Hello everyone. Sorry this chapter took so long. Had a lot of things going on in my personal life, with many more things on the way. Hopefully I should be able to speed through the next several chapters and get to some more excitement.
Interim
Location: UNSC All or Nothing, In Transit Through Slipspace
Time: 1157 Hours
Date: July 08, 2557
Technology was a thing of both beauty and terror when one thought about it. Since the creation of the wheel, mankind had always used science and technology to gain some sort of advantage, first against the creatures that roamed ancient Earth, then against their own mortality. Through cultivation, that which was possible through the invention of spade and plow, humans could grow their own food and extend their life expectancy far beyond what it was capable of. This could be further expanded to that of medicine and architecture, a way to heal and reinforce the body from both internal and external threats.
But soon healing the self was not enough. Mankind, in its curiosity, used its technology to explore, to seek out that which was unknown. They tamed animals, built carts, and, eventually, ships. A ship was always the prime means of distant travel, to cross great expanses of water where no other technology could at the time. The ship was soon reduced in stature when planes became prevalent.
Now, thousands of years later, humanity used ships capable of flight through space, combining the aspects of both modes of transportation into one.
Agent Washington could hear the sounds of the ship's engines hum distantly in the background, the technology that propelled them through space at once-incomprehensible speeds. They sounded comfortable, familiar. He'd been in UNSC ships for most of his military career and virtually all of his time in Project Freelancer. He walked down the hallway, stretching his limbs and hearing an audible pop as he craned his neck. He, and most of the team by his estimate, had woken up later than they normally would, taking the time through transit from Praetor to Falaknuma to relax as much as feasibly possible. Very few of them had been in a fight like the one they'd experienced in recent memory. And battles, especially ones that lasted for hours, were exhausting no matter what the movies portrayed.
He passed through the door that led to the mess hall, feeling the ship's recycled air against his skin. He'd taken off his armor hours ago, letting his limbs stretch and become loose again. He had almost forgotten what that felt like at times. The armor had become almost a second skin to him, such was its familiarity. It was weird, but something he should probably get used to. He wasn't going to be in the military his whole life.
At least he hoped so.
The Freelancer took a tray off a nearby rack, walking down the aisle and picking an assortment of breakfast foods: oatmeal, egg whites, a few sausages, a banana, and apple. It wasn't the most colorful assortment of foods, but it was healthy and he'd had this combination for years now. He didn't want to break the habit at the moment.
He was just about finished getting what he wanted when someone called across the room. "Hey, Wash!"
He turned to see Grif and Simmons waving to him a few rows down, clearly beckoning to them. Sarge and Donut sat next to them. All of them wore civilian clothes like him. Wash could see the faint trace of bionics on Simmons from his position, silver veins running down one side of his head. Sarge had a mass of scars across his body, even snaking up to his grey-white hair. The old Red had a frown on his face, but whether that was normal for him or not was yet to be determined.
The Freelancer walked over to the Reds. "What do you guys need?" he asked.
Grif spoke first. "Do we really need a reason to want to hang out with you?"
"Yeah," Simmons pipped in next, "we too cool for you or something, like those jocks that used to always bully me in high school?"
"What?" Washington asked, bewildered by the maroon trooper's comment. "No, not at all. Why would you think I'd be like that?"
"Well," he said, "you are the former member of a top secret military organization with training that is leagues better than whatever we received when we were in the Red army. That and you have a cool code name: Agent Washington."
"Gotta admit, it is pretty cool," Sarge added.
"Yeah," Donut said, "it's intriguing and secretive, like double-oh-seven or Agent Forty-One."
The male Freelancer stared down at the assembled Reds. Did he really give off that much of an impression to them? He didn't think so. Then again, they'd only ever seen him with the cold, professional Freelancer persona.
"Well," he finally said, putting his tray down on the table next to Grif, "I'm not like that at all." He swung his legs over the side and sat down.
Grif and Simmons gave each other perplexed looked before facing him. "Then what are you like?" the orange soldier asked.
