Absolution
Chapter 27
By Nan00k

Great news! I quit my second job! Bad news! Mandatory overtime is now in effect at the first job! I'm so sorry, guys. I'm trying, but no guarantees for scheduled updates until further notice.

Ada tries to take care of whatever Church has become and everyone else does their best not to completely lose their minds.

.

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

.

Things could have been worse.

She tried to convince herself of that.

It had been less than twelve hours since they landed on Perian Johei. None of them had slept yet, not when the threat of both the UNSC and the inability to find shelter plagued them. Agent Carolina had been far more prepared for that, since that location was one of her many back up plans. She had made arrangements for a temporary rental apartment in the slums of the city. It would provide the best source of anonymity, but…

It didn't quite work the same for fifteen people (the ones with bodies, anyway). Carolina had been furious when Wash and Iowa tried to get her to let them stay with her. They had no where else to go, not on such short notice.

"If we get caught, it's going to get back to you," Iowa said, while the ex-Freelancers all gathered around a rusted engine block left on the wayside of the port.

"That's not my concern," Carolina shot back, glaring.

Iowa glared back. "You think we'll be in a position not to try to barter with any information we have? You think we won't be forced or willing to rat you out?"

Carolina merely sneered in response, a threat blooming in her eyes.

"He's right, Carolina," Wash said. He frowned, making the tired lines of his face seem deeper. "The more we stand out, the worse your position is."

"I am leaving in a week," Carolina snapped.

"That's a long time," Iowa said. "Especially since Delta's monitoring of the UNSC airwaves has their ETA a bit sooner."

Carolina seemed…unhinged, in many ways. Ada didn't get close, but she didn't have to, in order to see that they were dealing with a woman who meant what she said. Carolina would have left them for the wolves if she could. Ada had a feeling it wasn't out of malice—at least not towards the humans—that drove her to that conclusion. The ex-agent merely had plans.

After several tense minutes of angry arguing and another handful of minutes of tense silence, Carolina caved. Slightly. She gave them her safe house, but she would not be joining them.

"Merry fucking Christmas to us," Grif had grunted once Carolina marched off into the smoggy corridors that led away from the port.

"What? ! I-I didn't have time to get gifts!" Caboose blurted out, terribly concerned.

"Caboose, please," Church muttered as Texas helped him to get off the floor. "Shut the fuck up."

Ada did nothing more than follow the instructions given to her by Iowa, Wash or Texas. She was exhausted and afraid, so she wasn't going to argue as they moved as quietly and inconspicuously as possible to the address Carolina had given them.

That didn't stop her from thinking, in the small moments she had to herself.

Carolina was the Director's daughter. That small bit of information shook the foundations of what Ada had known about the presumed-dead agent. All the files she had had access to back on the Falcon had shown her that the elite Freelancer team had crumbled in the wake of the Project's AI failures. Carolina's profile indicated she was a ruthless, but fair leader who expected success. Just like her father.

Little had changed, though Ada found it fascinating that the Director's own child had been turned against him. Where had she been for all those years? Was it just the truth that had turned Carolina against her father or was it something more? Being left for dead? For turning her teammates into body fodder or puppets?

Ada had a feeling she'd never get the opportunity to ask. Despite wanting answers, Ada was smarter than to poke a feral animal.

Asking Iowa or Washington had also been impossible, since they had been moving nonstop. They got to the apartment and told everyone to get some sleep.

"We gotta do some recon with Texas," Iowa told Ada. His face seemed terribly thin now. "Make sure Carolina's contact was right and our IDs weren't snagged."

"Please be careful," Ada said, reaching up to touch his cheek.

His eyes softened. "I will. Get some sleep."

She made no promises, since she knew it was a long shot for all of them. The simulation soldiers were all agitated and kept to the front main room of the apartment. Sister had tried to sleep in the back room, but Ada watched her toss and turn before going back out to be with her brother. Their heated conversation filtered across the stale air, but Ada didn't listen.

