If I'm Out of Line, Just Show Me the Door [CLOSED]

[ownperson]

Who: Agent South Dakota (ownperson) & Agent North Dakota (gooddefense)
What: Unresolved tension boils over
When: Mid-December, pre holidays
Where: North's farm, Northwest Hollow
Warning(s): Excessive alcohol/alcohol abuse, ongoing mental health crises, discussion of betrayal/fratricide by proxy, possible references to past emotional abuse/neglect, others added as necessary



She doesn't mean to get back so late.

One drink turns into two drinks into five into ten and, outside the Oak & Iron's windows, the world turns black and white as night creeps in and snow drifts down from clouds overhead. Midnight is already long behind her by the time the bartender finally cuts her off so they can close up, ushering her out to brave the chill as she curses herself for losing track of time. It's a long walk back from downtown to the farmhouse even on a good day and, between trudging through snowfall and her own drunken clumsiness, this is not a good day. Should've left sooner. Should've been back hours ago. It's just—

Been getting harder and harder to spend time in the house without wanting to scream, the last few days—fuck, the last couple weeks, really. Hours will go by where everything seems okay and then something will happen, something small, something she barely even notices, and everything gets weird again. North gets weird again. But then she doesn't say a word, and, eventually, things go back to normal. Until the cycle repeats. Over and over and over again and—

She just needed to get out of the house. Needed a drink and to clear her head. That's all. That's fucking all.

Her pale skin is red and her hands are shaking as much from the cold as the alcohol, by the time she hauls herself up the porch steps and fumbles with the lock on the door. It's not quiet, it's not considerate. When it finally clicks open, she shoulders the door and stumbles inside, shoving it back shut behind her. Her boots thud heavily against the wooden floor and she grunts, huffing as she fights to get the stupid things off so she can drag herself to bed.

Comments

[cyansoldier]

"I know you don't. I know." She can feel her sagging— sees the morning light creep further and further into the room. Carolina unwinds herself some, looks at her. Tears glitter wetly down South's face. Her eyes are swollen like two bruises that haven't set in yet; her nose, red like a fresh wound. Hair plasters to her pale forehead. It's odd, how a woman so strong can look and feel so small— can sway like something newborn caught in a half-hearted wind. "It's late. Early." She stands and coolly straightens out her pajamas. "We'll call it. Do you want me to stay?"

[ownperson]

It takes all the restraint she has not to reach after Carolina when she pulls away, and still her hand twitches traitorously toward her, narrowly missing the hem of her shirt. Pitiful. Like a child. (Fuck how she hates to be seen this way.)

Please. Please, I don't want to be alone. I can't be alone, I can't—

A tight nod is all the answer she can stomach.

[cyansoldier]

"You know, I spent the first, like, three months sleeping on the ground next to my bed, because the mattress was too soft, and I was used to our shitty cots back—" almost says home, replaces it, "—in the Invention. I thought it was nice."

She flattens her pillow, laid out on her back with a blanket draped over her. And it feels so easy, doing all this— weirdly so, like she's slipped back into old armor, old responsibilities— only now she's able to do them right this time. Be a friend, not a Commander. Maybe. If she can figure out how.

"If you need something and I'm asleep, shake me. I won't bite."

[ownperson]

Another day, she might have joked: shame. Tonight, she just nods, scrubbing her damp face with the backs of her wrists and heels of her palms until she feels closer to composed (by millimetres, not inches).

Everything feels heavy.

"...couches are kinda the same," she mutters, shuffling herself until she's lying on her side on the too-small space. Usually she'd stretch out, let her legs dangle off over the armrest, but here and now she curls herself up into as small a ball as she can manage. Doesn't even remove her pants for comfort, too damn tired and too damn embarrassed. Just kicks off her boots and then hauls the blanket Carolina gave her up over herself, only the messy fluff of her hair poking out. Like a fresh shell of protection against the world.

