I own nothing of Bungie, 343 Studios, or Rooster Teeth.

We are not dolls

by Kaiyo no Hime

It wasn't dark in the room, not the peaceful, calm dark of night that the human mind so longed for. Computer screens blinked, and a faulty bulb flickered on the far edge of the room. The shadows of the soldiers twisted and danced in the cacophony even as their more real projections stood still, watching the words scroll across the screen.

Years had passed, lifetimes, and friends had been buried along the way. There was no cheering or excitement as the name they had searched for lit up. They knew he would be in the files here, when elsewhere he was not. He had been meticulous in his insanity, but even he had overlooked one single, small file in a run down building hidden in the old city proper. He may have even left the evidence on purpose, just in case someone went looking for him.

He had always had an overinflated ego, even when he had chided and lectured others about their own. The irony that it was his own creations, his own lasting mark upon the world that he had been so proud of, that would be his downfall was not lost of the group. But still they said nothing, and waited patiently for their leader to finish her business, scanning the exits for any signs of violence.

The alarm system had been so easy to disable.

"Hurry up," the soldier in orange hissed, staring at the bright red lights of the exit sign, gleefully illuminating the doorway in case of emergency.

Their stoic leader ignored him, something he had been used to longer than she had been with the group. Loud keystrokes continued to echo through the silence as the others shifted from foot to foot, growing nervous and impatient. They were a small group, and not the most skilled. They would rather not be trapped in yet another fire fight if they could avoid it.

"Have it," the leader growled, turning away and smashing the computer tower, "Torch the place."

"Thought you'd never ask," the red leader growled, pulling out a series of grenades from his pack and tossing them to the others.

Deep in the industrial complex of the city explosions sounded and a fire raged. An old military compound, a record complex of old soldiers and tax forms, was shattered by a series of explosions, and then burned to the ground. No one was inside, the news reported, just the loss of some old computers and a few forms. Everything was backed up on machines elsewhere, they assured. Everyone knew they were lying, but no one cared. Who cared about the old tax records of soldiers, after all? No one thought too hard about it.

"I don't like this," the soldier in blue hissed, "This is too easy. I would never leave myself this open."

"Then it's a good thing you're smarter than the original," the leader hissed, turning to glare at the speaker.

Even behind the mask, he could feel the rage just glowing from her eyes. He never could figure out what was it about dangerous, angry women that he had loved so much. First there had been Tex, all fire and spit and glory, and now there was Carolina, all danger and vengeance. He would honestly have to ask the original once they met him, there had to be something to this that wasn't contained in his memories, duplicate or not. He had had his personality traits tortured and removed, it wasn't beyond doubt that parts of his past the Director had wanted to keep hidden had been removed as well.

"Church, I don't like this," Caboose whispered, coming up behind his fellow blue soldier, cowering, "The mean lady scares me."

"She scares everyone Caboose," Church shushed, staring back at the house and scanning the horizon, "Just do what she says, and don't shoot anyone!"

"You gave him a weapon," Grif hissed, "He's going to kill us all!"

"Good, Caboose, aim for Grif first," Sarge grinned.

Carolina turned to the group suddenly and they went silent. This was not one of their routine Blood Gulch exercises, this wasn't the fun and games and futile fighting that they had started with. People were dead now, good people. All because of this one, single, old man. A man who had run away to the darkness of the forests, far away from the technology that he had revolutionized in his insane tactics for winning the war.

And their leader, their terrifying, psychotic leader, was far more terrifying than the thought of taking an old house and holding the owner hostage. They were all sure of what Carolina would do to him, the violence she would beget, but none of them had it in them to stop her. The Director had done so many cruel things over the years, and none of them had gone untouched by it.

"Sarge, Caboose, flank left, Church," she hesitated on his name, "Grif, flank right. Simmons, you're with me. Front charge. Try not to get yourselves killed."

A pause as they organized themselves, and then they were off, running and ducking and weaving through the undergrowth and through trees. The blurs of blue and red stood out on the front lawn, no cover there. But there were no gun shots from the building, no mines on the ground, no defense along the perimeter. They could have easily walked up to the house saying they were scouts selling cookies and had an easier time.

Carolina glared, perched on the deck, her back against the wall as she looked across the door at Simmons, and then nodded. Simmons tapped the comms once, and they were all inside the building, coming through doors and windows, shattering wood and breaking glass. Carolina grinned inside her helmet, and mentally told the Director that she hoped he liked his broken house. Lord knew she loved hers.

And there he was, sitting in the living room, still staring down at the book in his hands, ignoring the disturbance. He was an old man, not the soldier that she remembered, a loosely crocheted afghan draped over his back, guarding him against the summer cold that none of them could feel. She glared at him, stepping forward and signaling the others to stay back as they searched the house and came into the room one by one. This was her revenge, not theirs. She was why they were there. She was why they even cared.

"Carolina, it's been too long," the Director sighed, his growling drawl echoing weakly.

"You ruined my life," she swore, "Everything I ever wanted, everything I ever loved, and you took it all away from me!"

She tore off her helmet, throwing it to the side. Tears were streaming down her face as she raised the pistol, aiming at his head. At this range, with her skill, there was no doubt that she was there for the kill. There had never been any doubt to begin with. They all wanted him to suffer for what he had done, but she was the only one amongst them that really had the guts to actually pull the trigger. The rest of them were soldiers in name only, if that.

"York? And the Dakotas? They're all dead because of you," she hissed, "All because we were never good enough for you. We did everything you ever wanted, we better than you, and you just threw us away like dolls!"

"It was war," the Director sighed, looking up, "There are casualties in any war."

"We weren't dolls for you to play with," Carolina screamed, "I'm not a doll!"

"No, you were a soldier," he replied, readjusting his silver spectacles, "You knew what you signed up for, you all did. Things must happen in wars that are terrible, but they were for the good of the human race. Without me, without the things that I did, we would be nothing more than an extinct species of note. The losers of the Great War, only remembered as combatants on the battle field, nothing more. Would that have been better, Carolina?"

The gun wavered in her hands. She knew, deep down, she knew he was right. He was a terrible, heinous, brutal man, but they would not have survived without him. They were dying, their children were screaming, and he had helped like a bloody angel, full of what they needed but not what they had wanted. Revenge would not bring back the dead, she could hear York whispering in her ear, his death would not bring about anything at all. The war was over, it was okay for her to stop, she didn't have to be a soldier anymore.

"Why York," she whispered, her arm falling to her side, "Why couldn't you have just left me him?"

The Director just shook his head, "I'm sorry Carol-"

The gunshot cut him off, his eyes widening for a moment, and then the life fading, bleeding out from the bloody rose that bloomed across his chest. Carolina turned and stared at the soldier standing behind her, at Simmons. His arm wasn't shaking, his aim was true. Where her mind had forgiven the Director, others had not.

"He fucked us all," Simmons said, his voice breathy and distant, "We were just games to him. Playthings for you Freelancers. You weren't the dolls, we were."

Carolina just stared at him, eyes wide and unbelieving. All this time she had ordered them around, brought them along on her little crusade. She had never believed they could do this, were even able to do something like this. They were just training dolls to the Freelancers, obstacles in missions.

"None of us should have been dolls," Simmons growled, pointing his gun at Carolina, "None of us."

Carolina fell in a heap on the ground as the shot rang out. None of the others in the room were quite sure that it was wrong to leave the two corpses there to rot, but none of them argued. It was finally over, for all of them.

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