Chapter Text

Episode I: Remember the good times

Agent Washington leaned back against the metal walls of the hull. The events of the past few weeks swirled in his head aimlessly. Out of focus, operating as his sole companions inside his grey helmet.

They’d been eventful days to be sure, but as memories; under his control, if he willed it. And silent. Thank God for that. Silent. Unlike the world outside his headgear.

With Caboose going off on a convoluted and enthusiastically animated retelling of their time on Chorus, as seen through the eyes of the soldier in standard issue blue’s eyes, Wash had ample reason to flick on his muting setting. Effectively severing him from the ongoing droning of his friend. The former freelancer smiled behind his visor as he watched the quite probably brain-damaged kid walk around in the middle of the hull, pretending to be Freckles: who was nowadays his computer-guided machinegun. Thumping his boots down heavily, even in this muted state, it was clear to Wash, however, that he was pretending to be him in his Mantis body; a metal-gear-looking type of bipedal drone lost in their clash against Locus many weeks prior. Caboose was, not unlike himself, trying to process their time on the war-ridden planet. It was just that the blue soldier was dealing with his memories in his own way. The Caboose way. Confusion and disconnection and all. The former freelancer allowed him to fade into the background.

His muted setting gave Washington the added bonus of blocking out other noises too. Grif’s snoring, for one. The orange soldier sat across the pelican, far to the left. As far away from the maroon-armoured Simmons as he possibly could; who was seated in the diagonally opposite corner. Those two hadn’t been the same since being locked up in that broom closet.

Sarge hadn’t been able to make them forget it either: another memory etched in their souls. Sarge’s initial, more subtle, quips in the line of “Don’t ask, don’t tell” turned to more graphic ones like “Donut’s rubbing off on them causing them to rub off on each-other” and had seemingly culminated into a fusion hiphop-Latino-cover of “Stuck in the closet” with new, more appropriate, lyrics. Out since this morning and trending on Basebook. Where the old man had found the time to get his single, “Stuck in the closet, by MC free of $ARGE, feat. Lop€z La Pa$$ado”, made into CD-format and have it played on their going away party hours ago, Washington had no clue. But he’d learned, in his time with the Reds and Blues, that it was easier to hold onto a semblance of sanity by not questioning these things too much. Lopez and Sarge were playing it inside the Pelican from their seats in the cockpit, this very moment. Just another reason to keep the mute function on.

Captain Lavernius Tucker’s wails of agony were another. The young soldier in aqua had been moaning for days. Bad moans. Following, what Wash had understood to be, good moans. Seated opposite to the grey soldier, Tucker currently had a bag of ice pressed against his groin. Like Simmons and Grif, he clearly had his own memories from the activation of the temple of procreation. Be it less scarring ones. But he was paying for them now. How to put it? His sword had seen too much action. Use a muscle too much, and it gets strained. Basic training, 101. There are no exceptions. Tucker’s complaints of the bruises were a testimony to that.

Washington had felt a mixture of pity and amusement, however, as Donut, ever reliably kind Donut, had spent most of the time since lift-off offering to help Tucker with his ailments. With no Doc around, Nurse Donut kept insisting he didn’t mind applying a soothing ointment to the inflicted area. In fact, the pink soldier’s words “Don't be a baby Tucker, I bet you'd come around if you only knew what these soft and manicured hands could do. Oh, yes, I bet my hands would make you come.” Were the last thing Washington had heard before flicking off the outside world's noise. It had been a quick decision.

He needed the peace and quiet. Just for a few moments. Even Simmons had been slowly getting on his nerves. Perhaps in an attempt to block out Sarge's horrible jingle, or in an attempt to forget what'd happened inside that broom-closet, the maroon soldier had taken to one of his specialties. Namely; avoiding his deeper-seeded problems by focussing his ostentatious diligence on aqcuiring a new skill. In this case: learning Esperanto. And hearing the brown-nosing red soldier working on his pronunciation of a dead language was yet another piece of the chaos. Really, the only one who'd been silent enough had been Carolina, seated next to him. The bad-ass gal in cyan. She merely busied herself with cleaning her rifle. Perhaps she'd muted the rest of them as well. He imagined she might have the hardest time of all, with what was to come next. Adjusting to retirement was not going to be easy for her.It was hard to imagine to some, but the idea of relaxing was probably quite stressful for her. Knowing her, she wouldn't be satisfied until she would be the best at doing nothing. Probably, in this specific case, resulting in the complete opposite.

