Chapter Three
--June 18; 2115 hrs; Somewhere In Space--
Louisiana knew—as surely as she knew that York and Carolina would never stop dancing around it long enough to actually take the plunge—that tomorrow would bring the worst hangover she’d ever experienced.
The mother of hangovers, one might even go so far as to say.
Though, if she paused long enough in her quest to stay entertained on the Pelican-ride back to the Mother of Invention—“Hey, Washington.” “Yeah?” “Hey, Washington.” “What?” “Hey, Washington.” “Yes?” Hey, Washington.” “For the love of God, Louisiana, what?!” “… Hey, Washington.” “Just shoot me already.”—she would admit that the course she’d taken during the night was pretty much the only palatable option.
While the mission—from landing to taking out the fake assassin to evac—wasn’t very difficult, there were too many hours of tedium to fill. Therefore, Louisiana and Maine had devised a way to keep themselves occupied without just killing everyone in sight.
Especially considering that it was only a short-term solution.
Naturally, the only thing either of them could come up with, given the amount of quality booze and quality bozos within the immediate vicinity, was a drinking game.
Every time some pompous asshole in a suit and bowtie came up and tried to impress Louisiana, Maine had to take a drink. Every time an obviously-still-married, middle-aged woman in a too-tight dress sent a glass of Scotch over to Maine and nodded to him over her Appletini (or whatever), Louisiana had to take a drink.
Every time Carolina snapped at them to stop drinking and get back on task, both of them had to take a shot.
And while the game had been successful in breaking the endless monotony (the irony of their game relying on the presence of endless monotony was not lost on either of them), it worked a little too well in that everything had taken on a very surreal quality.
In fact, Louisiana was so preoccupied with containing hysterical giggles, brought on by Maine’s discomfort (there had been many failed pickup attempts and many more orders from Carolina), that she’d almost missed it when their Glorious Leader signaled that she and York had identified their target.
Maine, it seemed, was affected similarly because he’d somehow managed to clock her above the eye as they tagged the target with the red-paint-filled guns. She just knew that she’d never hear the end of it from the Washington, and most likely York, too, if they found out. Thankfully, nobody else on the team had seen it happen.
Now, sitting in Four-Seven-Niner’s bird, Louisiana peered at her comrades and contemplated how they looked when they looked like actual people instead of competition-obsessed lab rats. Not that she was any better, of course, in that respect.
But at least she wasn’t the only one to wear something vaguely resembling practical. Or, at least, as practical as you could be in formal-wear.
Louisiana and Carolina were wearing tasteful pant-suits according to their armor colors—Carolina in charcoal grey jacket with a sea-foam green turtleneck, and herself wearing a pitch black jacket and dress-shirt with the first two buttons popped and a very loose, silver tie. York was wearing a tan tux with a white shirt (somehow managing to not look tacky, which puzzled Louisiana) and Washington in a dark gray suit with a yellow shirt. She left in Maine’s quarters a white suit lined with bright red silk, no tie.
Mississippi irked her, though. The idiot woman was swathed in a dark chocolate satin wrap dress. She was even wearing heels for fuck’s sake!
At least Louisiana and their Glorious Leader had known that you can’t fight worth shit unless you’re wearing combat boots. Thankfully, flats were a good second.
Louisiana remembered once when she’d had to--
“Alrighty, boys and girls, please do not exit the Pelican until it has come to a full and complete stop,” came their snarky pilot’s voice from the cockpit.
Louisiana blinked. Wait, what?
Last she’d checked, they still had another half-hour until they reached the Mother of Invention. That’s why she’d started her new Hey, Washington game.
Unsure of exactly what had just happened, Louisiana cast her thoughts back to the last thing she remembered as the other agents filed off the Pelican, Carolina hanging back and talking to Four-Seven-Niner.
She’d been on her thirty-seventh “Hey, Washington” when she’d gotten distracted, annoyed as she was at Mississippi’s existence--
“Are you coming, Louisiana?” She glanced up at Mississippi, a young woman with platinum hair, a mean right hook, and an unfortunately-useful ability to be able to bullshit her way through almost everything.
Just the question, though, made the inebriated agent feel just a mite contrary. How the fuck was it her business?
Louisiana made a show of stretching out her limbs and making herself at home. “I dunno, Mississippi. I’m kinda comfortable here. Why don’t you run along now, hon? I’m sure Washington’s gonna make a pass at you soon, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to still be in the hangar bay when that happens.”
Mississippi gave an annoyed huff and stalked down the ramp and into the landing bay. Louisiana knew she’d pay for her moment of petulance the next time she faced the irritating woman in training—or, God forbid, was paired with her—but she’d worry about that later.
Your place on the board wasn’t based solely on skill—it was also based on how well you did your job and followed orders.
