Oh My God, You Killed Coffee!
Alpha Three clutched the cup of coffee between his hands, his nails digging slightly into the Styrofoam exterior. The warm ebb through the cup to his hands was slowly dying away, for he had been sat with it for over half an hour, but he couldn't be bothered moving. He stared at his unwritten report on the flat screen computer monitor, the blank white page the only source of light in the dark resource room. The computer itself, a high-powered piece of equipment, hummed monotonously, a low note that stretched out into the black.
Alpha Three's eyes were heavy and tired, and he was tempted to rub them. That would mean letting go of his coffee, however.
He couldn't do that.
He glanced back at his 'report', the text cursor blinking repeatedly at him, almost as if it was mocking him to write the damn thing.
Write me, said a little voice. Alpha Three sighed. He often had arguments with the blinking cursor – almost as much as he did the floating paperclip with the oversized eyes. He was probably borderline schizophrenic or something, but at least it provided some form of company, however unwanted it may be.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
Write me.
Alpha Three glared at the blinking cursor.
"I don't want to write you," he replied, his voice sounding out of place in the eerie silence. "If I do, I'll have to let go of my coffee cup. I don't want to do that."
Who cares about the coffee cup?
Write me.
"No."
The coffee cup is a figment of your imagination. He doesn't exist. You've been sat with that hogging bastard for too long now. Tell him he has to let everyone else have a turn.
Even if he doesn't exist.
"He does exist. I'm holding him."
No he doesn't. You just don't want to admit it, because you'll finally realise you've lost your mind.
"I haven't lost my mind."
…you do know what you're talking to, right?
"Good point."
Alpha Three looked down at the cup of coffee.
"Sorry," he said, shrugging at the coffee, "but he's right."
The coffee said nothing.
Alpha Three picked up the cup and dropped it in the bin, watching as cold coffee spilt all down the metal sides of the box.
Now look what've done. You killed him. I only told you to pay attention to someone else, because the coffee didn't exist. I didn't say you had to murder him in cold…blood.
Say sorry to the coffee.
"Sorry, coffee."
Now shut up and write your damn report.
"So, what's your speciality, my dear?"
Agent Mississippi shifted in their seat, deciding to let their A.I. explain it all. Zeta flickered into view and smiled merrily at the employer.
"Our specialities are the creation of explosives, namely grenades, mines, and homemade varieties, like pipe bombs and Molotov cocktails. We can also use Covenant explosives with the same standard we do human ones. We can disarm all kinds of mines, explosives traps, and the like, of professional quality. One could say we are 'top of the field'. Finally, my host have almost perfect aim with rocket launchers and other scoped weapons, like Spartan lasers and battle rifles."
Zeta glanced at Mississippi.
"Never could master the sniper rifle, though, for some reason," she said, her expression changing to one of mild puzzlement and interest. The employer looked at Mississippi for a moment.
"Do you always allow your A.I. to speak for you, miss…?"
Mississippi sighed deeply.
"It's easier if I just speak," Zeta offered. The employer shook his head…but then shrugged and smiled.
"This is viewed as a legal business," the employer continued, a slight smile on his face. "Of course, it's not, and I'm willing to hire you and your other Freelancer friends as my bodyguards and…assistants. However, I need to know, do you have any skills that could be considered usefully to the nature of my empire?"
Zeta thought for a moment.
"Missi is a skilled torturer," she said finally, grimacing. "We were taught by Command on how to break a captured enemy as quickly and efficiently as possible. I will admit, though, neither of us like doing it…but we are willing to teach."
"So say I brought you an enemy for…'interrogation', how would you deal with them?"
Zeta told him, and watched as he winced and shuddered at her words.
"You're hired," he said finally, looking ill.
Alpha Two burst through the door into the resource room. She had heard Alpha Three had returned from his mission, and guessed he would be in here, talking to his computer screen. She quickly flicked the lights on, filling the room with dazzle, and she heard Alpha Three yell out in surprise. Smiling to herself, Alpha Two walked across to the source of the noise and peered around a desk, laughing as Alpha Three rubbed his eyes frantically.
