A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, I do so hope you enjoy it! Full Metal in particular I've noticed has evolved a lot over the course of my stories; which means that his characterisation chops and changes a bit, given this is story two in the overall series, but I think he's certainly got more life to him now.

0230 – Sao Paulo International Airport, C130 Hercules Cargo Hold - Brazil

Bravo time on target: two hours

"Sir?"

Eric blinked at the call. He was sitting near the tail of the plane, fingers digging into the base of his skull to try relieve the pressure in his head that Trent's advil hadn't helped, with Benji's updated intel report on the crate in front of him. He'd been reading it, truly he had, but it was hard to focus on size eleven font when the paper was throbbing in time with his heart, and the last MRE he'd eaten was threatening to make a violent reappearance.

"Commander Blackburn?"

He blinked and looked up, raising an eyebrow at Danny who was pottering around opposite him. "Huh?"

Danny turned, found him watching him, and rolled his eyes. "If my name was Commander Blackburn, my first order of business would be to ground Bravo indefinitely due to their inability to stay out of trouble so I could retire with the same number of grey hairs I started with. But as its not, I can't; therefore, you are a contributing factor to the grey hair brigade that I've unwillingly become a member of, and I blame you entirely."

"You confuse me," he muttered, grimacing as his head protested those three words. Damn it, he really didn't feel so good.

"You're not the first one to say that to me, sir," Danny laughed, a bag in hand as he rounded the crates and made his way over. "What's your problem, and what have you taken?"

"Huh?" If there was an award for eloquence, he'd have won it several times over by now.

"Sir!"

"A second, Davis!" Danny yelled back and oh, that's who was calling him. At least knowing meant he didn't have to work it out for himself just yet. Fingers tipped his chin up, and Eric winced as the overhead lights of the plane decided to fry his eyes sunny side up. "What problem? What drug?" The medic asked again.

"Uh, headache, throbbing eyeballs, nausea. Two advil, but they haven't done much."

"Who?"

"Sawyer."

"M'kay." Danny pinched his hand, but Eric was so close to vomiting that he just watched the skin bunch and stay there with a detached interest. "How long?"

Furrowing his eyebrows hurt. Shrugging was off the cards almost instantly, because his shoulders were apparently linked to his stomach, and lifting them would summon whatever was churning away in there. Squinting wasn't too bad, so that's what he did. "Minor niggle in my head when I woke up, but I wouldn't class it as a headache. I was fine until a few hours ago." He swallowed once. Twice. 'Stay down, food,' he begged silently. 'You can do it!' "Not sure what's changed so quickly."

Danny looked at his watch, his face scrunching as he thought. He looked at Lisa, and sighed heavily. "Damn."

"What?"

He went ignored, the medic wandering off and rummaging around in one of the crates, grabbing a couple items before returning. Eric was feeling that miserable that he didn't protest the bag of saline or the IV that was set down next to him. He did look at the medic very, very sternly for turning him into a patient, though. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

Danny just laughed at him. "That's about as intimidating as Jason when he wants the last pudding cup."

Rude. He was at least as intimidating as Jason when he wanted new toys and command had the balls to try and tell him no.

"Maybe on a good day, buttercup, but not when you're suffering a Dev-ache."

Oh, had he said that out loud? "The fuck is a Dev-ache?" He watched as the needle was slid into his wrist, and the bag of fluid encouraged along. Then the medic stabbed him in the bicep with a syringe, depressing the contents quickly. "Morphine?" he asked hopefully, only to mutter impolite things about the man under his breath when Danny shook his head.

"Given you look like crap, sir, I'll allow that comment to slide," Danny scolded, wagging his finger at his CO, trying and failing to sound peeved but really, he was just amused – he did so like being the bane of people's existence. It was going to be a notable achievement on future resumés. "You're needed coherent, but this'll help take the edge off. And a Dev-ache is a DEVGRU headache," he explained, sticking the saline onto a pole and handing it over.

