"Um, okay. No. I'm not doing this."
The declaration was calm but concrete. Washington stood outside the circle of friends, all seated with the counselor and looking miserable. They had been aboard the Callisto Seven for weeks, and finally the doctors had them locked in a room with a shrink. All of them.
Donut and Doc seemed at ease, Donut taking the liberty to sport his new pink sweatshirt that had " E" printed on it. Doc wore a blue linen button-up, looking strangely professional for a graduate of Jamaica State. Tucker's locs were down and ghosted his collar bones, a backwards baseball cap securing them. Caboose had an enormous blue sweater that, despite his already substantial build, seemed to swallow him up in its knitted confines. Simmons and Griff were in t-shirts and jeans, and Sarge wore a red plaid flannel. Even Carolina was in civvies—black leggings and a long-sleeved tunic, looking surprisingly soft and feminine. Wash felt silly standing around in his black fatigues, and even sillier at the prospect of taking a seat.
"Wash, all of your friends have agreed to take an hour out of their day to be here. I would hope you would not turn your back on their trust like this, when they have agreed to at least try to work with the process," the shrink said. He was an older gentleman with a beard and he wore a vest like a douchebag, Wash decided.
"First of all, this process doesn't require group therapy. It requires a substantial examination into each subject to clear a variety of standards for redeployment or discharge—NONE of which are appropriate for a group pissing session." Wash tried to bite back the fury in his voice.
"You're free to leave if you want, but as your friends here have decided, this is more efficient. If you would like, we can schedule daily interviews with you on behalf of each psych team in order to meet the care standards. Otherwise, you can stick to the schedule of three times a week with the military unit and one group therapy session with me in the civilian unit. That is entirely your choice, Agent Washington."
Wash bristled at the suggestion and looked accusingly at his friends. Carolina's arms were crossed as she slouched in her seat, but the look she gave Wash communicated one thing: under-whelmed. Tucker was no better, he was chewing gum and flipping through his phone, refusing to even acknowledge Wash's presence. Caboose sat strangely still with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes lowered.
"Really, you guys? You wanna share your feelings with each other all of the sudden?" Wash asked, exasperated.
"Uh, I've actually become really attached to a television show that airs during the alternative therapy appointments, so, yeah. I guess we're gonna talk about our feelings with Dr. Smiley here," Grif grumbled.
"How else am I supposed to make sure Grif isn't slacking off?" Sarge raised. Wash promptly ignored him and looked glaringly to Carolina.
She sighed looked to Wash. "It's less sessions overall, Wash. Just do the math. Come on, we can suffer together." There was a pause in her voice and a pointed look that read loudly, please do not leave me to suffer this bullshit on my own, Wash.
Wash closed his eyes, took a breath, and sat down in the fucking circle in the empty chair between Carolina and Tucker. "Fine."
"Wonderful, I'm glad you decided to join us," the shrink said with a cutting tone. "Now, for those of you who haven't heard, I am Dr. Emerly. I work for the Callisto Psychiatric Association. I am a psychologist that specializes in assessing the likelihood of success for conflict-zone soldiers when assimilating to civilian society. We use group sessions for soldiers who have worked in a close-knit team because it expands on the trust you already share for each other, and it allows you to support your friends in ways that are typically not disclosed outside of counseling appointments."
Wash could feel Carolina tense up. He smiled to himself at the thought of her just biting her tongue against all the hundreds of quips and retorts she had. Wash knew already, this doctor was one of those ignorant ones who thinks airing dirty laundry is something that was going to help. But Carolina and Wash? They knew that trying to clear out that shit by bringing it up only spread it around more. What a waste of time.
The doctor took a deep breath and began to flip through his clipboard. "I see the last encounter all of you had is still fresh—approximately three months ago. Has everyone been healing well?"
Icebreaker: check. Therapists were so predictable.
"Donut?" the shrink prompted.
"Oh, yeah I'm fine. My back healed up nicely and I recently got cleared to stop wearing the back-brace," Donut said in his cheerful tone. The brevity of the statement was somewhat alarming to Wash; he definitely wasn't the only one uncomfortable with group-sharing, which was really saying something for Donut.
"Simmons?" the shrink prompted again.
"Uh, I'm doing good. I wear this boot now, and the crutches are gone. My mechanic just finished working on updating my robot stuff too, so, you know… good."
"And Grif?" the last prompt.
"I'm fine," Grif said curtly.
"Good, it looks like many of you are back on your feet. Agents Washington and Carolina, my understanding is that the two of you had severe injuries. Are things healing up?"
Wash sighed. "Yeah, never better."
"My eyesight in my right eye is badly damaged, but it's improving," Carolina said in an even tone.
"Washington, are you back to full health already?" Dr. Emerly asked pointedly.
Nothing could really be further from the truth. Wash's leg was still awfully tender when he pushed it, and the massive pink scar on the side of his head still looked angry and sensitive beneath the new hair growth. His ribs were mostly healed, but he wasn't cleared for any kind of enduring physical activity. He couldn't train or even just go for a run. He'd been stir-crazy from it all.
"I am working on it," Wash answered.
"Good to hear. So, the last mission you were all on—a success, apparently, since you're all here and alive now?" Dr. Emerly quickly dug into the first vein, his pen like a pickaxe on the clipboard.
Round one: started.
"I miss Church," Caboose said quietly.
"Yes, the AI implant known as Epsilon," the doctor supplied. "Tell me more about that. Were you all close to him?"
This time, Wash could feel Tucker tense. "He was our friend, and he's dead now. But like, you know, it's not the first time we've lost him, so we're kind of used to this song-and-dance."
Dr. Emerly's reaction was careful, but Wash knew already this was a conversation that would soon be out of his depth.
"Does everyone feel the same way?" the doctor asked. Some of them nodded, but Wash and Carolina didn't budge.
"Why don't we talk about how worked together during the mission. That was pretty neat, right guys? Your teamwork paid off, and you're all safe now. What kind of dynamics between yourselves do you think most helped you leave the Staff of Charon successfully?" Emerly set up the scene, and the actors would be preforming in 3…2…1…
"We didn't fucking win, if that's what you're suggesting," Grif spat. "We were rescued."
