Life has been pretty depressing as of late, so I wrote something a little cathartic to help cope with that.

I've always had a soft spot for Florida, so I decided to indulge. Takes place shortly after the Mother of Invention crash-lands on the planet with all of the sim bases, Season 10 to Blood Gulch Chronicles transition. Told using snap-shots/one-word prompts.

Summary: The ebb and flow effect, a study of, conducted by Freelancer Agent Florida/Captain Butch Flowers.

Chapter Two: Flowers for Algernon

(one week)

At first Florida thought time was their greatest enemy, because he couldn't find another explanation for how everything had fallen apart as quickly as it did.

(trophic level)

Being on the Leaderboard meant power. Power that came with a price. Only after you cut open your wrist, signed over your soul in blood, and personally shook hands with the devil did you realize that you couldn't afford your sanity and your hierarchy at the same time. And when the time came to repay that debt―as you crouched like a wounded animal, basked in the mechanical blue light of a metal tablet where so many others had come to worship―the Director always took away the things you needed most.

It was a lesson Florida learned when the summons came from the Counselor following the pandemonium of the "Freelancer Break-in," words whispered down empty halls by soldiers who were little more than nameless ghosts, forgotten faces unworthy of Leonard Church's presence. Wary eyes tracked his movements as the cobalt Freelancer made his way toward the bridge, their suspicion and anxiety bleeding together in an oil spill of reds and blacks, like a fragmented kaleidoscope. He was accustomed to such emotional showcasing; it was negative attention that the Top Four had been subjected to, equal parts respect for their place on the food chain mixed with the fear of stepping out of line.

What he wasn't accustomed to was seeing that attention directed at him.

(usurper)

The second lesson he learned, as a flickering blue figure materialized over the dais, was that governments and militaries were just big gangs, and until now, he had never been considered important enough to know his gang's secrets.

(lacuna)

"…badly damaged in an unrelated conflict. We tried to download a backed up copy of his default programming to compensate for the loss of data. Unfortunately, we cannot account for the pieces that are missing."

The Director pronounced the word "missing" the same way he pronounced "Article 12" on Wash's service record: with an air of cold detachment.

(permian-triassic)

It only made sense that when everything finally came full circle it would not be into the raging inferno of a dying star that the Mother of Invention plunged, but a forlorn moon of ice and decay. If a hell did exist then Sidewinder certainly epitomized it, a lonely wasteland on the precipice of time where the frozen mausoleum of their ship would be immortalized. A perfectly preserved reminder of all that could have been, and the last will and testament of a species fighting a losing battle against its own extinction.

(we all fall down)

One day, there were ten of them. Now Project Freelancer was missing states the same way Recovery was missing numbers.

Ignorance was unforgivable. A mantra they were all sculpted in the likeness of as the Director chiseled away at them, throwing out the excess until all that remained was the perfect soldier―perfect in that every one of them was damaged yet able to still stand before their architect and hide their scars. So much a part of Florida now that he as he tried to fill in the gaps, to understand what had made the stone crumble into dust, he had a disturbingly hard time assuring himself that it was because he still cared and not because of trigger-reflexes. Still, the Freelancer turned over garden rocks and tried not cringe every time he found maggots crawling underneath.

They were all perfect at hiding their house keys, and Florida had never been good at picking locks.

Wyoming was still unconscious from his fight with York, concussed and lying in a hospital bed with an I.V. flushing saline into his vascular system, bandages swathing the left side of his head. Between meetings with internals and working alongside engineers in the ship's underbelly he'd only managed to visit his friend twice in the last three days. Two transverse fractures and minor hemorrhaging, according to the clipboard that he definitely didn't steal from Medical Records when the surgeon had his back turned. Lucky, according to Gamma, when Florida's mother hen tendencies got the better of him, caved in and asked the A.I. how bad it had really been. At least―in between the sleepless nights of mindless worry and too-tight handholding at Wyoming's bedside―it gave him the time to research jokes. So (if, his thoughts unhelpfully supplied) when Wyoming finally did wake up he would have something new to laugh at.

