Response to your tags - I'm not hurting Palmer! (More than what I already have planned)
She's fine. She's first gen 4, got those long lasting augs, they won't quit on her in the field. I'll kill her other ways and bring her back worse :o)
Hurt.
Daylight flickers over the ring in fitful bursts, sunlight struggling to break through the stringy clouds bunching over the horizon. Sarah looks away from it to scoop more water over her armor, but she's slow about it, mesmerized by how cleanly the muck and blood was wiped away from her hull. The only thing that pulls her out of her sluggishness is a soft ping from the speakers ringed around her neck, exposed and activated for the first time in days.
"Alert: make an appointment with Infinity Medical."
The cool synthesized voice of her Mjolnir Gen 2 armor seems to carry endlessly over the quiet clearing. She looks away from her companion, ignoring the pointed look the captain gives her. Sue her, she needed her armor to keep her on track, sometimes. But a lot had changed in two months.
Infinity Medical didn't exist anymore, let alone the Infinity.
"So… What's that for?" Thomas asks.
She finally looks at him, lips pressed to a thin line. He's shucked off his shirt, revealing the wear and tear of two months of ground-pounding, the jagged still-healing wound of a botched Pelican escape. She thinks about waving him off or ignoring him, but nothing about that sits right with her. It'd be a disservice.
"Funnily enough, I can't remember," Sarah says. "Definitely something Spartan related, though. An organ or computer needs replacing soon, I'm sure."
She sounds lighter than she feels. The realization feels like swallowing a jagged rock, catching in her throat and tearing the soft, soft insides.
Thomas, for his part, looks equally discombobulated. But he's always cared too much.
She needs to forget about this now.
Quickly, she stands up, shaking off the last of the water and leaving her armor half-dirty. Cleanliness was only important as far as function went-- the cameras were clean, the joints clear. Everything else would have to deal.
"Do you want to-- talk about it?" Thomas asks, standing up after her.
He clearly wasn't done here. She tuts, glaring down at him.
"Hurry up. We need to catch up with Golf and that cliff they built up."
Thomas doesn't look convinced. But he doesn't say anything, so Sarah considers that a win.
A Ko-Fi for @chloranthy-ring ! A piece about Promethean Knight Palmer and Thomas Lasky.
[TOP SECRET] [MOST IMMEDIATE]
"We are looking for a suitable-- I apologize, but something's come up-- yes, I understand--"
If his finger slips, terminating the hologram meeting early, he doesn't think twice about it. He turns his attention to his personal terminal instead, rereading the full contents of the message he'd just received. Immediate summons for his presence weren't common and he kept expecting ONI's stamp to be somewhere in the letter, but it was instead signed off by the Infinity's science team.
He isn't sure why he dreads that more. If it was ONI-- or even someone from the Spartan branch-- then that'd be normal. Nothing had been normal in the xeno research labs since...
"Roland, what's the fastest route to the lab?" Thomas asks, canting his head in a vague direction. "Please."
He taps his data pad-- or tries to. A yellow alert consumes most of the surface, accented by a pixelated version of the aforementioned AI. It almost makes him smile, but the fondness barely cuts through the layers of anxiety in his chest.
"Wait for train #3. Fireteam Crimson will be aboard."
Simple enough instructions. Thomas runs a hand through his hair, sighing. He'd need to reschedule his meeting with Spartan Jun, lest the man disrupt his ship's entire mission and purpose. Not that that would be unwelcome, but there'd be difficulties in pulling out now. He'd just been about to float the idea of Spartan Locke as a viable replacement, after all.
But the summons-- the train, only now pulling into station-- delayed him. He straightens his posture with a deep breath, boarding the tram with more confidence than he feels. Immediately, he's made aware of how little space is left-- apparently, when Roland had mentioned Crimson, he'd meant all of them.
Their collective armor rattles as they hasten to salute him and he waves them off, shaking his head. Crimson One takes a step sideways, gesturing that he sits where she once occupied.
"I'll stand," he says. "If that's alright."
She shrugs, but says nothing. The rest of the tram ride goes in a similar unnerving silence, save for the scream of the electric rails and the shuddering release of maintenance hatches. His brow twitches as he realizes Roland was overriding all manner of rules, regulations, and hardware limits.
