A/N: [CONNECTION ESTABLISHED]

GaryOkampo logging on...

I'm back everyone!

Apologies are definitely in order for leaving all of you guys hanging for at least two months. I was busy with other things and in that time I developed a little bit of writer's block. It took me awhile, but I at least finished this chapter.

On another note, I'm starting a side project of re-writing the first volume. I'm not going to republish a new story, just replacing the old chapters with new ones. Their is no definite schedule to the updates, only whenever I feel like it or I need a break.

Hopefully you guys aren't still mad at me.

Omega: Oh they are. I can FEEL their anger!


Journal Entry 106

Subject: Gulch Mercenaries

Call them whatever you want: mercenary guilds, private military corporations, it doesn't matter. What does matter, is that you can tell which ones are trustworthy. There are the ones that are formed after hundreds of piles of paperwork and approval. Things such as promising that they are legally and privately funded, mostly composed of veterans or adrenaline-junky-privates. They are the ones often hired by corporate big-shots for bodyguard work or as security for small towns the regular army can't reach.

However, there are also those who refuse to follow the proper channels. These groups are made up of people who were kicked-out of the military or just plain-old criminals. Acting more like gangsters rather than soldiers, calling them mercenaries would be considered a compliment. Most of the time they are hired by people who either want someone dead, at least beaten near death, or any other questionable missions. Add the complete disregard for loyalty, it shouldn't be surprising to hear about a PMC tear itself apart because one member was offered more money. Or sometimes be taken out and/or consumed by a larger guild.

It's this disorder and lack of unity that keeps the PMCs from becoming anything more than just bands of misfits. Let's be glad that they'll shoot each other rather than cooperate. Because if they did, then the White Fang would be the least of our worries.


Vale: Agricultural District...

When you've been a soldier for most of your life, it's only natural that adjusting to civilian life is an uphill battle. For some they find the will to finally drop their gun and enjoy the peace they fought and bled for. For others, the ones whose grips were too tight, they felt more alive on a battlefield than sitting on the porch. Times of peace were like a recession to mercenaries like Jackson. Nothing to do but polish your weapon while the people look at you like your a ticking-PTSD-bomb of crazy. That's why he jumped at the chance of joining Locus' mercenary guild. He could pay the bills and, if he was a romantic, be with people who were like him.

Sort of.

They were the second to arrive at the abandoned train depot at the edge of the city. It used to be part of a massive project to expand the kingdom's subway system underground. But it was soon cancelled when the Grimm constantly destroyed the equipment and killed the workers. The tunnels were eventually sealed off and the construction of the stations halted, leaving them to be abandoned and used by people of a shady-variety.

Now here they were, a wanted man and a team of mercenaries waiting in what was supposed to be humanity's first step of expansion. Now it's a half-finished building with it's iron-rusted skeleton exposed. Scaffolding lie scattered about along with the plastic tarps as a massive veil. The skylights that weren't shattered are covered in dirt and mold. To top it all off, the abandoned depot is full of train cars that were thrown away before they could even be used.

Roman wanted to be by himself as he vented out his frustrations with a cigar in some dark corner. Locus sat against a wooden crate, checking his ammo count and prepping his weapon like always. Jackson himself had been on enough missions with the veteran mercenary to notice something is wrong with his de-facto CO. They weren't close on a personal level, since Locus was never the friendly sort, but the older mercenary can tell as much.

"I don't suppose they'll give us at least 85% of our cut? Right?"

Jackson turned towards one of the train cars and saw Sam leaning against it. The kid was trying another one of his playful "flirtations" with Laura. However, the female mercenary didn't answer.

"Seventy-five? Fifty? Please don't make it 30%," Sam nudged her with his elbow, "Maybe we can combine our wages and hit up a few drinks. Always wanted to try foreign beer, or whatever shit they have. Whaddya say?"

"I'd rather kiss a beowolf," Laura gnarled.

"Oooh~," the younger merc whistled, "Didn't know you have a kinky side."

"Would you, just for once, shut the hell up!" Laura half-barked to keep herself from shouting, "Or do you really want to make this situation worse?"

"How can this get worse?" Sam chuckled.

Laura clicked her tongue in disgust, "Damn greenhorns."