Sleep creeps up quickly, dragging her down into the dark, but on her way she murmurs a quiet, emotion-thick, "...thanks," before it claims her completely, weighting her down under exhaustion of every kind.

[cyansoldier]

South staggers into a deep, drunk, exhausted sleep, and Carolina is glad for it. Relieved to hear the even, tear-thickened sound of her snoring. Sleep is the best thing for her now, and clearly she needs it.

Carolina winds herself down by thinking in circles— no, in rows— about what's next, where she's going to put the alcohol, if it's an amount that warrants hiding, and how she'll approach North once she's up again. More demanding of her attention is the palpable whiplash of seeing South come apart— South in her house— South, asleep on her sofa, putting so much trust in her, and in such a small amount of time. Carolina lies in the recoil like shallow water. Parses the especial, bizarre sort of feeling of seeing someone cry for the first time, like attending a funeral you weren't invited to. And the closer she gets to sleep, the less whole these thoughts become. She's left with one; I'm sorry.

Her body's clock (stupid, disciplined thing) wakes her up a cruel three hours after she's fallen asleep. Carolina wastes no time. She cleans up her bedding, gets dressed, stashes her small collection of alcohol in a corner in the basement, then makes for North's house with breakfast.

And— gets precisely nowhere. He raises a good point— needs someone to talk to who isn't literally housing his sister– but Carolina leaves frustrated and helpless anyway. Were she still living by herself, she might have bowled through the front door, wrapped her knuckles in tape and b-lined to the yard for some noisy exercise. Not now. South is probably sleeping, and waking her up prematurely is the last thing she wants.

So, she creeps quietly through the front door—

[ownperson]

Sleep comes heavily, and yet uncomfortably. Beneath the shelter of the blanket her features wrinkle, her body curls in tighter like she's trying to retreat inside that shell where no one will ever have to see her again. Never does she shift or roll, never does she really stir, exhaustion weight enough to keep her there, and yet sometimes she feels close to the surface, like she's stuck beneath an iced over lake.

Nightmares try to reach her in fits and spurts, vivid in the way the alcohol has always made them but struggling to get a foothold. A flash of North screaming her name. A flash of blood and fear. A flash of snow and pain. A flash of emptiness and abstract things that somehow she knows mean that she is and will always be alone.

It's the sound of footsteps returning that jolts her out of a fitful stretch of barely-sleep, makes her snoring sputter and stop, the blanket mound shift. Alcohol still drowning her system, she moves sluggish and slow, head aching and memory a bit of a blur. Where did North go, why is he coming back in at whatever hour this is, what—

She opens her eyes, and she remembers.

Oh. Right. He... he's not here. Or, she's not there.

Her chest squeezes and she's overcome with a wash of shameful embarrassment. God, what the fuck, why did she come here? Why would she make poor fucking Lina deal with her like this, why would she let herself be seen like that, why—

I didn't know where else to go, she finds herself thinking, and feeling absurd for it.

"...h-hey," she grunts, still groggy where she pulls herself to sitting, blanket bunched over her legs. "Where the fuck—?"

[cyansoldier]

"Hey. Morning. You're at mine, remember?"

Carolina stops in the doorway, as if to make the shape of herself known. Give South enough time to look, put the pieces together, remember where the hell she is. She'll give her a recap if she needs it, not that she really wants to. Humiliating people for sport is only best when she's in a certain mood— and not when that person is in deep emotional crisis. When it's clear that Carolina is Carolina, she strips off her winter coat and gloves and begins to move toward the kitchen.

"I'll make something. If you promise not to throw it up. And don't say no. I haven't eaten either, so it's gonna get made anyway."

[ownperson]

"...dunno if I can promise that," she groans, rubbing her face. Ugh, the fact she still gets anything resembling a hangover after this much practice is bullshit. (Though maybe this morning it's as much of an emotional hangover as it is an alcoholic one.) "But I guess I'll fuckin' try."

Should eat. Knows she should eat. Even if the idea sets her stomach on edge already. God, she's fucking pathetic, sticking Carolina of all people with having to cook for her.

