#terrill

EPILOGUE

Vera doesn’t believe what she’s seeing.

It’s a dream, a hallucination, a result of too many glasses of Sherry, Terrill and Darryl’s moonshine. Or, it’s a nightmare, because only in nightmares would her mind tease her with the possibility the flashing light and incessant chirping are real.

But then Ezra’s shouting into the comms, and soon Mike is too.

They see it. They hear it. So, either it’s real, or it’s a group hallucination, and Vera doesn’t know enough about that kind of stuff to make a decision.

Right now, Vera is tentatively siding with this being real.

Carolina’s alive.

After years of radio silence, years of mourning and healing and starting to sort of forget—but not totally, Vera would never ever forget her friends or Freelancer—after years of nothing, here’s something.

“Oh. My. God!” Vera screams into comms, only adding to the mess of ecstatic voices. “Oh, my god.”

“She’s still out there!” Ezra yells over comms. There’s an explosion, followed by a grunt. “Should we—ow!—should we call off the stealth mission?”

This mission hasn’t been stealth since it started, but Vera will never admit that.

“I would like to go home so we can call Carolina, please,” Mike pitches in. He yells as the sound of bullets hitting metal flood the comms.

“Yeah, yeah, call it off!” Vera says. Instead of running back to base, she lowers herself into a crouching position.

Vera’s a little fucking dizzy, but like, the good kind of dizzy. Sure, it’s a distress signal. Meaning Agent Carolina is probably in distress.

Logically, you gotta be alive to be in distress.

At least this is what Vera believes as she pushes herself to her feet and switches to the channel only she and Sherry share. She’s grinning so hard, she’s surprised she can even speak.

“Hey, where are you going, sweet cheeks?” Sherry chides.

“She isn’t dead!” Vera crows. One of the best sentences she’s ever uttered, in her opinion. Sherry’s silent for a moment before responding.

“Who isn’t dead?” she asks.

“Agent Carolina!” Vera says.

“What?!”

“She’s alive!” Vera yells as she reaches their base.

Ezra and Mike are already inside as she bursts inside, reaching up to yank her helmet—still shrieking glorious tidings of Carolina’s distress. Before she pulls it off, she says,

“Get your ass over here, we have some phone calls to make!”

“Phone ca—” Sherry’s voice is cut off as Vera removes her helmet.

“You know, we can’t actually, uh, call Agent Carolina,” Ezra points out as they make their way down the hall towards the computer.

After much debate, Ezra and Sherry rigged up a new computer, one with a comms system that worked about 60% of the time. They think. They aren’t really sure, what with no one to reach out too. And when they shot random messages into the void, no one ever answered. It is what it is, and even with wonky means of communication, there’s at least a sliver of hope for rescue.

“No shit, Ezra, it’s just a figure of speech.” Vera rolls her eyes.

The three of them cram themselves into the computer room, Vera at the desk, Ezra and Mike hanging on the back of her chair.

“Can you reach her?” Ezra asks.

“I’m gonna fucking try,” Vera retorts.

By the time everything is ready to go, Sherry, Terrill and Darryl are there, watching with baited breath as Vera reaches over to press the Button. The Button that will, in theory, open up communication between them and Agent Carolina—more specifically, her helmet.

“Agent Carolina?” Vera squawks. She coughs. Shakes her head. Repeats. “Agent Carolina! This is Agent Ohio of Project Freelancer. I have Agents Idaho and Iowa with me, as well as—” Vera pauses, unsure if she should disclose Sherry and the others are technically Innies. Nah. “As well as three other allies. You, uh, wouldn’t know them. At all. Agent Carolina, if you hear me, please respond!”

There are thirty-two agonizing seconds of radio silence.

Then.

A green glow illuminates the cold, dusty room, barely big enough to be a closet, interrupted only by a flash of red light every few seconds. The green light is from the outline of a suit of armor—of a body—displayed at the left side of the screen. There are words on the right, but either they’re scrolling by too fast or Vera just can’t read the language. She thinks it’s English. Too blurry to tell.

What she can tell is who the armor belongs too, and she chooses to focus on this fact for as long as possible.

But it’s kind of hard to ignore the flashing red light coming from the armor’s throat.

“Is that—?” Ezra starts to ask, but Vera cuts him off.

“Agent Maine.”

“Another Freelancer?” Terrill asks from behind Mike’s elbow. He and Darryl stand shoulder to shoulder hunched over Mike and Sherry, who are pressed tight up against Vera and Ezra.

A wave of irritation washes over Vera—maybe at Terrill, maybe at the elbow digging into her ribs, maybe at the fact the room is no longer cold but is, in fact, very warm—and she sighs.

“Yes, Terrill,” Vera retorts. “Agent Maine is a Freelancer. Just like Iowa, Idaho, and myself.”

“You don’t have to talk so slow, I’m not an idiot,” Terrill says. “It was a valid question!”

“Shut up, Terrill,” Sherry snaps.

Vera can hear the hitched breath and clicking of teeth as Terrill contemplates arguing before closing his mouth, and she sends Sherry as many vibes of gratitude she can muster. She can’t turn around to look at her, because, well, she can’t fucking move in this computer “room”.

“His vitals are so fucked,” Ezra mutters. Vera glances over at him. His eyes are glazed over, reflecting the alternating red and green lights.

“But he’s still alive!” Mike points out.

“Yeah.” Vera looks back up at the computer screen. She wonders if it’s possible to go blind from staring for too long. Then she realizes it’s been about a minute since she’s blinked.

Closing her eyes, she lets out the first of many exasperated sighs.

“How long do these distress thinga-ma-jigs last?” Sherry asks, leaning forward. Vera feels her breath tickle her ear and she shivers.

“I don’t actually know,” Vera answers. “Never seen one before. I’m surprised this one reached us.”