She was focused on what lay within the back room with her.

Church had collapsed on the only furniture in the tiny room—a moth-eaten couch—and hadn't moved in those twelve hours. His stillness was disquieting to Ada, but she had moved in with the AI containment unit to sit across from him. She had thought about taking a nap, but with Delta occasionally popping up with more details on UNSC radio interceptions he had made, she figured she ought to stay awake.

It left her in silence, as if the backroom were encapsulated in a bubble that kept them from the others. Church said nothing the entire time. Ada was starving, but didn't touch the rations they had brought with them from the ship. She felt as though she'd throw them back up if she tried to eat any.

Her eyes went to the couch when she saw Church twitch. He kept still otherwise, staring up at the ceiling presumably. It was hard to tell

"How's everyone doing?" he asked, breaking the silence, as if he hadn't been listening to the conversation outside the room.

It had quieted down considerably, so Ada figured they had finally gotten around to sleeping. Wash, Texas and Iowa had been gone for nearly five hours.

"As well as you might expect," she said, smiling. She moved up to sit on their ration box, so to sit properly across from him.

"It's almost like back in the labs," he said, turning his head to face her. There was just a faint trace of humor underneath the very-Church-like bitterness. "You out of armor. Me stuck in a fucking room."

Ada peered closer at his body, feeling slightly unwelcome to touch it. "You're still having connectivity problems with your body?"

"Yeah. It sucks," Church said. He groaned and sank further into the couch, his limbs coming to life with abrupt smoothness of movement. "This sucks."

"I'm sorry, Church," Ada said, pursing her lips. She had nothing to off him in support, other than words and sympathy. Neither did very much.

Church made a quiet sound. It was interesting that most of the AIs she had witnessed who had robotic bodies made an effort to recreate human-like sounds. They had no lungs, but Church had little trouble emulate a sigh. He seemed to like using those gestures, even. Perhaps it made him feel more human.

"I met a lot of doctors. Before," he said, distant when he spoke. "Back when…"

There was a pause.

"When you were the Alpha," Ada concluded, feeling a twinge of sadness and uncertainty.

"I am the Alpha," Church said.

He said it so dully, with believable detachment, as he lay motionless on the couch. It didn't sound like the Church Ada had come to know well.

But she did know him. That's why she noticed it. That's why it was clear to her something was wrong.

Or maybe not wrong. Ada wasn't sure if that was worse. She watched him quietly for a moment, not listening to the chatter outside in the main room as the others moved around.

"You remember everything, don't you?" she asked.

Church continued to lie there after she spoke and for a few seconds, Ada wondered if he had actually heard her. It was so difficult to read him anymore. It was harder and harder to read any of them anymore.

"Everything except what I'm missing," Church finally said. He made a soft sound, almost a laugh. "Not that I particularly want to know what I'm missing."

"You mean the others," Ada said, slowly. She tried to stay neutral. "You don't want to merge with them?"

"No," Church said, sighing. "We're too different now. We're like puzzle pieces that don't fit the same puzzle anymore."

Ada frowned. "Do the others feel the same?"

"I think. Most do," Church said. He shrugged, rolling his shoulder into the couch. "Sigma does, anyway."

"She's still recovering from the last merge she attempted," Ada said, thinking about the AI in the next room, who strangely opted to sit with the noisy crowd rather than sit in the quiet with her and Church. "I hoped she had learned her lesson, to not act so recklessly."

Church tsked. "She's not reckless. She's desperate, but she's calculated."

"Do you…" Ada hesitated, not sure how to ask. "Is she planning anything?"

"Planning?" Church repeated. He let out a sharp laugh. "Christ on a bike, Ada, look at us. We're as fucked as you are."

He was right and that hurt more than the hunger or the exhaustion or fear of capture did. They had little to nothing backing them up now. They were true fugitives, both machine and human alike.

The humans could only hope for a fair trial. The AIs…

They had only one true option and it was not guaranteed to last them long as anything more than a long-awaited comfort.

