Chapter Two:
New Beginnings Pt: 2
Waking up in a strange place, the first sensation that hit him was an eerie chill. As he slowly pushed himself up, he found himself staring at a gunmetal grey ceiling and unfamiliar mechanical surroundings. Panic gripped him as he became aware of something heavy covering his limbs and chest. His eyes darted to his arms, and what he saw left him bewildered and alarmed.
He was clad in some sort of armor, but it wasn't any ordinary armor. It appeared scuffed and worn, with a heft to it that felt unnatural. Fear and confusion raced through his mind as he attempted to speak, only to realize that his voice sounded entirely different from what he remembered. "What the hell is happening here?" he managed to growl out, the words sounding foreign and strange even to his own ears.
As he struggled to stand, a wave of discomfort and soreness swept over him, causing him to stumble and fall back onto the hard surface beneath him. Every inch of his body ached, and he couldn't fathom why. His hand brushed against something strange, and when he examined it, he noticed an odd grey-black substance oozing from a hole in his unfamiliar armor. Panic gripped him further as he recognized the symbols on the armor: UNSC and the emblem of the ODST.
Surveying his surroundings, he realized that he wasn't in a traditional room; it appeared to be some kind of open bay with seats arranged all around him. Bloodstains surrounded him, and an open med pack lay nearby. His own grim discovery hit him like a ton of bricks. He had seemingly removed a bullet from his own body and used some kind of bizarre liquid—Bio-foam, he realized—to treat the wound. The realization left him both horrified and perplexed. "Who the fuck did I manage to piss off!?" he muttered in a mix of disbelief and frustration.
That's when he saw it, the slightly glowing card sent shivers down his spine. He recognized it from the Halo series—an object that functioned like a USB thumb drive but with the capacity to hold zettabytes of data. What struck him even harder was the ONI symbol on its side. It hit him like a ton of bricks, and frustration boiled up within him. He couldn't believe the predicament he was in, thrust into the vast and complex Halo universe with no clear way out.
"...fuuuuuuuuuck!" he yelled in frustration, wailing against the cruel twist of fate that had landed him here, alone. His thoughts couldn't help but drift to his absent friend, Alex, who would have been his partner in navigating this strange world. Together, they might have turned this chaotic situation into an adventure, perhaps even becoming pirates in this universe they both loved and understood so well. But now, he was on his own, and the gravity of that reality weighed heavily on him.
As he sat there, alone and overwhelmed by the weight of his situation, his mind wandered back to the last conversations he had with Alex. They had eagerly discussed how they would navigate this new world, what their lives might look like. Would they join the UNSC? Could they even do that? Their theories were wild and varied, from taking over recently deceased bodies to transferring their consciousness into new ones. Alex's dream had always been to become a Spartan, and she believed they might be sent to a planet where Halsey was recruiting children.
Now, he couldn't help but feel the cruel irony of their separation. He didn't even know if Alex was in this Halo universe with him, and the thought of being here alone was daunting and disheartening. The universe they had both loved and explored together had become an isolating and unfamiliar place.
Standing up, he moved carefully to avoid aggravating his wounds. The room around him gradually became recognizable as the interior of a dropship pelican. Opposite the bay doors, there was a doorway leading to the pilot's area. Weary and disoriented, he made his way through the doorway to discover a breathtaking view of space outside the window, an endless expanse glittering with stars, taunting him with its vastness.
Panic started to set in. He had no idea how to pilot this vessel. How could he possibly navigate to wherever the previous occupant of this body was going? What did he even look like now? Had he taken over a dead body or was he fully transported into this new form, injuries and all? The questions swirled in his mind, adding to the overwhelming uncertainty of his situation.
Frustrated and in unfamiliar territory, he began searching his pockets and neck for any form of identification. To his surprise, he found no dog tag or identification card. What he did notice, however, was the profound difference in his physical condition. His body felt stronger, more muscular, and remarkably free from the chronic aches and pains he had experienced before. Even the pain in his knees, which had been a constant companion, had vanished. While he was sore from his injuries, the pain was in entirely new places.
Sitting down in the pilot's seat, he started exploring the unfamiliar controls and displays, hoping to find a manual or some guidance on operating the dropship. He couldn't help but worry about accidentally triggering a distress signal or something equally problematic with his luck.
Then, he noticed a blinking switch labeled "comms" above him and hesitantly flipped it. A voice came through, sounding distinctly Southern, and it lazily drawled out, "Unknown Dropship, You are within restricted airspace around the Mother of Invention. This is the third and final hail before you are boarded."
Virgil nervously responded, "Uh...hello?" He could feel the tension in the air as the Southern voice replied, "Identify yourself." the tone that this guy was using was the kind that you don't fucking mess with."Virgil," he began, thinking to himself and came up with the plan of 'play the stupid hurt victim' and hoped for the best. "Do you know how I got here? I woke up hurt and I think I've been shot?" Virgil really hoped the guy would fall for the lie.
The voice on the other end responded with instructions, "Well, Virgil...You'll need to pilot that Pelican to bay four and dock before we can get you the help you need." Virgil gulped and admitted, "Uh, I'm not a pilot, sir."
There was a brief pause, followed by a muffled sound, and then a woman's voice took over the radio, "Newbie I am Four-Seven-Niner," the woman introduced herself.
Her tone was far from welcoming as she continued, "I am here to talk you through your first fly through and dock isn't that wonderful? Anyway shut the fuck up and listen to me and don't screw this up." Virgil felt a mix of relief and apprehension, realizing he had to rely on this woman to get out of his current predicament.
Virgil couldn't help but feel a mixture of relief and annoyance as he finally managed to land the Pelican in bay four after being yelled at for what felt like an eternity by Four-Seven-Niner. The ordeal had left him mentally drained, and he was eager to get some answers.
As the bay door opened, he wearily made his way out, picking up the data storage device from the floor and discreetly hiding it down the front of his pants. When he entered the hangar, he was met by a group of soldiers and medical personnel. The man in charge stepped forward, eyeing Virgil's condition.
"Seems you have a serious head wound there," the man observed. "Medical teams, move in and take him to the medical wing. It seems our ODST guest is having trouble in remembering his chain of command"
Virgil looked around weakly, not entirely sure what was happening but willing to cooperate with the medical staff as the medical staff hustled around him, securing him onto a stretcher, Virgil couldn't help but feel a sense of disorientation. He was sure he had bullet wounds in his body, but his head seemed fine.
Nonetheless, he decided to go along with whatever was happening, hoping that they would provide some answers soon. The pain in his body was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore, and he needed medical attention regardless of the state of his memory.
As Virgil went through the process of being in the medical wing, he initially resisted the medical staff's attempts to approach him with needles. His frustration grew, and he began to curse at one of the doctors as they persisted. In response to his resistance, the medical team decided to sedate him, with one of the doctors swiftly administering a sedative through a hidden needle. Virgil's struggles gradually subsided as the sedative took effect, causing him to lose consciousness.
With Virgil now unconscious, the medical staff could proceed with their efforts to treat his injuries, including the surgery to remove the remaining bullet and address the gunshot wounds. They noted the severity of his wounds and the potential danger posed by the bullet that had nearly pierced his skull. It was clear that these injuries had been sustained during a harrowing ordeal, likely while he was attempting to escape.
The medical team informed the Director about Virgil's condition and the discovery of the data device concealed within his clothing. The Director was left to grapple with the reality that, the man who contacted him close to three weeks ago on information about ONI and requesting protection, probably didn't remember anything about their deal.
As the Director delved deeper into the contents of the data chip, he found himself captivated by the intricate details of the Orion-3 Project. The information painted a vivid and disturbing picture of a project that had recently begun recruiting volunteers from among the ranks of ordinary conscripted soldiers.
