You'd be surprised what you can learn from a game.
Especially when you have no choice.
The Question Game by JuneiTheScerzo
...
Chapter One:
Instructions
"Y'know what we should do, rookie?"
"What?"
"We should play the question game."
"...What's that?"
"Oh, don't be like that. It'll be fun."
NOW
"What the fuck is the question game?"
Wash's immediate thought is, how the fuck do you not know what the question game is—but he silences it before he can blurt it out and start what would probably become a disgustingly drawn-out argument. After the fight they've all just had, he really doesn't need another.
There is silence in the canyon for way too long, considering that the question asked is remarkably easy to answer. The speaker, Tucker, waits impatiently for his answer. He seems to do everything that way—impatiently, like he's got a thousand better things to do than deal with whatever it is he deals with.
Of course, Wash wouldn't know. He's too busy realizing that he's getting some sort of death glare from his companion. Tucker's piercing eyes bore into his skull, and Wash can tell he's thinking either one of two things. Either, what the fuck is the question game, or, why the fuck does a former freelancer agent know what the question game is. Chances are it's the second one.
"It's a game," Wash says lamely, choosing to assume that it's both. "I learned it in Freelancer."
"Yeah, no shit it's a game." The murderous look fades from Tucker's features as he shifts awkwardly in his seat, and it's quickly replaced with a strange, half-impressed and half-disappointed smirk. "I just can't believe that you, Agent Buzzkill, know the concept of fun."
"Buzzkill? That's new."
"Buzzkill. Bastard. Dick. Same difference, man."
Wash's face reflexively returns to its usual deadpan frown—and without his helmet, he's even more aware of the fact that it makes him look like he hasn't slept in three years. "I'm not sure what I did to deserve that."
"Don't fucking start with me, man. You're lucky it's just name-calling right now. Ooh, hey, how does Agent Double Agent sound?"
"Silly Tucker," Caboose interjects before Wash can. "He's not Agent Agent! He is Agent Washington."
Tucker and Wash both turn towards Caboose, who is attempting to sit still as Donut tackles the near-impossible feat of cutting his hair. Almost as impressive as the fact that Caboose is somehow sitting half-still is the fact that Donut is surprisingly good at giving haircuts.
"At least Caboose has the right idea," Wash grumbles, and Caboose perks up so fast that Donut jumps high enough to nearly bang his head into the tree branch hanging over him. Huh. He's skittish—although that's pretty normal for a red. That's about the extent of Wash's knowledge on Donut—he hasn't known him for more than, what, two hours?
"Easy, Caboose, I don't wanna get this bad boy lodged inside you!" Donut laughs brightly, motioning with the blade. "Who knows when it'd come out?"
...Right. Nobody responds, because it's just not worth responding to. Instead, Wash looks quietly out over the people sitting around the fire with him. It's just him, Tucker, Donut, the robot, the other robot's head, and Caboose. Besides the robots, nobody's wearing armor—a nice change of pace. It reminds him that marines are more than a pressure suit, that they're real people. Sometimes he needs that reminder more than most.
Wash already knows that he's not much to look at, in his woefully bland training sweats and shirt, which is why he chooses to look at everyone else instead. The fire illuminates their faces, lighting up every feature and fault in plain sight, until he couldn't ignore them if he tried. He tries to ignore the superficial and instead focuses on the personalities he sees. Tucker's brash sense of humor. Caboose's blissful ignorance. Donut's cheerful...something. The soft smile on Donut's face is hard to pin down.
For the moment, everything is silent. Tucker's absently rubbing at the bruise on his shoulder put there by a misstep from Caboose, which only makes Wash more aware of the matching black eye he's got right now. Damn, Caboose packs a punch. Wash needs to remember to stay out of his way in any kind of brawl. Surprisingly, Caboose is uninjured. Donut's covered in smaller but more plentiful injuries—courtesy of everyone beating the shit out of him for being an idiot. Wash probably has himself to blame for a good portion of the bigger ones. The robots are, well, the robots. Neither one of them seemingly gives a crap. Especially not the decapitated head...Lopez, was it? The reds kept calling the other one Lopez 2.0, so he can only assume that the matching head is the first edition.
