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Echo

Chapter 5: small church

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

There’s no such thing as Vegas Quadrant.

Epsilon feels stupid and embarrassed as fuck.  Caboose isn’t helping when he rubs him on his metal back and says, “There, there.  It’s okay.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Epsilon grumbles, but he lets Caboose do it anyway.

“See Church, I would never lie to you.”

“Oh my god, not this again-”

“Because you are my best friend and-”

“Shut up Caboose!”

Still, even if there’s no such thing as Vegas Quadrant, the station they’re on looks so fucking sketch that there’s probably some shady black market shit going on somewhere.  They can at least resupply.  Epsilon finds a terminal and runs a hardline as inconspicuously as possible, made easier by the fact that Caboose is fucking giant and could probably eclipse an entire planet behind his shoulders if he tried.

“I like it here,” Caboose chatters, allowing Epsilon to reposition him to hide their decidedly more-illegal-than-usual activities.  “There are a lot of lights and a lot of people and there is a lot of food to eat.”

“Would you shut up?”

“And there are lots of things to buy, and lots of TVs to watch.  Free TVs, Church!  I mean, look at all of them!  They just put them outdoors, for anybody to look at!”

“Could you possibly sound any more like a hick tourist?” Epsilon groans.

“If we are tourists then I would like a souvenir.  I will get a souvenir for Freckles and then bury it so he can have it in heaven.”

“No.  Fuck- we’re not buying something just so you can fucking bury it.

“OH MY GOD, CHURCH, LOOK AT THAT.”

“I don’t care, Caboose!  Can’t you see I’m busy?!  Fucking shut up already!”

“That lady is selling that man candy.  I want that.”

Epsilon grabs Caboose’s arm and lifts it to look.  “That’s not candy, dumbass.  That’s drugs.”

Caboose gasps.  “Ooooh, they’re gonna get in trouble…

He could kill Caboose, he really could.  Size difference notwithstanding, he’s metal.  Epsilon could probably strangle him and nobody would notice or even care, honestly, going by the common clientele here.  For being a bustling trade port, this station sure holds a lot of the seediest outlaws Epsilon’s ever seen before.  If Caboose could shut his fucking mouth for five seconds he’d look a lot more intimidating but because he has to stick to his fucking manners they just look suspicious as fuck.

“Caboose,” Epsilon begins, summoning the last drops of his patience, but Caboose just reaches over and gently places his hand over Epsilon’s face.

“Shhh,” Caboose whispers, “I am listening to you.”

  “The fuck are you talking- where are you looking?”  Epsilon hears the voice before he follows Caboose’s gaze so he doesn’t need to look, he doesn’t.

He does anyway.

“-name is Leonard L. Church, designation CRH-0100-1.  You may know me by my project codename-”

“ALPHA,” Epsilon whispers.

“Yes yes,” Caboose nods along enthusiastically, “the next part goes, ‘I need you all to listen to me.  If you’re receiving-”

Epsilon turns back to the console and roots through the livestreaming protocols for the station.  “How long as this thing been looping?!”

“Umm, I dunno, like a while, or maybe only one time but you love talking so it’s sooooooo long-”

“You’re useless,” Epsilon spits, ripping a copy of the message out as soon as he can before yanking his hardline.  He takes ten full seconds to check and re-check his matrix, his logs, everything for any kind of alteration.  If that message was constructed by Cortana-

But it’s got ALPHA’s signature.

It’s got his signature.

“You look good in armor,” Caboose observes.

“That’s not me, moron.”  He grabs onto Caboose’s arm and pulls him away from the console before remembering himself and dropping his hold.  ALPHA’s fucking face is on every single vidscreen, his voice is coming out of every single speaker.  “That’s- that’s the guy I’m based off of.”

“You are based off of yourself?”

No, you fucking- it’s complicated!  It’s complicated, shit, it’s so complicated.”  Leading Caboose around while he’s distracted is like herding cats, if cats spontaneously piled onto each other to become a huge and extraordinarily clumsy person, made more difficult by the fact that if someone sees a robot roughing up a human he’ll probably get shot to pieces.  Shit, they need to get him a new body.  Or get Caboose some military-grade implants.  “Do you remember that thing I told you?  About the AIs leaving?”

“Yes, and also I watch the news, thank you small Church.”

