(A/N) Hey guys, time for another York update in Phase Two: Betrayal, brought to you by the stupendous WargishBoromirFan! I think you're going to enjoy this one, because I know I certainly did! For those who want an incentive to read on, or rather, a further incentive, let's just say things don't exactly go as planned for Project Freelancer and Co., hmm? As mentioned last week, we're currently looking for nominations for worthy Red vs Blue and RWBY fics for our first Awards night, so if you have a fic in mind, head on over to our forum or PM me. Of course, you can't nominate your own work!
Enjoy!
Chapter Twenty-Seven – Red Sun Rising
Agent New York
Written by WargishBoromirFan
"If there's a bright center to the universe, then you're on the planet that it's furthest from." – Luke Skywalker, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope
"A language is a dialect with an army and navy." – Max Wienriech (translated from the original Yiddish)
For once, York was at a loss for words. Sure, there were plenty going through his mind at the moment, but none that made that much sense to him, much less to the grumpy and somewhat hostile-looking man who'd met them at the door. "You speak Russian?" he eventually settled on.
Maine just shrugged. A childhood spent running wild around at least three of the boroughs with the occasional ride home in Uncle Jimmy's police car had instilled if not a thorough command of any given language, then at least a smattering of several within York, a Yiddish-peppered Eastern Slavic high among them. Maine… well, it was hard to picture him ever climbing up the sides of brownstones in Queens because they were there and he'd been bored. There had been Maine-ish sorts of figures in certain parts of ungentrified Brooklyn, but they didn't usually speak much more than shotgun, at least to York.
"So we're all good, then?" Florida attempted to give the native a friendly grin, but didn't receive one in return. The man took a deliberate step backwards in the doorframe. Florida and Cal eased their shoulders a bit at the extra breathing space, but a lot of what York had learned of various languages was the vocabulary of gesture as well as words. He and Maine traded a quick glance before Maine closed the gap once more. Had to keep the lead involved, not ready to close them out.
"We like to hear more about this place. Hear you get a lot of sun," York attempted to keep the conversation going. Cal was the interrogation expert, not him, but the answers California might get would do him no good if he didn't understand the answers to questions he didn't know how to ask.
"The desert is known for getting a lot of sun. It's why it's a desert," the man replied fast and flippantly, refusing to take the bait. "No rain-clouds."
"Much different than Russia," York noted. Not that he'd been there.
"I wouldn't know," the man shrugged. "We have little contact with Earth here; little use for the old ways."
Well, at least the conversation about the weather was finally coming back on topic, but not in an encouraging fashion. Florida was contentedly baffled, but both Carolina and California were all but biting their tongues to keep from demanding a full translation from him and Maine. "Some old ways are useful; let us talk," York danced around the implied dismissal.
It wouldn't be the first one they'd gotten on Varaan. From the moment they'd landed on the planet, the desert itself seemed about the most hospitable part of this place. Barely within habitable range of its sun, the colony world was sparsely populated, and those that had settled here didn't seem too fond of anyone coming after them. How Ark had supposedly picked up supplies and even recruits here was beyond York, but he couldn't deny that this man looked like prime recruitment material for an Insurrectionist cadre. Slightly past his prime, sun-beaten and wolfishly rangy, the raw-boned village headman might not make any UNSC recruitment posters, but he was as tall as Cal and moved like he could handle himself in a fight. Certainly he hadn't blinked to find Maine looming in his doorway.
Not many of their potential contacts had, really. As soon as they'd walked into town, mothers and older siblings had scooped up what few little ones were playing out in the dusty yards and chivvied them into thick-walled houses, leaving only a scant handful of hard-eyed men and women watching the incoming Freelancers from the doorways and porches, half-hidden in the deep shadows cast by the overhangs against the unrelenting sun.
Their first stop had been the fuel station/general store/closest thing the place had to a connection with an outside world, apparently, where the clerk on duty had enough English to offer some vague hints and categorical denials to Carolina and California with minimal translation. Maybe Maine's talent for Russian shouldn't have surprised York; the kid had started bilingually stating some very specific gaps in her knowledge so rapidly that York doubted that even she'd been able to keep up with what she'd said, but looming was the same in every language.
The clerk had said that she didn't know anything about a rebel uprising, and this Kamelov living three doors down from the store certainly didn't know anything about the Insurrection, and the neighbourhood wanted no trouble with the UNSC and it was best not to mention them here at all, but they were a quiet, respectable community and there was no reason for any sort of interstellar government to get involved with the village. York believed the "quiet" part.
