North paused mid-sip as he spotted Wash making his way towards them. His eyes darted to Grif, head tilting sideways as he raised his eyebrows. The orange soldier started, turning slightly before nodding. Question asked, answer given. With a smooth, practiced motion, Grif swung his legs out from under the table and rose to his feet, pausing long enough to grab his helmet and drink before walking away from the booth. A flicker of envy ran through Wash; that type of silent communication used be the norm during the days of Project Freelancer.

Discomfort churning in his gut, Wash took Grif's seat and pulled off his helmet, setting it down on the table at his elbow. For a moment, he and North just looked at each other, taking in the many changes time had inflicted on them.

North's once bright blond hair had turned dull and dry, looking more like brittle straw than anything else. Overgrown stubble muddled the outline of his face and chin but couldn't completely hide the faint spots of discoloration dotting his skin. The whites of his eyes- weren't, any longer. The sclera had taken on a bloodshot, yellowish tone, a worrying sign of a serious drinking problem that set Wash even further on edge.

Meanwhile, North felt his stomach sink at how thoroughly battered Wash looked. His once boyish, cheerful face now looked half-starved with narrow cheekbones poking out beneath his heavily freckled skin, as though he'd been ground down to bare bones. Bruise-like shadows lurked under his eyes, while thin scars crisscrossed his face and vanished down the side of his neck. Wild sandy blond hair was already turning prematurely gray at his temples and over his ears. Over all these visual testaments to how brutally Project Freelancer had treated him was the patina of still-healing bruises Locus's merciless attack had left behind.

With a soft sigh, North pushed one of the untouched drinks towards Wash and raised his own in mock salute. "We both look like hell," he said in a rueful voice.

Wash let out a harsh bark of laughter and picked up the drink, tipping it slightly towards North. "To surviving by the skin of our teeth," he agreed.

"I can drink to that."

And with a light clink of their glasses, they did.

"So, is it because of what happened in Project Freelancer?" North asked once he'd set his drink down. Wash paused mid-sip, confusion creeping over his face. "It's just-" North paused for a moment, uncertain how to continue. Juggling grenades was easier than this, sitting here and facing that tense, closed off face. "It's been almost a week since the Battle of Armonia. I know you were in Medical for a while but, well, it seems like one of us is always coming or going. It didn't take long to get the message that you didn't want to talk. I figured it must have something to do with Freelancer."

Wash sighed. Figured North would just jump straight to the heart of the matter. He fidgeted with his glass, focusing for a moment on how easily it slid on the table through the slowly forming puddles of condensation. "I guess you could say that," he finally admitted. "Although it's more to do with what happened after. Um-" He stopped. Closed his eyes for a moment and gingerly rubbed his brow with an armored hand. "After the crash, what did you and South do?" he asked, opening his eyes.

"You mean after the program imploded?" North confirmed in a soft tone, looking faintly puzzled. Wash gave him an unhappy nod. "We hiked to an abandoned simulation base, took shelter for a while so South could recover. She was pretty battered after the fight. Then, we hitchhiked to a new system and started doing merc work guarding transports, taking on bandits, that sort of thing. Not our favorite way of passing the time but it was a reliable way to make a buck."

North took a moment to drink. These were painful memories, memories of being half-starved and unwashed for days and weeks at a time. Never certain when they would find another job, what they would be forced to do in order to survive on the fringes of society. They'd fought whoever they'd been hired to fight, fought in bars, and fought each other. By night there'd been screaming matches, wild accusations and recriminations being flung by both sides. And when the next morning dawned, they'd suited back up and faced the day as a team.

"We were surviving," North finally continued, "but we couldn't stop fighting. South was never completely comfortable leaving the program. And through everything, Theta was both our ace-in-the-hole and the reason for the worst fights. South wanted to send him back to Freelancer, I wanted to keep him, to protect him. Each year, it all just got worse," he said in quiet misery. "Eventually, the fights bled into work and a job went wrong. Really wrong. We were supposed to be protecting an isolated colony from raiders but- we didn't. We failed, completely and utterly. South took off afterwards. I couldn't bring myself to stop her.

"A week or so later, she came back. Said she'd taken time to think and work through some things." North shook his head. "She seemed happier. More focused, driven. Like she'd found new purpose. The fights stopped and I thought everything was going to be okay." North fell silent, then downed the remained of his drink. "Then Maine, the Meta, attacked. I don't- I don't really remember how exactly that went down. Just Meta tearing my armor to pieces and ripping Theta out. After that..." Voice drifting off, North shrugged helplessly. "I woke up and Theta was gone. South was gone. My armor a smoking crater. I eventually found my way here and just started drinking. Didn't stop or slow down until Grif showed up."

Wash nodded slowly as North stopped talking, both in sympathy and acknowledgement. "I think, I can fill in some of those blank spots," he said softly, dropping his gaze to stare into the amber liquid of his drink. "I got certified Article 12 once the dust settled from the crash. It took me a while to- to sort myself out after Epsilon. And even then, they only de-certified me because they needed someone to start running down Freelancer assets that had slipped away from the program. They called me Recovery One."

