#i thought of this when i was in church staring at the pelican drawing we have on the ceiling

[collieii]

ok hear me out you know how pelicans sometimes symbolize jesus because medieval guys thought pelicans would stab their chests with their beaks so the chicks could eat and be sustained by their blood. so pelicans are like self sacrificial. and jesus sacrificed himself for man. what if vash's fursona is a pelican.

[secretlystephaniebrown]

The Maelstrom Has Us All

The Donut Sibling AUs return! For those of you who are new here, this is really not the best place to start. At all. 

A while back the darling @sroloc--elbisivni​ asked me about an AU where all the sisters AUs happened in the same universe (Donut’s AU, we determined, made everything too tragic to throw in as well). So... Freelancer Mitch coexists alongside Agent Washington, and Martha’s running around on Chorus. Jackie doesn’t get a mention here but it’s safe to guess that she’d pop in eventually. 

This is a lot more slapdash than previous AUs have been; I basically realized that to do everything I had in mind it’d take 10k or so. But I figured that what I had was fairly coherent (shout out to the amazing @a-taller-tale​ for checking it over for me!) And that I might as well share! 

Characters: Wash, Maine, Niner, Sharkface, Kimball, Mitch, Carolina, Felix, Locus, ensemble

Ships: Niner/Mitch

Warnings: violence, brainwashing, grief

Link to start of series

“Maine?” She whispered. “Maine, please.” She wanted him to answer her more than anything. For him to wake up, free of Sigma’s influence. To be her friend again, to be whole and happy and not the Meta. For this nightmare to be over. To not be alone anymore. It had been just her and Wash for so long…

Her hands were shaking as she fiddled with the seals of his helmet and pulled it off him. His eyes were open, and he growls at her. It was a sound she hadn’t heard in a long, long time.

“Meta?” He reached up, and grabbed her hand and she swallowed, tears beginning to leak down her face.

“Maine.”

He grunted in affirmation, and took her hand, letting her guide him upright.

As soon as he was, she pulled him into a tight hug. “You’re okay,” she sobbed. It was more than she had ever dared hope for.

He tapped her helmet, and she reached up and tossed it to the side without a thought. He rested his forehead against hers.

He grunted the familiar single syllable that was her name, and Mitch felt her face grow even wetter as she clung to him.

“I should check on Wash,” she muttered, after they sat there. “The UNSC is probably on their way.”

Maine nodded, and she moved away, reaching over to check him. The biofoam had been dispensed, and he was stable. Still unconscious though.

She swallowed. “He’s okay.”

Maine pressed his hand against Wash’s helmet.

Mitch licked her lips. She had to think ahead now, had to assess. “I think…” She said, slowly. “We might get in trouble for this. For a while. I’m sure it’ll be cleared up soon, but… if we’re separated…”

Maine grunted a protest.

“Women’s prison, Maine,” Mitch reminded him. “If we’re separated. Can you keep an eye on him? He’s been… it’s not good, Maine. Epsilon hurt him bad.”

Maine nodded, tapping his chestplate once. Promise.

“Be careful, okay?” Mitch said. “Don’t let them hurt you.” She took off Wash’s helmet and carefully started brushing out his hair with her fingers.

When the UNSC came, they dragged Mitch away from her brother and ignored her screams as they put her in handcuffs.

She wouldn’t see her brother or Maine again for a very long time.

The Meta stood far too close for comfort. Wash kept his hands wrapped tight around his gun and held his breath, waiting for the Meta to make a move, to justify shooting him.

Wash was being patient. He was good at the long game. He had waited years to destroy Freelancer. He’d make sure that he was free before avenging Mitch. She’d forgive him for that.

But the Meta didn’t do anything, merely backed away. Wash gritted his teeth. Working alongside his sister’s killer was difficult. But he’d do it. To get to the Alpha, to make that bastard pay for Mitch.

Mitch had been the one who refused to press the issue, who had grabbed Wash by the arm. “It’s the two of us,” she’d said to him, quietly. “We can handle this.”

If Alpha had been there, Wash knew Mitch would be alive. Watching his back.

Wash curled his hands tighter around his rifle.

The Alpha first. Then the Meta.

