hexaflexagons | [psl] Time Travel Twins PSL

One shot, through her helmet. Spiderwebs of cracks on the visor. The way she dropped like a cut-loose puppet. Wash holds the image in his mind for a moment, probing at it like a not-quite-loose tooth.

North answers her, then turns to him. "No," Wash replies shortly, laying the word like he's laying a tombstone: with finality, like it could cut a life short in that action alone. "He's completely and absolutely gone."

The only way to move on from here is to answer South, and it's like having the only escape route be filled with a foul odor.

He looks to her anyway. "I do know, and no. What kind of a--"

Breath, he can't get worked up.

"... Saying he'll be weak if you damage his strengths isn't listing a weakness," Wash bites out. (Partial success. At least he sounds calmer.) "Telling you that his suit doesn't have the power to fuel all the mods, on the other hand..."

Oh, she would kill to punch him right now. Nice and hard across the jaw. Hurts the fist but it’s worth it to leave a nice bruise and maybe knock someone out. Shame he’s wearing his helmet. Maybe she could just go for a throat chop instead...

“See, that’s useful information,” she says, choosing not to acknowledge his heavy implication she’s an idiot. “So, what, we trap it somewhere we have better odds, try damage the units, maybe try and trick it into wearing down its power supply?”

She doesn’t acknowledge the Maine thing, either. The mushy stuff’s North’s area. Shame the big guy’s basically brain dead, but no point dwelling on something already over when they’ve got their own lives to save from the AI-powered zombie he’s become.

North nods, considering, waiting until the other two have stopped talking to respond.

"I don't know how you could know that, definitively," North says finally. "If Sigma's in control then Maine could be in there trying to find some way to escape. Personally, I only want to have to kill Maine as a last resort. I think we should try to rescue him and see if he's okay underneath everything."

On the other hand...

"But if Sigma's gone and he goes after Theta anyway, he's toast."

South groans, fingers splaying out over her visor as she drops her head into her hand. Give her fucking strength.

“North. Dearest brother of mine.” If snark was a power source, they’d be able to run one of their units on hers alone. “I know you have enough heart for the both of us, but how the fuck do you think trying to take even a single fucking AI off the suped up team tank is gonna go? I’ll tell you: we’d fucking die. Washington’s already painting this fight as getting out in as few pieces as possible!”

Wash swallows hard, fighting the silent snarl threatening to take over his face. Where was that care when Wash was laid up in the medical wing? It doesn't matter. Wash has had years to put this behind him, so he's long since stopped caring.

(Except... no. He's finding that he does care, more than he'll admit. Rather than acknowledge it, he pushes it back with everything else in that pressure-cooker section of his mind. Good thing that he still has a ways to go before it boils over.)

"I wasn't expecting to say this, but South is right," Wash cuts in flatly. "We don't have the resources to hold him, or to take out Sigma without injuring him. Unless the two of you have something gamechanging hidden in your back pockets, of course."

He doubts it. Something that could make an EMP less lethal? Something that could rip it from his mind without flash-frying the circuits? The twins are on the run, there's no way they have anything like that.

North pauses, then shakes his head.

"I hate the idea that he's trapped in there without being able to fight back, but...there's only so much we can do, I suppose. Better to make that plan B. Taking him out will be plan A."

With that, it's time to get down to the nitty-gritty.

"If we lure him in here, it should give us a good chance to ambush him. It's protected on three sides."

'Plan B', sure. South rolls her eyes since he can't see through the visor, but ugh, at least he's seen enough sense to not keep harping on it.

"And we're already here, trying to find somewhere else would just complicate shit. Especially if the damn thing's close enough Washington's being all dramatic about how," she does what can only be described as mocking, dramatic jazz hands, "two of us would be dead by this time tomorrow without his gracious assistance."

Okay, maybe she should stop antagonising Washington, but that doesn't mean she's going to.

"Seems to me like the important question is how much time we have to prepare. Not that we have a lot of fucking gear to prepare anyway." Ugh, being on the run.

North pauses, then relents, and Wash's shoulders lower very slightly. It's been a long time since he's thought about North at all, but this moment of reason reminds him faintly of the better times--the ones when they'd worked as a team, all aiming in the same direction.

South goes on to reply, but aside from a helmet-tilt as Wash sends her a look, Wash doesn't outwardly react. (If Washington were still sensitive to digs about him being 'dramatic', he'd have killed the Reds and Blues a long time ago.)

"No more than a few hours," Wash answers first, then lifts his visor to their surroundings. "This area's protected on three sides, but if we're not careful, he'll use the cover to break our lines of sight on his holograms. And we'd better not assume any of these walls are actually solid enough to stop him, assuming he wants to get through."

