Shiny Things

“Shit, the more I hear about Freelancer, the more I fucking want to vomit.” Lavernius Tucker blurted out the very second following Carolina’s clipped explanation behind who and what the Meta was.

…Because, seriously? It was all sorts of crazy to think that there was a super soldier program in the first place. On paper at least, this particular program had originally been designed to help protect people. What it ultimately ended up doing was experiment on its own participants instead, to the point where one of the soldiers’ minds had broken and he had become an unstoppable killing machine. So, yeah, fuck Freelancer.

“That isn’t a sentiment any of us are likely to disagree with, Tucker.” Washington told him in an almost self-mocking sort of way.

Tucker’s eyes flitted over to rest squarely on the full-blooded Strassian. David Washington looked as though all of the recent events had not only just caught up with him, but that they had then proceeded to bash him repeatedly over the head. Aqua’s pilot supposed that following having accidentally shot a current teammate, Washington’s having to then recount what was obviously a horribly traumatic time would do that.

The tale that had just been spun about Freelancer had resulted in Washington being placed in a hospital for a long time, along with the loss of his mech Steel. It was obvious that the walk down memory lane combined with his “accidentally shooting Donut” episode still weighed heavily on Washington, especially with the way the former Freelancer guiltily glanced towards Donut as Doc tended to him despite the pink-armored soldier’s insistence that he was “Fine and dandy, and as ready to burst as ever!” now.

Tucker wanted to go over to the blond and touch his shoulder reassuringly while looking directly into his gray eyes, a move that generally worked better if the other person was slightly drunk. He’d work his magic by asking Washington if he was doing all right. Chicks dug that kind of shit, after all! Washington should too, right?

However, despite the big game the half-Strassian liked to talk, touchy-feely moments for Tucker were majorly awkward-as-fuck at the best of times and violent at the worst. Maybe this situation wasn’t worth trying out one of his trademark come-ons. So, Tucker resisted the sudden, nearly overwhelming urge that had just washed over him. But, only barely.

“What I gathered from what you all said was that this Meta guy was definitely bad news.” Doc spoke up carefully as he reluctantly stepped away from Donut.

The medic had apparently done what he could for the other Elvari’s shoulder, but judging from the way he kept glancing over at Donut, it was obvious that he still wanted to do more to help. Tucker glanced over at Washington again, somewhat able to relate a bit to his purple-armored friend’s predicament. More than he’d probably want to ever admit as he forced himself to tear his eyes away from Washington.

“He was.” Carolina said as she nodded succinctly, raising an eyebrow, “Your point being…?”

“Well, it definitely sounds like by this current point in time, he should have been dead for a while.” The medic concluded hastily, obviously unnerved by the redhead’s pointed stare.

Tex snorted, crossing her arms over her chest, “Oh, we definitely made sure of that.” She said in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring. Instead, her tone really only served to yet again remind Tucker why he tried to avoid pissing the black-armored Veroni off.

“So,” Tucker noted seriously as he picked up on what Doc was trying to say, “Washington definitely shouldn’t have seen him in the ruins.”

Donut helpfully chimed in at this point as well, “I can usually find a lot of things crammed into dark, tight spaces, but even I’m scratching my head at this one!”

No doubt for the sake of her continued sanity, Carolina spoke up as if the dirty blond hadn’t said anything brain breaking, “You’re right.” She noted, a distinct edge to her voice, “The dead usually don’t just suddenly reappear.”

Tex and Washington both looked over at one another, askance.

“What?” Carolina asked them sharply, their shared look not lost on the half-Veroni.

“Didn’t you technically come back from the dead after that first Meta attack, boss?” Washington questioned, wincing as if afraid the redhead was going to pummel him with her suddenly clenched fists.

“That was different! I wasn’t actually dead.” Carolina quickly responded, obviously fighting the hit Washington urge, “Besides, are you two forgetting how that ended up saving all of our asses?”

Right. While the Meta was busy battling Tex, who had been distracting the Meta in order to give Church time to pull the wounded Washington away, a sneak attack from the returned Carolina was what had finally put a stop to Project Freelancer’s failed experiments for good. At least, that’s how the former Freelancers had told the story.

