Agent Florida

freelancermaryland-archived

To Freelancers

Maryland stared at the television with a wide-eyed and vacant expression, wondering how they were on a ship risking their lives every day when these people were literally singing for money. He’d forgotten that was an actual job. How could that be an actual job?

"…I didn’t know they made TV shows just about people singing," he commented, still very much confused. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure he even knew the last time he watched TV other than the news broadcasts.

"Land, you're scaring me a little. Am I going to catch you in here after hours with your face an inch from the screen or something? It's like you just discovered t.v.!" With a hearty pat on the back, the blue Freelancer laughed a happy laugh as he tried to disguise the fact that he was tearing up a little bit. Hopefully Maryland wouldn't notice.

"You know, technically I'm over on my break, but just don't t-"

"Agent Florida, I better not catch you-" A voice broke out from under the man, a deep, southern voice.

"Oh, corny-dogs, not now!" Fumbling with his datapad, Butch stood and headed straight for a stack of papers on the table in front of him. "Sorry, Land, we'll uhh... Finish umm... This paperwork once I'm done this call. Don't be a stranger!"

#freelancermaryland

Wash waved a hand, smile relaxing. “Well, currently you’re blue as a blueberry, as per usual. And I do get it man, really. But you’ve been at this way longer than I have. You know where your footing is, even outside of the project. I’m still… Finding my feet.”

He rolled back on the balls of his feet, sighing. He should probably try and be a little more… Open. “Look. I… Appreciate you trying to do this with me. Really, I do. But I’ve spent my whole life going from place to place… Three years is the longest I’ve ever spent in one place. David… Just isn’t me, I’m Wash y’know?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “And we’re all needed here. That’s what's nice. We’ve all got our designations and our places to fit in. You’ve got one too, Florida.”

#agentwash #[[ and with that i must depart for the night #[[ it was a pleasure!

Even behind his helmet, Wash could see Florida do that blink that idiots did when they realized something right in front of their faces.

"Don't you worry, /Wash,/ *Double pistols and a wink* I read you loud and clear." Butch bounced back to his feet as well, turning back into his usual high-shouldered, hands on hips, way-too-cheerful self. The fact that "ace" believed something that Florida was still trying to realize completely recharged his batteries and brightened his mood.

"Now c'mon, let's go at this again."

Sighing, Wash ran a hand through his hair, giving Florida a look he usually reserved for Carolina or South. “It’s flattering, really and I know we’ve all been on this ship for ages together but-” he shrugged, “Butch… You’ve kind of called me by my first name without asking and you keep butting in.”

He took a breath breath, smiling shakily. “I keep things private and inside for a reason. There’s not a lot of people on this ship I actually… Trust and it’s really nice that you want to get to that level with me but. Dude. You can’t push like that y’know?”

His fingers laced together nervously in front of his chest and he looked down at them. “I’m a good soldier which is why I like working in a squad. They need me there, focusing on being where I’m needed. And I already lead a small branch, I’ve got Recovery so… Y’know.”

#agentwash #butch watches a lot of old movies

Okay this was not what Florida had wanted at all. It was supposed to be just smiles and goodtimes in the training room, but you went and had to mess that up, didn't you, Butch? But, he supposed it was Wash, one of the most reclusive agents on board when it came to his personal life. You'd think after working together so long a guy could use another fella's first name. But of course, everyone had their own way of doing things.

"I'm sorry. I hope you understand where I'm coming from. I didn't mean to do that. I must look redder than a cherry tomato." Freelancer was so different from the military, where people actually reminisced about loved ones back home and gave nicknames to each other. In Butch's old-set ways, perhaps he had a harder time adjusting than others.

Oh yeah, Recovery was a thing. Latching onto the first thing that would get his mind off the bad feelings, Butch thought about that.

"Every fella likes being somewhere he's needed." It didn't take a genius to see how often Florida was pining for the Director's approval and as equally as enthusiastically denied. He didn't like to admit it, but he felt a bit like Anakin in the Clone Wars, on the Jedi Council, but not even a Master.