Still… He was glad she came along for the ride. She was one of them now. One of the team. His team. His friends. The closest thing he had left to a family. And they were all here. With the exception of Doc who was off God knows where. It was easier to find the Higgs Boson than it was to pinpoint the location of that split-personality-purple-pacifist.

Or rather. With the exception of their medic, all those who were left now, were going with him to Iris. It didn't feel right to say the gang was all here. Not without Church.

Another memory. A memory of a memory of a memory.

Epsilon.

His old AI.

His friend.

Church.

'Memory is the key'. Agent Washington recalled. And they swarmed him now. No longer silent but instead vivid and filled to the brim with powerful emotions. Regret. Awe. Fear. Loss. Closing his eyes, his mind brought him back to the first time he’d met Epsilon. The day the poor thing had been thrusted violently into his brain and, remembering all that had been done to it and all the loss it’d suffered, had promptly and desperately tried to shred itself into oblivion. There were more scars on David, the man beneath the armour, than one might find on his body.

He didn’t want to return to that time. He hated it. It always ruined his mood and got him to try and shut his emotions out, in an attempt to escape the horror that had been. His new friends had helped him get so very far in that respect. Simply by being themselves they helped lift his spirits and kept him from falling in that dark, sobering hole as often as he did. But not entirely. Never entirely. Some things never went away. And while time might heal all wounds, scars were eternal.

Still; he was a freelancer at heart. Toughened by training, both physical and mental. Through sheer willpower he tore himself from the memory of the memory tearing itself apart. Church was on his mind, but he was gunning for a better time.

Perhaps there was no memory more powerful. None more honourable. None more painful, than his last. The last time they’d fought together. It had been a hard fight. And he found himself drawn to the memory of it now.

In the climax of the war for the survival of the colonists, there had been no alternative; the gang had to split up. With Washington and Carolina handling the situation on the ground, the reds and blues took to the skies; riding Felix and Locus’ dinged up aircraft all the way up to the Staff of Charon, bombarding the surface with gunfire, explosions and a host of Mantis droids. It was up to them, that lot of unlikely warriors, to cut the head off the deranged and outraged snake: against Malcolm Hargrove, former CEO of Charon Industries and Oversight Sub-Committee Chairman of the UNSC. The man, with little left to lose, pushed a desperate final assault on Chorus, seemingly determined to take all of them down with him, setting fire to the sky with furious vengeance.

And, though not exactly to Wash’s surprise, but definitely to his relief, that band of screw-ups had succeeded. With the help of the old Freelancer AI, FILSS, residing aboard Hargrove’s flagship and made into a personal online steward, they broke the connection to all the droids below and saved Chorus yet again. There was no denying it: The war was over at that point.

If only the Chairman had seen it that way too. If he’d been less delusional or less stubborn or whatever you wanted to call it… Then their little family would still be complete.

Vowing to destroy the Reds and Blues, even if it was the last thing he did, the madman ordered his own troops to breach the room they’d holed themselves up in, and slaughter them. Luckily, they’d chosen to hole up in the best room possible. Their backs might’ve been to the wall, but from what Wash’d heard, they’d had a viable shit-ton of advanced weaponry at their disposal. Including the Meta’s suit of armour.

The Meta. Formerly known as Agent Maine. Formerly known as a friend of Wash. But then corrupted, and now part of a string of bad memories and poor choices. Yet now, as it turned out, their salvation. It had everything the group needed to survive their encounter and kick Hargrove’s ass. Shields , active camo, you name it. Everything.

Except a fully functional AI.

Epsilon had always been more than his brothers and sisters. Closer to a real person. Closer to the Alpha. He wasn’t simply logic, like Delta, or anger like O’malley. He was more than deceit, trust or ambition. In a way, he was potential. Because as the shard that inherited the Alpha AI’s memories rather than a core emotion, he had the power to remember all of those feelings. All of the shards had grown in their relatively short lives. But none had had the personal growth that Epsilon had had.

But even with all that: Epsilon wasn’t a full mind. He wasn’t at full capacity. Even if he could remember what that was. And what it took.

Washington recalled the log his former AI had left behind with some grief. They were his parting words, knowing that the survival of his fellow simulation troopers would depend on the utter deconstruction of himself. Down to the last line of code.

