the meta steps from the shadows and rumbles a low greeting, and wash's arm wavers where he holds his gun, fingers flexing around the grip. some part of him isn't surprised. of course, why wouldn't he be here, of all people? wash can't have a second's peace without guilt crawling in and foaming around his ankles to drag him down, down, to places he doesn't want to see anymore.
how many times has he stood across him like this, and how many times is he going to have to watch him die? maine died a long time ago, back in freelancer, back with with sigma, just another one of the director's many casualties. what's left of maine now is an empty shell, a living ghost, and no matter how many times he repeats that to himself, it's still hard and it still sucks, every single fucking time he has to look him in the face and remember.
( this isn't real, that's not his friend, this isn't real, that's not his friend. )
fine. nowhere to go but forward. let's do this. ]
Meta.
[ surprisingly, there's no trace of anger in his voice. he sounds bitter but tired, eyes flitting from his helmet to his holstered bruteshot. they're not in an ideal area for a firefight. too open, no cover, and the meta may be big but he's faster than he looks; if he gets too close, there's jack shit wash can do to stop him from snapping his spine.
he needs distance, and so while he doesn't retreat, he does fall back a step, his free hand inching toward the rifle on his back. ]
HELLO FRIEND
the meta steps from the shadows and rumbles a low greeting, and wash's arm wavers where he holds his gun, fingers flexing around the grip. some part of him isn't surprised. of course, why wouldn't he be here, of all people? wash can't have a second's peace without guilt crawling in and foaming around his ankles to drag him down, down, to places he doesn't want to see anymore.
how many times has he stood across him like this, and how many times is he going to have to watch him die? maine died a long time ago, back in freelancer, back with with sigma, just another one of the director's many casualties. what's left of maine now is an empty shell, a living ghost, and no matter how many times he repeats that to himself, it's still hard and it still sucks, every single fucking time he has to look him in the face and remember.
( this isn't real, that's not his friend, this isn't real, that's not his friend. )
fine. nowhere to go but forward. let's do this. ]
Meta.
[ surprisingly, there's no trace of anger in his voice. he sounds bitter but tired, eyes flitting from his helmet to his holstered bruteshot. they're not in an ideal area for a firefight. too open, no cover, and the meta may be big but he's faster than he looks; if he gets too close, there's jack shit wash can do to stop him from snapping his spine.
he needs distance, and so while he doesn't retreat, he does fall back a step, his free hand inching toward the rifle on his back. ]