[And he has. Ben loves his routine, relies on it in ways he is beginning to understand he probably shouldn't, but he's far from being able to function through stress without it; deviance from it is always a red flag of one kind or another, and he's been downright unreliable since they made it back to the Barge. Skipping morning runs, with or without Bucky; not taking his chess set out to a common area to entice players; not lingering outside the art room and watching the goings on; and last night he didn't show up for the dinner shift at all.

He's been on deck, mostly, staying out of the way and not talking to anyone. He likes high places, feels safe in them, as safe as he ever feels anywhere; if he's not there, he's in his room, and that's where he is when he knows what must come, does.

He hears Rhade coming before the knock, would've smelled him too if not for the changes the Admiral, apparently, made; he's sitting crosslegged on his metal bunk, looking at the three words that are the newest addition to the decor in his room. Written neatly, deliberately in black Sharpie pen he'd stolen before the Overlook, there's now a hand-sized, bullet-pointed list of three words on the wall right over his bed.

- Duty
- Mission
- Discipline

He's silent for a moment, trying to decide if Rhade is likely to just go away if he doesn't answer. Likely not, since he's actively sought him out. And so:]

It's open, sir.

Edited 2012-11-23 07:01 am (UTC)

[The words on the wall hurt as much as they make him nervous. Things could have been worse- he saw that from what Toshiko said. He frowns, and proceeds inside to have a seat at the end of the bed.]

Why haven't you been showing up to work? I need your help. [His hands have only now started to ease in aching, despite the infirmary's immaculate work. He even has the scar on the back of his right one, still, which he rubs his thumb over. His mouth is unscathed, the dermal regenerater cared for it like a minor injury.

The deeper one is mental.]

[Ben tilts his head so he can see the doorway and Rhade's movement across the room without looking away from the mantra; he does, however, allow his eyes to unfocus, the way he does when he's standing at his most rigid attention, the soldier's stare. Pack it up, fold it in, protect everything about himself the only way he knows how.

He tilts his head a bit further so he can see his warden when the Nietszchean sits down, his voice even and crisp when he speaks.]

I was distracted, sir. Apologies. It won't happen again. [It will. Fear keeps him obedient, and he's lost a significant portion of what he had for the Wardens here; loyalty can replace it but, for most of them, hasn't and won't. For Rhade, it's all that's kept Ben to any kind of schedule at all, the only reason he's speaking to him.]

I need your help. My hands hurt. I can't prepare anything with any suitable speed. [He stops and looks at his palms, and then relaxes his fingers and allows his hands to rest in his lap.]

It's not that bad. Not normally. The hotel took something I was afraid of and made it much worse. [It's difficult to explain how much he's afraid of himself.] I recently discovered Chang was gone, and Mariska before him. I feel as though I failed them. [A sad laugh.] I didn't even like being around Mariska that much.

[It goes much deeper than that. He knows that it does. But Ben is the one who matters in the conversation, who is his inmate now and needs to know these things.]

[Ben, with no concept of the human holiday of Thanksgiving or why it would be any different, blinks but doesn't respond; maybe he wasn't going to, or maybe Rhade just starts talking again first, but either way the transgenic's jaw tightens as he feels the familiar, ever present churn of fear starting in his gut.

He understands. He does. He lost control of his panic during his first port with Bucky and not only got them captured, but got Bucky killed; he felt WonderLand plucking at the strings of it but managed to fend it off; the hotel had soothed it all away. He understands how this place, the places it takes them, reaches in and tinkers with what's there until it's nearly something completely different.

It's not the first time he's felt anger, either; it's not even the first time he's wanted to let it take him over because at least then he wouldn't be afraid, at least for a while. He's less skilled at handling it, so the muscle in his jaw bounces again, and when he looks over, it's almost a glare.]

You feel you are going to fail Dylan. [Which is, in its way, something Ben already knew; he'd almost admitted to it when his Captain first arrived. The X5's not entirely certain of how he fits into the equation, so leaves himself out completely. It's better than being wrong.] And it convinced you it would be better to give up before that happens.

No. Not Dylan. Not in particular.

I'm afraid one day I'll fail everyone, including you.

[He clears his throat.] One day, I discovered that every person I ever loved was going to die if I didn't try to save them. The responsibility was put on my shoulders, and it involved killing my best friend. Only one of us was allowed to survive the fight. But I lost all my allies. [And friends and lovers. Everyone. No one wanted to stand beside of him.

He doesn't look at Ben.] So I was told by someone I had to undo it all. That if I wanted to save them badly enough, I would have to-

I wouldn't be the one to save them. They needed him to try. [He rubs the scar again. Tyr gave him that scar, before he left him dead on the floor with little more than a useless apology.]

[Ben doesn't look away from him, dark brown eyes steady and intent, and it's difficult to tell how much he understands. Some of it, certainly, the fear of failure, of letting down the people he loves most; he already did. But the rest of it is questionable.

The trangenic's gaze flicks down to the scar, but then immediately back up to Rhade's face when he doesn't recognize the source; he believes him, believes that he believes what he's saying, but it's a challenge getting around himself to say anything.]

That must have been difficult, sir. [It's a bland, awkward attempt, one he follows up nearly immediately.] How can all of that responsibility be placed on one person? How can you just... "undo it all?"

Time travel. [He quietly admits.] I had a chance to go back and die instead. And I don't know how it all can, but it couldn't be both of us. It just had to be the one. [He sounds so resentful and hurt for a moment. Another reminder the course of his life guided him into fate that he couldn't fight, and he couldn't live up to. Sometimes it hurts enough, the lack of choice or the consequences of actually having a choice, that it's almost enough to cry over.

