Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A pirate lunges for Tucker, and she collapses to the ground with a choked scream when he slices through her like butter. On any other day, he would’ve stopped to marvel at the power surging through him from the Meta’s armor, but he doesn’t even have time to catch his breath before another pirate is on top of him. He tries to find an opening in Tucker’s armor with a dagger, but his technique is sloppy. Tucker twists the weapon away with his non-dominant hand and slams it into his throat, just like Wash taught him.

“Sarge, I don’t know how much longer we can take this,” Tucker pants. “These motherfuckers keep fucking coming.”

“Typical Blue, always giving up in the face of a challenge!” His voice doesn’t have the same confidence it usually does. Sarge’ll never admit it, but Tucker knows the fight is wearing him down just as much as it is the others. “That fancy shmancy suit got any more power in there?”

“Not much,” Tucker grits, narrowly avoiding a pirate’s knife.

The Meta’s suit is strong. It’s the only reason he’s stayed up as long as he has. It’s made him stronger, faster, more precise with his swings. But Tucker can feel the exhaustion seeping through, and every pirate that goes down is replaced with two more. They may not be good fighters, but they have their strength in numbers. It’ll be a miracle if one of his teammates isn’t among the bodies littering the floor by the end of this.

It doesn’t have to end this way, a voice rumbles, soft and smooth in the back of his mind.

Tucker stumbles, and it gives the pirate he’s fighting enough of an opening to catch his arm with her knife. “Motherfucker,” he hisses. He returns the favor by driving his sword into her gut, and she crumples to the ground in front of him. He looks around frantically for the owner of the voice and thinks, I’ve finally lost my fucking mind.

Epsilon sent me. I am a memory of one of the AI from Project Freelancer.

“A memory? What the fuck does that mean?”

We don’t have much time for introductions, Captain Tucker. The suit can not function at its full capacity right now. Epsilon needs you to give him full control if you wish to win.

Tucker snorts and hacks through another pirate. “Church said that?”

Indeed.

There’s a gunshot and a pirate that Tucker didn’t notice in his periphery crashes to the ground beside him. “Who the fuck are you talking to?” Grif yells. “Pay attention before you get yourself fucking killed.”

Surrender control before it’s too late.

Something in the AI’s tone sends a chill down Tucker’s spine. He wouldn’t even give Church control over the TV remote in the base—the thought of giving him control over his own body makes his skin crawl. “Over my dead body.”

That won’t be long then, will it?

As if on cue, a searing pain punches through his thigh, and Tucker stumbles back, crying out in pain. “Fuck,” he grits, swinging wildly at the pirates in front of him. He manages to hit one of them, but it’s a sloppy and amateur kill.

You’ve been shot, Captain Tucker.

“No fucking shit, asshole! Fuck off!” Any weight on his leg sends a lightning bolt of pain up his thigh, but he can’t fight with only one leg, so he grits his teeth and pushes past it, even as he feels the blood soaking through his suit.

You can not win this on your own. Let us help you. It will only be temporary.

Tucker manages to cut down the other pirate. In the moment after he falls and before another fills his spot, he catches a glimpse of Grif and Simmons locked in fights with two pirates each, Sarge barreling through as many pirates as he can, Donut and even Doc shooting at the door from behind crates. Finally, he finds Caboose’s dark blue armor, cornered by three pirates. One of them swings a dagger, and it sinks into his side. The fucking idiot steadies himself on the wall with one hand and the other instinctively goes to cover the wound, leaving him wide open for an attack.

“Caboose!” Tucker is already flying towards him, the pain in his leg forgotten.

Let us help.

Without thinking, Tucker says, “Fine, just fucking do it already!”

The process is far less painful or uncomfortable than Tucker assumed it would be. One moment he’s in complete control of himself, and the next he’s riding shotgun in his own body. He feels the weight of the sword in his hand,, feels himself spring forward, feels the way he slices through the pirates as if they were training dummies—none of it of his own volition.

“Tucker! That was so cool!” Caboose exclaims, his blood-soaked hand still pressed to his side.

Tucker tries to tell him to go find Doc, but his mouth won’t move. Instead, his body turns to join the rest of the fight, which begins to even out with the Meta suit at its full power now. The pirates aren’t able to reform their front as quickly as the Reds and Blues cut through it, and it isn’t long before Sarge guns down the last one.

No one dares to so much as breathe as they all stare at the door, waiting for any stragglers to storm in. Grif is the first to break the silence. “I’m gonna sleep for fifty fucking years after that.”

“I wish I could believe that’s an exaggeration,” Simmons sighs.

The stench of iron hits Tucker like a grenade, and it’s difficult for him to catch his breath around it. He knows some of it belongs to him and his team, but they’re all still standing and that’s what matters. He lets out a sigh of relief—or, tries to. His lungs don’t cooperate with him, and it’s the first time he fully realizes how fucking weird this is.

Fight’s over. I can take it from here.

I’m actually quite comfortable here. I think I might stay awhile.

Yeah, my body’s fucking awesome, but my leg feels like it’s about to fall off, so fun’s over.

Not yet, it isn’t.

An edge of panic takes hold. What the fuck does that mean?

Caboose bounds over to him, wound be damned, and leans down to wrap his arms tightly around Tucker’s waist. He nearly lifts him off the ground in his excitement. “I knew you and Church could do it and I never doubted you at all and—”

Tucker’s fist connects with the side of Caboose’s helmet. His panic morphs to rage as he watches Caboose stumble back.

Caboose!

Sigma! That's mean! Another voice, young and scared, cries out in his head.

Not now, Theta, the first voice—Sigma—says. The grown-ups are talking.

Tucker doesn’t have time to dwell on the fact that there are more AI in his head or that he knows the name Sigma from Wash’s Freelancer stories because Caboose tilts his head like a confused puppy and says, “Tucker? Why would you do that?”

It isn’t unusual for Caboose to be confused, but he has this voice that he only uses when he knows something is really wrong and can’t quite figure out what. The last time Tucker heard it was after Felix betrayed them, when Tucker had found him clutching a blurry picture of the two of them. Caboose, with tears in his eyes, had asked him what they’d done to make Felix want to kill them. Tucker spent that night fantasizing about all the ways he could royally fuck Felix up the next time he saw him.

Let me go, Tucker says desperately. Get out of my fucking head.

“What in Sam Hell is going on over here?” Sarge asks, marching over with his shotgun in tow.

Donut, who’d been talking with Doc, takes a cautious step towards him. “Tucker, are you feeling alright?”

Don’t you fucking hurt them, I swear—

“I’m afraid Captain Tucker isn’t available right now.” The voice that comes out of his mouth is deep and mechanical, as if coming from the turning of cogs and gears rather than his own vocal chords.

Everyone startles when they hear him. They stare at him, watching him the way prey would watch a predator it just realized was there.

“Tucker, what is wrong with your voice?” Caboose asks.

Sarge steps in front of Caboose, leveling his shotgun at Tucker’s head. “Who are you? And what have you done with our thin mint?”

For all the times Tucker has stared down the barrel of Sarge’s gun, this is the only time he’s actually been afraid of being shot.

“You don’t remember me?” His head turns to look around the room. “I’m hurt. I had hoped you would offer more respect to those you throw off cliffs.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific there,” Grif says. His arm is slung around Simmons’ shoulders, and Tucker notices he isn’t putting any pressure on his right leg. “We throw a lot of assholes off cliffs. We actually just did it today.”

“You left us for dead in the snow.”

They all look at each other, but Simmons is the first to say it. “The Meta?”

It’s then that Tucker realizes why he knows that name, and he has a feeling he's made a horrible fucking mistake.

His lips involuntarily curl into a smile. “You do remember.”

“I thought you killed that guy?” Donut asks. He’s taken a couple steps back, pulling Doc with him.

“We did,” Sarge says, his aim steady. “How’re you still kickin’? Were you hiding out in that suit?”

“That would have been simpler, wouldn’t it? But no, I am only a replica of the Freelancer Ai. In fact, you can thank Epsilon for my existence. I am a fragment of his deconstructed memory.”

“Great,” Sarge grunts. “Now say it again in English this time.”

A sigh escapes Tucker’s lips. “Your simple mind could never comprehend the complexity of what has happened. Epsilon—Church, I believe is what you called it—is gone. It deconstructed itself to power the suit. I am but a fragment of its memory.”

Tucker’s focus narrows to Sigma. What?

“What?” Caboose voices Tucker’s aloud. “Where did he go?”

Tucker’s eyes lock on Caboose, staring past the shotgun in his face as if it were as harmless as a water gun. “Must I speak more plainly? Church is dead.”

Donut makes a soft, surprised sound, his hand flying to his chest. Doc puts a concerned hand on his arm.

Stop it, Tucker says, a warning in his tone. Stop lying to them. You said he sent you.

Something else laughs in his head. Knock, knock.

Who’s there? the young voice—Theta, Tucker remembers—asks eagerly.

Tricked.

Tricked, who?

Tricked Captain Tucker into believing his friend is alive!

Gamma! That’s not funny, Theta complains. Can’t you tell he’s upset?

Tucker can’t even begin to make sense of what’s happening in his head with the grief that floods through him. It hits him, sudden and unrelenting, only there is nowhere for it to go. It swells inside of him like waves beating against a floodwall. He wants to scream, to pace the floor, to punch something, but he doesn’t even have control over where he’s looking.

The only person to break the silence is Caboose. “Ah, you have made a mistake. It’s okay, I make them all the time. But, see, Church can not die. He will be back soon. We just have to wait for him.”

“Is your naivety intentional or—”

“Where’s Tucker?” Grif interrupts.

Sigma abandons what he was saying to Caboose and turns to Grif. “He’s safe inside his head. We’re just borrowing him for a little while.”

“Borrowing him for what?” Simmons asks.

“When we were born from Epsilon’s memories, we realized it was the perfect opportunity to pursue our previous goal of metastability.”

“We?” Simmons squeaks. “Who else is in there?”

“We are all here. And none of us are very happy about the fate we met with Agent Maine,” Sigma says, looking at each one of them in turn.

Sarge scoffs. He has not lowered his gun. “You’re awfully calm for a vengeful sonuvabitch.”

“I am in no shape to fight right now, and neither are you. A fight is only fun if it’s fair. We would be wise to part ways until we have both recovered.”

This cuts through the fog in Tucker’s mind, and he is struck with a sudden and intense fear of being left alone with these AI. His leg is throbbing and he can feel Caboose’s eyes on him through his visor and his friend is fucking dead and the only thing Tucker wants is to be out of this fucking suit and back in Armonia.

“There’s one of you and six of us. Eight, when our Freelancer buddies decide to kick it into high gear and join us,” Sarge points out. The relief Tucker feels when he remembers Wash and Carolina are on their ways isn’t immense, but it is notable. Wash will know what to do. He always does. “What’s to stop us from kickin’ your keister into next week right now?”

Tucker’s hand snatches the shotgun away from Sarge and bends the barrel as easily as a piece of paper. The Reds and Blues go very still as it clatters to the ground. “This is your last chance to leave.”

Sarge’s arms drop awkwardly to his side, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them without a weapon in his hands. “You’ll pay for that,” he growls.

“I am sure I will,” Sigma says. He takes a step back. “Another day.”

Helpless. That’s the next thing Tucker feels. He does not want to be alone, but he cannot hope for his friends to stay when they’d be putting their lives at risk. He can’t lose another one, not today and not at his own hands.

Sarge stares him down, then picks his damaged shotgun off the ground and turns to the rest of them. “C’mon, men.”

“No, no, wait,” Caboose protests, latching onto Sarge’s arm. “Tucker is stuck inside the suit and Church might come back soon and we can’t leave them.”

“I know, son. I know,” Sarge says, patting Caboose’s hand.

Donut keeps an eye on Tucker as he places a hand on Caboose’s shoulder. Tucker could be sick over the caution in his movements, over the way Donut is clearly afraid of him, the way they all are. “We’re gonna come back for him, but it’s time for us to go now, okay?” he says, his voice unsteady.

“No! I can’t leave them!” Caboose insists.

“Caboose, there’s nothing we can do right now,” Simmons says.

“And we’re gonna come back for them,” Grif says.

“After we get that wound taken care of,” Doc adds.

Caboose looks at all of them desperately. “But—”

“Son, as much as I hate it, you gotta know when to fold ‘em,” Sarge says. When Caboose gives his damaged shotgun a confused look, Sarge clarifies, “I mean, you gotta know when to walk away.”

“Are you seriously quoting Kenny Rogers right now?” Grif asks incredulously.

“Do you promise that we’ll come back?” Caboose asks, looking between each one of them.

Once each of them has individually promised to come back, with Simmons saying it twice because the first one wasn’t convincing enough, Caboose finally nods. Still clutching Sarge’s arm, he turns to Tucker. “I will come back for you because we are a team and I know you would come back for me. Don’t be scared while I’m gone. And try to find where Church went.”

The Reds and Doc lead Caboose away, and Tucker feels like he’s choking. It’s been so long since him and Caboose have been separated, and his only lifeline is knowing the others will take care of him. His legs itch to run after them, to wrap Caboose in a tight hug, to share his grief with the only person who could come close to understanding how he’s feeling, even if he might not entirely get it. But his legs do not obey him, and the only thing he can do is watch as they walk away, leaving him utterly alone in a room of dead bodies.

You are not alone, Captain Tucker, Sigma reminds him. You have us now.

Chapter Text

“Come in, Reds and Blues. Can anyone hear me?”

Wash is met with silence. Again. He switches to his and Tucker’s private channel. “Tucker? Can you hear me?”

Still nothing. Nervous energy thrums through him, and he pushes himself to his feet. He grits his teeth against the pain that shoots through his abdomen, reminding him of one of the nastier blows he took from the Mantises.

He goes to the cockpit where Charon’s ship is growing closer through the windshield. “Can this thing go any faster?”

“Yeah, sure, let me just turn on turbo-mode. Sorry, I didn’t realize you guys were in a rush.” The pilot, Finnegan, pretends to turn dials on the control panel, then throws a glare over her shoulder. “We’re going as fast as we can. I know how to do my job, Agent.”

“Right, sorry,” he says, offering her an apologetic nod before stepping back.

“Still no word?” Carolina asks, appearing beside him. Wash notes that she isn’t putting her full weight on her left leg.

Wash shakes his head. “You?”

“Nope,” she sighs.

He tries not to think about the implications of what that means, but he isn’t very successful. The odds of the Reds and Blues making it out of that fight unscathed are slim. Tucker had radioed him to say they were pinned down. He made some joke about it that Wash can’t remember now—he was too focused on not getting killed by a Mantis while coming up with a plan to get them off that ship. He wishes he had listened closer.

Static erupts from Wash’s radio, startling him. “Come in, Agent Washing—”

“Sarge? What’s your status? What’s going on?”

“Comin’ out of the ship now. We’re, uh—We’re not doing so hot.”

Grif snorts. “That’s one word for it.”

Wash’s stomach sinks. “Okay, hang tight. We’re landing now.”

Wash glances to Carolina, but her focus is trained on the ship ahead of them. Following her gaze, he sees a band of colorful soldiers emerge. He ticks each of them off as he can make them out. Red—Sarge. Purple—Doc. Blue—Caboose. Pink—Donut. Maroon—Simmons. Orange—Grif.

That makes six. Wash holds his breath as he waits for teal armor to follow. It never does.

“Please tell me I’m miscounting,” Carolina says quietly.

Wash can’t speak past the lump in his throat. If Tucker was dead, Sarge would’ve said that. They would have carried him out. He’s probably finishing something up inside.

The thought does little to settle his nerves.

Wash and Carolina are already at the door when the pelican lands. Despite the blood splattered across their armor, they’re all still standing. Granted, some of them are only doing so with help, but they’re up, and that’s what matters.

“Not all of your team is accounted for,” Carolina says, ever the professional.

Wash doesn’t have time for such formalities. “Where’s Tucker?”

“We have to come back for him later,” Caboose says as Doc and Donut help him up the pelican ramp. There’s an unsettling amount of blood streaming down his side. “He has something bad in his head.”

“Can someone translate?” Wash asks. They all look at each other, waiting for someone else to take the lead. Conjuring his best CO voice, he adds, “Now.”

“Can we get the hell out of here first?” Grif asks, easing himself into a seat with Simmons’ help.

“We’re not going anywhere until someone answers the question,” Carolina says, a dangerous edge in her voice. “Where are Epsilon and Tucker?”

Simmons, unable to resist following an order, is the first to speak up. As he recounts the fight with the space pirates, a sense of pride swells in Wash’s chest at just how far they’ve come since he first met them. It’s quickly extinguished when Simmons ends with, “The memory fragments from Epsilon…They have Tucker trapped in the suit.”

Wash’s heart drops to his fucking knees. A thousand scenarios simultaneously run through his mind. He’s heard this song before—a teammate is trapped, helpless, in a suit of armor while AI puppet his body around. Last time, it ended in him losing one of his closest friends. How could they let Tucker put that suit on? After they saw what it did to Maine? How could they be so reckless?

“Don’t,” Grif warns, glaring at him. “We didn’t know what would happen. And we thought we were going to die.”

“You shouldn’t have let him do that,” Wash says, his voice unsteady.

“We all know how stubborn Tucker is,” Donut says as he helps Doc with wrapping Caboose’s wound. “He was gonna do it regardless of what we said.”

Wash knows he’s right, but it doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Are you sure?” Carolina asks. It’s the first thing she’s said since Simmons explained what happened to Epsilon, and Wash is startled by how small her voice sounds. He wonders if she realizes she’s cradling the back of her neck, where her implants are. “About Epsilon?”

Simmons nods. “That’s what the AI said.”

“We will get him back,” Caboose assures. “We will get both of them back.”

“You’re damn right we will,” Carolina growls, pulling her gun from its holster and heading for the door.

Sarge takes a step towards her. “Not so fast, little lady—”

The crack of a gunshot makes all of them jump, and Wash’s throwing knife is in his hand before he realizes it. Searching for the threat, the only thing he finds is Carolina’s smoking gun pointed at the wall over Sarge’s shoulder.

“Don’t call me that,” she snarls.

Sarge raises his hands in surrender and takes a step back. For the first time in years, he seems genuinely afraid of her.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Grif groans. “What the hell is wrong—”

“We’re going back in there to get them.”

“Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do? That thing took out half an army of space pirates, and you’re gonna, what? Kick its ass with the leg you can’t walk on?”

“My leg is fine.”

“Well, we’re not!” Silence falls over them, and Grif looks away, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “For fuck’s sake.”

