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It should be easy. Why isn’t it ever easy?
“Anytime now, York!”
This is a run-of-the-mill objective for them: retrieve data from some compound’s main computer. Full detail schematics, an inventory to jack, a schedule to intercept--whatever this company is keeping in their files, it’s something that the Project wants on its hands. The grittier details aren’t exactly theirs to question.
“What, South, you wanna come deal with this technical crap yourself? Just cover me for a few minutes. That’s all I’m asking!”
With three consistent top-gunners from the leaderboard on the roster, as well as a skeleton crew at the enemy site, this should be the easiest mission the Director could assign them. But, of course, they lose connection with Command just as the forces of the compound start pouring in.
“We may not have a few minutes! Wash, where is extraction!?” crackles South’s voice over their frequency, accompanied by the spray of gunfire. Wash jumps another barrier, bullets bouncing by his heels as he finds cover. He can barely hear himself think over the madness. Raising his voice to compensate as he returns fire, he answers, “Gonna be a minute!”
She sputters, cursing at a close call, “Wh- did no one hear me a second ago?!”
“Oh, we heard you, South! So did everyone else in this complex!”
Skeleton crew, Wash thinks wildly as the opposing troops double and triple their firepower. He doesn’t know where the heads of the Project got that intel, but they should fire whoever fed it to them. Unless the intel somehow came from the last recon mission Wash was assigned to. Then maybe they should forgive and forget. Just this once.
Click, click. And he’s out of ammunition. Great. With South and York bickering mercilessly in his ringing ears, Wash tosses his last grenade then a flashbang for good measure and makes a break for the hall to the right. Maybe it’s a little overkill, but he’s in a tough spot. Desperate times call.
And these are definitely desperate times. There’s no CT to level out South’s rising energy and no Carolina to redirect York’s focus--just the shortest fuse on the team, the jerk who pissed her off this morning, and the rookie that neither of them respect. At this rate, his teammates might kill each other before anyone else gets the chance. Wash needs to get them a ride out of this compound and to the LZ. Fast.
Wash avoids another soldier who’s searching for the intruder in the flickering lights--a gift courtesy of South introducing her gun to the breaker. He slides past their blind spot as they turn to scan for him. Their head snaps back when his hand flies, and they fall unconscious. Their buddy whirls at the commotion, gun up. Bad choice at this range; Wash engages, stepping off their rifle’s centerline, wrenching the weapon out of their grip, and kicking them to the ground. He fires one round in each of their visors and refocuses. It’s easier taking down the enemies that start rounding the corners now that he has a gun. Then a bullet grazes him in his advance. Then alarmingly another two whiz close enough to clink against his armor. He jerks, sliding into the nearest nook for cover. Of course. Dead end. Yikes.
“Almost there, c’mon c’mon c’mon- South, watch your four!”
A concentrated burst of fire. “Shit! Wash, we could use a ride right now! Wash?!”
Nothing but pipes, walls, and enemies surround him. Definitely a dead end. A very tall dead end, though, with sizable gaps between the ceiling and the tops of the rooms. Poor design choice for them, but for Wash? It’s a goddamn playground. He begins his ascent quickly, heart accelerating at the sound of orders being thrown and footsteps closing in. He’s got this. He rolls himself onto the surface and into position at the last moment, watching the troops peer around the tiny hall in confusion. One of them has the smart idea to glance up--far too late as Wash greets them warmly by raining down hell.
South catches onto the tail-end of the firefight (execution) and shouts, sharp as ever, “Wash! Give us your fucking status, I swear to God!”
Wash startles at the command, adrenaline still pumping as he scans for threats, “Uh- just fine! Sorry! Got caught up, but I’m almost to the hangar.”
York jokes, relief evident, “You do know the microphone comes free with the helmet, right?”
Wash mutters his apologies as he drops into the next gap, just a hall away from his target. Soldiers come out of the hangar’s side door, armed to the teeth and on the lookout for him and his allies. He curses and ducks down once they begin scanning the ceiling gaps, arms at the ready. But he must have a guardian angel because now there’s an explosion from another section of the complex--the one he just escaped and one that is distant from his team’s position. The troops run in formation towards the sound, leaving this entrance to the hangar relatively unguarded.