Wash kept on the defence. He ducked and weaved away from the jabs and barely avoided the elbow. Carolina always moved in battles and he tried to replicate that as best he could, eyes fixed on Florida’s body and watching the twists and turns of his muscles.

His entire defence froze at the last bit and he swallowed past a lump in his throat, lowering his hands. “What is with you?” He asked quietly, frown on his face. “My job isn’t to be a leader and I’m alright with that, okay? Seriously, lay off the potential peptalk that’s coming up because I don’t want to lead.”

"Sorry, Wash, you're right." That was stupid, Butch thought to himself, he had this conversation with him before. It wasn't meant to be a peptalk or anything like that. Well it was, but not literally. There was so much potential in Wash, it just felt wrong that he was playing second fiddle.

"No peptalk, trust me. And you're right, that isn't my job either. I'm sorry if I'm more in your business than I should be. Well, really I shouldn't be at all." if it were any of his ODST buddies, he could have gave them a free punch, but that honestly didn't seem like any condolence to Washington.

"You're a great soldier is all I meant to say." The Director was right, Butch needed to focus on himself and less on the other agents. He was always right.

The pitch in his voice had Wash backing up and he stumbled a bit at the sparks, trying to find his balance. “It’s what I-I’m paid to do,” he managed, straightening with a sigh and bright his hands back in front of himself, “the squad is different. We each have a part we play and my part is being the gun guy.”

He circled slowly, his ankle starting to ache from a misstep. “Carolina leads, the twins clean up and York’s our number 2, the lock guy,” he shook his head, hands tightening into fists, “I watch their backs and help when I can. That’s my job.”

"It's just a-*grunt* lot different than I'm used to." Using a pause in the fight to get in a word, Butch's eyes never left Washington's. The fight was culminating into a contest into getting Wash to actually loosen up.

Butch followed up the sweep with a trio of jabs to the chest and a spinning elbow to the face, lightning fast and with little withheld strength. The man was slowly escalating his intensity, trying to reach the point where he could use his full strength, then they could have some real fun.

"I think you could be a leader, Wash. Better than I ever was."

Wash had to laugh, shoulders still tense and ready for an attack. “That’s why I’m a little wary for an opportunity. I’m not exactly a jump into the fold kind of guy,” he breathed out heavily, realising that he wasn’t about to be let off the hook, “I mean my job is to back up Carolina and the rest of the team. I’m the gun.”

Trying to piece together Carolina’s moves from the times they’d sparred Wash took in a deep breath, exhaled and then struck. He went for the exposed side, feinted and twisted. His leg swung around, aiming for Florida’s neck, not keen on getting in contact with his helmet.

The familiar flashes of his drill sergeant demonstrating the various blocks and evasions filled his vision as he blinked for a split second and saw Wash's foot was much closer than he expected it to be. The feint was obvious, but still leagues better than a punk off the street. His hands came up and he blocked the kick, twisting his body away from it to lessen the impact. It was still enough to send him staggering and spun him around enough that Florida had to straighten back up.

"Okay, alright, I deserved that one." Wringing his hands out, Butch formed his fists finger by finger and resumed his stance. "Last I checked, you could do more than fire bullets and discharge magazines. You should give yourself some CREDIT!" The sweep came out of almost nowhere, the Freelancer's body suddenly dropping and transferring all his momentum into the kick, the metal of his boots lighting the two up as it sparked.

Wash lifted his fists and laughed a little. “Sometimes I think I was added to the Project by accident. And I don’t believe you killed a man with sequins.” Wash stayed still as possible while keeping his feet moving, mirroring Florida’s moves.

When he struck, Wash blocked easily and backed away, arms still up and ready to defend or move away. He knew an offence wouldn’t work and playing it safe seemed, well, safer. His grey eyes stuck to Florida’s torso, waiting for a giveaway at his next attack.