"Hey!" Sam argued, "I've got a few kills under my belt, I'm just as green as the Chief!"

"Too bad you don't have his silent demeanor. Though even then I doubt you can tell what's going on," she stared at the two older mercenaries in front of them, "We just failed a mission….under Locus' command."

"So?"

"Locus rarely, if ever, fails a mission."

"I'm sure any merc would be pissed if he didn't get paid," Sam continued to flap his gums, "I know I would."

The young mercenary enjoyed being the stereotypical gun-for-hire. It didn't matter how dangerous or immoral the job was, as long as he got to use his earnings to buy more beer, women, or whatever for himself. Laura on the other hand was obviously the opposite. Stern, collected, followed orders regardless. Some said she's like a female version of their boss, only more talkative.

"No, Locus doesn't do this for the money," the female mercenary sighed, "He….He….I don't know why he does this. He's just good at it, and he expects us to be the same."

"I still don't get why this puts us in 'big trouble'."

"Then let me make it simple for you. The last person who pissed him off, Locus took the guy's own shotgun and shoved it down his throat before pulling the trigger."

"You can't be serious," Sam laughed at the supposed cautionary-tale, "That's just a story they tell in the barracks….right?"

Laura simply glared through her visor.

Jackson found it almost entertaining to see the young merc's posture change from confident and uncaring to terrified. Although Laura too had some holes in her story. She was right about the time when a rookie costed them a mission for disobeying orders a few years back. However Locus didn't take the kid's shotgun and made him eat it. He just ripped it out of his hands and fired point-blank into his face. He knows this because he was there when it happened.

The young mercenary cautiously rubbed his throat with a swallow, "...Saying….that he is in a bad mood; there any way to make him, ya know, less angry?"

Laura was most likely smirking under her helmet right now, "Don't worry. He won't let it out on you, probably. But if Jackson can't calm him down, than I feel a little sorry for mister bowler-hat."

The older mercenary wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose at the apparent job title he was given. Since when has he been Locus' handler. Sure he's one of the few who worked with him the longest, but did he really have that kind of effect on him. What makes them so sure that Locus is in a bad mood right now? Or if he is, Jackson is most likely to be the one shot in the face. He sighed to himself before heading out, knowing he should have retired to Florida like his ex-wife said.

Locus looked up from his weapon when he saw one of his oldest partners approach him, "Jackson."

"Locus," his posture straightened on instinct, "I've heard from the rest of the team that they are worried about this job's payment."

The veteran mercenary glanced at the two other squad members who are probably sweating inside their armors. Laura gave a curt nod while Sam nervously waved back.

"Our payment is determined by our performance in the field. Complaining for the usual amount after a failed mission will do nothing. What they receive is what they get," he growled through his helmet, "Tell them that."

"Y-Yes sir," Jackson wracked his fingers against his sniper rifle, "Also….permission to speak freely."

Locus completed the task of loading new rounds into his magazine, "What is it?"

"Are you, okay sir?"

Locus' hands froze for the briefest of seconds before re-loading his SAW, "Excuse me?"

"You just seem….irritated," the older mercenary looked around cautiously before continuing, "Did something on the highway bother you?"

"In a way," Locus answered rather simply.

"If it was our performance, then let me apologize for-"

"You underestimated your opponent," the veteran mercenary checked the sights on his primary, "A soldier of your caliber should never make that sort of mistake."

Jackson lowered his head, "I-It won't happen again."

The doors to the train depot were slammed open in order to grab everyone's attention. Everyone could see the blue armor plates reflecting the moonlight. The man's silver visor looking over each and every one of them. With a steel briefcase tightly gripped at his side.

"Hello everyone," Agent Florida greeted them happily, "Did you all have fun tonight?"


There are stories of people who have spent so much time on the battlefield, that they develop a sort of sixth sense. Tales of soldiers finding explosives buried under roads to hearing the breathing of an enemy sniper and such. But the most popular of them all, as well as upsetting, is to be able to "smell the blood" off of friend and foe alike. It shouldn't be a surprise that Locus never believed in anything without facts. However he isn't deaf, and he's heard the men whisper that he had that sort of nose. And they aren't entirely wrong.