“Did your helmets’ comms systems notify you of anything?” Sherry asks.

Vera blinks. She hasn’t put her armor on yet today—the distress beacon screaming at them from the computer room is what woke her up. After that it was a blur of shaking Mike awake while Ezra put up the blue flag they found in the lower levels of the base. Some sim trooper thing they used as a truce signal.

Sherry, Terrill, and Darryl rushed over, brandishing their guns in case it was a trick, dropping them and shucking their armor when they realized it wasn’t. Then they gathered around the nine-by-thirteen computer screen, watching in silence as almost certain death claimed their old teammate.

“I don’t know,” Vera says. “And hopefully there won’t be another chance to find out.”

At that moment the computer flashed one last time, flickering out with a final squawk. The sudden darkness was both refreshing and disorienting, the silence unsettling.

Vera popped her jaw, trying to get rid of the ringing in her ears.

The beacon had been going off for an hour, the only change being Agent Maine’s erratic vital signs. It hurt to look at, but now Vera would give just about anything to get it back.

“Does that mean he’s—ow!” Darryl squeaks as someone—probably Sherry—jabs him in the ribs.

“I don’t know what it means, okay?” Vera snaps, leaping to her feet.

Or, she tries to leap to her feet. As she rises, Ezra is knocked backward, taking his chair, Mike, and Terrill with him like a row of sentient dominoes. Terrill lets out a squeak as he smacks the back of his head into the metal door. It beeps and slides open, something it’s not technically supposed to do without a code, but whatever.

Everything’s broken here.

“Ow, the back of my head!” Terrill cries.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” Vera exclaims, whirling around to help Ezra to his feet.

Sherry grabs hold of Mike and pulls him up while Darryl takes care of Terrill. Massaging his head, Terrill gives her a dirty look, but it quickly softens.

“It’s all right,” he says. “It, uh, doesn’t hurt that much.”

“Hey, you okay?” Sherry places a hand on Vera’s shoulder.

Vera’s face goes hot, and she’s not sure whether to shake Sherry’s hand away or lean into the touch. She decides on option C, which is doing nothing, standing frozen like a deer in headlights.

“Yeah, just,” Vera sniffles, unable to finish the thought. She reaches up, presses her fingers into her eyes in a feeble attempt to stop the tears.

She’s not even sure why this hit her so hard, she hardly knew Maine—and the boys only met him once or twice. The Alpha Team were like, likened to gods practically. When David and Connie moved up, Vera was afraid they’d forget about her, Mike, and Ezra, leave them all behind to choke on their super badass Freelancer dust.

Not that they were around long enough for that to happen.

“I hope David and Connie are okay,” Mike says, echoing Vera’s thoughts. Ezra hums his agreement.

Sherry coughs, tightening her grip slightly. Vera looks up at her, praying her eyes aren’t too red. She’s managed to stop her tears, but she still feels as exhausted as she might be after sobbing her eyes out.

“We, uh, forgot our extra ammo, so we surrender,” Sherry says. Darryl nods so hard it looks like his head might fly off as Sherry continues, “Why don’t we make some coffee and watch a dumb movie, or something?”

Vera nods once, head heavy, and follows the others out of the computer room.

“We’ve only got, like five movies to pick from,” Ezra says. “I vote—”

“Four,” Mike interrupts.

“What?” Ezra asks, turning his head to squint at Mike.

“Four movies,” Mike says. “Someone accidentally blew up ‘Charlotte’s Web’.”

“Goddammit, Mike—”

Sherry halts, grabbing Vera’s hand and pulling her gently backwards. Vera, unprepared, yelps, almost toppling over. Sherry holds her steady.

“Hey.” Sherry grips Vera by her shoulders, looks her dead in the eyes.

Vera can’t decide whether to be concerned or enticed by Sherry’s gorgeous fucking eyes, then shakes her head.

Snap out of it, dummy, she scolds herself.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sherry asks her.

Something that Vera can only describe as a stab knifes through her, allowing those feelings she had just locked up tight to leak out. She wants to scream, she wants to cry, she wants to break something.

Instead Vera reaches up, wraps her fingers around Sherry’s wrists, and gently peels her hands from her shoulders.

“I’m fine, Sherry,” Vera says. “I don’t want to talk about it. Maine wasn’t my friend, anyway. I hardly knew the guy!”

Sherry frowns, but she doesn’t protest. Doesn’t yank her hands away either. Vera, suddenly very shy, lets Sherry’s wrists go.

“I’m fine,” Vera repeats. “Now just drop it, okay?”

“Okay,” Sherry says, voice short.

They walk the rest of the way to the breakroom in silence.

  II

 Vera can feel the room closing in on her and she struggles to breathe. Black spots dance before her eyes as she sinks to the ground, hands around her ears as if it’s going to block out the beacon’s scream. Muffled voices come from the blurry shapes fussing around her, but she can’t bring them into focus. She presses harder on her ears, slamming her eyes shut.

But she can still see it.

It’s still there, burnt into the back of her eyelids.

The outline of the soldier on the screen is unmistakable. Like Maine’s, one of a kind. But this one’s much shorter.

“Connie,” Vera croaks. Tears, hot and heavy, roll down her face. She brings her knees in as close to her chest as possible, trying to fold into herself, to make herself smaller. Maybe even disappear.

Everything happened so fast.

Vera’s helmet screeching in her ear mid-skirmish. Vera looking over at Ezra and Mike, also frozen, before throwing down her gun and sprinting towards their base. Sherry shouting something. Stray bullets smacking into the snow around Vera as she ran. And with every heartbeat, with every strangled breath, one name reverberated through Vera’s head.

Connie. Connie. Connie.

