goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

He watches the movement with a deep wariness as York moves towards him, reaches out. Everything about him, rigid spine, the clasp of his hands at his sides near the knife, it screams danger, like an angry stray cat as likely to claw him up as submit to the touch. He doesn't attack when the hand lands on his shoulder, but he doesn't relax either.

"Nice words York." Because that's it, they're just words and he doesn't trust good intentions. Hasn't for a long time.

He looks around, down at the canyon below where York's things are still scattered around. He really needs to check in soon. This is going to get complicated, he can tell that already. "You can't stay here York. Sooner or later someone else will find you. The Feds have a pretty vicious merc on their side."

"I tried to find you." Not that it's worth- anything now. But it needs saying. He tried. "...I'm sorry I never did."

Maybe it would've made shit easier on him. On everyone. Maybe it would've changed everything. Maybe it would've just gotten him killed. God only knows how that'd go. For now there's the ruin of his camp, am ess of MRE's to clean up, and mercenaries in the middle of a civil war.

Fun times.

"Is there anywhere on this rock where I won't be noticed?"

Yeah, me too, is on the tip of Wash's tongue, because how different would his life have been if York, if any of them, had got him out when they'd had the chance instead of leaving him there to take whatever the Director threw at him. But they hadn't, and he doesn't have the luxury of the time to reminisce and ponder what else could have been. So there's silence and a gaze flat with accusation.

"I don't know. You could try running and hiding in the caves, but they're unstable at the best of times. If I found you, other people can too."

"That's an option." Or- well. Feds and a merc versus whoever Wash is with. Being on his own is asking to get shot. It's work he'd rather not do- a whole mindset he ran as hard as he could to get away from but the options here are limited. He sighs and scrubs at the back of his head, dropping his hand from Wash's shoulder. "...Need a locksmith?"

He offers. He actually makes the decision himself without being forced into it. For a moment Wash can hardly believe it. He'd thought they'd have to force York's hand. This is better than they'd hoped. And yet at the same time... at the same time there's a bright anger that comes with it. A part of him that wants to take York's shoulders and shake him until he sees what this is, until he grows up and stops trusting so easily, like Wash had been forced to. How can he still be like this? Just trusting because it's him when everything has changed? When Wash is like this?

He smiles instead, a faint shadow of what it had been but more than York's had from him since things had gone to hell. "I think we can use all the help that we can get."

"No holographic locks, though. I mean I could but it takes about sixty seconds and that's with all my attention. Without D this-" He waves at his scarred eye. "Makes focusing on the floaty bits difficult. Unless you wanna pair me up with a spotter for future infiltrations which I'd be fine with if I run 'em through the ringer first."

if he can take down whoever is supposed to be watching him- well. How can he trust them to have his back? He can't, it's that simple. This isn't the option he wanted but it's better to fall in with the devil you know than to face a fresh new hell without a goddamn clue as to what's going on.

Wash hums softly in agreement. "Shame you couldn't use that excuse back on the project," he says, and it's almost a joke, or maybe there's a sharper edge to it. Wash couldn't possibly comment. "Don't worry. I doubt we'll be coming up against any holo-locks. It's a backwater planet of no real consequence."

Except the masses of alien technology that's practically lying there on the ground unattended. That more than makes up for being stuck here.

"You'd better get your stuff York. We've been stood around too long. I don't get to hemmed in by the Feds."

And he needed to check in badly. She'd want to know.

Joke? Five years ago it would be. Now York doesn't glare, doesn't flinch, just pulls his helmet back on and clicks the seal in place. Wash as he'd known him isn't the man he's talking to now and contrary to popular believe, the York Wash knew before? Isn't the same York that's here either. But that'll come up later, probably mid firefight knowing their luck. "Lemme load up the car. I think it's still running, at least."

He might have to whack it with a hammer a few times but- if he's helping with a civil war? May as well bring all the gear in that he can. ingratiate himself with the populace.

No laughter? No witty retort? That is new. But then, it's been years. He can't expect even York to be dependable and stay the same. He wonders how much it eats York up inside, what had happened. If the nights are as bad as Wash has them sometimes or if he manages to pretend that he's fine. He'd always been good at that, being fine.

Wash nods and slides his helmet back on, feeling immediately better when it does. It's easy to deceive the warring parties here. They never knew him. But York is different. He knew Wash better than probably anyone back in Freelancer. It's worrying.

"Sounds good," Wash says. I'll scout the area, check we're clean then call in. Let them know we're coming."

Let Carolina know what a fucking mess this was becoming.

"Area's clear except you." Not that he expects Wash to take him at his word, but he wasn't a complete novice. He'd checked and primed and set up a perimeter. If Wash peeked over the ledge he'd see, maybe, the strut hidden in one of the bushes marking one of his trackers. A direct alarm that would ping to his helmet. Sue him, he hadn't thought anyone could make it up the ledge Wash had climbed. Then again he hadn't anticipated a former freelancer.

"What're you low on? I got plenty."

Wash gives him a sceptical look that should be obvious in the tilt of his helmet. He'd given up trusting other people a long time ago. Why should this be any different? "I got the drop on you," he points out. It's more that he needs a moment to breathe, slip back into a professional mindset. Do the job, get paid, get off this pit of a planet and then... He'll think about that afterwards.

"Honestly? Everything. Ammo and weapons. Food is... Not terrible but way things are going the fight could take a lot longer than they thought it would. We could rig the place. I'll send someone back for the rest."

