(A/N) Hey guys, putting this one up a bit early today, because I'll be heading out tonight with my girlfriend, to celebrate our two-year anniversary, which should be fun! So lucky you, readers, because you're going to get another top-quality chapter, written by the fingers and sharp mind of none other than OhSoDeadly, and you know what that means, right? It's a Florida chapter! And this one might just be the best so far! And, also, pretty dam heart-wrenching. But the odds are that we will probably be alright.

Enjoy!

Chapter Five – Drinking Away the Pain

Agent Florida

Written by OhSoDeadly

"You appear even-tempered though your looks will deceive
And the sparks are always flying 'cause you drink for relief
With the heart of a child and the wit of a fool
It's a wonder why I don't try and build a wall around you."

– "Full Circle", Half Moon Run

The glass slipped from nerveless fingers and shattered on the hard oak floor. It hadn't been holding anything, but a wash of glass shards now coated the floor.

The barman cursed, and hurried out from behind the counter, grabbing a small portable vacuum on the way. "Goddamnit, old timer, watch it! Do that again and I'm throwing you out!" He knelt down on the floor and started removing the mess, still muttering about the clumsiness of old drunks.

"Sorry," Florida muttered back. He wanted to get off his stool, get down on the floor and help the man, but he couldn't. The thought of doing it made him ill, sick with anxiety and fear. What would happen then? What would happen if he did something? What would happen if he didn'tdo something? Either way he would be to blame, a stupid darned fool. He would put himself into the thick of things and set off a chain reaction, and people would get hurt. The facts spoke for themselves. Someone, somewhere, always got hurt.

Finally, something we can agree on. You're a mess, Butch Flowers. You're not Agent Florida anymore. The project's finished. All that fancy armour, and equipment, and teammates, they'll all be gone too. It's the end. Make your peace with it.

But I suppose, if you knew how to do that, we wouldn't have been here in the first place, am I right?

Killian's pill bottle had long since run dry. The voice clambered around in his head like a fiend, cutting open the tops of memories and letting their poison seep out. He had nothing for it but the alcohol. He remembered being a strong advocate of sobriety and sensibility to the folks back home, handing out leaflets and campaigning against public drunkenness on the streets of his town, and he chortled bitterly. What would they think if they could see him now?

They wouldn't. They can't. They all burned. Remember?

The next words came out so jumbled and garbled, he didn't want to think, just sit there and think. He had to speak, now, and next he would drink, and he would keep doing that until he felt nothing at all-

"What the heck did you say?" The bartender was back at his post, and held one hand up to his ear, frowning.

Butch swallowed, trying to fight the rising tide of despair, and stammered, "A-another, please."

The man hummed doubtfully as he filled up another glass with Arcadian lager. "You're going on a bender, old man. Careful how you go now." He slid the cold, perspiring glass across the bench and went round the back to complete some errand or another. Butch made to thank him, but the words died and withered in his throat. He couldn't. He just couldn't.

He raised the glass, making sure to keep a tighter grip this time, and let the liquid course down his gullet. It helped soothe the pain of his mind and heart, for a moment or two, then he was setting the glass back down and the temporary balm was gone. Thoughts crowded to the forefront of his mind, but even in that morass, names solidified and tore at his heart.

Ark.The quiet, rather polite young man had gone absolutely berserk after finding out his parents had been killed on the orders of the UNSC, rather than Insurrectionists as he'd been led to believe. He had left a trail of bodies aboard the ship before springing Ian Harper from his cell and escaping along with-

Penn.The big man's pride had been smarting for some time now, and now it all finally came out. For some reason or another-heck, maybe he was just tired of being second best-he'd joined up with Ark and Harper and escaped the ship. But not before he had turned on his former teammates and killed-

Massa.The cheerful, kind woman had been rushing to the scene, just trying to help, when Penn had shot her in the stomach, so she slowly bled out on the floor. Florida had cried the hardest for her. Massa hadn't had a mean bone in her body. She was only trying to help, she had only tried to help-

Michigan.The former ODST had been the first one to run into Ark and Harper, and had tried her best to defuse the situation. But Ark, crazy as a stung bear and vengeful, hadn't been in the mood for talk, or reason. He'd shot her down without remorse. How could someone have done that? To a teammate, a comrade, practically a sister?

