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[ command tells him to kill maine.
no. not maine. the meta. command tells him to the kill the meta, and under his helmet, wash blinks twice, swallows hard, and says without hesitation: understood. he tracks the meta to york's dead body, and then york's dead body to north's dead body, and then north's dead body to south who shoots him in the back and leaves him for dead. south's lucky bullet strikes the fusion reactor that powers his mjolnir and shorts out his armor's systems before passing through several layers of titanium alloy and hydrostatic gel to pierce his skin and spine. he goes down hard, elbows and knees on asphalt and gasp clawing up his throat, but there's no pain because he can't feel his legs anymore.
south is gone by the time the meta looms over him and levels his pistol at wash's head. wash has a hand on his rifle, but the meta's pinning both rifle and hand to the ground with one heavy booted foot. don't, he says when the meta's index finger ticks over the trigger. don't, he says again when the meta hesitates and angles his head down until wash can see his reflection in his faceplate. god, please, maine, fucking don't, don't, don't.
that's the last time he ever says his name aloud.
the meta doesn't kill him, turns out. he squeezes a hand over wash's throat until the air bleeds from his lungs and everything goes dark, and when wash wakes up hours later, he's alone. his armor has been field-stripped — the leftover remains scattered in pieces all around him — and his helmet, weapons, and freelancer-issued augments are missing.
after his latest failure, command shelves wash back into therapy despite his many ( sometimes violent ) protests, and it takes him six months to learn how to walk again. seven months after that, wash is standing in a room where the blinking fluorescent lights hurt his eyes and cast a milky filter over his grey armor. we want you to find the meta, command says. dead or detained? wash asks. dead, command says. this is familiar. wash exhales and doesn't flinch.
understood, he replies.
on orders, he contacts a team of specialists in a desert outpost; they are the shittiest, most migraine-inducing soldiers he has ever met in his life. not specialists, but fucking freelancer sims. command never mentioned that. despite their many faults and handicaps, they set wash on the right path, and together they manage to face off against the meta, fending him back for two very short-lived battles.
and then during the third battle in a half-collapsed facility three-hundred kilometers north of valhalla, wash is separated from the others.
his motion sensor is glitching, red dots flashing rapidly all across his hud as he turns in a slow circle. the meta is close, and wash ran out of ammo twenty minutes ago. all he has now is a knife. there's a door directly to his right; it would take him five paces to reach it, but he feels pinned in place, eyes flitting to every shadowed corner, wheeling around at every echoed sound.
he is so unbelievably tired of this. ]
Come on! [ wash's shout rings throughout the concrete-enclosed facility, throttling anger edged with hysterical desperation. ] If we're going to do this, then let's fucking do it!
[ no more games, just one-on-one like it was always meant to be. wash owes maine that much — even if he's not maine, especially if he's not maine. because if he has to watch the monster that's not maine parade around in maine's armor with maine's body and mouth and face and eyes and cock and everything that wash loved ( loves ) for one more fucking fight, he's going to snap and murder every goddamned last one of those sim soldiers.
wash is either dying today or killing the wraith in maine's armor. he shifts his weight back onto his heels, then retreats one step and then another, and tries to ignore the way his pulse thunders in his ears or how his fingers tremor around his knife's hilt. ]
no. not maine. the meta. command tells him to the kill the meta, and under his helmet, wash blinks twice, swallows hard, and says without hesitation: understood. he tracks the meta to york's dead body, and then york's dead body to north's dead body, and then north's dead body to south who shoots him in the back and leaves him for dead. south's lucky bullet strikes the fusion reactor that powers his mjolnir and shorts out his armor's systems before passing through several layers of titanium alloy and hydrostatic gel to pierce his skin and spine. he goes down hard, elbows and knees on asphalt and gasp clawing up his throat, but there's no pain because he can't feel his legs anymore.
south is gone by the time the meta looms over him and levels his pistol at wash's head. wash has a hand on his rifle, but the meta's pinning both rifle and hand to the ground with one heavy booted foot. don't, he says when the meta's index finger ticks over the trigger. don't, he says again when the meta hesitates and angles his head down until wash can see his reflection in his faceplate. god, please, maine, fucking don't, don't, don't.
that's the last time he ever says his name aloud.
the meta doesn't kill him, turns out. he squeezes a hand over wash's throat until the air bleeds from his lungs and everything goes dark, and when wash wakes up hours later, he's alone. his armor has been field-stripped — the leftover remains scattered in pieces all around him — and his helmet, weapons, and freelancer-issued augments are missing.
after his latest failure, command shelves wash back into therapy despite his many ( sometimes violent ) protests, and it takes him six months to learn how to walk again. seven months after that, wash is standing in a room where the blinking fluorescent lights hurt his eyes and cast a milky filter over his grey armor. we want you to find the meta, command says. dead or detained? wash asks. dead, command says. this is familiar. wash exhales and doesn't flinch.
understood, he replies.
on orders, he contacts a team of specialists in a desert outpost; they are the shittiest, most migraine-inducing soldiers he has ever met in his life. not specialists, but fucking freelancer sims. command never mentioned that. despite their many faults and handicaps, they set wash on the right path, and together they manage to face off against the meta, fending him back for two very short-lived battles.
and then during the third battle in a half-collapsed facility three-hundred kilometers north of valhalla, wash is separated from the others.
his motion sensor is glitching, red dots flashing rapidly all across his hud as he turns in a slow circle. the meta is close, and wash ran out of ammo twenty minutes ago. all he has now is a knife. there's a door directly to his right; it would take him five paces to reach it, but he feels pinned in place, eyes flitting to every shadowed corner, wheeling around at every echoed sound.
he is so unbelievably tired of this. ]
Come on! [ wash's shout rings throughout the concrete-enclosed facility, throttling anger edged with hysterical desperation. ] If we're going to do this, then let's fucking do it!
[ no more games, just one-on-one like it was always meant to be. wash owes maine that much — even if he's not maine, especially if he's not maine. because if he has to watch the monster that's not maine parade around in maine's armor with maine's body and mouth and face and eyes and cock and everything that wash loved ( loves ) for one more fucking fight, he's going to snap and murder every goddamned last one of those sim soldiers.
wash is either dying today or killing the wraith in maine's armor. he shifts his weight back onto his heels, then retreats one step and then another, and tries to ignore the way his pulse thunders in his ears or how his fingers tremor around his knife's hilt. ]