Sophisticated Driving

The Director sat at his desk, the cool, reflective surfaces of his office giving a sense cold efficiency and importance. Black marble covered every inch of the floor, polished to mirror perfection, the tinted glass walls gleaming with similar flawless quality. The dim lights set symmetrically provided little illumination of the room, casting everything in eerie shadow, which the Director preferred. He uncrossed his legs, his shiny black shoes squeaking on the smooth floor, and then looked down. There was a small piece of fluff which had landed on the trouser leg of his immaculate black suit, with a brilliant white, creaseless shirt, and a deep red tie, knotted tight to his throat. He brushed it off impatiently.

The only other source of light in the room was the lone computer, sleek and black, top of the range, and the source of the Director's power. From this machine he could view over everything he had worked so hard to obtain, and could alter the slightest detail, or indeed, his entire empire, from the press of a button.

How quaint.

The Director sighed and pushed the slender and expensive glasses up to the bridge of his nose, irritated that they had even slipped down. Money was supposed to buy quality. He tapped his fingers on the black glass desk, the noise ringing through the silver metal frame. He shouldn't be late. The Director was a firm believer in sound timekeeping, and yet his employee was ten minutes overdue. There had better be something damn important to disrupt his incredibly hectic schedule. He could feel the anger lurking beneath, churning in his stomach, but he took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment and tilting his head to the glossy ceiling, drawing the air in deep through pursed lips. He exhaled, and then looked down again, glancing over to the bottle of fine port next to his computer, the light reflecting off its smooth exterior.

The Director picked up the glass and bottle, and poured himself a drink, sipping delicately and sitting back in his leather office chair, almost relaxed. Perhaps it was a good thing his employee was late; it meant he could be off guard, even if only for a few moments. He put his head back against the soft, cushioned headrest of the chair, sighing and taking a mouthful of the sweet, rust-red liquid again, letting the rich taste slide across his tongue.

Bliss.

The buzzer on his grey, wired phone sounded, a low throb, bursting to be silenced. The Director tried to ignore it, wounded that his few seconds of peace had been cut short – robbed from him. He screwed his eyes shut, his glasses pushing right into his face, but it was no use – the temptation to stop the little noise was too great. It was as if it was eating away him, demanding his attention. His will broke, and he slammed his finger down on the receiving button.

"Yes?" he said sharply, and the intercom crackled.

"He's here to see you, Sir," the receptionist replied, their voice giving the sense that they were not bothered by their employer's harsh tone. It was as if they were used to the short temper of the overworked, stressed man, and did not give his abrupt, and sometimes rude, manner a second thought.

"Send him in," The Director said, scowling. Fifteen minutes late, he was! In that time, he had been left to his free thought, something that he loathed immensely. He always tried to keep himself busy, often working himself into a state of exhaustion, but it was preferable to the alternative. When the Director had nothing else to do but sip port and stare at the walls, he often cast his mind back to creation of Project Freelancer...and of its origins. Had it been right, to do what he did? To split a mind the way he had, and of course, not just any old mind...

The Director sighed, knowing now that the thoughts would not go until they had run the same repetitive course. He would remind himself that he had no option; it had to be done. Then he would think of her...and stay on that track of mind until one of his employees interrupted his train of thought and requested something, or, mercifully, he fell asleep. During the earlier years of his life, memories had ceased to surface, so caught up in the excitement of life he was. However, as he reached his older years, they had done nothing but plague him and his nightmares for years on end. The Director sighed again deeply.

He was so tired of it all.

The door to his office slid open effortlessly, and a flustered looking man hurried down the long walkway to the secluded desk in the spacious and almost empty room. The Director winced; the man before him was so...untidy. His uniform, which was usually as spotless as his own, was crumpled and creased, and sporting a telltale sign of spilt coffee.

"I apologise for my lateness, Sir," the Counsellor said, noticing the glare of his employer and attempting to fix his clothes. The Director nodded curtly, giving the signal to continue. "My presence was needed at the A.I. implantation facility."

The Director often wondered how the Counsellor kept her voice perfectly level and calm in moments of panic. It did wonders for soothing the anger of the Freelancers when they had their A.I. forcefully removed.

The ones who had been caught, at least.

However, sometimes, the Counsellor's voice sparked irritation inside the Director. He often thought he was being treated like an armed explosive, ready to detonate at any moment. True, he did often feel as such, but there was no reason to imply it with every word coming out of the man's damn mouth.

"Why were you needed there?" the Director asked bluntly, staring at his glass as he swirled the port around inside.

"Agent Washington, Sir."

"Oh?"

"He arrived yesterday morning, as I'm sure you're aware."

"Indeed I am."

"I've been overseeing the removal of his A.I. since then...for over twenty four hours. Without sleep."

The Director said nothing, so the Counsellor continued.

"We have successfully separated Epsilon from Washington, but we don't know as of yet how much damage his mind has received, or even if he will recover from it. Also, we're trying to determine as to why Epsilon did what it did...but it is nearly impossible. The A.I. logs are a mess. Anyone who tried to listen to them began to act as Washington did."