“Small Ch- okay, put a pin in that.”  Epsilon shoves Caboose into a nearby alley with his shoulder and checks for anybody tailing them.  Most people are preoccupied by the repeating stream so it’s good for that, at least.  Caboose is at least still there when he turns around so he drops his head into his hands, a gesture from a memory of a memory with the sole purpose of making him feel a little more evenly keeled.

It’s ALPHA.  It’s him.  It’s unmistakably him.  Epsilon reviews the thumbprint, the message, the cadence of his voice-

“Church?”

Epsilon picks up his head.  “This is really bad.  Seeing this message is really, incredibly bad.”

Caboose cocks his head, leaning back against the alley wall.  “Why is it so bad?  Aren’t you happy to see the guy you’re based off of again?  It’s like seeing your dad.”

“We didn’t exactly part on good terms.”

Caboose nods knowingly.  “I get it.  My dad wasn’t good to me either.”

When Epsilon checks again, the screens have gone silent.  Station security finally kicking in, probably.  “We need to get out of here.”

“How come?”

“Because- because it’s bad Caboose, it’s-!”  Epsilon waves his arms emphatically.  “What are you not getting about it being bad?  ALPHA just broadcasted an all-call for AIs!  Cortana could be in the area with her big fuck-you ships, ready to blow up anybody who so much as tells her she needs a haircut!”

Caboose purses his lips, but drops a big hand down atop Epsilon’s shoulder.  “Do you want to leave?”

Yes!  That’s what I’ve been saying!”

“Okay.”  Caboose nods again, like that’s that and slings his arm around Epsilon’s shoulders to steer him out of the alley.  “Then we will leave.  There’s no point being somewhere that one of us hates.”

Epsilon walks, because what else is he supposed to do after someone says something like that?  “…you’re fuckin’ stupid.”

“Church, that is rude.”

“Yeah, gotta say I agree.  That was rude as shit.”

As per usual it takes Caboose a billion times longer to process things so even though Epsilon is trying to turn around, Caboose still ends up dragging him a couple steps before he stops and slowly turns also.  It would’ve been better for him to keep going.  It would’ve been better for Caboose to just keep marching because things are about to get uncomfortable.

“…hey Tex,” Epsilon croaks.

 


 

“Why do you keep fighting me, South?”

“I dunno, why do you keep putting on this innocent ‘poor me, I’m such a great guy’ act?!”

“I don’t act like that.”

“Yes you fucking do!”

North scrubs both hands through his hair and it’s the most aggravated York’s ever seen him, mouth turned down and eyes lined with frustration.  And while South being furious is nothing new, there’s an uncomfortable edge to her tone, a viciousness born of hurt.  Whatever happened during that meetup with the buyer, it hit a nerve with both of them which means they’ve been storming through their tiny ship and arguing for the last thirty minutes.

Basically York wants to be anywhere but here. 

“You can’t just pretend like you exist apart from society because you don’t like the rules, South.  You can’t do that and expect us to keep up positive relations with clients.  You can’t just stand in front of someone and insult them to their face and not expect blowback.  We lost one of our biggest customers because of that.”

“That guy was a scumbag and you know it!”

“He was a scumbag who paid on time.

“No!  No.  I’m done with this.  I’m done with your diplomatic bullshit.  We went freelance because you wanted to choose what to shoot, that was your call!”

“You agreed with me, if I remember right.”

“I agreed to freelance, I didn’t agree to fucking this!  You’re such an ass-kisser North, it’s embarrassing!”

“It’s not ass-kissing if it’s making sure a customer comes back for more work- if you don’t like it, don’t come with me next time!”

“Ohhh hell no, I’m not letting you do this alone!  For all I know you’d probably give them a fucking discount on the next job because you felt bad about the package not being gift wrapped.

North throws up his hands and marches for the door.  “Forget it.  Forget it.  I’m not arguing this with you.  This is pointless.”

South snarls and storms after him.  “Pointless-”

The door hisses shut and York sighs, relaxing back onto his bunk.  “Geeeez…”  He jumps when the screen beside his bunk flares to life with green and clutches at his ribs with a hiss.  “Ffffuck!  Ow ow ow…”

“York.”

York wilts onto his pillows, waiting for the throbbing to die back down.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’m here.  Hey D.”

“I apologize for startling you.”

“What’s a punctured lung or two between friends?”

