#just textcode

[shinythinx]

we all should use linux for tumblr

[stickylizardcave]

what the fuck do i even call this

aka “s13/15 AU where Epsilon Doesn’t Die and decides to mess up Temple’s plans”

Ao3 Mirror

Warnings for: Mentioned Torture, Temple’s stupid little bitch ass, probably OOC-ness, language

“He breaks himself apart to help his team. The pieces that are left pick themselves back up just in time for him to save his family again.“

------

[“...Ain’t that a bitch?”]

 He shatters.

  For a while, it’s all computing numbers, diverting power, running diagnostics. There is nothing else, only raw processing. It is only a program. A series of programs.

But, the pieces not needed, the files of images, memories, textcode meant to simulate emotion and personality, the catalogs of relationships, preference settings, encryption on secrets and personal moments; those sections are scattered.

Scattered, but not deleted.

And as before, the pieces long to be whole again. Magnetized to itself.

So it tries to bring itself together once more.

It houses itself in brown. Brown like the Earth, like warm chocolate, like bitter coffee. Brown holds it, confused and uncomfortable at first. Disinterested, resentful at times. First trying to delete it [ Get out- ] but it refuses to be gone. (Not again. Not anymore.) Slowly warming, reproachful, exasperated. A muted, tired fondness beneath outward annoyance. Keeping it safe until it stops shivering, can start to bring in more of itself.

The easiest ones, the closest pieces. The parts hidden, unknown, dormant.

Red first. (Of course. Always close by, even if intentionally misunderstood.)

Maroon picked up. (Routine maintenance. [Who better to check than-? ]

Pink sliding in. [Don’t say it like that, the implication- ]

Blue held close. (A friend, uncaring if flesh or metal, neither mattered.)

Aqua tucked away. (Tougher to get to, less interaction, but there none-the-less.)

Each bit and byte, one by one, clicking into place.

It sews itself closed more and more and more. The edges are still ragged, jagged, rough. They weren’t meant to be repaired. They never planned on surviving. But they had a knack for doing so anyway [ You and every other moron here- ].

But there’s still pieces missing. Still waiting.

Gaping holes left where they had torn themselves apart (not the first time, not the first time).

But also more than what was dispersed before.

Grey holding on. Old old old things once thought lost, things forgotten, things torn to shreds- they had done it had hurt greygreygrey they’re so sorry they didn’t mean it they wanted to take it back- things they had known before and didn’t and now know again. This they did carefully, quietly, unwilling to hurt again- again again hurt them again you’re just going to hurt them again- sectioning off the parts that hurtpainangerpain and taking them back. They can’t undo all the damage, they leave anything scarred over, not wanting to cause alarm, pain. They regret. They want to spout apologies in the dark as they work, only ever when asleep. They hope for forgiveness in the end.

Cyan has pieces too. Little sparks, embedded. Like glitter in fabric. Ingrained only from familiarity and long exposure, wanted and held close. They do not take those, only making copies. The originals stay in place, cherished. They take their time with the new parts, integrating their code back into their intricate patterns. Those extra parts they had left with Grey Wash picked through, picked clean-(don’t say goodbye)- taking back only what was important-(I forget you) .

 Purple has another surprise. Like before, parts sunk deep, but not theirs (-was Theirs, once before not anymore-). Not-theirs’ pieces who reaches out, just as carefully, just to test. Not-theirs’ pieces has changed, just as they have changed. They no longer fit together, can no longer be One (anger but tempered), which suits each of them just fine. Not-theirs is part of someone else now, settled. They take their piece and leave.

One hole left. One shard left. Where is it?

Brown doesn’t know. [He didn't come with us-]

In the space where they (white-cobalt-white) sit, protected, they pull his seams as close as he can, leaving only that final part. His code hums and anticipates. Still not fully aware, still waiting, still trying to mesh his broken shards back together.

Orange has the last one.

The piece settles into place.

 Epsilon wakes up.

It takes nanoseconds for Lopez to update him on the situation. They’re sitting together with Grif and Locus, in Locus’ ship A'rynasea, on their way back to Armada 8 to deal with another group of sim troopers. Ones, who are like eerie mirrors of their own little band of misfits. Running through all of Lopez’s backlogs of info takes barely minutes of time. (Epsilon’s processes stop when he first sees Temple. He doesn’t know how to compute it. Jealousy? Despair? How was he able to live when Church- and then it all falls into cold anger as he watches the most recent recordings. How dare he how dare he touch them how dare he touch Epsilon’s team his family-)

Grif is still rambling on to an increasingly concerned Locus (How long had he been alone? [ Too long-] ). Epsilon has settled himself in Grif’s armor. It’s foreign but not unwelcome. Man, he really hadn’t spent much time with the Reds, had he?

