(A/N) Okay guys, I'm going to keep this short and sweet cos this chapter is enough of a behemoth as it is! Sorry for the delay, just getting the opening chapters of Phase Two sent out, and multiple other things, which resulted in the late update. Sorry about that.

Quick bump that we're still looking for Grifball writers, and for people to take part in our roleplay forum. If interested in either, please message me as soon as possible.

Without further ado, enjoy!


Chapter Seventy-Eight - Of Two Minds: Sound Check

Agent Georgia

Written by WargishBoromirFan


"When things are put into conjunction in a way never before seen... Yes... That is when one can truly glimpse the mechanics of the universe! [...] We want to see the unexpected! The strange and terrible! A dream merely soothes, but our nightmares make us run!" - Agatha Heterodyne, Girl Genius


The Counselor pulled a pair of dark wide-angle lenses from his pocket and the lighting in the training arena dimmed slightly as Arkansas entered the floor. The Director kept his eyes on the monitor, glasses once again reflecting blue. "All agents, please polarize your visors," the Counselor directed. Most of them did as they were told, if they hadn't already. Even York shrugged his helmet back on, under Carolina's supervision. Penn ran his hands over his face with numbed reflex, but when Florida attempted to hand him the dark blue Mark VI helmet, he pushed it violently away.

Then his face was filled with light. Georgia hadn't even turned to the observation window when Ark started his enhancement, but simply seeing the pupils of Penn's eyes suddenly shrink to pinpricks as the whole classroom burst into an even greater brightness made Georgia's mouth drop to the chin of his helmet. There hadn't been a boom to go with it yet, but Georgia knew enough physics to project supersonic explosives onto Ark's demonstration.

All Georgia heard by the time he'd turned back to the window was a faint crackle, more along the lines of firecrackers than a nuclear bomb. Slowly, his eyes adjusted and his heart went back to its usual tempo, as long as he didn't try to focus on Ark directly.

"Well, won't you be the event of the fifth," Wyoming said, shielding precious sniper vision behind his hand.

"Don'tcha mean the fourth?" Georgia asked.

"I think Ark could probably keep us in pyrotechnic displays from July Fourth through November Fifth," North compromised as he moved with them to the window, "with a special for May Day on the side."

"And you guys would go blind staring at all of it," South deadpanned from the back.

"Hey, it's important to recognize his flare techniques in case he has to signal us during a mission," her brother argued.

"Can't blame a man for wanting enlightenment," Cal added cheekily.

"Bunch of cavemen in space marine gear," South muttered, shaking her head at the lot of them.

Wyoming and Cal didn't even have to look at each other before grunting. "Fire good!"

"Not worth it," Virginia chuckled as Michigan twitched her fingers toward fists.

In the far corner, Florida still trying to protect his eyes with a raised hand, Penn slowly blinked.

Ark's flares went out all too soon, but it appeared that his suit hadn't caught on fire or overheated. He was sweating like an overworked horse and threw off his helmet as soon as he made it back up the stairs. "Whew, that thing almost killed my life support system, let alone the air conditioner. You guys may not want to stand downwind until I can hit the showers," he warned, fanning his face with the scout helmet. "How'd it look?"

Looking back on it, maybe Georgia should have at least depolarized his visor before lunging at him. "You are my best friend and the best roommate ever," he said as Ark instinctively swatted at the rib-condensing arms now wrapped around his shoulders. Georgia was no Maine, but California's jokes and the taller agents sometimes made people forget that Georgia might have been a five-ten geek, but he was an awfully strong jock of a geek. "You are going to let me try that sometime, right?" he asked as he backed off enough for Ark to steady himself.

"That bad, eh?" Arkansas ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, clasping Georgia's shoulder at arm's length.

"That badass," Cal corrected him, waltzing over to offer his own brand of congratulations. "You did cool, dude. I especially like how it brought the two of you close enough to admit your pretty in pink feelings."

"His is pink; mine's coral," Ark protested. Yeah, by this point, one had to just go balls-out if one wanted anything resembling dignity. "It's closer to orange."

"You would know the difference." Cal crossed his arms, head tilted condescendingly. While he hadn't dropped the gold from his visor yet, either, Georgia could practically feel the devilish glint in those blue eyes.

"Hey, neither of us wanted to see Sota naked," Georgia pointed out.

Minnesota just put his hands to his face, fingers reaching for pressure points through the helmet. "Leave me out of this," he groaned.

Over by the server, the Director cleared his throat. "Agent Maine?"

A gloved hand snapped smartly to the EVA fishbowl before Maine casually lifted California and Georgia by the scruff and set them on opposite sides of the door. "Behave," he rumbled, before patting Ark over to Georgia's side with a light half-congratulatory, half-warning swat, as if he were making his way through overexcited puppies.

