A/N: Hello all and welcome to another chapter of Agent Reach. Last off, we got to see Reach leaving the Reds a friendly reminder that he could kill them with a pencil if he wanted to. Such a nice fellow. Now, it's Maine's and South's turn.

*Chapter 75*

Maine liked to think he was incredibly patient, despite what his fiery temper on the battlefield said. He considered not snapping and murdering all of the Reds and Blues to be an achievement in its own right. He was still sane, right?

A rock fell from the ceiling and whacked him on the shoulder. The white armored Freelancer growled in irritation and looked down the ladder he was precariously balancing on. The roof of their makeshift fort needed repairs thanks to Caboose smacking into it repeatedly, so while Wash was in a temporary coma Maine took it upon himself to see to Blue Base's needs.

No one told him he'd be balancing on the very top of a wobbly ladder trying to drill a giant tarp over a hole in the roof.

At the bottom of the ladder, South was on cleanup duty, sweeping away the dust that would wreak havoc on their gravity lift. She looked up at him with a disgruntled sigh and he shared her frustration.

So damn close to being able to enjoy retirement and have a somewhat normal life. Whoever caused this crash, they weren't funny and he was looking forward to beating them to death with their own severed arm. The only thing making this jungle somewhat tolerable compared to the sweltering heat of Blood Gulch was they didn't have to hold Tucker's hand anymore. Thank you, Reach.

Apart from that? This place could be glassed from orbit and he wouldn't bat an eye. As long as he was far away from the glassing and he was giving the shitty planet the middle finger from a spaceship heading back to Earth, he was perfectly fine with how he got off this rock.

Screw this jungle.

And fuck whoever made them crash.

Especially fuck them.

Maine never actually thought he'd miss recovering and cataloging weapons and armor, but here he was. Cleaning up after the simulation troopers' messes was not in his job description, despite what those ingrates at UNSC High Command might have thought when all of the evidence was brought against Project Freelancer. He was a soldier, not a babysitter.

Yet nowadays, that was what he was feeling like. A glorified and severely underpaid babysitter. 'Wash might have been onto something when he was talking about becoming a farmer in the middle of nowhere.' Good, hard, honest work would be great therapy for the shit they had gone through.

Maine growled in despair.

South let out a sigh and looked up at him sympathetically. "I know. We both should have known that people like us can never have nice things."

The bald brute let out a long hiss.

"Oh come on, you can't seriously still be hung up on that?" South snorted in laughter. "We both agreed that we were never going to get all of those stains out of the bed. I mean, yeah it was memorable, but we had to upgrade. If only so Wash doesn't hear it rocking every night. You're not exactly…subtle."

Maine tried to look offended at the accusation. Keyword being tried.

It didn't work. He cracked a giant grin and let an approving rubble echo in his throat. Curse these mangled vocal cords. Sure, South understood what he meant in a way even Wash or Reach didn't, but just once he wished he could actually say just how much she meant to him.

Maine gagged at how cringe that sounded and was suddenly thankful for his lack of speech. South would never let him hear the end of it. '…this is what's been driving Wash nuts. You fucking idiot; how did you not notice?'

Maine finished drilling the last few screws to keep the tarp in place and carefully climbed down the ladder, feeling much more comfortable once his boots were on the ground like they belonged. He wasn't much one for heights; he liked being firmly planted, if at all possible.

He rumbled at South, feeling slightly annoyed at himself for not seeing the damn signs earlier. Sudden gung ho attitude, trying to be a commanding and calculating presence, serious lack of a shave and sleep.

Wash was letting the head in his pants do the thinking instead of his actual head. 'You moron. You're only going to burn yourself out.' Maine was by no means an expert on reading people, but even a blind person could see how smitten Wash was with Carolina. He was down bad. It wasn't exactly subtle. Wash might have thought he was slick with catching glances whenever he thought no one was looking, but the only one who didn't pick up on it (or at least didn't show it) was Carolina.

It was possibly the worst kept secret on their old ship, but still. Carolina didn't seem to notice a thing. Not even questioning why Wash would suddenly cough and avert his gaze immediately whenever she turned to look at him. Maine didn't think it was possible to be that painfully oblivious, and yet here they were.

Goddammit. He ought to have just shoved them into a closet and not let them out until the hints finally got through. Missed opportunity.

"You're kidding." South groaned and pinched her brow. "He can't be down that bad, right?"

Maine hissed.

"Shit." The silver blonde dragged her hands down the side of her face, pulling her cheeks down. "He is. You sure we can't just drag him out for a few dances at a strip club?"

The bald giant nodded gravely. The only person that could properly slap Wash's head on straight had fucked off to who knows where. Reach was able to help to an extent, but it wasn't enough to fully get his head out of his ass. 'Goddammit Carolina. Just had to make this difficult.'

He might have lacked the ability to properly tell her off, but he could think of someone who was a lot more miffed that would chew her out and get away with it. That is, if he didn't snap within the next half hour and went on a murder spree.

