Above Ground Chapter 3, a red vs. blue fanfic

Legal Disclaimer: I do not own Red vs. Blue or any of the show's characters…they are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Chapter Three:

The gun clicked, signifying that the ammo clip for it was already spent. Just as he reached out to pick up another one a loud siren blared throughout the practice hall.

Training was done for today, it seemed.

Richard "Dick" Simmons sighed and looked over at the holographic target he had been aiming for on the other side of the room.

On the blue figure there were five red marks that illustrated where he had landed hits. He noticed two hits in the head and neck, which were the only two spots that could be considered "fatal." Two others would certainly incapacitate a target as they were at the left knee and right elbow specifically. The last one was a side wound that would only probably constitute as a "knick."

…And he'd fired at least twenty rounds that time.

As far as he was concerned, that was a huge failure. After all, even if it had been only three months since he had been transferred out of training from the military academy how many countless hours since had he been down here, working to improve his aim? He could almost picture his father's disappointment when he read his progress reports. His father was a pretty high-ranking officer in the military and all of them had access to the lower-ranking soldier training records for surveillance purposes.

He took in a deep breath, grateful at least that he wasn't in a bathroom when that thought had occurred to him like the last time: people tended to look at guys who punched mirrors while sobbing a little strangely, and getting discharged for something like that would certainly not make his dad say anything to him but "I told you so." before slamming the door in his face and locking it.

There was clapping coming from behind him and he turned around to see who it was this time being a sarcastic prick about his shooting ability only to pause at the sight of a friendly-looking smile coming from a young man clad in purple.

"You stayed late, huh?" Frank DuFresne was probably the closest person he had to a friend here, so he knew he hadn't been trying to make fun of him with the gesture. If anything, the bespectacled twenty-year-old's tendency to try to please everyone could be annoying though Simmons supposed there could be worse flaws for a person to have…like debilitating self-confidence and anxiety issues, for starters.

Simmons shrugged dismissively, motioning to his handiwork (or lack thereof, in his opinion), on the holographic target, "Yeah, for all the good it did."

"Oh, come on now! You shouldn't be so hard on yourself!" he had a sort of self-deprecating smile on his face, "I mean, you've improved a lot! I couldn't even hit the target."

Simmons gave the brown-haired man who had given himself the nickname of "Doc" when they'd first met a blank look, "…That's because you actively refuse to fire a gun."

"…Exactly! I'm a pacifist, so firearms really aren't my thing."

"You do know you're in the military, right?" Simmons had lost track of how many times he had asked his new friend that same exact question over the past couple of months.

"Only because it's the law to go into training and it would be rude not to keep at it now for the people processing my files." Doc smiled patiently, "But I still have the right to remain a conscientious objector!"

He wasn't even going to attempt to wrap his brain around that logic.

Instead, Simmons sighed seeing as how he knew exactly how many regulations Doc broke on a regular basis since he had pretty much memorized all standard and non-standard military protocols before being stationed here. But whenever he tried pointing that out, Doc would smile ingratiatingly and try to counter the argument with his own decidedly strange viewpoints.

…He supposed Doc was just insanely lucky that the commanding officer in charge of instructing them once they'd gone through basic had his own eccentric quirks and was a lot more laissez-faire in how he dealt with the soldiers under his command than someone else might be. Otherwise, he would have been court-martialed for insubordination or even possibly deported to The Slums like some criminals were long ago.

"Ah, Simmons, back at it, I see."

Speaking of their C.O., Simmons and Doc both started at his voice coming from directly behind them.

Shit! How the fuck does he always manage to do that?

At first glance, the older man dressed in blue regarding them both with a bemused expression didn't seem to be the type of person most would give a second thought to. He certainly didn't carry himself like any soldier Simmons had seen before with his relaxed posture and peaceful, friendly demeanor. He was truly the exact opposite of his father in his mannerisms, which, while something he was grateful for in a way given their strained relationship, somehow made Simmons unsure of how to deal with him at times.

…But Captain Butch Flowers moved as silently and without detection as only the best stealth operatives and infiltration specialists were capable of. He'd lost track of how many times he had turned around in an empty corridor only to be greeted by Captain Flowers' friendly voice and a quick handshake. One of the only things Simmons found rather odd about his C.O. was his need to be approachable to his men. On one hand, he appreciated it a lot, but on the other- well, it could probably be misconstrued by several army regulations.

If Flowers noticed the surprise his sudden appearance caused the two young men, he didn't acknowledge it. Instead, a calm smile etched its way onto his face as he waited for Simmons to respond to his initial comment.

Realizing this and feeling doubly mortified at making the captain wait as well as at realizing Flowers had more than likely seen his shooting earlier, he stammered out, "Y—yes, sir!"

Flowers chuckled, looking at the marks on the target, "You're improving."

"Er…" Simmons' face blanched, appreciating the compliment but knowing it wasn't deserved, "I…fired twenty rounds, sir."

The captain walked over to the three dimensional image, studying it carefully.

At length, he said, "I was looking at the program logs earlier. This is only your fourth attempt at the high-speed routines, correct?"

Simmons nodded. He'd been a miserable failure at stationary target practice when he was training at the academy, so he had spent untold amounts of time there practicing in his off-hours. Eventually, he had improved enough that he had been trying his hand at the moving target simulations, but only recently feeling borderline confident enough to attempt the higher speed routines that were more designed to closely resemble situations one might find on the field.

"Hitting the enemy that much will certainly ruin their day, don't you think?" Flowers asked, "…Even if it takes you fifteen shots to get there, so long as they don't hit you beforehand there's no problem. You'll be ducking and taking cover in real battles, so missing shots is inevitable."

"Um…"

"Though conserving ammunition should be a priority as well out in the field, so it's best to use the programs here to figure out how to do just that before getting stuck in a situation where ammo will be limited." Their C.O. nodded towards the hologram, "But, you're on the right track in regards to that already."

Simmons looked at the hologram as well, then back at Flowers quizzically, "I'm…afraid I don't follow, sir."

All he saw when he looked at the damn thing were all of the reminders of the mistakes he was still making.

Flowers smiled patiently, an eyebrow raised in mild amusement at his subordinate officer's confusion, "Your first fifteen shots missed, yes, but your last five didn't." he looked pointedly at the four serious 'wounds' again, "And your last four were clean hits that would have taken a real human out of a fight completely."

Simmons blinked, staring at the hologram again. He hadn't even noticed that when he had been shooting, but his commanding officer was completely right about what had happened now that he did think back on it. All of his final rounds were the ones that had made contact.

Their captain saw the surprised understanding flickering across Simmons' face and clapped him on the shoulder in a warm gesture that was almost fatherly. The young man had to work quickly to school his face into a professional expression to avoid grinning like an idiot or tearing up like an even more pathetic idiot at the contact.

…He really did have to work on how emotional he tended to get over any sort of positive interaction with male authority figures in his life. If he thought about it too much, it was downright embarrassing.

"Always focus on your improvements, Simmons, and dwell less on your failures. It's a much more effective way to motivate yourself to keep trying." Flowers told him, apparently not noticing Simmons' reaction to his earlier action. Or, more likely, he did but chose to be polite and not address it in order to save the younger man from being further mortified.

"Y—yes, sir!" Simmons heard his voice catch and hated himself a little more, but enthusiastically saluted his superior anyways.

Flowers chuckled in response, "At ease, soldier. I'm not here in my capacity as your commanding officer."

"Y—you're not?"

Well, he should have figured that out sooner: now that he was really looking at the older man closely, Simmons noticed he was dressed in the darker blue combat outfit that he seldom wore when giving the younger recruits under his command guidance. Usually he wore a different set of aqua-colored armor when serving as their C.O. for some reason.