"Will you warn me when you're going to do that?" he snapped, moving his hands away and revealing the large dark circles around his sockets, a contrast to his pale skin. He looked terribly sick, but then, so did Alpha Two. She glanced at the computer, eyeing his report, and then sighed.
"Writemeblinkblinkblinkwritemeidontwanttowriteyouifidoillhavetoletgoofmycoffeecupidontwanttodothatwhocaresaboutthecoffeecupwritemenothecoffeecupisafigment of your imagination…"
She had often seen Alpha Three write and talk to himself, abandoning all sense…and punctuation. However, it was getting more frequent with each mission. She had suggested that maybe their bosses lay off the drugs, but they had told her to 'know her place'. She belonged to them now; she had handed the right of her life over to them, and had no say in any matter regarding well-being.
The drugs issued to the Alpha Squad were thought not to have side-effects. This was disproved when the pigmentation in their hair was destroyed, turning it stark white. While Alpha Two quite liked it, as it was unusual, the other two Alpha soldiers dyed theirs to hide it. Alpha Three noticed Alpha Two was looking at the glimpse into his mind. His pale cheeks flushed slightly, and he quickly deleted the words, ashamed. Alpha Two looked away, not wanting to embarrass him further, and waited for the clicks of the keys to stop.
"So…I heard the mission was a success," Alpha Two said awkwardly. Alpha Three gave her a grateful look for the subject change.
"Successful…in theory," he replied, hesitating slightly. Alpha Two cocked her head to the side.
"Oh?" she said, curious to know more. Alpha Three shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"The mission itself went without a hitch…but there were certain…emotional complications with Derrick."
"Derrick?"
"Yeah, Derrick."
"Oh, Derrick. I see what you mean. So what were the emotional complications?"
Alpha Three told Alpha Two everything he had found out about Derrick's actions, from the cold indifference that had grown to adoration and love, to the murder for reasons so insignificant. Ending her beautiful life for a bank robbery? Derrick may have had his orders, orders that could not be ignored under any circumstance, but Alpha Three knew had it been him that night and not Derrick, she would still be alive.
Alpha Three fell silent, not voicing the last part of his thoughts, and his friend sat opposite him, confused, but trying to be comforting regardless.
"That was just one mission; you'll never come into contact with Derrick again," Alpha Two said soothingly. Alpha Three shook his head miserably.
"It's not that I'm bothered about," he said quietly, his tired eyes dull and blank. Realisation hit Alpha Two like a hammer, and she groaned softly.
"…you felt something for her, too, right?" she asked, her heart sinking. Alpha Three nodded slightly, and his friend sighed and put her arm around him, hugging him close. Silence hung in the air for an age, both unsure as to what could be said.
Suddenly the radio built into Alpha Two's special lightweight armour crackled.
"Alpha Two, this is base; please respond. You are needed at the reprogramming facility for implantation of your next mission."
Alpha Two scowled deeply, still not moving her head away from Alpha Three's shoulder.
"Alpha Two, this is base; please respond. Your presence is urgently required."
"You should go before they get annoyed," Alpha Three said sadly, as he moved away from his friend's embrace. Alpha Two unhooked her arm from around him and sighed deeply.
"Alpha Two, you are ordered to respond immediatel-"
"Alpha Two, responding to base call. On my way to the facility now. Alpha Two out."
Alpha Two irritably turned her radio off, glaring at nobody in particular. Alpha Three nodded at her.
"Good luck."
"How did it go?" Alabama asked as Mississippi exited the office. Zeta shrugged.
"He just asked us our skills and then hired us. It wasn't that hard, really."
Alabama let out a sigh of relief.
"I always get nervous with interviews," he replied, shuddering and then shaking his head.
"Why?"