He was beginning to believe the "not mentioning UNSC" part as well. They'd left their helmets off - or at least he and Florida had - to reassure the locals that they were human, but even the armor seemed to raise hackles around here. It was a sad state of catch-22, but they couldn't take it off, now. Kamelov had begrudged them a return greeting, but Florida hadn't even managed to introduce himself in English before the already narrowed hazel eyes slitted into a more dangerous expression, certainly not one that suggested any helpfulness as to Arkansas's latest position. York had attempted to try it again in a more conciliatory tongue, but it took Maine's rumbled command to stand down before the village headman would shoot the breeze and not threaten to shoot them.
"You're not here to talk about the weather. You do a poor job playing at tourists, soldier boy," Kamelov spat, and York could feel Carolina's questioning brow on the back of his head at the native's brusque tone. "So why don't you tell me what it is you're bothering my people for?"
How to approach this? Too much truth and they'd lose their chances with anyone harbouring Crimson Sun sympathies, too little and they'd be turned away in disgust, no closer to catching Arkansas and Penn than when they'd started. "There were murders done by UNSC soldiers that we want to avenge. We heard that you have contacts here that could help us with that." Well, Ark and Penn had been with the USNC when they'd committed them.
"If you know so much about these contacts, you'd know that we do not set up meetings between off-worlders. They have their own places and you have yours. I suggest you return there." At least that offered semi-concrete proof that they'd been in contact with the Crimson Sun. Unless there was another interplanetary criminal ring with a grudge against the government poking around small desert villages of poorly-populated planets.
Cal had never had the best levels of patience to begin with. Any time Ark or Harper were involved, he became as insufferably wilful as a hungry toddler with a toothache, save this hunger was for blood and he was teething fangs. With his usual skill at interrogation hamstrung by a language barrier, California was dependent on York - who was a little busy trying to keep up with the subtler cues and dredge up old memories from the streets of childhood - and Maine - who was Maine - to keep him abreast of the words behind the tone. And as Kamelov's tone became harsher and more commanding, Cal gave less time for anyone to even try to catch him up to speed, depending entirely upon his roiling gut. "Has he told us anything useful, York?" the smaller Freelancer in white with crimson markings cut in. "Because he sure hasn't told me anything that sounded like their location or numbers."
"We're getting there," York tried to pacify him, glancing to Florida and Carolina for help. Unfortunately, Carolina liked being left on the edge of the conversation no more than California did, even if she were more willing to make a show of tolerating it. Florida put a reassuring hand to Cal's shoulder, scanning about the semi-emptied village and its half-hidden sentries watching from the other houses, but neither Maine nor Carolina seemed to worry about the way Cal cracked his knuckles, adjusting his stance in the dry, dusty earth that passed for the headman's lawn. "Forgive my friend; he wants very much to fight." If that wasn't an understatement and a half…
"I can tell." Kamelov seemed partially amused by California's outburst, hardly coming back out to meet them, but not closing the door as Carolina and Florida crowded closer.
"He lost someone to those men. You understand why he is mad." If York could find common ground, they might all walk away unharmed and with the information they were searching for.
Kamelov laughed at the false cognate. "That one is crazy, the old man is foolish, you blunder like the thoughtless child playing at soldier that you resemble, and the other two simmer wordlessly in your wake. I would say you're all mad. The big one can speak, but chooses not to; perhaps you are the wisest of the lot," the headman nodded at Maine. "Find your chance at vengeance, if you can; it is none of my concern." With that, he made as if to shut the door on them.
Maine caught it, and Cal broke through the rest of the squad to face Kamelov down himself, shoving York out of the way. "We tried his way. We tried playing nice. Carolina, I think it's my turn."
"Wait until we've secured the position, California." Her voice was a cold snap in the dry heat in contrast to Cal's poorly-banked flame, but Carolina didn't seem to be disagreeing so much with the way the smaller man in dust-dunned white and blood red fingered the knife strapped to his shoulder as with the sudden movements from beneath the other shadowed archways about the empty-street village. While there was next to no one walking about town while the five Freelancers had come to investigate, that didn't make the place abandoned.
