Iris
Moon of Chorus
1715 Hours CMT
It was a warm feeling, that kind of content buzz you get holding your second beer on a lazy summer day — except that he didn't have a beer in his hand because Dr. Grey had ordered cruel and usual punishment along with his last round of bloodwork. He wasn't a big drinker but damn did he feel like he'd earned one.
Wash could feel his eyelids sagging, not because of exhaustion — there was still too much exhilaration in his system for that — and he was certain it wasn't because of the painkillers, either. He was surprised Kaikaina hadn't asked him what cocktail of meds Grey had him on and if she could bum some off him.
No, dopamine was his drug du jour, and a hell of a drug it was.
The feeling was an odd one, considering the absolute absurdity around him. He supposed he should be used to odd by now, given the company he kept… and given that said company was usually the cause of said absurdity.
Wash listened leisurely as Sarge launched into yet another conspiracy theory.
"The government wanted everyone's eyes off Vietnam," the Red proclaimed, pronouncing the name of the country such that its last syllable rhymed with "ham." He rocked back on his heels, arms folded confidently. "That's why the good ol' U-S of A had to fake the Moon landing."
"Fake the — the Moon landing wasn't faked!" protested Simmons. He sat on a chair in what passed as their base's rec room. The chair only had three functional legs. It was fitting, considering the room only had three functional walls these days. Someone had loosely stacked a half dozen sandbags and declared it their fourth, which wouldn't have occurred in the first place had a different someone not burned down half the building, the entirety of its twin, and their pool.
It all seemed like a lifetime ago.
"Sure it was. Filmed in a studio in Burbank. Lights, camera, distraction."
"That was not a distraction, or a fake, it was a very real event! Hundreds of thousands of people worked years to make that happen! The fate of the free world was at stake!"
Wash wasn't surprised at Simmons's attempt to inject logic and reason into the debate. Wash gave it about five minutes before the trooper would have to add one to the L column. He had never known Simmons's lack of success to be due to any flaws in his analyses. Rather, it was usually his own team lead who derailed his arguments — that, or the mere presence of the opposite gender. Even after nine years, though, he hadn't given up on the tactic. Logic and reason were Simmons's religion, and Wash admired him for that.
"Hoax! Fraud! Sham! We never landed on any moon, Simmons!"
The maroon 2IC took a deep breath, audible even through his helmet's speakers. "But we have, sir. You're standing on a moon. Caboose is from the Moon."
"Um, no, I don't think so," Caboose corrected diplomatically. Wash could see him cooking in what remained of their kitchen. Nothing was on fire. Yet. "Everyone knows the Moon is made of cheese, the stinky kind. Pretty sure I would have smelled it every time I took off my helmet."
"That explains a lot," Tucker deadpanned from the far end of the shabby couch he shared with Wash. He wore sweats and a tee; most of them wore civvies except for the Reds (Sarge's orders). He had his feet kicked up on their charred diving-board-turned-coffee-table.
"But now we live on a dessert moon!"
"No," sighed Grif, "the universe is not that kind."
Tucker corrected his teammate. "Desert moon, Caboose. Desert."
"Okay, it's going to sound like I'm actively ignoring everything that was just said, but that's only because I am," stated Simmons. "Now where were we? Right. A moon is a natural satellite orbiting a body of sufficient gravitational mass. You know, like Grif's fat ass after one more cheeseburger."
Grif's jaw froze mid-chew. "You've been saving that one for a while, haven't you."
"Yeah, a little while. Moons offer all sorts of insight into the mysteries of the universe, not to mention provide strategic footholds across the galaxy for the UNSC. That's why multiple countries became so focused on landing on Earth's Moon in the mid-twentieth century."
Wash lost interest in the detailed history of Earth's space program as Simmons went on. Beams of late afternoon sun as golden and as thick as honey slipped through the window (read: hole blown through the wall) giving him the sensation they were all floating in golden ale and damn did he really want that beer. Specks of backlit dust became caught in currents of air, lifted aloft slowly and aimlessly on a balmy breeze.
It was into to this picture perfect slice of serenity that Donut shimmied. He step-touched his way across the floor in a spectacular lycra leotard with leg warmers and a headband to match. "Broadwaycise" was the lightish red soldier's own invention. Over the years, Wash had come to find the show tunes he blasted during his workouts strangely comforting in their familiarity, even if their artistic appeal still perplexed him. One sung by someone named Barbra blared from the room's speakers. Something about marching a band out and a hat, sir. "One shot, one gun shot, and bam." Appropriate, Wash supposed.
