sunchime | [ all abord the express train to emotions town ]

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character: york

[ all abord the express train to emotions town ]

Just about everyone on Chorus is thrilled when Dr. Grey finds herself a new science project, because Dr. Grey's boredom is the real killer around here. Something about Schroedinger's dead body and some experimental new revival procedure. Wash and Carolina are too busy trying to keep Kimball and Doyle talking for more than five minutes to spare any thought towards whatever the fuck is happening in that lab, but all that focus goes up in smoke when Dr. Grey takes control of the PA system by force. A crackling screech sounds throughout the entire base.

"Helloooo, resident Freelancers! I need you to report to the lab immediately. I've got a body for you to identify~!"

Her sing-song tone is not encouraging, and neither is the request. Asking Freelancers to identify a body means the body is, presumably, a Freelancer. Wash and Carolina book it at full fucking speed to the lab. What if it's Maine? Or South? Or — shit, what if they have to endure Wyoming's fucking knock-knock jokes again?

It's not any of them. Somehow, it's the last person Wash and Carolina expected — maybe because they've already grieved for her, gotten their closure one way or another. Maybe it's just that it's York. It's been years now since she died, and the prospect of her being alive again is just...dizzying.

Even more so that her neural implant is apparently occupied. They both vehemently object when Dr. Grey makes the slightest motion to remove the chip, but she can't help but agree that the fragile architecture of the human brain could indeed collapse like a house of cards in this situation! Well, that's just fine by her. The revival procedure alone is plenty to keep her interested, aaaand when things have settled down (or if the patient dies), she'll see about getting access to that chip.

Not everyone is in favor of reviving the Freelancer. In all fairness, bad things happen to the simulation troopers pretty much any time a Freelancer shows up, and even if Wash and Carolina know that York's the least likely to pose a violent threat, it's a reasonable concern from the Reds and Blues. But all the same, Wash and Carolina override any objections or complaints and tell Dr. Grey to go ahead with the procedure. The procedure is, of course, highly experimental — one might say only theoretical until this point — and the odds that it'll actually work are slim. Depending on how long York's been dead-not-dead, there's a pretty good chance that even if Dr. Grey is able to revive her, she'll just be a big one-eyed vegetable, tee hee!

Everything seems to happen so quickly, they don't even really have a chance to think about whether or not this is something they really want. The decision to at least try to revive York seemed like a no-brainer, and they need to know what's up with her AI chip, because if Delta's intact then the implications are, uh, alarming. But as to what it'd actually feel like to have her back, when she's been dead so long...

Well, there's nothing either of them can do but wait, now. The procedure takes long, long hours, and Dr. Grey can't say when she'll wake up, if ever, or what will happen if she does, but she tells them that it's better if someone she recognizes is there when she wakes up, so here Wash is. Waiting.

There's no such thing as a comfortable hospital chair, and definitely not on Chorus. It's late into the evening when York, after a couple of days of resting comatose in a salvaged hospital bed, finally makes a noise that sounds more like a groan than a breath.

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Wash starts, suddenly fully awake from his fitful half-dozing state he’d managed to sink into in his shitty hospital chair, ignoring the crick in his neck to lean closer, then move back, not wanting to be right in York’s face in case she is actually waking up.

“York?” he says hoarsely, rubbing his pale face. This is what they wanted, right? This is good. Probably. “Can you hear me?”

Her mind is still groping for consciousness, and it's only the background hum of Delta's presence that allows her mind to surface, slowly. She's expecting pain in her chest, but it's not there — she hurts in other, unexpected places, but above all, she feels stiff as all hell. She's still trying to open her eyes, her eyelids so heavy it's like someone's wrapped her in a blindfold. She hears a familiar voice and lets out another, slightly more purposeful noise, the fingers on one hand twitching, and she tries to lick her lips, but her mouth's so dry her tongue is stuck to the roof, and she can barely croak out noise.

"Wuh..."

It's not clear if she's trying to say Wash, water, or just plain what. Maybe all three. She's talented like that.

“Here,” Wash says, standing up too fast, his hands only a little wobbly as he holds a cup of water to her lips just in case. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Don’t try to talk just yet.”

He has absolutely no idea if anything about this is okay, but he’s sure as hell sticking around to find out.

At the very least, York tastes the water and tries to take a few sips, coughing only briefly as she finally wets her tongue. There's a vague halo of unreality around all of this, like she's swimming through a dream, because that's Wash's voice, and he's supposed to be locked up in a padded room back at Freelancer HQ. When she opens her eyes, her vision is blurry, eyes crusted up with a beach's worth of sand. Fuck.