The file provided a comprehensive breakdown of the brutal augmentation process, delving into the specific chemicals and procedures used. What was most unsettling was the revelation that the project's initial stages had an alarmingly low six percent survival rate, though this rate appeared to be slowly increasing as more soldiers volunteered for the grueling process.
The Director couldn't shake the mixture of intrigue and unease that washed over him as he absorbed this information. He understood the potential far-reaching consequences this data could have if it was discovered he had them. His familiarity with the Orion-2 project, which involved the use of children as subjects, made the Orion-3 Project's subjects more surprising. The files hinted that this project had been initiated with criminals in secretive black sites, a revelation that sent shivers down the Director's spine.
The existence of ONI's rumored black sites had always been a shadowy secret, but having concrete proof of their operation was a revelation that could not be taken lightly. With unwavering determination, the Director turned his attention to the password-protected files and the time-delayed ones, fully aware that these were Virgil's bargaining tools, to make sure that his survival was priority.
When Virgil regained consciousness, the passage of time remained a mystery to him. All he knew was that he lay in a recovery bed, his senses slowly awakening. Nearby, a towering figure occupied the next bed, causing quite a commotion and fervently uttering curses in a distinctly Irish, and notably agitated, tone. As he gradually sat up, Virgil surveyed his surroundings, determined to ignore the presence of the irate Irishman.
A sense of irritation gnawed at him as he realized that the medics had administered a sedative, a fact that did not sit well with him.
"Oi! You must be the new Agent, all skin and bones, ain't ya?" The slurred voice of the Irishman broke through Virgil's contemplation. He turned his gaze toward the source of the voice and discovered a peculiar sight – the man next to him, far from being inebriated, had blood trickling down his forehead. However, what truly bewildered Virgil was the wide grin adorning the man's face, radiating a contagious joy that seemed entirely out of place given the circumstances.
Virgil couldn't help but be both dumbfounded and exasperated by the man in the adjacent bed. The incongruity between the Irish accent and the exuberant disposition, set against the backdrop of a bleeding wound, created a surreal tableau that defied explanation.
"Yeah, I guess you could say that," Virgil replied cautiously, eyeing the strange Irishman with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. "What happened to you? And why are you so damn cheerful about it?"
The Irishman chuckled, seemingly unfazed by his injury. "Oh, just a wee bit of a brawl, I reckon. Name's George, by the way. Freelancer Agent. You?"
Virgil hesitated for a moment, contemplating how much he should reveal to this seemingly affable yet wounded stranger. "Call me Virgil. I'm... new around here, I guess."
George grinned wider, despite the blood trickling down his face. "Well, welcome to the shitshow, Virgil. You're gonna love it here."
The peace of the medical wing was shattered as the door swung open with a sudden force. A boot hurtled through the air, finding its mark with a resounding impact against George's already wounded face. A tall woman strode in, her anger palpable, her fiery spirit burning like a wildfire. She wore one less boot than she should have, a testament to her impulsive entrance.
"Delaware! I fuckin' swear ya damn Cock-headed pig you better let those nice people stitch up that skull of yours before I lay you fuckin' out with my fist Bruh" Her words poured forth in a heavy, passionate accent, filled with righteous indignation.
This woman commanded attention, not just because of her spirited demeanor but also due to her exceptional height. She stood taller than most, her skin adorned with striking splotches, which Virgil recognized as vitiligo. The majority of her skin boasted a rich cocoa color, while the splotches appeared almost paper-white in certain areas. Her hair, styled into a tight afro with curls that added a unique touch to her appearance.
"Heya, Rhodie, no need for the boot, really," George, or Delaware as he was called, quickly responded, raising his hands in a gesture of peace as he attempted to defuse the situation. The woman, her hands firmly on her hips and a dark glare in her eyes, seemed unimpressed.
"Right, right. Now, sit and shut up, and let the medics work," she retorted with an exasperated huff. Then, her attention shifted to Virgil. "Who are you, Skinny?"
Virgil started to answer, but before he could, George chimed in with a hearty laugh. "That's the new Agent right there. He's a wee skinny, but we can toughen him up, Rhodie."
"Agent Delaware is correct, Virgil here is going to be the newest of the Freelancer Agents. However, he might not remember agreeing to the terms of the contract due to that rather impressive crack going from one end of his skull to the other," a new voice announced. Both Agents froze and snapped to attention, offering salutes simultaneously. "Director, Sir."
Virgil remembered that voice from the comm radio, the one that had spoken to him just before he got an earful from four-seven-niner. It carried a distinctive low southern drawl, and there was an air of authority that was impossible to miss. The Director was unmistakably in charge.
"Contract?" Virgil mumbled, his confusion evident.
The Director turned his attention to Virgil, his gaze piercing."Something we will discuss when you are going to be let out of the medical wing." he replied cryptically. Then, addressing Agent Delaware, he continued with a touch of anger that cut through his southern drawl like ice. "Now Agent Delaware, You had purposefully started a fight with Several of your fellow Agents. Care to explain why?"
Delaware shifted uncomfortably, his arms crossed as he recounted the incident. "Oh, Uh…there was a few personnel talking about the —Package— you picked up six months ago sir. It got Agents North, South, Pen and Jersey a wee bit…anxious to see what it was. They tried breaking into Recovery Alpha to find out" Delaware crossed his arms giving Virgil a suspicious look as if the wounded ODST was going to say or do something.
However, Virgil found himself shutting up, looking like a total idiot because he had no clue what the hell was going on. He had zero interest in diving headfirst into the Freelancer clusterfuck he vaguely remembered from his past life in his own damn world. It was frustrating as hell, feeling like a fish out of water, dealing with this bewildering situation, and not having a damn clue about it.
All he really craved was to GTFO and get back to his original world, where he could just chill, play video games, and shoot the shit with his friend online, talking about all the nerdy stuff they loved. Virgil was a hardcore Halo fan, and as far as his somewhat scrambled memory could tell, Freelancer had gotten its cash flow ten years before the epic fall of Reach and the whole Halo ring blow-up shindig went down just a few months before the glorious Red vs. Blue Season One.
But here he was, stuck in this mess with a time frame that looked bleak as hell. He had a long-ass wait ahead before he'd even come close to being safe. And to top it all off, he had zero memory of the deal the originator of the body he hijacked made with Mr. Director, or whether the original owner of this ODST armor was a legit soldier or some armor thief. This shit was giving him a major headache, and he fucking hated it.
After the Director had finished laying into George, or Agent Delaware, a group of medics made their way over from the opposite end of the room. Virgil couldn't say he was overly interested in the medics, but their faces remained shrouded behind white helmets, likely for both immune system protection and maintaining their anonymity. After all, Project Freelancer was still in its infancy, despite having access to a damn giant ship.
One of the medics approached Virgil's side, focusing on whatever data device they all seemed to carry around. They spoke in a deep voice, causing Virgil to realize that the slender figure in white was, in fact, a guy. The medics all had such similar builds and heights that it was tough to discern their gender.
"Recruit Agent Virginia seems to be doing well. He's fit for discharge with some pain meds, blood pressure meds, and a recommendation to avoid physically demanding work or missions," the medic stated in a matter-of-fact and brisk manner. They left without a second thought, not even giving the Director a chance to chime in.
The medic returned, offering Virgil two paper cups – one containing water and the other housing three mysterious pills. Without a word, the medic departed, leaving Virgil to ponder the purpose of the pills. There was no explanation, not even a hint about their intended effects.