Vera reached the computer first, chucking her helmet to the side. Eyes burning, she watched the little green-and-red model of Connie rotate on the screen. It didn’t take long for the vitals to bottom out.

But the distress beacon kept going.

For forty-five more minutes.

For forty-five minutes, Vera sat there, hardly registering the sudden warmth of Ezra and Mike sinking to the floor beside her, wrapping their arms around her.

For forty-five minutes, Vera wishes they’d destroyed their comms systems. It’s painfully clear no one is coming for them, that they’re clinging like idiots to false hopes.

For forty-five minutes, Vera considers shooting her gun next to her ears to drown out the computer’s eerie lament. She considers it, but she can’t bring herself to move even a finger.

For forty-five minutes, Vera wants to murder the Director. Because if anyone’s responsible for Connie’s death, it’s that motherfucker.

When the beacon finally dies, Vera’s run out of tears. Blinking, she lets out a shuddering sigh and returns Ezra and Mike’s embrace. Her arms and elbows complain as she eases them from their tensed position to drape them over her friends’ shoulders. Mike sniffles, but Ezra stares at the floor like he can see through it, eyes miles away.

Their grief eventually gives way to discomfort. Power armor isn’t ideal for sitting in a sad huddle with your friends. Extracting herself from the hug, Vera rises to her feet, knees popping. She looks over at the computer screen, watches the cursor dart across the screen, writing out the date, time, and cause of death in bright green letters.

One word at the bottom of the report catches her eye, and Vera shuffles over to the computer, eyes narrowed.

There, at the bottom of the screen is one word, this time typed out in glowing red letters:

MISSING.

What the hell does that mean? That Connie’s missing? Missing where?

“What the fuck is going on?” Vera shouts, kicking the desk chair. It clatters across the room and smacks up against the wall.

Ezra and Mike don’t say anything, but Ezra comes up beside her to look at the computer as well. His brows furrow when he reads the red lettering.

Vera growls and stomps out of the room, making her way down the corridor and toward her bunk.

This isn’t fair, how come she and the others are here while Connie, Wash and the others are out risking their lives and—and fucking dying? If Freelancer was looking for soldiers ready to die for the cause, they threw away three of them on this frozen planet.

And now—what, Connie’s freaking body is missing? Vera has no idea what’s going on, and those old feelings of helplessness, of being useless, surface after months of figuring out how to shove them away. Freelancer continues to haunt them, which is hilarious to Vera, because shouldn’t she, Mike, and Ezra be the ones to haunt Freelancer? Of course, that would only make a difference if the Director had a conscience.

Reaching the door to her bunk, Vera punches the button to open the door. As the door slides open, the pad the button is attached to pops, sparks, and fizzes. The door freezes half way, and Vera groans. She tries to shove the door the rest of the way open, but the base is content on working whenever the fuck it wants, and right now, it doesn’t want to.

Vera huffs and removes her armor, dropping it all to the floor right outside the door before slipping inside her bunk.

She doesn’t even bother turning on the light before falling into bed. Shoving her face into her pillow, she closes her eyes, only to find Connie’s face smirking at her. Eyes flying open, Vera flips over and stares at the small sliver of light cutting across the ceiling.

Maybe they should just shut off the computer.

  III

 They don’t shut off the computer, of course. The miniscule chance someone would contact them, or hear their distress signals, keeps them from blowing it all up.

Deep down, Vera knows—and she knows the others do too—that no one is ever going to call their names over that radio.

“You could take turns checking the computer,” Sherry suggests to Vera one night.

They’re laying in Vera’s bed, limbs intertwined and tangled in the sheets, enjoying the warmth of each other’s bare skin. Sherry’s arm is around Vera, and she reaches up to stroke Vera’s hair.

Sighing, Vera leans into Sherry’s hand. Electrified by the touch, she almost forgets what Sherry said.

“Maybe,” Vera says, closing her eyes for one. Two. Three seconds. Then she says, “I guess. I don’t know.”

“Then maybe you wouldn’t have to have it thrown in your face every time,” Sherry goes on. “Take turns reporting what you see?”

“I don’t think Mike could do it on his own,” Vera says. “Shit, I don’t know if I could be in there alone. What if—god, what if it’s David who dies next? I mean, Connie’s gone, Maine’s—Maine’s maybe gone! What if they all just fucking die, Sherry?”

Vera sits up, slipping out of Sherry’s embrace and pulls her legs up towards her chest. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she presses her eyes into her knees. She shivers, her back now exposed to the barely tolerable chill. Since the base’s energy is finite, they’ve started turning the heat down. Vera would almost rather die warm than freeze her ass off.

Almost.

There’s the swish of sheets as Vera feels Sherry sit up as well, and a warm pressure around her shoulders as Sherry holds her once more. Sherry rests her chin on the top of Vera’s head.

“I’m sorry, sweet cheeks,” Sherry murmurs into Vera’s hair. “If I knew a way off this ice cube, you’d be the first to know.”

“Ha!” The corners of Vera’s mouth twitch. “Thanks, Sherry.”

Straightening out her legs, Vera moves to lay down again, and Sherry follows suit. Vera reaches up for the light switch, remembers there is no light switch, and sighs.

“Lights off,” she commands, and the room goes dark.

Well, it sort-of goes dark. There’s still light peaking in through the door, which is still freaking busted. Luckily Mike and Ezra’s rooms are a floor below her, and they… probably can’t hear anything.

Soon Vera can hear Sherry’s breaths deepen and slow down as she falls asleep, humming softly into her pillow. Vera stares at the gap between the wall and the door, listening to Sherry sleep, trying to find some of her own. She’s generally good at falling asleep—a master, really. When her body finally realized no one was going to play “Reveille” every morning at 0500, Vera even overslept.

It’s kind of hard for Vera to fall asleep when she’s waiting to be awakened by the sound of someone else dying.