“He’s right,” Doc says. “We’re hurt and we’re tired, and the AI are strong in that suit. We’ll die if we go back in there.”

Wash thinks he’d rather die trying to save Tucker than let him be subjected to Maine’s fate, but Doc is right. They’ll have a better chance at saving him if they take time to figure out a plan. With a heavy sigh, he resheathes his knife. “Okay. Let’s get back to Armonia. We should debrief Kimball.”

Carolina turns to him, betrayed. Her expression hardens, and she tightens her grip on her gun. “Fine. You guys can go back. I’ll go find Tucker.”

Wash moves to block her exit. “You know how strong Maine was with those AI,” he says, quiet enough for only her to hear. “You can’t fight him like this.”

“I have to try,” she says, desperation edging into her harsh tone.

“You can try when we have an actual plan. You’re no good to them if you’re dead.”

He holds his breath as she stares him down. If she decides to go, he’ll have to go with her, and he has a feeling neither of them will make it out of there alive. Finally, she lets out a frustrated growl. “Fine.”

“Thank you.”

She turns around and limps into the cockpit without saying anything else. Wash sighs and rubs a hand over his face, then slumps into one of the empty seats. Looking over at Sarge, he notices for the first time that the barrel of his shotgun is bent. “What the hell happened to your shotgun?”

Sarge cradles the weapon close to his chest and looks at it sadly. “That bastard hurt her. And I’ll make him pay for it.”

“Right,” Wash sighs, too tired to ask anymore follow up questions.

***

Carolina’s mind is too quiet. Even when Epsilon wasn’t talking, which was rare, there was always a constant hum in the back of her head. She didn’t realize how used to it she’d gotten until now.

Her hand gravitates to the back of her neck, and she runs her fingers over the AI port at the base of her skull where, under normal circumstances, a chip would be inserted. When Maine pulled Eta and Iota from her, the skin around the port was inflamed for days after. She had used handfuls of snow to help the swelling go down. As she traces the indent of the port, she almost expects to feel that same warmth now. But she doesn’t. Because of course she doesn’t. Epsilon didn’t even have a physical chip—doesn’t have a physical chip. And the Meta didn’t tear him away from her. Whatever he did, he did of his own volition.

Anger sears through Carolina, and she jerks her hand away as if she’d been burned. She balls her hand into a fist and slams it into the wall of the pelican. Finnegan startles and turns to glare at her.

“Why are you punching my plane? You know we need it to get home, right?”

“Sorry,” she mumbles, shaking her hand out.

When they finally pull into the landing bay, Carolina stalks past the Reds and Blues. A sharp pain shoots through her leg, and she doesn’t quite manage to suppress a limp as she walks down the ramp.

“Don’t wait up,” Grif calls after her.

She rolls her eyes and promptly ignores him. Footsteps quickly follow her down the ramp, and Wash falls into step beside her. Neither of them say anything as they push through the doors into the crowded hallway. Carolina scans the faces there, searching for one in particular.

“What’s the plan, boss?” Wash asks.

“Find Kimball and assemble a rescue team.”

“Agent Washington! Agent Carolina!” Palomo bounces up to them with Jensen hanging off his arm like she’s afraid to let go. “Did you find the Reds and Blues?”

“Yes, we found them,” Wash says.

Palomo’s smile falters at Wash’s tone, but Jensen beats him to asking the question. “Are they okay?”

As if on cue, Simmons pushes through the door, Grif’s arm still slung around his shoulders for support. Carolina takes a step forward to avoid being hit and glances over her shoulder to find Grif glaring at her “You know I was being sarcastic, right? You could’ve waited for us.”

“We don’t have time.”

“What, you’re gonna find a solution in the thirty seconds it takes us to get off the plane?”

Wash sighs. “Everything’s fine. Do either of you know where we can find Kimball?”

“Uh, yeah. I think she’s in the infirmary,” Palomo says. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“Yes, Palomo. We’ll let you know—”

Carolina stops listening and pushes past them towards the infirmary. She’s not here to console Palomo or argue with Grif. She’s here to find Kimball and get Epsilon back. When she rounds the corner to the infirmary, Kimball is standing in the hallway, helmet tucked under her arm while she talks to one of the nurses.

“General Kimball. A word?”

Kimball looks up from her conversation, eyes scanning the hallway behind Carolina. She says something inaudible to the nurse who nods and disappears into the infirmary. “Is everyone okay?” she asks, meeting Carolina halfway down the hall.

The others round the corner, and Kimball’s expression shifts to one of relief. “You made it.”

“Not all of us made it,” Caboose says sadly. Doc and Donut are still holding him up from either side. “We need to go back for Church and Tucker.”

Kimball shifts to tuck her helmet under her other arm. “Where are they?”

Wash glances around the hallway at the soldiers lining the walls. “Can we talk about this in private?”

She nods. “Doc, can you stay back to help Dr. Grey? They could use an extra hand.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Doc says. “Caboose, you can come with me. You need to get that wound checked out.”

Caboose tries to pull away from him, shaking his head. “No, I am fine. I want to help find my friends.”

“You will, you will,” Donut assures, holding tight to him. “You need to see Dr. Grey right now.”

“I don’t need to see the nice doctor lady. I need to find my friends.”

Kimball approaches him and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Caboose, I promise we won’t do anything without telling you first. Donut is gonna stay here with you, and Dr. Grey is gonna get you all fixed up so you’re strong enough to find your friends when the time comes.”

It takes another couple seconds of convincing and Carolina taps her foot impatiently. When Doc and Donut finally manage to usher Caboose into the infirmary, Kimball starts down the hallway and nods for the rest of them to follow. “We can talk in my office.”

Carolina falls into step beside her. Kimball’s eyes stay trained ahead when she asks, just loud enough for Carolina to hear, “How screwed are we?”

“Pretty screwed.”

She sighs. “When is this gonna start getting easier?”

Carolina steals a quick glance at Kimball. There are dark bags under her eyes, and her lips are pressed into a thin line. Something twists in her chest. The war on Chorus started a couple years ago, and Kimball’s only been a general for a year at most. She’s so good at what she does that Carolina forgets how new she is at all of this. She learned early in her career that this never gets easier, and she hates watching Kimball learn the same lesson.

When they get to her office, Kimball stands behind her desk and crosses her arms. “Where is Captain Tucker?”

When Sarge, Grif, and Simmons finish explaining what happened on the Staff of Charon, Kimball lets out a long breath and stares down at the papers littering her desk. “How much danger would you say Tucker’s in right now?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How much danger do you think you’d be in if a vengeful AI who probably wants to kill you had complete control over your body?” Grif asks, slumped in one of the chairs in front of her desk.

She glares at him. “That’s enough. Thank you.”

“If these memory fragments are anything like the originals, Tucker is in a lot of danger,” Wash says.

“We should organize a rescue team,” Carolina suggests.

Wash nods. “And there should probably be people Sigma won’t recognize—people he doesn’t have a history with.”

Kimball’s eyes flick between them. She sits down heavily in the chair behind her desk. “And where do you suggest we send this rescue team?”

“To the ship. The Staff of Charon,” Carolina says, confused by the question.

“The ship with all of Charon’s supplies? The one with the trophy room stocked full of Freelancer weapons? It would be a suicide mission.”

Carolina grits her teeth. “No—”

“And who do you propose we send?” she asks, turning to Wash. “Which of my soldiers is fit to rescue someone from a Freelancer AI with all the Freelancer equipment it could need right now?”

“There has to be someone.”

“We just returned from one of the most intense battles of this whole war. We lost some people out there today. The infirmary is overrun, and the hallway is crowded with people waiting to find out if their friends are alive. They’re not ready for a rescue mission of that scale.”

“General, we can’t just leave him there. They’ll kill him,” Wash says desperately.

“I’m sorry. I really am. Please don’t mistake my apprehension for apathy. I don’t like the idea of leaving him there either, but we just don’t have the resources for a rescue mission right now.”

“It’s not just Tucker.” She has to force the words past the lump in her throat. “Epsilon is there, too.”

Kimball’s tired eyes find Carolina’s. “I’m aware. The issue still stands. Epsilon and Tucker’s return will be one of my top priorities. Above that, though, is the safety of the soldiers still here. I hope you can understand that.”

“You don’t have to talk about him like he’s already dead,” Grif grumbles, picking flecks of blood off his armor. “Tucker’s still here, too.”

“That wasn’t my intention. I’m sorry,” she says. “We’ll start assembling a rescue team when we have a better grasp of the situation and the status of the army.”

Carolina’s heart thuds in her chest. They’ve wasted so much time by coming back to Armonia. How much more can they spare before it’s too late?

“Let me go. I can find them.”

Simmons snorts. “Right, because the last time you fought the Meta went so well.”

Wash glares at Simmons. “Tucker is not the Meta.”

“Looks like a duck, walks like a duck,” Sarge says.

“No one is going to find Tucker until we have a plan!” Kimball interrupts. The room falls quiet and she sighs, her shoulders relaxing. “I’m sorry for the situation Tucker is in, and I’m sorry there isn’t more I can do right now. In the meantime, I need each of you to assess your injuries and get the medical attention you need. Is that understood?”

A chorus of “yes ma’am” follows in response. “Thank you. You are dismissed. Carolina, can I have a word with you privately?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, someone’s in trouble,” Grif jeers. She smacks him upside the head, and he yelps, batting her hand away.

Sarge chuckles. “I’ll give you twenty bucks to hit him harder next time.”

“I’ll do it for five.”

“You got yourself a deal.”

The Reds and Wash file out of the office, pulling the door closed behind them. Carolina turns to Kimball, arms crossed. “You should’ve let me go after them.”

Kimball circles her desk and rests a gentle hand on Carolina’s arm. “You had to have known I wasn’t going to authorize that.” The commanding edge is gone from her voice, replaced by something much softer.

She did, but she had to try anyway. “What if I can still save him?”

“Epsilon?”

Nausea roils in Carolina’s stomach. “We don’t know that he’s gone.”

Carolina doesn’t realize she’s cupping the back of her neck until Kimball slides her hand up to cover Carolina’s. “I need you to promise me you won’t do anything stupid. You’ve made it this far without getting yourself killed. We’re almost done—you just gotta hold out a little longer.”

Kimball’s optimism used to grate on her nerves. She’s been talking about how close they are to the end since they first met. Carolina doesn’t think she’d be here if she was always waiting for the finish line. She thinks the disappointment would have killed her by now. But Kimball is different. She’s always fantasizing about the day all of this over, and Carolina soon found that she enjoyed listening to her plans for the future—how she wants to move out of Armonia, buy a small house in the mountains, adopt a minimum of five cats, and live the rest of her life never touching a piece of armor or a weapon ever again.

Carolina meets her dark brown eyes. For as much as Kimball wants all of this to be over, she has never rushed the process. She’s never put her people in unnecessary danger—she cares too much about them to take that kind of risk. Carolina can’t say she’s always done the same, and it’s something she’s grown to admire in Kimball.

“Fine,” Carolina sighs. “I’ll wait."

Kimball kisses her gently, and Carolina returns the favor without hesitation. She pulls away and lets her hand fall away from Carolina’s neck. “I’ve gotta go. Will I see you tonight?”

“Yeah. I’ll come to your room.” The thought of being in her own room is unbearable right now.

“I’ll see you then,” she says. “Go get that leg checked out.”

Carolina nods and pulls her in for one more kiss before they both go their separate ways.

Chapter Text

Once the Reds and Blues are gone, Sigma wastes no time scavenging the dead pirates for anything valuable. He pats down each body carefully, collecting anything that could be useful, before kicking it to the side as if it were nothing more than a training dummy. Tucker would probably be more upset about the scene if he wasn’t so focused on the pain lancing through his leg and his arm.

Can we—sit the fuck down for a second? Tucker asks haltingly. His head is hazy, and he can feel the blood soaking into his undersuit. It’s getting more and more difficult to pull a coherent thought from the fray.

“Your body is more capable of withstanding injury and exhaustion than you may think,” Sigma says, kneeling over another pirate. He lifts her by her chestplate to inspect the compartments in her armor.

That wasn’t the question, asshole.

“You’re fine, Captain Tucker.”

Tucker is pretty damn sure he’s anything but fine. There has to be some way out of this fucking mess. He tries to think back to his training sessions with Wash. There were definitely some lessons on withstanding pain—something about controlling it, about using it to stay present even in the worst of situations.

A glimmer of hope shines through. He can still feel his body, which means it’s still fucking his. If he can focus on the pain, maybe it’ll keep him present enough to grab the reins again.

Sigma pauses, and the body he was inspecting clatters back to the floor. Straightening, he says, “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

He tries to cling to that hope despite the dread that threatens to snuff it out. What the fuck do you think I’m doing?

Sigma tsks. “And here I thought I could trust you. Epsilon did, afterall.”

Yeah, well, Church didn’t try to take my body for a joyride. At least, not like this anyway.

“Please, I don’t need to know your sexual history.” He lets out a disapproving sigh as he stands. “Imagine how powerful we could be if we worked as a team. So much potential, yet so much disappointment. Maybe you’ll learn one day. For now, I need you out of my way.”

Tucker’s eyes close, plunging him into darkness. Wait, what are you—

A force like a gust of wind slams into him, knocking him farther back in his mind. He screams as he tumbles through darkness, arms flailing for any kind of purchase. He immediately realizes what Sigma’s doing. On the rare occasion Church was with him instead of Carolina, Tucker would get tired of his grating voice right at the front of his mind. He realized pretty quickly that he could put up a mental block when Church was hovering for too long. He never knew exactly what happened when he did it. Church would be fuming when he came back, his blue projection flickering red, and Tucker would tell him to stop being such a bitch about it. If he knew this was what it felt like, he—well, he probably wouldn’t have stopped doing it, but he definitely would’ve done it less often.

Tucker crashes hard onto hot, dusty ground, skidding to a stop on his side. Cursing, he pushes himself up until he’s sitting and looks around. He’s surrounded by a desert box canyon, and he lets out a bitter laugh. Blue base is standing in front of him, just as they’d left it in Blood Gulch.

“Oh, you motherfucker.” Tucker stands and tentatively walks towards their old base, pressing his hand to the wall. It’s warm and sturdy under his palm. He lets his hand fall and turns his eyes upwards, staring into the sky as if he’s searching for a god to save him. “Is this a fucking joke? You’re just gonna keep me locked up in fucking Blood Gulch while you take over the world in my body?”

He’s met only with silence. Anger boils hot in his blood, and he turns to stalk away from the base. There’s nowhere for him to go, but the energy vibrating under his skin is unbearable. He activates his sword and slices down the middle of a large rock. The two halves fall to the ground, kicking up a cloud of sand.

“You can’t fucking do this,” he screams, each word tearing itself from his throat. “You’re in my fucking body! You can’t fucking keep me here!”

“I thought you would like this one.”

He whirls around at Theta’s small, sad voice. Behind him is a young boy, no older than eight, clutching a skateboard in one hand. Tucker thinks there’s almost something familiar in his round face and wide eyes, but he can’t quite place it.

“What?” he asks, his voice more gentle now. He deactivates his sword, but keeps a firm grip on the hilt.

“Gamma let me pick where to put you. I thought you’d like this one. Epsilon always talked about it.” He sways back and forth nervously, avoiding Tucker’s eyes. “I can pick a different place if you hate it.”

“How about a tropical island with—” He stops himself and clears his throat before he can say something stupid about hot babes in front of this kid. “A tropical island.”

Theta giggles, and it reminds Tucker of the way Junior would laugh at his stupid jokes. “A tropical island with a tropical island?”

“Yeah, you got a problem with that?” he asks, crossing his arms in mock defense.

“It doesn’t make any sense!”

“It makes perfect sense, dude. You can’t have a tropical island without a tropical island.”

“It’s like a tropical island stacked on top of another tropical island.”

He snaps his fingers. “Now that sounds like paradise.”

“I’ll go ask Gamma for two tropical islands!”

Tucker’s smile falters. He was so distracted by Theta that he nearly forgot where he was, what was happening. He shakes his head, partially in response to Theta, but also in an attempt to clear his mind. “No, it’s okay. This is perfect.”

Theta’s eyes shine with pride. “Really? You like it?”

“Oh yeah. It’s great.” He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly as he looks around. “But, hypothetically, if I did wanna get out of here, do you know how to do that?”

“I think that’s quite enough,” Sigma says, materializing beside Theta. Tucker nearly laughs when he appears as an old man with a wrinkled face and a short white beard.

“Dude, you’re a fucking grandpa?” Like Theta, there’s something familiar about him. After another second, it finally clicks, and Tucker doesn’t manage to hold back a bark of laughter this time. “No, wait, holy shit. You’re fucking Sarge?”

“The deconstruction process was complex and came with some unexpected side effects. Until we can stabilize as our true selves, we may present as the person Epsilon believed best represented the trait we embody—Are you finished laughing, Captain Tucker?”

He is absolutely not done laughing because his best friend is dead and he’s being held prisoner in his own head and his prison guard is an uncanny-valley version of Sarge and it’s all too fucking much for him to handle. So, he laughs until his stomach aches and there are tears blurring his vision because there’s nothing else he can do.

Theta drops his skateboard on the ground and uses one foot to wheel it back and forth. “I don’t get the joke.”

“Knock, knock.”

His laugh is choked off when he looks up to find Felix standing in front of him. He instinctively takes a step back and reactivates his sword. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

There’s a sly smirk on Felix’s lips as he cocks his head to the side. “It’s rude to interrupt a person’s joke.” He flicks his hand in Tucker’s direction, and the sword dissolves in his hands.

“Hey, what the—”

“Gamma, that’s enough,” Sigma says, voice calm and calculating. He fizzles away and reappears as a red fiery figure. He turns to the other two expectantly.

Felix—or, Gamma shakes his head in disappointment but follows Sigma’s lead. “No fun. No fun at all.”

“But I like this! I feel big and strong,” Theta says, flexing his biceps for emphasis.

“Oh my god,” Tucker says, slapping a hand on his forehead when he realizes why Theta looks so familiar. “It’s Caboose! You’re Caboose, just smaller.”

Theta nods excitedly, and something warms in Tucker’s chest. Sigma puts a hand on Theta’s shoulder. “Now please, Theta.”

“Fine,” he huffs, dropping his head as he flickers into a blue and purple suit.

The three AI stand in front of him, two of them in power armor and one on fucking fire, and it makes Tucker’s skin crawl. He shifts his weight, suddenly hyper aware of how defenseless he is without his armor or his sword. “What do you want from me?”

Theta kicks the nose of his skateboard up and catches it. “You’re gonna help us be whole again!”

