Lieutenant John Smith has served with the New Republic for many years. In that time, he's encountered liars and cheats and opportunistic thugs, idealists and pacifists and blindly hopeful kids. He's observed that civil war doesn't only have a polarizing effect on people's politics; their personalities and motivations are every bit as divided.
But in all that time, among all those self-styled heroes, he's never had the privilege of serving under someone as wise and compassionate as Captain Caboose.
Lieutenant Bitters has been... reluctant to accept this fact. "Like, is this a fucking joke or something? 'Cause, you know. It sounds a bit like a fucking joke."
"No," Smith says, mildly. "It's not a joke. I find Captain Caboose's leadership endlessly inspiring."
"Dude, that just ain't right." Bitters is chewing the end of a cigarette, which, while not the most distasteful thing Smith has seen him do, is indeed against regulations. Strictly speaking. Still, their final run on the Capital City compound is tomorrow morning. Perhaps he deserves the distraction. He and Captain Grif have been on shaky terms since the Incident with the snack cake. The absence of rock-solid leadership can be a frightening thing on the eve of battle.
Smith does not feel frightened.
"Aw, I think it's kinda sweet," Lieutenant Jensen says. She's flopped crosslegged on the ground, flossing her teeth vigorously; oral hygiene is an important part of her pre-mission routine. "I mean, Captain Caboose isn't that bright, but he seems like a really nice guy who needs a friend. You know?"
"Captain Caboose," Smith says, "is a tactical genius."
"Christ, dude, you've got some issues." Bitters finally flicks his cigarette butt into a corner of the room. Smith makes an effort not to chastise him for littering.
"I dunno." Private Palomo is huddled on top of a crate, hugging his knees to his chest and staring off into space. Blank staring is an important part of his pre-mission routine. Also his post-mission routine. Sometimes during. "I mean, like, all these guys don't seem to have a clue what they're doing, and they kinda abandoned us that one time for what turned out to be a false lead. But they totally fought the Meta and, y'know. Twenty bears."
They all sit in silence for a moment, reflecting on the cosmic significance and impressiveness of Twenty Bears.
After a time, Smith leans forward enough to nudge Jensen with his toe, pushes a shoulder back against Palomo's crate. "Hey," he says. "We should probably get some sleep."
"Great," Bitters says with a sneer. "You gonna tuck your captain in?"
"If he needs me to," Smith says, and Bitters just stares at him for a moment before looking away. Smith has found, over the years, that few things confuse snide wits more than answering the words and not the tone of their questions.
He's halfway to his bedroll when he runs into Caboose, who is attempting to remain unseen by the rest of their team. Smith can tell because he's whispering, "sneaking-sneaking-sneaking," which is a very clever way to get his team to consider the possibility that he may, in fact, not be sneaking, thereby cloaking his intentions in several layers of subterfuge. Ingenious.
"Captain," he says.
Caboose looks at him. He's nervous, Smith can tell, and he feels a wash of gratitude for the fact that Caboose is willing to appear vulnerable in front of his trusted lieutenant. He's served under far too many stoic warriors in his time. "Hi, Smith," he says. His hair's standing on end at the back of his head, like he's been scrubbing his hands through it. He does that whenever he doesn't have his helmet on. "Um. I have a plan."
"Tomorrow's attack should be successful," Smith says, and is ashamed at the half-lie in his words. In reality, tomorrow's attack will be bloody and costly. Felix will set off explosions at the east gate of the compound. Captains Grif and Simmons will take their teams through the west gate to deactivate the alarm system and cause smaller-scale distractions, leaving Captains Tucker and Caboose to come in through the south, which their intel suggests is closest to where the prisoners are being held. It's a solid plan, and the smaller strike force should leave them some room to maneuver.
But Lieutenant Smith has served with the New Republic for many years, and so he is intimately familiar with the look in Kimball's eyes when she's steeling herself to lose big in order to keep the fight going another day. She'd had that look this morning.
"Yeah," Caboose says, doubtfully. "Yeah, I just think that maybe we are in trouble."
"You've battled Freelancers and war criminals and lived."