Eventually, maybe two hours later, Vera starts to drift off. She nestles a little deeper into Sherry’s arms and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. Her last thought before she slips into an uneasy sleep is that she should probably just ask Sherry to move in.

At that same moment, far away in a distant corner of the galaxy, the Mother of Invention falls from the sky.

 IV

Vera crosses every name off in her head, each Freelancer popping up for a few seconds, screaming out vitals, and vanishing to make way for another soldier’s injury map.

Kansas. Louisiana. Vermont. Minnesota. South. North. York. Carolina.

Washington.

(It’s easier than calling him David, than seeing his first name glaring at her; easier to picture Washington with all those broken bones, to picture David smiling, using that dumb silly straw—)

Some are dying, some dead. The lucky ones only have a few broken bones—well, the lucky ones are probably the Freelancers that aren’t showing up on the screen. Did they escape whatever fate the others met? Off on other missions, out of harm’s way? Or maybe they’re just out of their power armor—Vera shakes her head, refuses to consider the option a second longer.

“It’s gotta be an ambush,” Ezra says, his voice hitching up an octave. “I—I mean, how does someone get the drop on a ship full of fuck—fucking Freelancers?”

They’re all crowded in the computer room once again, this time without Terrill and Darryl, still asleep at their base. Sherry is the only one not huddled around the screen. Instead, she stands in the doorway, permanently open after the boys fell into it the one time, wrapped in Vera’s itchy wool comforter.

“Whoever attacked them, or whatever happened,” Vera croaks, finding her voice, “Lots of them died from some huge impact.”

“The Mother of Invention?” Ezra looks over at Vera, wild eyed. The green and red glow from the screen casts odd shadows on his face, making him look hollow. Horrifying and horrified. “You mean, like, something hit it?”

“Or it fell,” Mike suggests.

“Or it fell,” Vera echoes.

They watch until the distress beacon screeches to a halt, about fifteen minutes too early. Something must have happened to the ship’s comms, or maybe it was something else, but Vera is the last person to ask about technology of that caliber.

What she does know is her friends are dead or dying, and there’s nothing she can do about it.

Letting out a shriek, Vera leaps to her feet and punches the computer. The screen cracks, but doesn’t go out, and Vera feels her anger surge, clawing its way out of her throat. Howling in frustration she strikes the computer again and again and again, ignoring the pain in her knuckles. She lifts her leg up and brings her bare foot down on the keyboard, and the machine finally pops and fizzes out.

Chest heaving, Vera watches the smoke rising and the sparks spitting from the screen. She hoped to feel some satisfaction, but all she feels is more anger.

Vera feels a hand on her shoulder and jerks away.

“Don’t touch me!” she hisses.

“Vera,” Sherry says, softly.

“Just—just go,” Vera says, face hot. “You don’t wanna be around me right now and—and I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.”

Sherry doesn’t say anything, but Vera can feel her eyes burning into the back of her skull. It takes everything she has not to turn around and scream, curse, break something. She can feel Ezra and Mike on either side of her, tense, waiting—not for her reaction, but for their own.

Vera sucks in a huge breath and lets it out. Then she turns around to face Sherry. Their eyes meet, and Vera sees her pain reflected in Sherry’s.

“I love you, Sherry,” Vera says. “But right now, me and Mike and Ezra need to be alone, okay?”

Sherry looks ready to protest, but then she seems to see something in Vera’s face. Nodding, she reaches out one more time, pausing inches from Vera’s face, and then let’s her arm drop.

“I love you too,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

It’s quiet, for a Saturday. There’s usually twenty or more people crowded around the bar, and more often than not, the room is so packed strangers end up sharing tables.

Tonight, though, there’s no one.

The bar is empty and surprisingly well-lit, and Sherry can see the floor for the first time. She thinks maybe Roy, the bartender, should dim the lights again so she can forget she ever saw it.

At first, Sherry’s suspicious—and the fact that Roy looks completely unperturbed doesn’t help, because he always looks like that. But aside from the floor, it looks like he put an effort into cleaning the bar, which he never does himself. And there’s no music. None.

Then she turns to Darryl, who casts his gaze around the establishment, satisfied smile on his face.

“You rented the bar out, didn’t you,” Sherry asks.

“Well, I thought some peace and quiet might be nice,” Darryl says. He crosses his arms and looks over his shoulder at Terrill, who’s busy hanging their coats.

Sherry shivers. Not that the bar’s cold—in fact, it could stand to be a few degrees cooler. No, it’s the fact that when they’re done here, they’ll have to go back out into the freezing November air. It’s nowhere near as intense as That Planet, but that doesn’t mean Sherry likes it.

“Darryl, you and I both know you rented out the bar because a) you wanted to prove you could and b) you’re afraid that one guy will follow through on his threat to kick your ass,” Sherry says.

She makes her way to the bar, weaving around the tables smooshed together at haphazard angles.

“All I did was spill my drink on him!” Darryl whines, sulks over to the jukebox (Sherry’s been meaning to ask where Roy dug up one of those dinosaurs), and begins flipping through the song choices.

“You threw it at his face because he told you White Russians sucked,” Sherry says.

“And I seem to recall you saying something along the lines of, ‘your mom sucks’,” Terrill adds, joining Darryl at the jukebox. “What a waste of—”

“Oh, look, it’s Ezra!” Darryl shouts, dashing away from the jukebox—and Terrill.

Sherry shoots Terrill a look. He grins, pushes a button on the jukebox, and goes over to greet their friend. Music starts to fill the bar—some jazz number Sherry doesn’t recognize.  

Ezra nods at her over Darryl and Terrill’s heads. He looks pretty much the same as last time, hair maybe a little grayer but that’s it. Sherry nods back. She’s not great at the sappy reunion stuff, and by the deer-in-headlights look Ezra has on his face as Terrill leans in for a hug, he isn’t either.

