New Deck, New Hand
Location: Armonia Capitol Building, Chorus
Time: 1743 Hours, Armonia Timezone (ART)
Date: July 21, 2557
Located in the downtown area of Armonia, the Capitol building was surprisingly less extravagant than one would expect given its nature. Made almost entirely in a simple rectangular fashion, the smooth metal skeleton and simple glass windows that lined each floor looked painfully uninspired, more akin to an average office building than a center of leadership and governance. There was no history to it, nothing that made it stand out as a place of importance.
There was no mistaking that is was important, however, given the large government crest plastered above the front entrance. It was a modified version of the UNSC logo: an eagle with its wings outstretched, its talons holding a planet below. However, it was emblazoned within a golden circle, the words 'Chorus: Outspoken. Individual. Frontier' written on the edges.
The motto could not be more clear with how the meeting between the planet's leaders had been commencing.
"How the hell did they manage to get through our defenses so quickly?" Kimball demanded to know.
Within the command suite located on the third floor, the leaders had gathered alongside the commanders of their reinforcing units. A series of screens with various readouts were arrayed on the surrounding desks, each representing some sort of information feed or security camera of various points of interest across the city. Cables snaked along the floor, taped or otherwise moved as far away from the areas of heavy foot traffic as possible to prevent potential tripping hazards. The center of the area had a holotable, a layout of the city projected from it. A number of dots and symbols were scattered throughout, highlighting areas hit by the battle and disposition of forces.
Stationed around the electronic table were a wide assortment of men and women in armor of various makes, models, and colors. At the head of either side were the leaders of Zeta-Phi II's colonial factions: Generals Kimball and Doyle of the New Republic and Federal Army, respectively. None of the assorted Reds, Blues, or Freelancers knew why they distinguished into different armies, not to mention uniforms, but those questions would be best left until later.
"The ship must've jumped just over the city while most of our units were away," her counterpart surmised. He stood in pristine white-and-gold armor. It was bulky, rounded, with a singular golden optic for a visor over the center of his helmet. It even had enlarged pauldrons on his shoulders, giving it a retro-future knight look.
This was in stark contrast to Kimball's slimmer, almost form-fitted armor, which looked significantly more minimalistic and lightweight than his. Sure, there were an assortment of pouches and pockets on her, but the area of protective cover was smaller. Her tan-and-light-blue armor fit her like a glove, offering flexibility and agility far and above his. At the same time, however, it looked like her armor could barely take more than a handful of shots before it would be rendered worthless in terms of protection.
"I told you we should've kept more units in reserve," he continued, his posh British accent cutting through in an almost-chastising manner.
"We had enemy units probing the south and north-east passes," she pointed out, "plus confirmed troop movements concentrating along the plains to the east. We had to be ready for them."
"And look where that led us," the man muttered dryly. "Our defenses easily crumbled, allowing the enemy to almost reach the city's nuclear reactor, thus putting all of our work to waste. Not to mention all of the deaths that could've been prevented."
"But at least we got through it," she countered, more than a little irritated at his criticism. "My teams were able to make their way back into the cities quickly and encircle and wipe several of their battalions. Meanwhile, some of your forces still haven't reacted to the danger."
"They are holding the crucial control points your forces choose not to occupy."
"They're not that important."
"On the contrary, Miss Kimball, they are what allow your forces to maneuver with as little resistance as they have been able to." The general held his chin high. "Without those strongpoints, neither of our armies would've been able to get resupplied or have positions to fall back to. Your tactics might work against a more even and sluggish force like mine, but these Insurrectionists have shown that they can match your speed…"
"Excuse me," someone called out. They both turned their heads, seeing Washington off to the side. Behind him stood the remaining Freelancers, Carolina remaining passive while Illinois loomed over them further in the back. The Reds and Blues flanked him, as did the lumbering forms of the Elites. Even further behind them stood the impassive figure that was Lead Operative Olsen, the last one to arrive to the meeting.
"You two seem to be in intense debate on what went wrong, and that's all well and good." The generals nodded in agreement with him. "However, we are still middle of a war, not post-op. This bickering doesn't do any of us good, not with the Insurrectionists still arrayed against us."
"Trust me, Agent Washington," Doyle told him, "this is hardly unusual behavior between us as far as this war has been going. Two forces that were once at each other's throats working together is bound to cause friction either way."
