There's red on the ceiling, flashing across the wall of your room.
Hands reach for you out of the dark, calloused and warm, hoisting you out of the comfort of dolls and blankets. Warm arms scoop you up in place of the blanket, and a soft rumble of effort hums on your ear as this comfy vessel adjusts your weight. Your eyes struggle to adjust.
"Come on, up sunshine."
Papa Lars smells like the outdoors after a storm and old library books. You dig your fingers a little into his shoulder as the staircase falls underfoot. Sounds beyond the security of his heartbeat drone away and when you look up the familiar wallpaper is gone.
A bitter wind nips at your cheeks before you have yourself fully hidden against his neck. Flashes of color beckon at the edge of your eyes. Bright, arrhythmic flashes.
"Papa..." Your lashes flutter against the wind, frowning over the whirl of red, blue shimmering against rain flooded streets. "Where's daddy?"
And then alarms break all sound barriers.
.
.
.
The start of a shriek is on your throat when the dark lurches back. It takes a fitful beat to register those frantic breaths as your own, and several more to muster up the serenity to get the air to move in and out at a leveled pace.
Dark. This room is dark, there's nothing red... Save for a hum in the walls, all is quiet.
..."Everything okay?"
Connie's inquiry is soft and just kind of curious. You risk a glance towards the floor of her cot, catching the underside on her body propped up like she's been on her belly for a while. With you watching she drops an arm across the edge.
"Fine." You respond, only realizing how hoarse you are once it's out. "I'm fine. ...Just stress dreams."
Connie grunts softly, then pushes up from her elbows, resettling on her rear. She starts rummaging through the heap of track pants and jerseys based at the foot of her bed. "I'll have to remember to pick us up some lavender next time I'm off ship. My mums always did that for me when I had trouble sleeping. Do you want to talk about it?"
"No." You cut her off short. ..."No, you don't have to do that."
Connie finishes with a frustrated attempt at shimmy into her running tights while still lying down. Her face comes up annoyed and flustered, and she pushes herself out of bed still jerk them up over her thighs. She hops a little on her toes and almost falls back into bed.
"...I don't really have dreams." Mouth moving slowly, you observe this regimented dress routine. "They're almost... they feel like old memories, but I can never remember them like that."
"Like, chemical fabrications?"
..."No. I don't know... In the moment I'm aware of everything that's about to happen, but I'm there as an observer. ...I can't explain it– they're things I know I've seen before." You watch her lace her shoes, meticulously tucking the bows under drawn laces. "What would you call that?"
"Well I'm not really certified to diagnose you Carolina." She leaves her shoe alone and looks up with a crinkle between her eyes. "Have they always been the same dreams?"
"In sequence, yes. This was one I haven't had in years. Not since I was a junior in high school." You notice your arm motioning and the train of her eyes following it. ..."They're just dreams?"
"Just dreams." She coincides, though her eyes are asking plenty of questions. "Headphones are in my pillowcase if you can't sleep. I'll be on the third floor." Connie stretches, shrugging out of her sleep top as she stands. ..."I keep chocolate stashed in my sock drawer." When you stare she clicks her tongue. "I'll sleepwalk if I go to bed hungry."
Something warm flutters under your breast bone at her caustic grin.
"I mean, it's only fair." Connie springs a little on her way to the door. ..."I get one of yours, you get one of mine."
.
.
.
Thursdays are pancake days. Biggest breakfast turnout of the week, the mornings where most of the team gets up at the crack of dawn and will be running hallway laps with you up until the mess hall is opens and serving.
But you can remember real breakfast food. The bottled batter knock offs leave much to be desired, displayed in greasy, unceremonious heaps. They're soggy and feel like rubber between teeth– but they are happily devoured by friends of yours used to stale read and cereal in the morning.
The real jem of this ordeal, comes not in the form of half cooked dough. Pancakes, come with pancake toppings.
