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They all had nightmares.
It would be strange if they didn’t after all that they’d been through. Being the puppets of Project Freelance left scars, surgical wounds where their strings used to be. Chorus didn’t help matters either, the constant anxiety of gunfire and destruction hanging over their heads, a sharper blade than Freelancer ever dared to dream of. So yes, they all had nightmares.
How they dealt with them was another story.
***
Eta and Iota screamed as they’re torn out.
Carolina expected it to be in unison. Everything the twins did was always in unison, ever since they had been implanted inside Carolina’s skull. They told stories in unison. They moved in unison. The appeared on each of her shoulders in unison. Carolina had asked them about it once, why they acted like one being instead of two separate ones, but their answer hadn’t left her with much.
“We are one being.” It wasn’t much of an explanation at the time.
Years later, it would speak volumes.
The meta dug his hand into her implants, pulling at the wires and cords. Carolina wanted to yell, to call out, but it caught in her throat, trapped behind a wall of panic she hadn’t felt she was five. Eta and Iota did it in her steed, screeching as they’re torn away from their first and only friend.
“Don’t hurt her!” Iota said, his voice a high pitched whine. Eta, curled up onto a ball on Carolina’s shoulders, just clutched his knees together. He waited to speak until the last second.
“I’m sorr-” That was the last thing Carolina heard before they went silent, replaced by the howl of the wind. When the Meta threw her off the cliff, she wondered what Eta was sorry for.
She was still wondering when she hit the ground.
Carolina woke up with a gasp, her body contorting on the bed like it did when she crashed into the snow. Her bad leg burned with pain, a phantom of an injury she was starting to think she’d never heal from. The white walls of her room reminded her far too much of a blizzard.
“Carolina?” She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath through her nose. It was a pain technique, an old one. One she’d learned from her mother. She took another deep breath and opened her eyes. Floating above her armor across the room was Epsilon, lit a dim soft blue. He was always that color during the nights. It took Carolina an age to realize it was to keep from waking her up.
“Epsilon,” her voice was wrecked, but she didn’t care. Epsilon had seen worse. “Is there news?”
The AI reached for his arm, clutching it closer to his chest. It reminded Carolina far too much of Theta. When he spoke, she swore she could see a flash of purple. “No, nothing. Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
Carolina sat up in her bed. Her hair was in her eyes again, sweat soaked, and she threw it over her shoulder. “I’m fine. Just dreams.”
“Is it the one with the birds again?” He was all blue again, the purple trace gone. Carolina rolled her eyes and flicked him off.
“Fuck you. I haven’t had that one since I was 7 and you know it.”
“Hey, there’s no judgement here.” From the amusement in his voice, Carolina knew he was barely holding back laughter. “Flamingos are scary assholes.”
“Shut up.” She leaned up back against the headboard of her bed and looked up at the ceiling. The white didn’t compare well to the open skies in her memory. She could still hear the screams of Eta and Iota in her skull, an echo of the fracture in her mind.
It sounded far too close to Epsilon.
“Epsilon,” she said. “Mind telling me some stories about Blood Gulch? I’m too awake for sleeping.”
Epsilon’s dim blue grew stronger, becoming a more obvious aqua. He tilted his head to the side. “Sure. Did I tell you the one about Caboose and the tank?”
He had. Carolina remembered it and she knew Epsilon did too. He was obviously choosing something he knew was safe for her to hear. But she wasn’t about to ruin the moment.
“Hit me.”
As Epsilon spoke, the screaming in her mind began to blend back into the silence.
***
Tucker and Caboose weren’t breathing.
Wash stood in front of them, his breath beginning to clog up his helmet. He’d been so sure that he’d make it in time. Locus had given him four hours. Four hours to save them. Four hours to prove he wasn’t going to let them down. Wash had made it in three.
Looking at their grey, waxen, cold faces, Locus clearly never even intended to give him one.
Wash walked over to the corpses. His armor seemed heavy all of the sudden, weighed down with thick chains that held all of his mistakes. His boots dragged against the tile. Every time his heel clicked against the floor, it left a black track mark.
“Tucker?” Wash didn’t have the emotion in him to be ashamed of how lost he sounded. “Caboose?” Neither of the men stirred.
Wash lowered his head, falling to his knees as he did so. Keeping upright was too difficult. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, Goddamn it-” He choked up with a sob, punching the wall between Caboose and Tucker’s heads. The force that reverberated through the wall caused both bodies to slump over. When they hit the ground in unison, Wash forgot how to breath.
A hand rested on his shoulder, and Wash didn’t have the energy to shake it off. He was gasping for air, his hands clawing into the floor, trying to find purchase. Like was stuck in space again, but this time without a lifeline to pull him to safety. He managed to suck in some oxygen.
“No. Not again.” The hand on his shoulder squeezed tighter, this time forcing its fingers through his armor to draw blood. Wash blinked back tears, trying to see, and turned, expecting Locus to be there.
Behind him, the Meta growled.
“Maine!” Wash shouted as he woke up, falling out his bed in desperation to get away. He hit the floor with a thump, his face meeting concrete, and soon enough he tasted blood in his mouth. Split lip. It looked like he was going to be wearing his helmet non-stop for the next few days.
The pain was enough to startle him back into the real world. He stayed on the floor for a few minutes, taking time to collect himself. It was a dream. Everyone was fine. He could go back to sleep.
Who was he kidding? He wasn’t going to go back to sleep. Not until-
Five minutes later he found himself in the hallway. All the lights were off, most folks were asleep at this hour. Being careful not to make any excess noise, Wash walked to each of his men’s rooms, peering inside just to check for movement. He made it through all the Red’s easily enough, and Tucker was easy as well. But when he opened Caboose’s door, he was surprised to find the young soldier still wide awake.