She pulls her knees to her chest without conscious thought, arms wrapped around them over the comforting weight and warmth of the blanket.

"...where were you?"

[cyansoldier]

At least she's got hardwood floors.

"I was at North's," she says unflinchingly. If this— any of this— is going to work, she can't lie. South deserves more than lies. They've dealt with enough of them back home. Let her be spoken to like an adult human being, not like a child who can't handle them. In this particular instance, though, it might not be wise to tell the whole truth. She remembers South's concern that her brother should have someone, anyone to talk to— and that's not going to be her.

Carolina sets to cooking somewhat automatically, the way she might service a gun. Pan, butter, eggs. It's the easiest way she's found to get through this sort of thing— machining her way through it.

"I wasn't there long. I brought him something to eat and told him if he needs to talk, I'm around."

That way, it's not technically a lie.

[ownperson]

Carolina may not flinch, but South does, a reflexive twinge of guilt just thinking about the sound of old tears in his voice and how alone she's left him (he asked her to, he asked her to but it feels so wrong). It fades into a stranger, more complicated feeling as she processes that Carolina did what she'd asked her to—tried, at least, to give North this (confusing, inexplicable) support she's been giving her...

And shifts again when it becomes clear it didn't fucking work. Probably he shut down on her and Carolina's being polite, trying not to make South frustrated with him—something she has no right to be, and tries to push down. Because why would anything be that simple, right?

"...but he didn't talk," she grumbles, chin against her knees, now. "H-How the fuck is anything meant to change if he won't—"

Ugh, stop. Stop. She doesn't get to feel like this. It's not fucking fair, it's not right, it's not—

She buries her face in her knees and breathes deep, willing herself calmer.

[cyansoldier]

"It did just happen last night. He might need time before he's ready to get into everything. Whatever change happens, it's going to be slow for both of you. Be prepared for that."

Butter sizzles and froths in the shallow basin of her pan. She cracks two eggs and lets them do their thing, spoons coffee into her drip maker. Quiet for a moment, Carolina picks through her words. There's a dark blotch in her understanding of things, and she'll be no help to anyone if she's missing important information. If South will actually tell her, well...

Then there's the issue of whether her story is accurate. She'll work with what she's given.

"If I'm going to help, it's probably best I know the full story. We'll eat first, then talk. Is that fine?"

[ownperson]

Slow, South's never been very good at slow. Never had the patience, the discipline, to completely resist her impulses or to slow down long enough to breathe. Hates that she can't skip the part between the pain and the resolution, can't blink and be better already, be back with her brother and confident that she won't let this happen again.

Hates it because she knows it's impossible, knows the work has to be done, clawing tooth and nail out of the pit she's in, and all while she's so fucking tired.

She keeps her head down through the smell of eggs and coffee. It hides the wince when Carolina mentions the full story. Doesn't want to, doesn't want to expose just how fucking selfish she was, but— but does she really get a choice, now it's in the air.

"...s'fine, I guess."

[cyansoldier]

Good. Good. She probably realizes there's no way out of this except forward. Can't not say anything. Can't sweep what she's done under the rug and hope Carolina won't noticed. She's in her house, her rules— and she doesn't own a rug. This will be a process like pulling teeth without anesthetic; slow and painful. The rot runs deep and it needs to come out.

But first, breakfast. She plates two eggs with toast and fills a mug with coffee, sugar, a little milk. "I don't care if you like it. Drink it." Spoken in the same half-sternness she'd used last night. Carolina repeats the process, makes breakfast for herself and eats standing in the kitchen. She'll clean later. Maybe talk Gerry into doing it for her, if she's feeling bossy.

When she's finished, she comes over to the sofa and sits. "Whenever you're ready."

[ownperson]

South grunts a thanks when given her meal, and picks slowly at it over the course of the next... however long, she doesn't have a good sense of time. It's not a deliberate delaying tactic—not a conscious one—but feeling as dogshit as she does, her stomach as unsettled as it is, it's the only way she's going to keep that promise not to hurl. But it does buy her the time to sit with herself and think, as she nibbles her way through eggs and toast and begrudgingly drinks most of the coffee.