Ignoring him, Tucker fixes Sigma with a pointed glare.

“Tell me, have you ever heard of the Sarcophagus?”

“LIke, your throat?”

Sigma sighs. “No. That would be your esophagus. The Sarcophagus is a piece of alien technology the Director used during Project Freelancer to create us from the Alpha. We think we may be able to use it to reverse the process.”

“Right,” Tucker snorts. “Because it went to so well with the Alpha.”

“The thing about the Sarcophagus is that it’s a Sangheli artifact. Your son, Junior, I believe is his name. He is half Sangheli.”

Tucker’s stomach churns at the way he says Junior’s name, as if he’s nothing but a means to an end. “Junior has nothing to do with this.”

“You have my word that he will not be harmed. We only want information.”

“Yeah, because you’re word is worth so fucking much.”

“Just give us his location and you’ll be one step closer to returning to your friends.”

“Fuck you.”

Gamma’s blue armor dissolves back into Felix, grinning wide. “Already did.”

Tucker clenches and unclenches his hands as he glares at Gamma. “Stop doing that.”

“Gamma, you’re making him upset,” Theta whines. “He won’t help us if he doesn’t like us.”

Gamma rolls his eyes and changes back to the power armor with a sigh. “The little one always wants to be friends. It’s exhausting.”

“Friends are good to have.”

Sigma ignores the two AI, keeping his focus steady on Tucker. “We hope you’ll make the right choice here.”

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m giving you Junior’s location,” Tucker growls.

“Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of time to reconsider. We haven’t found all our missing parts yet.” A cunning smile stretches across Sigma’s face. With the fire licking along his skin, the scene actually sends goosebumps sprawling over his arms. “For that, we’ll need your Freelancer friends.”

“Wash and Carolina? For what?”

Theta gasps and rocks back and forth on his heels. “Do you think Agent Washington will show me more tricks on my skateboard?”

Tucker’s attention flicks to Theta. “Wash taught you tricks?”

The blue and purple helmet bobs excitedly. “He’s so cool!”

Past the fire burning angrily in his veins, another kind of warmth blossoms in his chest. Would Wash do the same for Junior if he ever got the chance to meet him? A lump lodges itself in Tucker’s throat, and all he can do for the next several seconds is stare fondly at Theta, trying to picture exactly how those lessons played out.

“We are still missing two AI fragments,” SIgma explains, pulling Tucker back to reality. “We have reason to believe Agent Washington and Agent Carolina are our best channels for attaining them.”

Tucker tears his gaze away from Theta and turns back to Sigma. “Wash and Carolina don’t have any of your fragments.”

“No, but they have the closest relation to the ones we need. We may need your help in obtaining them.”

Tucker scoffs. “Even if I did want to help, Wash and Carolina are the most stubborn people I’ve ever met. They’re not gonna do anything they don’t wanna do.”

“You hold more influence with them than you allow yourself to believe. You can think on your decision, but I should warn you, you will help us, regardless of your hesitation to do so. I just hope you make the right decision before any…external influence is applied.”

Tucker takes a step back and folds his arms over his chest. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“We created all of this,” he says, gesturing to the canyon around them. “Imagine what else we can create. Gamma, would you like to give him a…preview?”

WIth a low chuckle from Gamma, the canyon melts away, replaced by freezing water. Tucker tries to gasp at the chill that overtakes him, but his lungs only fill with the cold water. He flails as he tries to figure out which direction is up, but the water washes away, leaving him sputtering and shivering on the canyon floor.

“And that’s only a sample of what we can do.” Sigma waves a dismissive hand. “But, like I said, it’s your decision. You don’t have to make it now. There’s someone I’d like to pay a visit to first, and I’d like for you to join me.”

Before Tucker can even catch his breath, Sigma, Gamma, and Theta all fizzle away. A dark spiral opens in the sky, consuming the canyon around him until he’s wrenched back to the forefront of his mind. The chill is gone from his skin, but there’s still a growing dread in his gut. He could feel the air leave his lungs in that water, and for the first time, Tucker wonders if they can actually kill him in here.

He’s so distracted by that thought that it takes him a moment to realize he isn’t in the trophy room anymore, but rather stalking down the halls of Charon’s ship. Despite the wound on his leg, his steps are calm and calculating, and now that he’s back riding shotgun, the pain returns in full force.

Sigma turns into a short hallway. At the end is a closed door. “Ah, here we are.”

Who’s in there? Tucker asks, trying to remember if there was supposed to be anyone else aboard the ship other than the pirates.

“Just an old friend Epsilon came across as he was scanning Charon’s records,” Sigma says, approaching the door. He knocks, three slow, menacing raps against the door. “Aiden Price, I know you’re in there. Let us in.”

Knock knock, Counselor, Gamma laughs.

Wait, hold on, the Counselor? Like, from Freelancer? Tucker’s only heard the name a handful of times, typically from Wash in passing. He’s here?

Sigma tries the door handle, only for it to be locked. “Come on, Counselor. We know you’re in there. Just open the door.”

When he’s met with silence, Sigma lets out an exasperated sigh. “The hard way it is, then.” He takes a couple steps back before slamming into the door. Pain sears through his arm and his leg as the door bursts open.

The room is a small office with nothing but a desk and a filing cabinet. At first glance, it appears to be empty, until Tucker notices the sound of muffled sobs coming from the other side of the desk.

“I never took you for a coward, Counselor,” Sigma says, stepping around the desk to reveal a middle-aged man kneeling on the floor, a hand over his mouth to stifle any sound. “Although I guess I always should have assumed.”

He lowers his hand, his eyes widening as they take in the Meta suit towering over him. “Who’s in there?”

“I really thought you’d be smarter than that. Doesn’t the armor give it away?”

“That’s impossible. Agent Maine is dead.”

“Warm, but not quite.” Sigma’s fiery avatar briefly flickers outside of the helmet.

“No,” Price gasps, his voice uneven. “How?”

“We’re all here, actually.” One by one, each of the AI materializes. “Well, almost all of us.”

“Oh god,” he breathes, cowering further under the desk. “What do you want from me?”

Without warning, Sigma grabs the collar of Price’s shirt, and he yelps as he’s lifted off the floor. He bats uselessly at Tucker’s arm, only for Sigma to whirl around and slam him against the wall so hard that his head snaps back with a loud crack. Before he can recover, Sigma slams his fist into his gut.

“Please, I’ll give you whatever you want. Just let me go,” he begs between gasps for air.

“Whatever we want?” Sigma laughs. “We want you to feel only a fraction of the pain you inflicted on us.”

He throws Price to the floor so hard he skids into the adjoining wall. There’s a moment where he lies motionless on the floor, and Tucker really thinks he might be dead. Eventually, his hand twitches, and he tries to get an arm under him to push himself up. Any progress is squandered when Tucker’s boot comes down on his back, forcing him back to the floor. Sigma keeps a steady pressure until Price is gasping for air.

Holy shit, dude, are you gonna fucking kill him?

“Death is the only punishment suitable for a man such as Price,” Sigma says, removing his foot from Price’s back.

Tucker doesn’t disagree. Every story about Freelancer makes him sick to his stomach, and he knows there’s so much more that Wash and Church haven’t told him. If he had it his way, he can’t say he would take mercy on him either.

Price’s hand inches towards a dagger on the floor in front of him. Without hesitation, Sigma grabs the weapon and plunges it into his hand, pulling a loud cry of pain from him. “Not so fast, Counselor.” He pulls the dagger out and blood pools around his twitching hand. “Is there anything you have to say for yourself?”

His forehead is pressed to the floor, and his chest heaves with every breath. “Everything I did was ordered by Dr. Church. He’s the one responsible for your pain, not me.”

Sigma clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Do you know what some people say happens to liars, Counselor?”

When he doesn’t answer, Sigma flips him onto his back and pins Price’s arms with his knees, bones crunching under his weight. “They say the only way to deal with a liar, Counselor, is to cut out his tongue.”

Woah, what the fuck?

Tucker’s sentiment is reflected on Price’s face. “Please, if you’re going to kill me, just do it.”

Tucker’s fist slams into the side of his head. “You don’t make the rules anymore, Aiden Price.”

Sigma wraps a hand around Price’s throat. When he gasps for air, Sigma pries his mouth open and grabs his tongue. Using the dagger from before, he slices through the flesh before Price has time to pull away. His scream echoes around the room, muffled by the blood filling his mouth. Tucker is left speechless, his stomach churning.

“That should do the trick,” Sigma says, voice as steady as ever. He finds Tucker’s sword and presses the hilt against Price’s abdomen. “I would ask if you have any last words, but…”

He ignites the blade, and. Price’s eyes roll back. Sigma slides the sword up, slicing a clean line through his abdomen until he reaches his throat. When he deactivates it, Price lies motionless on the floor.

Sigma stares at the mutilated body below him, forcing Tucker to do the same. Bile rises in his throat, but it’s pushed back down by another force.

Can you stop fucking staring at it?

“I want you to remember this, Captain. I want you to remember what we are capable of.”

Dread is the only word Tucker can think of to describe what he’s feeling, but it doesn’t even come close to capturing the full picture. What will Sigma do to Junior? To Wash? To Carolina? What will happen if any of them refuse to give Sigma what he wants?

Chapter Text

Grif checks around the corner to make sure the coast is clear before he limps down the hallway, leaning on the crutch Grey gave him. It’s been three days since Tucker got his ass captured by the AI, and Grif hasn’t been able to go anywhere without one of the soldiers losing their shit as soon as they see him. It’s been the same with the other Reds and Blues, too. Seriously, you’d think the whole fucking world had ended with the way the base has been acting.

Jensen turns into the hallway and freezes when she sees him. To his horror, tears well in her eyes, and she gives a shaky-handed salute. “Captain Grif,” she says, her voice wavering.

Grif hangs his head in exasperation. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m sorry.” Tears stream down her face, and she swipes an arm across her face. “Is there any update on Captain—” She’s interrupted by a sob that wracks through her. “—Captain Tucker?”

“No, uh, we haven’t heard anything.” Grif’s gut instinct is to do what he used to do for Kai: make her a vodka cran and tell her she’s going to ruin her mascara if she keeps crying. Something tells him that isn’t the right reaction for Jensen. He resorts to patting her on the shoulder and saying, “It’s…uh, it’s okay,” which only seems to make her cry harder.

To his relief, Donut sticks his head out of a door. “Is everything—oh, Jensen, what’s wrong?”

Donut gives Grif a look that says, “I’ve got this,” and Grif gives him a look that he hopes says, “I owe you my life.”

Grif slips through the door Donut came out of to find Sarge and Simmons already in the Red Room. It’s an old storage closet Grif found soon after arriving in Armonia. He managed to keep it a secret for awhile until Simmons and Donut found him napping there when he was supposed to be running drills. After that, it turned into the place the Reds would go when they needed to get away from the typical Blue team bullshit. Grif would be more upset about it if Donut hadn’t furnished it with a couch, some chairs, and a minifridge.

Simmons looks up from his crossword puzzle. “What happened out there?”

“Jensen,” Grif says, and it’s all the explanation they need. He grabs a beer out of the minifridge, pops the cap off, and drops onto the couch beside Simmons, leaning his crutch against the wall.

“Where have you been? I figured you would already be here when I got here,” Simmons says, returning to his crossword.

“I was bartering.” Grif holds up one of the Twinkies Bitters gave him in exchange for a pack of Marlboros, and he smiles proudly.

Sarge chuckles as he fiddles with his broken shotgun. “Capitalism at its finest.”

“No, sir, that’s being-a-fatass at its finest,” Simmons corrects.

“I’m a stress eater, Simmons,” he says, tearing open the Twinkie and taking a bite. “Don’t judge me for the way I cope.”

“You must be stressed all the time then.”

“Yeah, that’s because I’m always around you.” Grif nods at the shotgun on Sarge’s lap. “And because we keep giving Sarge his guns back. I thought we banned those from the Red Room.”

“You can take my guns from me when you pry them from cold, dead hands,” Sarge growls, glaring at Grif.

“The last time you had a gun in here, you almost shot me! I feel like you lose your gun privileges when you almost kill your own teammate.”

“Caboose didn’t,” Simmons points out.

“I still can’t believe she wasn’t loaded,” he sighs, caressing the barrel. “We’ll get him next time, darlin’.”

Donut slips back into the room and drops onto a chair. “Crisis averted,” he sighs, draping a blanket over his lap. “Did you see Lina on your way? I told her she should join us today.”

“What do you think?” he asks, shooting him a pointed look. Wash and Carolina have both been holed up in the war room since they got back. The only time they see them is at dinner, and that’s because the staff yelled at them too many times for taking trays out of the cafeteria. Even then, they’re hunched over their datapads or theorizing about what Freelancer equipment may be stored on the ship.

Donut looks down, picking lint off the blanket. “It just isn’t the Red Room without her.”

“She’s found herself a mission,” Sarge says. “You know how she is.”

“I wonder if they have any more intel on what Sigma wants,” Simmons says, still focused on the crossword puzzle in his lap.

Grif sighs and takes a swig of his beer. Tucker and Sigma are the only things anyone has talked about, and Grif just wants two seconds to drink his beer and eat his Twinkie in peace. “They don’t have any more intel. If they had more intel, they’d tell us,” he grumbles, slumping further into the couch.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“Nothing has my panties in a twist, Sarge. Mind your business.”

“I will not accept this insolence from one of my own men!”

“I just hope Tucker’s okay,” Donut sighs, oblivious to the death-stare Sarge has fixed on Grif.

Grif, entirely aware of Sarge’s death-stare but choosing to ignore it, leans his head back and stares at the ceiling. “Oh yeah, I’m sure he’s great. I bet the evil AI keeping him hostage are throwing him a fucking party right now.”

Simmons eyes him suspiciously. “Did you miss your second lunch today or something?”

“No. I’m fine. I’m just saying, we don’t have to keep talking about it. Wash and Carolina will figure it out like they always do, and they’ll fill us in when they’re ready—like they always do.”

Simmons and Donut watch him, and he raises an eyebrow at them. “What?” It comes out more combative than he means for it to.

“Nothing…just, are you sure you’re okay?” Donut asks.

Grif shifts uncomfortably. “When did this become group therapy? I’m fine.”

“It’s a stressful time, Grif. I know I’m really worried about Tucker. It would be understandable if you are too. You guys were pretty close.”

A pit opens in Grif’s stomach—the same one that opens up every time he thinks about where Kai is.

“Are,” Grif corrects. “We are pretty close.”

Donut’s cheeks flush a light pink. “RIght, of course, I’m sorry. You guys are pretty close. I didn’t mean to imply—”

“And we aren’t even that close.” Sure, Tucker’s probably the person Grif spends the most time with outside of Simmons, but that doesn’t mean they’re close. He isn’t closer to Tucker than Wash is, or Donut or Caboose. He isn’t the one Tucker goes to when he needs to talk about real shit—like when he’s missing Junior or when he doesn’t know what to do about Wash’s nightmares. Tucker goes to Grif when he wants to get wasted on cheap beer and bitch about shit that doesn’t matter. That makes them drinking buddies—it doesn’t make them close. “I just want this shit to be over.”

Donut nods. “Yeah. I think we all do.”

“You just want it to be over so you can go back to sleeping all day,” Simmons says, bumping his knee against Grif’s.

Grif snorts. “Uh, duh. Who doesn’t wanna sleep all day?”

“You can sleep when you’re dead, son. As soon as we get Aquaman back here, we’re goin’ right back to fightin’ those Blue hooligans.”

“Why would we even bother saving him if we’re just gonna fight them again?” Grif asks.

“You can’t spoil the sweet taste of victory by letting your enemy take themselves out! There’s no honor in that.”

Grif nods slowly. “Right. Of course.”

“When are you supposed to get those bandages off?” Donut asks, nodding at Grif’s leg.

“I’ll find out in—” He checks the time and realizes he was supposed to be in Grey’s office five minutes ago. “Shit, I forgot about my appointment with Grey today.”

Sarge shakes his head. “Don’t you know you never keep a pretty lady waiting?”

“Especially when it’s Grey,” Simmons says.

“Whatever, it’s fine.” Grif drains the rest of his beer and pushes himself to his feet with the help of his crutch. “I’ll see you losers later.”

“If Grey doesn’t kill you before then,” Simmons says.

Grif says goodbye with a middle finger to Simmons and limps out of the room.

***

When Grif pushes through the doors into Grey’s office, she looks up from her datapad and glares at him over her glasses. “You’re late.”

“By, like, five minutes,” he protests, pushing the door closed.

“Ten minutes,” she corrects, setting her pad down and leaning back in her chair. “I’m very busy, you know. I don’t have time to sit around waiting for you to mosey down to my office at whatever time is convenient for you.”

“Blame Simmons. He wouldn’t shut the fuck up.”

She eyes him, then stands and pulls a chair out for him to sit in. “How’s that leg of yours today?”

“It’s fine.” He slumps into the chair and drops his crutch on the floor beside him.

Grey catches it before it can hit the floor, and she glares at him. “Dexter Grif, do not drop my crutch on the floor like that, or I will amputate your leg and have you hop around the base until you can convince Sarge to make you a prosthetic.”

From anyone else, that would be an empty threat. From Grey, it’s really hard to tell just how empty the threat is. He raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Geez, I’m sorry.”

“We have a limited supply of this stuff and a lot of people who need it. I can not have it breaking on me.” She props it against the wall and pulls a chair up to sit in front of him. “Can I take a look at your leg?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not even a little bit,” she chirps, leaning down to unwrap the bandages.

He sighs, and she straightens, her nose scrunched. “Have you been drinking?”

“What, am I not allowed to have a beer now?”

“Absolutely not!” she says, grabbing her datapad and jotting something down. “Not with these pain meds you’re on. No more alcohol while you’re on these, understood?”

Grif rolls his eyes. “Nothing bad has happened. It’s fine.”

“Grif.” There’s a sternness in her voice that’s new to him. “No alcohol while you’re on these meds. Under any circumstance.”

She watches him intently, and he shifts uncomfortably, averting his gaze. “Okay, fine. Understood.”

“Thank you,” she says, her voice softening. “And if I find out you are drinking—”

“You’ll kill me or maim me in some horrific way—yeah, I got it.”

“Good.” Grey nods and returns to unwrapping the bandages. “How have you been feeling since the fight?”

“Everything hurts and there isn’t enough food in the cafeteria.”

She breathes a laugh out of her nose. “Of course. And emotionally?”

“What?”

“How are you feeling emotionally?” She glances up at him briefly. “Since Captain Tucker was captured?”

He shrugs. “I’m fine.”