It was Flowers' uniform of sorts for his other military duties. Though, to be honest, Simmons wasn't entirely sure of what those were exactly. He didn't feel it was in his right to pry for personal information from those higher ranked than himself and Flowers never seemed inclined to elaborate on his other duties either. Though Simmons wouldn't say he was evasive or secretive about them, just not very forthcoming about whatever those duties really entailed.

It made sense, in a way: with Simmons' less-than-stellar test scores (not that he wasn't more than capable or intelligent when it came to scholarly pursuits: he was just never able to do his absolute best on subjects when there was a lot of pressure and heavy stakes involved due to his nerves generally just getting in his own way) and Doc's own as well, they probably weren't top-priority soldiers for quick advancement. It was only natural, therefore, that the soldier assigned to command them also had other duties.

…He could understand The Council's assessment in theory at least, though he was desperate to prove them wrong all the same. Which, unfortunately, often led to cases of him getting too much into his own head and messing things up even further: it was a never-ending cycle that often lead to frustration.

"Oh, are you here for training of your own, sir?" Doc, however, in his bid to be friendly and cordial to everyone, seemed to have no problems overstepping bounds in terms of rank. A trait that was definitely going to get him into trouble one of these days.

"You betcha." But, fortunately for Doc, Flowers was laidback about that sort of thing, "I'm going to be going on a mission soon, so I figured I should warm-up first."

Just then, it occurred to Simmons that he had never actually seen Captain Butch Flowers so much as fire a weapon before. In a way, Simmons was rather curious about his skills: he always seemed quite knowledgeable on the subject when instructing them or offering advice, but the young man knew from personal experience that sometimes innate knowledge didn't translate over to ability. He knew more about the mechanics of guns and the physics behind firing them than most of the soldiers around his age did because he had studied them so hard, but he was still just barely improving when it came to his actual shooting ability, after all.

Before he could work up the nerve to request permission to stay and observe in order to lessen his curiosity, Flowers spoke up again, "So, for the next few days you'll be on your own. Train hard, but don't forget to take it easy sometimes." He gave Simmons special notice, "I know a certain soldier here hasn't left base yet even though he has leave to do so."

"Um…" he couldn't really deny the comment and his face flushed in embarrassment. Where would he go, though? He knew no one really close enough to stop by for a friendly visit within the city and he shopped online for most things anyways.

…He could visit his mother, he supposed, since she had mentioned in her last message not feeling very well. It wasn't like he would have to worry that much about seeing his dad there: even if he wasn't away on business, the man had no time for his family-it had always been like that whenever Simmons or his mom were feeling under the weather.

One time, when Simmons had been five or so and had broken his arm after accidentally falling down the stairs it had taken the senior Richard Simmons a full week to notice his cast and his only comment upon noticing was that it wouldn't have happened if the boy had had better balance.

"Take a nice, relaxing walk outside if nothing else." His superior advised, thankfully pushing Simmons past his embarrassment and his not-very-pleasant trip down memory lane, "It does wonders for stress management."

"That's true!" Doc chimed in helpfully, "I know a great spot just outside the base that's amazing for yoga."

"Now that sounds lovely." Flowers nodded approvingly at Doc's suggestion, "I might have to try that out with you sometime, DuFresne." He looked as if he'd come up with a brilliant idea just then, "Or we could all go together. It would be a team-building exercise."

"Sounds fun!"

"Um…" Simmons inwardly sighed, having almost forgotten about Captain Flowers' leading quirks sometimes, "I'm…not sure regulations would allow that, sir."

Flowers sighed in slight disappointment, "You're right, of course. The chain of command can be quite strict with that sort of thing, unfortunately." He smiled, "Thank you for reminding me before I got too carried away again, Simmons."

"Of course, sir." He wasn't sure why, but he felt he'd somehow managed to dodge a bullet there.

…Maybe it was because he had seen the shorts Doc liked wearing for yoga and it already didn't leave much to the imagination even without having actually seen Doc wearing them.

"And, DuFresne," Flowers turned to his other subordinate, "When I get back I'd like to talk to you about possibly applying for the medic program."

Doc seemed surprised at the statement, though he smiled sheepishly in response to it and nodded his head in understanding.

"Your alternative field medicine approaches aren't perhaps ideal…" No doubt he was referring to the time when Doc had tried dressing a gunshot wound in the simulation runs with a glass of orange juice and a rubber ducky (of all things), "But your general outlook might be better suited to that line of work than soldiering and we could always use more field medics who try to do their jobs well, if nothing else."

Ah, so Flowers had been trying to come up with a creative solution to Doc's professed pacifism. Simmons was impressed: any other C.O. would have probably punished Doc for insubordination by this point, but Flowers had decided to take a different approach.

In a way, he was glad: Doc could try his patience sometimes, but he was by far the friendliest soldier Simmons had encountered here. Most of the other recruits in their rank ignored him. Or, worse yet, seemed to pick up on his anxiety and confidence issues and teased him mercilessly- Doc was more understanding about them given his own eccentricities and how often his own views got him made fun of by others. Even though medic training would take Doc out of the unit entirely, it was probably the best fit for a self-proclaimed 'conscientious objector' in the military and he wouldn't have to worry about him getting into trouble anymore. Plus, at the very least they could still exchange messages.

"…I'll discuss it more with you when I get back." Flowers told him.

Doc nodded, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir! This will be just like the time when I applied for medical school right after academy training was up and got rejected!"

Flowers looked bemused, "Well, hopefully it will turn out differently."

"You bet! This time I won't post my academy transcripts."

Simmons had to bite down on his lip to keep from saying that he'd still have to do that, not wanting to rain on his friend's parade with his tendency to be an "insufferable know-it-all" as some of the other soldiers liked to refer to him.

Just then the double-doors to the training room opened and a man in white battle armor that Simmons had seen around the base but never spoken to walked in. He regarded the three of them for a moment before completely ignoring the two lower-ranked soldiers and placing his attention entirely on their commanding officer.

"Ah, there you are, chap!" he greeted in an accent Simmons recognized as an old Earth one called 'British' that was pretty rare to hear at all anymore, "Deciding to start early, are we? That's the spirit!"

Flowers dismissed his subordinates with a nod of his head and a warm smile, the two young men taking their cue and quickly departing from the training zone.

Simmons glanced over his shoulder once out of curiosity as he left, remembering his earlier failed intention of asking Flowers if he could observe his training for a moment.

To his surprise, the man in blue didn't pick up one of the assorted firearms in the practice hall. Instead, he grasped one of the utilitarian combat knives.

With a seemingly simple flick of the wrist and without so much as even glancing at his intended target as his attention focused entirely it seemed on conversing with the mustached man who had addressed him earlier, the knife flew through the air in a silver blur.

…Its blade was neatly embedded up to the hilt right between the eyes of the hologram that had been charging the two men seconds before from the other side of the hall just as the doors closed behind the surprised young soldier.

There were many bases throughout Above Ground: the military being one of the first things the original Council had prioritized establishing when people were relocated from the underground mining colony later referred to as The Slums to the surface.

The earlier bases had been built around what had at the time been the outskirts of the new settlement, though now they were more or less just smack in the middle of the city thanks to population and development growth with the large, constantly being upgraded and built upon Administration Center where The Council and other higher-ups in the Above Ground government conducted business being located in the very center of it all, easily towering over any of the other buildings in the city. They were easy enough to discern from their older architectural designs, no matter what attempts were done to keep them updated as well as by their smaller sizes in general compared to the much larger, multi-tiered bases that had been built in the generations since Above Ground had been established.

Simmons had originally assumed that, after the military academy, he would have been assigned to one of the smaller, earlier bases as that was usually the established norm for green recruits.

