Author'sNote:In which Annie discusses things, an inept covert operation is launched, and condiments come in handy.

As ever, thanks to everyone who reads this, and much love to my awesome reviewers. :) I'd like to give a special shout-out to the anon reviewers, though! You guys leave great feedback, and I'd love to be able to respond, but I can't PM anyone who's anonymous and responding to reviews in-story is technically a no-no. If you'd like to get responses to the lovely reviews you've been leaving, consider getting an account, huh? I promise we don't bite!

But because it makes me twitch if I can't answer a question about a favored character, especially a character with recurring prominence in this story, I will say that someone (excuse me while I glance meaningfully at the anon reviews for another story) once asked me if I made up the bit about Dusty being a refrigerator repairman. Nope! According to his official bio, he worked fixing refrigerators and A/Cs while studying desert ecology, and that was before he even went into the Army. He's also been known to eat lizards, but that's strictly a survival thing. Hopefully.

Rating: T for language.

Disclaimer: G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc, and I derive no profit from this. Please accept this in the spirit with which it is offered—as a work of respect and love, not an attempt to claim ownership or earn money from this intellectual property.

Chapter Fourteen: Tips

Flint and Lady Jaye had been clear. This was serious stuff, now; espionage, covert interrogation, attempting to divine highly valuable information from a recalcitrant prisoner regarding a possible security breach within a high-end government facility. It sounded like the plot to a movie starring Chuck Norris and Steven Seagal, possibly with that American Ninja guy thrown in for flavor. Time to pull herself up by her bootstraps, get down to brass tacks, and possibly even stiffen her upper lip.

Annie went back to the rulebook.

The standards for interrogating prisoners were clear but, heart in her throat, Annie managed to convince herself that she wasn't actually interrogating anybody: if she said something and he happened to respond, well, that wasn't a big deal, right? That was her excuse, and she would hang onto it for dear life (or career). The truth was, deep down, Annie knew that she hadn't been ordered to do this because she was a professional in the proper sense. She was good at harassing people until they talked back just to shut her up. If she tried to be professional, she'd likely flop faster than Dad's attempt to institute a three-serving limit at the Friday Nite Fish Fry. So she had to stick with what she knew . . . And what she knew was lying to people's faces while handing them food. That would be a start.

The next morning, she went straight from PT to making a start on the rations for the prisoners. Somebody had apparently been talking to Whiskey Down; he shot Annie a searching gaze when she walked past, and quickly ordered Eighty-Six to pick up her slack. Annie felt a small twitch of guilt and apprehension at that (nobody was less popular than a grunt who didn't pull their weight), but the hard truth was that she really didn't see another option. Better to be unpopular with your fellow grunts than get the fish-eye and the old dereliction-of-duty from the people who held the power of life and career over you.

The prisoners' breakfasts were easy to prepare. Both of them were getting Corn Flakes, sliced fruit, and a cup of cottage cheese; Annie made sure to include a few packets of sugar on Hall's tray, because honestly, only an insane shapeshifter would eat Corn Flakes unsweetened. (Yurgh.) Then, covered trays carefully balanced, she made her way down to the cellblock. Barbecue and Airtight had pulled guard duty that morning, and both nodded amiably as she made her way past.

Zartan was . . . Zartan. He still couldn't stand up, but he continued ignoring Annie with his usual glower. Some worrisome part of Annie's brain noted that he was actually not half-bad looking, if one discounted the bizarre cowl and makeup, but the other nine-tenths of her brain beat that portion into submission. Being in this unit was definitely affecting her judgment.

As soon as she'd gone through the usual post-Zartan frisking, Annie picked up the other tray and headed for Hall's cell. The two men had originally been in the same room, but Hall had been moved to his own around the time Annie had started monologuing at him, and thank goodness for small favors: while her previous rants had been motivated by genuine feeling, Annie suspected that trying to pull this kind of thing off with an ulterior motive would be instantly caught out by Zartan. Taking a deep breath, she carefully arranged her face into a sulky scowl as the guards opened the door to Hall's cell.

Nothing would make someone who hated you more curious than a bad mood. Annie practically stomped into the cell, almost making the dishes rattle on the tray, and slammed down the whole lot on the table so hard that Hall actually flinched. He didn't look much happier than she did, either.

"Bitch," the toxo-viper said briefly.

"Fucker," Annie snapped as she yanked the cover off the tray.