Fresh fruit is thawed from the freezer and brought down and served as a delicacy. Washington has always struck you as the kid who went through elaborate means to avoid eating his vegetables, and the way he makes off with organic chocolate and sugar have only encouraged said belief. Every Thursday morning though, he's up ahead of most running laps of the third floor with you until the hall starts serving. York and North have joined forces on several occasions and have tried beating him to the fruit, but for his food he has always found a way to outmaneuver them. At the very least he would walk away with a handful of grapes and not a noise of complaint.
What you've always enjoyed, between the squabbling and the fresh incentive to be up on time, was the camaraderie. Thursdays are mornings where almost everyone sits down together. There's banter and food thrown around and yours was always the loudest table with York and South facing off personalities.
Today's Thursday and Wash is sitting next to you, plate piled high with diced strawberries and orange slices. Across the table is Florida, cutting his pancakes into small triangles with the rim of a combat knife. Washington stabs his fingers into the berries, flicking at one before he picks it up. Florida watches him pick at it, and shovels a stack of triangle inside his cheek. Wash drops the berry back onto his plate and you give him a nudge with your knee below the table.
"Stop playing with your food." You grumble, handing over the spoon that came with your coffee. "Eat like an adult."
He holds the hiked brow look like he means for it to have greater affect. When nothing comes of it he mutters his resolve and takes the spoon grouchily.
Florida grunts. Squeaking another chunk of pancake into his cheek, he talks around the mouthful. "Kinda nice to have quiet company for a change." He chews. "... Where are all our regulars at?"
"Exhibition match prep." Wash supplies, taking what is by far the most begrudging mouthful of fruit you've ever seen. The face he makes with the berries in his mouth, looks like somebody has slapped him. He has to bite to keep his mouth around the evidentially bitter fruit. ..."That's where Maine's at, and York, I think. Can't answer for anyone else."
You stare into the black waters of your mug, heavy eyes to going unfocused. York had been pried away from the early morning run by an attendee for this match and you hadn't heard from him since. North and South are a few tables down, but South has been shooting you ugly looks for about a week and North is still working to get back on her good side. You can't see them choosing to share a table with you any time soon.
"I'm kinda starting to feel excluded. Everybody at the top seems to be getting their matches."
You look up from your coffee and Wash is wielding another spoonful of strawberries.
Florida exchanges a glance with you, chewing thoughtfully. ..."Never thought I'd see the day where you were chomping at the bit for a pummelling, kiddo."
Wash wrinkles his nose, diverting his eyes to his plate. "I just... I should be doing something, right? I haven't had a legitimate sparing session in weeks."
"Hey now, number six is nothing to be ashamed of." Florida says, easing into the paternal mode he is most notably shunned for. "Never be in a rush to wreck face."
"I thought it was one of the predominant credentials to enlistment..." Wash grumbles, forearms flexing under controlled irritation. ..."I really need something to do."
"You spar with Maine." You voice, gathering their attention. "He can prepare you for anything you come up against out there."
Wash submits, turning the fruit over in his mouth. "Usually Con– ...CT, likes to trade blows, but she's been really..." He interrupts himself to gag. "She's been a bit, off, lately."
Florida hums and it's difficult to place how much of it is genuine. "Poor girl's got something on her mind doing damage." He lifts the fork halfway to his lips, then draws it back. "One of you two should talk to her. Tell her she really needs to stop taking these rankings to heart."
"Connie's a big girl." You say, mostly to veer away from how off road this discussion has already gone. "She knows she's dropping behind, but she'll get back up. It's none of our business how she deals. If you would like to get bring this to the Director's attention, be my guest. I trust you know the way to his office." Last door, second floor. Every evening before lights out, there's light seeping through the split between the floor and the door. You can imagine that he has that same corner desk as he did in Arlington, that in the afternoons you were allowed up into his lap, given free reign of the computer while dad put his head back...
Another gag and the table rattles beneath your elbows.
"Washington, spit them out."
He does, choking a little and wiping his mouth. You indicate at a run of pink on his chin, the sharp motion of his arm only smearing the juice into his sleeve.
"Really?"
He reaches across the table for your mug, snatching it and taking a mouthful before you can scold him. Hardly a moment passes before his face slips and he's choking. "What's in this?"
"It's coffee."
