Trolley Problem

[pants]

"Do you want to exit the sewers, Joseph?"
''I think that'd be nice, Moriko.''
"It's time to see if I remember how I got here."
''I can lead us if need be.''
The two of them leave. Lucas stares at his diorama. He's still reeling from Eliza's report.
''Im gonna nap," Martin says.
''See y'all."
Martin leaves, too.
Lucas just stares at it. The little map of the District. Tiny little cuts of fabric, pieces of scrap wood and metal.
A little hula girl standing on a newspaper. Eliza's news couldn't have come at a worse time.​

As they descended the ladder in that old tavern, The Owl,
There was a note on a support beam. "Watch your step up there. -Sven."
This close to their FOB? How? Did he put a tracker on Lucas's gear?

And then--
once they surfaced, making their way to Triumph Street--
a lone unit walking the catwalk to the south.
Lucas knew him by his walk. By the rifle on his shoulder.
It was Trey. Had to be.
​

Of course, the mission went great. Almost too great.
No reinforcements, not a single on-duty unit with a radio or an active biosignal that could ring out?
It's like Peterovich, or Holt, or whoever, wanted them to be there. Or knew they would be there.
Subjects exposed to full-pathway overwrite (FPO) show no overt signs of disruption or dissonance. A majority, approximately 89%, are unable to distinguish implanted sequences from their original memories, suggesting an effective full assimilation of narrative anchors.
I wonder where Demitra is right now, hm? I am sure that Russian girl would love to experience some Soviet buildings. She is one for her past-- fitting for a malignant rat.
Ever wonder how I know exactly where you are at, huh? Weird fact that she just...Lived...Isn't it?
Once he's sure he's alone, Lucas slams his fist down on the table. Some of the pieces are jostled out of place. The hula girl falls over.

All of that AND the Combine are working on a new facility.
One powerful enough to contact off-world reinforcements.
They've got a month or less.

Which means they've got only a few days to take care of Peterovich and figure out what to do with Sven and Trey.



Sven... God, he was just a kid. He remembered the poor kid sobbing, dropping to his knees and holding his head in his hands. He couldn't discern what was real from what the Combine had forced into his head. How horrible is that? How do you live a life where you can't trust your own thoughts? Lucas thought that Sven was begging him for death. And he couldn't bring himself to do it.
But that hesitation is one-way, isn't it? A few days ago, Sven shot him at point-blank range. Put a gun to his head.

Trey would be the same, wouldn't he?
A friend-- one of the few who actually cared about him and worried about him when he was at his lowest--
With deadly aim. Almost as good as Katyusha.
If Lucas hesitated, even for a moment, Trey would almost certainly kill him.



Lucas thinks of his friends. His family. He thinks of all the good he's done.
Thinks of everything he still has to do...

He can't hesitate. If only one of them can live, and the other has to die?



Lucas quietly fixes the diorama.
"Sorry, Trey," he mumbles to himself.
It doesn't make him feel any better.​

 

[pants]

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He puts a warning shot into the ground next to Trey. "That's enough! Show me your fucking hands!" He prays that nobody can see how his hands shake in the dark. Trey stops crawling away from him. Lucas steps closer, swallowing the lump in his throat. He can barely speak.
"What'd they do? What'd they change to make you turn on us?" Trey hesitates, slowly reaching for his radio. He rips a component out, disabling the communication device.

The silence is overwhelming. Lucas can hear individual droplets of condensation dripping down the sewage grates behind him. He can feel his blood rushing through his veins. His heart races. Lucas plants a boot on Trey's shoulder and pushes him over onto his back. Points his gun at the mask. "Take it off." Let me see your face.

The man grunts and reaches up-- faceplate hissing softly as the seal breaks-- and slowly he removes it.
It's him. It's Trey.
His face is entirely devoid of anything human, anything that could be charitably passed off as an emotion.
There was only a look in his eyes. A slight furrow of his brow. Thinking, calculating his next move.

That's it? No flicker of recognition? No frustration, no anguish of betrayal? ''...Do you even recognize me?''
The unit focuses its gaze on the suppressed handgun leveled at its head, then towards its owner.
"Anti-Citizen Seven-Two-Five. Yes. I recognize you."

Is that all he really was? Just another Anticitizen? Sven was memrepped, too, but he at least remembered them. The Combine twisted his mind, but it was still his. He still knew their names. Their history. Lucas suddenly remembers the note they found in the Horizon Outpost.

Full Pathway Overwrite.

Lucas is almost begging at this point, desperately pleading, ''...Trey... you were my brother. You fought by my side.''
The unit's face remains stoic. Unmoved. Cold.
How? How could this be the one man who never gave up on him, even for a second?
''You were there for me when NO ONE else was!''

The unit scowls at him-- finally, emotion!-- with a look of... annoyance? frustration?
Quietly, so quietly Lucas can barely hear it,
"I do NOT recognize your digits. And if you were a brother.. I'm disappointed that you defected..."

Katyusha lingers behind him. Covering his six, as she always has.
''On nas ne priznayot. My dlya nego prosto misheni. Nam nuzhno uyti," she says softly. Her native tongue softens the blow.

The unit glares at her.

That's it. That's what seals it for him.
They were friends. Trey would never look at her that way.
But as he does-- as the unit with his face does-- Lucas can't lie to himself any longer.
This thing would kill him if he gave it the chance. It would kill all of them.

Trey Watkins is already gone.

Lucas doesn't look behind him. He's not sure he can bear to see the look on Katyusha's face right now.
All he can do is quietly request that she ''Look away.''

It's desperate and futile all at once, an effort that could never buy more than a few seconds.
The Unit lashes out, grabbing Lucas's pistol-- Katyusha fires two shots for the unit's stomach.
It rolls, reflexively, curling in pain before thrashing onto its front.

It screams something in Japanese.

Lucas pulls Peterovich's bayonet from his belt and drops onto his knees, pinning The Unit down by kneeling on its back.
A man named Lars taught him to hunt, before Moscow. Taught him how to quickly end an animal's suffering after it's been shot.

One smooth motion brings the bayonet to the unit's neck. Lucas pulls hard and rips the knife back, parting flesh and listening to the blood gush against the tiles below them. What a horrible sound.
What a horrible way to die.
Stripped of autonomy, body and mind twisted into something foreign, held face down in the grime and detritus of a bygone age.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

It's not fast. It's not painless, either. The unit thrashes in restrained, helpless agony for what feels like an eternity.
Lucas can hear his pulse weaken in real time.
The arterial spray subsides to a splash,
which soon degrades to a timid trickle, surrendering the last few dregs of life.
Lucas can only imagine how horrible it must look. He keeps his eye shut.

''I know. I know. Shhh,'' he murmurs. He's not sure who it's meant to comfort more.

Trey goes still. A few sporadic, involuntary twitches. Another ten seconds go by, and the biosignal warning blares out.

...

Lucas speaks into his radio. "It's done," is all he can say.​