A few hours. Fuck. Can it really be that close by? Without her knowing? If they’d stayed here tonight and it had found them, when she didn’t even have a clue it was near… that wouldn’t have given her much time to prepare.

For a moment she almost wonders if it’s a good thing Washington turned up, but she shoves that aside. No. She’d have figured something out. She’d have—

And then he says holograms and she’s jolts, slightly. “Wait, holograms? But that was— who else—” She catches herself, composes herself, and coughs. “We have to deal with holograms? Great. Just— great.”

(That’s Connie’s unit. That was always Connie’s unit. Fuck. Like she needed to be reminded of anything else that sucks today.)

She groans dramatically, turns 360 on the spot again. “Alright, okay, whatever. We have the dome shield. We know it can’t get through that at least.”

North moves forward in the space, studying the structure around them. He offers his suggestions; the other two counter with their own. Soon enough the plan is set—not without some arguing and general bickering on the part of the other two, but it's set. North will act as bait, drawing the Meta into the main space, and the other two will block his way out after he's been led in. North will move to the Meta's 3 or 9 o'clock, to avoid being hit by South and Wash's fire, and they will all do their best to breach his armor—and any other defenses he has taken from other Freelancers.

With that, it's time to bide their time until the Meta attacks. If he arrives as soon as Wash is predicting, they barely have enough time to break out some MREs and have dinner. But doing so is the best plan they have; no use meeting a former friendly in battle without anything nutritious in their systems.

North goes to where they have the meals stored and picks through them. "I have one more meatloaf meal, Wash," North says, seemingly remembering that was one of Wash's favorites whenever they were out in the field.

By the time they decide on a plan, any bitter remarks Wash might've held back about the Meta and its stolen abilities are left aside and forgotten. Wash is the closest to calm that he's been in the entire encounter, even as he feels strangely adrift without one emergency or another boiling at his heels.

Life was never dull around the Sim Soldiers; he doesn't miss the stress, of course, but now that the planning has finished, everything is too quiet. It's too easy, they're going to sit down and maybe even have a stilted conversation like rational adults, and in its own way the thought is almost unbearable. Maybe Wash should withdraw, take the waxy ration bar in his hand and pretend to be busy checking over his weapons--

North calls over from where he's picking through his and South's food storage, and Wash's train of thought screeches to a halt. "What?" he asks blankly.

Meatloaf. It's--been a while since Wash has eaten an MRE that wasn't half crushed in a ship-crash or expired, but he remembers meatloaf being the best of all of them.

Why is North bringing it up? Is it (dare he even consider) an extended olive branch, or is it the set-up for something more vindictive?

Despite his misgivings, Wash stalls from actually opening his ration-bar, drifting closer. Keeping his tone flat (and undoubtedly difficult to read), he echoes, "Only one more?"

The MREs they had in storage had been stolen from the supply depot some months ago, and they had just a few left. North knew the comfort of them, when having been in the field for a long time. And North knew the value of remaining on the good side of the person who'd warned you that you were about to be ambushed.

"Yes," he says, patient as ever. "I'm offering it to you. If you want it."

There doesn't seem to be a catch.

"Thanks," he says, thawing slightly. It's a strangely clumsy act, accepting something as small as this, but he's spent a long time building up mental walls between himself and those he once knew. The Reds and the Blues have torn down their own corner beyond all expectations, but the other Freelancers--

"I'll take it."

The waxy, gummy ration bar he'd brought out goes back into its pocket, and Wash takes the MRE, automatically shredding the package as he steps away again. His helmet tilts towards his hands, but his eyes steal towards the twins.

South has her helmet off, so there's no visor to hide the way she rolls her eyes and curls her lip at the exchange. That's North, alright, her fucking insufferably nice asshole of a brother, giving up one of the few tolerable MREs to the other asshole who, for all they know, could jab a knife in their spines the second their guard is down.

"How sweet," she sneers, not even looking Washington's way. She considers several cutting comments that don't make it off her tongue because the idea of North giving her the low 'South' of warning like she's a little kid who needs discplining in front of Washington is humiliating. "Ugh, toss me the first thing your fucking hand touches next. They all suck anyway."

It's meant to sound like she doesn't give a fuck, but her facial expressions have always been traitorous when she's not trying to rein them in. Ugh. She misses proper food almost as much as she hates Washington right now.

"There's still a chicken enchilada meal," North says to South, knowing it's not quite as a good as the meatloaf, but it's palatable. It'll leave him with something not as good, but he's got to keep her from snarling any worse than she is, apparently. He grabs it and holds it out to her.