"It's not," Washington defiles, choking again. "That's dirt."
You size him up, lips curving away in a growl. "So then give it back."
Wash pushes your mug back as though it's radioactive, other hand clenched over his mouth.
Freshly bristled you take a long slurp. ..."They still have that MR case up on the counter. Wash, go get me a cranberry bar."
He stares you down before scooting off the bench. "You're in a mood today..."
..."Wait, wait– get me blueberry."
If an eye roll came with an audible sound, that's the sound Washington makes when he sets off to seek and retrieve. Florida hums, and this time you're able to label it as genuine.
"That one's a good kid." Florida pushes a soggy triangle around his plate with a fork. ..."Shame he takes to the wrong sort."
.
.
Wash wasn't kidding when he said it's been weeks from the last date he sparred. Twenty minutes in his lip is bleeding and there's a ripe bruise across his sternum from where you had caught him with a round house.
Maybe he had been stoking for a fight with you, maybe he hadn't. When he came back with a cranberry MRE a took a hefty bite out of it... well, it had seemed enough of a challenge at the time.
Either way, you had managed to fit enough of a window in your schedule for a session, and here you are. Gratitude is far from what you've been receiving on Washington's end. He's breathing with a faint wheeze, and that initial spring to his step is long gone. You find that he spends too much time looking at faces, and not enough on the limbs moving around them.
Again, you catch him with a jab, close enough to the pressure point in his neck to – hopefully –establish his guard. He dances back a few feet and you allow him the space to regather himself. "Sloppy," You bait. "Maine's been taking it easy on you,"
Wash's gaze lifts, steeled against yours. "Maine, puts me in the recovery ward."
"I'll bet he does,"
Wash comes at you, abandoning force in favor of speed. He moves faster than York, and takes half the recovery time. His faults lie on getting in too tight–like this–and having no idea where to go from there. Fists, he doesn't really know what to do with. The way he tries to hide this reminds you of the under age colony kids collected by pop-up Army banks. The kids they would bump up to run drops to fill numbers, taught only the basics of moving and shooting.
You catch his forearm when he swings close to your chin. Your shoulder runs forward into his front, and when he bows you wind back and snap a blow to his temple. "Don't run in without a plan." Moving in slower, you brace the side of his shoulder as he staggers. "The speed is good. Work on your footwork." You slash an imaginary line across his torso. "You can't be this exposed. Someone comes at me like this in a fight, I've got the kill shot." You get a feel for the blood pulsing in his wrist before relaxing your grip. Guiding his left hand into a fist, you have him drive up into the joint connecting to your shoulder. "Go from here."
He moves as you start relinquish your grip, hitting the sensitive gap and twisting your arm back. Satisfied with the sizzle of nerves running up and down your arm, you follow his jukes, cutting at his forearms until an elbow snaps against your jugular. The air lurches out almost alarmingly, and before the spots have cleared your vision he has his arm torn free.
"Now think," You tell him over your closing throat. "Where to go,"
You swing from the left and he steps around. You back up, putting some distance between yourself and him. He comes back like a freight train and it's almost aggravating, observing him fall right back into the same mindset. This time you let him charge into the space you had occupied previously. He drags his ankles down to pivot but your elbow drives between a narrow slit of his ribs and the wind that comes out of him sounds almost chalky. Achy and frustrated, you pull back to let him breathe. "Where are you going, Wash?"
–"Not all of us have moves like the fucking Terminator..." He's wheezing like there's a fist on his throat. "... You're too good at this,"
"You don't get out of this with flattery, my name's not New York. You need to be anticipating movements, Wash– look at me."
"My lungs are about to burst..."
"Washington. Think about where I'm going to be. Where can I hit you the hardest?"
Wash looks up, puffing through his cheeks. "You can hit from anywhere."
"So you defend from everywhere."
He makes one rough noise you can't quite pinpoint as a scoff or a cough.
"Try a little bit of offence. All you're trying to do right now is get within range to disarm me."
He blinks, eyes shot with fatigue. "What's wrong with that?"
