Aggressive
Part 2 of 3
Warning(s): Slightly Referenced Infantilism, Diapering of an Adult, Urinating, Psychological Abuse, Self-Emotional Abuse, etc.
Description: Secretive AU. What happened to Agent Washington after Project Freelancer fell apart? Even in this universe, it's rare that anyone remembers him until it's too late. It takes a great spirit to heal, and an even greater one to remember who they were before they were broken. Agent Washington is nothing like he used to be, but people who break are put back together all the time. He's just glad someone remembered him.
"Start with what is right rather than what is acceptable." ~Franz Kafka
A/N: PART TWO HAS COME! This AU is killing me from the inside out. I'm in love. Thank you to everyone so far whose written reviews/comments thus far, it means so much to me!
"Looks like there'll be a storm tonight." Wyoming commented, boot-covered feet silent as he ran through the city, traveling by rooftop as he made for his next target. He was off to kill some millionaire scumbag who'd gotten his wealth via the underground slave trade. "If we're quite lucky, we can hurry this up and be home by midnight."
"That seems unlikely." Gary responded, but Wyoming, who was used to the AI lying to him, knew better than to trust Gary's hypothesis. "The condensation in the air is still rising. You should be at home, Reggie."
"Need to keep bread on the table." Wyoming reasoned, looking for a good sniping point to shoot from. "Seeing as I'm the only one working in our household, I need to work extra in order to sustain the fa- team." He changed the word quickly. He couldn't afford to think like that.
"I work." Gary announced, but went ignored as Wyoming continued to check the rooftop he was stationed on for cameras and anything else that might prove to be a threat to the mission. "Are you sure this is not a personal vendetta?"
It wasn't, but Wyoming didn't tell Gary that. Wyoming didn't actually care what the guy had done. Sure, there was a sense of justice that came with taking down corrupt and evil people that existed in the universe, but Wyoming wasn't a hitman for the thrill of it. He was in it for the income- a notably big income at that. The ex-Freelancer crouched down on a ledge as he chose a suitable spot to shoot from, reloading his sniper rifle as he aimed down-sights at the party in the building across the street. With sight inside, he looked around the main level of the party being held in the opposite building, looking for his target. The target was by a snack-table, as expected, enjoying a martini while he chatted up some woman who'd come to chat with him.
Wyoming smirked, chuckling to himself. "Hey, Gary, knock knock." He could hear Gary chuckle as well in his mind, sparking and gritting as he analyzed the answer to Wyoming's joke before the Brit could even say it aloud.
Even though he'd already found the answer, Gary answered nonetheless. "Whose there?" He asked, grinning in a way that only someone who had two minds at once could truly ever describe.
Wyoming licked his lips, feeling his fingers run over the dented metal of his prized sniper rifle nervously. "Orange."
"Orange who?" Gary replied, appearing behind Wyoming as a small, tiny hologram.
Wyoming pulled the trigger, watching not a moment later as his target's head exploded. The women around him screamed with fear and horror, running away as the blood, bone marrow, and brain of the millionaire splattered on them. "Orange you glad I didn't say banana?" The Brit finally asked, running away at top speed from the scene of the crime.
Gary sighed, but still seemed to enjoy the comedic joke. "You have already said that one fifteen times this month." The Artificial Intelligence confirmed, sounding extremely disappointed in his partner.
"Have I?" Wyoming wondered aloud, slowing down his running to a soft jog, until it became casual pacing. There were hardly any cops in the city of Bramble, but Wyoming was still incredibly careful when it came to leaving jobs.
The British man soon found his motorcycle, parked where he had left it before the assassination, and hopped aboard, revving the machine up before he took off into the city. It was around eleven-thirty that night as Wyoming made his way through Bramble, the street lights and billboards lighting up the streets and vehicles like it was New Years day. The ex-Freelancer ignored all of these things, preferring to focus on the road as he drove to the farthest drug store from the assassination. Parking near the entrance to the drug store, Wyoming hopped off his bike, glad to not have worn his armor that night for his mission. He'd collect the money in the morning from his employers, but right now, Wash needed him to get some supplies on the way home.
Ever since his rescue, Agent Washington had been... how could Wyoming put it? Shyer than usual? Probably. Back in Freelancer, Wash had surely been a shy one, but he'd more than made up for it with his wits and cockroach-like abilities. Wash didn't do much other than clean when Wyoming was around- Wyoming was a surprisingly messy person and Wash couldn't stand the mess- so Wyoming wasn't exactly sure how the lad was mentally. Sure, Washington was incredibly active considering his last accommodations, but he still hardly said a word, preferring to make himself useful by cooking and cleaning. Wyoming simply figured it was Wash's way of coping as well as his way of showing his thanks to the older Freelancer for saving his life.
Wyoming, putting these thoughts away for later, hurried into the convenience store, looking around for the needed supplies. Poor Washington hadn't been able to request them to Wyoming's face, having left a note politely requesting he retrieve them on the way home from a mission, but Wyoming knew just by how urgent the note was that Wash desperately needed more of the supplies. Walking around the store, Wyoming soon found the adult diapers in the back of the convenience store, where it was kept along with more inappropriate items. Wyoming grabbed two boxes off the shelf, carrying them under his arms as he made for the next aisle, where baby wipes were, only to run into a familiar shadow.
