I'm So Sorry
Chapter 2: Fingers
Description: AU. In this universe, before Delta can even tell Washington about North, South fires her pistol and kills Agent Washington. He's gone now and his story ends on an unfinished note. Now it's her story.
A/N: So I was gonna wait and post this on the 28th, since that day is my seventeenth birthday, but I don't know if I'll have time that day so here. In other news I'm really loving this fanfic in particular, so let's hope the next update after this comes sooner than later! I start school again on the 8th of September, so updates will probably slow down for all my fics, but until then, I'll try my best to stay on top of everything! Please R&R!
"Nice work in there, South," York comments when you walk into the locker room, an air of victory following you inside. "You kicked some serious ass."
"What can I say?" You ask, unable to hide the sheer joy from your voice. "I guess I was just born to kick Covvie ass."
"Either way, it was impressive, kid," Carolina compliments, and boy, does that make you fucking beam. Honestly, that's the best compliment you've gotten, and the Director nodded his head earlier and gave you a curt 'Good job' for crying out loud! "Keep up the good work."
"It would've gone better if you had set your trackers..." And there's the killjoy. North gives you an unimpressed look from where he's seated, back against his closed locker, his armor off all the way down to his torso, leaving his under-suit open for all to see. "Next time, you should really follow the Director's orders, sis."
You resist the primal urge to tell North to shut his mouth. The mission was a success, and to you, that's all that matters. So what if you never set your trackers? You completed the objective with little to no interruptions and escaped with only one new soon-to-be scar to show for it, it being a plasma burn on the back of your left thigh. It stings and burns like a bitch, but you've suffered so much worse in your time. When North looks away from you, still glaring, so does York, though he seems to do it more shamefully. He thinks you did well regardless, but damn him if he's about to take your side over your brother's. Carolina smiles at you though, somewhat comfortingly, and that keeps you from spitting out fire at York and North. You're grateful. Carolina's good at reminding you to keep your cool.
"So... I heard we're getting a new recruit soon," York offers up, trying to break the tension in the air, thick and heavy and stressed. "Supposed to be some guy from Earth. Pretty cool, huh? We don't get a lot of Earth kids this deep in space..."
Except you do, because Carolina, you, and North are all former Earth kids. Carolina is from Texas, like the new recruit coming in, and you and North are both from Ohio. "Sounds promising," North finally replies, after another pause. "Any idea what state he'll be?"
"Washington," York sounds out, smirking to himself in satisfaction. You almost want to laugh at him; he more than likely talked Connie into hacking the MOI's mainframe to find out about all of this. "I'm thinking he'll need a nickname once he's on-board."
"How about Wash?" Carolina suggests, and York claps his hands together, once, then points directly at Carolina, a wacky look on his face.
"There it is." York announces, and you laugh this time, along with North. You stop abruptly, however, as you realize how much your laughs sound alike.
Carolina seems to notice, and she walks up to you, a hand falling onto your shoulder to catch your attention. "Hey," She says, and her voice is soft and quiet, as to keep from being noticed by the other Freelancers in the room. "You wanna get outta here and spar? I know it's late, but I doubt anybody will be in the gym to bother us."
You nod almost too enthusiastically, glad to have an excuse to leave the room, especially since you'll be leaving with Carolina. "Yeah," You agree, smiling. "That sounds awesome, 'Lina."
Together, the two of you leave the locker room, and this time, you're not as angry when the memory begins to fade as you start to wake up.
This time, when you wake up, the room is empty save for the purple armored guy, whose reading a magazine while lounging in a chair in the corner of the room. You're dead quiet as you search the room, eyelids feeling heavy with the added weight of pain suppressants trying to put you back under. You glance down at your stomach, your under-suit gone, discarded, revealing your breasts and stomach to the outside world. You blink cautiously down at yourself, while your left hand, very slowly, reaches up and loosely traces the red blood stain on the bandages wrapped tightly around your middle, squeezing your belly somewhat. You then glance to the right, only to see that the purple armored guy has put down the magazine and is now staring at you, eyes glued to your hand over your bandages.
For a moment, you stare at each other, before the medic seems to realize that you're uncomfortable and looks away from your torso, staring into your eyes. "Sorry," He apologizes, and after a second, he stands, cautious and quiet. "Um... do you know your name?"
"South," You offer, and when he gives you a grimace, you sigh, shaking your head in agitation. "Agent South Dakota. Olivia Crimson."