For lack of a suit of armor, Delta hijacks the nearest hard-light display — the holoscreen displaying York's medical chart — to project himself over York's shoulder.

"Agent Washington," says Delta, and while his tone has always been a little hard to read, Wash should still be able to detect the muted mix of surprise and wariness. "York is not yet fully conscious, but it appears she has survived what I had presumed to be a fatal wound."

Does he sound a little...upset that he was wrong? Who can say! He's also got some very obvious questions, but in his experience, the human mind's processing time is...a little slow. He's giving you some breathing room, Wash. Isn't he so accommodating.

Wash starts so hard he nearly knocks over his chair as Delta snaps into view.

“Delta!” he says, his tone a little all over the place—he’s not sad to see Delta, but all of this seems totally fucking impossible. “You—we weren’t sure if you’d—well.” He collects himself a little, his heart pounding.

“You weren’t wrong. She was dead. Definitely. A doctor here just… found a way to bring her back, somehow.”

Well. That wasn't the expected reaction, but then again, Delta is sorely lacking in information about the current situation. There is, somehow, a frown in his voice.

"I do not understand. Had York died, protocol dictates that my program would have been deleted. And I appear to be missing some critical data." The kind of data that lets him orient himself in space and time, for instance. "How long has it been since York sustained the gunshot wounds to her chest?"

“Yeah, it turns out they don’t actually do that. It’s cheaper to store you than it is to wipe you out, good thing for us. I just—“

Hmm, maybe he shouldn’t mention that he’d deliberately put delta in a situation where he’d be wiped out by an EMP. He closes his teeth on whatever he’d been about to say, swallowing.

“It’s been… years, Delta. A long time. We were sure York was dead, so we didn’t look. We don’t even know how she ended up here.”

"That does not seem physically possible," Delta says doubtfully. "Where is 'here'?"

“A planet called Chorus. Things are… a mess here, but they have good doctors. Or, skilled ones, anyway,” Wash says, half-shrugging.

"Chorus," Delta repeats in confirmation. He seems like he's about to say something else, but instead, abruptly: "York is waking up now."

"What the hell," York mumbles, feeling like she's fighting for her fucking life to be conscious. She manages to lift an impossibly heavy hand and brings it to her face, trying to massage her eyes open. The talk between Delta and Wash is only on the edge of hearing, like she's listening to Delta's end of a phone conversation and the other person is nothing but muffled prosody. She finally blinks herself fully awake, staring at the unfamiliar and notably indoor ceiling, then rolls her head to the side to catch the person in her peripheral vision and then all of a sudden, she looks like the one who's just seen a ghost.

"Holy shit — Wash?"

“Hey, York,” Wash says, trying desperately to be casual. He’s freaking out, but he senses that immediately freaking York out also will just add to the problem. “How you feeling?”

For a full fucking twenty seconds, York just stares. That's Wash — no mistaking him — but that's...not right. They took Wash away after Epsilon killed itself in his head, certified him Article Twelve and locked him up. He looks older — he looks like he's aged, more like, but maybe going crazy just does that to a person. Seems pretty likely, anyway.

"How am I feeling?" Getting words out is still weirdly hard, like she's not used to the size of her tongue or the angle of her jaw, but her incredulity is kind of punching through everyone else. "Jesus Christ, Wash, they told us you went crazy! How the hell did you get out?"

The reality of just where they are doesn't seem to have permeated just yet, even though she technically has that information from Delta. Shit. This room doesn't look familiar, but Freelancer had all kinds of facilities. Did she almost die and then wind up back in fucking Freelancer?

Wash shakes his head, running a hand through his hair.

“That was… a while ago now, York. You’ve been gone a long time. I got better,” he says and smiles crookedly.

Alright, it's true — it has been awhile, even without factoring in the time she's dead, which she hasn't, yet, because she's still working on that one. But she's spent years looking for Carolina, ever since that ship crashed on Sidewinder. She smooths her fingers over the neural implant at the nape of her neck, tracing over familiar textures, the assurance that Delta's there, that she's still whole.

She's still staring at him, but it's a little less shock and a little more taking stock, and the information Delta had gleaned from his brief conversation with Wash is starting to permeate. She wonders if he knows it was Wyoming who killed her, and if she can possibly keep that to herself until she's really in the ground.

"Didn't know you could cure crazy," she says, still reeling a little — no, a lot, let's be real. She starts to push herself up into a sitting position, slowly. "Or dead, for that matter. Where the hell's Chorus? All D's got is that it's some settler colony. Freelancer expanding their operations to even more backwater nowhere now?"

