goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

/Proceed as planned./

Fuck.

He was onto a good thing here, and then those goddam Sim Troopers had to show up. A couple of the others might think it was fun, but Wash would much rather have the job go smoothly, and while it was something that should be easy to deal with, it set him on edge. Why here? Why now?

And that one soldier in the tan armour... nah, couldn't be. Some idiot had just picked up whatever had been left over. Sold it on the black market. There was a lot of that going around these days, Freelancer and alien tech. It was someone playing at being a Freelancer and Wash would see them pay for picking it up like it was an identity they could just take.

They were still stuck in that canyon for now at least. Easy pickings if necessary. Time to do some recon.

He sent the soldiers back to base, preferring to do this himself. The scope of his rifle gave him a good look down to where the ship had crashed, and where the impostor was hiding, like he had any right in the world to that armour.

Edited (I used the word 'just' 3 times in 2 paragraphs and it was annoying me like crazy.) 2015-04-17 00:59 (UTC)

Hiding was hard enough with a bum eye and an AI and healing unit. It was a little bit easier when everyone thought he was dead- and a hell of a lot harder without the ai, the healing unit, or a full set of armor. Cobbling what was left over into something he could use took time and money. THe project going down made that hard. Someone picking off whoever kept shit made it harder.

But above all else York's a survivor. He's not gonna give up- he hums the rest of that old, old, old ass earth pop song to himself as he checks his sight lines again. Crashing had not been the plan but- hey. There's air here. There's water. There's no real UNSC presence which was really fucking great for him. For the first time in years he could crack his helmet and breathe. so that's what he does. pops the sea on his helmet and sets it aside, sucking in a deep breath of fresh air.

He's not even pretending to be competent. There's no wariness there that Wash can see, no evidence of the training they'd gone through. How could he have thought, even for a second, that it could be York? The other Freelancers are long dead. There's just him left.

He tracks the guy's movements through the scope anyway, finger on the trigger, even if he's not supposed to make them a target. Control wants them alive. Wants to use them. Which is a bullshit plan in Wash's opinion but hey, he gets paid either way. Let Control hang themselves with it.

There's something about the way the guy moves that sets him on edge. A prickling sense of familiarity that he quashes ruthlessly. Even so, he zooms in when he sees him reach up to remove his helmet.

That scar, the eye. It's been years and yet he'd recognise him anywhere. Of course he would. He can't forget.

"York."

Why bother being wary? The war's over. PFL's done for. He's dead in the eyes of the law. Sure he'll never get togo home and being stuck here isn't what he wants to do but- a breather far, far from all the bullshit that kept him up at night? Not so bad a thing. As far as he could tell there was fuck and all on this planet. Why worry?

He sets his helmet down and scrubs a hand through his hair, tugging on the tail tucked at the nape of is neck. Haircuts aren't exactly something he's got time to do anymore. Water that scans as clean's nearby so a good scrub down sounds like a good place to start.

Then there's something. A click, a word, some noise- he drops down and rolls to the closest cover, snagging his helmet on the way. The wind doesn't just whisper "York."

Stupid. Fucking idiot rookie. He should have been prepared for that but how could he be prepared to see someone who is listed as dead in any file Wash has cared to look at since before the Project was disbanded?

There's a moment when his chest tightens, the years of crap he's been ignoring welling up, demanding attention. Lucky he's had a lot of practice at ignoring them then.

No, stick to the plan.

He takes aim, deliberately off the mark but close enough that it might be dismissed as just a clumsy shot, inexperienced. Close enough to unnerve. And whichever side ends up getting here first, it's easy enough to blame it on the other.

Damn it damn it damn it- not only is he not alone, he's KNOWN. Recognized. The list of people that know his face are few and far between.

The ones that are still alive are all the more sparse. But that was his name he'd heard and- a crack of a bullet has him reacting instead of thinking. Helmet on, seal popped, HUD up, motion trackers he'd set out blinking into place- someone on a ridge. No visual. Single target. Years of trying to shove that training to the back of his mind and see people as people and not targets is all undone. Sidarm, shotgun- battle rifle still in the wreckage.

He'll have to get in close. There's just about enough cover from him to the rocks leading up to the ridge to make it possible. He tosses a rock in the opposite direction, clattering against crates he'd stacked earlier as he dives for the next round of cover.

Maybe not quite as out of practice as Wash had thought he was. Then again, he's pretty familiar with how hard it is to escape their training, how easily it all comes flooding back, especially when there's nothing else that feels right.

