Author's Note: Fourth set of ficlets. Thanks so much to everyone who's read, and especially to those folks who are kind enough to drop a review and let me know they're enjoying it. I'm running out of prompts fast, so this may be over in a week or so—just in time for my laptop to get out of the shop, whereupon "Order Up" will recommence. I hope this has been a pleasant little interlude.

"How much is too much" was inspired by Storm Shadow's occasional Captain Exposition tendencies in the original comics. "Information to die for" came from one of my favorite panels of the Borovia arc, where Cross-Country is watching while Lady Jaye and Flint are arguing.

Sadly, I've run out of "adjective ninja" prompts. The ninjas will still get plenty of screen time, though. God help us all.

Rating: T

Disclaimer: G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc, and I derive no profit from this. Please accept this in the spirit with which it is offered—as a work of respect and love, not an attempt to claim ownership or earn money from this intellectual property.

How much is too much

"I know what you're thinking, brother. It's incredibly tempting—but we probably shouldn't."

" . . . "

"After all, as you know, Beach Head is an extremely irritating drill instructor. He can't beat us—not ninja of the Arashikage clan, as we are—but we do have to obey everything he says. All of us Joes have to take PT, or physical training, every morning."

" . . . "

"Of course, we normally enjoy tormenting him as much as possible. It amuses us to no end to see him turning red because we can't be defeated by wall-climbs or mudpits. And today, as you signaled to me earlier, he's had a fight with Cover Girl and is likely to be in a foul mood. This makes it very tempting to torment him further. But if we do, we'll be putting ourselves in for a world of drudgery. Because while he can't challenge our skills, he can make us do pushups until the end of time."

" . . . "

"And I see by your expression that you have some disagreement with me, brother. Speak your mind."

An annoyed sigh. [Would you please stop narrating?]

"What?"

[I can sign. It's not as if there's some invisible audience you need to explain everything to.]

"I know you can sign, brother. After all, you're a commando as well as a ninja, and even a proverbially silent commando needs some form of communication with his fellow soldiers-"

[All right, now you're doing it just to annoy me.]

Information to die for

Cross-Country, "redneck and proud of it," had a fairly practical view of life and the world. This had been instilled in him by his daddy from the very beginning: "Son," as his father had said on many occasions, "you always know where you stand with a truck. Those politicians and smart boys can talk the hind leg off a jackass, but either a truck goes forward or it don't. Stick to what you're certain of."

These were words to live by—a literal statement since, by sticking to what he was certain of, Cross-Country had managed to survive some of the bloodiest engagements in the history of the Joes. He wasn't one of the soldiers that made captured Cobras piss themselves (that was a privilege reserved for anyone who either a) could do a handstand on a sword blade or b) was named Beach Head) but he did his job and he did it damn well. Personally, he liked it better that way. His daddy drove a bulldozer, and his momma ran a road-grader: he was damn proud to be one of the people that helped other people do their jobs.

And there were certain bonuses in other departments, too. Cross-Country ran the Battle Wagon and the Mudbuster in most armed engagements, but his uncanny affinity for finding the best road—and for driving anything that had four wheels—meant that he had an iron-plated excuse for being virtually anywhere on base, including the administrative levels. (Hey, an Army runs on its paperwork, and y'all gotta understand that he needed these here authorization forms, yeah?) If Ace got bored with cleaning everyone out at poker and decided to run a betting pool over some happening in the Pit, Cross-Country was the first person he talked to.

The secret to Cross-Country's success was twofold. Not only did he have an excuse to be anywhere, but he looked totally innocuous while he did it. Unlike Beach Head, who had learned to restrain his natural Alabama accent for the sake of being understood when he was screaming orders, Cross-Country played up his origins for all he was worth—no threat here, folks, just a down-country redneck here to help move these here boxes, shucks. The senior Joes, the ones who'd spent enough time working alongside him, knew not to get suckered by stereotypes; in their opinion, if the new kids wanted to let their guard down around Cross-Country just because he looked like a hick (and did a damn good rebel yell, too—he was proud as anything when he spooked a Cobra sniper into falling off his perch), then that was their problem.

