Alright, so this is my first story. Feel free to rate and tell me what you think, but no haters please. Also, I was listening to "Mental Meta Metal" from the RvB soundtrack while writing the fight scene. Enjoy!

As I walk down the halls of the ship, I wonder how I had come to be here. Somebody was mentioning recruiting me for a "Project Freelancer," and in less than a day I'm on this ship, being told I'm on the Mother of Invention, and that I'm now "Agent Nevada." Suddenly, I almost walk into some guy in blue clothes with an ODST helmet on a rack, along with a suit of armor.

"Easy, man," he says, "No need to rush."

I look down, my unusual height bringing him to about my shoulders. "Sorry," I say, "I'm just a bit lost."

"Oh, you're the new arrival. Come on, I'll show you to the break room. You can meet everyone there."

"Sounds good." We head of down the hall.

"By the way," the man says, "I'm Florida."

"Nevada. Nice to meet you."

"You too." A few more moments of silence. "What kind of service did you do before here?"

"Classified. Depending on future circumstances, I may tell you all later."

"Oh, okay."

"You know, I was kinda hoping to get New York, but it was already taken."

"Really? Well, don't worry. York's a good guy, and his specialty fits the whole 'New York City' theme."

"Yeah? What is he, knives?"

"Infiltration. You know, lock-picking."

"Oh. I'm not from the city, but I've heard stories."

"Ah."

I look at the helmet as he pulls the rack of armor with him. "So, you aren't an ODST?"

"Nah, just thought it looked cool. Why?"

"Let's just say my buddies and I don't have a good track record when it comes to getting along with ODSTs. I don't have anything against them, it's more the other way around."

"Oh, okay."

After a couple minutes, a man in a white shirt joins us, and asks, "Florida, how are you, dear fellow? And who is this one?" He has the thickest British accent I've ever heard. His black hair is styled strangely, and he has a handlebar mustache.

I hold out my hand. "Nevada. You?"

He accepts the handshake. "You can call me Wyoming. Knock knock."

I notice Florida shake his head out of the corner of my eye, and hear him groan so quietly no one else could have heard him. I decide to play this cautiously. "Who's there?"

"North."

"North who?"

"North a bit in the meters, aren't we?"

I roll my eyes and turn to Florida. "He's gonna be 'that guy,' isn't he?"

"Yep. Reggie here has a thing for bad knock-knock jokes."

We eventually reach a room with several couches and chairs, a couple of tables, and a few viewing screens. One of them is showing a man cracking jokes, and a few people are laughing on a couch a few feet away. I look closer, and see him pull out a puppet that looks like a skeleton with a turban. As he does this, several of the people on the couch start cheering.

A guy in a yellow shirt with "Grifball" emblazoned on it notices me pauses the screen, eliciting moans and shouts from the others. He turns to them and says, "Guys, new arrival's here."

The others turn and look at me. A guy in a gray and yellow shirt says, "Damn, he's tall!"

Wyoming says, "That's what I said, chap."

The guy in the Grifball shirt walks over, and offers his hand. He has brown hair, and a broad smile. "Hey, man. Name's York."

"Oh yeah, Florida mentioned you. I'm Nevada, but just call me Nev, it's shorter."

"'Kay Nev. Let's introduce you to the rest." York points me towards a pair in purple armor playing ping pong; a man beating a woman by a ridiculous score. "That's North and South Dakota," he says, pointing to the guy and the girl in turn, "They're twins. They're stealth specialists." He gestures towards a man in a white and brown muscle shirt who's almost up to my eyes, making him taller than average. "That's Maine. He's the strongest one here."

"Not for long," I say. Everyone, including Maine and York, gapes at the obvious challenge. Maine cracks his knuckles and grins.

York continues, a bit flustered, "That's Carolina, Washington, and Connecticut. Don't ever call her Connie." As he says this he points to a girl in teal, with red hair and green eyes, the guy in gray and yellow, and a girl in brown.