"Yeah." Caboose draws the word out again. "But that was different. This is different. People are dying, and Locus is really, really scary. And we don't have Wash. Or Sarge. Or Admiral McMuffin, who always led us to buttery goodness."
Smith blinks. He's gained access to enough of Franklin D. Donut's file to hit up against some very interesting walls classified Top Secret. Could he conceivably be an admiral merely posing as a private? It doesn't seem outside the realm of possibility.
"I have faith in your leadership," Smith says. "As always, I have your back, sir."
Caboose squints at him. "Uh. No, see, I have my back. It's... my back. Which means it belongs to me."
"This is true," Smith says. Of course. Captain Caboose can take care of himself. But there is gratitude in the faint smile at the corner of his mouth, and Smith snaps to attention. "You said you have a plan, sir?"
Caboose's voice drops to a whisper. Well. Rises to a whisper. One of the many contradictory things about Captain Caboose is the immense volume of his whisper. "We could get in trouble. I tried telling Tucker about my plan, but he just ignored me."
"Off the grid, then," Smith says. "I understand, sir. I'm with you."
Caboose blinks at him. He does that, sometimes, like he's startled to find support in Smith. In anyone. "Okay," he says. "When I give the signal."
Smith nods, but before he can ask what that signal is, Caboose is already sneaking-sneaking-sneaking away. Smith grins, the last lingering pre-mission jitters fading away. Brilliant.
The morning dawns gray and rainy. The battle's been raging for an hour by the time Tucker can give the order to move out; several of Felix's distractions were discovered early by a particularly lucky Fed scouting party, and he's been struggling to keep them at bay ever since. It's the first thing that's gone wrong and certainly doesn't promise to be the last, but they've got no choice now. They're committed. Security will never be this light again; Kimball has managed to lure Fed forces to an abandoned outpost hundreds of miles away with false intel. Locus might even have led the charge. It could be a relatively easy run.
It could be. It won't be. "Good luck," Kimball tells them during her morning briefing, and even over the comms Smith knows exactly what her eyes look like behind her helmet.
In the few minutes before they leave, Captain Grif paces up and down the room, going from a sort of frantic nonchalance to a vaguely southern-accented joviality to an exasperated snarl before he finally runs down and inhales the extra ration bars Bitters shoves in his face.
Simmons looks all right; a little shaky, but he's finally acting more normally around Jensen, and she goes through her anti-anxiety breathing exercises with him.
Captain Tucker is quiet and angry and determined, snapping at Palomo and checking and rechecking his pistol. That intensity contradicts most of the stories Caboose has told about his friend, but then, Smith has seen more than his fair share of young people who had to grow up fast.
Captain Caboose is smiling.
They move out.
Simmons wants to stop and say a choked-up goodbye to Tucker and Caboose; Grif just wants to get moving. They average out to a relatively unemotional series of handclasps and waves, and then Tucker, Caboose, Palomo and Smith carry on in one direction, and Grif, Bitters, Simmons, and Jensen branch off in the other.
"Just stay close," Tucker is telling Caboose. "And for god's sake, don't shoot the prisoners."
"Shoot the prisoners," Caboose echoes. He's distracted, Smith thinks. Strategizing.
"No! Fuck! Nevermind, dude. Jesus."
"Looks like somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed," Palomo says in a stage-whisper.
"What did I do to deserve this?" Tucker asks nobody in particular. "Fuck's sake. If we see Locus I am absolutely going to ask him if he needs a new dumbass private." He pauses. "Heh. Private."
"I dunno," Palomo says. "I kind of think my previous employment history might work against me on that one. Although maybe if you write me a really great reference letter..."
"Shut the fuck up, Palomo."
They've been walking about a mile, dodging patrols and crouching in alleys, when Caboose turns to Smith and says, deadpan, "Signal."
Smith blinks, but he's ready when Caboose turns and sprints down a side street, bounding at his heels as they wheel around a corner. It takes Tucker a moment to realize what's happening; when he does, he bellows, "Caboose, what the fuck?"
But Caboose is fast—Caboose is fast and strong and absolutely determined. Even with his longer legs, Smith is having trouble keeping stride. Fortunately, they don't have far to go; Caboose skids to a halt at the first manhole they see and lifts the cover effortlessly. "Get in! Hurry! Tucker will just ruin everything!"
