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"No, you're just trying to talk about shit. Which...is something we Freelancers don't do. And we all know how that ends." It's just Mal. It's MALCOLM and if he can ease up enough to talk about it to anyone, it's him. York takes a slow breath and scrubs a hand through his hair. "Yeah we...talked it out. I said a lot of shit that had been on my mind for fuck'n ever. Most of it wasn't kind. We hugged it out, mended our bridges, I went back out and hung with Delta for a bit before get'n him to bed. Guy was tired. And worried. I wasn't really...filtering anything through our feed at the time."

"I know what not talking is like, and I know exactly how it ends." Exhibit A, person who doesn't talk about shit. That's how they get into the problems they get into half of the time, and the other half is because York doesn't talk. "I'm glad you two worked it out. Bottling things up...well."

They know how that ends. Every time. But they also always do it every time.

"The lot of you are having to roll with a lot of punches lately."

"I'm sorry I called you a navy brat." That's a little better, right? Right. "Lost my footing trying to put you back down when you said you couldn't swim. That's what I get for wandering around barefoot."

The rest? The rest. Christ.

"It wasn't even her I was mad at- well. A little. But it's not all on her that we never talk about what happens after I die. She doesn't like talking about it and I don't like making her do things that she doesn't like. I'll never not be stupid around her." A beat. "I met the Alpha. He's here. So's Tex."

There's a faint frown at first. That's not quite the kind of apology he expected, since that wasn't exactly the issue, but at least some things are cleared up?

But it's York's problems that he lets take centre stage. That's more important. York had all but imploded and needed an outlet for whatever was going on inside. "I heard about Tex, after." Carolina did not take that well. "I trust none of that went well for you."

"Also. Picking you up without permission. Another dick move. It was a night for dick moves, I'm saying. I'm sorry. I'd bake you a cake but-" That wouldn't end well. At all.

"Tex? Nah. We're cool. It's the fucking Alpha I can't stand. I shouldn't expect much of anything since he got broken pretty badly so I'd get D and theta would be theta and I'm pretty sure if I give myself time to think about shit rationally I won't blame him so much but- You ever sit back and look at someone and wonder why the hell they're a part of your life story?" He pinches the bridge of his nose and looks over. "He's- he can't shoot. Military Smart AI. Can't shoot. Doesn't remember anything. Is a self centered, illogical, paranoid little jackass. He's not worth dying for. And we all died over him. The fuck is up with that?"

Nope, no, the whole party situation is put completely on hold, paused, set aside so that Mal can come make some room to sit beside York. If York allows for it.

"You told me he was tortured into all these different pieces. That what's left is whatever wasn't forcibly stripped from him so he could try to preserve his own sanity. I'm not entirely sure what you were expecting. Delta got the logic, after all. I imagine Theta has all that empathy, and perhaps military skill was passed between the lot of them."

"Yeah, and what's left is an asshole. I wasn't expecting a saint- just a decent human being that wouldn't deny me knowledge of what comes after since it concerns someone he supposedly cares about and spit on the sacrifice of said person just because 'he never asked for it, asshole'." York scrubs at his face, knee tipping to knock against Malcolm's. "He's not broken, he's a shitbag."

"And that's what was bothering you. He wouldn't tell you, and Carolina never told you, and now that you know, you don't know how to react to that." At least, that's what Malcolm gathers. "You died doing what you thought was right. I don't think that's nothing."

"I died trying to save him. To protect D. And you know what fucking happens to them?" He can't not get worked up about this, not only a few days later. Not with it sitting thick and heavy in his veins like a drug. "An EMP. A fucking EMP. Wipes the whole lot of them out. I died for nothing."

What can he say to that? He wasn't there. And he can't possibly say that that news isn't upsetting when it is. He can't argue. Malcolm rests a hand on York's back between the shoulderblades. Support is there if he wants it.