Tex stood looking away from Wyoming, but right away, Wyoming knew her appearance was no coincidence. The blonde woman had long, flowing hair, residing over her left shoulder, while she wore a black, leather jacket, a Dallas Cowboys shirt underneath her jacket, blue jeans with several holes and tears, and black, military-grade army boots. The AI-made-human had her arms crossed as she stared at the packages of basic baby supplies on the shelf in front of her, before turning to look Wyoming in the eyes, her gunmetal blue eyes much like Washington's almost identical pair. Tex seemed to study Wyoming, taking in how he wore a black hoodie, blue jeans, and converse shoes instead of SPARTAN power-armor.
"You look younger." Tex began, uncrossing her arms as she placed one hand on her hip, observing the older Freelancer. "Rare to see that in each other these days."
"I suppose you have a good reason for tracking me, Allison." Wyoming mused, feeling the way Gary shivered and hid behind barriers in his mind. Omega was nearby. "It's not very common of you to drop in on me on such short notice."
"It's all over the network: you saved Washington from an insane asylum, right?" Tex seemed unconvinced by her own information, looking the Brit up and down. "Didn't take you for the superhero type, Wyoming. So, what's your angle? Why'd you really save Wash?"
"He was in danger. Maybe I'm just being nice." Wyoming offered, walking past Tex to find the baby wipes. Tex followed behind him, as expected.
"Maybe you have an angle." Tex again suggested, following behind Wyoming as he searched for supplies for Washington. "You're not a hero, Wyoming. If anything, Wash is a setback for you. You and I know how to end this war one way or another: you and I also know that Wash sure as Hell ain't the answer." She tilted her head, continuing to study the older man.
"He was in danger." Wyoming repeated, trying as hard as possible not to look at Tex. It was hard for anyone to make Gary anxious or afraid, yet Omega and Tex's presence made it easy for the AI in Wyoming's skull to shiver and hide away. "Besides, it wasn't like anyone else was going to go look for him. We left him. Guess I'm the only one with a conscious.
Suddenly, Tex was far too close to Wyoming, standing between him and the shelf holding the baby wipes. "No one in the project had a conscious, Wyoming. Not even Wash. I don't know what you're up to, but I sure as Hell know this isn't some innocent charity case."
Wyoming reached around Tex, giving her plenty of room to stab him, but she didn't, giving Wyoming a sense of safety as he successfully retrieved a package of baby wipes. "Maybe I'm not doing it to be nice then. Nonetheless, this matter is none of your business, dear Allison. I see Omega is still with you, by the way."
Tex seemed startled, as a deep, indigo hue took over the gunmetal blue in her eyes, making her look ten times more intimidating than before. "The Meta is looking for you." Tex explained, voice distorted by Omega's involvement with her thoughts and words. "He'll find you."
"I'm well aware." Wyoming promised, carrying his supplies to the front of the store, where a far too peppy young woman stood behind the counter, looking very excited. She smelled slightly like daisies. "Yes, hello, I'd like to buy these if you don't mind."
"Sure thing, sir!" The woman chirped, scanning Wyoming's things while Tex stood beside him, arms crossed with a glare on her face. The woman took notice of Tex, and grinned even more than she had before. "Oh! Is this your girlfriend?"
"Yeah-" Tex confirmed, before Wyoming could speak, slamming down a chocolate bar from the counter's snack rack on the check-out desk, giving Wyoming a smirk. "-Wanna treat me, babe?"
Wyoming made to put the candy bar away, but stopped, thinking better of it at the last moment. He even grabbed another bar out of the snack rack , placing it down on the desk beside Tex's candy. Washington could use the extra blood sugar. "This should be all." He assured the check-out lady, shooting Tex a warning glare to not take anymore sweets.
"Alrighty then, that'll be fifty-four dollars and eighteen cents!" The woman announced, taking Wyoming's offered credit card, which was slightly scratched up in certain places. "Thank you, and have a lovely day!" She continued, waving goodbye as Tex and Wyoming left the store.
"That bitch was high." Tex declared as she and Wyoming left the drug store, hands on her hips again as she stretched outside, looking around thoughtfully. "It's getting pretty damn late. You should be getting home, Reg."
"I was planing on it. And where are you staying at, might I ask?" Wyoming questioned, allowing Tex to follow him to his motorcycle as he tied down the boxes on the sides, storing the baby wipes and Wash's candy bar in his messenger bag with his sniper rifle.
"None of your business." Tex promised, giving Wyoming a devilish smirk as she took her candy bar from him, giving him a wicked wink. "I'll be checking up on you again soon, Reg. You take care of that kid, okay? He's one of the last ones." With that, she ran off, the purple still shining in her eyes.
"He is consuming her." Gary announced, finally appearing beside Wyoming, his glow soft and nightlight-like in nature. "I can hear him in her voice. She does not have much longer until he has control of her."
"She's stronger than she appears, chap." Wyoming reminded his AI, popping on his helmet as he got onto his motorcycle, Gary again disappearing to nest in the back of Wyoming's consciousness. It had been a long day: he deserved a break.
And so, Wyoming drove out onto the road, finding the highway with ease. He was incredibly tired, and yawned loudly in his helmet. God, he hadn't slept well in weeks, had he? While Washington wasn't trying to be a burden, there were times Wyoming craved sleep, and Wash's almost constant nightmares and breakdowns made such rest difficult to find. But it was fine, Wyoming decided. He'd known the risks and troubles that would come when he'd decided to rescue Wash, and even if those troubles seemed far too prevalent for Wyoming's liking, he knew that Wash's gratefulness was eternal and would gain him the younger ex-Freelancer's complete and total respect and loyalty for a long, long time.