The Director, however, broke the silence. "Like the medic said, pain relief, blood pressure management, and the last one is most likely an immunity booster," he clarified. His words held a sense of authority as he continued, "We work with sensitive materials here on the Mother Of Invention, and if you get sick, you'll be quarantined for an entire month."
Virgil nodded in understanding, downing the pills with a swig of water. He couldn't afford to get sick, not in this hostile environment.
"Good, now follow me. We most likely need to go over everything we had... discussed before your accident," the Director stated, his tone brooking no argument. He turned and strode out of the medical area without waiting for Virgil to catch up, making the imposter body snatcher mentally and verbally curse at the man quietly before getting up and fast walking after the man.
Hastily, Virgil got to his feet and hastened after the Director. As he exited the door, he was met with the Director standing there, seemingly waiting for him. The sudden appearance startled Virgil, causing him to exclaim, "Fuck!" He instinctively gripped his side, the jolt of pain a sharp reminder of his injuries.
"Seems no matter the situation you're in, you have no filter on that mouth of yours, Sergeant," the Director remarked, his expression a mix of slight amusement and underlying exasperation.
Virgil gave a sheepish grin, his hand still clutching his side as he replied, "Yeah, well, old habits die hard, I guess." He knew he had a knack for blurting out curses and thoughts without a filter, and it seemed like his old habits weren't going to change anytime soon.
The Director just shook his head in response and began walking, presumably leading Virgil to wherever they needed to go for this discussion. Virgil, wincing slightly from the lingering pain, followed closely behind.
Upon reaching what appeared to be an interview room within the ship, Virgil couldn't help but note the stark and windowless interior, giving the whole place an air of bleakness and foreboding. The Director took a seat at the table, placing a data chip on it, which Virgil knew had been hidden away. Since he had been changed into regular fatigues, it seemed they had discovered the piece of tech.
The Director began the discussion, diving straight into the heart of the matter. "You contacted me five weeks ago about my work with a certain Doctor... asking about 'Orion's belt,' using the code to talk about Doctor Halsey's Orion two project and such," he said, his keen eyes assessing Virgil's reactions. It was clear to the Director that Virgil didn't recall making this contact but had some knowledge of the Orion Project, evident from the telltale twitch in Virgil's demeanor.
The Director pressed on, addressing Virgil's partial recollection. "Ah, so you remember some things but not all. Moving on, after that initial message, you messaged me an additional three times," he said, leaning forward slightly, his hands now folded on the table. Virgil sat there, nodding in silent acknowledgment as the Director recounted the series of exchanges.
"The message following the first was asking for additional information about the original Orion project, as well as Reach, Chi Ceti IV, and the Damascus Materials Testing Facility," the Director continued, his words carrying a weight of understanding. Virgil's nods indicated his familiarity with this part of the conversation.
"I realized that you were looking into ONI and its past, current, and pending projects," the Director observed, pausing momentarily. His sharp eyes caught Virgil's reaction – a noticeable pallor that washed over his face at the mere mention of ONI. The Director understood that Virgil's trepidation was entirely justified, considering the secretive and often controversial nature of the organization.
"The next message you sent involved you bargaining the information you found for protection," the Director continued, his voice carrying a tone of recollection. Virgil listened attentively as the Director recounted the details of their past communication. "You requested to hide among my personnel aboard the Mother of Invention, and in exchange, you agreed to become one of my mid-ranked Agents. Your role was to maintain an intentionally average performance, not standing out as the best but also not being the worst. This would continue until I deemed it necessary to adjust your personnel ranking."
As the Director spoke, he rose from his seat and rounded the table, tapping the smooth surface of the wall, revealing a panel with a small screen. He began typing on it, setting the stage for what would come next.
"The last message was this," the Director said, his fingers deftly pressing buttons on the panel. In response, a video began playing.
The video presented itself with a grainy, static-laden quality, the audio dominated by the cacophony of explosions and gunshots that echoed through the darkened scenes. It was apparent that the footage originated from a body camera or a helmet-mounted camera, given the disorienting whirl of lights and shadows that danced across the screen. Amidst the chaos, a familiar voice erupted with expletives that left no doubt about the speaker's identity.
"Fuck!" the voice exclaimed as a deafening explosion illuminated the surroundings in a flash. Virgil watched, his heart racing, as the video unfolded within a long, desolate corridor devoid of doors. The familiar voice continued, its tone filled with frustration and urgency. "Fucking fuck fucker fuck, Hey Director of... what the fuck is it called –FUCK– Freelancer, yeah."
Virgil couldn't help but wince as his voice unleashed a relentless stream of profanity, a testament to the intensity of the situation. "I kinda fucked up and I am moving ahead of the timeline I gave –Shit– I've gotten all the data I could get." they said, their voice laced with desperation. "I need to ditch my helmet before they start tracking me with it! I'll be in a Pelican, no markings, no ID tag"
Then, a deafening gunshot reverberated through the video, unmistakably the report of a heavy-caliber sniper. The Virgil in the video whirled around and returned fire, his anger evident in the words that followed. "Bitch ass trigger happy motherfucker, you shot the back of my helmet! I could have died, you damn attack chihuahua!" The last part of the video was of the past Virgil pulling off the helmet and staring straight at the camera, bloody faced before the camera was chucked at a soldier and the video ended.
"As you can probably tell, you were, in fact, injured by that bullet to the back of your helmet," the Director explained, his voice carrying a tone of detached analysis. Virgil sat there, his mind still reeling from the tumultuous video, realizing that he had been oblivious to the injury, likely driven by an adrenaline-fueled rush. It hadn't taken effect until the moment he began to relax, possibly after he had finished applying bio-foam to his wounds.
Virgil, still trying to process the overwhelming revelations, couldn't help but question the situation. "You're going to honor a deal that I don't even remember? Why?" he muttered, fixing his gaze on the Director, who met his inquiry with an enigmatic, blank expression.
"Simple," the Director replied, his tone devoid of any emotion. He moved towards the door, preparing to depart. "You bargained and password-locked most of the data that's on this chip. You might not remember the passwords now, but you will, given time."
"Welcome to Project Freelancer, Agent Virginia," the Director declared as he swung the door open, revealing a group of individuals dressed in what appeared to be modified ODST armor. Each suit bore vibrant, eye-catching colors, a stark contrast to the typical ODST armor designed for stealth and blending in. Virgil regarded them with a mixture of curiosity and incredulity, wondering why anyone would willingly stand out so conspicuously in such a dangerous line of work.
The Director's tone took on a smug quality as he continued, his words oozing with self-assuredness. "Project Freelancer is a state-of-the-art scientific endeavor with one goal in mind: to ensure the security of humanity in a harsh and violent galaxy."
Virgil couldn't help but wonder what the fuck he had gotten himself into, thrust into a world of brightly colored, heavily modified armor and an organization that operated under the guise of scientific progress while undoubtedly harboring a multitude of secrets.
A woman with a striking, bright green mohawk stepped forward, her armor matching the same vivid hue. Her voice, in stark contrast to her colorful appearance, carried a monotone quality as she continued what the Director had begun. Her words provided more clarity to the organization's purpose.
"When the UEG introduced the Spartans, many administrators recognized the issue of standard equipment not being sufficient for the new breed of war," she explained, her tone devoid of emotion. "Project Freelancer's mission is to create equipment that is interchangeable between regular soldiers and Spartans, and vice versa. Additionally, we handle covert missions whenever they are assigned to us."
Virgil absorbed this information, realizing that Project Freelancer was not just about flashy armor but had a critical role in adapting to the evolving nature of warfare in a tumultuous galaxy. The contrast between the woman's appearance and her unemotional delivery only added to the enigma of the organization.