"The war ends. The Project's brought down. And none of it matters." And that's just it. None of it matters. So why is he bothered? He shouldn't be. He should be well pleased that, at least, he got to live a little longer here.

"Why doesn't that matter? It's done. It's over."

"Why the fuck should it matter, we're all dead. And Carolina gets to carry our ghosts." And that's the least fair part of it. She lives- lost to everyone that she'd cared about. Loses them without ever being able to stop. "The fuck is the point of anything?"

His hand tenses across York's shoulders until it moves up to hook itself on one, gripping firmly. No, what happened to each of them individually is hardly fair. Individually, maybe it seems pointless. "But it's over," he restates with a tired sigh. "That much ought to count for something."

"Equipment is still floating around. People still have the data from the Director's experiments. What's to stop them from doing it all over again? Not me, I can't say shit, I'm dead and Carolina can't do anything because she'd be implicated by association. Her father fucked everything up and paved the way for a fine new set of war crimes." He sags back against Mal. This, this is why he doesn't talk about home. Doesn't think about what was or what would have been if he hadn't gotten shot. It's exhausting.

"So focus on here. Easier said than done, but if there's nothing left for you back there, then there's hardly a point in worrying about it." The idea that things being done wouldn't matter rankles Malcolm. If he was in the same situation--if he'd died during the war and ended up here--

But it's not the same situation. Nowhere near. So York's opinions and feelings override everything else.

(Including the conversation, he hasn't failed to notice.)

"I try to. Usually it works. Having someone not from home to talk to helps. It just hit me hard that night on top of everything else. Seriously, Mal. Thank you. I'm already not handling this shit well but it'd be so much fucking worse without you." Reel it in. He's fine. He'll be fine. He'll cope. He can't do anything about what happened there. What's happening here, though-

That he can work on.

York pats Malcolm's knee and drags over the data padd, flicking through files before he pulls up a holographic display of the armor currently being built for him. "So I've kinda- you're not getting the same model as Carolina and me. I tried to take your background into account, you know?"

Well. He's good for something, at least. Who would've thought it'd be more social in nature than anything else?

The armour is, thankfully, a distraction from what seems like a building, oncoming brood. "Not build one and make copies so everyone's on the same page?" It's not a bad idea, having specialized armour custom made to individual strengths. Kind of like the Project--kind of, but not.

Maybe that's a concern. "My background you say." It has an amused lilt to it. "I think the closest I've ever come is an EV suit, and those aren't quite so form fitting."

"We never got into specifics because I never sobered up and then the whole...thing happened- but whenever you want to talk about it? I'm here to listen. It seems like it kinda bugs you, some times, especially when the spy shit pops up on the network." Mostly he's been trying to give Mal a little space in that regard. The man's private for a reason.

"So...something a little more streamlined for stealth operations if you need it, with advanced sensors on the HUD for a tactical advantage. Your close quarters combat isn't that different from the training we got so I buffed up the amplifiers in the arms and shoulders to give you a little more clout, and doubled up on the armor plating around the torso since you're fond of explosives." He points out each feature as he brings it up, flicking the display over to full color. Navy blue with red trim, like the uniform. He turns so the Starfleet embalm on the side is visible too. "I think that's about it until we get the upgrades dada complied from sim testing before we try to go live. We are not fucking those up this time. We're doing it right."

No Utah for Malcolm.

"Also, in the future? Jetpacks."

This is going to look amazing when the real thing is in front of him. (Hell, on him. It's a little baffling to think that this is for him even if he's known about the idea for quite a while now.) He's attentive, reaches to turn it here and there when York's not fiddling with it.

Then the colour comes on, and the Starfleet delta is emblazoned clear on the arm, and he feels more than a little suckerpunched. He still has his uniform, tucked away in his room. Hasn't worn it for some time when before it had been like a second skin. And the red on the arm is just like that bloody rave when York painted it on him. Back when Jim was still around. That York remembers these details has him swallowing back an unanticipated emotion.

