II. Shockwave

Okay. So there were shitty days, there were beyond shitty days, and then there was today, which was so far beyond shitty that it rated a whole new set of descriptors. York kept his eyes tightly closed and tried to think of words that would accurately convey the level of shittiness he was working with here, but he was kinda coming up empty. Maybe that was the sort of thing the new AI unit would do for him, once he got implanted. That might actually be cool. And, y'know. Less terrifying than the rest of the whole sharing-your-brain-with-a-computer thing.

"Hey," North whispered, and York felt more than heard the gentle tap against his helmet's faceplate, "you still alive in there?"

York opened his good eye, squinting at the HUD readouts currently flashing their disapproval at him for losing so much blood. His healing unit was doing pretty well at keeping him stable, which was great and all, but the damn thing always made his head ache, and right now he would've much rather had another nice, pain-free bout of unconsciousness than the mother of all migraines.

"York?"

Oh man, that was North's Concerned Voice about to go nuclear, and nothing good ever happened after that, so York raised a hand and said, "I'm okay, man, I'm okay. Just resting my eyes." His voice was raspy, but at least it had stopped that awful wheeze. Breathing also didn't hurt nearly as much as it had, but maybe that was just because the headache hurt that much more. The distinction seemed pretty unimportant, all things considered.

North let out a long breath. "Don't do that to me," he said, voice low and shaky. "We've lost enough-" And then he stopped talking, because by unspoken agreement none of them had mentioned it until now, nobody had broached the subject, because there were things you just didn't talk about, okay, there were things like the way the Hornet's explosion had sent echoing reverberations through York's chest, the way Wash had just crumpled with a spray of blood, the way South's body had hit the wall with a sickening crunch, the way Carolina had tumbled into the crashing waves...

"They're okay," York said, a little too loudly. "We did the right thing. We had to make a choice. We had to move before these assholes could run again. This might be our only chance to get this guy."

North looked uncharacteristically sharp-edged, just for a moment, his hands clenching into fists, his shoulders tensing, and he said, in a voice that was soft and mild and sent chills racing down York's spine, "That was my little sister we left back there, York."

"Yeah," York said, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. He sort of felt like he was gonna throw up, and he didn't think it was entirely because of the headache. "Trust me, I know who we left behind."

Connie came back from her recon a little while later, and her whispered conversation with North was enough to drag York out of his blissfully numbed state of semi-consciousness. He tried to sit up straighter and found it took a lot less effort than he'd expected. The headache was clearing up, and it was definitely easier to breathe now. Experimentally, he braced himself against the wall and pushed to his feet.

"Well, look who's up," North said. The warmth in his voice and the relaxation in his stance were a wordless apology, an understanding. "How're you feeling?"

"Surprisingly, not so much like I just got stabbed in the chest. It's pretty great." Straightening up still seemed like it'd be pushing his luck, so York settled for a casual-looking slouch against the wall. "Any luck, Connie?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I think the leader's on the ship with us—explains why they tried to get the fuck out of here when the Hornet went up—but this place is locked down. I couldn't get too far without their access codes. These guys are pretty paranoid about security in their empty cargo bays, if you ask me."

"Well, then," York said, pushing off from the wall, "guess we're lucky we brought an infiltration specialist. Where's the closest lock?"

Connie was looking at him a little uncertainly, darting a glance at North. "Uh. Up one deck and around the corner. Are you sure you're-"

"I'm fine. I got this." York tried a charming smile; he'd found that even behind his helmet, the general gist of it seemed to get across. Apparently Connie had also figured out how to emote through her armor, because her responding eyeroll was wonderfully evocative.

"Hey," North said, "I hate to be the one to bring down the mood, but... what exactly is the plan, here?"

York paused, his smile faltering. "Right," he said. "The plan."

Because there hadn't been much of a plan, back on the beach. There'd been the explosion, and then Wash and Carolina and South, and then the blade sneaking in from his bad side, and after that there'd mostly just been pain. Connie had dragged him out of the fray, although he didn't remember much about that part except for the annoying feeling of having to cough but not being able to muster the strength. And then North had been there, too, yelling over the wind and the rain and the gunfire that they had to get out of there. In the brief strobes of lightning, York had seen the wreckage of the Hornet, and beyond it the shadowy bulk of a bigger ship. He'd snarled out orders and they'd all staggered aboard in the midst of the confusion. Brilliant military strategy, right there.

He sighed, closing his eyes again, just for a moment, just to feel the pull of scar tissue against his eyelid. He'd never liked downtime, not with all the annoying opportunities for self-awareness and reflection that came with it, but since the training room session with Tex had landed him in the infirmary for way too fucking long, he'd come to terms with the fact that he just didn't like having to face things head-on. And right now the three bodies back on the beach seemed a hell of a lot harder to face than the whole damn Insurrection platoon on this ship.

He opened his eyes. North and Connie were looking at him, because this was kind of what he did; he stood beside Carolina, he backed her decisions, he played Prophet to her Word of God or whatever. Maybe they still thought this was all part of the plan, that he and Carolina had talked contingencies last night over a nice quiet dinner, like, "Here's what you do, York, if I get myself killed out there tomorrow, and you panic and run away and drag your friends with you. Here's what you do."

He realized he'd been quiet too long when Connie looked away, when North tilted his head to the side, and then he figured, hell, who did he think he was fooling, anyway. "The plan," he said, "is to get us all out of this alive."