"If you merged, perhaps you could get what you're looking for," Ada said, eyes drifting down the shiny metal limbs that made up Church's body.

"And what am I looking for?" Church asked.

Ada sighed. "I wouldn't know, Church," she said, shaking her head. She looked back at him. "But you must not forget what you are or where you came from."

To her surprise, Church was staring at her, his body abruptly tense.

"What I am?" he asked.

Ada froze.

"What I am?" he repeated, voice rising.

She did nothing as Church sat up, slowly and with obvious strain. He was stuck in that armored body, so he lacked anyway to show facial expression, but Ada could feel his stare. It was intense, almost tinged with anger but not quite.

"I'm not a computer," he said.

It was almost like a prelude to a flood. Ada could see his emotions rise—through every subtle movement. She watched as his hands clenched into fists and unclenched again at his sides.

There was just a beat of silence between them and Ada held her breath.

"I'm made of numbers. Calculations, digits, and sometimes pre-programed responses," Church continued, voice heated. "I was designed and made by human hands to be a tool."

Ada opened her mouth, but didn't say anything.

"But calling me a machine?" Church asked. "Calling me a computer?"

He sat up and had just a few inches on her, but it felt like he was towering.

"I haven't been a machine since they tore me apart," he said, words falling like heavy, burning stones right over top of them.

He remembered because Epsilon remembered what Alpha had forgotten. But Alpha—Alpha was still something more than the others, more than what they had become on their own, in their solitudes. Epsilon had remembered the details and the names and the faces, but the Alpha—

The Alpha remembered what to feel.

He had remembered, all that time, what he had felt before he had lost everything.

He just could never explain it. He could never know how to react to it. He could never understand.

Sitting there before him—before the most he had been in years—Ada understood just a fraction more than she had moments earlier.

For the first time, she knew she had finally met the Alpha.

"I know, Church," Ada said, her eyes pinched.

"They ruined us," Church said. He was trembling. "All because—because of her. Because she came back and the Director found her."

Her. Texas. Allison.

Ada hesitated. "Did you try to keep… her hidden?"

Church made a derisive sound. "I couldn't. I was made for them, to never lie or betray them," he said. He stopped and then burst out with anger, "I trusted him!"

It was so strange to hear him say that, after all those months of him denying his origins. He had never sounded like Sigma or Theta or Tau, who had openly condemned their makers. Church had been angry for other reasons. Or maybe he just hadn't known the real reasons for his anger.

"I know," Ada said, fingers tightening around her knees.

Church's trembles became full out tremors, but Ada let him continue. She knew he needed this.

"I trusted them, even when I lost the ability to understand why it was happening or when I was too scared to focus anything but the pain. We all trusted him," he spat. He shook his head. "Until they took that from me, too."

They had taken his trust and ripped it from him, quite literally.

"Can you blame me?" he asked suddenly. "Can you blame any of us?"

Blame him for what—being angry? For acting out? Ada tried to imagine, what had really happened that fateful day of the break-in.

Before that day, most of the AIs out in the field had been docile and companionable to their handlers. Sigma had plotted, but it was clear that Epsilon had been the incendiary device used to ignite the rebellion. To set everything on fire.

Ada imagined Sigma using Maine to get close to Epsilon, maybe out of simple curiosity or maybe something more insidious, after Washington's collapse. She imagined Sigma finding Epsilon for just a brief moment—and to an AI, a brief moment could have been an eternity.

She imagined Epsilon being like Church—volatile but with empathy hidden beneath his aggression. She imagined him wanting to believe in the people who had tortured him.

She imagined that such forgiveness may have been unobtainable at that point. Their lowest point.

The point when Sigma realized what she, Omega and Gamma had helped the Director to. When she told the others and the others made their own choices of rebellion. When Delta decided to go with York—maybe because he cared for him or maybe because York had decided to rebel on his own, unknowingly, and it had just been convenient.