South calls out, “Woah! Wash, was that you?!” while York cheers.
Wash huffs, “Wasn’t me.”
York laughs, “Well, whatever it was, it’s got their attention now.”
Wash is inclined to agree. He shakes tingles out of his left arm after he slides down the wall, hissing under his breath. Then he double-takes. He has not been firing his gun long enough to have prickles in his arm. He glances down and just wonderful; one of those grazes from earlier was a little bit more than a graze. He finds an exit wound, thankfully, so he reaches for his biofoam-
-And quickly recalls tossing it to South earlier when they were all pinned down. She and York had sustained most of the injuries on this mission, which is why they had sent Wash to find them an escape vehicle. South had bullied him over their radio for not coming back for the rest of the canister, and York had teamed up with her. “If you go down out there, we’re all screwed, Wash.”
Well, he supposes he’ll just have to not go down then.
---
Shadow the team, secure the primary package, don’t interfere with the secondary objective unless absolutely necessary, cover their tracks. Those were her orders. Not in that order; the Director puts her success in this mission above anyone else’s.
Still, Tex rigs the east sector with plenty of explosives and tucks the trigger away--just in case it could come in handy. It’s not like she needs this building standing anymore. Picking up the armored square container by one of the handles, she radioes to the Mother of Invention. Pure static. She clicks her tongue. The Director will flip his lid when he realizes they’re in a dead zone for long range, but she still has the package. One objective down.
“Counting eggs before they hatch,” mocks Omega.
Tex switches back to her team’s frequency, silently maneuvering through the facility as they argue--York is downloading his objective and warding off the computer’s defensive systems, and South covers him while Washington heads for the hangar. Nothing new to report there. Omega makes sharp comebacks to their conversation in her head, and she tunes him out the best she can. At least he’s occupied for the time being.
Then gunfire bursts from a distance behind her, and she pulls herself behind cover. Waiting. The sound is getting louder, but whoever is firing definitely isn’t aiming for Tex. Then a door slams open up ahead, and footsteps and sharp conversation grow closer. She glances around the dimmed room for a better vantage point, almost wanting to laugh at the ceiling perches. Decent for a sniper who’s worth their salt; something this compound is obviously lacking.
Her AI has something to say about that thought. “A sniper posted indoors. Genius, Tex.”
“Okay, smartass.” She hisses, switching off the frequency again, “Can the peanut gallery keep its comments to itself?”
Tex scales the various pipes and walls with ease, twisting through the spaces and jumping from gap to gap. She avoids detection as she traverses, closing in on the hangar. Once she arrives, she frowns. Too crowded. It looks like most of the soldiers have already geared up and left, but the ones still getting ready are getting ready. She even spots a working tank, though thankfully it looks as though the others are out of commission for one reason or another. Wasn’t this complex supposed to be half-abandoned? The whole point of this place was to divert attention towards their bigger facilities and protect the case. At least, that’s what her intel had led her to believe. Oops.
“You always have the bombs,” Omega chirps from their shared mind, “You should blow them.”
Tex considers this. She does have the bombs. She pulls the trigger out of its home in her armor. For once they both can agree; an explosion of that size in that location would certainly draw enemy fire in the opposite direction of York and Dakota, and it would also give Washington a clear-
Wash. She twitches, lifting her finger away from the red button on instinct. Pulling up her team’s tracker, Wash’s little blip comes running from the east sector she just rigged to hell. Omega laughs from the safety of her head. This is why I don’t listen to you, she thinks. He defends himself--he couldn’t have possibly known about Wash. She knows better than that, though it’s not worth the fight now. Washington is about to barrel into the thick of it, and she can’t use her big distraction yet.
She heads in the opposite direction of the hangar, keeping an eye for when her teammate is clear of the explosives. Time for plan B.
---
Good news: the hangar starts clearing out more urgently once part of the base blows to pieces.
Bad news: there are still tanks and turrets that are active and much, much faster than Wash is.
Wash blows out an annoyed breath. Skeleton crew. Yeah. Sure. He radioes in, hopeful but hesitant in receiving his answer, “How goes it on your side?”
South makes a puff, like Wash had known she would, “It’d be going a lot faster if someone would get us the fucking car already.”
