"Private Tucker."
"What?"
"Stop standing around. I need to talk to you."
Wash had, since his immersion into Blue Team, gotten both more understanding and more contrite. Without the hierarchy of the Director and the Chairman governing his previous lives Wash felt at times confused and precarious, unable to measure the importance or quality of what he was doing. And how important something was determined how quickly he should do it. (Shooting South had been very important. She had wasted a lot of his time already. For the same reason, fighting through to the Director had been important.)
On the other hand, an assessment of Blue Team's serious strength was not very important when Red Team were their only enemies, and Wash had slowly learned to prioritize things that did not necessarily involve death.
He watched Tucker jog, with an acceptable degree of enthusiasm, toward the tank. Wash had come over here to find Caboose, had seen him headed safely inside the base, and turned his attention to something he should have done days ago.
Private Tucker required some...personal attention, since his increasing resistance to orders was becoming inconvenient.
Wash nodded at him. "Listen. In Freelancer training, we had ways to both test each other and increase the skills of the entire team. So. We're going to spar."
"What?"
"I'm going to fight you."
"I'm a lover, not a spar-er."
"I'm going to ignore that. I want to see how good you are."
Tucker seemed to rally. "Haha man, I beat Tex – sort of. And the Meta. I helped. You saw that."
"Yes, but we've all changed a bit since then."
"I ain't gotten porkier."
"It's important to keep in fighting shape with drills."
"A drill? Man, I thought we were going to actually fight. I'm curious. A Freelancer versus the Savior of an Alien Race...we could have a good go."
Wash smiled behind his mask. Reverse psychology and playing to his ego. It was just like talking to Sarge. "I never said the drill wasn't a real fight. But one rule."
"What?" Tucker sounded disgusted.
"Do you know the phrase 'Chekhov's Gun'?"
"Yeah. That dude who said if there's a gun in a room it's gonna go off. He probably knew Caboose."
"He said that was the case in stories. But we're not taking chances. I know how you like your team-killing."
"Ha ha."
"No guns."
"Great." Tucker dropped his rifle on the ground almost immediately. "I hardly use that thing anyway."
Wash set his DMR down more carefully on the fender of the tank.
"Listen, I want you to know - " Tucker started.
"Fight me."
"That I appreciate your not killing us quickly when you had the chance, but this killing us slowly thing isn't that great either. You know, I miss Church too."
"Be quiet."
"And you're a terrible leader. We wouldn't have to do this alpha dog stuff otherwise, but instead, this is gonna be fun."
"Stop talking." Wash fired. The yellow blast sent sparks showering off of Tucker's leg plates, and the other man staggered backwards, suffering only from fear and chips in his armor's paint.
"You said no shooting!"
"Yes I did."
Wash anchored the rifle to his back. A second later he bent down and scooped a wrench off the ground near the tank, dirt flinging into the air. Tucker was moving sideways, one foot crossing behind the other, his hands up like a boxer. Wash spun the wrench lazily, missing a standard-issue steel knife he hadn't carried for years and years -
Tucker dashed forward. It was an uncontrolled charge, the top of Tucker's teal helmet barreling toward Wash, and Wash was reminded of Maine so much that he did like he would have done with Maine -
He stepped to the left. One, then two steps, just barely enough to get out of the way.
And Tucker was not Maine.
At the last second Tucker planted one food on the side of the tank and pushed off, suddenly flying at Wash from behind his left shoulder instead of right in front. The sim trooper slammed into him and Wash stumbled back even as he hooked one hand under the back of Tucker's helmet and rolled him backwards. Tucker's legs flew over his head and he landed heavily on his back a few feet away, Wash barely catching himself before he had to bend to one knee for just a moment to regain his balance. Tucker sat up, breathing heavily.
Tucker said, "Okay."
He drew his sword. The two tines of the blue blade snapped out, and Wash heard his own rule in his head - no guns. Tucker wouldn't be trying to kill him. And knives would be no better against the sword than a wrench. But for a moment Wash looked down, wondering -
Tucker charged forward, yelling. "Swish!"
His next move decided, Wash ducked again. This time he was close enough that his armor clanged against Tucker's as he ducked under the other man's arm. The sim trooper let out a confused "Huh?" but reversed his movement a second later, swinging the sword above Wash's head and turning so that he was facing the former Freelancer again, but closer.
"Stab!"
He aimed for Wash's shoulder, and this time Wash had to both dodge and retreat to get out of the way. He took his bearings - the terrain was flat dirt here but grass and the tank behind him and a treacherous looking hump of dirt behind Tucker, not far from a building - and threw the wrench.
It spun end over end and hit Tucker on the faceplate before he knew it was coming. It would've been too optimistic for Wash to believe that he'd left a small dent in Tucker's armor, but for a moment the tip of the sword wavered away from Wash as the sim trooper reeled, and Wash took the opportunity to move in.
He landed one punch on the side of Tucker's head before he saw the sword curving up in his peripheral vision. The punch didn't rattle his armored fingers or Tucker's armored head, although it rocked the sim trooper sideways a little bit and only increased the momentum of the sword toward a target now inside Tucker's reach.
Wash raised his elbow clumsily to block the sword at the hilt, hearing the blade hum past his ear. Tucker punched him back with his other hand, hitting Wash in the chest over his heaviest layer of armor and barely rocking him.