Sure, the jokes had poured in when Donut had first debuted Broadwaycise. He'd steadfastly ignored the naysayers. Now it was baked into the team's daily routine, as certain as wine and cheese hour. It was that often overlooked tenacity Wash regarded most. The sim trooper had knocked some common sense into the Freelancer when he had been too stubborn to realize he'd needed it. He owed the man for that.
"Donut!" Sarge yelled over a galloping verse. "What's your take on the situation?"
But Donut was in his own world: kick-step, two, three, four, and spin, shake, shake, shake. He belted out the lyrics, "Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter!"
"Yes," Caboose agreed, nodding sagely. "That makes sense."
Undeterred, the Red Team lead turned to his trusted robot. "Lopez!"
Lopez stood in the shadow of the rec room's corner, behind a 50 gallon drum of who knows what Sarge had requisitioned and as far away from the idiocy as possible. "No estoy aquí." [I'm not here.]
"Is what Simmons sayin' true?"
"¿Dejarás tu estúpida discusión si digo que sí?" [Will you stop your stupid argument if I say yes?]
"'Course everyone here knows you've been programmed with the collective knowledge of all mankind; no need to rub it in. Except for English. Keep forgettin' about that one, heh-heh."
Lopez sighed — rather he opened the relief valve within his air cooling system. "Sí. En 1969, los Estados Unidos llevó astronautas a la Luna. Simmons tiene razón, y estás senil." [Yes. In 1969, the United States landed astronauts on the Moon. Simmons is right, and you are senile.]
"I knew it!" Sarge boasted anyway. "It was all fake! Fake, I tell you! Lopez confirmed it, you all heard him, can't dispute the collective knowledge of mankind."
"Por qué lo intento." [Why do I bother.]
Wash chuckled, the strain bearable. He had always found Lopez's pithy retorts relatable on a fundamental level. A translation was rarely necessary; disdain was universal. Lopez had no need for pretenses, no interest in calling shit sunshine when they were knee deep in the stuff, and Wash appreciated that.
He observed contently the patented swirl of activity around him: Simmons in a full-blown argument now with his superior, Grif stuffing his face with his fourth burger, Caboose sautéing what looked like… gum balls? — oh, those flames were getting high — Tucker flipping through the pages of a magazine Wash would have very much preferred remain in private, Lopez now stacking 50 gallon drums into a wall he undoubtedly hoped would confuse his team lead the same way peekaboo confused an infant.
Wash felt a corner of his mouth twitch upward.
They didn't do this the first time. The first time he'd been confined to Chorus while the Reds and Blues were swept up in their own adventure. It was a peculiar thing to not just miss out on, but miss.
"Oh. My. God." Simmons was standing now. "Sarge, please don't tell me you're a flat-Earther, too!"
"Well why not!" Sarge contended. "It makes sense!"
"No, it doesn't! There's so much evidence to refute it, I don't even know where to begin!"
Grif gulped down another bite of burger. "Calm down, Simmons," he mumbled around a mouthful of food. "Deep breaths."
"Okay. Sir. You have literally seen the Earth from space. Multiple times."
"Well sweet potato pancake, ain't you a regular Einstein, there, Simmons." Popping the lid off his Beta Gabriel rye, Sarge poured himself two fingers neat. "I've also seen a ring world with its own gravity and ecosystem, and heard of these thingies called Dyson-Sphere-macullits with whole worlds inside 'em. Now you're standin' here, in front of God and squad, tellin' me Earth just has to be a big ol' blueberry?!"
"He's got a point," droned Grif.
"Oh, don't you start, too," Simmons chastised. "Physics is physics. The Earth can't be flat."
Sarge slugged down his whiskey. "Not with that attitude."
As their altercation devolved further, Wash was reminded of the phrase "like a dog with a bone." He didn't think he could come up with a more a fitting analogy for the Red Team lead if he tried. This was the man, after all, who had fought (and lost) a six-month military campaign against gravity. Sarge had conviction, as misplaced as it sometimes was, and Wash respected that.
