(no subject)
The original pimping incident she had ignored. Idiots flocking to idiots wasn't anything new, and it wasn't her problem if the ODST in question hadn't figured out that the way to disinterest tormentors was to stop reacting every single time like a cat that had just been dropped in the bathtub.
She had, after all, a little experience with certain forms of peer prejudice. O'Brien didn't seem in any danger of losing an eye, though.
But when Tucker, being Tucker and therefore annoyingly persistent, brought up the idea again, this time offering to pay anyone who would be willing to sleep with O'Brien, just to prove that there was no one willing, she decided she'd had enough of the jokes.
"15 credits," she intoned, male voice filter on and looming casually over Tucker. Who replied as expected, with DUDE I AIN'T GOT NO 15 CREDITS ARE YOU KIDDING ME--
"They weren't your credits to begin with, you had them hacked out of his account that time you got him drunk."
Tucker's helmet went suspiciously silent.
"Kat confirmed it," One supplied helpfully, examining the tips of her gloves.
"He ain't worth 15 credits, I'll tell you that now." Tucker's tone was the voice of experience, and One was glad for the helmet hiding her expression, which immediately locked itself into something best described as horrifisgusted. Her voice filter, however, kept everything steady and even.
"Maybe I'm bored and lonely." And not about to turn down 15 essentially free credits. "You go do the transfer, I'll take care of my end."
"Whatever man. You'd better take some pictures I can sell later though. And don't let him puke on you, he can't hold his liquor for shit."
One discovered that for herself, halfway through dinner, which she had more or less insisted on while O'Brien stood white and speechless at the door, staring up at a female Spartan (previously believed to be male) with her helmet tucked under her arm. The most coherency she got out of him was some rage at Tucker about the whole stolen credits thing, and then he clammed back up when she mentioned why she was there, and the 'oh by the way I'm a girl too' bit. Instead of talking he chose to drink, and One let him, since he was buying dinner (take-out, delivered by drone, but a thousand times better than MREs any day) and letting her eat in peace. She'd been expecting at least a few come ons or awkward questions, the normal shit interactions she'd been raised to dread out of civilians or quasi-civilians, but he seemed barely able to look at her, gaze creeping sideways towards her face and then darting away when he saw her looking. Another person might have found the strained silence unbearable, but One was used to grabbing a meal in the middle of a battlefield, surrounded by Covenant corpses and usually one of her siblings manning a gun next to her, waiting for their turn. It was rare for her to do anything out of armor, even here in Space Station Civilianland, and a great deal of her attention was taken up by how it felt to wear anything not made out of steel for more than several hours. How the fuck did normal people deal with all the looseness and the shifting.
"So," she said finally, leaning back in the chair which creaked ominously and restraining herself from trying to adjust her shirt, "I guess you're paying me for sex."
O'Brien choked on his beer and turned as red as his hair. One eyeballed him, wondering yet again who had let him into the military.
"Yes?"
"You don't-- need to do that just because Tucker stole some of my fucking money when I was shitfaced and said a bunch of crap on the network," he managed finally, still not looking at her. "I don't fucking care. You want 15 credits, it's yours."
The averting his eyes thing was getting really irritating. She didn't know whether he did it out of some misguided notion of consideration, to keep himself from staring, but it was just as conspicuous and just as grating.
"What is your malfunction, Private?" she asked, finally leaning across the table to grab his chin and force him to look at her. "You mouth off to Carter, who has been more than considerate towards you and your bullshit. You mouth off at everyone until they turn out to be girls, and then you clam up, and can't look directly at them. I'll be the first to admit I'm no expert on uh, normal person behavior, but I've gone through enough psych evals to know that you wouldn't pass them with the way you act."
He looked terrified, and then like a terrified person trying to hide that they were terrified, and that only annoyed her further. She was a team leader same as Carter and the same as whoever this brat's original superior had been. These were questions all of them would've had the right to ask.
She shook his chin. "Talk. You don't like Spartans? Ran with the old school 105th boys? Don't think women should serve? Got shot through the head and had your sense of restraint and overall good judgment amputated?"
"N-no ma'am," he stammered, and after moment she let go of him in frustration, picking up his beer and downing the rest of it herself.
"Well, I'd hate to consider that Tucker might ever be right about anything, but I'm all out of guesses tonight." She thunked the beer can down, set her jaw, and started stripping her shirt off. "Virginity at any age is a fixable problem."
"Ma'am--!"
"Shut the fuck up, soldier," she ordered, and walled him.
****
It wasn't that he was a virgin. There'd been girls. There'd been plenty of girls, but that was back home, and that was Before. Women in the UNSCDF were career or looking for something special, and O'Brien had only one talent to his name. He could shoot the wings off a fly in another timezone, with the right equipment, and if anyone could be found to put up with him in order to get him into position. Apart from that, he didn't have much to recommend him, as he was repeatedly reminded.
