Piper 90: Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
goneawaymod) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
goneawayworld2021-04-10 09:37 pm
goneawaymod) wrote in goneawayworld2021-04-10 09:37 pm
3..2...1...CONTACT!
Who: The New Hires
What: Sudden Memory Share
Where: Their Memory Palaces
When: After "Don't Touch That Dial"
Warnings/Notes: Possible in every memory, warn in subject lines.
Contact.
It's during a pause in their day. A nap. An idle moment looking across the Top Deck. Taking a slow breath between reps in the training room.
The New Hires are connected. Mental pathways locking together, they're forced into one another's innermost beings. Thrust into one another's memory palaces where the mind collects and stores everything that makes them who they are. The core of their beings are only a few steps away and no one can help the violation.
To make matters worse, it comes with no explanation or no ability to pull out and stop. Once they're through the first memory, perhaps they can find a way out, but they're already witnessing some event from their host's past. And, if they left, who knows whether or not they'd end up accidentally invading another memory palace?
And if they were there, who was in theirs?
[[So, how this works: the memories can either be viewed in spectator mode or the guest can be experiencing everything themselves. The person whose memories are being shown, the host, can watch as their current self or take the form they had of their past self. They can talk about the memory with the "guest" that's visiting.
They cannot control the first memory shown, the player decides that, but they can control any other memories they'd like to show people after. Of course, there's also always the option of an extreme emotional reaction bringing up other memories unbidden.]]
What: Sudden Memory Share
Where: Their Memory Palaces
When: After "Don't Touch That Dial"
Warnings/Notes: Possible in every memory, warn in subject lines.
Contact.
It's during a pause in their day. A nap. An idle moment looking across the Top Deck. Taking a slow breath between reps in the training room.
The New Hires are connected. Mental pathways locking together, they're forced into one another's innermost beings. Thrust into one another's memory palaces where the mind collects and stores everything that makes them who they are. The core of their beings are only a few steps away and no one can help the violation.
To make matters worse, it comes with no explanation or no ability to pull out and stop. Once they're through the first memory, perhaps they can find a way out, but they're already witnessing some event from their host's past. And, if they left, who knows whether or not they'd end up accidentally invading another memory palace?
And if they were there, who was in theirs?
[[So, how this works: the memories can either be viewed in spectator mode or the guest can be experiencing everything themselves. The person whose memories are being shown, the host, can watch as their current self or take the form they had of their past self. They can talk about the memory with the "guest" that's visiting.
They cannot control the first memory shown, the player decides that, but they can control any other memories they'd like to show people after. Of course, there's also always the option of an extreme emotional reaction bringing up other memories unbidden.]]
no subject
His nostrils flare in anger that yet one more person(?) deceived him somehow.
"We'd worked well together and he'd helped me a few times, doing things that went against Freelancer protocol. I thought I could trust him - to a degree. But he was the Alpha's logic. The most logical course of action in that moment was to eliminate the threat. And the most logical way to do it quickly was to say whatever he needed to make me shoot you."
He admits, "I was going to let you live at first. He knew North would be a hot button."
no subject
“I also treated him like shit,” she says, more self-aware than the South that first arrived on this rig ever was. She can’t say she’s surprised, looking back, that Delta pushed Wash into killing her, though it still makes something in her ache.
Delta saw more of her at her worst than she wishes he had. Too many personal moments.
“...s’not like the truth is any better, anyway.” She’s not looking at him, or at North. The Meta gets what it wants from the twins and then it leaves, the memory silent and still. “I— I thought—”
She swallows. Why is she explaining? It won’t change anything, things between them are about more than what she did to North and the details don’t matter that much. So why is she explaining? To remind him to keep hating her for it?
“I knew the Meta would find us, one day. I didn’t know when. I thought that— that if it came, when it came, if I could— if I could let it get what it wanted, let it take Theta...”
She starts shaking, again. Subtly.
“But it came quicker than I thought it would. The idea was to stand back until the last second. Wait for the right moment. Then once it had Theta I could— we could—”
It was desperate and foolish. North would never let Theta go without a fight. North would never let them just run away.
And she fucked up the timing. All that, and she fucked up the fucking timing.
She just wanted her brother back. Instead, she lost him forever.
no subject
It's a good thing she isn't expecting him to pull his punches, because ha!