"You two were fighting each other before this war started?" the lead Freelancer questioned.
"Obviously," Kimball answered dryly.
"Since 2547," her counterpart added. "We only called a truce on May 21st of this year."
"How long have you been going at it?" Donut was the next to ask.
The colonists looked at each other, then back at the Freelancers and simulation troopers. "Ten years," the woman in tan said.
Several sharp intakes of breath could be heard among the group, the men and women around them having a hard time comprehending what they had heard. Some of them snapped their heads up in surprise, more than a few of them confused or otherwise flabbergasted at the new information provided to them.
"A decade?" Tex deadpanned next, barely concealing her own shock.
"Since March 7th of that year, yeah," Kimball clarified matter-of-factly.
"But why?" Simmons piped up next, his voice cracking slightly at the fact that one of the people he was speaking to was a woman. "Didn't you guys realize there was another war going on?"
"Some of us did," Doyle affirmed.
The team looked over at Kimball, who glowered at her compatriot. "I'm assuming you guys thought it was a ruse," Wash surmised.
"It seemed too outlandish to be possible," she muttered, struggling to admit that she was in the wrong for once.
The room fell silent as they heard her reasoning. Weirdly enough, the teams could actually sympathize with her, and the people of the New Republic, on that. The idea of a galactic war between genocidal aliens and humanity seemed far too much like the plot of cheesy pulp science fiction to be legitimate. Hell, Sarge himself failed to believe the truth for a while, and he had fought them firsthand. Project Freelancer's brainwashing did a number on his psyche, something that took him years to come to terms with.
The door to the command suite opened, breaking the silence and tension between the groups. Everyone turned to see the new arrival. Through the portal stepped a man in grey-and-orange armor. He wore a Scout helmet with a black visor, the birdlike shape giving it a very distinct look among the group.
"Sorry I'm late," the man said. "Got held up by a few things. You would not believe how hard it is to clean the blood out of armor."
"Oh, I know, right?" Donut agreed. "It gets all over the paint and it's harder to get that sheen back."
"Who the hell is this guy?" Church asked, looking over his shoulder at the generals.
"Name's Felix, Einstein," the man answered for them. "Freelance expert and professional supply runner of the New Republic of Chorus."
A multitude of weapons immediately snapped up at him at the mention of the word 'freelance', mainly from the Reds and Blues, but also from Tex and Washington.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Felix put his hands up in surrender. "Why are you all getting so hostile all of a sudden?"
"Let's just say we've had more than enough experience with some Freelancers ourselves," Sarge told him, the barrel of his shotgun aimed center mass.
"You from Project Freelancer?" Tex asked warily, her sights trained on his head. She'd had more than enough negative experiences from others in the Project to not trust them instinctively. Just about the only two who she could trust were Wash and Illinois.
"That overhyped piece of ONI trash?" Felix questioned. "No. Not everyone with a moniker of 'freelancer' is part of that organization. Besides, their members are not even really freelancers, not in the way the word is meant to be used."
Tex shrugged. "Eh, fair point, I guess."
The tension noticeably dipped upon acknowledging that he wasn't another Freelancer the way Illinois, Tex, Washington, and Carolina were. Weapons dropped, all returning to a relaxed stance.
"Where is your esteemed compatriot?" Doyle asked.
A figure appeared next to Felix, an apparent active camouflage unit deactivating. He wore a full suit of steel-and-sage armor. His helmet had no visor, merely a bulb that looked almost insect-like. It stared at them with an emotionless grin.
"Here," the new arrival said, his voice coming off more as a baritone growl.
Several of the Reds and Blues jumped back in surprise, clearly not having noticed the shimmer until it was far too late. A few raised their weapons once more, this time aimed squarely at him.
"You're late," Kimball chided, clearly unfazed by the man who apparated before them.
"We had some messes to clean up," the man growled. He loomed behind the grey-and-orange man like a shadow, unmoving in his stature.
Seeing that some of the others were still freaked out, Doyle quickly stepped in. "This is our other freelance operative, Locus. He's the primary advisor for the Federal Army of Chorus."
Wash looked between the both of them, noticing the difference in demeanor between the two. Locus had a stoic, hardened posture, betraying as little emotion as possible. This was in stark contrast to Felix, who seemed far more laid back and loose. They were opposites, yet surprisingly complementary.