Eric blinked at the bag that was held out to him, then blinked at the medic. Yeah, no. Moving his arms hurt, thank you very much, and he didn't want to chance throwing up. Sensing his dilemma, Danny sighed and pulled the saline bag off the hook, only to place it on his head because he was an asshole like that. Eric glared at him as much as he dared.

Danny smirked and continued talking, as though his LC donning a saline-hat was a normal occurrence. "According to my predecessor, it's reserved for command when they're overseeing operators and are suddenly struck with headaches or other similar ailments whilst doing so. This is the worst I've seen a Dev-ache for a while, though."

"You okay, sir?" he looked up and found Lisa hovering nearby, wringing the folder in her hands nervously.

"I have a Dev-ache," he informed her sadly because hey – if the medic said that's what he had, then that's what he had. He'd expected questions, confusion; he hadn't expected Davis to grimace. Clearly Lisa knew what it was, because she wouldn't have reacted that way, otherwise.

He spotted the folder in her hands, and flicked a finger at it in question. "What is it?" Two plus two suddenly equaled four, and he groaned. "Do I need to call Harrington?"

"Bravo have missed their scheduled check in with us, sir. We've tried raising them on comms but aren't having any luck. We can see them, and know they're fine, so we think there are jammers active in the area."

Her expression indicated that wasn't all she had to tell him. Don't ask, don't ask... "There's more, isn't there?"

Davis nodded. "We've just heard from our in-country asset; turns out the intel we had wasn't quite accurate. Mandy's trying to find out more, but Bravo are going to face a force far greater than originally believed."

And this was why he shouldn't have asked. Damn his big mouth. Flicking his eyes over to the Ops hold, he could see Mandy on the phone, her free hand tangled in her hair and looking stressed. That was never a good sign.

Shoulders sagging and nausea battled down as much as he could, he held a hand out for the pole Danny was holding – the medic passing it over silently before promptly removing the bag of saline from his head and hanging it up for him. Taking a deep breath, he held out a hand for the sat phone she was carrying. "I'll call Harrington."

0030 – Captain Harrington's Office, Virginia Naval Base – Virginia Beach

Bravo time on target: two hours

The clock in his office clicked over to one am, and Mark groaned lowly, leaning back in his chair as he stared at the ceiling.

Technically, he should have been at home in bed – like any sane man would have been on a Saturday night – and fast asleep. But with the high priority, time sensitive mission Bravo were on, he and the rest of the Brass associated with the op were on duty; ergo, he was stuck in his office.

There was far too much riding on this mission for those in Command to slack off while their Operators tried to rescue a large group of children from a terrorist group's clutches. One wrong move, with too slow a decision made by the powers that be because they were at home, asleep, and not up to date on the situation could end up in catastrophe.

He knew full well that it was only a matter of time before there was news coverage on the story; someone, somewhere, and somehow involved in this debacle would ignore the media blackout on the situation, and they'd have the reporters on their doorstep doing their usual incoherent screech for answers.

They had to make sure they were all over the situation, and therefore the story, before that happened.

When Blackburn had assured him Bravo were on the ground and had finally started their hike - after their landing mishap, because of course there'd been one - he'd gone home for dinner, caught up with his family, grabbed a shower and a change of uniform and headed back to base.

His couch had been converted into a bed where he'd racked out for six hours so he wasn't exhausted when he needed to be alert and coherent, but when he'd woken, he'd had a headache, and it hadn't gone away.

As though it knew it was being thought about, his head gave a small throb in greeting. Mark massaged his temples, wiggled his jaw, rolled his shoulders. All those actions stretched the muscles in his face, but failed to ease the pressure that was steadily building behind his left eye; and it was that, more than anything, that concerned him.

All over headaches were usually a result of general stress, dehydration, or tiredness. Sometimes all three, thank you very much US Navy for the command of a group of Tier One walking disasters, occasionally known as scary men in camouflage. But there were certain other aches that couldn't be attributed to the same issues.

A sore right shoulder, for example, usually meant Alpha were having a "mission-not-going-so-good" day. The start of that warning usually came about when someone - totally not Full Metal - lost his shit about something, somewhere in the world, which then triggered the pain. Like two months ago, he'd known before getting the AAR that something had happened to Full Metal while on an op in Sri Lanka - whacked his funny bone, as it turned out – which resulted in a sudden flare of pain in his right shoulder; which then hung around as a dull ache for the remainder of their mission.