"For two seconds. Then I had you on the ground. Like usual." Worst Freelancer ever. Of All time. Things have changed but Wash still didn't seem like he could check his own six if the objective was right there. Then again situational awareness wasn't exactly rewarded. Survival shit and stealth, all that came from his run in the military before the project.

They didn't get much more than toys and missions and vague, arbitrary training with either. Not exactly conductive to creating solid soldiers.

"You wanna take a lap around, go for it. Just keep it about..." He peers across the clearing, retracing his steps. "...ten yards further out than you normally would. Or you'll get blown up."

"Yeah, like usual," Wash replies, that hard, bitter knot back in his voice. "Guess there really wasn't much reason to come back for me."

He's turning away before York can reply, and part of him wishes he'd gone for a killshot straight off, orders be damned. She'd the last memories of that life, make it easier for everyone involved. Still, worst Freelancer and he was the one stood here now after the rest of them had gone. That counted for something.

"I'll be careful. I'm not a rookie anymore."

"Leave no man behind. Dunno how much time you spent in the military before the project- but that's a thing." It stuck with some of them more than others. North- well. North got out with Theta and South. That's all he cared about. York looked until he found the KIA. Couldn't find anything after that and he'd assumed it to be on the money.

Wash dead and he'd fucked up enough to not have to see it happen.

Then Tex. Then Wyoming. Then Maine and all that. Delta and everyone else. "No. No you're not."

He's something else entirely. York's not sure what to make of it but- whoever Wash reports to? That's who he needs to meet. It doesn't take long for him to swing down and start sorting through what's still good after getting shot up. Pack it up, load it up. Cover the crates that he couldn't fit on the jeep with camo netting.

"Not much," Wash says, shrugging. "I don't even know why I got picked up for the project honestly. Beat being cannon fodder." Out on the front lines. Serve your people, make them proud. His younger self had been an idiot who believed in that stuff. "It's just pretty words and a nice sentiment."

He sort of wishes he could think more of it, believe it a little. But they've got a population to kill. It just doesn't fit with the ethos.

He waves a hand in response and leaves York to pack up. Goes to check the perimeter and, well, report in.

"It's him. It's York."

The silence tells him enough. Carolina isn't happy. About as happy as him.

"Keep him occupied. I'll figure this out." That's the response. She's better at the stone cold thing than she had been back then.

Wash signs off, heads back to York. "You ready?"

"Watch your step." Doesn't bother looking up from where he's lashing down the last crate. It'll hold. It kinda hasta and he probably should just let Wash walk on through the EMP tripwire but that'd knock out his HUD too and that? That's a bitch and a half to get up and running.

"Feel like riding shotgun or do you wanna drive?"

Wash pauses when York says that, then steps carefully over the wire that he'd rigged up. Nice security protocol. Maybe he's not quite as trusting as Wash had thought. He recognises the paranoia. Sees it in himself every day.

"You drive. I'll direct," he replies. "Got better range than you if it does come to a fight."

"Get assigned a shotgun for one op and it's the only thing people think you use." He snorts but slides into the driver's seat anyway. Might as well conserve his ammo until he knows the score.

"You're becoming a stereotype," Wash replied, smirking beneath the helmet. "Besides. Cars hate me. It probably wouldn't even start if I tried to drive."

It was a curse.

"What, still? I thought it was just cuz that guy ran you over the one time. Not that it was a trend." It's kind of unfortunate, cars make shit so much simpler.

Navigating past the traps he'd set took some doing but he manages to squeeze on through, hopping out for a second to close the perimeter behind them before heading along whatever path Wash makes.

"There were... incidents," Wash replies. "It leaves a guy a bit paranoid."

The route is circuitous, avoiding the worst rock falls and places where the road has become impassable. Apparently planet-wide civil war doesn't do great things for infrastructure.

"You've always had lousy luck." Says the Freelancer that could, in some light, have the best. Then again living this long- seeing everything that came after? Surviving the mess and dealing with what it made of him? Not all that lucky.

Maybe he should've just been good.

"Hope you got a pitstop or something up here soon, we're runn'n low on fuel." He'd topped off with what he'd had left at the site but someone put a bullet through his other jerrycan.

"Worst luck ever. Of all time," Wash replies, not bothering to hide his amusement. It almost feels like old times. Back when they'd been friends, or at least colleagues. The banter, the jokes. It's nice.

He bites his lip for a moment, thinking. "Sure. Next left. Got a cache set up for emergencies. There's fuel."

"Can't be that bad, you found me." When he wasn't really trying all that hard to be found. Opposite in fact. Why the hell else catch a ride to the rim of the galaxy? Sure he wasn't implicated in any of the legal mess that surrounded the dismantling of PFL but he couldn't exactly go home either.

It's not even the UNSC he was worried about making trouble for him.

There's a moment, like there's always going to be moments, where he starts to ask D what he thinks- it passes. York goes quiet and still as he reminds himself he's alone in his head while he pulls in at the cache Wash mentioned earlier.

"And we're both stuck on this pit of a planet. At least I'm getting paid for this." All the alien tech that he could ever want and that was just the above board stuff. "Maybe the bad luck rubbed off on you."

Ending up here without a clue what was really going on. That really was bad luck.

The cache is set back into the mountainside, a narrow cave that was almost impossible to see until you were right up to it. Wash hops out of the car and goes to disarm the traps that he'd set. There's fuel in there, enough to get them back to the rebel base.

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