"Yeah, no joke, we would have definitely died if the peace troopers hadn't showed up," Donut added. "There were like, a billion soldiers all trying to get a piece, if you know what I mean!"
"My understanding is that your group fought very well. I'd like to give everyone in this room permission to feel proud about the fact that they had simply lived long enough for help to arrive. Is that not worth something?" Emerly suggested.
"Tucker did most of the work," Sarge offered the bait. Wash pinched his eyes shut for a hot second—Jesus Christ did Sarge know how to throw someone under the bus. "He was like a real soldier out there!"
"Yeah, it was fucking awesome! Epsilon ran Tucker's suit and he had the sword and we would have never made it out of there otherwise," Simmons added on.
"He was like, juggling machine guns, and throwing guys, it was incredible!" Doc said.
All eyes were on Tucker, who sat still with a blank, mundane expression as he chewed his gum. "Yeah I don't remember that. Any of that."
A terse silence filled the air. Tucker's brow furrowed a little. "And honestly? I've been kind of a badass for a while now, so y'all don't have to go sounding so surprised and shit."
"You don't remember anything?" Carolina said with some level of shock and horror.
"I mean, I remember being way too hot, and having to take my helmet off. I also remember getting caught in a grenade explosion that nearly nailed me to a metal pillar. But hey, just a concussion, you know?" a brief pause. "Nothin' to it."
"Carolina," the shrink started in. Wash's fists clenched unintentionally, knowing that the doctor's surgical gaze was peering into her. "Why do you think it matters that Captain Tucker doesn't remember fighting?"
Carolina took the time to choose her words very carefully. "Running an AI in your equipment, if a person hasn't been trained for it, can be… taxing to a person. Sometimes, AIs make mistakes, or have malfunctions."
"Captain Tucker, do you think your lack of memory of the fighting might be the result of a mistake or malfunction of your AI?" The doctor asked.
"I don't really know. I'm not a scientist, or an engineer, or an IT guy. I just swing my sword around—heh, bowchickabowow," Tucker cracked. Even Wash felt himself smiling at that. Tucker knew how to defuse a situation, usually using a level of tact so low it was impressive.
"Well, what was your experience of the battle then without those memories?" Emerly pressed onwards.
All evidence of amusement instantly vanished from Tucker's face. He stilled and didn't say anything for a long time, and eventually the doctor prodded him again. "Captain Tucker?"
"Um, it was… loud?" Tucker said uselessly. "The AI was, uh, yelling a lot. There was a lot going on."
"Reports here show that you were dangerously overheated, dehydrated, and confused after the event. That sounds very stressful."
"Er, yeah. It was a huge fight. We didn't think we were gonna…" Tucker trailed off, and Wash's stomach turned as he saw the classic set-up. Tucker's eyes suddenly flickered; distant and foggy.
Round 1: complete. Meltdown initiated.
"Captain Tucker," the shrink started in for the kill. "Is there something about the battle that you remember exceptionally well?"
Tucker blinked slowly and stopped chewing his gum. In stillness, his eyes snapped up to the doctor's face. "What's the use in that?" It was the answer to a question Dr. Emerly hadn't asked: Would you like to tell us what's keeping you up at night?
"Maybe it's time to hear from others about their experience with the battle. Sarge? Would you like to continue for Tucker?" the shrink asked.
Wash felt some sense of satisfaction on the payback of Sarge's cold-call. Tucker stood up to spit his gum out and sat back down. By the time he was seated again, any hint of emotion had been wiped clean from his visage. Wash pretended not to notice and began picking at his fingernails while Sarge attempted to divert.
Sarge was not successful, and Dr. Emerly latched onto the red leader's battle story. Given the opportunity to speak to an audience, however, Sarge's monologue quickly took on a life of its own. To Wash's immense satisfaction, reigning in Sarge's dramatic performance proved to be a hefty task for their psychologist. Sarge's oversharing and tangential stories graciously ate up the rest of their hour as Dr. Emerly's frustration became more apparent.
"Okay, everyone, that's time for today. I'll see you all next week," the doctor wrapped up. By this time, many of them were struggling to hide their snickers and made a swift exit to properly laugh at Sarge's beautiful masterpiece of a diversion.
"That was fucking amazing Sarge!" Grif laughed. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but your horrible petulance really came in handy back there."
"Can we do that every session?" Simmons asked.
"I don't see why not. I don't see why we weren't doing that from the get-go," Donut chimed in. "I have a lot of things I'm stressed about—the difficulties of switching to a vegan diet, transphobia in gay spaces, and also Kim Kardashian. I'm sure Dr. Emerly would be helpful."
Doc spoke up. "Um, you guys? You know counseling can be very helpful in certain situations—"
"Yeah, Frankie, but this guy's a douchebag!" Donut explained.
Called it, Wash thought to himself. "Hm. Fair point," Doc responded. "But if you're gonna waste his time, just make sure he can't legally order you to comply. Or, you know, be subtler about it."
"Ha! Subtle!" Carolina nearly shouted in jest, like that was ever gonna happen.
Wash was grateful to be out of the medical building. Their group made the trek back to the tram system that connected the whole ship. Callisto Seven was, indeed, massive. It was at least as big as the Mother of Invention, but Wash hedged it was actually a bit larger. The upper decks were civilian and the lower decks were military. Below there, the enormous cargo hold that had generated a whole city's economy.
In the military compound they each had rooms scattered about the barracks. Wash had the option to elect for a single room, but Tucker had asked him to room together again. The freelancer remembered Tucker seeming a little embarrassed by it, but had said "I don't want to end up with someone I don't know and I really don't want to end up with Caboose, okay?" That was a pretty good reason, Washington thought.
So, Wash and Tucker shared a suite: two bedrooms, one bathroom. Mess hall two floors up, laundry six floors down. Rec room in each wing. To be fair, Wash first asked Tucker if he wouldn't rather opt to room alone, or even with Carolina if she'd have him.
Tucker had scoffed. "They told me I didn't have clearance for a single, and that they had recently cracked down on co-ed living situations due to too much drama among soldiers, I guess."
"Well that's… heteronormative," Wash had said uncomfortably. Tucker just shrugged and walked away with a quick "Thanks dude."
