Two Birthdays
Chorus
Capital City of Armonia
26 Days Since Integrating Chorus's Armies
Agent Washington listened to the gravel crunch under his boots. As he wound his way between buildings in a less frequented part of Armonia's base, he appreciated the relative quiet of the outskirts — no accidental explosions, no cadets sending training rounds whizzing far too close to his ear, no beeping of hospital machinery. Especially no beeping of hospital machinery.
It'd been less than a month since their showdown at the radio jammer. He'd spent the following week in the hospital recovering from the hurt Locus had put on him. Dr. Grey had advised him that he'd gotten off easy: two broken ribs, a bruised lung, a moderate concussion, and a ruptured spleen that had required invasive surgery to repair. Easy. Wash had started questioning the doctor's grading rubric after that.
And yet, the worst part was enduring Tucker's incessant gloating that he'd made it out of the hospital a whole day earlier than Wash, because he was a 'total badass' and not 'old as balls.'
Caboose had stayed with Wash every night. There had been no extra hospital beds so the large sim trooper had just curled up in the corner like some wayward cat. Wash had given up on getting him to leave after the third night. The floor couldn't have been comfortable and he didn't know how a half ton of titanium alloy could contort like that, but Caboose had been insistent.
"In case the nightmares come back," the Blue had explained.
"You remember those, huh?"
"Oh, yeah. You had them every night after the snowy place for a long, long, loooong, long long time."
"Well, if you remember them then you remember what can happen if other people are around."
"Oh, don't worry, Wash. I don't think you will try to kill anyone in your sleep this time."
"Caboose, hospitals don't exactly bring about the greatest of memories for me. All this equipment, tests, needles, doctors, it's a recipe for some pretty heavy nightmares and I'd feel a lot better if you weren't — Caboose. Caboose?"
But the captain had already fallen fast asleep in his corner, snoring, leaving Wash to sigh and fall back on his pillow. And he did have nightmares. They had ranged in subject from Freelancer, to Locus, to Epsilon, even back to the Great War, but Caboose had been right. He hadn't tried to kill anyone. He supposed that was a win.
And so Washington had felt obligated to attend... whatever it was he was headed to now. He looked at the piece of paper in his hand. A blue stick figure stood adorned with a triangular... helmet... thing. The figure was nestled amongst what Wash could only assume were multicolored ordnance crates, while multicolored rain fell from the sky. Anonymous gray stick figures surrounded the character. Handwritten in crayon read the words:
July 14nd at 1800pm
Recreashun Room
As with the first two times he had read the flier, Wash assumed this was another after-hours all-call for volunteers to help move surplus ammo from storage to the armory proper, presumably before the evening storm rolled in. And then, as if the backwards e's had left any doubt as to the flier's authorship, it was signed:
Love,
Cabose!
He checked his HUD's clock. 1843. Dammit, he silently cursed. The individual evaluations, a week-long series of academic and physical assessments of his own design, were intended to highlight each soldier's strengths and weaknesses in order to better organize them into effective fireteams — Federal, New Republic, Red, Blue, and Freelancer alike. They were also intended to end before 1800, but Lieutenant Palomo had insisted on a do-over almost immediately after starting every single event, sometimes twice. Between that and the Feds and News' constant bickering, well...
1844.
Wash frowned up at the door to the rec room. This wasn't exactly how he'd envisioned spending his Thursday evening. A long, brutal session with the gym's punching bag sounded like just what he needed after a day filled with exasperation and buffoonery, but, well, he wasn't about to let Caboose's call go unanswered. He swung open the door and stepped inside.
Wash froze immediately. The room was empty. Other than a standard-issue table, far too small for the large space, and a few empty chairs, there was nothing: no crates, no ammo, no weapons.
That's when he heard the music. The notes of some nauseatingly upbeat pop song sputtered weakly from the tinny speaker mounted to the ceiling, playing for an absent audience.
Alarm bells went off inside his head as it dawned on the Freelancer: this was a social gathering. Social gatherings involved socializing. With people. Social gatherings were not his forte. Awkward social gatherings were a constant source of anxiety, and all of a sudden a very powerful urge to slowly back away before anyone—
"Agent Washington!"
Wash froze mid-stride. He'd been zeroed. With a cringe, he lowered his boot to the floor, his hand from his sidearm along with it. He recognized the voice.