And following orders wasn’t really Louisiana’s style, which was a contributing factor when it came to her less-than-stellar rank on The Board (other than lacking the same level of skill as Carolina, or the teamwork of the Twins, or the charm of York, etc.). Another one being that she didn’t really give a damn—she was still in the Project, regardless of rank, wasn’t she?—and yet another was her inability to think before she spoke in regards to Director Church or the Counselor.
In fact, Louisiana wasn’t quite sure where she ranked.
She was confident that it was above Mississippi, but other than that… Hmm, it seems we have a mystery on our hands!
“Hey, Firetop! Off the boat!”
Louisiana raised an eyebrow at the nickname but jumped up, nonetheless, giving a quick “Yes, ma’am!” and a legitimate salute before hurrying out into Hangar Bay E as well.
One of the first things you ever learn in the Marine Corps was that, when you’re on any kind of transport vessel, the pilot is king. Or queen, in this case. Prime Minister. President. Shaman. Priestess. Lord of the Sith.
The point is: the pilot is in charge.
Another thing you learn is that, goddamn, space is cold!
Louisiana wrapped her arms around herself as she escaped the freezing hangar bay and into the corridor, the dull metal of the hallway seeming oddly depressing. They really need to add some color to this place, she thought to herself absently. Maybe, like, paint the walls or add some of those hanging ferns that Terence is obsessed with. Might improve morale around here.
As Louisiana stumbled down the hall, rubbing her arms through the silk of her own jacket in an attempt to make the goose-bumps disappear, she went back and forth in her mind between contemplating her “Mystery of The Leader-Board” and running through different arguments she could use with the Counselor about adding some life to the Mother of Invention.
She was pretty sure she was ranked somewhere between Connie and Kentucky, but that still left a lot of wiggle room, and she was leaning more toward the “concerned for the emotional well-being of her colleagues” angle. After all, she was good but not that good, and studies showed that soldiers on long-term postings in space were 40% more likely to become depressed than soldiers posted planet-side. A little green would be just the thing to cheer the place up and remind everyone of home, with making anyone homesick.
The distracted agent was so absorbed in her thoughts, coupled with trying not to trip, that she didn’t notice Maine—who had been leaning up against a wall with his arms crossed, presumably waiting for her—until he shrugged out of his suit jacket and dropped it onto her shoulders.
Louisiana startled so bad that she almost lost her balance, and only didn’t thanks to Maine stretching out a hand to steady her.
One side of her mouth quirked up and Louisiana gave a small nod of thanks before saying, “So… I think that went well, don’t you?”
Her companion shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly.
She grinned, wincing slightly when she automatically raised her eyebrow, and lightly punched the large agent on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry about it, big guy! We’ll just say I got the bruise from the over-enthusiastic target; say he took his job of testing us way too seriously.”
Maine seemed to mull that thought over in silence as they fell into step and turned the corner into the section containing crew quarters. Though, for all Louisiana knew, he could have been working out the meaning of life. Suffice it to say that she wasn’t very good at riddling out what he was thinking.
When they reached her door—as evidenced by her armor emblem being graffitied onto the steel door—Louisiana stopped and devoted her entire concentration to extricating her dog tags so she could slide them into the chest-level slot and open the door. Because those bastards couldn’t just have a normal ID cards or retinal scans, anymore. No, because that would just make too much goddamn sense.
Normally, getting her tags out of her shirt wasn’t a problem, however, the buttons on her dress-shirt were tiny, her tie kept getting in the way, and she was extremely intoxicated.
So Louisiana was standing there, fumbling with her goddamn dog tags, unaware of her surroundings, when the last thing she expected—short of South Dakota doing a kind deed—happened.
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The graveyard shift of security detail was boring—Staff Sergeant Daniel O’Hara knew that when he applied for the transfer. But when you’re assigned to a frigate full of super-soldiers and you’re a regular Joe, a little ‘boring’ is a welcome change.
Besides, Dan also knew that people tended to forget about security cameras and, on occasion, he became witness to some of the crew’s rather more… interesting pastimes, in the wee hours of the morning.
This, apparently, was one such occasion.
And, as if God himself had wanted him to get back at that weird-haired bundle of exasperating sass, the security cameras’ gift to him that night featured none other than Agent Louisiana.
And what a gift it was.
Dan was tremendously grateful for his predecessors’ foresight and hit the record function as soon as he realized what he was watching. Maybe he could use this fabulous blackmail ammunition to get back at the currently-red-haired Freelancer for last week when she dyed his fatigues bright pink.
Private O’Hara wondered exactly how much Louisiana would pay for a video-recording of herself and Agent Maine making out in the middle of the hallway, before disappearing through the door into her quarters. How much, exactly, it would be worth to the young Freelancer...