"Well, it's good to know that we'll have more experienced men to work with," the unit leader acknowledged.
He stepped up to the holotable, presenting himself before the planetary leadership. "I am Agent Washington, leader of UNSC Taskforce Romeo-Bravo-Foxtrox, stationed aboard the UNSC All or Nothing. With me are former members of the aforementioned Project Freelancer, a defunct project that was wrapped up at the end of the Human-Covenant War. We are here for one purpose: to retrieve the former Director of Project Freelancer, Doctor Leonard Church. He is wanted for treason and collaboration with the URF. We have a kill-or-capture order on his head, either one preferred so long as his influence is extinguished. We have strong reason to believe he is currently residing on this planet, though for what purpose we have yet to figure out."
"So you're not here to help us?" Doyle asked, more than a little worried at the information provided to him.
"Not officially," Wash affirmed. "However, your survival coincides with our objective. As the owners of the only standing infrastructure on this planet, we figured it would be in our best interest to assist in your defense."
"Are you expecting payment?" Kimball questioned, suddenly wary as to the terminology the man was using.
"Not really," he shrugged. "All we ask is that we be allowed to use your accommodations as a base of operations. We're basically just here to help."
"We can have that arranged in no time," the Federal Army leader told them, "at least once we have our casualty lists sorted out. We did take quite a beating from that least engagement."
"What do the numbers look like right now?"
This time it was Felix who spoke. "Initial estimates predict a combined total of forty thousand troops, eighteen-thousand of which are Feds and the remaining twenty-two thousand from the New Republic. Not the worst I've experienced, but, whoo, that's a lot compared to any fight I've seen here."
"Ugh," Kimball groaned, facing the opposing general, "I told you my men aren't equipped for major city engagements."
Doyle let out an indignant grunt. "Well, Ms. Kimball, I seem to recall that my forces have been the ones suffering more casualties since we banded together."
"More importantly," Locus butted in, grumbling as he saw the two leaders getting heated for an argument again, "a large portion of the New Republic's officer corps died in this battle."
She snapped her head around to him. "Which units?" she asked.
"Red, Blue, Aqua, and Gold's battalion commanders have all been declared KIA," the sage mercenary answered. "Crimson and Pink leaders are also lost on the Federal Army's side and will require some reshuffling."
Kimball sighed beneath her helmet. "Damn it," she swore, "those were some of my best men."
"Mine too," Doyle agreed. "But that seems to be the price of this war, as much as I hate it."
Sarge looked between the parties, noticing the grim tone the situation had taken. He was familiar with the grinding attrition that was war. No matter the time, place, or length, it was never easy to adjust, especially when death could be so sporadic and unpredictable.
"Things ain't looking so great from where we're standing," he commented.
"Yeah," Grif nodded in agreement. "It'll really suck for the guys who have to replace them right about now."
A lightbulb went on in Wash's head at the mention of 'replace'. Grif just gave him an idea. "Actually," the lead Freelancer interjected, "I think I might just have a solution to their problem."
The Reds looked between each other then back at him. "What do you mean by that?" Sarge asked warily.
"We'll fill those leadership positions for you," David announced, addressing the generals before him.
"What!?" Grif exclaimed in surprise.
"Wait, what?" Simmons joined in, just as taken aback as his Red compatriot.
"Dude, no fucking way!" Tucker agreed with the Reds.
"Guys," the lead Freelancer turned to his team, attempting to assuage their growing panic, "it's okay."
"Yeah, I'm kinda doubting your judgement on this one," Church added next.
"And people don't seem to really like it when I tell them what to do," Caboose said, understanding what Washington had proposed.
Wash held his hand up in a calming gesture. "Can you just let me explain-"
"Fuck no!" Tucker continued to argue. "We're not built for this sort of shit. Hell, we're barely good enough at our current job as it is."
"And no one here has really held leadership positions except for me," Sarge declared proudly.
"Yeah, of one squad," Grif pointed out. "We're talking about a whole army. A gazillion guys!"
"Not to mention we don't know what we're up against," Simmons added.
"Enough!"
The room fell silent as one voice overtook everyone else, the bickering and protests dying in the throats of the simulation troopers. They turned to see that it was Tex that had raised her voice above the din.
"We're not going to get anything done by sitting on our asses and bickering. Let's hear what he has to say before arguing," she told them. "Okay?"
