(A/N) Hey guys, time for your latest dose of Phase One: Genesis, this time featuring Agent South Dakota, written by Lili-Hunter, and irritable as always! Also introduces something I've wanted to unveil for a while now, so I think you'll all enjoy this one!
Still looking for Running Rampant writers (bit of alliteration for ya) so if you're interested, as I've said before, go to our forum or just message me. For those interested in RPing, our roleplay forum has been going from strength to strength, so head on down if you're interested and join the community.
Enjoy!
Chapter Seventy-Six - No Rest for the Wicked
Agent South Dakota
Written by Lili-Hunter
"The jealous are troublesome to others, and a torment to themselves." – William Penn
"Good morning, Agents."
South glanced up as the voice of F.I.L.S.S. spoke calmly through the speakers of the Freelancer Recreation Room. Several of the other Freelancers paused in their conversations, turning towards the source of the voice.
"'Morning, F.I.L.S.S.," York replied with a lazy grin. The tan Freelancer was stretched out across one of the couches, his helmet resting on the table before him. Carolina sat perched on the edge of the lounge, by his side. Her eyes were alert, forehead lightly creased.
"Thank you, Agent York." There was a slight pause in the A.I.'s announcement, alerting the assembled Freelancers to the fact that her message was aimed at all of them. "The Director has requested your presence in Classroom E. Please make your way there at once."
Minutes ago, South had been pacing up and down the Rec Room - despite the aching in her joints and the weariness crippling her mind, she was burning with the need to do something. She was like an adrenaline junkie craving her next fix. After the hard-fought battle against the damn Covenant, thoughts of inactivity were simply frustrating to entertain - but now she leapt towards the door.
"Wait - you mean all of the Freelancers?" Michigan spoke, a frown creasing her forehead as she glanced between her colleagues.
F.I.L.S.S. seemed to sigh, as though the A.I. had hoped not to answer that particular question. "Alaska will not be attending," she said firmly. Her tone discouraged further questions.
What had Michigan expected her to say? South rolled her eyes. God, the red Freelancer was probably in a straitjacket by now. From what she'd heard, Alaska had completely flipped out during the 'Covenant vs. Freelancer' violence. Something about seeing the MOI attacked.
Whatever. They'd already known he was crazy, right? What was one more mental breakdown under Alaska's belt?
Slowly, the assembled Freelancers got up and shuffled out of the room. They all moved awkwardly, lacking just a little of their usual grace. Some were nursing bullet wounds; others only bruises. South knew she should count herself lucky to be amongst the latter group - but as it was, she felt only contempt curling her upper lip as she noticed their painful movements.
A hand came down on her shoulder, and South turned to glance at her brother. His lips were creased in a gentle smile, which she attempted to return. It felt like the copy was a lot more botched than the original - leaning more towards a smirk, really - but North seemed to appreciate the effort.
The group walked quickly through the metal-lined halls, without much conversation to break the silence. They were all too tired, or too battered, to suffer through small talk. Carolina was heading the crowd – as per usual – with York trotting oh-so-faithfully by her side. Christ, it was like a devoted puppy following its master.
South noticed, with no small flash of pride, that the twisting hallways were no longer the maze they had once been. Even if Carolina hadn't been leading them, she thought she could have found her own way there. As it was, the assembled group was soon standing right outside the door. Carolina raised a gloved hand, pushing against the heavy metal. The door swung wide, and they moved slowly into the classroom.
Classroom E offered a clear view over one of the many training rooms; South glanced down, wondering if there was a reason the Director had called them here in particular. But the room below was empty, and so she shrugged the thought aside. Tables and benches were arranged in semi-circular, tiered platforms. The Director and the Counselor waited in the centre of the room, deep in their own discussion and seemingly uninterested in their arrival.
South slid into a seat on the second row from the front, setting her helmet on the table before her. She crossed her arms, impatient, as North sat beside her. York and Carolina were a row in front, and her brother leaned forward to exchange a few quiet words with his friend before the… whatever this was… began. South settled back into her seat, glancing behind her to see who sat there. Michigan met her gaze evenly, without saying a word, and after a long moment South's lip curled in contempt. She flipped her blonde hair in dismissal, facing forward once more.
South caught her brother's gaze as she turned. He half-raised an eyebrow, glancing between the pair. Instantly defensive, South shot him a 'mind-your-own-business' glare.
"Agents, please." The ever-calming, soft-spoken Counselor addressed them, finally. South broke her twin's gaze, leaning back and crossing her arms with a huff. The room had gone silent as the assembled Freelancers watched and waited for the man to continue.
But he didn't. Instead, the Director walked forward, slowly, with his hands clasped behind his back. Behind the grey glasses, his green eyes were bright and calculating. They ran over the Freelancers slowly, slightly narrowed in their inspection. It was a long minute before he spoke. "You are elite soldiers, the best of the best. Each of you, during your time within this program, has grown into the warriors I expected you to be. Now, I am fully aware that the clash with the Covenant" – several Agents flinched, while others nodded, smug – "was sudden, and unexpected. However, Project Freelancer held itself well. Despite some unforeseen complications" – South snickered quietly, wondering if Alaska's breakdown was classed as an 'unforeseen complication' – "you prevailed. Well done.
