A/N: Each chapter of this fic is going to open with some quote from various works of literature that define the story as a whole. This one is from a play called Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. I haven't read the play since I was sixteen, but that quote always stuck with me, and I felt it appropriate for this chapter.
Much appreciation for those who look over this chapter- TeamKillingFTard, and as always, Melreincarna for stylistic choices. She was also the one who helped me with the passage in the middle, about memory.
Enjoy, and feedback would be amazing.
"Dying is not romantic, and death is not a game which will soon be over...Death is not anything...death is not...It's the absence of presence, nothing more...the endless time of never coming back...a gap you can't see, and when the wind blows through it, it makes no sound..."- Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead
He knew, in the end, it would be his downfall. It always was, slippery, all consuming, a choking blindness that had resulted in a literal loss of sight.
Delta had warned him; Delta always did, and just like the other times, his head filled with such blindness, he had not listened, cultivating that darkness until it was too late.
And now, lying in a pool of his own blood, floating in and out of consciousness, he allowed his thoughts to wander into places he had blocked, though now he no longer had the strength to push them away the way he used to.
Bitterness, guilt, hurt, love- a love that would never leave him, no matter how hard he fought the battle between clinging to the memories and trying to forget them.
In the last, rippling breaths of his body, his soul cried out in anguish.
Cassie.
It's funny how things come back to us. Delta would say the human memory fragments things into pieces; we break down into a smile, a pair of eyes, a nose, their brows- all triggered by senses; taste, smell, touch.
And so it began every time he recalled the scent of desert dust clogging his nose and mouth.
He was walking (though some of the lazier Freelancers would label it as jogging) circles around base, on his second lap when he spotted her.
She was smoking, huddled up outside of the base, shifting eyes with a defiant streak- daring someone to bust her on breaking the rules.
Throwing the measly cigarette stub on the ground and putting it out with the toe of her boot she reached for another, sticking it in her mouth as she fumbled with a flimsy plastic lighter that refused to work.
"Fuckin' piece of shit…"
He wondered why he hadn't noticed her before; perhaps he had been too absorbed in clearing his own mind to pay attention to much else. Though now, for the life of him, he couldn't recall what exactly he was trying to forget.
He was, however, surprised to see her; he had never encountered another Freelancer on his walks- they usually preferred the climate controlled base but more often than not York would find himself pacing there, a caged bird with clipped wings.
It was the desert, despite the arid dryness, that he felt most at home.
Leaning up against the outside wall of the base he watched with some interest, unable to place her name. Most of the Freelancers were vague acquaintances; the exceptions being his roommates, Wash and Maine.
She continued with fiddle with the lighter, her swearing coming out in snarls of exhaled breaths in more than one language- English and…French, perhaps?
She threw the bent piece of plastic on the ground, smashing it with the heel of her boot; only to turn and notice him, her smirk faltered into a smile, only to be replaced with a scowl.
"What do you want?" She snapped, her cheeks coloring a bright pink.
"Nothing," he replied, trying to hold back a cough as the remains of the acrid smoke hit his throat.
"You got a light?" She asked, pushing back her hair in the dusty wind that blew in their direction.
He brandished his own lighter- he wasn't a smoker, but preferred to keep one on hand for the occasional…odd situation.
"Thanks," she said, taking a long drag, almost sheepish now that there was a witness to her blatant rule breaking.
"It's a nasty habit, though," he said, wrinkling his nose.
She laughed, blowing smoke in his face at her next exhale.
"Better now?" She asked her voice light and teasing.
He was unable to hide the tears gathering in his eyes, or the deep cough building up in his lungs, and she laughed once again, finishing the cigarette in rapid time, flinging it into the sand and flouncing away without another word.
Upon returning to base an hour later he discreetly inquired who the Freelancer in the purple and lime green armor was.
Agent South Dakota, he was told.
He repeated the name in his head slowly, recalling her deep, bounding laugh, messy blonde curls and 'fuck you' attitude.
Agent South Dakota.