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xadoheandterra · 7 years ago

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Title: Don’t Write Me A Postscript Chapter: III (I / II / IV / V / VI / VII / VIII / IX / X / XI / XII / XIII) Fandom: Red vs Blue Characters: Church | Alpha, Dr. Leonard Church | Director, Jerome Dupris | Agent Nevada Summary: He was all sorts of fucked up and didn’t want to admit it. Being alone for fourteen months didn’t help matters--except, well, Church was tired of being alone. Tired of people leaving and dying--and he thought, no more. I’m done. I’m out.

Won’t Say You’re Sorry (I / II / III)

Do You Even Feel Compassion? (I / II)

The first shipment arrived with the materials that Church expected easily enough. What Church hadn’t expected was the supplies not being airdropped and rather the pelican carrying them landing in front of the busted entrance to High Ground. Nevada stepped off of the pelican and began to oversee the movement of the equipment boxes—most of them were small, light things that contained oils and simple mechanical parts Church knew from previous experience. The larger crates, however, Church was at a loss for. Unless they chose to send him some pretty damn expensive heavy artillery Church couldn’t fathom what the larger crates contained.

(this place was safe, right?)

(right?)

Once each crate and box were offloaded the pilot and the few technicians returned to the pelican. Nevada turned toward Church and handed over the manifest.

“You got some nice computer equipment and the materials of a basic set up,” Nevada said, and he sounded rather wry. “It was determined that leaving you with absolutely nothing to entertain yourself except for shooting things was a bad idea. Oh, and that crate?” Nevada gestured to one of the larger crates that the technicians had trouble offloading, “I was told to ‘consider it a gift’ or something. It’s not on the manifest.”

Nevada tilted his head, and Church thought the man might be winking before he paused, then cursed to himself.

“Anyway, gotta go!” Nevada waved. “Keep in touch; remember, weekly updates, kid!”

Church screamed, “I’m not a kid!” as Nevada raced onto the pelican and the rear hatch slid shut. Church watched the bird take off, and then huffed angrily. What was with Project Freelancer and treating him like he was a child?

(I’m almost seven)

(not a child)

(never a child)

Church shook his head and turned toward the crate that Nevada called a gift. He frowned in thought and wondered if the Director honestly sent him a gift or not. More than likely it was Nevada’ way of a gag—he’d learned the other man had quite the pranking streak, referring to Church as a kid or not. Church considered nobody more childish than Nevada—except, maybe, Washington but—

(oh god no)

hesgonehesgonehesgonehesgonehesgonehesgone

(please)

Myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfault

(why?)

—Church mimed a calming breath, thought back to the anger management classes he’d had years ago—

(hadn’t he?)

—and grabbed the edge of the high-density polymer crate. He dug into the latches and pried them free, and with a grunt Church shoved the lid off. The crate came up to almost his chest height, and the expensive materials in its design made Church wonder just what was so important. The lid crashed to the ground and kicked up enough dust that for a moment Church’s visor was blinded; when it cleared he stared at a large stack of comics.

Hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions of comics lay in the crate. Church stared, his mouth fell open and for a second his processor skipped. The Director actually listened to him? He couldn’t fathom it. A part of him wanted to dive right in and screw getting the materials into the safe space Church set up as his quarters. Another part of him wanted to wrap the crate up and stuff it in a deep dark hole, uncertain how to feel about the ‘gift’ from a man he hated-loved.

Carefully placed in the exact center of the crate, on top of all the comics, rested a note. Church eyed it for a minute, noted the Director’s precise and neat handwriting that he reserved for when he felt he needed to be formal—far different from the messy scrawl that dotted every notebook the man ever owned—and addressed simply to Private Church. Church froze, and then with quick movements he grabbed at the top of the crate and pulled it back on.

(no)

(how could you?)

(why?)

Church tightened the clamps back down and turned to focus on the supplies as a whole. He needed to get them in to the secure area that he worked hard to get put together out of the ruins of High Ground.

(what angle is this?)

(what do you want?)

Thankfully in the first few days at High Ground Church found a forklift that he quickly retrieved. He loaded the small boxes onto larger crates, and then drove those crates into the base. He focused entirely on his task, and not on the crate of comics—he did bring them in as well, but he left them sealed within their expensive box and put them out of mind. Instead he worked on a means of organization for all of the new supplies—he’d have to expand the secure area, Church noted.

(haven’t you done enough?)

Church began to plan how the expansion would need to work. He removed his power armor and grabbed the scraps of paper and few writing utensils he’d unearthed and began to scribble down calculations and a rough floorplan to work with. It’d take him maybe a week to clear the full area, another to get systems back up and running—and that all depended upon what he did. Tauntingly, by the bed, sat the crate of comics. Church found himself with a frown as he occasionally glanced back at the crate, confused.

(you never cared before)

(so why now?)

(what changed?)

