Shiny Things

For a few brief but altogether tense moments within the cavernous expanse that Lopez and Sheila had both fallen into along with the petite Veroni’s mech, there was only suffocating silence.

That silence was mostly due to the appearance of the steel-colored cloth wrapped female with incandescently glowing Veroni lines of pure white along the visible portions of her skin. The newcomer’s presence certainly had Sheila desperately wracking her brain for something, anything to do or say.

After all, here was her long missing sister. The sister that so many of their friends and family had given up on, who they all thought was tragically lost forever. After having contemplated for so many years just what Sheila would say if she ever saw her sibling again, even before Tank had practically fallen into her lap and her arrival on Chorus, now the Veroni found that every single word or question she might have wanted to voice had well and truly fled her mind.

She couldn’t even bring herself to delve into how Filss was even here to begin with. It made absolutely no sense at all, it…

“Sheila.” {“Sheila.”}

Lopez stirred next to her, interrupting her thoughts. The brown-armored robot rose to his feet as the gunmetal green-lined brunette continued to also shakily do so to better face Filss. He sounded worried, and in any other instance Sheila may have felt somewhat flattered or even rather bashful at that sort of attention being directed towards her person.

But, right now? Right now she needed to concentrate.

Sheila swallowed thickly, her throat suddenly drier than even a dust-filled cavern could adequately explain, “I…I don’t understand.” She stated softly despite the effort it took, “H—how…?”

“Why have you not been looking for me?”

Her older sister’s sudden question was just as unexpected as her appearance was, and Sheila blinked in the wake of the quiet, accusatory tone thrown her way.

Denial was quick on her tongue. What else had she been doing since Filss had just gone and vanished from their home world? Not a day had gone by since then in which Sheila hadn’t thought of the sibling who had always been so thoughtful as to leave a message whenever she so much as stepped out of their family living quarters before.

She took a shaky step forward, “I…I have been.”

Filss cocked her head to the side, her response more merciless than Sheila had ever heard from her before, “Wouldn’t there have been some progress then, if that were even remotely true?”

Guilt and regret hit Sheila in the face as stingingly sharp as a physical slap might have. She knew that what Filss was saying wasn’t the truth, but that nagging doubt that she always felt bubbled to the surface. If she only tried that much harder every day, would she have figured something out by now? If she had chosen a different fork in the metaphorical road so to speak, if…

“F—Filss…”

Just as Sheila was about to bridge the gap between her sibling and herself in a few stumbling, desperate strides, a heavy hand grasped her elbow and prevented her from doing so. She spun around to face Lopez, to demand that he please just not interfere in so personal a matter, but his emphatically shaking head caused the words to halt on her tongue.

“Ella no está realmente aquí, Sheila.” {“She isn’t really here, Sheila.”}

His electronic voice was oddly gentle, but the words he spoke had her scrunching up her eyebrows as she tried to process their meaning. Since she had gone to the trouble of studying various human languages as a child and had even taken the time to upload a translation program for many of them into her nanite system, that wasn’t usually the case with Lopez. But, it had to be a translation error given that Filss was here…

“Of course she—” Sheila said as she turned her head back in the other Veroni’s direction again without finishing her statement of the obvious.

Lopez’s grip tightened marginally, as though afraid a panicked and disbelieving Sheila might try to bolt and run straight into a trap.

“No he recibido una firma de calor de ella todo este tiempo.” {“I haven’t gotten a heat signature from her this entire time.”} He informed her calmly, tilting his head slightly over in Filss’ direction as well, “Si intentas usar tu tecnología, deberías ver eso también.” {“If you try using your technopathy, you should see that too.”}

The so-called “technopathy” that all Veroni possessed was due to the symbiotic relationship they had with the self-replicating nanites coursing through their blood. It made them more connected and aware of technology than other species were on a daily basis, and served as the main reason behind their distinctive glowing body markings.

Filss’ markings were practically burning to a blinding degree on her face as Sheila turned once again to regard her. She felt a slight rush of heat as no doubt her own lined features were now doing the same behind her helmet, her vision altering to take in the temperature readouts of everything around them. When they fixed on where she knew her sister to be standing, it was as if she was perceiving nothing but empty air.

“Sheila.” Filss’ voice nearly pleaded then, coming from out of nowhere right before Sheila’s eyesight returned to normal and she could make out her figure once more.

Only it wasn’t her, was it? She shook slightly at the thought, wondering just what all of this could even mean.

Lopez’s hand let go of her elbow then, resting awkwardly on her shoulder instead. He gave a brief squeeze.

“Encontraremos el Filss real de alguna manera.” {“We’ll find the real Filss somehow.”}

Sheila nodded her head in agreement, her lips faintly curving upwards in response to the surprisingly touching gesture.