Smith doesn't hesitate, dropping down into the sewer. He's a little surprised at the splash of water under his feet; he's never been to the Capital before, and he'd always sort of figured they'd done a better job with the modernization of the plumbing and rainwater drainage systems than the smaller towns. It's been a long war, he supposes. Lots of resources getting redistributed these days.
Caboose splashes down beside him and says, "Be very, very quiet," which reminds Smith of something, some historical precedent. Probably a great general's rallying cry.
They're very, very quiet for some time. Tucker moves overhead once, cursing under his breath. Some time later, they hear him over the radio, snarling, "Caboose, what the fuck are you doing? This is important! This is—"
Caboose shuts off his radio. Smith does the same. Off the grid. Right.
"Okay," Caboose says. He's clutching his rifle in both hands, staring up at the manhole cover. "Okay. We are very good at hide and seek."
Smith stares up and down the sewer, choosing his words carefully. There are elements at work here that may be need-to-know, given the covert nature of this operation. "I know Kimball mentioned the sewers in her briefing, but I was under the impression that we weren't able to get any intel." Maps and blueprints have been on lockdown from day one, and it's taken all of Felix's connections to get them even a vague idea of the layout of the building where the prisoners are being held. Detailed maps of the sewer system seem entirely out of the question.
"Oh, no, we don't have any of that," Caboose says, cheerfully.
"Oh."
"No, we are going to surprise them! Because if we don't know where we're going, they don't know where we're going!"
"An element of randomness, of confusion," Smith says, realization slowly dawning. "I hadn't even considered that."
Caboose leans in close. "Neither will they," he says, with great significance. "Also, we don't really, yeah, don't really do so great with complicated plans. All the awesome things we've ever done have been sort of by accident. So this just feels better."
Familiarity is important. And a past history of success is certainly promising. Smith straightens. "Lead on, sir!"
They wander the sewers for a solid half-hour, and eventually Smith unmutes his radio to keep track of the rest of the squad's progress. Felix has pulled back to base to get more explosives. Tucker and Palomo are circling in on their final approach to the entry point. Grif and Simmons are working on disabling the alarm system.
"Jesus, Simmons, hurry it up," Grif is saying, and then a bang echoes so loudly that Smith jumps, stumbling into Caboose. When Grif's voice comes back, it's a soft hiss. "Oh fuck oh fuck."
"What's going on?" Tucker yelps. "Grif, what's happening?"
Simmons comes in as a harsh whisper. "Someone's here. We're gonna have to abort."
"Just take 'em out," Tucker says. "There are four of you!"
"It's Locus."
A soft, sharp inhale. "Okay," Tucker says. "Okay, get the fuck out of there. We'll... we'll figure something out."
Caboose is staring expectantly at Smith. Smith swallows past a sudden dryness in his throat. "I've been listening in on the radio. Simmons and Grif's squads have had to retreat. Locus is here."
Caboose tilts his head, then says, "He won't be expecting us, either!"
It's a fair point. Smith swallows, trying not to think about half-chewed cigarette stubs and coils of dental floss, and plunges after Caboose into the dark.
A few moments later, Tucker says, "God damn it. Way too fuckin' many guards on the south door. No way we're getting in. Fuck. Fuck."
Grif sounds out of breath. "Well, gee, sorry we didn't want to stick around to finish the job and, oh yes, let a fucking psycho murder us all."
Tucker's voice is suddenly high and frantic. "That fucking psycho still has Wash! And Sarge! And Donut! This was our best fucking chance." The sound of an armored fist hitting something solid echoes over the comm. "Fuck."
"It's okay," Palomo says, hesitantly. "We'll get another try."
Simmons says, "Did you ever find Caboose and Smith?"
"No."
Smith permits himself one shaking sigh, then breathes slow and even and follows Caboose into the dark.
They walk for three hours.
Captain Caboose leads them tirelessly through the tunnels in a labyrinthine pattern that Smith is fairly sure is spiraling in toward the target. The man must have a truly uncanny sense of direction, and Smith, in return, puts his phenomenal memory to the task of tracing their steps. He's reasonably sure that he can direct them straight back along three hours' worth of twists and turns to that first manhole.