All of them come over and shake my hand.

South says, "Damn, you're built like a tank!" I simply grin.

Carolina asks, "What's your specialty?"

"Hand-to-hand, mid-range combat, basic medical training, and basically just being a badass. I can snipe a fly off your nose from a mile away, but my buddy Linda could do it at three. Yours?"

She cocks an eyebrow, and says, "Speed. And everybody here's very highly skilled at hand-to-hand."

"Nice. I need someone good to spar against."

"Wash is best at mid-range, CT is best with pistols and knives, and Wyoming, who you already know, is a sniper. Florida is a scout, and Wyoming's spotter on a lot missions."

"Cool. So, what were you guys doing before I got here?" Carolina grins, "Well, North was busy handing South's ass to her." She laughs at South's indignant "Hey!" "And we," she continues, gesturing to herself, York, Wash, and CT, "Were watching a Jeff Dunham routine."

"Who the hell is Jeff Dunham?" I ask. Everyone gapes at me.

"What?!" Wash yells, "How do you grow up and not know of Jeff Dunham? He's one of the biggest names in ventriloquism ever, of all time! Where were you raised?"

"Classified," I say.

"Is everything about you classified?" C.T. asks.

"Pretty much," I say, "Hey, anyone want to spar?"

"I'll do it," a deep voice growls. I turn to see Maine heading into the room he shares with Wash. "You better get your armor," he says, "Someone show him to his room."

York says, "I'll go," and drags me into a room labeled "Agent Nevada and Agent New York."

York turns to me, "You do realize you just challenged Maine to a fight, right? This guy's killed people with his bare hands! Well, all of us have, but still. You know you're screwed, right?"

"Challenge accepted," I say, grinning. He looks at me as if I have two heads. "Dear God," he says, "Are you fucking insane? They'll have to scrape you up with a spatula!"

"Trust me, they won't," I say, "Now, where's my armor?"

He sighs, "Well, there's no making you see sense. Your armor's in the locker on the right, and might I say it looks mighty fine. You suit up, I'll go see how much cash I can make off of your demise." Before I can say anything else, he dodges through the door and closes it.

A few minutes later, Maine and I enter the training floor. Maine's golden helmet, more like a fishbowl, catches the light, almost looking like a skull. The brown spots on his white armor show as he cracks his knuckles. I'm wearing my green and yellow armor with a Mark VI helmet, EVA shoulders, and CQB chest. I pull out my knife... and throw it at the wall, burying it to the hilt in the metal. Maine tilts his head, then rushes at me. He prepares a punch that would pulverize a regular man's rib cage. Instead of dodging or countering, I decide to let it hit, just to prove York wrong. It lands straight in my sternum. A moment later he's on the ground, hissing as he nurses his hand. I lift him by the chest plate with one hand and throw him at the wall. He hits, bounces, and rolls to his feet. He runs at me again and throws a series of punches. I block some and deflect others, then I see an opening. I kick his leg out from under him, and bring my heel down on his head. He catches it and rolls to the side, but I jump and land my knee on his stomach. He coughs, and I give him a moment to catch his breath.

Suddenly, a dozen soldiers with lockdown-paint guns run into the ring. Maine and I look at each other, nod, and each take on half of the troopers. Maine simply runs in and starts mowing them down, but I take a more skillful approach. I grab a soldier's battle rifle by the barrel, tear it from his hand, spin, and bash him in the head with the butt of the gun. He drops, and I throw the gun at another soldier, sending him flying into the wall. Two more soldiers fire at me, but I dodge and use a third as a meat-shield. As the man's armor locks down, I grab a pistol from his waist and throw him into the other two, then lock all three to the wall. The last one fires frantically, but I simply roll, leap, and tackle him to the ground. I finish him off with an elbow to the face, and turn to see Maine finishing the last of the other six soldiers.