Agent Washington sighed. "When I was in Project Freelancer, I was pushed around and teased. A lot. Most of the other Freelancers looked down on me or took pity. No one really thought of me as a soldier like them, an equal."
"Not even Carolina?" Donut asked.
"Especially not Carolina," Wash shook his head. "If you had seen us back in the day, you would've immediately seen that, out of all of us Freelancers, she is the least changed by everything that has happened to her. Even Tex is different from how she was before."
He looked around the table, seeing the Reds shocked at the revelation that Wash had been treated so lowly, like them. He could only imagine what they were thinking about him now.
"In a way," he said, "I guess I was kinda like you guys: always ignored, outcast, looked down upon."
Sarge snorted. "I hate to admit it, but you're right about that." A few years ago, he would've vehemently disagreed with the Freelancer, would've defended the glorious purpose of the Red Army. However, now that he had seen past the veil of lies that was Project Freelancer, he couldn't ignore that he had been put in an army of failures and cannon fodder. They had all been expendable, little more than sentient test dummies.
It hurt knowing how little the UNSC and Project Freelancer thought of them.
The table went silent at the thought, all remembering how it had felt to know the truth of their existence, their purpose in Project Freelancer.
"But now we are all here," Grif finally said.
Simmons nodded in agreement. "We're here, doing an actual mission, with real stakes behind it."
"Better yet," added Donut, "we all got a chance to get some proper training, to get put into units that actually wanted us."
"I'd say 'want' is a strong word," Grif commented sullenly.
Simmons didn't need reminding. When he and Grif had been transferred to Colonel Worthington's 1st Armor Brigade Combat Team, subset to the UNSC 107th Armored Division, they had been received less than warmly. For one, the unit was largely made of UNSC Army soldiers instead of Marines, so the training, terminology, and doctrine was slightly different from what they were used to. Of the single Marine Battalion that was there, the vast majority of them were mechanized infantry or scouts. That meant intense training and discipline, something neither he nor Grif had had to deal with in a long time.
The command team immediately noticed it and assigned them to a squad with a former drill sergeant. He had been instructed to whip them back into shape by any means necessary, which meant going through hell and back to get Grif to actually participate. Grif had tried sneaking his way past the sergeant's gaze, finding the most obscure places to sleep and be lazy, but he had been caught every single time. The orange soldier had a suspicion that Simmons may have helped in that endeavor, even though his friend always denied it.
Still, Grif adamantly refused to acclimate to the tempo of training. After four months of constant trial and error, it seemed all the sergeant's effort would be wasted.
That is, until the first raid happened.
Grif remembered vividly just how the attack happened, the suddenness of a Covenant fleet entering orbit. He remembered snoozing away the day in his room curled up in a ball, Simmons reading something from his tablet, when the base's air raid sirens went off, jolting them into action. Well, jolting the geekier of the two Reds at least. Grif had been convinced that the sirens were for a drill or test, so he had moved less enthusiastically.
That attitude changed when the loudspeaker for the barracks went off. "All units, Covenant splinter fleet spotted in low orbit. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill," the intercom had said. Not even a second had passed when loud rumblings could be heard all across the base. They didn't know it at the time, but the aliens had deployed drop pods down in quick succession, some securing a landing zone while others went on the hunt for targets of opportunity.
With the news of aliens descending upon them, the Reds redoubled their efforts, something that felt extremely foreign to Grif. Yet it was called for. Grif and Simmons had only encountered aliens a few times before, but never an entire fleet and never with the level of hostility these Covies were about to show them.
They'd only just finished with their armor when the sounds of gunfire could be heard just outside of their room, followed by the high-pitch whine of Covenant plasma bolts and the screams of dying humans. At that point Grif had convinced Simmons that their best option was to hide, one his friend was all too happy to accept.