Hall sniffed the food. "No wonder you joined the Army; you're a lousy-ass cook." Annie gave him a withering look, which didn't faze him in the slightest. Unfortunately, he didn't seem ready to say anything more, which meant that he wasn't going to be giving up any useful information. The quartermaster mentally assembled her conversational ammunition and redoubled her glare.

"I hate you," she informed him bitterly, ignoring the curious looks from the guards peering through the soundproof glass door. "I never would've had to deal with that asshole Flint if it wasn't for you." She mentally sent a prayer for understanding to the gods of the warrant officers. "So why don't you keep your mouth shut and let me do my job, okay?"

That got an actual smirk from Hall, the most alive expression she'd seen from him since her bullet busted his collarbone. "Got called on the carpet, huh? Poor, poor you. What for?"

"None of your business."

"What, are you scared?"

Annie scowled and glared at the floor. "He wanted to talk to me about the way I was treating you," she muttered as reluctantly as she could manage. Hall smirked again, and Annie found herself glad that she didn't actually have to pretend to get along with him. Now that he was talking again, Carter Hall was shaping up to be . . . well . . . kind of a dick, honestly. And not the kind of dick that Clutch could be occasionally—a genuine asshole.

"My heart bleeds," he said. The word 'sneer' could be applied to his tone.

"Yeah, imagine serving in a unit where they give a damn about the prisoners," Annie shot back. Hall rolled his eyes, and Annie planted her hands on her hips. "And I didn't get taken off duty, so wipe that expression off your face or I'll put Ex-Lax in your pudding tonight."

"'I weep for you, the walrus said, I deeply sympathize,'" Hall said, raising an eyebrow. There was an odd cadence to his speech, and it took Annie a moment to realize that he was quoting—quoting poetry, of all things, something she'd only ever heard from Flint, Lady Jaye, or an especially liquored-up Grandpa Hoffman. "'And with tears and sobs he sorted out those of the largest size/ Holding his pocket-handkerchief before his streaming eyes.'"

"So you're a walrus?" Annie said, frowning a little. "Where's the boo boo bee doo part?"

Hall rolled his eyes and picked up his glass of juice. "It's from Alice in Wonderland, fuckhead. The Walrus and the Carpenter. I was expressing, via a poetic medium, how few shits I actually give about your current predicament."

"God, you're a jerk. I liked you better when you didn't say anything." Annie surveyed the smarmy toxo-viper. Phase one was complete: they were now conversing smoothly with no pauses, and while the conversation consisted mostly of insults, she'd still managed to get Hall to reveal a few things about himself . . . albeit accidentally. (She didn't remember any walruses—walri?—in Alice in Wonderland, but then, it had been years since she'd seen that movie.)

"Somewhere, the world's tiniest Care Bear is caring its little goddamn heart out. You wanted me to talk, you've got me talking."

"And now I want you to stop talking," Annie said sharply. Any good waitress develops a gift for sensing moods, especially if she wants that tip, and though he was finally running his mouth she guessed that it wouldn't be productive to goad him too much right away. Pushing the issue wouldn't look realistic, not with the surly role she was playing: Short Stack, the cook who'd been chewed out over her treatment of a prisoner, wouldn't want to risk getting in trouble again so soon. She'd leave it 'til lunch. "Enjoy your Corn Flakes, dickweed."

"I won't." He sniffed the tray. "They smell odd. Like . . . sour grapes?"

Annie scowled and slammed out of the room. Both of the guards were looking at her surprisedly, and she notched the scowl up a couple of notches.

"Didn't want Corn Flakes," she said. One of the guards raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, which was good for Annie. She didn't think she could keep up the imposture under questioning. She slammed out of the detention area, looking as pissed-off as possible.

As she proceeded along the corridors, she let the mask gradually slip. The place still looked more like an abandoned warehouse than a secret base, but it was coming to life gradually: the lights were being cleaned, groups of greenshirts jogged past in formation, the smell of musty corners was beginning to fade. There were faces in the passersby that she recognized now—people Annie had gotten used to seeing every day at PT.

She realized with a start, and a halfhearted stab of regret, that she knew all of them only by their code names. Since she had come there, the only person who'd introduced himself by his real name was the toxo-viper. She was an Annie adrift in a sea of Storm Shadows, Whiskey Downs, and Sergeant Slaughters.