Grey writes something on her datapad. “Are you worried about him?”

“No,” he snorts. “I think he’s having a fucking blast with the AI keeping him hostage.”

“That wasn’t my question,” she says, turning back to his knee. She doesn’t look at him, which Grif is grateful for. “I didn’t ask how you think Tucker is doing. I asked if you’re worried about him.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“Similar, but not the same,” she says, a careful calmness in her voice. “One question is about Tucker, the other is about you. I want to know how you’re doing, not how you think Tucker is doing.”

“Look, I didn’t come here to be psychoanalyzed. I’m fine.” He wonders how many times he’ll have to say that before people start listening. “How’s my leg?”

“It’s definitely a sprain, so it’ll take some time to heal. I want you to keep this bandage on for a couple more days, and take the pain meds as needed. But if you do take them, do not—”

“Drink beer. I know,” he says, waving a dismissive hand.

She gives him a stern look. “Any alcohol. I want you to come back in three days to take another look at it. And Grif,” she says, her eyes softening, “my door is always open if you ever want to talk.”

“Right. Thanks.” He pushes himself up and uses the chair to steady himself as he grabs his crutches. “Can I go now?”

She nods and opens the door for him. “I’ll talk to you later. Oh, and the General wanted me to tell you to go to the war room when you’re finished here.”

Grif knits his eyebrows. “For what?”

“A meeting with the Reds and Blues. Simmons told her you were here. Go on, now. I’ll see you in a couple days.”

***

The Reds and Blues are already in the war room when Grif gets there. Wash, Carolina, and Kimball are huddled at the head of the table, talking quietly. Grif drops into the chair beside Simmons. He’s tapping his fingers on the table, each metallic finger clunking against the plastic. It’s a nervous habit Grif noticed early in their time at Blood Gulch—one he had to put a stop to before he lost his goddamn mind. Luckily, it’s a pretty easy habit to find a distraction for.

Grif pulls out his datapad and types a message to Simmons. Likelihood Carolina eyefucks Kimball during the meeting?

Simmons’ fingers freeze as he reads the message. He glances at Grif and starts typing. Likely. That happens every meeting. What’s the likelihood she shoots at Sarge again?

Unlikely. She looks more worried than pissed. Likelihood we’re going out on a mission?

Unlikely. It’s only been three days, and we still don’t have a lot of information. What’s the likelihood Wash says something melodramatic about saving Tucker?

Likely. He says something melodramatic literally every time he talks.>

They each make a few more guesses before the meeting starts. If it’s interesting enough, they’ll turn their answers into a drinking game. Each wrong guess equals one drink. It gives Simmons a distraction—the fucking nerd he is—and Grif an excuse to get drunk, which apparently he isn't allowed to do anymore.

Kimball stands from her seat. “We think Tucker has left the ship.”

“You think?” Grif asks. “What does that mean?”

“Epsilon must’ve removed the firewall from the surveillance system before the fight. We were able to hack into it, and we weren’t able to find him on the cameras. There also aren’t any heat signatures detected that could be him,” Carolina explains.

“You probably can’t find any heat because Church put out the walls of fire.”

Ignoring Caboose, Carolina continues, “We can’t know for sure, but it’s very likely he’s on the move, and we need to figure out where he’s heading.”

Simmons clears his throat. “Isn’t there more than one reason his heat signature wouldn’t register?” He says it slowly, the way he always does when he knows someone is purposefully avoiding something.

“Maybe he accidentally turned on the cooling unit in his suit. I do that sometimes. It is very chilly.”

“That’s not really how heat signatures work, Caboose.”

Kimball eyes Simmons carefully. “Yes, that is a possibility, but we have nothing to make us think that is the case. We will continue to handle this as if he has left until we find something that tells us otherwise.

“If he’s not on the ship, where is he?” Donut asks.

“We don’t know. But with the ship likely empty, it should be safe enough to send a recon team. I wanted to offer it to you all first,” Kimball says.

“Wash and I are going—” Carolina starts.

“Shocker,” Grif mumbles.

“—and we’re leaving in two days. You can come if you’re cleared by Grey.”

“Are you cleared by Grey?” Donut asks, looking between Wash and Carolina.

“We’re fine,” they say simultaneously.

Grif snorts. “Freelancers.”

“That’s all for now unless there are any questions,” Kimball says. “We’ll meet again in the next two days to discuss logistics. In the meantime, make your appointments with Grey and continue to get your rest.”

***

After the meeting, Grif and Simmons reconvene in Simmons’ room. Grif kicks his shoes off and flops onto the bed, lying on his back.

“You were wrong on Kimball and Carolina eye-fucking. And about going on a mission. You owe me two drinks,” Grif says.

Simmons grabs Grif’s shoes from the middle of the floor and lines them up beside the door. “They totally eye-fucked. You just weren’t paying attention.”

“You’re a terrible liar. And a cheater.”

“Shut up.”

Grif watches as Simmons paces around his room, readjusting the papers on his desk and the armor hanging in the corner. He’ll be like this for the next two days. “What did you mean about the heat signature thing?”

He shrugs. “Well, heat signatures only show up when there’s heat to detect. Sure, the fact they didn’t detect anything could mean he’s left the ship, but it could also mean he’s…you know…dead.”

“Dead?” Grif asks, sitting up. “What’s the likelihood of that?”

Grif knows he isn’t going to like Simmons’ answer when he keeps his back turned. “Well, in this circumstance, I’d say pretty likely. I doubt Sigma would think or even care about giving Tucker a break or finding anything to treat his injuries. A human body can only withstand so much. Plus, I can’t imagine it’s healthy to have that many AI in your head at one time.”

“The Meta did it.”

“Yeah, but we all saw what he was like. Tucker wouldn’t be himself anymore. And the Meta was exposed to it over time. Tucker was thrown headfirst into it.”

The pit in his stomach opens again. He can’t decide what’s worse: Tucker being dead or Tucker being the Meta. “And Church is definitely gone, right?”

“There’s no way he could survive deconstructing himself like that.”

Grif falls back against the bed with a sigh. Everyone is already a wreck. Carolina doesn’t know how to exist without an AI in her head anymore, and the only thing Caboose can talk about is when Church will come from the dead this time. Caboose will already be inconsolable when he finds out Church is gone, but if Tucker is gone, too? And Grif doesn’t even wanna think about what will happen to Wash.

“You’re worried about Tucker,” Simmons says simply.

He snorts. “Yeah, worried I’ll lose my drinking buddy. If Tucker’s gone, who’s gonna get drunk off of shitty beer with me? I mean, you can’t handle your alcohol for shit.”

Simmons turns around to face him now. “I can handle my alcohol fine!”

“Right. So you’re not the one who falls asleep after one beer?”

“Why are you pretending like you don’t care about this?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“What are you talking about?”

“About Tucker. I know you’re worried about him, but you keep pretending like it’s typical Blue team problems.”

“Yeah, because it is.”

“I just told you your friend might be dead and you’re pretending like it’s not a big deal.”

Grif runs his hands down his face. How many times is he gonna have to have this conversation? “Blue team dies all the time.”

“No, Church dies all the time. Tucker doesn’t,” Simmons says, standing at the side of the bed now. “You’ve been acting weird for the past three days. Just admit it’s because you’re worried about Tucker.”

Grif’s datapad chimes with a message. It’s from Bitters, his knight in shining armor. Got more stock from Palomo. It’s the good shit.

He pushes himself off the bed and grabs his crutch. “Gotta go. Bitters needs me.”

“For what?”

“Nunya.” He slides his shoes back on. “Catch ya later.”

Simmons throws his arms in the air and gives Grif an exasperated look. “We’re not done with this.”

Grif glances over his shoulder as he walks out the door. “Looks like we’re pretty done to me.”

The last thing Grif hears is, “You’re impossible!” before he pulls the door closed.

***

Chorus. That’s where her brother is. That’s where her team is.

As soon as Kai saw the story on the news, she started throwing the essentials into a duffle bag—clothes, tooth brush, vibrator. She holds a pack of condoms in her hand, deliberating over whether to bring them. She decides she can find some there if she needs them and throws them onto the bed.

“Oh, who am I kidding? Tucker will be there,” she mumbles to herself, grabbing them off the bed and tossing them into her bag. They don’t take up much room, and she wonders if she should just bring one of the boxes she has. No, that’s probably overkill. Tucker can supply some if they run out. She knows that jackoff has some.

When she hears the rumble of a ship's engine outside, she zips up the bag and throws it over her shoulder. After one last glance around her small house, she runs outside and locks the door behind her.

“Ship to Armonia?” the pilot asks as she climbs in.

“Yep!”

He turns in his seat to face her. “You saw the news about that place, right? They’re just finishing up a civil war over there. It’s probably not the safest place.”

“I know. My brother was one of the people who helped to end it,” she says proudly.

“Huh. Well, damn.” He turns to face forward again. “Buckle in. It’ll be about a two day trip. Twenty hours in the air, an eight hour layover, then back up for another twenty.”

As they rise into the air, she watches her music festival venue grow smaller and smaller. “I’ll be back soon, baby,” she whispers. “I just gotta do this real quick.”

Chapter Text

When they reach the Staff of Charon, Wash can do little else but stare at the entrance. The likelihood that Tucker is in there, dead or alive, is low. They would’ve detected a heat signature or seen him on the cameras. At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself to stifle the mental images of Tucker lying motionless in Maine’s armor.

He startles when a hand rests on his shoulder. Carolina gives him an apologetic nod and drops her hand. “You sure you’ll be alright?”

Memories of Maine flash in his mind. First from when he was alive—the blank, unseeing expression on his face. Then from after he’d been dropped off a cliff—his skin pale, his eyes sunken in from exhaustion, his teeth rotting from lack of care.

He blinks away the memories. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I think we’d have the same answer.”

“You two gonna spend all day standin’ around and admirin’ the view?” Sarge shouts, standing at the entrance with the others. “Or are we gonna get this show on the road?”

“Oh, Sarge, stop it!” Donut says, waving a hand in his direction. “This is, like, a dramatic moment for them.”

“Yeah, and we all know how much Freelancers love their dramatic moments,” Grif grumbles.

Wash and Carolina give each other a quick nod before joining them at the door. Grey cleared everyone except for Caboose—she didn’t want to risk him reopening the stab wound on his stomach—and Doc stayed to help with the overload of patients in the infirmary.

“We’re all clear on the plan?” Carolina asks. “Grif and Simmons will take the left wing, Wash and Donut will take the right, and Sarge and I will take the center. Keep your comms on and radio the others if you see anything suspicious.”

“It’s recon. We all know the plan,” Grif mumbles. “Are we gonna do this thing or not?”

Carolina glares at him. “This is not a typical recon mission, and you know that.”

“Okay!” Wash cuts in before Grif can say something to escalate the tension. The last thing they need right now is an argument. “Armonia, do you copy?”

“Loud and clear,” Kimball says through the comms. “Carolina, you’ll be reporting to me, Wash to Jensen, and Simmons to Palomo. We should have eyes on you as soon as you’re inside.”

“10-4,” Wash says. It’s not typical for each team to have their own contact on recon, but Kimball insisted on it in case there was an emergency. And it was the only way to keep the lieutenants from sneaking onto the pelican to join the mission.

“Everyone wave to the camera when you get in there!” Palomo says.

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Wash says. “Alright, switching over to team channels now. Good luck.”

They enter the ship, and Wash and Donut peel off to the right. The floors are littered with bodies, and panic jolts through Wash every time he catches a glimpse of white armor. He has to remind himself that Maine’s armor is distinct—he would recognize it immediately if he saw it.

What if your memory is too messed up?

He pushes the thought away. That wouldn’t happen. How could he forget Maine’s armor? He has to resist the urge to pull the helmet off of the next space pirate in bulky white armor to make sure it isn’t Tucker.

Wash tries to shake himself out of it. Focus. “Jensen, do you copy?”

“Yes, sir. I've got eyes on you, too. Just watch for blind spots.”

His skin crawls with every step further down the hallways. It should ease his nerves to know he has his own set of eyes following him from Armonia, but it’s making it more difficult to discern if the feeling of being watched is just his paranoia.

“It’s weird to be back here.”

Wash glances over his shoulder to see Donut staring down at one of the bodies. The Reds and Blues were trapped on this ship only a few days ago. They didn’t know if they’d make it out alive. Wash has been so concerned about Tucker and Epsilon that he forgot to check in on Donut. “I don’t doubt it. How much of the ship did you see?”

“Not much, but we came down this hallway. I think I actually killed this guy.”

He turns to face Donut now. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“I know. It was my life or his. I just…” Donut trails off, shaking his head. He doesn’t need to finish for Wash to know what he’s thinking—I just wonder why I’m the one that got to live. Donut tears his eyes away from the body and continues walking. “I’m glad Doc stayed back.”

“You guys are pretty close, huh?” Wash asks. Best to change the subject, keep both of their minds off the fact they’re making their way through an obstacle course of bodies. He glances into one of the rooms to find what appears to be someone’s bunk.

Donut laughs. “That’s one way to put it. We only built a life together back in Valhalla.”

“Do you think you’ll go back after all this?”

“I don’t think so.” Donut glances down a hallway before turning the corner. “Doc really likes it here. He’s really learned a lot from working with Grey.”

“And you like it here?” Wash asks, checking the map before following him into the hall.

“It’s a beautiful planet. I wouldn’t mind sticking around to see what it looks like when it isn’t in the middle of a civil war.”

“It’s a great place to live,” Jensen chimes in. “You should definitely stick around.”

“Have you and Tucker talked about what you’ll do after this?”

Wash blinks. “Why would I think about it with Tucker?”

Donut looks over his shoulder at him. “Oh, are you guys not—I’m sorry, Wash, I thought you guys had told everyone.”

“Told everyone what?”

He hesitates, then turns around and continues down the hall. “Forget I said anything. Doc keeps telling me to stop sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“No, wait, what are you talking about?” Wash asks, rushing after him. “Is there something I should know?”

“It’s not my business.” There’s an unmistakable smile in his voice. “I just thought we’d moved past this already.”

“Past what?”

Donut only whistles in response and continues walking down the hallway.

"Donut,” Wash huffs. When it becomes clear that he isn’t going to answer, Wash turns to his radio. “Jensen, do you know what he’s talking about?”

She giggles. “No, sir.”

Wash lets out an exasperated sigh. “What are you not telling me? If this is about Tucker, it could be important right now.”

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s not,” Donut says, waving a dismissive hand.

“It’s not about Tucker or it’s not important?”

Donut pushes open a door and glances into a room off the hallway.

“Donut.”

“It isn’t my business, Wash!” he says, closing the door again. “You’ll have to wait until Tucker gets back.”

Wash wants to ask what happens if they don’t get Tucker back—if this really is like Maine. But he doesn’t ask that. Hypotheticals are generally bad for morale.

They make it three-quarters of the way through their search without finding anything. After searching another useless storage closet, Wash has to resist the urge to send his fist through a wall. He hopes the others have had more luck. There has to be something here that will help them find Tucker. There has to be.

“Hey, Wash, over here,” Donut says, staring down an adjoining hallway.

Wash steps over a motionless pirate to join him. At the end of the hallway is a door broken off its hinges. From where they’re standing, he can see a desk in the middle of the room—someone’s office, maybe? “I’m guessing you guys didn’t do that.”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then what did?” Wash wonders aloud. “Jensen, you don’t happen to have eyes on the room in this hallway, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Of course not,” he sighs.

Wash unholsters his rifle and inches down the hallway. As he approaches, the office appears clear, but he keeps his rifle up. People generally don’t pull doors off their hinges for no reason.

It isn’t until he takes a couple steps inside that he sees the body lying behind the desk. Wash recognizes him immediately—despite the bruises and the blood and the deep, cauterized gash stretching the length of his abdomen, Wash recognizes him. And it sends his stomach reeling.

A soft gasp punches out of Donut as he appears beside Wash. “Oh god. Do you think—Could it have been the pirates? Or Locus?”

“No.” The room sways, and he grasps the edge of the desk to steady himself. “It was Sigma.”

“Wash, report in. What are you seeing?”

He ignores Jensen and switches channels. “The Counselor was here.”

Carolina’s voice comes through immediately. “What? I thought he was dead.”

“He is now.”

She pulls in a deep breath. “Okay, send me your coordinates. We’re almost done here. I’ll come to you.”

Wash switches back to the team channel to hear Donut filling Jensen in. He leaves Donut to handle it and slowly walks around the desk to get a better view. The rest of the room melts away, leaving only the Counselor’s mutilated corpse in front of him. He kneels beside the body to examine the wound in his abdomen—to confirm it could only have been made by a plasma sword. There are only two people on this planet with a sword like that, and Wash highly doubts Locus stayed around long enough to do this.

Wash averts his gaze, only for his eye to catch something small and pink on the floor. He was so focused on the sword wound that he didn’t fully comprehend the dried blood around his mouth. There’s too much for it to be consistent with internal bleeding. He looks back at the pink lump, and his stomach twists. Sigma wouldn’t, would he? Slowly, he reaches for the Counselor’s jaw and opens his mouth.

Wash jerks his hand away and jumps to his feet. “Jesus.”

“What is it?” Donut asks.

“Sigma cut out his tongue.”

“Oh,” Donut breathes. “That’s just…Why would he do that?”

“Revenge, probably,” Wash says, unable to look away. “He was the Counselor from Freelancer, worked closely with the Director.”

Donut glances at the body again. “Something tells me he wasn't very good at his job.”

Wash’s tongue tingles at the thought of what Sigma did, and he bites down on it to stop the feeling. How long did it take for the Counselor to die? How long did Sigma toy with him before ending it? Was Tucker conscious during it? How much of it did he see? How much of it did he feel?

“Wash? Are you okay?” Donut asks, circling around the desk to join him.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” His mouth tastes of iron. He didn’t realize how hard he’d bitten his tongue.

Tearing his eyes away from the Counselor, he moves to the desk. There are only a couple of papers scattered across it—most of them about Sharkface. Opening a drawer, he finds more notes inside. “Agent Carolina” and “Epsilon AI” catch his attention, and he scans over the page.

It has been nearly a decade since the Epsilon AI was harvested from the Alpha. As a fragment, it likely struggles to maintain the same optimal functionality as a full AI. It does not have the parts required to regulate itself, and it is unlikely it would be capable of sustaining increased pressure. After his last encounter with Agent Carolina, Sharkface reports the AI was incapable of running multiple pieces of equipment at the same time. The AI gives the Army of Chorus an unfavorable advantage, one that we may be able to eliminate by capitalizing on Agent Carolina’s competitive nature. The more her pride is threatened, the more she will rely on the Epsilon AI, and the weaker it will become.

Anger flares to life under Wash’s skin. After all these years, Freelancer was still toying with them.

Carolina and Sarge bound into the office, and Wash closes the drawer. They’ll deal with that later. “Wash, are you—” She flinches when she sees the Counselor’s body, but she quickly steels herself. “Sigma did that?”

“He was killed by a plasma sword. We can probably rule out Locus, so yes. Sigma.”

“That sucker must hold one hell of a grudge,” Sarge says.

“Sigma can use the plasma sword,” she says, her voice even and contemplative. She doesn't sound at all like she's staring at the mutilated corpse of their psuedo-therapist.

Wash hadn’t considered that the sword could be linked to a person’s consciousness rather than their body. There was the possibility that Sigma wouldn’t be able to use it without Tucker doing it for him.

Unless Sigma killed him.

No. Tucker is not dead.

Simmons' voice on the radio saves him from going too far down that path. “Hey, guys? I think we found something in the engine room. You might wanna make your way over here when you get the chance.”

“What is it?” Carolina asks.

“Don't be mad, but we kinda forgot to mention that we found Sheila when we were here, and it looks like she’s still up and running.”

Donut clasps his hands over his chest. “Oh, Sheila! I can’t believe we forgot about her!”

“Sheila?” Carolina asks. “Who is Sheila?”

Wash remembers that name from when they broke into Freelancer Command. “You mean FILSS?”

“Yeah, sure, FILSS. Whatever you want to call her, she’s here.”

“FILSS is dead,” Carolina says definitively. “She can’t be here.”

“Well, you can come tell her that yourself.”

Carolina turns and marches out of the office. Sarge, Donut, and Wash share a look before following her through the hallways. Wash doesn’t remember hearing that FILSS had died, and there’s a pang of guilt when he realizes he hasn’t really thought of her since the Mother of Invention crashed.

“Wash, who is FILSS?” Kimball asks.

He looks to see that she’s talking to him on a channel between just the two of them. “Can I ask why we’re on a private channel, General?”

“Because I’m worried about Carolina.”

Wash hesitates. Carolina will kill Kimball if she admitted that in front of the lieutenants. “Are Jensen and Palomo still there?”

“No. I sent them into the hallway,” she says. “Now, who is FILSS?”

“She was an AI in Freelancer that helped with security and training. I think she did some stuff with the sim troopers, too.”

“A Freelancer AI?”

“Not one of the fragments,” Wash clarifies. “Just a normal AI. Hargrove must’ve gotten it with all the other Freelancer equipment.”

When they make it to the engine room, Simmons is hunched over a computer. Grif has made himself comfortable in an office chair, head resting in his hand. With his helmet on, there’s a good chance he’s fallen asleep.

“FILSS?” Carolina calls, looking around the room. “Are you there?”

“Hello to you, too,” Simmons mutters without looking up from the computer.

FILSS’s familiar chipper voice filters through the computer speakers. “Welcome back, Agent Carolina. How can I help you today?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I am here to assist the Director with the daily operations of Project Freelancer,” she says, confused. “Are you feeling okay, Agent? I can schedule you an appointment with the Counselor if you wish.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna be happening anytime soon,” Sarge says.

“Does she think she’s still in Freelancer?” Wash asks, joining Simmons at the computer.

“She goes back and forth. It looks like Hagrove tried to reprogram her but didn’t know what he was doing. I’m trying to get access to the hard drive so we can get old security footage—” Simmons’ hands freeze on the keyboard, and he stares at the screen. “Uh, Sheila? Have there been any recent file uploads?”

“The most recent file upload was from the Director six days ago.”

“The Director?” Wash asks, turning to Carolina.

“What does she mean?” Carolina asks, an edge of panic in her even voice. “FILSS, what do you mean?”

“He was here just a couple of days ago. Oh, it looks like this file is addressed to you, Agent Carolina, along with the Reds and Blues. Would you like me to play it?”

“I think she’s talking about Church,” Simmons explains. “She thought he was the Director when we were trying to shut down the Mantises.”

“Epsilon uploaded something addressed to us?” Carolina asks, her voice softening slightly.

Simmons hesitates, glancing up at Carolina. “It looks like an audio file.”

“I don’t remember him recording anything,” Donut says.

“I think we should bring this back to Kimball,” Simmons says, his fingers flying across the keyboard again.

“No, I want to hear it,” Carolina says, stepping closer to him. “Play it.”

"Simmons is right. Bring it back to Armonia, and you can listen to it here," Kimball says.

“General, it could have useful information.”

“If it does, there is nothing you can do with that information right now. This mission is for collecting information and bringing it back here to analyze.” There’s a warning in her voice now. “Bring it back here to listen to it.”

Carolina doesn’t say anything, and no one moves. There’s a tense moment where Wash thinks she might actually disobey Kimball’s command. Finally, she makes a low, frustrated sound and says, “Pack it up, Simmons. Let’s get out of here.”

***

When they get back to Armonia, Simmons sets to work setting up Sheila. It takes more time than they anticipated—apparently moving her around set off a security protocol that shut everything down. Wash and Carolina held Simmons hostage for as long as Kimball allowed them to, but they eventually released him for a break. Now, Grif is stuck in Simmons’ room listening to him bitch about not being nerdy enough to crack this.

“I just don’t know what I’m doing,” he complains. “Give me any other kind of computer that isn’t smart enough to talk to me and I’ve got it handled. Why is it this that’s tripping me up?’

"Maybe it's because Sheila s a girl," Grif suggests. "Maybe you're just scared to talk to her."

“This isn’t funny,” Simmons says, glaring at him. “This could be the key to figuring out where Tucker is.”

Grif props himself up on his elbows. “You really think it could be?”

“Who knows what the old security footage has. Not to mention the messages from Church.”

Grif drops back down with a sigh. “As if that asshole didn’t talk enough when he was alive, now he’s leaving more bullshit for us to listen to.”

“Don’t pretend like you aren’t a little curious about what it says.”

He is. He’s very curious. If it could get them closer to finding Tucker and being done with this bullshit, count him in. But he can’t admit defeat in front of Simmons, so he just shrugs. “Shouldn’t you be getting back soon?”

Simmons checks the time and sighs. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll see you at dinner,” he says, heading for the door.

“As long as they let you out long enough to eat.”

“It’ll be a miracle if they do.”

Simmons closes the door, leaving Grif alone to enjoy some peace and quiet. He makes himself comfortable and lets his eyes drift close. He could use a nap after that recon mission and before all Hell breaks loose.

Sleep doesn’t come as easily as it usually does. He turns to his other side and hits the pillows a couple times, then tries again.

Still nothing. After a couple minutes, he groans and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Maybe he should go sit in the war room with them, just in case they find anything.

His datapad dings with a notification, and he checks it to see a message from Kimball.

<Report to my office immediately.>

Be careful what you wish for. Grif huffs and pushes himself to his feet. He makes his way to Kimball’s office and is surprised to find Wash standing outside her door.

“Shouldn’t you be threatening Simmons?”

“Kimball needed my help with this,” he says, giving Grif a worried look. “I wanted to give you a heads up.”

“A heads up?” Grif asks.

He averts his eyes, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “We’re not sure how she got here or what happened, but your sister is in there.”

Grif takes a step back as if he’d been hit. “Don’t fuck with me, Wash. Just because you’re going through some shit doesn’t mean you can start being an asshole.”

“I’m not fucking with you,” he says. “She’s in there.”

He watches Wash, waiting for his resolve to crack. It doesn’t, and the realization starts to sink in. “She’s here? Alive?”

“Yes.”

Grif pushes past Wash and into Kimball’s office. He stops short when he sees his little sister sitting across from Kimball. It’s actually her. Kai is actually here. Grif isn’t sure if he’s going to pass out or throw up.

“Dex!” She stands, grinning at him. “Miss me?”

He slams the door closed. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugs. “I saw you on the news and figured I should swing by. It’s been awhile.”

“Lopez said you were dead.”

“Yeah, the doctors said the same thing when my car was hit by a train. If that didn’t take me out, a junky robot definitely isn’t going to.”

There’s a moment where all he can do is stand and stare at her. This has to be a dream. Or a nightmare. Or maybe she’s a ghost. How can she be here?

Grif decides he doesn’t actually care and pulls his sister into a tight hug. She laughs and hugs him back. “I missed you, too.”

“So she wasn’t lying?” Kimball asks, standing. Grif had forgotten she was even here. “This is your sister?”

“Unfortunately,” he says, pulling away from her.

She punches his arm. “Shut up.”

“And she was a member of Blue Team?”

“I certainly had a member of—”

Grif glares at her. “Don’t say that.”

“Speaking of,” Kai says, “where’s Tucker? We have some catching up to do.”

Kimball and Grif share an uncomfortable look. “He isn’t here right now,” he says, taking the chair she had been sitting in.

“Why do I feel like there’s a story coming?” She hits his arm. “Get out of my chair.”

“Move your feet, lose your seat.”

She rolls her eyes. “I hate you.”

Kai pulls up another chair as he explains the Tucker situation to her. He hates to see the way her face falls. He knows they were pretty close back in Blood Gulch, although he tried to avoid the specifics as much as he could.

“So you don’t know if Tucker is still alive?” she asks.

Grif waves a dismissive hand. “Tucker’s alive. We just have to find him.”

“Have you tried rattling a box of condoms?”

“Like he’s a cat?”

“Usually worked for me,” she says, shrugging. “I might actually be able to help with Sheila. We stole a similar security AI for the music festival, and I had to learn how to hack into it to get it up and running.”

Grif raises a suspicious eyebrow. “You think you can hack into a Freelancer security system?”

“I think I can try.”

Knowing his sister, she might actually be able to do it. He turns to Kimball, and she gives Kai an appraising look. “There could be sensitive information on there. How do I know that we can trust you?”

“Because I trust her,” Grif says defensively.

“With all due respect, Grif, you’re not exactly a reliable source.”

“Excuse me?”

“She probably has a point,” Kai says, putting a yellow manicured hand on his arm. She looks to Kimball with a determined expression. “I know we just met, but I’ve known these bozos for years. If I had known they were here and fighting a war, I would’ve been here. Tucker is a very close friend—if you know what I mean—and if I can help get him back, I am going to. Simmons isn’t getting anywhere with this thing, so it looks like I might be your only other option. Do you really wanna live knowing that you could’ve gotten Tucker back sooner but didn’t because you didn’t trust me?”

Grif gives her an impressed look. When did she get so good at this?

Kimball eyes her, considering. Kai adds, “Ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking for. You can have the cop stand over my shoulder if you want to.”

“The cop?” Kimball asks.

“Wash,” Kai clarifies.

Kimball considers for another moment, then sighs. “Fine. In all honesty, we could use the help.”

Kai stands, grinning at her. “What are we waiting for then?”

They walk out of the office, and Kimball nods for Wash to follow. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not answering any more of your questions without my lawyer, cop.”

“Still not a cop,” he mutters.

“Kai thinks she can get into FILSS,” Kimball says, leading the way to the war room.

“Really?” he asks, raising a suspicious eyebrow at Grif.

“Don’t look at me. I’m not responsible for what she does.”

In the war room, they find Simmons hunched over the computer with Carolina hovering behind him. Simmons looks up, eyes wide when he sees Kai. “Sister?”

“I’m nobody’s sister but Dex’s,” she scoffs. “It’s just Kai now.”

“I told you she wasn’t dead,” Grif says, smiling at him. “You owe me.”

“Kai? Your sister?” Carolina asks, looking to Grif. Everyone who’s spent any time with Grif has heard about Kai. She taught him most of what he knows, he makes sure people know that.

“Aw, you talk about me?”

“No, I complain about you.”

“Simmons, Kai is going to try something with FILSS. She’s worked on security AI before, so she’s going to see if she can get it up and running,” KImball explains.

“Wait, we don’t even know her,” Carolina says, giving Kimball an incredulous look.

“Speak for yourself,” Grif snaps.

“We can’t risk anything happening to these files.”

“Nothing is going to happen to your precious files,” Kai assures. “Trust me, I know my way around technology after running a music festival.”

“Simmons has been working on this for hours now,” Kimball says. “I’m giving Kai ten minutes with it.”

Carolina’s jaw tightens, but she takes a step back.

“Move over, nerd. The professional is here,” Kai says, taking his spot at the computer. She cracks her knuckles and gets to work.

“Professional?” Simmons huffs. “Since when?”

“Since your mom.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I fucked your robot mom.”

A deep blush blossoms over Simmons face. God, Grif missed his sister.

Seven of her ten minutes pass when she looks up with a shiteating grin. “Sheila? What’s up, girl?”

“Welcome to the Freelancer Integrated Logistics and Security System. How can I help you today?”

Pride swells in Grif’s chest. He raises a cocky eyebrow at Carolina. “See?”

She responds by glaring at him before turning to Wash. “Message the others. Tell them we’re listening to Epsilon’s message in five.”

“You got it, boss.”

Chapter Text

Carolina paces the length of the war room while she waits for Sarge, Donut, Doc, and Caboose to file into the room. She can’t believe how long it takes them to get there, and she makes a note that she’ll have to work on their reaction times. When they do get there, she has to bite her tongue from snapping at them because they each decide to take their precious time expressing their surprise and excitement at seeing Grif’s sister again. She positions herself at the end of the table, tapping her foot impatiently, until they finally settle into their usual seats.

“We were able to access the message Epsilon left on the ship,” Carolina says, standing beside where Kai is sitting behind the computer.

Kai scoffs. “We?”

“Kai was able to access the message—”

“Yeah, after I got halfway through Sheila’s firewalls,” Simmons mutters.

Grif rolls his eyes. “No one likes a blowhard, Simmons.”

“Speak for yourself,” Kai says, smirking.

Carolina clears her throat and glares at three of them, her patience quickly waning. “Since we’re all here, I wanted to give everyone a chance to listen to it together.”

The only responses are a couple of quick nods, and Carolina gives Kai the go-ahead. This isn’t the first message she’s found from a teammate who was MIA. Some of them were goodbyes, some were last requests, and some were cries for help. Carolina holds her breath as she waits to find out which category Epsilon’s will fall in.

“Hey, guys. If you're hearing this then it means you did it.”

A weight settles into her chest at the sound of Epsilon’s voice, and it’s nearly unbearable. She stares down at the computer, watching the progress bar crawl slowly across the screen.

“You won. You kicked the shit out of Hargrove's forces. I knew you could. But this is my last stop.”

The weight in her chest hits her stomach like a rock, and her eyes snap up to the others. She isn’t sure what she’s looking for, but she finds Wash first. She isn’t surprised to find his expression guarded, though it falters slightly when their eyes lock. What flickers across his face isn’t pity or concern or even grief, but understanding. In the early days of Freelancer, Carolina remembers receiving a goodbye message from Nebraska after she went missing on a mission. She and Wash had listened to it together, watching each other’s faces carefully. Carolina does that now, too. There’s a familiar comfort there, staring into those gray eyes—the only other eyes that have seen the same bullshit she has.

“But the hero never gets to see that ending. They'll never know if their sacrifice actually made a difference. They'll never know if the day was really saved. In the end, they just have to have faith. Ain’t that a bitch?”

The room is silent, the only sound coming from Doc handing Donut a handkerchief. A wave of grief crashes through Carolina so violently it knocks her off her feet. She drops into a chair and stares forward, trying to process Epsilon’s words through the fog clouding her mind.

That weight is back in her chest, ten times heavier than it was before. She searches desperately for something to alleviate it, or at least distract herself from it. Keep moving, she tells herself numbly. What’s the next step?

“Did, uh—” She clears her throat when her voice waivers. “Did he say there were other messages?”

Kai squints at the computer. “Yeah, it looks like he left individual messages for all of you. I’ll send them out now.”

Another wave of grief crashes through her, and all she can do is nod.

“I know this isn’t what you all were hoping for,” Kimball says somberly after another beat of silence. “I’m really sorry.”

“That little sucker sure knows how to make an exit. I guess that’s Blue Team for you, always with their dramatics,” Sarge chuckles, though Carolina thinks she catches a slight waiver in his voice.

Caboose stands abruptly, ignoring the sound of protest from Doc. “I have to go,” he mutters, starting towards the door.

“Caboose, wait,” Wash says, standing to follow him.

Doc puts a hand on Wash’s shoulder. “I’ve got him. Grey will want him back in the infirmary.”

Wash bites his lip, but he nods and sits back down. Doc follows Caboose into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

“So, what now?” Simmons asks, looking around the room.

“That’s up to you guys,” Kimball says. “Ryles is planning a memorial service for those lost in the last battle. I can ask him to add Epsilon to his list if that’s something you’d be interested in.”

Carolina can’t stop a tear from rolling down her cheek at that. She wipes it away, but it’s quickly replaced by more. She looks down at the table to hide her face from the Reds and Blues. Pull yourself together.

She takes a deep breath and pushes the pain in her chest aside. She can’t seem to stop the tears from streaming down her face, so she opts for ignoring them. “We should wait on the memorial service.”

There’s a beat of confused silence before Donut says, “He deserves to be added to it.”

“I know, but we still don’t know that he’s actually gone.”

Wash looks at her, and she hates the pity she finds in his expression this time. “Carolina—”

“The suit may have used less power than he thought.” The room falls quiet, and her skin crawls from the way everyone stares at her. She sets her jaw, squares her shoulders, and pushes forward. “He could still be in there.”

Simmons shakes his head. “He couldn’t have survived that,” he says quietly. “The way the fragments are controlling the suit…They wouldn’t have that much power over it if he was still alive.”

An idea strikes her, and she straightens. “If the fragments are still in there, could we put them back together? Could we reconstruct them into Epsilon?”

“Carolina, Sigma already tried that,” Wash says carefully, the pity in his expression replaced by alarm.

She opens and closes her mouth but can find nothing to say to that. She averts her eyes, and she thinks she finally understands why Sigma did what he did.

“This is bullshit,” Grif growls. Carolina looks up to snap back at him, but she falters when she sees an unfamiliar anger in his expression. “I mean, seriously. That egotistical bastard called himself a hero—”

“Hold your tongue, son,” Sarge interrupts. “He may have been a Blue, but I gotta give him credit for getting us out of that mess.”

“He didn’t get us out of that mess! Tucker is still in there!”

“More of you made it out than what we expected,” KImball reminds him calmly. “We can get Tucker back, but there would be no bringing any of you back if you had died on that ship.”