To his surprise, he and Doc had been handpicked by Captain Butch Flowers for whatever reason he still couldn't fathom. Even if he knew he could do more than that, his test scores had been abysmal at best and from what Doc had said, his weren't any better: so why anyone would select them personally was a total mystery. Which meant that they had been transferred to the most recent and one of the most high-tech military bases instead since Flowers was assigned there.

…It was known as the Mother of Invention (odd name for a base, he personally thought) and it was fucking huge: nearly competing with the Administration Center in terms of height and width.

Evidently, similarly to the Administration Center and a few other prominent buildings in Above Ground, it had been constructed from the hollowed-out remnants of one of the original colony ships that had been abandoned when the first settlers moved underground. He supposed it could be true given the sheer size of the building: those colony ship specs were quite impressive in the records given how they were made to carry pretty much everything needed for permanent settlement along with a shitload of people, though little if anything spaceship-like remained visible in the base itself. It simply appeared to be your standard state-of-the-art building at first glance.

…With soldiers routinely on patrol on the grounds, tanks and other military vehicles parked in front of large hangars- and it was made out of a highly-resistant shielding material in the off-chance that someone might actually be stupid enough (or suicidal enough) to try attacking.

Hell, the area around the base was more akin to being its own highly efficient small city. It wasn't really surprising that Simmons didn't feel the need to leave the grounds much when he had free time.

Besides, walking around the city made him oddly self-conscious about his social awkwardness and not having a ton of friends didn't help, so it kind of bummed him out instead of helping him unwind.

It didn't help that whenever he walked the clean, orderly streets where everyone always had plenty of personal space and room to get to their destinations and got lost in the incessant chatter of others floating through his ears as they ignored him- with the pale yellow sunlight of this world beating down on him or the shade from clouds overhead, he somehow always, always managed to stop walking in front of one of the thick, forbidden-looking metal doors with computer screens flashing red warning signs to move along that signified one of the sealed-off elevator shafts to The Slums.

He'd always stare at the door for several seconds, fingers twitching at the possibility of just prodding the security terminal coding before an officer would ask him if he needed anything and he'd hurry along his way.

…Simmons had lost count of the times that had occurred, truthfully.

At first, he'd understood the desire. Admittedly, Simmons had left there without a proper goodbye to someone he had grown oddly attached to in a short amount of time when he had been most desperate for any kind of friendship or contact. It was of his own volition, of course: he'd been all too terrified of ruining not only his friendship with Grif, but what had always been his plans for the future so he'd felt it was a necessary choice even if he sometimes still kicked himself over it. It was only natural to have lingering feelings of doubt and guilt over it.

…But going on two years? It unnerved Simmons that he still held so much regret over his choice.

Even if he probably had felt more alive and free in that excursion than he had in his entire life, and it was quite sad to unfortunately admit to himself how true that probably was, it still seemed ridiculously pathetic to him.

When he did that sort of thing, Simmons could almost picture his father looking down on him disappointed...and Grif laughing in amusement before making a joke about how he needed to lighten up more.

He honestly wasn't sure which of those images upset him more, so he started trying to avoid going into the city altogether. It was the most logical response he could think of to a decidedly very illogical situation.

The training hall that they had been in was located in one of the subbasements, so they rode the main elevator to ground floor level with Simmons mostly tuning out Doc's inane chatter about New Age medicine and the culinary wonders of banana nut bread as they went.

It wasn't until the elevator doors chimed open and they stepped out into the well-lit, but sparsely decorated ground floor with its clear sheet of windows (deceptively weak-looking, but not even a barrage of bullet fire or a rocket could break the thick panes of the translucent shielding the windows had in lieu of glass) that Doc said something that caused him to key into the conversation again.

"…Although, Captain Flowers might be right about the benefits of taking some time away from the base, Simmons." His friend looked at him in concern, "You work yourself way too hard. Have you ever gone on vacation before?"

Simmons huffed, at first wanting to reply that for his productivity it was best that he keep with routine if he could and, that to him, working in general actually was fun…but he didn't want to offend Doc's more sensitive nature. Although, given what some people said about the bespectacled soldier to his face at times it seemed nearly impossible to do. Simmons envied the other young soldier's self-esteem, but he also felt the urge to defend himself from the viewpoint that he couldn't ever relax. Okay, well, that was mostly true because he was overly high-strung and he knew it, but that didn't mean he wanted people to think it about him all the same since that could lead to future taunting.

So, instead, he said simply, "Once. Two years ago."

Doc whistled, "…That's a pretty long time, Simmons." And, when he put the timeframe together in his head, "You mean before you had to go to the academy?"

He nodded briefly. When it seemed like Doc was waiting for him to elaborate he added, "I…don't really want to talk about it."

An understanding look crossed over his teammate's features, "That bad, huh?"

"Actually…no." he couldn't help the nostalgic smile that spread upon his face, "It was really great."

Doc tilted his head and regarded Simmons with a confused look in his eyes, "So, why do you not want to talk about it, then?"

The other soldier shifted uncomfortably under his regard, his eyes darting to some other soldiers heading towards the elevator. With Doc it was probably okay to talk about what had happened, but someone else happening to overhear it…

His face paled at the dawning realization beginning to creep up onto his friend's face.

"Don't tell me you went—"

Without thinking, he pushed his gloved hand over Doc's mouth, green eyes taking in the two female soldiers moving past them to the elevator.

"Why, yes, Doc, it was a surprise!" he rambled in a high-pitched squeal, his brain trying to come up with something to say to divert attention from Doc's failed inquiry, "How'd you guess I found the…er, ice machine?"

Simmons so wanted to shoot himself. He really did.

The two women looked at both men strangely before the door to the elevator shut, probably trying to figure out what he'd been blabbing on about so hysterically.

Simmons sighed as they disappeared from view, rather disappointed that his skills talking around women were still as woefully lacking as they had always been.

Slowly, he removed his hand from Doc's mouth, "That isn't something you should say out loud, Doc." He advised.

Doc nodded, apparently now remembering where they were, "Sorry." He looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and awe, "But…it's true?"

They moved over to the side of the building with the windows and Simmons nodded. He looked at Doc skeptically, "Don't believe me?"

He shook his head emphatically, "Of course I do, you wouldn't lie about something like that."

Simmons was touched by the brown-haired soldier's acceptance of what he'd just said and he was rather relieved that he wasn't challenged in any way to prove it too.

"So, what's it like down there?" his tone was conversationally light as if he were talking about anything under the sun, but there was a curious spark in Doc's brown eyes.

Simmons raised an eyebrow incredulously, "You mean you want to know if it's as bad as everyone says it is?"

Doc looked absolutely offended at the accusation, "Of course not! I mean, I know it's probably not great or anything, but I always believed the media and government portrayals of everybody living down there were way too harsh to be accurate." He frowned, "And quite mean too! It's easy enough to stereotype like that when most don't know enough to refute it."

Sometimes, Doc's sensitive and overly politically correct way of thinking did hold some moments of logic. He was grateful now was one of those times.

He relaxed somewhat, thinking back on his impromptu vacation. Well, it was probably more like he was "fleeing down there" because he wanted to prove he could and he really hadn't wanted to be around his dad on one of the rare instances when the senior Simmons had been forced to take leave from his work- but who was being picky?

"It isn't…anything like how it's described here." He admitted, "I mean, it's crowded as all fuck and there's different views on things…but, most of the people are pretty nice in their own ways." His face tinged pink slightly at memories that still came way too quickly to him after all this time, "I even…made a few friends."

It was the first time he'd ever said anything about his time in The Slums to someone else. He supposed it was because at least Doc was a pretty neutral listener compared to others in his life. He was pretty sure his mom was still in denial over the whole thing, despite the note he'd left her: she'd always been a bit more gullible when it came to news reports. Beyond not caring much in the first place about what his son did, his father never tolerated anything that went against military protocol and the situation in The Slums was always a trigger subject in that regard.