Louisiana knew—as surely as she knew that York and Carolina would never stop dancing around it long enough to actually take the plunge—that tomorrow would bring the worst hangover she’d ever experienced.
The mother of hangovers, one might even go so far as to say.
Though, if she paused long enough in her quest to stay entertained on the Pelican-ride back to the Mother of Invention—“Hey, Washington.” “Yeah?” “Hey, Washington.” “What?” “Hey, Washington.” “Yes?” Hey, Washington.” “For the love of God, Louisiana, what?!” “… Hey, Washington.” “Just shoot me already.”—she would admit that the course she’d taken during the night was pretty much the only palatable option.
While the mission—from landing to taking out the fake assassin to evac—wasn’t very difficult, there were too many hours of tedium to fill. Therefore, Louisiana and Maine had devised a way to keep themselves occupied without just killing everyone in sight.
Especially considering that it was only a short-term solution.
Naturally, the only thing either of them could come up with, given the amount of quality booze and quality bozos within the immediate vicinity, was a drinking game.
Every time some pompous asshole in a suit and bowtie came up and tried to impress Louisiana, Maine had to take a drink. Every time an obviously-still-married, middle-aged woman in a too-tight dress sent a glass of Scotch over to Maine and nodded to him over her Appletini (or whatever), Louisiana had to take a drink.
Every time Carolina snapped at them to stop drinking and get back on task, both of them had to take a shot.
And while the game had been successful in breaking the endless monotony (the irony of their game relying on the presence of endless monotony was not lost on either of them), it worked a little too well in that everything had taken on a very surreal quality.
In fact, Louisiana was so preoccupied with containing hysterical giggles, brought on by Maine’s discomfort (there had been many failed pickup attempts and many more orders from Carolina), that she’d almost missed it when their Glorious Leader signaled that she and York had identified their target.
Maine, it seemed, was affected similarly because he’d somehow managed to clock her above the eye as they tagged the target with the red-paint-filled guns. She just knew that she’d never hear the end of it from the Washington, and most likely York, too, if they found out. Thankfully, nobody else on the team had seen it happen.
Now, sitting in Four-Seven-Niner’s bird, Louisiana peered at her comrades and contemplated how they looked when they looked like actual people instead of competition-obsessed lab rats. Not that she was any better, of course, in that respect.
But at least she wasn’t the only one to wear something vaguely resembling practical. Or, at least, as practical as you could be in formal-wear.
Louisiana and Carolina were wearing tasteful pant-suits according to their armor colors—Carolina in charcoal grey jacket with a sea-foam green turtleneck, and herself wearing a pitch black jacket and dress-shirt with the first two buttons popped and a very loose, silver tie. York was wearing a tan tux with a white shirt (somehow managing to not look tacky, which puzzled Louisiana) and Washington in a dark gray suit with a yellow shirt. She left in Maine’s quarters a white suit lined with bright red silk, no tie.
Mississippi irked her, though. The idiot woman was swathed in a dark chocolate satin wrap dress. She was even wearing heels for fuck’s sake!
At least Louisiana and their Glorious Leader had known that you can’t fight worth shit unless you’re wearing combat boots. Thankfully, flats were a good second.
Louisiana remembered once when she’d had to--
“Alrighty, boys and girls, please do not exit the Pelican until it has come to a full and complete stop,” came their snarky pilot’s voice from the cockpit.
Louisiana blinked. Wait, what?
Last she’d checked, they still had another half-hour until they reached the Mother of Invention. That’s why she’d started her new Hey, Washington game.
Unsure of exactly what had just happened, Louisiana cast her thoughts back to the last thing she remembered as the other agents filed off the Pelican, Carolina hanging back and talking to Four-Seven-Niner.
She’d been on her thirty-seventh “Hey, Washington” when she’d gotten distracted, annoyed as she was at Mississippi’s existence--
“Are you coming, Louisiana?” She glanced up at Mississippi, a young woman with platinum hair, a mean right hook, and an unfortunately-useful ability to be able to bullshit her way through almost everything.
Just the question, though, made the inebriated agent feel just a mite contrary. How the fuck was it her business?
Louisiana made a show of stretching out her limbs and making herself at home. “I dunno, Mississippi. I’m kinda comfortable here. Why don’t you run along now, hon? I’m sure Washington’s gonna make a pass at you soon, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to still be in the hangar bay when that happens.”
Mississippi gave an annoyed huff and stalked down the ramp and into the landing bay. Louisiana knew she’d pay for her moment of petulance the next time she faced the irritating woman in training—or, God forbid, was paired with her—but she’d worry about that later.
Your place on the board wasn’t based solely on skill—it was also based on how well you did your job and followed orders.