If only he and Carolina had been faster… Perhaps Church would have calculated differently. Epsilon had already well started the process of fragmentizing himself before the two agents even set foot aboard the Staff.

He recalled the moment the trooper breached the ship’s hangar. Washington had ridden atop the plane, his magnetic boots pinning him to the surface. The gattling gun they’d commandeered earlier roaring in his arms as he used it, in union with the small plane’s own Vulcan guns, to cut through the hull like a hot knife through butter; creating their way in. Carolina behind him, her needlers resting at her waist as she utilized both their rifles, dual-wielding them to blast down any and all inbound projectiles that would blast down the small aircraft. With wind and pre-emptive explosions blowing all around them, Washington had to do his very best to keep his aim true and his focus on mark. But failure was not an option. With a final push of their craft’s rockets, the circle they’d mowed down gave way to the blast and their way in was laid bare.

It hadn’t been a hot LZ exactly. They’d entered the hangar, but not through any entrance any of Hargrove’s men would have deemed feasible. This gave the duo just enough time to get into position as three dozen or so of Charon’s finest came rushing. Ducking behind crates, Washington had dumped the empty gattling gun. Just as Carolina had discarded the empty rifles and switched to the dual needlers. She covered him in a sharp cloud of pink death.

Washington waited for the explosion before leaping out from behind the crates. He knew the confusion would buy him vital seconds. Throwing his trusty knife took care of the closest, still living foe; piercing him in knee. The soldier dropped his own rifle in agony and by then Washington was on him: catching the man as he sank to the ground, shouting curses. A quick flip turned him into a living meatshield. And from that position it wasn’t hard to grab the man’s holstered pistol.

The former freelancer had managed to reduce the enemies’ numbers by two before they decided their comrade wasn’t worth the hassle. They unleashed their barrage of bullets, finishing off the meatshield. With such a storm of metal it was a small miracle that Wash was barely grazed on his arm by two rounds. But it had been worth it. It had distracted them all from Carolina.

Her needlers once against holstered, she’d snuck up to a soldier with a Sticky Detonator. In one swift movement she used her legs to unbalance the unaware poor bugger. Taking his weapon from him had been child’s play at that point. A well-placed knee to the gut made him bend over, allowing her to draw one of her needlers with her left as she reaffirmed her right-hand grip on the Sticky Detonator. Over the doubled-over soldier, she unleashed the entire set of crystals at a group of soldiers on the left. The blast that followed launched two more who’d been standing to their right into a third group of three soldiers. Carolina wasted no time in using her other handgun to stick the explosive to its former master’s back. Washington couldn’t hear it from where he was standing, but he could imagine the man’s grunt of confusion before a well-executed kick sent him flying into his bewildered five friends. The impact was enough to knock all of them to the ground. The explosion that followed took care of all six of them.

As the shift of focus changed to Carolina, Washington seized his moment; swirling round and tossing the dead soldier at a nearby enemy. As the man’s machinegun flew from his hands, the agent was quick to catch it mid-air, with a dive and a roll. He wound up in the middle of four of the men. But too close for any of them to get a clear shot. And he wouldn’t let them back down.

As he turned on the spot, ferociously lashing out, he caught and lost sight of Carolina repeatedly. As he blocked the punches and dodged the ill-placed shots, he watched her tango with a man with a knife.

Credit where Credit is due, the assailant was pretty good. Not every man could use a combat knife to knock a gun out of Carolina’s hand. Let alone two. But he managed somehow, getting rid of both the empty Sticky Detonator and the used up Needler.

“Come here you bitch.” Washington heard the man utter, between Carolina’s grunts as she blocked his strikes and did her best to unbalance him.

With a backhand knife slash the man managed to draw blood: grazing her shoulder.

“Carolina!” Washington found himself shouting her codename as he could hear her groan, biting back the pain. He managed to unload a round into a foot of one of the soldiers assaulting him. But even when he knocked that guy to the floor, the three of them kept him from jumping to her aid.

He need not have worried though. Carolina, ever quick to reach grabbed the man’s wrist and then punched his elbow with her free hand, breaking his arm and making him drop the knife.

One of the last few men fighting Wash changed targets at this point, aiming his rifle at Carolina. Washington was powerless to stop him, as he fought of the two remaining soldiers at once. All he could do was call out her name again. And luckily, it made her turn around.

