#mav makes

It’s bright, too bright; brighter than his eyes can handle. He squints, even though the helmet’s attempts at dampening the light. 

    He is not taking his eyes off BT.

    The Titan--his Titan, his best friend, now--struggles to his pedes. Errors flit across Cooper’s HUD, spewing information of faulty, wrecked systems and various states of damage and disarray to the both of them. He feels BT lurch as one leg gives out. He is quick to catch himself, propping up on the XO-16 like a cane.

    Is BT in pain? Can he register that sort of thing? Cooper desperately hopes not, pleads to whatever higher being is cursing them with this situation to at least show some mercy. 

    “Do we have a way out of this?” his voice croaks among the carnage. He does his best to send a surge of reassurance through the Link to his friend. 

    Heaven above and Hell below, they’re fucked.

    BT takes a moment to respond, balking at answering with what his processor comes up with. Cooper can sense his hesitance and it does nothing to quell the rising panic he feels.

    Sparks flit from a twisted joint as BT straightens, flickering to the ground and dying out. He hears BT try to speak, only for his voice to fizzle out on the first syllable. A burst of anger jolts through the Link: BT is frustrated that he is so vulnerable in front of his Pilot, who he needs to be strong for. 

    Finally, he spits out a mangled, “Calculating.” It sounds like it fights him the entire way out. Cooper flinches. 

    BT is avoiding answering.

    They’re not making it out of here.

    Surprisingly, he does not feel what he expects to. There’s no last-minute flight instincts kicking in. He doesn’t find himself trying to escape. He doesn’t try to contact anyone to say goodbye.

    He accepts it.

    With a heaved, shuddering sigh, he speaks again.

    “Don’t worry, BT. I’m not going anywhere.”

    His voice shakes and wavers as he speaks, but he is certain in his decision.

    If one goes down, the other goes down with them.

    He feels the jolt of realization go through BT. The Titan pauses, sending a burst of reassurance through his end of the Link. 

    In the face of certain death, his Titan is still trying to comfort him.

    “Copy that, Pilot.”

--

    Cooper may not know it yet, but BT is certain.

    His Pilot will make it out, come Hell or high water. 

    BT, however, knows he will not. 

    Technically, he would be disobeying direct Pilot orders, if he goes through with what he’s planned. For a moment, he hesitates.

    You’ve gone far past the independence the Militia would permit a Titan to preserve. Either he dies here, or the Militia wipes his processor for being too intelligent.

    At least, this way, he will know Cooper is extracted safely.

    “Preparing for launch,” he informs as he crawls into the makeshift cannon. 

    He knows his fate. He also hopes he knows his Pilot’s.

    BT can feel Jack steel his nerves through the Link. “Not goin’ anywhere,” he repeats to the both of them. 

    “Understood,” BT accepts, ignores.

    The cannon whines as it winds up. BT makes himself as aerodynamic as possible, curling into a facsimile of a fetal position.

    The launch is rough and jarring. 

    BT’s overwhelmed systems struggle to maintain orientation and vitals. His gyros spew errors as they attempt to regain their bearings. His processor jitters off information that it can’t correctly detect: altitude, location, current objective.

    He knows his current objective without it being told to him.

    PROTOCOL 3: PROTECT THE PILOT.

    “What are you doing?!” he hears Cooper scream at him from inside the cockpit. With one hand, he rips the hatch’s door off roughly. The other hand fetches his Pilot, who is literally kicking and screaming in revolt.

    “DON’T YOU DARE!” Cooper screeches. “You promised! We go down together!”

    “Protocol-l t-three,” BT responds automatically, gripping Jack in one enormous hand.

    Cooper writhes like a feral animal in a trap, yelling the entire time. Not like this! We go together, you said! 

    I can’t go on without you!

    BT mutes his audio receptors. If he keeps listening, he’ll change his mind.

    He will not change his mind and let Cooper die with him. 

    Cooper will survive, whether he wants to or not.

    With a creaking of stressed struts audible over even the din of flight, he winds an arm back and throws.

    The Ark detonates.

--

    Cooper feels himself flying through the air as he wails. The weightlessness, the disorientation, the feel of the wind tugging at his jumpsuit and armor, all at once. 

    One moment, he’s flying.

    The next, the Ark finally collapses.

“I really believe you’re overthinking things.” As usual, he mutters under his breath. “They have a helluva lot more use of us alive than dead.” He rolls his eyes as Barker shakes his head and continues pacing the small room.