And following orders wasn’t really Louisiana’s style, which was a contributing factor when it came to her less-than-stellar rank on The Board (other than lacking the same level of skill as Carolina, or the teamwork of the Twins, or the charm of York, etc.). Another one being that she didn’t really give a damn—she was still in the Project, regardless of rank, wasn’t she?—and yet another was her inability to think before she spoke in regards to Director Church or the Counselor.
In fact, Louisiana wasn’t quite sure where she ranked.
She was confident that it was above Mississippi, but other than that… Hmm, it seems we have a mystery on our hands!
“Hey, Firetop! Off the boat!”
Louisiana raised an eyebrow at the nickname but jumped up, nonetheless, giving a quick “Yes, ma’am!” and a legitimate salute before hurrying out into Hangar Bay E as well.
One of the first things you ever learn in the Marine Corps was that, when you’re on any kind of transport vessel, the pilot is king. Or queen, in this case. Prime Minister. President. Shaman. Priestess. Lord of the Sith.
The point is: the pilot is in charge.
Another thing you learn is that, goddamn, space is cold!
Louisiana wrapped her arms around herself as she escaped the freezing hangar bay and into the corridor, the dull metal of the hallway seeming oddly depressing. They really need to add some color to this place, she thought to herself absently. Maybe, like, paint the walls or add some of those hanging ferns that Terence is obsessed with. Might improve morale around here.
As Louisiana stumbled down the hall, rubbing her arms through the silk of her own jacket in an attempt to make the goose-bumps disappear, she went back and forth in her mind between contemplating her “Mystery of The Leader-Board” and running through different arguments she could use with the Counselor about adding some life to the Mother of Invention.
She was pretty sure she was ranked somewhere between Connie and Kentucky, but that still left a lot of wiggle room, and she was leaning more toward the “concerned for the emotional well-being of her colleagues” angle. After all, she was good but not that good, and studies showed that soldiers on long-term postings in space were 40% more likely to become depressed than soldiers posted planet-side. A little green would be just the thing to cheer the place up and remind everyone of home, with making anyone homesick.
The distracted agent was so absorbed in her thoughts, coupled with trying not to trip, that she didn’t notice Maine—who had been leaning up against a wall with his arms crossed, presumably waiting for her—until he shrugged out of his suit jacket and dropped it onto her shoulders.
Louisiana startled so bad that she almost lost her balance, and only didn’t thanks to Maine stretching out a hand to steady her.
One side of her mouth quirked up and Louisiana gave a small nod of thanks before saying, “So… I think that went well, don’t you?”
Her companion shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly.
She grinned, wincing slightly when she automatically raised her eyebrow, and lightly punched the large agent on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry about it, big guy! We’ll just say I got the bruise from the over-enthusiastic target; say he took his job of testing us way too seriously.”
Maine seemed to mull that thought over in silence as they fell into step and turned the corner into the section containing crew quarters. Though, for all Louisiana knew, he could have been working out the meaning of life. Suffice it to say that she wasn’t very good at riddling out what he was thinking.
When they reached her door—as evidenced by her armor emblem being graffitied onto the steel door—Louisiana stopped and devoted her entire concentration to extricating her dog tags so she could slide them into the chest-level slot and open the door. Because those bastards couldn’t just have a normal ID cards or retinal scans, anymore. No, because that would just make too much goddamn sense.
Normally, getting her tags out of her shirt wasn’t a problem, however, the buttons on her dress-shirt were tiny, her tie kept getting in the way, and she was extremely intoxicated.
So Louisiana was standing there, fumbling with her goddamn dog tags, unaware of her surroundings, when the last thing she expected—short of South Dakota doing a kind deed—happened.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The graveyard shift of security detail was boring—Staff Sergeant Daniel O’Hara knew that when he applied for the transfer. But when you’re assigned to a frigate full of super-soldiers and you’re a regular Joe, a little ‘boring’ is a welcome change.
Besides, Dan also knew that people tended to forget about security cameras and, on occasion, he became witness to some of the crew’s rather more… interesting pastimes, in the wee hours of the morning.
This, apparently, was one such occasion.
And, as if God himself had wanted him to get back at that weird-haired bundle of exasperating sass, the security cameras’ gift to him that night featured none other than Agent Louisiana.
And what a gift it was.
Dan was tremendously grateful for his predecessors’ foresight and hit the record function as soon as he realized what he was watching. Maybe he could use this fabulous blackmail ammunition to get back at the currently-red-haired Freelancer for last week when she dyed his fatigues bright pink.
Private O’Hara wondered exactly how much Louisiana would pay for a video-recording of herself and Agent Maine making out in the middle of the hallway, before disappearing through the door into her quarters. How much, exactly, it would be worth to the young Freelancer...