On the tram ride home from group therapy, the reds were still rolling with the bit about the psychologist. Doc, Tucker, and Carolina were sitting quietly nearby among themselves. Doc and Carolina appeared to be in some deep conversation about psychoanalyses, but Tucker had resigned to watching the scenery fly by. Upon realizing Wash was looking at him, they made eye contact and Tucker's head cocked to the side in a question. "Uh, Wash? What's up dude?"
Blinking a few times, Wash snapped back to the present time and place. "Sorry, didn't realize I was staring," he said. Still, he moved to sit next to Tucker and watch the scenery with him. Wash was pleased that he handled today better than his interactions with Doc Padwell, but he still felt drained. Walls were hard work, and sometimes if you're particularly hurt or tired it can be hard to keep them up. Wash had been regaining his strength, slow but steady, and the walls were coming back like old friends.
At length, Wash began sneaking glances at Tucker. The soldier was still with his arms crossed in the seat. His backwards snapback still secured his locs from dipping into his eyes when his head suddenly dozed forward. It had only been a moment, but Wash caught it before Tucker snapped himself back up with a sharp breath.
"Hey, what was that? You okay?" Wash asked in a low voice so as not to draw attention.
"I'm just tired," Tucker mumbled.
Washington let it rest at that, but he became increasingly concerned at Tucker's lack of energy after the whole appointment. It seemed he would usually be over with the reds cracking jokes, or at least loudly complaining to anyone who would listen. Wash wasn't sure if he could believe Tucker when he said he didn't remember anything about Epsilon's participation in the battle, but at the same time it might make sense that his brain just didn't… record all that much, with the amount of AI power between Epsilon's fragments. Maybe Tucker was content to not remember, but that damned doctor and his prying eyes were sure to get under his skin.
If the reds didn't step up their game with distracting the doctor from drilling their teammates, Washington would take up the cause for that. Maybe next time, he would throw Sarge under the bus. Although, now that Wash thought back, he must have felt terrible for opening that can of worms. That could be the only reason he so jovially responded to the cold-call. The sense of satisfaction Wash had earlier from the situation dissolved into something like respect.
These guys, they're great friends, and wonderfully unique people, but Wash knew that they didn't have a clue how bad this could be. What he did know was the closer they stuck together, the easier it would be for everyone. The individual interviews with the military psychologist… they were all on their own for that fight.
And it was a fight, as far as Wash was concerned.
"Hey, do you drink?" Tucker suddenly asked Wash.
"Uh, I haven't in a while. But, I guess I could."
"I'm thinking about picking up some beers before I head back to the rooms. Any kind in particular you like?" Tucker looked like he could use a drink, actually.
Wash thought a moment. "I don't know if I like the idea of anyone outside of base by themselves."
Tucker looked seriously unimpressed. "I think I can handle it, Wash. I'm a big boy. I'm even legal," he cracked a smirk.
Wash huffed a bit of laughter. "Still, it makes me nervous. I'll come with you." It wasn't a question—even if it was more for Washington than for Tucker, it was happening.
Soon, they were approaching their stop, and Tucker announced to the friends they were making a pit stop. "Want anything?" he asked.
"Get Grif some deodorant," Simmons chided.
"Yeah and get Simmons some tampons," Grif said.
"We're fine," Carolina said. "Text when you're back on base, okay?" Wash nodded, feeling secure that Carolina shared his concern about any solo-movement outside the compound.
The trip to the liquor store was quick and uneventful, but Wash was having a hard time acclimating to these normal, mundane situations. Wash instinctively waited outside at the door while Tucker retrieved his beer. Unexpectedly normal things, like when Tucker would page through his wallet for his debit card, or when he would pull up a bus schedule on his phone, or when he smiled at Wash and said something like "Oh, I missed this." Wash couldn't relate; there was nothing for him to miss about this life. Everything felt foreign and cold. Reassignment would be a sweet relief.
Tucker came out of the store with two 24-packs. "Holy shit, Tucker, you're not having a party, are you?" Wash asked, eyeing the number of beers.
"Be helpful and hold one," Tucker said, handing off one heavy case. "Maybe a pity party, but that's it," Tucker chuckled as they walked towards a bus stop. They were home within the hour, short of passing the multitude of security checkpoints. Suddenly with a BANG, Tucker dropped his pack of beer onto the sidewalk as a look of terror flashed over him.
"Oh fuck no—Wash?" Tucker called. He seemed paralyzed in the spot, and when Wash didn't immediately respond a fist of panic grasped his heart. "WASH?" Tucker shouted as he spun to find his friend. Tucker felt unusually disoriented in his movements.
"Jesus Christ, Tucker, I'm right here!" Wash covered his ear closest to his friend. "I was just about to text Carolina. What is it?"
"Look, over there, by the bus stop," Tucker said urgently. "It's fucking Felix, dude. You see him?"
Tucker instantly had Wash's full attention, who squinted his eyes as he scanned the area. "I don't see him, Tucker. Are you sure? I mean, really sure? Because… you told me he was dead." Tucker quickly searched the same scenery again to find him. Felix had been right there across the street, hands in his pockets and staring right at them. There was no confusion, there was no way it was some other stranger. Felix was fucking alive, Tucker thought with dread in his stomach.
"I know what I saw," Tucker said. "But I don't… he's gone."
"No, but, I mean, you had confirmation with Felix's death. Because of the energy sword? Locus wouldn't have been able to use it unless Felix had definitely died," Wash said. "It's more likely it was just an uncanny-looking stranger, Tucker. Try not to let it bother you." Wash paused once more when he saw Tucker wasn't snapping to, was still staring wide-eyed and looking for evidence that wasn't there.
But he had seen him, Tucker reassured himself. Fuckboy haircut, orange scarf, leather jacket, the whole fucking stereotype was right there a moment ago. Tucker finally looked at Washington when the freelancer picked up the pack of beer from Tucker's feet.
"Don't worry about it, Tucker. We should get back and do something about all this beer," Wash said lightly.
"Yeah," Tucker said distractedly, following Wash through the checkpoints.
Tucker was nine beers deep by the time Wash had finished his fifth. The freelancer wasn't extensively interested in a hangover, so he was ready to call it quits soon. Tucker sat on his bedroom floor and Wash leaned back in Tucker's computer chair. They'd spent the last couple hours just unwinding, talking shit about all the goofy crap they'd seen each other do in the middle of battle. One time, Wash saw Tucker pick a wedgie in between beating down a couple space pirates. Tucker claimed he happened to see Wash stop in a battle to hide and eat a snack, but Wash vehemently denied it.