Maine and I turn back to each other. I crack my knuckles and sprint, and he charges to meet me. I block a haymaker with my elbow, knee him in the gut, spin, and roundhouse kick him in the head. He goes flying and I rush in to finish the job. I kneel on his chest and punch him in the head, officially ending the fight.

A tone sounds over the speakers, and the ship's dumb AI, F.I.L.S.S., speaks, "Round over. Agent Nevada wins."

The director's voice comes on next, "Excellent work, Agents. That will be all for today."

I take that as my cue, and head for the exit. A hand on my shoulder stops me. I turn to see Maine holding out his hand. I shake it, and pat him on the shoulder. "Good fight, Maine. I look forward to working worth you in the field." He nods and growls, then heads back to the living area. I do the same, pulling my knife from the wall.

As I leave my room in my green and yellow shirt and blue jeans, the other Freelancers are waiting for me. They all seem stunned by my feats in the ring.

"How did you survive Maine punching you like that?" Wash asks, "You should have a shattered ribcage at best!"

"No, I'm fine" I say, "I'm a lot tougher than you know."

Suddenly F.I.L.S.S. interrupts our chat. "Attention day-shift personnel and Agents: curfew will be in effect in five minutes. Return to your residential areas immediately."

I look quizzically at York, "Does that mean 'lights out' or 'in the rec room doing whatever'?"

"Either," York says, "But it's around now that we usually go and get some shuteye."

"Works for me," I say. We all say goodnight and head to our rooms. As I go to sleep, York pulls out a lighter and starts fidgeting; opening and closing it, but never lighting it.

"Carolina," he whispers, "What happened to you?"

"What do you mean?" I ask.

He jumps, "You heard that?"

"Yeah," I say, "Either way, spill it. I promise I won't tell her."

"Fine," he says, "I first met Carolina at a bar. Back then she was so carefree, so kind. But then she got recruited into the Project, and now she's... well, she's..."

"The way she is now?"

"Yeah. I don't know what happened to make her this way, but I know it's messing with her, turning her into something else. I just want to help her."

"I know the feeling," I say mournfully.

"Really?" York asks, looking at me.

"Yeah. There was this girl in training, her name was Nira. She was as deadly as she was beautiful. She was blonde with blue eyes that you could stare into forever. She matched my skills almost exactly; we were always tied against each other, and damn near unstoppable together. After a while, we kinda started a little relationship. We managed to keep it secret for a while, but one day something happened. Out of nowhere, she just started ignoring me outside of training. It was like somebody had flipped a switch. We'd fight nearly the same, but it just wasn't there. After training, we got assigned to different squads; I haven't talked to her in years, and I don't even know if she's alive. The only thing I could think was 'what did I do wrong? How can I fix this?' To this day, that's what runs through my mind every time I think of her."

"Shit," York says, "That's tough. But why do you blame yourself? How do you know someone didn't rat you out?"

"The way we did it, we couldn't have been caught by anyone short of an AI. Besides, if someone had spotted us, we would have given then something else to chew on."

"I don't doubt it. Still, blaming yourself is too harsh. You gotta learn to let go."

"I could say the same to you about Carolina. But you're right, if we're talking about other things. When I was a kid, I was the runt of the litter. Everyone picked on me, and not many people did anything about it. I still carry hard feelings about that kinda thing. Whenever someone fucks with me or someone I consider a friend, I just... I just lose it. For example, someone was hitting on Nira once, started calling her things like 'whore' and 'bitch' when she refused. He talked about 'putting her in her proper place,' like she was some kind of object. I know they were just words, but when that sexist prick went to slap her, I almost caved his skull in. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and she even made me promise to let her handle that kind of guy in the future. But it was just that need, that instinct to protect my friends, that drove me to do it. I'd go to hell and back for someone I care about."

"Man, I hear that," York says. "But seriously, we should get some sleep. Let's save this for tomorrow."

"Right. 'Night, York."

"'Night, Nev."

I drift off, the rhythmic clicking of the lighter lulling me to sleep.