Resurgent
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"In the span of one hour after deployment, you managed to destroy an entire building on what was supposed to be a secret ops mission, were nearly captured by the police in yet another highway pursuit, and then you still, somehow, managed to let the briefcase be repossessed? And on top of it, your idiocy has resulted in the severe incapacitation of my top agent." Washington's impression of the Director is unnervingly accurate by text-book definition, down to the very accent, which makes Carolina that much more anxious to attend the follow-up briefing. He marches across the room again, wearing a path into the floor in the wake of all his pacing. "I not only expected you to do better, I expected results!"
"It might be a bit of a long shot to admit that I messed up," Oregon speaks up. Every soldier present glares at him simultaneously. "…Just a bit."
Carolina scoffs bitterly, crossing her arms back against her chest and leaning into the wall. "You're goddamn right it was your fault, Oregon. We snuck in successfully, but you just had to go and blow everything to Hell."
Oregon thinks back to Texas in the infirmary ward, fast asleep on her stomach on the bed, a binder supporting her chest and shoulders to keep any other kind of material from bothering her castration. She's heavily sedated to ease the pain in her back. There's a jagged slice running from the frills of her lower ribs to the peak of her hip that was stitched together successfully, but it's swollen with irritation and potential infection despite the antibiotics pumping through her system from the IVs. It might take a long while for her to return to combat.
He doesn't want to admit that there's guilt gnawing on his bones.
Injuries are fairly unavoidable in this job, and in a way, he hadn't directly caused Tex's current distress. Perhaps, however, if he had obeyed orders and if he hadn't so stubbornly ignored Washington's warning, or maybe if he hadn't deployed into a mission that clearly never required his assistance, they could have avoided the highway chase altogether.
But that could be the guilt talking, who knows.
"We all made it out though," Florida pipes up, noticing the obvious tension in the atmosphere. His attempt at alleviating it, however, backfires immediately because Carolina casts him a glare that could turn a man to a puddle of piss. She's clearly not in the mood to deal with his goddamn uppity personality; understandable given the dire seriousness of the situation.
Washington continues to pace obsessively. At some point he sweeps off his helmet, kicks it across the room and into the wall. The resulting clatter startles Oregon out of drifting into his inner thoughts. "We're so screwed! I can't believe – Jesus, how did we seriously manage to lose the briefcase at the last goddamn second?"
"What was in it, anyway?" Florida asks, "I never did get a wind of that part of the mission."
"The Director never told us," Carolina mutters in return.
"Speaking of the Director," Wash says grimly, glancing out the briefing room's window into the lobby, "guess who's here."
The Director enters the room with the Counselor in tow and every soldier currently conscious lines up and snaps into attention. They hadn't expected his debriefing so soon, although that voids out the longer wait they had been previous dreading. He doesn't greet them, doesn't nod his head or murmur a sound for a long pause. Instead his lips press into a thin line. With hands folded firmly behind his back, he casts a steely green gaze into Carolina's direction – who lets her eyes drop in shame – and then passes his look over to Oregon.
Moves behind the projection table.
Speaks.
"…You blew up IreonCorps."
"Our apologies sir," Wash replies, but immediately shuts himself up when the Director spears him with a resentful glare that could freeze hell over in a heartbeat.
"You were almost captured by the police, one of my best agents is now in a coma, you lost the briefcase to the feds"—he tenses, his voice rising a pitch—"and then you still had the audacity to show your faces in my facility!" There's a terse silence that suffocates every Freelancer in the room. Oregon isn't particularly bothered, knows that the despair passes by the next day; he's subsumed by the guilt however. And that's what redirects his stare to the wall. To avoid looking at them. Any of them. "I am not angry," the Director adds with a tone as sour as the rest of his lecture, because he's lying to them and he's definitely angry, "I am just very, very disappointed in each and every one of you."
The leader board updates. Carolina moves up a point, Texas shifts several decimals, but other than that, not much changes.
Oregon clears his throat, reaches into his back pocket. "So even though we did fuck that mission sideways, I took the liberty of stealing the briefcase's contents. You know, just so I could get the points."