“Hello Agent Washington,” Caboose said, waving at him with his one free hand. The other was fiddling with what looked like an outdated communications device. The small lamp in the corner was on, set at its dimmest setting. “Did someone hit you?”
Wash blinked a few times. “Uh no,” he said, touching his sore lip. “Fell onto the floor, that’s all.” He pointed to the mess of wires and metal in Caboose’s hand. “Jensen give you that?”
“Yep!” Caboose said. Ever since Jensen learned about Caboose’s natural aptitude for tech, she’d been giving him old electronics in the hope that he’d be able to make something useful out of them yet. So far, Caboose had managed to repair a coffee machine, and a taser. “I’m not supposed to be working on it yet, but sleeping was too scary.”
“I don’t think-” Wash cut off, taking a good look at his subordinate. The Captain looked as youthful as ever, Caboose had been blessed in the genes department, but there were dark circles under his eyes that could rival Wash’s. Wash leaned back against the door frame. “Caboose, have you been having nightmares?”
“No. No horses. But I get scary dreams sometimes,” Caboose said, taking one of the red wires and twisting it around his pinky finger. “Not as scary as yours, but scary.”
Wash didn’t even want to begin to think about Caboose knew about his dreams. “What are they about?”
Wash had no idea what to expect. With Caboose, there was no such thing as impossible. Caboose’s nightmares could be anything from Omega’s attack on his mind, to dogs.
“Home,” Caboose said, taking Wash by surprise. “People not remembering. Freckles, the first one, not that Freckles,” he said, pointing to his gun. Wash had no idea there had even been a first one. “Laughing, sometimes.”
It didn’t sound like the stuff of horror movies, but given the way Caboose said it, Wash doubted that his dreams were anything less than terrifying. Wash could at least ground himself in reality when his nightmares came rolling in. But with nightmares of home? How could Caboose have such a luxury when he couldn’t even make a phone call from this damn planet.
“It’s okay, Agent Washington.” Caboose raised up the wires he was messing with. A blue light in the front of the device was now lit up. “I got this. And that,” he gestured to his desk, which was covered with other small parts and wires. “And talking.” He blew his black bangs out of his eyes and looked at Wash. “You can talk too, if you want.”
Wash stared at him for a few moments. Every time he thought he had Caboose figured out, the soldier always came back to surprise him. Wash was starting to wonder if he’d ever stop. “I might take you up on that.”
Caboose didn’t reply. He was focused on the mess of metal in his hands once again, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth as he concentrated. Wash made sure to shut to door quietly as he left, so he wouldn’t disturb him.
Ten minutes later, he was fast asleep.
***
When Grif fell off the side of the cliff, he never came back up.
Simmons lied there on the snow, his hand outstretched for ten whole minutes, his breath fogging up his visor. He ignored the noise behind him, the whispering, the sound of armor being peeled off, instead focusing on the screeching in his head. The call of his name.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. It wasn’t suppose to end at all.
They didn’t manage to get the body until the rescue team arrived. The Meta came up first, helmet still in place, and while Simmons wanted to enjoy the victory of winning for once, he couldn’t when Grif came up on the gurney behind him.
Grif’s body was under a sheet, the yellow armor concealed by dark black fabric. It didn’t disguise much; the blood that stained the gurney was obvious even from a distance. Trying to quell his feeling of nausea, Simmons walked up to the medic, straightening his shoulders.
“Can I check? To make sure it’s him?”
They didn’t argue, pulling back the sheet far enough so Simmon’s could see Grif’s face. They’d taken the helmet off, and looking at Grif’s bloody face, Simmon’s wished they hadn’t. The patches of Grif's skin that were pale, the patches that had once been Simmons', seemed to be almost blue in color, matching the shade of Grif's lips. The man's eyes were closed, thank God for that, but Simmons could still see the frozen tears pooled under each one.
His graze traveled to Grif's hands, both poised on his stomach. They weren't relaxed at all, frozen in a claw like grasp. The same Grif had used to try to cling on. Trying carefully not to shake, Simmons grabbed one of Grif's hands and squeezed the palm. Tried not to think of all the times he imagined doing this before. Tried not to think about how this version was all wrong.
“I’m sorry.”
He only started to cry when it dawned on him that Grif will never squeeze back.
When Grif heard his door open at 3 in the morning, he already knew who it was.
“Again?” He moaned, placing his pillow over his head to shelter his face from the hallway light. “You gotta be fucking kidding me, Simmons.”
Simmons didn’t respond, letting Grif know that the man, in fact, was deathly serious. He sighed and moved over a few inches in his cot, leaving enough room for Simmons’ lengthy frame. He hadn’t been woken up in the middle of the night like this since they first arrived at the rebel’s base. “Alright, crybaby. Try not to hug the covers.”
Simmons toes were cold, there were always cold, but Grif kept his comments to himself as Simmons slid into the covers next to him, given how much the man was shaking. It must have been a bad one.
“Cliff or explosion?” He asked, voice devoid of the usual edge he used when talking to Simmons. Those were always the two main culprits whenever Simmons did this. Simmons didn’t respond, burying his face in the back of Grif’s shoulder. Grif could feel the cool metal plating that made up Simmon’s left cheek through his shirt.
“Shut up, asshole.”
Grif kept quiet after that.
A few days later, when Grif opens Simmons door with the image of his sister’s funeral burned into his brain, Simmons is kind enough to do the same.