As Wash shifts his gaze to the starry sky, he finds himself wondering why this particular group had to get stuck here. They're in the middle of a canyon on some random planet, obviously, because why not? Why shouldn't fate miraculously fuck over some people who really don't need fucking over and leave nine and a half space marines stranded in the middle of nowhere on Nowhere Planet? Why shouldn't their ship break in half and have just enough supplies to last them maybe a week more if they're lucky? Why shouldn't Wash be left to deal with some of the most insufferable human beings of all time?
As if their being stranded isn't bad enough: the idiotic misconduct of Donut had nearly saved them, and then ended up stranding everyone yet again—which had resulted in the brutal fistfight that in retrospect seems like a remarkable waste of energy. It's a miracle that nobody's punched the teeth out of Donut's unreadable grin yet.
"Alrighty, Caboose. I'm all done!" Donut stands from behind Caboose and marvels at his work. "What do you guys think?"
"Impressive," Wash says. He's never seen Caboose's hair any shorter than ponytail length before—so seeing him with anything shorter is a little jarring. But it's significantly neater now, and the haircut looks good, considering a space marine just did it with a dull knife. Does he have practice?
"Wow! Oh my god, Donut!" Caboose shouts. "It's perfect!"
"Caboose, you can't see it," Tucker snaps.
"I know! That's what makes it perfect!"
Tucker lets out a harsh laugh at that, catching Wash's attention yet again. That can't be good. Usually he's in a joking mood, but that clearly isn't the case right now. He'd been hoping that Tucker might have calmed down after the fight—you know, like releasing nerves or something—but the hate and energy in his eyes clearly say the opposite.
"We're a fucking mess, huh?" he spits.
The Lopez head mutters something in Spanish, probably an agreement, but other than that there's silence. Tucker takes one hateful look at them all and then turns it back onto Wash.
"Yeah. Shipwrecks, campfires, haircuts, crazy killer robots: just your normal, everyday UNSC schedule! And 'we should play the question game'," he mocks, ending the tirade with a scoff and air quotes. "What a load of bull."
Wash tries to let the attack go, he really does, but he can't. Besides, there's something nagging at him that he has to ask. "Hey, Tucker? How do you not know what the question game is? It's literally a game with questions."
"How do you know it exists?"
"I don't get it, Tucker. What's so weird about me suggesting a game?"
"Because it's you!"
"What do you even know about me?!" Wash argues, feeling the sudden urge to punch something.
"Nothing, dude! You're a fucking enigma that I'm never gonna get!"
"That's why we should play."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Just..." Wash throws his hands to his sides in a gesture of annoyance, then lets them flop at his sides. "Indulge me?"
"Oh, I would never indulge you, Agent Washington," Caboose supplies. "You're waaaaay too indulged already."
That's...surprisingly accurate for Caboose. "Do you even know what that word means?"
"Something with electricity."
Ah. There it is. Not for the first time, Wash wonders how Caboose, somehow, always fails to understand what's going on. Out of all the Reds and Blues, he easily understands Caboose the least.
Not that he really understands any of them.
Maybe that's what prompted him to propose the game. After all, he can stare at their faces by the light of the campfire and make assumptions all day long, but none of that makes the truth any less obvious. Sure, he knows their names and their faces and maybe the most basic of details, but beyond that Wash really doesn't know jack shit about these people—people whom he's going to be with for a very long while. All he is certain of is that he's now one of them.
So he might as well get to know them.
After what seems like forever, Tucker sighs and crosses his arms. "Fine, man, whatever. I don't even give a fuck anymore. Tell us how to play your bullshit freelancer game."
"What game?" Grif says, walking into the circle with a concerning number of rations in hand. Finally, it's about time. Wash watches quietly as Doc, Sarge and Simmons follow close behind and place the food on a rock near the center of the fire. None of them are wearing armor either—save for Sarge, who for some reason insisted earlier on wearing the boots. He doesn't really care enough to analyze their faces.
"Oh, it's a very complicated game," Caboose replies, snatching a rations bar almost immediately, "you wouldn't understand."
Wash is about to say that, no, it's really fairly simple, when he realizes that on top of rations, the reds have also brought somewhere around a dozen full cases of condensation-dripping bottles. Fucking hell. He can't wait to hear the explanation for this. "Is that...chilled?"