She carefully sets plate and mug down on the coffee table when she's done, then wraps her arms back around her knees and pulls tighter in on herself. Feels like such a fucking child for it, for behaving this way.

...she still doesn't know how she's supposed to start. Even after being forced to figure it out the first time.

"...where do you want me to start." (Stupid, stupid, stop putting the responsibility on other people for fuck's—)

[cyansoldier]

"How about..." Carolina thinks on it for a second, staring up into the ceiling and patting her own knee. "...When you made the decision, then go from there. Give me the facts. What the plan was, how it played out, where things went wrong. Take your time."

[ownperson]

Inhale, exhale. (She doesn't want to fucking do this again—)

"...I had the idea a couple months before it actually. Happened." Can't look at her. Can't meet her eye, not right now. Hates the way she can't face people, like this, had to force herself to even look at North in the end. "Command kept me updated on where the Meta was. I didn't get the beacons like Wash did, they wanted me to be, y'know. A secret. But they told me about it. And I knew— I knew I couldn't keep us out of its way forever. Not so long as North had Theta."

It would always come for them eventually, if Wash didn't find a way to stop it before it got that far. So long as they were on that stupid planet with that AI in North's head, they were a target. Being attacked was an inevitable outcome. But she...

"And he just— he wouldn't give him up. No matter how many times I begged him to let us actually fucking leave, he— he wouldn't. And I just— I just thought. If I set it up so the Meta found us when I was ready. I could use what I knew and— and just let it take it. Him. Theta."

It's worse, somehow, trying to tell this a second time. Knowing, now (almost accepting, now) that North saw Theta like a real child, like his child, and yet still struggling to understand it.

[cyansoldier]

Carolina is careful not to let any one expression betray her, or else run the risk of pulling the pin on this bomb of a subject and having it explode in her face. Hearing Maine be referred to as the Meta, however, sits in her about as comfortably as ammunition from a Needle Rifle. Is she the ridiculous one, or has everyone else forgotten that Maine is a person they knew? Maybe she's too forgiving. Maine did kill North, even if it's something Maine would never do.

So, Theta's the problem. South never really did engage with him, from what she saw. It was never about not having an AI, Carolina suspects, in the same way her experience wasn't all about being top of the leaderboard. There are nuances. Interpersonal conflicts and motivations. Maybe it felt like she wasn't North's person anymore, with Theta around.

How to fix that?

By doing anything other than luring in Agent fucking Maine. Relying on Maine, unpredictable and augmented, as the key component in your plan.

Of course things went— well, south.

"And then?"

[ownperson]

"It— it caught up to us quicker than I expected."

Not sure if that was her own miscalculation or Command feeding her bad intel—it's not like she could rule that out, is it, not with the way they always were, not with how prepared they were to have her play along with their little plan with Washington. Too prepared, maybe, but she can't prove anything. Can't know either way.

"But it still should've worked. Louisiana fucking survived and she was on her own, she wasn't me. Us. I had all the data Command gave me. I knew what it could do. So I— I went ahead with the plan. When I realised it was coming, I kept out of sight and... and I waited. I heard him— I heard him shouting for me and— and I waited, because so long as he was shouting he was alive, and—"

She can't do this. Can't relive this. Can't— (has to, has to swallow it, has to face it—)

"I-I wasn't quick enough. Timed it wrong. Froze up. I don't— I don't know, I just know I got only fucking made it down to him in time to watch the blade sink in."

She can still smell the iron and malodour of the wound, the killing blow. Her stomach churns and she starts looking pale, almost green at the edges.