At the same time, though, Annie had a stake in it now. She knew those greenshirts by their code names better than she knew Carter Hall by his real name. That was a nasty thought. And nastier still was the memory of the words on that paper: possibility of informer within G.I. Joe. Sure, Annie had no particular love for some of the people in the unit, but that was purely personal. She knew she was a prickly bitch sometimes, and that was that. Not their fault. The idea of someone on the inside, selling secrets and sending people in to attack the Pit in the middle of the night . . . it made her a little sick.

The kitchen was smaller than the old one, but it was bustling, and Annie was glad to get back to it. She threw herself into the work, taking her place at her station as if nothing had happened and sending two of the kitchen helpers running for ingredients. Waffles today, a recipe she and a couple of other cooks had worked up in Germany when they were all desperately bored. It was a modified recipe with red velvet batter folded into the mix, a combination that had proved surprisingly popular with troops looking for a sugar boost in the morning.

"You look like you wanna bite someone," Murphy commented as he stowed a bottle in one of the cupboards and tried to be nonchalant about it. "Bad time with the prisoners?"

She had to keep up the act. "Hate those guys," she muttered as she whipped the batter almost into a froth. "Are all Cobras dicks?"

"Pretty much, yeah." Murphy scurried down his side of the long griddle, flipping hash browns. "The reason Cobra Commander shouts so good is that he has resonance where his brains oughtta be." That got a snort from Whiskey Down, and made Annie laugh—a convenient excuse to drop the bad temper act. "Does this mean you want off prisoner duty?" he added. "I can take over. I've got years of built-up dickhead resistance."

Whiskey Down raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't say anything, and Annie jumped into the gap. "Nah," she said. "I pissed some people off with that damn sink thing, and if they catch me ducking, I'll get busted to . . . I don't know. They'll invent a new rank to bust me to." She laughed again. "Besides, this guy's like the ultimate cranky customer. If I can handle him, I'm golden when I go back to waitressing in a few years."

"Oh, yeeeah," Eighty-Six drawled. "If Ai'da knew masochism was where y'were at, Ai'da been ruder t'ya."

"Come on, we're all masochists. We joined Joe, didn't we?" S.O.S. pointed out. Somebody threw a used rubber glove at him, making him yelp and slap it away.

"Don't y'let sergeant major hear y'say that," Eighty-Six sang out mockingly. Chopper made the sign of protection against the Evil Eye, making the woman giggle a little and getting a wink from him. Annie, the perpetual people-watcher, wondered how the former biker and gang-banger (yeah—she recognized some of those tattoos) picked up a gesture like that. Eighty-Six on the other hand, the Orleanais who kept a picture of Sainte Marie de la Croix over her bunk . . .? She took note of the glances between the two of them and mentally chalked up another strike against frat regs.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of waffle batter and conversation and work, work, work. The warm atmosphere of the kitchen enveloped her, including her despite relatively short acquaintance. In here they were all cooks, all plying their particular trade. They had a shared language, shared expertise, and a love of good food . . . granted, the last wasn't usually an issue in a military kitchen, but G.I. Joe had been a pleasant change in that regard. The camaraderie of the whole place gave Annie a quick boost, putting some of her doubts and nervous feelings to rest.

Self-defense next, God help her; some part of her had the feeling of being back in high school, complete with breaking out in nervous sweats at the thought of stepping into a class. At least today was a Sergeant Scarlett day. She hit pretty much as hard as the ninjas, but it was easier to deal with someone whose face you could see.

Also, sometimes people pissed Scarlett off enough to really go to town. To Annie, who had spent her formative years taking peoples' shit with a smile, it was a glorious sight to behold.

Lunchtime came around. For the Joes, seafood stir-fry; for the prisoners, frozen fish sticks and hot dog casserole. Not quite a violation of the Geneva Convention, but definitely a pointed statement. A statement that said "if you cooperate fully, you may get ketchup."

Zartan was not cooperating. Zartan didn't get ketchup.

Carter Hall wasn't cooperating either, but he got ketchup. Mainly because it was a good conversation starter.

"Hope you're not allergic to tomatoes," she said, plopping down the tray on the injured man's lap. "Not that there's a lot of tomatoes in there. It's shelf-stable."

Hall grimaced, and for a moment, Annie shared his pain. The words 'shelf-stable' invoked a similar reaction in anyone with a military background. Meaning as it did a product guaranteed not to spoil no matter how long it sat our unrefrigerated, it also meant that flavor was strictly optional. Shelf-stable bread was questionable, shelf-stable milk disturbing, shelf-stable ketchup an experience not to be forgotten—no matter how much model glue you sniffed.