A car horn blaring was what knocked Wyoming out of his daydreaming. At first, he'd thought it was the car behind him, but looking to his left, he realized that it was a group of college-age looking teenagers honking their horn at him. "Hey, baby-boy! You need a change!?" One kid mocked, referring to the adult diapers strapped to Wyoming's motorcycle.
Wyoming glared intensely at the teenagers. He'd dealt with kids like them before, but somehow, it felt more personal. It had been an honored code to not tease Washington during the project about his condition, yet these fucking children didn't give a shit about that, not that they knew of course. "Bugger off!" The Brit finally shouted, giving them the middle finger.
"Aw, gonna cry home to Daddy?" The driver of the college car asked, honking his horn again to gain attention from other drivers. "Have fun sucking cock, bitch!" With that, they drove off, leaving Wyoming in the dust.
For a moment, Wyoming considered yanking out his sniper rifle and shooting the driver in the head. It wouldn't be hard for him, but the chances of getting caught were high. Cursing under his breath, Wyoming decided to try and forget about it, but it was terribly hard. He hated kids these days- war had taken their respectable fathers away, so they committed crimes, joined gangs, drank liquor, got high, and raped people- so much so that Wyoming had almost refused to join Project Freelancer, as many young adults were in it already. But in the end, freedom won out over the death penalty he would've been given, leading Wyoming to join Project Freelancer to escape that dreaded needle.
Wyoming almost chuckled. He'd been forced into Project Freelancer all because he'd been a successful hitman, but here he was again, as a successful hitman. There was some kind of irony surrounding his situation, but Wyoming didn't bother looking for it.
When Wyoming returned home, he wasn't all that surprised when an empty coke bottle came hurtling at him, to which he dodged, watching the glass bottle shatter against the wall. He eyed the room, finding Agent Washington nowhere to be found. He sighed internally, but made no audible sound that could even suggest his displeasure with Washington's behavior. The kid already felt guilty enough with Wyoming watching over him, there was no need to stress Wash out with the idea that Wyoming was upset with him. Making no outward comment on the mess, Wyoming strode into the apartment's small, almost spotless kitchen. Taking the broom and dustpan from beside the fridge, Wyoming walked back over to where the glass had shattered, dusting up the remaining pieces. Didn't want to risk Wash or himself stepping on a shard after all.
As Wyoming dusted up the glass fragments, he heard a soft shuffle from the hallway. Wyoming, trying to appear unaware of his roommate's presence, set down a small, handheld mirror he tended to carry in his bag. Setting it at the right angle against a book left on the floor, Wyoming was able to get a good look at Wash. Washington was standing in the doorway of the hallway, making no move to interrupt Wyoming's work. The blond's hair was scruffy and untamed, while his gunmetal blue eyes looked a bit glazed over, like he'd just stopped crying or was just about to. He wore a pair of Wyoming's sweatpants (They were far too big on him), one of Wyoming's hoodies that reached all the way to his mid-thighs, and white socks that covered his dirty feet. Underneath all the baggy clothing, Wyoming knew Wash was extremely boney. It made Wyoming feel guilty whenever he thought about it.
"I'm sorry." Wash suddenly whispered, voice a bit scratchy from his earlier crying. Wyoming was certain now that Wash had been crying just before he arrived. "I... I didn't know it was you..."
"Who did you think it was?" Wyoming asked, not looking directly at Washington as he continued to use the mirror, still crouched on the ground sweeping up the glass shards.
"Tex." Wash deadpanned, swallowing before he continued. "She came right after you left for your mission this morning. We talked for awhile, but she said she needed to go take care of some things. She brought Omega."
"Agent Texas, hm? I happened upon her not too long ago myself." Wyoming replied, worry eating at the back of his mind. It was Gary, he knew, stressing over the idea of Omega being anywhere near Wash while he's still recovering from his time in the hospital and Epsilon.
"Yeah, she mentioned needing to check in with you." Wash muttered, more to himself than to Wyoming. He started to step into the living room some more now, still appearing skittish. "I'm sorry I threw the bottle at you."
"Apology accepted. But I must ask: if you pondered that I was Texas, why did you try to attack me when I came in?" Wyoming asked, though he feared that he already knew the answer. Well, Gary had a few ideas, and Wyoming didn't like any of them.
"Well... I was scared that Omega was going to attack me." Washington explained, sounding matter-of-fact at the idea of Omega being aggressive towards him. "So, when I heard someone opening the door... I sorta... panicked."
Wyoming nodded at this. He didn't blame Wash for his fright towards Omega. Later on, the assassin figured he'd have to question Tex about her visit with Wash- he suspected her chat with him was what caused his obvious crying- but for now, Wyoming focused on cleaning up the rest of the floor. Certain that there was no glass shards left to threaten their well-being, the Brit carried the dustpan into the kitchen, noticing that Wash followed from behind, as if waiting for the hitman to say something more. Wyoming pretended not to notice as he emptied out the dustpan into the trashcan, afterwards setting the dustpan and broom beside the fridge once more. Without a word, Wyoming then strode to the kitchen table, picking up a still-full medicine container. He scowled at Washington.