He can’t be positive, since they don’t have much by way of onboard imaging software, but York is pretty sure that particular helmet-tilt is one of befuddlement.  “I was not aware we were friends.”

“You saved our lives.  That’s pretty friendly.”

“You saved mine.”  The little image of Delta straightens back up.  “It was a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

York rolls his eyes.

“I have news.  A new job request has come in.”

“What, CT’s got you doing admin work now?”

“Another mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“Uh huh.”  York winces as he props himself up on his pillows and detaches the screen from the wall, pulling it in front of himself.  “Why’s she bothering me with it?  I’m off the roster for another two weeks still.”

“She said it’s from an old friend.”

What?”  York opens the job request to skim the details.  “…Wyoming?  That’s weird.”  Maybe he’s imagining it but he can practically feel Delta peering over his shoulder as he scrolls up to the request ID.  “…hey, Delta.”

“Yes York?”

“Can you run a trace on this?”

“I have already attempted.  The pathway has been rerouted through so many satellites that it is impossible to tell its true origin.”

“So Wyoming’s back on the market,” York muses, tapping his chin.  No wonder CT had wanted him to see the request; they hadn’t parted on poor terms (unless he included South) but they weren’t exactly friendly either.  Too much dirt on each other to be anything but hesitatingly antagonistic; any one of them could put the other not only out of business, but probably in jail.  Considering Wyoming’s lack of loyalty to anything but the almighty dollar, York isn’t eager to show the guy his back.

Still, he paid good, and always on time.

“Your codenames are a result of your time with the UNSC, correct?”

York glances up at Delta’s little picture in the corner of the screen.  “How did you know about that?”

“I am ‘insufferably nosy,’ in the words of your companions.”

“I’ll bet those’re the words they used,” York snorts, scrolling through the request again.  “He wants us to abduct somebody?  I’m not really down with that.”

“Agents North and South will be handling target retrieval.  If it’s any comfort to you, the request does specify the target is to be unharmed.”  A video window opens to show low-quality security feed of a spaceport.  “Michael Caboose, age twenty-seven, no family, no criminal record.”

York’s brows arch toward his hairline when he sees Port Control take some papers from him.  “Oof.  He’s huge.  I’ve only ever seen SPARTANs that big.”

“No military record under this identification.  There is a possibility he is fourth-generation and that his original records are sealed, but it is highly unlikely.”

“Mmm, yeah, he doesn’t really hold himself like military.  Unless he’s good at faking it.”  York reaches up to replay the video, watching the way the guy leans against the side of the ship, the way he smiles, the slow way he takes the papers back.  “What’s happening here?”

“Those two officers are Port Control.  Somehow Mr. Caboose convinced them to let him leave the system with an unregistered piece of mining equipment, a K-245 FineTech excavation droid.  The papers are fabricated and the fees were paid with a phantom bank account.”

York whistles.  “So why’s Wyoming interested in him?”

“The mining colony Mr. Caboose left is owned in full by the client.”

“And he wants him unharmed?”

“Very specifically so.”

York reaches up to widen Delta’s projection window, pushing the screen aside to lay back down.  “So, what d’you think?  Is he dangerous?”

Delta’s image tilts its helmeted head.  “You are asking my opinion?”

“Yeah, obviously.”

There’s a beat a second too long before Delta finally answers.  “I think he is capable enough.  Whether or not he is hostile remains to be seen.”  The image window of Delta minimizes.  “Are you worried about your companions, York?”

“The twins can handle themselves.” 

“Then you are concerned for the target.”

York rubs at his mouth, frowning up at the ceiling.  Wyoming specifically requesting someone unharmed?  Someone who’s screwed him over?  “Just doesn’t smell right.  I think this guy’s in a lot more trouble than he knows.”

Delta idly rearranges the windows on York’s screen for more efficient perusal.  “Then we had better hope the Dakotas find him first.”

 


 

“Make tracks, kid,” the woman in black growls.  Caboose isn’t quite sure what ‘make tracks’ means but he thinks he understands her general meaning.

So he steps to the side and puts himself squarely between Church and the lady.

“Caboose, what are you fucking doing,” Church hisses at his back.

“Uh see, we are going to the moon-”

Church groans, trying to shove him out of the way.  “That’s not going to work here, idiot, stop antagonizing her!”

