(A/N) Hey everyone! As you all know, this chapter was supposed to come out yesterday, to coincide with Roosterteeth's tenth anniversary. Unfortunately, my flight last night was delayed by a few hours, so I only got home in the early hours of this morning, and wasn't able to put this up. Damn Ryan Air and the English weather. But I've got some good new for y'all, as with this chapter comes several new announcements!
One, the list is now up for the writers that we have accepted for part two of this 'fic. Congratulations to the writers that have been accepted, and commiserations to those who did not. I would once again like to thank everyone that applied, but we sadly could not accept all of you, so some people were always going to lose out. We hope you will apply again at a later date.
Our second, and possibly the bigger of the two, is that we will, from now on, be updating three days a week, Monday, Wednesday and Saturday. With our extra group of writers, we'll hopefully soon be churning out serious chapters, so here's to our new three updates a week program! :) Hope you'll all tune in for our next chapter tomorrow, (this update was intended to be the first Monday update, but meh, nothing ever goes entirely to plan).
This chapter was written by me, as our writer for Wyoming, Ausphin, disappeared a while back and we have been unable to get back in contact with him. If anyone are interested in this role, please contact me and I will let you know if you meet our requirements (may also give you a few questions to answer). For now, I will be taking on all assigned Wyoming chapters until we recast his writer. So I really hope you all enjoy this as I had a lot of fun writing this chapter.
Anyway, enjoy!
Chapter Twenty – Old Habits Die Hard
Agent Wyoming
Written by NicKenny
"Friendship needs no words - it is solitude delivered from the anguish of loneliness." - Dag Hammarskjold
Wyoming picked up the sniper rifle, popped open the chamber and slowly loaded it, snapping it shut again with a sense of calm detachment. He hefted the rifle over his shoulder, swaggering over to the far end of the training room, a small platform rising to about hip height next to him as he reached his position. He knelt down behind it, propping the sniper rifle up on the platform in order to steady his aim, and waved his free hand towards the ceiling for a second before placing it back on the barrel of the rifle.
F.I.L.S.S. acknowledged his signal, "Round beginning," echoing throughout the room as, on the far wall, roughly forty holographic green circles, each about the size of a dinner plate, formed and slowly began to move around the wall, passing over and under one another in a seemingly random pattern.
He took a moment to observe the targets, steadying himself with a deep breath, and under his visor his mouth curled into a smug smile.
This was what I was born to do, he thought to himself, eyes locked on a circle that was just about to partially pass through another.
A rifle shot rang out and the two circles turned red as the round passed through them both, slowly descending to the bottom left corner of the wall where they remained, soon joined by another four of their comrades as Wyoming's rifle rang out three more times, and he was forced to stop and reload.
That was a drawback of the System 99 Anti-Matériel, he had to grudgingly admit. A four cartridge chamber was not ideal when you were fighting forces greater than your own, and Wyoming had plenty of experience in fights of that kind. He knew that many of the other Freelancers, Alaska in particular, looked down on the sniper rifle due to its low round capacity, and maybe they had a point. Wielded in the hands of an ordinary man, the sniper rifle was a considerably less threatening weapon that a DMR, battle rifle or assault rifle.
However, Wyoming wasn't an ordinary man. He was a Freelancer, and the best one in this particular area. Sure, Virginia had displayed some talent as a sniper, but she couldn't compete with him, and they both knew it. "One shot, one kill" had been the motto of Wyoming's regiment in the UNSC, but he had always noted that he often killed more than one person with a single shot.
And that was what had gotten him into this project.
His gun rang out four more times and seven green circles suddenly flashed red and descended down the wall to join their fallen brethren. The next four shots took down six more, as did the next four, and the next.
Finally he was left facing a wall with only three green circles still moving across its surface, and one last bullet left in his rifle's chamber. He paused, waiting for the right moment, loath to take an easy shot and be forced to reload his rifle. He knelt there for several minutes, unmoving, awaiting his chance, when his rifle finally rang out one last time, the bullet phasing through the holographic surfaces of the three circles and smashing into the very tangible surface of the wall, dropping to the ground beneath with a little ping.