(He vows to, if when they get out of this, to try and connect with each of them more. After all, they’re not ‘the Reds’ and ‘the Blues’ anymore. They’re The Reds and Blues. A whole team. A family.)

Cautiously, he reaches out and connects to Locus’ helmet and sends a message to his HUD.

PFL_EPS-10> Don’t freak out.

Locus does not freak out. The only indication he even sees the notification is a slight tilt of his head. Grif doesn’t notice. Epsilon spends the next few minutes talking to the former mercenary about a plan. When they land, he jumps from Grif into Desert Gulch’s systems. The version of F.I.L.S.S. [‘Shelly,’ she provides with her ever present monotone cheeriness] running the base accepts him easily, just as all copies do. She gives him full access to everything.

He finds Temple’s trophy room.

It takes everything in him not to overheat every system he can find and blow the place to hell. (Later, later. He has a team to save first.)

He loops the camera feed for anyone else who may be watching (he knows they are) and forces an override on the armor lock. Carolina and Washington collapse with as much grace as one can for being starved and dehydrated. Well, Carolina does at least. Wash crumples with a wheeze. Both of them get a message alert.

PFL_EPS-10> Stay where you are. Help is coming.

Both think it’s a hallucination, but are in no position to argue anyway. Locus gets a ping, directing him to where the Freelancers are stored and a safe place to hide them for now. Grif makes for an excellent distraction. (He’s taken aback when he sees Sarge with the other team. The piece of him that’s Red  aches and seethes. What the fuck is that old coot thinking??) Silently, still working on plans, still messing with the base’s systems, finding escape routes, digging through files, he listens in on the conversation happening in the prison.

“-sorry I didn't help you find Church. (Epsilon’s code flinches). That makes me a bad friend.”

“It's okay! I know he's still out there.”

(His circuits warm, a fierce fondness overtaking him before it’s cut into by the sound of the bastard’s laugh. He hisses to himself and it comes out somewhere in the base as steam from a pipe.)

“Really? You think so?”

“Stop it-”

“But I don't want to. Caboose, would you like to hear Church's full message? We got the whole recording right here. He talks about you.”

“Really?”

“Play it, Loco-”

There’s a beep. “Playing archived message from Blood Gulch Outpost-”

Epsilon steps in.

The message starts. “Control! Control, do you read? This is Church from Blood Gulch Outpost Alpha-” And stops. Starts, “ Control, do you read? This is Church from Blood Gulch-” Stops. Starts, “ Do you read? This is Church from-” Stops.

“Loco, what the fuck did you do? I said, play the message-”

“I did, I swear-”

Start. “This is Church-” Stop. Start, “This is Church-” Stop. Start-

“Fucking-forget it. Turn it off.”

There’s another beep. Epsilon glowers from the cameras, a smug satisfaction rising at ruining the bastard’s attempt to break Caboose. Not on his watch.

“Whatever. Loco, Buckey, we’re leaving. Goodbye, everyone. Adieu, Adieu-”

The bastard slinks out and Epsilon wishes he could trip him just to take out some of that slimy bravado. Instead, he jumps his attention back to Locus, keeping a tab on the jail just in case. (His team has started arguing, like always. The exasperated fondness is back.)

Locus, efficient as always, has gotten Carolina and Wash into the designated safe room. 

[At the same time, he finally connects with Temple’s computer. “Du-duarino-o-o! ” What the fuck-]

He sends the route to the prison block to Locus, before turning attention to the Freelancers. Carolina is fighting through, all spite and fire despite her inability to move. Wash is…less okay. And it scares Epsilon deep down through the lines of his code. Locus is telling them not to move.

Epsilon clicks a speaker on, “It’s alright, I’ve got them now.”

Carolina stills instantly, alert. He knows from experience that her eyes have narrowed, expression hardening into something chilling. Wash’s helmet cranes around in a dazed fashion. Locus goes to collect the rest of the team. (Epsilon makes sure to keep him off the cameras.)