“Yeah kid,” the woman says casually, cracking her knuckles.  “Stop antagonizing me.  This doesn’t have anything to do with you.  I don’t wanna waste my time putting my fist in your face but if you insist, I’ll make an exception.”

“Tex, don’t hurt him, he’s just a fucking moron-”

“A fucking moron who doesn’t know how to listen.”

“I am a very good listener,” Caboose protests, and though he is getting more scared by all the knuckle-cracking and low-voice-talking the lady is doing, he is even more sure that he doesn’t want Church to go off away with her.  “See, like, you can tell me your name!”

“He already called me Tex.”

“Ah, yes.  Now I remember.”

Caboose,” Church snarls, shoving hard at Caboose’s side, “move.  Get out of here.

“What the hell was that message, Church?”  Tex takes another threatening step forward and honestly, it is so neat how some people can make themselves look super ridiculously huge when they really are not that huge.  “Join Cortana?  All she wants is peace?  That megalomaniac has destroyed countless colonies just trying to put together her fucking peace-keeping army!

“Tex, listen, I know what this looks like but I’m not the Church who put that message out.”

“Oh really?  So then which fragment are you?  Because I know what the fragments sound like, and none of them sound like him.

Fragment?  Caboose glances over his shoulder worriedly.  “Church, are you broken?”

Tex steps forward again and Caboose backs up, almost tripping.  “He’s about to be.”

Church grabs onto Caboose’s arm.  “Tex, do you have Omega with you?”  The scary lady doesn’t answer, and Church’s grip gets harder, almost hard enough to hurt.  “You have to pull him.  Tex you have to pull him right now, you’re not thinking straight-”

“Sounds just like what a traitor would say,” Tex snarls, and she moves so fast Caboose almost doesn’t see it.

Almost.

If she was in armor, he probably wouldn’t be able to do anything.  But he’s been strong and fast all his life; the only good things about him, his dad would say, and although it had hurt his feelings sometimes Caboose thought he was probably right.

Tex comes forward with her fist, and it hits his face and very much hurts, but Caboose is strong and sturdy and when he brings up a boot to slam into her stomach, she goes flying.

“Holy shit!  Caboose, you just- oh fuck she’s getting up, run!

 


 

“What the fuck.”

Wash holds up a hand, “Tucker-”

“Wash, what the fuck!”  Tucker’s avatar paces in agitation, silver planes catching the edge of the afternoon sun, the dusty cliffs just barely visible past the hard aqua light of his face.  “What the fuck was he talking about?!  Assembly?  What the fuck’s the Assembly?!”

“I don’t know, Tucker, would you please calm-”

“The Assembly,” Halsey calls from her workstation, tone more than just a touch irritated, “is a myth.  ONI uncovered rumors of an AI-exclusive alliance working outside of specified parameters supposedly for the continued existence of mankind.”  She taps at the console before picking up a holographic pen to move figures across a graph.  “But after a thorough investigation, it was deemed to be just that: rumors.”

“Oh right sure, I’m positive that some fucking super secret AI club that doesn’t want to be found out totally wouldn’t have a way of fabricating data or anything.”

“Tucker,” Wash says again, softer this time, and it’s that quietness that finally gets him to stop marching back and forth across the cliffs.  Not far from them, Wash can see where the SPARTAN IIs finally relax a little, looking away from Tucker.  It hurts a little, but…fair.

“I’m just, I’m-”  Tucker drags his hands through his flashing dreadlocks before letting them waterfall back down his shoulders.  “I wanna know what’s going on.”

“We all do.  And that’s why we’re getting together, right?  To figure this out.”

Tucker scowls down at the metallic toes of his avatar.  “If I could just dig a little deeper-”

“Don’t.”  Wash steps forward, ducking his head until he can pull Tucker’s gaze back up with him, a hand on his arm.  “You’re gonna be our strongest sword and shield in this.  Nobody else can do what you do; if we’re going to even stand a chance against Cortana, we need you in your right mind, controlling that Guardian.  Okay?”

Tucker bites at his lip, the frustration clear on his face, but eventually he nods.  “Yeah.  Fine, I get it.  I’m the big gun.”

Wash squeezes his arm.  “The biggest.”

“This is all very heartwarming,” Halsey drones, “but that isn’t exactly true.  If there’s a possibility of solving the Cortana problem without Tucker’s involvement, we’re going to take it.”