"Round over," F.I.L.S.S.'s motherly voice intoned, echoing throughout the room. "This session sets a new record for you, Agent Wyoming. All forty targets eliminated with the use of twenty-six rounds, beating your previous record by two rounds."
Wyoming grinned, removing his helmet and punching the fist holding it into the air in mock celebration. "Could I ask what Virginia's current record is, F.I.L.S.S.?" he asked smoothly, twirling his moustache with his free hand.
There was a brief pause before F.I.L.S.S. answered; no doubt looking for confirmation that she could reveal the data in question. "Agent Virginia's record is thirty-five rounds."
Wyoming nodded, his smile growing even wider. Virginia was good, no doubt about that. Even back with his own squad, no one other than Wyoming himself would have been able to surpass her. But that was the important thing. He was better than her. Even though she had caught him off-guard on that simulation mission, he was still the better agent, as a sniper at the very least. That was why he was fourth, after all, and Virginia was a place behind him in fifth.
Dreadfully sorry, old girl, he thought smugly, but you're going to have to do better than that to beat me.
Well, he was above her for the moment at least. After Alaska's loss to Florida the night before, the table might be updated at any stage. Which was why he was out here, training, while York, Florida, Virginia and Massachusetts recovered from their respective hangovers gained from partying the night before. He was just glad he had taken the one beer and left, well before York had gotten out the jäger...
He should probably try getting to know the crew better too, he suddenly realised. He could use some items that weren't technically allowed on-board the Mother of Invention due to the Director's unfortunately harsh policies regarding etiquette and the agent's abilities to perform their tasks. Then there were the little things he craved, but had been deemed too trivial by Project Freelancer to actually order them when the supply-pelicans came from Eris.
Apparently Earl Grey wasn't a necessity for Project Freelancer.
"You're on quite a streak, agent," F.I.L.S.S.'s voice murmured admiringly. Your training scores have increased remarkably over the last week."
"Not a streak, my dear, a habit." Wyoming corrected, emptying the spent cartridges out of his rifle's chamber and dumping them in the spent ammo bin next to the weapon's table.
A slow handclap began from to Wyoming's left, and he glanced over to see Florida casually leaning against the wall by the entrance, a steaming mug of cocoa in one of his hands that threatened to spill over onto the training room floor with each clap.
"Fine shootin'," he commented, ending his applause and raising his mug in Wyoming's direction as a sort of salute, beaming wildly from behind the cocoa. "Don't know how those guys where even able to get a shot off at poor ol' Penn."
Wyoming shrugged, dropping the sniper rifle back on the weapon's table and slowly walking over. "Can't take out everyone at once, old chap. Key to being a sniper is patience. Penn could probably use some. Good enough fellow and all that, but needs to learn to bide his time."
Florida nodded, his smile slipping a bit. He paused to take a sip of his drink, wincing slightly at the heat, then looked back up at Wyoming. "Still…" he began, pausing as he searched for the right words. "Terrible thing that happened to him. Could have been anyone of us, after all."
Wyoming nodded sagely, agreeing with the shorter soldier. "Indeed. Could have ended badly for the big guy. The medics seem to have done a good job patching him up though. He was in good enough shape to watch your fight against Alaska. Left pretty soon after though."
He shook his head slowly, visions of Penn lying in a pool of his own blood, hands firmly grasping the flag, flashing through his mind. "Anyway, enough about that, how about your little tussle with Alaska yesterday? Hell of a fight. Hopefully it'll have knocked him down a peg or two."
Florida chuckled a bit, waving away Wyoming's praise with his free hand. "It was nothing, really. Al just needed to be taught a little respect, that's all. He's a good kid really, just needs a prod in the right direction from time to time."