"Oh," The medic mouths, before pulling off his helmet to smile at you. "Well, my name is Frank DuFresne, but people usually just call me Doc..." He mumbles out the last bit, like he's not happy about the given nickname.
You take a moment to really look at him. The guy, in your opinion, does not at all looked suited for any type of warfare. If anything, he looks ready to join a war protest. He's got dark brown skin, looking Indian, and short, black hair that is in an absolute mess on his head. He's got a rounded nose, and big, puppy-dog brown eyes that seem to bear into you, as if he's done something wrong and is now begging for your forgiveness. His smile is loose and unsatisfactory on his face, forced really, and you can see that he's missing his upper left lateral tooth. There's a tiny, thin scrap of a scar on the lip above the tooth, suggesting that he either got punched and lost the tooth, or fell and ripped his lip open, losing the tooth upon impact. You feel it's the latter hypothesis that's correct.
It's only when you notice his lips moving that you realize that he's been trying to say something to you. "What?" You question, aloud, hoping he'll be patient and repeat himself.
Doc smiles again, this time in understanding, and looks happy that you're paying attention this time. "Do you know where you are?" He asks, repeating himself.
You lick your lips, trying to moisten them as you think back, only to find that your long term memory is hazy, with too much red coming to the forefront of your thoughts. "No," You admit, after a few more seconds of contemplation. "What happened to me?" You ask, hoping that the medic might actually answer you.
Doc hesitates, if only slightly, his brow knit in concern, before he relents and let's out a long, even sigh of defeat. "You were shot, according to Caboose and Church," He explains, walking towards you and checking you over while he talks. "Caboose said it was 'Most definitely not his fault', so I'm pretty sure he shot you. Don't take it personally though, Caboose wouldn't actually shoot you to kill. It just... happens," He trails off, deep in thought, before he shakes it off. "I'm not sure how you came to be in Caboose's line of fire, but I can tell you that you are one lucky lady. You barely made it."
You nod, numbly, tired and uninterested. Turns out, being unconscious due to blood loss and pain medication does not leave you well-rested afterwards. "Where're the fuckers who brought me in?" You ask, after testing your weight by squirming on the med-bed.
Doc brightens at that. "They're scavenging the nearby buildings for supplies!" When this earns him a confused look, the medic gives a nervous chuckle. "Um, yeah, you're not at a standardized hospital, miss. You're at my bunker. I've been here for a few months now, trying to hide from some... angry customers," He chuckles nervously again, and you suddenly fear for your life and well-being. "Oh, don't worry, miss! I made sure to get it right when patching you up, so there's no need to worry! Besides, just from looking at you, I'm thinking you've got people to hide from too, huh?"
"Uh... yeah. Sorta," You admit, nodding cautiously up at the medic. You almost want to demand to see a medical degree, but you resist the urge. He saved you, after all. "Can I fucking go now?" You start to roll out of bed, ignoring the searing pain in your stomach.
"Oh God no!" Doc shouts, slightly hysterical as he rolls you back onto the bed, holding your arms down with surprising strength to keep you down. "You could pull those stitches, and I'm almost out of thread to stitch it back together!" He backs off after giving you a warning look, hands up in surrender. "Just... be patient. I'm sure Caboose and Church'll be back sooner or later, so you can see them then. Here," He goes to his chair, taking the magazine he'd been reading, giving it to you once he's back by your side. "It's an older issue, but it's got some great articles in there about basic first-aid... not that I used that article as my only diagram while patching you up or anything! Actually... maybe you should just take a nap..."
You return the magazine to him with a glare, before huffing and crossing your arms stubbornly over your chest. This is bullshit, in your opinion, but the medic DOES have a good point... you can't afford to get hurt again, not while that Church guy is still wanting you dead. Defeated and grounded for now, you survey the bunker, trying to get a feel for the place. It's old, older than the war possibly, with old posters ingrained into the walls, stained in by water damage years and years ago. There are newer posters up now, one even with a little kitten hugging a branch shouting 'Hang in There'. Wash would like that poster. Upon remembering Washington and why you're here, you scowl, sighing internally. You can't afford to think about him. It was his life or your's, and personally, you weren't exactly keen on kicking the bucket just yet. You still got a score to settle with the Meta, for killing both your brother and Carolina.