"However, I am also aware that it was a long and bloody fight." That received a few chuckles, and South heard York murmur; 'understatement.' "You are only men and women. It would have been inhuman to demand any more from you. And yet, that is exactly what I plan to do. Battles like that will not be uncommonly faced. Even so, there may be occasions where, were you as you are, you would be unable to prevail." Well, what the fuck did that mean? South scowled, knowing that the Director's slippery way with words was flying right over her head, and hating it. Would it kill him to speak a little clearer? "As such, I have made the arrangements for each of you to receive a little equipment of your own to help… even the balance."
The Dakotas exchanged equally confused glances, South's irritation with her brother fading to the back of her mind. Similar interactions were flashing between most of the Freelancers, and the Director waited for the excitement to die down.
"But first, I must make sure you fully understand the requirements of these equipment – and the responsibilities you would have to undertake. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Sir," the Freelancers chorused.
The Director's curled in what could easily be mistaken for a small smile. His hands clasped automatically behind his back, and he rocked slightly onto his heels as the Southern drawl slipped easily from his lips. "Very well. There are three classes of equipment; A, B, and C.
"Class C is armour equipment at its most basic – easily deployed and easily controlled. Agents with equipment categorized under this Class may use it in relative safety, without a direct link to the command server.
"However," the Director paused, perhaps double-checking that he still commanded their full attention. South leant forward, eager, though her gaze flickered amongst the tables crowded behind the Counselor. Small, bulky boxes were organized on their surfaces. "Class B Equipment is slightly more dangerous. It may be used without being linked to the command server – although not for an extended period of time."
Get on with it, South wanted to call. Excitement was starting to build in her stomach, now that she knew why they had been called here. A triumphant smirk was slowly stretching her lips as she imagined the equipment she'd be gifted with – though, really, she had no idea what to expect. Which, of course, just excited her more. And to be honest, she really didn't care how to use it – she could deal with those details later.
South fidgeted impatiently, her gloved fingers drumming against the table; a fact not missed by her twin brother. North brushed his hand against hers, a subtle 'calm down' kind of gesture. An indignant huff of air rolled past her lips as she pulled her hand back, crossing her arms in front of her chest, and letting the flash of irritation show on her face.
The Director continued, not having noticed the short and wordless conversation between the two Dakotas. South glowered at the back of Carolina's fiery head, her former good mood faded.
"Armour Equipment of Class A is highly dangerous, and should only ever be used with a direct link to the command server. Attempting to use Class A equipment without the support of another operative system could be devastating… and is therefore ill advised."
The words were uttered with the Director's normal Southern drawl, but the ominous undercurrent beneath the simple sentences sent a wave of dread rolling down South's spine. She refused to shudder, instead jutting her jaw forward in a show of defiance. Whatever. The attempt at intimidation – or whatever the hell that was, South wasn't falling for it – fell on arrogantly deaf ears. South snorted, flicking her hair almost contemptuously out of her eyes. The Director's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before moving on to the other Freelancers.
"Agent Carolina – please, come forward."
The redhead did so, her chin held high as she easily crossed the small distance. Green eyes shrewd, the Director nodded once before gesturing at the Counselor. The Project Freelancer official stepped back, retrieving one of the bulky boxes she'd noted earlier, and handed it to Carolina.
And so it began. South Dakota watched with narrowed eyes as, one by one, the Freelancers stepped up to take their new equipment. It was only as the Director summoned Virginia forward, that South realized he was moving down the ranks. Her lips spread in a breathless grin, her heart slamming against her ribcage as she watched Virginia reclaim her seat. Wyoming was next, the British sniper smirking at whatever label was attached to his equipment.
"Agent South Dakota."
She shoved past North, climbing easily to her feet. Her teeth were already flashing in a smirk as she accepted the armour equipment from the Counselor; knowing that it, whatever it was, would help her kick ass – and, keep climbing up the leaderboard.
South spun on her heel, throwing her shoulders back. Her gaze fell immediately on the bulky equipment, skimming through the label.
Equipment Class A, she read, triumphant – because obviously, the Director trusted her with more high-maintenance equipment. See? Trampling over Wyoming, Virginia, Pennsylvania, York – and hell, maybe even Carolina – to be top dog would be easy, right? She read on, her grey eyes following the curve of each letter: Domed Energy Shield.
There was a brief explanation below – babbling on about some kind of barrier that would deflect most projectiles – and South devoured it hungrily. Her lips were already curling, as plans of how she could use the shield to her advantage in a fight already ran through her mind. A small design was imprinted on the hard metal, probably symbolizing the ability of the equipment; a figure in an almost comical superhero pose, with their fist on the ground, as a semi-circular line – the dome, she thought – stretched around them.
South was almost too distracted to notice when her brother sat back down beside her. She pulled her eyes away from the box in her hands, peering at her twin's equipment. Domed Energy Shield, it read.
Her face fell, the smirk disappearing as though North had wiped it away. The equipment in her hands suddenly weighed much more. "Oh," she said, eyebrows drawn together, ignoring the sharp and sudden pinch beneath her breastbone.