"That's pretty nice." Doc smiled slightly, "Do you keep in touch?"

Simmons gave him a blank look, not sure if he should even try to dignify that with an answer.

…He wish he could have kept in touch, truthfully. But that was entirely beside the point.

Doc thought about his question for a few seconds and realization struck him as to why Simmons was not responding. His smiled turned sheepish, his own cheeks reddening, "Right! Sorry! I forgot that it's not like that's an area you can communicate with easily."

"It's okay. I…sort of knew that when I went down there in the first place."

Doc looked slightly sympathetic again, perhaps Simmons' voice had caught on some unknown pitch to illicit the reaction, but then he quickly regarded his friend somewhat in awe, "Still, I'm impressed! Going down there by yourself and not to 'slum,'" he used the term disparagingly, and it made sense to Simmons why someone like Doc would dislike the concept (also, it made him feel somewhat touched that Doc apparently thought enough of his character that he didn't even pertain the idea that Simmons could have just gone down there to harass Slum residents like other kids do), "I don't think I'd ever have the courage to do something like that."

Being looked at with anything akin to admiration was a hard thing for Simmons to process and he wiped at his eyes slightly to offset the watery feeling beginning to well up in them. Damn it, he was not going to keep crying every time someone said something remotely positive about him!

"Were your parents upset with you?" Doc was still plowing along with his questions, thankfully missing another one of Simmons' embarrassing inner battles in the process, "I know my family would have freaked!"

"Um…" he paused, trying to think back on the day when he'd reluctantly went back to the surface and managed to trudge his protesting feet home.

His mother had been upset, yes- hysterically bawling and hugging him the second the door had opened. After composing herself a good ten minutes later and moving the tall boy to arm's length, she scrutinized him to ensure that he looked all right and healthy, and then smiled…which he had returned reassuringly. After that, she just seemed to want to pretend the entire worrying affair of late teenage rebellion never happened and he decided to honor that for her own sake.

His father, as he had expected, barely seemed to notice that he'd even been missing. The only mention of him even knowing that Simmons had been gone and to where was one emotionless look his way and a clipped comment about how he expected that his son had gotten whatever it was out of his system and that training should be his top priority from that point on.

…And when Simmons went to bed that night, alone in his way-too quiet room he'd wished instead for an ugly, messy couch and someone who at least tried to stave off sleep to let him get a few of the things swirling through his mind out in the open.

"My mom had been a little upset." He figured it was best to not complain to Doc about his issues with his father. He was trying to learn to be a little less open about that side of himself to others now, just to avoid potential embarrassment later on in the form of bullying. Doc was nice and all, but several of the other younger soldiers stationed here? …Total assholes. He wasn't about to give them anymore ammunition to use against him if he could help it.

If Doc noticed the intentional absence of anything related to his father in Simmons' response, he chose not to mention it.

They had moved closer to one of the exits leading to the outside yards and the conversation between them died instantly when the door opened. Three armored soldiers had been making their way to the main building of the Mother of Invention base entered. It was best to never discuss The Slums around people when you didn't know their views on the subject. Simmons was thankful that Doc had enough common sense to remember that, at least.

The three soldiers were ones he knew belonged to a higher-ranked program housed here: some sort of top secret covert operation for The Council. Simmons had seen them numerous times around the base, though he didn't know any of them personally. When he'd been younger, he had heard his father mutter under his breath something about "Freelancers" when contacting colleagues. His father had a lot of contacts and connections throughout the military and government, and he apparently knew a lot of things going on behind the scenes because of that…but, since they never talked and his father would never discuss confidential information with a no-name anyways, it was beside the point. Simmons had honestly been surprised to discover it was a self-contained Above Ground military unit and not a codename for some sort of mercenary group, which was always what the name brought to mind for him anyways. While he still didn't know much about the group or how they operated, from what he gathered the name came from the fact that they were only loosely associated with The Council and were given more freedom in how they approached their missions.

…And the reason for that, apparently, was because a lot of their missions were of the decidedly nasty variety. The general consensus amongst most run-of-the-mill soldiers stationed at the base was to have as little interaction with the group as possible.

Still, from what he had heard and the fact that they were usually seen more in general too, the trio conversing amongst themselves now were usually considered at least somewhat more approachable. If a person was tasked with finding a Freelancer for whatever reason, they were often considered the safest bets.

"Okay, that was actually fucking scary." A blond-haired young man probably only a couple years older than Simmons and Doc, it seemed, wearing steel-colored armor with yellow trim shuddered quite visibly as he recalled whatever he was referring to.

"…It certainly was something." Another blond-haired man with pale blue eyes and purple armor in a decidedly more violet hue than Doc's and with signs of actual use given the slight dents one could see in it despite obviously being well-maintained agreed.

"That…can't be normal, right?" the first speaker seemed quite upset at whatever had happened, "I mean, humans can't do that sort of thing physically."

"No, Wash, it is perfectly normal for someone to be able to throw a tank across a field." The brown-haired man in tan armor's tone was patronizingly sarcastic. There was a scar running down the right side of his face, showing off an eye that was somewhat opaque and unseeing- the result, no doubt, of a rather bad injury.

The younger of the three, Wash (Simmons was pretty sure it was short for "Washington"- for whatever reason, the codenames for Freelancer soldiers were various states/provinces from a country that used to exist back on Earth. He'd never understood why and he doubted very much that anyone would bother explaining it to him even if he asked), didn't seem to pick up on the fact that his friend was teasing him…or he was so used to it he didn't take offense anymore, "So is super-strength one of her armor's specific tech upgrades?"

"It would have to be." The man in violet armor frowned somewhat, "…Though the combat skills are all natural, I bet."

Washington nodded his head in agreement, whistling appreciatively, "Yeah, it's kind of insane that she was only just now recruited."

"…Especially since our last new recruit did something as embarrassing as, oh, I don't know….getting a grappling hook attached to his balls." The brown-haired soldier grinned.

The younger man's face took on an embarrassed shade of red Simmons was all too familiar with at the comment (strange to see how it looked on someone else), "Oh, fuck you! That only happened once."

"I know." He laughed jovially, "And it's still hilarious."

The other blond-haired soldier was trying his hardest to keep the slight smile beginning to form on his face from getting any larger, "…It is rather impressive that you managed to do that at all, if you think about it." He said, as a way of trying to alleviate the younger Freelancer's embarrassment while still having fun at his expense.

Washington glared at both of them in mild annoyance before letting out an exasperated sigh, "I hate you guys."

"Aw, we love you too, buddy." Tan Armor joked, ignoring the glare sent his way in response.

Desperate to change the subject, Washington asked, "Hey, do you think she could beat Carolina in a match?"

His friends exchanged significant looks with one another. Apparently the seemingly harmless enough question had them both troubled for some reason.

"…That would probably be a really bad idea." The man in the violet armor (the name "North" clicked in Simmons' head finally for him) said.

Washington looked confused, "Why?"

"Because it would probably be more of a bloodbath than a friendly match."

The man in the tan armor ("York" if memory was serving him right now), let out a weary sigh, "You know how Carolina gets, Wash. She's already not too keen on how quickly Agent Texas has risen in the rankings." He frowned slightly, "I'm not even sure she's stopped running practice drills this last week."

North looked at the troubled expression darkening the man's face, "And I can guess where you were on your way to when we ran into you, then."

An almost sheepish-looking grin crossed the other Freelancer's face at that, "Am I that obvious?"

"A little." He had an understanding smile on his face.

"…About what?" Washington looked completely out of the loop at the exchange, glancing back and forth between his teammates for any clue as to what he was missing.

Unfortunately for him, this lead to more amusement at his expense on his friends' behalves.