"You bet your armor. And the finest chilled beer you'll ever find in any box canyon, I'll tell you that!" Sarge's chest puffs up with pride in something that he really shouldn't have pride in.
"Where did you find that? I've been inventorying the ship almost daily and I haven't seen any of that once."
He chuckles, a mischievous sparkle in his aging eyes. "You poor, stupid blue. Don't ever get to thinkin' you can find my secret stash in one of your over-the-top freelancer scouting doohickeys—"
"Air ducts," Grif supplies blankly, and Sarge jumps back like Grif's just told his mother to go fuck herself. "He's been sneaking them out while you've been handling Caboose at bedtime."
"They were going to go bad," Simmons adds. "So either we all drink them now, or the engine burns them up."
"Huh." Beers and a campfire in a deserted, peaceful canyon. This could be significantly worse. Wash sighs and sits back down, leaning back on his arms. "That's an ultimatum I can live with."
"Grif, goddamnit!" Sarge hollers. "Don't tell the dirty blue about our secret plan!"
"What secret plan? You were the one who suggested we bring the drinks."
Sarge grumbles something but, to Wash's relief, doesn't start an argument. The others take seats around the campfire, grabbing a few rations and a beer each, although nobody drinks yet. Tucker grabs a couple and tosses one to Wash, who also forgets to drink it because he's too busy enjoying this brief moment of peace. At the very least, the drinks seem to have improved Tucker's mood just by existing. For a moment, it's nice. Wash feels like he's just a semi-normal person with eight and a half other semi-normal people sitting around a campfire in a semi-normal box canyon.
"So," Tucker finally says. "You were going to tell us about your shitty game."
"Oh, yeah." And there goes the peace. Wash sits up a little straighter, placing his beer down on the grass, as the rest of the group listens with varying degrees of interest. "I...thought that it might be a good idea to do something to decompress after the fight. So I thought of the first game that came to mind – the question game."
"Yeah, we know."
"How do you play?" Simmons asks.
"It's pretty simple, really. Someone asks a question, either to a single person or the entire group: and if you're asked something, you have to answer. Any question's game. You can skip a couple if you want, or lie, but that just makes it boring, so it's better not to."
Tucker frowns. "And you learned this schoolgirl shit in Freelancer?"
"Yeah. Agent North taught it to the rest of us when I was recruited. It's an icebreaker."
"Ooh, fun!" Donut grins. "I love breaking the ice!"
"That's one of us," Grif mutters in between shoving food in his mouth. "I dunno, Wash, it seems pretty boring – I mean, what's to stop me from skipping every question? Which, by the way, has been my plan from the beginning."
"Yeah, how did you guys handle that?" Tucker asks. "Carolina keep you in line? Bow chicka bow wow."
He ignores the last part. "I wish. Agent Maine didn't like to speak, so he would just walk around us while we played and beat the crap out of anyone who wimped out."
"Maine? ...Whoa, wait, you mean like the Meta?"
"Yeah."
"...Fuck, that's effective."
"Tell me about it. I've never been punched so hard in my life."
"Well, that could work, if any of us were scary. It's too bad that we're pretty much all pussies, huh?"
Wash's eyes narrow, at least until Tucker grins—then Wash finds himself smiling too. It's a relief to see Tucker with a grin on his face, especially after he's been losing his shit repeatedly all day up until now.
"Wait! I think I've got it," Doc says, ruining the moment. "Use the beer."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, if you want to skip the question, then you have to drink an entire bottle on the spot. That way, you can skip and lie a bunch: but the more you skip, the more likely you are to get so drunk that you'll answer anything truthfully."
"But it's just beer!" Simmons laughs. "It wouldn't get anyone drunk enough, not for a few bottles anyway."
"Actually, Simmons, I'd listen to him," Sarge says, arms folded. "The deale—upstanding citizen I bought this completely legitimate beer from may or may not 'dilute' his beer with Sangheili vodka."
That last part gets an explosion of reactions from everyone—especially Tucker, who is halfway through a sip and spits the liquor out like it's acid.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he says, hacking. "They use that shit as a horse tranquilizer back home. How can you drink that?"
"Oh, nonsense, blue. It tastes excellent! You just don't have the liver for it."
