(A/N) Hey guys, time for your latest dose of Phase One: Genesis, and somehow I'm managing to get this up on time yet again. Think I might have broken out of my late streak! Thankfully, my college course is light on lecture hours, but jam-packed with texts to read, so I've been spending a lot of time in the library of late, both reading and managing to keep up with events here. This here chapter was written by me, so I'm not going to wax lyrical about it like I usually do, just say that I hope you guys all enjoy this, and that I had a blast writing it! It's going to be heart wrenching, handing the Brit over to Xehanorto for Phase Two, but sadly I've got to lighten my load somehow. Gonna miss the old chap!

So, as I've mentioned at each update, and you're no doubt sick of hearing, we're still looking for Carolina applications, so if you're interested please PM for the prompts and I'll send them off to you as soon as I can. This is pretty much going to be the last call, as I'll be announcing the accepted writer on our forum on the 7th of October, 2013, five days from now. So really, message me ASAP if you're interested.

Enjoy!


Chapter Ninety-Seven – Who Do You Trust

Agent Wyoming

Written by NicKenny


"In this world, there was nothing scarier than trusting someone. But there was also nothing more rewarding." ― Brad Meltzer, The Inner Circle


Six days after the destruction of Triestina, Wyoming entered one of the mess halls, seeking some company after hours upon hours of the solitude of target practice, only finishing when he realised that his exhaustion was throwing off his aim. The corridors of the MoI were cold and silent, almost unnaturally so, as if the ship had somehow picked up on the moods of the majority of its crew, and sought to reflect their sadness and regret.

Having been walking without any real destination in mind, Wyoming had stopped in his tracks upon hearing the faints sounds of laughter, grabbing him as it rang through the metal corridors like a ghost of the past, and he followed it without hesitation to its source, discovering, to his surprise, several Freelancers sitting around, cracking jokes.

However, as he made his way to a seat next to Florida, the small blue agent beaming at him and gesturing at the seat beside him, he couldn't help notice how haggard his colleagues looked, tired and haunted by the recent events, although they did their best to drive off the heavy atmosphere with jokes and slightly forced laughter, not quite regaining the spirit of the past.

Wyoming shook his head, vanquishing his morbid thoughts, and tuned into the conversation as he sat down with a satisfied sigh, taking his weight off his feet and finally feeling a bit more relaxed than he had all day. Cal was cracking jokes as usual, and Wyoming smiled slightly as he realised the focus of the conversation, memories of the hundreds of previous nights spent like this already flooding back to him.

"Seriously though," Cal replied, smirking. "Why'd she go with Massa? I mean, Mass just sounds so much more badass and intimidating!"

He got a couple of chuckles from Michigan, Minnesota and Georgia, but York was already shaking his head in despair. "Man, you give a lady a name which is even slightly connected with weight, and you're going to regret it. Especially when the woman in question is a hardened super-soldier!"

"Speaking from experience?" Ark asked, half-jokingly, from his spot in the corner of the room, which caused York to blush slightly and look away, grimacing.

"She threw him through a window," Wyoming explained, grinning, causing the room to fill with laughter as York glared at him. Wyoming just gave an apologetic shrug to his roommate, forcing his features into an expression of contrite sorrow, although he could only maintain this for a moment before breaking into a grin once more.

The room fell quiet after the laughter ended, and Wyoming felt, once more, all too aware of the gulf that had appeared between them after the events of the last few days. Cal, Mich and Sota soon left, citing their need to train as their excuse, and the remaining agents fell into an awkward silence, not quite meeting each other's eyes as they made some feeble attempts to continue their conversation.

Ark left a few minutes later, complaining of a headache, saying that he was going to look for a medic and get some painkillers. Georgia looked a little awkward, left on his own, then made a little joke about Ark probably getting lost without someone to guide him, and went out to look for him, disappearing from their circle.

Wyoming just nodded, not really having anything to say, wondering at how the atmosphere of comradery and fellowship had just disappeared between the Freelancers, although, given recent events, he supposed that it wasn't all that surprising. Things had changed between the Freelancers over the last few days, and he doubted whether it'd ever be entirely the same again.

Personally, he had been unaffected by the whole event, but then again, no one could live the life he had lived and retain even a scrap of conscience. The Director had given the order, the deed was carried out, it was over. Superiors were there to be obeyed, not questioned or argued with. After all, they were fighting a bloody war. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. If he didn't believe that, if he didn't cling to that notion, then he would lose himself. The good of the many is to be placed above the good of the few.

The ends justified the means, as the saying went.