Even less than he'd seen of his friend he'd seen of the Dakotas. Rumor had it that they were under suspicion for their actions during the break-in, if by "actions" one was referring to their ambivalence, how neither assisted nor attempted to stop York and Texas. It took quite a bit of favor-trading and innocent sweet talk with a Standard Issue soldier to get the information he wanted, but when he did, all that Florida learned was upon arriving at the scene the twins were found in a deadlock. Long pent-up tensions anyone could have seen escalating solar systems away had finally erupted. Once the dome shields and weapons were out of the picture the two had been carted into the Director's loving arms. From there the grapevine choked itself on its own ensnarement, and any information after that was conjecture and gossip. Rumors like "reassignment" and "new mission" kept circulating around, but that was it. What had caused them to focus on each other over the interlopers, or why neither had gone AWOL with Texas and York, no one seemed to know.

He'd trained with them for months, knew how they took their coffee, could give a powerpoint presentation on the abstractions behind South's tattoos or the reason why North read tattered comic books. A part of him wondered if he could have stopped it before it ever happened, only to be reminded of what bodies looked like when they didn't clear out of a hurricane's path. Altruism always yielded to self-preservation.

Carolina was the current elephant in the room, a role previously held by C.T. (ironically, if someone was depraved enough to take the time to foil their falls). At whose hands… A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold trickled down his spine. Maine in his own right was bellicose and disinclined to follow protocol at times, but even he wasn't without honor.

Or so Florida had thought.

Pausing by one of the portholes in the corridor, the man gazed out onto the cliffside. Ridiculous to the point of parody, caution tape sectioned off the spot where more than one life had begun and ended. Recovery Agents could be seen huddled together in the relentless gale, three others crouching along the edge outfitted with carabiners and rope, more than likely making that perilous climb under threat of court martial.

One dead, three unaccounted for. And out of all the MIAs posted on the bulletin, the one that had Florida fearful for the civilian populace of this planet was the man held hostage by the voice in his head.

Meanwhile in an isolated ward Washington hovered on the cusp of permanent removal from active duty (suspended until further notice where his name should have been), while the medics tried to disentangle his and Epsilon's jigsaw pieces and figure out which memories belonged to which puzzle. It didn't help that there were pieces missing.

(lovecraft)

The Director's most recent attempt to take the ethics codes and wipe his shoes on them was shown to him the same way a child was shown a glass tank full of fermented dead frogs and grafting lines. Not a reassuring mental image, especially with RESTRICTED AREA – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and biohazard warnings plastered on every square inch of wall.

Stepping into the dimly lit room sent goosebumps down his arms, enhanced by his own apprehension and the intentionally low temperatures behind the sealed containment doors. Three sets of footsteps echoed between the walls as Florida was guided toward the back of the lab flanked by his superiors. A piece of heavy machinery hissed steam at him as they drew pass; only immense self-control kept the man's heart from trying to tunnel out of his ribcage and burst through his chest. Again, he swallowed his discomfort, choosing to focus on his breathing and how his suit's temperature regulation systems were doing a poor job at stopping his breath from fogging the glass. It was amazing how his companions wore only cotton and weren't suffering the same effects.

He wondered how much cold you had to slough through before you stopped feeling it.

Through the tinted visor he watched the Director step toward a panel, skeleton-key fingers punching in his authorization code. The lock pinged an affirmation back at him, and then the wall began sliding and rearranging. Like a flat Rubik's cube, entire panels separated at the seams and retracted back to make way for a descending cryogenic chamber. Neon gas and pressurized air vapor swirled behind the opaque glass, obscuring any view of its contents. Morbid curiosity bypassed his self-preservation instincts, and Florida leaned forward. He reached out a hand over the head of the container and swiped away a long streak with his glove, trying to picture what kinds of frogs the Director had prepped for dissection.

An armored face stared back.

(fall in line)

They had a new assignment for him.

(last one standing)

And when Florida tried to get Wyoming to listen to him, to get him to cling to the wreckage so they could search the turbulent waters together for other survivors (we've drifted so far), Wyoming slammed Florida against the bulkhead. Not enough pressure to actually hurt him but enough to keep him pinned. The other Freelancer loomed over him, his dark eyes the thunderhead that Florida had watched shipwreck their team.

"Stop it." Even fatigued and injured, with one arm in a sling, Wyoming could still immobilize Florida. Not that it mattered―he didn't struggle. "It's over. There's nothing left. Project Freelancer is finished."