Mid-way through a lovely daydream involving yourself kicking the Meta's ass off an icy cliff like he did with Carolina, you hear a knock on a door in the distance. You make to sit up, but Doc clicks his tongue, giving you a stern glare when you look his way. The medic stands afterwards, attaching his helmet back over his head as he leaves you alone, walking towards the source of the noise. You look forward, having to lean up a bit to see a short staircase leading to a big, strong metal door. Doc squeezes out the door, the soft sound of him conversing with one or more people outside acting as a background sound as you stare at the ceiling, awaiting his return. You've always hated recovering from wounds, since you mostly have to sit around all day and do nothing. At least on the MOI you had your game systems, and people were always visiting each other in the medical wing.
You miss those days, back when everyone actually loved each other and wanted each other to get better. You remember your second month into the project, when you had gotten yourself damn near blown to bits after completing a mission. Everyone had been all over you for the next week, never giving you a moment's rest with so many visitors coming and going. It had pissed the doctors off, but you had loved the company and attention. Carolina and North had visited the most, Carolina talking her mouth off about whose ass she'd kicked in training, or about the latest missions she'd been on. North had come to more or less fret over you, constantly trying to adjust your pillow or sit you up, or even try to feed you at one point (You had taken the pudding cup and thrown it at him when he had tried that).
Before you can remember how absolutely infuriated the doctors had been, you hear the bunker door swing open, and in comes Caboose, Church, and Doc. "We have returned!" Caboose cheers, as if you were actually worried about them. "And we brought more band-aids!"
Church rolls his eyes, shooting you a scowl when he comes to your bedside. You promptly flip him off, and for whatever reason, his eyes widen a bit, surprised that you've acted just as hostile towards him. "Looks like some bitch is bright eyed and bushy tailed," Church comments, uninterested in your antics. "She gonna make it or what, Doc?"
Doc rolls his eyes, irritated apparently that Church is trying to get a rise out of you. "She'll be just fine. Please leave my patient alone, Church."
"She started it," Church fibs, even though you most certainly did not start it... unless offing Washington 'Started it'. In which case, you totally started it. "Whatever. We got what ya wanted. Now what?"
"Well..." Doc pauses, walking over to you to look you in the eyes. "Um... Miss Crimson? What is it you want us to do?"
You give Doc a raised eyebrow in response. "It's... just South," You assure the medic, tempted to reach up and pat him on the shoulder. "Call me South. When can I leave, asshole?"
Everyone goes quiet, exchanging silent glances. Doc scratches behind his head, even though he's wearing his helmet again, refusing to meet your eyes. "Well, um... you can't. Not yet at least. You're in no shape to move, South." The medic explains, looking uncomfortable.
You sit up, ignoring the strain on your stitches, and glare hatefully at the three men in the room with you. "If you fuckers did something to me, I swear, I'll-"
Doc raises a hand, and you go quiet, biting your tongue to keep from speaking. "-You have my word, South, that I'd never intentionally harm or neglect a patient under my care. You were shot in the stomach- there's no way around that. Unless, of course, someone were to carry you..."
Caboose perks up, grinning as he scrambles to rip off his helmet, shooting you a toothy, childish grin. "I will carry the angry lady! I have carried her before, and she was not heavy at all!"
You take a few minutes to analyze Caboose, looking the kid over. He's younger than you, more than likely, with a shock of raven black hair on his head, frizzy and messy and all over the place with no sign of improving anytime soon. He also has dazzlingly blue eyes, blue like the sky when it's late at night on a summer night, fireflies just about ready to start buzzing through the nighttime air. Caboose continues to smile, and you notice that he scars. A lot of scars. There's one going from his bottom lip to below his jaw, pulling whenever he smiles too wide, yet it doesn't seem to faze him. There's a long, jagged scar that didn't quite scar right that runs straight down over his right cheek. And the last one- on his face at least- is a small one that cuts across his right eyebrow, pulling whenever he furrows his eyebrows together in deep concentration or thought.
He looks like he's seen war, but he also looks like he shouldn't have. He's too young. Way too fucking young.
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty, snap outta it," Church orders, snapping his fingers in your face. You respond by grabbing his fingers, flashing him the briefest of smirks, and break his index finger and his thumb. "SHIT!" He curses, loudly, howling as he reels back, wounded by your attack. "The FUCK was that for!?"
"Existing," You offer, still unimpressed by the cobalt soldier. His bullheaded anger and rage doesn't faze you, South Dakota. He is no threat to you. "You, doctor guy," You look to Doc, who jumps slightly, impressed by your assault on Church. "Yeah, you. How long until I can get moving again?"