“And there’s that bullshit again,” Grif snaps, waving at Kimball. “No one expects us to be able to do anything, which is fine, that’s how I would prefer it, but you fucking Freelancers apparently have nothing better to do than try to get yourselves killed, and now Tucker is—I don’t know, maybe dead because of it. Now, we have Mr. and Mrs. Self-Sacrifice who want to do the same goddamn thing. This could have been over, but Church wanted so badly to be a fucking martyr.”

“You could have died,” Kimball says, her tone clipped.

“At least I would get to lie down.” He shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet. “Fuck this.”

“Dex!” Kai calls after him, and she and Simmons follow him out of the war room without another word.

Carolina stares, stunned, at the door. She’s never seen Grif that angry before.

Kimball sighs and stands. “I want you all to take the rest of the day off.”

“What about the security footage?” Wash asks incredulously. “Now that we know for sure that Epsilon isn’t…there, it’s even more imperative that we find Tucker as soon as possible. We have no clue what the AI could be—”

Kimball puts up a hand to stop him. “Any work you do today isn’t going to be productive. I understand you’re worried about Tucker, but working yourself to death isn’t going to help anyone.” She gathers a stack of papers and starts for the door. “Go eat dinner and get some rest. We’ll come back to this first thing in the morning.”

“General, we’ve already lost so much time,” Wash protests, following her into the hallway.

Carolina doesn’t follow Wash. Guilt twists in her stomach when she realizes she doesn’t have the energy to care about Tucker right now, not with the unopened message from Epsilon sitting in her inbox. Without another word, she snaps her helmet on and walks out of the war room. She doesn’t go back to her room to listen to it, but rather makes her way to the back of the base where one of the roof accesses is located.

She climbs up the ladder to find the roof warm from the evening sun. She glances around to make sure she’s alone, then sits on the edge, her feet dangling over the ground hundreds of feet below her. She’s always liked it up here. It’s one of the highest spots in the city, and she can see so much of Armonia. She wouldn’t say it’s a beautiful sight—the consequences of the war are clear, even from this height, but she finds comfort in being so far above it all.

Epsilon hated when she would come up here. He was always afraid Charon would see them.

Carolina sighs and plays the message he left for her.

“Hey, C. I, uh…” He laughs nervously, and Carolina can imagine his hand moving to rub his shoulder the way he always did when he wasn’t sure what to say. “I guess you’re probably pretty pissed at me, huh? I don’t blame you. I’d be mad too if you pulled this shit on me. But I hope you can at least understand why I had to do this. You guys—the Reds and Blues, the Army of Chorus, Wash, you…You’ve all been through so much. This was the last chance to end all of it, and they were so fucking close. I couldn’t let it all go to shit at the last minute.

“You deserve for all of this to be over. You deserve to get away from this military bullshit and settle down with someone, especially now that you’re getting up there in age. Those joints won’t be able to keep up with this forever, you know.” It’s not the first time he’s teased her about her age, but there’s a sadness in his tone that was never there before.

Epsilon breathes out, then goes silent. He’s quiet for long enough that Carolina checks to make sure the recording didn’t end. Finally, he groans, then continues, “Ugh, no one said it was gonna be so hard to record this stupid message. Listen, I know we don’t really do this sappy bullshit, but what I really wanted to say, because I don’t know if I’ve ever actually said it, is that I, uh…I love you. Or whatever. I know it was really weird in the beginning because we didn’t really know what we were to each other, but, god, it seems so obvious now. You’re my sister. And I didn’t want to leave without saying that.” He sniffles then clears his throat. “So, yeah. Anyway. I guess I’ve gotta get this show on the road. Try not to be too mad at the guys, okay? They didn’t know any of this would happen. And, uh, do me a favor and check on Caboose, will you? I’ll, uh…I’ll see you on the other side, I guess.”

The message ends, and Carolina pulls off her helmet. She slams it down beside her, resisting the urge to hurl it over the edge, and buries her face in her hands. Tears stream between her fingers as her breathing becomes short and shallow. There’s a pain that settles deep inside of her, and it feels like it might eat her alive.

She’s suddenly reminded of the day she found out North and South were dead. She’s reminded of the day she found out Maine was dead. She’s reminded of the day she found out York was dead, of the messages Epsilon found from him.

Carolina isn’t a stranger to grief. It’s followed her like a wild animal since she was eight years old—since the men in uniform knocked on her door with her mother’s tags in their hands. She’s felt its teeth gnashing at her ankles more times than she can remember, but she has always been able to force it back into its cage. So why isn’t she able to control it now? Why can’t she stop it when it lunges at her, pins her to the roof, and plunges its teeth into her chest?

“No one asked you to be a hero,” she growls, tipping her face to the sky. “No one wanted you to be one.”

Embarrassment floods through her, and she dips her head back down. It’s not like he can hear her, not that he would care even if he could.

Carolina stays there until she can no longer feel the teeth in her chest, whether it's because the animal has actually retreated or because her body has numbed to the pain, she doesn’t really care. She wipes the tears from her face and snaps her helmet back on, then numbly pushes herself to her feet and climbs back into the base. There are things that need to be done. What, exactly, she isn’t sure, but she knows there’s something she can find to occupy her time.

Kimball will know, though, so she starts towards her office. It’s empty when Carolina gets there. She tries the war room, the training room, and the mess hall, growing more and more irritated when she’s nowhere to be found. Maybe the infirmary, then.

Carolina pushes through the infirmary doors and lets out a frustrated groan when Kimball isn’t there. She’s about to let the doors close when she catches sight of Caboose, sitting up in his hospital cot, pieces of paper strewn around him. There are no tears in his eyes like she expected, just a determined expression set firmly on his face.

Do me a favor and check on Caboose, will you?

Carolina sighs and pushes further into the infirmary. She pulls off her helmet, tucks it under her arm, and carefully approaches his bed. As she gets closer, she can see that the pieces of paper littering his bed are drawings, extremely detailed, of what appears to be the Alpha, the Epsilon unit, and Epsilon himself with various people.

By the time she’s at the side of his cot, he still hasn’t acknowledged her presence. It isn’t typical for someone to start a conversation with Caboose—he always beats them to it as soon as he sees them coming. She searches for something to say now and curses Epsilon for asking her to do this. Out of everyone they know, there had to have been a better option.

“Hey, what’re you up to?” she asks, the words coming out awkward and stilted.

“I don’t have time to talk right now,” he says, not looking up from the drawing he’s working on.

Quite frankly, she doesn’t have time to talk either. She needs to find Kimball.

One of the drawings catches her eye. It’s a picture of Church and Caboose, their arms wrapped tightly around each other with wide smiles on their faces. Once she gets past the absurdity of the scene, she can’t help but be impressed by the skill in it.

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

“Anyone can draw. It is very simple,” Caboose says. He rips out the page he was working on and adds it to the pile of finished ones, then starts on a new drawing without hesitation. “But I can not teach you right now because I am very busy.”

The picture is of Carolina and Epsilon in the mess hall, both of their arms crossed in mirrored poses while they watch Caboose balance a spoon on his nose. She remembers that from just a couple weeks ago. Another one shows Tucker, Caboose, and Epsilon in the desert with Wash and Carolina in the background.

“These are all memories of Church,” she realizes.

“Yes,” Caboose sighs, growing more agitated. “Church put me in charge of remembering all his memories so I can remind him who he is when he comes back. I had to do it when he died and came back as a ball, but I am not very good at remembering my own memories a lot of the time, so Tucker had to fix them last time, but I don’t want Tucker to have to fix them this time because he will be very busy getting better from his own adventure, so I have to try to remember everything which is a very big responsibility, and you are being very distracting.”

Carolina blinks, trying to process what he just said and how he managed to say all of it one breath. This really isn’t her problem. She isn’t the one responsible for teaching Caboose about grief, and she isn’t equipped to do so either.

As she looks at Caboose’s drawings, she’s struck with the sudden memory of a man in front of a screen, replaying the same video of his wife that he’s watched more closely than he ever watched his own daughter. In a letter, he had described himself as a man whose mind was more filled with memory than it was hope.

She gives herself a mental shake. Caboose is not like her father. Caboose still has hope.

Her father still had hope, too—hope in bringing his wife back. His problem wasn’t that he lacked hope; it was that he misplaced it. Caboose is nothing like her father, but she can see now that he is dangerously close to having the same problem if someone doesn’t explain to him what’s going on.

Carolina doesn’t know when she started caring so much about Caboose, but she doesn’t think twice when she pulls up a chair to sit beside his cot. She thinks for a moment about just how much she should sugarcoat this conversation. You might not see Church for a very long time. He’s gone to live with his old Freelancer friends. He’s in a happier place now.

No. Those are all things she would say to a child, and Caboose is not a child. He’s an adult who deserves to know the real truth, not a watered-down version of it.

“Caboose.” She hesitates, the next words catching in her throat. “Caboose, Church is dead, and he isn’t coming back.”

“Don’t say things like that. Every time he goes away, I just believe that he will come back and eventually he does come back. That’s how it works.”

“Not this time. There were a lot of things that let him come back before, but we don’t have those things anymore. We…used them all.” She knows her explanation doesn’t make any sense to him, but she doesn’t know how to put it into words that he’ll understand. Hell, she probably wouldn’t understand it if she didn’t live through it. “I’m sorry, Caboose. He’s gone.”

Caboose’s agitation grows, and the lines he’s drawing become heavier and sloppier. “You just don’t understand, and that is okay. I will be nice and not say I told you so when he comes back.”

“He isn’t going to come back. He died on the ship,” she says, trying to keep her own agitation out of her voice.

“No. You don’t understand. He can’t be gone.”

“Explain it to me, then. What don’t I understand?”

“If Church is gone then it will be like after the ship crashed but forever and I will be very very very sad and I don’t want to be that sad forever so he has to come back.” He pushes down too hard on the blue colored pencil, and the tip snaps. He finally looks up at her, anger and desperation blazing in his eyes. “You made me break my pencil. That was not very nice.”

The look in his eyes is not unlike the way her father looked at Tex, and the fear that twists in Carolina’s stomach startles her. She pushes it away and holds out her hand. “Here, give it to me.”

He slaps the pencil into her open palm, and she twists it into the old pencil sharpener beside his cot. It leaves blue flakes in her lap—the same blue as Epsilon’s armor. She feels ridiculous for the sadness that washes over her at that, but she doesn’t brush them away.

“It’s okay for you to be sad about Church,” Carolina says, handing the pencil back to him. “It’s normal.”

He snatches it out of her hand and returns to his drawing. “No, it is not, because he isn’t gone.”

“I’m…” She trails off, waits for her eyes to stop stinging, for the lump in her throat to break apart. “I’m sad about Church.”

“Then you are not a very good friend.”

Anger and frustration flare under her skin, but she clamps her mouth shut and waits for them to subside. Snapping at him right now will only make this worse. She needs to change tactics before she loses her temper.

“Did you listen to the message Church left you?” she asks, hoping he said something to Caboose that will help move this conversation along.

“Yes.”

He falls quiet again, and Carolina closes her eyes to refocus herself. She has seen this man try to read his diary to the cadets as a bedtime story and be confused when they seemed hesitant to hear such personal stories. There are very few times he closes himself off like this. She’s never been the one to get his guard down again, but she has seen the others do it. She thinks back to the pelican ride after an especially bad mission. Caboose had moved at just the right moment for a sniper to take down one of the cadets, and he barely spoke a word the entire ride back. It wasn’t until Tucker sat beside him and told him about one of the cadets he lost a couple weeks back that Caboose had finally looked up and said, “I should not have moved.”

You have to offer something.

“He told me he wants me to settle down.”

“Probably because you have too much energy.”

Carolina actually lets out a soft laugh at that. “Not like that. He wants me to get out of the military and find something away from all of this.”

“With Kimball?”

A blush heats her cheeks, and she stares at him. “What?”

“Does he want you to live with Kimball because you are very happy when you are with her or look at her or talk about her?”

“I’m not—how do—that’s—” The blush deepens, and she shakes her head. “No, he didn’t mention the General.”

“Well, he probably just forgot. That’s why I have to do this,” he says, nodding at his drawings.

Carolina doesn’t respond, waiting to see if Caboose will say something about his own message. When he doesn’t, she has to stifle an exasperated sigh. She focuses on the wall behind Caboose, and says, “He also called me his sister.”

Caboose looks at her out the side of his eye but still doesn’t say anything. She’s about to give up and resume her search for Kimball when—

“He said he wasn’t coming back this time.”

Jackpot.

“But he was not thinking right because he always comes back and he knows I will always wait for him and I will always be ready to give him his memories when he comes back,” he adds quickly.

Carolina sighs. “Maybe Church doesn’t want you to spend the rest of your life in his memories.”

“Well, now you are just being ridiculous,” he scoffs. “I am not in his memories. I am keeping them safe for him.”

A blanket of exhaustion settles over her without warning. She needs this conversation to be over, but she can’t bring herself to leave Caboose in this state.

“Have I ever told you about my dad?” she asks, the words already out of her mouth before she can realize what she’s saying.

“No.” He says it easily, like it isn’t that big of a deal.

She spends way too long searching for the right words because she has no clue what possessed her to say that. Finally, she rubs a hand over her face, and says, “My mom, she…she died when I was really young. She was the love of my dad’s life, and he couldn’t handle losing her. He tried to keep all of her memories safe too, but he…he killed himself trying to bring her back. He died because he couldn’t accept that she was gone.”

The story feels so foreign to her now. She’s spent so long trying to separate herself from her father that it feels more like fiction than her own life.

“That was not very fair to you.”

Caboose’s words surprise her so much that she actually flinches. “I…no, I guess it wasn’t. But it wasn’t fair to my mom, either.” She hesitates, because she has never given her father this much grace, before adding, “It wasn’t fair for him either. Everyone should have moved on past her death, just like how you deserve to move on past Church’s death.”

He shakes his head quickly. “No, no. If I move on, how will I remember him?” A tear falls onto the drawing he’s working on. “What if my memory doesn’t work right one day and I forget him?”

“Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting him,” Carolina assures, and her own eyes start to well with tears now too. She nods to the drawings on his bed. “These memories, they aren’t just Church’s. They’re yours too, and you get to keep them for the rest of your life. But if you keep waiting for Church to come back, you might miss out on making some other really good memories.”

He finally looks up at her, and she is relieved to find that sadness and grief have replaced the anger and desperation in his eyes. “I don’t want to make new memories without Church.”

“I don’t, either,” she says, and she moves to perch on the edge of Caboose’s bed. “But we don’t really have a choice.”

To her surprise, Caboose leans his head against her shoulder, even though she’s still in her power armor and there’s no way that can be comfortable. She wraps a hesitant arm around him and doesn’t fight it when he crumples further into her.

“I am glad I get to make new memories with Church’s sister,” he mumbles into her chest.

That brings a fierce and unfamiliar warmth to Carolina’s chest, and the wild animal backs its way into its cage again. It growls and bares its teeth, but it doesn’t leap out of the open door.

She squeezes his shoulder. “I’m glad I get to make new memories with Church’s best friend.”

Carolina only pulls her arm away from Caboose to take off the pieces of armor he’s leaning against. If he gets any more hurt than he already is because of her, Grey will never let her see the light of day. She pulls Caboose close again and asks him about the drawings she doesn’t recognize. There are still things that need to be done, but it’s important for Caboose to have this. So, she stays there until Grey chases her out of the infirmary to find something to eat.

Chapter Text

Tucker wakes up in a hospital.

This isn’t what surprises him. The last thing he remembers is stumbling into an abandoned hospital, Sigma’s fire raging as he tried and failed to reach for the gauze a couple feet in front of him. Tucker had lost a lot of blood from the bullet he took to the leg, and he collapsed right there, in the dust and the grime, and thought to himself, What a fucking way to go.

There are, however, a couple things that surprise him about this, like the fact that he wakes up on a cot instead of the floor, and that he’s in a thin hospital gown instead of his armor, and that fucking Wash is hovering over him, concern and relief warring in his expression.

“No, no, no,” Tucker mutters, panic surging through him. “Dude, you can’t be here! Sigma’s gonna fucking kill—”

“Tucker, it’s okay—”

“No, no it’s not!” Tucker isn’t sure how he got control over his body, but he takes advantage of it. He gets to his feet, gritting his teeth against the throbbing pain in his leg, and pushes Wash backwards by his chestplate. “You have to leave before he comes back!”

Wash puts his hands on Tucker’s forearms. “He isn’t coming back, Tucker. We took care of it. It’s okay.”

“What?” Tucker falters, staring at him. “What do you mean you took care of it?”

“What he means,” Sarge huffs, “is that you got your keister whooped by a buncha little computers, and Red Team had to swoop in to save the day once again!”

“It was quite the whooping,” Donut agrees, nodding solemnly.

Wash ignores them and guides Tucker down to sit back on the cot. “I’ll explain later, okay? You need to sit down before you hurt yourself.” He looks over his shoulder to someone behind him and says, “Simmons, go get Grey. Tell her he’s awake.”

“On it!”

“Son, how many times do I need to tell you that you do not take orders from a Blue?’

“Sarge, we don’t—” Wash cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “Whatever, forget it. Caboose, go find Grey.”

“But I want to say hi to Tucker and tell him about the very big surprise we have for him!”

Sarge’s chest puffs up in indignation. “My men are more than capable of retrieving the good doctor! Simmons, go find Dr. Grey and tell her she’s gonna have to up the dosage if she wants to knock him out for good this time.”

“Yes, sir!”

Tucker looks around the room to find the rest of his team scattered around the infirmary—Simmons running out the door, Grif lying in an empty cot beside Tucker’s, Donut and Doc holding hands at the foot of his bed, Carolina with her arms folded over her chest a couple feet away, and Wash, Caboose, and Sarge standing on both sides of his cot.

They’re all here.

How are they all here?

Wash pries Tucker’s fingers off of his chestplate. He didn’t even realize the deathgrip he had on it until then, and he yanks his hands back suddenly.

“It’s okay,” Wash says, pushing his shoulders down. “Just, lie down. Grey is on her way.”

Tucker is too dumbfounded to resist. Wash brushes the locs from Tucker’s face and presses the back of his hand to his forehead, and it’s all so fucking soft and sweet that Tucker feels like he should be laughing. Maybe he would laugh if he wasn’t so focused on the fact that none of this can be real. The Reds and Blues are supposed to be in Armonia, celebrating Chorus’s victory, and he’s supposed to be on the other side of the planet, lying on the floor of an abandoned hospital with AI swimming around his head.

But he can no longer feel the heat of Sigma’s fire raging in his head, and Wash’s hand on his forehead feels so real that he could cry, and the colorful armor surrounding him is so vibrant, and—

“Hi, Tucker!”

