goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

It had only been a couple of weeks since the school year had started and Andrew had come to really enjoy teaching his class of third graders. For the most part they were well-behaved and full of curiosity. There were a couple of troublemakers, which was inevitable in a group of children, but even they seemed to enjoy their weekly trips to the school library. Today was library day, and he led them down there, them set them loose to chose their weekly selections.

There was a new librarian behind the desk—not the person who had been there the week before. He approached with a little smile. "Hey there."

/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)

[OOC: Demon AU!]

Talons tapped lightly across the floor as the demon explored her summoner's home in the dark.

It wasn't particularly impressive apartment and hadn't taken her long to map out in detail even in the dark. While he was in possession of several rooms, the central area was slovenly and joined with the kitchen, and the sleeping chamber was small and dark, with an attached bathing room.

From how he'd described it, his dwelling was within a greater tower, high up within a city who's name she hadn't bothered to memorize. She would have to correct that, if she was to reside here for any length of time.

She paused by the couch, tail flicking as she eyed the Book where it was presently doubling as a drinks matt for several empty beer cans on the floor. The demonicon had yet to be burned, but there was still time for that. She smirked to herself a moment, barring fangs. Her aforementioned summoner was presently snoring away and in spite of sealing their pact over beer, and she rather doubted he expected her to be here come morning.

She wasn't entirely sure what sort of binding effect ketchup would have compared to blood, either. But, she could wait. For now, she wasn't going anywhere. And he was interesting enough that she didn't particularly want to.

She didn't think she'd ever hear such a begging tone out of this particular manager, but the offer left on her voicemail was proof indeed that miracles could happen.

"One day, one night. Double your usual rate. Please call me back."

That he was family, albeit a half-brother, wouldn't normally have swayed her either, but 'Delta' never asked anyone for anything if he could help ir - and he had to have been desperate if he was asking her for help. And Carolina had to admit, she was rather curious to meet a guy who could drive someone as unflappable as D to such distraction. Or to need someone with her particular set of skills.

Hence why she was waiting in a hotel conference room for Delta to finish wrangling his latest 'rising star' for this particular meet and greet. He'd at least left her a copy of the intended itinerary as well as the floor plan for tonight's performance, and she had made a point to study it, looking up only once the door to the suite opened.

Okay so the other guard probably shouldn't have tried to make that jump but to be fair- not his fault! Parkour is just a thing he does and he was careful to stay in the same building there was no need for them to jump after him and- yeah. So he feels bad and he's sent flowers and some money for the hospital bills because it was kind of his fault. Sort of. A little.

Dude he has to keep his figure somehow.

So. New Guard because 'creepy letters are a thing to be worried about York' and 'remember your eye york' and 'No stop please my blood pressure york' are a thing. He worries about D sometimes. He should send him on vacation when this wraps up. He pops the door open and double takes at the woman there. "Um. Hi. Modeling agency is actually-"

He leans out to point further down the hall. "Two, three rooms down I think?"

It'd been a prank. Or something for a research paper. Or something he'd done when those weird 'herbal' cigarettes that smelled a little more like incense and less like clove he got from the shop the book was from mellowed him out past being able to make good life choices. Not that he needed much help in that area. Between the bullshit that is his new 'job' and his class schedule (coming back to school after his stint in the army was a fan fucking tastic idea who told him to do that again? oh right. Drew) he hasn't really been doing the best at that.

And then the dream about summoning a demon. Which. Was weird as shit but okay, he's had weirder in the war. The red hair and eyes kinda helped in that they didn't help at all. Names he'd rather forget.

SLeep never kept on that long, he twitches out of it soon enough, locking up tight for all of five seconds until he remembers where he is and what was goin on. The lack of a demon in front of him seemed to help. Just a dream. Ok. "Need to stop drink'n the cheap tequila, York."

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."

RP Open Post

Schoolteacher AU

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Bodyguard/Popstar AU

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