Maine did not envy whoever ended up on the receiving end of the retired Spartan's punch if he cracked. He fought with him against a fully berserk Missouri. He knew how hard he could hit. The internal damage one of his punches did to whoever it connected with was nasty. Reach would be banned from boxing instantly. Whoever pissed Reach off enough to warrant him punching their lights out definitely deserved it.

Fuck 'em. It wasn't his problem and he was quite happy to keep it that way.

"Yeah I know. By the way, how long do you think it'll be before Reach actually says 'Fuck it' and starts snapping the Reds' necks?" South asked.

Maine was silent for a few moments to think on it properly before giving his answer. His growl rumbled out and South shook his hand to seal the bet. "I'll take those odds. Wager?"

Maine smirked.

"Oh you have got to be fucking kidding. No. That wreck of a bed is not getting put back in. Don't give me that look! The mattress has a giant hole in it! I'm not getting jabbed in the ass just because you want to keep the furniture we had sex on for reasons unknown to me. No. Nooooooope. No fucking way."

Maine tilted his head with a curious growl. The half-empty bottle of lube that was hidden in their room said otherwise to South's statement of not enjoying being jabbed in the ass.

The silver blonde blushed. "MAINE!"

He ducked under the swipe sent his way and was ever so grateful he had someone here to keep him somewhat sane.

On what Grif called a good day, he didn't have to deal with Sarge beyond tuning out the insults fired his way. A bad day was getting dragged into his team leader's bullshit when he definitely didn't want to, especially if the consequence for getting involved was a brutal and agonizing death at the hands of the one person no one wanted pissed off at them.

"Um…is it seriously too late for me to say I did not want anything to do with this and he does not speak for me?" Grif tried, putting some distance between him and Sarge. "I can't stress this enough; he does not speak for me. At all."

"Yes it is," Tucker answered promptly, aiming his rocket launcher. "You're an accessory to this bullshit. Sorry, I don't make the rules here. I just follow them. Maybe you should try it; it'll keep you alive longer."

"What part of you thinks I want to live?" Grif sighed and wished he had another pack of cigarettes. Curse this jungle.

"Good point." Tucker hummed. "So you're saying I should kill you now and get it over with?"

"Okay, you've made your point."

"I have the ammo to spare. Could maybe make it two rockets even if you fancy."

"Oh shut up." Grif rolled his eyes. God, he hated that the guy fucking his sister was a sarcastic asshole trained by the most dangerous person in known existence. But Tucker had a rocket launcher. People with rockets were never outnumbered. He didn't make the rules; he just worked here.

Thunder roared in the distance and it was a nice break from the chirping of giant insects.

"So where's the nerd?" Tucker asked. "Is he off doing nerd stuff or is he writing in his diary?"

"Fuck no. He's dead asleep." Grif scoffed. "Lucky him. He can pass out while I deal with Sarge's mess." Why was it always him that had to deal with the shitstorms his leader often dragged them into? All he wanted to do was find a quiet place to masturbate, eat, and sleep. Was that really too much to ask for after dealing with the Meta and the Director?

Sarge growled angrily. "This is an outrage! We were going to lend him the full support of Red Team for this operation! The audacity! Who in Sam hell goes around bending perfectly good shotguns!?"

"Reach," Tucker and Grif deadpanned at the same time.

Sarge grumbled under his breath, mourning his destroyed weapon. The old man should consider himself lucky it wasn't his neck being snapped instead. Grif shuddered when he saw just how close to snapping the retired Spartan was. No booze was worth dying that painfully for. Message sent.

What scared the fat soldier the most about the whole ordeal was Reach's calmness. He didn't need to even say anything to remind everyone that he could kill all of them with a pencil. A fucking pencil.

He, like all of them, had heard the story from Jun when he was still onboard their old ship. During one of Reach's operations back during the Covenant War, he had killed three insurrection leaders with a pencil in a bar. Grif doubted it at first, but then Reach had demonstrated how he managed it, using him as a test dummy.

Grif didn't dare to doubt just how lethal he was after that. He liked to think he was smarter than that. In fact, he was probably the smartest one on his team. Not exactly saying much, considering who his competition was, but still. It was a point in his favor and he'd take it any day of the week.

"I gotta ask, but is he doing alright?" Grif asked, looking in the direction Reach had fucked off to. He heard a loud explosion in the distance and winced, feeling sorry for whatever just got blown up out of honest to God sheer irritation. "He's…more on edge than I've ever seen."

"No," Tucker deadpanned. "He's not alright. He's ten seconds away from saying, 'Fuck it' and killing anyone who irritates him, his wife is due any week now, and we're stranded in a fucking jungle instead of enjoying retirement. Oh, and Wash is pushing himself to death because he's an idiot thinking with his dick, hence putting more stress on Reach. Do I really need to go on?"

A second explosion sounded off and Grif sighed. "Do you have any smokes? I need one. Bad."

"Do you have your ID?"