He’d avenge her. He just needed to bide his time.

“Move,” he said. “We’re heading to Valhalla.”

The Meta followed behind him. Too closely.

Wash raised his gun, feeling oddly calm as he menaced the Simulation Trooper.

Suddenly the Meta was on him, grabbing his arm and twisting it, forcing Wash to drop it with a shout. It hit the ground and went off, hitting the brown Trooper, who went down, cursing in Spanish.

“Get off me!” Wash snarled, trying to break free. The pink and the maroon soldier had ran for it. “Meta, let go of me, or I swear to god—”

The Meta yanked him closer, pressing Wash against his chest. He made a rumbling noise.

No.

Wash growled. “I should kill you,” he snapped. “We need to—we need to know where the Alpha is now.”

The Meta growled again, and Wash hated that he understood him. “Yes, of course I was going to shoot him!”

The Meta wrapped his other arm around Wash, preventing Wash from going for his knives.

“Don’t you dare speak about Mitch,” Wash snapped. “You don’t—you don’t get to talk about her! It’s your fault she’s dead!”

The Meta made a noise that Wash hadn’t heard in a very long time.

“What do you mean, what?” Wash demanded. “You shot her. She bled out.”

The Meta released him suddenly, and Wash spun to face him, hand on his knife, just in time to see him shake his head.

“What do you mean no?” Wash said.

The Meta tapped his helmet, and then shook his head, and then made a single, simple growl.

Wash dropped his knife.

“Maine?”

“What do you mean?” Wash asked, staring at Niner, then Texas, then Carolina.

“She’s alive, Wash,” Niner sounded exhausted but triumphant. “They faked it. We’ve got a signal.”

Wash swallowed. Behind him, he could feel the Reds and Blues shifting.

“You’re sure?” He asked. “It—they could have just taken her armor. Like CT.”

“Video footage,” Texas said, grimly. “Prison transport, heading to some rock called Chorus.”

“But why?” Wash demanded. “Why fake her death? What purpose could they possibly have?”

“Wash,” Carolina said. “The people who have her. It’s the Insurrection.”

Wash stopped cold.

“What’s the Insurrection?” Tucker asked.

“Old enemies,” Wash said, feeling numb. “We fought against them in Project Freelancer.”

“They wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble just to shoot her in a back alley,” Tex said. “They want her alive.”

“And we’re going to find her,” Niner said. “You in, Wash?”

“Yes,” Wash said, immediately. “Yes.”

Tucker nudged Wash. “Dude. Should we go get the Reds? They’ll probably want in on this. Or at least…”

“Maine will,” Wash said in agreement.

“Maine?” The three women chorused, only to be ignored as Tucker took off in the direction of Red Base.

Meanwhile, Church and Tex had started to argue, but Wash didn’t care.

His sister was alive.

“Spar with me,” Felix demanded, tossing his knife up and down.

Michigan tilted her head. She was out of armor for once, wearing fatigues and a tank top. The pelican tattoo on her shoulder was visible, and her brown eyes were dead as ever. Her face didn’t move, no matter what was said to her.

“Felix,” Locus said, warningly.

“What? It’s combat related! I’m allowed to give orders there, remember?” Felix said snidely. “Besides, I want to see how she—oof.”

Michigan had seized Felix by the arm and began to twist, kicking out at the back of his knees, trying to force him down.

“Seriously?” Felix demanded, yelping as Michigan pinned him to the ground, one hand on the back of his neck, the other keeping his arm twisted.

“Round,” Michigan said flatly.

“You cheated,” Felix accused. Michigan stared at him blankly. Felix sighed, and tapped the ground with his other hand. Quickly, she got to her feet and retreated, keeping her eyes on him.

Locus sat down his datapad and leaned forward to observe.

Michigan lunged again, but this time Felix was ready for her and twisted out of the way, drawing his knife out of his holster.

“Let’s see how you do,” he said, slashing upwards, towards her face.

Michigan dodged, and then there was a knife in her own hand, which startled Felix, as he hadn’t seen a sheath on her person.

Felix grinned and lunged again. This was going to be fun.

The armor was a painful shade of grey.