"No, man, I fucking saw you," Tucker was laughing. "Just like I saw that shitbag across the street today! I saw with my goddamn eyes." Wash couldn't help but snort at the end of lengthy laughter, but by the time he had gathered himself Tucker was going on again. "I don't know how he did it, but Felix is alive, and he's out there Wash. We gotta—we should just kill him and get it over with, we can't let him just keep… being a dickbag. Out there."
Wash made a frustrated sound before lining up his empty can among the others on Tucker's desk. "Tucker, I don't think that's right, okay? I'm pretty sure he's dead. 'Cause of the sword. We—we talked about this." Tucker handed him another beer and Wash wasn't smart enough to decline.
"No, Wash, don't be dumb," Tucker said. "Because he was right there, and you don't know, can't know, for a FACT, that Felix is dead. We never saw a body. There could be some—some workaround, or some exception to the rule. We don't have exhaustive knowledge of the sword and alien shit, you know."
"Oh. My god. Okay, Tucker, I'll humor you. Even IF there was some cosmic loophole with the sword AND Felix survived a 400-foot drop, he would be so broken from that fall he wouldn't be able to walk for like, a while. So forget about it, okay?" Wash sighed.
"That's supposed to make me feel better? Oh, even if he's alive he won't be coming to kill anybody until he's done with physical therapy," Tucker laughed at his own lame joke. "I don't know, he's a pretty tricksy piece of shit."
"Tucker you didn't see him! I know you saw something, but you need to consider the option that you just made a mistake! It's more likely, and honestly, you don't want a lot of people hearing about you seeing dead people during your psych evals. I literally—cannot—stress this enough, Tucker."
Tucker was quiet for a moment. "You think those doctors are going to pass us?"
Wash tipped his beer back and sighed loudly. "Fuck, I don't know," he said flatly.
Tucker's face was such an open book when he'd been drinking, and Wash could see every thought cross that very expressive face. He seemed genuinely stunned that Wash had so laxly rebuffed the inquiry. Wash felt almost guilty for being so forward.
"I mean… probably. Most of us will probably pass with no issue at all. I'll be honest, I have a steep climb ahead of me. If I want to get redeployed any time in the next decade, I'll need to play my cards close to my chest," Wash tried to sound confident about that part. "But you and the others should be fine. You just can't draw any extra attention to yourself. You all have clean psych records, so they don't have any reason to look for strange behaviors. Fly under the radar, you know?"
Tucker's brow knitted together and a firm from seemed to set on his face. "Wash, are you applying for redeployment after this?"
Wash's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Are you not?'
"No, dude. I'm done. I'm getting the fuck out of here as fast as I can," Tucker said. "I don't get why you wouldn't do the same thing."
Wash felt very uncomfortable all of the sudden, like a ghost inhabiting a human body rather than a person in the room. Tucker is leaving, he thought. I will be alone.
"What would I possibly do with discharge?" Wash asked.
"What kind of question is that? Fucking retire, man! You've worked enough! You can't tell me you don't have a retirement package after working for years in a special ops program," Tucker said.
"No, I-I do. Finances aren't the issue." Wash fell into a discomforting silence then. "I don't think I can do civilian life."
"You're doing fine right now," Tucker said, swirling his beer to indicate his point. Wash smiled at that.
"This is temporary, so I can deal. But without something in front of me? I think it would be trouble," Wash explained. "What are you planning on doing in retirement?"
Tucker shook his head. "I don't know, man, but I plan to retire as hard as I can. I think you should really, you know, consider leaving the military. It's—It's not good for you to stay here. For anyone, I mean, to stay here."
"I don't think it's good for me to be a civilian again in general. I don't have anywhere to retire to, anyways, so until then…" Wash shrugged. "Honestly, I've always assumed I'd be killed on the job. Most people in my kind of field don't live much past forty. So, I've got that to look forward to."
At Tucker's horrified look, Wash scrambled to recover. "No, Tucker, I'm joking. Please relax."
"About your life expectancy or looking forward to reaching it?" Tucker said with a pained expression that Wash had to ignore.
"Well, about the… second part," Wash muttered, but continued. "That doesn't change the fact that retirement is just not really an option for me."
"Fuck, Wash. I mean, forget about dying on the battlefield, fucking Felix could be out there right now and we could be dead before we even noticed him. This whole side of the fucking galaxy is dangerous," Tucker's wide hand motions nearly knock over his tenth beer. Wash clenched his eyes together in frustration. Felix again…
"Sometimes…" Wash started and faltered. Finally, he looked up to Tucker's searching eyes and continued. "Sometimes when a person re-experiences a past… event… the brain can compensate for the stress by doing weird stuff. Sometimes you might hallucinate or get confused. And, Tucker, I want you to know I'm not discounting what you saw. But I'm worried that maybe you're just under a lot of stress from what they had you talk about this morning during that therapy session."
Neither spoke for a long time, and Wash felt a horrible pang that he had just said the wrong thing. Finally, Tucker stood up and gathered all the empties into his hands. He paused before leaving to recycle their trash. "I'm not fucking crazy." Tucker's words were like acid. Then he was gone, and Wash felt an expectation to let himself out in the meantime.
Rubbing his forehead with his hand, Wash groaned to himself. Oof, ouch, his heart hurt. He pried himself out of Tucker's chair and slunk into his own bedroom, locking the door behind him. He heard Tucker come back into the tiny suite and slam his door. Wash guessed they were done talking for a while.
I'm not fucking crazy. Tucker's words seemed to echo Wash's dark bedroom. Because hallucinating means crazy. Getting confused by everyday occurrences, mixing up memories, having vivid flashbacks all mean crazy. Which meant Tucker thought Wash was definitely crazy. Wash took a deep breath and let himself slide down the door until he was sitting on the floor. Could he really argue with that? Mm. Not really, he decided.