Virgil, after taking a moment to absorb the information, nodded thoughtfully. He crossed his arms, mustering a measure of confidence, and spoke up, his voice laced with a determined grin. "Alright, where do we begin, then?" He hoped that his newfound resolve would help him establish a positive rapport with his new teammates.
Delaware responded with a dark grin of his own, a hint of mischief in his eyes as he replied, "You heal, lad. Then, you get trained as a Freelancer. Ain't that fun?" he remarked, the wryness of his tone implying that the journey ahead might be anything but fun.
A dark green bandage-wrapped fist hurtled through the air, connecting solidly with Virgil's face. The force behind the blow sent him sprawling onto the not-so-padded sparring mat that occupied the training room. The room had been prepared for Virgil's initiation into the world of Freelancer training.
Virgil possessed some training from his previous life, and muscle memory from when he had taken over this body, but he still struggled to fully adapt to his new physical form. The foreign body didn't feel quite right to him; it wasn't his own, and he was keenly aware of that fact. However, with each passing day of training, that sense of disconnection slowly began to fade. It only resurfaced when he pushed himself to his limits or upon waking up in the unfamiliar vessel that now housed his consciousness.
A tan hand entered Virgil's field of vision from above him. His sparring partner for the day was attempting to talk to him and offer a helping hand. "Repeat that, Georgia; you kinda made my ears ring," Virgil remarked, accepting the hand that was extended towards him.
Georgia, his training partner, responded with a playful grin. "You beat me in the first round we did…yet you lost the other two. You keep falling back on the same moves from the first round, which makes you predictable. But that's precisely why we're here, to teach you not to be," he elaborated, his tone embodying both youthful enthusiasm and determination. Virgil was lifted from the ground, ready to dive back into training with Georgia.
Huffing, Virgil quickly regained his stance, mentally preparing for another round of sparring. "Alright, let's go," he grumbled, raising his fists in readiness to face off against the tan man clad in dark green. Despite the intensity of their training, Virgil couldn't help but notice Georgia's distinct American accent. However, the contrast between his appearance and the undeniable exuberance that radiated from Georgia's being was striking. If it weren't for the telltale American accent, one might easily mistake him for being from Egypt or the Middle East, but the youthful enthusiasm seemed out of place for someone entrenched in warfare, especially within the ranks of Project Freelancer.
After enduring another grueling hour of training, during which he had been pummeled relentlessly by Georgia, Virgil's body bore the marks of the intense sparring session. It had reached a point where Georgia simply couldn't continue beating the life out of Virgil, and he took it upon himself to drag the trainee to the medical wing. Along the way, Georgia's apologies and profuse expressions of regret practically poured out of him like a waterfall.
Virgil couldn't help but twitch in response, his patience tested as the exuberant Georgia verged on the edge of tears. As the door to the medical wing opened, a team of medics immediately descended upon Virgil dragging him straight to a prepped Ice Bath that was always prepared for agents going through training and this was about the fifth time Virgil was dragged here after training for the ice bath. At least it reduced the swelling and the medics always gave him pills and creams for the bruising.
Virgil's training regimen persisted in this challenging manner for weeks, pushing him to his limits day after day. However, just under six months into his journey, many of the Agents overseeing his development began to express their doubts. They consistently reported to the Director that Virgil's progress remained barely average for an Agent, and he seemed to stubbornly cling to old habits. The depth of this ingrained behavior led them to believe that it might never truly break. Eventually, most of the Agents gave up on attempting to train him in various forms of combat.
Amidst this apparent struggle, there were a few steadfast individuals who refused to give up on Virgil. Delaware, Georgia, and Rhodie continued to offer their guidance and support. Their unwavering dedication made Virgil feel not only welcome but also fostered a sense of calm within the horrible world of Project Freelancer. Their persistence and belief in him provided a glimmer of hope that he would survive the Project and somehow manage to make it to the era of the Reds and Blues, the slightly calmer part of this messed up world.
The Director and Virgil held secret meetings, deliberately keeping the other Agents in the dark regarding Virgil's training progress. This clandestine approach was a crucial component of their plan to shield Virgil from ONI's watchful gaze long enough for Project Freelancer to break free from ONI's control and gain more public visibility. Their ultimate goal was to showcase the advancements in military equipment that Project Freelancer had achieved.
Over the past six months, Project Freelancer had made significant strides, notably in the enhancement of the M808B Main Battle Tank. The UNSC had already begun full-scale production of the latest iteration, the M808B Scorpion smart tank. This cutting-edge vehicle had a groundbreaking feature—it could seamlessly interface with a Spartan's neural network, marking a remarkable leap in combat technology. As the Project continued its covert efforts, the stage was being set for a pivotal shift in the balance of power.
Virgil couldn't help but notice that the Director's involvement with the data storage device he had handed over was deepening. The Director's increasing interest was evident through his growing presence among the scientists tasked with deciphering its contents. Furthermore, the Director's inquiries, once subtle, became more direct and frequent, revealing his growing obsession with unlocking the secrets contained within the device. As time passed, it became increasingly clear that whatever was stored on that device held a significance that had drawn the Director's unwavering attention.
Three more months elapsed for Virgil, marked by rigorous training sessions and at the Director's clearance he was told to excel in hand-to-hand combat. The Director's intention was clear: by showcasing even minor improvements, he hoped to convince the other Agents to halt the arduous training boot camps that were proving more detrimental than helpful.
Despite being more proficient than many of the Agents in various military disciplines, Virgil had to conceal his true abilities. The specter of ONI's potential infiltration into Project Freelancer hung over him like a shadow, necessitating that he maintain a facade of being a work-in-progress.
At the end of this intensive three-month period, the Director made a significant announcement. Project Freelancer had gained approval to advance its mission to adapt Covenant technologies for use by human machines and soldiers. To achieve this ambitious goal, Project Freelancer needed to enhance its own Agents with full-body augmentations, a development that held profound implications for everyone involved.
Virgil held a steadfast stance against being the first to undergo augmentation, displaying his resolve even to the point of using a fork to ward off a medic who approached him during dinner one fateful night. This defensive strategy continued until the seventh medic found themselves with a broken arm, at which point the Director finally yielded to Virgil's demands. Reluctantly, he allowed Virgil to be the last in line for the augmentation process, despite this the director really didn't want his best going under first.
The initial Agent to undergo augmentation was New Hampshire. The Director gave the other agents the option to witness the procedure, but Virgil wanted nothing to do with it. Instead, he spent the entire day holed up in his room, immersing himself in the future's version of the internet and exploring the state of gaming. To his disappointment, most of the video games he came across were military-themed or focused on shooting, as if the conditioning and advertising trends of the twenty-first century had persisted. The lack of diversity in gaming options led Virgil to rant and vent his frustrations in the solitude of his room, where no one could hear him.
Four hours later, Virgil emerged from his room and made his way to the mess hall for dinner. On his journey, he encountered Delaware and Georgia, who were both bubbling with excitement. They couldn't contain their enthusiasm, with Georgia enthusiastically sharing his visions of what life would be like after augmentation, while Delaware, in his pragmatic style, pondered the new heavy weapons he would be capable of wielding and firing once the enhancements were complete.
As Virgil entered the mess hall, he found a few Agents already present, some engrossed in their meals. Jersey sat alongside his teammate Massachusetts, or Mass as he was commonly known among the other Agents. Jersey was in the middle of an animated rant, complaining about how he had been eager to follow Hampshire but was disappointed when the Director chose Penn instead. He continued to label Penn as a jackass for taking his place.
Virgil couldn't help but pull a face upon hearing this exchange. He realized that he was still in the dark about the histories and dynamics of the original agents who had been part of the Project before he arrived. The timeline he inhabited was likely a couple of years behind the primary timeline he was familiar with, leaving him with numerous unanswered questions and uncertainties about the past events that had shaped the Project.