But it's like guarding any other wound.] Someone with a unique perception of timelines told me.

[There was a time when the doubt that clouds Ben's expression would've been for the phrase "time travel;" this time, it's for what seems to him to be, at best, a dubious thing to trust someone else on.]

And you believed them. How can anyone else know your future for inevitable?

[He hits the button to open the door, but doesn't beckon him to enter. He looks fine now- the pain is mostly in his hands, and his mouth had relatively minor injuries. They got to him before he could have been convinced to do worse.

He's sitting not at his desk, but his side of the gaming table, and looking at the empty chair on the other side. He's rubbing one of the black stones between his fingers.]

I hate to say, "I told you so...."

[He lets a pause linger.]



I really do.

[It never works out well for anyone. He wishes Dylan didn't have to see any of that. Not Cato. Not him. That he has to feel responsible for him.]

[Dylan sits in the empty chair on the other side of the gaming table.]

I hate it when the pessimist is right.

What happened back there? [Not the facts of events; Dylan was there so he already knows those. Rather, what happened in Rhade's mind to cause him to do what he did.]

It knew what I was afraid of... It won't happen again. I handle it much more professionally most of the time. It won't happen again.

[Without horrendous outside influence, anyway. And as usual, it's a non-answer.]

Are you going to be alright?

You and Cato are alive. I'll be fine. [Brooding and feeling like it's his fault they require recovery time, but compared to them he thinks his woes are small.]

But I didn't ask whether or not it'll happen again. I asked what happened this time.

[He drops the stone into the bowl and rubs his hands over his face.] I felt as though I were failing people again. The hotel set me up to feel as though I were failing, and people I should have been responsible for were dying. If they weren't actually dying it made it look as though they were.

The last thing Beka ever asked me was if I wanted something badly enough to kill for or badly enough- [he trails off, like he cut her off before.] I wanted it badly enough.

[Dylan reached over and picked up the black stone Rhade just dropped in the bowl.]

Any soldier learns to be ready to kill or die for what they believe in. But being ready for it isn't the same as accepting it.

Sometimes we fail. All that means is that next time we have to try harder to make the universe go our way. It doesn't mean you need to...to remove yourself from the field.

Dylan! [He snaps.] I failed so badly I can't be a part of the universe anymore. I had no one. Everyone left me, or I was responsible for their deaths. I had to remove myself from the field. Trance told me, and I had to make you hate me. I couldn't even leave you with a good memory.

[He stops and puts his elbows on the table, and his face in his hands. Back home there's someone that's promised to stay by Rhade's side. For all too brief a time, he had Una, and she was willing to fight for him.

He does have friends here. And the realization that he might not fail if given the same task again strikes him. But it would always begin with Dylan dying, because of some universal calamity of a set up, and it's enough that he comes a moment within actually tearing up into his hands.

Instead he pulls his gaze up and rubs his fingers over his mouth, as if he's trying to check to make sure the sutures are actually gone.]

[Someone was busy while Rhade was away. The dessert portion of Thanksgiving is now apparently covered, as one of the counters is covered with cooling pies and the big fridge has two shelves full of the rest. Wanda isn't hurt; she isn't scared or depressed; she's angry. Better to use the anger--and she's done it productively, though there's a faint damp spot on the far wall from where she flung a single pumpkin pie against it.]

[She's pulling the last of them out of the oven when Rhade gets back.]

[He's been relying heavily on sandwich fixings and premade soups for the last few days, but he knows this meal for whatever reason is important to some of the passengers, so he intends to make a large attempt. He comes in early, surprised to find most of the deserts already made.]

Wanda?

[He hopes that she doesn't notice how much he fumbles with his usually nimble hands, but he knows she probably will. He can smell the demolished pie, too.

He goes over to the counter and starts putting in orders into his comm for ingredients, most of them already pre-chopped. He just won't be able to handle this much preparation on his own.]

[She lifts her chin and walks over as soon as she's set out the last of the pies.] Yeah.

I calculated it. To feed this crowd you're gonna need twenty stuffed turkeys, twelve hams and enough vegetarian entrees to feed ten people. I've already done one Thanksgiving on dinner staff, we all just went through hell, and I cook to relax. I'm volunteering. [Her tone says she's not taking no for an answer.]

[Even if it's a little manufactured, he throws on his most charming, cocky smirk.] I wouldn't think of refusing. [Though the statement is complimentary, he knows that he really shouldn't refuse.

He heads for the storage room.] What do you have made already?

[At that he gets a real smile for a brief second before she goes back to her determined look.] Good, because I'm Mary Poppinsing the hell out of this meal preparation.

[She ticks off on her fingers.] Pies, rolls, stuffing bread, and I have the five bigass crockpots stewing cranberry sauce. That should be all the early work.

[Clearly she was not injured enough to need recuperation, because she needed at least two days just to get it all done. At least, if she used normal methods.]

[...but she has a gleam in her eye and seems suspiciously non-exhausted. Maybe she didn't.]

Whatever gets the job done. [He says, not minding the lack of manual labor as he placed huge tubs of chopped vegetables on the counter. At least the Admiral is taking some pity on him.]

[Wanda shrugs, grabs a giant bowl from the cupboard and waves her hands at the stack of stuffing bread loaves. They start floating over and shredding themselves rapidly into the bowl.]

Yep.

Cause I might be the volunteering type, but there's no way in Hell I'm doing this all by hand.

I'm grateful for your assistance in any capacity. I'm a little impaired. [He starts putting out mixing bowls, and fumbles a little with one.]