Of course, this also meant that some of them knew he was on the lookout. Everybody lived in everyone else's hip pocket anyway, and a certain amount of eavesdropping was expected, but Cross-Country knew better than to try anything outrageous. He'd refused a hefty commission from Ace during the infamous "what is Snake-Eyes' real name?" debacle, and continued to avoid doing anything that would make life difficult for the motor pool. Trucks either go forward or they don't, and Cross-Country wouldn't be caught dead keeping those trucks from going.

Anything that happened in the open was fair game for gossip, though. The one he remembered best was that time when Stalker, Snow-Job, and Quick-Kick had just gotten out of the Borovian gulag: practically everyone on the Utah base was out there to meet the plane as it coasted in. Not only were the three captives free (and doubtless in line for the best food Roadblock could make, which probably made the whole damn thing worth it) but a couple of Joes had gone rogue in order to help them get out in the first place. Most of the soldiers were exultant over the sheer guts it had taken for Snake and Scarlett to fake their own deaths (by land mine, no less) in order to get into Borovia, but there was one designated raincloud on the parade and his name was Warrant Officer Flint. Cross-Country, who was busy helping to unload the plane, was in the perfect spot to witness the whole thing.

First, Flint got good and pissed. Complaining that sure, Snake-Eyes and Scarlett were going on a dangerous mission that wasn't officially sanctioned and could end not just their careers and the careers of everyone who'd ever had lunch with them, but couldn't they have told him about it? And then Lady Jaye—and oh boy, moments like this made him remember why he'd joined the Joes—Lady Jaye laid him out with the cleanest, sweetest punch to the damn jaw that Cross-Country had ever seen. Whack! Flint went down like a sack of turnips. Figures that of all the people who'd ever wanted to give the warrant officer one on the jaw, it'd be his girlfriend who finally did it.

Cross-Country didn't quite catch what happened next—he did actually have to help unload, after all. But Jaye was bitching out Flint something awful, and he looked up and said something back, and before you knew it they were hugging on each other like she hadn't just given him the mother of all bruises. Scarlett tugged on Snakes' arm a bit, grinning and trying to get him to give Flint and Jaye their space, but Snake-Eyes was looking back at them with a "What the hell was that?" expression that Cross-Country could see right through the mask and visor.

Good times, friend. Good times.

Cobra Commander never changes

Destro frowned at the latest paper that Cobra Commander had handed him. True, his mask made it look as if he was frowning anyway, but he and the Baroness were alone in his castle's most private office suite and he had dispensed with the mask for the time being. Besides, considering the paper in front of him, being able to frown—and, in fact, swear—was practically required. "Pyramid scheme?"

"We did it," the Baroness said. She was curled up in the armchair across from him, her glasses off and her hair mussed. Like Destro, she had taken one look at the plans the Commander gave her and reached for the bourbon bottle. "It is how the organization began. It did not work very well then."

"Satellite infiltration?" Destro inquired, running his finger down the list.

"Done it."

" . . . rock band?"

"Done it. Drank for a week to forget it."

"Did it work?"

"The drinking or the rock band?"

"Either."

"No."

Destro's brow creased. "How . . .?"

"Zartan," the Baroness said, topping up both her glass and his. The ice had melted hours ago, but neither of them cared at this point. They clinked glasses and drank. "And the Dreadnoks," she added. "In wigs. It was terrible."

"I say again, Baroness: how?"

She rolled her eyes, something she would never do if she had been entirely sober. Destro found it oddly charming—but then, he'd been drinking rather steadily as well. They were both the most relaxed they'd been in years. "Do you remember that program you wrote a few years before you joined Cobra? The thing that synthesized music?"

"The project I created to win a bet with my science division? He actually-" Destro couldn't quite finish the thought.

The Baroness drained her glass. "Cobra Commander never changes. He sees something he thinks he can use, and there is no stopping him!"

"Do you think he realizes he's handed us a list of 'new plans' that have all been tried and failed?"

"Do you think he realizes that he still has a concussion from that big ugly Joe's rifle butt? I tried to get him to see the doctors, but he swears he will not take off his mask for anything. Now he is chanting 'Cobra-la' and insisting we retry the rock band project." She poured herself another shot of bourbon. "If you had not called this 'strategy meeting,' Destro, I do not know what I would have done. It is like trying to steer an excitable child."

"An excitable child," Destro repeated, "with a nuclear missile. And as for the meeting, my dear Baroness—you know you're always welcome here."

Her head lolled back against the headrest, and she smiled at him. Her legs were drawn up and her feet tucked under, so that she curled into the armchair in a uniquely careless fashion. Love was all very well, but shared commiseration and bourbon were the things that really helped break through years of paranoia and backstabbing.

"You are too good to me, James," she said softly. "I wonder, sometimes, that you do not give up on me."

There wasn't much of a response for that. Instead, he poured them both one final glass, and she raised hers in salute to him. "Budem zdorovy," she toasted. Destro smiled humorlessly into his own drink.

'Let's stay healthy' indeed. Physically, perhaps. Sanity, perhaps not.

Snark in the face of death

It's a fact of life: when confronted with danger, a person will either bear up or break down. People who broke down didn't last long in the Joes, who despite their excellent medical care needed to be on the field as often as possible, but the ones who bore up had a variety of ways of doing it.

Alcohol was a no-go, especially on duty. Joes on leave could drive the few miles to Dakota City or some of the other small towns in the Utah desert, but they'd damn well better not come back on duty crocked or they'd get an earful from Beach, Duke, and Hawk. So during downtime, Joes would try to unwind and keep cool by a variety of other methods.

Gambling was a big one: Ace had the book on pretty much anything you cared to ask about. Even if you weren't betting on it, though, there was always some kind of game going on. During rare moments of quiet in the motor pool, the gearheads would clear an area and play floor hockey with whatever was at hand. This had proved such a useful distraction that the workers in the aircraft hangars had formed their own team, and now there was a growing rivalry between followers of the Motormouths (Cover Girl had chosen the name, claiming to be inspired by a certain unnamed Mauler driver) and the SEs (short for Scorched Earth). Beach Head had issued a general order that anybody injured during a hockey game would not be exempt from PT, so the games weren't quite as violent as the NHA's, but it was a near thing sometimes.

The only thing the two teams agreed on was that no ninjas were allowed to join. Storm Shadow could be downright lethal with a hockey stick.

Ordinance in general was usually entertaining. Nose-art on planes was officially discouraged by the military these days, but Hawk was usually willing to look the other way if it was the kind of vehicle that wouldn't be appearing in newspaper photos. Cover Girl, Scarlett, and Lady Jaye had all turned down offers to model for nose-art; when Clutch went ahead and painted them anyway, the women all pitched in and bribed Recondo (a surprisingly good artist) to give the newest Mauler a caricature of its driver in a feather boa and heels. There was a temporary ban on all vehicle art after that, as well as the Joes' first recorded instance of all three women, Recondo, and Clutch being on KP at the same time.

However, even with vehicle art off the menu, writing on missiles and bombs was still kosher. After one particularly intense desert brawl with a whole squadron of HISS tanks, Dusty had decided to hold an informal contest for mocking or intimidating slogans to paint on the next batch of ordinance. Offerings included:

"CobraaaAAUUGH!", from Airborne.

"Brought to you by Broca Industries, Inc.," from Breaker.

"Fly the friendly skies," from Ace.

"Yippie-ki-yay, motherfucker," from Wild Bill.

"A koan for you: what is the sound of one lung puncturing?" Guess who.

However, the clear winner was Recondo, who recouped some lost credit by using a Stinger missile as the canvas for his "Portrait of Beach Head at 0400." This was judged unanimously to be the most terrifying thing submitted to the contest, or indeed ever painted, and Recondo was declared the winner and awarded a significant cash prize. He also had the honor of not being beaten into the ground by Beach Head, which caused a fresh crop of rumors and made Psyche-Out add six more pages to Beach's already prodigious file.

It was all incredibly unprofessional, of course. Unacceptable by most standards. But Hawk understood the men and women under his command, and he knew that despite their occasional bouts of lunacy, they were the best at what they did. And who was he to mess with a winning formula?