Massachusetts abruptly interrupted the dinner conversation with a loud outburst that reverberated through the mess hall. "At least we all know someone isn't getting augmented like the rest of us because he's so goddamn fucking incompetent that the Director wouldn't dare waste resources on him!" Virgil was acutely aware that Mass was referring to him, but he remained unfazed.
In his mind, Virgil held a firm conviction that he was superior to the majority of these Agents, most of whom were civilian recruits thrust into a clandestine militia. The only two Agents he saw as genuinely competent were Delaware and Maryland, with the twins North and South Carolina following closely behind. To Virgil, Massachusetts' taunt was a mere slip of the tongue, a display of the man's stupidity.
He remained unperturbed, ignoring the provocations. Instead, he patiently waited his turn to approach the food station. Delaware, always meticulous in selecting his meal, seemed to take forever, even though the options rarely changed, save for the occasional Friday pizza or the rare birthday celebration featuring cake and ice cream.
Massachusetts, misinterpreting Virgil's silence as shame and embarrassment, seized the opportunity to approach the perceived "failure" agent, despite Jersey's protests and insistence that he leave Virgil alone. Virgil respected Jersey for his unique quality—despite his generally asshole-ish demeanor, he showed genuine respect for others. Jersey had always been wary of Virgil, sensing that something about him wasn't quite right. The way he moved, the way he spoke, Jersey saw Virgil as an enigma, a Dangerous enigma.
Massachusetts continued his crude tirade, his words dripping with disdain. "You see, Virgin-yah, the way I see it, is that you're only here because you're either screwing one of the investors, you blackmailed the Director, or you're screwing the Director himself, and the Director don't seem the type." He shrugged off Jersey's attempt to restrain him, undeterred as he advanced on the silent Virgil. Mass scrutinized Virgil from head to toe.
Virgil, although taller than Mass, was leaner than the burly melee expert. Everyone in the room was clad in the standard blue-grey tank top and exercise shorts, proudly sporting the Freelancer logo on their leg.
Massachusetts continued his brutal assessment, "You ain't any good at hand-to-hand combat, you can't shoot worth a damn, any blade that touches your hand, you end up cutting yourself with it, and you can't even hack into the simplest of computers. You shouldn't be an Agent, much less even be on. This. Ship!" Mass punctuated his critique by forcefully poking Virgil's chest.
Virgil had endured Massachusetts' crude insults long enough. The final jab at his chest ignited a fierce response within him, overpowering the Director's orders to lay low. He wasn't about to tolerate anyone speaking to him in such a demeaning manner or any manner at all.
In the heat of the moment, as soon as Massachusetts opened his mouth again, Virgil sprang into action. He seized the nearest object within reach and swung it viciously into Mass's face. The impact was gruesome, as the spoon tore through flesh and bone, piercing his cheek and penetrating deep into his mouth before violently exiting out the other side. It was a brutal choice of weapon – a simple spoon. The room was filled with the stomach-churning sound of rending flesh and the gruesome spectacle of blood gushing from Mass's grotesque wound.
A collective gasp of shock swept through the room, nearly every agent and personnel present utterly stunned by the brutal assault. The only one oblivious to the chaos was Georgia, who had been blissfully engrossed in his meal. It wasn't until Delaware forcibly turned the Green Bean to face the shocking scene that Georgia finally comprehended what had unfolded before him, causing him to promptly vomit onto the floor.
But Virgil's fury was far from satiated; no, it was not. With lightning speed, he lashed out, his arm snaking towards Massachusetts' braid, which dangled at the base of his skull. Simultaneously, his leg shot out like a battering ram, smashing into Mass's femur with a deafening snap, shattering the bone into pieces.
Virgil wasted no time, swiftly moving behind his agonized victim. He seized one of Mass's arms, wrenching it backward until the limb emitted a sickening crack, causing the man to scream out in excruciating pain. Mass's cries grated on Virgil's nerves, and he decided it was time to silence the cacophony. With a brutal motion, he forced Mass's face down into the table, the impact so ferocious it sent a spray of blood and teeth across the room.
And right in front of the Director.
"Well, Mass has always been thick as shite and only half as handy – if even. Good God, the head on 'im. Sir, Mass started this shite—" Delaware started, but the Director held up a hand, making everyone go silent. "Agent Virginia, My Office if you would… New Jersey, get your… partner to the medical wing."
Entering the Director's office, Virgil quickly noted that the Director had beaten him there. The Director sat at his desk, diligently typing on the computer. The absence of the usual counselor suggested that this was a confidential conversation intended only for them.
"Virgil, Agent Virginia, quite the show you put on in the mess hall. Care to explain... why?" the Director inquired, his gaze locked onto Virgil, awaiting an explanation.
Virgil leaned back against a wall, arms crossed, and let out an exasperated sigh. "I've had enough of the constant harassment from those civilian militants who can't seem to spot a fake-out even when it's right in front of them. What happened with Mass was my way of making a point, though I doubt they'll see it that way."
The Director sighed, a half-hearted scolding in his tone. "Agent Virginia, you pushed Mass's augmentation surgery back. That's not how we operate here."
Virgil leaned forward, his eyes locking onto the Director's. "Sir, with all due respect, I need to be at my best out there. These civilians might be good at what they do, but they're not real military. I need to cover for them, and sometimes that means bending the rules."
The Director leaned back in his chair, his expression shifting from mild annoyance to understanding. "Virgil, I've always known you were resourceful, and you're right. We need to maintain the illusion of a unified force. If you believe you need to expose more of your military capabilities to achieve that, then do what you must."
Virgil nodded, his determination unwavering. "I'll do whatever it takes to get through Project Freelancer alive, even if it means breaking a few rules."
The Director simply shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Results are what matter, Agent Virginia. Just make sure you deliver."
Results were the Director's sole concern, even if they weren't on his preferred timeline. The augmentations for the other agents were initially scheduled just a few weeks away. However, when it became evident that New Hampshire would never wake again, essentially rendered braindead, she became useless to Project Freelancer. Her body was shipped back to her family as a living vegetable. Augmentations had to be put on hold for a week, giving time to refine the process using notes Virgil had covertly stolen from ONI.
Meanwhile, Virgil continued training with Delaware and Georgia. However, he decided not to hold back anymore when it was just the three of them, with no one watching. Georgia learned the hard way that Virgil had been restraining himself from unleashing his fury upon anyone who insulted or irritated him. Delaware had a suspicion that there was more to Virgil, but he wisely chose not to delve into matters that didn't concern him.
After a full two weeks' delay for refining the drug cocktail and adjusting the grafting process, the Director finally authorized the resumption of augmentations.
The Director permitted pairs to undergo augmentations, and the Carolinas opted to proceed together. Virgil observed as the twins entered the medical room before excusing himself. He preferred not to be privy to the details, nor did he wish to hear any screams or witness potential fatalities.
Back in his room, Virgil found himself immersed in video games, reminiscing about his previous life and a dear friend. He pondered her well-being, contemplating whether this Halo world represented the future, questioning if she might already be deceased without his knowledge. In a quest for information, he delved into the futuristic internet, searching for her name. He stumbled upon a sole article dating back nearly 25 years, recounting the story of a little girl who went missing after her aunt left her at a park, assuming her brother, recently widowed, would be better off without the burden of a child. The child remained unaccounted for, a small memorial serving as a tribute at the park in her honor.