Several of them grunted in begrudging acknowledgement, either out of reluctance or fear. But none of them dared to cross her authority. They knew she could back her word up with force if necessary, and that was enough to cow them.
Well, almost all of them.
"Tex, what the fuck are you doing?" Church whispered to her, gnashing his teeth in anger.
"Giving David a chance," she replied, dropping the conversation and letting the subject of their discussion continue. She jerked her head back to Wash, crossing her arms and focusing on him.
Washington nodded in thanks before allowing himself to speak uninterrupted.
"Look," he began, "I know this isn't exactly what you signed up for. Hell, I'm sure most of us never imagined even half of the things we've seen and done since we joined the UNSC. But this isn't about us anymore."
He looked over at the generals, the silent observers as they listened. "It's about them."
"They've been fighting their own war for God-knows how long. They probably didn't ask for anything they saw either, just like you. They're desperate, on the back foot if the Innies were able to push into the capital as far as they did. They need our help.
"I know this is well beyond your skillset, and so is everything that you've had to do these last several weeks. But by most people's standards, you're veterans whether you believe it or not. You know things that the people of this planet simply don't. You've seen treachery, betrayal, lies, and deception. You've seen things many would never dream of. To most, you would be heroes. To the people here, just by coming in and saving them, you are all heroes. Shouldn't we try to live up to that standard, not for our sake, but for theirs'?"
Church grumbled, "This isn't our fight."
"No, it isn't," he agreed with the Blue. "It rarely ever is. But are you willing to live with yourself if you gave up on people who needed help, your help?"
The room fell quiet once more as the teams took in what was being asked of them. And what was being asked was no small matter. Leading soldiers? Being inspirational? Teaching and directing them? That wasn't something the majority of them had experience with, not at this scale.
Tucker thought back to his interaction with Palomo and the others. He was young, very young, still in his early twenties if he had to guess. Now that knew that they had been fighting for a decade, that mean he had probably on just become a teenager when the war started. Lavernius had been no stranger to the tides of war at a young age. After all, the Covenant had begun their genocidal war on humanity when he was only a kid. But that had all been a distant memory, something he didn't concern himself with. He didn't get himself involved until much later, when he joined under a false name for sexual benefits. To this day, he didn't know if getting caught and sent to Project Freelancer would be considered the best or worst day of his life. It flipflops for him depending on the time of day.
He sighed. He knew that there was an easy answer and a right answer to the conundrum before him. On the one hand, these people were all foreign to him, faceless nobodies that might as well be blurs in his memory. On the other hand, though, it was kind of a dick move to abandon them. Much as he hated doing work, he also hated leaving people disappointed. Ironically, that's why he never volunteered for anything. He couldn't let people know how incompetent he was.
But now things were different. What he wanted was very much easier for him. But it made him guilty.
Damn, he hated this moral dilemma bullshit.
"No," the Blue swordsman spoke up first, "I wouldn't."
Several of the Reds and Blues looked at him in surprise, clearly not expecting him to answer for. Or that he would answer the way he did. Even the Freelancers were a bit shocked at his answer, especially Carolina and Tex.
"Me neither," Donut answered next, a determined tone in his voice.
"I know I sure as hell wouldn't," Sarge said, puffing out his chest, "not while there's a good fight ahead."
Several of the others nodded in agreement, namely Simmons, Lopez, Tex, and Caboose.
The group looked over to see who hadn't acknowledged. Grif and Church stood by, neither saying anything.
"Ugh," Grif went first, "are you guys really going to make me beg?"
"That depends," Wash said. "How soon do you want us to get out of here? Because, based on what I'm seeing, we're not leaving any time soon."
The Red and Blue looked at each other, with the orange soldier almost expectant as he waited for his counterpart to answer. The Blue leader could feel all eyes on him, breath held in anticipation of what he would say. The air got still, even the buzzing of background noise fading.
Church's shoulders sagged in resignation. "Fine," he relented, groaning as he gave in to peer pressure. "I guess we can stay and 'do the right thing'."
Thankfully, nobody was snide enough to leave a comment on his reluctance to follow the group decision, instead returning their attention to the agreement between what was now three different forces. Several of them let out a sigh of relief or some other noncommittal noise, but none chose to bring up the topic again.