"That depends," Doc mutters, regaining his medical professionalism as he takes Church aside, sitting him down in a chair so he can attend to him later. "How much physical exercise are you wanting to do after your recovery? Because you won't be fighting anyone for at least a month, maybe a month and a half to give it some extra time."
"I plan to kill the fucker responsible for all of this," You explain, and when Doc seems confused, you sigh and shake your head. "The Meta, smartass. You never heard of him?" Doc shakes his head. "Well... he was like me once. He was Agent Maine-"
"-The Meta is a FREELANCER!?" Church booms, and you have to physically fight down the urge to get up and break the rest of the fingers on his right hand.
"Shut the fuck up. I'm telling this story," You growl, and when no one responds, more than likely out of fear, you settle down again. "Anyway... Maine was a Freelancer, like me and Wash were. Then... shit got real. He got Sigma and Sigma turned out to be a load of bullshit. He more or less fried his brain and took him over. Now they're the Meta."
"That... is very scary," Caboose concludes, though he doesn't look too afraid. "I think we need to call the Avengers."
"They won't answer," You say, instead of telling Caboose that the Avengers don't exist. Let him dream a little. God knows you want to. "So it's just us now. Project Freelancer... they'll be after us. Yes, I mean all of us. You fuckers are involved now. You ever burn the body like I ordered?" They all exchange a look, before Church and Caboose shake their heads. "Yeah, you're in deep shit now. No doubt Wash was logging all of his plans, and keeping tabs on everything he was doing. Dude was a Sherlock fan back in Freelancer; could never quit with the loner detective bullshit. He actually owned a trench coat."
"Whatever," Church grumbles, unimpressed by your knowledge. "So what? Why would Freelancer come after our asses?"
You smirk, slightly deranged and definitely Disney villain worthy. "You fuckers went with him. You really think he wouldn't log that shit? Now Freelancer thinks you're his accomplices... and they're coming for you."
"So... what do we do now?" Doc asks, fear evident in his voice. "We can't fight them! I'm a pacifist! Also, they have way more people and way more guns!"
"One," You lie back down, pointing a finger at the ceiling. "We get my ass up and running before they find us. We're in a bunker, so we should hopefully make it for awhile. Might need to move at least once a week, just to be sure. Two," You hold up a second finger to accompany the first. "We arm ourselves. Call in all our favors and get a crackpot team together. And three," You pause, trying to think. "... We raid Command. We'll find something in there to take 'em out with."
"That plan just might be crazy enough... TO GET US ALL FUCKING WRECKED!" Church shouts, glaring at you through his visor. "You seriously wanna raid Command? Are you crazy? Are you fucking suicidal!?"
"Probably," You decide, sighing. "Hey, it's not the best motherfucking plan, but we can touch it up a little. Maybe add a few things. We'll see." With that, you yawn, closing your eyes and passing out before anyone can stop you or ask why.
You come running into the house in tears. You bust open the backdoor, crying and angry and with blood covering your knees and elbows. You run straight past Ma, because she'll just scold you for not using training wheels like Owen, and run to Pa. You have to run downstairs into the basement to find him, eyes bleary with tears as you reach up, opening his workshop door once you reach the back of the basement. He's standing, leaning over his worktable, but he stops what he's doing as soon as he sees you in the doorway. He pulls off his welding helmet, revealing the bluest eyes you've ever seen, a shock of blond hair identical to your's, and a concerned frown. Pa doesn't even pause to pull off his gloves before he crouches down in front of you, scooping you up ever-so-gently, careful not to rub your bloody knees and elbows on his shirt, worrying that it might hurt you. You cling to him, sobbing into his shirt pitifully.
"Heya, sharpshooter," Pa whispers, voice gone to Hell after years and years of smoking. "What's wrong, baby girl? You fall off your bike again?"
You nod, hiccuping as you pull away to look him in the eyes, wiping the tears away from your lightning blue eyes. "Yeah," You mumble in defeat, obviously upset after your fall. "I crashed 'n went flyin' after hittin' Old Man Henry's gravel driveway."
"Well shit," Pa says, not bothering to keep from swearing in front of you. "You tell Ma yet?" When you give him a pout, he sighs. "Honey... now I know Ma can be damn tough on ya, but she loves ya just as much as I do. Come on, ya little trooper. Let's get you patched up." With that, he carries you out of his workshop and towards the stairs. You cry yourself to sleep by the time he reaches the first stair.
A/N: Ooooooo. A little of South and North's childhood, hm? This should be very interesting indeed. Please R&R!
~CabooseHeart.