The fake image of her elder sister opened her mouth again as if to speak, but suddenly vanished into thin air as a wall of debris behind her exploded outwards.

Tex stood in the middle of the swirl of dust that followed, her black gloved hand still clenched tightly in a fist before her. She slowly lowered it when she saw the two figures standing there, “You guys all right?”

As Sheila nodded in response, Lopez seemed to be openly gaping at the blond-haired Veroni with glowing black lines on her face as much as someone with a helmet for a head could.

“Santa mierda ¿En serio solo te abriste paso a través de una pared de roca?” {“Holy shit. Did you seriously just punch your way through a rock wall?”}

Tex flashed a quick look of relief their way before she stepped further into the space through the entryway that she had just provided for herself. Brown eyes landed on a relatively uncovered Tank, and she smirked in obvious satisfaction at the discovery, “Great. Hopefully we can use this to reach the others.”

“It seems as if the planet of Chorus takes care of their resources well.” Price noted out loud in a thoughtful manner as he looked over the datapad that he had been handed. The screen showed the results of the preliminary scans that had been conducted on the recently retrieved maroon-colored mech, “Everything seems to be far above even standard procedural regulations so far.”

The room that they were currently in was located off to the side of the facility’s hangar area, and Richard “Dick” Simmons couldn’t help but shoot a quick glance in that direction through the large viewing window to catch a sight of the immensely tall, humanoid figure still standing where he had brought it in earlier. Various personnel were running around underfoot, and a part of him wondered why seeing them so close to the mech made him rather anxious.

That was silly of him, after all. Wasn’t it?

The redhead shook his head to try and dispel the fog of confusion and unease that was surrounding his thoughts, turning back around to regard Price instead. Sharkface was leaning over the dark-skinned man’s shoulder to take in the specs on the datapad as well, a contemplative grimace clouding over his scarred features.

“C—Chorus?” Simmons managed to nervously repeat out loud, unsure as to why that particular name seemed to strike such an odd chord of familiarity with him.

Price turned off the datapad, evidently before Sharkface had finished reading it if the agitated growl he gave was any indication. The smaller, dark-skinned man turned to look out at what was transpiring in the hangar himself, hands folded neatly behind his back after he set the powered down datapad onto a table nearby.

“Nothing you need to be concerned with, Richard.” Price spoke calmly over his shoulder in response to Simmons’ query.

“Especially given that those poor shmucks’ days are well and truly numbered.”

Simmons started at the smug voice that spoke up then following the door to the room opening behind the three of them. A somewhat thin, smaller-statured man with brown hair and a painfully sharp gaze stood in the entryway, donned in steel and orange.

Simmons’ stomach twisted painfully at the sight of the orange color in particular, though he couldn’t figure out why. Something about the unknown man’s demeanor was sending alarm bells through his brain that thoroughly distracted him from that train of thought a mere moment later.

“Oh, great.” Sharkface’s voice was laced with sarcasm and unrestrained annoyance, “It figures you’d show up now.”

“Always such a pleasure.” The man quipped back, and from the looks that both were giving the other, Simmons could tell that only the barest modicum of restraint was keeping the two from attempting to kill one another.

The Strassian gulped nervously, wishing, not for the first time, that he could just turn invisible.

“Felix. Welcome.” Price stated cordially as he turned to face the newcomer in a way that Simmons suspected was trying to divert attention from the suddenly thick wave of hostility in the air, “We were not expecting you quite so soon.”

The armored man called Felix gave a careless shrug in response, “Yeah, well, long transport rides through space make me rather antsy. I figured I’d sneak on ahead and give you the good news in person because I’m just that considerate and generous of a human being.”

Sharkface rolled his good eye at the grand, magnanimous tone that the other man had used.

Felix carried on as if he hadn’t noticed the gesture despite a cold glint in his eyes revealing otherwise, “The other plan is moving along nicely. Locus just contacted us that he got planet-side without any problems.” He smirked, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “So it’s only a matter of time before we get our hands on all the intel we could possibly ever want.”

The burnt brown-haired man scoffed disinterestedly at the news, “I could fucking care less. I just want that whole place to fry.”

“Still have that one-track mind, I see.” Felix looked rather unimpressed, “You might want to at least put some variety into your revenge plans every once in a while. You know, try to keep things from getting stale?”

As Sharkface glowered at Felix for his mocking remark, Simmons remained frozen where he was with an achingly nervous, frantic pounding starting up in his chest at the direction the conversation had gone in. These guys had helped him, right? So…

He gulped and straightened his back to the point of pain when Felix’s disregarding look settled on him. “Fucking really, Price?” He asked a second later in mock disbelief, “This scrawny Blue Dotted beanpole was the best you could do?”