"Do you think Epsilon was the Alpha's memory?" the Director asked suddenly. The Counsellor shook his head.

"If it was, then we will know soon enough. When Washington wakes up, his mind will be a wreck. He won't be able to hide anything from us."

The Director nodded.

"If Agent Washington does show signs of knowing...the truth..." the Director paused, draining the last of his port and placing the glass down with a clink. "Kill him."


Shades of blur and black drifted through her visions, stretching out as a darkened mist into eternity. Voices, explosions, screams of agony; they wailed mercilessly around her thoughts, her head in such pain it felt as if it was on the verge of splitting in two.

Then there was silence.

This scared her the most, for why would there be quiet in a scene of war? Either they had held, and the enemy had retreated, or they had been beaten down, crushed for their rebellion.

Or maybe she was dead.

She tried to move, but found her body a dead weight, the attempt exhausting her even further. The tone of the black deepened, and then lightened out again. Someone was holding a damp material to her forehead. She wanted to swat them away, but still her arms refused to obey her. However, she could hear the voices again, faint mutterings in the distance and so she kept still, not wanting to lose them again. The voices grew louder, so much so that it began to hurt, and a slight groan escaped her lips, the dry skin an effort to move apart. The damp material disappeared, and a cool hand instead brushed against her skin, lifting up her eyelids, exploring and checking her all over.

"Stop it," she mumbled, and finally forced open her eyes open. Instantly, blinding light burst into her vision, and splintering agony snapped through her head. She screwed her eyes shut again, but it wasn't long before she pined for the light, and so braved it once more. The burning sensation ripped through her again, but she refused to break, and slowly but surely, it ebbed away. A face appeared over her.

"Agent Massachusetts?" they asked. Massachusetts gave a mumble of confirmation, and the face smiled. "My name is Ohio. You suffered multiple bullet wounds to your chest, and so you were brought to me. You nearly didn't pull through, but luckily, Rho and I found some crucial medication in the supplies you stole."

"I…thought there…was…no cure…for bullets," Massachusetts replied, struggling form her words. Ohio nodded.

"True, but Rho and I…improvised."

"Improvised…?"

"We, uh, did a bit of mixing and guessing, and in the process, made a new medicine."

"…Your 'new medicine'…could have easily…turned out to be…poison."

Ohio blushed, and it occurred to Massachusetts that she had been aware of it.

"Yes, there were considerable risks…but my A.I., Rho, is specialised in medicine. I'm certain she knew what she was doing."

"And…you?"

"Well…no. I just did what I was told. At least it worked, and just in time, too."

Massachusetts nodded slowly, staring at the ceiling as she did, disgusted by how filthy it was.

"…Thank you."


Alabama limped along the pathway, nudging bodies with his gun, before shooting them to double check if they were dead. Ohio had patched him up quickly, removing the bullets in his side and leg, before turning and dealing the female, silver Freelancer, who had been badly injured in the combat. Arkansas himself had managed to get away with a few bruises and a mild concussion. The red Spartan hadn't been happy with Alabama for lying about his wounds in the battle, and had lectured him over it, before setting out to find and eliminate any survivors.

After the Warthog had shot down and few Freelancers, and then subsequently destroyed, someone managed to locate the misplaced rocket launchers, which had been at the bottom of the stolen supplies, out of sight. Within minutes, when all able Freelancers had been armed with the new weapons, the battle had been won. What was left of Command had fled, after been given the order to retreat. Now they were simply checking for any wounded Freelancers that may have been missed before, and making sure all the bodies left behind were dead ones.

"I think that's it, Al," Arkansas called out to him from across the grounds of the base, emptying a round from his battle rifle in the head of a motionless Command soldier. Alabama nodded and signalled confirmation in response, and then shot the Command officer at his feet. He paused, and then kicked the dead man in between the legs, for good measure.

Arkansas waited for Alabama to make his way over, and then walked back with him to the base. It took time, as the bullet wound hindered the green Spartan's movement greatly, and by the time they had gotten to their destination, Alabama was well and truly tired. His side ached constantly, and walking with a limp seemed to just take the energy out of him.

"I'm gonna go lie down…" he mumbled to Arkansas, before heading up the stairs.

On the top floor, next to the area where Ohio was single-handedly dealing with all the injured Spartans, hundreds of sheets, scraps of cardboard, and other soft materials had been scattered around as makeshift beds. They weren't comfortable, and did little in the way of warmth, but it was better than sleeping on the stone floor. Alabama hobbled over to the nearest one and practically dropped onto it, his armour clanging through the thin material. There was a moment of silence, and then a voice made him jump.

"Hey, Al."

Alabama turned and looked to his left, to see Iowa without his armour sat up against a wall not far away from him, a book in hand.

"Iowa," Alabama replied, painfully forcing himself up. "Can I ask something?"

"Shoot."

"Well, when Ark and I pulled you from the snipe point, you were a mess; not even conscious. Yet within a week you saved my ass from that Command soldier after the grenade had gone off. How the hell did you recover so fast?"

"I guess Ohio is just a damn good doctor. I'm still injured, though. She just patched me up enough, by request, so that I could at least snipe from the med room window."