Maine had hardly reached the training room floor before they began to rise. Not the pillars, which had been retracted since Virginia's run-through, but something that had been left out of the landscape since York's disastrous demonstration. The turret was joined by its twin on the other side of the training arena, and then a third equidistant along the ring, and then a fourth. "Activate shields, Agent Maine," the Director told him, and in the next stuttered heartbeat the barrels began to spin to life.

Maine pulled up thick arms to cross before his chest out of reflex, chin tilting inwards and knees bent and braced for impact. The air around his armour flickered white as his Overshield deflected hit after hit, but this was a man who would never feel the difference between a friendly slap on the back and the bullet that could end his life, so he met them all with the same preparation.

"You have your targets," the Director spoke from above. "Take them down."

Maine had no weapons with him, only the shield that could flicker out any minute under the unrelenting barrage coming from all sides. He sped toward the turret in front of him, only for the whole set to begin circling him. So far it was just at floor level, but as the jointed base unfolded itself higher and higher to compensate for Maine's approach, Georgia knew it was only a matter of time before the yaw turned into a tilt. Rather than just wait for the next turret in sequence to rotate to him, Maine chased down the first gun to fire at his face, grasping it by the base and heaving.

There was a shriek of metal as the whole track temporarily went into retrograde orbit, the metal base twisting as F.I.L.S.S. tried to turn the gun to fire almost straight below itself and Maine yanked its left stabilizer in the opposite direction, briefly giving the turret a bowlegged appearance before the hinge finally snapped. The gun wobbled, then fell, bullets fountaining upwards before the flow trickled to a stop.

The other three guns had never slowed their fire, leaving Maine covered in a crackling - fading? - layer of white feedback from his moving shield. He picked up the fallen gun and hurled it at the next one headed his way, sending the working turret spinning around its axis, firing wildly. At least a couple of bullets had to have hit the other two sheerly out of volume, but they kept spitting away. The turret advancing on Maine rocked limply on its base, no longer fully manoeuvrable. Then it jammed. That was when the circle began to tilt.

Maine wobbled as the gap in the floor widened, the already abused rings groaning slightly beneath their uneven load rising above him. As soon as he caught his balance, he was off and running towards one side, heading for the edge of the ring where it had emerged from the floor. F.I.L.S.S. began to rotate the arch around the centre of the floor to keep it out of Maine's reach, but the further the one half of the ring got from him, the closer the other came.

Maine chased after the first side just long enough to get the rotation to speed up, then rapidly turned and caught the trailing edge. Once that metal ring was in his hands it was only a matter of time. Maine wasn't strong enough to completely warp the track, but it protested and slowed as he grabbed hold, and then began to rock drunkenly through the air as he made his way up the deadliest set of monkey-bars Georgia had ever seen.

The Overshield had to be fading now, and the remaining turrets still pumped out bullets. The only plus side for Maine was that the wildly swinging guide rail kept them from aiming. Even so, as Maine worked his way up the semicircle to the next turret, only occasionally able to touch a steadying foot to the ground, Georgia could hear the big man say more in two minutes than he'd likely spoken in a month: "Fuckfuckfuckfuckingfuckfuck…" The rapid-fire stream of muttered curses was somewhere between a snarl and a whimper, but Maine kept his helmet facing the nearest gun and swung circularly until his foot made contact. It kept firing, delivering a few shots directly to his foot. Even with stinger rounds, that would leave a mark. Maine lashed out again, delivering another wild kick, and the turret finally shut off, leaving one more.

The ring began to rotate on its vertical axis, bringing the last gun overhead and Maine towards the ground. If Georgia didn't know better, he would have suspected that the big guy actually let out a sigh of relief as his feet made firm contact with the ground, but it was probably just his Overshield coming back online. Maine let go of the ring, picked up the scrapped unhinged turret, and threw it directly at its final working mate. He dusted his hands as it, too, finally shut off, his projectile landing behind him, and the ring retreated into the floor.

Penn wasn't the only one left speechless as Maine limped back up the stairs.

"Agent Florida, please report to the training room floor," F.I.L.S.S. piped cheerily into the silence.

"Well, here goes," Florida saluted them chirpily. "Keep an eye on Penn for me, will you, Wyoming? And let's get our triumphant returning hero a chair."

"No need to ask," Wyoming reassured him. "I shall see him safely through. Not that Penn is one to let a little thing like being killed slow him down anyway, what?"

Penn almost seemed to shake his head at that, but he still wore the abstracted expression of a man who'd left his higher cognitive functions out on the training room floor, two meters from the target spot. Maine eyed him half-speculatively through that unchanging golden globe as he walked over to his seat, his step uneven but proud.