Every set of eyes in the room dart over to him in surprise.
"You have the chip?" the Director retorts, clearly taken aback, exchanging a bewildered look with the Counselor.
"Yeah. I was going to give it to you when you walked in, but then you got scary." Oregon passes over the black microchip without a second thought, doesn't bother to question what's on it that's so important or why it was so tediously guarded. He just does as they all do, and gives it up. "Hope this makes up for all the shit we did."
The Director glances at the soldiers, at the chip. "Job well done, agent Oregon. Consider this your first step up the ladder." He pockets the item and his stoic expression returns with ease, abandoning the scowl that was turning the room to dust and ice. "I'll be sure to have the Counselor update the board. You are all dismissed."
As the soldiers saunter out the door, Oregon hears Carolina huff behind him. "You son of a bitch."
The room is vacant and cold. There's a machine that sits across the way, a projection platform housing an assortment of little animated soldiers that seem to operate in unit yet behave as individuals with imperfect personalities. The green one runs through random facts that are disconnected albeit brilliant, the gray one hisses at the others that get too close to his personal space, the light blue one remains silent and huddles in a corner, the purple- with a crimson undertone- one bounces idly in place like a child on a holiday morning, the gold and sapphire ones elegantly rotate around each other like twin stars. A silver-blue one with plain details is poised by the edge beside one that, for some reason, is on fire. And then there's a single black unit with no distinct shape that tries to materialize in the background, forming little more than a hazy cloud.
They haven't stopped looking at him since he first awoke in this ward.
"Who are you?" the purple soldier questions.
He stares down at his hands, at the light blue armor he doesn't quite recall adorning. "…I'm Oregon."
"Hello Oregon," they recite in unison.
He sits himself upright on the featureless bed and focuses his full attention on the others. They're so vividly alive in such a lain setting he almost considers this to be a dream. "Who are all of you?"
"We don't know," they respond together again.
"You don't know?"
"We're waiting for the nice man to give us names," the purple entity chirps, swinging his arms back and forth like a child.
"We are an experiment protocol to assist soldiers out in the field of combat," the green guy says matter-of-factly, "and from the looks of it, you must be one of the specially hired Freelancer agents."
"I am – kind of, at least, I hope I am. I signed up for the program and just finished what I think might have been a physical examination." He rubs the back of his neck to ease an ache. "Feels like they used some sedatives and I passed out along the way."
"So you are going to be a Freelancer?" the silver one echoes with that computerized accent.
"Like I said, I hope."
"That's cool," the infantine one says after a giggle.
"Which means there is a chance you will receive one of us in your armor," the burning being states. "I am not certain how we will cope to being outside this room though; we were created from a single being we call Alpha. That is all we have been told. Our primary objectives will be assigned upon our maturity, yet we are unaware of how soon that will be."
"Where's Alpha?"
"We don't know," sapphire responds quickly, racing around the girth of her mellower counterpart.
"So…you're intelligent super computer artificial programs but aren't smart enough to assign yourselves names?"
"We were told that they would be assigned to us," green comments again. "We are only following what commands have been given."
Oregon rises from the bed, balancing himself on his weary legs. He's tired, drained. Still makes his way over to them. He pulls up a chair to sit before the table, leaning on the edge with his elbows. Although his temples throb he doesn't show it in his features, but they seem to notice because they tilt their heads at him, observing the way his pulse races and his skull leans forward on the support of his arms. "In that case, maybe I should name you. It'll make it a whole hell of a lot easier on me."
"I'd like that," sapphire replies.
"But we should not," green interjects, "we were firmly told that the Director would name us."
"Then he can rename you. But I'd like to address you by something other than color." He peers at each of them, dividing his rapid attention evenly. "How about I give you names similar to Alpha? Would you like that?"
"Very much," the childish one says as he claps his hand together blissfully, clearly annoying the gray unit that pushes him away with jejune spite.
"Come closer." The projections glide up to him, except for the light blue one that remains tucked against the wall, and teeter on the edge of the platform. "Okay, that's better. Let's go in order." He turns pointedly to the unit that is a hovering mass of undefined features. "What's this one doing?"