"- but it's also not the same as a cheap shot from behind, so at least there's that. You thought that was your ticket to ultimately save him." A pause. "If it was a choice between an AI fragment and a bunch of of dead Freelancers, and one of my sisters, when it's all said and done, I...I don't know for sure that I'd have made a different call. Maybe tried it first and then gunned for the Meta, when they were safe. But in that moment..."
He nods his head back and forth.
"Buuut before you think you've got the moral high ground, if our positions were reversed I still wouldn't have shot you. So."
Still, it's more than he's given her in the past, admitting that maybe she did actually care about her brother.
And by saying "I wouldn't have shot you" now, and "I actually trusted you" during their truce talk, it makes it clear that before her betrayal and what Delta said about North, he'd actually held her in higher regard once than she probably realized.
no subject
She flinches, her teeth gritted, but doesn’t so much as glare at him as pushback against his harsher words. It’s not the way she’d reacted to his jabs before, there’s no sense of defensiveness coming off her.
Before, she had the weight of North’s forgiveness behind her. That comforting weight is gone, now.
There’s no coming back from the choices she made.
“I know.” Her voice is a little thick. She still doesn’t know what to make of the idea that Washington saw her differently, in the past, than she’d expected. “I— I never wanted him to die. I was meant to stop it, I was meant to— but I waited too long. It was too late, if I’d tried to save him then—”
Her life still valued above her brother’s. The worst thing is, she’s sure that if their positions had been reversed, North would have come to her aid anyway, his own life be damned.
He’s the selfless one.
Her eyes scrunch shut as she tries to stop herself from crying in front of Washington, of all fucking people. Around them, the memoryscape starts to shift away from the scene, transforming into a shitty motel parking lot where another version of past South—looking tired and ragged, wearing normal clothes over her undersuit with a bulky duffel over her shoulder—is heading inside.
no subject
"Yes, you are," says the inner voice that's only been getting stronger. You even tried to get through to Locus.
Who the fuck is Locus?? his present voices says back.
"You don't have to be those things, you know," he says, almost gently, watching the memory shift. "That you were. That time we fought, when I said we both could be better, I meant it. North is alive, you don't have to do this again."
He briefly winces and then adds awkwardly, "Also, if you, uh, need to cry? I'll just...pretend you didn't. So..."
A vague gesture of his hand, as if to say 'by all means, have at it.' This is emotional shit where she's having her mistakes thrown in her face, he wouldn't hold crying against her. Too low a blow. He'd just ignore it.
no subject
South flinches again. She tried, she's trying, she really is, even now, even after everything that just happened, she doesn't want to become this monster that the Project made her into again. But it's harder than ever to convince herself that this wasn't what she was always like in the first place, that there's even a better to strive towards.
"You're not the only one he lied to, Washington," she says, sharp but not biting. It's the kind of sharp that's edged with hurt, not anger. "And I'm not gonna fucking—"
It's only then she opens her eyes, sees the world around them has changed. Her eyes widen. She knows what this is, she knows what this is and god if she didn't want Washington to see what happened that day with the Meta, she definitely doesn't want him to see this.
Past South heads inside and asks for a room—a twin room. She pays, heads to the room number on the card, and steps inside. As she does, she calls back over her shoulder, as if someone's there:
"Dibs on the—"
—before abruptly cutting herself off, and suddenly it's like something shoved her, even though there's nothing there. Her legs give out and her back hits the door, the duffel full of her armour clattering to the floor.
There's no one there but her, no one but her and—
Her fingers claw at the back of her head, prying out the chip there with a frantic desperation as tears visibly shine in her eyes. Delta's chip goes sailing across the room.
And South starts sobbing, pitiful, full-body sobs that sound like she's choking on them. She gasps like she can't quite breathe, curling in on herself with her fingers tangling tight in her hair, pulling at it.
It's not a sight you expect to see from Agent South Dakota.
The real South bites her tongue hard enough for it to bleed and turns away from Washington, unable to so much as look at him in her periphery.
no subject
You shot Donut. You shot Lopez. You terrorized Simmons, took Doc hostage. They're not just "those red soldiers," they have names, and you only avoided being their murderer out of sheer luck. And those aliens in the desert weren't so lucky. They did nothing to you.
Wash stands there with his eyes closed, like a sudden rain has started and his own sins are washing over him. When he opens them again, he is suddenly someone else, someone that refuses to stand in condemnation of someone so much like himself, even if he does stand in judgment.
His right hand starts shaking, but the fight within stops naturally, and it stills.