By hour four, however, even Smith's store of mnemonic devices is starting to come up short, and his back is starting to ache from his Caboose-approved sneaking stance. "Sir," he says. "I hate to bother you, but are we getting close to the objective?"
Caboose stops. "Um," he says. "Yes! I'm... so glad you asked! Um. Yes. We are absolutely, definitely, just about. Yes. Here!" He pauses, then points up at a manhole cover above them.
Smith feels the adrenaline like a jolt of electricity, straightening his spine. He pulls his rifle to the ready. "Let me lead the charge, sir."
"Um," Caboose says, staring up at the ladder. "Yes, uh. By all means. Yes."
Smith clambers up the ladder one-handed, keeping his rifle at the ready. The wind whistling and rain drizzling in from above means they're definitely outside. Interesting. He's pretty sure the prisoners are supposed to be inside some sort of building, although the captain surely has more recent intelligence.
His motion trackers aren't picking up anything in the immediate vicinity, but they're a little weather-sensitive sometimes—damaged equipment Felix brought in recently. Caboose wouldn't hesitate.
Smith presses his shoulder to the manhole and carefully levers it up a few inches, squinting through the gap. There are figures jogging through the rain not too far away, but what immediately catches his eye is a set of boots that's alarmingly close. He sucks in a breath, preparing to retreat, then pauses. No armor. Just boots, and above them some sort of loose fatigues.
Caboose is waiting. Smith makes an executive decision, shoves the manhole cover aside, and grabs the pair of ankles in front of him, dragging somebody to the ground with a startled yelp.
He does a quick scan around the area. They're in some sort of enclosed yard; the distant joggers are beyond a chain-link fence. The guy on the floor, currently spitting mud, is unarmed. And, uh. Oh.
There's somebody behind him, a short, wiry man with gray hair. He's wearing the same fatigues as the guy Smith just tackled.
He's also apparently unconcerned at the fact that Smith is in full armor with a battle rifle in his hands, because his first instinct is to bellow, "ATTACK!" and pounce on Smith.
"Um," says Smith, who is very tall and solidly built and also, yes, is still wearing a full suit of power-armor. The man doesn't quite bounce off him and actually manages to pull him down to his knees, but it's only through sheer force of determination. Smith casts a nervous eye on the distant joggers and focuses on keeping his rifle out of the man's reach. "Um," he says again.
The man's yelling about pastry, and it takes Smith a second to connect the dots. "Uh," he says, dodging a punch more to protect the man's bare hands than his own armor. "Wait, I think we're working at cross purposes, here. Are you Sergeant, uh. Are you Sarge?"
"I'll give you a cross purpose!" the man shouts, which doesn't make a whole lot of sense.
The guy pinned under Smith finally manages to get his face out of the mud. "Hang on, Sarge! We should listen to him! He did just come out of our hole."
The wording seems to distract Sarge for a moment, and Smith manages to disentangle himself from both of them, stumbling to his feet with another nervous glance back at the joggers. "Uh," he says. "Sorry. Let's try that again."
Caboose picks that moment to poke his head out from the manhole. "Hello."
"I knew it!" Sarge bellows. "I knew it was those dirty Blues!"
"I'm not actually a Blue," Smith says.
Sarge grabs his arm, pointing accusingly to the stripes on his armor. "What do you call that?"
"Official armor of the New Republic."
Sarge pauses. Blinks. "Oh."
"Caboose!" Donut yelps, finally getting a good look. "I don't believe it!"
"General Cinnamon Bun! Sergeant Pirate King!" Caboose drags himself out of the hole. "I am so happy you're alive!"
Now that Smith is no longer occupied with trying to prevent Sarge from hurting himself, he does recognize the two men from their files. Franklin D. Donut is a fresh-faced young man, although his pallor paints a much different picture than the tanned face grinning from his official file. Sarge is nearly unrecognizable out of uniform, but the thick eyebrows framing a terrifying expression are a dead giveaway.
Donut is bouncing from foot to foot. "Man, I didn't think we were ever gonna get rescued! You wouldn't believe how boring it is to be a prisoner! These guys are way worse at holding prisoners than Blue Team ever was."