She rolls her eyes again with a snort, barely holding back more sharp comments. Oh, she knows what he's doing, because it's what he always does, playing fucking damage control, but she doesn't care enough to actually tell him where to shove it right now. So she takes the meal, almost but not quite snatching it from his hand, and tears it open.

"Thanks," she grumbles, a tone which doesn't at all help to make it sound genuine.

It's a familiar ritual: take out the main package, pour water from his canteen into the heating-bag, shake. He's done it countless times, and many of them with this same backdrop of noise, in a place far from safety.

It's so close to familiarity while still being years away, and Wash feels a little like he's seeing double. There's a faint ache blooming behind his eyebrows, and he wants to slink away, to be called away by some ridiculous emergency that'll keep him too busy to think.

That's not an option, of course. Washington shakes his head a little, then pointedly turns his thoughts elsewhere. North has already extended a hand with this (old, stale, nostalgic) meal, and if Wash wants things to be different this time--not just Theta, but maybe North's fate, too--he needs to not half-ass this.

"When this is all over," Wash says suddenly, turning his meal around in his hands. He doesn't look at either of them, ostensibly speaking to both. "I know a safehouse you can use. Even if it's just to restock your supplies to get back on the run."

Or as 'on the run' as they can be with South's position as it is. (If she becomes a problem, and things come to a head... Wash will take her out first.)

North has grabbed the last palatable option, a New Orleans-style red beans and rice meal, and has taken a seat to prepare it. When Wash makes that last comment, he looks over.

"And you're going to back to working for them?" he says. "You know I don't use language this strong often, Wash, but fuck that. If we manage to take the Meta out, you're coming with us after."

She fucking hates him sometimes.

She was prepared to bite her tongue about the safehouse thing. She's got food to eat and it'll be easier to convince North that's a bad fucking idea when they're away from Washington, but that? That? Fuck, sometimes it's like she's not even here.

"Fucking— seriously?! Don't I get a fucking say in this shit?!" No, of course she doesn't. When was the last time he gave her a say in any of this? She certainly didn't get one when he dragged her off the MOI in the first place. "We can barely keep two of us going! And we're already pushing our luck trusting him not to just shoot us in the back the second we let our guard down, let alone to not fucking report our location the second we finish doing what he wants!"

Wash's helmet is still on, and while it hides his expression it doesn't hide the way his helmet jerks back in shock.

This wasn't what he was expecting. This was the last thing he was expecting, and before he can say anything, South jumps in, fury boiling through her words.

... Wash's mouth closes. Even he hadn't known what he would say to North, but he knows what he wants to say to both of them, all of it heavily soaked in the irony of her complaining about reliability when she's going to stab all of them as soon as they turn their backs.

(If North outlives her, if the offer's still standing--maybe Wash can try again to reach out. Staying in touch with North would help keep Theta safe, wouldn't it?)

"If Wash intended to report us, he would have done it already, without even letting us know he was here," North says calmly.

He notices Wash's helmet jerk back, and he raises a hand, reaching it in the direction the Meta is most likely to come, the gap in the fortress.

"And he's perfectly capable of helping us keep things going, South."

He puts his hand down to take his fork and take a bite of his meal.

"He's reaching out to us; I don't intend to leave him in the lurch after that."

"He wants us to help him fight this thing! Why the fuck would he turn us in before he made use of us? Or, hell, how do we know he hasn't sent something to Command, that they're not primed to swoop in the second we've cleaned up their mess for them? Huh? You're too fucking trusting."

She stabs her own fork into her food much harder than she needs to. The line of her jaw is tight.

"Even if you're fucking right, you're still trying to make a call that affects both of us without so much as asking me first. But I guess I shouldn't be fucking surprised, huh?"

"You expect me to be okay with him running back to Command and being forced to be their lap dog?" he says. "From what he's said so far, he's not interested in doing that anymore. Which means he's in the same position we were in when we left the Invention. Why wouldn't you want to help him with that, South?"

South grinds her teeth together so hard it almost hurts.

Several responses to that question come to mind, but none of them are good answers—answers that won't give up the game, or make her sound like even more of a rotten bitch than she is, or worse, gets into bullshit she doesn't want to touch with a ten foot pole.

So, she swerves around most of the question, instead.

"I expect you to fucking talk to me before making big fucking choices, North. Don't fucking make this about why I 'don't want to help' someone. This is about you never. fucking. asking me. shit. Today of all fucking days, too. You're a fucking parody of yourself."

"Okay. I'll keep that in mind for the future," he says. "But in this case, I've already said it. Do you really want me to take that back?"

Especially since Wash has been listening the whole time.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject