#once again apologies to everyone tracking the mtz tag

[pinnithin-writes]

Hardly An Apology

Written after 417 aired. 2093 words.

There was still blood on Pleck’s face.

This wasn’t necessarily a problem exclusive to him. They were all a little bloodied, a little shell-shocked, a little worn out. The entire crew had been put through the ringer, atoms arranging and rearranging in rapid succession as the Dame took them on a ride through time. On her last day alive, too. That was nice of her.

Lately, Pleck had thought a lot about what he was going to do on his last day alive. Y’know, after he’d learned about the whole “throw yourself into the Allwheat” thing. He’d tried to stay optimistic about it - he wasn’t exactly a master problem solver, but he hadn’t resigned himself to oblivion just yet, poking at the dilemma from different angles as he tried to find another way out.

Late at night, with the eldritch thing whispering to him, he had to admit his fate was hard to ignore.

He stood at the bathroom sink, mechanically rinsing the blood from his mouth and nose, avoiding his own reflection. He knew he needed a shave. He knew he needed to comb his hair. The chores of self-maintenance piled up as the days bled together in a meaningless smear while Seesu’s campaign spun its wheels. At least they’d finally gained some traction today.

No thanks to him. Sometimes, Pleck wasn’t even sure why he came on the missions for all the good he did them. He lacked Dar’s confidence. C-53’s intellect. Even AJ, headstrong and fearless, pushed them toward their goal with his actions. What did Pleck do? Well, lately, he just sort of hung around.

A favor for Dar, really. They had asked him to be there, to be him, so Dar could effectively be Dar . And because Dar had asked, Pleck had done it. He owed Dar a hundred favors for how many times they’d saved his sorry skin.

He cut the water off. Dried his face with a towel and let out the ghost of a laugh - a short, humorless exhale through his nose. It sounded louder than it had any right to be in the silence of the bathroom, with only the buzzing fluorescent light overhead to keep him company.

Pleck had been promoted today. Second Lieutenant. Or, Lieutenenant, he guessed. A rank and a job, given out of what, sympathy? Kindness? It didn’t matter, really. Turns out he’d repaid that kindness with a blaster shot to the brain.

Coming back to Bargie after all of that was a nauseating experience. He grimaced at the memory as he hung the towel up to dry. They all had a bad habit of putting up humorous walls around themselves when they were uncomfortable, grasping at distractions, latching onto funny details like they were lifelines in a stormy sea. Making jokes was something they knew how to do, something they were good at, something grounding. It anchored them, but anchors were oh so heavy.

Yeah, keep it tight! Great slogan! Great pants! Great job! Good one, guys!

They still watched someone die right in front of them. And then watched another someone pass on moments later. A one-two punch to the gut. Nothing a couple good jokes couldn’t fix, right?

A brief moment passed where Pleck thought he was going to lose the contents of his stomach, slapping a hand against the bathroom wall to brace himself as the vertigo twisted his gut. He saw it on the backs of his eyelids when he blinked. The zing of blaster fire, smashing in a starburst against Dar’s body. They were dead before they hit the ground.

His fault. Just like everything else.

He pulled in a shaky breath, managing to fight down the nausea. Rodd, he’d been mid-apology when it happened, too, as part of owning up to his long and exhaustive list of mistakes. It didn’t matter that he’d pulled the trigger years ago, when he was someone else entirely. It was still something he needed to make amends for. “Sorry I shot you,” he’d meant to tell Dar. “It was wrong and I feel terrible.”

Now what was he going to say? Sorry I killed you and left your body in the mud? Sorry you had to watch yourself die and then clean up my mess?

Guilt crawled into Pleck’s throat and settled there. He tugged his robe tighter around his torso, a self-soothing habit he’d developed over the past few months, and exited the bathroom. Instead of wandering down the hall to his closet, his feet carried him in the other direction to the adjacent room. He heaved open the door and flicked on the light, greeted by the gentle hum of the air unit and a distinct rise in humidity as he stepped inside.

The memory of the thick air on Flerp smacked him in the mouth and he had to take a second to lean back against the door. Calm down, calm down, he told his racing heart. You’re in the hydroponics room. Aboard the Bargarean Jade. You’re not on a distant planet in a downpour watching your friend die. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his good eye and pulled in a steadying breath.

It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re all okay.

That was it, right? Why he felt so wrong about it all. Like he didn’t have permission to grieve. There was nobody to grieve - Dar was with them on the ship now, and Dar was with them on the ship in the past, and everything had turned out alright. It was fine, they had a laugh, and they went about their business.

Pleck still felt shitty, though. He tried to swallow past the guilt in his throat.

He pushed off from the door and padded to the first rack of grow trays. He’d been coming in here a lot lately, having nothing to do around the ship. The warmth of the air and the moisture it held made him think of warm summer rains back on his home planet. Pleck remembered walking barefoot out in the grass fields as a kid, feeling the soft give of the soil under his toes as he watched the irrigation structure crawl a lazy track across the farm.