"I...don't know. Give me deadly situations, bullets, guns, and Command any day of the week...just not interviews."
"Agent Alabama, please enter Mr. Kawashima's office," a voice crackled over the intercom. Alabama gulped and shakily stood up, while Zeta smiled warmly at him. He walked across the waiting room and entered the office, before sitting down in a reinforced metal chair, which was bent slightly at the weight of the previous Spartan who had been sat on it. He wondered if it would collapse on him half way through the interview.
The questions came quickly and briefly; what was he good at? Did he have qualms about certain jobs? Any specialities?
"Um...I'm...fast," Alabama replied, flushing behind his helmet as the interviewer's eyebrows rose in amusement. "And...I'm good with the shotgun."
There was a slight pause. Alabama coughed and attempted to scrape together some confidence.
"I can outrun most others and have good people skills...just...not in interviews."
"I can see," the interviewer replied, smiling kindly at the Freelancer.
"I'm also a cryptographer," Alabama added, aware the interview was about to crash into the ground.
"Cryptographer?"
"Uh, yeah. I can figure out codes with ease. I'm not a 'hacker'; I just find the unscrambling of information and the cracking of codes. So an encrypted message I could unscramble if I had the correct equipment and adequate time."
The interviewer nodded.
"You're hired."
Ashley Romano stood on top of an old tower building, the wind ruffling her hair behind her shoulder, trails of it draping across the sunglasses settled on her nose. She flicked them back deftly, and then moved her head down to look at the city below. Cars were infrequent in this part of the city, yet a few were visible from this great height, small little boxes of grey, black, and silver moving swiftly through the grimy catacombs of the streets.
Her black body suit blended nicely with the smog and pollution that choked the peaks of skyscrapers and settled below like a descending swarm on inhabitants of the festering pit that was the Old City. Ashley loved the Old City, for it was a place crime could run unchecked and free, unlike the more modern parts in the East. The Romano family, her family, were of Italian origin, making their way over to America centuries ago. Ashley didn't even look Italian, the fiery blood in her veins watered down by generation after generation of American marriage, but her heart and her temper told a different story. Her family still ran the Old City, the figureheads of what every gangster aspired to be. Their rivals were the Kawashima family, Japanese scum who moved in on their territory a few years back.
Ashley's history was so tragic; one would almost think it was made up. Her mother, Lisa, ran away with a rival gang member when she was only sixteen, becoming pregnant with Ashley a year later. The Romano family had done everything to get Lisa back, even making an attempt on Ashley's father, Andrew, before she was even born. It had failed, but Lisa died in childbirth, leaving Andrew to raise her. Then, eighteen years later, he was murdered by the Kawashima family.
Now, at twenty-six years of age, Ashley was trying to make the Romano family realise who she was. The eight years since she was orphaned were a blur, a period of her life she either didn't want to remember or couldn't. All she knew is one day she had walked up to someone and shot them down in the middle of the street, before scampering up into an abandoned building, gang members hot on her tail. The rest was blank.
In fact, whole sections of her life were missing. It was strange, to say the least, and it disconcerted her greatly. However, she ignored her patchy memory, even if it was disturbing, too busy trying to be accepted by her family. There was no way one could get inside without permission, even for someone as skilled as herself, so for the last few years, she had written letter after letter between missions, detailing her life, who her parents were, and requesting...begging for a meeting with the head of the Romano family. She had not received a single reply, but this didn't dent her determination. She knew who she was, without a doubt, and eventually everyone else would, too, welcoming her into the Romano household with open arms.
Eventually.
"So, Agent Arkansas, what are you specialities?"
Arkansas sat back comfortably in his chair, arms folded across his lap.
"My specialities? I'm a natural leader, I can use any weapon better than the ordinary soldier can, although I don't specialise in any specific one, and I am a brilliant strategist. My A.I. enhances my ability to think up battle plans, and I've often gotten my teammates and myself out of many sticky situations. I also led the defence when Command attacked us at our old base.