Laughing, she turns to face the bar.

“I’ll have—”

The bathroom door to Sherry’s right bursts open and out struts Vera.

“Two shots of whiskey, and two margaritas to chase them down—one peach, one lime,” she says. Sherry stares as her old frenemy makes finger guns at Roy, who sighs and starts making their drinks.

Vera slides onto the stool to Sherry’s left—or, she tries to slide onto the stool. She ends up miscalculating and scoots right off the other side, crashing onto the floor, taking the barstool down with her.

Sherry gapes at Vera, who’s massaging her elbow, and Roy peers over the edge of the bar.

“Ow, my butt,” Vera grumbles.

Sherry opens her mouth to ask if Vera’s okay, but what comes out is a high-pitched giggle, followed by the obnoxious, snorting kind of laughter that makes her double over.

Reaching up to wipe the tears from her eyes, Sherry hops off her stool.

“Do—do you—?” Sherry chokes on her question and dissolves into another fit of laughter while Vera gives her a look that would make most people’s hearts freeze over. Catching her breath, she tries again.

“Do you need a hand?”

She reaches down, trembling slightly as she tries to compose herself.

By this time Ezra has made his way to the bar, half-concerned-half-amused look on his face.

Vera bats Sherry’s hand away and brings herself to a kneel.

“I got this you guys!” she snaps. Sherry and Ezra hold their hands up and back away.

Vera stands. Reaches down and grabs the toppled stool. Sets the stool up. And slowly climbs onto it.

Shaking his head, Roy plunks two shots of whiskey and two margaritas in front of Sherry and, noticing Terrill and Darryl approaching the bar, sets to making some White Russians.

“So? Let’s do this,” Vera says, snatching up the whiskey.

Sherry follows suit, doing her best not to smile at how red Vera’s face is or at how Vera is pretending not to notice how very, very red her face is.

Their glasses clink together and Sherry downs the shot, relishing the burn as the liquid travels to her stomach.

It’s the good shit, much better than the crap they dug up on That Planet. Everything is much better now that they’re off That Planet.

For a few moments, they sit in silence. No one is quite sure what to say, and Sherry, who used to pride herself at her conversation skills, can only think of weather-related comments. And she’s not about to gossip about the goddamned weather. So, she keeps her mouth shut. The jukebox continues to wheeze out that old jazz song.

“Is it just me, or is it, like, super weird how quiet it is in here?” Ezra asks. “I was expecting… I dunno, rowdy drunks? Overplayed radio hits? Crowded bathrooms?”

“There’s a perfectly good explanation for that,” Terrill says, taking a sip of his drink.

Darryl, who’s sitting next to Terrill, leans back and glares at his him.

“An explanation that most certainly isn’t worth his time,” he growls.

“Darryl rented out the entire bar,” Sherry says before taking a long drink of her margarita. Lime. It’s delicious, and Sherry’s almost annoyed. Vera read her well—that’s supposed to be her party trick!

Darryl opens his mouth to retort but the door to the bar opens with a BANG!

Roy drops the glass he’s cleaning and reaches for the shotgun hidden under the counter. Sherry whirls around, hand dropping to her hip. When her fingers brush the fabric of her jeans she remembers where—and when—she is. Back in the war, a loud noise usually meant an explosion, or that someone was shooting at you, and that meant grab your gun, get to cover, and shoot back.

She’s so busy reaching for a gun that’s isn’t there it takes her a few seconds to figure out the source of the noise.

It’s Mike.

Dumb grin on his face, jacket unzipped, and hat pulled way too far down on his head, Mike waves and almost knocks over the coat rack in the process.

“Hey, everyone!” he calls. “There was a spider on the door, but don’t worry, I got it!”

There’s a collective sigh of relief as everyone but Roy relaxes and goes back to their drinks.

Sherry chuckles.

“Don’t worry, Roy, Mike’s a friend,” she reassures him. Turning to Vera, she whispers, “I’m glad he didn’t actually have a gun, he probably would’ve shot the door.”

Roy narrows his eyes at Mike when he hears this. Then, with a shrug, he begins sweeping up the shattered glass. Good old No-Fucks-Given Roy.

There’s a sharp pain in Sherry’s side as Vera elbows her in the ribs.

“Ow—Hey!”

“Sorry,” Vera says in a voice that sounds a lot like she really isn’t that sorry.

Vera takes a drink and glances over at Sherry.

“How’re you liking Maine?” she asks. The way she spits out Maine makes it sound like a dirty word, and Sherry’s heart plummets.

“It’s, well, you know. It’s nice,” Sherry answers. “Nothing exciting really happens and believe me, I’m good with that.”

“But why Maine?” Vera asks shaking her head.

“What do you mean?” Sherry tries to keep her voice even.

“I don’t know! It’s just—well, it’s just—cold,” Vera says. “Anywhere in the world—heck, anywhere in the galaxy, and you chose… Maine. If you were looking for boring and quiet, there are, like, much better—and warmer—places.”

Vera’s not wrong about the cold. Winters here can be brutal. But there are colder places to be. Much colder.

As for why she picked Maine?

“I dunno,” Sherry replies with a shrug. Staring down her drink, she adds, “My parents are from here, and Terrill and Darryl got a place here, it just seemed like the place to be.”

Vera doesn’t say anything.

“What about you? Why’d you choose Hawaii?”

“Simple!” Vera says. “I got abandoned and forgotten on a literal ice cube for years by Project Freelancer! So, I decided screw—screw the cold, screw snow, I’m moving to Hawaii.”

“What about the sharks?” Sherry asks.

“Oh, psh come on, shark attacks, like, never happen,” Vera scoffs. “Though I could live without the, uh, volcanic fog-stuff.”

