I do not own any characters from Microsoft or Bungie's "Halo" title or any characters created by Roosterteeth in Red vs. Blue.
He watched as the marines around him were slaughtered. Plasma bolts flew through the air, each a direct hit, leaving skin blackened and cracked like old paper. Toxic vapors plumed as the residual plasma cooled to a gaseous state. Marines fell into shock and died before they even hit the ground. The deadly pink needles lodged in their bodies exploded, sending microshrapnel in every direction. Explosions from nearby plasma grenades muffled everything, and he could only watch.
He tired to get up but could not move. Was his back broken? No… his suit! It was his suit; the neural connection had been broken. He was a prisoner in his own armor. The last marine was slaughtered, and he desperately tried to move. Every muscle strained against the half ton of armor, but it didn't even rock.
He heard gravel crunch and watched as four Elites approached him. They came closer until he could see every crack in their gray hides, their black eyes, their mandibles lined with shark-like teeth. He felt each grab a limb, lift, and pull in different directions. All he could do was scream.
Washington woke with a start, nearly yanking the tubes and electrodes off his body. He sat up, sweating and shaking violently, so frightened he wanted to retch. He gripped the sheets so tightly his knuckles were white. He released his death grip and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He hobbled to the window, pulling the IV pole behind him, and rested his hands on the sill. The cool night breeze washed over him, and the pale moonlight cast ghastly shadows on his gaunt face.
That had been one of Epsilon's memories, one of Alpha's memories. As time had passed, it had become easier to separate their memories. He'd been able to find himself again, but it meant reliving the horror that was Project Freelancer.
His blood boiled as he remembered. Exposed to wave after wave of horrifying simulations, it was tortured. He could feel each painful separation as the Alpha broke, fractured into so many pieces that could never be made whole again.
It had been weeks since Tex, York, and so many others had made their escape. He wished he could have, too. Washington was not the only one in the medical wing anymore. Another dozen had found residence there after the end of Project Freelancer, either damaged by extraction or the stress of their own AI. He gripped the sill tighter. And their AI were going to be replaced next week, so the Director could continue his sick experiments. The Director treated them like playthings, objects to be poked and prodded until they could not take anymore. He would never stop.
"It has to end," Wash said and stared outward. For all his friends, for what they did to him, to Alpha, to Epsilon, somehow, "I'll make him pay."