Smiling, York clapped him on the shoulder, "…We'll tell you when you're older, kiddo. Maybe even with picture books."

He pouted, "…You both suck."

York's expression lingered on amused for a few more seconds before he turned serious again, "…I'm not too sure what her reaction's going to be to the tank incident today." He admitted finally, looking unsure as to whether or not he even wanted to know it.

"…Hopefully not as explosive as South's will be." North's voice had a weary note to it that hadn't been there before.

York and Washington both gave North sympathetic looks. Agent South Dakota was particularly famous around the base for her volatile temper if in a bad mood: Simmons was fairly certain some of the dents he'd passed on the walls were from her fists, if rumors could be believed, and the fact that the walls had metal plating kind of made that a pretty fucking scary notion to him.

"Is she still mad?" Washington asked quietly, "That you…rose up higher in the ranks than her?"

North gave the younger soldier a grateful smile for his concern, "Among…other things." He told him, sharing another look with York that seemed to say a lot more than he felt comfortable talking about out loud.

"That sucks." Washington didn't notice the silent exchange between his teammates, frowning to himself, "And Maine's been even more withdrawn than usual too…" his tone was starting to sound even more worried.

Another pointed look over the top of Washington's downturned head, both Freelancers' expressions momentarily clouding over at what he had just said.

North patted Washington's shoulder in a comforting gesture, "No need to worry, Wash. I know my sister. She's going to be fuming for a little while longer, but she'll come around eventually- and be even more fired up than before to replace me in the mission rankings."

York nodded in agreement, "And I wouldn't worry too much about Maine. You know how he gets sometimes. You're about the only person he remotely interacts with, so I'm pretty sure he'll come around to…" he struggled to come up with a way to finish that sentence, "…Not really talking but being okay hanging around your general vicinity again soon."

"…" Washington looked at him doubtfully.

York shrugged, "Okay, I have no fucking clue how the two of you have a friendship." He admitted, "The guy never talks!"

Washington couldn't help but smile slightly at the exasperated tone of York's voice and the other man seemed relieved that the younger Freelancer had cheered up somewhat at least.

Their conversation continued well down the hallway, though they moved out of ear-range for Doc and Simmons, the two only hearing faint indecipherable snippets of conversation after that. They hadn't been acknowledged at all since the three had been so engrossed in their own dialogue.

…Which, Simmons was grateful for, truthfully: they hadn't meant to eavesdrop, after all, so he would have been horribly upset having been caught doing just that.

"…Crazy, huh?" Doc asked in a joking manner a few seconds later, looking similarly relieved.

He could only nod in agreement, "Tell me about it."

The more he heard of Project Freelancer, the more certain he was that the program's bizarre reputation at the base was not without merit. Something about that exchange had made him feel uneasy, though he couldn't place why that was exactly.

Well, beyond the part about a soldier throwing a God-damned tank across a field.

…That was just fucking insane.

That could have probably gone better.

Simmons felt the tension in his muscles only slightly lessen as he made his way across the field, only barely registering that he'd made it back to base at all.

His first day "off" and he'd avoided going out with Doc for his routine yoga practice, instead opting to visit his mother at home.

He had always hated going into the city and this trip had just reminded him why. Generally speaking, for as advanced a society as Above Ground was, the public transportation sucked ass.

It had been running late, which meant that he'd had to stand awkwardly waiting for one of the shuttles to arrive. All the while, he wished he had changed to regular street clothes instead of wearing the gray and black uniform all soldiers were required to wear outside of their special armor. …He would have, normally, but his mother actually liked seeing him in uniform and he'd wanted to do something nice for her since they hadn't seen each other in a while.

Simmons had always been self-conscious and he was horribly awkward in general when out in public, but in a military uniform he felt he stood out even more and for all the wrong reasons: he imagined the eyes of everyone around him boring into his scrawny, lanky frame and thinking it was only a matter of time before the pathetic excuse for a soldier before them could no longer pretend that he was cut out for such a profession.

…He'd practically thrown himself onto the shuttle when it finally got there, shaking with each breath as he tried to distill the sudden onslaught of panic those thoughts had caused him.

When the shuttle stopped in the high-end residential district with its spacious homes designed specifically for top-tier military personnel and their families and he stood to disembark, he ignored the dawning looks of smug realization he could just imagine on the faces of some of the other passengers.

"Oh, so that explains it! He must be sticking around this long because he's got an in from his parents!"

He tried walking away from the shuttle with jaw set and shoulders tall: a look he'd seen his father do effortlessly even in front of critics. Indeed, Simmons was fairly certain that was probably his father's natural and only look. He never smiled or relaxed even in the few image files he showed up in during rare family outings.

Simmons then tried ignoring the nagging doubt that his attempt only looked laughable at best coming from someone as lanky and clunky as himself.

The visit with his mother was, thankfully, a bit more pleasant than the trip had been though he did worry a bit at how thin she looked and how exhausted she seemed to be since the last time he had seen her.

She'd brushed off his concern, taking a hold of his hand and he did notice with no mild amount of concern that her hands were as cold as ice despite how she had the house's temperature control gauge set to near sweltering levels. She moved them past her room upstairs, then past his father's (he couldn't remember a time when they'd actually shared a bedroom), and his own room to look at a painting she'd bought online recently, all while worrying about how he was doing at the base since he didn't message enough and her wondering if he was getting enough to eat there too.

…She could be a bit of a worrier at times and Simmons had long since learned that letting her indulge in it for a while made things run smoother.

Plus, it made her happy too and he preferred that to the distant, lonely look that he often saw in her eyes when she didn't think he was looking.

So he suffered through the Q and A session his visit turned into admirably, finally getting a chance to convince her to see a doctor when she had time to do so.

Neither of them mentioned his father or even glanced at the closed doors of the house that signified his territory that they had to have permission to enter.

The only real awkwardness from the visit had come at the end, when his mother stepped away from hugging him and said that next time she'd like to hear that he'd met someone special.

…She always made comments like that, even since he'd been a teen. Simmons had always tried to hide how deep his nervousness with interacting with people ran since he knew his mother's main reasoning for saying so was the hope of grandchildren someday. Admitting he had a fear of talking to girls in most situations in particular wasn't something he ever wanted to say to her, since he figured it would just make her more worried about him and he didn't want to disappoint her.

It also didn't help his nerves when he started picturing the exact moment he'd left The Slums whenever she said it now, regardless of how hard he would try not to.

So his voice caught in his throat then and he'd managed to make up an excuse about how he was too busy to really socialize at the moment. Which was partially true anyways, with the amount of extra training he'd been doing…which was what he so desperately wanted to be doing instead of having to talk to his mother about that topic in particular again, and then he'd been home free to think about his social failings, worry about his mother's health, and try to figure out how he could make up for lost time later on at target practice before daylight ended.

And, naturally, the ball of dread and nervous energy that had settled in the pit of his stomach as a result of his first attempt at taking his C.O.'s advice about trying to take some free time to relax, seemed even more unbearable than the one he usually carried around with him while on duty way.

…Figured.

"…I need those crates moved to the other side of this strip, pronto!"

A woman in a pilot's white uniform was balking orders at her assistants running about hectically nearby. Simmons hadn't even noticed that he'd moved so close to the docking area for the military transports on his way back to the barracks.

Just as he'd moved past them, the woman turned her head slightly and noticed his presence. She had brown hair clipped short and tan skin, having the appearance of someone who perhaps preferred being outside over indoors if she could arrange it.

"Hey. You." She narrowed her eyes and started walking in his direction with purpose, a data-pad in her gloved hand.

Simmons started, instinctively whipping his head around to see who behind him she was talking to: he figured there must be someone else there since he never really interacted with pilots.

…But there was no one in any close vicinity that he could see.