As per the AAR, things had gone downhill pretty quick with the target they'd been there to eliminate; the villagers that were running away in terror from the hostile scattered entirely at Alpha 1's explosive, anger-filled cursing that came at them from the opposite direction.

In Scott's defense, whacked funny bones hurt like a bitch, and Alpha had already stumbled into a shit show on target, so it really wasn't that much of a problem – just an interesting sidenote Hollier had decided to mention, more than anything.

Eh.

The point was that similar symptoms happened for all his teams. A sore left shoulder and he knew Charlie were having problems. A sore right wrist meant it was Delta, whereas the left was Echo. Foxtrot had yet to give him any pains in any of his joints, but he figured it was only a matter of time. Lord help that team if either of his knees started giving him grief.

Bravo's indicator, however... Oh, Bravo were the pain behind his left eye – a pain he suffered more so than any other, much to his annoyance. But last he'd heard, they still had another two hours left of their hike until they reached their target, so he had no idea why a headache was forming behind his left eye now, when they weren't doing anything other than walking. If he was lucky, it was simply because Quinn was giving Jason grief about sharing space with the local wildlife.

Yes, that would be it. Paraguay may be slowly destroying their forests and their native animals so they could farm the shit out of the land, but if there were any native predators to be found, they'd be found near Quinn, and the man would be griping non-stop about it.

His phone rang.

He stared – glared at it, really. There was no way. No way –

"Harrington?" Damn. Why did that have to come out semi-strangled? Was he truly that traumatised by his men -

"Sir," Blackburn greeted dully. Mark closed his eyes. "We've lost comms with Bravo; we suspect there are signal jammers in range of them."

Carefully, so he didn't make a noise, he lay his head on his desk. He'd had a niggle the moment he'd woken, which had only grown as the day went on.

Really, he should have expected this.

0230 – Rio de Janeiro Airport tarmac, Boeing C17 Cargo Hold – Brazil

Bravo time on target: two hours

"My ass is going numb."

Scott sighed heavily, but didn't bother opening his eyes. The longer they stayed closed, the longer he could pretend he was alone and not surrounded by idiots. Thanks to their unplanned diversion to Namibia to evacuate some aid workers, the pilot had informed them they were short of the fuel needed to get home and had diverted to the closest allied airport that could fit a C17 to get more.

So instead of being a few hours out from walking off the plane and getting to his bed, he was stuck in his hammock, waiting for the crew to finish refueling while listening to the idiots he'd somehow been saddled with talk incessantly.

And now one of them decided to come bother him. Great. "Congratulations."

"We've been on this plane for ages, though. Long flights on shitty seats should be against the Geneva Convention, or something, don't you think? I think it should be."

He cracked an eye open and glared at Jacob who was on the jump seat opposite him. "I will drop kick you outta this plane the moment we're airborne, so help me," he warned, emotions kept tightly under lock and key so the fucker didn't win the bet he knew was currently running amongst the rest of Alpha. Scott Carter a laugher? Pfft, bitch please. Laughing was not a word in his dictionary unless someone – Quinn – was the butt end of the joke. Then he let rip.

His 3IC pouted and wandered off. Scott mentally pat himself on the shoulder and closed his eyes again, only to groan and insult someone's mother – not his because he respected her too much – when a whistle ripped through the hold. Ugh. Now what?

"Sorry lads, change of plans!" Drake, their soon-to-be retired LC yelled far too cheerfully for – Scott looked at his watch; 0030 VaBeach time. Fuck. "Hope you've got all your boosters up to date; we're off to Paraguay."

"What the fuck is in Paraguay?" Alex asked, perplexed. Unlike the rest of the idiots on their team, the medic was actually considerate of his team leader's dwindling patience as he'd been curled up in a corner, reading. His finger was now wedged between the pages to save his spot, and he looked decidedly unimpressed by the interruption.