"You never took your medication today." Wyoming stated, looking disappointed in the younger ex-Freelancer, who looked away from him, appearing guilty. "I keep telling you, David. It's for your own good to take these." He only ever called Wash 'David' when he was annoyed, making Wash look even more ashamed.
"I don't need any medicine." Wash reminded Wyoming, as it was his usual response to whenever he failed to take his pills. "They make me feel way too tired and dizzy."
"They're meant to help you relax and rest." Wyoming pointed out, still unaffected by Wash's arguing. "I understand that you're no fan of medication- I hate popping my own pills whenever I need sleep- but they are to assist you in recovering. Don't you wish to recover?"
"I'm not a little kid, Wyoming!" Washington argued, glaring full-on at the hitman. Although his eyes as of late tended to appear dull and depressed at first glance, when he was truly upset, they seemed to shine with a stubbornness that drove Wyoming insane. "Just 'cus I wear fucking diapers doesn't make me three years old! I'm not just gonna take some pills 'cus ya ordered me to: I need a better reason than 'they'll make me better'!"
"You're missing the point." Wyoming groaned, leaning back on the kitchen table, one hand rubbing his temple while the other still held Wash's filled-up pill bottle. "If you don't take these pills, you're at risk of severely injuring yourself. I'm not always around to check on you and watch over you: if you were to die all because you didn't take your medicine, I'd feel guilty about it for years. Please-" He held out the bottle to Wash, urging him to take it and have his pills. "-Don't make me lose another Freelancer."
That was a low fucking blow, and it made Washington feel conflicted. One half of him wanted to smack that bottle out of Wyoming's hand or pour the pills down the sink, while the other rationalized with Wyoming and understood that his medicine was indeed a necessity. Sighing and still feeling wary, Wash eventually took the pill bottle from Wyoming, hand shaking with the urge to throw the damned thing at the nearest, hardest surface he could find. However, Wash feared Wyoming's reaction to such childish and inappropriate behavior, and although he didn't want to, the blond screwed open the bottle, popped out the correct dosage of three pills, and tossed them into his mouth, dry-swallowing them. He scrunched up his face as they went down, the sensation of them still being in his throat feeling uncomfortable.
"Should've had a cup of tea with that, hm?" Wyoming teased, a wiry smirk on his face. Wash only scowled angrily at the Brit, unamused by the older man's joke. "Thank you for doing that for me, Washington. It takes a good amount of worry off my mind when I'm not home."
"Humph!" Wash huffed, but his insides glowed with the warmth of the praise Wyoming gave him for his cooperation. He didn't like making Wyoming disappointed in him, especially after he so selflessly saved him. It made Wash feel good when Wyoming was proud of him.
"How about I stop talking about it and I make us a pot?" Wyoming asked, more to himself than to Wash, who still had his arms crossed stubbornly over his boney chest. "Now then... Earl Grey or green tea?"
"Green." Was Washington's simple reply before he sat down, lulling his head on the table as his medication slowly began to flood his brain. Before long, he was fast asleep.
Wyoming awoke a few nights later, for once not because Washington was screaming. In fact, Wash was sleeping soundly beside Wyoming in their shared bed, curling in on himself as he snored softly in the dark room. Wyoming sat up, searching for his loudly vibrating cellphone. Light poured in through the blinds from the street lights outside, casting golden rays of artificial sunshine into the lonely apartment. The Brit yawned, finally finding his cellphone on his night stand. He unlocked the phone with a practiced thumb, soon finding a little icon that explained that Wyoming had a new text message. Odd. He had no idea who in the Hell would be texting him at this time of night, as he had no current employers that needed to pay him or anything like that. Carefully, Wyoming clicked the icon, popping open the text.
[This is York. Can't call: Wash might wake up. Text me back.]
Wyoming scrunched up his face. How in the devil had Agent New York of all Freelancers gotten ahold of his phone number? Deciding it was a question better answered later, Wyoming scooted out of bed, padding out of the room on sock-covered feet to retrieve himself a cup of tea. He pocketed his phone, unknowing of whether or not to text York back. On one hand, Wyoming longed to hear that the other Freelancers were still alright, on the other hand, he and York in particular had never gotten along very well. However... wouldn't Wash want to be insured of York's safety? Hell, it might even speed up his recovery! Then again, if York wanted Wash to know he was around, he would've probably called instead...
All of this was terribly confusing, so much so that it was giving Wyoming a headache. He hurried to one of the cabinets above his kitchen's stove, digging out a box of Earl Grey teabags. He quickly set a tea kettle, taking the time he now had to sit down in a chair and think over the situation more properly. No matter how many times he considered it, Wyoming knew that texting York back was probably his best choice. He might not've liked the bloody wanker, but he was a Freelancer, just like Wyoming, and dammit all, the Brit got lonely every once in awhile. Assassinated corpses and a shy, PTSD-cursed lad weren't exactly the best choices for conversation. Settling on texting York back, Wyoming pulled back out his phone, unlocking it again to have access at it's keypad.
[How did you get this number? This is Wyoming.]
Of all the replies, really, Wyoming's wasn't as well-thought-out as he would've liked, but again, he wasn't exactly happy that York had gotten ahold of what he considered classified information to begin with. After all, if York of all people could get ahold of Wyoming's information, so could the UNSC, and if they got ahold of Wyoming, they could get ahold of Washington. Wyoming shivered at the thought. They'd give Wyoming that dreaded needle and lock Wash into an insane asylum for sure! The kettle sounded as soon as Wyoming's phone buzzed, causing the Brit to groan as he with one hand poured the boiling water into his teacup, and with the other held his phone to read his new message.