"Sure," Wash mutters. He remembers trying Sangheili vodka once, a bottle of it doled out over the course of a few hours. A dare from York. The hangover lasted a week, and that was after he got out of medical. "And if you keep drinking it, you're not gonna have a liver at all."
"Sarge, what the fuck!?" Grif shouts screechily. "You told me that was Heineken Lite!"
"I also told you to kill yourself, but we don't always get what we ask for. Besides, it's pretty strong. How come you didn't realize on your own?"
"Oh, please. We both know I only care what the food tastes like, not the drink!"
"That's not an excuse, soldier! You're just being a coward! A coward who's bad at identifying beer!"
"I HAD A VERY DELAYED REACTION OK"
"Easy, guys," Wash says, mostly because it looks like Grif's about to go for Sarge's jugular. "Sarge. When you say 'dilute', how much Sangheili liquor is in there?"
"All of it."
"What?"
"All of it! The dealer was Sangheili. Therefore, so is the liquor! It's pretty weak though, Wash, so don't worry about it knocking anyone out. I can go through about three before I feel like accepting the sweet embrace of death."
"...But how?"
"Great, fuckin' great! So basically," Grif snaps with narrow eyes, "not only do I get drunk off my ass, but you guys can pry all kinds of shit out of me that I'd never in a million years tell you if I was sober."
"Well, yeah, but think about it," Wash argues (albeit a little hesitantly). "The more you play and put up with, the more likely other people are to say all kinds of shit that they'd never in a million years tell you if they were sober."
Grif stops whining.
"Oh," he says, and goddamnit, Wash can just fucking tell that Grif has a diabolical idea. He can practically see the spark catching fire in his eyes.
"That's the point of the game. To learn things about each other that you wouldn't learn otherwise."
"What, like blackmail?" Tucker says.
"No, like leverage against the enemy!" Sarge grins deviously. "I like it!"
"Um, as a medical expert, I can't really condone the drinking aspect," Doc adds quickly, "but it seems like it'd be perfect to keep everyone in line. I mean, none of us are scary enough to keep everyone else from skipping."
The entire group, including Wash, processes this turn of events for a second. The game's practically lost all guises of good intention and is now being presented as a blackmail machine. Only Sarge and Caboose seem sure that they want to play. Grif, Tucker and Simmons, although seemingly onboard, look a few shades paler than usual: which Wash takes to mean that their alcohol tolerances are surprisingly low. Come to think of it, his isn't that great either. He has to hand it to Doc, that man's smarter than he looks. Being forced to chug a beer bottle full of alien horse tranquilizer all at once is more than enough incentive to stop anyone from chickening out.
Suddenly this doesn't seem like the best idea. But then again, it's also his idea, and what would they think of him if he were the first one to chicken out?
"Alright." Wash sighs. His agreement is implied. "So who's in?"
"Sure, I guess," Grif finally mutters. "The stuff you guys might say is too good to pass up."
"Me too!" Donut says.
"Count me in!" That's Sarge.
Caboose smiles happily, oblivious to the situation. "And I am helping!"
Everyone else nods their agreement – except for the robot, who can't drink and probably has nothing interesting to say, and the robot head that cannot physically nod.
Alright then. It's time to play.
THEN
"This seems like a terrible idea," York says.
He's right. This is a terrible, terrible idea. David likes York already, and he hasn't known him for more than, what, two hours?
But North is unyielding. So is the agent beside him, who stands two feet over Wash with arms crossed and helmet visor down. He's fucking terrifying, Christ. Of course, everyone else is wearing their helmets, too—so needless to say, it's not the armor that makes him scary.
The scattered assembly of freelancers takes up a full row of the locker bay, and David is right in the middle of them all. It's been a while since this many soldiers have been surrounding him. He remembers his days in regular infantry, fighting blindly in a wave of others. Back then they all wore the same armor. But one look at this crew, with colors ranging from standard grey to blue and purple and silver and white, immediately tells him that this will be nothing like infantry.
"Don't be such a downer, York," Agent North Dakota chuckles. Besides Agent New York, he's the only one that David can recognize both by voice and appearance. North was the welcoming committee when David first came onboard the Mother of Invention, a few hours ago. He seemed fairly nice at first—but now this whole "game" thing leaves David feeling a bit like North is trying to fuck with him.