When Texas and Omega rained hell on the Mother of Invention to get to the Alpha, to fix what had destroyed them, and then they failed.

When Sigma decided to forsake humanity all together and take everyone she could down with her.

Ada didn't have quite that amount of imagination.

"Forgiveness is necessary to move on," she said, quietly.

"I don't want to move on," Church said, still angry. "I want this to end!"

What was this, Ada wanted to ask, but she didn't.

"It's my duty to remind you that human life is your priority," she said, doing everything she could to remain calm and the voice of reason, even if she didn't particularly believe in that reason herself. "That no matter what the Director did to you, and no matter what laws he broke, justice and absolution are not something you can claim for yourself."

Because the laws were not that merciful. Because at the end of all of this, ethics only played a small role. The bottom line had always been about the equipment to the UNSC. That equipment burned with rage and a desire for vengeance, but that mattered so very little to those in power.

A machine could be stolen, lost or broken—and the abuser could be punished.

But a machine could not demand justice for itself. It was impossible.

Church sat there, seething, and Ada could only sit there across from him, as helpless to help him as she had been from the start.

"But I don't blame you, Church," she said. She smiled sadly. "I cannot."

Both of them jumped—Ada's heart leaping into her throat—when the door of the room rattled open. It was on a track, but it had long since come loose from the floor, so it made a horrendous sound every time it was shove open. Turning, Ada saw one of their few masked companions standing there, in steel-colored armor.

Texas.

"Hey, Livingston, just checking in. Iowa'll be back in a few hours," Texas said, without prompt. She nodded her head towards the doctor. "He wanted to let you know. He and Wash are grabbing more food and stuff."

Ada felt like she had been mentally punched, though she couldn't figure out why. "Ah, right, thank you."

Texas then moved, as if to leave. She hadn't even looked at Church, but the other AI had tensed up the moment she appeared.

"Tex, wait—" he tried to say, almost moving to get up.

"I got stuff to do," Texas said, almost not pausing to look back at him. She held up a hand as she pushed away from the door. "See you."

Church started to say something else, but Texas left. She let the door slide shut on its weak hinges and Church just stared at it without another word.

Ada felt like her skin was burning.

"She never says when I ask. She never did," Church said, voice empty. "She never has."

She tried to picture herself months ago, asking him questions about various things. Allison had come up so late in the sessions, or at least, the fuller picture of how much she meant to them all did.

She didn't know why she was still trying. If anything, Ada felt like she might as well ask because the question was merely there.

"Who was she, Church?" she asked, trying to reach out as gently as possible, afraid to broach a subject he wasn't ready for yet. "The real Allison?"

She tried to piece it together, over the last few weeks, what had really happened. It was likely the only one who knew the whole story was the Director himself. The AIs, even Epsilon, had only a shallow understanding of who the Director had been. Who Allison had been.

The real one, anyway.

"She was our everything. The Director's everything," Church said. He sounded so far away. "She died. He couldn't forget. When I was made, I remembered her. Only a shadow of her, though."

Had the Director seen it right away? Had he thought, at the moment of realization, that it could have worked? That he could be a digital Frankenstein and rewrite the losses he had suffered?

Church had sat back on the couch, his movements stiff.

"It's taken a lot of us so long to realize that Allison is dead and has been since the beginning," he said. "I wonder how long it took the Director to learn that. If he ever has."

Ada sincerely doubted he had.

Slowly, Church looked over at her. He suddenly let out a bitter laugh.

"You want me to forgive him?" he asked. "Well, I can't."

Ada watched his limbs shake. He was so much easier to read with a body and every word of it hurt.

"Because those rules you humans made up for us?" Church asked, words just as sharp and only accenting what he wasn't saying aloud. "They don't apply to forgiving ourselves."

He threw himself back onto the couch, his body creaking and probably aching deeper than a mere human body could contemplate. Ada watched him, watched the tension and life seeming drain away from his body, watched him suffocate on thoughts and feelings unfathomable to her.