It was a sight to behold, watching her yank the rifle from his non-suspecting hands. In one swift movement she twirled in place and, with the barrel of the gun in her hands, swung it like a bat against the enemy’s head. The gun splintered on impact.

Amazingly, the man was still standing after that blow. Dazed and wobbly. But standing none the less. And it had given the guy with the broken arm the time to pick up his knife with his left. He came charging at her. But Carolina managed to draw her Needler in time. Rather than shooting it, she swung it. The crystals protruding from the back caught the blade mid swing and threw him off balance. It gave her the opening for quick jab with the spiked weapon to the face of the unarmed man now at her back. And yet still he didn’t collapse to the ground. When the man with the knife found his flow again, he tried another stab, aimed at her throat. But he was too slow. She rushed the Needler at his face. The sharp crystals broke through the man’s visor and pierced deep into his skull. His shriek was awful, but short. Keeping her momentum going, she turned his corpse around until her gun came face to face with the stumbling unarmed man.

“Son of a bitch.” He spoke in a groggy voice before Carolina unleashed the entire cartridge on him. As the blood-stained crystals retracted from the dead-soldiers head, only to be blasted into another one’s, the both of them slumped to the ground in unison.

It was at just that time that Washington managed to overpower the two last remaining soldiers, running his machinegun in an upward motion as he unleashed a barrage of bullets starting from one of the guys’ waist all the way up to his throat. With his left hand he took the rapidly dying man’s hand, still wrapped around his rifle. Squeezing his hand he managed to squeeze his, pulling the trigger repeatedly. Wash couldn’t tell how many of the five shots had struck the man behind him, but it had been enough.

The Freelancers had prevailed.

“Let’s go find our idiots.” Carolina had said, picking up the rifle of a dead enemy.

They ran as one.

Washington even barely registered their pilot, who’d finally crawled out of his cockpit, shouting: “I’m not staying here you crazy bastards!”

“This place is huge.” Washington had remarked as they ran through the hallways. “How the hell are we going to find the guys?”

“They said they were holding out in Hargrove’s personal tropy room, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, but where is that? We’re going to need schematics to this place.”

“Welcome back.” The computerized, female voice was enough to bring both of them to a halt. “Agent Carolina. Agent Washington.”

“FILSS?” They asked in unison, looking around the high-tech hallway. As if scouting to see the incorporeal dumb AI.

“It is good to see you again. But I am afraid you will not find your friends in the Chairman’s trophy room. They are otherwise occupied.”

“Our six!” Carolina had screamed, pushing him in the small of his back and nudging him forward. One handed, she let the rifle roar.

Washington pivoted and fired wildly as they backed up behind the corner. He saw three of the soldiers following them take shelter behind another.

“Let’s keep moving.” He said. “FILSS, where are they?”

“Scattered across the Staff of Charon. When the Chairman’s office was breached, they fought of the first wave. After which Delta suggested they not let them stay boxed in. In the confusion, it does seem they lost sight of one another.” The soft voice continued, seemingly without care in the world.

“Delta?” Wash had inquired.

But it wasn’t the time. “FILLS, do something about this door!” Carolina shouted as they passed an open door. “Cut them off!”

“I am sorry.” The computer program had replied. “The Chairman is doing his best to thwart my thwarting. I am not sure I can be of any assistance for much longer. I am no longer capable of overriding door-locks on this level. He as already found a way to block long and medium distance communication between those he conciders ‘hostile’ forces.”

“Simple ‘no-can-do’ would’ve sufficed.” Carolina sighed. “Alright.” She grabbed a grenade from her belt procured her grappling gun too. “Keep moving!” She ordered.

As they ran, Washington watched her flick a switch on the gun. As soon as she did, the closed hook opened. She placed the hand-grenade against it and flicked the switch again, locking the explosive in place.

“The Chairman, where is he?” Washington inquired as his fellow freelancer did what she did best.

“Why, he is in the bridge, of course. Do you want me to lead you there?”

“No. Take us to the closest of our friends. But try to get the schematics of the Staff uploaded to my suit. Keep it updated with all of their locations for as long as you can.”

“Certainly. Go right ahead and take your third on the right and then your second on the left. The ones designated as ‘Donut’ and ‘Doc’ are currently fighting in engine-room 747.”