"Not my ex-wife, unfortunately," Jacob muttered sadly. Heh, he could sympathise – what Jacob had seen in that woman, he had no idea. Their team was better off without that witch's dramas thrown into the mix.

Richie and Lochy patted Jacob on the shoulder in commiseration.

Scott rolled his eyes at them all, and settled back into his hammock, thinking. He could've sworn he'd heard that hell hole mentioned recently. He just couldn't think why.

"Bravo -"

"ARGH!" he roared, throwing the empty beer can he'd earlier tucked against his side across the hold and hitting Tom in the head when he was too slow to duck. The fact his rookie was facing the other way was irrelevant, and he ignored the man's grumblings about unexpected projectiles in what was supposed to be a safe space.

He knew he'd heard Paraguay mentioned recently! No one in their right mind would be talking about it, otherwise! Jason and his lot were there. Why were they being called in? WHY?!

Wait – Paraguay. Forest. Snakes… Jaguars! Or was it panthers? Whatever. There was some kind of fucking cat in those jungles, which meant only. One. Thing. "Fucking Quinn and his fucking phobias of every fucking thing that he can't fucking pronounce the fucking name of, and I swear to fucking god I'm going to fucking strangle him if it's because he got bitten by a fucking piranha! It'd fucking serve him right for being such a little bitch -"

"Wow," Lochy whistled, standing with the rest of the team and watching Alpha 1 blow up in his hammock, throwing whatever was in reach as he ranted, thoroughly impressed. "I think Metal just used his word allocation for the month."

"Try a year," Richie muttered, ducking the tennis ball he'd been looking for an hour ago as it went flying. Ruby yipped happily and chased after it.

" – how can they notfuckinggo anywhere without needing a goddamn, motherfucking bail out?!"

Drake looked at his watch, and tsked. "New plan. Briefing in twenty so he can get this out of his system."

"Twenty?" Alex asked, smirking at Jacob when his brother snorted a laugh. "You only gave him fifteen when he whacked his arm in Sri Lanka."

"Yeah, and he proceeded to bitch for another four after that and didn't let me get a word in edgewise until he was done," Drake retorted, spinning on his heel and heading back to the Ops team. "Today he gets nineteen for ranting, and one to get outta his hammock. Any longer and I'm making him Quinn's babysitter."

Alpha's 2 through 6 shrugged in unison. Ruby woofed quietly; ball clamped between her teeth. There was no arguing with that logic.

Nineteen expletive-filled minutes later, by which point they'd taken off again, Alpha were gathered around the computers so they could review Bravo's target package. Scott looked the same as ever; there wasn't even a tinge of red to his cheeks to show that he had spent his allocated time slot cussing Sonny out – now he was sporting his usual 'mildly bored' expression.

The change in his appearance was off-putting, to say the least.

"Give it me straight, Doc," Alex said, smirking at Drake who looked at him, deadpan. "Am I going to die?"

"While it would be a mild inconvenience to this op, your choices are your own," Drake drawled, rolling his eyes at the laughter from five of his team. Scott what-even-is-laughter Carter just smacked the medic upside the head.

"Repeated blows to the head can result in brain injuries, you know," Alex grumbled, rubbing the now stinging spot.

Scott just looked at him. "That only matters if you don't have one yet."

"Rude."

"In ninety minutes, Bravo will be arriving on target," Drake cut in, nodding when he successfully regained control of his team. Despite the fact they repeatedly did their best to make his life difficult, he enjoyed working with Alpha and would miss them when he retired. Of course, on the flip side of that statement - as much as he enjoyed working with them, he liked his sanity more, so he was more than happy to dump them on Blackburn's lap when this was over. "Their ops team reported they lost comms with them thirty minutes ago, but as they can see them on ISR, and they're still heading towards their target, it's believed they're in range of jammers."

"So? What's the problem?" Lochy asked, tapping the map laid out before them. "Comms are helpful, but they're not the make or break of a mission. Based on what you've told us, a stealth op should be a piece of cake even if they're running blind."

