(no subject)
He's been out in the open for a week now, tracking cold trails, talking to people who had noticed thefts of vehicles, weaponry, ammunition but had never seen the thief. He recognizes the efficiency and tells himself it doesn't mean anything. His partner isn't anywhere inside the thing he's hunting now. It wears the body like a mask, driven by the jumble of AI.
Wash has never particularly trusted AI programs, especially not after what happened to Epsilon. Whether or not it was their fault didn't change the fact that they were inherently unstable, and to him there was no 'if' they became a danger to their partners.
It was only a when.
It's not hard for him to imagine a clusterfuck of uncontrollable AI occupying one headspace. He knows what that's like, thanks to Epsilon, and so he clings to the belief that Maine is already dead. When he puts his gun to that familiar face and pulls the trigger (Command might want the Meta taken alive, but Wash knows that's not going to happen), it won't be murder. Just putting down a mad dog. Maine would do the same, if their positions were reversed.
Probably.
He's holed up in a shitty abandoned base, crumbling cement and gutted computer ports, leaning against the wall with only the bottom half of his armor on, inspecting the damage done to the back of his chest armor. Fucking South Dakota. His rifle leans against the wall.
The exhaustion creeps up on him, and he has to put his tools down when he notices that he can't concentrate on the tiny wires he's trying to manipulate. He'll have to finish in the morning, and putting the armor back on will undo the repairs he's managed so far. So he props himself up against the wall, rifle across his lap and a camo net covering him like a blanket, setting his HUD to alert him when a few hours have passed.
He's out like a light.