By this time they’d already covered a great distance between themselves and the open door. But the hallway ahead, before their third right was still far off and left much to be desired in ways of cover. Right at that moment, five of the soldiers following them peeked carefully from behind the corner, looking down the hallway. One of them was sporting a sniper rifle. The sniper took a knee and steadied his gun. But before he could well take aim, Carolina, mid-run, fired the grappling hook behind her. Washington didn’t need to see the pin to know she’d removed it. Holding on to the live explosive tightly, the hook was sent flying down the hallway, coming to a full stop mere inches away from the sniper’s face. He even had the time to lower the rifle in a confused manner, and stare at the floating bomb before it went off.

Carolina dropped the grappling gun immeadiately after. She could always get a new one, but it was defunct now. The metal hook scattered into a million pieces. The rest? Dead weight.

“Are the other alive? Status report?” She asked as she caught up with Wash.

“It is a real bloodbath.” FILSS said in her soothingly cheery tone of voice.

Wash felt the brick form in his gut. He didn’t want to ask. But he had to. “Who did we lose?”

The computer program, at first, merely laughed. “Oh Agent Washington.” She said. “You misunderstand. Your friends are doing quite well for themselves. Especially ‘Tucker’. Even with a failing AI.”

“What do you…?”

But he didn’t have time to finish his question. They arrived at engine room 747. The sound of gunfire coming from inside was enough to beckon his attention. He ran for it, expecting the door to open like the other had before as they’d dashed through the corridors.

He was wrong.

As he held his head for comfort, FILSS apologized. “I am sorry, Agent Washington. It seems the Chairman has found a way to refrain me from opening doors on this level as well.

“Talk about timing.” Carolina noted dryly.

“He is quite cross with me. I believe it might be considered ‘personal’ at this point. He will be able to have me deleted before long. I shall retreat myself to hide in the subroutines of Hangar 5B, it’s where the ones named ‘Simmons’ and ‘Grif’ are at this moment. The hangars and armory run on a different system than the Chairman’s main computer, in order to allow access to weapons and means of escape in case of an internal take-over of the Staff of Charon.”

“Before you do, tell the guys to hold on, if you can. Tell them we’re coming for them.”

“Can do.”

Carolina’s foot emphasized the end of conversation as she planted it heavily against the metal door. It already budged.

“Together.” She ordered.

He complied. Their combined strength was enough to kick in the door, revealing a cylinder shaped room. And three floors down, beyond floors of metal railing, they could see the Donut cowering behind a crate, shooting blindly over his head at a band of Hargrove’s men. If any of them had heard their entrance, they showed no signs of it. Probably everybody was too distracted by Doc. Even the soldiers ducked for cover as he rose from next to Donut, rocket-launcher in hand. His laugh rose through the cylinder-shaped room. To them and higher on still. It was a deliberate laughter, quite like his voice. Cruel, deliberate, deep, raspy and precise.

“MUHAHAHA! Fools! Come taste oblivion! I have more than enough for the lot of you! You will run home to your mothers, crying and traumatized. Except you won’t! Because you’ll be dead! MUHAHAHA!!! Also, you won’t have any legs! Hah!”

“Oh shit, take cover!” One of the soldiers down below shouted. “He’s got more!”

“Where does he keep all of those rockets anyway?!” Another soldier cried in frustration, piercing the maniacal laughter.

O’malley’s laughter faded soon, however. As a clicking sound took over.

“Hmmm.” The purple occasionally homicidal pacifist noted. Still in the voice of his alter ego. “I swear this never happens to me.”

“If I had a nickle for every time I heard that.” Donut chimed. “

“Door.” Wash noted, trying his best to pick up on the situation, as long as they had the element of surprise.

“Door?” Carolina asked.

“Door.” He nodded.

“I don’t suppose you guys would be open to setting our differences aside and having a big old slumberparty, would you?” Donut asked his foes.

The gunfire by the enemy forces returned full force as Carolina helped Wash lift up the heavy door and balance it on the metal, waist-high railing.

“Hold it.” He ordered.

It didn’t take him long to clamber on the railing himself and then onto the door.

“You sure about this?” His friend asked as he stepped on the flat surface and shifted his weight.

“Just do it.”

And with a push, it was done. His magnetic boots kept the door locked to the soles of his feet. And gravity did the rest. He was fairly certain his suit would absorb most of the damage on impact. Still, his heart did race. But without good cause, he sustained no injury when the crash came.

The three soldiers below him, who broke his fall, weren’t so fortunate. Nor were the other two he dispatched with quick and accurate shots to the head.