As the tram groans to a stop, Thomas can only hope it's worth it. He disembarks on slightly shaking limbs, waiting patiently for the Spartans to step off after him. He watches the train cart rise several inches in response.
The Spartans were heavy.
"This way, sir," Crimson One says.
He falls into step behind her. It's strange that the Fireteam surrounds him, acting as a high security escort-- whatever for, he doesn't know. Just what was he being brought into?
He didn't have the heart to ask.
He finds out quickly enough, though, when Crimson leads him into the lower levels and ushers him past a powerful series of doors. Each body offers their biometric data before vocally confirming their presence and only then do the steel doors in front of them slide open, admitting a cool rush of air that makes Thomas' skin flush with goosebumps. He adjusts quickly to the temperature, but the sudden darkness as they duck into the lab catches him, making him take a moment for his vision to settle.
And what he sees...
Carefully, he shoves his way past Crimson One, just to open his surroundings up to a strapped down, caged Promethean Knight and a cluster of familiar scientists. Even Roland is there, standing at attention, one golden anchor among a dozen different gold-orange holograms. It's a familiar display, not because it mimics that of a human-built AI but because he's seen the innards of a Promethean Knight before. The structure.
The images.
The humanity.
"Did any of you think to warn me or did you think I wouldn't recognize--?" Thomas starts without thinking, jaw snapping shut on his own tongue. "What the hell."
"I-- well," a scientist starts, looking sheepish, "well, we didn't-- we just thought it pertinent you found out immediately."
Thomas rubs the space between his eyes, sighing. Could grief be reversed? Would this stop the loss, or make it worse?
Around him, reminders gleamed, flashes of his own face glittering in memory thread suspended in the air. Snapshots of the Infinity cast in amber, awkward in that patchy, uneven recollection way. He's not sure if the face of Jun or the bird's eye view of the moon is what seals the deal for him, however.
He forces his gaze away, wrenching his head around so he's staring at a wall instead.
"Ripping out her-- the core didn't kill-- didn't kill it, right?" He asks, voice strained.
"No! No, no! She- the Knight gave it willingly, actually. We have been sending you the reports, you know."
Dimly, he recognizes the voice. Dr. Glassman. When had he gotten here?
"I haven't had time to read them," Thomas grates out. "Okay. Alright."
He hears someone try to speak. The warm, familiar heat of Mjolnir grows nearer to him, possibly a Crimson member attempting to approach. He lifts his hand, palm out, clenching his jaw.
"Allow me to take a moment, please."
"Of course, Captain," a scientist- not Glassman- says.
Is it cowardice to leave? To turn his back on [her]? Should they have warned him?
He lets the warmer air in the corridor outside heat his lungs. Just five minutes. That's all he would need to brace himself-- either for the worst or whatever else they wanted to give him.
Lasky swears for a full sentence, and because nobody's ever heard him swear even a little, they have no idea what to make of it. Palmer is either completely stunned or like 'Finally, I knew you had some swears in you.' Bonus points if the Sentence of Swearing is over something lame.
"As I was saying, Roland, there's no reason we can't-- motherfucker, that did not just break."
Thomas Lasky blows hot air through his nose as he stares down at his half-curled hand, fingers wrapped around the handle of a metal mug that was conspicuously mugless. On its side, spilling steaming hot black coffee, the tall, cylindrical mug rolls gently toward the edge of his desk.
"You're goddamn right it fucking broke, because fuck me if anything I do goes right!" Thomas snaps, throwing his hands up. "Now I have to clean it up. At least it's fucking steel, so it won't stain," he mutters.
Roland stands up somewhat straighter, folding his arms behind his back. He aims a questioning look at Commander Palmer, who looks back, slurping noisily from her own mug.
Neither she or Roland moves to help Thomas sop up the coffee. When he's finished, she sets her cup down, resting a hand on her hip.
"Geez, Lasky," Sarah says, deadpan, "you kiss me with that mouth? What the heck?"
Roland's avatar blips off, but not before Thomas catches him stifling a laugh. The speakers crackle ominously.