As Virgil gazed at the small picture of the child, a peculiar laugh escaped him—an amusement laced with a hint of irony. The chubby, cherubic face was unmistakably that of a younger version of his friend, Alex. He realized that he couldn't have arrived in this world alone, recalling a conversation in an online chat with Alex that mirrored the storm that had brought him here. Now, it was merely a waiting game to ascertain whether she was alive or dead. He held to the belief that nobody was truly deceased unless he laid eyes on the evidence of their demise.
That became Virgil's routine each time a Freelancer underwent augmentation. With the day off granted to all agents from training and equipment testing, including being exempt from materials testing, Virgil sequestered himself in his room. He tirelessly searched for his friend on the internet, employing phrases they both knew, referencing old classic games, and the like. Yet, his efforts only led to the unintended creation of a group fixated on rediscovering classic video games and playing them over the holo net.
Meanwhile, within Project Freelancer, the outcome of the augmentations diverged for the Carolina twins. South Carolina emerged from the augmentation intact, but her sister's fate was grim. Struggling with a mental breakdown, South was relieved from active duty, reassigned to the motorpool. Her official status within the project was reverted to reserves, while her sister's body was discreetly sent into space, destined to be cremated by the nearest sun. It was imperative for Project Freelancer to prevent any potential revelations regarding their augmentations, even posthumously.
The following week, it was Pennsylvania and New Jersey's turn for augmentation. Virgil delved deeper into the internet, determined to uncover more traces of his friend. If there was any possibility of finding her, he was resolute in his efforts to do so. During Penn's augmentation, a malfunction occurred in the process. The drilling tool, responsible for boring into the skull, malfunctioned during extraction, resulting in facial mutilation. Fortunately, the Agent would survive, but the incident was alarming.
Jersey, on the other hand, experienced nothing significant except complaining about soreness. Both Agents survived the procedures, a relief, but Virgil insisted that the malfunctioning drill be rectified before any further augmentations took place.
The subsequent agents to undergo augmentation were Maryland and Massachusetts. It was communicated to the other Agents that Mass suffered a heart attack due to the drug cocktail intended for pre-augmentations. This necessitated a thorough reevaluation of all agents and updated physicals before proceeding with the augmentations. Virgil pondered whether this incident was the reason why the newer generation of Freelancers was featured in the mini-series, rather than the older generation. The implications of these setbacks stirred questions and uncertainties.
Around the time Delaware and Rhode Island were undergoing their pre-check physicals, the Director introduced a new Agent to the group. Virgil immediately recognized him—Reginald Williams, a sophisticated man with a distinctive mustache, now to be referred to as Wyoming. Virgil recalled snippets of his civilian background, potentially related to sleight of hand training. However, what stood out most was Wyoming's incessant knack for knock-knock jokes. His augmentation coincided with Virgil's own surgery, a matter that sparked debate but was swiftly dismissed.
As Delaware and Rhodie underwent their augmentations, Virgil intended to follow his usual routine of retreating to his room to search for his friend and perhaps discover retro games to play. Yet, as he headed for the exit of the training room, the Director intervened. It didn't take long for Virgil to realize the Director's intention as he gestured, summoning two blond individuals carrying camping backpacks brimming with their possessions.
"Agent Virginia, these two are new recruits, they do not have code names yet, but this is Emmett and his twin sister Emily," the Director introduced the twins, provoking a slight wince from Virgil. He recognized them all too well. "Hm, the Dakotas…" Virgil muttered to himself, only for the Director to catch his words. "That's a fitting name, North and South Dakota..." the Director concluded. "Agent Virginia, escort Agents North and South Dakota to the agents' quarters," he directed before walking away, leaving Virgil to deal with the two new agents.
North, or Emmett, nervously scratched the back of his head. "So, uh..." he attempted to start, only to be elbowed by his sister and met with her glaring eyes. "Why did the director stick us with you?" she snapped angrily at Virgil. Virgil huffed in response, "Probably because the other Agents are doing other shit, and I'm the only one available. Don't argue about the staff or pilots being better suited than me. They—" Virgil gestured to a staff member with a full face mask resembling a downgraded version of an ODST helmet. "—Aren't allowed to interact with the Agents. They can't even talk to us unless it's work-related and not about their lives outside of Freelancer. Fuck we aren't even allowed to know their name. So shut up and fucking follow me or get left behind."
Virgil wasted no time, promptly turning and striding away with the twins in tow, realizing that he meant business. Reacting to his determined pace, North and South broke into a sprint to keep up with him.
The metallic halls of the Mother of Invention seemed monotonous, with only glowing signs distinguishing one section from another. Virgil had spent three months memorizing the locations of vital areas like the mess hall, training area, the Director's office, and the medical facility, leaving all else unbothered since he deemed it unnecessary knowledge.
North made an effort to strike up a conversation with Agent Virginia, but it felt like talking to a solid wall. Virgil remained closed off, impervious to small talk or any kind of camaraderie. South, on the other hand, didn't bother; her penchant for insults and bratty behavior didn't help. Her attitude contributed to Virgil's decision not to engage with them as he led them to two adjacent rooms with open doors.
"Those are yours," he pointed out, "Do whatever you want with them. We each have a stipend to spend on personal items, as long as we go through acquisitions for approval. Anyway, I'm headed to my own room." The division between them was palpable, emphasizing the autonomy and self-reliance required in their roles as Freelancers.
Weeks passed, marked by the arrival of new faces at a seemingly regular pace. Virgil sensed a shift, a turning point in his own Freelancer era, as the influx of new recruits coincided with the escalating toll on his fellow Freelancers. Whether through injuries during augmentation, fatalities, or retirements, the once-familiar roster was undergoing a transformation.
Delaware, post-augmentation, emerged with enthusiasm and readiness for action, only to face a devastating reality. The moment he attempted to rise and test his augments, his legs refused to move. The process had left him paralyzed from the waist down. Filled with anger, Delaware confronted the Director in a heated altercation. The clash didn't end well for either party, but it left an impression, securing Delaware a new role as the head of acquisitions.
Rhody's experience took a darker turn. A descent into madness led her to kill four individuals— one medic and three scientists—before being subdued by fellow agents. The cause of Rhody's mental breakdown remained shrouded in mystery, the subject of an ongoing investigation. Virgil's attempts to seek answers were met with silence, signaling that clarity might remain elusive. The incidents underscored the volatility of the augmentation process and the unpredictable toll it could take on the agents involved.
Among the new faces the Director brought in, some seemed vaguely familiar, likely from the mini-series, while others were just plain strangers who really couldn't measure up to the typical Freelancer standard.
The first two Virgil recognized stood out—a spindly blond guy with grey eyes nervously flanking a plain-looking brown-haired girl, accompanied by a tall, muscular, typically military-looking guy. If they rolled in together, they probably had some history, be it acquaintances or buddies. Virgil's guess was that Wash and Maine knew each other, judging by their bootcamp-ready posture, while the girl looked like a civilian recruit.
The introduction of Wash, Maine, and Connie to Project Freelancer wasn't your usual orientation. Virgil's welcoming committee involved him beating the living shit out of Agent South after a heated exchange of unfriendly banter and words. To add a cherry on top, there was a busted vintage Walkman in the mix, making the initiation anything but conventional.
Virgil's journey through the augmentation process was uneventful; not much changed about his body, except for a notable increase in height, now standing somewhere between 8 to 10 inches taller. Despite maintaining his slim build, the augmentation gifted him nearly unbreakable bones, leaving him grappling with the ambiguous nature of this newfound strength.
During his own augmentation, the latest batch of Freelancers underwent initiation, enduring the rigorous challenges of Freelancer boot camp. Unfortunately, a mishap occurred with the freshly designed zero-gravity jetpacks, resulting in Georgia being classified as Missing In Action.