[cyansoldier]

"Louisiana is one agent." She hears her own voice come out slowly, carefully. "So a few of us survived. The odds were never in your favor. To rely on Maine to act in a way that made sense, believe whatever Command was saying—"

Is stupid? Naive? Bad planning? In part, she wants to shake her. Ask how— how— she thought the logistics of using Maine as tool to get what she wanted would ever work out in their combined favor. What happens in the aftermath? Where do they go? Does she lie to North for the rest of his life about what happened the little kid he was raising in his head? Selfishness to the deadliest degree. Desperation in the cold, hard shape of a blade. A bad plan.

In other ways, she gets it. Fell victim to her own poor planning, dragged Epsilon down with her. Moved on instinct— on vengeance— desperate to make something happen, or else render every death in her life, every mistake she's made, every blow at the hand of another person into nothing. Dust flung through space. And her, useless in the end.

"Why did you want Theta gone?"

This might be a shot in the dark, and she suspects she already knows the answer— but try, she will.

"And don't say Command."

[ownperson]

South bristles, shoulders pulling into a tight, square line as Carolina points out the flaws in her logic. Wants to bite back, tell her she's not fucking stupid, that she knows her own fucking abilities, knows she could've done it—

But can't find the words.

She's quiet for a long moment.

The tension doesn't fade, if anything she closes herself off more, pulling her knees in tighter, containing herself as much as possible within the boundaries of the single couch cushion she's sat upon.

"...he was replacing me."

God, she sounds so fucking stupid. Because she is, she is so fucking stupid, thinking this way, being like this. Jealous of a fucking computer program, of a child—she's not sure which is worse, which way of seeing him makes her the most ridiculous. (Does it even matter?)

[cyansoldier]

There it is. Raw and bloody and vulnerable. The worst thing a person could be subjected to, in South's mind; ditched by the center of your universe for something less than human, but somehow more important than you. It'd be easy to say, No, he cares about you, that wasn't his intention, but to what effect? Disbelief will rise and charge forward like an angry wave— you don't know what you're fucking talking about— and she'd be right, mostly. Carolina can only guess and listen. The work will come later.

"And you were more willing to put your lives at risk than let that happen," she says, making sense of it all. "You were confident. Overconfident. And scared beneath that. You thought it would work out, because why wouldn't it? And when it didn't— when you heard North— maybe that was so surprising, you froze."

A long pause.

"What made you feel like he was replacing you?" The sideways tilt of Carolina's head entreats her to talk. Talking is a first step forward.

[ownperson]

Her knuckles bloom white where she clenches her fists hard in the material of her pants; her jaw matches them, tension for tension. "I wasn't fucking overconfident, I wasn't— I'm good, I'm fucking good, I'm as good as fucking any of you don't you—"

Stop. God, fucking stop it, this is fucking embarrassing. She buries her face in her knees again, forces herself to breathe slow and bite down on the reflexive, defensive protests that feel wrong in her mouth even as she spits them out. (It should've worked. It should've worked. But it didn't, it didn't work and there's only one person who's fault that can be and—)

Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

"...h-he was never there anymore," comes out, eventually, low and thick. She won't cry again, she won't, but the emotion still wells in her throat. "H-He was always there, and then he wasn't, and suddenly everything was about Theta. Training. Meals. Free time. He wouldn't even fucking pull him to let himself sleep. I-I couldn't get a fucking second with him without that stupid lightbulb—"

Wince. She bites down on her own tongue; forces herself, with great effort, to rephrase:

"—without. Theta there. Even when you couldn't see him he was there, they'd be talking inside his head and— North didn't have time. For me. Not anymore." She swallows. Her left hand is tremoring, even where she clenches her fist. God, she needs a drink, she needs a fucking drink, but she doesn't dare move from Carolina's gaze. "He— h-he even admitted it, that he was 'giving me space'. Focusing— focusing on Theta. But— h-ha, it was my fucking fault. It was my own fucking fault because he— he thought that was what I wanted."

Bitter, she laughs emptily. "A-And I can't even say he's wrong, because I know exactly what I said that made him think that and— and maybe I thought I wanted that, maybe I thought I could— could get by without him, but I can't. I can't. I can't I can't I—"

Stop it. She breathes in so hard it hurts and out so hard she feels hollow. Control yourself, for fuck's sake control yourself.