Wash dropped his left wrist and heard the combat knife click into place. The newest armor had retracted blades, balanced more for cooking dinner than for throwing. He let the short hilt fall into his palm anyway, ideas immediately aligning in his head with as much clarity as a tracer round.
Tucker hit him again. Wash bent his knees and stabbed up, his knife scraping off of Tucker's chest armor and wedging the heel of his hand against the bodysuit at Tucker's neck. The blade just touched the fabric.
"Not fair," Tucker said. "Do I have those?"
Wash disengaged and turned away, showing Tucker his back in a disdainful gesture he had not intended to make.
During that glance at the opposite side of the canyon, he saw Sarge and Simmons walk into view. The Red leader was charging around the corner, shotgun first, waving a trotting Simmons on, but skidded to a a halt as soon as he saw Wash. The Reds stopped, met Wash's eyes.
"Huh, I do," said the voice behind him, and a second later a blue blur filled his vision. Wash hadn't expected the sword - should have, he quickly and silently berated himself - and reached up with both hands. The knife was knocked out of his hand by the smack of Tucker's forearm against his fingers, but he grabbed Tucker's wrists and pulled forward, holding the sword above him and pulling Tucker along with him.
The Reds were talking behind Wash, words he didn't bother parsing out of the rush. Tucker lurched forward, and faster than Wash expected tried to spin the opposite way and wrench the sword out of Wash's grasp. Wash bent his knees, felt his weight heave sideways as Tucker's plan to unbalance him worked, and looked over his shoulder for a split second before kicking Tucker just under the last armor plate on his stomach.
Tucker flailed. Wash took one long step forward, felt the m-shaped sword hilt pull free of Tucker's grip, and turned around ready to sweep the blue blade across his entire field of vision.
The sword died. It had never had any weight in the first place, which threw Wash off too: his whole arm was moving with much faster than he had expected, with just the silver hunk of metal at the end, and Tucker took advantage. He dashed forward immediately, clearly intending to strike at Wash's neck with the knives under both of his wrists.
One blade did not shake free from Tucker's gauntlet, but the other did. Wash ducked away, feeling his heel scrape into the dirt, then pushed back.
The hilt of the alien sword slammed into Tucker's right shoulder, uncomfortably crunching Wash's fingers against his armor. Wash pulled back and threw the hilt away, as far as he could; now Tucker would have to turn his back to retrieve it.
"Hey, I needed that," Tucker whined.
"Too bad."
"Are we done? I'm bored and you're annoying."
"No."
Tucker raised his left wrist and the second hidden blade slid out, sitting short and silver and businesslike in his gloved palm. He held it out, pointing at the vicinity of Wash's shoulder.
Wash said, "I thought you said this would be fun."
Tucker charged, screaming.
Sometimes, Tucker's plans actually worked. Wash hadn't been prepared: Tucker was faster than he expected and barreled into him, their shoulder plates colliding. In a plan so sudden even he hadn't seen it coming Wash just stood his ground and let the armor take it, feeling his feet sink a little into the dry dirt of the canyon. Tucker looked up.
Wash clearly heard Sarge say, "We could attack while they're fighting amongst themselves!"
He wasn't going to have to deal with that too -
Wash clasped his own hands and slammed his fists into the side of Tucker's head. The sim trooper stumbled, his whole body going loose for just a second. This, Wash thought, is when he would shoot him if this were real.
Tucker lurched forward.
In a move that looked almost accidental, he hooked one leg behind Wash's and stepped forward. Wash knew the moment he was taken off balance and raised his hands, letting the armor take the impact and cushion his neck, scissoring to the side so that he trapped Tucker's legs between his ankles. His field of vision filled up with blue as Tucker fell, and then they were both on the ground with one remaining knife between them. Wash's vision tunneled. Again he saw his next move as clear as if he was watching a movie. Just plunge that knife into his neck, just where the bodysuit ended and the helmet began, just like he had been taught.
He remembered:
You can't just kill everyone you meet.
Why not?
Wash grabbed the knife.
Something in the distance exploded. Debris pattered down from the sky as Grif yelled in the distance, sounding more confused and irritated than hurt. Wash looked at the shards of rock pattering around him and realized what was happening just as Tucker yelled.
"Caboose!"
"What now?" Wash rolled his eyes.
"He must have gotten back in the tank!"
Wash cursed. Really? He couldn't even get a few minutes around here to concentrate on not quite killing someone.
Tucker heaved himself off the ground and broke into an uneven jog in the direction of the crashing sounds. The noise of the explosion gradually Reds were still lurking behind a hill, peering out now to add insult to Tucker's injury.
"Good job, Blue." Sarge said.
"Shut up, man."
Wash heard Sarge laughing, Simmons chiming in a moment later as if he had to wait to be allowed.
Tucker huffed at both of them on his way to the other side of the canyon
Wash scooped the knife off the ground, digging the armor over his knuckles into the dirt and catching sand up with it, and stood. He felt the adrenaline rush go down in fit and starts. He blinked, reassuring himself that the sky was the same blue it had been before. It had been nice to focus on something for a while.
Sarge said, "On second thought, let's make a tactical retreat," and ducked out.
Wash's pleasantly uncaring single-mindedness couldn't last. From the sound of the yelling, Tucker had found Caboose. Wash went after them.
A moment later he thought about Caboose's track record, abandoned his jog down an open path, and went back toward Blue base instead. Best to have a gun for show, at least. Tucker was mad and Caboose was armed.
Wash supposed that was how Blue Team was going to be.
Unless he kept fighting it.