"It's not what we do. When going in for a kill, you have to be closer about it. Force me into a state where I'm too busy guarding myself think of where I can land hits on you." When he doesn't move to advance you clap his shoulder. "Come on. We're going again."
He doesn't cover all of his openings, but by the time you're ready to call it quits the frustration from your end has been defused. Your shoulder aches when you drop down to the floor with Wash. Nursing the split in his lip with his sweatshirt, he passes a water bottle over as you sprawl out on your back.
"Thanks." Beyond the swell of his lip, he sounds pleased.
"I'm going to have Connie look at your framework." You unscrew the cap and swallow ravenously. ..."She'll get you better around a knife. Better than I can."
Wash grunts, taking the bottle as you hand it back. "She's got enough on her plate right now, without my shitty CQC scores to ice the cake."
"You boys are making too big of a deal out of this. She's going to work through this, and how she does so is up to her."
"You think this is just a phase?"
"Connecticut is a woman. I am a woman. I think I would get this a little better than you, Wash."
Washington flips off the cap of his water and takes a mouthful. ..."Mind if I ask something?"
Your eyes flit sideways, half lidded. "What about?"
"About the armor enhancements." When you don't object he takes it as his cue to proceed. "You have a few of them, but you only really use one of them at a time?"
"They hook up to our command server. Signals grow weaker the more distance gets put between units. Usually there's enough power per pack to run one at a time, within measured intervals. Units vary in how they expend power so you really have to be watching the stats. Pressing the units too hard can cause a surge that shuts down a pack. Armor overloading is rare but given the right fluctuations of energy, shit can happen."
"...Aren't all medical devices meant to run with backup connections in place?" Wash squirms a little. "...I mean, York has a fucking healing unit,"
"It requires the same connection to our server to remain operational."
"...Can't really see the appeal of running the thing if it's going to max out before the job's done..."
"They've been working on updating our units." You say, concealing anything in your voice that could be misinterpreted. "You shouldn't be worrying about this, Wash."
He sits quietly, fingers folded. His lip is bleeding again when he turns himself to you. ..."The thing with Utah. ...Was that just a hoax, the equipment malfunction?"
"The unit was improperly wired. They've had a technician clear it since and North hasn't shown any signs of issue with it."
"You mean other than that one time its pack overheated and nearly knocked him into cardiac arrest?"
"I'll talk to Connie."
He remains seated as you straighten off of your elbows, the sweatshirt still held to his lip.
..."Wash, I would never have agreed with the administrations if there were any doubts regarding their safety."
He nods hard twice. "Sure, I know that. I just, I think it might be me, you know? It just... it all sounds so intrusive..."
You stare, feeling a draft of eeriness murmuring into your shared space. Wash gets lied to all the time. York and North have him convinced there's a secret pool deck nobody is telling him about. Maine has some pretty outstanding stories of his own to showcase this gullibility. You tell yourself that this is no different; all you're doing is jumping on the bandwagon.
A light clamp echoes through the training room, and you've already flinched before you see Washington sealing the bottle up. He shakes himself at the neck, and the sweat has his hair jutting out in spikes. "I'll see you." He says, pushing off the floor. "There's this thing I've gotta get to with the upper brass. Don't know why they even asked for me."
A few moments go by before you notice the arm he's stretched out and wave him off. "I'm going to stick around. The match is coming up."
"Right, that should be interesting. Maybe I'll catch the tail end of it." He tucks the water and his hoodie underarm as the MOI's circulation system kicks to life. "If you see York, would you tell him I'm up for 'Apollo 117'?"
"What is it with you boys and shitty movies?"
"Says the square who likes the original 'Dukes of Hazzard'." Washington hops about a foot to the side when you make a sweep at his ankles, staring down with mock disapproval. "You should come. Make some snide remarks, eat all of our junk food."
The loose back of your sweatshirt flails at a gust of air, an icy row of needles pinning along where the sweat collects at your back. A bit of a smile crooks your features. "You boys had better bring extra."
.
/
Last chapter before shit hits the fan
Thanks for reading/review
Ladies and gents, please fasten your seatbeltz...