Virgil found himself empathizing with the sentiments of the old lore video featuring Spartan Sam, acknowledging the sense of displacement that came with the augmentations. Physically, Virgil should have retained his previous abilities, but nothing seemed to move in the right way—always either too fast or too slow. Following a cautious month of physical therapy, under the watchful eye of medics concerned about the well-being of Freelancer agents, Virgil emerged ready to face whatever challenges the Director had in store.
The Director sure knew how to throw everyone into the deep end, and he did just that. The newly augmented Agent Washington and Agent Connecticut found themselves in the thick of it with Virgil on a mission that went sideways faster than a damn racecar. They were armed with nothing but standard ODST armor and were given the task to gather intel on Charon Industries, some military-funded, civilian-research bullshit. All Virgil could gather was that Charon was messing around with cryogenics, and somehow, Wash, in his infinite grace, tripped an alarm, sending a canister of liquid nitrogen crashing down like a fucking avalanche.
That little mishap put a solid end to Charon's cryogenic experiments, and Virgil and the team got a grade-A "You fucked up" speech from both the Director and Carolina, who decided to waltz in and get augmented while they were away, also trying to stir the pot. Unfortunately for her, Virgil knew she wasn't running the show, and the only person he'd tolerate being scolded by was the fucking principal—aka, the Director.
Turns out that messed-up mission took way longer than any of them realized, situated in a completely different system than the Mother Of Invention. They ended up cryo-sleeping there and back, a week to get there, two weeks to royally screw things up, and another week for the joyous return. The whole debacle was a rollercoaster of fuck-ups and a lesson in how to not handle cryogenic canisters like a bunch of amateurs.
Virgil couldn't shake a tinge of sympathy for Wash. Fresh out of standard military boot camp, the poor guy had zero experience in a team or high-stress situations. Connecticut, on the other hand, spilled the beans on the way out, revealing her past life in the entertainment business, managing hologram shows, infomercials, and concerts. The Director, ever the opportunist, recruited her to test if holograms had any military merit.
While he felt a bit sorry for both Wash and Connecticut, the reality was they signed up for the military experience, and the hurdles they were facing were mostly on them. The unpredictable and demanding nature of Project Freelancer wasn't something anyone could fully grasp until they were knee-deep in the chaos, and Virgil knew that firsthand.
A few months and a handful of standard missions later, the Director unveiled their newest best friend—the Mjolnir powered assault armor. Virgil was well aware that this armor was essentially a bastardized version of the genuine Mjolnir armor worn by real Spartans. Given that the agents of Freelancer were essentially Spartan threes, this armor was designed to be more customizable and disposable. However, being Project Freelancer, Virgil suspected that the Director had tinkered with the designs far more than they were originally intended.
This marked the beginning of the Project Freelancer that Virgil knew from the mini-series, a chapter he used to love watching until it became predictably repetitive. He could still recall the Discord conversations with Alex—discussing how the agents would behave, their actions, whether they were part of the project or just regular military grunts. It dawned on Virgil that over a year had passed since manifesting into this strange amalgamation of the Halo and Red vs. Blue series. It irked him to be stuck here, but such was his fate.
Virgil couldn't help but notice the Director becoming more secretive whenever he was in his office or on the bridge. Just a few weeks after the agents got their custom armor, with Virgil opting for the standard Mjolnir with an AKIS helmet in black, he sensed something off about the Director's behavior. It didn't take long before he was summoned to the office.
Upon entering, Virgil spotted a blue glow emanating from a computer, and as he shut the door behind him, he walked forward to stand in front of the desk. "Tell me, Agent Virginia, do you remember anything about the Orion two project?" The Director's question immediately grabbed Virgil's attention.
"The Spartan program. Designed by Halsey, meant to augment man into the perfect soldier, but what is a soldier when their loyalties are always in question? The Project abducted children and indoctrinated them into being the most loyal soldiers before augmenting them. Their augmentations—I wasn't able to read... or at least I don't think I've read them. There was one, I think, about their minds being augmented to accept the input of a smart A.I. chip into their brain or into their helmet. I just really understood that they took children and augmented them," Virgil explained, his gaze drifting off into space as he struggled to recall the specifics of the Spartan augmentations. It had been a while since he bothered to watch the original lore video.
"Hmm, an A.I. chip was able to be inserted into their brain?" the Director questioned, sounding skeptical. Virgil scoffed, "There's some sort of slot at the base of their skull near their neck, I think. It doesn't go inside their brain; that would make it irremovable." He argued, pulling information from the Red vs. Blue series rather than delving into the intricate details of the Halo lore, something he hadn't gotten around to reading due to financial constraints back in his own universe.
"That makes more sense..." the Director hummed, his attention momentarily on the computer, piquing Virgil's curiosity. Unable to hold back, he blurted out, "What's this all about, sir?" The Director looked up, giving Virgil a scrutinizing look before tapping on a peculiar disc on his desk.
"Agent Virginia, meet DTR-0001, also known as Alpha," the Director announced, and a small blue hologram of a man in Mjolnir armor materialized. "Yo, what's up?" echoed a voice, sounding eerily similar to the Director's but more relaxed, prompting Virgil to stare at the hologram as if it had two heads.
"I thought smart A.I. were regulated and constrained to the 'Guardian' model, you know, human," Virgil inquired. Alpha, however, placed his hands on his hips. "I chose this form, asshole. I thought it looked badass, like an action movie. Besides, I'm not modeled after the standard guardian. I was made using the Director's brain structure as a base, and he said I could choose any form I wanted, you asshole."
"Rude, you little blue bastard pixie!" Virgil growled, flicking the hologram, causing it to fizzle out and then back into existence. "Don't do that, you dipshit!" The Alpha yelled, looking like he wanted to hit or shoot Virgil.
"That is enough, the both of you," the Director interrupted their fight, making them stop and glare at each other. "I believe I have all the information I need for now, Agent Virginia; you may go."
Virgil huffed before giving one last glare to the blue pixie, who just flipped him off as he turned and left the room. Right before the door closed, Virgil caught the beginning of a sentence spoken by the Director. "Alpha, I believe we now have a way to reactivate our sleeping—" then the door closed heavily, sealing the room from eavesdropping.
Irritated that he couldn't hear the last of that sentence, Virgil began planning to find out what the Director was actively hiding. He did not give a damn if it was meant to be a surprise; he hated surprises in this world. It usually meant that someone was going to be shot or get shot at. So, Virgil embarked on his messed-up stealth mission to uncover the mystery behind the "Sleeping" whatever that needed to be reactivated.
In the following days, he discreetly probed other agents, subtly inquiring if they had noticed the Director's peculiar behavior. Virgil couldn't shake off the feeling that something big was brewing beneath the surface of Project Freelancer, and he was determined to unearth it before it caught everyone off guard.
It was almost two weeks after Virgil began snooping around that he finally got something of an answer during their weekly sparring sessions. The atmosphere in the training room was charged with tension as Virgil and Washington engaged in a fierce exchange of punches and kicks.
Virgil's movements were a fluid dance of precision and power. He threw a rapid combination of jabs and hooks, each strike aimed with calculated intent. Washington, determined to hold his ground, deftly evaded some attacks but found himself on the receiving end of others.
As the spar intensified, Virgil's kicks became lightning-fast, sweeping towards Washington with a controlled force. One well-timed kick landed squarely on Washington's midsection, momentarily winding him. In a swift follow-up, Virgil executed a leg sweep, sending Washington tumbling backward, landing unceremoniously on his ass.
Silence enveloped the training room as Virgil stood over Washington, his gaze unwavering as he held out his hand for the rookie agent to take hold. "You're getting better…slowly but you are. You might just need some confidence…and more training," Virgil huffed. Wash frowned before taking the hand and being helped up off the floor. "I don't think I'll ever land a hit," the blond agent grumbled.