Simmons’ mouth opened in shock, unsure of how to respond. He quickly closed it, however, getting the distinct impression from the way that this Felix guy was staring at him like he was a broken toy that needed to be tossed aside (how surprisingly like his father’s regard for him, a distant part of him thought painfully), speaking up wouldn’t have been in his best interest.

“His being a Strassian certainly isn’t ideal given Charon’s goals,” Price noted a moment later, much to Simmons’ shock, “But his underlying trauma combined with recent events made him the best candidate to help us acquire one of their mechs.”

Simmons’ head was spinning just then, and he seemed incapable of filling his lungs up with any amount of air whatsoever. The pain in his side was suddenly back with a vengeance, and he had the distinct impression that he was somehow still just as trapped and restrained as he had always been before back in that horrible, terrible place…

“Calm down, Richard.”

He heard Price’s voice succinctly in his head then, the older male staring at him without saying a word out loud. For a brief moment, the spiral of doubt and sheer panic in his brain went completely blank and both his body and emotions relaxed.

Felix watched the event play out with a decidedly disgusted look settling over his features, “Huh. Should have figured a half-Elfie would be sympathetic to another alien.”

Sharkface’s grimace turned all the more menacing at the derogatory remark towards Price, and he took a step forward, “I’ve told you to watch your fucking mouth before.” He warned.

“I suppose all of this half-breed solidarity helps keep your work schedule afloat around here.” Felix looked decidedly amused by Sharkface’s warning instead of intimidated, “It makes sense that befriending aliens fits the bill too.”

“No one here is in danger of forgetting the overall mission, Felix. I can assure you of that.” Price interjected into the tense atmosphere, as eerily calm as ever.

“Good.” He took out a combat knife from a hidden sheath in his armor, tossing it up and down in the air in a haphazard fashion all while he kept his eyes leveled at his two apparent comrades, “Control doesn’t really care about the methods, so long as the result’s the same.”

Simmons’ green eyes remained glued on the flash of metal whenever the knife was soaring in the air above Felix’s head.

A jutting arc of silver, followed by a shooting pain. Fire and coldness all at once. A worried, tan face swimming above his own. So damn familiar…

“SIMMONS!”

He stumbled backwards, remembering what appeared to be the face of the rather blurry human who had called out his name before. But, that wasn’t from when he and Sharkface had retrieved the maroon mech. It was a memory…from some other time?

They had known each other then? Just how and…

“You okay?” Sharkface was hauling him to his feet rather roughly, a mixture of both concern and agitation appearing across his face at Simmons’ sudden collapse.

“This all still appears to be rather taxing to your system, Richard.” Price spoke up just as Simmons’ freckled face heated up to the point of burning out of sheer and utter embarrassment, “Perhaps you should go to the infirmary.”

Sharkface was already pulling the redhead past a thoroughly amused-looking Felix on shaky feet before the befuddled and overwhelmed Strassian could even respond. Evidently, Price’s suggestion was more order than request.

As Simmons followed after the towering half-Arenian unsteadily, his mind kept wandering back to the heavyset human he kept having such insistent flashes of. He couldn’t help but wonder why thinking about the orange-armored man in particular was causing his chest to ache just as badly as it had when he had been trapped before.

Matthews was humming softly to himself as he walked along the corridors of one of Chorus’ bases of operation. He was happy to have just finished his rounds of inventory, checking on repair parts for the various ground transports that their group utilized to get around Chorus.

Bitters was supposed to have gone with Matthews to help out too, but the dark-skinned Arenian had apparently received some sort-of last minute emergency request from Palomo and Kaikaina. Such requests always seemed to happen whenever any of the three happened to be assigned this type of duty, now that Matthews thought about it, but the joke was on his teammate because Matthews had managed to pick out three different mistakes in the color-coding placement for the wrenches alone. So Antoine Bitters had clearly missed out on all of the excitement!

Not to mention he had finished the task a bit early, so that pretty much meant that Matthews had the rest of the day free.

Honestly, the lieutenant with the multi-colored hair and orange trim would probably enjoy that added perk of the assignment if he could ever manage to show up for it. The auburn-haired man sighed, wondering how he could try and tell Bitters and the others about it again without getting too flustered or teased about being a suck-up. Jensen, Andersmith, and Volleyball already knew, but they had long since given up trying to convince their other friends of its merit.

All thoughts on the topic of finishing duties early completely faded from his mind, however, when he felt a distinctive and all too sudden surge of panic. The surprising onslaught was rapidly followed with a very brief moment of agony that hit him squarely in the gut as forcefully as a punch, along with a sensation of needles being shoved into every centimeter of his body. His eyes involuntarily welled up with tears.