Wyoming snorted and shook his head in disbelief, feeling that he probably had a much better idea of what Alaska was like that Florida did, with all his amusing naivety and good cheer. He had known men like Alaska during his stint in the UNSC. They rarely learned their lesson, no matter how hard it was drilled into them. Indeed, Wyoming was probably one of those men himself. He was a creature of habit after all. It always took an effort to embrace the new, and the potentially dangerous. Old habits die hard, after all.
Speaking of habits…
He paused, glancing suspiciously at the mug of cocoa in Florida's hand. "The new shipment of supplies come in yet?" he asked cautiously, not willing to raise his hopes.
"Yep, came in about an hour ago," the shorter man replied, smiling.
"Don't suppose they had any Earl Grey on board?"
Florida shook his head sadly. "Don't think so, but you should try taking it up with the Director. He'll want to keep the moral of our little group up, or I'm not Agent Florida."
"Already have," Wyoming stated grimly, walking past Florida through the doorway that the other soldier had been propped up against. "Apparently the UNSC's rations are supposed to suffice. Sacrilege!"
"Tough break," Florida murmured sympathetically, following behind, although Wyoming was almost too lost in his own self-pity to notice. He shook his head, gave a sorrowful little sigh and waved his hand in the air carelessly.
"Don't worry about it. We all have our own burdens to bear."
Florida smiled a little at that and shook his head. "We don't have to bear them alone. We are a team, after all."
Wyoming glanced back at him, a quizzical eyebrow raised. "What do you mean?" he asked, a trace of confusion present in his voice.
Florida shrugged. "I notice you didn't hang around after the party started yesterday. You never really offer up anything about what you did before Project Freelancer, even more so than Penn or Al. All we know is that you served in the UNSC for a while, which is pretty much common across the whole darn board. Just wanted to let you know, as my gran' pappy always said, a problem shared is a problem halved."
Wyoming laughed, turning to face his companion. "Hate to break it to you, old chap, but sometimes it really isn't," he said, moving towards Florida until their faces were only a few inches apart, a note of anger and disdain entering his voice. "Anyway, you're one to talk about secrecy, and burdens. Anyone brings up your past and you clam up like an oyster."
He turned around and strode off, leaving the other freelancer standing their helplessly, a troubled look on his face. Wyoming strode into the cafeteria, pushing through the throng of personnel that swarmed the hall, and sat down at an empty table, muttering darkly to himself as he fumed away. The personnel quickly learned to leave him be, after he punched the first one brave enough to come over and ask him if anything was the matter.
Alaska came into the hall, but sat at a table by himself far away from Wyoming, which was fine with him. No doubt his defeat yesterday still rankled, and Wyoming knew that he probably would have cracked a few jokes at Al's expense had he not been so irritated by Florida's inquiries.
A tray was placed on top of the table in front of him, a cup filled with an unmistakable elixir in the dead centre. Wyoming looked up into the face of Agent Florida, whose features were set in a look of determination and resolve.
"Wh…where did you get this?" Wyoming asked, non-plussed, unable to believe his own eyes.
Florida just smiled wearily, shrugging. "You just have to be friendly with the right people. Friends help each other out."
He gestured towards the cup and Wyoming picked it up slowly, allowing the scent to waft up, breathing it in deeply with a sigh as satisfaction as unmistakable recognition dawned. He tilted it to his lips, eyes widening as the oh-so-familiar liquid danced across his taste buds, and he set the cup down, looking back at Florida.
"That's…really good of you, old chap," he murmured, his anger gone, replaced by a sense of guilt and shame. "You're right, you know. Friends do help one another out."
He paused, glancing back down at the cup, a slight smile playing across his face as he considered his next few words. "I could use a friend."
He extended his hand across the table, offering it to Florida. "Name's Reginald," he said, his eyes locked on Florida's blue ones, maintaining his smile.
Florida smiled back, his blue eyes twinkling with the lights of the cafeteria and a spark that seemed to burn from within, taking Wyoming's hand in his own and shaking it warmly. "Butch."