"Hello, Caboose," he offered dully.
"Agent Washington, I am so glad you are here!" The overgrown soldier rolled out from underneath the table and sprung to his feet. He bounced on his toes. The way he stared excitedly at Wash from behind his visor reminded the Freelancer distinctly of a dog waiting for a tennis ball to be thrown.
"Where's everyone else? And why were you under the table just now?"
Caboose's shoulders noticeably slumped. "Oh," he murmured, "I was under the table because no one showed up and it made me sad."
"You're sad about moving ammo? I don't..."
Washington trailed off as his eyes scanned the room. It wasn't empty, not strictly speaking. Crayons and name tags were stacked neatly on the table; triangular paper hats next to them. There was what looked like a full cake, uneaten, sitting forlornly nearby. A pathetically small number of white balloons normally used for target practice — and which Caboose had apparently filled with air, not helium — were strewn sadly across the floor, littering it like garbage.
With a sudden rise of dread, Wash realized what this was. Today was Caboose's birthday, and this was his birthday party.
Oh, no.
And no one had shown up.
Oh, no.
Wash swallowed back his guilt. "Caboose..."
"Maybe the fliers weren't good enough," Caboose lamented weakly, sinking into one of the empty chairs. He picked sullenly at the table's edging.
Looking down at the flier he still held in his glove, which now clearly depicted party hats, boxes of presents, and confetti, Wash mentally kicked himself and his one-track GI Joe brain. "No, no, they're great, Caboose, really. I can tell you spent a lot of time on them. How many did you make?
"Three hundred."
"Three hun— by hand?"
"Yeah... The copy machine got sick. It, um, doesn't like the taste of crayons. Also Tucker did it."
"That's not how copy — okay, well, a storm's coming; I'm sure all your fliers just blew away in the wind."
"Yeah, probably. Then the wind crumbled them up and put them in the trash can. Wind is funny like that." Caboose kicked absently at the floor. "Kind of mean sometimes."
Noticing a handful of wadded up papers behind the Blue, Wash instantly felt his hackles rise. The armies weren't integrating as easily as he had hoped, and a few Feds in particular seemed to take pleasure in ridiculing Caboose at every available opportunity. Wash tried to remember their ringleader's name: Mayer, or Meyer, or something. Trashing his teammate's fliers was likely their most recent act. To Wash, it was an act of war. He made a mental note to discipline the hell out of Mayer and his gang later.
"Caboose, I don't know what to say. I'm sorry."
"It's okay. I know people in the army don't like me very much. They call me stupid. They have always called me stupid, and when they make me take army tests I feel even more stupid."
Rifling through his memory bank of the hundreds of evals he'd supervised over the last week, Wash tried to recall Caboose's. He hadn't scored very well, which hadn't exactly come as a surprise to anyone. But Caboose had given it his all, grinning throughout the whole assessment like it had been a game. The Freelancer dared think that Caboose was the only participant who had actually enjoyed it. So why the sudden change of heart?
Wash spotted one particular balled up paper the Blue still clutched tightly in his hands. Gently, Wash relieved him of the flier and slowly unfurled it. On it was scratched, "No one wants to be on your team, Captain DUMBFUCK." The last word was underlined for additional emphasis.
And suddenly it all clicked into place.
Wash felt his jaw tighten. "You found this in the trash can?" he asked with a forced calm, eyes still locked to the flier in his hand because he knew if he looked at Caboose and saw so much as a quivering lip he'd storm right out the door, find Mayer, and make it extremely difficult for anyone else to find him ever again.
"No, not that one," Caboose uttered. "That one was thrown at my head. Hurt more than I thought it would, even with my helmet on." He looked up at his team lead. "I know there are some things wrong with my head and that is why a lot of people don't like me, but I thought today would be different. I wanted today to be different."
"Why's that?"
"Because tomorrow isn't my birthday. Tomorrow is not special, and tomorrow I will not be special like I am today. Tomorrow is just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before—"
"All right, Caboose, you don't have to—"
"—and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that—"
"All right, Caboose."
"—and the day before that, and the day before that, and—"
"Caboose! I get it, I promise, okay?"
"Okay."
