Absolution
Chapter 1
By Nan00k

This is the second book in the Rehabilitation series, sequel to Salvation. Dr. Livingston and Agent Iowa have escaped the USS Falcon with the AIs and have aimed their sights on getting the AIs into the hands of the only people they believe they can trust—namely, a ragtag group of simulation soldiers in the middle of no where. Clearly, this is the best plan ever…of all time.

This story is considered AU (an alternative universe) after RvB Season 8! Seasons 9 and 10 (or any subsequent seasons) do NOT apply to the universe of this story or its prequel!

If you have not yet read "Salvation," I would highly recommend you do, since a bulk of the initial plot here will make no sense at all, nor will the cast list. The story can be found on my profile page.

:) Enjoy!

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Warnings: implied slash (parings vary; focus on Doc/Wash, Doc/O'Malley, Grimmons), FOUL language, descriptive violence, AU setting
Disclaimer: Red vs. Blue © RoosterTeeth Productions. Halo © Microsoft. Any original characters found within this story were created explicitly for this story and its prequel.

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Simulation Outpost 17
Code Name "Valhalla"

Valhalla was a pretty nice operation. The scenery was breathtaking. There was an ample supply of water for once. The mountains loomed with familiarity and it was quiet. Nice and peaceful.

Peaceful was a relative word, sure, but Simmons wasn't going to nitpick it too often.

It had been seven months since they had gotten back to the simulation base. It had taken both Red and Blue squads a few weeks to get back on their feet, simply due to exhaustion and an intense uncertainty over their situation. Simmons knew he wasn't the only one who was afraid of the UNSC or Freelancer to sudden reappear in their lives, guns blazing. They were only partially certain that their involvement in what happened to the Meta would be catalogued as less important compared to the Freelancers.

That assumption must have been correct, considering that two weeks passed and no UNSC pelicans arrived with soldiers to arrest either Red or Blue teams. As the uncertainty dissipated, Simmons felt a cool sense of relief. Maybe they would finally escape the chaos of Freelancer and all its secrets without suffering a violent, unnecessary demise. That was a positive.

And so, with the disappearance of secret military organizations from their lives, some normalcy returned…specifically, the familiarity of Red vs. Blue.

They were all missing people. Doc had managed to extend his deployment there, but he wasn't a Red or a Blue. The Reds were missing Donut and Lopez, whom Sarge was rebuilding. The Blues obviously… they didn't have Church.

At least the Blues were able to gain a new teammate in the aftermath of everything that the Meta had brought them. Washington wasn't just a new teammate, however.

He was good. Like, the best soldier in the valley now. Like… actually capable. Simmons preferred to think that his own abilities were hindered by incapable teammates (specifically Grif), but there was no way any of the Reds or Blues could hold a candle to the ex-Freelancer now assuming Church's identity on the roster.

It was tricky, and it took both the Reds and Blues to figure out how to make the lie stick when their Commands finally found them and demanded a situation report. Having Washington there and identifying him as Washington was a giant NO as far as the simulation soldiers were concerned. Wash was all too willing to lie about his identity on record to avoid getting his real name out there. The only catch was that Freelancer records might indicate that Church had actually been an AI, but so far, no one at Command had questioned his presence.

Simmons wasn't sure why Sarge was going along with the cover up, since it was for the sake of the Blues in particular, but there was an unspoken acknowledgement of the few facts they did all agree on.

If Freelancer tracked Wash down, naturally the Reds and Blues would be targeted, too. They were all sick and tired of the messes that came along with Freelancer. They were done with it all, as far as Simmons could tell. Wash was a Freelancer, sure, but he had a thousand reasons why he wanted to go AWOL. For the Reds and Blues, as much as having a former enemy living amongst them was uncomfortable, they knew it was in their best interests to play along with his charade.

Besides… it wasn't like they could blame him. Even Tucker, who could hold a grudge, or Sarge who might use Wash's past against him—they all knew what had happened to the surly Freelancer. Simmons couldn't exactly hate him for what he did simply because, man, Wash was an unlucky son of a bitch.

A little sympathy wasn't too much to offer him, Simmons thought privately. He knew the others must have thought similarly. No one would ever admit it, though.

And so the fighting recommenced. It wasn't really fighting; Simmons wasn't sure if they had ever truly fought at all. The peace of the valley was disturbed by spontaneous long periods of gunfire and occasional grenades going off. But there weren't any casualties. In the last six months, Simmons was relatively certain that the worst to have happened was Grif getting shrapnel in his leg.

The minor wound caused an odd backlash of Red and Blue interaction, with Wash actually apologizing for causing the injury from a too-well-placed grenade. Doc managed not to botch the easy extraction and Grif recovered rather quickly. He tried to milk the injury as much as he could, but even when they could all see he was fine now, both sides agreed to a mild truce so their teams could recuperate.