"Blasphemy," Sarge mutters, but there's a grin on his face. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's good to see you, son."
Caboose straightens. "This is Private Andersmith."
Sometimes the captain confuses codenames with actual names. With so many special ops missions to remember, it's no wonder. "Uh. Lieutenant Smith, of the New Republic." He stares warily at Donut. Admiral or Private? "Um. Sir. Captain Caboose and I are here on a covert rescue mission to extract you from your prison." He pauses, taking a closer look around. "This is a prison, correct?"
"Captain?" Sarge yelps, but Donut interrupts with, "Yeah, they have rules and stuff for treating prisoners fairly. We get exercise periods when Locus isn't around to yell at us and be creepy." He waves a hand, indicating the distant joggers. "We're on a Federal Army training base. Three unarmed prisoners aren't exactly gonna pose a threat. Never realized there was a tunnel under here, though. The entrance must've had grass growing over it."
"Then you haven't been mistreated?"
Donut and Sarge exchange glances. "We've been held prisoner, son," Sarge says. "No hope of escape. It ain't exactly been a picnic. Don't get me wrong, someone's keeping Locus on a tight leash, but that someone's about to get their hand bit off if they're not careful."
Donut is squinting at the manhole cover. "How the heck did you even find us? If that's a sewage system, there must be hundreds or... or even thousands of possible entrances! Not to mention you could've just as easily wound up at one of several treatment plants." He pauses at Sarge's baffled expression. "Hey, I know a lot about going in and out of holes."
"Captain Caboose led us unerringly to victory," Smith says.
"I guessed," Caboose says.
Everyone's silent for a moment. "I am very lucky," Caboose adds.
Luck, Smith knows, is merely expertise gone subliminal. He straightens, gives a solemn nod. "Uh," says Donut. "Sure! Seems legit."
Smith has gone back to watching the joggers, who are slowly meandering closer. "Are they going to see us?"
Donut shrugs. "We're literally in the center of the most well-guarded base in the city. Where are we gonna go? They're not watching too closely." But they shuffle a little nearer to the building, breaking the Feds' potential line of sight. "Hey, so are we gonna get out of here?"
Caboose is shifting from foot to foot. "Where's Wash?"
Sarge and Donut exchange glances again. "Back in the infirmary," Donut says. "He, uh. Had a bit of a run-in with Locus."
Smith sees Caboose's fists clench briefly, and says, "I thought you said they didn't mistreat prisoners."
Sarge looks down at the ground. "My fault. I had a perfectly logical escape plan that only didn't work because my fork robot had to settle for a spoon in a critical location. Also because I had no diesel to power it."
"It was a good try," Donut says.
"Yeah. But Locus found out and decided I, ah. Needed to be punished. And that bastard didn't have the simple human decency to torture me!"
Donut's face has gone pale again. "He just pulled out a knife and said, 'Unfortunate,' in like that creepy voice he does, and then he turned around and stabbed Wash. Why would he even do that?"
Smith feels a chill. Caboose is frantic. "Is he okay? Oh no."
Sarge grits his teeth. "Locus just left him out cold and bleeding in his cell for a long time, and we were locked up so there was nothing we could do about it. Eventually some medics came in and took him to the infirmary." He seems to register the worry coming off Caboose in waves, because he adds, "Wash is a human cockroach, Caboose. We ran him over with a Warthog and blew him up and it barely phased him. It'd take way more than that to kill him."
Smith blinks, resolving to ask Captain Caboose about that particular adventure. "Can we reach him?"
Donut brightens. "The infirmary's got much lower security than the cell block! I was there once because I twisted my ankle and it really hurt and Locus said he was 'tired of my pathetic whining.' I bet we could walk right in! Do you have flashbangs?"
Smith nods, and hands over a few. "Maybe you two should wait in the sewers, in case there's somebody watching security feeds."
Donut straightens, indignant. "I'm not leaving without Wash."
Sarge grins, slapping Donut on the back. "Yeah, almost makes you forget he's a Blue, most of the time. We aren't leaving him, son."
Caboose says, "This is great! We are all working together again!"