"Because there's this new thing called science, maybe you've heard of it?" contested Simmons. "It's impossible on so many levels!"
"People say nothing's impossible," Grif pitched in unhelpfully. "Well I do nothing everyday. So if nothing's possible, so is a flat Earth. There's your science, Simmons."
There was a beat of silence as Simmons's brain short circuited making sense of nonsense.
"What? Shut up, you don't even believe in what he's saying!"
"I haven't believed in anything Sarge has being saying since day one, what's your point?"
Wash always got a kick out of the way Grif's voice effortlessly slipped from smug to bored. He had long mastered his not-caring facade, even when he cared deeply. Usually what he cared deeply about was annoying Simmons, but there was the occasional care spared for the welfare of his friends. Wash was thankful for that.
"Get ready for me love, 'cause I'm a 'comer,'" sang Donut in time with the roaring music. It made Wash do a double take — dammit, that hurt. He was just going to assume that was a legitimate lyric and not one of Donut's entendres.
"Dude." Tucker closed his magazine's centerfold. So it was serious. "Wash has been home for, like, five minutes and you Reds are already starting shit."
"¿En serio? Ellos nunca se detuvieron." [Seriously? They never stopped.]
"Just shut the fuck up already and let the dude rest. We're supposed to be creating a restful environment. This is not a restful environment. This is… I don't know, whatever the opposite of restful is."
"Rest-empty," Caboose called out helpfully from the kitchen.
As Tucker calmly explained how there was no fucking way that was right, and how he just lost 10 braincells when Caboose subsequently proposed "rest-hungry," and another 10 at the suggestion "rest-half-ful" was way better than "rest-half-empty," Wash saw the aqua soldier subconsciously slide the Freelancer's cup of water and straw closer within reach. Inappropriate nurse jokes would come later, he was sure of it. He would welcome them, and the assistance. He preferred it to the cups — and plates, and chairs, and insults — Tucker had hurled at him during those four volatile months after Sidewinder. They'd come a long way since. The bond they had forged had been built up slowly and arduously over the years, but it was as unbreakable as steel now. Tucker had freely extended Wash fraternity, and Wash was grateful for it.
"Nah, no way, Wash knows what I'm talking about," attempted Simmons. "Tell Sarge how wrong he is."
"Nuh-uh! The Earth is flat, flatter than Simmons pretended his feet were in the draft!" Sarge accused.
"It's a legitimate medical condition, they just didn't measure right!"
By then, Kaikaina and Doc had joined the fray. When Wash had first heard that the medic was giving Kaikaina a checkup, fear had slid like a knife into his gut, thinking she'd been hit by a stray bullet. No. In perhaps the world's worst case of oversharing, Tucker had volunteered that neither of them had escaped scot free from what he had proudly dubbed "Sis and Tuc's Sexellent Adventure." Apparently Caboose had been the only one to abide by the "bring back only photos" mantra; those two had brought back a few other unwanted souvenirs from their past — er, future — escapades.
Bounding over, Kaikaina stole two of her brother's fries. "Wait, are you guys talking about that club, Erath? Because the cover rate is totally flat. Plus, ladies drink free on Thursdays, oo-ah oo-ah!"
"No!" Grif launched to his feet. "And Jesus Christ, put some clothes on! My right sock has more fabric than that!"
"Suck my dick! You can't tell me what to do!" She proceeded to join Donut, twerking to a schmaltzy string glissando. "Hey, when are we gonna install a pole in this place?" she yelled over the music. "It's super good exercise, and really good for your flexibility! At least that's what Uncle Floyd told me when he promised me a job at his club by the spaceport!"
Wash realized that he and Kaikaina were on entirely different wavelengths on the best of days, and his own moral code and hygienic standards would rather it remain that way. But she had confidence. Problems rolled off her like water off a duck's back — no, that was Donut. Kaikaina beat her problems into submission with a style all her own, and he envied her for that.
"Never!" Grif exploded. "We are never installing a goddamn stripper pole! Think of Mom!"
"Okay," Doc announced with a clap of his hands. "Venus is in retrograde, so I think we're all feeling a little confrontational."
"Oh! Oh!" Caboose exclaimed from the stove. "Doc is an astrologist! Tell Simmons how the Moon is made of cheese."
"Tell big bro how that cream you prescribed me will have me throwing raves again in no time!" Kaikaina hollered. "Boosh!"
