(CLOSED/COMPLETE)

[wheelwork]

Characters: Grif (wheelwork), Washington. (freelancerpower)
Setting/Location: Some creepy wing of Beast's castle.
Date & Time: Day six, some time during the night.
Warnings: HALP... EVERYTHING...
Summary: Grif sort of accidentally antagonized Washington before. Now Wash is out of his cage, angry-sounding, and hunting him down. Not as planned.

Comments

[freelancerpower]

Wash isn't sure how these people were ever drafted into this program, how they ever even thought they could even pretend to be soldiers. He can practically see the way the pressure is digging into Grif's nerves, practically hear his frantic inward panicking as he tries to pull his thoughts together through all of his fucking terror, and you know what, alright.

Lets try this a different way, and if that doesn't work, then it's to tried-and-true violence. If Grif needs questions to be guided into being useful, then Wash will give them to him.

"Lets try that again."

You're cutting it close, though, buddy.

He turns slightly, still watching Grif out of the corner his eye -- the sounds of sliding, clicking metal are drawn out and far too loud in the small space, as he disassembles his pistol slowly, deliberately. It's casual but just a little calculated, and he checks through the pieces like he's just cleaning it out on any other day, looking back up at Grif -- don't pull anything. He doesn't need his gun to kill you.

"In Valhalla. Epsilon was able to use -- holograms to communicate directly, and eventually all of you had ended up in the desert."

They'd tracked them that far, but then.

"And what happened there?"

[wheelwork]

Grif watched, suspicious as ever. Wash was disassembling his gun. Why? Was he planning on throwing the pieces at him? He leaned away at the thought, finding the prospect of an arm being lopped off by a flying clip to be a very unwelcome one.

"Mines and that douche CT and lot of aliens happened?" He had a nagging feeling that Wash wasn't very interested at that particular storyline, even if he did say not to leave out any details. Whatever. "We... found Tucker in this temple thing. Caboose wandered off and touched something, I guess, and next thing we knew, there was this floating ball," his hands gestured in roughly the same size and shape of the Epsiball, "And, uh. Yea, it was Epsilon."

Shrug.

[freelancerpower]

A temple. The excavation site, the aliens -- that explains some things, so Epsilon was currently houses in alien technology. Covenant technology. That was -- troubling, would mean some annoyances for him and the Meta whenever he could continue with his mission, and ah, CT.

He'd wondered why she was there.

"What do you know about what CT was doing there, and did you have anything to do with her death?"

She had been a freelancer, no matter what, and it was significant that they'd managed to take her down -- he imagines, with the help of Epsilon's new gadget, except, Epsilon in a new form, after everything, and now, he wonders if it's the same and he wonders --

No, never mind.

"And what happened after?"

[wheelwork]

Head tilt. Washington was familiar with CT? Well, that made a strange sort of sense. Crazy jerkoffs would, of course, know other crazy jerkoffs. "They acted all buddied up and talked about investigating energy or something, but Tucker kindly let us know that CT was actually a lying asshole who just wanted to dig up some massive weapon. We figured out the asshole part already, but. The other stuff was kind of new."

He paused briefly, thinking. "Apparently that desert is full of weirdo alien weapons. Who knew. Anyway, I didn't do crap, Epsilon shot him with a..." Wait. Wait a minute. "Her?"

[freelancerpower]

Wash isn't here to answer any of your questions, Grif, he's here for you to answer his. He checks over one last piece of the pistol, before he's starting to put everything back together, working over the information in his head. Whatever CT had turned to after Freelancer fell apart -- digging up a massive weapon, she must've become a fucking treasure hunter, looking for alien relics, happened to stumble upon these idiots.

And gotten killed, go figure. By Epsilon. In what sounded like one shot, which is valuable information, again, for when they get back. That's enough of that lot, then, and back down to what was more relevant, what was more immediate.

"What did you tell Church about me?"

Don't even try to leave anything out.

[wheelwork]

...Oh.

This conversation was heading to a bad, bad place. There was a long pause, nothing to fill the silence except for the foreboding click and snap of the pistol being pieced together again. Lovely.

Hesitantly, Grif answered, "The... truth...?"

[freelancerpower]

"It'd be better for you to answer me now, unless you'd rather me find out later."

He won't be nearly as forgiving if he has to hunt you down a second time, Grif, and that's just right there, blatantly presented in his tone of voice, in the final click as he slides the last piece into place and flips the pistol back into his hand, levelling his gaze back onto Grif.

All nice and clean, just the way Wash likes it. Nothing more annoying than a wepaon jam to ruin a good interrogation, right.

[wheelwork]

Ugh. The frown is practically audible in his own voice as he grudgingly sort-of-explains, "Like I said, the truth. Don't get all pushy, dude. I told him you're working with the Meta, and about what you did at Valhalla." That sounds pretty bad for him, doesn't it...

"But he's too dumb to believe me."

[freelancerpower]

That's about what he expected, but Wash just needs to make sure. All of this banks on the fact that neither of them know what's happened behind closed doors, that they didn't know about what became of him after the EMP, capture, prison, the Chairman.

It's really the only part that matters.

So pop quiz, Grif.

"Why am I working with the Meta, then? What did you say about that?"

[wheelwork]

Because you're crazy? was the first answer to pop in to his head, but self preservation kicked in and he kept his lips wisely zipped in this case. Instead, he struggled to pull up any recollection of why the two had teamed up. He couldn't remember hearing any sort of explanation. All he knew was that it had happened and it needed to be taken care of.