"Brünnhilde hasn't sung yet. We can still salvage the situation, Reggie."

"You are not dragging me on some blasted rescue mission! We barely made it through the last one alive."

Not all of them did. "Which is exactly the point. It looks bad right now, but you still have your equipment, don't you, all we need is time to―"

A startled noise drew from Florida as Wyoming's grip tightened.

"Truly you cannot be this deluded. Get a hold of yourself." He obediently went quiet and slumped back into the wall, unresisting as Wyoming drew closer, his normally pleasant drawl nearly a growl. "Stop pretending you care. My equipment is not the answer you're looking for, never mind the technicalities of how we'd even go about sabotaging ourselves. Even time has constraints, and it won't bring back the dead."

Something burned in the back of Florida's throat.

Perhaps he wasn't as jaded and detached as he wished to project, because his face softened. Sharpness like a knife still cut through his features, but it at least blunted the edge somewhat. "There's nothing you can do, mate," he sighed, the words carrying a worn quality to them. Continuous repetition. "You're chasing ghosts."

Coming from the soldier who looked half dead.

Calloused hands roughly parted from his own and the sniper stepped back. There was a hesitation in his stance, a parting comment weighing down across his shoulders. Finally Wyoming spoke: "Escape while you still can, Butch. Save yourself. Before you join them, too."

Without another word Wyoming turned and strode away.

It was the last time Florida saw his friend.

(elegy)

His things were tidily packed away in his single duffle and his quarters swept bare, a sterile, mechanical cleanliness to the former warm, homey qualities Florida had kept. Not wanting to dwell on the one-sided farewell, he hitched his belongings over his shoulder and exited the room, finding his new armor a tad chaffy and unbroken-in. Just before he proceeded to hangar bay six for departure the Counselor intercepted him.

"An acknowledgment of your contributions," explained the Counselor, as he pushed a manilla envelope into his hands, "while in the service."

Puzzled, he pried open the crease and tipped its contents into his upturned palm, watching as the pentagram pressed coldly into his skin.

He wondered, much later, as he turned the Medal of Honor over and over in his hands, if it even counted, seeing as other soldiers died to receive that award, and he'd only died on paper.

(mantra)

"…are absolutely stupid. Why would they give us bright blue armor? That's like painting a giant sign on your back saying 'please shoot my ass.' Why not green? Or brown? Who the hell is running this army? God," Church thunked his helmet into his palm and sighed, "I can't believe I volunteered for this crap."

For an A.I. allegedly the victim of reverse Multiple Personality Disorder, he was surprisingly emotive.

Then again, that might have been an understatement. By his tally that was the thirty-seventh swear in six minutes. A new record.

"I'd like to think that Command color-coded us for our convenience. Differentiating yourself from the enemy is important. After all, we don't want to have any accidents of friendly fire," replied Florida as he lightly swung his legs against his seat.

Across from him the sim trooper shrugged, a dismissive noise catching in the back of his throat. Before he could give his two cents on battlefield etiquette the dropship violently lurched. Heavy tremors passed through the titanium-alloy hull, and Church swore as he frantically grabbed for the bar over his head and clung to it with metal-denting force.

"Sorry for the rough ride, fellas." How strange it was to hear the pilot's voice come out as masculine, with a heavy colony-world accent, than the familiar snappy one-liners. "We've hit a bit o' turbulence. Nothing this ship can't handle. Just strap yourselves on in back there and make yourselves comfy."

Four-Seven-Niner would never have let something like turbulence impede her.

"And why the hell are they relocating me, anyway?" Church continued, simmering determinedly in his seat. "I mean, yeah, sure, the Sidewinder base got nailed, but they didn't have to up and move one guy for that. Could've just left me there in my personal icebox. It wasn't like I was in any danger. That Freelancer left me alive, and really, why isn't the space army more worried about a psycho-bitch with invisibility than a bunch of guys in red yelling at me from across the tundra? Seriously, I don't…"

The part of Florida not bound by his orders considered how the Alpha would react if he told him that his time spent on Sidewinder was a synthetic memory.

And realized, with a pang of guilt, that the lie was kinder.