The soldiers face the blackened figure. "She was made through a process hiccup," the blazing man informs him, "she never had a chance to fully develop and take shape. She was the first of us. The Counselor speculated that she could form once she matures."
"She's Beta."
The obsidian entity shudders with might be content, but she doesn't respond to the command.
"You're Delta," he adds, gesturing to the emerald soldier and decidedly sweeping over to the twins. "You two will be Eta"—he points to the gold one, then crosses over to the sapphire one—"and Iota." His finger turns on the smaller one, earning a giggle. "You'll be Theta. The weird one on fire can be Sigma. And the glitchy one is Gamma."
"Give me something dangerous," the bitter gray one seethes.
"Uhm…Omega."
"I like it."
"Fuck yeah?"
"Fuck yeah."
"You shouldn't swear," Theta remarks, receives a hiss from the malicious older brother.
Oregon gestures to the one huddled in the corner. "How about that guy?"
"He has not spoken a word to us since he was born," Delta says. "We have tried several hundred languages, but he does not respond to whatever we attempt in order to get his response. Occasionally, however, he will hum a song that he picks up from the outside."
"Then I'll call him Epsilon."
This time the unit turns to face him. It doesn't speak, only stares.
"I like my name," Theta remarks. "T-H-A-Y-T-A."
"It is T-H-E-T-A," Delta corrects.
"Oh, right. Sorry. Oh, hey, Oregon?"
"Yes?"
"Oregon?"
What.
"Agent Oregon?"
The world converges on him with the malice of raging rivers, collapsing like universes, tumbling out into a barren silence. Muted sounds of a distant engine rumble beneath the unevenly tiled floor at his feet. Then he blinks, then he breathes; glances at himself in the mirror on the desk. The reflection that stares back is unfamiliarly familiar to him, almost entirely surreal, like a memory on the outskirts of a dying mind. Dark circles are defining his mossy eyes. Shit, he needs more sleep. "Huh – what? Sorry, I was just…thinking, got a bit sidetracked. What was the question?"
The Counselor enters something into his tablet. "I asked you what you recall of the AI units."
"Nothing. Haven't met them yet."
"But you did. You left an imprint and that is why we assigned you one before your first day. Of course, I did not expect you to recall much. You were in the training regimen for so long, your memories might still be hazy."
"They're returning, gradually."
"That is good. This means we are making progress with your recovery." Takes more notes, Oregon twitches. "So you do remember meeting them?"
"Vaguely. Barely. I remember the Director being a prick about them identifying with the names."
"He has settled for them."
"Doesn't really fucking matter."
"And as for your assigned AI?"
"Doesn't respond to me. Watch this shit – AI unit Beta sequence activate." The hazy black fog of a program materializes beside him, but there is no response. As always. "Why the hell aren't you listening to me?" he seethes, swatting at her. His hand phases right through and she shudders, a recoil that stings the back of his neck.
"You were paired with Beta because of her particularly stubborn personality," the Counselor responds matter-of-factly, gingerly gesturing to the smoking mass above Oregon's shoulder, "and your own knack for coercing people into doing things they would much rather avoid getting involved with. I assure you, she will come around."
"Doubt it. She doesn't even have the common courtesy to take a shape." He offers out his palm and she situates herself on the perch of his hand, emits a low murmur. "I've tried showing her images of soldiers and people and at some point settled for animals – by the way, did you know that a giraffe is a real creature? Like how fucked up in that?"—the Counselor blinks at him emotionlessly—"but all she did was copy the information to her memory. I don't know if she's even capable of a form."
"Noted." The Counselor deliberately switches topics and flips through his tablet, popping open the survey chart located under Oregon's file, right below his name. "May I conduct our rating portion of the session?"
"Uh, fuck it. Sure."
As if sensing his boredom, the door to the room slides open and a familiar cobalt helmet pops inside, followed by a broad arm wave. "Hey-o!"
Oregon swerves in the chair, mildly startled by the abrupt interruption. Beta registers the stimulation in his nerves and automatically disappears. "What the – what the hell are you doing, Florida?"