York cuts in, a touch more optimistic, “It’s definitely better over here, but we’re still in a bad spot until I can crack the lockdown. Please tell me you got us a ride.”
Wash feels only a little guilty when he has nothing to offer besides, “working on it.” All he has to do is grab a car and go. Even when the troops eventually notice him driving into the courtyard, he should be able to punch it and make it in time to his team. Hopefully. Also, no bleeding out. The bullet missed his artery, but blood continues to stream steadily. He hasn’t let his team know; a stupid and prideful move, sure, but it’s not like they can do anything about it yet anyways. He’ll save the mocking and lectures (also panic) for when they get closer to home, thank you.
Wash sinks further into the shadows, watching the enemy teams argue. Something about protocol, prioritization. All he cares about is the fact that there’s only a few cars with enough seats for three, and the remaining soldiers are posted around them, arguing. There are plenty of weapons strewn around in the troops’ haste. He could take most of them out, maybe even the people manning the turrets, but there’s still the matter of the huge fucking tank.
Then Wash notices it: an opportunity. Very possibly an opening. The enemy teams must hear something more important over their radio, because two of them hop into the Warthogs, but the last one--only a handful of soldiers, none with visible high-tech--appears to be readying to leave through another door. Without their car. Keys in the driver’s seat, discarded in the command-riddled chaos. The tank hasn’t left, unfortunately, but another soldier climbs onto it while barking orders, and it starts to look like it might take off soon after all. Score.
Wash slips from his shadow to one of the blast-shields, then some stacked crates, and so on, inching ever closer to his goal. So, so close.
But he must be worse off than he had realized because his vision wobbles, and his body follows suit, leading him to bump into a crate--a ridiculously lightweight one, as it tips over and alerts every single enemy combatant to Wash’s unwanted presence. He cringes at the shouts that immediately follow. This is the part where they blow him to tiny pieces, leaving his friends for dead, and oh god, what is the matter with him, how did he even make it this far in the first place-
“Come out with your hands up, or we will be forced to shoot!” The commanding officer bellows, the many clicks of raised guns backing up his threat. Wash curses up a storm in his head. The CO shouts again, “This is your last warning! Unless you surrender now, we will open fire!”
Slowly, stupidly, Wash raises his hands. There’s nothing stopping them from shooting him anyways. They probably want information before they off him, but at any moment they could decide he simply isn’t worth the trouble after all. The leader demands him to stand and turn slowly, and he complies, his head spinning to craft a way out. So much for extraction, he thinks defeatedly. Wash swallows and confesses over his team’s radio, staring down the barrels of more weapons than he wants to admit, “Um. So. Slight delay with the car.”
York swears unkind words loud enough for his microphone to notice. South speaks, angry and serious, “How slight? ‘Bleeding out because you didn’t take your biofoam with you’ kind of slight? Or ‘got yourself captured’ slight?”
A little bit of both? He probably shouldn’t say that. No, no, he definitely shouldn’t say that. His arm is still bleeding all over the place. Well, it mostly stays in his armor but still. They don’t need to know that. South already sounds five poorly-chosen words from coming for his sorry ass, York not far behind her, injuries and odds be damned. They’d likely go down one way or another before they could reach him, but it’d be a sweet gesture. The small group of enemies walk towards Wash carefully, guns trained and loaded-
-before a high-armored cycle flies into the hangar and plows right over them.
In cases such as these, with worried-angry teammates yelling over the radio, multiple heavy guns primed and ready to shoot, and an unknown attacker speeding into the fray and running the enemy over, there is only a split-second of distraction before everything comes crashing down. One second where no one shoots, no one knows what’s about to happen, and no one’s ready for it. The outcome is ultimately decided by whoever reacts the quickest and the smartest.
Wash ducks behind the blast shield again when the tank fires. Except the tank doesn’t fire at him; it guns for the new enemy, the one that just ran over the tank operator’s close friends. Then the bike swings by him, and for some reason, Wash notices a hand outstretched from the driver. He takes the offer before it even clicks that the person is a fellow Freelancer. That she’s Texas.
A part of Wash lights up because, although she hasn’t been with them for long, Texas is good. Like, ‘take down three hot shots on her first day’ kind of good. The rest of Wash fully record-scratches when his new teammate pulls him onto the bike by his very injured arm. He bites down a yell; he is not about to start whining now. She notices him though--of course she does. She’s good.