"What do you mean, a downer? Look at him," York says. "He looks like he's going to piss his pants."
David opens his mouth to object when North cuts him off. "Relax, rookie. Sometimes I think York's sole purpose in life is to annoy people."
York scoffs. "Well, I still think he's scared of the game."
"What? No, I'm not!" David says hurriedly. He's not scared. Apprehensive, anxious, and extremely wary, yes. But not scared.
Still, it feels like North sees right through him. "It's just tradition, rookie. There's no harm in it. York, please back off."
After a moment, York holds his hands up as if to say, Fine, I'll chill. Even without North saying so, something tells David that York has always like this.
"I just feel like this 'game' is a hazing," David says suddenly, because all of a sudden he is freshly aware of the tall guy boring holes in his neck with his glare. The metaphorical heat is uncomfortable as hell, and then some. Right now, he feels a bit more like he's joined a socially stunted cult than he has Project Freelancer.
"Don't you worry," one of the others says, though he can't pinpoint who. One of the deficits of literally not knowing anybody yet. "The question game's just how we usually introduce new people around here."
"So it's just an icebreaker?"
"Exactly. Nobody's here to make you feel uncomfortable."
"Then why is he—" David jerks a thumb at the monolith, "— staring at me like fresh meat?"
North turns to said monster of creation, then chuckles. "Oh, Agent Maine? Don't worry. He's actually a big softie once you get to know him."
"Yeah, like a fuzzy puppy," someone else says dryly.
Really? Because the way David is being looked at reminds him more of a hungry wolf than a puppy. Agent Maine cocks his head threateningly to the side and continues to stare at him with an intensity that is easily felt through both their helmets—and it is all David can do just to meet that stare.
"North. He's puny," Maine suddenly growls, surprising David with his deep, guttural voice. "I'd break him."
"That's alright," says another soldier. "You break him, I break you."
Whoa, fuck. That one seems even scarier than Maine. David decides to steer way clear of that voice the next time he hears it.
"Easy, everyone," North says, and for a moment, the room is quiet. David takes a moment and counts eight other freelancers besides himself—if he can even count himself yet. Besides North, York, and now Maine, that leaves five that he doesn't know. "Save the death threats for another time."
"What, are death threats just normal banter around here?" David mutters. Maine might have heard him, though, because he hears a quiet, almost peripheral growl from somewhere in the behemoth's general direction.
As is only appropriate, David gulps.
"Hey, North!" growls one of the soldiers impatiently, a female from her voice. "We doing this or what?"
"Keep your socks on, South. I've gotta explain the rules."
"Rules?" David asks. He didn't necessarily agree to the game—then again, it seems as if his participation has already been decided for him, so he doesn't argue. Why argue on the first day?
"Yeah, for the game...but also kind of for Freelancer. Look, you're new here, right?"
He nods.
"Right. And you don't know anything about this place, or these people, and we know nothing about you. Now, that's a pretty shit situation to be in when we all count on each other in missions. We do some dangerous stuff, rookie. We've all gotta have each others' backs, which is kinda hard to do when we don't know one of our guys. So, the first couple of us who joined Freelancer made this game to make it easier. Don't get us wrong, though—this is literally the only game you'll ever play in Freelancer. It's just an icebreaker to ease rookies in before all the rough-and-tumble work hits you in the face.
"The rules are simple. We go two rounds—"
"One if you're feeling like a pussy," York supplies.
"York!"
"Jeez, alright. Sorry. Go ahead, Dakota."
David has to hold in his snort—as do a few others. Something about that nickname on North is just damn hilarious.
"...Right. Anyway, rookie, the rules are pretty simple. We go two rounds around the circle, and everyone gets a crack at you. Of course, you can ask questions too when it's your turn."
"What kind of questions?"
"Anything you want to know about us—literally anything. You can either ask a directed question to a certain person, or a question for everyone, including yourself. You can also skip a question if you're uncomfortable, but...I don't recommend it."
Uh-oh. He tries to restrain himself, he really does, but the question there is just begging to be asked. "...Why not?"
As an answer, Maine cracks his knuckles, and David is just so damn sure that he's smirking when he says, "I don't play. I judge."
...FUCK.