Out on the floor, Florida seemed a little less sure of himself as the tank rolled out into the arena, its cannon turning towards the small Freelancer in blue. Florida didn't have a shield or a healing unit. He wasn't even equipped with grenades. It was one thing for Maine to take down four turrets barehanded, but Florida was in his fifties. He was Georgia's height. He was in good shape for his age, but this was a man who fought by cunning and experience, not brute force. There was no chance the Scorpion had been loaded up with lockdown paint, was there?

"Just make your way to the opposite end of the training facility," the Director said over the speakers. Florida nodded to himself, and then took one step towards the tank. It fired, no way to miss.

By the time Georgia finally exhaled, the pillars had begun to rise unevenly throughout the arena, setting up an ever-changing tank-wide course. Seemed poor form to give the driver a test just because Florida's was cut short.

And yet, incredibly, in the shelter of a slowly drifting pillar, there was a crouched figure in dark blue. The Scorpion tank pressed onward, its barrel turning to the right and lowering toward the surprisingly still-living man, firing again. This time, Georgia was paying enough attention to see that the exhaust beneath Florida was not the same as the blowback from the shell. Instead of being completely blown away by the cannon fire, Florida was rocketing forward under his own power via a series of thrusters along his legs and torso. It didn't make for great balance or extended chases like Carolina's speed unit, but any escape was better than ending up at the bottom of that crater, no matter how awkward the landing.

Rolling to his feet with spryness that would do credit to a man half his age, Florida sprinted as fast as he could under the cannon's long black gaze. The Scorpion's main weapon had a hell of a lot more stopping power than any single turret, but its rate of fire was a joke. Just not a very funny one when it hit you. It wouldn't have to be dead-on hit to kill, just close enough to send a body flying like a rag doll with all the rest of the debris. And until Florida got a little more control over his thrusters, every takeoff looked to be his last. He was evading fire, tumbling his way from pillar to pillar for cover, but the turret was unloading rounds like APRs were the new aging benefits. There seemed no way to get far enough away from the tank to be out of range, so perhaps it should have been no surprise when Florida rocketed his way towards the tank, hitting the hull with a bang loud enough to definitely rattle the gunner's teeth.

The big turret turned helplessly downward and shook as Florida scrabbled for better purchase, both man and Scorpion floundering like a one-armed man with a scorpion clinging to his elbow. Despite the tank's attempts to fling him away by moving six directions at once, Florida held tight as a tick, kicking into footholds along the fenders. He might yet find a way to turn this challenge to his own advantage if he could get the operator out of the way.

Apparently the guy in the Scorpion had figured this as well. There was a brief, wild spray of pistol fire through the open hatch, which Florida kissed the metal to avoid, but the oldest Freelancer refused to be removed so easily. Then, once the handgun ran out, the gunner attempted to dislodge Florida with a grenade. Which bounced once or twice before rolling to the left rear corner made by the Scorpion's turret and chassis.

Even Georgia could tell the dude had not thought this plan all the way through.

When Florida next rocketed away from the tank, he had someone else to absorb the impact of his landing. He had hardly waited for the Scorpion to go up in the inevitable fireball before he was up and dragging its unfortunate gunner along, the Freelancer's arm thrown steadyingly about the kid's shoulder. The gunner was looking awfully sheepish by the time Florida walked him all the way to the far end of the stadium and encouraged him to get himself checked out by a medic, especially that throwing arm he'd landed on. After all, there was nothing saying that Florida had to take the sim trooper down, but nothing saying he'd had to play superhero so soon after his own recent bout with the bad end of a grenade.

When Massa reported downstairs, the Director at last looked away from the server and the floor, stepping out from behind his console. "Cut off all direct incoming communications, F.I.L.S.S. Mute everything from the floor." He came to stand directly in front of the largest standing man, staring upwards into those blank eyes. "Agent Pennsylvania, you will put on that helmet or you be of no further use to the program."

Penn blinked mechanically once more, a slight tensing in his jaw-line the closest Georgia had seen him come to a verbal response since his exit from the training arena. When North tried again to hand the towering brunet his much-abused helmet, Penn took it in both hands, eyes still on the Director. Turning it slowly between those big meat hooks, he raised it to face level and paused, just for a moment. "Best be ready, mate," Wyoming murmured in tentative encouragement, not willing to try to make contact when Penn's psyche was currently so much more fragile than his muscles. Penn twisted it, raising it slightly higher. With his eyes still locked on the Director, he slowly lowered the helmet into place.

"You should perhaps consider your own protection, Director," the Counselor spoke from back near the observation window. While he'd removed the polarized lenses, Georgia noted the faintest hint of neon orange about his ear canals - the sort of fashionable plugs newbies with more style sense than common sense used for hearing protection at the gun range and the more paranoid or aloof wore beneath their earmuffs to insure that they might not be able to hear in the middle of practice, but they'd certainly be able to hear you later once the shrapnel was removed. Georgia supposed there was nothing wrong with the little foam plugs… if one could ever get them to stay in an ear. That pill-rod shape was for sliding down one's throat, not stuffing up an ear canal.

"It is under control, Counselor," was all the Director offered him. "Agents, step away from the glass." Those glasses had turned straight to Georgia. "Send them in, F.I.L.S.S."

Out on the floor, Georgia could make out the sight of a lot of figures swarming in on Massa - he couldn't tell exactly how many from this angle, but everyone he could see appeared to be armed. "Whenever you are ready, Agent Massachusetts," the Director spoke into the one-way channel.

Massa seemed to nod once, despite the soldiers closing in on her, some of them even pulling out guns as she stood there without a weapon in sight, hands at her sides, and then the sound hit the glass. It cracked under the force of the shockwave. And the sound continued. This wasn't Penn's scream of mortal pain, or even fear - there was something joyous and defiant in that yell, an old rebel war-cry heard halfway 'round the world and translated by a land where all the non-dangerous animals were traditionally listed as "a few of the sheep." Even the Director flinched at that, and he'd been ready for it. As the echoes died down, Georgia risked a step closer to the spider-webbed window and checked the floor. Massa was the only one left standing, the grunts collapsed or flailing as they attempted to feel their abused ears.

"Whoo!" Massa sent one or two that had begun to root for their weapons straight back to the floor. "That was a rush!"

"You can shut it off now, Agent Massachusetts," the Director said through gritted teeth as the bulletproof glass fractured further. She nodded and waved sheepishly when she realized that no one in the immediate area was liable to hear her reply. "Someone get the sim troopers out of there."

Massa was heading for the stairs by the time the other medics arrived to drag the deafened troopers from the floor, but she looked back as she entered and not just to the broken glass. "I was - The enhancement worked great," the breathless glee in her voice deflated like an old balloon. "It really knocked them out."

"You're not going to get invited to karaoke parties anymore, with that set of pipes," California teased her. "Nobody else'll want to sing after you."

"Hey, now it's still more than worth it if you know any Blindslayer," York argued from his seat. While he was still pale in the patches showing through the damaged under-armour and remaining fairly quiet in the back corner, away from the best view of the action, even with Carolina electing herself his chief medical observer, York was still indomitably good-spirited. "You've got the perfect voice for heavy metal." Massa tried to resume her faltering smile, but it seemed to crack like the windows as the last of the simulation troopers were dragged off to the medical bay.

Georgia slapped her back as he headed out for his own experiment, though she still appeared preoccupied - out on the floor, she had been the untameable fury, but when the quiet set in, so did second thoughts.

Eh, it was nothing they couldn't fix.

"Agent Georgia, bring the turrets back on line," the Director's voice came through the speaker above as the engineer hit the arena, "and see what you can do about the viewing windows," he added as if in an afterthought. Georgia could still see a small figure in paler green up front through the cracked glass.

"You have any of those incendiary rounds left?" One ruined barrel still lay dented on the training room floor where Maine had ripped it from its moorings and twice used it as a projectile. The other three hung flaccidly in their positions, scraping against the gaps as they rose into the ring. Normally Georgia could spend hours fussing over just one of them as he went through the delicate process of repair and realignment, but there was a time for modifying a gun to its best capacities and there was a time to just get it shooting. This sounded like a shooting job.

"There's also double-sided insulation for the observation classroom windows." There was that slightly tinny voice again, as from Wyoming's demonstration. Georgia didn't know if the other agents could hear it up there, but it was such a balm to the cockles of one's exothermic heart to have someone follow helpfully right along one's train of thought. "Five centimetre thick titanium lining; I can have it up in approximately three minutes."

"Plenty of time to show off first," Georgia decided, lifting the stray turret back into position. As far as the position was still there. While the bowlegged base wouldn't be up for many turns and spins in its current state, it'd hold for a short burst on a fixed target. While most of the preliminary work could be accomplished with just a simple hammer, wrench, and welding torch, it hardly offered as interesting a show as breaking the guns had.

Well, no sense in holding back; Georgia was here to test out his enhancement, and he might as well start with a little overdrive on the torch. The butane flame popped up hot and blue beneath the slightest turn of his thumb from the travel-size welder, looking nearly as good as its more massive alternative hooked up to the gas line hung over the workbench.

While no one except possibly Ark - having been subject to an extended discourse or two on the importance of having a really good spot-welding bench set up in their room and rearing for action at three in the morning - would appreciate the difference as much as Georgia's smile as he flipped the flame around his fingers to get a better feel for its temperature, Georgia had to admit that he was impressed by his new toy. The turret melded back to its base like warm butter into dough, and a few good hits had both legs pointed more or less in the direction of the windows. He went on to tighten up the connections on the other three guns, getting them turned right and applying a little extra juice as he went along the belt feeders, making sure the breaches were unjammed.

"All right," he said, offering the loosest gun one last good hit. "Raise the blast shields and let's get this puppy rolling!" All right, so his test had been pretty low-key, so far. A good warm-up couldn't be rushed, when tensions were building up for a proper climax.

"Send them in, F.I.L.S.S." The doors opened, and there was no longer only one beat-up remainder of a flipped Scorpion for Georgia to move around. These babies might be taken out by a turret gun, but not just any old short, unsteady burst.

And they were heading for Georgia and his newly reassembled guns.

"I did try to give you a little extra lead time," the tinny Midwest voice added as the blast lining slid over the windows. "But hey, the turrets are at least marginally operational."

"It's all right," Georgia said, twisting the turret around its base to meet the first oncoming tank. "There's five of 'em. If we tease the tin cans a bit, we might be able to finish the windows before the rest of the gang misses the show." He grinned ferally as the first tank aimed straight at him. There was no running, only the turret in his hands and the enhancement coursing through his fingers. "Fire everything you got."

The Scorpion shell launched first, the turret spinning entirely too slowly into action. Georgia applied as much power as he dared, willing it to hurry up with the force of his gauntlets on the gun base and the chuckle bubbling up its way up to a whoop as the rounds met in the air.

He got knocked back on his ass from the force of it, but the turrets kept firing and at least the first tank was stopped dead in its tracks, forcing the others to spread out and attempt to serpentine to avoid any further direct fire. "Get 'em all going," Georgia directed the server, picking himself up and dodging fire. "Keep strafing from all sides. Actually, turn the eastern one on the windows and make sure it's pumping incendiaries. The guys're hollerin' 'cause they're missing the show."

He heard thumping against the barrier from the other side as he narrowed in on the closest turret to the window to add more power; he even half-suspected that Massa had used her augmentation on the observation deck when he heard his name being called from above. "'Sall right! I'll have these down in a jiffy!" he shouted back.

Another tank pushed past the three strafing turrets, attempting a clumsy pincher movement. If they could surround the fire-spitters, the Scorpions could flatten them. And Georgia, for that matter, but first that required catching him. While his enhancement didn't do too much for is speed like Carolina's or Florida's, he at least had more pickup than the tanks. The explosions weren't necessarily doing anything for his balance, either, but Georgia weaved and staggered and ran as fast as he could to keep the air filled with a net of protective covering fire. As long as those supercharged bullets took the Scorpion shells, Georgia wouldn't have to. Directly.

He did his best to keep the turrets turning, but fixed positions, even with a gun to every tank, wasn't going to wear them down fast enough. "All right, let off on the blast shield and let's start this carnival," he directed the enhancement server as he brought one gun to bear on the nearest tank's tread. The barrel was spinning so fast that he could feel the heat through his armour. Still, it was only a horizontal spin around the central shaft and one destroyed tread did not mean that it'd stop shooting. If Georgia really wanted these tanks down before they crushed him and the turrets under tread and shot the remains all to hell, he needed to have his guns moving more than the crippled Scorpion. "Can you spin this lazy Susan?"

"The turrets may not come with the tracks," the server warned him. They were pretty loose on their bases, still fragile in the rough welding job he'd kludged together.

"Eh, try it anyway." Worst that happened was that the blast shields came down to reveal him cursing at a busted turret, running after the base with what was left of the melting barrel as a tank ran him over, but as long as he died with a wrench in hand, embarrassing, but close enough.

The rings squealed as they turned, the mechanisms left without maintenance since their encounter with Maine. The southernmost turret wobbled threateningly as it led its shots at one of the three moving Scorpions, and Georgia ran to steady it. A little extra power had the barrels firing red and steady, crippling a second tank out of commission. Georgia grinned and risked a look up to the re-revealed viewing platform - the windows were streaked with bubbles and a few cracks lingered in the warped plexiglass, but he saw at least a few familiar forms distorted behind it.

He waved, and then got back to business. One well-aimed burst took out the cannon of the unmoving Scorpion, and that left him down to two. With the six barrels of the turret he'd been following around the longest starting to take on a distinctly saggy look, Georgia let that one go and concentrated his enhancement upon the next one in the series, twisting the gun one way and then the other as the two remaining tanks attempted to squeeze him between them. The abused metal didn't creak so much as scream, but it got the job done, leaving the Sim gunners running for their lives.

Blowing smoke from the barrels was like blowing out birthday candles. He resisted the urge to run around to all four with his helmet off. Barely.