“At any rate,” Tex rubbed the back of her head as a contemplative frown crossed over her black-lined Veroni features, “The Meta showing up here like he did is no doubt tied to my own weird-as-fuck experience back over at the mechs.”

“And to other strange experiences as well.” Carolina noted, a frown on her face and a faraway look in her green eyes as if she was contemplating an event that she wasn’t in the mood to share with all of them just yet.

Tucker whistled, “Well, now we definitely know that someone on this planet is trying to fuck with us.”

“Oh, so you fellas figured that out too?”

The group spun around at the familiar drawl directed their way, surprised to see that most of the Chorus traveling party were now just a few meters behind them. Tucker couldn’t help but frown at the troubled air about their body languages, as if sensing that their presence here meant nothing good.

“You guys don’t look so great either.” Donut noted, concern lacing his normally cheerful voice, “Did you not get enough beauty sleep?”

“No duermo, y obviamente hay alguien jugando con nosotros.” {“I don't sleep, and there is obviously someone messing with us.”}

“Sleep is for the weak, son!” Sarge exclaimed, stepping forward just as Lopez said whatever the fuck it was that he said, “Besides, it’s a hard thing to do when a whole planet might be plotting against you!”

“This has not been the fun kind of sleepover so far.” Caboose intoned very seriously from his spot next to the older Arenian in red, the tone of disappointment practically visible in the dejected way Freckles’ pilot stood.

“We just reached the same conclusion that you obviously have.” Sheila informed them, “Something is very wrong with this planet.”

Carolina, quick to take charge, nodded her head quietly in agreement while Tucker was much more vocal with his “You can fucking say that again!” comment. Carolina continued as if Tucker hadn’t spoken, “We need to figure out who is doing this and how…” The redhead in cyan stopped short when she did a mental headcount, “We’re down a person.”

“…Where’s Simmons?” Washington asked, a note of worry in his voice as he noticed that it was his Strassian “protégé” who was nowhere in sight.

Just then, the group that had exited their temporary sleeping quarters on Trocadero all looked at one another uncomfortably. Tucker suddenly felt a sinking suspicion in the pit of his stomach. Either that or it was indigestion.

It was Grif who finally spoke up to answer Washington’s question, the orange-armored mech pilot having been uncharacteristically silent during the earlier round of conversation. There was a haunted, upset look in the human’s brown eyes. Grif seemed the most upset out of everyone there, save perhaps Washington who was now worried about Simmons on top of still shooting guilty looks in Donut’s direction every five seconds.

“Something…something really fucked up happened.” Grif said at length, voice shaky and more urgent-sounding than Tucker had ever heard it before, “He was injured and taken away by that Price guy.”

The Freelancers in their midst all stiffened at the name from their shared past, exchanging one of their oh-so-mysterious glances with one another. Tucker raised an eyebrow, having already detected by how they had reacted before that this supposedly reformed Price guy had been extremely bad news in the past.

“We should get a message back to Chorus as soon as possible.” Tex said quietly, her demeanor by this point having gone completely rigid.

Carolina nodded her head, “We need to reach the mechs quickly.” Grif stepped forward shakily, opening his mouth as if to protest this decision before Carolina held up her hand to cut him off, “Once we have secured our route out of here, we’ll begin searching for Simmons in earnest.” She promised.

Grif said nothing in response, but his frown visibly deepened. However, Orange’s pilot gave a curt nod before the group began to move urgently through the quiet colony grounds. Their destination was the outskirts where their mechs were located.

Richard “Dick” Simmons was being sat upright on his bed rather gently, though he still couldn’t help but wince through his exhausted state of mind at the sudden, sharp pain in his side. He frowned somewhat through the haze that seemed to be permeating all of his thoughts at the moment.

A part of him thought that he remembered how he had been injured, but his brain was rather fuzzy on the details when he tried to recall the exact memory.

“How are you feeling now, Simmons?” A calm, almost detached voice asked him.

Simmons let out a pathetic, helpless whimper when a hand reached out and stroked the side of his head, petting it like someone might an animal. He remembered now.