Smith can't help but agree, fighting down a very unprofessional smile. "I'd rather keep my rifle," he tells Sarge, "but you're welcome to my pistol."
Sarge's expression flickers to one of extreme disgust. "No shotgun?" He sighs. "Of course there's no shotgun. Dagnabbit. Fine. I'll take the pistol."
They sneak back into the building, and Smith nervously watches for surveillance cameras on the walls. Judging by the fact that they're not being apprehended, or even passing anyone along the way, there may not be much security in this wing of the building. Or it could be a trap. But Caboose is leading the way with great confidence (wisely accepting the slight course corrections suggested by Donut), and Smith has faith that he has a plan.
They pause in the final corridor leading up to the infirmary. "Third door on the right," Donut says. "Ready?"
"Fire in the hole," Caboose says, deadpan.
Donut winds up, biting his lip with concentration, then throws a flashbang so it bounces off one wall, the second wall, and strikes the slightly-ajar door with just enough force to push it open and roll inside. It's an incredibly impressive throw. Yells of surprise erupt as the flashbang detonates, and then they're moving in, Caboose bellowing a heroic war cry.
It takes very little time to subdue the half-dozen dazed guards and medics. Caboose makes a beeline for the cot at the corner of the room, and Smith jogs after him.
Agent Washington doesn't look nearly as impressive as his service history implies. There are bandages around his chest, and pale scars standing out against the darker skin of his face, framed by messy dyed-blond hair with a full inch of black roots growing out. His wide eyes look even wider with the bruises of dark circles beneath them. He looks... ordinary. Innocuous.
Caboose yelps, "Wash!" and immediately dives in for a hug that makes Agent Washington suck in a pained breath.
"What is happening right now," Wash gasps. "Caboose. Caboose, stop."
Caboose finally backs off. "We are rescuing you!"
Wash glances back to Sarge and Donut for confirmation. "You and—?"
"Me and Andersmith!"
Wash blinks, then grimaces and flops back against his cot. "Oh god. Why'd they send you?"
Smith is surprised at the surge of anger that washes through him. "You shouldn't talk like that to the captain!"
Wash stares at him. "The captain?"
"Captain Caboose."
Wash stares at Caboose. "What."
"Lots of things change when you're on the inside," Sarge says, bleakly. "Just roll with it, Blue."
Wash's face finally crumples into something like a smile. "Sorry. I just. I can't really believe it. You're here. How did you—"
"Yes," says a new voice from the corner of the room. "How did you?"
Smith jolts at the shimmering of active camo dropping, and barely has time to shove Caboose out of the way before Locus fires. The shot catches Smith in the chest, and he sways, staring in surprise as blood wells out through the cracks in his hardsuit.
"Smith!" Caboose yelps.
Sarge is already moving, firing his borrowed pistol, but Locus moves faster, reaching for Sarge's arm. He's in power armor; Smith knows it must take virtually no pressure to snap Sarge's arm the way he does. Sarge drops his pistol with a howl, staggering back, but Locus ignores him, moving toward Donut, who's fumbling with his flashbangs.
Smith's legs finally give out under him, and he watches from the floor as Wash snarls, dragging himself out of the cot and barrelling into Locus, grappling for the knife that's still at his side. Locus shifts his weight, easily pinning Wash to the ground. Wash makes one pained grunt when Locus flattens a palm against the side of his head and slams it into the floor hard enough to send spiderwebbing cracks through the linoleum. The second time his head hits the floor, Wash goes limp. Locus drops him, turning back to Donut.
Donut fumbles his grenades, holding his hands up as Locus advances on him. "Just... just stop! We surrender! Stop!"
Smith rolls onto his side, coughing, and sees Caboose standing frozen beside him, rifle dangling at his side. "Captain," he says. His voice comes out weak.
"Mr. Locus, you are not a very nice person," Caboose says, raises his rifle, and fires a full clip into Locus's back.
Things... fade, for a while. Smith has a confused impression of floating, of people lifting him, dragging him. He puts up a struggle until he sees the captain's helmet, hears him say, "Oh no."