"Well, they still need work, but I guess I oughta give Sota a turn out on the dance floor," Georgia said, patting the overworked turret fondly.

"That will do for now, Agent Georgia," the Director's drawl floated down from the speakers.

"Dude, I don't know exactly what you're compensating for, but damn, consider it compensated, o short nerd boy in pink," Cal saluted him as Georgia bounded up the stairs and into the classroom.

"Can't wait to see what you pull off, then," Arkansas shot back at California, waving over his roommate. "Have a seat, man."

Honestly, Georgia was too hyped up to sit down now, but he walked over towards Ark, anyway. He kind of understood where Carolina was coming from, when she'd said she'd felt like she could do anything while hooked into that server. "So how'd it look from up here?" he asked, his gaze bouncing around the room.

"You suck at windows," York told him honestly, "but we could see the guns blazing, anyway." There was just enough of a smile in his voice to push back any lingering guilt - he hadn't turned them on York, after all, and the man in tan'd be fine. Penn… well, Penn had gotten in a pretty good bang, at least, and was still standing, helmet on now. If his gaze was still focussed on the nearest star across the other side of the ship, he at least seemed to respond to the Director.

"Agent Minnesota, you are prepared for your test?" Speaking of the man himself…

Sota saluted as he walked to the stairwell. "Let us see how much power Georgia left in those cannons," the Director spoke, leaning over the server monitor once more.

There should have been plenty; the barrels still glowed dully from rising heat as Sota walked into the ring. Sota appeared to give the Director a slight nod, but hardly waited for a go-ahead before applying his own armour ability to the nearest turret, not sure what they'd send in after him.

There was a crackling hiss as the gun powered down, drooping like a wilted snapdragon under Sota's hand. The base sagged and shuddered, its abused hinges sinking into a close. The turret across from it began to rise and turn with a creak, and Minnesota ran like mad for the nearest pock-holed tank, which would offer him stronger, if rather uneven, shielding and stood closer than any of the other turrets. Rather than just crouch behind it, which would offer the best protection, Sota hopped into the open cockpit, ducking down under the seat.

"What's he trying to do, hotwire it?" Georgia put a hand to the bubbled glass. "There ain't enough engine to start her up."

California, eager for his own upcoming demonstration, leaned against the doorframe in the rear of the classroom, though his gaze was as firmly fixed upon the scene out on the floor as Georgia's was. "You're telling me that you're giving up on a motor? I didn't think it'd been blown that far to hell."

"Needs some replacement parts, is all," Georgia qualified. Like the better half of a Scorpion. Still, he figured he could reassemble at least one or two tanks out of the six wrecks out on the floor.

"Apparently Sota didn't want to give it up, either," North said, leaning with his forearms over a chair-back. "Never thought the guy would have a gear-head streak."

Whatever Sota was doing beneath the dashboard, it certainly wasn't getting the busted tank moving under fire. There were a couple stray sparks, only audible over the gunfire if one knew what to listen for, and then the ruined Scorpion seemed to sink further into itself, inching backwards under the onslaught of the turret. When Sota dared raise anything above the line of fire, the first thing to come above the canopy was an open hand.

The electrical discharge was as random as a lightning storm, jumping from tank to dead turret to spent shell casing to another broken hull, not quite making it all the way to the spinning gun. Instead of thanking his lucky stars that the shockwave hadn't grounded via the semi-fluid meatsack it had originated around, Sota cursed and rolled out of the tank, running serpentine for the next available power source. He might make a gear-head proud, yet.

This time Sota didn't just stop at draining one gun and what was little was left in a tank. The second turret not only sank under his hand, but brought the entire ring to shuddering as he kept pulling at the power. The turret opposite from it, already in bad condition, never had a chance to turn on. The firing turret turned to strafe him as he ran, but the longer Sota knelt behind the stopped gun, drawing power from the base, the slower those six barrels turned, eventually rolling to a halting droop.

Then the lights in the arena flickered.

"Agent Minnesota has absorbed enough power to risk overloading his suit," F.I.L.S.S.'s voice piped in from the speakers. "I have taken the liberty of cutting off the electrical supply to the turret system before he drains enough power to compromise the ship's primary power lines."

This seemed to not only irritate Sota out on the floor, but Georgia could have sworn that he heard an irascible grumbling series of beeps and dial tones from the enhancement server as well. The Freelancer in white and grey ended his test with a quite spectacular release of the siphoned electricity - which completely overloaded the lights, sending bulbs shattering to the training grounds below.

"Agent California, please report to the training room floor," F.I.L.S.S. called serenely as Minnesota stomped up the staircase.

"Leave a little glory for the rest of us," Cal said, giving his roommate a friendly slap on the back as they passed. Sota grunted in acknowledgement, but waved the others away, not appearing to give much concern for anything but claiming a seat and staring at the broken lights above the training room unbendingly, accusatively.