Wash felt drunker than he thought he would. Maybe in the morning when everyone's minds had cleared, things would be better. He knew he worried excessively about… well, most things. But this time, he was worried about Tucker. That look in his eye when he was asked about Epsilon during the battle was plenty to confirm what Wash had suspected this whole time: Tucker was putting on a very convincing front. Wash knew better than most that the front never lasts. He just had to be there when it fell, or else Tucker was going to be in a world of hurt.
Wash didn't bother getting into his bed before dozing off with the back of his head flush against his bedroom door. He thought for a moment that, maybe, there might have been a reason he didn't drink anymore.
His hands were shackled to the table in front of him in an unforgiving vice that bruised his wrists with every thrashing. There was plenty of thrashing. The chair fell from under him, tipped over by his own scrambling feet trying desperately to escape the searing pain that cleaved through his skull. A shrill unhinged whine escaped his lips before the chair was forcefully set upright and shoved under him again, jolting him off his feet. His hunched shoulders screamed in protest. His back ached so badly it was hard to breath. Wash trembled and noticed the horrific pain on his implants had subsisted for the time being.
"It's incredible what you can do with a handful of nine-volt batteries," the cop said. He waggled a makeshift taser in Wash's face, but Wash barely registered it behind his glassy, unfocused eyes. "I gotta tell you, David, I'm actually hourly. I don't mind if I have to do this for another six hours. I get time-and-a- half if I hit over forty; time and a half-and-a-half over sixty."
Wash managed to tear his bleary eyes up towards the cop's face. Some UNSC scumbag, looking for rogue freelancers, for the reds and blues, for a whole bunch of other shit he didn't know. But why should they believe him?
The taser hit and plunged him back into agony. The shock made his muscles tremor ferociously and Wash had to be mindful not to bite his tongue as best he could. It didn't stop the copper taste from welling up in his mouth from a myriad of shallow bites. It was nothing compared to the excruciating pain that struck down his spinal cord in waves.
"I know you're gonna crack," the cop sneered. A loud bang and the chair was gone again, kicked out from underneath him. Wash's face fell with a crack onto the edge of the table and hot pain clapped over his face. There was blood dropping from his nose. When he could see again, it was Felix who had a fist in Wash's hair.
Felix smiled down at Wash. "You know, Tucker and I, we had a thing. Did you know that?" A fit of rage formed in Wash's chest and he's not sure why, but he couldn't bring himself to speak anyways. It hurt so badly to breathe.
Smoke filled the room as an explosion shook his vision. When Wash came to, he was stumbling through what used to be a city. He could feel the blood soaking through his bodysuit. Fires raged inside the buildings and civilians bled in the streets. "This isn't mine. This isn't my memory," he said to no one. He looked to his right and saw Epsilon standing in the street. He muttered to himself, staring into the sky, all while blood ran down the gutters in the street. Wash's heart stopped when he saw Tucker, bruised and bloodstained, piled with a handful of other corpses to the side of the street.
A goddamn massacre happened here.
Wash was woozy from blood loss, his head still splitting in pain from the taser. He stumbled towards his friend anyway. "No. No no no no no no—" the stench of decomposing flesh overwhelmed him immediately. He turned as if to vomit, but then his eyes fell upon a hundred hanged children. The city was gone and he was surrounded by hundreds of skeletal apple trees. The orchard around them was misty and frozen, and Tucker stood beside him holding his hand. "Wash, listen, it's okay."
Wash badly wanted to believe him, until he caught sight of the pistol in Tucker's other hand. In one swift movement, the gun was in Tucker's mouth and—Bang!
Wash's eyes flickered open. He was still wiping Tucker's blood off of his face when he looked down and saw he was restrained to an operating table. Again. The doctors and nurses came in one by one, each sitting in a chair close to him. With surgical precision, they each sliced into Wash's body, carving out a nice big chunk, and their forks twisted onto him as they began to devour his flesh—
Wash's shout pealed through the room as he jerked awake from his nightmare. Panic seized him as he patted down his body and felt slick, wet, blood, there's so much blood. Until Wash realized it was only sweat and he was on the floor and he could see the time: 3:29 A.M.
"Oh, fuck," Wash wheezed with his hand clutched his chest. "Oh god. Oh fuck," he repeated until he felt his heart slow. After a few deep breaths, he climbed to his feet and quickly changed into dry, clean clothes. He always felt jumpy after a nightmare and couldn't possibly sleep or sit in his room at all. The door… who is guarding the door? The door, the door, thedoorthedoor— Next thing he knew, Wash was wrapped up in a blanket to stave off the night's chill, firearm in hand, sitting on the outside of his bedroom door to watch the front entrance. This was clearly the safest route of action, he told himself. Nothing is more calming than keeping watch on your exits.
Wash was thankful he hadn't woken Tucker, who could be heard snoring quietly in his own room. The oncoming hangover made Wash's eyes wince. Nausea clawed at him while a headache made room for itself in his skull. Wash practiced his deep breathing and stayed focused. He was going to get through this, the whole process, and get redeployed and everything was going to be just fine. He just had to keep it together here long enough to convince them that…
"I'm not fucking crazy," Wash remembered Tucker's words from earlier, his mouth in a tight line.
As if on cue, Tucker could be heard groaning in the other room. Wash's face paled and at first as he thought Tucker might be making "happy noises," but that sweet illusion was shattered as the door burst open and Tucker was a blur into the bathroom. Wash's frown deepened as he heard the visceral sounds of Tucker's vomiting. Gross.
I just have to make it. Through. This. Wash thought more sternly. A flush, the sounds of frantic teeth-brushing, and Tucker sloppily emerged from the bathroom. For once, Tucker was in sweatpants and a hoodie and not naked, which was a relief. He crossed his arms and passed over his own bedroom door before stopping at Wash's feet.
"Scooch," Tucker said. Wash didn't understand until Tucker's freezing foot nudged his leg over. Wash moved over to make room for Tucker, who sat down next to him. "I haven't had real beer in so long. I feel like shit," Tucker said flatly.
"Yeah, that's the hangover," Wash responded. His own voice was gravely and exhausted.
"How you holdin' up over there?" Tucker asked.
"I don't exactly feel… amazing," Wash croaked.
"You too, huh?"
"Mm-hmm."