Alaska had been badly hurt by Penn, but had scraped through. Massa and Michigan had been pronounced dead by Killian, who had even managed a few tears for the deceased agents. Butch had been unashamed to weep. He hadn't wept since his family had been taken from him. Now it was happening all over again. The names roiled and burned through his mind-

No, not names. Not names. States. Codenames. Designations. Labels. Call them whatever you want, it didn't mean a thing. No-one outside their little project would ever know what they meant. No-one else would hear Massachusetts and think of a woman with a warm laugh and an even warmer personality. No-one would visit the state of Michigan and be reminded of a tough-as-nails soldier who pushed herself to the limit but never forgot she was part of a team. No-one would think of Arkansas and Pennsylvania and think betrayal,think of everything that had gone wrong-

And,the voice sniggered, no-one's going to think of Florida and say, "He did everything he could to help, there wasn't a thing left for him to do." No, Butch, you could have done plenty to help, and you didn't. You knew Pennsylvania was a mad dog, you knew that Harper was bad news. You could have saved so many people if you'd just had the guts, old man.

"Shut up!" he whispered, hand juddering against the glass as he went to cradle his head. "Just shut up! Now!" He began to rock back and forth on his stool, wood scraping on wood.

The voice got louder, until his head was ringing with it. The voice was furious, it was venomous, and it was his. You deserve to know just how badly you fucked things up. You deserve to just fade away, sitting in some shithole bar like this trying to forget all of your mistakes until the world does you a favour and sends a car to run you over or a mugger to gun you down. You deserve to die, Butch Flowers, because the world gave you plenty of chances and you turned your back on them.

The tears were sliding down his face now, his whole body shook with the grief that wracked him like a virus. "Darn it," he whispered. "Goddamnit." He didn't even have it in him to apologise. Apologise to who? He felt an insane urge to laugh until it hurt. He'd spent his entire life apologising and trying to be a good man, and what had it counted for? What difference had it made? His planet was still gone. His family was still dead. His teammates were still dead.

Suddenly, the bartender came back in, and snorted in disgust at seeing him. "Jesus, why do I always get the loonies? Time for you to go, old man. Go on, out." He flapped a tablecloth at him.

Butch wiped the tears from his eyes and waved his hands feebly. Going outside would mean facing the world. No."No, please, I'm sorry-"

"I said out! Now!" The bartender came round the side and seized his arm harshly, and steered him towards the exit. Butch just let himself be pulled along, like an old, tired mule. He was surely that-

The door opened before they could reach it and a familiar figure stepped in. "Why don't you let him go, buddy?" California stepped towards them, face set like a stone. "He's no harm to anyone."

The bartender scowled. "This is my establishment, and who the hell are you? If I say he goes, he goes."

Cal held up one hand, and let the other fish around in his jeans pocket. "Look, how about we just…" He slapped down a fifty-credit chit onto the nearest table. "Let it slide?"

With a face like thunder, the man snatched up the credit chit, gave Butch and California one more scowl and went back to his post, still muttering. Cal flipped him the bird when he wasn't looking, and put an arm around Butch's shoulders. "Come on, Florida. Over here. It's a decent spot." The pair of them slowly made their way to a booth in the corner of the bar and sat down.

Cal ran fingers through his hair and exhaled slowly. "Thought I might find you here. North said something about you leaving the apartment. We were worried."

Butch wanted to respond, say he was sorry for making them worry, and that he wouldn't do it again. But all he could think of was that Cal had just called him Florida. And it hurt.

Seeing that the older Freelancer was still a bit shell-shocked, Cal kept on talking. "Look, Florida, I know it's been hard, but-"

"Don't."

A raise of an eyebrow. "Don't what?"

"Call me Florida." It all came out in a rush. "I got that name, and I was so proud. So happy to start again. I was a new person. Then…" The memories surged, and he let his head drop. "I'm not Florida. I'm just Butch. Butch Flowers, and a rotten human being. So there." Letting his head drop all the way, he stared into the blackness of the table top, his arms over his head. The alcohol hummed in his body, but not enough to rob him of his feelings.