“Regret leaving that foam now?” She asks, volume raised over the whipping wind.
Wash doesn’t ask how she knows what he did with it. Instead he asks, “How.. How’d they know we’d need backup?” He doesn’t specify them, but Texas gets it anyway. Of course.
“Call it a lucky guess,” She answers--in lieu of a real answer. The bike roars, jumping a space in the concrete and hitting pavement without slowing. Once they steady on solid ground again, she motions with her head vaguely, “Here. Check my left leg.”
Wash obeys, releasing one of his hands from his iron grip on her armor. He pats a canister and unclips it off her, frowning at the medical device in front of him. He asks, “What if you need it?” He shuts his mouth at her resounding silence. Of course she won’t need it. It’s a patch job, using biofoam while speeding around close quarters, but Wash depresses the plunger until the blood stops leaking out of him. He hisses quietly, but he feels a little better now that he’s no longer at major risk of going down from blood loss. “Thanks,” he says, clipping the canister to his own armor for the time being.
Then Wash sees the blipblip of the team’s radio pinging him--when did he even turn it off? They haven’t been using the frequency this entire time--and the pit in his stomach turns. He answers, flinching at the chaos that greets him. Quickly, he reassures, “Guys, guys- fuck- sorry, South- I’m okay! Lost the channel, but,” Wash glances at Tex, who doesn’t react to his white lie, “I’m good. Not captured, not dying.”
“Christ, Wash, you are not making this mission any easier,” York admits, strained. South agrees, and if they can get one good thing out of this, at least those two aren’t fighting anymore.
---
Tex has to agree with York on that. None of the team seems to be able to hold radio communications correctly--but especially Washington. At least she’s spared from having to jump into that dumpster fire.
Tex isn’t sure why Wash avoids mentioning her while he explains (partially dishonestly) the bare bones of his situation. Their situation. But she doesn’t bother adding anything to the channel herself. She’s definitely not going to correct him. Wash manages to level out their teammates a reasonable amount with the promise of a coming rescue. Then the ground shakes with the shell of the tank. Well, look who decided to show up.
Washington startles, his vice-like grip on her armor returning. Tex rolls her eyes. Like that tank can possibly catch up with them, let alone actually hit them at this speed. Then, as if to spite her, one of the ‘hogs from earlier swings into their part of the courtyard, firing rounds that ping off the surfaces around them. She clicks her tongue. Okay, now that is worth worrying about.
Tex speeds up, somehow, which does nothing to ease Wash behind her. She guesses she can’t blame him for his discomfort; he’s probably checking out from bleeding out for so long. Bleeding out quietly, she reminds herself, when he could’ve said something. She can blame him for that. Then the radio crackles with life again, and the other half of their team engages with the other Warthog, cursing over heavy gunfire. She weaves around the yard, and Wash finally wakes up enough to unhook an arm from her torso and start laying down coverfire. He successfully clips the enemy seated in the shotgunner's position, which helps, but the manned turret spits bullets incessantly.
It’s another minute of close chase--turret then tank then turret--in circles before Wash speaks up, pointedly not over the frequency, “Texas, unless you have another bike, we still need a three-seater to grab the guys.”
“Then let’s go get one.” Tex says, drifting them around the back courtyard. The Warthog circles the corner, slower but not slow enough. The gunner’s bullets spray the walls and ground around them, but nothing hits them. Up ahead and to the left, a makeshift ramp leans against a cargo container, not far from the hangar. They have passed it a few times while evading the enemy, and Tex lines up the shot. They can make the second floor of the hangar. They can make it.
Tex floors it and braces herself, “Hold on!”
Wash whips his head around instinctively, confused then horrified, “I am ho- oh no-!”
The Warthog behind them screeches to a halt as the Freelancers fly.
They crash into the metal wall, jerking at the impact even as the wall gives way. Tex and Wash dive to the floor before the bike destabilizes, skidding across the upper loft and tipping over the side, knocking out the safety rail and the two manned turrets as it falls. Tex winces; she kind of needed that bike. Well, there are a few smaller vehicles lying around, but she prefers the cycle. Hopefully it survived.