Tucker sat up attentively and pulled some of the blanket away from Washington. "Let me have some of this, it's freezing in here." Wash was too tired to argue and relented. When Tucker settled in, his shoulder was pressed firmly against his roommate's and the blanket warmed them nicely. He heard Wash's sharp intake of breath at the contact, but Tucker noticed he did not shy away this time. Tucker smiled, leaning his head against Wash's bedroom door.
"I feel bad," Tucker said suddenly.
Wash sighed deeply again . "Yeah, Tucker, that's the hangover."
"Uh, I meant, I feel bad about what I said to you. About being crazy. I'm sorry, that was out of line," Tucker said earnestly.
"it's fine," Wash said shortly. He didn't want to make it a thing. But still, the apology was a nice gesture. At the same time, Wash felt silly that it had ever bothered him in the first place.
"it's not fine," Tucker said quietly, but failed to elaborate. Wash didn't push it, and soon enough he heard Tucker's breathing even out. Wash's head felt heavier, and as Tucker rested his head on Wash's shoulder, he felt himself being lulled back into sleep.
"I'd like to talk about what happened in the Meta Suit, Tucker."
By the third meeting that week, Tucker felt like he had dodged this topic twenty-nine times already. His therapist's office was small, bordering on tiny. Bookshelves lined the room with technical tomes, many of whom were authored by the lady herself. Doctor Garza was an unlaughing, frigid, uptight, uninteresting MILF. She had everything, physically, going for her, but shit was she a pain to talk to.
Tucker ran his fingers through the underside of his locs, trying to keep from rolling his eyes. He adjusted the sleeves of his sweatshirt, sat up a little straighter, and rested an elbow on the back of the couch. "I already told you, I don't remember anything during the fight. You're just going to have to ask others."
The doctor bit her cheek and appeared to be thinking. "Okay. Well, I see that you've been having night terrors lately. Do you have any idea what might be causing those?"
Tucker feigned an easy smile. He'd been fooling women into thinking he cared for years, how hard could this therapy thing be? Except he had a horrible tell of clamming up completely as soon as they breached an uncomfortable topic. He did his best to maintain his carefree attitude but this therapist wouldn't fucking budge on her questions.
"Not really. The whole thing with night terrors apparently is you don't remember what they're about. So, that's a thing," Tucker said.
"Of course," Doctor Garza said calmly. "You don't suppose the two could be related? Not remembering the Meta suit and also not remembering your nightmares?"
Tucker blinked in false surprise. "What? You think so?"
"Why don't we go back to the beginning, Tucker." His eyes glanced down at the clipboard and noticed the doctor had her pen ready for some fuckin' action. "First, the enemy soldiers breached the door to the trophy room. What happened next?"
It's in his mind before Tucker can flinch away fast enough.
His mouth went dry as the first feathers of a tremor threatened his hands. It was right there in front of him, every detail clear as day. His breath hitched, which elicited some eager body language from the therapist. He realized then that he was in her trap and he wasn't getting out this time.
"The door breaches," Tucker said slowly, "and the table we'd shoved in front of the door flies backwards at us. We scatter, and that's the last thing I remember, before…"
"Before what, Captain Tucker?" the therapist prodded.
"Before there were seven other voices inside my head with me."
The therapist was frantically jotting down her thoughts at this point. Tucker closed his eyes and focused all his energy on maintaining a firm composure. Watching someone's enthusiasm over your own mental strife is not the most welcoming feeling.
"The seven voices," Doctor Garza begins. "Did you know them?"
"No," Tucker said.
"Were they talking all at once? Or were they taking turns?" she countered.
"They were talking… all at once. To me, and to each other," Tucker responded.
"What caused you to hear the voices, Tucker? Were there additional AI stored in the suit?" she pressed again.
"No," Tucker said again. When she didn't say anything, he felt compelled to continue. "Epsilon—Church—he deleted himself. Deconstructed himself. And the resulting voices were… his fragments."
"Interesting," the therapist mused. "Why do you think the Epsilon AI unit did that?"
Tucker couldn't help but cross his arms and quickly squeeze his eyes shut at the memory, at the feeling, no, the moment he knew when Church was gone. "He did it because he didn't have the juice to run the Meta suit. The fragments did, though. He didn't think we would make it out…" he trailed off.
"When you say he deconstructed himself, how did it happen? Were you… conscious of this deconstruction?" the therapist asked.
Tucker tensed further and tried his best to maintain a level voice, but he unwittingly grit his teeth in anger. "Yes," he bit out. "I was conscious of the sudden screaming in my goddamn head, I was conscious of the suit powering up,I was conscious of the soldiers running us into a dead-end, and I was conscious of Epsilon fucking dying. When he deleted his memories, it was like, it's like when—like when you walk into a room but forget the reason you came in. Like, really all up in the middle of something when all of the sudden, it's blank."
"What's blank, Tucker?"
"Everything. When Epsilon started erasing, I felt… I felt things scrape away that weren't meant to leave in the process. I felt like my brain was on fire, like I was disappearing, like I'd taken too many uppers because my chest hurt and I felt Epsilon leave this big empty chunk in my head and it hurt. But I didn't have time to think about it, I had to kill a bunch of soldiers before they killed us." Tucker paused, so caught up in his memory for the moment he didn't even register the therapist's pen scribbling a novel onto her clipboard.
Tucker took a deep sigh. "I wasn't even really there, after that. The voices took over and I was just… along for the ride." After that, it was like a spell had lifted and Tucker had control over his mouth again. Looking up at the therapist, his gut twisted unpleasantly. It felt so wrong to tell all of this to her. How could he trust his information was confidential? Yet at the same time, how could he pass clearance for discharge if he didn't cooperate?
The therapist nodded and gave Tucker a very run-of-the-mill spiel about the stages of grief and what some people commonly do to handle losing a loved one. Tucker simply stared at her and let the words wash over him, not absorbing a single one except for at the end when she asked "Why don't you try some of those techniques the next time you have a night-terror? We can talk about your progress then after the weekend."
"Yeah, I'll do that," Tucker heard himself say.
"Oop—and that's time. I'll let you get on with your day now, dear. See you in a few," the therapist ushered him out promptly to the elevator.