"Okay." Wash sighed and took the chair next to his teammate. With a pop-hiss! of its pneumatic seals, he lifted his helmet off his head and placed it on the table beside him. The sim trooper observed his lead keenly before copying the action. Wash watched as Caboose took great care to ensure his Mark V helmet — the very one Wash had crafted for him those months ago — was aligned exactly parallel to his own.
His peripheral vision now encumbered, Wash caught sight of one of the translucent white balloons out of the corner of his eye. The first thing he noticed was that it definitely wasn't a target balloon from the armory. It wasn't round in shape, either, but instead oblong, with a small nodule on its tip. Wash squinted at it. "Caboose, are those...?" And, yeah, okay, those were definitely condom balloons. "Okay, we'll, ah, come back to that later.
"Caboose, the UAC didn't make you take that test," Wash pressed on desperately, using the acronym for the newly founded United Armies of Chorus — so far united in name only. "It was my idea. If I had known it was going to make you upset I would have never asked you to do it. And secondly, you are special, everyday, not just on your birthday."
Caboose looked up at his team lead with wide, doe-eyes before shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "See, yes, but Tucker tells me I am special all the time, too, only I don't think he means it in a nice way."
"That's... just Tucker being Tucker." And why Tucker will be joining Mayer for wind sprints tomorrow before sunrise, Wash vowed.
Caboose scrunched his face. When he spoke it was to his boots, mumbled. "I thought... I thought maybe Church would be here. Maybe not other people, but I thought for sure Church would come, Wash."
Dammit, Carolina, Wash thought, gritting his teeth. Ever since Epsilon had integrated with her, the pair had been inseparable. No one knew what the hell they were doing half the time or where the hell they were doing it.
"I'm sure he's just... off doing really important AI things." Washington winced as soon as the words left his mouth. They had sounded lame even to him.
The Blue didn't seem to notice. "Oh, yeah, I'm sure that's true. He is kind of important. Makes sense that he would be doing important things. People always had important things to do during my birthday parties growing up, too. It was always a really popular day. Mom said the Super Bowl always fell on my birthday so people were probably just at that."
"The Super Bowl," Wash repeated flatly. "Caboose, it's a Thursday in July and the Super Bowl is..." Wash read the sudden bewilderment in the man's eyes. "... Is a really popular event; your mom's absolutely right."
"I really thought people would come now, though," the captain murmured dolefully. "I thought now would be better."
"What's better about now?"
"Now I have friends. Like you."
As his heart began squeezing itself to death, Wash stared wide-eyed at his teammate. He didn't know what to say. He didn't do emotional things and he detested social events but somehow this one-on-one was way worse and that obnoxious music wasn't making things any better and where the hell was the rest of the team—
Oh. Oh, fuck. He'd fucked up. As soon as they had finished their evals, he'd sent the Reds and Blues out on a recon sortie as a mutual training opportunity with the lieutenants. Presumably they had known today was Caboose's birthday — they had all known each other for far longer than he had — but they hadn't said anything when he'd made the roster. That meant one of two things: one, they were gladly using the mission as an excuse not to attend Caboose's party, or two, they were just idiots.
Yeah. Idiots.
"Caboose," Wash confessed, "I messed up. When I made today's mission assignments, I... sort of forgot it was your birthday. I sent the Reds and Blues out on patrol. I'm really, really sorry, bud."
Wash braced for the inevitable torrent of tears and disappointment that he'd now have to live with until the end of his miserable, unworthy existence.
"Oh. Well of COURSE!" the Blue proclaimed. Loudly. "It all makes sense now! I know winning a war is kind of important."
"No, no, it's not important — okay, it is important, and if we don't win we'll probably all die, but that's no excuse."
"I excuse you, Agent Washington. I know you are just trying your best. You just want to make everyone friends so that we will all work together so that we do not die so that everyone can have more birthdays, not just me. I don't blame you."
Wash hung his head and exhaled heavily. In Caboose's eyes, he could do no wrong. Caboose would always cut him some slack, even when he couldn't cut himself any. Even when he didn't deserve any.
"Caboose," Wash pledged, "I will make it up to you, I promise. Once we can get everyone together we'll do a real birthday party. Sound good?"
Caboose instantly beamed. "Two birthdays?!"
"Two birthdays."