Wash felt himself frozen in place as he stared at the simple, plain armor. It was shiny and in good repair, and the person holding it held a midrange rifle in her armored hand. A knife was visible in a holster at her side, and Wash knew it was far from the only one she had on her person.

“Mitch?” Niner was the one to say it, softly, shattered, brokenly.

“Stay where you are,” the voice was Mitch’s yet not—perfectly stiff. There was no hint of recognition as she trained her gun at them.

“Well!” Felix appeared, knife in hand. Wash opened his mouth to yell at Mitch, to warn her, but Felix clasped a hand on her shoulder in a way that stopped him cold.

“Look who we have here!” Felix crowed.

“Orders, Felix?” Mitch said, cold and clinical.

“What did you do, you bastard?” Niner yells. Carolina, behind him, is frozen.

“I didn’t do anything,” Felix says, still leaning against Mitch. “Michelle here was sent here by our employer!” Wash couldn’t see Felix’s face, but he knew there was a grin. “Michelle’s her name, in case you were wondering, Carolina. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Carolina was very still, and Wash knew that no, Mitch hadn’t ever told her that.

“You son of a bitch,” Carolina said.

“Agent Michigan,” Locus growled. “Kill Agent Washington. Move out!”

There was a spray of gun fire, and the next thing Wash knew, his sister was barreling towards him with a knife in her hand, intent on the kill.

“Mitch, this isn’t you,” the man in grey armor pleaded. “Mitch listen!”

Michigan slashed forward with her knife, sliding it between the gap in his armor. He let out a strangled noise, and gripped at her arm. “Mitch,” he muttered.

“Take her down!” Kimball yelled, and then Michigan’s attention shifted to the general. She let Washington drop to the ground, and grabbed her next knife, with her left hand, her right hand going for her pistol.

She had orders. She was going to follow them.

Epsilon was writhing in her mind—something was wrong, but they didn’t know what. She nearly staggered forward, only the reflex enhancer stopping her from being riddled with bullets as Kimball and the four soldiers with her—the lieutenants, Michigan remembered—opened fire on her.

Flash grenade, roll forward, kick the green one, fire a shot at the blue one, punch the pink one, elbow to the chest for the gold one. The combat movements managed to soothe Epsilon, and he boosted her reflex enhancer, letting her curve herself upward in a flip, propelling herself towards Kimball.

“No!” Michigan wasn’t sure who said it, but she knocked Kimball down to the ground, her knife buried in her shoulder. Non-fatal. She’d have to fix that.

“Now that is not very nice!” The big blue one was there, suddenly, lifting her off before she could yank the blade out.

“Caboose! Keep hold of her!” Which one was that?

“I have found Freckles’s friend!” Captain Caboose cheered. Michigan twisted in his grip. Epsilon was yelling again. Her armor was covered in blood.

She grabbed the knife hidden in her gauntlets and stabbed his leg, forcing him to let her go.

“Retreat, Agent Michigan,” Locus growled in her ear, a sniper shot going off, forcing the enemy to scatter.

Michigan did so without hesitation.

But she did notice that Agent Washington’s fallen form was no longer there. She wasn’t sure why that seemed to slow down her heartrate and calm Epsilon.

“She’s fighting it,” Wash said, lowly.

Carolina froze in the doorway. “What?”

“She left the knife in, Carolina.”

“She was switching targets,” Carolina said, but her face was thoughtful.

“When did that ever stop her?” Wash forced himself to sit up. “And she did it to Kimball too! She’s fighting it, fighting the orders!”

Carolina looks at him. “If she’s fighting it…”

“We might be able to break it,” Wash said.

“That’s a great theory, but we still don’t know what they did to her,” Tex points out, crossing her arms. “And it could just be that whatever they did to her scrambled her instincts.” Wash tried to get up, and she pushed him back down. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I think we need proof.”

“I’ve got proof,” Wash snapped, reaching into the drawer and pulling out the knife she’d slid between his ribs. “Maine, look.”

Maine took the knife from Wash, and turned it over slowly in his hands. A short, rumbling noise burst out of Maine’s chest, startling Tex.

“What is it?”