He had been in that…that place that the man who had taken him from his home had brought him too. The pain in his side had been from when he had resisted earlier.

Something was brought to his mouth, a glass of some kind. Though his parched mouth and throat were achingly thirsty, Simmons could still taste the Tevkask on his tongue from before. So, he shrank away from the proffered beverage as if it were poison.

“You do not wish to drink yet?” The dark-skinned man sitting beside him inquired gently, as if he was trying to soothe a child.

Simmons vaguely recalled that the man’s name was Price and that he wasn’t the man from his memories. He reminded himself that he wasn’t actually there anymore. He was actually safe? Simmons almost didn’t dare to dream that it could be true.

Price lowered the glass, nodding slowly as if aware of the thoughts that permeated the Strassian’s mind, “That’s more than understandable, given everything that’s happened.”

Simmons felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, his hands clenching into shaking fists at his sides. He hated feeling this weak. He never wanted to feel this powerless again.

“You’re safe now.” Price reassured him, resting a hand gently on his trembling shoulder, “Neither your father nor that other man will hurt you anymore. So long as you remain in our care.”

Simmons couldn’t stop himself from clinging to that small sliver of hope, desperate for it. He wasn’t even sure of who “they” were exactly, but they had saved him and that was all that mattered.

“But in exchange,” Price continued, “You will have to do us a favor.”

Simmons nodded his head in understanding. He would do anything to help repay Price and the others for rescuing him.

Price tilted his head to the doorway towards where another man, a much taller one, was standing. The newcomer was donning a helmet with a shark motif on it. There was something about this person that seemed oddly familiar to Simmons, but he assumed it was from whatever rescue mission they had undergone to free him.

His brain was still strangely foggy in some areas when it came to his memory in particular, but he figured it was due to the extremely slow recovery process normally associated with long term Tevkask usage.

“This is Terrence. Sharkface, as it were.” Price told him in way of explanation, “You need to go with him and retrieve your mech. We have tests that we still need to run on it.” Price smiled at the redhead again, and Simmons tried not to be too freaked out that it didn’t seem as if the gesture quite reached his eyes, “Afterwards, you will finally be free to choose what it is you want to do with your own life.”

Simmons nodded his head again, ignoring the slight pain in his side as he stood up on shaky feet to exit the room. As he did so, he didn’t quite catch the whispered words that were exchanged afterwards between Sharkface and Price.

Antoine Bitters was trying his hardest, really trying, not to let the annoyance he felt over just how well Zachary Miller seemed to suddenly fit in with his group of friends show too much on his face. After all, he had a staunch reputation as a maverick of sorts to uphold. Said reputation required an appearance of apathy most of the time.

“So, to make a long story short, Dex was pretty fucking peeved that I didn’t message him earlier, but that would have totally ruined the mood! Plus, I would’ve had to unwind my legs from the chandelier.” Kaikaina concluded, scrunching up her face as she added, “Do you know how hard it is to get up on one of those things?”

Palomo, who was currently glaring holes at Miller as he oh-so-subtly stabbed his plate of food with his fork while the others were joyfully listening to yet another one of Kai’s tales about growing up in Rat’s Nest, was doing an even less remarkable job at covering up his frustration. However, Bitters knew that this visible agitation of Charles Palomo’s had more to do with how the dark-skinned half-human had not been able to sit next to Jensen like he usually did thanks to Miller’s presence at the table.

That wasn’t what Bitters’ problem with Miller was, honestly. It wasn’t a sense of petty jealousy that was getting to the Arenian about the newcomer. There was just something about Miller that rubbed Bitters the wrong way. It was vague as shit, but life in general tended to be vague as shit if one thought about it.

As the peals of laughter over Kai’s exploit died down, Volleyball glanced over at a wall terminal in the mess hall that displayed the time. “Well, it looks like the night shift is about to start.” She announced, a chorus of groans arising from the table following her statement.

Things were generally pretty boring on Chorus with the mech pilots away. Since all of the rookies were somehow landing night rounds on top of that, it was only further guaranteed that they were in for an uneventful evening. Seriously, nothing ever seemed to happen when you were assigned night duty on Chorus.

