It took Arizona almost another thirty minutes to crack the bioscan lock on the 'super-secret plans' folder. She let Logic take over, which helped, but it didn't silence Discontent's anger or Fear's worries or Passion's confused jumble of far-too-intense emotions.

I can't believe the Director won't extract us until we have this stupid folder, Discontent spat. If a fragmented aspect of a single personality trapped in a head with five other similar beings could pace with agitation, Discontent had certainly found the way to do so.

What if there is another trap? Fear asked, latching onto Discontent's agitation and amplifying it. What if us trying to break in was what set off the first one? What if we killed Maine?

Maine's not dead, Happiness told Fear soothingly. He'll be fine. I think he's invincible.

No one is invincible, Passion replied. Her 'voice' cracked with fury and distress. But she didn't say anything else. She didn't need to.

"Wyoming, roll your index finger a little to the left," Logic said, placing a barrier between herself and the other aspects. She could worry about Maine later. And Wash, for that matter; there had been no word on if the younger soldier was injured. She scanned the readings as Wyoming complied. "Okay, I think I have it."

She inputted her 'fingerprints' and the folder opened. Florida plugged in a data chip to copy the information as Arizona radioed for extraction. "Don't you want to see what's in here?" Florida asked.

"I don't care. The Director wants the info, he has the info," she replied, voice relatively monotone thanks to Logic's control. Florida exchanged a glance with Wyoming that she was certain held entire tomes of meaning, but she didn't care. She just wanted to get back, to check on her friends. Fucking simulation troopers…how the hell did Maineget injured by simulation troopers?


"Can't you stabilize him?" Wash hurried alongside the stretcher, unable to tear his eyes away from Maine's broken, bleeding body. His voice might have cracked. He wasn't sure. He didn't care.

"We're trying out best, sir," the medic closest to Wash said. He didn't sound very reassuring. Wash finally glanced at the man, glad for his helmet. Glad the medic couldn't see the pure panic his words had just inflicted upon a supposedly imperturbable Freelancer Agent.

"Is there something I can do?" Wash practically cried, getting desperate. He had held it together on the Pelican for the Director, but he wasn't certain how much longer he could maintain the false composure. They approached the doors leading out of the docking bay.

"Sorry, sir, you're going to have to wait here," the medic said, stepping in front of Wash and blocking him from following the stretcher toward surgery. "Medical crew only." He closed the door as Wash curled his fists. He wanted to help, dammit!

He made to run his hand through his hair – a nervous habit he had carried through childhood – but stopped as it approached his helmet. He sighed, resigned. He wasn't a doctor. There wasn't anything else he could do. "Typical medic bullshit," he muttered, trying to somehow shift the blame onto the people trying to save his best friend's life, not wanting to admit how helpless he felt. He turned to jog to the viewing window as the sign illuminated indicating that surgery was in progress. At least he could be there to watch, to somehow feel like he was at least supporting Maine.

Wash approached the window and leaned forward, tapping his foot in agitation. Datapads and needle guns floated around in the zero gravity environment, giving the too-bright room an eerie atmosphere. Medics and doctors were gathering around Maine, gravboots enabled. They started to remove Maine's armor, letting the broken pieces float away. Too much blood, Wash thought, for what had to have been the millionth time. That's too much blood.

Why the fuck did they give him white armor?

He watched at Maine's helmet floated upward, bloody and cracked. Footsteps were approaching close behind, but he didn't particularly care. He was staying here, dammit, and none of the fucking medics were going to tell him otherwise.

"Agent Washington," demanded a far too familiar voice, "status report."

"Maine was injured, sir," Washington replied, snapping to attention automatically. It occurred to him that the Director already knew Maine was injured. The man had been on the Pelican with them. Had even helped to stabilize Maine. Oh. The mission. He wants to know about the mission. "We failed the objective." His voice dropped a little. Florida and Arizona. They're still there. Any Wyoming. Maybe we didn't really fail.

But the Director latched onto the weakness. "How were two soldiers of your caliber possibly hurt by simulation troopers?" There was a sneer, a judgement in his voice. A judgement toward Maine.

"They…" They blew up their own goddamn compound! We were at the center of the explosion!

Wyoming told us we were clear.

Arizona said she could get us in.

But that wasn't fair. His teammates had done nothing wrong. I didn't recognize the threat. Him. It was his fault Maine was lying on an operating table, with too much blood on his armor and in the air and anywhere besides still in his fucking body. "They got the jump on us," he finally managed to spit. He wasn't certain if the anger was directed toward himself or the dispassionate man standing before him. Maybe both.