(On the other hand, the Gorshins came from a long and experienced line of backyard moonshiners, and Annie recognized prime Pruno bait when she saw it.)

"The only thing I'm allergic to is your lousy cooking," Hall said, examining the tray with a look of distaste. "Why don't you just drop the pretense and bring out the guys with the cigar cutters and electrodes already?"

"We talked about that this morning. Unlike your side, we don't torture." Annie leaned over, sniffed the ketchup, and pretended to suppress a gag. "Not much, anyway. If you're good, I might get you some Heinz."

"Oh joy. For all your chatting about how superior Joes are, I got better chow at Cobra." He pushed the tray away.

Annie stepped back and leaned against the doorframe. "But joining Cobra was still bad, Carter. Good chow doesn't even enter into it." Good, he'd brought up the topic of Cobra himself this time; at least she didn't have to force the issue, which would've put him on his guard. "That's the thing you don't seem to get. I can't bring a bad guy good ketchup just because."

The toxo-viper snorted. "You keep saying that, and I keep not caring. Cobra paid my bills, and that's way fucking better than anything you guys ever did for me. Why should I listen to you? Ketchup ain't the way to go."

Aha, a hard-boiled criminal. He was arrogant, even more arrogant than Annie knew she herself could be, and that spoke to a certain sense of superiority that would be tough to crack. He honestly believed that he was in the right, or at least not as in the wrong as she was. Annie frowned a little.

All right, nasty hadn't worked and nice wasn't likely to work either. Annie had to break out the big guns. The human trait of bile fascination was one of a professional gossip's most powerful weapons, and Annie has been raised by professional gossips.

"You know what?" she said, crossing her arms."You remind me of Naked Ted."

Hall frowned. "Tell me that's not a Joe."

"No, no, no. Ted was a guy I knew back home, years ago. Nice guy, decent-looking, about thirty-eight or so back then. Worked as an electrical engineer and all-around maintenance man; they said nobody could fix a short like Ted. But for some reason, he liked to walk around naked."

"You're gonna get to the fuckin' point, right?"

"So impatient!" Annie shook her head. "The point is, Naked Ted had a blind spot. He was smart, he was good at his job, but he just couldn't get it through his head that people didn't want to see his ding-a-ling. The result was an awful lot of arrests for indecent exposure—not to mention that this was all happening in the Midwest, and do you know how cold it gets there in winter? Kinda awkward all 'round."

The toxo-viper's expression was odd; he seemed weirdly interested despite his own best judgment. "So what happened to Naked Ted?"

"Frostbite."

On his ear, that is, but Annie didn't mention that part. The blood drained from Hall's face, and he crossed his legs instinctively, wincing at the mere thought of it. "You're kidding."

"Nope. The tip of it fell right off." It had given the ear an odd folded appearance, too. Hall looked like he was about to gag, and Annie took pity on him. "Your blind spot is Cobra, Mister Toxo-Viper. You might think it's just like robbing a bank or some other crime . . . and believe me, I know about crime, my family's been moonshining since the Civil War . . . but it gets you in way further over your head than you'd ever guess. And eventually, bits of you are going to start coming off. That's why you remind me of Naked Ted." She stepped forward again and lifted the plastic cover off the casserole dish. "Hot dog?"

The story itself was enough to weird Hall out slightly, but the sight of the hot dog casserole really sealed the deal. "Jesus," he said finally, gulping down a bit of nausea and glancing away from the greasy mess of meat and noodles. "You've got problems."

"Let's put it this way." She gave him her best customer-satisfaction-is-my-job smile. "I'm just the cook. You really, really want me to send down the actual fighters? Snake-Eyes is a lot less chatty than I am."

The color of his face said that he knew that name. Annie kept the smile on her face, flicking back one slightly overgrown lock of hair for maximum cheeriness and folksy down-home good will. Aha, she thought to herself. He didn't like having his bluff called.

"Okay, it's not that bad," he muttered, sniffing the plate again. Annie took pity on him and pulled a couple of Burger King ketchup packets out of the pockets of her BDUs.

"Bon appetit." Still smiling, she trotted on out of the room with a bit of a spring in her step. Hall had jumped on the packets like a starving dog.

Ketchup was a lousy foundation for a professional relationship—or a covert interrogation—but it was a start.