And then she had come along, and she'd taken even that away from him. Of course he'd finished the mission. Of course he'd taken that shot, still in shock, still insulated from the outside world the way he needed to be when he looked into the rifle scope. It was after that he'd started to lose it. Couldn't concentrate. Couldn't stop himself from being distracted, her face intruding, the sound of her voice.
They were muttering about transferring him when he'd shown up in Sacrosanct, from the sudden dip in his scores. Psych eval hadn't been pretty either, and even though Cortez's report had been as diplomatic as possible, Dutch had a big fucking mouth and they knew, they knew. They all knew it had been him. A Spartan life traded for an ODST.
He knew about guilt. He knew about battlefield casualties. He'd had guys shot beside him, their blood spattered all over his helmet or his bare face. He'd seen women die. He'd heard that last gasping rattle over, and over, and over, and he'd buried it deep the way you were supposed to. The girl with gold eyes was just one more drop in the bucket. She wasn't special.
The AI didn't see it that way. In that split second that she had passed through him, she had wormed into his mind, rifled through his memories and made him relive them as though they were fresh. That day. Her blood. The way she had smiled at Cortez before she died. The weight of her corpse, the silk fine texture of her hair. The AI sifted through everything like a gold panner, picking out the brightest points of emotion, what hurt worst.
In hindsight fainting had probably saved him from possession. In hindsight he should've passed out sooner, because whatever she'd done to him in that split-second, he could still hear her voice sometimes. The memories had her imprint on them now, like a figure standing in the corner that he'd never noticed before, or even watching them from her viewpoint, seeing himself through a stranger's eyes. He had never wanted to know what his face had looked like. He had never wanted to see it from someone else's perspective.
Black-One -- she'd never told him her name -- was very little like Cal-141. Her hair was cropped short, tan skin, dark eyes. She gave orders as easily as she breathed, fingers curled tight in his hair, directing his mouth against her. The only similarities, really, were her size and the surety of her movements, that made him feel like an awkward child next to her, trying desperately to please her without knowing what the hell he was doing.
"Enough," she whispered finally, and he couldn't keep himself from pretending it was her voice in the darkness, her hands smoothing over his chest. He said her name like a sob (except it wasn't really her name, was it) and kissed her skin, any part of her he could reach, trying to keep the apologies he mouthed with each one silent. She was only a silhouette leaning over him in the dim light, stroking him until he gasped, trying to bat her hands away before she could send him over the edge.
"Don't, I'm--"
"Why do you keep apologizing?" she interrupted, settling over his thighs.
Because I killed you.
It was the AI's voice, soft and matter-of-fact in his ear, and he almost started to repeat it out loud before jerking violently, grabbing for the Spartan's hand to stop her when she exclaimed against the motion.
"Wait, stop, I--"
Killed her. Broke her skull right open. The AI was standing in the corner of the room, glowing faintly, looking at something on the ceiling with her hands laced behind her back.
She turned to look at him, but he couldn't see her face in the dark. He didn't want to. He squeezed his eyes shut, but she was already next to him, kneeling down, her lips at his ear.
You left an awful mess.
Something wet was sliding down his face. Found his lips, and the familiar bitter tang flooded his mouth. Blood and fear.
"O'Brien, what are you...?"
"Get off me." He shoved at the Spartan, nauseated and chilled suddenly, one hand flying to his face and smearing the blood. Just a nosebleed, just like before. Just a small trickle, like the one that had started at the corner of Cal's mouth, coated her tongue in red when she spoke, slid like tears down her pale, pale neck and stained her hair.
You wouldn't think a human body could have that much blood.
"What?" Black-One demanded, her hands suddenly bruising on his shoulders, and he realized he'd said out loud. He couldn't look at her because the AI was leaning on the Spartan's shoulder, brushing a lock of hair from where it had fallen over her cybernetic eye.
This one's pretty too, don't you think? Not in the same way, of course.
He wanted to throw up. He froze, and One shook him but he didn't feel it, staring just over her shoulder.
"O'Brien!"
Blake. The AI dragged out the syllables. Do you want to know her name? Do you want her to know yours?
"Don't touch her," he demanded, or tried to demand. It came out too soft, too desperate, and the AI just laughed.
You should tell her where her sister is, since she doesn't know. You carry her everywhere. You've brought her with you, even here.
She pointed.
He didn't look. He wasn't going to look. He wasn't going to turn his head ever so slightly, eyes sliding past One's face to the shadows, and...
The coffin in the corner of the room was long, and sleek, and utterly black. The latches shone where there was no light, nothing to reflect. The UNSC emblem was engraved on the front, the flag draped perfect and still over the lower section.
He tried to breathe, and couldn't. There was no air left in the room.
The lid cracked.
O'Brien took the easier road and fainted.