dappered | (no subject)

He's been out in the open for a week now, tracking cold trails, talking to people who had noticed thefts of vehicles, weaponry, ammunition but had never seen the thief. He recognizes the efficiency and tells himself it doesn't mean anything. His partner isn't anywhere inside the thing he's hunting now. It wears the body like a mask, driven by the jumble of AI.

Wash has never particularly trusted AI programs, especially not after what happened to Epsilon. Whether or not it was their fault didn't change the fact that they were inherently unstable, and to him there was no 'if' they became a danger to their partners.

It was only a when.

It's not hard for him to imagine a clusterfuck of uncontrollable AI occupying one headspace. He knows what that's like, thanks to Epsilon, and so he clings to the belief that Maine is already dead. When he puts his gun to that familiar face and pulls the trigger (Command might want the Meta taken alive, but Wash knows that's not going to happen), it won't be murder. Just putting down a mad dog. Maine would do the same, if their positions were reversed.

Probably.

He's holed up in a shitty abandoned base, crumbling cement and gutted computer ports, leaning against the wall with only the bottom half of his armor on, inspecting the damage done to the back of his chest armor. Fucking South Dakota. His rifle leans against the wall.

The exhaustion creeps up on him, and he has to put his tools down when he notices that he can't concentrate on the tiny wires he's trying to manipulate. He'll have to finish in the morning, and putting the armor back on will undo the repairs he's managed so far. So he props himself up against the wall, rifle across his lap and a camo net covering him like a blanket, setting his HUD to alert him when a few hours have passed.

He's out like a light.

Threaded | Flat

Maine's not dead.

He's just a little different.

Maybe he's as good as dead, with what he's become and how he's changed, but he's not actually dead. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, when Maine's body wears itself down to a point where he can't even function anymore, he stops to rest, trembling fingers fumbling with the latches of his helmet until he can pull it off, until his entire world whittles away into an eerie, uncomfortable silence. The helmet never stays off for long, and Maine never stays in one place.

He's at Wash's side a half hour after he falls asleep, looming over him like a bad memory, a bad dream. Wash seems to chase Maine in circles -- he's always a step or two behind him, recognizing his patterns even when he can't recognize him, fucking up his shit and plans, ruining what he can like he thinks he can fucking stop him, and if Maine could speak to him now, he'd call him a shitty friend.

( please don't haunt me anymore )

Maine blinks. He kneels there, inches away from Wash, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. He slides one hand up, back to his Magnum, working the hard steel free of its holster until he can fit the barrel of the gun neatly under Wash's chin.