thatsagainstprotocol | (no subject)

(no subject)

[ Connie and York are still asleep when he crawls out of bed at nearly two in the morning. He's sore and exhausted and shaky most of all, which means that sleep isn't going to happen any time soon. He takes his jacket off of the back of a chair and slides it on, and realizes he can't go with armor without being too loud. Well. The garden zones are safe enough, he figures, arming himself, slipping out the door with a note scrawled for the girls.

He makes it there shortly, and finds the nearest hill, flopping back onto his back, enjoying the press of grass. The desert hasn't been awful, but that and a ship-- god, he's just grateful for grass. ]

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[ fuck.

He gives the whole place another look, and thinks he sees a flicker of lights from the side, forcing himself to focus. ]

What's in your head?

[ Is that all he's worried about? She gives him a half-exasperated look, turning to the side so that he might see the data port at the base of her skull. It's much larger than normal, cold metal grafted directly to skin and gaping open, clearly empty, and there's a series of circular ports heading all the way down her spine. The dragonscale scattered around them glitters cold in the moonlight. ]

Neural lace. Just a radio signal, cowboy.

[ He tenses at that, too, because that's not a name he hears often- at least, not from anyone that's not York. Still, no AI. Just radio, nothing creeping in her head. One more hard look, and he lowers the gun, though his hand stays on it. ]

Alright. Where to?

[ He shouldn't trust her, not just like that, not without it making any sense, but he knows her, knows her from somewhere. His past, maybe? A soldier he's met? ]

[ For a moment she has to hesitate, wondering if it's really a good idea to bring someone so jumpy near the dragons... but it would be worse to let him get caught when he's clearly not the diplomatic type. She jerks her head to indicate direction, eyes busy on their surroundings. ]

Next hill over. My-- partner and I are bivouacked there, and the Variers know better than to bother us.

[ and dryly, eyeing his weapon, ]

I'll take point, but keep in mind that I'll break your jaw if you fire that accidentally.

I don't fire accidentally.

[ If he's going to fire, it's going to be without hesitation and entirely on purpose. Still, he'll go along with it for the time being, falling in behind her, trying to place it.

Red hair.

He knows it, he knows he does. Maybe she just reminds him of someone from his past. ]

[ A snort is her only response. WHATEVER YOU SAY, SON.

Anyway it's like literally five minutes back to her little camp, obvious from the stacked crates of ammunition and weaponry and the handful of small lanterns set up. It might seem like an odd place to set up a camp, out in the middle of a random field, but the lights also catch on the glitter of obsidian black scales. Omega looks like a particularly genre style statue, metal spikes and bone spurs and arching black wings, his great horned head resting on crossed front legs like a cat. Excidium's bulk is only a little distance beyond, more sinuous and neatly coiled, and Crimson's bright scarlet hide beyond that. The cracked bones of some large herbivore still lay strewn around, bits of flesh clinging to them, as Omega wasn't particularly inclined to neatness.

He slits open an eye at their approach but doesn't even bother raising his head, letting out an explosive exhalation when Tex goes to him, both hands on his bony nose, blowing her hair back violently. ]

[ Wash is expecting a certain level of weirdness with this place. After Freelancer, after how shitty everything went, and christ, after this ship? Yeah, weird is normal, now.

And he expects that he'll encounter things he's not expecting- like the hallway full of dead bodies. Creepy, but not altogether terrifying or unexpected.

It's why he doesn't bat an eye at shiny rocks, why he doesn't flinch at the bones, but--

Yeah, okay, nothing prepares him for the eyes opening up and oh holy HOLY HOLY FUCK that is not-- Wash's gun gets drawn all over again and he starts to think he ought to just surgically attach it to his hand, staring it down. ]

You have a --

[ not looking back at him, and matter of fact, ]

Dragon, yes. Alien organic body with natural metal scales, AI chip interface for language and obedience. Technical classification aerial assault vehicle, contracted to the UNSC.

...also if you're pointing your gun at us, knock it off.

I-- what--

[ Oh for fuck's sake. York without memories, another him, male Yorks and now a fucking dragon?

Wash makes a strangled noise, trying to process it and then the second bit hits him. ]

AI chip interface?

[ She nods absently, grabbing up a towel and some cleaning solution to get the dried blood off his jaws while he grumbles audibly, twitching his head out of her hands until she kicks him solidly with an armored boot. ]

They'd just be wild animals, otherwise. Without an AI implanted as hatchlings, they wouldn't be able to speak, or follow complicated commands, and they'd be about as much use on the battlefield as an eight ton cat.

[ dry, because she thinks it's much weirder for worlds to not have dragons, ]

Apparently my universe is somewhat unique. The Covenant use war beasts for their shock troops, and we use Spartans and dragons and anything else we can find to throw at them.

[ Oh. Oh, sweet mother of-- she's cleaning blood off his jaws and he feels himself grip the gun tighter even if it's not leveled at them. Unwise, but probably moreso to aim it at them. ]

Apparently.

[ Yeah, fucking apparently. His voice goes strangled, uneven and he stares at her, utterly blown away right now. ]

This is UNSC sanctioned?

[ She slaps the towel against Omega's shoulder, where his serial number is emblazoned, along with a particular symbol that's been scuffed and scratched and may or may not be recognizable anymore. The letters "UNSC" are in larger font, though, and easily visible.

She glances back at him, and pointedly at the gun, becaue honestly bro what are you even gonna do with that. ]

It's all about numbers, and someone else was working on the supersoldier angle. If one Spartan is worth so many regular soldiers, one dragon and rider pair is worth a platoon.

We discovered the species at a Covenant outpost, actually. The UNSC was happy to devise a way to use their own resources against them.

[ OH OKAY dragons with type on them yes this makes sense. YES. ]

How many are there?

[ WELL YOU GUYS WALK AROUND WITH BATTLESHIP AIS IN YOUR HEADS WHAT GOOD IS THAT ]

Less than a hundred on active duty. 99% of the States are paired with a dragon but more of the Capitals aren't; the Project can't seem to get more than one or two eggs out of captive breeding and we're rarely lucky enough to stumble upon wild clutches in time.

[ his stomach drops out to his toes and he stares, mute and stunned and sick to his stomach. Goddamnit. Not one place free of Freelancer. ]

Freelancer. That's the project name, isn't it.

[ Now she looks at him with more focus, brow furrowing. ]

--yes, actually.

Jesus.

[ Not enough that he had to deal with it there, but now here, too.

Wash stares her down a moment, swallowing. ]

Texas.

[ Omega rumbles, his great head rising to look at Wash with greater interest, and Tex doesn't move, although her posture immediately turns defensive and wary. ]

...do we know each other?

[ That's why he feels drawn to her.

Wash fights down the sick, nauseating feeling and just stares at her instead, willing the feeling to go away, please, god. ]

No. No, we don't. I should go. Looks like the coast is clear.

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