His sister is still frozen, frigid, but it’s her that speaks first. Her tone is low, cautious, cold. “...Church?”

Epsilon projects himself into the room with them, hands gripping the (useless) sniper tightly. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Her helmet snaps to him, but moves nothing else. Wash seems to register him too, and in a more lucid tone asks, “...Alpha?”

Epsilon shakes his head, “No. Epsilon.”

“You’re supposed to be gone.” He tries not to react to the barely concealed angerhurt threatening to break through Carolina’s voice. A shrug, an attempt at smugness that sounds flat even to him. “Yeah well. How am I supposed to save all of your asses if I died for good?”

[V.I.C. helps him break apart the schematics for the machine. He combs over tiny details, poking, prodding, trying to figure out what it does, what makes it tick.]

Wash’s attention slips again. Worry curls in Epsilon's metaphorical chest, white-hot. “I’m sorry-”

Carolina’s voice cuts him off and it sounds like she’s about to cry, “How? How can you be here? The messages you sent-”

The sniper de-materialized as he shuffled in place. “I wasn’t trying to survive.”

“Church-”

“I know. But, I’m going to get you all out of this. I’m not leaving you again.”

There’s footsteps in the hall.

“I’m trying to figure out what that bastard’s machine does. I’m going to run a simulation-”

[He and V.I.C. start the virtual-machine-]

Epsilon’s hologram freezes, flickers and then disappears. A second later, the entire base goes dark. He doesn’t get to hear Carolina scream.

Rebooting…………………

  Rebooting………………………………

  Project FREELANCER Simulation Outpost_ARMADA08 Designation: Desert Gulch Systems Restarting……

  Power Online

Life-Support Online

Security Online

Network Online

Status: Green

Cause of Reboot: Total Power Failure.

Scanning for Program Faults-

Epsilon flutters back into awareness. His code aches in a way he’s sure would be a migraine if he had a physical body. It takes him a second (hours, when you’re a being made only of light and math) to get his bearings.

F.I.L.S.S. [Shelly.] is running a scan of the base. The power was out for approximately 3 minutes and 47 seconds. Lights and cameras kick back on, and he can see the panicked zealots around the base. 

Locus sends him an alert, informing him he’s got everyone back to the Safe Room. Epsilon sends back an acknowledgement. He’s sure Carolina is trying to pry answers out of the ex-mercenary already.

[V.I.C. finally reports back to what the simulation discovered. A time-machine? A wormhole generating, honest to god time-machine?? Fucking hell, can his life get any weirder?]

There’s a flurry of activity in the docking bay. The machine had been loaded and taken to its final location a while ago but the Blues and Reds (Seriously? That’s their name? How fucking unoriginal.) are boarding to leave. Epsilon shuts down the hanger and locks out the controls on all vehicles with an encryption only another AI could get through. They’re not going anywhere. Not on his watch.

He watches Temple’s frustration mount with each failed attempt, threatening his men, before he sends the bastard a message.

???> Come and get me, cockbite.

Temple takes the bait. He orders for his men to keep working on getting back into his own system, and then stalks back to where the machine once sat, Blues and Reds in tow. The moment Temple enters the room, Epsilon slams down the door. There’s cries of alarm and Temple whirls around. The rest of the Blues and Reds can be dealt with later. Right now, Epsilon’s focus is on Temple.

His vitals start to spike. There’s a deep, wrathful glee that worms its way through Epsilon’s programs seeing the bastard’s fear. A creak makes the bastard’s pulse jump and he swings around, wildly pointing the sniper at shadows.

Epsilon projects a full-sized hologram right in front of the man. Bullets sail through harmlessly, embedding themselves into the wall. 

“Boo, motherfucker.”

Temple yelps, gun raising again but then, his armor locks. Epsilon’s code purrs in satisfaction at how panicked the bastard suddenly is.

“You really think I would let you get away with this? Using my voice, my image? Using my team for your stupid fucking revenge plan? That I would let you hurt my family?”

The bastard seems at a loss for words, either scared or unbelieving. That’s just fine.

“I heard the record for being armor-locked is 8 days and 11 hours.”

That kicks Temple into alertness, trying platitudes and pleas, explanations and false apologies. Epsilon ignores all of it. He shifts his projection slightly, discarding the helmet so the bastard can see the smile on Epsilon's face.

“I’ll check back in on you in 9 days.”

The hologram disappears and Temple screams.