"Didn't mean to bother you fellas, but the Freelancers are gathering for some AI training exercises downstairs, and everybody's coming to watch. Bit of a family activity, if you will! Since Wyoming and South got their AIs implanted just this morning, the Director's having them square off. Care to join me?"
Oregon rises thankfully to his feet, glances at the Counselor. "Do you care if we cut this short?"
"Of course not. Keep in mind, you are scheduled again for next week."
The Freelancer pops on his helmet, doesn't bother to look back. "Uh, yeah, whatever. Coming Florida."
Most of the Freelancers from every faction are present in the room, including the beta soldiers Delaware, Rhode Island, Nebraska, and Virginia. Oregon rarely sees them outside of the mess hall or in passing; they typically provide backup on large-scale operations but aren't yet professional enough to earn a spot in the AI implantation program. Delaware, in an intense crimson armor, easily chats up CT and Maine, while Rhodes in the pallid yellow keeps quiet in the corner of the room. Virginia adorns a bright pink suit with a unique pattern of purple stars hand-painted by hers truly, matching her hyperactive personality like a warning sign, and presses her face to the viewing window in awe. Light green Nebraska doesn't seem genuinely concerned for what's occurring so he occupies himself with cleaning the thin layer of dust on the control panel with a rag.
"So you're telling me there isn't someone waiting for you to propose back home?" Oregon drones on from the previous conversation when they enter the room, and Florida shakes his head. "Not even some kind of romantic interest at like, the coffee shop or something?"
"No sir. I don't get that way when it comes to the mushy-gushy stuff. Never have, doubt I ever will."
"Look who showed up finally," Virginia says as she prances over to him, patting Oregon on the back. "You just missed the training regimen!"
"Again?" Oregon utters in defeat.
"I forgot you never got to see the AIs in action," Carolina remarks from her spot near the window, keeping her shoulder nearly pressed against Wash at her side. It's only then that he notices that York is the only Freelancer not currently in attendance, because he's learned to never count Texas when she never shows up to anything.
"No?" North retorts quizzically, trekking over to them with haste. "That's not right, you should get to know the units and their capabilities in the field! Have you met my AI yet?"
Oregon shrugs. "Don't think so."
North taps his helmet once and as if recognizing the wordless code, Theta materializes with an eager jump. "Hiya North!"
"Hello Theta. I wanted you to meet agent Oregon."
Theta appears beside the opposing Freelancer in blue, leans in too close to his face. "Oh, it's you again! You're the nice man."
"You're confused," North Dakota amends, "you've never met him before."
But Theta shakes his head. "Nope, that's Oregon. I know him when I see him. You can ask any of my other siblings, if you want; they'll recall him too."
Oregon feels exposed under the curious gazes attentively turning in his direction. He clears his throat, steadies his tremulous voice. "Have we…met before?"
"A while ago; right after I was born, remember? You named us."
"Us?"
"The others AIs."
Oregon passes through his memories and barely recalls such an event. The room is vacant and cold. They haven't stopped staring at him since he first woke up. "Oh, right, I remember that now. The Director chewed me out about it for three whole fucking days."
"So you have met them," Carolina figures, her tone uneasily frigid.
Oregon shrugs again by habit, focuses on the field that's being carefully reset by FILSS despite South lingering in the arena. "When I first signed up for the Project I had to undergo some rigorous tests involving the armor enhancements to see if I could handle the after-effects. Half the time I was sedated from overstimulation. At some point I was in a ward with the AIs and they had just been born – according to them, at least."
Rhodes speaks up suddenly. He's never heard from her before and is more than surprised to learn that he can't distinguish the tone between masculine or feminine, decides to go with neither. "That would have been four months ago, you know. Why did your training take so long?"
"They were testing out some intense shit. On the bright side, I passed."
CT decides to break the tension, glancing at the screen as the roster moves. "Agent Oregon is scheduled to go on in ten."
"I am?"
Florida chuckles lightheartedly. "Your AI is supposed to keep you informed, you know."
"My AI is also supposed to listen to me." He crosses his arms, lets his tone fall flat. "I'll revisit the topic when that happens."
"My sister's probably going to kill you if you don't use the AI," North relays with a smile in his voice.