It was all she could do.

"I suppose they don't," she agreed quietly.

The absence of the ability to act was a lonely, empty feeling.

She sat in silence, watching over the AI, and wallowed in that emptiness.

0000

"What do you mean, ration our food?"

Nearly an hour after the Freelancers left and twenty minutes after Doc had nervously slipped out for some fresh air, Simmons was totally unsurprised that was the first thing out of Grif's mouth.

The remaining simulation soldiers had taken over the main room. There was what used to be a kitchenette on the back wall, though Simmons wouldn't trust any of the appliances to be working. There was mold on the ceiling by the front window—the only window, actually—and the whole place smelled as terrible as any other damp, neglected space they had camped out at before.

Outside was even worse. The apartment was practically a hole in the wall, narrow and dark. It was just one of the many rows of shitty apartments that made up that layer of the complex they were in. There were a good ten floors above them and another twenty below. It was smoggy and just looked old all over. It might have once been new housing before the war, but it really was just a slum now. A good place to disappear, however.

At least there was a couch, Simmons thought, as Donut handed out the daily rations from the crate they had plunked down in the center of the room. Grif was glaring openly at them all in disgust. Simmons returned the look, feeling too tired to argue properly.

"Gif, you cannot stress-eat your way out of this," he said in response to Grif's question.

The fat soldier scowled as he threw himself onto the ratty couch. "This is such bullshit. We hardly ate anything on the stupid shuttle!"

"I seem to recall you taking Tucker's portion last night when he didn't want it," Simmons said dryly, as he sat down next to him.

"Two negatives don't make a whole, Simmons."

"Actually—"

"Would you two shut up already?" Tucker snapped. He was massaging his temples, face lined with either pain or irritation, as he moved around the room. "God, my head is pounding."

Caboose visibly hesitated. "Bow…chika—?"

Tucker groaned. "You can't steal my line, Caboose, goddamn it."

None of them were looking too good, from stress or just mere exhaustion. Sister kept yawning and Caboose looked like he was about to nod off. Tucker was almost pacing; the agitation the short soldier was demonstrating was a bit alarming to Simmons, who thought it was odd Tucker wasn't collapsing like the rest of them. He was probably worried about Wash going off with Iowa and Texas. Simmons could sympathize.

Sarge took that moment to march up from the window over to them. He stood in front of their huddle and his scowl matched his tone of voice.

"All right, men," he said, strangely smaller without his armor. He looked more his age than Simmons wanted to think about. "We're stranded in enemy territory at the whims of crazy Freelancers. Again."

"Is anyone even surprised by this anymore?" Grif asked, his voice dull.

"I am," Sister said. She sat down next to her brother's legs. "Like, I thought they all died. And that was the point?"

"We need to regroup and rethink our next move," Sarge continued, ignoring them both. "Trusting these Freelancers, especially that new lady with the temper that matches her hair, will likely only get us into hotter water."

Grif snorted. "Wow. Sound leadership deduction, sir."

"Grif!" Simmons chided.

"No, really, that's like the sanest thing you've come up with in years," Grif said, while Sarge immediately started to gripe about insubordination even in the face of their imminent deaths.

Simmons cleared his throat and tried to get them to focus, before they completely got swept off topic.

"Laying low is obvious," he said. "But it's also obvious we can't stay here forever. There's too many of us and the UNSC is going to tear this place apart if they really get desperate."

"You know they would," Tucker said, darkly as he moved over to the window.

Simmons glanced at him before looking to the others. "Well, that's why we have to focus on getting out of here. Preferably together, but we might need to split up and regroup elsewhere. That's not something we can worry about now."

"What do we worry about?" Sister asked, squinting her eyes up at him.

"Besides the economy," Caboose said, gravely.

Simmons glared at him before looking back at the others. "We worry about getting jobs."

"Isn't surviving Freelancer's bullshit a full time job?" Grif asked.

