hexaflexagons | [psl] Time Travel Twins PSL

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.

She blinks at him, jaw slightly ajar. Honestly, she's not sure why she's surprised, of course he just fucking deflects it instead of actually saying anything of fucking value and then puts this right back on her—agree, or be the bad guy.

"You'll keep it— god, you're fucking insufferable. You know that? You can't just— listen to me, can you, you've gotta pull this shit. What the fuck am I supposed to say to that, huh? Fine, congratu-fucking-lations, you win! But if he stabs us in the back? It's on you."

She stuffs her mouth with food before she can say anything else she'll regret, but she's practically quaking with rage.

A second passes. Wash finishes shredding the wrapping for his MRE. Another second passes.

"... Can we go back to the part where I haven't actually agreed to anything except to not stab anyone in the back when this is all over?"

He still hasn't taken his helmet off, and he kind of doesn't want to, what with the sparks that're flying. Someone might still throw something. The way his face spasms each time South waves 'backstabbing' around might become visible.

"As far as any of us are concerned, I'm still going back to command after this."

"See? You're practically making decisions on his behalf, too. You can't fucking help yourself."

No, she's not letting it go. No, she's not going to directly address Washington when she can just snipe at North again, instead.

North's head shakes a little, with a sigh.

"Okay, okay, I misinterpreted."

He looks at Wash.

"Why would you want to go back to them? You remember they're the ones who gave you Epsilon, yes?"

"I remember," Washington says, feeling suddenly less hungry than a moment ago. "And I have my reasons."

Having South agree with him feels like sand down the back of his undersuit: uncomfortable. Having North ask those questions while Theta is listening, after everything that happened--

--Wash was already standing, but he's ready to move, and he wants to do something. He wants to throw something back at either of them, something that he'll probably regret but that they'll regret more.

"You understand what it's like to have reasons, don't you, South?"

Edited 2021-09-13 03:06 (UTC)

South has to make a conscious effort not to hiss.

Her eyes flick briefly into her periphery to look at North, to see how he’s looking at her, and thank fuck she doesn’t see immediate suspicion. So she glares at Washington, pointed and just fucking daring the motherfucker to push his luck when she’s still got a rifle in reach.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean, asshole? See, we have one fucking argument in front of him where you make me into the bad guy and he starts spinning cryptic bullshit. And I’m supposed to just trust him? Yeah, right.”

She rolls her eyes and stuffs another forkful of food into her mouth, glad that her armour hides how white-knuckle her grip is. If he fucking tries anything…

He doesn't choose to address what South had said. She's right, of course, but he doesn't want to derail his conversation with Wash to say so.

"We all had our reasons for sticking around as long as we did," North says. "That's all over now."

He digs his fork into his rice and beans, but just stirs it around rather than lifting a forkful to take a bite. He feels agitated now.

"I hope that you know what you're doing. That's all."

"Oh, I do. Trust me."

He feels strangely like he's just dodged a bullet, what with the way he jabbed at that sleeping lion and didn't get immediately torn to shreds. He should quit while he's ahead.

After a moment Wash pops the seal on his helmet, carefully removing it one-handedly, setting it down on the ground by his feet. Then he scoops up the first taste of meatloaf that he's had in years, then pauses as the flavors fully hit.

(It's better than he remembered. That's a pleasant change.)

He stays quiet for a while, concentrating on eating, and by the time he finally speaks again there's not much left.

"Not that I'm trying to pry, or anything, but--Is this what you two've been doing this whole time?" Against his better judgment, Wash lifts his fork to sweep the area around them, not really watching. He doesn't want to know for their sakes, and this might well just trigger another argument, but--he is curious.

Considering the Meta, considering that Wash might go his own way after this, this might be his last chance asking.

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