Suddenly Caboose froze, eyes narrowing. "Wait a minute..." His voice plummeted in pitch as it did whenever he was leery of something. "That doesn't mean I'm going to get older again, does it?"
Wash managed to abort the launch of his eyebrows midway to orbit. "No, I... I don't think it works that way."
"Ah, okay, that's good. Did you know most people are born on their birthdays, Wash?"
"No, I didn't know that," the Freelancer deadpanned.
"Yeah, but don't worry," Caboose continued, lowering his voice to a whisper. "We don't have to tell anyone that my second birthday is not my real birthday. Oh, I know! We could reuse all of the decorations! I worked really hard on them."
"Yeah, about that..."
"You don't like them?" the younger soldier fretted.
"No, no, they're great, they're great, they're really..." He glanced at one of the inflated condoms. "Personal. Hey, so, where did you get the balloons from?"
"Oh! I was secretly asking around for party ideas because, well, you know, I didn't want my birthday party to be super lame or anything. Tucker said every party should have balloons, and of course he was right. Even though he is stupid."
"And Tucker told you these were balloons."
"Oh, yes, the best kind of balloons. He said they were for getting lucky, and that I needed to get lucky. Then he laughed and walked away." Caboose leaned in attentively. "And I, uh, I don't want this to sound mean, Agent Washington? But I think you need to get lucky more than I do. You really have, like, the worst luck since you, you know, have been hurt a lot? So here, I think these will help."
And before he knew it, Washington was holding a handful of unopened condoms given to him by his completely oblivious subordinate.
"Thanks," he muttered.
Goddamn you, Tucker.
"So anyway, I got the party balloons, and found some party music, and made some party hats, and some party name tags! I thought no one was going to get to see them. But now you're here!"
Wash pulled his mouth into a thin line. "Yep. Now I'm here."
"Now we can have dancing time, and play games, and eat cake, and have dancing time, and open presents!"
"Yeah, open — wait. Oh, look, Caboose, I-I didn't... I didn't get you anything."
"That's okay. I meant open your presents!"
It was at this point that Wash was certain he was losing his grasp on reality. "My presents? But it's your birthday, not mine. Come to think of it, it's not even Church's, so I'm not sure why you would think I—"
"It only makes sense. You seem like you are always needing some presents so I made you some presents! Because I knew you would come."
"You knew I would... okay...?"
"Here. Open this one first."
Before the Freelancer knew what was happening a hastily wrapped paper towel roll — wrapped, naturally, in paper towels — was being thrust into his hands. He carefully opened it, unfurling the roll of actual paper that was nested inside.
A crayon drawing matching the art style of the invitation took the entire width of the paper. Three stick figures this time — one blue, one aqua, and one gray — peered up at him. They all held hands. A tiny, lighter blue form hovered over them while red, pink, maroon, orange, and brown stick figures waved in the background — well, four of the five waved. The orange one was either sleeping or dead on the ground. A purple form opposite them sported a '+' on his forehead. Another aqua character, the only one drawn with hair (Caboose had made sure to use the Firetruck Red crayon), sat next to them on the bright green grass.
Above them all were penned the words 'Ajent Washingtun's New Famaly.'
The e's were still backwards.
Wash traced a finger over the paper fondly, and — okay, wow, he was feeling way more emotion over a crayon drawing than he should have been. He cleared his throat. "Caboose, this is... thank you."
"You are welcome. I hope you like it."
"I like it. I like it a lot, actually."
"Now this one!"
"Wait, another one? That's okay, really, I don't need—"
And as before, another bundle was being shoved at him. Also wrapped in paper towels.
Wash peeled away the layers to find... something. It, too, was homemade, that much was clear. It might have resembled an... animal? Wash was going with animal. It was small, small enough to fit in the palm of his gloved hand. Its torso was constructed from several pieces of foam sheet, and as Wash looked harder at the the imprinted pattern it became fairly obvious that foam had once belonged to a mat in the base's gym. Wash could just picture the poor mat, an entire corner missing, and wondered if Caboose had tried to cover it up with newspaper or something. The foam had been hastily painted a familiar shade of yellow. Wash had no doubt he would later find some of his armor's touch-up paint missing from storage.
The wings — he thought they were wings — of the creature appeared to be cut from some poor soul's helmet visor and sprayed yellow to match. The eyes had been crafted from two different sizes of spent shell casings. Wash had to give Caboose creativity points for that one, though they sat slightly askew, giving the animal a deranged appearance. It had a mouth — no, it was a beak, or maybe a bill? — and it looked like two tongue depressors had been swiped from Dr. Grey's stash and sprayed orange.
"It's a, um..."
"It's a rubber ducky."
Wash cleared his throat. "I knew that."
He could see the resemblance now... a very crude, very Frankenstein's monster-like resemblance. Wash's brow furrowed, befuddled, as he spotted the duck's final feature. Its little triangular tail stood proud, glowing bright green even under the fluorescent lights—
Uh-oh.
"Caboose, are these the sights from Sarge's shotgun?"
"Yeah, probably."
Wash sighed. He'd have to figure out how to reinstall the component back on Sarge's prized weapon without the man knowing. Considering the Red Team lead quite literally slept with the thing, he had no idea how in the hell he was going to pull that off.
"Thank you, this is very... creative," Washington managed, before muttering, "if not somewhat baffling..."
"Carolina told me you had a rubber ducky in your locker back in Project Freelancer."
"She did, did she?"
"She said you had to leave it behind, after all your friends left you behind, after all your friends crashed your spaceship, after Church messed up your brain—"
"Yes, I remember, thank you."
"So I got you a new one! He can help with bath time."
"Caboose, there are no bathtubs in the barracks, you know that."
"Yes, um, see, if you leave the shower on long enough, it makes a puddle deep enough to have bath time in."
"And that explains the new flooring near shower block C..."
Wash frowned down at the little rubber ducky in his hand. It stared cross-eyed back at him. He'd completely forgotten about the one he'd had in Freelancer, the one that Wyoming had given him a ration of shit for. After that he'd kept it front and center in his locker just to spite him. York had promptly gotten himself one just to piss off the Brit further, and it was that exact moment Wash had known he and the team's infiltration expert would get along just fine. He smiled warmly at the memory.
"Thank you, Caboose. Again."
"You are welcome. Again!"
"I really appreciate these. No one's ever..." He swallowed back the lump in his throat — how had that gotten there? "There'd better not be any more presents, though."
"No, no more, not until next year. Or Christmas. Or National Panda Day. Or next Tuesday."
"That's really not necessary—"
"OKAY LET'S HAVE CAKE NOW!"
Wash squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a newfound pounding in his skull. When he dared open them they fell on a sad tower of ingredients that were somehow holding themselves together in a vague cake-like shape. His jaw fell from something in between wonder and disgust.
"Oh. Um..."
Most of the 'cake' was a very unpleasant shade of green, or maybe brown; it was hard to tell from a distance and Wash had no intentions of getting any closer. There was no frosting, so its color was owed entirely to whatever unholy concoction of ingredients from whence it was made. An entire side was charred black for reasons Wash could not explain. The top six inches leaned heavily to one side.
It looked like something Dr. Seuss had thrown up.
"Wash, would you like one slice or two?"
"No, uh, that's okay, I was going to stop by the chow hall later and—"
"I made it myself!"
Goddammit.
"I would love to try a slice, Caboose," Wash muttered with as much false cheer as he could muster. It wasn't much. He swallowed back the bile already rising in his throat as he drug himself around the table. "It looks..." and he couldn't quite bring himself to say 'delicious.' "Consumable."
"Oh, it is," the captain declared matter-of-factly. His brown curls bounced energetically as he started to cut Wash a slice.
Wash watched with growing worry as Caboose grabbed the knife two-handed. There was way too much sawing going on for his liking. No cake should warrant that much sawing. Any sawing. The table swayed with Caboose's effort. Wash was torn between stepping in to prevent Caboose from accidentally amputating his own arm and running clear in the opposite direction for the sake of his own digestive tract.
Caboose explained in between hacking motions. "It has all the things I like to eat: eggs, and anchovies, and peanut butter, and butter butter, and lettuce, and hot dogs, and chewing gum..."
Wash's eyebrows climbed higher with every ingredient tallied. He could feel his stomach trying to close itself off from him. "You know, I just realized we haven't sang 'Happy Birthday,' and since we can't eat cake without singing 'Happy Birthday' maybe we should just table this part until everyone can be here to sing."
"Don't worry, you won't have to sing. Can't sing without candles, and all of the candles melted while I was waiting for people to come."
Wash's eyes found the dozen or so emergency flares that were impaled haphazardly into the cake. They were all burnt down to their bases. Only sad, little stubs remained.
Caboose, you sure know how to deliver an emotional gut punch, Wash thought. Shit.
Warily, Wash loaded a bite onto his fork. He tried to ignore the hopeful eyes and manic grin hovering at his shoulder. It was then that he got a whiff of the cake. Oh, it was bad. It reeked of old combat boots that were somehow both moldy and burnt, with a pungency that could make plants wilt. His eyes started to water. Through the tears Wash could just make out a triangular hole where presumably more cake had once been. That had to be a good sign, right? Clearly Caboose had eaten some and survived.
Wash reluctantly closed his mouth around the fork, and, okay, that wasn't so bad, maybe if he could just maneuver the fork to the back of his mouth and swallow without—
And then the flavors hit his tongue.
Oh, god.
Wash went stock still, paralyzed mid-chew. From the corner of his eye, he cast a distressed look at Caboose who was once again bouncing on his toes, still hanging on his reaction. He'd never wished so badly for his helmet in his life — if not to hide behind then to puke in.
Caboose's hands wrung together in anticipation. "Do you like it?"
Bracing himself, Wash gulped down what he could only describe as an abomination of all things culinary. He cleared his throat, taking a moment to compose himself. "Caboose, did you bake this?"
"Well thank you, I'm glad you also think it is delicious—"
"No, I mean, did you bake this, as in cook-all-the-way-through?"
"Ohhh!" Caboose replied knowingly. "No."
"Jesus Christ..."
"This is one of those no-bake cakes, see? You save time that way."
"Caboose, you can't save time by — you have to cook the raw..." Wash squeezed his burning eyes shut. "It's very unique. Good job."
"Thank you, Agent Washington," Caboose beamed.
"Maybe we let someone else bake the cake next time, though — just so you don't have to worry about it during your own party."
"Okay! I will give them the recipe."
"No! I mean, why don't you give it to me and I'll make sure it gets into the right hands?"
Caboose seemed to ponder that for a moment. "I will allow it."
Wash wiped his tongue on his glove in a desperate attempt to get rid of the lingering taste. "You don't have any water, do you?"
"Hmm, no," the sim trooper said thoughtfully, "but I think it is about to rain."
"Any sodas, milk, juice?" Wash asked before dropping his voice. "Bleach, gasoline...?"
"Oh, you wanted to wish you were a dragon, too?"
Wash stared back at him blankly. "No. No I did not."
"Yeah, I wished I was a dragon a few birthdays ago. Hasn't come true yet. But the other day, after eating some hot wings for lunch, Tucker said I had fire breath. So yeah, I'm feeling pretty good about it. Then he said I should go throw myself off a building. I wonder if I can fly yet..."
Wash rubbed his tired eyes. "Caboose, do me a favor and don't listen to everything Tucker tells you."
"Okay."
Pinching the bridge of his nose, wondering how the UAC's drum corps had gotten inside his skull, Wash cracked an eye open to look at the captain. "I'm sorry you didn't get to make a wish this time, bud."
"Don't worry, I made a wish before the candles burnt out. Oh — do I get to make another wish at the second party?"
A corner of Wash's mouth ticked upward in amusement. "Absolutely."
"Neat."
"So, what did you wish for this time?"
"Pfft! You know you are not supposed to tell anyone what you wished for!" Caboose asserted, before glancing around conspiratorially. He whispered, "Okay, I will tell you, but only because I know you will not tell anyone. I wished for: to make new friends, because I am not really good at making friends, because of my brain. And also a pony."
Wash leaned back heavily on the edge of the table. He recalled the roof of a desert outpost, the sunset in the distance, and Caboose once again being certain that Wash wouldn't tell anyone, that time about catching him spying; Caboose declaring that he trusted him; Caboose calling him 'friend', his first in a long, long time. And if Washington was being honest with himself, his reasons for coming here went back a lot further than the hospital.
"I'm not really good at making friends, either," Washington admitted.
Caboose cocked his head at him quizzically, and Wash really, really wanted to throw that tennis ball. "Why not?"
"Because I... there are some things wrong with my brain, too, Caboose."
"Because of Church?"
"Because of Epsilon, that's right." And he marveled that, even after all these years, he still had trouble calling the AI that man's name. "Actually, it was because of somebody else."
"But you seem okay."
Wash shrugged. "I don't let it bother me, anymore at least." And then it hit him, the best idea he'd had in a while. "You know, Caboose, I think I do have a birthday present for you." He grabbed his helmet from the table and secured it over his head. "Don't go anywhere. And don't eat anymore of that cake. I'll be back in ten," he promised, before muttering to himself, "if I'm not getting my stomach pumped."
"Okay!" the Blue shouted after his team lead. "I will not go anywhere." His eyes stayed on Wash's departing form as he sidestepped slyly toward the cake. "And I definitely will not eat anymore of the cake. Even some of the cake. Or all of the cake." When he was sure Wash had left and the doors had closed, he swung to his culinary masterpiece. "Hello..."
Wash jogged through Armonia's streets back to the heart of base. The rain that had just started to patter down upon his armor did nothing to dampen his determination. He felt energized again, attributing his sudden buoyancy to his newly hatched idea. Caboose was going to love his present.
He ducked into the Office of Personnel Management, found an empty terminal that — thank god — was networked to one of the few printers still used in the capital, and browsed through personnel records. He found what he was looking for and hit print. As he waited, he pushed the same data to his TACPAD.
Five minutes later he was back swinging open the doors to the rec room again, a feeling of triumph taking the place of his original reluctance. He found Caboose on the far side of the complete abortion Caboose claimed was a cake, his face hidden by its tiers.
"Caboose?" Wash inquired.
A head of brown curls popped up, wearing a big grin and what Wash guessed was wilted lettuce. He gripped a fork tightly in each hand. "Hello!"
"I thought I told you — never mind. Come over here, I want to show you something."
"Is it my present? Oh my GOD! I love presents!"
As Caboose bounded over, Wash grabbed an empty metal trashcan from the corner of the room and a burnt flare from the cake. Next, he detached his TACPAD from his forearm and held it so that both of them could see. Within a few moments they were looking at the same file Wash had been viewing at OPM.
"Do you know what this is, Caboose?"
"A TACPAD."
"No. Well, yes, but more to the point, do you know what it's displaying?"
"A semi-transparent holographic projection composed of an active phototronic matrix powered by three hydrogen-isotopic batteries—"
"It's a Career Service Vitae, or CSV for short. Think of it as a UNSC personnel file. This file's on one Michael J. Caboose."
Caboose blinked at it. "Wait a minute... hey, that's me!"
"Yes," confirmed Wash dryly. "That's you."
"How many are there?"
"How many what are there?"
"How many me's are there?"
"I don't follow."
"You said that this is a UNSC person-tell file telling about one Michael J. Caboose. I am one Michael J. Caboose. Are there two Michael J. Cabooses? Are there three Michael J. Cabooses?" The young captain gasped in excitement. "What if there are four Michael J. Cabooses?!"
Wash stared at him. "What? Look, I don't know, that's not really the point here—"
"Oh, no. What if I have a clone? What if I am a clone? What if my birthday isn't really my birthday at all, but it is my evil clone's birthday? Do I still get to open my present?"
Wash didn't remember going insane feeling like this at all. "Caboose, you are not an evil clone, I promise." He held up his hand to stop his teammate from asking the question he knew was coming. "And you're not a good clone either, you're just you."
"But how do you know?"
His eyes found the ceiling and Wash was thankful to be wearing his helmet again. In a tone he hoped didn't sound too disingenuous, he explained, "Because I'm a Freelancer, and a Freelancer would know if someone is a clone because of our special, top-secret clone-detecting device."
"Oh, that makes sense," Caboose reasoned. He glanced at Wash. "Can I use it?"
"No," Wash maintained with practiced restraint, "no, you can't use it, and yes, you can still have your present."
"Awesome."
"Now, in your CSV is everything the UNSC knows about you, all the way from when you were born until we dropped off their radar a few months ago." Washington scrolled to a particular page in the Marine's file. "Do you recognize this?"
"My brain-test scores?" he murmured, nose close to the screen.
"Your entire psychological evaluation, actually, including your yearly evals with PSYCOM. That section there is your individual eval from a few days ago. I had the results added to everyone's file for reference. And here." Wash fished out the recently printed stack of papers from his armor. "It's a hardcopy."
