Chapter Text
A strangeness falls over Caboose that he has not felt for a very long time. Silence descends like a blanket of snow, allowing Church’s words to echo without the buffer of all of the normal noise. For the first time in a long time, the world is sharp and clear. Too sharp and clear. Tucker speaks and Caboose fights the urge to wince.
The lights drills into his eyes; the sharpness of the objects around him almost cuts into him. He stumbles backward a step—the sudden lack of buzzing throws him off balance. He looks at the large red AI for a moment longer. Somewhere, a part of him that feel vaguely normal frantically throws phrases at him—things he might say in reply, questions he can ask, ways he can justify what just happened. But the quietness and clarity envelopes him and steadies his consciousness. An old ache comes to life and burns steadily inside of him. Without a word, Caboose turns and walks away in slow, measured paces. Did Church speak? He doesn’t know; he can’t tell.
Caboose focuses on the sound of his own footsteps echoing through the corridor as he makes his way through Red Base. After a few moments, he hears a second set of footsteps close behind him. Agent Washington. Caboose doesn’t acknowledge the Freelancer, but he doesn’t adjust his pace either. Washington catches up to him easily.
The silence in which they walk might be companionable, but the peace is poisoned with Wash’s concern. The silence and purpose with which Caboose walks is unsettlingly uncharacteristic—even his sneaky prowl is usually narrated by the soldier’s “Sneaking…sneak-ing….sneaking!” This silence worries Wash, but he doesn’t know what to do. Caboose makes his way toward the waterfall. Wash has no way of knowing that he needs the noise to relieve the painful clarity with which he is now seeing the world. He is honestly more concerned with getting Caboose back to the other sim soldiers at the base. Wash just knows that they need to regroup, to decide what to do next. He needs a strategy, an objective. A reason to keep moving.
“Hey,” he says, unable to take the strange silence any longer. Caboose might have paused, but it’s brief. Not enough to count as a response.
“Hey!” Wash repeats, in a voice laced with concern and an extra shot of volume. He grabs Caboose’s shoulder.
“What?”
Wash recoils at the sharpness in Caboose’s voice. This isn’t the cranky child he’s used to hearing when their daily treks run a little long or Grif steal his cookies. This voice sounds too… adult and very bothered.
“Uh, are you—“ Wash stumbles over the words uncomfortably. He just wants to get Caboose back so they can decide what to do next. He isn’t good at this kind of thing. This is North’s department. Long ago, North laughs at him good-naturedly while he stumbles over an apology for some misremembered crime against York.
“Look, I don’t do touchy-feely, okay?” Wash snapped, putting his helmet on over his burning face as a less-than-amused York stormed off.
“Just be genuine, and for god’s sake, listen. It’s not actually about you. Remember that and you’ll be okay,” North replied, punching his shoulder in a friendly way.
“Are you okay?” Wash asks, or starts to. The last word is lost again as he looks up to find Caboose removing his helmet. The face that stares back at Wash startles him. Why? It’s just Caboose—but then, has he ever seen Caboose with his helmet off? He tries to think. No, he hasn’t. A little guiltily, Wash realizes that this face startles him because it’s so different from what he’s pictured all this time. This isn’t the “Caboose” he’s imagined.
Caboose watches him as if he knows what the ex-Freelancer is thinking. His face is almost gaunt, delicate bone structure giving him a thoughtful look. The long nose has been broken several times, but could have healed worse. His hair is so blonde it’s almost white. Wash has the impression that it’s usually kept shaved fairly close to Caboose’s head; though it’s still short, it has a shaggy, untouched look. It stands out in odd tufts around a long purple scar that wraps from left temple to almost the back of his head. Caboose’s eyes are deep cobalt, darkening as he knits his eyebrows together.
“I remember,” he says slowly, dropping his helmet on the ground.
“You remember?” Wash repeats. Memory is the key.
“I wasn’t always Church’s…problem,” Caboose says, frowning as though he’s fighting to hold on to something.
“Right. You were best friends,” Wash nods, glad to be on familiar territory. For a shining moment, he thinks he might be able to relax, but Caboose shakes his head.
“No, something else.” He looks out toward the waterfall. Keeping his eyes trained on the perpetual movement of water, Caboose takes a deep breath.
“I think I used to know how to do stuff. Important stuff with computers and machines. I remember lots of papers with pictures of machines and math on them. And pushing buttons,” he says. The ghost of a smile touches his lips briefly. Wash can almost see the boyish face he’s always imagined.
“I made them but…” Caboose frowns again.
“What happened?” Wash asks. All thoughts of regrouping are gone. Wash isn’t really sure what he’s found, but there’s something here…something important, maybe.
“I remember Church was there…but he wasn’t like Church. He was…older….or…” Caboose shakes his head, frustration further darkening his eyes and bringing lines to the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t understand what he’s remembering, but Wash does with a cold jolt.