Another shot, a little closer, harrying him. It's a little like a game, testing to see what he can still do, if he's changed that much since he betrayed them. Bitterness he'd thought was long dead along with York and North and the others returns, and it's not just playing anymore, it's anger.

The clatter of rocks draws his fire, more intent this time, Control be damned.

Okay, not just a 'hi how are you' shot. Agent Texas is a nonentity, Carolina- well she'd pop a few shots at him and then hit him in the jaw for playing dead. North's dead. South's dead. Wyoming is dead. Maine's dead.

Florida? Florida never had a hate on for him though-

No time to think, pushing up the ridge, shogun on his back, sidearm in his hand as he climbs, shoves himself up to get a better view. Who's shooting. Who wants him dead and why didn't they take a shot while his helmet was off? What the hell is this mess for?

Flash of grey and he's got his target. Doesn't matter who or what or how.

It's harder without Delta but he manages to gain some high ground silently. Creeps up until he' peering down at the nest, watching whoever was watching him- or where they thought he was.

A couple more rounds, those crates filled with the holes wishes were in someone's body right now. He doesn't even care who. Just someone. Wash stops, lowers the rifle, breathes.

Either he got York and he's bleeding out somewhere behind there, or he didn't and York's just hiding like some crawling thing. Either way that's- it's fine. Objective achieved. Assuming the objective was royally scaring the crap out of him and whatever backup he's got. The Sim Troopers seem like they're not that easy to scare, all bravado with nothing to back it up with.

His heart is pounding hard enough that his HUD is popping up a concerned little beep. He ignores it and reloads out of habit more than intention right now. It steadies him, drags him back from vicious anger that he can't afford.

Doesn't matter who it is- it's a target. Someone that put a bunch of holes in the food crates and damn, he was gonna eat well tonight. Why'd that have to change? He could take a pot shot from here. Two in the head, move right along.

But he doesn't know this kid. It's gotta be a kid, getting pissed like that, letting their emotions rule where they aim-

holy fuck it's wash. The training to eliminate a target and his own wash of guilt and regret war at each other for a second but the kid's reloading and he needs to act. Elevator going down it is. He swings over the ledge feet first, quite as possible, aiming to land right on Wash's back.

Still no movement out there. No sounds either and that has him back on edge. He shouldn't have started this fight. Hates how just the sight of that armour, that face, makes him feel like a rookie all over again, the stupid child who'd put his trust in people who were fundamentally untrustworthy. Should've listened to Connie all that time ago.

There's a rustle nearby. No, above, that prick of sense that drags his gaze upwards but too late. Just enough time to see a blur of movement, a tan and black figure bearing down on him from above.

Okay so not on the back but on him, maybe if he plans it right he can pin his arms without, you know, breaking them but- shit. Delta would be better at running these programs but delta was deleted when he flatlined before the damn healing unit pumped him with adrenaline and shoved him back into consciousness with enough time to bail on the armor before he got his own ass blown up.

So. Pin the kid, Sidearm to visor. Seriously what the hell.

"That any way to treat an old friend, rookie?"

York's weight drags him down, an awkward fall while he's grappling to grab hold of him, shove him away, get some leverage. He hits the ground heavily, an awkward twisted angle against the rocks, just enough time for York pin him. Got his arms dragged against the ground beneath his weight, rifle knocked away and he can't quite reach his knife and all that rage and bitterness is back, a knotted up ball inside his chest.

There's a click and a gun pressed against his visor and he faces York for the first time in years.

Inside the helmet, Wash is grinning, a horrible smile, about as far from the one York would remember as possible. "I'll let you know if I ever meet one."

Lucky shot. Better to be lucky and good and goddamn he is sick of being lucky, sick of not being good enough to have stopped anything, to have seen it until after Connie got an axe to the chest and bled out god knows where. Not good enough to go back for Wash and that- that's gonna stick with him forever. Leaving him behind. Letting North take South with him. Trying to help Tex. Too much shit that he wasn't good enough to do or prevent and all of it just rolls into one target under him.

He couldn't make it right before. Now? Now maybe he could.

"Look." He doesn't get off the kid- but he does put his sidearm away. Slowly. Far from where the kid can reach because he's not an idiot. "If I let you up are you gonna try to kill me? Because I'm kind of tired of that shit."

He's glad that York can't see the surprise when he puts the sidearm away, the moment of confusion when York doesn't just shoot, even after Wash had been shooting at him. That's how it works these days. You find your target, you kill them. York though, he remembers that York hadn't been like that. Somehow he still isn't.

He thinks about it for a moment, genuinely questioning himself. He has knives that are easy enough to reach if he wanted to carve York up. He's got a sidearm and his rifle.