"Against Virginia probably not, maybe if you sparred against Connie you would." The laughing accented voice called out from the sidelines, making the duo look over and spot York standing there with two bottles of water and a smirk on his face. Virgil never really understood how he was dragged into the weird friendship between York, Maine, and Wash, but they managed it just by bugging the crap out of him, making him cave.
"Connie would kill me if I asked her to spar with me again, York. Remember what happened last time," Wash groaned, touching the small scar on his cheek caused by Connie nearly trying to claw his eyes out after he accidentally said something about how spars helped with weight control, which was a bad thing.
"Yeah, you're lucky that it wasn't that tall brunette that was in medical. She had this…aura that said, 'Just come near me, I'll snap your spine like a twig.' Lucky for us, she was doing some kind of physical therapy at the time and ignored us," York hummed, taking a seat on the sparring mat and handing Wash one of the water bottles.
"She was so tall…" Wash murmured, opening his water and taking a large swig from the cool liquid. Virgil looked at the two like they had gone crazy; he had never heard of a tall woman agent in freelancer, he had watched the series almost religiously when it came out, and not once had he ever seen a tall agent. There were some agents that weren't shown in the series, but he thought those were the defunct freelancers like Delaware and the others that had died during augmentation.
"Did you happen to catch the name of this lady?" Virgil found himself asking, curiosity now peaked. "Uh, this was a few days ago when Wash somehow managed to piss off Carolina, and she threw a weight at him in the gym. The medics were trying to rush us out, saying that we had the wrong medical, so I really didn't catch a name, maybe her patient number but nothing conclusive before we were thrown out," York handed over the other water bottle to Virgil.
Virgil turned to Wash, expecting him to have heard something. "Don't look at me, I was concussed and all I could really tell was she was tall, had brown hair, and these really intense pale green eyes."
Virgil stood up and demanded "Take me there, I wanna see this medical"
When they arrived just around the corner to the off-limits medical area, Virgil took note of the sign, "Authorized personnel only, Recovery Alpha, no unauthorized entry." Then he noticed the guards posted on either side of the door.
York looked surprised to see the guards there when Virgil turned to ask about them. "Those guards were not there a few days ago, and neither was the palm scanner lock," he said, pointing at the new panel that was on the wall. Virgil turned back to where the door and the guards were, focusing and seeing a panel on the wall. He sighed as he recognized it as a palm and finger scanner.
"Guess we aren't going to be seeing that mystery tall lady today," Wash whispered, scratching his cheek. "Um, Virge, You and I are supposed to be in the gun range right now…" Wash muttered, clearly not wanting to be there looking at an off-limits door, fearing he might get into trouble just from being around it.
"Fine, Wash…" Virgil groaned, not wanting to leave the door alone but knowing the Director. Whatever or whoever was behind the door would be making an appearance very soon. Turning, Virgil began walking down the hallway, leaving York and Wash behind, giving each other confused looks.
"Are you idiots coming or not!?" he called, making the two jolt and jog after him.
Virgil was right about one thing—it did not take long for the Director to call all of the Agents, active and defunct, to line up in the main training room floor, the space meant to showcase new prototypes, weapons, and equipment to be recorded and sent to the respective military branches and then some.
Each Agent was ordered to be in full armor with helmets on, and the retired or defunct agents were to be wearing their old helmets, but the armor was optional. Virgil felt an intense worry that something was going to happen to them, but he still didn't know what it was.
Looking around at the lineup for the Freelancers, he took note that they were divided into two groups—the new generation and what remained of the old generation. Virgil stood next to a wheelchair-bound Delaware, who somehow wore his full armor and helmet while in the wheelchair. Next to them were Pennsylvania, Maryland, and New Jersey, with South Carolina at the very end of their line. Each wore their full ODST armor, looking as if they pulled the old armor out of the back of their closets. Delaware was the only one who kept his armor in shape.
Virgil was the only one out of all of them wearing the bastardized Mjolnir armor. Looking over at the new generation of Freelancers, Virgil noted that York, Maine, Wash, and North were all standing near each other, while the others seemed to barely tolerate the person they were standing next to. "Virge, what are you doing over there?" Wash called, genuinely curious about why Virgil was with a group he had never seen before, as he had never seen these people in armor before.
Before Virgil could speak, the Director appeared and said, "That is because Agents Virginia, Delaware, Pennsylvania, Maryland, New Jersey, and South Carolina are all from the first generation of Freelancer agents." This declaration caused the new generation to freeze and stare over at the small group confused on why there weren't that many of them. Were they just that arrogant that they didn't need a big group like they did? The teal Carolina of the new gen was about to say something as she stepped forward before the Director began talking again.
"If you had not noticed before there are only six agents from the previous generation here, there used to be Ten…They are no longer with us for varying reasons I will not divulge. This is the official retirement for Five of the Six original agents. Agents Delaware, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Maryland, and South Carolina, you may remove your helmets for the last time." The director spoke with such finality and ceremony that the agents all stood tall, or in Delaware's case stiffened his back as straight as he could, and once by one they took off their helmets.
"You may all see these agents around the Mother of Invention as they have retired from active missions; this does not mean they will be treated anything less than Agents even if they are retired. Coraline…" The director gestured to the woman in light blue with a recon ODST helmet, making her step forward. "Coraline and Caroline were twins brought into the project together, a sniper and a shotgunner. Coraline now works in motor-pool, and Caroline has left us. Both of their helmets will be put on display together." An unknown masked grunt agent walked forward and took the light blue helmet from Coraline.
Coraline turned and saluted the group before walking off out of the training room. One by one, the original agents were given this strange send-off ceremony, each helmet being taken from them and placed in some kind of glass box for preservation. It made Virgil wonder whatever happened to the helmets in the series or was he actually changing things; was his very presence changing the story.
"Agent Virginia, as the last of the original, please turn to the new generation," the Director ordered. Virgil really couldn't say no, so he turned to the new group of agents. "Now, join your new squad, as you make their ninth squad member." Hearing the Director's words, Virgil took a step and began walking, only to stop and stand in line alongside Wash and Maine.
"If he makes nine…who is our tenth then!?" South Dakota practically screeched, clearly both confused and angry that Virgil was part of their Freelancer squad.
This is when the Director's lips twitched slightly, and he turned his head slightly. "You may come in now…" He called over to a closed door that led out into a hallway.
The door gave a slight hiss as the mechanism hefted and the door slid up, the first thing Virgil saw was white armored Mjolnir booted feet, this made his stomach drop and the whole door felt as if it were moving in slow motion. White colored armor was Her favorite thing to put on her character in the Halo games, she said it was the funniest thing to hear guys ranting about being killed by someone wearing white.
The door was passed the figure's legs now making Virgil realize how fucking tall this person was, This was a goddamn Sparatan. This couldn't be anything other than a Spartan II with how tall they were. The door was over the Spartan's torso now revealing the secondary dark purple color. The color that She always fucking chose.
After what seemed like forever the Spartan's figure was now fully visible to all within the room. Clad in blinding white Mjolnir armor with a dark purple secondary coloration was a eight foot tall Spartan who was now walking toward the group with Silent footfalls making Virgil shiver, how could something that big be that silent.
"Agents…Meet Agent California"
Been awhile, I know right? But I did say that this story was just a little side project that I wanted to put down on paper. Its kinda based on a D&D kinda thing Prophet and I made up together. Anyway if you like this story go read some of my other things, most if not all of them are going to be updated once a month now as to not burn myself out by writing a 10k word chapter every five days.
Anyway, I stream video games, I write and I draw find me on Twitch if you want.
Happy holidays!