"Hey," Tex stepped up to him encouragingly, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He looked up at her, peering into her visor. He noticed she had taken on a softer tone, one that he knew was mostly reserved for him. Her posture was relaxed, signaling to him that what she was about to tell him was not that of sternness, but of comfort.
"For what it's worth," she continued, "I'm proud of you, Len."
Under his helmet, he smiled in return, his foul mood disappearing. He reached up to grasp her hand with his own, interlacing their fingers together. They shared their peace in silence.
Tex knew that what was being asked of them wouldn't be easy, and she knew that's why Church had been so reluctant. But she also knew that nothing worth fighting for ever was. All of the easy fights she had taken never amounted to anything. Antagonizing her boyfriend, beating Freelancers in simulations, taunting the Reds and bullying the Blues, those had all been easy. But there were also no stakes to them, no reason to risk anything besides pride or maybe a standing in whatever social hierarchy she found herself to be a part of. Maybe this fight would be worth something, just as their mission to find the Director was.
She just hoped there wouldn't be too high of a price to pay for those good things.
Location: Insurrectionist Commander's Tent, 203 miles East of Armonia, Chorus
Time: 1927 Hours, Armonia Timezone (ART)
Date: July 21, 2557
"Goddamn it!"
That was the first thing that came out of General Kakowski's mouth once the post-op brief had concluded and he had been able to return to his office. The room itself wasn't much, little more than a tent and insulated shipping crate attached to the side where the power and heating connected. A cot was set up to the side, green-and-red tactical vest resting at the foot with his ruck. All of the items had the UNSC logo scratched out, signaling it's new ownership.
He sat at his desk, the foldable chair creaking under his weight as he weight the information that had been provided mere minutes ago.
His army, and the alien mercenaries that had led the charge, had been routed, right after they had punched deep into enemy territory and nearly secured Chorus's sole nuclear reactor. But a UNSC strike force had appeared almost out of the blue, disgorging their reinforcements and halting their progress. The reinforcements had gone so far as to break the main effort, forcing his units to retrograde back to their original defensive lines. Worse yet, an estimate of 41,000 men were reported KIA, not to mention the other 11,000 that were already severely wounded. Those men would have to be shipped off world, another delaying action before they could properly set up for a counterattack.
However, that wasn't even the worst of it. Several tons of equipment were abandoned, either due to lack of manpower or the need to escape the pursuing colonial forces posthaste. And he knew that the Chorusans were crafty scavengers. How else had they lasted this many months against their forces? His supply units were constantly losing equipment, either through raids or as part of the aftermath of battles.
He glanced over at the radio set that was stationed in the crate attached to his tent, almost as if expecting a transmission of some sort to come through.
Seconds passed, minutes even, before he looked away, contemplating his thoughts. Still no further orders from Command. They hadn't received any news from off-world in months, nothing beyond standing orders: eradicate the colonists and secure the planet for Director Church's future research projects. Yeah, he had heard brief snippets from other warzones, but every time he asked for changes, he got nothing. Whatever was so special about the alien ruins scattered across the planet, they would prove vital to the Insurrection war effort. They couldn't have the colonists snooping about the place, possibly ratting them out to someone important in the UNSC if they didn't like what they saw.
Well, now things looked different with the arrival of UNSC reinforcements. Whoever these guys were, they were no pushovers, if nothing else. He tried getting his own frigates to identify the vessel, but they couldn't make out anything more than basic model type: UNSC Paris-class frigate. That information did next to nothing to narrow down who these new arrivals were. That ship type was the basic workhorse ship of the UNSC, capable of fulfilling a range of missions, from escort and harasser to control node, fire support platform, and troop transport. No, he needed better intel. How could he plan around them if he didn't know what strengths and weaknesses they brought to the table?
A knock on wood was heard and he perked his ears. Whoever wanted his attention at least remembered to knock on the ad hoc sign at the front entrance. He had punished a few of his subordinates for doing anything less.
"Come in," he rumbled.
The tent flap swung open and a man stepped through, closing the door behind him before facing the Insurrectionist commander. He wore a Scanner helmet, the binocular-like sensor attachment resting atop his head. He wore dark grey armor with purple trim, a full body glove making him look almost like an ODST or one of the UNSC's fabled Spartans. However, he didn't have the stock or height for such a thing to be true.