York is considering the possibility that Wash, while (allegedly) less crazy, never actually got away from Freelancer, and that somehow she was medevaced back to some facility on a planet she's never even heard of. Shit, maybe he's still crazy and he's just delusional about her being dead and — well, Delta says he thinks Wash's sanity seems to be "within acceptable standard deviations", but she's still working through what seems like a simply insane scenario.

“Oh,” Wash says, but of course she doesn’t know. “York, Freelancer is… gone. The program was shut down completely. People are still fighting over the scraps, but it’s over. The Director is dead.”

Wash watches her carefully for her reaction, his face more tense than he’d like.

"Oh. Shit," York says, stupidly, but Delta's surprise is registering along with hers in stereo, because D's conversation with Wash had only gotten as far as York's been dead for years now and she's still taking that one in. Jesus Christ on a bagel, she's getting a headache.

"The Director's dead? Christ. I mean — good riddance, I guess, but. Shit."

She takes a longer, slower look around the room before looking back at Wash.

"...And we're not in prison or nothin'?"

She has so many other questions — like how, and who, and which of their old war buddies are still alive — but she knows she's not ready to ask any of that just yet. She needs to finish reconnecting with...being fucking alive, apparently.

“No prison. I was, but—well, it’s a long story. Anyway, we’re free here. We’re trapped on this planet right now for a bunch of complicated reasons, but we’re working on it.”

Wash is quiet for a moment.

“And yeah. Good riddance.”

"Oh, cool. Not in prison, but still trapped in the middle of fuckin' nowhere." It comes out lukewarm, though, because the novelty of apparently being revived from death is a pretty big fucking silver lining.

She's sure it's a really long story, filled with the answers to questions she isn't immediately ready to ask. She needs to just focus on the now. Woof. She rubs her hands over her face again, then flexes her fingers, becoming increasingly aware of the rest of her body.

He did say we. York hesitates, tries to ignore Delta's probability scenarios on the likelihood of all the other Freelancers' deaths.

"Who's we, exactly?"

“Me and—oh.” Wash’s eyes light, glad to be able to give York a bit of good news.

“Carolina’s alive. She’s here. She’ll want to know you’re awake, actually, should I call her?”

York's still processing, letting Delta filter through the information, his usual sort and file, but Wash drops that bombshell and every other process grinds to a shrieking halt.

"Carolina's alive?" It comes out breathless, hope she's afraid to let herself have for a while now. She looks like she's ready to disconnect her IV and launch herself right out of the bed. "She's here? Shit, I've gotta — "

She didn't think she'd get the chance to apologize, get closure on any of it, not by now. Everything's starting to crash down on her now, the confusing implications of both Wash and Carolina's presence on a backwater planet, the weird dissonance of coming back from the dead.

"Alert," says Delta, briefly flashing red. "York's heart rate has exceeded one hundred beats per minute."

"Not the god damn time, D!"

“Hey, hey!” Wash says, sounding alarmed as he reaches out and puts a hand on York’s shoulder, pressing her back against the bed. He lets go after a second, self-conscious, but he holds his hands up in a quelling gesture.

“Relax. York, you just woke up, calm down!”

York does not look at all calm, but she at least doesn't fight him — mostly because her limbs are all wobbly and she feels like a fucking baby deer.

"Relax? Relax? Can we recap, Wash? I've been dead for years, you're out of the crazy ward, Freelancer's done and in the ground and Carolina's been alive this whole time. Exactly what part of this am I supposed to relax about?"

York might be one of the chillest of the Freelancers, but everyone's got their limit.

“Sorry, sorry, I thought you’d be happy!”

Wash’s hands hover without touching York again, looking pained.

“A lot has happened, York. I don’t know how to give you all this information without freaking you out, but you have a right to know. Why don’t I ask the questions for a bit, okay? You never answered me—how are you feeling?”

"Oh my god you still suck at this," York says, pressing her hands to her face. Never mind. This is exactly how she remembers Wash. Nervous, awkward, somehow managing to fit that massive armored boot in his mouth. Okay, so that's a little bit of a comfort. She rubs her face all over, like she's still trying to get the feeling back even though the strange numbness of sleep has mostly worn off.

"I'm...fine, I guess. Feeling pretty good for a dead woman, anyway." York rubs a hand over the left side of her chest, just under the collarbone, mouth twisting into a frown. "I was shot in the chest, but there's no gunshot wounds. Mostly just got a headache. This is really fuckin' weird, Wash. That's how I feel right now."

“Hey, I’m doing what I can here, all right?” Was sounds put-upon, but not too much—he knows he isn’t good at this, okay?

“Your injuries should be completely healed but you might feel a little stiff. I should… get Dr. Gray or something, she’s going to want to examine you now that you’re awake…”

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