"OK…" Cal sounded hesitant. They hadn't always talked that much, the pair of them, but they were still teammates, and teammates looked out for one another. "Well, I mean, you've got a point, about the not needing codenames thing anymore. I'm-"

Butch's head shot up, dread on his face. "No. I don't want to know your name. That'd just make it worse. You're Cal. Just Cal."

Cal snorted. "Oh, come on, so I'm not allowed to tell you my name but you can tell me yours? That's not fair."

In spite of himself, Butch smiled a little. "That's 'cause I told people my name on my first day. I know I wasn't meant to, but it just slipped out. Always been that way, I guess."

The younger Freelancer chortled a bit, and snapped his fingers for two beers. "Well hey man, don't beat yourself up. Remember when we first met? I have this urge to go back and punch my younger self in the face."

Butch frowned at this. "Oh come on, Cal, you weren't that bad. Matter of fact, I recall you had some very good manners!"

"Ah, but is that all you recall?" The beers arrived, courtesy of a serving drone, and they cracked them open. Butch's head swam upon seeing it at first, but he shook his head and it cleared. "Let's see, South stamped on my foot, I ended up hitting on Virginia…"

Now that was a term he wasn't familiar with. "Hitting on? You mean, like, sparring?"

At this, California laughed uproariously, pounding the table with his fist. The few other patrons in the bar cast them odd looks, but Cal wouldn't stop laughing. After thirty seconds, he was able to restrain the wheezing and gasping to squeak, "Oh my God. You don't know what-"And he was off again, into hysterics.

Feeling quite silly, Butch took another sip of his beer. Unlike before, when the alcohol had felt like a serrated knife chipping away at his insides, it felt like it was lighting a fire inside his belly. It was a heck of a good feeling. Wrinkling his nose at his teammate, he said, "You young folks and your slang! I can never understand what it is you're saying."

Cal had calmed down by this point, and wiped his eyes. "Hitting on means…like…trying to get someone to like you by flirting with them."

"Ohhhhh." He thought back to their first meeting, and gasped. "You were? But you'd just met her!"

Cal shrugged sheepishly. "I know, I know. It was dumb. But I'd just gotten there, South was kind of a bitch, Virginia looked nice and Massa was…" He trailed off here, and spoke again a moment later, much quieter this time. "Massa was a tough-looking customer."

"That she was." They shared a silence for some time, remembering their lost teammate. Butch shook his head. 'I remember seeing her in action for the first time, in the training sim. Before you got there. She was young enough to be my daughter all grown-up. I remember thinking, how is this little lady going to fare? And she went out there and kept up with the best of 'em." Emotion seized him, made it hard to speak. "She didn't deserve to go out like that."

"No, she didn't, "Cal agreed sombrely. He sighed, and raised his glass. "To Massachusetts. Massa to her friends."

"To Massa." They clinked bottles and drank. When that was done, Cal leaned back and tilted his head. "And Michigan."

Butch shook his head-not in sorrow, but in awe. "Gosh, she was really something, wasn't she?" The blonde woman had been an absolute stalwart in the team. Nothing had fazed her.

"That she was!" Cal laughed suddenly, and leaned forward. "God, I remember this one time, I was in the showers, with Georgia and Sota, just talking and messing around where the lockers were, getting dressed. Then bam, outta nowhere, Michigan walks in wearing just a towel and asks us if we'd seen her shower cap!"

Butch couldn't help laughing at this outrageous story. "Goodness! What did you fellas say?"

"We stuttered! We turned about fifty shades of red! I mean, we'd only ever seen Michigan in her armour, kicking ass, and she just walks into the men'slocker room, no fucks given, asking us about a shower cap?" Cal chuckled and drummed his fingers on the table. "Eventually Sota-poor bastard was the worst of us all-just said no, and Michigan turned to leave. As it happens, her towel got hooked on the corner of a bench and it…" He didn't finish the sentence, but it was enough to leave Butch blushing. "I know right! That happened! And get this, she just turns around, wearing her birthday suit, and just says, completely deadpan, "Get a good look, because the next one won't be for a while." Picks up her towel and leaves! I shit you not!"