[Your number? Tex gave it to me. She said she ran into you a few nights ago, along with Wash. How's Wash doing these days?] That made sense, after all, Tex and York had been fairly chummy back in Project Freelancer.
[Better.] Wyoming offered, fumbling with the buttons. Unlike York, he'd never been one for texting. He preferred a nice, proper, man-to-man conversation through speech. [And of you? I haven't much word from your people in quite some time.]
[We're holding on. North hasn't texted me in a few weeks, but he's still on the move with South. Tex visits some times, but she's on the move, too. Heard you're settled on some Outer-Colony planet.] York replied. Wyoming figured as much from the others, though he was surprised to hear nothing of Florida.
Wyoming felt tempted to ask specifically about Florida, but like Wyoming, he'd been more in the shadows compared to most everyone else. [I am. Can't tell you where, though. Can't afford for the UNSC to catch me.]
There was a pause, before York finally texted back. [We need to talk. For real. Walk down the street or something, somewhere Wash won't hear us. This is urgent, Wyoming.]
Wyoming sighed to himself, considering his options. He could always wake Wash up and tell him the good news, but then again, it sounded like York was being 100% serious and needed this to be a closed door conversation. So, with a heavy heart, Wyoming abandoned his tea and Wash, pulling on a black hoodie before he headed out of the apartment. He hurried down the stairs, hand barely even touching the handrail as he nearly tripped several times. Once he was on street-level, Wyoming dashed down the street, eager to hurry it up and have his talk with York. He wanted this to be fast so that Washington wouldn't notice his temporary absence, yet he had the feeling that this would be a long talk either way.
Reaching an alleyway, Wyoming pulled out his phone, this time finding a phone number instead of a worded text from York. He dialed it quickly, hearing it hardly ring once before York picked up. "You there, Wyoming?" York sounded somewhat... older, like he'd been through more since their last encounter, but other than that, he sounded as fine as ever.
"It's me, lad." Wyoming assured the locksmith, unable to hide the slight tenderness in his voice. Try as he might to hate all of the younger Freelancers he'd worked with, he'd always felt a bit of father-like kindness when he was with them. "I'm a little ways from home, so that Washington won't overhear. Now, what's wrong?"
"Well... it's... complicated." York sounded out each word uniquely, something only a guy like him usually managed to pull off. "I'm gonna make this a three-way call. Tex'll be on in a few seconds. She can explain it better than me."
In an instant, a short buzz sounded over the comm frequency, before Tex came online, her voice entering the call. "Good to see you can follow orders still, Wyoming. I'm gonna need ya to follow orders if we're gonna make this work."
Wyoming couldn't hide the slight growl that escaped his mouth upon hearing her voice, feeling betrayal deep in his chest. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling. "Whatever this is about, it better be good. I've just about had it with these shenanigans. What in the devil is going on here?"
"I'll make it simple, Wyoming. You need to leave Washington." Tex stated, sounding unaffected by her own orders. "You know as well as I do that Wash isn't gonna get any better while he's with you. Let's be honest, he might've been better off in the hospital."
Wyoming was absolutely outraged! What in God's name made Tex think he wasn't capable of watching over Washington, or that Wash would be even close to alright in that God forsaken, sorry excuse for a hospital? "What in the devil are you saying!? That hospital could hardly even be called such a thing! He would've lost his mind had I not rescued him!"
York coughed awkwardly from his end, reminding Wyoming that the locksmith was still listening in on the whole conversation. "Look, man, I know it's not the best place, but... at least he was safe there? I dunno, dude. He was being watched and taken care of. With you, he's alone half the time and he can hardly change himself. He's not doing so hot."
"Listen to York, Wyoming. He's right. Wash ain't gonna get any better while he's with you. If anything, he's getting way worse. He needs to be somewhere he can be monitored and well-taken care of. A hitman can't do that. So here's the deal: you either go home, grab what you can, and leave, or, let Wash suffer." Tex offered, making it no easy choice.
Wyoming didn't say a word for a long time, too busy staring down at his shoes, feeling lost in his thoughts. "... It's not so bad, this place." He reasoned, voice soft, like he knew this battle was already lost. "There's plenty of food, and plenty of jobs to do. He can get one, if he wants. I could help him. He doesn't have to leave."
York audibly groaned on his end, the sound of skin slapping skin- a possible face-palm- sounding from his end of the phone call. "It's not gonna help him, dude! I know you wanna help him- so do we- but we ain't gonna help him doing what we do. As much as I hate to say it, the cops and UNSC are the only safe fuckers left for him. It just won't work if you keep him. He ain't a dog, Wyoming. You can't... you just can't be his owner, man. He needs help, and not just the 'I feed you and let you live here' kind. He needs mental help, dude."
Again, a pause took place, before Wyoming sighed, shaking his head. "It won't be easy." He reminded the other Freelancers, sounding disappointed in himself for agreeing to this terrible plan. "This means that I will be abandoning him, you know. This will damage him even further. He could break. He might not be able to be saved, once the damage is done."
"Washington is strong." Tex reasoned, sounding sure of herself. "He'll find a way. Just grab your shit and go, Wyoming. Don't even leave a note. I'll... I'll call ONI to pick him up tomorrow morning. They'll help him. I know it's hard, but... he needs help. We just can't provide it to him."