It was odd. And probably against protocol. Simmons didn't like breaking the rules, but even he could see that this was the better alternative. They were only simulation soldiers, so he couldn't fathom why they had been given actual guns with bullets at all.

The Blues were dirty and rotten, but they were…the Blues. They had been through just as much as the Reds had, though a bitter side of Simmons wanted to complain that it had been the Blues' problems that had caused their mutual involvement in the Meta shenanigans…

It was all moot at that point. The fighting (well, the serious fighting) was over and the goal of both teams seemed to have come down to alleviating boredom by stealing each other's stuff. Simmons could live with that. Better than dying in a cold, snowy wasteland, he mused.

After several months of the same old non-fighting, Simmons was glad for Sarge to have gotten them up for a sit-rep. Their sergeant's exuberance was a bit alarming (sort of like when Wash faked smiles; it was always a warning sign for danger), but anything out of the ordinary would be welcomed. Simmons knew they could use some novelty.

"Alright, men," Sarge began as he walked in front of them. He looked specifically at Grif, voice going higher in sarcastic pitch. "It's so nice to see that you finally got up off your lazy ass, Grif. You're an inspiration to all other worthless dirtbags out there."

"It's like the crack of dawn," Grif whined. "This is barbaric."

"It's like ten in the morning!" Simmons exclaimed.

"Like I said, crack of dawn."

"The crack of dawn is five in the morning," Simmons told him icily. "I did get up then. I always do."

Grif stared at him. "…Are you Satan?" he asked.

"Enough!" Sarge shouted, interrupting Simmons before he had the chance to reply. "We had an important delivery this morning."

"Is it another robot? I'm not sure Lopez would be happy about being replaced," Grif said sardonically. Simmons elbowed him hard.

Simmons started to ask a real question, but stopped short when an arm sudden wrapped itself around his waist that pulled him straight into Grif's side and another armored person.

"Heeey, fellas!"

Grif yelled and fell forward out of the grasp he was in. Simmons spun around and gawked at the new soldier standing just a few inches away.

"Donut!" he exclaimed.

Donut, pink armor and all, waved cheerfully. "Hey!"

Simmons was speechless. Donut—they knew he had recovered and would be coming back. But so soon? It had been only a few days since Sarge had gotten the message about their missing teammate. How Donut survived his encounter with Washington was still a mystery to everyone, but Simmons was glad their friend made it through.

Astonished, Simmons stared at the new arrival. "I didn't think you were coming back for another week. Are you okay?"

"I sure am!" Donut replied, cheerful. He flexed his arms goofily. "Took six months of intensive rehab and physical therapy, but I can almost feel all my toes again! It's great! Let it never be said that universal healthcare isn't totally worth it."

"Man, we thought you were dead for sure," Grif said, sounding impressed. Simmons sort of was. Donut was either a hardy bastard, or a lucky one. Probably just lucky.

Sarge sighed loudly. "There's a difference between actually being dead and being left for dead, gentleman. Heh heh." He gestured at Donut, sounding almost proud. "Princess here made a full recovery, so now the Red team can assume its ascent back to domination over the basin!"

While Donut preened under the attention, Simmons withheld a sigh at his commander's exuberance. While having the extra manpower was a bonus… but it wasn't that simple.

"With all due respect, sir, even if we had twenty Donuts here—," Simmons began.

"Knock on wood," Grif muttered.

"I do that all the time!" Donut said cheerfully.

"Ugh."

Simmons glared at both of them. "—the Blues have their own secret weapon that we have nooo hope in ever defeating," he finished. He wasn't one for team pessimism, but the realist in him couldn't ignore that little fact.

"What's the secret weapon?" Donut asked, surprised.

Grif and Simmons looked at each other before looking back at him. "Wash," they said in unison.

"Who's that?" Donut asked.

Even Sarge paused at that. Donut…hadn't remembered who had shot him. While revealing the fact that their new rival was the same guy who had nearly killed Donut would probably lead Donut to want revenge (that incident with Tex and the grenades came readily to mind), the Reds who had been aware of what had become of Donut's attacker held back undoubtedly for the same unspoken reason.

Wash wasn't a bad guy. He had been. But… Simmons shifted uneasily.

"Uh…a new Blue guy," he began, awkwardly. "Pretty intense. Way better than any of the soldiers in the basin."

Sarge scoffed loudly. "Don't encourage the enemy!" he ordered. He waved his shotgun in the air. "They may have a diabolical source of firepower now that can cut through our formations like a hot knife through lard, but given the time to properly prepare ourselves for this new threat, our forces will be able to dominate those rotten Blues once and for all!"

"Oh, joy," Grif muttered.

Donut had looked like he had been listening, but the pink soldier abruptly looked around them.

"…Where's the flag?" he asked at length.