The interviewer, Kawashima Tsuneo, head of Kawashima Enterprises, glanced down at the notes he had made on each Freelancer. A hacker, a sniper, an explosives and torture expert, a cryptographer, and a strategist...Tsuneo couldn't believe his luck. With these Freelancers at his disposal, he would crush all opposition, including the Romano family. He looked up at the Spartan opposite him.
"You're hired," he said, a huge smile on his face.
"You know, Emma, I wouldn't have considered you the compassionate type."
Massachusetts lifted her face off her pillow, bleary eyed, and stared into the gloom at the darkened silhouette of El. Her head felt light and felt like it was spinning slightly, making her drowsy.
"What the hell...would make you consider that?" she asked, leaning heavily on her elbow, attempting to sit up. El put her back against the wall, her skinny arms wrapping themselves around her bare legs, and then shrugged.
"When we took over the Black Market Tunnels...you defended my ass even though you didn't have to. The stories you've told me about training...you don't care about people; you look out for yourself, and the dead don't matter...but you still made us go back for Stan's body. Are you really an asshole, or is it all just an act to make you seem like nothing can hurt you?"
Massachusetts stared at El for a long time. Then she snorted with laughter, throwing her head back as she did. El lay down and waited patiently for the Freelancer to finish her hysterics, and eventually Massachusetts wiped the tears of amusement away from her eyes.
"An act?" she said, grinning lopsidedly, her vision spinning at a greater intensity than it was before. "No, I'm genuine, El. I don't care about people or their well-being usually. They have nothing to do with me. However, you lot aren't just 'some people.' I've trained you all from scratch, gotten to know you, shown you my method of operation and my opinion of the way things should be done. You...all of you...you're my team – my squad, and I'll be damned if I didn't care about you."
El paused.
"Are you OK, Massa?" she said finally, her voiced laced with concern. The dizziness had reached its peak for the Freelancer opposite, her head feeling like it was swelling and shrinking, that something was pushing behind her eyes, causing pain in her forehead.
"No," Massachusetts mumbled, and then her head fell forward as she passed out, sliding out of her bed and onto the floor. El went to move see what the hell had just happened, but a sudden overwhelming feeling of instinct washed over her, telling her to stay where she was. She lay perfectly still, keeping her breathing low and laboured like Massachusetts...waiting.
The door to the room opened slowly, the usual creak absent. El had wondered who had oiled the hinges and why, but had thought nothing of it. A person clad entirely in black, their face covered up so only a pair of eyes glinted in the darkness, crept into the room, before closing the door as quietly as possible. They padded across the small room, their feet layered with cloth so they wouldn't make a noise, and slipped a gloved hand into a pouch that was fixed onto their belt. Carefully, they brought out a gun with a silencer fixed on the end, and with slothful deliberation, lowered themselves into a crouch right next to Massachusetts. The stranger paused, and then brought the weapon right next to her head, before clicking the hammer back into place, readying the gun for firing.
El could only watch in horror, her whole body frozen in fear. This would be Massachusetts' first assassin, someone sent to take down the Freelancer. It could be someone from that 'Command' place, or he could've been sent by a rival gang. Either way, if El didn't do something soon, he would kill her. Massachusetts would die.
El coughed.
Author's notes: I apologise for the lateness of this...but if you are even remotely connected to the RvB community, then you will know the new mini-series, 'Relocated', has been released. If you did not know this, then you deserve to be team-killed by Caboose.
Either way, now RvB is out, you can pretty much forget consistent updates, as I will be too busy watching RvB, theorising RvB, comparing RvB theories with people on the RT forums, and training for Grifball with the people of an RT forum I have joined, to write regularly.
I'll still be writing, of course, but being the RvB fanatic that I am, RvB takes priority.
Leilah
P.S. For anyone who requested I use a character of theirs or wanted to know if they could use a character of mine, please PM me, as I find it hard keeping track of everything through reviews!