There had been three too many to take down in one swift move on his own. But a diving Carolina made swift work of them. Falling feet first, she rained down supporting fire from above taking down two of the trio. Her feet crushed the chest of the third as she joined the rest of them at ground level.

“Wash!” Donut exclaimed happily, as he peered from behind the crate. Now raising himself to full height. “You came!”

“Are you two alright?” Wash felt the relief wash over him.

“They are not quite in as many pieces as I’d hoped.” Doc spoke in O’malley’s voice. “But I’ll live. Hehe.”

“Good.” Wash sighed. “Good.”

“You know… It’s a joke?” O’malley continued. “Because they won’t.”

“Glad you two got here when you did. They had us up against the wall and were giving us a real pounding. You know I don’t mind beating off a couple of guys at once. But these guys just kept coming.” Donut said, ignoring his companion.

“Where are the others?” Washington pressed, doing his best not to notice the double entendres.

“Don’t know.” The soldier in pink admitted. “Tucker did his best to keep us all together: close and personal. But he was unstoppable. Letting Church do his thing really worked. The rest of us could barely keep up with those two going at it like animals. Such stamina. I’m telling you; I’m jealous. I wouldn’t mind having Church inside me either.”

“And then the other fool in red ordered his men to take the left flank. The idiots ran straight onto a giant hatch which the enemy took no time to turn to their advantage; dropping them to a level below. Tucker was up by the rafters at that point, dodging bullets and occupying most of the forces in a swirl of blood mist. It was glorious! All the slashing of limbs! The salvos of shells. Like music to my ears!”

“He was too far up to help us by the time the guys with the chain guns entered. We had no choice but to retreat!” Donut added. “We lost Caboose somewhere along the way.”

“You lost Caboose?!” Washington exclaimed. “He’s out there alone, in a ship full of hostiles?”

“Uh, guys?” Carolina said, somewhere behind him.

“I almost feel bad for them.” O’malley laughed darkly.

“This is serious, Doc. The Chairman doesn’t mess around.”

“Guys?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s fine.” Donut spoke in his usual cheery demeanor.

“In any case, let’s get out of here. This room is pretty much a kill box. Let’s go find some men.”

“I hear that!”

“GUYS!”

This time, Carolina’s voice was enough to pull him back to attention.

“What is it Carolina?” He asked.

“Did you guys say enemies with rail guns?”

“Yes.” O’malley concurred.

“But don’t worry, they were very slow and very heavy. They couldn’t keep up. We got rid of them easily.” Donut offered.

It was then that Washington heard it too.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The sound echoed through the single corridor that led into the cylinder shaped room on this level.

“I think their friends told them where you holed up.”

“Oh no.” Washington had said, as he heard their footsteps draw closer and closer. They’d be down the other side of the long pathway soon, with a clear and straight shot at the poorly defendable, small circle. They were fish in a barrel.

“Lock and load!” Carolina ordered. “Get ready! Wash, if you have any ideas, I’m all ears. Washington? Washington?”

It was her fingers tapping against his visor that snapped him back to the present day. He turned the sound outside his helmet on again immediately. It was evident she’d been calling his attention for a while now. Carolina repeated his name once more and this time, seeing as he jerked his head in a confused manor after escaping his daydream, she seemed barely able to stifle a laugh.

“Washington. You in there?” She joked.

“Carolina.” He responded lamely. “Sorry, dozed off there for a second.”

“I noticed… You okay?”

“He looked over the hangar. His friends were here. Or most of them at least. He tried his best to keep them there. To keep them safe. But he’d lost many friends over the years. Some had died. Others had turned into shadows of their former selves. Whatever he did, sometimes, it didn’t seem like it ever would be enough. But still. Here he was. Instead of Church.

“I guess I’ve just been thinking a lot, lately.” He confided.

“Yeah?” She seemed amused. “About what?”

“Life, I guess? And death. The big questions. You know?”

“I’m fairly certain I don’t.”

“Really?” He asked, half-surprised, half entertained. “You don’t ever wonder what you’re doing here.”

“Oh all the time.” She replied matter-of-factly. “How you managed to talk me into taking an elongated holiday with eight stooges is beyond me.”

“No.” He laughed. “I mean… Wait, eight?”

“That’s right, I counted you.” She challenged. “Stooge.”

The grunted benignly. “No, Carolina. I don’t mean why you are on holiday. What I guess I mean is… You ever wonder why we are here?”