"The fuck are you, a gas station employee? Just answer the fucking question."

"Yes. I have a few cigars," Tucker replied dryly. "What are you offering for them? Gotta give in order to get, man. And they are in high demand."

"Please. Who the fuck else is smoking besides us?" Grif snorted. "Take the flag for all I care. Or the Warthog."

A tire rolled past him slowly and he slumped over. "Never mind."

Reach appeared not even five seconds later, dragging a giant pile of rain tarps behind him. He completely ignored the fact that all three simulation troopers were eyeing him warily, humming a cheerful tune as he scaled the tower and covered it with the tarps he most definitely stole from Red Base. Grif didn't care to call him out on it; he preferred to remain alive and with all his bones intact. Besides, it wasn't his problem to deal with.

Patching a roof was not in his job description, despite whatever Sarge said.

Yet, knowing his shit luck, he'd be ordered to do it anyway.

Reach finished covering the tower up to protect it against the oncoming rainstorm and hopped down from it. "Thank you for your assistance, Tucker. You're free to go."

Tucker was all too happy to hand over the rocket launcher and speed off towards Blue Base. He had the right idea; being as far away from the retired Spartan as humanly possible seemed like a fantastic idea right about now. But he didn't aim the rocket launcher at them, thankfully. Instead it went across his back and he held his BR in one hand, looking down at the unmoving form of Lopez 2.0.

He stayed like that for a good ten seconds, Grif's heartbeat speeding up rapidly and the desire to be anywhere but here increasing. When Reach finally did speak, he seemed more annoyed than actually infuriated. "Why did you idiots feel the need to build another fucking robot? Didn't you learn from the last time that it never works? Ever?"

Sarge began to explain. "During times of war—"

"Rhetorical question." Reach cut him off before he could delve any further into his idiotic reasoning. "As tempted as I am to shoot this damn thing, I'm really not in the mood to deal with you idiots any longer than I have to."

So this was his official warning to not piss him off.

"I get it. Look, I didn't want to be part of this." Grif groaned in despair. "Sarge is the one you should blame. Not me. I just work here."

"Sarge doesn't try and sneak into my liquor cabinet in the small hours of the morning." Reach growled. "I can think of something to keep you busy so you don't get in the way."

"What?" Grif sighed in despair.

"The Warthog needs repairs after it mysteriously suffered two direct hits from a railgun," the retired Spartan said innocently. "I wasn't there, so I can't comment or speculate as to who did it. I just know it was blown up. By a railgun."

Riiiiiiight. Grif's built in Bullshit Meter didn't buy that one for a second. Sarge might have been fooled, but Grif was not dumb enough to believe Reach was innocent in any way, shape, or form. He definitely blew it up.

Still. Grif would rather have to fix a Warthog than face the alternative of dying in horrible ways.

He was all too happy to abandon Sarge to face the fucking music. The orange clad soldier left with a skip in his step and he blissfully ignored the threats his leader was making at him. He was not spending another minute in Reach's crosshairs. Nope. Nada.

This was Sarge's mess and therefore not his problem.

Maine, like South, had heard the two loud explosions off in the direction of Red Base and knew that it was most likely Reach's idea of stress relief so he didn't murder anyone. Both Maine and South looked out towards Red Base on the opposite side and the silver blonde shook her head. "Nope. I'm so not dealing with that one."

Maine grumbled in agreement. Whatever mess it was, it wasn't his problem and he was quite content to keep it that way. Thunder roared in the distance and he growled. Rain. Again.

Good God, did it do anything here besides piss down every fucking day?

Still, could be worse. Rainfall was great if you were in serious lack of sleep and needed help crashing for the next twenty years. Maine could think of one person who needed it more than anyone.

"Maine…? South?" Wash stumbled outside with a loud yawn. "What are you…doing out here?"

Oh no you don't.

Maine stalked over and hefted Wash over his shoulder effortlessly, the smaller man letting out a squawk of surprise. "H-hey! What's the big fucking idea!? Put me down goddammit!"

Maine hissed in irritation and ignored the thumping of his back as Wash struggled to get free. He thundered back into base and threw Wash back onto his bed. He landed with a grunt and when he looked back up to glare at the massive brute, Maine hissed and pointed.

They could deal with the Blues for a bit longer. Wash needed to be comatose for the next week or so to prevent more of his hair from going grey.

Wash didn't need a translator to know that Maine was telling him to go the fuck back to sleep and not wake up until his sanity and logic returned.

"But there's so much to do," Wash argued. "The tower—"

Maine cut him off with a sharp growl.

Wash sighed. "Never mind…" He rolled over and dragged a blanket over him. It didn't take long for him to fall back asleep, showing just how much he needed it. The black-haired Freelancer started to snore and Maine wiped his hands.

His job was done. For now.

A/N: And that does it for this. Reach needs some way to vent and a Warthog just happened to get in his way. Oh well. Collateral damage. Deal with it.

-Kagerou#0007