And, then, he felt absolutely nothing except a freezing chill and a yawning emptiness that signified the sudden lack of everything that had come before it.

Matthews’ chest ached and he wanted to vomit as a familiar numbness overtook him, his own gaping fear and sadness starting to overtake the empty vacuum even as he knew it could never, ever come close to being remotely filled up.

He knew what this meant, had felt the sensation several unpleasant times before. It had nearly wrecked him as a child when he hadn’t yet learned to dull the feelings and thoughts of those around him. Matthews was strong enough, well-trained enough now to shield himself from the most devastating brunt force of the act and, mercifully, the violent deaths he had just felt had been truly quick and no doubt not as agonizing for those who had experienced them firsthand as his dealing with the aftereffect was.

…But, he hadn’t expected to have to shield himself from that level of extreme intensity just as he was walking through a secure location on Chorus. He hadn’t been prepared for the onslaught at all, and it still left him reeling.

The young man stumbled forward on shaky feet, tears still streaming down his face as his blood ran cold at the sight of two white-armored bodies on the floor around the corner of the hallway. Did he know them from past assignments together? Were there even more victims up ahead?

He should contact someone. Proper protocol for this type of thing was…

The murderous intent hit him with the force of a bag of bricks before he even thought about how likely it was that the killer would still be there. The Elvari was so shaken up and overwhelmed, it hadn’t even crossed his mind at first that he was in danger.

“Matthews.” A rather snide, but altogether familiar, voice stated as two pairs of armored feet came into view from his continued downward gaze at the still-warm corpses, “Hey.”

Hazel eyes shot up to take in Zachary Miller nonchalantly standing in a pool of spreading blood on the white floor of the hallway. White armor and a white floor. How contrasting and wrong all of that crimson was against it.

Miller was standing next to a looming figure in steel and green armor, and the detached way the newcomer stood and regarded the witness from within the hidden depths of his visor was even more alarming.

Matthews took a shaky step backwards toward the corner he had just turned, cursing his own stupidity for having been so distracted that he hadn’t even realized the very real danger he had walked into. He should know better by this point, he…

Miller was on him before he even had the chance to run, jumping over the two dead bodies and slamming the Elvari’s back against the wall behind him with so much force that he cried out in pain, stars swimming in his vision as new tears formed in his eyes. His glasses clattered to the ground, and he wondered why he had forgotten to wear his helmet today.

The cold detachedness radiating off of the other man as he stepped forward to put a gun to his head masked a flurry of deep-seated emotions that Matthews was certain would suffocate him if he so much as attempted to delve more into them. It terrified the Elvari, and he tried to fight past his growing panic to attempt putting his mental shielding up.

Miller was simpler to deal with. His apparent joy at watching the yellow-trimmed lieutenant squirm easier to comprehend even if something about what was lurking further below it caused Matthews to shudder all the same.

“You know, it’s a shame you of all people stumbled on us when you did, Matthews.” Miller began talking conversationally, stroking the Elvari’s neck with his index finger as he kept his hand painfully clamped down on Matthews’ throat, “I actually don’t mind you all that much, even if you are a kiss-ass and an Elfie.” He glanced dismissively over at the bodies, “Things got unexpectedly complicated, as you can see. Maybe keeping one of you alive might be a good move, since your dumb leader has a soft spot for her men.”

Wordlessly, the man with the gun lowered the weapon to his side, but Matthews found that he couldn’t quite feel relieved when the stranger reached over and pulled something out of a bag that had been haphazardly slung over Miller’s shoulder.

It appeared for all intents and purposes to be a metallic crown that had been fashioned around what was no doubt quite a bit of complex machinery. The unknown man pressed a button on its side, and Matthews watched with growing trepidation as lights along the crown’s surface all lit up.

If he screamed, well, he doubted there were too many people along this side of the building even left alive. That realization caused even more tears to well up in his eyes as he tried to get air in through panicked, shallow breaths and the pressure of Miller’s hand still threateningly tight on his throat.

“You know what this is, don’t you?” Miller’s voice had gone rather sickly sweet as he tightened his grip when Matthews resumed his struggles, “Charon’s been developing ways to counter Elvari for years. I’ve always been curious about these suppressors myself.”

Matthews went completely still. He knew enough about “suppressors” to know that the name was something of a misnomer. What they did was actually overwhelm an Elvari to the point of incapacity by forcing them to “open” their minds up to the world around them completely.

He had experienced more than enough of that on a smaller but still very devastating scale when learning to control his mental abilities due to how unusually strong they were even by Elvari standards.

“D—don’t…!”

“Compliant hostages make things easier in the long run.” Miller cut through his terrified protest, leaning so close to Matthews’ tearstained face that his helmet touched his cheek, “We might even get to take you along when we leave. Which means no more interruptions.”