Drake nodded. He'd thought the same when Harrington had called. "The CIA have an asset in-country whose been doing some digging since they got wind of the kidnapping." With a click he expanded the view of the camp Bravo were going to hit. Another click expanded the border until it was ten times the size the intel had initially said.

"Turns out the Heze's control a much larger area than first believed. The Paraguayan Government is shitting bricks over this fact as we speak, and the asset is hearing chatter about them blowing the whole place sky high." Several of his team swore vehemently. The new intel would certainly complicate things, and that wasn't even the worst of it.

"For the most part, the Paraguayan's have lost control of some of their more rural areas, which is how Hezbollah have been able to amass such a size, practically undetected. Which also means if their cover is blown, Bravo are going to be overrun. With sixty-odd HVT's on the line…"

"It'll be a bloodbath," Tom finished, running a hand down his face. "Shit."

"What's the plan?" Alex asked. "HAHOing in is off the table."

He nodded. "Even if you had your 'chutes, by the time we get there sunrise will be fast approaching so an air drop is outta the question. We'll be on the ground about half an hour before Bravo makes entry, and we're going to land here," he pointed at the Guarani International Airport on the map. "This is Bravo's rally point. It's three hours by bus, but as we've got the rovers and access to fuel, you'll get there in about half that time. From there, it's just a matter of dragging everyone out. Hopefully all in one piece."

"Piece of cake," Metal said. "We got enough ammo?"

"Plenty. You didn't use much in Ethiopia, so load up. Explosives too. If the chatter is to be believed, I don't think there'll be too many tears if you cause a bit of property damage."

"This is why I'm going to miss you," Jacob said, his grin shark-like. "You let me make things go boom."

"I'm sure Blackburn won't put a stop to your demolition and pyromaniac tendencies when you're with him," Drake assured, only to sigh when several of Alpha looked at him dubiously. "Fiiiiine. I'll talk to him."

"Gun fights, explosions, rescuing the Bramsels in distress… Sounds like we're about to have a party in the Par. ," Tom said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. When Richie frowned at him, he nudged him. "Geddit? Par. ?"

"I get it," Richie groaned, shoving his teammate away with a hand to the face. "The fact you managed to turn this into a Miley Cyrus song disgusts me."

"The fact you know it's a Miley Cyrus song intrigues me," Tom countered, elbowing his brother. "How'd you know that, Richie? Hm? Hmmmm?"

"If the pair of you say another word, I'm gunna crack your skulls together," Scott warned, fingers flexing. "Knock it off."

"You gunna come in like a wrecking ball, Metal?"

Scott gave Alpha 6 the stink eye. "Keep that up, and you'll be the first one I shoot."

"That's a bit of a climb," Tom bravely declared, only to back away quickly at the look he was given.

"Alright that's it. Whose armed?" Scott asked, pushing away from the crate and looking around. "Lochy, you packing? Knife is fine if that's the only option."

"Uh -"

"Actually, don't worry, I have one in my hammock. Now, someone write this down for the AAR: at whatever time zone hours we're in, Tom O'Neill gave his life in the line of duty." Scott fell silent, but continued rifling through his bag when his hammock left him empty-handed. It took a few seconds of awkward silence before they realised that was all he was going to say.

"Are you serious?!" Tom screeched, outraged, popping up from behind the crates he'd taken refuge behind. "That's all you're gunna say about me?!"

"Well I could add you're a Miley Cyrus fangirl, but I'd rather gouge my eyes out with my fingers then ask for that to be written. Someone else can do it."

"You scare me sometimes," Tom shuddered. "Besides, you ranted for a full nineteen minutes about Quinn and his phobias, and all you can give me is 'he gave his life in the line of duty'?! Man, what kind of bullshit is this?!"

His snarl-smirk was set to full power and turned upon the teammate that he was going to stab once he found his knife. "And your point is?"

"Smile!" Richie suddenly shrieked, hand flapping wildly. Catching wind of her handler's excitement, Ruby yipped and pranced around; Jacob stumbling and windmilling his arms wildly when he tried to get out of the way of the excited German Shepherd, and nearly fell over. "That's a smile! Pay up, bitches!"

Ruby barked in agreement.