"The Blues have it," Grif sighed.

Donut hesitated. "And where're the ammo supply crates?" he asked, looking around their bare front yard.

Simmons also sighed. "The Blues have it."

"…Where's the Warthog's front bumper?"

"The Blues have it," Grif and Simmons replied.

"Why do they have all of our stuff?" Donut exclaimed, shocked.

"They have Wash on their team," Grif said.

Donut paused. "Oh."

"Yeah, it's been that kind of six months here."

"But we're facing great change! A change headed toward greatness!" Sarge pumped his shotgun and quickly got back into his usual pace. "I spent all week planning an effective strategy to retrieve our flag and Simmons' honor! I call it the Grif Fodder Explosaganza!"

Grif radiated an intense glare. "Gee, I wonder what my role in this plan is."

"Oh, shut up, and take it," Simmons said, grinning under his helmet. They were finally back in business; even if they were doomed to fail, at least their team was reassembled.

"Ooh, tell him, Simmons!" Donut cheered.

…Or maybe it wasn't such a good thing. Simmons shook his head and tried to follow the plan details.

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There weren't too many safe havens in Valhalla. It was surrounded by steep cliffs that were difficult to climb. The landscape was beautiful, sure, and without large armies or cities nearby, it was…docile. Almost untouched, aside from the missing wildlife. The sea's waves were an ambient background on the beach and inland had the waterfall.

Wash found a quiet place up near the cliffs that he was certain the others hadn't found yet. Or if they had, they knew not to follow him up there. It was further up along the ridge that overlooked the waterfall. Lying on the grass, he could stare up at the sky for hours. It was sort of annoying, how static it all was. They received infrequent rain or storms, so it was almost perpetual spring in the valley. He supposed that was a good thing. The clouds got monotonous after a while.

He went up there a lot, whenever they weren't "fighting" the Reds. Weekends were non-fighting days and Thursday was Sarge's Recreational Warfare nights. They generally played poker at either Red or Blue base then. Wash didn't hate it, even if it made no sense to him at all. He supposed that's why they were the Reds and Blues, at any rate.

Caboose and Tucker had been especially annoying, so Wash was glad he had the time to escape to his quiet retreat. Sometimes he had to trick Caboose into remaining behind, but today, the slow soldier was thankfully already distracted.

They were busy…celebrating.

Wash clenched his fists and tried not to give into the urge to start moving again. Anxiousness in his limbs made it difficult to stay still.

They had gotten the news yesterday and he had been fighting that urge to run or workout ever since. The raw buzz in his legs and arms…it felt like adrenaline, or nervousness. But there was nothing to be nervous about.

The stupid Red soldier—the pink one—was back. Whoop-de-doo. The Blues should have been upset (not that having the new guy would help the Reds win, although) that their enemies were reassembling. That would be the logical reaction.

No… Caboose had gotten Doc to help make a cake. Tucker had been excited, claiming that Donut was the best clothing washer in the whole valley. The Blues paid the Red solider to do their laundry. What? Wash had just shaken his head at them.

None of them made any sense, including the Reds. Simmons had just come over and told them. Like they were real neighbors and they were sharing gossip about their families. It…was so, so weird.

Wash got out of there before he went nuts. They were all nuts. Having Donut back wasn't bad, but…

Fingers gouging the dirt, Wash refused to dwell on it. He came here for peace and quiet. Maybe a nap. If he could just catch a few hours sleep without worrying about Caboose setting the base on fire while making a late night snack, maybe the tension would go away—

"Hello!"

"Kill me," Wash groaned, closing his eyes again.

"That's not good to hear," said the purple armored medic who loomed overhead. His voice was painfully pleasant. Wash could hear the man sitting down a few feet away, which made him scowl. "Did you know suicidal thoughts are more prevalent among soldiers outside of an active war zone than on the frontlines?"

Of all the damn people to seek him out… How the hell was Doc so stealthy anyway? This happened too often. "Shut up."

There was silence for only a short period of time, unfortunately. "…This is a quiet spot," Doc said. "Needed time to think about things?"

Wash opened his eyes to glare over at the medic. "No, Doc, I was just hoping someone who doesn't know how to take 'no' for an answer would drop by for a visit."

"…Was that sarcasm?"

"Of course not."

"Okay, since I…" Doc stopped and made a quiet exasperated sound, as if he were disciplining a child. "Wash."

Wash ignored him pointedly. He wanted peace and quiet. Doc was definitely less loud than Caboose was, but he was also far more annoying, for reasons even Wash didn't quite understand.

Doc started to tap his fingers against his armored knee. "You know, Simmons is probably right that Donut would probably forgive you if you ever introduced yourself properly," he said abruptly.

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" Wash demanded, trying to shift back into a comfortable position. Having someone sitting there wasn't making it easy.