It didn't last long, for one of the Spec Ops Elites had done a room-by-room sweep to make sure there were no survivors. The Reds successfully ambushed the tall reptilian alien, using their combined weight to overwhelm their foe. Grif remembered how terrified he had been when fighting the Sangheili, noting how easily it had dislodged Grif and Simmons even despite having surprise on their side. It was like facing the Meta all over again.
He also remembered that the only reason they survived was a lucky kick to the knee from Simmons followed up by a tackle from him and several punches to the alien's throat. It was one of the few things he remembered his sergeant teaching him in the event he had to fight an Elite and had no weapon on him.
Believing that one of it's friends would come looking for it soon, they proceeded to scavenge what weapons they could and vacate the area.
What laid beyond their room seemed almost like something out of a horror movie. The halls, once pristine white, were charred with the marks of plasma burns, with deep furrows in the wall exposing sparking cables. Bullet holes could be seen spread haphazardly as well, along with the acrid stench of burnt flesh and metal. Several corpses laid strewn across the ground, both human and Elite. For the monstrous aliens, multiple bullet wounds could be seen across their bodies, purple blood leaking onto their armor. The human bodies were in far worse condition, however, with heavy burn marks across their chests where armor should have been. Several of them had severed or otherwise missing limbs, cauterized at the stumps, leaving the skin black and broken. One or two of them even had a missing head.
It was more than Grif could handle, and lifted his helmet up just quickly enough to puke out the contents of his stomach: several snacks that could almost qualify as a meal by themselves. Simmons was barely any better, the heat draining from his face as he witnessed the aftermath of a Covenant assault firsthand. This was well beyond what either of them had experienced before.
But now they both realized why the sergeant had been pushing them so hard, trying to get them to take their training seriously. It was so they could avoid the fate of these men, their comrades-in-arms.
They had managed to commandeer a functioning Warthog, and had used it to successfully regroup with the others, even saving several squads of Marines in the process, their sergeant among them.
It had taken several hours, but UNSC forces were eventually able to regroup, with Grif and Simmons leading the charge. It was enough to delay the Covenant forces that had made planetfall, allowing other UNSC forces to respond and reinforce. And it was enough to break the attackers, the raiders calling off their attack and fleeing, tails tucked between their legs.
A mutual understanding was found between the Reds and their sergeant from that first battle. For them, they finally understood why their training was important, where it didn't matter to them before. They had largely avoided the war against the Covenant, but the rest of humanity hadn't been so lucky. Now they got to experience it firsthand.
For the sergeant, he finally got an understanding how they had survived, why they did what they did. For all of their acts of cowardice, it did allow them to survive, and it led to their victory against the Covenant. For Simmons, there was potential to leverage his intelligence and book-smarts. For Grif, there was a level of cunning and wit that had not been tapped into. He was clearly smart, much more than he initially let on.
Of course, the raids didn't stop, not even once, but the Reds became more and more accustomed to them, and the UNSC was able to take fewer and fewer casualties as the years went on.
"Be that as it may," Washington said, snapping Grif and Simmons out of their flashback, "I wanted you guys specifically for this mission and I'm glad you guys are here now."
Grif and Simmons couldn't help but feel that Wash was being sincere, even despite all of the lies they had been fed in their time at Project Freelancer. "Thanks, I guess," Simmons said, speaking for both of them.
The team remained in amicable silence, edging on, but not quite, uncomfortable. Just how were they supposed to follow up on such a heavy topic. They'd originally called him to make small-talk, get to know some of the more normal details about him. They hadn't interacted a whole ton between their attempts to destroy the Project Freelancer base and finding and apprehending the Director after the Meta fell into the ocean.
"So," Donut finally asked, breaking the silence at the table. "Why is your armor grey and gold?"
"Yeah," Grif spoke next. "Is there a story behind it?"
"Does it have some badass meaning to you?" Sarge questioned.
"Or is it a tactical thing?" Simmons put in. "Ya know, like how zebras and tigers use stripes and different colors to break up their silhouettes?"