Moons made of cheese, flat feet, rubble for decor — it was an unusual catalyst to induce a dopamine release. The euphoria, though, of narrowly surviving death — again — was undeniable. For all the times he'd knocked on death's door, Wash figured he would have gotten a good high off the stuff before, except that spite and rage had always been there to bring him right back down like a bucket of ice water to the face. Unburdened now by such troubles, he felt a simple gratefulness for the life he still clung to and everyone in it.
"I'm gonna live and live now!" sang out Donut triumphantly in flawless syncopation. He was damn right about that.
Simmons had his hands steepled against his helmet's faceplate. "Iris is a moon, and it is also not flat. I can even prove it to you. All we have to do is drive to the top of that mountain. From there, with properly calibrated optical equipment, of course, you'll be able to see both Chorus and the curvature of Iris."
"Well hotdog! You're sayin' a Red Team roadtrip and an old school schoolin' are about to happen?"
"I'm saying one of those things is, yes, sir."
"Then let's get it into gear, men! Lopez! Ready the Hog!"
"Come mierda, el viejo." [Eat shit, old man.]
"Simmons! Round up the equipment!"
"You got it, sir!"
"Grif! You're in charge of navigation — and try not to fall asleep at the wheel this time!"
"Ugh. Fine, but no promises."
"Donut! How 'bout some snacks?"
"No, thanks!" Donut politely declined, tossing a wave over his head. Turn-and-kick, sa-shay.
Sarge raised the door to the base's garage (lean-to constructed of melted waterslide parts). A Warthog sat parked at the ready.
"Hey, Blues, you coming? It promises to be an enlightening scientific masterclass…." Simmons offered.
"No," Tucker replied with a derisive laugh. "Are you kidding me? I've heard your shitty roadtrip playlist. I'd rather stay here and listen to whatever the fuck Donut has on — seriously, what the fuck is this?"
"Fine, but you'll be sorry when you get last place in Chorus's next Academic Decathlon."
"Yeah, uh-huh. Bye, Felicia." Tucker reopened the centerfold.
As he heaved himself over the Warthog's frame and into the driver's seat, Grif grunted, "Maybe one of you guys could fix — hrgh — the goddamn TV antenna — umph — by the time we get back?"
The remaining sim troopers casually touched their noses, so habitual was the game by now, all except for Caboose who cooked in full body armor ("because that one explodey time"). His index finger pressed against his visor.
Tucker's eyebrows rose in delight as he turned his magazine 90 degrees. "Caboose, I've explained this to you, like, a billion times. Nose goes only works if you touch your nose. Have fun fixing the antenna."
"But Wash didn't touch his nose, either," Caboose argued.
"That's because Wash isn't playing. He's off duty for one month, remember? Dr. Grey's orders."
"Oh, right." In a stage whisper absolutely everyone heard, Caboose decided, "Then I will just secretly lose a game of rock paper scissors so he doesn't feel like he wasn't part of the team. And so he wins. I think he needs one of those."
Wash bit his lip as an unexpected affinity surged and threatened his composure. What Caboose lacked in… a lot of areas, he made up for in bravery — not the type that sent him charging into battle, but the kind that let him so easily wear his emotions on his sleeve. The kind that could trust in a paranoid, murderous ex-spec ops agent when he had given him no cause to. The kind that had befriended him, no questions asked. Atop that desert outpost, Caboose's declaration, so candid and plain, had landed like a sucker punch. And here he again sat, face to face with Caboose's sincerity and struck by it.
"You know," Simmons began as he loaded cases of the presumed optical equipment into the Warthog's bed, "losing a game of rock paper scissors is statistically just as hard as winning—"
"Why don't you all get to the mountaintop before the sun sets," came a new voice, bright with restrained amusement.
Carolina.
"Caboose, you can play Wash later."
"Okay."
"And don't go up onto the roof without me. We'll fix the antenna together."
"Okay!"
Sitting on the couch arm beside her partner, she studied Wash closely. "How are you feeling?"
He tensed his vocal cords. "G-…." He cleared his throat, tried again. "Good." It ached to talk. One-word sentences, though, he figured he could manage, for her.
The progress, as slight as it was, brought a smile to her face. She tucked a pillow behind his head. "Need me to get your painkillers?"
Wash shook his head emphatically. He didn't want to be punchy, not for all this.