Matthews had no idea what he meant by that, but he did not like the implications regardless.

“We need to get on with it.” The silent man suddenly growled out, his voice filtered and electronic-sounding.

His speaking up caused Miller to tense up in fight himself, “Y—yes, Locus.”

The Charon operative called Locus roughly moved past Miller then to firmly secure the suppressor onto Matthews’ head.

“Hel—!”

The mental cry he’d suddenly had the foresight to try and get out was immediately swallowed up by a tidal wave of everything hitting Matthews all at once. It was so much sensation, a cacophony that he couldn’t even start to make any kind of sense of, a simultaneous influx and outpouring that swallowed his entire being whole.

His legs buckled under him and he fell into Miller’s arms, his entire body absolutely limp as far too many thoughts and emotions were scrambling together in a jumbled mess in his mind that was just far too much for him to even be able to grasp onto or gain purchase of.

He was drowning, even as he continued to breathe.

“Hurry up.”

Locus’ voice came from somewhere so very, very far away. After that, Matthews couldn’t discern anything.

The Freelancer was called Maine. No, that wasn’t entirely accurate. According to that horror story that they had been told earlier on the surface of Trocadero, this guy was actually called the Meta now. Whoever the fuck he was, he approached Washington with slow, purposeful steps.

Lavernius Tucker watched the former Freelancer take a shaky step backwards, the action left Washington dangerously close to the edge of the outcropping they were standing on as he brought up his gun and shouted: “Stay where you are!”

The creature that had at one point been Washington’s teammate and friend continued to advance, so the Strassian was left with no choice but to press down on his trigger repeatedly. Not that it did any good: Washington’s bullets went straight through the image of the Meta, embedding themselves in the rock dangerously close to the mouth of the glowing tunnel entrance that Caboose had previously entered.

That observation seemed lost on Washington currently, but it didn’t go unnoticed by Tucker. The dark-skinned man looked at the bullet holes, put two and two together, and promptly had to fight back a surge of panic himself.

“Dude, stop!” Tucker shouted over at Washington, “You’re going to fucking shoot someone!” He paused and grimaced in memory, “…Again.”

Washington didn’t even seem to hear the half-Strassian, his gray eyes wide and fixed wildly on the hulking, white-armored figure before him.

Tucker waved his arms frantically in the direction of the way too recent bullet holes, “Washington! Your shots went fucking through him!”

The Meta lumbered forward once more with a threatening growl, causing Washington to take another step back. The sound of falling rocks hitting distantly against the ground could be heard as the steel- and yellow-armored man leveled his weapon directly at the middle of the Meta’s domed visor.

Washington was either going to fall ass backwards into open air any goddamn minute now, or he was going to inadvertently shoot into the mysterious glowing tunnel of doom and somehow hit Caboose in the ass with a bullet. More than likely, he’d manage a two-for-one deal because, if Tucker knew anything about Freelancers by this point, it was that the crazy assholes were a bunch of overachievers.

Fucking perfect.

The teal-armored mech pilot took in a deep breath, the same as he did whenever Junior asked him an awkward-as-all-fuck question that made him want to either grab a parenting manual or dive out of a window to avoid answering until he manned up a second later and winged it like the awesome parent he was. He stepped in-between the two armed figures before he could really rethink his actions.

“Tucker?” He cold feel Washington’s disbelieving stare practically burn holes into his back, “What the fuck are you doing? Get out of the way!”

“No!” Tucker didn’t bother looking behind him as the full-blooded Strassian ground his teeth loudly in obvious frustration over the mech pilot’s apparent suicidal recklessness, “I’m saving your blue-freckled ass whether you like it or not!”

Although, seriously? The least the asshole could do was appreciate the fucking gesture!

Tucker spread his arms out wide, grinning tauntingly over at the Meta, “Come and get me, mother fucker!”

“TUCKER!”

Over Washington’s surprisingly pained shout, the creature that at one point had been a Freelancer complied with Tucker’s request. It brought down the massive, brutish-looking blade of its weapon—sliding it right through Tucker’s middle.

Tucker blinked down at the sight of the Meta’s hand actually sticking into his armored side. The Meta seemed thrown by the fact that the massive force behind his apparent deathblow had met with no actual resistance.

Tucker turned his head slightly to smirk confidently over at Washington now that he knew for sure his guess had been right, “See? It’s all cool.”

As Washington lowered his gun, gawking in disbelief, Tucker turned back around to fix the still frozen visage of the Meta with a pointed, threatening glare that probably looked all the more fucking badass with a weapon appearing to be stuck harmlessly through his body, “I’m not letting whatever you are mindfuck with Wash anymore, so just back the fuck off!”