But that hadn't been the plan, and that black rage fuelling him has gone for now.

"No. I'm not getting paid enough to deal with this."

"Okay. I'm gonna get off you now." He pushes away slowly, getting his back up against the rock face, hands braced and ready for- well he did say shoot and Wash had always been a quick study with a knife whenever Connie was showing him shit and all these little details keep rattling through his head. How tired the kid sounds. How angry. Reminds him a little of south and that? That makes him twitch. He shoves that aside for the moment, waiting for-

for whatever comes.

He stays down for a moment when York moves away, watching him intently. It's only when he's out of reach that he pushes himself to his feet, moving warily, stiffly and never taking his gaze away from York. Just in case. He doesn't trust him. Doesn't trust anyone these days, and least of all himself.

"I'm going to grab my rifle. Then I'm leaving," he says, clipped tone, cold. "Go back to your camp. It gets cold here at night."

"What. No hi, York, how you doing? No 'sorry about almost shooting you', no 'what the hell you asshole we thought you were dead'? Nothing?" That didn't make any kind of sense. At all. What in the hell happened to Wash when they'd left?

Should've gone back.

Could've. Would've. Didn't. Too scared.

Too busy remembering Carolina dropping.

"One, You're obviously doing better than last time I saw you, since you're breathing. Two, I'm not sorry. And-"

The words get bitten off because if he cracks now, he's never putting himself back together.

"I have places to be," is a recalcitrant middle-ground between ignoring him and screaming everything he wants to say, and he's already wasted enough time here. Should never have stopped by in the first place but even now he just can't help himself.

"Look I know we didn't grab you when we could have and then we couldn't find you afterward but really? Not even a little sorry for taking a pot shot at me?" for trying to herd him into a killshot? He knew that tactic, they all trained in it- and the fact that Wash pulled that knowing he'd remembered it either meant habit overruled new training or fuck all happened between now and then.

Honestly? York knows it's the former. Some shit never goes away, no matter how you want it to.

"That's cold, kid."

How darehe.

Wash's eyes narrow behind the visor, fists clenching before he forces himself to relax. "I'm just doing my job. That's all. Nothing personal." He spits the word because it had become absolutely personal.

"There's a reason you couldn't find me afterwards. Ever think of that?" He shouldn't be doing this. He should turn away and go back to base, but it's the first time he's seen any of them in so long.

"And what job is that now? Last I checked the project got shut down- and yet." He flicks his fingers at Wash's armor, because it is pretty damn close to if not an exact replica of what he wore during the project. "And if it was nothing personal I'd still have my crate of MRE's. I mean, shit, they're MRE's so yeah I hate them too, but what did Salsbury steak and chicken a la king ever do to you, man?"

And that. Well. That's a whole other kettle of fish right fucking there.

"IT didn't take and they ghosted you. No files, no marker, no trail. For a year solid I thought you died in the crash and it was my fault." And then some kind of word got out about a kid named david and he'd chased it down to find fuck and all.

"You got downed in the middle of a civil war, York," he says bluntly. "The rebel forces are paying me to do their dirty work. Thought this might be government forces." It's not even a lie. Just not the entire truth. "You're obviously not so I have no reason to be here."

Always joking, that was York, and despite everything, Wash laughs, a strained huff of a thing that's barely amusement. "You know I've always had it in for those things."

The rest makes him since. He hadn't exactly been in the right state of mind to pay attention to much of what happened during that year. "They were.... Protecting their investment."

"...Seriously? I find the one hunk of rock STILL at war after the big one's over? Jesus fucking christ." That's just his luck. He rolls back through his options. Try to repair the ship (ha) and bail, try to hitch a ride off (not likely) pick a side and fight the good fight (no never again you couldn't FUCKING pay him enough he's done he's been done the job with tex was the last fucking one) or...

Well shit he doesn't have options now, does he?

"So I stay here I risk getting shot by your guys or the other guys." Can't catch a break. "Right. Always about the bottom line with the Director. Always about the results." And there, that's a scrape of bitterness he never got to voice to anyone but Delta.

Look at his fucking results now.

"What? You thought humanity would start holding hands and singing Kumbyyah? That's optimistic even for you." He sighs. "It's all this oppressive government, freedom, whatever crap. I don't care that much. But they're willing to pay decently enough which is the only reason I'm here."

Seriously, he hadn't even had to try hard to get them to trust him. It was... Pathetic.

"Yeah and he got left with South and me. And on my worst days I'm still saner than South. Mostly. So you can guess how well he took that."

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