"He needs a companion." Wyoming argued, but it was already over. "... Then what do I do, hm? I have a good life here. It's not easy, but it's good. What do you suppose I do about my home?"
"Would you rather kick Wash to the curb personally?" Tex asked, voice almost unfeeling. "Look, just... just leave him. You've left people before, right? It's awful, but it's important. We'll be seeing ya, Wyoming." With that, the call cut off.
Wyoming cursed under his breath, taking a moment to just stand there, phone still pressed against his ear. Then, anger and fury bloomed inside of him, until he was throwing his phone and screaming angrily, kicking a trashcan to the ground as he raged. For a long while, Wyoming simply shouted and fought, before he finally calmed down enough to know that he could attract attention if he kept it up. With this and other things in mind, Wyoming hurried back home to the apartment. He opened the front door noiselessly, glad to still hear Washington snoring peacefully from the bedroom. Even though the plan was still set in stone... he still felt conflicted. He still had a chance to just grab Wash and run, claim that ONI was onto them. That was believable enough. It would make Wash run with him.
However, as Wyoming paced in circles in the small kitchen of his apartment, he came to realize that such an idea was fruitless. Tex could come after him, lest she find out and take it personally, not to mention that York was apparently in on it, too (Though, he sounded more adamant about it in Wyoming's opinion). Sighing, Wyoming made up his mind: he'd leave. So, he very slowly began to pack his things into a large, white backpack, taking a few pairs of pants, some shirts and hoodies, a back-up phone, a large sum of cash he'd been saving, his prized sniper rifle, and the flash-drive he occasionally had Gamma in (He was resting in there at the moment). Wyoming swallowed nervously, knowing that Gamma probably wouldn't be all that happy about this new arrangement. Then again, neither was Wyoming.
Finally, Wyoming was all packed up and ready to hit the road. Sighing, he glanced at Wash, who was still sleeping soundly in their- Washington's- bed. The Brit pulled on his backpack as he crouched down beside the bed, simply staring at the blond as he slept. For some reason, Wash always reminded Wyoming of Florida, if only for his usually upbeat attitude and surprising skill. Maybe that was why Wyoming was so close to waking Wash up, to shaking him awake and telling him 'Roadtrip' before driving him far, far away from this city, from this planet even. Maybe he could take him back to a planet with oceans? One with sunny beaches and seashells and overpriced hotdogs. Wyoming shook his head, knowing such a dream was useless for him. Not while he was still a soldier. Not while he still had a war to win.
"I hope to see you again, lad." Wyoming muttered, brushing Wash's bangs out of his face. The lad was in dire need of a haircut. "Hopefully, we'll both be in better spirits by then."
With a heavy heart, Wyoming then left the apartment building, took his motorcycle, and drove away into the night, never to return.
The first thing Washington registered was how cold the bed felt.
The blond shifted, feet slowly moving under the covers, trying to tap against Wyoming's. When his feet found nothing, Wash's brow furrowed, confused. Had Wyoming left on a late-night mission? Perhaps. With this hopeful thought in mind, Wash started to crawl out of bed. Something felt... off, he thought, stretching weakly as the sunshine cascaded through the window shutters. It felt like a thousands eyes were on him, and all at once, Wash felt naked in the room. He shivered, rubbing his arms as he padded towards the thermostat on the wall, checking the temperature. Surely it was too cold in the room. Wash was baffled, a few seconds later, as he read that it was 57 degrees in the room. How could that be? It felt like it was freezing!
Determined by the idea that the thermostat was broken, Wash shuffled into the kitchen. If Wyoming really was on a mission, there was probably going to be a note somewhere on the table or fridge. Washington was puzzled, however, when he found no such note on either surface. Even more puzzling, he thought, was that there was a cup of seemingly untouched Earl Grey tea on the kitchen table. The blond picked it up delicately with both hands, utterly confused. It was cold! Had Wyoming made himself a cup of tea and never drank it? Such a thing was unlike Wyoming. The Freelancer shook the thought away, setting the cup in the sink delicately. Wash continued to rub his arms until he found one of Wyoming's hoodies- a white one with a blue Hawaiian flower on it- hung over a chair.
Wash threw it on quickly, desperate for warmth, but was disappointed once again when he found it to be cold and void of any sort of human warmth, like it hadn't been worn in a long time. Hesitantly, that all-eyes-on-me feeling returned to Wash as he heard something shift just outside, near the front door. Instinctively, Washington ducked below the kitchen counter, hand going under the table. The best part about rooming with Wyoming, he'd always thought, was that the Brit was extremely paranoid when it came to the UNSC and ONI, and hid weapons around the apartment. Wash pulled out an old, beaten up cardboard box, which he opened carefully, pulling out the M6G pistol from the small container, reloading it until it had a full barrel- eight rounds. That'd be enough to down at least eight of them, as long as Wash had a steady hand and a clear shot on each round.
Careful not to make too much noise, Agent Washington propped himself up on one knee, staring at the door from around the corner of the counter. It'd make decent cover if they broke down the door and started firing, but then again, ONI was very precise about these sort of things. Connie and Wyoming's horror stories of ONI had been enough to scare Wash shitless. Sure, he was technically a part of ONI, but only because of Project Freelancer. Before PFL, he'd been nothing more than a foot-soldier who was too smart for his own good and the last survivor of his platoon- a prodigy in the wrong division according to the Director. Yet here he was, a so-called prodigy in the wrong division yet again. Oh well, Wash figured it was karma... or something similar. Act of God could be a good describer for all of this.