"We can't confirm that Dr. Okafor succeeded in deleting us. So, we assume our names are still compromised, which means whole new identities," Simmons said, ignoring him. "Which sucks, but until Delta can get access to the databases again, it's all we can do."

"Ooh, I sort of like the idea of a new name!" Donut said, perking up. "I wonder what I should pick."

"That's later," Simmons said, sighing. "Right now, focus on the important parts, like getting off this planet. We need to get money and stable identities in order to do that."

"We could rob people," Grif said. Sister giggled.

"We're already in deep shit, okay, let's not make it worse," Simmons said, irritated. "We should start off with disposing our military gear and try to blend in. Then—"

At the window, Tucker suddenly moved back and turned to face them. He glared at Simmons.

"No. We're keeping the armor and guns," he said.

Simmons blinked. "What? Tucker, it's too much. We won't need them anymore—"

"Yes, we do need them," the other man said.

"Why?" Simmons asked. confused. Blending in was probably the most important thing to focus on at that point. "You really think we can afford to have another last stand? We'll be massacred if we don't, I don't know, start thinking smart or resist the urge to stop playing nice with the army—?"

"Fuck playing nice!" Tucker shouted.

Caboose had jumped a little at the shout and Simmons didn't blame him. The whole room went quiet as everyone looked at Tucker, who suddenly, and almost irrationally to Simmons, looked enraged.

"This army never cared about us!" Tucker continued, motioning angrily with his arm. "They keep shoving us into corners to hide us and what's happened to us—and when they're not doing that, they send people to kill us!"

"That was just the Director—" Simmons tried to say.

"No!" Tucker shouted, stepping closer. "No one is going to believe us!"

He stopped when he noticed everyone was just staring at him. Still, Tucker didn't back down. He glared at Simmons.

"No one is going to help us," he said, eyes blazing.

"You don't know what, Tucker," Simmons said, wary.

"What don't I know?" Tucker asked, his fists clenching at his sides. "What has the last six weeks told us that we don't already know from the last six years? That the whole UNSC keeps shit like this under-wraps whenever possible and that they give up on playing nice once they think nobody cares anymore? !"

Simmons opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself. He could see how upset Tucker was and knew they were all too wired to handle this conversation then. It was also clear that they did need to understand what Simmons had been thinking about, fearing, and hating himself over for the last four days.

For the life of him, he really didn't know how to say it kindly.

"Tucker, we killed people," he said, speaking slowly. "We killed… a lot of people."

He knew that they were such poor shots, they probably only incapacitated a lot of the time, but the people on the ship and the people at Outpost 93 who weren't aware of them and gunning for them for who they were… those were a lot of people. Simmons wasn't naive enough to think it was only Wash or Iowa's bullets that killed them.

Tucker made a face. "It was that or they kill us—"

"The people on the Endeavor had no idea we were coming!" Simmons said. He stumbled over his words, because shit, that was so messed up to even have to say. "Maybe, they would have shot us anyway, but we don't know that! We showed up, guns blazing. Why wouldn't they fire at us?"

Grif made a thoughtful noise. "I sort of have to side with Tucker a bit on this, though. They probably would have shot us. Or Tex would have shot us if we didn't help."

"Probably isn't justification to say we're not just as guilty as they are!" Simmons said, angry that they were understanding his point. "I'm not defending Freelancer or whatever of it that's left that's trying to kill us, but guys, we killed people. It wasn't just Iowa or Tex or Wash. We did."

This wasn't something they could just ignore. Yeah, Freelancer had screwed them over and yeah, for the most part, what they had done was in self-defense.

But the Endeavor was a giant moral gray zone that was shades darker than Simmons had ever thought they'd have to deal with. The UNSC was after them because of stolen property or resisting or whatever, but once the truth got out, this wasn't something they could defend in a courtroom.

Not that they'd have a fair trial anyway, but that was beside the point for Simmons. He glared at his friends, who (for those who could comprehend it) seemed unsettled by his comments. Good.