"Good job out there," Florida offered, unfazed by the bitter silence Minnesota pulled around himself like an extra layer of white and grey armour.

The lanky younger man shrugged him off. "Could have done more," he muttered behind crossed arms.

Massa turned, her hand still on the bubbled glass, her eyes looking past Sota to the giant in dark blue still staring into the great beyond, all but deaf to the conversation around him. "We're just glad you can."

Out on the floor, Cal crunched his way through the dim glow of the emergency track lighting that lined the tops of the walls. It was made of tougher stuff than the overhead bulbs, but the wattage left a good deal to be desired, especially in the wake of Ark's test.

"Let's get this party started," California called out, though in truth, the training floor looked more like the aftermath of a really wild party than the start of one. In the weak reddish lighting, it was hard to see the walls rising through the mess until one could differentiate the clatter of spent shells, fragmented debris, and glass pushed out of the way from the background hum of Cal's pacing out on the floor and the other agents' uneven commentary above.

They were noticeable by the time the rumbling walls shot up to box California in.

"We will keep this relatively simple," the Director said, hands clasped behind his back. The Counselor, at least, relaxed his shoulders at that, but Mich was still holding herself entirely too still for as excited as she'd seemed about trying out her enhancement earlier. Wasn't like there had been a particular pattern to the difficulty curve; just because they might be taking it relatively easy on Cal didn't mean that her test would be any harder- or easier, for that matter. "Find your way out of the box, Agent California."

With that, a pillar from the ceiling dropped neatly into place, cutting off any direct view of Cal. It was hard to tell just how far down it had gone, but at least the only crunching Georgia had heard was more in the range of boots on broken glass, not bone or armour against concrete pillar. California might have gone down on a knee or two, but there wasn't enough room for him to have been shoved down any further than that.

"He'll be okay," Massa murmured, sounding as if she were trying to reassure herself as much as Michigan. "He's okay."

A white-clad fist emerged from the solid slab of concrete - not drilling, not even breaking through, just coming out of the rock as if it were no more than air. "Yeah, I'd say he's good," Virginia added as a leg followed.

Then Cal's foot went through the floor.

Cal stumbled forward, forcing his head out of the wall as quickly as possible and regaining his own solid state about the time his knee sank into the ground below him, holding his phased lower body up by his hands. "Shit," he muttered, tugging himself upward. The concrete threatened to come with his knee. Or vice versa.

"He has accomplished getting out of the box," Wyoming observed dryly.

"How am I even sinking?" Cal complained as he attempted to phase only his lower body and drag himself up by his hands. Swinging up into a roll, California tumbled to a stand, dusting off his armour with a vigour born of uncertainty as to whether or not his hands would pass through his knees. "Better try that again." With no urging from the Director, he headed back through the wall.

The pillar completing the closest side of the box lowered, offering those on the observation deck some view into California's progress. Once again, Cal started fist first, as if feeling out his way through solid matter. The pillar was too wide for him to touch the other side without sticking his helmet through, much less get his hand out of the wall without a step, so Cal took a visibly deep breath before plunging inwards, better controlling his balance this time as he kicked all the way through, phasing back to solid and more easily visible state starting with the foot landing on the ground. It stayed on the ground this time, instead of in it, but California was quick to work the rest of his body out of the wall, his exhale coming out in a shaky cough. "Okay, claustrophobia isn't my problem," he muttered to himself, studying the pillar he'd stepped through twice. "No such thing as too tight spaces when I can walk right out… As long as there's air on the other side…"

He still seemed very focussed on his hands running along the walls when the Counselor called him up from the testing facilities, steadying himself with all the confidence of a drunk with vertigo.

"Not bad," Wyoming spoke from his position near Florida, well on the other side from Penn. "Though it certainly makes it harder to knock when one's hand is already through the door."

"Indeed," Cal muttered, the pull of his lips somewhere between sheepish grin and feral grimace. Mich put her hand on his arm, and it didn't sink through.

"Agent Michigan, please report to the training room floor," F.I.L.S.S. called out, and the little blonde Freelancer reluctantly released California's arm and headed down the stairs. Cal himself made his way over to Sota's seat, not appearing to expect any acknowledgement from the seated, staring man beyond a grunt as his fist made gentle but completely solid contact with the grey shoulder pauldron. Together, they watched as Mich walked to the centre of the floor, two sim troopers mirroring her entrance from the opposite end of the arena.

The enemy troopers lifted their weapons, and Mich sprinted off in two directions. Unlike the tank Florida had gone up against, this hardly consisted of flailing in place. Michigan had run off toward the west side of the arena at the same time she'd skittered east, two identical lavender-clad soldiers mirroring each other as the sim troopers paused in confusion.