The Meta growled threateningly in response to Tucker’s emphatic tone, but nevertheless relaxed its menacing stance and pulled its actually nonexistent bladed weapon out of Tucker’s gut. The creature vanished from sight a second later, leaving the two men standing there.

Tucker waited a few seconds to catch his breath and get his legs to stop shaking before he turned around fully to ask Washington if he was okay. Even though he thought he knew what he had been doing and it had been pretty fucking impressive, that whole Meta thing was still nerve-wracking as all fuck.

He had not been expecting the Strassian to have already crossed the distance between them, his blue-tinted freckles right up in Tucker’s face. “What the hell were you thinking, Tucker?” Washington demanded angrily, clearly not caring about personal space.

“Uh, I’m pretty sure I was saving you! Duh!” Tucker found himself quickly shouting back, even if he had to arch his feet up to do so because fuck was Washington tall.

“You could have been killed!”

Tucker snorted disparagingly, “By what? The guy was a fucking hologram or ghost or something!”

“You couldn’t have known that for sure,” Washington countered defensively, “And yet you stupidly put yourself out there and—!”

“Nothing fucking happened, so what’s the big deal?”

Washington’s face turned a vibrant shade of purple against the spattering of freckles dotting his features that Tucker had in no way ever tried counting the exact number of before as the blond opened his mouth to testily respond…

“Are you guys done playing yet?”

Caboose’s unexpected reappearance at the tunnel entrance gave them both pause. Tucker whirled around to chastise the younger Arenian for wandering off because now he was both concerned and pissed off, but he stopped short at the sight that greeted him.

Hovering over Caboose’s shoulder was a tiny, red projection of a creature that he had sure as hell never seen before, and Caboose was acting like everything was perfectly normal (which, admittedly, was typical for the pilot of Freckles).

“Caboose, what the fuck is that?” The half-human demanded instead, as Washington tensed up so badly behind him that Tucker wouldn’t have been shocked if diamonds started shooting out of his ass any second.

“Oh, him?” Caboose looked up at the floating figure as a happy grin lit up his face, “He’s my new friend. His name is Santa because he says he has presents for us!”

Doc was currently working to once again staunch Donut’s bleeding shoulder as the two men nervously watched the rather intense exchange taking place between Carolina and two figures from her past. Carolina heard the two Elvari fidgeting behind her, but the cyan-armored woman remained fixated on the older, green-eyed Veroni man and the brown-haired human before her.

Neither of them should be on Trocadero for fairly obvious reasons. The dead rarely traveled to planets they had never been to, after all. And yet…

“I can no longer hide my immense disappointment in your recent decisions, Agent Carolina.” The Director spoke up in his usual dismissive demeanor, “I expected better from you.”

“Wha…?” She began, completely bewildered.

“Wasting your skill and ability amongst some insignificant rabble on a more or less isolated and backwater planet.” He scoffed derisively, “After everything I instilled in you, this is how you choose to live your life?”

The words stung, even though Carolina had thought herself well past the point of truly caring about what the man who had once been her father had ever thought about her.

“You should ease up on her a little, Director,” York chimed in, his carefree tone and attitude way too direct compared to how his usual dealings with the Director had been in the past during Project Freelancer, “I’m just disappointed that it took her as long as it did to finally break free of everything.”

York’s one good eye caught ahold of her own, and he smiled rather self-deprecatingly at her, “We could’ve actually had a decent life together, don’t you think?” He asked sadly before shaking his head, “But you’ve always been way too stubborn for your own good, Carolina.”

“Or perhaps not nearly stubborn enough anymore, with how content she’s been with merely settling.” Her father’s words were utterly merciless.

“Maybe.” York smirked and turned to regard her again, “Or maybe neither of us just made any good lasting impressions.”

The half-Veroni, half-human was shaking despite herself, the verbal assault and accusations from people long gone taking its toll. She wanted to scream, to shout that they were wrong, but her mouth remained frozen shut as she clenched her hands at her sides.

Carolina hadn’t lost her way. She hadn’t forgotten anything. Her stubbornness had saved her, had saved her brother along with Washington and even Tex. Defending Chorus with her new family made her strong.

Being surrounded by the Reds and Blues, talking and laughing. Being with Kimball. All of it made her feel whole and alive once more after everything she had lost. And yet…

“This isn’t good.” Doc muttered nervously to Donut as they watched Carolina lower her head pensively.

A worried look crossed over Donut’s brown eyes as he nodded his head in agreement, “It’s unnerving to see Carolina so upset.” He remarked, chewing on his bottom lip, “It’s like someone not being considerate enough to prep before diving in, you know?”