. “The Director,” he breathes. Caboose doesn’t seem to hear him.
“We were best friends…no….we worked together. We had a plan. I was excited to test it, but it was a secret so I agreed to….I had to…I woke up different. It was loud. Too loud. I remember burning…” Caboose is looking at the ground, but Wash gets the impression that he isn’t seeing anything. His skin starts to prickle. Caboose and the Director as partners? Doing what, exactly? Why?
“I woke up again and I was a soldier. I don’t remember joining…I remember paperwork with the UNSC University of Engineering stamp and saying goodbye to my sisters, but then I… went to Blood Gulch and….I met Church?” Caboose drops his head into his hands.
“But what were you working on? Focus…Can you remember anything? Any detail about what you were doing with the Director?” Wash asks, his voice fast and high. Blood pumps electric beats in his ears. Something big is happening—he can almost see how the dots connect.
Caboose lifts his head to look at Wash. His eyes are lightening and clouding over. Even Wash can see he is losing this moment of...whatever it was.
“No, I don’t…I don’t think Church wanted me to. Older Church. He said he was sorry but….” Caboose’s gloved hand almost touches the scar on the side of his head. “I woke up and it didn’t hurt anymore, but I had two scars instead of one.”
Wash begins to ask what he meant, but at that moment Caboose turns to look at the waterfall again and Wash sees them…three almost invisible pink lines that form a loose triangle where his head joins his neck. His mouth goes dry and his stomach drops. The matching scar on his own head begins to burn with the ghost of realization.
“The AI.” The words escape from Wash’s lips in a ragged whisper.
“Washington….what does the A stand for?” Caboose asks softly. “I can’t remember, but I think it’s very important.”
Wash can’t answer. His hands are in tight fists at his side. His teeth chatter against some unknown chill. Caboose closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh that sounds like a sort of release. He sits down facing the waterfall and picks up his helmet. The moment of clarity is coming to an end. The world begins to slip out of focus, colors and sounds softening. Caboose lets the softness settle around him in relief. He picks up his helmet and begins toying with his visor. He’s Caboose again, not…whoever he used to be.
“Siiiiiigh,” Caboose narrates aloud in his own voice. “And now my best friend is angry with me.”
“I know, buddy,” Wash says, fighting to regain control of his body’s violent shaking. “Hey, I have to go talk to Tucker. Do you want to come?”
“No, I want to stay here,” Caboose says, setting his helmet aside. He picks up a handful rocks, then starts tossing them at the waterfall. Wash hesitates for a moment. The other person is gone, but Caboose isn’t fully back yet. He doesn’t seem right. Wash wonders whether he should leave the soldier alone.
“I can come back,” Wash offers.
“Okay,” Caboose says. He gives Wash a smile that doesn’t quite meet his empty eyes. Somewhere in the distant past, North Dakota puts a reassuring hand on a newly christened Washington’s shoulder.
“I’ll be right back. Just don’t do anything dumb and you’ll be fine,” Wash echoes North.
“Okay,” Caboose repeats. He takes up his rock tossing game again.
Wash lets his eyes drift to the two scars on Caboose’s head one more time before he walks away to find Tucker. He takes several deep breaths and focuses on keeping an even pace. Though he has questions that need answering as soon as possible, Wash has to fight the urge to just start punching things instead. Part of him doesn’t want to know the answers he’s in search of.
“Mission first, deal with it later,” Maine said in one of his rare moments of talkativeness, palming Wash in the forehead in what might have been a playful way if it weren’t for his colossal strength. Sorry, he shrugged as Wash rubbed his neck reproachfully.
As Wash approaches Red Base, he finds Carolina strapping the last of her supplies to the Mongoose. Epsilon, miniscule and blue once more, floats near the handlebars. Freelancer and AI both turn toward him as he approaches. Wash stops dead. Anger hits him like a wave, rushing up through his chest.
“You sick fuck,” he growls before he can regain control. Carolina bristles, her hand going for her gun.
“The hell—“ she begins but Wash shakes his head, pointing.
“Not you, him,” he says. The blue AI holds out his hands in a gesture of peace.
“Look, if this is about what I said—“ but Wash cuts the AI off as well.
“It’s not. Maybe when you remember everything, you’ll know what you did. Maybe you should start by asking yourself why everyone is here,” he says.
“What are you talking about?” Epsilon asks impatiently. Wash laughs without humor.
“Memory is the key,” he says wryly. Carolina steps between Wash and Epsilon, her hand still on her gun.
“Washington, we’ve got places to be. Go make cryptic comments at someone else,” she snaps. Wash ignores her and continues watching Epsilon. But the AI remains silent.
“Forget it,” Wash says finally, pushing past Carolina and going into the base.
TBC