Doc approached with an open TACPAD. "You just let me know if you want any of my homemade remedies instead: essential oils, a mineral balm — the exact recipe's a secret — a chamomile-ginger tonic…. Now let's take a look at those test results Dr. Grey sent over. Blood type: B positive. Get it? Be positive? I'm kidding, you're actually AB negative, that was just a little bedside humor."
And then there was Doc. He appreciated… well. Wash was sure there was something he appreciated about Doc. He just couldn't remember at the moment.
Carolina dutifully straightened the bandage wrapped around his neck. "We only have solid foods in the store room, and since my cooking is about as good as my singing—"
He grabbed her wrist as she stood to leave. He could feel her eyes land on his hand, clasping her own, before rising back up meet his. Not long ago such an action would have lost him the hand. Now she only looked curiously back at him. But he couldn't meet her scrutiny. He picked a spot ahead and stared stiffly at nothing instead. If he turned to look at her he might have lost it.
He'd almost lost her. Before the Everwhen, before the misplaced anger and an extended visit with his old friend betrayal, he'd nearly taken what they'd so painstakingly built up and thrown it all away, all over an argument that seemed so trivial now. She'd only been trying to keep him safe. Any criticism he might have had about that now was dashed by images of pots and black kettles.
Wash knew she still harbored quite a bit of guilt over his injury. Not long ago, that wouldn't have been the case, either. He had seen her grow — painfully, joyfully, rashly — clawing her way out of a hell Wash didn't have to imagine. She had become the woman she was today by literally kicking her past self's ass, and of the two juggernauts who had entered that arena it hadn't been the cold-hearted lone wolf who had left victorious. The one who had had friends to help slay hell's demons. The one who had had built herself back up from nothing, piece by piece. The one who had he loved wholly.
Reluctantly he let her hand slip from his grasp. It fell to his shoulder and, surprisingly, stayed there. Carolina gave him a gentle squeeze as though she had heard all his inner monologue had had to say.
He watched Donut and Kaikaina high kick chorus line-style to the refrain's final jazzy reprise, the Reds argue if the equipment cases would be more effective in the Warthog's gunner position than Simmons, Caboose mistake Sarge's whiskey for maple syrup and pour it into the pan with the gum balls — and oh, yep, there was a fire now. Tucker vaulted over the table with a curse.
He didn't have any right to feel this way. His own past self probably wouldn't have, given the mayhem in front him. Past-Wash would have screeched until it stopped. But not now. Not after recent history, a history he'd chosen to repeat. For this. He couldn't stifle this. It was this that made it all worth it — the experiments, the nightmares, the bullet wounds. The cerebral hypoxia.
Lip-synching back-to-back, Donut and Kaikaina raised their arms dramatically to the track's driving finale. "Nobody, no, nobody is gonna rain on my paraaade!"
This was his parade, and he dared anyone to try to rain on it.
The song ended.
The abrupt silence drew the attention of Tucker first. His arms, tangled with Caboose's as they battled over the fire extinguisher, suddenly locked, while his eyes scanned the rec room for something amiss. They fell on Wash and his dopey grin. His brow scrunched. "Hey. Dude. You okay?"
In an instant, all pretense was shed, all facades dropped and arguments abandoned as the entirety of the group's collective attention snapped to Wash, from kitchen to garage. There was a sudden tenseness in the air, the kind that accompanied an impending leap into battle: coiled muscles spring-loaded for action, ears that strained for any sign of distress. It was a newfound protectiveness, Wash sensed. That duty was no longer a one-way street, and it would take some getting used to.
Out of them all, he suspected Carolina was the only one close enough to glimpse the wetness he furtively wiped from his stinging eyes. He pictured the knowing smile that graced her lips. He was okay with that.
Swallowing with difficulty, Wash rasped, "I'm great, Tucker. I'm really great."
Tucker made a face like he was trying to make sense of that logic. He gave up after two seconds. The aqua soldier shrugged, said "cool," and resumed his scuffle with Caboose. The sentiment rippled to the rest of team, who picked up their shenanigans right where they had left off.
Tough times were ahead. He knew that. If his experience in the Everwhen was any indication, things were going to get a lot worse for him before they — well. Stabilized.
He looked at the others.
And he wouldn't change a goddamn thing.
THE END