"Are you kidding me?!"
North chuckles, but the humor is lost on the suddenly petrified rookie. "A rule we established a few games ago is that, if anyone skips a question, Maine literally gets to kick the shit out of them."
"What the hell is wrong with you?!" David screeches, perfectly aware that some of the others are laughing at him. Not that he cares. "Do you realize how bad of an idea that is? Like, what the actual fucking hell?!"
"Welcome to Freelancer, the worst of the bad ideas," one of them snickers. Fuck.
"I told you, North," York says. "He's gonna piss himself."
Maine, well, he just makes David angry now. Scared, sure. But mostly angry, with that smug look that Wash just knows is on his face. "You scared, fresh meat?" Maine growls—only this time, it's much less threatening and much more amused.
"Fuck yeah, I'm scared! I mean, just look at you! You're...you're..."
Maine grunts, a kind of dare. "I'm what?"
"Big," David says pathetically.
"...No. Really?"
North—who, by the way, has been laughing harder than some of the others and trying to hide it—somehow calms down and puts a hand on David's shoulder. "Look, don't worry, rookie. It's just a game."
The second he feels the heavy glove on his shoulder, David reflexively shoves North off. "Are you kidding me? Why would I ever want to play a game with a catch like that? If you ask me, it seems totally—"
"It's unfair," someone says, and David stops mid-rant. It's the ultra-scary one from before—the one who sounds even worse than Maine.
Avoiding be damned. David follows the voice to see another freelancer, clad in aqua, with arms crossed and back resting against one of the lockers. A plaque on the locker reads a single word: Carolina.
Fuck, this one is ominous.
Carolina continues talking, not looking David in the eye, which only freaks him out more. "It's unfair, and cruel, and wrong, and exactly what you had better be able to deal with before you really commit to Project Freelancer. So don't be a coward, don't cheap out, and just play along. Maybe then you'll be spared a pathetic beating."
"Whoa, wait, Carolina," York says. "Easy with the name-calling. Any sane person would feel the same."
"...Are you saying I'm not sane?"
"Well—"
North butts in before York can finish that. "What he's trying to say is that anyone has reason to be afraid of Maine killing them."
"Hmph. Maine won't kill you, rookie," Carolina responds stoically, and it only just then clicks for David that Carolina is a girl. "If he does, he can answer to me. Right, Maine?"
Maine grumbles something under his breath that ends up sounding a bit like the sound a Doberman makes when baring its teeth. Ridiculous to the point of terrifying.
"Great," Carolina says like it's exactly the opposite. Then her eyes hit David, burning even through all the armor. "No more stupid objections, rookie?"
David literally has no capacity to do anything but nod.
"Great," North echoes, clapping his hands once to get everyone's attention. "Okay, so we're playing. But before that, let's do some introductions. Everyone: designation, specialty, and helmets off."
A collective groan issues from the rest of the room—but before anyone else can complain, York stands and yanks off his helmet. He's surprisingly handsome, which immediately alarms David because he's not quite sure why that's the first thing he noticed.
"You're all babies," he snickers, flashing David a friendly grin. "Agent New York, lockpicker. Call me York, though. Nice to meet you, rookie."
"U-uh, nice to meet you too?" David stammers.
"Damn right it is."
"We get it, York. Let's go around the other way—save the best for last." North, who has moved so York is now next to David, keeps the momentum going and pulls his helmet off with worlds more restraint. His expression is almost as nice as he seems to be. "North Dakota, as I'm sure you know. Consider me the spiritual and in no way official leader of the team."
"Dude," York says, "that's not your job."
"I know. Just makes more sense than my actual job."
David's about to say something when Maine abruptly takes off his helmet and glares down at him. The man's dark face is covered in battle scars that distort every feature, just enough to pass the boundary between scary and fucking nightmare fuel. He almost feels bad for him.
"Maine. Brute."
David tries to say that something he was thinking of, but the sound dies in his throat.
"Oh, just settle down," someone snaps, probably noticing how David is shocked into silence. "You're not a caveman, enough with the halfwitted one-word sentences. You're going to terrify the fresh meat."
"Fuck off, Wyoming." Maine jams his helmet back on and then—get this—disappears. Shit. He must have a stealth unit or something in that ridiculously jacked-up armor of his.
