(A/N) So here we all are, ready for the Chapter One! I know you're all itching to get reading so I'm going to keep this short and sweet. Written by the amazing OhSoDeadly, and from the perspective of one of the most…mysterious of the Freelancers, we are proud to leave you with this insightful chapter. It's beginning to get real guys. You have no idea what we have in store for you! Stay tuned, same RvB-time, same RvB-channel.
Chapter One – Beneath the Mystery
Agent Florida
Written by OhSoDeadly
"There are those soldiers who were born to fight and kill, and there are those who got forced into it by circumstance. Some want to do it, others feel they have to. Me, I don't know where I stand-somewhere in the middle, I'd guess. But I'll tell you something: for the life of me, I still don't know what Florida's deal is. Sometimes I think he thinks it's all a big game of cowboys and Indians." - Agent North Dakota (extracts from personal logs made after going AWOL).
There wasn't much inside the D77H-TCI "Pelican" troop bay. Just two rows of seats, bathed in dim red light, a pair of emergency medkits on the walls, slots above the seats for holding weapons, D-rings on the floor for securing cargo, and one extremely annoying sign next to the little door that led to the cockpit. Do not engage the pilot in conversation while in flight/combat deployment. Penalties apply. Underneath the typed script, someone had added, in thick black marker, THE KIND WHERE I CUT OFF YOUR BALLS. Gosh. There was no call for that!
For the entire flight from Vedarris III, Butch had sat there in his seat, growing more and more antsy, staring at the sign as if he could make it disappear by sheer willpower. No dice, though. It stayed in place, and so did he. Waiting for this humdrum ride to end, and to reach their destination. He couldn't wait! Not just so he could give his legs the ol' workout and get the blood pumping, but to explore his soon-to-be home. The Mother of Invention. Just thinking the name sent goosebumps a-runnin' over his skin. What a mysterious name! Most of the ships he'd been on during the war had been pretty boring and uncreative, like the Relentless, or the Land of Fire, or-good heavens!-the All-Devouring Abyss. But this one sounded like all manner of top-secret and spine-tingling things were happening onboard. He wondered what it looked like. He wondered what its schematics were. He wondered if he'd be allowed to have a look around. He wondered-heck, he just plain wondered! But all he could do was sit there, waiting.
Project Freelancer...what a strange name. Freelancing what, exactly? Were they going to be soldiers for hire, going to help wherever they were needed? Who knew? Then again, the creepy-sounding black man who'd approached him about the project had said he would be part of a team, so that probably didn't work out. Freelancer. He tried the word out for size. "Freelancer. Hello, I am Butch Flowers, and I represent Project Freelancer." He chuckled at his impression of a shady and secretive special agent, and then stared guiltily at the cockpit. He hoped he wasn't disturbing the pilot with his rambling.
The pilot hadn't said anything to him, apart from the usual fare of "Taking off" and "Hang on" and so forth. He'd tried to be friendly upon meeting her (a woman pilot, he'd learned, was never in a good mood), even dropping his carefully packed duffle bag to shake her hand, but she'd just eyed him, chewing her gum inside her helmet, and motioned for him to get onboard. Honestly! What rudeness from what sounded like a young lady. Good manners didn't cost a nickel or a dime. If that had been one of his daughters, he'd have had no truck with that-
Darn it. He'd gone and done it again, thinking about the past. He stared down at the floor, jaw clenching, willing the bad memories to go back into that dark little corner of his mind he'd reserved for anything from his old life. After a minute or two, he was successful, and his gaze levelled out again, his cheerful smile once again in place. Not that there was anyone around to see it. He sighed, the plaintive noise filling the small space. Boooooooored!
His gaze wandered, and he noticed that a porthole window on the starboard side hadn't been closed properly. Outside, he saw the glimmers of stars. Fascinated, he unbuckled his seat, went to the little window, and stared out at the space around them.
Space. No matter how many times he saw it, he never got tired of it. So many stars, so many planets! Sure, of course there were nasty no-good aliens in it too, but that didn't mean the galaxy was a nasty no-good place. You always had to see the positives, or you were in for a bad time, every time!
He stood there for a while, just watching the cosmos slip by, until a squawk came over the speakers, and the pilot's voice filled the passenger bay. "Hey, new guy. Incoming transmission from the Director. Patching you in." A burp of static and she was gone.
In a little corner of blackness, a white square flared to life, then changed to blue. A TV screen he'd missed! His peepers just weren't what they used to be. On the screen, a man came into view. He looked a little older than Butch himself, had greying hair, spectacles, and faded green eyes. He wore what looked like a typical Navy officer uniform, only that it was grey. His hands were clasped behind his back, and when he spoke, it was in a Texas drawl. Butch tried not to laugh at the strange inflections, and tried to stand at attention. While sitting down. Haha! Good one.
"Flowers, correct?" Butch frowned internally. It had been phrased like a question, but it sure as shooting didn't sound like one. But he knew his duty, so he saluted and said, "Yes sir! Reporting for duty, sir! Happy to be here, sir!"
"I can see that. At ease." He was silent a moment, as he consulted something off-screen, then he refocused on Butch, eyes narrowed like an emerald laser beam. "Very well. Listen closely now, Flowers. This Project is designed to choose, from a wide pool of candidates selected from the military, the best and brightest. These chosen ones will form a specialised team of elite men and women, to be unleashed against the Covenant when the time is right. To aid in this endeavour, the UNSC has granted us special authority and equipment. However, we stand as an independent entity, subordinate to the UNSC, but virtually autonomous." He seemed to curl his lip at this last part a bit. "Previous identities will be discarded in the interest of team cohesion and camaraderie. Code-names will be utilised instead."
Butch struggled to contain his gasp of excitement. Code-names! Just like when he used to play "Superspy" with his buddies when he was just a tyke! This was so cool! "What will my code-name be, sir?" A thought struck him, and he spoke in a rush, "Do we get to choose our own?!"
"No." He deflated a bit. "We will be assigning code-names according to the geography of the United States of America, back on Earth. Yours will be...Florida. Do not reveal to anyone your actual name, or previous rank, or previous service history. Others will be instructed to do likewise. You are here to start anew, understood?"
Butch-no no, he corrected himself, Agent Florida-nodded fervently. "Abso-tively, sir! I don't think there's a better place to do it than here, sir! I'll be giving one hundred and ten percent, you can bet your bottom dollar on that!"
The Director seemed slightly distracted. "Indeed. The project is very...demanding. Be ready for anything." He glanced downward. "Your transport will arrive shortly. Please follow the other candidates when you arrive, and we will begin integration immediately. That is all. Over and out." The screen winked off.
No longer bored out of his brain, Agent Florida sat back in his seat, hands knotting together and rocking back and forth with glee. His new life was going to be a blast, he could tell!