The woman was almost there and he took a step back at the sudden proximity, unsurely pointing a finger at his own chest with a questioning look on his face while tongue-tied for the moment, at least.

She let out an aggravated sigh, "Yes, you." She confirmed, with an expression that said she was far from impressed as she looked him over, "Are you stationed here?"

Simmons nodded, not sure if he could trust his voice yet and kicking himself mentally all the while for it.

"Ah, good. You're capable of responding, at least." Her tone had a joking, sarcastic quality to it.

"Um…"

Before he could formulate anything remotely articulate to say, the pilot was shoving the data-pad roughly into his hands.

"I was supposed to have someone deliver this information the minute we landed, but as you can see we're understaffed at the moment and getting anyone to do anything around here is worse than pulling teeth." She turned around to survey where the three soldiers under her command were moving the crates, "Not there-there…there!" she bellowed across the field to them, pointing to the corner opposite the one they had been moving the crates to.

The men looked to where she'd indicated, the trio letting loose a collective sigh as their shoulders sagged even more. Evidently, this was a routine they seemed sadly familiar with.

"…How many times they can get to the wrong corner on a rectangular field amazes me." The woman sighed herself, "…I counted five times once."

"…" Simmons, a complete stranger to this crew and routine, stood there mutely unsure of whether or not he should make a comment on if she was simply talking to herself.

She turned her attention back to him, "At any rate, you showing up just now completely saved all of our asses." She tapped the data-pad lightly with her finger, "Take that inside the base and up to the highest level. It's supposed to go directly to the Counselor."

Simmons' eyes widened slightly at the title. Everyone more or less knew about the man who held it. On record he was in charge of the psychologists stationed in the medical ward who were tasked with maintaining the emotional and mental health of everyone stationed at the Mother of Invention though, in general, the medical staff tended to handle all daily matters on their own.

…In reality, he was actually the right-hand man of the person most people simply knew as the Director: the individual in charge of one of the most secretive branches of military operation for Above Ground- Project Freelancer. Not a lot was known about him (highly classified shit, most definitely), but he had a shit-load of clout in The Council, which in turn gave Project Freelancer a lot more freedom in general.

And the Counselor, naturally given that position, had duties that were very much far removed from the norm for a military psychologist.

Curiously, Simmons' gaze dropped down to the data-pad he was clutching tightly. Whatever data the blinking lights swimming across the sleek surface contained, it apparently was too risky to send using instant transferring through the normal communication channels. The red lines blinking every so often amongst the blues and greens of that mysterious data stream meant that it was encrypted heavily too.

"It's secure, so no worries there. Though I'd recommend not losing it."

He opened his mouth at this, throat dry, to ask if it really was such a good idea to hand off the pad to just about anyone then.

"It's not anything highly vital." She seemed to be able to read his expression even before he voiced his concerns, "They just like testing out new encryptions with everything." She smirked, "Even if you tried, I'm not sure you could get it deciphered."

…Well, no, probably not for awhile at least. But Simmons figured admitting he had a knack for technology probably wasn't a good thing at the moment, especially since he had no desire to break protocol or hack a communiqué for Project Freelancer.

"Besides, you work here and no one is stupid enough to piss off the Director."

He gulped nervously and nodded. That much he knew was true: it was one of the most sure-fire ways to get demoted or court-martialed at the Mother of Invention.

"…Just tell him that Four Seven Niner corralled you into doing her a favor." She flashed a brief smile before adding, "Hopefully you'll get your ability to talk back by then."

Before Simmons could even process what had happened enough to try to explain that he wasn't really on-duty at the moment, she was trotting back over to the three pilots, "Put some muscle into it, we need this space cleared in an hour!"

At the sound of their sighing, Simmons let out one of his own at this strange turn of events.

Well, at least all of that tension and nervousness in the aftermath of his "free day" was gone.

…Now it was replaced with the usual anxiety he felt when he was determined to get a task done and done well.

Thank goodness for small miracles, he supposed.

As it turned out, the interaction with the Counselor wasn't nearly as nerve-wracking as he had expected it to be.

The data-pad itself apparently gave him access through the higher security levels that safeguarded the top levels of the Mother of Invention and he was on the top floor in a matter of moments.

Another soldier pointed him in the direction of an office off in a side hallway and he found the dark-skinned man usually referred to only as the Counselor sitting behind a surprisingly plain metallic desk. Numerous data-pads were collected around him and on the desk was a computer terminal with figures and coding swimming on it in a quick pace Simmons couldn't begin to guess at from a mere glance.

…The walls of the space, from floor to ceiling, were covered in computer terminals as well. They were off at the moment, but it made the twenty-year-old wonder what the Counselor was working on that could require so much room to display all of the information on. A paranoid part of his brain kept wanting to infer that perhaps the Counselor monitored all areas of the base itself, but that part was freaking him out more than just a little bit, so he told it to shut the fuck up.

When he handed him the data-pad and said what the pilot had instructed him to, the Counselor sighed and mumbled something about how Four Seven Niner certainly had her own way of fulfilling objectives before thanking Simmons for finishing his unexpected task so quickly.

Even with the slight smile on his lips, it was as clear a dismissal if Simmons had ever heard one. He left quickly, somewhat unnerved.

Despite the smile and the gentle, calm tone and demeanor of the Counselor there'd been something oddly cold about him all the same. Simmons wasn't sure what it was, but he really didn't want to interact with him too much if he could avoid it.

On his way back to the elevators, an open door caught his attention from out of the corner of his eye and he stopped, his breath caught in his throat.

The room beyond was some sort of lounge area: chairs and tables stretched every which way, all facing the wall on the opposite side of the room.

Well, "wall" was a bit inaccurate since, similar to the ground level's outer wall, it was made entirely out of that same translucent and unbreakable material the base used in lieu of glass for security reasons.

Since the room was obviously more for recreational purposes since there were no terminals or data-pads in sight and the door hadn't even been programmed to shut, Simmons figured there was no harm in heading inside for a few minutes, just to take a look.

He crossed the threshold quickly before the more practical side of his brain argued that he technically didn't have the clearance to be on this level now that he had turned over the data-pad as his hand hesitantly reached out to touch the cold surface of the window as he gazed outwards.

The sky was a clear blue today and top floor of the Mother of Invention was so far up that he could even see clouds drifting close by. He gazed down, only seeing indiscernible shapes of green, brown, white, black, and gray: the "building blocks" of Above Ground as viewed from an impossibly high vantage.

His breath caught again and somehow he was reminded of Grif and their talk about amazing views.

…This, he mused, would definitely be one the tan boy would love to see.

A clicking electric sound filled his ears.

"So the operation is a go then?"

"Yes, in a few weeks we're moving out." A voice, highly distorted and sounding far away, garbled out in response to the earlier question, "Be careful, Connie."

"…You too."

There was a loud click as the portable communicator flicked off in a dark corner at the other side of the room.

Simmons started, not realizing that the lounge hadn't been quite as empty as he'd first thought and that he'd unwittingly stumbled onto the tail end of what had sounded like a private conversation. His face reddened in embarrassment and he turned to profusely apologize.

A woman in brown armor, her brown hair parted with several longer strands threatening to fall into her left eye, stepped closer and assessed him carefully with a frown on her face. It seemed as if she was debating whether or not she wanted to ream him out for the intrusion.

Despite his hesitancy in talking to females normally, his embarrassment over what happened propelled him enough to blurt out, "I…I'm really sorry! I didn't—didn't know anyone was—was here." He looked up at her unchanging expression and continued rambling, "I—I didn't…didn't hear anything either…honest!"

There were a few more tense moments when she gauged his words and body language, then, to his surprise (and relief), she smiled slightly, "Oh, don't worry about it! I was just saying goodbye to a friend. He's going on a mission soon."