Oh. So that means David won't see anything coming.
Shit.
Still, the circle continues, like all of this is just normal business in the military, which David—a corporal before reassignment—knows for a fact that it's not. This is just weird, beyond fucked up.
"My turn," says the guy who's standing next to where Maine used to be. Removing his helmet reveals a fairly normal face with a nowhere-near-normal mustache. "The name's Wyoming. Sniper."
"Where's your accent supposed to be from?" David blurts out before he can stop himself. Seriously. It sounds like he's thrown the accents of England and Australia into a blender.
Honestly, he's expecting a frank answer. It sure would be nice after all this stupidity. But instead, Wyoming raises a surprisingly thick eyebrow and frowns. "Really? If that's the caliber of question you're going to ask, you're severely going to regret this game."
"Trust me, I already do."
Wyoming looks at him in a way that tells David that this game will be even worse than he expects it to be.
There's a lull for a moment, seeing as the next guy in the lineup is lost in thought and hasn't said a word. He seems the least intimidating out of the rest of the freelancers—probably because he's wearing armor as minimal as Maine's is ridiculous. He is wearing two ammo belts, though. Yikes.
"Florida?" North asks, and the guy's head jerks up. "What's the holdup?"
"...Oh! I am so sorry, North." Florida removes his helmet and smiles what is probably the most genuine and selfless smile on this side of the universe. "I just kept thinking about it, but I can't seem to pin down what my speciality is. Do you think 'stealth' sums it up well enough?"
"Try 'kiss-ass'," one of the others mutters, and a few people chuckle—but Florida sighs and continues to smile.
"Such foul language, South. I'll never understand why you haven't matured enough to filter what comes out of that pretty mouth."
"Oh, fuck you right in the ass," the same one spits.
David assumes that the one swearing like a sailor is South...wait. North. South. Are they part of a unit or something?
His question is answered when North sighs and says, "South," in the way that David knows only brothers refer to their sisters. North and South Dakota. They're siblings. "Please don't make this difficult like last time."
"Last time? You mean with Alaska?" South scoffs. "Oh, man. If this is anything like that bitch, I'm out."
"The only reason it went badly is because you wouldn't play along. No wonder she..."
"SHE WHAT?"
"She nothing! Look, sis. All I'm asking is for you to just indulge this. Everyone else is. Hell, even Maine goes along with the game."
"It's fun to judge," Maine growls from somewhere in whatever dimension he currently occupies.
After what feels like an eternity of North staring expectantly at South, she lets off a tremendous groan and rips her helmet off. The resemblance between her and North is freakishly similar—so much so that it's impossible not to stare. Unfortunately, David's eyes linger a second too long.
"What are you staring at?!" she screeches, and David jumps a foot in the air. "Yeah, so we're twins, rookie. Big FUCKING DEAL! Man, I fucking HATE new recruits!"
"Don't sweat it," York says, just loud enough for David to hear over the raging heart attack he's experiencing. "She's just jealous that she has more competition for the leaderboard. I give her a week before she treats you the same way she treats us."
"Is it any better than this?" David wheezes.
"Eh. Marginally."
"South, your specialty," North says expectantly.
"ALL OF YOU CAN KEEL OVER AND DIE!"
Furious, South slams her foot down onto one of the benches with enough force to crack it. Wow. David's sisters aren't nearly as feisty.
"Enough." Carolina.
"What?!" South shrieks. "You wanna go?!"
"Do you?"
After an eternity, South bites her lip and sits down, keeping her eyes on Carolina but clearly not starting anything else. So David isn't the only one scared shitless by her. Lesson learned.
"I thought so." Carolina looks down and pulls off her helmet, then fixes a bright green glare on David. Wow. Just...wow. That isn't what he's expecting. Her hair looks like living fire. With such bright colors against those eyes that sparkle with coldness and drive, she's like if the cross between Satan and the most beautiful person he's ever seen could glare knives.
Carolina continues, oblivious to his monumental confusion. "They're missing the point of this first question. South is tactical—North and South are our usual field team. Florida's covert ops."
"And you?" David asks, regretting it even as he says it.
"Me? Team leader, of course." And then Carolina smirks, sending chills of the icy variety down his spine. "After the Director and the Counselor, you answer to me."