“Five things you couldn’t live without!” Ezra breaks in. Vera lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Oxygen,” Terrill chirps.

“Well, obviously,” Darryl says, rolling his eyes. “He means personally, as in you personally, not everyone else.”

“I, personally,” Terrill says, “could not live without oxygen.”

“Potato chips,” Mike calls from the jukebox. He’s busy flipping through songs, moving past them so fast Sherry doubts he’s actually reading the titles.

“Okay, that’s two,” Ezra says.

“Wait, so oxygen counts?”

“Internet,” Vera adds.

“That’s three!”

“Tips,” comes a voice right next to Sherry’s ear. She jumps and swivels on her stool to face the bar where Roy stands, wiping down the counter.

Sherry makes a mental note to leave him a larger tip than usual.

For a few moments, everyone’s quiet as they think about what they couldn’t live without. Sherry smiles, remembering the times they used to call a truce, gather together and share their resources—hot chocolate, alcohol, MREs, warmth. And they always ended up playing five things.

Sherry remembers the one—or three or four—times the game ended with a kiss. Sometimes Sherry would kiss Vera, or Vera would kiss Sherry. They tried to chalk it up to the booze, or the cold, or to tripping and falling… onto each other’s faces.

And she remembers when the rescue ship finally came. Vera knew some of them, and spent hours asking question after question. Sherry remembers being jealous that Vera’s attention wasn’t being spent on plotting her and Terrill and Darryl’s demise.

Then Sherry remembers the night they went their separate ways, how she wanted to punch herself in the face for not going to fucking Hawaii.

“Five,” Sherry says. “My memories. Couldn’t live without ’em.”

No one says anything for a few seconds, and then Ezra whistles.

“Whoa, dropping that deep shit on us already, huh?” he says. “I don’t know if I’m drunk enough for that.”

“But let’s think about this,” Terrill says. He sets his empty glass on the table, and he gets this look on his face that makes Sherry groan. He’s preparing for a Philosophical Discussion.

“Oh, God,” Vera mutters. She spins her stool around so she can rest her elbows on the counter and finish off her margarita.

“Let’s say you did lose your memories. How would you know you had them to begin with? Can you miss something that you’ve forgotten?” Terrill asks.

“Depends—six more shots, please!” Ezra calls over to Roy, holding up six fingers. “Do you know your memories were taken, or do you not remember that either?”

“Oohh, great point…”

Mike skips away from the jukebox to join the conversation. The song he chose begins to drift through the bar.

Yesterday,

all my troubles seemed so far away

Sherry did not pin Mike as a Beatles fan. With a shrug, she knocks back the shot Roy places in front of her. Vera does the same, and, out of nowhere, springs up from the stool and grab’s Ezra’s beer bottle.

Using the bottle as a makeshift microphone, Vera begins to belt out the chorus.

“Why she had to go! I don’t know, she wouldn’t say!”

Vera chugs the rest of Ezra’s beer then finishes the song.

And it’s.

Amazing.

When Vera comes back to sit at the bar, Sherry greets her with applause. Roy just shakes his head and hands Ezra another beer.

“I didn’t know you sang,” Sherry says as Vera plops down beside her.

“She doesn’t!” Ezra calls.

“Fuck off, Ezra!” Vera retorts. Her eyes light up and she turns to look at Sherry.

Sherry’s stomach twists for two different reasons. One: Vera is looking her right in the eyes and Sherry isn’t sure how to handle that—especially after that song. Sherry isn’t even sure if that qualifies as passive-aggressive or just flat out aggressive at this point.

Two: she knows exactly what Vera is about to say next and would honestly rather be stranded on that frozen planet for five more years.

“Your turn,” Vera says.

“Nooooo.” Sherry waves her arms in protest. “Nope.”

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!”

“I’m not nearly drunk enough for—”

“More shots!”

“No, I’m—”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Sherry, you’re a wonderful singer.”

“Shut up, Terrill!”

“Shots.”

“Thanks, Roy!”

“Tip your bartender.”

“You underestimate my ability to hold my liquor, sweet cheeks.”

“Shots, shots, shots shots shots—”

“Shut up, Darryl! Don’t encourage—”

“One, two, three, go!”

**

Sherry decides Vera’s idea might be the best idea in the history of ideas. And Terrill is right, Sherry’s a great singer. Her stuffed animals would agree.

Using Ezra, Terrill, Darryl, and Mike’s table as a stage, Sherry grabs a nearby bottle (“Goddammit not again!”) and points at Vera, who presses play on the jukebox.

               Ma ma ma maaaa

Darryl and Ezra let out a cheer as Lady Gaga starts blasting through the bar’s speakers.

Sherry isn’t sure what all the words are, so she just fakes it—while staying in perfect pitch—until she reaches—

“Pa-Pa-Pa-Poker face pa-pa-poker faaace!”

Mike has started dancing. Or maybe he’s trying to squash a spider.

Sherry makes eye-contact with Roy, who looks dead inside. She gives him a wink, but he doesn’t even blink.

As the song reaches it’s close Vera leaps up onto the table and starts dancing alongside Sherry, who is very. Very. Aware. Just how close she is. Like. Shoulder-touching, arm-bumping, hands-brushing close.

And suddenly the song is over and Vera’s clambering down from the table. She holds out her hand, and Sherry, wobbling on the shitty, unbalanced table, takes it. So she doesn’t fall. Obviously.

“My turn!” Darryl declares.

Sherry and Vera collapse into a couple nearby chairs, and it isn’t until Roy tells them it’s fifteen minutes to close that Sherry realizes she’s still holding Vera’s hand.

**

Frozen air smacks them in the face, taking their breath away for a few seconds as they walk out of the bar and into the night.