“Um,” the purple-armored medic decided to focus more on Donut’s wound and the confrontation happening nearby than Donut’s innuendo, “If you say so.”

There was the sound of falling rocks and debris farther on behind the mystery figures, along with the distinct hum of something mechanical.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Carolina?” A sharp voice yelled out a second later, “Letting imaginary friends get the drop on you is something your dumbass brother would do, not you.”

Carolina blinked, her intense gaze tearing away from the Director and York at Tex’s sudden appearance behind them. Her arms were crossed over her chest in a largely unimpressed manner as she took in the scene before her. Sheila and Lopez appeared next to Tex too, the robot glancing around with a heavy sigh.

“Estupendo. Más de esta extraña mierda de holograma para tratar.” {“Great. More of this weird hologram shit to deal with.”}

“Guys!” Donut called out cheerfully in relief, “You’re okay!”

“I just wish the same could be said of you.” Sheila informed the younger dirty blond as she and Lopez made their way over to where he and Doc were, “Are you all right?”

“I’m doing just peachy!” Donut was quick to reassure her before he used his uninjured arm to pat Doc encouragingly on the shoulder, “Doc here is the best when it comes to repeatedly plugging holes!”

“Thanks?” Doc’s face was completely red at this point, his fingers fumbling over the various buttons on his medical scanner.

“Sí, pero, ¿puede él realmente arreglar una herida de bala?” {“Yes, but can he actually fix a gunshot wound?”}

Once she was certain that the other four were safely off to the side and no one was in life-threatening danger, Tex regarded Carolina sternly, “Who the fuck even cares what an asshole like the Director ever thought about anything?” She asked the other woman, flicking an unimpressed look at the two figures from their joint pasts, “And you know that York never thought shit like that about you. Ever.”

Carolina’s shoulders straightened at the rather unexpected confirmation of her own thoughts, temporarily overcome by her own lingering sense of remorse and guilt. The redhead clenched her fists even tighter at her sides. Her green eyes locked onto Tex’s brown ones, and she gave her a curt nod. “I know.” She stated quietly a second later, fixing a glare on the two fakes that were wearing familiar faces like ill-fitting masks the more carefully she looked at them, “There is no way I’m going to let these mind games get the best of me.”

Tex nodded approvingly, as the form of the Director let out a surprisingly in-character “Hmph!” and disappeared from sight.

York actually lingered a moment longer, the smile on his face a surprisingly genuine one then, one of that reminded Carolina of happier times and secretly shared moments. “That-a-girl.” He told her, winking mischievously with his good eye before he too faded away.

Tex walked up to Carolina as she remained staring at the space that the two of them had occupied mere minutes ago, “You okay?” She asked brusquely.

Black’s pilot didn’t attempt to put a hand on her shoulder or something else of that ilk, and Carolina was grateful for that as she gave a slight nod before spinning around to go check on Donut’s condition.

“Well, the good news is that he’s stable and we finally got the bleeding to stop!” Doc happily informed her as she and Tex both approached, “Who knew that bandages could have such practical uses?”

“Todos lo hacen. ¿No debería al menos tener algún conocimiento médico? Para su profesión claramente desacertada?” {“Everyone does. Shouldn't you at least have some medical knowledge? For your clearly ill-advised profession?”}

“I’m just grateful that Tank’s medical kit could come in handy.” Sheila remarked, “I’m rather shocked that you don’t have one, Doc.”

“I do actually, but I tend to rely on more alternative medicine so…”

“Eso no significa que al menos no tengas unas malditas tiritas en ti.” {“That doesn't mean you shouldn't at least have some fucking band-aids on you.”}

“At any rate,” Doc continued to inform the two former Freelancers, “Donut should probably still stay on the sidelines for the time being.”

“I feel great though, Doc!” Donut beamed up gratefully at the purple-armored media, “I just knew you could find that sweet spot!”

Doc’s face turned red once more as he quickly averted his gaze from Donut’s still smiling face. Lopez sighed in exasperation and leaned his helmeted head softly against Sheila’s shoulder as the brunette’s eyes behind her visor lit up in amusement.

Donut, apparently oblivious to the effect that his words had, looked over towards Carolina in concern, “What you about, Carolina?” He asked tentatively, “Are you okay?”

Her response was a reassuring smirk, “Never better.” Carolina told the pink-armored man before looking in the direction that the three newcomers had come from with a gleam in her eyes, “Since Tank isn’t buried, we can use it to dig out the other mechs here.” She stated without further preamble as she smacked a fist into her open palm pointedly, “Then we’ll see if we can’t catch up with everyone and get some much needed payback.”

The small group nodded their heads in agreement, quite eager to get started. No one wanted to stay in this haunted cavern any longer than they had to.