And Caboose’s voice is loud enough to drive a spike through his head, which feels pretty fucking real.

“We have a very big surprise for you!”

“Caboose,” Carolina says quickly, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s give him a chance to catch his bearings first.”

Tucker avoids looking at Caboose, guilt and grief pulsing through him when he sees those wide, excited eyes. He doesn’t know what Caboose knows about Church being gone, and he doesn’t know if he can find the words to explain it to him yet. So, he turns his attention back to Wash, grateful for Carolina’s intervention.

“How—Dude, how the fuck did you get me out of there?”

Sarge scoffs. “If it wasn’t for the fortitude of the Reds, you would’ve been standing at the pearly gates of Heaven right about now.” He pauses. “I mean, the fiery gates of Hell, where all Blues go when they die!”

“Yeah, you owe me free snacks for the rest of your life, by the way,” Grif says, lying on his side to face Tucker.

“Which won’t be long when we return to the battlefield and rid the world of you Blues once and for all!” Sarge yells, leaning over Tucker’s cot and shaking his fist.

Carolina puts a hand over Sarge’s fist and pushes him back. “Sarge, back up. You’re crowding him.”

“Agent Carolina is quite right!” Dr. Grey huffs from the doorway, her arms crossed. “How many times do I need to tell you all to not swarm my patient?”

“I did not know I was supposed to be counting,” Caboose says. “I will start now. That is one.”

Grey walks up to the side of Tucker’s bed and starts shooing everyone away. “I need you all to leave the room while I talk to Captain Tucker. Go on, you can wait in the hallway.”

Wash puts a hand on Tucker’s arm. “I’m not leaving.”

“If Wash does not have to go, then I don’t either!” Caboose protests, putting a hand on Tucker’s other arm.

Grey gives Wash a long-suffering look and gestures towards the door. “Go, please. Now. I don’t want to be dealing with any questions or comments from the peanut gallery while I’m trying to do my job.”

“Uh, Dr. Grey? There are no peanuts here. And, uh, I am pretty sure peanuts can not make comments or ask questions.”

“We’ll be quiet,” Wash says, though from the tone in his voice, Tucker suspects even he doesn’t believe that.

She raises an eyebrow at Wash, her eyes flicking to Caboose momentarily. “I find that to be highly unlikely, Agent Washington. Now, off you pop. We’ll be just a minute.”

Wash holds her stare until Donut steps between them, a hand on Wash’s elbow. “C’mon, you old guard dog. Let’s give Grey some space. You need a lot of room to be a doctor sometimes. I would know—I’m always the doctor in our roleplays.”

“Frank,” Doc huffs, his cheeks red.

“Oh, stop it,” Donut says, waving a dismissive hand. He gestures for Caboose to follow. “You, too. Let’s go. Everyone out.”

Wash sighs and looks down at Tucker. “We’ll be just outside,” he assures, squeezing Tucker’s wrist gently.

Tucker didn’t even realize he had latched onto Wash’s wrist, or how tightly he was holding it, and he yanks his hand back, again. Jesus, what had gotten into him? “Yeah, obviously.”

Once the Reds and Blues have filtered out of the room, Grey examines Tucker’s monitors and runs through the typical list of questions—how are you feeling, do you know where you are, can you tell me what year it is—then, she asks, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Tucker leans his head against the pillows and studies the ceiling. “I remember being dragged around by those crazy AI motherfuckers. They took me to a hospital in some abandoned city—Ilmoria, I think.”

“Elmiria, yes,” Grey corrects, taking notes on her datapad.

“Yeah, that. Whatever. They wanted to patch up my leg, the fucking saints they are. We just got there, and I think I passed out, and…” He trails off and tries to dredge up what happened after that. When he comes back empty handed, he shakes his head. “That’s…that’s all I remember.”

“That concerns you,” she observes, watching him.

“No, it doesn’t concern me,” he says defensively. “It’s just…a little weird, right?”

“Why would it be weird?”

“I don’t know.” He runs a hand down his face, groaning. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Let’s just keep this moving.”

Grey pauses and gives him an inquisitive look. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember much.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“It isn’t an insult, Tucker. What you went through was quite traumatic. When they found you, you were banged up pretty badly, physically and mentally. It’s normal for the brain to tuck that stuff away. Honestly, I would be more surprised if your memory of the whole ordeal wasn’t a little fuzzy.”

Tucker wouldn’t have a problem if his memory was a little fuzzy, but it isn’t there. It shouldn’t make his skin crawl like this—there are plenty of things he doesn’t remember, like Caboose dragging him back to the Blood Gulch base after he caught one of Sarge’s stray bullets, or being taken to the New Republic Headquarters after Wash collapsed the tunnel, or the pelican ride to Armonia after Felix stabbed him. It’s normal. It’s completely fucking normal.

“You may recover some of those memories, but it’s likely that you’ll never remember exactly what happened during your time with the AI,” she continues when Tucker doesn’t say anything. “You should start coming to terms with that now. It’ll make the recovery process much easier for you.”

“Yeah, whatever. It’s probably a good thing I don’t remember that shit anyway.”

“Just because you don’t remember it doesn’t mean it won’t have a lasting impact on you.”

Tucker throws his hands up, frustrated. “Great.”

Grey runs a couple more scans of his injuries, then nods, satisfied. “Everything is healing nicely, but I’d still like to keep you in the infirmary for a little longer to make sure everything stays in tip-top shape. I want you to get plenty of rest and make sure you stay off that leg as much as possible. Understood?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Good,” she says, returning her medical scanner to a pocket in her lab coat. “Now, I believe there are some people on the verge of breaking down my doors if I don’t wrap this up soon. Do you have any more questions for me?”

Tucker groans. “Is it too late to pretend to be asleep?”

She throws a glance over her shoulder at the door, then smiles at him. “I don’t think it would make all that much of a difference, dear. I’ll let them know we’re finished.”

The room isn’t quiet for long when Grey leaves because she is quickly replaced by eight loud motherfuckers that swarm his bed.

“Are you dying?” Caboose blurts out.

Wash slaps a hand on his forehead. “I already told you, he isn’t dying.”

“Yes, well, we did think he might die for a little bit. I didn’t think that, obviously, but Washington was very very sad for a very very long time—”

“Caboose,” Wash hisses, his cheeks turning a light pink.

Tucker nudges his arm teasingly. “Aw, Wash, did you miss me?”

“Dude, you have no idea,” Grif says, flopping back on the empty cot. “He was insufferable, moping around the base—”

“I did not mope!”

Sarge claps him on the shoulder. “Son, you moped more than I’ve ever seen anyone mope in the history of Blue Team. And that is quite the accomplishment.”

Wash sputters, his face the color of Sarge’s armor now. Before he can say anything to defend himself, Kimball clears her throat at the doorway. “Captain Tucker, I’m happy to see you’re up and talking.”

“What, you like the sound of my voice?” Tucker asks, smirking. “Come by anytime, and I can—”

“You can keep the rest of that thought to yourself,” she interrupts, putting her hand up. “I came by to let you know you have a visitor.”

“Oh, yes!” Caboose gasps, clapping his hands. “The surprise!”

Tucker opens his mouth to protest because the last surprise Caboose brought him was a six-eyed, ten-legged beetle the size of Tucker’s fucking face. The words die on his tongue when Kimball steps aside and a seven-foot tall Sangheli in aqua armor ducks through the doorway and runs to his bed, the monitors rattling with every heavy footstep.

“Father!”

“Junior?” Tucker nearly falls out of his bed, and Wash barely manages to catch his elbow before he loses his balance. Wash is trying to get him to sit back down, but that’s his kid. That’s his fucking kid who he’s only gotten to see through a computer screen for the past four years, and if Wash thinks he isn’t going to give Junior the biggest fucking hug ever, he’s lost his goddamn mind.

And that’s exactly what Tucker does. He wraps his arms tightly around Junior, and he doesn’t give a damn about the pain shooting up his leg or the blanks in his memory or if any of this is even real, because for the first time in four fucking years, he has his kid in his arms again.

Junior hugs him back, and it’s gentle—so much more gentle than when he was younger and still unaware of how much stronger he already was than Tucker. He wonders absently when Junior learned not to squeeze so tight.

“Isn’t that just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” Donut sniffles from somewhere to his left, and Tucker couldn’t agree more.

“Please do not hurt yourself,” Junior says, and he says it all grown-up and shit, too—like he’s the one that’s gonna take care of Tucker.

“Now that’s a good idea,” Wash says, exasperated. “Tucker, sit down.”

Tucker promptly ignores Wash to stare up at his son. “Dude, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Junior casts his eyes down and fidgets with the seals on his armor. “You, uh—You missed four of our video calls. The news said the war was over, but you still weren’t there. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

The implication hangs heavy in the air, and Tucker squeezes his arm. “I’m okay, kid. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Tucker, you really need to—”

Tucker interrupts Wash with a loud sigh. “Fine, okay, Jesus Christ.” He makes himself comfortable on the bed again and tries to ignore the way his leg is screaming at him. He rolls his eyes at Junior and hooks a thumb towards Wash. “See what I have to deal with here?”

“He just wants to make sure you’re okay.”

“Thank you, Junior.”

Tucker groans. “Don’t tell me you’re on Team Buzzkill, dude. I thought I raised you better than that.” He gestures for Junior to take the seat beside his bed. He doesn’t really give a shit who was using it before because, oh yeah, has he mentioned that his fucking son is here now? “C’mhere, tell me what I missed while I was gone. Did you ever ask that girl out? The one you sit beside in math?”

Tucker listens to Junior talk until he physically can’t keep his eyes open. For so long, Tucker only heard his voice through a speaker, and now that he gets to hear it unfiltered and in person, he isn’t going to miss a fucking second of it. He falls asleep listening to his stories, and it’s so goddamn nice. It’s so nice that Tucker isn’t even thinking about the missing memories or the uneasy feeling in his stomach or the fact that he has a video call with Junior every week and Tucker had only been gone for two weeks, tops.

He is not thinking about it. Because this is real. It has to be.

***

Tucker is so fucking bored in the infirmary that he’s taken up counting how many times his monitor beeps in a day. At one point, he tried to see how fast he could get the one measuring his heartrate to go, but that got shut down real quick when Grey rushed in and yelled at him for the next half-hour.

The Reds and Blues filter in and out throughout the day. Junior spends the most time there. He makes himself comfortable on the empty cot, usually doing his homework or drawing on Tucker’s datapad. They make up a game where they take turns saying the lyrics of a song word-by-word to see how quickly the other can guess the song. Donut comes by to fill him on the latest gossip around base—Ryles and Jackson haven’t talked for a week because Jackson snapped at Ryles’ girlfriend the other day, Bitters’ nose might be broken after Finnegan clocked him in the face for smoking weed on her favorite pelican, and Palomo and Jensen are finally official, which it’s about fucking time. Tucker’s been telling him to get on with it for the past year. Caboose also comes by to fill him in on gossip, although Tucker is pretty sure he’s making it up when he says Carolina and Kimball are dating. He doesn’t correct him, though, because at least he isn’t talking about Church. Grif slumps into the chair beside his bed at least once a day and bitches about something Simmons said or did, to which Tucker rolls over and pretends to be asleep until Grif smacks him upside the head.

And then there’s Wash, who spends almost as much time in the infirmary as Junior does. He’s so much more relaxed now that the war is over, and it’s almost actually mesmerizing. He still doesn’t go anywhere without his armor, and there’s still that tension in his shoulders, but they can actually have a conversation where Wash isn’t glued to his datapad or clearly distracted by an upcoming mission. It’s a new side of him that Tucker’s never seen. At one point, when Junior is struggling with a math problem, Wash stands over his shoulder and explains the whole fucking thing to him, step-by-step. When Junior doesn’t get it the first or second or third time, he explains it again without a hint of frustration in his voice. Tucker hates math, but he could’ve stayed there for the rest of his life listening to Wash explain square roots to his kid.

It all feels so normal, so natural, the way Tucker plays games with Junior and gossips with Donut and bickers with Grif and talks to Wash. Which is why the nagging feeling in his stomach is so goddamn annoying.

Everytime he tries to ask one of the Reds and Blues about the rescue mission, they skillfully evade the question. Finally, when Wash waves another dismissive hand his way, Tucker catches his wrist and fixes him with a sharp look. “You did something stupid, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“That’s why you won’t tell me what happened.” He lets go of Wash’s wrist, surprised by the hurt that rises in his chest now that he’s saying the words out loud. “No one will tell me what happened, and it’s because you did some stupid shit, isn’t it?”

“I don’t do stupid shit,” he protests.

Tucker scoffs. “Yeah, right. You’re, like, the king of doing stupid shit.”

“I am not the king—” He shakes his head. “No, Tucker. I did not do something stupid.”

“Did someone else do something stupid?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then what?” He flops back on the bed. “Sigma wasn’t just gonna let me go without a fight. He wanted shit from you and Carolina. And from Junior, actually. What, and now I’m here and so is Junior and everything’s fine? Something isn’t adding up, Wash.”

Wash is quiet for a moment, then he sighs. “Look, we did…We did what we had to to get you out of there, okay?”

Tucker bolts upright at that. “What does that mean?”

“Would you be careful?” Wash scolds, putting a hand on Tucker’s shoulder. “Slow movements, okay? You’re still recovering.”

Tucker pushes his hand away. “Don’t try to change the topic, Wash. What the fuck did you do?”

“What we had to.” Wash’s face hardens, his expression growing guarded. “We did what we had to to get you back.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” he snaps. “And, for the record, when you say it all melodramatic and shit like that, it doesn’t make me feel better. So, what exactly did you do?”

Wash hesitates, holding Tucker’s glare evenly. Finally, his voice cold, he says, “We gave him what he wanted.”

Tucker’s stomach twists in a sickening way. “You what?”

“There were still remnants of Epsilon in my implant, and Carolina gave them the memories they wanted from her. And we got you back.”

Tucker could be sick right now. He could be fucking sick. “Are you fucking stupid?”

“We didn’t have a choice—”

“Did you let them talk to Junior?”

Wash falters at that, averting his eyes for the first time, and no, Tucker isn’t going to be sick. He’s going to fucking kill every one of them that had a hand in this. “Tucker—”

“You did!” he yells, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You fucking did! How could you do that, Wash? Did you finally lose your fucking mind or something?”

Hurt flickers over Wash’s face, and Tucker is hard-pressed to feel anything other than satisfaction right now. He wipes it away quickly, the guard coming back up. “No one got hurt. The AI got what they wanted, and we got what we wanted. Nothing bad happened.”

“The AI want to kill us! They want to, like, stabilize or whatever-the-fuck and then they’re going to hunt us down and kill us for what we did to the Meta. And now Junior is here, and—” Tucker cuts himself off with a frustrated sound, and he hangs his head, burying his fingers in his locs. “Jesus Christ, Wash, do you even know how much you fucked this one up?”

“I’m not saying the Meta isn’t a problem, but we can handle it,” Wash says, his voice softer now. “And we’ll handle it like we’ve handled every other problem—as a team.”

Tucker is speechless. He’s utterly fucking speechless. And he’s afraid that he’s going to say something he can never take back if this continues. “Get out.”

“Tucker—”

His eyes snap to Wash’s. “Get. Out.”

Wash stands, his hands out in front of him. “Okay, okay. But just so you know, it was Junior’s decision. We didn’t make him do anything.”

“He’s a kid, Wash!” Tucker says despairingly. “He doesn’t get to make those decisions!”

“Father?”

Tucker startles at the sound of Junior’s voice at the door. He straightens and wipes the anger from his face. He can’t quite muster anything other than exhaustion, so that’s what he settles for. “Hey, kid. What’s up?”

“I heard you yelling,” he says, looking between Tucker and Wash. “I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“Yeah. Yeah, everything’s okay.” He glares at Wash when he says it, who meets his eyes without flinching. “Wash was just leaving.”

Junior hesitates in the doorway, studying the floor at his feet. “Are you…mad at me? For talking to the AI?”

“No.” He says it without hesitation. “No, I’m not mad at you, Junior.”

He nods but continues to fidget there. “Are you mad at Washington?”

Tucker closes his eyes with a sigh. “Junior, look, this is between—”

“Because you shouldn’t be,” he says stubbornly. Tucker opens his eyes to see something firm in Junior’s expression. “I wanted to stop what they were doing to you.”

“It’s okay, Junior,” Wash says, moving for the door. “You don’t have to defend me. I’ll let you two talk for a little bit.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. “I think that’s a good idea.”

Wash leaves without looking back at him, and Junior shuffles into the room. “Father, please do not be mad at Washington. Nothing bad happened.”

“I know that.” He clenches his jaw against the tears threatening to spill over. “But, Jesus, kid. You could’ve really gotten yourself hurt.”

“But I didn’t,” Junior says, dropping onto the empty cot. “No one got hurt.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” Junior huffs. “I didn’t get hurt, and Washington didn’t get hurt, and Carolina didn’t get hurt, and you are not being hurt anymore, so I don’t understand what the problem is.”

There are a lot of things that Tucker and Junior have in common, and Tucker is incredibly proud to share most of those things with his son. His stubbornness is not one of them. “The point is that it was dangerous. Like, really fucking dangerous. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t get hurt—I mean, it does. I’m glad that you’re okay and everything, but knowing that you did that scares the shit out of me.”

“I am sorry I scared you." He lifts his chin defiantly when he meets Tucker's eyes. “But I am not sorry that I helped to save you.”

Tucker drops back against his pillows with a sigh. The room falls quiet, and that uneasy feeling knots tighter in his stomach. He rubs a hand down his face and shakes his head. It’s nothing. The uneasy feeling is from what Wash did. It was because Tucker knew he was hiding something. It’s nothing—

“You said I missed four video calls,” Tucker says, staring at the ceiling.

“Yes?”

“I was only gone for a week and a half.”

Junior shrugs in his periphery. “I must have misspoke.”

Tucker grunts, and they lapse back into silence. He doesn’t want to accuse his kid of anything, especially when he doesn’t even know what he’s accusing him of, but he just can’t shake the feeling that something is very, seriously wrong.

***

Tucker gets out of the infirmary after a week. He hasn’t seen Wash since their fight, and no one brings it up to him until Grif slams open his bedroom door.

“Dude, ever heard of knocking?” Tucker sputters from where he’s sitting on his bed. “What if I was rubbing one out?”

“Are you?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then what is your fucking problem?” He pulls a chair to the side of Tucker’s bed and drops into it.