Bothered by his comment, Oregon storms towards the door, partially to leave such a stuffy room but mainly because death seems like a viable option in this environment. "Fuck off, I can handle this shit without an AI!"
"He's gonna die," Delaware remarks, pressing her fists to her hips. "Anyone got a snack?"
Oregon passes Wyoming halfway down the hall, notes the scuffs and distinct splatter of blood on the silvery-white chest piece, and the matching AI hovering attentively over his shoulder. "Oh, agent Oregon!" Wyoming chimes as they cross. "You just missed a jolly good session. Would you like to meet Gamma?"
"We've met," Oregon deadpans.
Gamma glitches slightly. "Hello Oregon. It has been a very long time."
"Like, four months. Or something."
"Tell him a joke," Wyoming remarks, laughing in spite of nothing being funny. "Oh, he has the best knock knock jokes! I simply adore them!"
"Why didn't Kelly play with her friends?" Gamma starts.
Oregon exhales an exasperated sigh. "Why?"
"She was dead."
"The fuck?"
"Knock knock."
"…Who's there?"
"Kelly. Get the shotgun."
Wyoming buckles over laughing hysterically, slapping at his knee. "The morbid ones are the best! Good show, chap!"
"I pride myself on my achievements."
Oregon rolls his eyes. "Right, hilarious. Whatever. I'm busy."
"Do come back soon! We've got lots of jokes!"
"This place is a joke," Oregon mutters under his breath, disappearing down the hall.
South takes the other side of the field just as Oregon enters. There's a familiar sparkle of gold from Eta when she appears over her partner's shoulder and the AI focuses intently on the opposing Freelancer, clearly entranced by his familiarity to her. She murmurs approvingly to South who merely leans down to wrap her slender fingers around the handles of the Chaingun Turret gun. This weapon in particular has been stripped of real bullets and replaced with the armor-locking foam pellets utilized for training, which he's been explicitly told hurts like a bitch.
"Agent Oregon, use your AI."
The voice on the intercom belongs to the Director, most likely from the safety of his personal observatory booth that he'll only use to avoid crowded spaces. Oregon shakes his head at that, taps his helmet. "She doesn't respond to me," he calls back. "Never has!"
"In a real combat situation, you would be killed. So I suggest you learn to cooperate with it."
Fuck.
"Let the training session commence, FILSS."
Double fuck. A series of pillars rise from the floor on either side to allow him ample coverage for the session. Behind him the weapons panel sprouts up to offer him a single handgun with four reloadable clips, and he takes a quick moment to load the dinky penis pistol with ammo. South, however, clearly has the advantage, and it almost agitates him how the Director finds this necessary.
"ROUND 1 START," FILSS declares, displaying a 0/0 score on the upper board.
This is gonna fucking suck.
South sets the Gatling gun against her hip and fires, bullets punching into the floor in a linear direction towards Oregon. "Beta!" He snaps, dodging to the right so an explosion of violet foam skims the side of his leg. The pillar offers defense from the remaining rounds. Despite his increase in distress, the AI doesn't materialize. "Oh, this is un-fucking-believable! Respond to me, dammit!"
He peers around the corner – and receives a bullet to the face. Even at an odd angle South has the honed accuracy expected of every Freelancer, meeting her mark like he's a brick wall. Pain flashes through his skull, solidifies the functions in his helmet. Everything resonates with an emotion similar to terror and as he collapses, clawing at his face, yelling about the burn that leaves a thick trail of fire in his nervous system, something flashes across his mind, obtrusive lights and drills and circuits and algebraic formulas, memories of a red-headed child no older than two.
"POINT 1, SOUTH."
A jolt of energy surges through his suit. The foam detaches easily, breaks apart at the seams and crumbles into dust. He gives himself a moment to recover from the initial numbing shock—what was that?—before setting up near the table again.
"Goddammit Beta I need you," he utters to the AI, watching Eta twirling around her partner.
Finally she appears, the obscure entity like a long-forgotten memory. "I recognized your distress. I'm here now."
"What the hell took you so long?!"
