Culling of the Fold- The Decemberists

(This is actually Wash/ South instead of Church/ Tex)

Cassie, Cassandra, most recently, South Dakota. Many names, mused Washington as he lay dying from the gunshot wound to his back, but she had been more things to him than just a name.

She was his classmate, first. Then his friend, as he very tentatively called their relationship after high school. Tentative because South didn't have many friends. Even her brother, her own flesh and blood, after his AI implantation, was treated with hostility and/or cold indifference, though mostly the latter.

Then she was his rival, along with 47 other soldiers in the Freelancer program- other recruits, like them, Tex and York, or older, grizzled soldiers such as Wyoming, or even the deadbeats that the Director was trying to shape up, like Maine.

After that, she was his lover. Who knows how it happened, since that night was a bit fuzzy, though Wash had his suspicions that it had concerned a bottle of scotch, a few threats, and his stuffed bunny, Mr. Bugsy. And possibly some potatoes.

She was his partner after the Freelancers were released unto the world like a plague of locusts, since she had no AI, she needed a partner who did. Namely him, and Epsilon.

Now, she was his enemy, his betrayer. She had shot him in the back without hesitation, and left him here, bleeding in the dirt as the Meta advanced slowly.

He healed slowly. He required counseling, physical therapy, and quite a bit of medications. Now he was doing light work, recovering Freelancer's AI's and armor power-ups as they died.

He was trying to reconstruct a team of people who had direct contact with the AI's. He'd found Caboose, which seemed more like a loss than a gain. Then he met Church, who seemed like a total ass. And he was, but Wash couldn't help but think that there was something important about this guy. Then, after the encounter with the Meta, he stalked towards South, pulling out his pistol. She lay injured, shot in the leg, gasping for air.

"What're you gonna do, Wash," she asked, her voice gravely with pain, and Washington could almost see the smirk under her helmet, "shoot me?"

A shot rang out, echoing through the cliffs, as Wash lowered his smoking pistol.

"Yes," he replied to her, turning away and heading back to the two men staring at him. He didn't need to look to see that he had made his target perfectly.

"You guys are some cold motherfuckers," Church informed him, glancing back to the purple- armored corpse.

Wash had to agree with him.

Take your sweetheart down to the river,

Dash her on the paving stones,

It might break your heart to break her bones,

But someone's gotta do the culling

Of the folds.

-The Decemberists