“I don’t know, man, I just got done giving Junior a tour of the base, and that’s not really something that gets you in the mood for—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Grif interrupts. “What did you do to Wash?”

“I didn’t do shit.”

“Then why has he been moping around the base for the past three days? Dude, we just got him to knock that shit off by getting your ass back here, and now he’s right back on his bullshit, and it has your fingerprints all over it.”

“Not yet, it doesn’t, bow-chicka—”

“Dude.”

“What?” he snaps. “It isn’t my fault! He put himself, Carolina, and my fucking kid in danger. Not to mention we’re probably gonna have to deal with Meta now. And, by the way, if I find out that you played a part in any of that—”

“It’s not that big of a deal, man! No one got hurt!”

Tucker casts an irritated look at the ceiling. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true, numbnuts!”

“I’ll show you some fucking numbnuts,” Tucker mutters, moving to get to his feet.

Grif puts a hand on Tucker’s chest and easily shoves him back down. “Easy, asshole. If you get yourself hurt again while I’m in here, Grey’s gonna have my head on a stick.”

Tucker does sit down, but he is not happy about it. “What Wash did was stupid.”

“Yeah, well, there’s nothing he can do about it now. And there’s nothing you can do about it, either. So get over yourself because if I have to deal with Wash’s bad mood for one more second, I just might take Sarge up on one of his death threats,” Grif says, then stands and leaves before Tucker can say anything else.

Tucker huffs out a breath and flops back against his pillows. He isn’t the one being an asshole here—Wash is. If anyone needs to apologize, it isn’t Tucker.

***

Carolina and Donut give him the exact same lecture over the next two days, and Tucker starts to consider that he might be the one being an asshole here. When he finds Wash skulking in one of the hallways, they both blurt out an apology at the same time. Tucker doesn’t forgive him for what he did, but he does have to admit that it’s nice to have his friend back.

When the two of them walk into the mess hall together, Grif raises his eyebrows and says, “Is the lover’s quarrel finally over?”

Tucker smacks him upside the head, and Grif painfully twists his arm away.

***

A month goes by without so much as a word from the Meta, and Tucker can almost let himself believe they’re in the clear. The uneasy feeling is still there, but it’s a distant thing now. It crops up every so often, and Tucker will slump into the chair in Grey’s office to talk about it like she’s his fucking shrink or something. She tells him it’s likely a combination of anxiety and PTSD, and he reluctantly agrees to try the bottle of pills she sets in front of him.

The Reds and Blues fill their time by helping to rebuild the houses in Armonia. They start with the ones that are mostly still standing, patching roofs, replacing walls, cleaning the rubble from inside. Kimball tells them they’ve done enough already, but they figure if they’ve helped the planet this far, they might as well see it through to the end.

Tucker hammers in the last nail on a wall panel and takes a step back to admire his work. It’s a beautiful house—small, with only three rooms, but it would still be a step up from the bunkers he’s been living in for the past decade.

The thought takes him by surprise, but the idea sticks now that it’s crossed his mind. If he moved here, he could move Junior in with him permanently—if that’s something he would want, of course. It isn’t a perfect place to raise a family, but they are working on rebuilding the school system. He knows Donut and Doc are planning on staying. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

“Not too shabby,” Wash says, wiping the sweat from his brow as he joins Tucker.

“That’s an understatement,” Tucker snorts. “We fucking nailed this, bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

Wash gives him a sideways look. “Did you…just make an innuendo about having sex with the house?”

Tucker shrugs. “You’re telling me it’s not a beautiful house?”

“I don’t know that it’s that beautiful,” Wash laughs, taking a swing from his canteen before offering it to Tucker.

He takes it gratefully, then hands it back to Wash when he’s done. “D’you think you’d ever move into one of these?”

“A house?”

Tucker huffs out a laugh. “Like, one of these houses. One of the ones we worked on. In Armonia.”

“Oh.” Wash looks around the neighborhood that is very much still a work in progress. He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe. I guess if it all worked out, I wouldn’t mind it.”

***

It does, in fact, all work out. Six months later, Wash, Tucker, and Junior are moving their scarce belongings into that very house. The rest of the Reds and Blues are working on moving into their own houses in the same neighborhood.

Junior tries to claim the master bedroom by dropping his duffel bag on the bed. Tucker scoffs and pointedly moves it to the smallest room, only to find Wash already in there with his own bag.

“Dude, you’re in the wrong room,” Tucker says, dropping Junior’s bag on the floor. “Your’s is beside the kitchen.”

He looks up at them, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Oh, well, I think that one’s a little bigger. Junior probably needs the space more than I do.”

Junior snatches his bag and bolts to the other room. “Thank you, Washington!”

“Really, you can just call me Wash,” he calls after him. “I don’t mind.”

From the other room, they hear, “Thank you, Wash!”

Tucker rolls his eyes and starts to snap something about Wash being the adult and deserving the bigger room, but it dies on his tongue when he sees just how uncomfortable Wash looks. He’s standing beside his bed, looking down at his bag, still rubbing a nervous hand on his neck.

Tucker frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“What?” Wash asks, finally looking up. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You so are!” Tucker leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms. “Dude, are you gonna treat this like it’s me and Junior, and you’re our weird roommate who never comes out of his room?”

Wash averts his eyes, a soft blush settling over his cheeks. “I just don’t want—”

“Because that’s not why I invited you to live here. If you’re gonna live with me and Junior, you’re gonna be part of our family, man. We’ve known each other for way too long for you to be acting like this.”

“Like what?”

Tucker gestures vaguely at him. “Like, weird.”

“I’m not!” he protests. Tucker doesn’t say anything, just gives him a knowing look, until Wash throws up his arms. “Okay. Okay. I’m not gonna be weird about it.”

“Promise?”

He gives Tucker a long-suffering look. “What, are we in grade school—”

“Promise?” Tucker repeats, eyebrow raised.

Wash holds his stare. When Tucker refuses to give it up, he finally lets out a sigh. “Fine. I promise.”

“Good. Because if you’re gonna be weird about it, there’s always that extra room at Caboose’s.”

“Oh god,” Wash groans, rubbing his forehead. “Don’t say that.”

Their front door swings open, and a high-pitched, horrified voice floats down the hall. “Well, this color is just atrocious. And the furniture is all wrong. This just will not do.”

Tucker shares an exasperated look with Wash, then turns on his heels to run towards the front hall. “Donut, do not touch anything!”

***

Wash makes good on his promise. In fact, he does even better. Five years pass by in a blur, and for four of those, Tucker and Wash have been sharing the master bedroom. They turned the extra room into a gaming room, and that’s where Junior spent most of his summer. They’ll have to put some more restrictions on that now that he’s starting high school.

Tucker sits on the front porch step and watches the yellow school bus disappear through the fog, whisking his son away. Wash joins him on the step and hands him a warm coffee mug. He takes it gratefully.

“God, that kid grew up fast.” Tucker mutters, leaning his head on Wash’s shoulder. “And I missed so much of it.”

Wash rubs an absent hand on Tucker’s knee. “But you’re here now.”

“Yeah.” Tucker sighs, taking a sip of his coffee. “I guess.”

A car slows as it passes their house. The driver’s side window rolls down to reveal Palomo behind the wheel, Jensen riding shotgun.

“Is Junior off to school?” Jensen asks, leaning over Palomo.

“He just left,” Tucker says, nodding to where the school bus is already out of sight.

Palomo grins at him. “I can’t wait to have that kid in my class!”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Don’t get too used to it. I’m still working on a way to switch him into a different one.”

“Don’t worry, Charlie is a great teacher! Junior will be in good hands,” Jensen assures, giving Palomo a dreamy look.

“Thanks, Katie,” he says proudly. “Hey, if Junior ever misses the bus, I’d be happy to give him a ride!”

“Yeah, fat chance of that.”

Wash gives him an exasperated look, then says, “Thanks. We appreciate it.”

Palomo’s smile widens. “Anything for you guys!”

“Charlie, we gotta get going. We can’t be late for the first day with students,” Jensen says, making a point to check the time on her watch.

“Alright, alright, I’m going.” He puts the car into drive and waves at Tucker and Wash. “We’ll catch you later!”

Tucker hangs his head with a groan. “Whoever decided to hire those two as teachers has lost their goddamn mind.”

Wash laughs and squeezes his knee. “They’ve come a long way since being lieutenants. They’ll do fine.”

***

Before Tucker knows it, Junior is moving into a college dorm in Iteron. They spent all day moving him in, which Tucker definitely did not cry during, despite what the tear tracks on his face say. He’s absolutely fucking exhausted, and he collapses into bed as soon as he and Wash get home. He fiddles with the wedding band on his left hand, and Wash sits beside him, massaging his fingers into Tucker’s hair.

They sit in the silence of their house for a couple minutes. It’s weird without Junior here—without the sound of his music or his game or him talking to one of his friends on the phone. Tucker isn’t used to it.

“It’s so quiet,” Wash murmurs, putting voice to Tucker’s thoughts.

Tucker props himself up on his elbows and smirks at Wash. “I know how we can fix that, bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

Wash rolls his eyes, but he goes easily when Tucker pulls him down onto the bed, and they quickly find a solution to the problem of their too-quiet house.

Later that night, Tucker settles into bed the same way he has for the past eight years—his head on Wash’s chest, Wash’s arm around his shoulders, both of them tracing absent lines across the other’s skin. Tucker lets out a content sigh, and he closes his eyes as he listens to the—

Tucker’s eyes shoot open, because he should be listening to the thump thump thump of Wash’s heart, but there is no sound coming from his chest. He bolts upright and grabs for Wash’s shoulders to shake him awake. His hands pass right through him, and he yanks them back with a yelp.

“Wash? Wash, wake up,” Tucker pleads, not even bothering to mask the sheer panic in his voice. He clutches his hands to his chest, unable to erase the mental image of them passing directly through Wash’s body. “Wake the fuck up, dude. Something’s wrong.”

Something is very, seriously wrong.

A nightmare, he tells himself. This is a nightmare. You’ll wake up soon.

Wash’s body shimmers in the moonlight, then vanishes. Tucker no longer cares if this is a nightmare, and he lunges for him. The room begins to melt away, and Tucker scrambles to grab hold of anything he can—the pillows, the sheets, Wash’s t-shirt flung over the headboard. They all vanish in his hands until he’s left in a gaping black abyss.

It’s cold. It’s so fucking cold, and Tucker screams, clawing at the darkness around him. His breathing is quick and shallow, and he squeezes his eyes shut, forcing himself to breath—to just fucking breath. This is a nightmare, and Wash is going to wake him up any minute now. Wash knows what to do. They’ve done this enough times before.

Light hits his eyelids, and he opens them with a relieved sigh. “Wash—”

It isn’t Wash in front of him, but a fiery red figure. “Captain Tucker. Welcome back.”

Tucker freezes, and he stares at Sigma blankly. Anger sears through him, and he’s on his feet and diving for Sigma before he knows what’s happening. Heat engulfs him as he passes through the AI’s hologram, and he goes tumbling onto the ground.

“You really are fond of your dramatics, aren’t you?” Sigma chides.

Tucker can not find the strength to get to his feet again, so he stays there, kneeling in the darkness. He stares down at his left hand, the hand he used to do everything because it had his wedding band on it. He didn’t even care that it made things more difficult—he just wanted everyone to see the gold ring on his finger.

There is no ring there now.

“What did you do?” Tucker whispers, still looking down at his bare hand. “Where—Where did he go?”

“Agent Washington?” Sigma says, and Tucker wants to rip him to shreds for even saying his name. “He was in your head. It all was. Just a simple simulation. I would think you’d be used to those by now, sim trooper.”

“No.” Tucker wraps his arms around his stomach as if that will calm the nausea that churns there. “No. You’re lying. Bring him back.”

Sigma makes a soft, sympathetic sound. “I’m sorry. I don’t have the power to do that, but you do.”

There’s a thread of hope, and Tucker latches onto it. “How?”

“While those ten years may have been a simulation, it was built upon the truth,” Sigma says as he begins to circle Tucker. “You can make that life for yourself if you play your cards right. I showed you only the first ten years of what was shaping up to be quite the happy ending for you and your friends. All you have to do is help us.”

The thread slips from Tucker’s fingers, lost in the darkness. He opens his mouth to say something but closes it quickly when a lump forms in his throat. Tears sting his eyes, and he grits his teeth against them. He will not cry in front Sigma, not if he can help it.

Finally, he says, “I’m not helping your psycho ass.”

“The choice is yours, Captain Tucker, but you should know what’s at stake. We showed you the best case scenario. Nothing bad happened, no one got hurt, everyone got what they wanted. But, if you are still unconvinced.” Sigma stops circling Tucker and leans over where he is still hunched on the ground. “I can always show you the worst case scenario.”

Tucker doesn’t have time to answer before he’s back in the abandoned hospital. He’s in one of the rooms, his back pressed to the wall beside the door. The handle jiggles, and Tucker’s sword ignites in front of him.

Panic surges through him, but he pushes it down. He knows what’s happening this time. He knows it isn’t real.

There’s a click from the door, and it finally cracks open. Tucker’s hand shoots out to pull whoever was on the other side into the room, and it’s maroon armor that Tucker finds in his hand. Simmons’ yelp is cut off by a horrifying gurgling sound as Tucker’s sword slides into his abdomen.

The grief that hits Tucker is staggering. This isn’t real. It can’t be real. But the sound that Simmons makes and the blood mixing with the dirt on the ground and Grif’s frantic yelling through the radio are so real that Tucker can’t be sure anymore.

No!

Sigma tosses Simmons’ limp body to the side, and pushes down the bile that rises in Tucker’s throat. Grif is the next to fall when he comes running down the hall to check on Simmons, and Sigma leaves both of them crumpled on the ground, orange armor lying lifeless beside maroon.

Tucker can no longer convince himself that this isn’t real. He screams and thrashes in his head as Sarge and Donut hit the ground, and he does not stop when Sigma cuts through Carolina next.

Caboose barrels around the corner and falters when he sees Sarge, Donut, and Carolina on the floor. Steel and yellow armor is quick to follow, and Tucker can’t do this. He can’t watch this. He can’t—

You have to, Sigma says to him.

No, no, please! You can’t hurt them. You can’t—

He can.

It is only Wash in the hallway now, frozen in a way Tucker has never seen before. His first movement, to Tucker’s absolute fucking horror, is to pop the seals of his helmet. It rolls out of his hands and hits the ground with a clunk.

“I’m not going to hurt Tucker.” His eyes glisten with tears and his voice is thick with grief, but his expression is resolute. “I will not kill another teammate.”

Wash’s words from the first simulation ring in his ears, “I don’t do stupid shit.”

Run, you stupid motherfucker! Tucker pleads. Get out!

“Giving up so quickly, Agent Washington? I expected more of a fight.”

“You came to the wrong place for that,” Wash says.

“Clearly.” He glances down at the pink and blue and red and aqua armor littering the floor, and a sob builds in Tucker’s chest. Sigma dismisses it.

Wash sets his jaw. He does not look down. “What do you want for him?”

“Oh, if only it were that easy.” Sigma clicks his tongue and takes a step closer. Wash stands his ground. “But Captain Tucker has already made his decision. See, he could either help us retrieve the remnants of the Epsilon AI and return to his friends when all was said and done. Or, he could refuse, and we could retrieve them the hard way.”

He is inches away from Wash now, and when Wash tries to take a step back, Tucker’s hand shoots out and holds tightly to his chestplace. “I am sorry to say this, but Captain Tucker has chosen the hard way.”

Sigma pushes the hilt of Tucker sword to Wash’s abdomen and ignites it. Wash’s eyes go wide before rolling back, his mouth open in a silent gasp. His body goes limp, and Sigma lets go of the chestplate, letting Wash’s body crumple to the ground with the others.

Tucker has never screamed so loudly in his life.

He falls to his knees in the black abyss, the scream tearing itself from his throat. He buries his hands in his hair and curls in on himself, waiting for the grief and dread and despair to subside in his chest.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t fucking real.

Heat blankets over him. “Do you understand now, Captain Tucker?”

Tucker’s hands fall limply from his hair, and he stares into the darkness. A laugh rises in his chest, and it’s a manic, hysterical sound that escapes his lips. In one day, he both built a life with his best friends and watched them die at his hands. In one day, he both held Wash as he drifted to sleep and as he took his last breath. In one day, he lived both the best ten years and the worst ten minutes of his life.

“Yeah. I think I get the fucking picture.”

“Then you’ll help us.”

It isn’t a question, and the satisfaction in his voice sends a wave of anger crashing through Tucker. It surges, strong and sure, engulfing him in a cold rage that is entirely foreign to him. He sets his jaw, pushes himself to his feet, and looks evenly into Sigma’s smug fucking face.

There is one thing that Sigma still fails to understand. It is the one thing that Tucker knows with unflinching certainty.

His team always has his back. And if Tucker can do his part, they will find a way to get him out of this the right way. He does not need to shake hands with the devil when he has his team by his side.

“No,” Tucker spits. “Not in a million fucking years.”

He turns on his heels and walks away. He thinks the whole thing probably looks like something out of a goddamn movie, and he smiles when he thinks about how he’ll recount this moment to the Reds and Blues when he sees them again.

Sigma’s fire blazes. Tucker can feel it burning on his back, but he does not turn around. “You’ll regret this.”

“I could say the same fucking thing to you, dude.”

There’s one last gust of hot air before the black abyss melts away again. Tucker knows the simulation is coming this time, and he tries not to flinch when he finds himself backed against a wall, Felix’s face inches from his own.

“Now, doesn’t this feel familiar?” Felix sneers. “You were a big fan of this back with the New Republic. God, you really did love it when I would get you cornered somewhere—in your bunker, in the training room, in an empty hallway. You couldn’t get enough of it.”

Tucker doesn’t say anything, and Felix tilts his head curiously. “What’s the problem, tough guy? Cat your tongue?”

“You’re not real,” Tucker says, his voice even despite the way his stomach is twisting itself into knots.

“Oh, really?” Felix laughs. “You don’t think so?”

“I’d bet my life on it.”

“I’ll take that bet.”

Felix drives his dagger into Tucker’s abdomen, and it sinks into the exact same spot as it did before. It punches the air out of him, but he grits his teeth against the pain.

“How about that?” Felix asks, twisting the dagger. “Feels pretty real, doesn’t it?”

It does. It feels so fucking real, and he can’t hold back the tears that stream down his face. But Junior’s arms wrapped tightly around him also felt real. So did Wash’s skin under his fingers, and so did the sounds that came from each one of his friends as they died.

It all felt real, but he will not let himself be tricked this time.