Caboose accepted it, looking between it and Wash with confusion. "Ah, yes, a reminder of how I am stupid. This is a really great birthday gift, Agent Washington. I am definitely not sad at all!"
"No, no, don't feel sad! Don't feel sad — I'm getting there, I promise," Wash pleaded. He was beginning to think he wasn't very good at this birthday thing. "Here, I want to show you this, too." Wash pulled out another set of papers, the contents of which he had seen far too many times. "Go ahead, take a look."
The Blue read the top line, slowly sounding out the words. "Agent... Washington... Ar-tic-le... Article Ex-Eye-Eye?"
"Article 12."
"Hmm. Lots of big words. What does it say?"
Looking down at his file, Wash answered. "It says I was once declared clinically insane, mentally unfit for duty."
"But you like duty."
Wash huffed, not without affection. "I do. But after the... after they had to pull Epsilon from my head, I couldn't do my duty very well, and it took me a long time to get better."
"But you did."
"But I did, for the most part, and I have you guys to thank for that." Wash watched the Blue grin sheepishly and scratch at his head. "Anyway," he said, nodding to the report in Caboose's hand, "that's part one of your present. It'll all make sense when you see part two. Here, hold this for a sec."
Caboose accepted Wash's TACPAD in his free hand. As Wash repositioned the garbage can, Caboose glanced at his CSV's hardcopy in one hand, Wash's TACPAD in the other, and back to his hardcopy. "My present's on paper."
Wash looked up. "Well, yeah, that's because I printed it."
"Why did you print it? I mean, who prints things on paper nowadays? This is the 26th century, Wash."
"Yeah, I know, I just..." He shifted awkwardly on his feet. "You made your fliers on... I thought it would be symbolic, okay?"
"Symbolic of what?"
And finally, finally, the mission objective was in sight. "Watch."
Washington had hoped he'd be able to coax out a small flame from what remained of the flare, but as he struck the nub against the striker it wouldn't light. There just wasn't enough flare left to burn. He looked around. There was nothing flammable he could use for kindling, except for Caboose's homemade party hats, and he was absolutely unwillingly to sacrifice those. And then he saw the charred wreckage of the cake.
"Please don't work," Wash groaned, depositing a forkful of cake onto the flare's flat end. He hit the striker against it and immediately the cake-flare combo caught fire. He didn't want to dwell on what that implied about the contents of his stomach.
As Caboose watched on, Wash carefully dipped the corner of his printed Article 12 into the flame. When the was sure the fire had caught, he tossed it into the empty metal garbage can.
"Ahhh," Caboose commented. "Symbolism." He threw his own CSV into the can's flames.
And the TACPAD it was stored on.
He looked back at Wash, a look of "did I do it right?" written on his face.
Wash stood wide-eyed and stock-still as he gaped into the fire. "That did not go at all how I expected." Bringing a hand to his forehead, he muttered, "Caboose, that is why I printed them on paper."
Caboose offered the hardcopy back to his team lead, but Wash waved him off.
"No," he groused, "you go ahead and keep it."
"I am going to recolor all the boxes! There's too much red. I will make it so much better!"
"I'm glad, Caboose."
"Thank you for the gift, Agent Washington. I really like it."
Wash peeled his hand away from his visor, saw his oafish, murderous, lovable, genius, naive, man-child of a teammate clutching his own failed psych evals to his chest in gratitude, and allowed himself a content smile. Suddenly the bickering armies, his melting TACPAD, his splitting headache and his almost certain case of botulism faded into the background.
"You're welcome, bud."
The two of them stood over the trash can, listening to the flames crackle.
"Happy birthday, Caboose."
"Happy birthday, Agent Washington."
And just as Wash was going to once again correct the man that this most certainly was not his birthday, he stopped himself. Maybe Caboose was onto something. Here, now, in this present with this new life — he had been given a gift, of that he was certain.
They watched their pasts burn, together.
THE END
Author's note: Hi! This is my first fanfic for my absolute favorite show (obligatory "of all time"), so I figured why not start off with two of my favorite characters? Thank you for reading and letting me bend a few grammatical rules. Writing these characters was just a hoot. I hope you enjoyed.