Whether it's because his current self has just become this person in this moment, or the Wash Tucker and Carolina knew is taking over, is impossible to tell. They're bleeding together - the man in the present who's trying to be better and the Wash from the time he can't remember who hasn't ever stopped trying.
"North flipped out at you, too, huh?"
Okay, that's sounding more and more like a "North has issues he's not dealing with" problem.
He had been looking away, watching the outburst of pain, when pain is something he understands in the present and guilt is something another version of him understands even more intimately.
Wash doesn't touch her, but he gets in her line of sight, leaning enough to catch her eyes. His body language is tense with purpose (not aggression for once). His expression is determined. Compassionate. More earnest and open than she's seen so far.
"Then don't do it for North. Do it for everyone else you might hurt if you don't become someone different. Do it for yourself. The project screwed all of us up and didn't care what it did to us, so care. They fucked with your head on purpose to make you into something you never wanted to be." He shakes his head. "Are you really going to let them have that?"
no subject
Her instinct is to recoil when he moves, at first, and even as it becomes clear he's not coming at her she shrinks back from the expression of compassion like she doesn't know what to do with it.
"H-He didn't—" She takes a deep breath, steadies her voice. The South in the memory keeps sobbing and it makes her shudder, uncomfortable. "He didn't even flip out. That's almost the worst fucking part. I just— I knew, I knew the second he reacted the way he did back there. It's something he does, he bottles things and... and I just knew."
He was right not to forgive her. She hurt him, she betrayed him, she let him down in a way that it's impossible to come back from in any way that amounts to forgiveness.
"I'm not letting them have anything. I'm trying, Washington, I'm trying, but it doesn't seem to make a damn fucking difference no matter how hard I try. No matter what I do, who I try to be, who I am keeps coming back to bite me."
She hardly knows who she is anymore and it's killing her, inside. She's already changing, there's no stopping it now, but it leaves her on a crumbling foundation, one wrong move from collapsing.
cw: slight medical gore
"Made a difference with me," he points out with a shrug of one shoulder. "We stopped trying to beat each other senseless. We might even be able to keep that up. Who knows."
He adds sharply, "And don't think just because we weren't best buds that what you did didn't screw with my head or that it didn't cause trauma because it was just one more-"
And the memory flashes to the nurses and doctors at the project frantically peeling bloody armor off him and cutting away his undersuit, as he fades in and out, gasping for breath, blood gurgling out of his mouth. His body is sporting multiple gun shots, shrapnel from the brute shot.
But the worst is definitely the direct hit he took from behind, bleeding all over the medbay bed, enough it's slowly dripping to the floor.
"We need to intubate." They do it quickly. They are professionals. He gasps and retches blood.
They turn him over and he cries out in agony with a gurgling cry around the tube. The wound on his back bubbles with air going in and out of a space in his chest it shouldn't, thanks to a collapsed lung. They are trying to get the excess blood out with a massive syringe, but more keeps replacing it, and talk frantically about clamping something off.
Tears quietly drip off his nose and down one cheek as he stares at nothing. His expression goes blank but not from shock - not yet. It is a quiet hollowness that settles over him, a silent acceptance that his life will probably never be anything else but pain and the quiet hatred fueling what will become a near suicidal attempt at retribution against the project.
Then it is shock, as his skin goes gray. There is acceptance of the fact his life will actually probably be nothing else at all. She sees what he imagines, hallucinates, as his dying mind tries to comfort itself. A raggedy-looking, ancient tabby, purring from his sheer presence, beaming a love he can't even remember feeling from anyone. A symbol from a happier time.
A few fingers feebly brush against something only he can see - brush against nothing - then go still. There is the sound of monitors beeping a steady sound that should not be steady, and the words "He's coding!" coming from the end of a long tunnel.
The memory fades out to gray because there was nothing else.
His voice is suddenly hoarse, because nearly dying unloved and forgotten is something you can only pretend to get over, and because the time he eventually became loved was ripped away from him by Jorgmund.
"If I can get over that -" He gestures at where the bed just was, sharply, needing to take the moment he makes the gesture to catch his breath, to control his breathing. "- then you at least have a chance with everyone else."
If he can push that aside because she can actually pony up and try to not be such a raging, toxic nightmare, in at least one tiny area of her life, in one interaction with someone else, she has a chance at working it out with others she hurt, and at not hurting new people in her life.