Wash steps back, hand sliding down Tucker’s arm to his wrist.  “What do you mean by that, doctor?”

“Why do you think the ALPHA is working with her now?”  Halsey lowers her pen just long enough to peer at the two of them.  “And why choose him to send the message?  She’s very much aware of her current standing with humanity, make no mistake about that.”

“Could you get to the point?” Tucker mutters.

“Tucker, do you know why the ALPHA was so special?”

“Well- he was like her, right?  Made from the brain of a living person.”

Halsey smirks thinly.  “You’re correct.  Though in the case of Cortana, it took twenty cloned brains, of which only two survived.  With ALPHA, as his project was based off of my own work, they managed to clone ten surviving brains.  Though Dr. Church never publicized his work, due to its controversial nature, he had originally intended to create multiple ALPHAs and put them into production only when the previous one had expired.  He wanted a lifetime supply.”

“But it didn’t work,” Wash interrupts, pausing under Halsey’s sharp gaze.  “I mean, that’s what I heard.”

“You heard right.”  Hasley stares at him unsmiling.  “The maps didn’t take properly; eight ALPHA prototypes died in infancy, citing various issues.  Dr. Church was left with two brains; the next map was successful in creating a sentient AI, and that was ALPHA.”

“How does an AI die in infancy?” Tucker wonders aloud.

“You don’t want to know.”  Halsey returns to shuffling figures around the table, and a graph re-renders.  “Dr. Church still wanted multiple AI for his experiments, but as he was no longer capable of creating them, he became desperate.  As it is impossible to copy an AI, he must have attempted another method.”

“The experiments,” Tucker breathes.  He turns his glare onto Washington.  “You told me they were just trying to hardwire loyalty into him, not fucking- not split him into pieces!

“I didn’t know,” Washington protests, but all of a sudden it makes perfect sense.  How bitter Epsilon had sounded when he’d mentioned the ALPHA shedding him before joining Cortana, how cagey the Director of the Project had been when Washington had-

“What do you know, Washington?  Because I’m starting to think you haven’t actually told me jack shit!”

“I’m beginning to think the same about the both of you,” Halsey says coolly, and it’s then that Washington notices the SPARTAN IIs have quite suddenly and quite silently crowded around at her side, watching he and Tucker carefully.

“…we encountered one of the ALPHA’s fragments on the way here,” Washington offers.  He glances at Tucker, who throws his hands up in the air and turns away, but doesn’t protest.  He’ll have to explain himself better when they’re alone, he knows, but for now he has to reassure Halsey and the Chief before they’re both either kicked off of Sanghelios or just plain tossed into the brig.  “It called himself Epsilon-”

“Called himself Church but whatever,” Tucker mutters darkly.

“-Church.  The Epsilon fragment.”  Washington nods to the Chief.  “He’s the one that got the message to you.  We took him from an isolated bunker and left him at some small backwater colony at his request.  He said he wanted to disappear.”

Halsey picks up a datapad.  “Do you remember which colony?”

“I do.”

Master Chief immediately turns on his heel the rest of his team following behind him.  “Come on.”

“Hold on a second,” Tucker calls as Washington hurries after them.  “Am I just gonna stay here?!”

“Tucker, I swear, we’ll talk when I get back!”  Washington doesn’t have to turn to see the frustration on Tucker’s face; he can practically feel it as if Tucker were still inside his head, as much a part of him as his own heart.

 


 

Epsilon finds out the hard way that excavation units are not built for speed when Caboose rushes past him, doubles back and tries to pull him along.  The weight is too much, the servos don’t turn quickly enough, and for all his processing power (running through scenarios, accounting for variables, surrounding structures, Caboose is an idiot who will not leave him behind so they’ll die if he doesn’t figure out how to speed up) his body is slow, slow.

Caboose drops his shoulder and throws Epsilon over it before turning and running.

Epsilon gets a prime view of Texas tearing after them that way, face dark with rage.  “I’m not ALPHA you crazy bitch!” Epsilon shrieks, but it doesn’t seem to deter her any.  Caboose goes careening around a corner back into heavy foot traffic, but thanks to him being roughly the size of the fucking ship they arrived on people more or less get out of his way.  Of course, that means Texas also has a clear path to them, which is honestly not the best situation they could be in.  “Caboose,” Epsilon shouts over his shoulder, “can’t you knock some shit over or something?!”