He sat in silence for a moment, the bitter sound of his post-Freelancer codename hanging in the air between the them. Taking a deep breath, Wash pushed on. "All I wanted was to burn Project Freelancer and everyone associated with it to the ground. But they were watching, wary I'd snap or break the wrong way. I ran down equipment, intelligence, even former agents at Command's beck and call while trying to come up with a plan.

"Eventually, I answered a recovery beacon and I found York." Wash's voice was flat and uninflected, his mouth tight and obvious pain in his eyes. "Wyoming got him. All these years and he finally couldn't protect that damned left side. I recovered Delta, destroyed everything else- and that's when your beacon activated.

"When I got on the scene, South was unconscious and you armor had been stripped of both Theta and your gear. I'd seen that kind of damage before and knew you'd been attacked by the Meta. When South came to, I gave her a minute to mourn before I blew up your armor."

Pausing, Wash' looked up, eyes narrow. "Your armor was empty, North. And you were nowhere to be seen."

North gave him a helpless look, spreading his hands palms up over the table. "I don't know, Wash, I can't explain it. I remember Maine tearing into my armor. I remember Theta. Then I woke up under a pile of rocks and my head had a burning hole in it where Theta should have been."

"I guess that's a mystery we'll never solve," Wash reluctantly concluded. He took a bracing sip from his beer and refixed his gaze on the table. "Well, after I blew up your armor, I got in touch with Command and told them you and South were dead. You two had been running for so long, I- I wanted her to have some peace once she'd helped me out with a little... project.

"South implanted Delta and we set a trap for the Meta. Only, it turns out, the Meta attacking you was itself a trap. South shot me and left me for dead." Wash stopped. Squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. "It turns out South had signed back on with Command and was also working as a Recovery Agent. First, she set you up and then me, all with an eye towards capturing or killing the Meta and to hell with the consequences. And now that she had Delta, her very own A.I., she left.

"I found her again a while later. I had Caboose and… and another Blue with me by that point. We drove the Meta away but not before it managed to injure her." Wash's tone went flat and his words started to emerge in short, clipped sentences. "Delta implanted himself into Caboose. Delta told me her plan to save her own skin. That she'd been about to give him up. Delta also informed me that she did the same with you. He suggested I make sure she didn't hamper our progress hunting the Meta. So I shot her in the head. And destroyed her body."

North's face turned ashen. His mouth fell open, working wordlessly as horror crept into his eyes. For a moment, he couldn't speak, couldn't think. "You- my sister, you killed-"

The back of a chair slammed into their table. Grif stared down at the two Freelancers with a tight, unreadable expression on his face before dropping into the chair he'd rammed them with. "In case you forgot," he began, "you're in a bar. There is no such thing as private." He turned briefly, gesturing with his empty glass at a nearby server. Then, setting the glass down, he folded his arms and gave them both a long look.

"I didn't want to butt in but this conversation was clearly about to go off the rails." Grif stared hard first at North, then Wash, not looking away until he had their full attention. "I think it might be useful to backtrack a little bit. Look at the big picture."

"Big picture?" North demanded, still ashen faced and angry. "He killed my sister!"

"Yeah, because she shot him. And tried to get him killed. After trying to get you killed," Grif countered. "And why did she do that?" He waited, looking back and forth. "Well?"

"She was looking out for herself," Wash finally answered.

"Right. But also wrong. Big picture, Wash. Try again."

"She didn't trust that I, that we would help her," North stated in a faintly questioning voice. He wasn't sure what his lover was trying to get at.

Grif shook his head. "Strike two. You're thinking too small."

Perplexed, Wash and North exchanged confused looks, united momentarily in the face of Grif's strange riddle.

With a roll of his eyes (and a quick thank you as a server finally brought him a fresh drink), Grif took pity on the Freelancers. "By the time the Meta came to exist," he explained, "South wasn't your sister anymore, North. Not after everything the Program did to her. By the time the program imploded, she just another test subject to be tormented and taken apart."

"Grif, I don't-" North shook his head, struggling to understand what he was talking about. Damn Grif and his multi-layered reasoning.

"Everything Project Freelancer did was an experiment, right?" Grif paused to drink, watching them over the rim of his glass. When no answer was forthcoming, he swallowed and continued. "The main experiment was the with the Alpha and the fragments. That's old news. But they did smaller experiments at the same time. We heard about that shit all the way back in Blood Gulch, stuff like putting two A.I.s in Carolina just to see what would happen. North, do you really think dickweeds like that could resist doing a twin study?"

Wash blinked. "That's right," he realized, several disjointed memories starting to whisper at him all at once. "I remember that now. They wanted to see what would happen if one of one twin got an A.I. and the other didn't."

"Exactly," Grif nodded. "So they pushed and pushed and pushed at South until she was breaking, until she was coming apart at the seams. Watching her to see how she was different from her twin. The South you've told me about, North, from when you two were growing up? Doesn't sound a goddamned thing like the South I've heard Wash or Carolina mention.

"Project Freelancer took your sister and twisted and tormented her until she was so broken the only person she could trust anymore was herself. They tortured her until she reached the point where she couldn't trust anyone not to hurt her anymore. All she had left was the drive and values they forced on her." Grif reached out and took one of North's hands, squeezing it as tight as he could through their gauntlets. "Project Freelancer killed South. The gun may have been in Wash's hands but they're the ones that destroyed her."

North closed his eyes and squeezed back. It made sense. It really did. Like so many of the puzzles and thought experiments Grif had laid out for him over the last several months, the fragmentary pieces suddenly snapped together to form a whole, complete picture. South had changed. The woman he'd lost to Meta's attack hadn't than the twin who'd left Project Freelancer with him. She'd been dramatically different from the rowdy but still loving Nika Petrov who'd convinced him to sign up for the mysterious Special Ops unit trying to recruit them. He'd always known, had always been aware but he hadn't really thought through what those changes meant or how they'd occurred. And how could he when he'd grown so obsessed with protecting Theta over even the life of his own sister? He'd changed as well, hadn't he?

Trust Grif to put together all the pieces, even ones no one else noticed.

Shaking his head, North opened his eyes and gave Grif a bitter smile. "Patterns and links," he said in a shaky voice. "I told you that, weeks ago. You really do see shit other people don't. I'm damned glad I don't live in your head. It must be frustrating being surrounded by so many idiots."

Grif's cheeks darkened noticeably at the sudden praise.

North turned his head. "Wash?" he started in a soft voice. "I'm- I'm going to need some time to process this. But Grif's right. You may have pulled the trigger but it was the program that killed my sister. I just- I didn't see it before. Probably because they were breaking me right along with her. I wish you hadn't done it but… you wouldn't have had to if they hadn't hurt her."

"Project Freelancer broke all of us," Wash agreed. "I don't know if we're better or worse of for having survived."

"I'm glad you lived," Grif muttered. The three men sat in silence for several long moments. Eventually, he couldn't take it any longer. "Well, that was a shitty conversation," he announced. "Let's move on. What's going to start a fight first: Donut with his horrendous double entendres or Tucker after he flirts with someone's date?"

"Absolutely Tucker," Wash replied, jumping relieved at the sudden change of topic. "It's like he found a book of the worst pick-up lines of all time and memorized them. So it won't just be because he flirts with the wrong person but because the lines he uses are so bad."

North took a bracing drink, still rattled but understanding why Grif was pushing them away from dwelling on South. "I dunno, have you heard Donut? It's worrying to think what he'll be like once he's started drinking."

The debate was slow at first but over time, the conversation began to flow easier. Grif didn't say much, preferring to drink and hold North's hand, jumping in whenever the discussion started to lag. They'd avoided one truly awful fight. He didn't want another to break out because the two former Freelancers were feeling so emotionally raw.

A strange tickle suddenly filled the back of his brain. Eyes narrowing briefly, he slowly stood up, muttering about going to the bathroom before strolling away from the table.

Church? What the fuck are you doing? Grif demanded silently.

Hey, this wasn't my idea! the A.I. protested. His voice was slightly sulky; he wasn't used to being spotted so quickly by the sim-troopers. Your little 'bang the chair on the table' routine got some attention and Carolina wanted to make sure North and Wash weren't going to start fighting.

So you waited until after the argument was over to jump into my implants? Clear annoyance flowed through Grif as he roughly pushed open the door to the men's bathroom.

I told Carolina you could handle it. It's not my fault she's feeling over-protecti- Dude, seriously?

I need to piss, Church. If you didn't want to see it you shouldn't have jumped on board without asking. When the itch that heralded Epsilon's presence didn't vanish, Grif felt his temper flare. Church! he silently yelled, Say what you want to say and get the fuck out!

All right, all right! Just give me a rundown on what happened between Wash and North so I can tell Carolina. Alcohol is making her feel all mother-hen-y and shit.

Rolling his eyes, Grif mentally bundled up the conversation he'd jumped into and shoved it at the A.I. There was a flicker of surprise before Epsilon dove into it. Then, a chuckle, amusement layered with compassion, sympathy, and understanding.

Grif? I'm glad we're on the same side, Epsilon informed him. North's right, your brain is freaky good at processing intel. Almost as good as me, actually. Alright, that's all I needed. Catch you later! You're done pissing, by the way.

The tickle vanished. Grif stared at the wall in quiet resignation. He was surrounded by idiots and assholes. With a sigh, he started the process of tucking himself back into the armor. May as well go find his asshole. With the Reds and Blues in the bar, it was sure to be an entertaining night.