There was nothing mocking or angry in her tone or demeanor, so Simmons relaxed somewhat though he was still a bit nervous talking to someone didn't know and a female no less!

She moved closer until they were standing only a few meters apart, an odd look crossing over her features again as she scrutinized him more. He squirmed uncomfortably, face red, not used to that kind of attention.

But, just as suddenly, recognition fell into her eyes, "I thought you looked familiar. You're one of Florida's recruits, aren't you?" her smile widened, "The one normally in maroon armor."

"Er…" he blinked, unsure about the sudden change of events again. It was true he wore maroon armor, but the name she said didn't ring a bell, "Who?"

Now it was her turn to look perplexed, "…Florida isn't your C.O.?" she asked.

Florida? That was another Freelancer codename, if he remembered correctly.

Simmons shook his head, grateful that the strangeness of the conversation was helping him to not get tongue-tied, "Captain Butch Flowers…is my commanding officer."

A look of understanding flashed across her features, "Ah, so that's what he's calling himself for the side project."

Simmons was starting to understand it himself now, though it seemed a bit hard to swallow, "Are you saying…Captain Flowers is a Freelancer agent?"

She nodded.

"Why…wouldn't he say anything then?"

It seemed odd to think a Freelancer would even be remotely interested in training recruits with academy scores like he and Doc had. There were probably an untold number of other soldier candidates who would be better fits for an elite agent right off the bat.

The woman looked at him sympathetically, "He probably thought it would be better if you didn't know." She tried supplying helpfully.

"I guess…" he couldn't help the doubtful and hurt tone that crept into his voice all the same.

The woman frowned in turn, "Project Freelancer isn't what it seems, you know." He was surprised by the harsh element in her tone, but she moved on from it quickly, "Florida's a decent guy, if a little odd. He probably wanted to keep you as out of the loop with his other line of work as possible for your team's sake."

"But why…have a team at all?" The whole concept made little to no sense to him.

"…Maybe he just wanted to be a part of something that Freelancer wasn't completely in control of again." She shrugged, "I can't say for certain, though. Sorry. He can be pretty quiet about his personal thoughts."

Simmons smiled slightly, after all, he'd just learned a pretty big secret about his C.O. as well that he'd never told them before, "Tell me about it."

She returned the gesture, though there was something oddly tired-looking about her smile when one looked at it more closely, "I'm Connecticut, by the way. C.T. for short."

His eyes widened at the reveal that he'd been talking to a Freelancer agent this whole time. Never mind that Captain Flowers was one too, he hadn't known about that until now, so it was still a bit hard to wrap his head around his friendly, sometimes all-too-lenient captain being such a soldier even if he had shown incredible knife throwing skills earlier.

She noticed the look on his face, "Relax. It's nothing to get worked up about, believe me." Her smile turned rather self-deprecating, "They'll tell you that too. I'm on the bottom end of the ranking board."

…He'd heard that term before, when the three Freelancers had been talking amongst themselves. It seemed odd that such an elite group of soldiers were apparently being pitted against and compared to one another. In his opinion, that didn't seem like a good way to build unit cohesion.

Given the darkening look on her face, he wasn't sure if he should risk asking for clarification. After debating about it for a second more, he decided it was probably best to ignore the curiosity gnawing at him for the moment.

"I'm…Simmons." Best to go for an introduction then, since she'd told him her name. That was usually how social protocol went, right?

She cocked her head to the side, "That's a general's name too, isn't it?"

He frowned, "Richard Simmons is my father."

She raised an eyebrow at the harshness in his voice and the tense body language he suddenly had, before giving him a small smile, "Well, I guess we all have things we're upset about."

He nodded, grateful she wasn't going to pry further.

Connecticut, C.T., turned her attention to the window, "It's a great view, huh?" she said appreciatively, "I can see why you came in here for it."

He looked out the window once more, nodding in agreement and smiling as well.

And then, before he even had a chance to realize what it was he said or how silly it would come across: "This would be an awesome spot to nap in."

C.T. was staring blankly at him then and his face was burning. Simmons was sorely tempted to bang his head right then and there on the window, but refrained since that would probably only make the situation worse and it would probably fucking hurt. A lot.

Finally, she smiled again, "…I guess it would be. There are some chairs if you want to—"

He raised his hands up to stop her, "Er…no! That—that's okay. Thanks, though…I mean—"

If Grif had been here, he could picture him laughing his ass off at his predicament. Somehow, it only made the situation worse.

"Connie, there you are!"

…Thankfully, he was saved from hyperventilating by the timely intervention of a surprisingly familiar voice.

C.T.'s face darkened once more and her expression turned to a scowl as the steel and yellow-armored figure approached them.

"Agent Washington." Simmons was surprised at the icy tone she had when addressing her comrade.

Washington's friendly smile faltered at this reception and he resembled for all the world a puppy who had just been kicked.

"Come on, Connie, don't be like that." He almost sounded close to pleading.

C.T.'s expression softened at least a little and she sighed, "…And what did I tell you about calling me Connie? We're not little kids anymore. I'm C.T. now."

…Simmons decided it was best to just keep his mouth shut on how she'd allowed someone else minutes ago to call her that nickname. This was definitely not an exchange he wanted to get in the middle of.

"R—right, sorry." Washington scratched the back of his head, shifting on the balls of his feet uncomfortably: "Carolina wants to see you."

She scoffed, "You mean she saw the newest mission rankings."

Washington looked as though he were about to reach out to grip her shoulder comfortingly, his hand wavering in the air, but then he changed his mind at her expression and let it fall back to his side in an awkward gesture, "…It wasn't your fault. That could have happened to any one of us." He said consolingly.

Her eyes narrowed, "Not to her. Not to Agent Texas." She took in a shaky breath and it almost seemed as if tears had welled in her eyes for a second before she composed herself, "But it happens to some of us a hell of a lot more than others."

"C.T. …"

"…Although I guess I should congratulate you on all of your recent successes, Wash." She was moving past him now towards the door, "You're improving so much you'll probably make it to the other side of the rankings spectrum soon. Then you'll have to have to finally decide where in Freelancer you still want to stand."

Washington said nothing to this, looking very hurt and unsure of what to do in the face of how upset his friend was.

C.T., having said her piece to him, turned to Simmons again, "It was nice meeting you, Simmons." She said, managing to force a smile for his sake to perhaps try and lesson the sudden tension in the air for the timid outsider, "Maybe you should save the nap until later though."

With that, she was gone, leaving him standing awkwardly with the distraught Freelancer who remained.

Washington sighed to himself, shaking his head, "First Maine, and now Connie too. I keep getting a really bad feeling about all of this." He mumbled.

Simmons stood silently, hoping maybe Washington wouldn't take notice of him and he could just leave.

"Oh, uh, sorry you saw that."

No such luck, damn it. The blonde was staring straight at him with an apologetic look in his gray eyes.

"Um…it's okay?" He tried to smile reassuringly to get this awkward moment over with, but it came across more as nervous probably.

Washington seemed emboldened by Simmons' effort though all the same and he smiled warmly back, "Hey, I've seen you around base, right?" he asked, looking at him in the same thoughtful way C.T. had when they'd first met, "You're one of Florida's soldiers."

…Well, no chance of a mistake on C.T.'s part there then if someone else knew Captain Flowers as Florida. Simmons nodded.

The Freelancer seemed pleased with himself that he got it right, "What brings you up here then?"

"Um…I—I had to deliver something." He wasn't sure if should go into more details on that or not.

Washington seemed to understand his hesitancy at least, "This place is pretty secretive, huh?" he frowned slightly, "Sometimes it's not quite what I expected it to be."