Locus had seen and dealt with a large share of people with questionable backgrounds. Afterall, who else can mercenaries like him turn to for work? He had met crime bosses, shady businessman, fellow PMCs, and even a couple of terrorists. Each one giving off a "scent" that would make any man's skin crawl. But not Locus, only a small few can make him feel anxious. One of whom just so happens to be standing in front of him.

Agent Florida is the kind of man who is difficult to comprehend. Any attempts before were met with confusion. His personality made it easy for anyone to drop their defenses around him. However, to veterans like Locus, it just makes them feel uncomfortable. Combat wise is a complete mystery, since he never worked with a Freelancer before. But, if he were forced to admit it, Locus could "smell the blood" on his armor. Each step Florida took towards them urged the veteran mercenary to keep his machine gun ready. Whatever is in that briefcase didn't help either. When he saw the blue freelancer's hand move to his waist, Locus thought he was going for the collapsible tomahawk, deciding to cut them down for their failure. It wasn't until he saw a communication device drawn from one of the compartments in his armor that his grip loosened.

Agent Florida tapped the keys on the touchscreen before bringing it to his ears. Everyone else waited with anticipation when they heard the dial tone repeat itself.

"...Hello~!" the blue freelancer happily announced into the speaker, "This is your friendly neighborhood florist. Might I interest you in a bouquet of flowers?"

"..."

"Perhaps some hydrangeas are in order?" he continued with his joke.

The team of mercenaries and thief glanced at each other confused.

"What's with this guy?" Sam muttered.

"Rest assured that we have all your flowers for your choosing," Agent Florida continued.

"..."

"But of course," he motioned Roman to come forward, "She wants to speak with you."

The infamous criminal took one long, final drag from his cigar before stomping it out. He straightened his outfit before taking the device from Florida and walked off to separate himself from the group. Locus couldn't hear who was on the other side, but apparently she isn't happy. As from the constant excuses Roman let out to cover up his failure.

Florida took that time to approach him, "Locus."

"Agent Florida," the veteran mercenary greeted back.

"How's my favorite little soldier?" the freelancer agent asked.

The veteran mercenary controlled his snarl at the nickname, "The mission….was a failure."

Agent Florida just chuckled, "I know that; but our bosses want to know the who, what, and why."

"...It was two individuals," Locus reported, "They blended into the crowd wearing the masks the White Fang were giving out to the recruits. When they discovered their cover was blown, one of them aimed for the fuse box causing a black-out and escaped through the commotion."

"Very sneaky," Agent Florida placed a hand under his chin, "And then?"

"As you may already know, when Roman impulsively took the Paladin and chased after them, my team and I followed in order to convince him to turn back. That is until he made it to the highway."

"We've seen the news reports," the blue freelancer nodded, "Atlas is trying to cover up the fact that one of their prototypes just went on a rampage across the city. Right now they're officially stating that it was a raid on a terrorist hideout and that one of the members caused a ruckus when fleeing the scene. However my one question is who destroyed it?"

"Jackson reported that it was a fireteam of huntresses, composed of children in their mid to late-teens."

The blue freelancer snickered before he started to laugh, "Y-You're saying a bunch of kids reduced a massive-sized-battle armor to scrap? Even if they are kids, it seems the stories about them are true," he then cleared his throat before continuing, "Did you get a good look of their faces?"

"Unfortunately the huntresses had back up on the highway and subdued my men before they could compile a description."

"Oh~," Agent Florida's interest piqued, "And what were they like?"

Locus flashed back to his battle with the young agent. From what he saw, he had not lost his touch as a marksman. His only complaint was that the former freelancer was intentionally holding back. And he had also grown to be too emotional, grown soft. Unfortunate.

"They were very skilled," Locus answered.

"Care to give me a description of him at least?"

"...His face was covered."

"I see," the blue freelancer approached a nearby crate and placed the steel briefcase on top, "The Director is still willing to pay the full amount for your services, despite the outcome of this mission."

"On what condition?" Locus stared at the freelancer suspiciously.

"Very astute for a hired gun," Florida seemed to be smirking under his helmet, "We will pay you fully and with a bonus, provided you do a little extra for us."