The walk home was like a daydream. Tucker found himself having to constantly backtrack after passing this or that street, his mind not really there at the task at hand. The psychiatric office was in the military sector, so the walk home was brief—maybe twenty minutes if he was walking leisurely. Somehow, the time slipped from his awareness as he found himself lost in the totally wrong direction. Directions weren't making sense for some reason. Tucker pulled out his data pad to check his location near a walkway and caught the eye of a stranger sitting on a nearby bench.
But it wasn't a stranger. It was fucking Felix. Tucker's heart stopped in the horrifying realization that he wasn't hallucinating. Felix seemed to be lounging openly with a to-go coffee in his left hand, data pad in the other. His unsmiling brown eyes shot up to catch Tucker's. After a moment of staring, a gloved hand motioned for Tucker to come closer. Tucker's heart pounded in his ears, but for some reason he complied. He walked down the hall until he was within mere feet of the bench and stared disbelieving at Felix.
"Why the fuck aren't you dead?" Tucker's voice sounded higher than he meant it to.
"Oh, I was. For like, eight minutes. What's the matter Tucker? You sound like you're not sure if I'm real or not," Felix said with a shitty grin on his face.
Tucker felt his face twist in anger. "What about the sword, asshole? We all saw Locus activate it."
Felix scoffed. "It's fucking alien technology, it's not god." When Tucker didn't say anything right away, Felix continued. "Anyway, don't worry about me. I'm not planning on killing you or anything—at least for now. Why don't you sit down? You look stressed."
Tucker absolutely did not want to sit down. "What's your game? What are you doing here?"
Felix sipped his coffee and tucked his data pad into his coat pocket. "What, a guy can't chill on a bench?"
"In a military compound with security six ways from Sunday?" Tucker sneered. "Who the fuck are you working for now?"
"Oh, I don't think that's important right now. But you should know, I can go anywhere on this ship that I want," Felix said nonchalantly. His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Anywhere. I. Want."
Tucker didn't realize it, but his fists were clenched and shaking. He would have done anything to beat the ever-loving daylights out of this piece of shit, but there was no way causing a scene here could end in his favor. "If you bother any single one of my friends…" Tucker started in a low voice.
"Such sharp words," Felix interrupted. "For a fucking loser." Tucker glared daggers. "Maybe you should get your bullshit PTSD under wraps before you start picking fights out of your league."
The words gut Tucker like a fish. All thoughts were gone, silenced by an over-exposed feeling of crushing self-awareness. Felix languidly got to his feet and ran a hand through his fuckboy haircut. "I'll see you around, Tucker. Try and get some sleep." Felix winked and fell in line with a group of young cadets walking towards the checkpoint to the civilian sector.
Tucker was paralyzed to the spot, not even totally certain if he was awake or dreaming. Lord knows, he'd had plenty of nightmares about that dickbag. But something about this was too real, too vivid, and yet too weird to be true. Tucker quickly determined the direction towards his living quarters and walked back with haste to the tiny suite he shared with Washington.
When Tucker shut the door, he locked it without thinking. Washington's door was closed and the lights were off; he was elsewhere. That guy had a unique talent of finding useless tasks to keep himself occupied. Tucker did not share that talent. With pointed urgency, Tucker found himself in his bedroom. His heart hurt in his chest as his pulse raged in his ears. He couldn't stop the cycling thoughts. Was Felix really alive? Or was this just a very convincing hallucination?
Tucker thought back immediately to the therapy session, and he realized it wasn't his pulse that was banging on his eardrums. It was them. Seven other voices bickering with each other over Felix. We should find him. We should kill him. We should run. We should hide. His heart was beating so hard and his stomach twisted into a pretzel. Darkness eked into the corners of his vision and his hands gripped the sides of his desk. Tucker's brain was on fire, and the voices were shouting so loudly he couldn't get a word in edgewise.
He felt a crack as his body went limp; he felt Epsilon shatter into the fragments and he was so hot, so hot he was sweating. His brain was going to explode. There was too much information to process. There's a soldier behind him with a machete and two on his side with automatic rifles. If he rolls forward quickly enough he can avoid that grenade coming towards him and use his sword to take out the guy operating the jeep turret—and then there was that gaping hole his in head where Epsilon used to be. It was hot and wet.
Wait, what was hot and wet?
Tucker blinked in rapid succession and came back to reality. He was on the carpet floor of his room and something hot and wet was on his face. He touched a hand to his forehead and pulled away to check.
Yep. Blood. He looked up and saw the edge of the desk where his face made bruising contact on his way down.
Tucker's heart stuttered and he swallowed. He needed a pill. He frantically found his way to his feet and began rifling through the carefully constructed chaos. Where had he put them last? His desk? The closet? His bed? His duffle? He pawed violently through his belongings, but they were nowhere to be found.
"WHERE THE FUCK?" Tucker shouted into his empty suite as panic seized him. In a fit of rage, he swept the piles of books, notepads, and personal items from his desk. A jar of coconut oil went flying against the door with loud thunk. Tucker took a shaky breath and tried desperately to scan his room for the familiar brown baggy. At last, he saw it—crumpled up in the corner next to his bed.
Fuck, he sighed in relief. Snatching it up, his trembling hands searched through the med packs until he found the anti-anxieties. His jaw set into a grim frown. Only two left.
Carefully, he emptied a single pill into his hand and tossed it in his mouth, dry-swallowing. He looked closely at the final pill before slipping it back into its paper bag. Tucker stuffed the package in his underwear drawer right away so he wouldn't lose it again. Slouching onto the edge of his bed, the soldier buried his head in his hands and found himself calming down.
Okay, on the upswing now, he thought to himself. That is, until, he heard a knock on his door. Horrified, Tucker's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.
"Uh. Yeah?" he called out.
The door opened, not waiting for an invitation. Tucker bristled. "Everything okay in here?" It was Wash. His blonde hair stuck up at odd angles, his shirt wrinkled from sleep, and a dazed look in his eye that quickly blinked away when he saw Tucker's deer-in-headlights expression.
"Uh. Yeah." Tucker didn't elaborate. He didn't blink or breath or move. Please, he thought. Whether it was please leave or please help, Tucker couldn't be sure. Both options were terrible. He was fucked.
Wash looked carefully at the mess of a room. The remnants of Tucker's desk all over the floor, bedding thrown every which way, the clothes hamper tipped over. Wash bit his lip in careful thought, which was something Tucker always saw him do when he was trying to say something difficult.
