VI. Strike
York was pretty convinced of two things. The first was that North had a superpower. The second was that North's superpower was the ability to radiate concern through solid bulkheads.
Give the Insurrectionists credit, they knew how to lock up prisoners. Everyone in their own little makeshift cells, hastily but unscientifically soundproofed by the addition of a large guard who'd snarl any time one of them tried to communicate. Also, oh yes, no armor. That last part was incredibly disconcerting.
He'd made a token attempt to argue that he still needed his healing unit, but all that had done was get everyone excited about the healing unit, which they promptly carted off with the rest of his armor, so, uh. Maybe not a net win. He felt weird and vulnerable and small in the armor's ridiculous undersuit, although he was consoling himself with the fact that at least it'd be easier to sleep in. The damn armor always threw his neck out.
Sure. Easier to sleep in. Except for the part where now he couldn't really pretend the whole stab wound thing hadn't happened, because there was a big gash in his undersuit and the skin beneath wasn't fully healed yet, all weird and puckered and, like, oozy. He felt vaguely ill every time he glanced down at it, but also vaguely compelled to keep glancing down at it, which wasn't helping a whole lot, so mostly he just sort of curled on his side and focused on his breathing and tried to ignore North's death-ray of caring coming from the next cell over.
He knew exactly where they'd put North, because every hour or so he'd work up the courage to call, "You alive in there?" and York would mumble back a cheery, "Yup," and the guard would glare at them both and snarl at them to be quiet.
He was pretty sure Connie was either in a different part of the ship or being quiet and sneaky in a nearby cell. Or, y'know. Pretending she had no idea who these two idiots were, honest.
They'd taken her armor at the same time as theirs. He'd been surprised to notice a deep gash on her arm that had obviously happened back on the beach-she'd never said a word-and then he'd been even more surprised to be reminded of how tiny she was. Like, everyone looked short next to North, but without her armor Connie just seemed really fucking small and really fucking young, and he was having a hard time reconciling that image with the knowledge of how viciously she fought, with the assortment of black-ops assignments he knew to be in her personnel record.
Still waters run deep, he thought sagely, and damn, he really must be getting tired if that seemed like a deep and profound insight into her character.
His eyes kept drifting shut on their own, and then the hardness of the deck below him would sink in and he'd jolt awake, his heart slamming against his ribs, which, y'know. Hurt a lot. He was still having trouble catching his breath, although to be fair, he had been doing a lot of running, lately. He curled into a tighter ball on the ground and tried to work out a nice, nonthreatening daydream to escape into. You know. Something that didn't involve missing teammates or missing armor or missing anything.
"Hey-" North called.
"Yes," the guard snarled. "Yes, he's still alive. I promise you'll be the first to know if he dies, because you can safely assume that I will kill you next. Okay?"
"That seems fair, man," York said. It came out as sort of a wheezy mumble that ended in a coughing fit, which probably wasn't terribly reassuring. He rested his forehead against the cool deckplates and went back to just focusing, like, ninety percent of his attention on breathing.
"Hey," said North, "the guy's pretty hurt. Just let me take a look at him."
"You a doctor?" the guard asked, with a hint of interest.
"Well, no," North said, and now there was a sliver of steel in his voice. "What he really needs is that healing unit you guys took from him."
"Oh, you mean the one in his armor? The armor he wore to kill a bunch of my friends?" The guard seemed to be forgetting that his primary role was to keep them from talking, because hey, he obviously had all this sarcasm bottled up for a rainy day. "Yeah, somehow I don't feel particularly inclined to make him more comfortable. Not my problem."
"If he dies," North said, and York made a faint noise of protest at that because, hey, melodramatic much? "you don't think it'll become your problem?"
York heard the guard shift a little closer, then snort. "Nah, he's, like, moving around and talking and shit. He's fine."
Before North could come up with a retort, York cut in with, "Connie, you wanna weigh in on this?"
And, okay, his voice was pretty weak, but if she was anywhere in the vicinity, she had to have heard that, and she'd definitely have responded, even if only with an exasperated sigh. Which meant she wasn't in the vicinity, which meant... something. He was having trouble focusing again, thoughts chasing each other down and down into sleep, and again the hard floor jolting him back to consciousness, and then the hammering of his heart, and then the slow, steady lull of his blurring thoughts.
North called out again, and this time York didn't answer, because he was drifting somewhere pleasantly far away, he was warm and nervous and happy, breathing fast, tracing his fingers across old scars and tight, corded muscle, curling them in bright hair, and when Carolina smiled it was like the end of the world in the best possible way-
"York, c'mon, stay with me."
And, okay, that wasn't something they'd ever tried, but North was a good-looking guy, and, like, maybe if they were all feeling a little adventurous-
"York."
York jolted awake again, coughing, and this time there was a warm hand on his shoulder, and somewhere beyond his wheezing he caught a hint of another voice, and then North said, "Yeah, back on the beach. The healing unit kept him alive, but I think the last fight really took it out of him, and now-"
York rolled onto his back, still panting for breath. "Where's our buddy?" he said, once he was pretty sure he was done with the whole hacking-up-a-lung thing, and North nodded over to a big heap of guard on the ground. Said heap of guard looked very, very dead. "Whoa. Remind me not to forget to answer next time you call."
"Wasn't me," said North. He had a weird, fixed expression on his face, a smile that did nothing to hide the deepening worry-lines around his eyes. "Rescue party's here."
York craned his neck, and the name on his lips faded when his reeling brain finally recognized the figure standing over them. "Texas?"
"Heard you guys were in some trouble," Tex said, and she seemed so alien in her sleek, undamaged armor, untarnished steel and chrome. He realized he'd never seen her face, and then he realized, more slowly, that he'd never even questioned that before. "I was in the neighborhood, figured I'd stop by to help out."
