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“YORK!” roars North, pulling aside a twisted sheet of blackened metal. Snow drifts across his visor and he brushes it away impatiently. “York, where the hell are you?” Theta, you gotta scan for his armor signature -
I know, I’m trying -
“York!” North puts his shoulder to a chunk of hull, heaves it away, hoping for a glimpse of tan armor under the wreckage, and dreading the condition it might be in. “York, buddy, answer me -”
“He’s not here,” snarls South. “Either that, or he’s dead -”
North ignores her, continuing to make his way through the ruin that was the Mother of Invention. York’s not dead, and if he was, that wouldn’t make it any less important to find him -
North, I can’t find him or Delta anywhere, says Theta sadly.
“He has to be!” growls North, and punches a girder in frustration. “He was on the ship when it crashed, he wasn’t accounted for among survivors, he has to be here somewhere -”
“Can we go already?” yells South, from where she’s standing on top of a rocky outcropping. “They’re loading up the last of the Pelicans, why don’t you get on the one Wash is in and you can hold his hand -”
“I’m not leaving without York!” Grunting, he seizes a charred and ruined hunk of metal, ignoring the way the sheared-off edges cut into his palms. He’ll search until his hands bleed if he has to. “York, talk to me, where are you -”
“North, they’re leaving -”
“Go without me.”
“North -”
“I said GO!”
He doesn’t even look around to see if South will listen to him or not. Instead, he wades further deep into the wreckage, into the carcass of the Mother of Invention itself. He’s here, Theta, he growls. We’re going to find him.
Theta, for once, does not respond.