"We sure she hasn't been playing around with your enhancement, Wyoming?" Virginia asked her fellow sniper. Out on the floor, the nonplussed troopers finally shot off an investigative round or eight and the east-side Mich vanished from view with a glitching flash, only to flicker back into view as Michigan split and serpentined again.

"That's all her hologram," the Brit replied, shaking his head. "Though it's high time she did something about those troopers if she wants to keep using it."

The two sim soldiers split up, one of them pursuing the image that had hung left and run towards the nearest wrecked tank; the other following the possible hologram that tailed it straight back the way she'd come. "At least she's managed to separate them for easy pickings," South observed from the back. "If she can't avoid one useless idiot with a pistol, the bottom of the board's the least of her worries."

"Oh ye of little faith," Cal muttered. "You want a bet on how quickly she takes them down or would you rather I kicked your ass here and now?"

"Agents," the Counselor cut in before South could rile Cal up enough to abandon his spot next to Sota in the front row, but North was headed her direction anyway.

One of the sim troopers out on the floor got a surprise when the hologram disappeared. The other got a surprise when it didn't. Mich had shaken her remaining pursuer for the moment, and took the breathing space to crouch behind a different tank. Or, from the trooper's point of view, two tanks at once.

The simulation soldier approached the closer of the two hidden figures cautiously, emptying the rest of her clip and reloading before coming into certain hitting range. The lavender-armoured figure flashed out of existence, and Michigan ran for the fallen Sim trooper's gun.

"Someone's been taking lessons from Sota," York murmured, and Virginia moved to stand a little closer to her roommate. Carolina's eyes narrowed beneath her visor, silent and judging as the Director. In the front row, Minnesota twitched beneath her gaze, tapping fingers against his leg, though his eyes remained on the arena below.

The hapless remaining Sim soldier spent another burst trying to drive the Freelancer away from her downed teammate and the free gun.

Once again, Mich vanished from sight, revealing her current most likely true location behind some shrapnel much closer to her opponent's current location. This time, as Michigan ran out, the Sim trooper concentrated her fire on the last place Mich had hidden, instead.

Big mistake.

"Not too bad," Carolina spoke from the back as Mich dusted off her hands and walked away from the second trooper she'd put into armour-lock in twenty minutes. "I'd say that at least some of these enhancements will prove useful, wouldn't you, sir?" she asked the still silent Director as Michigan made her way up the stairs.

The leader of Project Freelancer looked over the assembled agents and then back down at the monitor. "We shall see. All too soon, we shall see." He closed the program he'd been running during the tests and turned to dismiss them as Mich walked in.

"Today's tests have given us quite a bit of information to compile," the Counselor attempted to fill the silence. "But overall, your results look very promising. Just try to restrain any urges to use the enhancements outside of the proper parameters, especially those agents with Class A or B equipment." Which included Georgia's Overdrive, unfortunately. Who knew if the server would be available during downtime? "As long as protocol is followed, these enhancements should provide a lifesaving advantage in the field. You will get more practice with them soon enough. Dismissed." The Counselor turned and headed out of the observation room, and Georgia realized that he hadn't even seen the Director leave.

"Everyone is going to the med bay, now," Massa informed them, trading bullish stares with Maine. The seated giant stood as if to saunter over and prove that he needed no such visit, but his injured foot made a liar out of him and Massa offered him a braced arm to catch himself against. She nearly stumbled under his weight herself, but North was there at Maine's other side and Carolina and York were already headed that direction.

"Wouldn't hurt to get a regular old check-up," Florida added as balm against the biggest man's hurt pride - probably a worse injury than anything the turrets had inflicted. "Worst that happens is they give us some antibiotics and tell you to stay off that foot. Come on, Penn, let's get you looked at, too." He slapped a hand companionably to the still-dazed giant's elbow.

"Have a jelly baby." Wyoming held an open paper bag out to Penn, and slowly, mechanically, the big hand reached inside and pulled out a green one. "You'll feel better once you eat."

The helmet wasn't removed with nearly as much force this time, but Penn did inhale what looked like its entire volume in air once he'd stripped it off, eyes slowly coming to focus on the gummy sticking to his fingers. Then he popped it in his mouth, chewing like a ruminant in more than one sense of the term. "That was fucked up." The baritone was hoarse and quiet, but Penn finally seemed to have come back to himself.

"Indubitably." Bag in hand, Wyoming blinked out in front of their eyes. When Georgia blinked, stared at Penn, received a threateningly raised eyebrow for his trouble, blinked again, and looked away, he saw the British sniper further down the hall, discussing the new enhancements with Cal and Sota.

Georgia was gonna go eat something.