These Trying Times

[Here is a Northfic I started a long time ago and finished recently. In which my version of Theta basically regurgitates Immanuel Kant all the time.]

“The philosophy of our project states that in order to ensure the survival of humanity in these trying times, we must be prepared to use unusual methods of warfare…”

            The Director had given them all a speech before implantation, but that was the only bit that had really stuck with North because after that part there was the needle drawing blood from his arm and needles made him queasy so he’d closed his eyes. And after that he’d tried to listen, but there’d been this weird roaring in his ears.

* 

Theta, it turned out, knew a lot about philosophy. In fact he rarely spoke in anything other than an impenetrable wall of what was probably wisdom except that nobody but Delta understood it, and even Delta seemed confused sometimes. North had asked, just to clarify.

            It was one evening when he and York were in the common room watching some old movies, which was what they’d been doing a lot of evenings lately because it helped the AI concentrate on something other than their operators.  Theta was being mostly quiet, sitting on North’s shoulder. North wasn’t sure if that was normal; the other AI stood still or paced or…just looked like soldiers in their armor and their inhuman glow.

             Theta, however, liked to sit. He liked to be quiet, to observe and occasionally interject something like, “All experience must be related back to and derives its validity from the conditions and context of consciousness in which it arises.” To which North would reply with some variation of, “Hm. You don’t say.”

            Right now York was sprawled out across the couch on his back, Wash sitting on the floor. York had taken to dragging Wash around lately like some sort of pet, sometimes literally taking him by the arm and dragging him forward till he remembered how to walk like a normal person again. North would’ve been more worried if he’d had any worry left to spare, what with how Theta kept up a steady inner channel of wisdom, and the way South had gone all bitter-quiet and glaring. Everybody was having trouble, North thought. And Wash, he was kind of a sensitive guy compared to the rest of them. It made sense that it’d take more time for him to adjust. Still, it got kinda freaky when Wash zoned out like he was now, blue eyes vacantly staring ahead, Epsilon obviously present but not manifesting for some reason.

            Delta was there, standing on the arm of the couch beside York’s unseeing left eye and occasionally saying something very calmly about the logistics of the movie they were watching. It was a spy flick, North wasn’t sure what about. Nobody but Delta seemed to be paying attention actually.

            “Hey,” said North as the main character of the movie got into a particularly unrealistic shoot-out with the bad guys. “So are you guys like superheroes or something?”

            “Huh?” said York, half-turning toward him – Delta stepped diffidently to the side and said, “I do not understand.”

            North shrugged and Theta didn’t really move in response like Delta had, just rose and fell with North’s shoulder. “Like, you each have a power.”

            York said, “Oh,” and turned back, shifting to pillow his head on his arms. He was unusually tired, North thought. Maybe from dragging Wash around. Delta remained glowing at his left side.

            “Agent North, what do you mean by – powers?”

            “I mean abilities,” North clarified. “Like you, you’re smart. You can analyze stuff that other people can’t.”

            “I am not technically a ‘person,’” Delta replied politely.

             “Well, yeah, but still. And then Theta here, he’s…philosophical. He knows more philosophy than…um…”

            “The New York Public Library,” York suggested, eye fixed on the movie.

            “And York, he’s got this special ability to make lame jokes,” North added.

            “Aw, c’mon,” said York.

            “I am not sure that counts as an ‘ability’,” Delta said.

            “Well thanks, D.”

            “And Epsilon,” said North, then hesitated, partly because York turned and shot him a warning look. But also partly because none of them were really sure what Epsilon was doing, save for occasionally bursting out into streams of fevered muttering.

            Theta stepped in to fill the silence. “No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it,” he informed them.

            “All right, thanks Theta,” North replied automatically.

            York’s brow furrowed and then he shrugged and turned to the movie screen again. Wash kept staring. Delta, however, stood facing Theta for a long moment, and North could almost feel him struggling to understand his fellow AI. There was something missing, something wrong, something that Delta couldn’t reach.

*

            North’s felt death before so he knows the lead up, knows what it means when his body locks down and refuses to let in any more feeling.

            The last time this happened, Carolina had come charging in with the cavalry to save the day. (She did that a lot, it was sort of her job.) She’d bullied him onto the ship with Four-Seven and sat him down in the back as they made their escape, lecturing him the whole way about paying more attention and about how if he hadn’t been watching his stupid superhero movies instead of training, this would never have happened – and he can’t remember what he said to her. Something along the lines of, “Thanks, Mom.”

            She hadn’t liked that. He remembers that much.

            He tries to move now, to shift the impossible weight of his body so that he can look at the sky. If he’s going to die he doesn’t want it to be face down in his own blood…

            “It is not necessary to live happily,” Theta says, and his voice – his presence, really – is oddly tense. He’s worried. About North, maybe. Or about the nature of human existence in general. It’s hard to tell.

            “It is only necessary to live honorably.”

            North doesn’t answer. He can’t. Because his mouth is dry, his body is trembling inside its armor casing, and the world is twisting up into a wreckage of blood and hurt and South, South, he needs to make sure she’s okay –

            “Timber so crooked as that from which man is made…”

            Other words slip into his mind, not Theta-words but memory-words, and he pushes against them just as he’s pushing himself off from the ground, but they get in anyway and he can’t move he can’t get up he doesn’t want to die not like this

            (The philosophy of our project states)

            but he can’t move and he’s so tired and there’s no more Carolina-to-the-rescue

            (that in order to ensure the survival of humanity)

            no more York-jokes, no more Delta-explanations

            (in these trying times)

            no more superhero movies.

            North’s felt death before, but never this close. Theta keeps on murmuring, little snatches of phrases and for once North understands him. He’s trying to provide comfort.

            “He who is enlightened does not fear the shadows,” says Theta, and North manages to shift his helmet just a little, just enough to see a flash of sky before it goes dark.