"Well, that's what you're upset about, isn't it?"

A deep growl built up in Wash's chest. "I swear to God, if I open my eyes and you're still sitting there—"

"You've been on edge ever since the Reds said Donut was coming back," Doc interrupted, his calmness grating. "Though I don't think they shared that information on purpose, since Sarge was upset that Simmons told the Blues, but it's good we had the chance to prepare a welcome back!"

Oh, he was surrounded by idiots. "You all fail at the concept of 'you're on different teams,'" he snapped.

"I don't think anyone really cares about that. I'm not one to get involved in that debate, though," Doc replied, a shrug in his voice. It was a similar shrug that the others seemed to share concerning this topic. Idiots. "Anyway, you got really upset when you heard about him coming back from medical leave."

That made Wash sit up. "I did not!" he exclaimed.

Doc, for all of his faults, never knew to back down when confronted with danger. "You punched out a window when you found out," he pointed out simply.

"I was moving a chair and it got in my way. Shut up."

"You also threatened to hit Caboose when he kept talking about Donut coming back," Doc continued.

The dark feeling in the pit of his stomach didn't go away. "Seriously?" Wash began, clenching his fists. "Shut. The fuck. Up."

Doc got giddy over that reaction. "Ah, ha! And now, you're agitated when I brought it up," he said, oblivious as always.

"Only because you won't shut the hell up!" Wash groaned and flopped back onto the ground. "God, I hate you."

"I know I only recently got my certificate in psychological counseling—"

Wash snorted. "You got it online after twelve hours of 'training.'"

"It's still recognized in several outer colonies!" Doc insisted. He settled back down, intent on continuing his inane conversation. "As I was saying, I'm new at this, but I can clearly see that you're struggling with guilt over this whole thing."

"Guilt?" Wash repeated, now insulted. "Over what?"

"You did shoot Donut and leave him for dead."

Doc couldn't feel the cold tickle in Wash's stomach. Wash sort of wished he couldn't either.

"Yeah?" he prompted, making it a threat. Unfortunately, none of these idiots recognized real threats.

"The lack of empathy is unusual," Doc said dryly. Wash paused; was that sarcasm? "Wash, my point is, it's okay. Donut said he wasn't bitter about it."

That shouldn't have mattered, and it didn't matter. Wash glared at the other man behind his visor. "I was doing my job. He got in my way, as did you, and I'm not about to apologize to any of you for that," he said hotly. "Go. Away."

He turned his head to glare at the sky. It was enough that he had to learn the patience for handling Caboose's idiocy and Tucker's nonstop chatter. Doc could just show up whenever he wanted and he was all together worse than the Blues. Irritating, chatty, ignorant—and never knew when to stop.

Wash exhaled sharply and tried to ignore the ever-present medic who hadn't moved.

It was bullshit. He wasn't upset that the stupid Red soldier came back. Who cared? Wash didn't have regrets over missions. Freelancer weeded that out of all of them early on.

Sure, it bit at his conscience when he realized that he was being given shelter by the very people he terrorized with the Meta, but…they were idiots. That justified it. To a degree.

He didn't feel guilty over anything. It wasn't logical to.

"I forgive you, too," Doc said, shattering the silence. "For, you know, kidnapping me and terrorizing me for two weeks."

"I don't care if you forgive me," Wash snapped. "I'm not apologizing."

"I know." Doc leaned forward on his knees out of the corner of his eye. "But I still think it's important that you hear that."

Wash grit his teeth. He didn't need to hear it—any of it. Doc could pretend to be a psychologist—hell, he was already pretending to be a medic—all he wanted. It didn't mean anything.

It didn't mean anything at all.

"Why are you still here?" Wash finally asked, irritated that he even had to.

"Because…" Doc sounded thoughtful. "Well, you also looked a bit lonely."

"I'm surrounded by idiots all day long," Wash said, scathingly. "How could I possibly be lonely?"

"You can be lonely in the middle of a crowded room, Wash."

Chest tightening, Wash watched as uniform clouds drifted overhead. The sky seemed further away now and the body next to him ever closer.

Hearing that made him feel claustrophobic. He didn't know why.

"You got that from the Internet, too," he accused.

Doc sniffed. "Only part of it."

That almost made Wash laugh. Almost. He tucked his hands behind his head and did his best to enjoy the invaded peace and quiet.

Sharing space with idiots, having to deal with Doc, being forced to spend days like this staring at a never-changing landscape…

"If this is supposed to be my personalized Hell, I guess it could be worse," he muttered.

Realistically…

Wash smiled grimly.

It could have been so, so much worse.

"Now, go away."

"Party-pooper."

"Ugh."

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End Chapter 1.

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Next, Ada and Iowa enjoy a fun little field trip.

A/Ns:
-I have no idea if they have the a form of the Internet in this universe. Just pretend that they do.