Wash chuckled at the overwhelming nature of their curiosity, raising a hand to silence them before they got too far out of control. "There's a very interesting story behind it, actually…"
Carolina walked down the hall past a series of training areas at a brisk pace, wearing a crisp cyan tank-top and exercise shorts. She had just finished her routine workout at the ship's tiny gym, an unfortunate side-effect of having to live on a frigate instead of a cruiser or carrier. Now she was on her way to one of the combat arenas where Tucker and Junior were practicing sword and weaponless katas they had learned from the Sangheili.
During her first tour or two as a Marine, before she was chosen for Project Freelancer, she'd try to keep herself in shape by running laps around the perimeter of the main deck, getting pushups and crunches in between to give herself a break. Sometimes she'd even practice her punches and kicks with a punching bag or training dummy if she felt she needed something extra.
Being offered a chance to witness and even participate in the martial practices of the Elites was intriguing to her. She'd never have guessed at how seriously the large predatory aliens took their training and lifestyle. Then again, with a nickname like 'Elite', she guessed that made sense, although it was still quite different from how the UNSC handled its elite troops. They were more like medieval knights or ancient samurai in that respect.
She was dead set on heading straight to the room Tucker and his kid were practicing in when she heard movement in one of the training areas which she'd previously believed were empty. Slowing her pace, she crept up to the entrance, which was wide open. Upon reaching it, she peeked her head around just in time to hear what sounded like a series of punches and kicks being thrown about.
In the center of the room, among a series of training matts meant to be used for combatives and wrestling, were the unmistakable forms of Church and Tex. They were both out of armor, in workout gear similar in function to hers. Tex's hair was tied behind her head in a similar manner to Carolina's, her green eyes narrowed in focus. Both former A.I. were circling each other, arms raised defensively.
"Again," she heard Tex say. Before Carolina could understand what she meant, the black Freelancer stepped forward, jabbing with her left hand. Church immediately dropped low, bringing his right arm to block while simultaneously going for a punch with his left. He caught her wrist with his palm before pushing it away. Tex caught his unoccupied fist her own, holding it and draining its momentum.
However, that gave him the opening he needed. His right hand that was previously blocking snapped down her arm, forming into a fist, before hitting the inside of her shoulder joint. She immediately released her grip and shuffled back slightly. Church roundhouse-kicked up at her waist in retaliation, trying to get a hit or two in before she got out of reach. Carolina noticed he was a bit slow on the draw.
Tex did too.
The black Freelancer immediately grabbed it and didn't let go. Church's leg began to wobble as he lost control of his center-of-gravity.
However, Tex didn't let him fall. "Almost had it right that time," she said. She placed her free hand on his shoulder, holding him steady as she helped stabilize his balance. She let go of his leg, allowing him to return to his original stance. "Just a bit slow on the kick."
"I can't go any faster than that, Tex," Church groaned, relaxing his posture.
"Yes, you can," she tried to say encouragingly, although there was a hint of scolding in her voice as well. "You just need to practice more."
"I've been practicing, for years at this point." His shoulders deflated as he sighed in defeat. "Maybe I'm just not good at kicking."
"Or maybe you need to change your strategy," another voice called out to them. All three of them turned their heads to see Illinois leaning against another doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. Surprisingly, he was out of his armor, wearing a simple grey shirt, blue shorts, and black shoes. From where she was, Carolina could see his toned, muscular body, and slightly tan skin. She could tell that he was vaguely Southeast Asian, or perhaps just Oceanic. His face was relatively relaxed, his face neutral. All of this was quite surprising to the cyan Freelancer.
Now that Carolina thought about it, this might be the first time she saw him out of armor to begin with. He hadn't exactly been a social butterfly around her or the other Freelancers back in the day.
"And how should I go about doing that?" questioned Church, frustration still in his voice. "It's not like I can change how fast I can kick or anything like that."
"No," Illinois agreed, "but you can change what type of kick you use, which, to a degree, is kicking faster."