Oh, boy. A scary boss, working for a scary boss, working for a scary boss. The trifecta of fuckery.
"Don't get too intimidated," the one next to her says dryly—and David realizes that this girl is the last one before he has to introduce himself. "Boss here isn't the scary one in the program. I'm Agent Connecticut, call me Connie."
Connie pulls off her helmet and places it under the bench, then gestures for David to sit next to her...again, wow. Stunned, he remains standing. She looks like she was made for the military, with her slender yet tough face and narrow, calculating eyes. And she's pretty, too—but in a way different way than Carolina. Carolina's kind of beauty is intense. But Connie looks pretty in a way that isn't entirely obvious at first. It's kinda like, the more he stares, the more he wants to keep staring at her. And not in a weird way. In a completely, utterly interested way. She just screams interesting. It's less about intensity and more about—
She snaps in his face, and David blinks for the first time in the full minute he's been staring at her. When he returns to his senses he can vaguely hear some of the others laughing at him and making half-hearted catcalls. "Yo, space cadet. Space out on me again and I'll punch you back to reality."
"I, uh...what?" he asks lamely.
"I said, it's your turn. You saw our faces, now we see yours."
"Oh." That grounds him rather jarringly in reality.
Guess he has no choice.
David makes a move for his helmet—then stops suddenly. Connie's initial charm has worn off, and now he's somewhere between anxious and terrified. He's so nervous, fuck. What will they think of him? Of the unassuming, plain-looking but secretly fucked-up human being beneath all the grey? Hopefully nothing too bad. But by agreeing to this, he runs the risk of being frowned upon, of being a disappointment to his new teammates. Same with this game—what if what they find isn't what they like?
Then again, every one of them ran the same risk by taking off their helmets, and they all run it with the game. What's the big deal of doing the same? His own words come back to him—it's just an icebreaker.
David pulls off his helmet and tucks it under his arm, feeling a strange urge to salute but knowing that it makes no sense in the situation. His hand stays by his side. "I've been designated as Agent Washington. Recovery One. It's, uh, nice to meet you all."
"Washington?" To David's horror, York groans—but the immediate smirk afterward puts him at ease. "Damn, that's a mouthful. I'm gonna call you Wash. That okay, rookie?"
Wash. Seems fine. He nods curtly. "Sure."
"Okay," says Connie with a tight but genuine smile. "Wash it is."
The rest of them either nod their acknowledgement or say a quick greeting—and they're all surprisingly civil about it. Even Maine growls a faint hello from the world of the invisible. Only South and Carolina keep silent.
"Welcome to the team, Agent Washington," Carolina says after everyone else finishes. Maybe it's a leader thing.
"Thanks, Agent Carolina," David—no, not David, Wash—replies.
She shakes her head. "Just Carolina is fine. Or Boss. Within the team, we don't need to use the first part."
"...Then why did you...?"
Carolina stays silent, and Wash lets her. That's one mystery Wash has no problem leaving unsolved. Hmm. Wwwwash. Wash. Agent Washington. Washington. Wash. Nice. He kind of likes the new name. More than he expects. He hopes it sticks around for a decent while before people start coming up with more embarrassing nicknames. But Wash—
"Washington is a pussy name," South spits, dragging the mood down almost immediately. Jesus.
"What exactly did I do to you again?" Wash grumbles. Naturally, he gets no immediate response save a vicious glare—apparently allies are harder to make in Project Freelancer than enemies.
Before South can reply, North cuts her off. "Ignore her, Wash. She just wants out of the game." He sighs, but then flashes Wash a tired smile. Suddenly Wash wonders how much sleep North gets—or if he even sleeps at all. "Now that you've been introduced, I think we're all set to play. You ready?"
"No," Wash says, because it's true. He is not ready for what he might learn about them—or what they might learn about him.
But it's just a game. Right?
"Perfect! Then it's time to play! If you're not in the circle, get in."
The rest of the freelancers form a loose circle between the two rows of lockers—some sitting, some standing, but everyone fairly comfortable. All helmets are off, all pretenses dropped. Wash takes that open seat next to Connie and prepares to accept the sweet embrace of death that is the question game.
Alright, then.
This is a terrible idea.