"Look on the bright side," he chirped, "at least it'll be a nice change of scenery. No more power outages from freak blizzards, no more fuel freezing over when the temperature drops below zero, and no more cancelled 5:00 AM morning laps around the base!"

Church gave him a very serious stare. "You're going to be the death of me, aren't you?"

In spite of himself Florida laughed. "Well, maybe a little. Remember, your captain always has your best interests at heart. So when he tells you that the pull-up bar is starting to look a little neglected and dusty…"

"I dial down the complaining to a minimum and start coughing up phlegm until he gives me a sick day," he said. "And threaten to lick all of the doorknobs in the base until the desired effect is achieved."

"That wasn't the answer I was looking for, but that's close enough for now."

They sat in companionable silence for another five minutes.

On the bright side, at least he wouldn't be bored. Or alone.

"Red, huh? So what, they're communists?" He could hear the eye-roll in the sim trooper's tone. "No wonder Command wants us to kill them."

(closure)

"When Command said they were gonna send us to 'defend valuable strategic territory from the enemy,'" Tucker mused, "do you think they meant somewhere other than a box canyon in the middle of nowhere?"

The echoes rebounded off of the cliffside from the powerful acoustics. Invisible voices shouted back until nowhere whispered distantly at them from across the valley.

Clink. Tucker and Church peered over the ledge they were currently sitting on to watch the pebble clatter to the bottom.

"Or maybe"―clink―"they mixed up our flights, and right now some really confused quarrymen are trying to fight off alien hordes with pickaxes."

"Nope." This time the stone sailed an impressive forty feet through the air before it pitched forward and hit the dirt. Church had a surprisingly good arm. "This is pretty much exactly how I imagined it. Flying out to the most undesirable piece of real estate in the galaxy and finding one other guy stationed here with the base a complete wreck."

To his credit, Tucker did sound contrite. Just not contrite enough for Church's tastes. "Hey, it's not like I was expecting company! Command didn't tell me they were sending you guys out here!"

"Seriously? You had empty soda bottles and used tissues all over the living room! Not even four feet from the trashcan."

"A guy has needs."

"And he has a trashcan. Which he didn't bother to use."

"That's not true."

"Tucker, using it to replace the broken table leg doesn't count."

"Are you really going to bitch about it? You're not the one cleaning up."

Church jolted upright and made a strangled hissing noise. "Don't jinx it! Captain Flowers has got, like, superhuman hearing. He'll find us."

Tucker pointed to the steadily-accumulating pile of rocks at the base of their cliff: "And you don't think he heard all of that?"

"…Shut up."

The momentary reprieve in conversation allowed the sounds of explosions and bickering to reach their end of the canyon. By day two both Blues had been conditioned to respond to the noise the same way Pavlov's dogs responded to a bell (the word "bell" replaced with "polka-style ranchera music").

"And to complete your all-expenses-taxed, unfurnished, one-room summer home," Church growled, "the neighborhood comes with its very own enemy bunker, filled with trigger-happy assholes. Welcome to Blood Gulch, prospective buyer!"

Tucker whistled. "That was scary accurate. You should have done sales pitches for a living."

"Yeah, well," Church huffed, and winded back his arm, stone nestled in his palm like a catapult, "maybe once my contract is up I'll try selling cardboard boxes to hobos."

He gave a hard toss, and the two soldiers watched as the rock came back down―

Nearly on Flowers' head.

The pair gulped.

"There you two are! I've been turning this place upside down trying to find you." Chipper tone in place, he peered up at them with a hand shielding his visor from the glare of the sun. "While I admire your commitment to practicing your grenade-throws, you should really be more careful. That could've hit me!"

Neither dare utter a sound, especially not when Flowers reached behind him and held out two brooms, one in each outstretched hand like bloodstained bayonets.

"I thought you two could use a break from your training and have some good old-fashioned commander-subordinate bonding. And what better way to build unit cohesion than by cleaning our new base together?"

"Shit."

"Damn it."

(broken record)

"You call that a flag? I've seen boxers blowing in the breeze worthier of being saluted than that sorry loincloth on a toothpick!"

"If you think it sucks so much then why the hell do you keep trying to steal it?"