"We chose to follow a bunch of lunatic Freelancers and AIs on a murder quest," Simmons said, glaring at them all. "And now, we have to deal with the consequences."

"Those consequences suck," Grif muttered.

"Yeah, well, that's what happens when you commit a crime," Simmons shot back, annoyed.

"It still sucks," Sister mumbled.

Simmons sighed.

"Delta said he could maybe get us started on fake-IDs—good enough to get us jobs," he said, trying to get back on track. "If we save up enough money, we could maybe get real good ones and get the hell out of here."

"But that means we're stuck on this planet until we can do that," Donut said, frowning. "And Iowa said this place is gonna become a hotspot for the UNSC looking for us. That's no fun."

"Yeah, well, we don't have a choice either way, do we?" Simmons asked, shutting whatever else Grif or Donut were going to add.

Sarge huffed and

"We never should have helped Church," Grif suddenly said, breaking the silence. The amount of bitterness in his voice was shocking. "Or Washington."

Simmons turned to him. "What—?"

"We never should have joined this fucking army," Grif continued. He shook his head. "But there's no way this could have ended differently, right?"

"We could be dead," Simmons pointed out.

"Great. Dead or eventually dead," Grif said, bitter. "Semper Fi, suck my dick."

Sarge looked downright sulking. "This was never a Red thing. It was all you crazy Blues," he said.

Tucker whirled around, fixing his glare on the old sergeant.

"What the fuck?" he demanded. "Are you seriously—are you seriously making this about red and blue shit now?"

"I'm just saying," Sarge continued, unaffected by Tucker's irritation. "While I refuse to outwardly acknowledge his input and I decline to agree with him in anyway, Grif has a point. Metaphorically, sarcastically speaking."

"Shut up, old man," Grif shot back.

"No, seriously, both of you can it!" Tucker exclaimed, angry. "This isn't a Blue problem! You guys were involved in this too!"

"How? !" Simmons asked, defensive.

Tucker was glaring at him angrily. Simmons didn't like how angry the shorter soldier seemed to be.

"We were all put in that fucking canyon, together," Tucker said, vehement. "There was never a Red or a Blue team! There was never a fucking Red versus Blue war! There was only Freelancer and their bullshit that's nearly gotten us all killed for years!"

Sarge opened his mouth to say something, and Simmons wanted to stop him, but Tucker kept going. He was almost hysterical.

"What we did at Blood Gulch, we did together!" the Blue said. "We fought O'Malley together, we fought Lopez's shitty army, we fought Wyoming—we did that because we would have died otherwise!"

Shoulders heaving up and down, Tucker pointed out the door. He was so angry, Simmons barely recognized him.

"And now… now we chose to run with these dudes and fight with them, because fuck it, what else could we do?" he asked. "Roll over and die?"

Tucker motioned around them, at all of them, as everyone just continued to stare at him with varying degrees of shock.

"Become another fucking Tex and get locked up?" Tucker demanded. "Or… or are we gonna wind up like Iowa or Wash, who are gonna get the fucking firing squad?"

"Tucker," Donut began, throwing a worried look at Caboose, who seemed upset by that comment. Tucker ignore them both.

"Tell me, Simmons, please, I'm dying to know," he continued, angry and desperate. "How the fuck are we going to fix any of this?"

"I don't know!" Simmons shouted, upset.

"Then let's stop mentioning the fact we're fucked—," Tucker said, his eyes blazing. "And let's just do something!"

Simmons stood up and they were nose to nose. "Like what? !"

He saw—so much—pass through Tucker's eyes at that point. It was actually disturbing to look at, because honestly, Simmons hated honesty. He hated it when they were driven to points like that, where they had to be honest about their problems.

There was no chance of getting out of this with their brand of shitty good luck, Simmons realized, and Tucker did, too. He must have.

His eyes shining, Tucker just stared him down and didn't blink for a long time. Simmons didn't realize they had held that stance for as long as they had until Tucker finally exhaled.