Simmons was almost tempted to ask what Washington had initially thought Project Freelancer would be like, but he really didn't want to overstep any boundaries when it came to interacting with people he wasn't really familiar with yet.

Sitting on one of the chairs nearby, Washington somehow pulled an apple seemingly out of mid-air, "…Hungry?"

The red-haired soldier shook his head, staring perplexedly at the apple and trying not to make it too obvious that he really trying to figure out exactly how Washington had somehow seemed to be holding onto a piece of fruit he clearly hadn't had anywhere near his person before.

…Maybe it was one of those things best left unexplained, regardless of how much wanted to figure it out from a logic stance.

Washington, not noticing the odd looks Simmons was now giving him, happily started munching away on his snack, "Well…if you…ever…" he was talking in between chews, "Need help…with…something…just…let…me know."

He swallowed the last bite and grinned, somehow holding out a suddenly materialized banana to Simmons now as though he'd been worried that perhaps the only reason Simmons hadn't wanted the other snack was because he only hadn't wanted to eat an apple, "I'm more of a joke on the team right now, but I like helping people out with things if I can." He explained, "And…if Florida likes you enough to train you, then that must mean you're a pretty decent guy!"

And, despite, the bizarreness of it all (and man, did his brain really want to figure out where the fruit was coming from now!), Simmons accepted the proffered snack this time and returned Washington's grin with a slightly less sure one of his own.

The Freelancer was earnest and his heart was in the right place if nothing else. It even seemed like it could be possible to be friends with him eventually, like with Doc.

…Simmons didn't know then though just how accurate C.T.'s suspicions about Project Freelancer were, or how maybe it would have been better for Washington to have listened more to his own beginning-to-form doubts in the long run.

If he had had even an inkling of what would happen later on, Simmons would have been the one trying to give Washington the same helpful offer.

A part of him would always feel guilty that he hadn't.

A few weeks later, Captain Butch Flowers (aka Agent Florida, apparently) returned from another of his missions.

When he'd called Doc and Simmons to the training floor again, they weren't really sure what to expect given how differently Flowers would run his unit compared to other C.O.s at the Mother of Invention. Many of their training exercises varied quite a bit depending on what he felt most needed attention in their list of skills.

…Simmons had been more than a little apprehensive for the past few days. There were rumors about a mishap involving Project Freelancer, and while he had seen a few agents here and there Washington was noticeably absent from the base. Or, at least, any of the areas Simmons had clearance for.

That struck him as odd: ever since their introduction earlier, Washington had gone out of his way to greet him when they passed by each other in the halls. He'd even opted to help him with target practice on occasion once he found out how regularly the younger soldier went there.

He couldn't help feeling a bit uneasy that he hadn't seen him at all recently, especially since there were so few people here he was on an even remotely friendly basis with. But, maybe he was just on a mission like Flowers had been and wasn't back yet. It was hard to tell with Freelancers since their missions were always so hush-hush in general.

…Neither he nor Doc, though, were prepared to be greeted by the sight of a new team member.

"Simmons, DuFresne…I'd like to introduce you both to Leonard Church." Flowers said in his usual light manner, "He'll be working with you from now on."

The man in cobalt-colored armor gave them a half-hearted wave, disinterest clearly evident in his blue eyes. He had short black hair and a small goatee, his eyes taking in the training room fully once before settling back on the two of them again.

"Let me guess. We're the fucking dream team, right?" his voice was dripping with sarcasm.

…Which was totally lost on Doc, "You bet!"

Simmons felt an eye twitch and looked imploringly over at Captain Flowers for more of an explanation as to why they were getting a new member this late in the year. He looked to be their age, so…had he been transferred from another squad then? Given his attitude, it certainly wouldn't have surprised Simmons if that was the case.

Flowers sighed, sending an apologetic look his way, "He doesn't always show it, but he has the capability to be a fine soldier."

"…So you can suck it." Church apparently didn't fail to see the look of disbelief crossing over Simmons' face at that last comment from their commanding officer.

"Plus, he came with a tank." Flowers interjected helpfully, hoping to diffuse the tension building between the two before a fight broke out.

A smirk crossed their new teammate's face, "Sheila and I go way back so try not to piss me off and I won't forget to tell her not to shoot at you."

Oh, well, Simmons could tell this was going to go over fucking great already.

But his curiosity got the better of him when his mind went over to Church's last remark, "You…call your tank Sheila?"

Church raised a black eyebrow, "Well, yeah, that is her name." he frowned in thought as if remembering something, "And she gets pretty goddamned pissed if you forget it."

"…Your tank has a V.I.?"

He hadn't heard of many vehicles outside of research ones having Virtual Intelligences installed on them. Virtual Intelligences were incredibly expensive and hard to manufacture, so The Council had pretty strict regulations regarding them. He'd never actually interacted with one himself before.

The eager, curious glint in his eyes was very obvious.

Church sighed in exasperation, "Keep it in your pants, nerd, or I won't tell her not to shoot you."

Simmons' face flushed at the insult, but he glared back at Church all the same. Church returned the gesture, with that smirk still on his face.

"Now, now, you two. Let's all take a step back and take deep, calming breaths." Doc advised, trying to mediate between them.

They ignored him, still locked in their stare-off.

Flowers let out a soft sigh, but there was a smile on his face and his calm, patient demeanor he always had never left him: "…I have the feeling you men will get along just fine once things settle down."

…Only a few short months after Leonard Church's introduction to Flowers' squad, things ended up changing drastically.

The Insurrection, a militant rebellion group from The Slums, launched a surprisingly efficient attack on one of the power plants in Above Ground that crippled areas of the city for days.

The military reprisal ordered by The Council was quick, brutal, and effective- though the seeds of resistance seemed impossible to stop growing completely now that those living underground knew it was possible to strike blows to the people who kept them trapped down there.

In the aftermath that followed, there was going to be war. Lots of it.

Simmons worried about Grif and Kaikaina especially, but he knew there was nothing he or anyone could do for the people in The Slums when the orders started being given. …Except maybe pray.

Project Freelancer nearly collapsed in on itself when one of their own became a nearly unstoppable killing machine and three others in their ranks turned traitor and defected.

And, while out on what had apparently been a routine mission that he'd done several times over with no issues or complications whatsoever, Captain Butch Flowers was killed in action. Resistance fighters from The Slums were blamed for his death in the released reports.

Simmons barely had time to process it all before they were all dragged even more into the thick of things through an odd set of circumstances.

…He did cry himself to sleep for a few nights afterwards, though. It was the only time he had to himself for a long while.

Author's Notes: Remember how I said this chapter would be shorter than the previous one? Well, I guess my brain had other ideas (I like to ramble in dialogue scenes when I get the ideas for them, I swears! XD).

At any rate, more world-building and story exposition in this chapter…all from Simmons' perspective while living in Above Ground, so I used that as an excuse to introduce several more characters we hadn't seen previously and foreshadow what is going to happen in the next couple of parts.

…Although I feel horrible about ending the chapter like I did (wah, I love Flowers so I felt awful having to do that to him, but that's sort of important to future plot points so I kind of had to do it, but still- I'm so sorry, Flowers! 0_0;). Certain characters introduced in this chapter (like North, York, and Washington) will have very differing plots in future installments, so their story-lines will definitely be a little altered the next time they show up (which includes some personality changes for Washington since this was definitely more his characterization before the Epsilon incident…oh yes, there was quite a bit of meaning behind Church showing up like he does at the end of this chapter, and it definitely does involve a certain connection he has to the A.I.s 0_0;).

But next chapter will feature story points from both Above Ground and The Slums, and will introduce some more characters into the fray too.

Thank you so much for reading the fic so far, and I hope this chapter was an enjoyable read for you (even with the ending being a bit of downer, orz)!

…Also, yay for Season 12 officially starting now! I *loved* the first episode. :D