"Believe what you want, Washington, just know you're dealing with a Helljumper. I've killed men twice your size with stranger and more fashionable accessories than sequins." The two blows were merely a test of Wash's balance and strength of stance. It was very solid, more so than Florida gave him credit for. But, after all, Butch was a shock trooper, when he sparred with his troopers, it usually ended in broken bones and bloody noses. Of course this wasn't that kind of fight.

Taking more of an open stance, Butch waved Wash on, taunting him and left himself exposed.

"You can't wait for an opportunity forever."

Wash shrugged and put the knife down on a table. “I didn’t do anything before the Project,” he said quietly, “a year and a bit in just- normal ranks and then they hired me for this Project. I pretty much sucked at the standard stuff too.”

Pursing his lips, Wash did not feel like pressing the Carolina-Director matter with Florida. It was a touchy subject and one he barely knew about so instead he just nodded. “If you want? I’m really not that good,” he said, waving a hand, “worst on the squad actually. Kind of why I’m weapons and not tactics. So I won’t be a challenge if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Butch did a couple jumping jacks and stretches before he assumed a combat stance once again and politely asked F.I.L.S.S. to start the round.

"Well you're here, so you've got to be at least a bit of a challenge. And have you seen me fight? My drill sergeant in basic would be rolling in his grave. Did you know you could die from shouting so much? All I did was give my armour a bit of sequins, sheesh. They were in." His words were strained as he bobbed left and weaved right before delivery a quick duo of jabs straight toward his friend.

Wash chuckled a little, thumbing the knife. “Dude, I’ve been in the medbay way more than a hundred times. Seriously. When they dropped me with the Alpha squad I didn’t come back from a single mission without some cut or scrape or almost missing limb that needed checking. I’ve been lucky lately.”

He bounced on his heels lightly, eyebrows arching at the impression and shook his head. “I’m sure it’s something worse,” he mumbled, picking at the tip of the knife, “you kind of catch onto a few things when your COs mood is basically defined by him.”

"What did you do before Freelancer? If we're counting military careers, then I'm sure I have you beat when it comes to near-death experiences."

"And that's very perceptive of you, Wash. So sometimes you can catch what his motive is through Carolina..." Butch tapped his chin as he thought about that and what the other agents might have drawn from him through his interactions with the Director. Thankfully for Florida, the Director never told his scapegoat more than what was absolutely necessary to shut him up. Of course he didn't actually know this, and Florida was convinced that he was in the know with the most top secret secrets.

"Want to try a bit of hand to hand? I always find that a couple blows to the head helps with conversation." With his thumb pointing to the points screen, Florida asked, "Three rounds maybe?"

Wash waited until the knife was away before answering, grey eyes trained on the knife and the man’s torso. “I train with both but when I’m fighting someone I don’t really know the style of? I try to keep armour on. Just in case. I’ve been gutted a few too many times…’

He rolled his shoulders and let the knife bounce between his two hands. “Things. In general. Mostly just worried about the Director. It’s weird he’s taking a personal interest in all of us.”

"I'd say once you get past the 100 mark in terms of visits to the med day, gutting doesn't seem that bad. Or at least, that's what I've found." Butch chuckled and rapped his knuckles against his helmet a couple times to signal that he had visited the med bay way too many times.

Already, Butch was starting to feel the stress of the past week start to drift away into the large (especially for a ship) room. Likewise, the man rolled his shoulders and crossed his arms, trying to think of something they could do while catching up.

"A personal interest? Seems like a good idea to me on his part. Not to say I'm /overly/ fond of the guy or even know a little bit about how he thinks, it seems to me like 'he's simply observin' his investments.'" To Butch's credit, his southern impersonation wasn't that bad! But almost immediately did the Freelancer feel a twang of guilt at the back of his conscience for making fun of his boss, though it quickly went away.

Wash blinked at the sudden stance and shook his head. “I dunno I’ve been off all day and I-” He tapered off into a squeak of surprise as he backed away out of instincts more than a conscious move. He gripped his knife trying to put distance between them rather than engage.

"Whoa whoa whoa whoa," he said, holding up his free hand. "Florida, c’mon. We’re not even in armour this could end badly."