Before Washington could further begin to recollect his life, the door opened- as if it had never been locked, Wash thought- and three pairs of footsteps came inside, deliberately sneaky and quiet. The footsteps were heavy- the fuckers were wearing armor- and Wash realized with intense horror that he might not stand a chance. He shook that away though- Agent Washington was a survivor, not a corpse- and without warning stood up, opening fire on the squad of three. The first went down instantly, only one bullet needed to shoot through his red visor. The others were alert, and Wash leaped over the counter, falling hard as he nearly twisted his ankle on the landing. With a roar, Wash was up again, blasting past the ONI agents and out the door, jumping off the railing of his second-story apartment.
"Hey!" One of the men shouted, immediately running to the railing of the apartment complex's stairs outside, gripping them furiously. "Stop! Agent Washington, you are under arrest for crimes against humanity, man-slaughter, and-"
Washington opted to ignore the agent, lying still for a moment on the ground. People outside were already gathering around- mainly children who'd been playing games outside- watching the Freelancer curiously. Groaning and hurting, Wash got on his knees, ignoring his pain in favor of taking off into the alleyway across the street. Unlike those ONI fuckers, he'd grown up on the streets, and just because he was on another planet didn't mean he couldn't use them to his advantage. He soon met a wire fence, but started climbing over it quickly, shoving the handle of his pistol in his mouth as he used both hands to climb the fence. After hopping over it, he spat out the pistol into his hand, ignoring the saliva as he gripped it firmly and starting running onto one of the main roads of the city.
"Stop him!" One of the ONI agents ordered to the civilians near the scene, sounding close behind the short blond. "He's wanted for treason against the UNSC!"
Washington's feet couldn't stay on the ground as he looked around, cars whizzing by like bullets on the main road. Without waiting for the ONI agents to catch him, Wash dashed into the street, despite his awful luck with cars. As expected, he was immediately hit head on in the side by a pick-up truck, launching him down the street. Wash curled in, ducking and rolling until he felt himself stop. His right side feeling as if it were on fire, Wash still stood up, wincing as he realized that at least three or four of his ribs were broken. However, Washington was determined to not be caught, and continued to run down the street, this time avoiding the rest of the cars, however narrowly he did. He looked over his shoulder, eyes widening in horror as he realized that one of the agents wasn't even ten feet behind him.
Once he felt his bare feet touch the sidewalk again, Wash swung around, no longer afraid of getting hit by a car, and fired at the ONI agent. The first shot missed by a mile, but the next bullet lodged painfully into the agent's chest. The man collapsed to his knees, the bullet having hit a major artery, and Wash took that as his cue to run. Quickly and without sympathy to the fallen soldier, Washington was off again, escaping into the next alleyway. This time, when he emerged on the other side, he started running right down the sidewalk, where numerous shops were. He ran and ran, until he found a closed pizzeria that looked abandoned enough to hide in. He picked the lock quickly, escaping inside. Without a moment to lose, he ran into the back room of the restaurant, then into a janitor's closet, where he locked himself in and waited.
Outside, Washington heard absolutely nothing but the flickering of a light-bulb in the backroom. He breathed heavily, fingers twitching and body aching as he waited for the ONI agents. For a long, long time, there was no sound- the light-bulb had died- and Wash was left to simply crouch there, in the dank, lonesome little closet. He couldn't stop shaking, pistol barely even held in his hands, which were bloody from various cuts from the car accident and from jumping off the stairs earlier. What if someone had seen him go inside? What if they told the agents where he'd gone? What if they came into the backroom, opened the closet, and opened fire on Wash until he stopped moving-
-Something creaked.
Wash went still, not even breathing as he heard a door- not the door connecting the restaurant to the backroom- open very, very slowly. In came only one pair of footsteps, shaky and... soft. These were not armored boots, no, they were the tattered shoes of a civilian! Washington wanted to cry with relief, but stayed mostly still, beginning to breathe once more. Even if it wasn't one those ONI agents, the civilian could still very well turn his ass in. With this in mind, Wash subconsciously tried to shift away from the closet door. In doing so, he knocked his back into a broom, making it teeter and fall onto it's side, producing a loud, terrifying bang. Washington nearly screamed in terror, but held back, only producing a sharp intake of breath as he shivered, shaking like a leaf in horror.
Outside, the owner of the footsteps went still as well, no doubt spooked by the sudden noise. Tiptoeing, the footsteps came to stand in front of the closet door. Wash shook even harder, falling into a panic attack. This was it- he was as good as dead now. His mind raced wildly at what would happen- ONI would capture him, they'd bring him to court, the jury would vomit/gag once they saw the infantile diaper on Wash, they'd lock him into an insane asylum, Wyoming would get caught and get put down, they'd- Wash was hyperventilating as he curled in on himself, dropping the pistol as black dots speckled his vision, his head growing irrationally warm as he started to sway, feeling far too dizzy. He wanted to lie down. He wanted to lie down and sleep and die and-
"What do we have here?" An aged, soft voice asked from somewhere outside of Washington's mind, sounding kind and elderly. "And who exactly are you, boy?"