“Her lucky knife,” Wash said. “She’d leave it with me or Maine if one of us had a dangerous mission without her.”

“Could be a coincidence,” Tex pointed out.

Wash shook her head. “She’s got better knives,” he insisted. “This one’s lucky.”

Carolina took it from Maine and looked at it. “Niner gave this to her,” she whispered. “I remember it.”

Wash had forgotten that part. He still didn’t remember, but he nodded anyway. “She’s trying to protect us,” he said. “Carolina, we need to convince Kimball not to kill her.”

Tex flicked his forehead. “Wash. She’s not going to tell the armies not to defend themselves.”

Wash swallowed, then schooled his face. “Then we need to get her out of there soon.”

Sharkface grabbed her throat. “Nothing to say, huh?”

Michigan shoved him away, face actually showing emotion for once—irritation. “Mission completed,” she said, and there was an edge to it, a bite, that she’d lacked before.

“So you can talk,” Sharkface mocked, kicking her helmet where it had fallen to the ground, sending it spinning away. Michigan’s normally blank face twisted into something close to a scowl.

“Confirm,” she spat.

“Well then,” he said, moving closer into her personal space. “Tell me this. Do you know who I am?”

“Sharkface,” she said, her features slowly settling back into her normal, empty self. “Allowed to give orders under combat situations. Orders may be ignored in certain circumstances. Permitted to be killed if necessary.”

Sharkface paused, realizing something for the first time. “You’re not supposed to tell me that.”

“No orders were given to hide them from you,” Michigan retorted. She was standing at parade rest. She still hadn’t moved to retrieve her helmet.

Sharkface examined her face, and spotted… something in her eye. A tiny little spark. He found himself chuckling. “You’re fighting it. Oh, this will be interesting.”

Sharkface reached out and grabbed Michigan’s shoulder, blinking when the strap of her tank top shifted, revealing an intricate pelican tattoo. “What’s that for?” He grunted, not expecting an answer.

Michigan’s eyes grew distant. “I’m getting married,” she said, reaching up, her fingers almost touching the tattoo, but stopping just short of it. “Someday. She said yes.” There was a dampness that Sharkface had never seen before. He glanced around quickly and was grateful when no one else was near. Michigan showing odd emotions was something they were supposed to report.

She was supposed to be robotic, emotionless, and efficient. And she was. Most of the time. But sometimes, when Sharkface cornered her, when she’d been awake too long or was fresh from a fight, Sharkface could get reactions out of her. Real reactions. And memories.

Epsilon flickered over her shoulder. “Will you quit it?” He demanded. “You’re going to get us in trouble. We need sleep.”

We. Sharkface never questioned the plural.

Maybe he should.

He said nothing, and let Michigan and her AI go find their little corner of the base where she was tucked away. Sharkface had seen it. It was more of a cell than anything else—because of course, she’d never complain. Comfort was for those who could appreciate it.

Sharkface had never been on a mission alone with Michigan before.

The more he learned about Michigan, the less comfortable things were. They were supposed to report everything from contact with the Simulation Troopers to crying to odd noises.

They kept their pet Freelancer on a very short leash.

“How do you know Price?” He asked her. They’d been sent ahead to scout and she had just woken up for her shift. One of the best times to get real answers out of her.

“He worked for Freelancer,” she said. “He gave me the name Michigan. I think he thought it was funny.”

Sharkface had suspected this for a while. “That’s what I thought.”

He angled his head up towards the sky, and saw the birds moving. Signs of the Chorusians’s movement forward.

“We should get moving,” she said, following his gaze.

“Yes,” Sharkface said. “We should.”

She reached for her helmet.

Epsilon was always slower when she’d just woken up.

He was too slow to activate the reflex enhancer, too slow to stop Sharkface from picking up the big rock and slamming it down on Michigan’s head.

He took her helmet as he dragged her to the warthog. No need to leave it behind. She’d be wanting it.

They kept her on a short leash. That meant they were worried about it breaking.

He gritted his teeth when he saw that he was approaching Texas and Maine. He’d been hoping for Washington.

Their guns were pointed right at him.

He shrugged and raised his hand. “She said something about wanting to find her brothers,” he said easily.