In a way, the fact he isn't her sibling makes this even more solid because with no bond of family he has even less reason to put the hostility aside. But she did enough - and he did enough - so he can try.
That means it was actually worth her trying, too.
no subject
South goes a little paler in the face, her eyes widening again with a kind of horror, this time, as she's forced to see the consequences of the choice she made that day. The press of a trigger, a quick burst of fire, that changed everything for Washington in a way she had no comprehension of whatsoever until now.
"...fuck," she groans, dragging her hands over her face. A few tears apparently escaped at some point in this whole mess and she wipes the wetness away as best she can. "I— fuck. I never..."
She thought he'd die and yeah, that's fucked up, she knows that now, she knows full well that shooting an old teammate in the back and leaving him for dead to save her own skin was a shitty fucking thing to do, but the fact he survived it makes it worse, doesn't it? The fact he had to live with it?
She fucking broke the man. One final blow to someone already damaged.
Apologising to Washington outright is still beyond her, even in a moment like this, but she can't quite hide the look in her eyes. "...I'm trying not to be— her. I don't— want to be her. I fucking swear it."
The problem is figuring out what she is, who she is, when she isn't.
no subject
He's shaking - vibrating - with feelings he can't even pry apart and identify because they were previously compartmentalized in little boxes that have apparently just been knocked open.
But he manages to calm, manages to still himself.
Manages to continue being kinder than she probably expects.
"Then the next step is to figure out who to be instead. I told you before, not all of who you used to be was bad." She was a mega bitch from the start, but early on, before the head fuckery that was done to her, she was kind of their bitch. "Maybe start there."
no subject
She presses her lips together, shifting on her feet and folding her arms tight under her chest. Admitting this feel as weird as admitting everything else she has to him from the truce conversation to now, but...
"Remembering who I was, it's... it's hard. Separating it all. It's like it's all this big, tangled ball of fuckery that I don't know where one part ends and another begins. I don't know... I don't know when that me was, when I stopped... being that. Started being... this."
no subject
How to encapsulate the South he'd actually trusted at his back.
"You were kind of always a dick." Helpful. "Just...we could count on you to be a dick at everyone else for us."
And then there is a memory. It is of a mission - a bad one. One that dipped him, South, and Wyoming temporarily off the leader board (though South at least scored above the other two) even if they climbed back up again later. They were with Wyoming, pulling god-knows-what (given they were lied to about it so often) at a Charon Industries base.
They got righteously fucked by a whole lot of dudes suddenly showing up with way too many rocket launchers. Despite all of them diving out of the way, one hit a little too close to Wash and the shockwave and ensuing damage to a walk0way send him careening over a railing with a panicked yelp.
His head slammed into another walkway with enough force that he saw double, and he stumbled in a way that made it clear he was at least lightly concussed.
Which made the fact he was right in the line of fire of a fucking heavy machine gun generally a FUBAR situation all around. God knows how he'd managed to hold onto his rifle through that, but he managed to pick off a few soldiers around it - but not enough. Not enough of them fast enough. He only just managed to stay ahead of the trail of bullets that arced towards him and stumbled behind some kind of concrete outcropping, yelling "Son of bitch son of a bitch son of a biiiitch!"
Trying to lay down any fire was pointless. Every time he tried to get an angle around, the bullets pounding around him grazed his arm or his gun, making it impossible to line up a shot. Tossing a grenade? Also nada - they shot it out of the air with their rifles, all without letting up with the machine gun. Firing while the HMG was reloading? A big fat nope because they were smart enough to lay down covering fire then too.
"I could use a little help over here!" he called over the comms. "I'm pinned down by an HMG and pretty sure I'm concussed because everyone's got a twin now and I doubt they're all like you, South!"
"I'm currently taking heavy fire and can't move!" calls out Wyoming, in that weird, ridiculous accent of his.
"Fuck fuck fuck, South!" Wash calls out, his voice high and anxious, as the concrete around him chips away. A hole actually pings through a narrow spot in the concrete, just next to his helmet. "I'm losing cover!"
no subject
There's a burst of laughing that edges just to the side of mocking that comes over the radio before there's a loud thunk beyond Wash's cover, and the stream of bullets suddenly veers off to the side.
"Fucking hell, Wash, you're so dramatic. Give a girl chance to clear a fucking path!"