"Disappointing," the Director said, giving his head a small shake, "but we'll deal with that after surgery." And Wash decided that yeah, that hatred and anger was definitely pointed toward the fucking Director. The stupid Director and his stupid missions, which didn't even matter, they were just to test if they worked well as a team. It was the Director's fault that Maine was lying there, the Director's fault that he might lose his best friend, the Director who –

Quiet, he told himself. The Director has given you everything. You weren't good enough. That's why Maine is hurt.

"Yes, sir," he managed as the Director continued down the hall, not even giving a single glance toward his injured soldier below. Once the Director was gone, Wash spun around, looking through the window. Too much blood. "Come on, buddy. Hang in there."


They stood at attention before the Director and the Counselor as the latter took the data chip from Florida's outstretched hand and plugged it into his datapad, skimming through the documents. "And you are certain everything is there?" the Director asked.

"All logs that were on the terminal, sir," Florida answered.

"Good. Agent Wyoming, report."

Arizona barely listened as Wyoming detailed exactly all the ways the mission went wrong, occasionally interrupted by Florida to add or correct some point. The Director did not seem to mind the interruptions from Florida, though Arizona knew that coming from any other Agent, the offense would be reprimanded. At the moment, she didn't particularly care about the inconsistency. She just wanted to go to med bay and wait for Maine. Or, if he couldn't be moved, see if she could coerce 479er into dropping her off at the Angel on My Shoulder Medical Station, where she learned Maine had been transported. She briefly wondered how good the pilot simulation training was. I could probably fly a smaller ship, if I couldn't find a pilot. Might even be able to land it.

Yeah, crash into a medical station, Discontent muttered. Perfect way to show your support.

"Agent Arizona!"

Arizona blinked, shaking her head slightly. The Director's voice had a tone that suggested he had tried to get her attention multiple times. She saluted, automatically. "Yes, sir!"

His sunglasses obscured his eyes, but his body language emoted the eye roll well enough. "Do you have anything to add?"

"No, sir." Florida and Wyoming exchanged another glance, but neither said anything.

"I see. Very well, you are dismissed." All three agents saluted and turned to leave.

"Hold on a moment, Agent Arizona," the Counselor said. Arizona stopped and walked back toward them. She could see Florida and Wyoming standing by the doorway. Wyoming awkwardly, Florida with a quiet, easy confidence that suggested he was supposed to be there.Probably why he's internal recon. Florida had an unsettling knack for slipping onto a scene unnoticed.

"Counselor?" the Director prompted as the Counselor frowned at his datapad.

"Florida said you examined the unsecured documents prior to the…incident with Maine?" the Counselor asked.

'Incident?' Half the compound blew up. "Yes, sir."

"And you chose not to warn your teammates about the trap until Agents Maine and Washington were in position to activate the detonation?"

"I…" Arizona's brain froze. "Um…what?"

The Counselor held the datapad in front of her so that she could read it. She could feel the Director standing over her shoulder. There, in the internal communication logs she had read while Florida was comforting the wounded sim trooper, were the details to the trap the sims had set up. The instructions, the locations for detonation, the information they had on the five operatives that would be entering the field – everything was there, in plain sight.

No, that can't be right. I read it! I read everything! I would have seen something that important! "Was…" She swallowed, trying to keep her suddenly dry throat from making her voice crack. "Sir, is there a possibility that was in the encrypted file?"

"It was in the open communication log you examined, Agent." The Counselor's voice was level, but it sounded cooler than she thought possible of the warm man.

"Well, Agent?" the Director prompted as Arizona continued to stare at the file as though if she looked hard enough, it would tell her how she missed it. She could feel Wyoming and Florida glowering at her. She briefly wondered if her armor was good enough to stop the knives Florida would probably soon be throwing.

"I…" she started. But she had no idea how to finish. A huge weight was growing in the pit of her stomach. It's my fault. It's all my fault. "I have no explanation, sir," she finally managed.

Had Florida already thrown a knife? She could have sworn he did from the hot, tingling sensation on the back of her neck. She sort of hoped he had.

"I see. Disappointing." The Director hung his head, shaking it slowly. He held his hand out, and the Counselor gave him the datapad. He moved a few things on the screen before handing Arizona the data chip. "Agent Maine will be arriving tonight. You will show him this and explain why he is injured. Do I make my intentions clear?"

Arizona took the chip, unable to keep her hands from shaking. The idea of facing Maine, of facing Wash, of not just telling them but demonstrating exactly how much she was to blame…where's the nearest airlock? "Yes, sir," she whispered.

"Good. You are dismissed." Arizona nodded and backed away.

"Oh, and Agent? Usual time," the Counselor told her as she turned. She nodded numbly as she approached the doors, not looking directly at Florida and Wyoming.

Because if Florida and Wyoming managed to look so betrayed, how the hell was she going to face Maine?