"I was subsumed by your memories from earlier. It takes me a while to recollect myself when so much of you is missing…makes it difficult to link up with your neural pathways."
"Bullshit."
"A strong connection between unit and Freelancer is imperative to make cooperation work at its peak efficiency."
Oregon rolls his eyes skyward. "Fine, fine! Whatever. Tell me what I'm up against."
Beta scans the room, analyzes the data, forms a conclusion and Oregon only manages to blink once. Then suddenly, without any prior warning, she idly transforms into a soldier in black armor with a silver visor, body emitting a constant miniscule plume of obsidian smoke. And unnervingly enough, she reminds him of Texas. "Agent South Dakota. Physical 9 of 10, mental 5.5 of 10, intelligence 8 of 10, teamwork 5 of 10, weapons skill 10 of 10. Equipped with a bubble dome and installed with Artificial Intelligence Program Unit Eta."
"Bubble dome thing, we need that."
"Affirmative. Enhancement replicated. 30 seconds until failure of augmentation."
"ROUND 2 START."
South fires again, easing onto the trigger the same as before, clearly giving him an opportune chance to make a different move. Beta reacts on instinct. Fragments of the dome shield appear in bloom, reflecting the bullets with ease.
"How'd you get that?!" South exclaims, her entire posture switching to a rigid tension. "Those enhancements are exclusive to me and North!"
Beta reserves the remaining power and drops the shields just as Oregon dives behind a different pillar, pressing his back to the smoothed stone face. "It's my enhancement," he returns quickly into the intercom. "Replication is what I was equipped with! Beta temporarily copies armor enhancements to my system, then replicates them!"
"That sounds like some kind of goddamn cheating."
Bullets puncture the structure behind him, rocking it nearly off its hinges.
"I need to get in close," Oregon mutters. "Land a solid shot..."
Beta scans him with a blip. "Agent Oregon. Physical 7.5 of 10, mental 8 of 10, intelligence 8 of 10, teamwork 6.5 of 10, weapons skill 0 of 10."
"Fuck off. I'm not that bad!"
"You don't need me to fight back," she informs him promptly. "I'm only here to assist in what you are already capable of doing. You're perfectly able to counter fire with fire."
Oregon's mind reels with thoughts that permeate with tactics, yet Beta sorts through them faster than he can manage to conjure them up. "I have an idea. What's the augmentation remainder?"
"15 seconds."
"Adjust my accuracy," he orders, "make sure I land a shot. On my mark, protect me. Synch."
"Synch."
"Mark!" He rolls out from his safety and breaks into a sprint. Beta throws up blooming spots of the replicated shield to reflect the bullets, and Eta seems to copy the motions because she manipulates South's dome to catch the explosions of Oregon's returning fire. The clouds of violet burst up like frost, consuming the panels with ease while allowing South's bullets through. Neither of them realizes that the foam is obscuring the Freelancer's field of vision, so when Oregon hits the floor and slides between her legs, South doesn't have the reaction time to assess her next move.
He pulls the trigger, his last bullet bursting against the underside of her jaw. Her scream of surprise is cut off by the helmet locking down and nearly collapses against the amplified weight. Oregon hits the wall back first, sits himself up on his knees.
"POINT 1, OREGON."
"We did it!" He exclaims, raises his hand to his AI unit. "Up high B!"
"No."
In the private booth high above, the Director watches the events unfold with a triumphant smirk settling across his features. "This is what I wanted," he remarks to the Counselor two paces behind him, "but it is still not enough. He has awakened one and not the other, yet I will accept this, for now, as progress."
"Should we send him on another mission, Director?"
"Add him to the roster for the recovery team to find Agent York."
The Counselor hesitates, brings up the order page. "Of course, sir."
.
.
.
Elsewhere, at the same time, a Freelancer in pallid gold cranes his neck to observe the tower in the distance. Keeps his sidearm close. "Did my transmission get through, D?"
"No," the emerald soldier on his shoulder replies. "The interference is too drastic. I doubt we will be able to reach them until that tower is destroyed."
"Shit. I have to warn them"—he turns his attention to the darkness in the forest leading up to the mysterious structure—"before it's too late."
.
.
.