This room wasn’t exactly like that, but he did often go without shoes in here. More for nostalgic purposes than anything. The smooth metal flooring still felt nice on the soles of his feet, warm from the blaze of the grow lights. The system in here was automated, racks of machinery operating the whole process without any assistance needed from a sentient. There was no possible way Pleck could have jucked this one up.

Just like he’d-

He’d-

Pleck shook his head to clear it, focusing on the hum of the fan and the gentle sway of the plants in front of him. It made him feel a little homesick, actually, following the little seedlings to maturation. These were mostly leafy greens - butter lettuce, romaine, some spinach, a few varieties of cabbage - kept in the dark as they germinated for a few days within a square plug of peat moss and polymer. Watching the mechanical arms rotate the baby sprouts from the darkness to the light was hypnotic, and Pleck often found himself passing hours in here without realizing it.

It made him feel useful, even if he wasn’t really doing anything, making a slow circuit of the room and checking on the plants. Pinching off dead leaves where they appeared, refilling the nitrogen caddy, checking the roots for rot, harvesting and bagging the vegetables for the fridge later. Mindless, repetitive motions that slowed his pulse and passed the time.

He needed to be here right now.

Pleck tended the greens, grounding himself in a tactile comfort as he tentatively turned over the day’s events in his head. He skirted around the time stuff - it hurt just thinking about it and he preferred his feet planted firmly in the present - instead uttering a small prayer for the passing of Adelaide Wiggles. The last of her species. The Memorex had died with her, slumped to the cobalt floor of a crumbling mansion. Dignified, somehow, despite the biscuits clattering across the floor as she fell.

She’d looked her end in the eye and greeted it jauntily. Pleck wished he had that kind of resolve.

Watching the Dame’s life gently snuffed out like candlelight, while quite sad, was much easier to focus on than the other thing that gnawed at him. The thing he had done. It lodged in his neck like an extra set of teeth. He traced a fingertip over the gentle arc of a lettuce leaf, wondering if that had been the one to pull the trigger.

Pleck didn’t make a habit of firing guns, not past the old peashooter his father used to let him borrow as a kid. Sometimes they’d go out after X-Marse to the ditch behind the farmhouse and shoot bottles off the broken fridge that had lain there rusting for years. A rare treat. A Rangus vacation. Pleck smiled softly to himself at the memory as he plucked off a sick leaf and discarded it.

A blaster was different, though. It held all the kick and the power needed to kill a sentient, and in a blind panic, Pleck had done exactly that. It had happened so long ago he didn’t even really remember what it felt like, but he did just watch it happen, the stock hammering into his ribcage because he was holding it wrong. He at least remembered the purple bruise that had bloomed there afterward. Taken two weeks to heal.

How selfish he’d been. How utterly ignorant. The fact that his cowardice had gotten Dar killed snagged in his brain like a fishhook.

He stopped in his tracks in front of a healthy grow tray, pressing a trembling hand to his mouth.

He’d really done that, hadn’t he?

Killed Dar.

His captain, his friend, unshakeable in their confidence. That powerful solar flare of a being, all loud words and bold decisions and unstoppable will. Barreling through life like a freight train. And they cared about Pleck even when Pleck didn’t care about Pleck. One infinitesimal moment and they were dead.

Second Lieutenenant. Please. If he had a badge he’d turn it in.

The sob that escaped his chest was more of a thin sigh, rolling over him like one of those summer Rangus storms. His shoulders curled up and he pressed his hand harder against his mouth, as if he could hold the emotion in. He was so sick of having breakdowns in here. It was his cry spot of choice, the ventilation fan just loud enough to keep Bargie from overhearing, and he’d lost track of how many times the Allwheat’s record scratch of a voice had knocked Pleck’s feet out from under him.

He sucked in a shuddering breath through his nose, blinking away the burning in his eye. Dar wouldn’t want him crying over this. He had no right to be crying over this. He wasn’t the one who watched themself die today. Dar alone held that privilege - they were the only one who’d actually done anything about it, stepping up and taking charge, as was their nature, while Pleck stood there uselessly, as was his.

First Beano, now this. Pleck had to start keeping a tally of the friends he’d killed. Another joke for the crew to anchor themselves with. Who was next? C-53? AJ? Watch out, guys. Pleck’s coming for you.

He stood there, trembling in the misty room while the guilt soaked him to the bone, knowing he could never make this right. Dar had already done that for him.

Minutes passed, and the tension eventually ebbed from his shoulders. His breathing evened out. The greens in front of him bobbed passively on their trays of water, up-down-up-down, gentle like his heart. Letting out a long, slow exhale, he leaned his head against the cool aluminum of the hydroponics structure. He was grateful for this room full of life after the death he’d witnessed today.

Maybe one day they could talk this over. Maybe he’d find the impossible words needed for this insurmountable apology. And they could laugh about it, for real, full and genuine and from the heart. For now, though, he needed to hide himself away in this sanctuary, entombed ever so softly by the humid air and the swaying leaves. He couldn’t face them just yet.

“I’m so sorry, Dar,” he whispered to the empty room.

I’m so sorry.