The veteran mercenary straightened, "What are your orders?"

"I want you to head to the operations base in the south-east," Florida turned to the small keypad on the briefcase and punched the combination.

"You want me and my men to make sure everything runs smoothly?"

"Yes, but also no," Florida unlocked the two clamps, "Project Freelancer likes to be prepared for any outcome. After tonight's events they believe that it's only a matter of time until that place too is compromised. This will be a solo mission, well not really a mission, more like a field test."

Locus questioned the choice of words, "A field test?"

The blue freelance motioned him to come forward as he opened the briefcase. Even if it was just a crack, something was shining brightly inside. At first he thought it was a grenade, but the odd shape shattered that theory. That and most explosives don't glow with a pulse.

"What is it?" the mercenary stared at the object.

"It…," Agent Florida immediately closed it back up, "Is the prototype for a new equipment we plan to produce. It's already passed the preliminary trials, all we need now is to see how it handles in the field."

"And I'm the test subject," Locus stated disapprovingly, insulted that he was being treated like a lab rat.

"Oh no no no no," the blue freelancer waved his hands defensively, "We've already tested it on living things. Just not people….yet."

Locus switched looks between Florida and the briefcase, "I accept."

"Fantastic!" the blue freelancer clapped happily, "Oh! One more thing. We're having some trouble with maintaining the power. So I recommend using it only in emergencies."

Locus nodded as he grabbed the briefcase handle, "Understood."

"The instructions are in the case," Florida continued, "If you have any other questions, please don't hesitate to ask."

Locus turned to the freelancer, "There is one."

"Yes?"

"How do we deal with Project Freelancer's enemies."

Agent Florida fell silent for what seemed like an hour, "...I'm not sure what you mean?"

Locus felt like the atmosphere around the blue freelancer was changing, "You are a former-high-level military project that is still able to function, even after being declared a rogue unit. Surely there are many who want nothing more than your capture?"

"Naturally we want them taken care of," the blue agent of the "rogue unit" shrugged, "So if you think they are a threat to us, then you are free to deal with them as you see fit."

The mercenary nodded, "What about persons of interest?"

"That….is a different story," the blue freelancer pointed out, "We are currently keeping tabs on some certain individuals, so you don't need to worry about them."

"What if we see them in the field?"

"Well," Florida snickered, placing his hands on his hips, "That would require you knowing who we're looking for."

"..."

"..."

"Tell me something," the agent asked genuinely curious, "Why?"

"This failure happened because I was...unprepared. It has put a blemish on my record," Locus rumbled through his helmet, "That is something I will never let happen again."

The two soldiers stared at each other through their visors, waiting to see who would react first. That was the downside to constantly wearing these helmets. You can never tell what a person is thinking or gauge their reactions. All you see in front of you is a suit of armor with a gun.

Florida makes the first move as he tapped the sides of his helmet, "I've been ordered not to share this information. But, I think this will do more good for you than me."

Locus jerked his head in shock, "You're disobeying orders!?"

"Does that surprise you?" the blue freelancer gave a side-ways glance.

"You are a soldier," the mercenary stated, "You are meant to-!"

"Follow orders?" Florida finished his sentence with a shrug, "True. But wouldn't it be more fun when you spread around random seeds, and see what pops out of the ground?"

The mercenary wanted to press the issue, but was interrupted when his visor notified him of a new file sent to his personal inbox. His clock told him that dawn is nearly approaching and the more he stands here talking, the more time he wastes.

"I….Thank you for the opportunity," Locus straightened his posture, "My men will return to base and I'll head towards Mt. Glenn."

Agent Florida gave an uncharacteristically professional salute, "Best of luck to you on your mission."

The veteran mercenary returned to his team, filling them in on the situation. Needless to say, the group was surprised to be still paid in full. Sam being more ecstatic when he heard that they were on stand-by. Which in his mind means a vacation. Jackson and Laura, however, were concerned with the idea of their leader heading to heavily infested Grimm territory alone. But Locus quickly reminded them that they were soldiers. They followed orders.


A/N: Hopefully you all will take this as proof that I'm still here typing. Stay tuned for the next chapter.

GaryOkampo logging off...

[CONNECTION TERMINATED]