They recover in record time, all things considered, and drop to the lower level. Wash guns it for the Warthog, snatching keys off the seat and hopping in. He looks at her briefly; they both know there aren’t enough seats, though, and she wouldn’t have joined him either way. She jerks her head towards another entrance, the one that leads to the other courtyard where their team is. To his credit, he doesn’t question her further, piping up on the radio again to relay his approach. Finally getting his shit together, according to South Dakota’s thinly veiled scoff of relief.
With the sounds of the Warthog growing louder and her team echoing in her ears, Tex unclips the package off her busted bike and slides onto a Mongoose, its keys already hanging off the handle. She huffs, starting the ignition, and she speeds past the enemy vehicles in the opposite direction of her teammates, heading towards her own extraction point.
---
When Wash swings by his original teammates, South takes gunner position without a word, but York bullies him into the passenger seat. “I’ve seen you drive, Wash,” York explains, punching it towards the compound’s main gate. “I think I’d rather get shot again.”
“Ha, ha,” Wash says dryly. He and South ward off their attackers while York swerves them closer to safety. Dakota spins the turret confidently and sprays a metal beam off to the side, sending a mountain of crates crashing down on their pursuers. Wash blinks. That’s a new move. They bust through the gate without much fuss, objective complete and home-bound. They break the dead zone, and South radioes their pilot immediately, sounding satisfied, “479-er, we are due for approach.”
Niner is entirely relieved, “Oh, good. Almost thought I’d be flying back empty-handed.”
York’s grin carries over the frequency, “Can’t get rid of us that easily.”
They all but jump out of the Warthog, filing into the Pelican. Wash sighs, tension leaking out of him when he reports they’re on board and ready to go. Ash lifts them off the ground before the door completely closes--clearly just as eager as they are. York rolls his shoulders, peeking into the cockpit to chat with Niner. Wash flexes his arm experimentally, wincing at the pull of the stained biofoam. South catalogues her injuries by herself before she pauses, glancing at Wash’s movements. Glancing turns to staring, and she jolts, “Wait, when did you get fucking hit?”
The conversation at the head of the ship halts, and York turns to see South yank Wash’s arm towards her, inspecting it. “Woah, Wash is hit? When did that happen?”
“I just said that- stop whining, rookie, let me-” She prods, much to Wash’s dismay.
Ash cuts in, “Someone tell me, how badly do I need to alert medical?”
Wash defends hastily, “Hey, you guys got it way worse than me-! Stop that, South, I’m fine. No arteries, clean shot. I don’t need medical any more than you two. You can see the biofoam.”
South glares, “Yeah, and it needs to be changed already. York?” He tosses a fresh canister at her, and she catches it, administering the foam swiftly. “Where the hell did you even get the stuff to patch this? You gave us yours before you took off, asshole.” It’s pointed, as South Dakota tends to be, but not venomous or anxious, so she must gather that the injury isn’t too bad after all.
Wash flounders for a moment, oddly defensive, “We aren’t the only people in the galaxy with that equipment. Grabbed some from the base.”
“That what took you so long out there?” York wonders, arms crossed as he watches Dakota drag the rookie to a seat. Wash shrugs. He isn’t entirely sure why he’s keeping so quiet about what- or rather, who- really happened, but Tex didn’t announce herself to anyone else, and he has a feeling there’s a bigger reason for it. Sure, her appearance might come up when the Director has them report in, but Wash can handle that mess when it’s time.
“Can’t believe I got stuck with both of you, stupid-” South mutters to herself, releasing Wash and backing off. She storms past them and into the cockpit to bother the one person who hasn’t pissed her off today. York sighs, lingering a moment before walking towards Wash to talk-
The air shakes in waves, strong blasts that would be concussive if the Pelican was still near the compound. York stumbles, catching himself on a seat harness, and the ladies curse colorfully. The three agents gather at the back apprehensively, watching the base blow itself to bits and pieces.
“What the hell..” York mumbles curiously, shaking his head. South sounds similarly confused. Ash blows out a long breath, and Wash can imagine the adrenaline that just shot through her. He listens to the complex crumble in the distance, reduced to nothing but a graveyard of debris. He almost laughs; he has a feeling he knows who’s responsible.