He stepped onto the sparring matt, taking a position next to Tex. Carolina could clearly see the Spartan side in him when compared to her. He stood almost a full head taller than her, placing him somewhere between six-and-a-half and seven feet tall. And this wasn't even in armor.
She could also see several small patches of scar-tissue across his arms. Surgical scars, if she had to guess. Carolina had to really focus in to see them, noticing how easy it was to miss such details. If she had to guess, there probably used to be more, but they had faded into obscurity at this point in his life.
"Doesn't that defeat the point of the drill?" Church asked.
"Normally, yes," Illinois admitted. "But let me ask you a question. How long have you been practicing roundhouse kicks?"
The former Epsilon AI cocked his head to the side. "About four years. Why?"
"If you've been practicing for four years and seen next-to-no improvement, I suggest focusing on a different skill to compensate. I know from experience that female Spartans, and soldiers in general, generally have a lighter frame and possess higher flexibility and agility as well as significantly stronger thighs. This translates relatively well into the ability to sprint and kick, hence why you can see the likes of Agent Carolina using a lot of kicks when she fights in melee." He took on a fighting stance next to Tex, his arms raised.
"For men, like you and me," he said, "we are much more suited for short, powerful kicks, useful for hitting an opponent's legs or groin." He faced the female Freelancer, motioning for her to get ready. In response, she spread her legs apart, raising her arms. "Watch what I do when I kick."
The first kick he did was a roundhouse kick, just like the one she'd shown him and gotten him to practice. Church and Carolina both noticed that it was noticeably quicker and snappier than Church's. However, at the same time, to was still obvious and slow enough for Tex to be able to react. She blocked his kick, barely moving from he attack. It was obvious that he wasn't putting much power into his attack, but that wasn't the point.
"See how she was able to react to my movements?" Illinois asked. Church nodded. "If you don't put enough force behind the kick or are too slow, the attack becomes ineffective. It can also leave you dangerously exposed to grapples or counterattacks."
"Okay then," the former male A.I. asked, "so… what? I just give up on trying to kick altogether and focus on punches?"
"Not necessarily," Illinois reaffirmed. "Instead choose a kick that can shorten the distance and time needed to close in like this one."
When Illinois attacked again, this time he struck out at her thigh. Church could see Tex lose her footing when the male Freelancer struck, her front leg jerking back. She threatened to fall on her face, but was caught by her opponent before it could happen. He brought her back up to her original position before facing the man he was instructing.
"Did you see how much faster that kick was than the first?"
Church nodded. "But what if they still block or grab it anyway?" he questioned.
"To avoid getting into a situation like that to begin with," Illinois answered, "a front kick like that or a knee is better as a follow-up of a punch or two." He came at Tex again, slowing down his movements enough for Church to be able to observe what he was doing. Illinois did exactly what he said he would do: he punched Tex twice, forcing her to use both of her arms to defend herself, and then kicked her in the leg while she was distracted. Just like before, her front leg jerked back and she nearly lost her footing.
"Okay, but I'm still not a supersoldier like you," Church pointed out. "I could still get caught mid-kick. What do I do if that happens?"
"In that case, you have two options," the larger man said. "One: try to force your leg down before they have a chance to control your center-of-gravity. If their grip is strong but they don't react, you can lurch them into you, close enough for a punch or elbow to his or her face." To demonstrate, he lifted his leg up for Tex to grab. She took it. In response, the male demonstrator suddenly jerked it back, making her lurch forward. He caught her by the shoulder just before she could fall face-first into him.
"Two," Illinois continued, "you use your other leg to kick him or her in the chest. You will most likely fall on the ground unless you are athletic enough to land on your feet." He held a hand out to Tex, where she placed one of her feet against his hip to be held in place. With her other foot, she did exactly as he described, pushing herself up in the air before kicking him in the chest. He let go of the foot he was holding, grunting as he felt the wind get knocked out of him, allowing her to twist out of his grasp and land standing upright on the matt.
"That was a bit harder than necessary," Illinois mused.