There's the tell-tale sounds of full-weighted impacts, of someone in power armour plowing their way through soldiers who very much are not. It's not a quiet entrance, because South has never been a quiet person. She throws at least two men bodily over the level's railings, kicks another guy so hard he goes head over heel, leaves a bunch of limbs bent ways they should not be bent.
Gunfire rattles off and the HMG tries valiantly to correct its position, bullets pinging and chipping at the floor and structures around their desired target, but before they can start beating down Washington's cover again the stream of bullets suddenly cuts off entirely as she slams her fully armoured weight down on top of the barrel and sends its last sputtering of bullets into the ground.
It's operator doesn't get the chance to do anything about it, because the operator's dead right after. Shotgun blast, always effective.
no subject
"I just process things verbally! In an occasionally panicked tone!"
Now free of his hiding place he spins around what's left of his cover and takes out a few people coming out across the courtyard but his aim is definitely off. He compensates slightly by shooting in a wider arc. A waste of ammo but better than not hitting anything at all.
"Also, I wasn't joking about seeing double and that's also not me being dramatic!" He's clearly trying but he's stumbling like he's drunk. Even with a helmet, hitting your head straight on steel after falling from that height is concussion-city.
"Normally, I'd be keen to crack on," says Wyoming, stumbling into the courtyard. His suit is clearly compromised in a few places and he's bleeding through some of them, "but I'm also injured and we seem to have found ourselves in quite the stickywicket."
There are more and more guys piling in and they can hear a ship in the distance. Theirs is not due yet.
"Does he really always talk like that?" Wash asks, still picking off enemy soldiers, despite tilting on his feet. "Or is he just fucking with me?"
He and Wyoming hadn't been paired up so often by this point, and someone putting on an absolutely ludicrous accent to fuck with the newbie was the kind of thing someone would do.
no subject
"He really always talks like that," South says, with an almost audible roll of her eyes. She's picking off enemy soldiers with more shotgun fire, until she runs out of ammo for it and ends up just beating a guy over the head with the butt of it. "It's possible he's fucking with all of us, though. Stickywicket?"
She doesn't struggle any without a weapon; South's always been a force of nature in a fight, she knows how to use momentum and her size to her advantage. Still, she grabs a discarded rifle at the next opportunity, as she rolls up onto her feet from a roll.
Just in time to send a burst of fire into a guy coming up on Wash's six, and then turn and slam her armoured boot into the head of a guy who thought that was an opportunity to catch her off-guard. It was not.
"Fucking hell, rookie, you look like you're about to keel over," she says, coming up at his side. She tries to peer around for sign of the enemy ship's approach, but never takes her attention off the fighting, either. She has no trouble picking off soldiers Wash is missing with his double-vision aim. "And your aim's gone to shit. Fuck, you aren't kidding—ugh, do we seriously need to call for extraction?"
no subject
He answers her question with a question.
"Is nausea a good thing after a head injury?" He asks, sounding incredibly nauseous, and also now slurring a bit.
That'd be a yes.
"I'm afraid we need to make the call," acknowledges Wyoming, looking unsteady himself. "Preferably before I bleed out."
no subject
"Jesus fucking... hey, Command," and just like that, she's calling it in, still picking off soldiers with rifle fire as she does, "everything's gone to shit, we need extraction. These two chucklefucks got themselves injured, the rookie sounds like he's about to hurl in his helmet. I can clear us an LZ but we've got enemy aircraft inbound so you're gonna have to be fucking quick about it."
Such a professional on the radio.
She barely waits for the response before she's picking off another group of soldiers with rapid gunfire. She looks back at Wash.
"Don't wander off, stick at my four o'clock and try not to shoot me, instead of the enemy, rookie. We can clear a route and an LZ if we play this right, even with your shitty concussion aim and Wyoming's— everything."
no subject
South, he doesn't exactly like, but the way she's willing to instantly take a possible hit in the rankings for a failed mission for two injured teammates? Yeah, that wins some points.
It's a rough go, but Wash does as he's told, and even despite his condition, manages to cover her a few times. The effort he makes doing it when he can barely stay upright is obvious. They all eventually make it and stumble into the Pelican and feel the ship vibrate as it shoots off. The sudden motion makes it so Wash has to rip off his helmet - it snags his short hair as he does - for some strange reason - and he immediately throws up on the deck plating.
He's actually bleeding from the back of his head, which really shouldn't be happening. A concussion is one thing - that can happen just from your brain sloshing around in your head - but the helmet should've protected him from that.
Then he sees what the fuck happened to his helmet and says, "Jesus fucking Christ."