"Uh... I don't think I said anything about it." Besides 'you're crazy', his mind unhelpfully supplied for the second time. "I don't know. Why are you?"

[freelancerpower]

Right answer, Grif, good for you. Pity that doesn't really affect the outcome of this.

There's a tiny moment when he pauses, when Wash almost relaxes, like he's actually completely and entirely calm and that Grif has managed to defuse the situation, somehow. His shoulders drop slightly, there's a drawn-out exhale of breath that sounds almost like a sigh, and he's even putting down the pistol, settling it on the table surface.

That lasts for maybe five seconds.

The very next second Grif will find himself slammed back against the wall behind him, hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs, hard enough to stun the average person -- Wash is right up in his face, now, the fingers of one hand digging into the edges of his chestplate, right up against his neck. It's enough to make breathing uncomfortable, and the very next moment he steps even closer, drops his elbow down so he's pressing his entire arm against Grif, using his weight to keep him there.

It's his uninjured arm, the other just sort of curled into a fist at his side, the pain throbbing through his nerves, but he doesn't need it right now.

And so very calmly;

"I've been patient with you so far, and I'm sure you've realized this."

Wash presses his weight even further forward, increasing the pressure against his neck, against his ribcage and his likely dwindling air supply.

"So listen closely."

[wheelwork]

Was that it, then? The sight of Wash unwinding was promising. Grif unconsciously relaxed as well, figuring Washington now had whatever he wanted and the conversation was over, so surely he could be on his merry way, except... Oh.

What the hell just happened?

In the blink of an eye, Grif found himself slammed back against a wall with Freelancer face right there, right the fuck in front of him and all the air shoved right out of his lungs. It was a tough adjustment, but one he managed after a few seconds of dazed confusion. Granted, the fingers digging in to his neck helped speed up the process. Grif wheezed in a gulp of air, using that precious breath to protest with, "What'd I do?! You ass, ow--" Christ, was he grabbing harder?

Grif ended up making some kind of uncomfortable gurgling sound, his own hands clamping on to whatever they could get hold of-- one around Wash's wrist, the other gripping some part of his chest plating and giving it a disapproving rattle.

And they had been doing so well, too...

[freelancerpower]

Wash ups the pressure, just a little. It's not quite enough to be suffocating, not enough that Grif can't breathe. It's just going to be hard as hell, and it's going to hurt, and Wash's other hand moves forward, grabbing onto Grif's helmet and -- slamming his head back against the wall, hard enough for it to hurt like hell, for him to be stunned for a second or two.

"Stop talking."

You had your time, now it's his turn.

"It's because I'm on a mission," he continues, calm as ever, and that's true enough. "Some of your friends were unlucky enough to get in my way, and I don't look kindly on hindrances."

Yes, he's talking about the ones he's killed.

"You've been good at staying out of my way so far, and really, I couldn't care less what you do as long as it stays that way." "

A pause, and he lets up a little, allows Grif just a bit more air -- at the very least his fingers relax against his neck when moments before they'd been digging in hard enough for it to bruise.

"Are we clear?"

[wheelwork]

It did hurt, enough to make him squirm, or as much as he could squirm while in that sort of hold. All fidgety with nowhere to go except, apparently, back. His helmet thunked loudly against the wall, knocking what little sense he had right out of him. But at least it shut him up temporarily.

He had no option besides listening, so he chose to do so-- or, rather, he tried to listen through the ringing in his ears. He hadn't had a jolt like that in quite a while. Lack of practice left him a little slow in the recovery department.

By the time Wash finished, Grif noticed breathing came a little easier, but everything else? Maybe he was just picky, but none of that felt any less painful. At some point, he also noticed Wash was expecting an answer. "Yea, fine, God-- just get off already!"

[freelancerpower]

Wash stays exactly where he is.

He's taking his time to consider if he's missed anything, if there's anything else he needs to do, anything he could get out of this fucker right here before he leaves. Wash doesn't really want to have to deal with him again, and as long as Grif stays out of his way, it'll stay that way -- this is enough of a deterrent for him, Wash would hope.

Then yeah, that's it, then.

The silence ticks by, second by second, until suddenly he's pushing all his weight back onto Grif's chest again, even more than before, compressing his lungs -- his fingers aren't even near Grif's helmet anymore but only because he's wrenching Grif's arm away from his chest, jerking it down and back against the joint of his elbow, and yeah, that's going to hurt like a bitch, Grif.

Just a little insurance.

"If you're lying to me. If I found out that anything you've said here isn't true, if you ever lie to me or the SPARTAN in the future, then that qualifies as getting in my way, and I'll pay you back in kind for it."

Pulling his arm back even more, now.

"On the other hand, if you've been telling me the truth and you're a good little soldier and stay the hell out of my way, then you're safe, and neither of us will have any reason to find you.

"Understood?"

[wheelwork]

Nothing like a little blazing arm pain to inspire Grif to struggle in earnest. The move got a loud yelp out of him, even. Before, he was tempted to hunch down and forward in an effort to ease the now brutal pressure on his chest, but this made him want to strain upwards as far as he could go.

Naturally, his attention was divided. Partially on his arm and his attempts to ease the tension, partly on whatever Wash was saying. He caught a few snippets of what he figured were the important parts; lying, SPARTAN, getting in the way. Sure, okay, whatever. He could dwell on that later.

He didn't know his arm could go any further, either, but apparently it could. Didn't mean he had to like it, though, and judging from his short almost-screech of complaint, he definitely didn't. This fucking sucked...

"I said yes!" Why, why, why couldn't Wash just accept a yes like a normal person?