There were entirely too many muzzles and sharp edges now gleaming from the doorways and windows surrounding the headman's house. These weapons weren't new by any means, but the ancient cavalry swords and meat cleavers and hunting rifles and decommissioned semi-automatics all appeared to be in top working order. York's old drill sergeant would have been more impressed with these desert-borne weapons than the usual state of York's own shotgun. Florida kept his free hand up and open as he put on his helmet, but the older Freelancer's eyes had gone very wide as he turned between calling back California and trying to see what had gotten their leader's attention behind them. "Now surely all we need is the right translation…"
"Translate this, Maine." Cal slowly drew the knife, letting each inch of the blade have a chance to flash in the sun - or its reflections off too many makeshift militia armaments. "Where the hell are Ark, Harper, and Penn?"
Maine tilted the domed sun-orange glass surrounding his head sardonically at York before speaking, as much to the old guns and cobbled-together weaponry as the unarmed man Cal was confronting. "Give them up, or we fight."
"Will you, now?" Kamelov laughed, eyes scanning the windows of his dry village as surely as York's were.
"Those are pretty terrible odds, Maine," York muttered. He wasn't scared, but he was with Carolina: time and place made a difference.
"I almost feel sorry for them." Carolina voiced more bravado than her posture necessarily indicated. That slow sweep of the street might look confident enough to the half-trained villagers barricaded by thick adobe walls, but to York, her focus was spread too thin, her voice too sharp and tart, her stance too tight and too close to Florida to be entirely at ease. "Stand down, Maine. Cal, back up slowly. We're going to take a little walk around town, see who might follow us now that we're all aware of what we're looking for."
"Let me at the bastard," Cal insisted, turning the knife restively through his fingers. York stopped trying to count how many barrels followed every angle the blade went through. "I can make him say where they're at. These scared civvies with broken pistols couldn't hit us even if we didn't shove him through the door and make use of what's on the premises."
"These premises that he and the rest of the village know better than we do?" They didn't look that scared to York. Cautious, what with staying near their impromptu barricades, but the faces he could see didn't look that panicked. They looked like they'd done this before. York reached for Maine's arm and offered Kamelov a mildly embarrassed grin. Not a nervous one. Nervous people did rash things. "We will go look for them ourselves, if you would point the way…"
"I think you will find them very close by. Walk away, little UNSC soldier. Follow you mistress like the obedient dogs you are." Maine's bicep tightened under York's hand, and the only reason Cal hadn't leapt straight at him was that he hadn't understood the words that accompanied the lanky headman's shooing gesture.
As it was, Cal leaned forward not unlike the dog tugging at his leash that Kamelov had implied him to be, all but dropping polarization to be sure the native felt the fire of those blue eyes behind the white helmet. "If you've done anything to aid those bastards, to hide them, to offer them so much as a fucking drink of water on this over-baked dust ball you call a planet, I will end you and everything you love."
"Save it for Ark, Agent California," Carolina called him off. "We'll catch him sooner if we don't waste any more time here."
"At least we can pretty well summarize that he's been here, unlike the last couple of leads," Florida attempted to look on the bright side, however little comfort its glare might offer.
Cal finally stepped back, much to York's relief. He'd never be able to physically hold Maine back, anyway, but it was easier to calm the bigger man with one less goad pushing him on towards the fray. "Wonder if he's got his hidden cameras here," Cal mused, seemingly at random as he took in the other scopes and flashes. "If you do, Ark, you and Harper had better record every second of this! You want to end up on the news? I don't even need a giant gun or super-germs to take you all out! You want to punish murderers or create more, 'cause I will find ways to make you suffer and if this town goes down, it'll be your fault!" California's voice carried as they turned and walked out of the village.
"Cal, stop it. You're starting to sound like one of those cut-rate stage villains from a school play," Florida hissed. "There are children in there!"
"Yeah, let's leave the evil monologuing to Arkansas. If you're planning public atrocities, follow Maine's example," York gestured to the behemoth covering their rear and waited for a grunt or eye roll to follow. Maine remained silent, hands fisted at his sides and weapons at the ready. "That right there is the sweet sound of plausible deniability."
"It's not words alone that condemn one, York." That voice was coming from further out in the desert, well ahead of Carolina. "Though I agree, Jay - that was pretty sloppy. You need to practice your style." Harper rose from the sand, tossing aside the tan-and khaki-mottled camo cloak as his troops emerged from the dunes. York threw on his helmet and pulled out his shotgun. Things were about to get rough.