As Texas pinned him to the ground and started cuffing him, he watched as Maine carefully removed Michigan’s armor and carried her away, oddly gentle.

Kimball glanced down at the woman handcuffed to the bed frame. She looked different out of armor. Her face was too thin and sallow, the faint traces of freckles barely visible. Her hair had been cut with a knife, unevenly and slanted. Her head was bowed, leaving the back of her neck exposed. There were scars, reaching out from the port on the back of Agent Michigan’s neck like a spiderweb, bright red and irritated.

She glanced up, finally noticing Kimball. Her eyes were brown, like Martha’s. But apart from that, Kimball was uncannily reminded of Wash.

“General,” Michigan said. Even her voice sounded different. Hesitant. Human.

Niner and Wash had fought them about the handcuffs. But the others hadn’t said a word. Kimball had ordered them both to get some rest, so Michigan was accompanied only by Donut, who had been talking cheerfully before Kimball had walked in.

“You know me then,” Kimball said.

Michigan bared her teeth in something that was clearly supposed to be a smile but came off as more of a grimace. “General Vanessa Kimball of the New Republic. Orders: kill her if she begins to suspect Felix or begins to discuss negotiations with the Federal Army.”

Kimball didn’t react. “And here I thought Felix would take care of that himself,” she said.

Michigan shrugged as best she could with the handcuffs. “He’d take point if he could. Same with… the General.” Something dark flashed across her face but she hid it quickly. If Kimball hadn’t been looking for it, she’d have missed it. “But if he was indisposed, I was to do it. Close range execution was preferred. No knives. It’d be too suspicious. Quick and clean and painless.” She snorted.

“Painless?” Kimball couldn’t help but ask.

“Felix’s orders,” Michigan said, and Kimball stared.

“Wow!” Donut said. “What a jerk!”

Kimball startled at the realization they weren’t alone. “Private Donut,” she said. “I think you should report to the General.”

Donut gave Michigan a worried look, but got to his feet. He got close—too close and kissed his sister on the cheek quickly before running off. Kimball nearly flinched, half-expecting to have a hostage situation on her hands. But Michigan let him go, and only looked after him longingly for a moment before returning her full attention to Kimball.

“Where is Martha?” Michigan said.

“It was decided that I’ll be handling this,” Kimball said grimly. ��As an impartial party.”

Michigan let out a soft, bitter chuckle. “You’re not impartial, General,” she said. “You’re just the only one who’s willing to admit that I might have been a willing partner.”

Kimball sighed. “Perhaps.”

Michigan twisted her hands. “I can’t prove it,” she pointed out. “I was arrested, and then they transferred me, and then they implanted me, but I doubt you can prove when they put… Epsilon,” the name was short and painful, “In my head. Your doctor’s good, but I doubt she can tell that.”

“Actually, I can,” Grey said, exiting her office. “Well. I can’t. But someone can. It’ll be in Epsilon’s logs.”

Michigan shook her head. “No. It won’t.” She bit her lip. “Epsilon self-wiped regularly. It was part of our routine. He wiped me, he wiped himself of all extraneous information.”

Kimball raised her eyebrow. “That’s… extreme.”

“The programming was fragile,” Michigan said. “They needed to ensure I was under control.”

Kimball felt the knife scar on her shoulder twinge. “I can see why they’d be afraid of losing that,” she said.

Michigan met her eyes steadily. “What do you want from me, General?”

Kimball leaned forward. “What do you have, Agent?”

“Information,” Michigan said instantly. “Months. Your Doctor Grey managed to make sure I remember everything. Even the things Epsilon made me forget. And I’ve been fighting with them just as long. I know how they work, I know how they fight, I know their numbers.” And then she grinned, a dangerous one with too many teeth. “And if you give me a knife and get me close enough, I’ll get you Felix’s head,” she offered.

“Not a gun?”

“I’m better with knives.”

Kimball looked at her. “You’re not free yet. But I’ll tell Washington and Niner you’re allowed visitors.”

Something cracked behind Michigan’s clear brown eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Kimball looked away, and got to her feet. “Doctor Grey, keep an eye on her,” she ordered. “We can’t take any risks here.”