“Who’s to say they’re gonna keep us that way once they’re through with us?” Barker retorts. “You know how nasty these things can get. The IMC has killed many ‘accomplices’ that only wanted to help. Why would the Militia be any different?”

“Because they have morals?” MacAllan snorts. “There’s a lot of things the IMC does that this group would never even think of.”

“That’s what they want us to think!” Barker whispers furiously, in true paranoid fashion. Maybe the liquor (or lack thereof) is taking a harsher toll on him than anticipated. James is aware Barker’s now nearly dependent on it.

He watches the other man pace anxiously for another minute. Barker’s hands are wringing each other, trying to crack his knuckles furtively and failing miserably. He stops occasionally to wipe his eyes with his palms. It’s been over 24 hours since either of them have last slept. 

MacAllan tallies it up to paranoia, either cause or effect.

Eventually, the constant and rhythmic footsteps drive him to a limit. “Christ, Barker, sit down or something. You’re wearing a line into the floor.”

The other halts in his tracks to glare at him. “You’re naive,” Barker spits with no venom. “Utterly gullible in believing what they’ve said so far. It’s smooth sailing now, but what about after?”

James shrugs. “We’ll figure that out when we get there, I suppose.” He reclines back against the seat, crossing his ankles neatly and folding his arms across his chest. He makes a point of appearing as at ease and relaxed as he feels. His eyes flit shut and he idly taps his finger on the sleeve of his clothing while dozing.

Finally, Barker snaps. “You really don’t give a single shit, do you?”

Again, he shrugs nonchalantly. “Have they given us a reason to expect that sort of behavior?”

The other falters. “No--”

“Do they seem like the kind of folk that would kill just for the kick of it?”

“No, but--”

“‘But’ nothin’,” James huffs amusedly. “You’re all worked up over nothing. Go to sleep or something.”

“Absolutely not. We both need to keep our wits about us.”

“Then sit down, at the very least.”

Barker stares at him for a moment before obeying. He collapses into the seat adjacent and drops his head into his hands, breathing deeply.

Subconsciously, MacAllan’s hand moves to plunk onto Barker’s back. “We’ll be fine,” he rumbles, rubbing soothing circles into the tense muscle beneath his hand. “I honestly believe these guys are as genuine as they seem to be.”

For a moment, Barker deflates before plopping his hands to his lap and looking straight at James. “But what if they aren’t?”

MacAllan fails to cover the eye roll he gives. “Assuming we survive everything?”

“Don’t be a pessimist.”

“Barker, shut the fuck up,” MacAllan drawls. He repeats himself. “Assuming we survive this whole Demeter conflict and for some reason the Militia does intend to… ‘take care of us’,” he starts, “you really think they’re gonna do it publicly?”

“Well, no--they've got to save their image.”

“So that means as long as others can see, we should be safe?”

“Arguably.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he huffs. “We stay in plain sight and keep away from corners until we can find an out. Easy as that.”

Barker seems to be somewhat soothed by the explanation. James can still see the argument on the tip of his tongue threatening to escape, so he hefts his hand up from Barker’s back to the top of his head. He presses down and ruffles it light-heartedly, but stops and retracts when Barker goes still and silent. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have done that. My mistake,” he mutters, snatching his hand away and tucking it under one arm.

Barker snaps out of whatever daze he had entered, blinking in confusion. MacAllan sees a flit of disappointment cross the man’s face at the apology.

Tentatively, he raises his hand again, plopping it on Barker’s head in a joking manner. Barker tenses again, and he moves to defuse the tension with a quip.

However, Barker seems to have no qualms about whatever is happening. His eyes go distant and out of focus before James’ own eyes; his shoulders slump and release pent-up tension he’s held in his body for days. His hands fall to the sides of his thighs, fingers lax and curled.

MacAllan keeps up the motion for a few seconds before breaking the silence. “You...like that?” He goes to pull away to let Barker respond.

Before he can, Barker shoves his head back into his hand, not unlike a cat would. It makes his fingers shuffle back through the dark locks softly, making the Pilot go lax all over again. “I take that as a ‘yes’?” he chortles.

The other doesn’t respond for a moment, too enthralled with what’s happening. James repeats the question and gets a content grunt in response. Barker’s head tips towards him, then his neck, then his entire torso is propped up against MacAllan’s shoulder limply.

“You realize this is excellent blackmail material, yeah?”

Barker hums uncomittitedly.