Maine doesn't fight for control, because he really has no reason to. Sigma took care of any hesitation he might've had a long, long time ago, and none of it is left, now. There's just a man and AI, sharing one brain, and sometimes he gets a chance to breathe on his own, to think on his own, and sometimes those voices whisper him back into oblivion, cradling him deep within the folds of his own mind.
He's not just one person anymore. He's not even really a person.
And he's silent, at first, to Wash's question, gloved fingers curled loosely over the top of his kneecap. Maine, well, he doesn't want anything from Wash. Meta wants his fucking blood, wants his guts strewn across the concrete walls, wants his bones and fingers and hands piled at the Director's fucking feet. Wash is a risk, a threat, to everything that they want, to everything they've worked tirelessly for, and Meta wants him fucking dead. Meta wants a lot of people dead.
Maine shifts again, rocking forward onto his toes, and it's another moment before he lifts his hands to his helmet, his fingers slipping beneath the latches to snap them off. When the helmet comes off, everything gets a lot quieter, and Maine has to take a moment to really focus on where he is, on what he's doing, on the fact that Wash is seated right there in front of him.
But when he focuses, when his pupils constrict, he smiles. "Hey, buddy," he says, and it's like he never left, amiably squeezing the fingers of one hand over Wash's shoulder. "Long time no see, man."
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He's not just one person anymore. He's not even really a person.
And he's silent, at first, to Wash's question, gloved fingers curled loosely over the top of his kneecap. Maine, well, he doesn't want anything from Wash. Meta wants his fucking blood, wants his guts strewn across the concrete walls, wants his bones and fingers and hands piled at the Director's fucking feet. Wash is a risk, a threat, to everything that they want, to everything they've worked tirelessly for, and Meta wants him fucking dead. Meta wants a lot of people dead.
Maine shifts again, rocking forward onto his toes, and it's another moment before he lifts his hands to his helmet, his fingers slipping beneath the latches to snap them off. When the helmet comes off, everything gets a lot quieter, and Maine has to take a moment to really focus on where he is, on what he's doing, on the fact that Wash is seated right there in front of him.
But when he focuses, when his pupils constrict, he smiles. "Hey, buddy," he says, and it's like he never left, amiably squeezing the fingers of one hand over Wash's shoulder. "Long time no see, man."