Nothing will ever be like home again, but the reminders--the good reminders--can keep them grounded to where they came from. He clears his throat after a long moment. "Upgrades?" Are they really doing that?

He gives Malcolm a moment to look. To take in the details, even slides the data pad over so he can flick through, zoom in and turn things around on his own time. Mal's military- having a uniform means something. Having a unit. Having order. The Project ended in chaos without any of that. Malcolm being involved isn't just expected, it's a requirement. They need someone that understands how shit SHOULD have gone, someone to reign them in.

Someone to keep them orderly.

"If they're viable. Right now we're just working on the theory. Nothing that requires an AI to run so that takes care of most of the more dangerous shit anyway. None of it gets implemented until we're absolutely sure they're not going to get anyone hurt if we test them. Right now we're just getting the armor made and calibrated." He's been talking to a guy about getting a warehouse set aside in D4 for them to train in but the price is woah even for him. He'll have to tap in on Clair for that. "Then it's...learning how to be a unit again. We all kind of forgot at the end of it. Having you is gonna be a big help, Mal. You remember how to do this the right way. And that's what we need. The right way."

"Me, sir?" He glances up sharply.

And then he regrets what came out of his mouth. All of the military talk, the thoughts of home, it just--happens. It just comes out as if he'd always called York sir.

But York isn't the captain. They're on a level playing field here. He clears his throat again, continues as if it hadn't happened. "I understand your perspective. I have plenty of experience prepping a team and leading them where to go, as a unit, and how to work as a group in combat. We never--well. I can hardly say we never had anything like Freelancers, but then, I wouldn't know, would I? To my knowledge, we didn't. The Coalition of Planets was to work together." Nevermind how that barely happened in any sense of the word. "Starfleet is a unit, each group of ships together a unit, every crew on a single ship a unit. Sometimes things come down to one person..." Sometimes people behind the scenes, sometimes a crazy hail mary or act of sacrifice-- "But you can't win a war alone."

Still, the fact that York trusts him enough by going on basically hearsay as to Malcolm's skills and knowledge, that's high praise and honour. And it's all touching, from that to the armour and back again.

"No leaderboard. No competing against each other. No rewards for doing better than one another. Work to our strengths. No live ammo in training." He figures York will appreciate that one.

"Sir?" One tiny word. Sir. He hasn't been sirred since, well, the MOI. There were subordinates, soldiers and security that weren't freelancers and he'd gotten Sirred by them once or twice but it didn't ever have the same ring to it that this did.

Maybe it's the accent. Maybe it's the habit that's quick and clean. Maybe it's how absolutely certain he sounds. That's- highly irregular.

It twists in his stomach with an odd mix of heat and chill that he's not sure he knows how to do with. Right. Sir. Him. Mal- okay no.

"See? Already miles ahead of who we had before. You'll be a great number 2." He pats Malcolm on the back and, yeah. He should be Sirring Malcolm. He can't even remember his old rank before the project anymore. It's not relevant.

Nope. Ignoring the sir. Ignoring it. There is no sir here. Nobody's a sir. Although someone has to be a sir if he's going to be--"Number two to who? Carolina?"

She'll want armour, sure, but is she going to want this a cohesive group? "We have to make sure we aren't Freelancers. It can't happen, and we'll have to...be as dissociated from that as possible. I'm not sure that armour and upgrades help with that, but...it's an edge."

"Yessir." Okay maybe he's poking at it a bit. He'd liked it. Liked how mal looked and sounded. He looked- like he was home. comfortable. It's not something that happens often enough. "I was only number 2 because my scores were so high. We need a second in command that can reign her in and actually knows what the hell they're doing."

Morale, he can do. Improv? Sure! But leading a squad? Nope, not even from the number two slot. Malcolm it is. "The suits and upgrades are tools more than anything else. We need to distance ourselves from the..language of the project, I think. Call Ourselves something different. New code names. We're a group that's choosing this, knowing exactly what's going on when we sign up this time. No surprises."

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