#agentwash #connie's got nothing on these skills amigo

"Wait, you /don't/ practice knife sparring in armour, do you?" Putting his hands back to his side, Florida tapped his chin. What would that even look like... Armour is so cumbersome, and Wash was wearing, like, twice as much.

"Oh haha, sorry, Wash. I suppose that's just how I've always done it. Good reflexes, though!" Taking his knife and lining his pointer finger up with the length of the blade, Florida turned and threw it towards a stray target, the knife flipping through the air and clattering against the wall. The holographic target turned red and a buzzer filled the room. "Suppose I could use some more practice too."

Walking over to the blade and slipping it back into where it belonged near his boot, Florida chuckled a little at his mix-up. "So what's been eating you? If you don't mind me asking."

Wash straightened immediately. Looking over his shoulder he smiled lightly with a shrug. “Been training with Connie,” he said, “she’s way better than me when it comes to the knife stuff so she keeps me on my toes. And since hand-to-hand isn’t my strong suit I’m trying to work on it.”

Walking to the edge of the ring he picked up his knife and weighed it in his hands. “I- uh- haven’t seen you around a lot lately,” he said, turning back to the middle of the ring, “I guess I’ve been busy with Recovery training but it’s good to see you man. I can get out of your way if you want the ring I’m pretty much done.”

#agentwash #odst vs recovery

"Connie, eh? Why don't you show me a thing or two, that is, if you're not afraid to lose to your old pal, Florida." At that, Butch assumed a combat stance, knife hand out in front of the other, knees bent for when he needed to spring his core strength into a lunge. Careful eyes watched Wash's every movement, noting that the lad definitely seemed a bit sluggish meant that at least now Florida had a ghost of a chance.

It had been a while since Butch and Wash talked, and even longer since they had last trained together. The stress of Recovery looked like it was whittling Wash down day-by-day. Hopefully the peppy, blue Freelancer could lighten him up.

"And it's good to see you again too, fella." He added, his last word just barely coming out before the ex-O.D.S.T. feinted a swipe.

The Director had him on edge. It was a steady reminder that they’d been ignoring protocol and simple ship rules for months and a nagging sensation had built at the base of his spine. Sheer paranoia had settled in and despite the numerous reports he’d turned it he was still worried about literally everything.

It showed in his training. The Recovery times had been down today and he’d given up through the day to focus on something besides running trial after trial. Clutching his knife, out of the heavy and confining armour, he stared at the floating targets and tried to shake the tenseness out of his shoulders. Bouncing on his heels he waits for FILSS to start the session.

Lashing out he slashed across the glowing targets. They gleamed red and soon they’d all turned into the dull colour except for one. He breathed hard, tossing the knife between his hands and rolled on the balls of his feet. “Dammit…” He murmured, clutching the knife between his fingers and flung it at the last target and it faded into red.

As the simulation faded and FILSS started to read the diagnostics of the raining session Washington pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, breathing out harshly and crouched down, trying to collect himself.

The training floor seemed like the best place to be at the moment. After all, he couldn't sit watching prime-time t.v. with the Director putting his nose in everything. What was after four strikes? Ah, Butch didn't want to know.

A familiar grunt stopped the Freelancer in his tracks. He didn't know the floor was in use at the moment. Wearing only a tank top, shoes, his helmet and some training pants, Butch tentatively stepped forward, making sure not to alert anyone who might be listening. After all, that's what he wanted to do.

Washington, of course. It didn't take a genius to see the lad wasn't in top form, and honestly he had a multitude of reasons that he was no doubt listing off in his head as he slashed at target after target. No one was more understanding of the recent lapses in professionalism, and that was just what Butch was there to correct, but... Putting his nose to the grindstone could wait a few minutes.

"I know that time is nowhere close to your fastest," Florida's pleasant (hopefully) voice rang out in between F.I.L.S.S. setting up a new round and presenting the time for the last one. "But good golly, is that still fast." With a definite smile underneath his helmet, Butch slid his knife out of its sheath on his ankle and stretched, rolling his neck on his shoulders as he approached the center of the ring.