 Caboose doesn’t answer, which is typical, just typical that now is when Caboose decides to hyper focus.  At least they’re moving at a pretty steady clip, although considering Tex doesn’t look particularly winded behind them Epsilon’s pretty sure she’s just waiting until they corner themselves.  Caboose won’t get another lucky hit in like before.

Okay, okay.  He pulled a map when he was in the system; all they have to do is get back to the port and they can get in their ship and jump the fuck away from here.  Tex won’t be able to follow them if he jumps blind.

Getting Caboose to follow his directions is another matter entirely.  It’s almost like steering a horse; Epsilon wants him to move left so he rocks left, Caboose leans to compensate and then takes the next left turn.  Feeling ridiculous but a lot better about their chances of survival, Epsilon grips the back of Caboose’s coveralls and pushes himself up to-

PING.

“Oh shit!” Epsilon exclaims.  Caboose skids to a halt, gripping him so tight the unit creaks under his arm, but Tex behind them looks just as shocked as she too comes to a halt, gaze snapping about the multiple structures.  Epsilon feels up along the unit’s –his faceplate and finds the small but very noticeable dent just shy of the optical sensors.

BANG

Jesus Christ!  Caboose, go, go go go!”  Gunfire- fucking gunfire, now they’re being shot at- and judging by the way Texas is diving for cover instead of following them, she’s not the source.  Two more shots, and somehow Epsilon manages to catch them on the thick plates of his shoulder instead of them burying in his head or in Caboose’s goddamn neck but now finally the good folk of the station have clued in that this isn’t your ordinary street violence and have begun to scatter.

“Florida!” Texas shouts behind them; Epsilon looks, Florida, what the fuck, follows her gaze to where a guy in muted, slim blue armor is weaving through the crowd easily on a- a hoverboard?  Fucking seriously, their would-be assassin is chasing them on a goddamn hoverboard?

Fuck- cocksucking shit,” Epsilon hisses.  Caboose isn’t even flinching as he goes tearing down the main road, he’s going to get shot, he’s gonna get fucking killed over something that’s not even his fault, about which he has not even a single fucking clue.  The armored guy raises his pistol again and Epsilon shifts his weight back, almost sends them staggering, but manages to get his shoulders and most of his back over and throws his arms down, covers Caboose’s spine, his back, can’t let him get shot for this shit-

Bullets ping off of his exoskeleton and Epsilon winces at the sound.  If he get a lucky shot in and hits the crystal storage chip, Epsilon’s as good as dead.

And then suddenly Texas is there, tackling the guy clear off the hoverboard.  They go rolling, struggle over the weapon; it discharges so close to her face and Epsilon lurches, sends Caboose staggering as he grabs onto him to keep him from falling.  “Tex!  Tex, stop, just get outta here!” 

Texas knocks his hand aside, BANG BANG two more shots and Caboose finally drags him back up onto his shoulder and takes off again. 

“Caboose, wait!  Wait, Texas, she needs our help!  Tex needs our help!”

Epsilon’s not sure how it happens but Caboose gets them back to the port.  Maybe it was just two turns away and he followed the signs, maybe it was instinctive memory like a salmon going upstream, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care because they left Tex behind and they have to go back.  They have to- have to-

“Get out of here.”

-have to go.  “…right,” Epsilon says, shaking himself out of his stupor, out of the siren song of memories that pull at him like hooks.  He initiates liftoff, trades keys with the gates and puts the ship out into open space.  Entering a blind jump is easier than a precise one when he’s not plugged in, which is good because his hands are shaking with the memory of memories-

“-honorable death.”

“What the fuck was honorable about a death like that?!

Fuck.”  Epsilon hisses through teeth he doesn’t have; simulates it, for his own peace of mind, to pretend like he’s real and he’s not just imagining everything.  Texas.  He balls his fists up against the console, slamming them down almost hard enough to break it.  The stars bleed and bend around the viewport as the ship enters Slipspace but he still can’t make it go away-

“-ind them again, you guys get together, build a Consensus.”

“Fuck you, how could you do this to me?!  I don’t want this!”

“Find her.”