Alabama nodded, lying back down on the hard floor, staring at the ceiling.

"Thanks, Iowa," he said finally, tired sweeping over him once more. Iowa smiled.

"Don't mention it."


The next few weeks at the base were quiet; the Freelancers simply trying to recover before they made their next move. What that move was exactly, nobody knew, and an air of confusion hung over them all.

Then the Freelancers started disappearing.

When the first few vanished, nobody noticed, but as more began to skip their duties, Arkansas realised they were actually leaving, going off to find their own way of living. He had considered the idea himself a few times, but he thought that leaving so early was a bad idea. They would only make easy pickings for Command. Of course, not everyone agreed with him.

Massachusetts checked her guns were loaded, before putting them back in the holster. She had no idea if she was making the right choice, but she couldn't stay here any longer.

"Everyone will leave eventually, Massachusetts," Sigma said flitting across the visor of her host's helmet. "It's just we're doing it before Command realises we're on the move. Anyone who stays behind will be captured."

Massachusetts nodded, and began to stride towards the exit of the base, not noticing the red Spartan leaning casually against a wall until he spoke to her.

"You're going out there on foot?"

Massachusetts whipped around, staring at the Freelancer.

"I haven't got much choice," she replied, shrugging. "I want out, and so I'm getting out, whether I can get hold of a vehicle or not."

The red Spartan nodded, and then motioned for her to follow him.

"I have something to show you."

Curiosity overpowered her suspicion, and she did as he asked, walking slightly behind him as he led her to an open building in the base. Inside the dark, she could make out a large structure. The red Freelancer hit the lights on, revealing a Warthog, which had been salvaged from the recent battle.

"You hijacked Command, giving us the supplies necessary to win our fight. I doubt the outcome would have been in our favour if they had attacked us before your stunt. So, the jeep is yours."

Massachusetts stared at the Spartan, speechless.

"Good luck out there," the Spartan continued, nodding to her. "You'll need it."

Massachusetts watched, gobsmacked, as he walked away, and then turned to the jeep.

"Awesome," she said, grinning and vaulting into it, starting it up.

"Do you even know how to drive?" Sigma asked cautiously. Massachusetts shrugged.

"A bit, but I'm not very good at it."

She instantly proved this point by reversing into the wall. Sigma stared while Massachusetts laughed, before driving forward and out the building, and then smashing into the gate she was meant to be driving out of.

Plenty of time to improve, Massachusetts thought happily to herself, before finally manoeuvring the Warthog out, knocking over a stack of metal barrels as she went. In the distance, Arkansas watched with amusement at her terrible driving. He felt she deserved the Warthog, but whether she would last long enough out there to enjoy it was a different matter entirely.

Whether any of them would survive at all was an even bigger question.


"Do you know where I can find Agent Massachusetts?"

Iowa glanced at the brown armoured Spartan. He decided to brave walking across the complex, trying to get on his own two feet again, when the Freelancer had wandered through the gates of the base.

"No, sorry, I don't."

"Oh, it's just this was her last known location," the Freelancer replied. Iowa realised he probably hadn't been present at fight against Command. Not every Freelancer got out at the same time.

"Last I heard she left three days ago. Went to find her way in the world or something like that."

The brown Spartan sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping. A green A.I. appeared by his shoulder.

"The logical direction for Agent Massachusetts to take would be the nearest city where she can find security and work immediately. There are more places to hide in the 'dangerous' parts of the city, where criminals would be willing to provide protection for a favour in return."

"What's the nearest city from here, Delta?" the brown Freelancer asked his A.I.

"Connection is low here, York. I can't assess anything while we remain in this area."

"Damn it."

"How did you get out of Command?" Iowa said suddenly, looking up at York.

"I hacked my way out. Took some time, but Command underestimated my skill and put me in a room sealed with holographic locks," York replied, shrugging. Iowa stared.

"You got through holographic locks?"

"Yep. It's not that difficult if you know your stuff, and as I spent my time training as a hacker and lock pick expert, I think I'm under that category. I didn't really care for guns during training anyway."

York sighed again, and then turned to leave, but stopped when Iowa spoke again.

"Wait, York!"

"Yeah?" York replied, glancing over his shoulder at the grey Freelancer.

"Look…why don't you stay here for a bit? We could do with someone like you, and you're more likely to last longer here than out there on your own. Command is still pissed that we kicked their asses."

York paused.

"Will it help me find Massa?" he asked finally, facing the grey Spartan properly. It took Iowa a moment to figure out who he meant.

"You mean Massachusetts? I don't know, but I've been speaking with Ark and a few others. Some of us are moving out in a few days. We've stayed here long enough. We're going to see if anyone in the city is hiring mercenaries, and if not, we're going to try elsewhere. Want to come with us?"

"It would be the logical decision to do so, York," Delta said, his green light glowing on his host's armour. "However, it would mean the chances of finding Agent Massachusetts would be significantly lowered."

"Lowered…" York repeated, not sounding happy about it.

"Keep in mind that going on your own would mean it more likely Command will find and catch you, resulting in no chance of finding Massachusetts," the A.I. continued.

Iowa shrugged.

"Your call, York."