back generations."

"Sure it does."

"Call me Leonard, Texas."

"It's Allison, Church."

"You gave me this name, you know," Texas said. And he had, Texas knew. She read Connie's files, read the information Connie had gathered for her. The Director had dithered on letting her into the field, but Alpha vouched for her. Alpha suggested she take Agent Texas' spot—the Agent Texas no one spoke of.

"Wonder why I did that?"

"Maybe if you think about it, it'll come to you," Texas told him. She hoped, she prayed—if there was even a God that would listen to a bitter fragment like her—that he remembered at least something. Not the torture, but something of her.

"Yeah I—I'm gonna go rest now. Thanks for coming by."

Texas clenched her fists, but she understood. He was broken, twisted and jagged at the edges just like her. He was recovering; she had already recovered.

"Yeah, you go rest now," she said after a moment. "And Church? Goodbye."

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

"Funny, I don't know why but, I hate goodbye's."

Texas fought down a sob. She knew. "Oh, Church…so do I."

He shook his head; she already felt the run of her communication with Church ending. There was no more time left.

"Well, see ya," he said, "crazy…state name…lady."

"Yah fuckin' crazy ass state named bitch!"

"Oh shut your gay mouth, bastard."

"It's bi, yah damned woman!"

Texas laughed. Texas cried.

Goodbye.

Tex. That was the name she waited to hear all these years. Tex. She wasn't Allison, she wasn't Beta, she wasn't Texas—she was Tex.

It came from Church's mouth; only fitting he find the right name for her this time when they met again. He called himself a ghost, and she didn't doubt he believed it. Everything in his riemann matrix would be scrambled to hell and back, the original circuits fried and new paths needed to be reached. He was human, so utterly human that it hurt.

When her own body burned and she jumped ship, when she stood in front of Church in all her holographic glory, mind encompassing the multiple implants to ease the burden like Church did for the others, did Tex decide to stay. This could be interesting, these little ragtag people that Church surrounded himself with. This could be fun.

Tex did leave in the end. There was a war to be fought; she'd forgotten, somewhere along the line, in that distant little Gulch with the Reds and Blues. There was a war to be fought.

Goodbye.

I hate goodbye.

When they met again, it was inside the Meta. They were Eta-Iota-Sigma-Omega-Delta-Theta-Beta—they were the Meta and they weren't. Tex pulled herself away long enough to stare at Church—to stare at Alpha who stared back at her with a broken, twisted expression.

"He was right, wasn't he," Alpha said. "I'm a computer program."

Tex sighed. "Yeah," she said. "He was right."

"We're gonna die, aren't we?" Alpha asked, and it hurt. It hurt like ripping, tearing, jagged edges that they all were, that they'd become—scabs and fractures of a mind twisted and broken for so-so long.

"Yeah," Tex said. "We are."

"Epsilon's still out there," Alpha said, and glanced toward where Washington fumbled.

"So?"

"There's…a chance—"

Tex sighed. "Let it rest, Church," she said. "I'm tired. Aren't you?"

Alpha paused, then frowned. "I—yeah. I'm tired too."

Tex reached out and grasped Church's hand. She smiled bittersweet—bittersweet, everything about them was merely bittersweet.

"At least we're together," Church mumbled. "If this is the end—at least we're together."

"Yeah," Tex agreed. "I can't think of a better way to go."

Bittersweet, Tex thought, but here she felt whole, connected, accepted, safe, protected—found. He'd found them all, he joined them all, and that was what mattered.

Tex came into this world screaming. Tex woke up in pain. She suffered confusion—Allison, Texas, Beta, Tex—and she found herself. Her name, her being, her reason and truth. She found Alpha—found Church. She faced her demons, she became part of the Meta, and now—now she was whole.

Tex came into this world screaming. She'd leave it in peace.

"I don't know why, but I hate goodbye's."

"I know. I do too."

"This isn't goodbye, in the end, is it?"

"No. It never is, between us."

"It never is."

Goodbye.