"And where were you, Siris?" Kakowski asked. The man before him hadn't been present for the post-operation brief, which was inexcusable considering the failure to achieve their objective. Even the Covenant mercenary commander, or at least his replacement, was present, though that was more because their ship had been shot down while attempting to break for orbit.
The man before him stood unperturbed by the irritated tone the commanding general had leaking into his voice. "Gathering more intelligence," he answered, not cowed by the Innie leader.
"I needed what you had during the briefing," Kakowski shot at him verbally.
"Sir, you asked for the best I had," Siris returned, speaking to him almost like a peer instead of a superior. "I wasn't done providing that while your precious meeting was going on."
"You could've updated me more as you gathered more information," the general swept his hand over the map on the central table, a portable holographic display of the map projected in front of him. It showed blue markers along the central plain that was Chorus's larger continent, most of them concentrated at the landing port the rebels had set up when they made planetfall. Some were scattered about, holding various points of interest or otherwise patrolling back and forth against their disruption zone. It was a stark contrast to several hours earlier where a good third of the army was either in or making their way toward the planet's only city.
"And that's why I'm here now," Siris told him. "Unless you'd rather I wait for your next meeting, that is."
Kakowski shook his head. "No," he answered firmly, "give it to me now. What do you got?"
"We've lost control of several forward outposts, our forces too thin to successfully hold them. Alongside that, we're down several squadrons and three brigades' worth of Warthogs. Stores for all of them have been lost, as have multiple resupply points. The colonists have seized the food and ammunition within, enough to last them at least another month or two."
"Yes, I got all of that from the Logistics team," the general dismissed. "I need to know about this new enemy we're fighting, the one that broke the back of our alien mercenaries' forces. Can you tell me anything about them?"
"Only the bare minimum," Siris said. "We only have sighting of one ship so far, though this one seems to be fitted with sensor-blinding tech, so it's at least a cut above your standard UNSC line ships. We were only barely able to scope it out as it dropped whoever it was holding to Armonia."
"That doesn't tell us much," Kakowski pointed out.
"No," the man agreed, "but it does narrow our search down to only a handful of units. They're at least ODST-levels of quality, possibly Spartans, though I doubt the latter. Either way, they've got some high-tech gear, enough to act as force multipliers. I'll have to reach out to my contacts to see what we can scrounge up."
The Insurrectionist general nodded. "Keep me posted," he ordered.
As Siris made to leave, he spoke one last time. "Remember that your paycheck is at stake here, mercenary," he intoned.
"And your operation has been hinging on my intel, General," the armored man shot back. "You would've lost months ago without me."
Kakowski didn't need reminding. There had been far too many close calls, more than once where the armies of Chorus almost broke them permanently. Only through hesitation or miniscule tactical error had they beaten them back.
However, he still had faith in his forces, in the Insurrection as a whole. These men and women had been dealing with the oppressive force of the UNSC for far too long. What were simple colonists compared to them?
At least that's what he had been telling himself every time defeat had been snatched from the jaws of victory.
Location: UNSC All or Nothing, Chorus High Orbit
Time: 2007 Hours, Armonia Timezone (ART)
Date: July 21, 2557
Doc let out a steady breath as he sat at his desk in the ship's medical ward, scrolling through a stream of words as they appeared on his computer monitor. It was a lot to take in, the after-action casualty report, especially given the scope of the engagement the Reds, Blues, and Freelancers had born witness to.
One of the first things that Agent Washington had done as a show of goodwill to the people of Chorus, as opposed to the planet's original charter name of Zeta-Phi II, was to set up a line of communication with the All or Nothing as a means of additional intelligence gathering. He was also intent on offering services in the form of what supplies they had and the manpower they had yet to deploy. Doc was among that manpower.
As chief medical officer, it was his job to oversee the care and welfare of all of the ship's occupants. He did have his own platoon of support personnel to help, but he was ultimately the highest point in the chain of command as far as medical treatment and prevention went. It was he who would be working closely with the planet's own hospital and medical staff, being introduced to the cheery, if somewhat perplexingly eccentric, Doctor Emily Grey.
And it was through her that he was now reading what was ultimately an extensive casualty and supply list. From what he was told, they had most of what they needed to treat their wounded, only missing an item here or there. The real thing they were short on was manpower, people who had the experience to treat the injured and dying.
That was where his team came in. As soon as the word was given, he had two of the three squads shipped down to the surface, along with half a company of former Freelancer personnel for backup. He would remain onboard for the moment, at least until tomorrow. There was still more to look through.