"Nu-uh! Fuck off, it wasn't even you that got it!" Alex countered, shoving the handler out of the way when he got in his face. "If anyone gets that, it's Tom. But he cheated by spouting Miley fucking Cyrus titles, so it's void."

Drake shook his head and massaged his temples tiredly. Retirement had truly never looked as good as it did right now. Sadly, he was still in charge which meant he had to regain control of his unruly operators long enough to throw them off the plane in one piece. "I suggest you guys get organised," he said, rapping his knuckles against the table to get their attention. He didn't, but that wasn't surprising. "Maybe get some shut eye too, if you can manage it. You'll be gone a while."

There. Job done.

Ninety minutes later when Alpha were walking down the ramp, packed to the gills with weapons towards the refueled rovers, Drake was able to breathe a sigh of relief that his team were finally out of his hair.

"Boss, we're going out!" Metal yelled, punching the air like he was at a rock concert, not bothering to look back. "If we don't come back, avenge our deaths!"

"Alright!" He yelled back, because what else was he supposed to say? Do I have to? You're on your own? It was nice knowing you all? "Have fun!"

Ignoring the roars of laughter, he turned around and wandered deeper into the hold. He needed a coffee and a bottle of advil for the Dev-ache he could feel coming on.

"What's our ETA?"

"Another hour to go, I reckon. You wanna go NODs?"

Scott nodded and started slowing so he could pull over. "This whole place is exposed for miles, going stealth means we stay hidden for longer. Besides, we'll see anyone coming well before they get close so we'll be able to adjust before they get to us."

Richie nodded and activated his radio to relay the order, Lochy acknowledging quickly and slowing down as well. Both cars rolled to a stop, and Scott killed the lights to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

As they were waiting, the radio crackled to life. If it was Tom demanding to know how he'd known who Miley Cyrus was again, the little prick would be walking home.

"Alpha 1; Havoc Base."

He frowned, and saw Richie was doing the same. It wasn't Drake trying to raise them, but Blackburn. He thumbed his radio on. "1 receiving, go ahead."

"Maybe Drake handed control over?" Alex mused from the back seat, hand idly stroking Ruby who was sprawled next to him. "Figured it'd be easier with just one person in charge?"

"He wouldn't have done that without telling us," Richie disagreed, frowning heavily at the sudden change. Scott couldn't blame him; a change in command was never a good sign. "You know that. We -"

"All Alpha elements be advised, updated sitrep as follows: Bravo are no longer operating under stealth conditions; their cover has been blown. They're currently engaged with the enemy, and are facing a force that appears to be five times the expected size."

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose, noting off-handedly that his night vision had kicked in. He slid on his NODS and put the rover into gear. "Any sign of the kids?"

"Negative," Blackburn replied. "However, they were spending more time at the last few buildings they cleared than the first ones, so we believe they may have made contact."

"That's something, at least," Richie muttered.

"It gets worse."

Richie grunted. "Pardon my big mouth."

"Local government have decided they're going to make a concerted effort to eradicate Hezbollah influence from the area." That was Mandy that time, Bravo's – and soon to be Alpha's – permanent spook.

He had a bad feeling about just what she was implying. He pulled out onto the road, running dark, and gunned it – Lochy right behind him. "Which means?"

"At 0730 hours, Paraguayan military aircraft are going to bomb that entire area, regardless of whether or not we're clear. Either you're all out, or they'll declare that we were operating illegally in their country, and had no knowledge of our reasons for being there."

"And our 'reasons' would be really bad timing to their operations, terribly sorry, have a nice day," Tom spat. "Fuckers."

"Copy all, Havoc," he replied, kicking the rover up a gear. "We'll be on target in thirty mikes. Out."

"Thirty minutes?" Richie echoed dubiously. "How the hell are we going to cut our travel time in half?"

"It's called straight roads and zero traffic laws, dipshit."

"I'm with you," Lochy said over comms, and he nodded. His 2IC knew exactly what he'd be thinking – he was reliable like that.

"Fuck me," Richie groaned, making a show on putting on his seat belt. "Thirty minutes it is."