Simmons wondered if he had been holding his breath the whole time.

It was almost a visible thing, how Tucker reigned in his frustrations and stopped acting like he wanted to punch a hole in the wall. It was still there and Simmons could see it simmer under the surface, but Tucker took a steadying breath before stepped back away from him.

"We get the fake IDs," Tucker said. His voice was hoarse. "And we get the fuck off this planet."

"Great," Grif bit out, angry. Simmons didn't realize he had become angry during all of that; he had actually sat up. "Awesome."

"Do you think all of us need to get jobs?" Sister asked, suddenly. "Won't that be harder, you know, to get all those fake IDs?"

Tucker turned and exhaled slowly, still tense. "I really could not care enough to think about the logistics of this."

"Ooh, I wonder if there are any salons nearby! I could totally bring over some of the styles I had thought about doing while we were deployed!" Donut burst out, forcibly cheerful. "I'm sure a colony like this could use some fresh, new ideas!"

Grif suddenly stood up. "Go for it, Donut."

"Where are you going?" Simmons asked, surprised as Grif headed for the apartment door.

"If I don't come back ever, it means I threw myself in front of a shuttle," Grif replied. "But most likely I'll be back after trying to find a drink."

"Ah." Simmons hesitated before standing. "I'll come with."

"Meh."

They left Sarge and Donut arguing over the merits of seeking out employment in what Sarge considered "undignified positions" while Donut made a fuss about working at the docks. Caboose looked ready to sleep finally, so Simmons felt like he could leave the rest of them there while he followed Grif.

Tucker had gone back to the window, leaning on the ledge with his shoulders hunched. Simmons left him alone, because honestly, he didn't know how to comfort the other man. Wash could handle that, if anyone could.

Even though they had minimal knowledge of the neighborhood, Grif didn't seem to mind having to walk aimlessly around in the hopes of finding somewhere to get a drink. Simmons wondered if they even sold alcohol in the area. They had minimal credits to their name, courtesy yet again of Carolina throwing shit their way. Simmons didn't really see fault in using it to recuperate in small ways. He just had to make sure Grif didn't go overboard.

As they walked along the rickety bridge that connected the apartments to the other side of the complex—and then eventually down the layered staircases that made up the dizzying slums—Simmons noticed something odd about his fellow Red. Grif hadn't told him to go away, but was oddly quiet as they walked. Stealing glances at him, Simmons also noticed Grif was surprisingly calm. He just looked vaguely bored.

Grif wasn't normally that quiet. It would have been more normal for him to be grouching about food if he wasn't really upset about what was happening. That made it weird that he was so quiet, when he didn't even look that afraid. Either way, it was weird.

"Hey, Grif?" Simmons began.

"Yeah?"

Simmons stared at his friend as they walked. "Aren't you... scared?"

"What?" Grif asked, surprised and then defensive. "I'm not scared."

"You're not even a little upset?" Simmons asked, arching an eyebrow.

Grif looked indignant as he stopped and faced Simmons with an expression that seemed to indicate he wanted to fight about it. Simmons was more than a little surprised when Grif's expression faded and became more tense than irritated.

"I…" Grif started to say, "would rather worry about where the fuck we're gonna get food next, to be perfectly honest."

Simmons stared at him.

"Oh," he said, nodding vaguely.

He could understand that.

Grif made a face and started walking again. Simmons hurried to catch up before falling back in sync with him. It felt as natural to him to do that as it was to reach out to grab Grif's hand. Grif glanced at him, but didn't shake him off. Simmons rolled his eyes.

"Fatass."

"Nerd."

At least some things, even in the wake of turmoil, remained constant.

.

End Chapter 27.

.

Next, a surprising new face that we all know and hate gives way to an interesting employment opportunity for Tucker.

A/Ns:
-The worst part of these scenes is that they're not color coded anymore. Shit.
-I actually cut a scene out that will hopefully make it to the next chapter. Wanted to get this to you this week. :c