For the next ten seconds, there was nothing but the sounds of two men laughing and reminiscing about a friend who had departed too soon. Butch grinned, which faded into a sad smile. "No flies on her." He raised the bottle again. "To Michigan. And her shower cap!"

"To Michigan and her shower cap!" Cal roared, already looking a tad tipsy. The bottles clinked again, and they drank.

Butch exhaled heavily and gave Cal a smile. "Thanks, Cal. I needed to do this. To say goodbye properly." He rubbed his face. "I just wish-"

"That there was something you could have done?" There was no humour in his voice now. California leaned forward, blue eyes betraying a deep weariness that hadn't been there before. "Butch, I've heard Carolina pacing during the night. I've heard South arguing with North until all hours. I've seenGeorgia taking inventory of what was on the ship the day it all went down, trying to see if there was a secret weapon that could've stopped Ark or Penn. We're all broken. All of us." He laughed bitterly. "All that time spent fighting over who was where on the board, and you know what? We're all as hopeless as each other. None of us can accept it and move on. We're fucking pathetic."

Butch's spirits were fading rapidly. "But-"

"But,"Cal said firmly, his gaze intently on Butch's face, "that doesn't mean we stop now. We're all broken, but we're all here to put each other back together, as clichéd as that sounds. Whatever might have happened, whatever mistakes we might have made, we still have a job to do. Save the galaxy, remember?"

Butch remembered his first day, and how charged, how intent of purpose he'd been. And, if he searched deep enough, he could still feel that same determination. It was bleeding and bruised, but it was there. Grasping it, he nodded fervently. "Yep."

Cal grinned, and although there wasn't much mirth behind it, it was better than a grim slash across the mouth. "Then fuck it! We're all bound to slip up sooner or later. You gotta roll with the punches, you know. Massa and Michigan are dead. So now we go at it twice as hard, for them. Hell, do it for them, do it for yourself, I don't care. Just do it."

There's little better a man can do, than to do for his friends.

Butch's dad had always been a wise man. Butch only hoped he could be the equal of him.

So he nodded, set the beer aside and punched the air with one fist. "By criminy, you're right, Cal! We'll keep going! For Massa and Michigan!" And for my family, and for Arcadia, and for the entire human race.

"Fuck yeah we will!" Cal formed a fist, and bumped Butch's. "We're badass! We're Freelancers! We'll be fine!"

"Guys?"

They both looked up, to see York standing beside the booth. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and he looked…almost happy. Something good must've happened. Butch waved. "Hey York! What's doing?"

York reached into his pocket and waved three stubs of paper in the air. "Through cunning and daring, and some flirting with some seriously ugly attendants, I have managed to attain the last three tickets to the Rampancy versus Maverick game tomorrow at Ollensand Stadium, front row!" He slammed them down on the table and did a little dance on the spot. "I amthe man. You guys are coming, right? I mean, you've gotta!"

Cal reached over and stuffed one of the tickets into his pocket. "You're on, man." He looked over at Butch. "What about you, B-er, buddy? Florida?"

Butch wasn't listening, though, because he was too busy talking to himself. Now listen to me, you little nuisance,he told the voice inside his head sternly. Maybe you're right. Maybe I am just a flabby ol' failure who'll never find peace. Maybe I am to blame. But you won't break me. Not now and not ever. I'll do whatever it takes to save the lives of others, be they teammates, other soldiers or civilians. That's my promise to you, and no amount of nastiness is going to stop me! Understood?

The voice, for the first time ever, had nothing to say.

"Florida?" Cal was looking concerned. "You ok? You wanna come to the game? I mean, if it's not really your thing-"

"No pressure at all man-"York started to say.

The older Freelancer seized Cal's beer and downed what was left of it. Then he stood, and shrugged jovially. "As my old pa used to say, fuck it. Let's go see some Grifball!"

"Fuck it?"

As he exited the bar, to the sound of his teammates voicing their shock and disbelief over what was quite possibly the first time they'd heard him swear, Florida felt like things might just be ok after all. Maybe things were looking down right now, but he was going to see a game with his friends, and that was all he cared to care about right now.