“Best to just make do as much as we can.” Andersmith tried stating encouragingly, already getting up to clear the table.

“You’re right.” Jensen was quick to chime in, “Working tonight means having the morning off!”

“Yeah, but it still blows. I mean, people look at you weird when you want to show off how flexible you are at breakfast for some reason.” Kaikaina remarked glumly, “Judgmental assholes.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Palomo nodded his head in earnest agreement before he paused, “Um, come again?”

“Ha! That’s what she said!”

As everyone began moving to put their trays away following Kai’s outburst, the still sitting Miller reached out and grabbed Matthews’ arm to keep him in place. The action was not lost on Bitters, who frowned and remained standing uninvited there too.

“Since it seems like we’ll have the morning free, I was wondering what there is that’s fun to do around here before the afternoon.” Miller said to the bespectacled lieutenant, a grin suffusing his features as he clearly impeded into Matthews’ personal space.

Bitters’ frown deepened at the sight, and his grip on his tray tightened marginally as he contemplated hitting Miller over the head with it.

“Oh! Um, I’m not exactly the best one to ask.” Matthews managed to stutter out to Miller, his face slightly red as his hazel eyes took in the hand still gripping him by the elbow, “I bet Kai and Palomo could give you tons of great suggestions.”

“Come on,” Miller said, coupled with the audacity to actually wink at Matthews just then, “You probably have a few good ideas though.”

“Er…” Matthews blanched, completely at a loss as to what to say.

“Matthews.” Bitters was surprised by how sharp his voice sounded when he spoke as he practically glared a hole into Miller all the while, “We have to check on that thing with Kimball, remember? Right now.”

For a moment, Matthews looked at the dark-skinned lieutenant with a clueless expression before understanding finally dawned in his eyes. From beneath his glasses, he shot Bitters a grateful look. “Right! The…the thing. That thing! I’d completely forgotten!” He said hastily, “Th—thanks, Bitters.”

Miller looked rather disappointed by the turn of events, but he dropped his hold on the younger, auburn-haired Elvari before getting up from the table himself, “Another time, then.”

With a smirk directed towards Bitters that caused the Arenian to clench his jaw tightly while no doubt leaving indents of fingers on his tray, Miller departed from the mess hall. The two lieutenants stood there awkwardly, as if tension was being slowly eased out of the room.

Matthews let out a relieved sigh, his shoulders sagging somewhat, “Th—thanks again.”

“No problem.” Bitters glanced over at his friend’s way too pale face, frown deepening, “You okay?”

“F—fine.” He was quick to respond, but it didn’t take an Elvari’s innate empathic skills to tell that Matthews was lying.

“Did the question make you feel uncomfortable on account of your telepathy?” Bitters questioned, curiosity getting the better of him.

He knew from what Palomo had told him that, even by Elvari standards, Matthews’ abilities were considered extremely potent. The young man had even secluded himself from most people as a child until he had learned to shield himself mentally.

Matthews gave a shaky nod, frowning himself now, “I usually avoid a lot of crowded places because of it.”

Bitters said nothing, contemplating how that must suck for the slightly younger Elvari. Perhaps what he was thinking showed in his body language, or maybe Matthews had picked up on it, because the auburn-haired rookie was quick to assure Bitters, “That’s…that’s mostly just a precaution though! I can usually hang out in crowds just fine now. Really!” He paused a second later, quick to change topics, “Um, you don’t think…? There’s maybe…something wrong with him?”

That question pulled Bitters’ focus back to the conversation at hand, and he frowned, “Who? Miller?”

Matthews gave a slight nod, looking worriedly over at where the new soldier had exited the mess hall.

“What do you mean?” Bitters couldn’t help but tense up instinctively at the direction their talk was taking.

Matthews shrugged his shoulders helplessly, “It’s just that there’s this oddness about him I can’t place.” He tried explaining.

Bitters glanced over at the direction that Miller had sauntered off in. Sure, he admittedly didn’t like the guy. But, something about Matthews worrying about Miller made him even more anxious and upset than he’d ever care to admit.