Tex snorted. "Let's just call that payback for the last four years."
"Well, I didn't see you go that hard on Church," the male Freelancer shot back, a smirk on his lips.
"He is my boyfriend," she pointed out, "so of course I'm gonna go easy on him. Besides, you're a big, strong Spartan. You've probably taken far worse hits than that. You can take the beating."
Church scoffed. "Sure doesn't feel like you've been going easy on me," he noted. He could still vaguely feel all of the bruises and sore spots he'd accumulated over the years, especially from the last few minutes of sparring.
Now Tex was grinning at her boyfriend. "Trust me, Len, if I really went hard on you, there wouldn't be much left of you. And I have no intention of anything bad happen to you. I'm here to help you. If you don't believe me, that's on you."
The couple continued to bicker back and forth, with Illinois making an occasional comment or jab at the both of them. Carolina's lips pressed into a thin line as she saw just how friendly and relaxed they looked around each other. It reminded her of her mentorship under Instructor Vargas, her kickboxing teacher.
When her mom had died, a part of her father died along with it. He became a recluse, only barely functioning for the first year or two afterward. She had to grow up quickly, her childhood taken away from her at far too young an age. Between classes and taking care of her father, one of the only things she had loved to do was kickboxing and taekwondo after school. It was here that she was taught by Mr. Vargas.
Mr. Vargas had always been a more direct teacher than some of the others she had witnessed in her time, but he always showed that he cared about his students, especially her. She didn't know how, but he could tell that she had a troubled life at home, and always gave the courtesy of respect and kindness to her. Though she wouldn't figure it out until much later, she figured that he was the closest to a father figure she had. He was certainly better than her own father most of the time.
She wondered now, many years later, how he was doing, if he was still even alive. When the Human-Covenant War arrived on Earth, no country was spared the alien empire's wrath, including her hometown. Texas ended up being a minor staging ground for the Covenant forces before their civil war broke out. Only with the Elites siding with the UNSC did humanity survive at all, yet it was paid for with the blood of many. She knew her home had been ravaged almost beyond recognition from the invasion.
Now she was certain there was nothing to go back to. Mr. Vargas and the other teachers from her school were almost certainly dead, buried beneath the corpses of so many others.
Carolina felt a little melancholic now. She had never gotten a chance to truly say goodbye to Mr. Vargas, just like she never got the chance to talk to her mother one last time. Her mom did teach her to never say goodbye. If one never said goodbye, then they would never be truly gone. They just weren't there right now.
Carolina didn't know if she should be glad or not that she never said goodbye to him, just like her mom and just like York. On the one hand, it meant that they would always be there for her, whether she realized it or not. But on the other, it meant she was holding on to ghosts, just like her father did with Allison. The lesson her mom taught her was both a blessing and a curse in that sense.
"Hey, Carolina," a voice called out from behind her. She jumped slightly, whirling around in surprise to face whoever was addressing her.
Tucker waved to her with his good hand, a gingerly smile on his lips. He wore his workout clothes, a teal tank-top and black exercise shorts revealing his muscular body and darker skin.
"Oh," she said, her posture relaxing upon recognition of the Blue swordsman, "hey, Tucker. What're you doing here?"
"Came looking for you," he told her. "Was wondering what was taking you so long, that's all."
Carolina's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. How long had she been watching Tex and Church sparring each other? It certainly didn't feel that long. Maybe she'd lost track of time simply wallowing in nostalgia for a childhood that seemed so far away.
Tucker gestured down the hall. "Shall we?" he offered.
The cyan Freelancer nodded and proceeded. Meanwhile, Tucker took a quick glance into the room to see just what she had been looking at. Like her, he saw the forms of Church, Tex, and Illinois sparring, with Tex choosing to be the practice target for Church and Illinois instructing and advising him on how to execute.
Church blocked one of her swings, countering with two punches and finishing the combo off with a kick to the stomach. This time, she didn't have time to block the last attack and grunted as he connected, making her stumble back slightly.