The “weekly” check ins with Agent Nevada lasted a month. A month of avoiding the crate and the shipment supplies that were dropped off filled with books and comics and video games—things to occupy himself with that confused the hell out of him. A month of once a week chats with someone who didn’t treat him like shit all the time, someone Church didn’t feel the need to cuss out all the time, someone who calmed the rage inside. A month to get to know the man behind Agent Nevada.

(Jerome Dupris)

(I liked him)

(he was…nice)

Then all contact disappeared. When Church attempted to radio Agent Nevada he was met with sharp static and nothing. The channel they used was dead.

It left Church feeling sick. The guy had a wife and child he regularly communicated with—least of all Church himself. To hear the man suddenly go silent pulled Church into a frenzy of panic. Part of him hoped the man returned home—returned to his wife returned to apologize—

(he’d asked once)

(just once)

(he never asked again)

The next shipment of supplies—more materials to care for his android body—came without Agent Nevada. That was when Church knew.

(not another one)

(please)

(I liked him)

Church didn’t need the grim faced random troopers who unloaded the supplies to know what had happened. Or at least what he’d expected. The lack of Agent Nevada—

(Jerome Dupris)

(his name)

(important)

—Church shuddered. He hoped he was wrong—he prayed he was wrong. That was when one trooper handed him a letter, silent as the grave. Church had received several letters nestled within crates filled with time wasting items. He’d never read any one of them. This letter though was handed over carefully, the troopers nodded, and left just as silent as they arrived.

Church stared down at the envelope in one hand. He stared at the familiar scrawl—neat and tidy in the way official letters were. Church could remember—

(UNSC personnel)

(Mr. Church there was an—)

(Allison)

(we’re sorry)

(god Allison)

(—no remains recovered—)

(no, no, no you are wrong you are—)

—he mimed a breath and with controlled hands because being a robot in some ways was awesome and he could stop himself from trembling even though he knew he’d be shaking like a leaf. Church never dealt well with bad news. Not in Blood Gulch and not Before. The seal did not part easily—power armor, Church cursed. Of course he had his power armor on. With a grunt Church shifted the letter and stuffed it between his undersuit and the breastplate. He left the supplies outside and stormed inside, back into safety—

(he nearly killed himself there)

(Nevada—Jerome—was so worried)

(kinda funny)

(fuck)

Church grunted and growled to himself as he worked his gloves off, yanked his helmet free once he’d released the latches and it hissed away from his neck. He scrambled to pull the letter out from between his undersuit and his breastplate and now the envelope parted easily beneath almost-human hands. He pulled out the letter inside, dropped the envelope to the ground—Private Church, it said. He’d rather the envelope were addressed to Alpha. He didn’t want to be Private Church right now.

(not another one)

(I can’t)

(not again)

Church unfolded the letter, steeled himself, and began to read.

Dear Private Church,

(pretentious southern asshole)

I regret to inform you that your contact with Agent Nevada will henceforth be no longer required. Due to the Agent in question being no longer in the employ of Project Freelancer, and for your own continued safety. I do apologize if you feel inconvenienced by this change in routine, but it was determined to be for the best.

(what happened?)

(where is)

(stop lying)

All supplies from here on out will be airdropped to you if they are needed. A request for further assistance can be sent through your terminal. Please be aware flooding the terminal with anything not a request for supplies will revoke the privilege.

(privilege?)

(god)

(you’re not my father)

We will contact you once it is deemed safe for you to return.

Sincerely,

The Director of Project Freelancer

Dr. Leonard L. Church

Church wanted to scream. That told him nothing. That—he wondered if the reason he needed to be placed in such a ‘secure’ and remote facility, a base no longer functioning and therefore a place no one knew to look for him; he wondered if it meant whatever was hunting him, found Agent Nevada. He didn’t have a heart anymore, or organs, or a throat, or even tear ducts, but Church felt like he couldn’t breathe anyway.

(you don’t need air)

(you can’t breathe)

(you’re not human) (I am human)

Church felt like his eyes burned, and unbidden he hissed between his teeth and closed them shut. His fingers gripped the letter tight, tight enough to crinkle the paper, to tear—Church stiffened, then relaxed and hastily began to straighten the letter out. He moved over to his desk and carefully set it down, retrieved the envelope and placed it beside the letter. He’d clean it up, maybe repair the paper, and set it aside for safe keeping later. Right now he needed to get the supplies in, focus on unboxing them.

Church mimed a steading breath, and turned out of his safe space. He could do this. He never needed anybody, after all. He’d said so before, he’d say so again. Church would prefer to be alone.

(no one would die on him then)

Church didn’t need anyone.

(liar)

(don’t leave me please don’t leave me)

(I don’t want to be alone)

(don’t make me be alone)

(I’m scared)

(Tex)

Church didn’t need anyone.

Dr. Leonard Church breathed out heavily as he stared at the report in front of him. He’d known this was long coming for him—the weight of his sins settled heavily upon his back. He knew there’d be retribution. Malcom Hargrove would never take his not-so-subtle theft of property laying down. He’d known what the man planned—suspected at least—as soon as he’d been named Chairman of the Oversight Committee. He knew Hargrove spent a lot of money to set that up.