“Miller might be an asshole, Matthews,” Bitters tried going for the reassuring route, “But that’s probably it.”

Matthews nodded his head but remained silent, not looking all that convinced. Bitters’ frown only deepened, and he couldn’t help but wonder if his assessment about Miller just then was even right given his own thoughts on the guy.

“…And here they are, right where we left ‘em!” Sarge let out a small whoop of victory as the group approached the mechs, his robot soldier casting a disbelieving look his way.

“¿Dónde más estarían? No es como si alguien pudiera robar las llaves e ir a dar un paseo.” {“Where else would they be? It’s not like someone can just steal the keys and go for a joyride.”}

“Stop.” Carolina, who had been in front of the group, held out an arm to block the red-armored man from charging forward towards where the Warthog was waiting, “We’re not alone here.”

“Oh?” Donut asked, leaning forward to see who she was talking about, “Man, we just keep getting beaten off to the punch!”

“I believe the actual term is simply “beaten to the punch.”” Sheila noted as the others simply groaned in response to Donut’s innocent innuendo.

“That too, Sheila. That too.” The pink-armored soldier was quick to reply, patting the brunette on the shoulder as if he understood she was correcting his phrasing. …He didn’t. Obviously.

Lopez turned to Sheila then, a hint of desperation in his electronic voice as he pleaded with the petite Veroni.

“Por favor, no lo animes, te lo suplico.” {“Please don’t encourage him, I’m begging you.”}

At first, Dexter Grif wasn’t paying much attention at all to the conversation going on around him. He was solely focused on the last image of Simmons he had floating in his mind. He needed to get to and secure Orange. Then they would scour the entire colony grounds to find the redheaded Strassian. Things would be okay then. They just fucking had to be…

“Why are they looking at Maroon?”

Doc’s curious inquiry suddenly jolted Grif out of his troubled thoughts as he peered in the direction that the brown-haired medic indicated.

Sure enough, there were two people standing right in front of Simmons’ mech. And one of them was…

“Simmons!” Grif couldn’t help but shout out, a strong sense of relief flooding through him at the sight of the taller man standing there.

“Is that blood?” Tucker squinted at the splotch of drying crimson on the Strassian’s clothing, “Fuck! You weren’t kidding about him being injured!”

“Never mind that now, Tucker.” Tex told the dark-skinned man sharply, “Pay attention to the asshole standing next to him!”

“He has a shark for a face.” Caboose muttered, as if that made any sense at all.

And, for the first time since his eyes had landed on Simmons, Grif turned his attention to the other person standing there with the redhead, a sudden feeling of dread overpowering everything else. Sure enough, it was fucking Sharkface of all people.

“Simmons! What the fuck are you doing?” Grif called out urgently, panic rising in his voice, “Fucking run!”

Simmons only turned his head slightly, and Grif started at how it didn’t appear as if the other mech pilot had really even seen or heard him. The Strassian’s green eyes had a rather glassy, glazed-over look in them as opposed to the vibrant fire that Grif would normally often lose himself in. The image made his stomach drop.

Sharkface grabbed onto Simmons’ arm and pulled him along into Maroon’s open cockpit, throwing the redhead bodily into the seat. Here, Simmons did wince slightly, but the grimace quickly faded from his features as if it had never even been there.

“Do it.” Sharkface said to Simmons in a loud enough voice for the group to hear as the cockpit closed, sealing the two inside.

“Shit!” Washington seemed to pick up on what was about to happen well before the others as Maroon’s arm pulled back, “Everyone, scatter!”

Grif was moving forward towards Maroon, towards Simmons as the punch landed with Sarge of all people in the process of holding the human back with a strangled curse.

The ground below the mech pilot group buckled and quaked violently with the blow from Maroon, a spider-web of cracks blossoming out from the impact site of the mech’s fist. Everything sank and, suddenly, there was no more ground beneath their feet.

As the darkness below swallowed up both mechs and people alike, there was only one thing that was on Grif’s mind before complete and utter darkness overtook him.

“SIMMONS!”