"See?" Illinois pointed out. "Much better than last time."
"That still only barely worked against her," Church noted.
"That's mostly because you're still new to this," she said, once again giving him an encouraging tone.
"And because she is your girlfriend too," Illinois pointed out. "I know I don't put in maximum effort when sparring against someone I love or care about. I'm confident you won't either."
Church nodded in understanding. Meanwhile, Tex was beaming with pride as he started to get it. She wanted him to get better. She knew she wouldn't always be there for him and she wanted to make sure he could truly take care of himself when that happened.
"To truly maximize your kicks," Illinois continued, "it's better to aim for the knee or groin, somewhere below the belt."
"I'm not going to do that to her," Church replied, almost appalled at the suggestion. The smile fell from her face and she rolled her eyes. She didn't need special treatment, least of all from him. However, she also knew that this was his way of showing that he cared. It happened when they were teenagers. It happened when she joined the Marines. It happened every time she came home.
It had happened when she was pregnant.
The thought struck her. She clearly remembered being pregnant in her original life, had felt the swollenness in her belly as it stretched from carry a child. It was like a ghost, a haunting memory of a life that wasn't truly hers. There were days she wondered just what had become of Allison Church's child, if she was still even alive. It wasn't like the Director would've just told her about his kid. After all, he had put in so much effort to suppress who she had been based on in the first place. There was no way he would've revealed something so ground-breaking, so distracting, to her.
The thought disgusted her. How could he, the Director, be so cruel, so monstrous? Keeping her unwillingly ignorant, make her nothing more than a tool for him. It chilled her that she had been loyal to that man from the beginning.
A man so unlike Church now. She remembered that he had been so distraught at what his creator had done, the man in which his entire personality had been based. He clearly felt the same as her, disgust and dread of what he could become haunting him in the back of his mind far more that he wanted to admit. But she could tell. When he mumbled in his sleep next to her, when he tossed and turned, she could feel the nightmares of repeating the same mistakes as his past self.
It was agonizing to watch. Which was why she woke him up the second she recognized what he had been dreaming about, holding him as he cried into her shoulder. Though she had always been a hard woman, she usually softened around him. She recognized that she needed to be his pillar of strength, to help him avoid the pitfalls that could turn him into the Director, something neither of them wanted.
"I'm not saying you have to," the male Freelancer shrugged. "It's just something to remember if you get in another life-or-death situation."
When the trio resumed their drills, Tucker wondered just why Carolina had been spying. What was it about the way they were interacting that caused her to stay behind and forget she was supposed to meet up with him and Junior in the first place? Open wounds? Memories of a different time? Her animosity towards Tex and any sort of support she was getting?
Tucker shook his head before following her. Carolina was still being frustratingly vague. Though they had spent a lot of time simply chatting on Praetor, it was clear there were things she chose to omit. Including most of her childhood and time at Project Freelancer.
He needed to find a time to talk to Tex privately, find out what happened in their pasts that caused such a rift between two women who, by all rights, should be getting along.
But that would come later. Now he would simply help her relax, show her the yoga and meditation techniques of the Sangheili, and bond with him and his son more. She seemed to be very receptive towards them, especially in light of who Junior was.
There were so many questions surrounding her. And he planned on figuring them out, for both the sake of him friends and her.
There are times when I have had trouble continuing the story, my motivation waxing and waning as life continues to throw curveballs at me. Sometimes writer's block threatens to rear it's ugly head and put me in hiatus.
But I just enjoy these characters too much, the Reds, Blues, and Freelancers, even if I can't inject as much comedic dialogue as the original show-writers did. So, instead, I focus on putting you guys, the readers, into their headspace, trying to see what they see and think what they think. I don't know if I'm doing a good job, but I hope you guys are having fun with seeing the unseen interactions between the crew, especially the dynamic between Carolina and Tex. I know I am.
Thank you all for stopping by and appreciating the slower burn that is this story.