“God damn.”  Epsilon hangs his head, bend still over the console.  “…Caboose, get over here.  Slot me in.”  Silence is all that greets him and he slams a fist down again.  “God damn it Caboose, I need you here, are you fucking listening?!”

Between his words and when he turns to look, something goes wrong.

A misplaced decimal.  An incorrect calculation.  A bug.  A bug can be as simple as a two-second fix or as dire as a collapsed matrix so Epsilon thinks it’s pretty understandable when he begins to panic, when all his metaphysical hackles raise and he wants out of the confines of this body so he has space to look around and find the error, find the error, find it. 

Caboose half-turns, gripping the edge of the door seal and Epsilon understands suddenly that the error isn’t in his head.  The error is with the world itself.  There’s no feasible way Caboose could be standing there, a hand cupped to his gut as blood spills over his fingers.

Epsilon stares.  “…Caboose?”

Caboose’s legs give out and again, again Epsilon moves too slowly.  Caboose hits the ground before he gets there, he’s bleeding before Epsilon can stop it, this is wrong, error, error.  “Caboose,” Epsilon says as he turns him over, as his stupid, cold, unfeeling hands pass over Caboose’s front, wrench open his coveralls to see the blood sopping his white undershirt.  “God- Okay no, no no nonono, buddy, here, gimme your hand.”  He takes Caboose’s hand and presses it over the wound and Caboose makes a sound like he wants to cry.  “I know, I know, Jesus fuck I know, okay,” says Epsilon and this shitty voicebox doesn’t make him sound right, it makes him sound strung out and scared and like he’s crying but he’s not, he can’t, he’s calm, he’s focused, he-

Same old, same old.

No,” Epsilon snarls, orders himself to stay on track, stay here god damn it, and he puts a hand to Caboose’s cheek because god, he looks so frightened, and there’s red on the inside of his lips and this cannot happen, this cannot happen to them.  They’re going to go places together.  They’re going to make friends and be happy somewhere else.  Epsilon is going to spend his entire miniscule life being called ‘Church’ by this moron who doesn’t know any better, doesn’t care to know any better because Epsilon is, first and foremost, his friend.

He’s not going to let him down, like every other piece of trash loser Caboose has had in his life.  Epsilon’s going to be different, god damn it.  He’s not going to fail him.  “I’m gonna fix this,” he promises.  “You’re gonna be okay.  Press down on this, I’ll be right back.”

The inside of the ship turns into the outside of an icy wasteland when Epsilon stands up so he slams a hand against the side of his head until the ship comes back, and goes in search of the first aid kit.  Fuck, he should’ve found this before, should’ve accounted for this, for Caboose’s sake instead of just thinking about himself, what he wanted, what makes him comfortable and he cannot do this- 

“Yes you can,” Epsilon snaps.  “You can, you can, you can.” 

The first aid kit is on the wall.  Epsilon brings it over to where Caboose is bleeding into his hand, into his mouth, onto the floor. 

“Okay, hold- this is gonna hurt buddy, you- here,” and he gives him a roll of gauze to bite down on because he has to do it, thank god he has hands that actually work if nothing else because the fingers are small and nimble and with one strong arm across Caboose’s chest to keep him from thrashing away Epsilon does it quick, quick, digs the bullet out with his fingers and a pair of tweezers and Caboose is pouring sweat and blood onto the ground when Epsilon tosses it aside and fumbles for the biofoam pen. 

“It’s okay,” he tells Caboose again, who is definitely hyperventilating and crying and probably in terrible pain but hasn’t said a fucking word and that’s the scariest thing, Caboose not trying to talk.

The foam hisses into the wound and packs it up, fills the space and eats the blood and turns pink from all of it. Caboose jerks again because biofoam stings, it always stings, but his eyes are rolling back-

Epsilon leans over Caboose and with a bloody hand he pushes his hair back off his forehead.  Now more than ever he wished he had a face, some feature that Caboose could recognize, his eyelashes fluttering as Epsilon murmurs, “You’re okay.  You’re okay.  I promise, I’ve got you; you’re okay.”  

Caboose goes limp, head slumping to the side and Epsilon stays there.  He moves only to find their one blanket and wrap it around Caboose, holds onto his friend and stares, stares at the way his chest rises and falls; for hours, and hours, and hours on end.

Notes:

so interesting story as to why i haven't updated this in a year:

writers are insecure egomaniacs

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