He holds it up and shows the piece of broken helmet that was pressed inward - pushed there by a piece of shrapnel, probably from the rocket that had exploded close to him. It had almost pierced through, but been stopped just short of actually doing it. But the end result was that it had dented a chunk of his helmet into his head, probably at high speed, and had been so far in it wasn't really visible from outside.
He feels the back of his head. It's bloody but it doesn't feel like anything's been jabbed into his brain. Maybe his skull, though. Christ.
Despite his earlier panic in the fight, he doesn't look that shaken by it. He's not in danger anymore and it's not exactly his first close call. He mostly looks impressed at far the damn thing went in.
"Thanks for making the call and getting me out of there," he slurs. "I don't think it went in too deep but I think my skull's fractured. I'll let the Director know in my report you weren't the one that blew it."
Later on, he actually did.
An actual team player. He'd always been one back then, checking in on teammates, reassuring them when they failed. How many times had many of them had bitten his head off for it now and again? Or sniped at him about making things worse by trying? There's a reason he hovered around five or six on the chart and it wasn't just how much catch up it'd taken to move up from the very bottom of the rankings.
He didn't have the edge for anything beyond five or six. Couldn't outrank people that driven to beat everyone else. It's why another version of South had thought he didn't have the nerve to kill her and had unfortunately been wrong because of not recognizing the shape he'd been battered into.
Wyoming huffs indignantly at Wash's implication they both fucked it up and Wash gives him a 'Really?' look because come on, it was mutual.
"Don't give me that look, you're bleeding more."
no subject
"Okay, that's more fuckin' impressive than a simple concussion," South says, because jesus christ, that could have ended badly. "You got damn lucky, looks like I was almost carting your damn body out of there instead of just babysitting you."
South is still South, there's some things that have never changed; or, well, that's not quite true, because as much as she's always been rude, she used to have a better sense of balance about it. There's no real attempt at insult behind the 'babysitting' comment, it's just the kind of shit she expects any soldier their rank to be able to take from a teammate.
"You both fucked it up," she affirms, on Wash's side, giving Wyoming a look. "Big time. I probably took out more of those guys than either of you and I have maybe a few bruises. So yeah, damn right, rookie."
There's an actual flash of gratefulness in her, because no matter what point in her life she's at, South doesn't turn her nose up when someone acknowledges she did a damn good job.
"Alright, assholes, fucking triage before we get back to the ship. Wyoming, deal with your own shit, you can get at it. Rookie, let me at least clean that damn head wound so they can get a good look when we arrive."
Though she'd almost forgotten that, forgotten moments like these. Missions like this one were a dime a dozen, it's not until the memory is playing out that South really remembers it at all, and that branches off into remembering other little things. The earlier days of the Project, when things weren't so fucked. When she wasn't so fucked.
no subject
He'd forgotten a little of this too. The part where he sat on one of the seats, holding onto the edge like his life depended on it, as she cleaned the wound on his head.
It wasn't exactly tender, it was just the basic patching up most soldiers would give any other soldier, but it was still so different from right now. He was just sitting there, with his back to her. Trusting her.
It doesn't just show her he was right that she used to be someone worth being again - it actually helps remind him, too.
The Wash that was watching this all silently finally turns to her.
"That," he says, pointing, "You could be that. Maybe not to me, because I sure as hell don't trust you at my back like that anymore, and I may never trust it again. But you can be that to everyone else. There's got to be at least a few people here you haven't pissed off yet."
no subject
Her gaze lingers there for a long moment, on this memory that should be so inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things; just one mission, just a normal interaction between squadmates, somehow rendered strangely important by all the ways things have changed, since then.
When she pulls her eyes away, she gives Wash a look, but it's not got much strength behind it. "I haven't pissed off most people here, asshole. But... point taken."
She scrubs a hand back over her face, groaning under her breath. Okay. Okay.
It's undeniable proof, a memory of his bringing out a memory of hers. It's something that even everything going on with North can't take from under her feet. It's not exactly a whole new foundation, but it's something to stand on when everything else around her feels so unstable. She wasn't always this.
Or— not this, because this, whatever she is right now, isn't either of these things; she's not the South that let her brother die and shot Washington in the back, but she's not that South, sitting there cleaning Washington's head wound, either.
She's somewhere stuck in-between, trying to figure out what direction to turn; towards one of them, or off in another direction, adjacent or otherwise.