“Come on, dirt-bag. Get the lead out!” Sarge’s voice echoed across the cavern as the alien peered down over the edge of the cliff he was standing on to get a better view of who he was talking to, “You are the sorriest excuse for a soldier I have ever seen!”

Grif wanted to give the red-armored man the finger, but figured that was probably a dumb thing to do while currently in the middle of scaling a rock wall. So, he settled on rolling his eyes instead, “You do remember that I’ve technically only been one for a few months, right?”

“And what’s your point?” Sarge harrumphed indifferently at this reminder, a proud gleam in his eyes as he posed dramatically, “Why, I came out of the womb already signing enlistment forms and loading shells into my very own shotgun for tykes!”

With anyone else, Grif would have called bullshit. But Sarge was just crazy enough that there could very well be some validity to that account, and the thought terrified the chubby human to no end.

He probably should just be quiet and remain grateful that the older Arenian male had been content with verbally wearing the orange-armored man down in his incomprehensible efforts to somehow “motivate” Grif up the cliffside faster instead of taking potshots with his gun at him.

It wasn’t nearly as comforting a thought as he would have liked it to be, and Grif let out a tired sigh as he grabbed onto another handhold on the rock surface carefully. If Simmons were here, at least, the two of them could have been bickering for hours on end already about proper rock scaling techniques or…

Simmons.

The memory of the almost vacant look on the redhead’s face as he had been pulled inside Maroon by that Charon asshole filled his mind once more. The wave of sheer panic he suddenly felt then was as overwhelming as that time that his sister had told him that she was going to go commando in that super-short skirt he had told her not to buy but she had totally done so anyways because “Fuck you, bitch, you’re not the boss of me!”

The heavyset human pushed past the memory as he pulled himself over the ledge to sit panting next to Sarge.

“Huh.” Sarge looked vaguely impressed at the physical feat, “What lit a fire under your keister?”

Grif was about to say that he’d just been hoping he could pause for a snack or something equally as plausible and unrevealing, when he looked up and his mind froze. “…Simmons.”

He had to be fucking dreaming, right? Because the lanky, way-too-pale Strassian was standing just a few steps farther away from the edge of the cliff, that same glazed-over look on his face and blood darkening the side of his shirt from where Grif had stabbed him previously. That wound had to have been fixed already though, hadn’t it? How else could he be up and about otherwise?

“What in the Sam Hill?” Sarge sounded equally unnerved by the sight, so at least Grif knew he wasn’t just seeing things by himself.

Guilt, relief, and a desperate desire to see if Simmons was actually there and fucking okay because why wasn’t the blood stopping and please let the fucking nerd be okay! caused Grif to surge forward onto feet that were still quite a bit unsteady due to his recent climb.

“Grif, hold up!” The older Arenian called out behind him in an uncharacteristically worried tone, “It could just be this here weird cavern place playing tricks on us again.”

But Grif wasn’t listening. Simmons was right there, and if he could just reach his arm out he could grab hold of the annoying kiss-ass, they’d get him properly looked over and treated, and then they could finally fucking leave this planet and live in blissful denial that any of this weird ass bullshit had ever happened.

“Grif.” Simmons’ eyes were their clear, bright green once more as Orange’s pilot approached, his mouth curving upwards in a smile just as Grif came within reach.

But just as the heavyset human reached Simmons, could all but feel the fabric of his maroon sleeve against his fingertips, the skinny alien vanished, revealing the mouth of a glowing blue cave in his stead.

Grif blinked, swallowing down the potent, overpowering mixture of disappointment and frustration that threatened to overtake him as Sarge awkwardly stood close by.

Choosing not to comment directly on Grif’s currently failing attempts at not appearing upset, the older man peered into the bizarre cave instead. “Well, I’ll be…” he muttered happily a split-second later, “I might just end up liking this place after all!”

At the back of the tunnel they were standing before were what appeared to be two weapons, though the markings etched on them weren’t at all familiar to Grif. Numbly, he stepped forward until he was walking into the cave itself, hefting the larger of the two from its resting spot on the backwall.

It was a weird device that resembled a launcher of some kind with a rather sick-looking blade attached to it. All he really cared about the thing was that it was a rather heavy weapon, because he really felt like he wanted to bash something just then.

“So, one of the relics has chosen its new master then.”

Sarge spun his shotgun away from the weapon wall and towards the direction of the unfamiliar voice, only to be met with the sight of another mysteriously pulsating corridor in the opposite direction that led to their current location. Tucker, Caboose, and Washington happened to be standing in the corridor, a rather small and very bizarre-looking hologram floating above their heads.

The trio seemed just as surprised to find Sarge and Grif there too, and the tiny red alien-thing took the opportunity to speak up once more: “I feel that there is much I should explain.”