"Don't take this the wrong way, Tucker, but this doesn't look… okay," Wash said.
"I didn't think you were here," Tucker said quickly.
"Tucker, what happened?" Wash wasn't letting Tucker distract him. Tucker's gut twisted again and he felt some kind of existential flinch at the core of his being.
"I just—," Tucker paused. "It's nothing. I just had a… weird day." Another pause. Tucker was staring at his hands, shoulders stiff. His head snapped back up to look at Washington. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up. I didn't know you were sleeping."
Wash took a slow breath and seemed to be weighing his options before he stepped over the clutter on the floor to sit next to Tucker on his bed. Tucker looked at him with wide, nervous eyes.
"Are we friends enough that I can tell you what you need to hear, even if it sucks?" Wash asked.
"Well, you've never seemed to have an issue with that in the past," Tucker said. Wash rolled his eyes.
"Tucker, this thing with the- the screening process for discharge or whatever, with the psychologists—it's horrible. Sometimes, it's like they mean to help but… they don't… really know… what they're doing," Wash said awkwardly. "I've definitely had the experience where, in some attempt to help me process things, I get… re-traumatized. Or, I don't know, things that had previously settled to the bottom get stirred up again."
Tucker didn't turn to face Wash, who was sitting so closely now that Tucker could lean over and rest his head on his shoulder if he wanted. Tucker's mind flashed back to the night they spent in the hallway together. He wanted that now, more than anything. He wanted to tell him about the Meta suit and the voices and that flaming dumpster of a person, Felix. He couldn't possibly, though. Whenever Wash was up late at night, it was because he had his own shit to deal with. Tucker would be selfish to ask Wash to carry additional burdens. The man had enough on his own. He had suffered enough. He didn't need Tucker's pain, too.
Tucker couldn't say anything. He was bursting with things he wanted to tell the blonde, but he couldn't utter a single word of them.
Wash's hand twitched. He reached towards Tucker, only a few inches before he paused. After another second, he moved again with more resolve and gently settled his hand over Tucker's fingers. That got Tucker to look at him.
"Tucker," Wash said in that low, protective tone.
Wash would get like that: so dramatic, especially when they worked together on Chorus during the civil war. The tone was comforting and always inspired trust from the deepest recesses of Tucker's chest. Wash's knowledge, skill, and quick thinking had saved Tucker and the others more times than they could count. If Wash said he would protect you, you could count on him. Tucker clung to that, sometimes, in the heat of war.
Tucker realized he was so busy thinking about life on Chorus, he hadn't heard what Wash had said. "Sorry, what did you just say?"
Wash's eyes zeroed in on Tucker's face. "I said, if you feel like the therapy isn't helping, you need to lie to them, Tucker."
Tucker's questioning eyes made Wash shift uncomfortably. "Don't tell anyone I told you that," he added.
Tucker nodded and licked his lips before speaking again. "You lie to yours?" he asked.
Wash eyes shifted away momentarily. "Yeah. I do." The silence the followed his admission was heavy, but comfortable. Like a thick blanket on a cold, rainy day. Wash was like that.
"…What do you say?" Tucker's voice was quiet. It was a personal question, he knew that, but he couldn't help himself.
Washington pressed his lips together in thought and lightly squeezed Tucker's hand. "I tell them that… I feel better." His voice was heavy and tired. "I tell them that their advice helps, that the plan is working, that the meds are great, that I take them regularly." Tucker looked at him and Wash could feel the pity, the fear, the realization in Tucker's eyes. "I tell them I don't have suicidal thoughts. I tell them I have plans for after the war. I tell them I have close relationships with other people… you know, healthy-people things."
Tucker couldn't help but stare at Washington, who glanced up to him in a careful show of vulnerability. Tucker wanted to save Wash right then and there—but how? He was going to have to tell the same lies. Was that going to be his whole future? Was Tucker doomed to a life of mental instability and daily panic? Was that the life Wash was already living? The thought made Tucker grip Wash's hand instinctively.
"You know you're bleeding, yeah?" Wash asked suddenly. Tucker snapped his hand from under Wash's fingertips and touched his forehead again—right, he'd already forgotten.
"Yeah, I knew that." Tucker didn't sound confident in his answer.
A pause followed. "You can talk to me if you need to," Wash said softly before standing up to leave. "The first aid kit is in the bathroom," he said. At the invitation to talk, Tucker couldn't control himself anymore.
"Wash," Tucker blurted out with a hint of panic back in his voice. Wash paused at the door. "I saw him again. I saw Felix. He's here."
Washington's shoulders slumped with a patient sigh. "Tucker, Felix died on Chorus. We know he's dead because Locus has the sword." He hesitated, but then he asked, "Do you remember?"
"Of course I remember," Tucker snapped. "I asked him the same thing. He said he was dead for a few minutes. I don't understand it all, but please, Wash, you have to believe me. There's no way I imagined the conversation I had today."
Wash gave Tucker a sympathetic look and Tucker felt his heart crumple like a wilted flower. "I don't know whether to believe you," he said honestly.
"I—I know," Tucker said with a hint of exhaustion. He stood up then and brushed pass Washington to clean up the cut on his forehead in the bathroom.
"If it makes you feel better, I know what that's like. To not be able to tell, you know," Wash said quietly, pivoting to look at Tucker as he dabbed his forehead with rubbing alcohol. Wash pressed his forearm on Tucker's door frame and rested his temple against his hand. "I don't know the details, but it's pretty obvious something serious is going on with you."
Tucker bit back a snappy response but inadvertently shot a dirty look at Wash. After placing a strip of bandage tape over the cut, Tucker stood in front of Wash to indicate he was going back to his bedroom. When Wash didn't move, Tucker groaned. "Come on, man. I'm fucking tired. Just let me through."
"You're seriously not gonna talk to me?" Wash asked him. Something squeezed in Tucker's chest. I just did, Tucker thought. But you're not listening right now.
"Maybe later. I just need to take a minute," Tucker said. "Okay?"
With a deep breath, Wash stood aside and let Tucker pass. "Yeah, okay." Tucker closed the door in his face and Wash could hear him tidying his room on the other side. Wash let Tucker have his space for now. In the meantime, he needed to check in with Carolina. She sent him a text hours ago that she had news.