"No Blue flag will fly in this canyon while I'm still alive and able to order my team to risk their lives destroying it!"

"Excellent plan, sir."

"'Excellent plan'? He's sending us to our deaths for a fucking dish towel! I'm not getting shot for that!"

"Either shot by the enemy or shot by your commanding officer. Take your pick, dirtbag."

"Hey, assholes, if you're going to stand and argue then get off our front lawn."

The vitriol became endearing after a while.

(stranger in a strange land)

It was easy to forget―with Flower's mind hardwired to automatically calculate the seconds between each footfall, to gauge the distance between his rifle sights and his next target, to pinpoint its trajectory, to estimate the time it would take for the bullet to cover the distance, to see soldier boys crumpling to the earth dead before they hit the ground―that he wasn't one of them.

It was even easier to remember when he realized that he'd already aligned his crosshairs on one of the Reds from less than a klik away, and his finger hovered over the sensitive trigger.

It would take a long time before he started using the viewfinder as a telescope, and not a horoscope. For now it was all he could do to lower the weapon and not put bullets through their heads, like he'd done to so many other sim troopers before them.

(pompeii)

The rubble, or our sins?

(help)

Soft, panicked noises and the rustle of blankets drew Flowers out of his sleep.

Blinking exhaustion and bad memories out of his eyes, the man quietly sat up, pushing the comforter off himself in the same motion. Across the barracks Flowers could make out the vaguely-discernable shape of someone thrashing intermittently, entangling themselves in the sheets with every kick.

Tonight marked the second week stationed at FPS Outpost 1-A. A fortnight's worth of time adjusting from the shoot-dodge-counter-run-bleed-cacophony of his former job, to the monotonous, almost tranquil lull of Blood Gulch.

There were some things that were taking longer to adjust to.

Footsteps light, the ex-Freelancer slipped from his bunk and padded over the floorspace, only stilling once when Tucker snored. In three lengthy strides he reached Church's bed; cautiously, a hand reached out and gently grabbed Church's bicep, giving the (biomechanical grown-in-a-petri-dish) body a careful shake.

"Church? Church, wake up. Come on back, kid, it's okay. Easy."

As suddenly as a thunderclap Church bolted upright. Bright, panicked eyes darted around the room, glassy and only half-aware of the disorienting shift to reality. The damp sheen of perspiration shone on his skin, t-shirt sticking to his rapidly heaving chest. Finally the touch on his arm broke through his fight/flight reflex, and the sim trooper relaxed, slumping against his pillow.

"Didn't mean to wake you up." Gravel sandpapered his throat with every word.

Flowers subconsciously eased his grip, tracing reassuring circles with his thumb against the warm skin. For once Church didn't protest the contact. "It's okay. I've always been a light sleeper." Not technically a lie, anyway. "Another nightmare?" he asked. He knew Church's stability was questionable at best, and the recursion glitches were manifesting when the A.I.'s guard fell.

"Yeah." The arm not being held reached up, fingers digging at his eyes and removing the last vestige of the dream. His features had regained some composure, but a wary, haunted shadow still clung to his face. Church frowned. "I can't remember it, though. I never can."

"All for the better," Flowers soothed, meaning it.

A beat of heavy silence.

"Thanks," Church said at last.

"You're quite welcome." Hearing Church's heart rate slow to normal levels Flowers began to pull his hand away, not wanting to prolong his subordinate's discomfort. To his surprise the smaller soldier lashed at the appendage, almost before he could stop himself, and tugged the limb closer to his chest.

"Can you…" He averted his gaze. Shame and self-loathing soured the question. "Can you…stay? Just for a little bit?"

No hesitation. "Of course I can." Flowers was already making himself comfortable at the foot of the bed. As he settled in for the vigil Church cleared his throat.

"Just don't tell Tucker, okay?" Church pulled a face. "He'd never let me live it down."

Overgrown hair was pushed from his face, braided ponytail sloping down his back as he lifted his index finger to his lips. Even in the dark he could see Church rolling his eyes. "It'll be our little secret."

It was the least dangerous secret Flowers had.

(odds are)

And for the first time in a while, Flowers knew everything would be all right.

Next time I update you'll get something cute. Possibly with Theta. Possibly-definitely with Theta.