Before York could say another word, Connie backed into the cell. She was still out of armor, but she had a Magnum in one hand and had apparently taken the time to apply biofoam to the wound on her arm. "Nobody's sounded the alarm. I think we're good."
"Uh," said York, then paused, because he wasn't entirely sure where to start, and settled for a weak, "I don't really understand what's happening right now."
"Tex doesn't know where the others are, either," North said. "They never reported in. But the Mother of Invention intercepted communications about three Freelancer prisoners, and hey. Here's the cavalry."
"Wyoming and Florida are going for the armor," Tex said, but York's brain was still hung up on never reported in, because what the hell did that mean, what the hell could that possibly mean-
The images were stunningly vivid, the memories clear as a film reel, playing over and over in excruciating detail. South hitting the wall and crumpling. Wash falling amid that shocking spray of blood. And Carolina tumbling limp and unmoving into the water...
"I think I'm going to be sick," York mumbled, but North's hand shifted from his shoulder to his arm, half-dragged him to his feet, and then everything was just sort of spinning except that solid grip, and he clutched at it, shaking.
"York?" That was Connie, leaning in close, and then she looked past him to North, her brows furrowed. "I don't like this. He needs medical attention."
"That's the plan," Tex said. "Can he walk?"
"Sure," North said.
"Yeah," York said, because North had said it with such certainty that it would've been impolite to disagree. "Yeah, just... need a minute, here."
"We don't have a minute," Tex said. "Wyoming says he and Florida have got the armor, but there are way too fucking many people on this ship, and they've got to have noticed us by now. We're getting out of here. Now."
"Yeah," York said, again, because what else could he say to that, and then North was moving, supporting him as he stumbled along in Tex's wake. Connie took their six, and York half-turned to see her take down a trio of guards, one-two-three, before Tex even seemed aware of their presence.
They rounded a corner, once, to find six soldiers waiting, and then Tex just sort of wasn't there, and York remembered what it'd been like to fight her, even when she'd been pulling her punches on the training room floor. She moved quick and precise and careful, all economy of motion and sheer ridiculous, uncaring skill. Virtuoso seemed like a good descriptor. Really fucking scary was another.
The six soldiers fell. Tex didn't. "Let's move," she said, then, "Fuck."
"Care to share with the class?" Connie called.
Tex hesitated, then swung left down the next corridor. "Wyoming says they've found our escape pod. Change of plans. We're going to meet them in the landing bay and hitch a ride from there."
"That sounds tricky," York said. His voice was a lot stronger, now, and he wasn't leaning on North nearly as much. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug.
"Never said it'd be easy," said Tex.
"Hey, so," York said, ignoring North's warning squeeze of his arm. "One question. You said you came after us because you intercepted a communication?"
"Yup," said Tex.
"So what the hell were you doing before that? It has to have been, like, a day at least since the fight on the beach. Where were you guys?" North's hand on his arm was like a vise, now.
"You said one question," Tex said. "That's three. At least."
"Yeah, Tex," Connie chimed in. "Where were you guys?"
"Wow, I don't think I've ever heard that particular pronunciation of the words 'thank you for saving my life' before," Tex said, and swung around a corner into five more Insurrectionists, which she dispatched as effortlessly as the first six, with the help of a well-placed headshot from Connie that made York's ears ache. "C'mon. Keep moving."
"No, look," York said, and that finally pushed North to mutter, "Not now, York!", but fuck it, he was tired and he ached all over and the same fucking images just kept playing across his mind. "Did you even go back down there? Did you even look for them?" Something sharp twinged in his chest and darkness was ringing his vision, and he swallowed hard, swaying on his feet, because passing out right now would probably undermine the point he was trying to make.
Tex wheeled around, still stalking backwards, her voice deceptively mild. "You really want to have this conversation in enemy territory, York? We're all here because you made the brilliant tactical call of charging half-cocked onto an Insurrectionist ship. You're really fucking lucky we decided to rescue you at all."
"I'm sure all that Project Freelancer armor in enemy hands had absolutely nothing to do with this rescue mission," Connie murmured, and North's hand tightened around York's arm again, this time in reaction.
Tex stopped in her tracks, took a step toward them, and York stumbled back automatically, felt North move with him. "Stow the chatter. Let's keep moving."
A door behind her opened. York's warning shout died in his throat as she whirled, slipped into cloak, brought her weapons to bear.
And didn't fire.
Three figures in armor, and it was the helmet on one that kept drawing his eye, a mismatched white over blue-green. His brain was skipping over the image, trying to make sense of it, and then South said, in a low voice, "Holy fuck." Wash stepped out from behind them, rifle in hand, and the jagged tear in his armor was what made it real, was what snapped it from some pleasant daydream. York was breathing way too fucking fast, because the figure in blue-green armor was just standing there with her wrong helmet and her crumpled shoulder guard, and she was just standing there, and she was just standing there-
"Carolina?" he said, thickly.
"We've got to keep moving," Tex said from somewhere very far away.
The way the unfamiliar helmet snapped to focus on Tex, the frustration and rage that set the shoulders, that was pure Carolina. But after a moment she turned back to him, cocked her head to one side, and she said, in a voice that was soft and mild and gave away absolutely nothing, "Guess we're here to rescue you."
North's grip on York's arm had slackened the second South spoke up, but now it tightened again, and York became aware that he was in the process of slowly sliding to the floor. Carolina stepped forward. He was breathing so fast, he wanted to say something, he wanted to say anything, but his thoughts were drifting again, chasing each other down the rabbit-hole. North said something in a sharp tone, and then the floor was a whole lot closer and York's chest was burning, but that was okay, that burning seemed right, maybe, because something inside him sure as hell felt like it had just burst into flame.