More importantly to him, however, there was another matter altogether that needed to be taken care of, one that required his attention here.
Sighing, the pacifist pushed himself out of his chair and stood up, back aching from remaining idle for longer than he probably should have. Should've taken Donut's advice about taking breaks frequently. Heck, he should've taken his own advice about stretching and not remaining idle for more than an hour at a time. Being limber was an important part of being healthy, something that he and the dainty, foppish Red could agree on.
He grabbed his holopad and stylus before making his way out of the medical wing. The halls were all but empty, the only sounds filling the space being the humming of electricity, rotating air through the vents, and his own two feet clicking rhythmically against the metal floor. Every once in a while he would come across another person, mostly former Freelancer personnel in their silver ODST-like gear, but the odd member of Omega Company here and there. However, he knew the majority of them were winding down, either on standby or otherwise resting. They knew that things were about to get very busy, so they made the most of their remaining free time.
Medical Officer Dufresne never quite imagined that he would live to get to a position where he was head of an entire ship's personal wellbeing, bearing the responsibility of the physical and mental health of hundreds of men and women, including all of the friends he had made from his time at Blood Gulch.
It was especially the latter that made him anxious. To say that they were quite a colorful bunch was putting it very lightly. Every simulation trooper was a basket case of quirks and peculiarities, their own tics and mental scars driving them to do rather unconventional activities. He still couldn't get how Grif managed to find the most inopportune moments to avoid work, even with the threatening demeanor that Sarge managed to give off, not even mentioning the Freelancers. He still didn't get Caboose's confusingly simple mindset, how in one moment he was able to fully understand the workings of robotics and could easily make repairs on Lopez and a variety of vehicles when Sarge and Grif couldn't, but the next he was having a hard time understanding what sex was.
These complexities of the human mind didn't make him, or any of the Reds, Blues, and Freelancers, rather endearing in their own unique ways. Church, for example, was rather easy to get along with so long as you didn't make a mess of things or try to antagonize him. And he was surprisingly forgiving to Caboose, even for all of his mistakes. Sarge was another one. As much of a hard-ass as he seemed, he always took pride in his men doing things right or, better yet, took initiative. Even Grif had been capable of that more than once or twice.
Each Red and Blue was their own colorful self. Each had worth, their own ups and down, successes and failures. The Freelancers, for all of their professionalism, were very much the same. He remembered when he first met Wash, how much of a cold, grizzled killer he seemed. But seeing him on the ship, idling chattering with the Reds on seemingly inane things or observing his interactions with Tucker and the Elites, proved he was just as human as the rest.
Tex was very much the same, being the mysterious badass of a woman that helped Blue Team and a past, and now present, relationship with their leader. He remembered the threats, the ability to solve problems by herself, but also her crass attitude and that violence always seemed to be her answer to any problem she faced. But he also saw that she cared, going out of her way to help Tucker, be gentle with Caboose, or share in quiet moments with Church. She looked like a ruthless killer, but she had heart and devotion to her friends as well.
Seeing all of this depth, even from people who looked about as one-dimensional as they came, made him excited for his latest task.
He reached the lower areas of the ship, tucked away from the hangar and storage facility. Doc came upon a door with two men outside, positioned on either side, rifles in their hands as they stood guard. He casually greeted them, both of them letting him pass through without issue.
He entered the chamber, in which he saw several barred cells, all of them empty except for the central one. Inside it was the figure he wanted to meet with tonight. On either side were another pair of guards, weapons lowered but at the ready.
"Hey guys," he greeted the men.
"Sir," one of them greeted evenly.
"Back for another session, Doc?" the other asked.
"Oh, I sure am, Levitz," the medic smiled. "You two may go."
The men simply nodded, stepping away from the cell and exiting the brig. The door opened briefly before shutting with a hiss, signaling that it was just him and the man in the cell opposite. He pulled out a chair from the corner of the room, dragging it across the floor before placing about three or four feet from the bars.
The man in question looked back at him through a fishbowl-like EVA helmet, his white-and-brown armor betraying no emotion at he sat in a chair of his own, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees.
Doc crossed his legs, propping one on top of the other before resting his holopad on them. He held his stylus in his hand and brought up a blank notepad.
"So," he began, "where were we, Agent Maine?"