Vera’s right. Maine. Maybe not the best choice.

“My place is a few blocks away, if you all want to head over there,” Sherry suggests.

No one says anything, but no one protests either, so Sherry shrugs and takes off down the sidewalk to her place.

Snow drifts down from the sky, light and lazy in the breeze. Sherry loves how the light from the streetlamp catches on the snowflakes, making them sparkle. She loves how every breath makes its own little cloud, how the snow crunches beneath her shoes, how the growing anticipation of reaching the warmth of her apartment makes appreciate home that much more.

Okay, maybe she doesn’t hate Maine.

But… she wouldn’t hate Hawaii either.

Sherry is momentarily blinded by something cold and white smacking her in the face. She sputters and wipes the snow from her eyes as Vera snickers a few feet away.

“So that’s how it is?”

Reaching down and grabbing a fistful of snow—it’s not quite warm enough to form into a ball—Sherry springs up and flings it at Vera, who dances away.

Mike realizes what’s going on first and charges right into Terrill, knocking him off his feet and into the snow.

“Heyyyy! I’m not wearing snowpants!” Terrill protests.

Ezra and Darryl watch the events before them unfold. Ezra glances at Darryl, who glances back at him. They shrug, and Darryl kicks up a cloud of snow into Ezra’s face.

“Eat ice, ass hole!” Ezra shouts, tackling Darryl in the legs. They both go down in a tangle of limbs as Terrill struggles to get away from Mike, who’s somehow gotten a hold of Terrill’s boot.

Sherry narrows her eyes, grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, and glares at Vera.

“You never could catch me,” Vera taunts.

“I totally let you win,” Sherry says. “You were too easy to catch, and I had to have something fun to do on that frozen wasteland.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well then,” Vera says. “Prove it. If you can get me before I reach your apartment, I’ll move to Maine.”

Sherry is 99% sure her heart has stopped working.

“Deal,” she says.

“One more thing!” Vera holds up her hand. “If I get there first, you have to move to Hawaii.”

“It is so on!” Sherry says. She crouches down, heart racing.

“Oh, uh, wait!” Vera takes a step back. “What’s your address?”

Duh.

“782 North Lake Avenue, it’s straight that way,” Sherry says.

“Okay, thanks!” And with that, Vera sprints away. Looking over her shoulder she shouts, “Catch me if you can!”

Sherry takes off after her.

Later, she’ll blame it on the ice, on her shoes not being good for running in snow, for the cold air burning in her lungs. It’s winter, after all, and they don’t have power armor anymore.

Vera makes it to the apartment a solid thirty seconds before her.

And after Vera’s makes fun of her for an hour, after Darryl and Ezra come staggering home, followed by Mike, who’s carrying Terrill, after they all collapse into bed, Sherry tiptoes to her dresser and pulls out an envelope.

From the envelope, she pulls out the plane ticket she bought weeks ago, and smiles.

It’s the little things that keep Sherry going.

Hot chocolate on those nights where it’s colder than usual—which means, fucking cold. Movie night with Terrill and Darryl. Narrowly dodging a grenade as she high-tails it through the snow, getting shot just a little to the left so the bullet only grazes her arm, having a Warthog careen into her hangar.

There isn’t much else Sherry needs in life, except maybe a ride off this goddamn wasteland.

And more alcohol.

“Darryl, Terrill, you’re needed in the breakroom,” Sherry calls over the base’s intercom.

‘Breakroom’ is generous. It’s more like a closet.

Twelve feet by twelve feet. Table barely larger than a chess board, crates for chairs, ratty yellow couch that was probably white at some point, faded propaganda posters that someone—definitely not Sherry—has plastered with googly eyes. The microwave takes ages to cook anything, and their counter consists of another crate that doubled as MRE storage.

It’s Sherry’s favorite spot on the entire planet.

“What’s going on?” Darryl asks as he trots into the room. Terrill is right behind him, doing nothing to hide his disappointed frown.

“I don’t mean to be a drag, but it’s almost midnight,” Terrill complains.

“Were you asleep?” Sherry asks.

“Yes,” Terrill says at the same time Darryl says “No.”

“Guys, I don’t have time for you to get your story straight,” Sherry says, rolling her eyes. “We’ve got bigger problems.”

Terrill and Darryl glance at each other and then back at Sherry.

“Liiiike?” Terrill crosses his arms.

“Like, we’re out of booze,” Sherry says. “All we have left are maraschino cherries.”

Terrill goes pale and Darryl sinks to his knees.

“But—” Terrill starts but Darryl cuts him off.

“Nooo!!”

Knowing she’s already won, Sherry bites back a grin while she waits for Darryl to finish his tantrum. Terrill pats him on the shoulder, haunted look in his eyes. These two and their goddamn white Russians. She’s more of a whiskey gal, really.

“You know who isn’t out of alcohol?” Sherry asks, once Darryl’s calmed down a bit.

Terrill and Darryl’s heads shoot up.

“We—” Sherry doesn’t even have to pitch her proposal because Terrill has already rushed out of the breakroom, shouting something about his grenade stash.

“What the heck are you waiting for?” Darryl asks, jumping to his feet. “Let’s suit up!”

**

Breaking into Ohio’s base is child’s play.

The guard on duty is Iowa and, well. The guard on duty is Iowa.

They slip past him and duck inside a supply closet when he starts firing at a random snowflake. This must be a common occurrence because no one comes to investigate.

“Okay, Sherry, lead the way,” Terrill hisses into the radio.

One by one they move out of the supply closet and into the hallway. Sherry takes the lead, making sure to wave at all the security cameras they pass.

“Are you trying to get caught?” Darryl says.

“We’re going to get caught, Darryl,” Sherry says. “Why not have fun with it?”