Later, the sewers are echoing and nightmarish—somebody's pulled off his helmet—and in a lucid moment he realizes the swaying of his vision is because Caboose has slung him over his shoulder. Looking back, blinking against the blurriness in his eyes, he can see Sarge and Donut following, Sarge with one arm curled in against his chest. Wash is supported between them, his arms slung over their shoulders, but his bloodied head is lolling and his toes are dragging through the water.
"Sir," Smith says. His voice comes out slurred and broken. "Was an honor..."
He fades again.
Smith wakes up in the infirmary at the New Republic's base of operations—not their temporary base in the Capital, but the real one. Home. He breathes in the familiar smell of anesthetic and the distant stink of the radioactive algae outside and... burning sugar?
He blinks slowly, turning his head, and sees a small plate of partially carbonized cookies sitting on the stand next to the bed. The note next to them reads, 'GET WELL SOON ANDERSMITH THANK YOU -CABOSE.'
Smith grins.
On the other side of the room, Captain Tucker is perched on a chair next to Agent Washington's cot, both of them murmuring in low-voiced tones. "I just don't understand why you couldn't tell me," Tucker says, an edge of anger filtering through his voice, and Wash's voice is quieter, but he says something that sounds a lot like, "You need to trust Carolina."
It sounds complicated. Smith sighs and closes his eyes again.
When he wakes up the second time, Jensen and Palomo and Bitters are all perched around his cot, arguing loudly about the composition and dubious nutritional value of their MREs. Smith stares at them, mumbles, "I don't think guests are allowed to eat in here," and then has to gasp for breath when Bitters lunges forward for a hug.
Bitters pulls back almost immediately, says, "Oh, shut the fuck up," and storms out the door before Smith can say a word.
"Well," Jensen says, swiping the uneaten dessert portion from Bitters' meal. "That was interesting. Hi, Smith. How're you feeling?"
Smith thinks about it. "Not too bad, considering."
"Glad you're okay," Palomo says, beaming. "Like, friends dying is getting kinda old. I think I'm over it."
Jensen's voice goes low, hushed. "Did you really fight off Locus?"
"I got shot by Locus," Smith says, and judiciously ignores Palomo's whisper of 'so fucking metal'. "Captain Caboose is the one who actually fought him off." A belated surge of panic sends him into a coughing fit, and he manages to gasp, "Is the captain—?"
"Captain Caboose is fine," says a voice from the door. Kimball walks in, helmet under her arm, smiling like he hasn't seen her smile in a long time. "Sarge's arm is healing, Agent Washington is well on his way to recovery, Donut is spending all day in my office recommending new color schemes to use in the mess to boost morale, and you, Lieutenant Smith, are a hero."
"Oh," Smith says. All the smiling faces seem overwhelming. He knows there's something that should be worrying him. He knows there's something... ah. "I believe I am fit to accept punishment for the unauthorized covert operation Caboose undertook, ma'am. I was aware of it from the start."
"Yes, well," says Kimball, and waves a hand to dismiss Palomo and Jensen, who flee the room with backward glances. "Goodness knows you're a troublemaker."
Smith flinches. "I have always tried to uphold the honor of the New Republic to the best of my abilities."
"Relax, John, I'm joking." Kimball grins, waiting for him to smile back. "Honestly, I'm just pleased we're finally getting some results. You rescued the prisoners without losing any men. That's a win in my books, unconventional methods or no." She rests a hand on his shoulder. "You're a loyal man, John. Caboose is lucky to have you in his corner."
"Serving with Captain Caboose is an honor," Smith says. "Thank you."
"We'll talk more when you're feeling better," Kimball says. "Caboose should be finished training in a couple of hours, and I'm sure he'll be stopping by again to see how you're doing."
Remembering, Smith tilts his head to the side. The plate of cookies is still in its place beside him. "Could you pass me one of those?"
She blinks. "Uh. They're a little... burned."
He stares back until she shrugs and hands him one. She looks at the cookies for a moment, smiles one more time, then stalks out of the room with a purpose. There's a lightness in her step that he hasn't seen since the first time they'd heard about the possibility of the Reds and Blues joining their struggle.
Smith gnaws on the edge of his burned cookie, swallowing with an effort, and smiles up at the ceiling. He's served with the New Republic for many years, and for the first time he's starting to believe they can win.