Wash tried to look up, tried to answer, but when he opened his mouth, only a desperate, whine-like sound came out, broken and terrified. The old man, as it turned out to be, stared down at Washington and tisked, looking sad as he watched the Freelancer fall into his panic attack. "That's too bad." The old man decided, head tilted to the side. "Poor man can't even speak he's so scared. Don't worry, boy... it'll be alright." And with that, Agent Washington passed out.
Consciousness was a slow process as Wash felt the nauseating blackness start to dissipate. Wash felt sweaty and tired- like he'd never even slept- yet it felt like he'd been asleep for years and years. Washington squinted as he began to open his eyes, still a bit hot and dizzy from his panic attack. He winced as pain caught up to him, yet it didn't feel quite as bad as it probably should have. Unable to hold back any longer, Wash opened his eyes, nearly gasping as he realized that he hadn't been captured by the UNSC or ONI after all. No, this was nothing like any government building he'd ever seen. The walls were covered in tattered, ugly pale yellow and light green striped wallpaper, browning with age. The ceiling was an eggshell white, again, browning with age and discolored by water stains.
The sick Freelancer looked around more, turning his head to his right. There was a window, open and with the curtains blowing in the breeze. Outside, there was a bright, blue sky with puffy white clouds, along with a clock-tower just within Washington's field of vision. He knew that clock-tower- Wyoming had always talked about how much he loved it- and had been able to see it from the apartment when he sat on the roof at night stargazing. He wasn't far from home then! Too weak and tired to cheer with this realization, Wash looked to his left, immediately finding an old man sitting in a wooden chair beside him. The old man had short, greying hair, along with a long, greying beard. He wore glasses as he read from a book that he held gently in his hands.
"Ah, you're awake." The old man suddenly commented, making Wash nearly jump, had he not been so worn out. "You wouldn't believe my surprise, when I found in my store's closet- with a gun no less! You scared me good, you did!"
"Who... who are you?" Wash coughed out, squinting at the old man. He was so confused, until it struck him- the closet! He remembered it better now, remembered the stairs and the car crash and the locked door. "I can explain! Please, you have to understand, I-"
Wash stopped as the old man held up a hand, silencing the panicking Freelancer. "Enough with that. You think I didn't catch on when those ONI agents came knocking at my door, asking if I'd seen a blond man in his early twenties in my restaurant? You must have done something to piss those Dino hunters off. But don't you worry, they're long gone now."
Wash sighed, relieved. "Now, onto the matter at hand..." The old man announced, making Wash shiver worriedly. "Just why were you running from those agents, hm? You egg their vehicles? Start a rebellion? You seem like the Rebel type, once you learn what those ONI folk do to their SPARTANS. I listen to Hunt The Truth-" He nodded towards his computer, an older model on a desk in the far corner of the room. "-If you haven't noticed. That Benjamin sure knows how to start a revolution, hm?"
"That's... nice." Washington muttered, feeling awkward. "But where exactly am I right now? How long was I unconscious?"
"Fifty minutes, give or take." The old man decided, nodding to himself in confirmation. "And we're right above the pizzeria. I live up here, but I was taking out the trash when you must've hid in my janitor's closet."
"That's... that's good." Wash muttered, more to himself than to the man. "Do you have any sort of communicator? I need to warn my friend! He wasn't home when those ONI agents came and-" He stopped, staring off into space as this realization stunned him. "... My friend, he wasn't... he wasn't home. He didn't even leave a note, he just wasn't... he wasn't home." He started to get up, but the old man held a hand to his chest, keeping him on the bed.
"Who wasn't home? Son, was someone there with you?" The old man questioned, sounding a bit scared for the young outlaw. "Did those ONI agents nab him while you were getting away?"
"No, he... he must've known." Washington stared at his hands, stained with dried, dirty blood, more from himself than from the two men he'd shot. "Dear God, he must've known they were coming!" He launched up and out of the bed, before the old man could stop him, and immediately, his legs gave out, his left ankle broken from the car crash. He hadn't noticed because of the adrenaline rush. "That fucking traitor!" He shouted, through clenched teeth as he held his ankle, shaking violently. "That piece of shit! He set me up! He wanted them to take me away! He was never saving me, he was digging me a deeper grave!"
"Kid!" The old man called, coming to crouch in front of the downed Freelancer. "What are you talking about? Someone set you up? You need to calm down, alright? Just calm down!" He stood up, realizing it wasn't working, and went to the bed's nightstand, where a clothe with chloroform on it was waiting. He had expected this sort of reaction... "Just calm down, kid. Okay?" He whispered, crouching down with the clothe in hand as he put his other hand on Wash's chest, keeping him on the floor.
"No! Let go of me!" Washington screamed, kicking and fighting uselessly as he tried in vain to escape from the old man, but he was too weak from his injuries and fatigue. "I'm gonna kill that motherfuck-" He was cut off, the cloth muffling him before he slowly went still, fainting as the chloroform took over.
End of Part 2
To Be Continued
A/N: This was meant to be in only two parts, but I really wanna have the Recovery One stuff in this fic since it's about what happened BEFORE the BGC bits in Secretive. Hope you enjoyed it! The next part will be out soon (Hopefully)! Also, "Hunt The Truth" is an actual podcast on Tumblr that's made by the creators of Halo to take place in that universe. I thought referencing it might be fun, so I did! So if you're a Halo fan or even just a fan of conspiracy theories, Hunt The Truth is a great podcast to listen to. It's on Tumblr at .com! Please R&R!
~CabooseHeart.