“Well maybe we wouldn’t get caught if someone hadn’t left the blueprints with the camera locations back at base,” Terrill mumbles.

“I didn’t think we needed it!” Darryl protests. “It’s not like we haven’t been here before.”

Before the arrival Ohio and Company, Sherry and her boys had plenty of time to explore the bases. They knew the area like the back of their hands—not much else to do when you’re stranded on a frozen planet with no contact with the outside world.

That’s how Sherry knows there’s alcohol here: she stashed it for a rainy—or, perhaps more appropriately, a snowy—day.

There’s a loose panel in the ceiling of the showers, and when she stands on Darryl’s shoulders, she’s able to reach up and produce two bottles of vodka, half a bottle of kalua, and some moonshine.

“Excelsior!” Terrill shouts, grabbing the kalua and hoisting it above his head like an offering.

“What was that about not getting caught?” Sherry teases.

“Like you said,” Terrill says, hugging the alcohol to his chest, “We’re going to get caught. So, I’m going to savor this moment, Sherry.”

They don’t get much of a chance to bask in the glory of their reclaimed goods, because at that exact moment Ohio, Iowa, and Idaho burst into the shower room.

Sherry freezes, moonshine clutched in her hand, and waits for the firefight to begin. Hopes a stray bullet doesn’t break open the bottle she’s holding, spilling its priceless contents all over the floor.

Ohio looks down at the bottles of alcohol, then back at Sherry.

Then she reaches into the pouch attached to her hip and produces a stainless-steel shot glass.

“Truce?”

**

Sherry can’t believe this is happening.

She’s waiting for Ohio to whip out her gun, shriek “Psych!”, and start shooting.

That would be normal.

Right now, sitting in the showers surrounded by the enemy, a very drunk Terrill, and a passed-out Darryl, things are decidedly abnormal.

Iowa, Idaho, and Terrill are in the middle of a game of Five Things while Sherry and Ohio share a bottle of vodka.

Ohio pours herself another shot—it isn’t top shelf, but it gets the job done—and, after knocking it back with a cough, smiles and closes her eyes.

“This’s nice,” she says.

“Beats getting shot ‘n the foot any day,” Sherry agrees, pouring a shot of her own.

“Hey, you know what?” Ohio leans in like she’s about to tell Sherry a secret. “You know what? You’re th’one… the one who let her guard down.”

“Excuse you.” Sherry gives Ohio a tiny shove. “Excuse you, I was jus’ trying to be nice.”

Ohio tilts her head back and laughs. She looks so happy, like truly happy—Sherry should know, she’s great at reading body language.

This is the first time Sherry’s seen the ex-Freelancer out of her armor, and Sherry thinks, not for the first time, Ohio—Vera—might be the most wonderful woman she’s ever met. She might blame it on the alcohol if she hadn’t already concluded this the day the woman shot her in the foot.

“I was jus’… I was just trying to find my purpose,” Vera says once she’s caught her breath.

“And?” Sherry scoots a little closer to Vera. “Did you?”

“Mm.” Vera closes her eyes. “I think so.”

Terrill stumbles over then, followed by Idaho. Sherry looks over and grins—Iowa and Darryl are now huddled together, passed out and snoring.

“Five things you love about being trapped on a frozen planet,” Idaho says, plopping to the ground. Terrill follows suit, almost dropping his white Russian in the process.

“What the fuck could I possibly love about being stranded in the middle of—of nowhere, Ezra?” Vera snorts.

I can think of a few things, Sherry thinks.

“White Russians,” Terrill declares.

“Predictable,” Sherry laughs.

“That’s one,” Idaho says.

“I’m able to get more beauty sleep,” Terrill says.

“No, you just refuse to get up,” Sherry retorts.

“That’s two!” Idaho says.

Vera takes another shot of Vodka.

“Snowball fights,” Sherry adds.

“Three!”

“White Russians?”

“You already said that, Terrill,” Idaho says.

“Oh, I did, didn’t I?” Terrill taps a finger on his chin then says, “Sherry and Darryl.”

“Sap,” Sherry says, nudging her teammate. He’s so drunk it almost tips him over. She considers adding that he and Darryl make this wasteland bearable too when Vera slams her shot glass down onto the floor.

How many is that, five? Sherry thinks. Time to catch up.

She starts to pull the bottle towards her but Vera catches her by the wrist.

Sherry thinks she’s going to have to cut Vera off, and opens her mouth to say so—

—but she’s interrupted as Vera leans forward and fucking kisses her.

It lasts maybe three seconds, but it’s the best three seconds of Sherry’s life. And when Vera pulls away, she looks Sherry dead in the face and says,

“You.”

Sherry doesn’t know what to say because at the moment, she doesn’t even know what to think. Her mind is a whirlwind of happiness and anxiety and shock and—and, holy shit Vera kissed her. She thinks she hears Idaho let out a whoop (“THAT’S FIVE!”) and Terrill shouting at Darryl, but she can’t be sure because the blood is rushing in her ears, and she’s pretty sure her heart is about to climb out her throat.

She’s been waiting for this for so long, preparing her speech, cheesy as it may be, and now that it’s finally hear all she can muster is

“Wuh?”

Wuh?! Sherry wants to die.

Eyes widening, Vera backs away and jumps to her feet. This isn’t the best idea—she’s clumsy when she’s sober—and she almost topples backwards.

Once she regains her balance, Vera puts her hands on her hips.

“Booze! I said ‘booze’!” She cries. Then she produces a smoke bomb from—where did she get that from—and raises it above her head.

An enormous grin splits Vera’s face. She winks.

Sherry smirks. Grabs the bottle of vodka, twists on the cap, and reaches for her helmet.

What a woman, she thinks as she yanks on her helmet just in time.

And just like that, everything goes back to normal.

Well.