"Hey, we got the same one," North observed, comparing the two boxes. She nodded once, not trusting herself to speak without standing up and demanding what the hell this was. As if! God, wasn't it enough that they shared practically the same name? The same coloured armour?
Yet, now they had to have the same fucking armour equipment, too. Well, that was just fucking fantastic.
North seemed to notice how she had gone quiet. He bumped his shoulder against hers, offering a sure smile. "This is so cool," he grinned. Her twin's attention flipped back to the equipment, and she could see the borderline-nerdy excitement burning in his sickeningly adoring gaze. "How do you think it works?"
South was too busy to reply, staring without seeing at the identical boxes for the identical twins. Her ears seemed to have shorted out – the room's babble oddly far away. She swallowed once against the hard lump in her throat. God, she was sick of this. Didn't the Director realize the Dakotas weren't actually the same fucking person?
"It attaches to the back of your armour," Carolina interrupted, throwing the comment over her shoulder. What the fuck? She'd been listening to them?
The weight behind her ribs dropped, falling to crash into her stomach. South bit back a snarl, ignoring the steady heat curling in her stomach. It pulsed in time with her heartbeat, seeming to knock painfully against her bones, and fueling the anger she felt swelling in her chest. As she leant forward though, her mouth opening to deliver a dark insult, she caught sight of Carolina's hands. They were cupped smoothly over not one, but two boxes of equipment.
"What the fuck?" South snapped, the expletive falling all too easily from her lips. North imitated her pose, glancing over Carolina's shoulders. "How come you get two?"
"I don't know," Carolina replied evenly. Her gaze didn't meet South's, and the blonde felt something in her stomach snap and snarl at the injustice. "I just do."
"What, like you just do get two states, as well?" The face that her name was Carolina, and not North or South Carolina had not escaped the female twin when they'd first met. She straightened a little, glancing at the man in front of them before looking back to Carolina. "Looks like the Director's playing favourites."
Her last words had been delivered with a cruel snap, her eyes narrowed. Bright green met storming grey as Carolina finally turned, matching her glowering gaze. "I'm sorry, South, but do you have a problem with that?"
The female Dakota pursed her lips, not bothering to hide her contempt. York was looking all too awkward, and he seemed to shoot her brother a sympathetic look. North's answering sigh was almost too much for his twin. "I don't know, Carolina, should I?"
Carolina faced forward once more, clearly fighting the urge to roll her eyes or reply with a snappy retort. South let out a bitter bark of laughter. "Bitch," she muttered, under her breath.
North had probably heard her, but he elected to ignore it for the sake of more comfortable conversation. "York," he began, "what'd you get?"
"A healing unit." The tan Freelancer pulled a face. "I don't know why… I mean, Massa's the medic..."
South glanced at the green and brown Freelancer in question, whom seemed just as confused with her equipment – whatever it was. Instead of asking, though, she directed her question towards Carolina, her tone doing a poor job of concealing just how much she wanted to choke the aquamarine Freelancer.
"What's yours, Carolina? We're all dying to hear what the number one's got up her sleeve."
Carolina also elected to ignore the way South was just begging for a fight. "A camouflage and speed unit," she replied smoothly.
"Huh," South said, before she could stop herself. "Well, that's exciting," she observed bluntly.
"Some of us don't need flashy abilities to come out on top in a fight," Carolina snapped in response. South would have grinned at her effort, if not for the fact that her comment had actually hit close to home.
"Whatever, Carolina," she snarled, unable to think of a response. She's just jealous, South's conscious offered feebly. She told it to shut the hell up.
"Agents, please." Instantly, the babble died down. Still fuming, South glared sullenly at the tables at the back of the room, avoiding the Director's – and her brother's – gaze. The tables were empty – what, no equipment for Alaska? South snorted at the thought. Ha! Like their resident psychopath was leaving his cage any time soon.
"Agent Carolina, if you would please make your way to the training room floor." The Director gestured towards his clearly-favourite-Freelancer, whom stood confidently. "I think a demonstration of your equipment is in order."
"Of course, Sir." Carolina swept out of the room, confidence oozing from her figure as she replaced her helmet. South watched her go with barely-veiled jealousy. Of course, let's all watch the fucking favourite kick ass. Not like he hasn't made us do that before.
At another word from the Director, the fifteen assembled Freelancers rose, and made their way to the glass window. For now, the training room was still empty. It wouldn't last long. South disappeared from her brother's side, instead choosing to stand between Georgia and Massa. The latter Freelancer glanced at her quizzically, before offering an uncertain smile. South returned it with a grimace.
South's purple and green helmet still dangled in her loose grip – now, she reached up and attached it to the rest of her suit. She shifted her weight to her left leg, clenching her hands around the windowsill. The other Freelancers made quiet conversation, waiting for the match to start, but none attempted to draw South into their small talk, her body language screaming; Don't talk to me!
With a sigh, South's chin dipped, her forehead coming to rest on the clear window; she kinda wished she could touch the cool glass. A migraine was beginning to pound between her temples. Absolutely fucking perfect.