[cyansoldier]

"Yes, you were," said firmly. "Two things can be true at once, South. You overshot and underprepared. It doesn't mean you aren't good. You were responding to an emotional flash point, unassisted and on a time restraint, against near-impossible odds."

It would be inaccurate, she thinks, to call North's death entirely South's fault. Isn't a murder— nor was it wholly an accident. Theta wouldn't exist without the Counselor, the Director, the Project— if things hadn't tailspun, if the Project was normal to the extent military experiments can be normal, none of this would— and she stops herself. No shying away from responsibility now. We all played our part.

A thought, involuntary and rotten; we're all, probably, terrible people.

Carolina breathes. In, out. Easy, like a machine. Sets the pace for the rest of the room— empty, apart from herself and South— and thinks shapelessly how alike they are; how losing an important person's— the person's— attention can feel like plunging through a trapdoor into ice cold water, with no time to brace yourself. Either seize-up and drown or fight the current.

An excess of energy— of rage, frustration. I can't I can't I can't turned into flesh and fingers and knuckle. She's seen it before, felt it herself— fists parading against lockers, into walls. This will be the first time Carolina has seen it like this. A private display. One she's seeing by virtue of this being a private space— maybe the only space South can feel freely like this. The woman's fingers fold at the middle knuckle. She drums her open palms hard, once, against the sides of her head. Dull thnk of skin against muscle against bone. Carolina lifts a hand, halfway to reaching out— hovers there.

She lets her breathe for a long minute without saying anything. Then;

"So you wanted one thing and realized later it wasn't what you needed. It happens. The things we need aren't what we want, because they suck. They're hard. People like us— we don't want to need anyone. Well. Turns out that's what keeps us from committing acts of mass stupidity. Who would have thought?"

She shoulders her lightly, sighs.

"Whether you believe it or not, South, he needs you too. You aren't grasping at thin air here. He'll reach out for you when he's ready. And he will be, eventually."

cw: self-harm

[ownperson]

"Y-You say it happens like the only fucking consequence of being wrong was hurt fucking feelings. B-But it wasn't. He died. I-I killed him."

Maybe she didn't sink the blade into his body, maybe she didn't shoot him in the back like Wash, but got him killed no longer feels right, feels fair. She killed him. She killed him and she's got the nerve to still feel like she's drowning in the grief she caused herself because she killed him.

"I-I killed him because I'm fucking stupid, I'm fucking stupid and broken and selfish and I'm— I'm not even that good!" Her voice cracks as something in her brain does, too. "I was never fucking good enough, I-I just fucking told myself I was like that'd make it true and it wasn't, it fucking wasn't, I'm a bad fucking soldier and a bad fucking sister! The Meta had fucking seven AI and five fucking enhancements, what the fuck did I think— how could I be so fucking— stupid stupid stupid—"

The heels of her hands slam against her skull again, and again, and again—childish reflex she thought she was so far beyond, by now, that no one else was ever meant to see. Hated to even let Dmitri see, hated to lose control so badly in front of him he had to grab her wrists to stop her hurting herself, hold her until she stopped thrashing. It was all that really helped.

One more sharp hit and she curses, forces her own arms down to push herself up off the couch and tear toward the kitchen. "I need a fucking drink. I-I need a fucking drink—"

cw metaphorical dismemberment

[cyansoldier]

South propels herself onto two feet and feints toward the kitchen. What she doesn't know is that the cabinets have already been emptied, wine and a small selection of beer sequestered onto a low shelf in the basement. It doesn't feel good. She feels like— she doesn't know what she feels. Like she's holding South's head underwater. Like she's halfway through sawing off a septic limb, with more still to go.

She follows a few steps behind. Doesn't stop her from searching.

"South. South, you can't spend all day drinking. Wrap your fists. Go beat the bag. Anything else."