Carolina, Arkansas, North, York, Massa, Florida…hell, even Maine hadn't felt the same way, and he could understand that, he could tolerate that, but he still thought that they were idiots, blind to the realities of war.

Wyoming sighed to himself, drawing a concerned look from Florida, but his friend, indeed, his only friend, remained quiet, no doubt troubled by worries of his own.

"So it's come to this, eh?" he asked slowly, looking at the few remaining Freelancers in the room – Florida, York, Penn and Maine – none of whom had showed any inclination to reply, causing him to sigh again, nod to himself, and get up and leave the room without a goodbye, just eager to be somewhere else, were the weight of everyone's thoughts weren't weighing him down.

He eventually returned to the spot where he had found Massa and Maine arguing only a few weeks ago, but so much had happened since then – not even the MAC blast, but the Covenant attack, their armour abilities, the blockade of Byzantium – that he could scarcely believe it. He could understand why some of the other Freelancers were complaining of fatigue, hell, he felt exactly the same way! They had spent so much time fighting that he could barely remember a time when someone wasn't nursing an injury, when he could sleep without hearing the screams of the injured and dying in his dreams, when he could look in the mirror without seeing the bags underneath his puffy, expressionless eyes.

Oh, he understood all right.

However, Wyoming was a soldier, through and through. If anything, his time in Project Freelancer had dulled his abilities, not strengthened them. The feeling of invincibility that had run through the team, except for those brief, jarring moments when a teammate got injured, had turned him softer, dulled his edges and weakened him.

The man who he had been before wouldn't have cared about his teammates, providing that the mission was completed, nor would he have abandoned his post after Florida had been shot, rushing to his friend's side and demanding a medic, no matter how bad the injury. Before, he wouldn't have cared.

Now…now his team meant something to him. Not a lot, admittedly, he wouldn't put his own life on the line for another's, and never would…but the atmosphere on the ship lately…it worried him. He was afraid that something would happen to his team, and yet, at the same time, he knew he shouldn't care. That this sort of emotion was only making him vulnerable, and he had long ago learned not to show any signs of vulnerability.

Without many friends on the ship, and certainly none that he could approach with this sort of thing, there was only one person left to talk to, as much as he was loathe to do so.

However, he had no one else to turn to.


Striding up to the door belonging to the man he was looking for, and giving an amused look at the pair of guards who attempted to block his way, before they realised that perhaps this was a battle that they were not prepared for, he raised his hand and wrapped his knuckles smartly off of the smooth metal surface.

"Knock-knock."

The door whoosed open before him, and he walked in slowly, giving a mocking salute to the two guards, his eyes narrowed slightly as he took in his surrounding. The décor was a bit...shrink-chic for him, almost a cliché, but he quickly ending that train of thought, the multiple French words offending his patriotism. He focused on the man in front of him, sitting down at his desk, his fingers steepled, and Wyoming wondered why on earth he had thought this would be a good idea.

"Hello, Agent Wyoming. I must say that it's a pleasure to see you here outside of your scheduled weekly sessions," the Counselor murmured, smiling slightly. "Can I ask what the nature of this visit concerns?"

Wyoming hesitated, regretting his decision from the second that he had set foot inside the Counselor's office, having to physically prevent himself from turning around and leaving, reluctantly moving over to the adjacent chair and sitting down.

"It's about the…the team," he began slowly, uncharacteristically stuck for words, looking down at the floor, not meeting the Counselor's eyes. "They need a break. We all do. We've been pushed to our bloody breaking point lately, and I don't think it's going to be long before someone snaps."

The Counselor nodded sombrely, his data-pad appearing almost magically into his hand, and he scrawled something into it rapidly. "I see…" he murmured, glancing back up at Wyoming. "And can I ask, have you identified any agents in particular as being closer to…snapping?"

Wyoming snorted derisively, shaking his head. "Mate, if you just went out there and talked to them, instead of staying here in your flaming office, you'd know what I mean. It could be anyone, even me. People aren't able to talk to one another and look each other in the eye while doing so. They're broken, and it was the Director's decision that caused this to happen. If you just went out and saw the poor chaps…" he trailed off, shaking his head, fervently wishing that he had just stayed away.

The Counselor nodded again, smiling reassuringly. "I understand that these past few weeks have been tough on all of you, and believe me, the Director knows this too. He won't push you farther than he has too, he values you all too much," he intoned, frowning when Wyoming uttered a dry chuckle in return.

Straightening up in his seat, the Counselor frowned slightly as he looked through his notes, and spoke up once more. "Wyoming, can I ask you about the behaviour of certain agents? In particular, agents Arkansas and Pennsylvania?"

Wyoming glanced up, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Penn and Ark? What about them?"

"How have they reacted to recent events?"

Wyoming shrugged, baffled by this sudden line of questioning. "I don't know…about the same as everyone else? Penn's still hung up over Alaska's confinement, the poor old chap, but you must know that. After all, each other was all those two crazy bastards had. As for Ark, he took the MAC blast pretty hard and comes across as an untrustworthy sort of fellow, but he hates Innies for more than anyone here, though I'll be damned if I know why."

He paused for a moment, his brain catching up with his words, before he glanced back up at the Counselor. "Do you know why?"

There was a brief moment of silence, as the two stood at an impasse, the Counselor's eyes bearing into his own, but not revealing any insight into the thoughts of their owner. Eventually the Counselor spoke, eye contact still being maintained as he did so.

"I do indeed, agent. The reason why Arkansas despises the Insurrection is as simple as it is tragic. When he was a child, no more than six or seven, the small farming village that he lived in was attacked by raiding Insurrectionists, a group known as the Galactic Liberation Army. They destroyed the entire village and slaughtered its citizens, including Arkansas's entire family, letting it serve as a warning against those who would rely on UNSC protection. Three years later, the movement had been destroyed and its leaders executed, but Agent Arkansas was unable to let go of his hate, and transferred it onto other Insurrectionist groups. It's what made him such an asset to our project. His loyalty is unquestionable."

Wyoming maintained eye contact throughout the entire tale, looking away only as the Counselor came to the end, finally understanding the enigma that was Agent Arkansas. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked gruffly, looking up once more.

The Counselor merely smiled and offered a slight shrug of his own. "To be honest, agent, I don't know. Perhaps I just thought that if you knew, you'd be able to put yourself in his shoes. Maybe even find it within you to trust him, as you'd trust one of the more forthcoming of your teammates."

Wyoming prepared to stand up, but the Counselor held up a single lone finger, gesturing that he would like to ask Wyoming just one more question. "Before you go, can I ask, is there any agent on board that you do trust, Wyoming?"

The white-clad agent just stared blankly at his superior for a moment, thoughts whirring through his mind as he considered and dismissed team members within moments.

Florida, his best and only friend, the man who had taken a bullet for a general that he had never met before, and had no reason to like or care for, the man who had saved Wyoming's ass on more than one mission, and he had returned the favour. Wyoming would trust him with his life, no questions asked.

York, his roommate, cracking jokes constantly yet shouting down Wyoming's endless stream of knock-knock jokes, was a good person, but Wyoming didn't fully trust him. Even if York was as close a friend as Florida, he would still always take Carolina's side over Wyoming's, still answer her every call. No.

Carolina? No.

Penn or Alaska? No. Virginia? No. Cal, North, South, Ark or any of the other rercuits? Not a chance.

Massa?

Here Wyoming paused, remembering every time Massa patched up one of his injuries, or those of their teammates. Her patience and understanding, even with the likes of Penn and Maine, whom even the normally even tempered Wyoming had occasionally argued with. Or, in the case of Maine, argued at. Chap was not much of a talker.

Could he trust Massa, despite the fact that he didn't know her that well, and wasn't even sure whether or not he even liked the woman? She certainly had never given off the impression of liking him all that much. In fairness, few people did. His thumb still throbbed on cold nights, a testament to his first meeting with Virginia, and Ark had all but openly avoided him ever since their confrontation all that time ago. As for the others, they'd take him or leave him, but if anything ever happened to him, they'd get over it. He didn't even blame them for it. He wasn't a good person. So could he trust Massa, when he didn't consider himself worth trusting?

The answer, much to his surprise, was yes. As much as he tried to keep himself to himself, and as grim and sarcastic as he tried to make himself out to be on the outside, he couldn't help but admiring and respecting Massa, and he knew all too well that without her, he might not still be alive. Certainly some of the other agents wouldn't have been, not without Massa's medical attention on the field. Penn and Sota, for example, would certainly be dead, and Wyoming couldn't help but remember how, after the Covenant assault on the MoI, Massa had nagged him and bullied him into looking after his leg wound, making sure that he kept taking his antibiotics and changing the dressing.

He trusted her, as much has he was surprised to admit it. As much as it surprised him, maybe Florida wasn't the only person that he'd miss if he left the project.

Clearly he had been spending too much time with Florida lately. Next thing he knew, he'll have caught emotions off the chirpy old chap.

Wyoming looked back up at the Counselor, a small smile playing across his lips, his moustache twitching slightly. "One or two," he murmured, feeling a weight that he that he hadn't noticed he'd been carrying suddenly lift off his shoulders.

"One or two."