[ Locus was a puzzle of a different sort. He wasn't a monster, he was a soldier, a machine, trying to be one anyway. The kind of man who thought an ideal soldier was the gun itself, clean and easy with nothing to worry about except the recoil, and less about the man behind the gun. He wasn't as much of a machine as he tried to be, as he pretended to be. Wash had seen through it because he's seen it enough times. Because he's been through it.
Felix, though, was the monster. A clever little liar, and Wash should've seen it because it takes one to know one, and the worst kind of liar, too. He didn't do it for a purpose, not really, he did it because he could, because he liked to, for the thrill of the game and the cruel satisfaction of drawing it out until the last, last moment before he twisted the knife. Tucker, the Reds and Blues, they weren't ready for someone like that. He should've seen it. He should've been there. But everything Tucker was saying, he understood. The guilt, the idea of being so completely taken in, the utter betrayal of it. Wash stands there, quiet, before he eventually lowers his hand. The first knife he was holding is -- gone now, apparently, concealed back wherever he'd drawn it from in the first place without Tucker noticing, but this one he'll keep. Weight slightly different, grip not quite what he prefers, but good enough for some idle thing to do with his hands as he tips his head, gestures for Tucker to follow. Let's go for a walk. He's been taking a lot of walks, lately. ]
Forgetting doesn't help. [ Neither does dwelling, but pretending things never happened does nothing. ] You put it behind you, you let the wound heal, the memory is what's going to make you stronger.
[ As long as you don't let the memory ruin you. As long as you don't let it rule you. Like Wash so often does, with his own memories, vivid and bright as they are. Tucker can do better than that. Will do better than that. ]
Did any of the others ever tell you about South Dakota? [ His voice is light, here, but in the way where it's -- detached, distant, not quite stiff but just a little clipped in the way only the particularly observant or people who knew him well enough would be able to notice. The easiest way to talk about something like South was to separate himself from it. A pause, there. Even if that bit of gossip had gone around the Reds and Blues, he doubts her name would've survived it. ] Another Freelancer. Don't worry though, she isn't going to show up to give you a hard time anytime soon.
Because I killed her.
[ So, you know, if you ever heard about Wash shooting anyone of his friends, or a nice lady, or an angry lady, or a purple lady. That might've been South. ]
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Felix, though, was the monster. A clever little liar, and Wash should've seen it because it takes one to know one, and the worst kind of liar, too. He didn't do it for a purpose, not really, he did it because he could, because he liked to, for the thrill of the game and the cruel satisfaction of drawing it out until the last, last moment before he twisted the knife. Tucker, the Reds and Blues, they weren't ready for someone like that. He should've seen it. He should've been there. But everything Tucker was saying, he understood. The guilt, the idea of being so completely taken in, the utter betrayal of it. Wash stands there, quiet, before he eventually lowers his hand. The first knife he was holding is -- gone now, apparently, concealed back wherever he'd drawn it from in the first place without Tucker noticing, but this one he'll keep. Weight slightly different, grip not quite what he prefers, but good enough for some idle thing to do with his hands as he tips his head, gestures for Tucker to follow. Let's go for a walk. He's been taking a lot of walks, lately. ]
Forgetting doesn't help. [ Neither does dwelling, but pretending things never happened does nothing. ] You put it behind you, you let the wound heal, the memory is what's going to make you stronger.
[ As long as you don't let the memory ruin you. As long as you don't let it rule you. Like Wash so often does, with his own memories, vivid and bright as they are. Tucker can do better than that. Will do better than that. ]
Did any of the others ever tell you about South Dakota? [ His voice is light, here, but in the way where it's -- detached, distant, not quite stiff but just a little clipped in the way only the particularly observant or people who knew him well enough would be able to notice. The easiest way to talk about something like South was to separate himself from it. A pause, there. Even if that bit of gossip had gone around the Reds and Blues, he doubts her name would've survived it. ] Another Freelancer. Don't worry though, she isn't going to show up to give you a hard time anytime soon.
Because I killed her.
[ So, you know, if you ever heard about Wash shooting anyone of his friends, or a nice lady, or an angry lady, or a purple lady. That might've been South. ]