The UNSC had their own special oversight that watched Leonard closely, watched his comings and goings and kept an eye on the results of his experiments—the results of AI working with neural implants and agents. His dear ‘Counselor’ worked to report his every move to the UNSC after all. There was nothing they didn’t already know, nothing that he could truly hide from them. The Great War took a toll on everyone, and sometimes inhumane acts for the betterment and survival of humanity were required.

It left a sour taste in Leonard’s mouth.

The UNSC and ONI never had a problem with Dr. Halsey until recently—through the grapevine and then the widely publicized events following the end of the Great War Leonard heard about Halsey’s subsequent arrest—and, until Leonard’s own project details became public knowledge he knew they’d have no problems with him. As soon as Hargrove’s ‘investigation’ was finished, however, Leonard could expect a cell in some far distant prison ship, left to rot the rest of his life away, or ONI would take command of whatever happened to him.

Leonard felt resigned to the events to come. He couldn’t stop it if he tried, he knew that. The best he could do was mitigate the damage to the surviving members of Project Freelancer, stop Agent Maine from destroying everything—or perhaps it was Sigma now, Leonard couldn’t be sure. At any rate the agent would need to be carefully lead into a place to be put down, the AI he’d captured decommissioned at most, perhaps salvaged at the least as he knew ONI would desire to have Alpha and his fragments in their grasp.

Under any circumstances Leonard truly did not desire to let Alpha or his fragments fall into ONI hands. He’d rather they be removed from the UNSC as a whole; he’d long suspected Alpha had obtained ‘meta-stability’ and in turn could live out a full life, even if it was one that was pretending to be human or even unknowing of just what exactly he was and had always been. Perhaps Alpha would show signs of rampancy later down the road, but for now—for now Leonard could hope that this one thing would go his way.

Then there was Carolina and Washington to consider and Leonard really did not want his sins to fall on their shoulders—he never wanted his sins to fall upon their shoulders. Leonard knew he’d royally messed up—first in that he’d never quite treated David right out of guilt and shame, and second that he’d never really had been all there for Charmaine like she deserved—but if he could get this one thing, this one thing right then maybe he’d could feel less like a hot mess and more like the barely functioning human disaster that he was.

Agent Texas came to mind as she always did, along with Allison, and the grief that still burned through his chest like an inferno at the sudden, intrusive thoughts. Leonard breathed deep and bowed his head, buried his face into his hands and dug his fingers into his hair. Lord above help him and have mercy; he’d need patience to pull this entire mess off and come out at least somewhat functional, if alive. Maybe ONI would let him—

Leonard grit his teeth.

Don’t think on it. Not now.

The worst part about this mess was the disappearance of Agent Nevada. As far as Leonard could tell them man either deserted his post overseeing the slow transition of releasing the Red and Blue sim troopers from their contract with Project Freelancer, or he’d been killed. Neither option left Leonard with much to work with—he didn’t want to leave Alpha completely cut off but now, with how thin his resources were between carefully dismantling his own Project in preparation for the fall, and trying to halt Maine’s advances and rampage, and then keeping Alpha safely tucked away and out of sight—no, Leonard couldn’t spare anyone to hunt down just where Nevada got to.

Another sin to place on his back, Leonard mused, alongside unrepentant torture of his own mind. Leonard always wondered how he might’ve fractured if he’d been pressed—to know did not make him feel remotely better, even when examined clinically. He wasn’t sure which was right; to be a mess of a human being with his own baggage and trauma, or to be a fractured mess of a human being with no memory of his baggage and trauma except within the fragments of his own mind.

And now David knows, or at least suspects. At least Aiden doesn’t suspect I’ve long since known just what their little ‘talks’ entailed. Leonard sighed and rubbed at his eyes. He removed his glances, squinted at the lenses. He’d need to clean them off from his own fingerprints again; damn it all.

Leonard thought to his little gifts to Alpha—the games, the books, the comics, the limited access to a network connection—and hoped that his AI accepted them. Little acts of kindness do not years of trauma make up, Leonard knew, and yet he couldn’t help but try. He couldn’t help but offer the snippets he’d denied the AI for so long, after so much pain and loss.

It didn’t work on you, why would it work on him? his mind traitorously whispered. Leonard sighed. He just hoped Alpha understood—even if he didn’t remember. Was any of it right? No. Not it wasn’t, and Leonard knew that. Leonard knew that he’d crossed boundaries; he’d long accepted his own sins.

Allison, his thoughts betrayed. Allison, Allison, Allison. She haunted him and Leonard found himself drawn once more back to her. He had to—there was a chance—but only after he’d dealt with Agent Maine. Only after this mess with Hargrove was done. Once Alpha was truly safe, truly free, then, Leonard consoled the specter in his thoughts and in his office, then he’d work on getting it right.

#rvb #red vs blue #leonard chuch #the director #alpha ai #fanfi #fic: don't write me a postscript #walking human disaster #what is even happening now #minor character death #agent nevada #alpha church #mental health issues

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