AN: I know it's really short, but I didn't want to overstay my welcome with this story. Go watch Season 9. Seriously. It's f**king amazing.

Excerpt from the Diary of Freelancer Agent Washington

It's been three months since they let me out of detention. I can't say it's been a good three months, but nobody's tried to kill me or lock me up again, so I guess I can chalk that up as a win. York went missing last month. Just vanished without a trace. And a couple weeks ago they found Arizona's body underneath the compound. They don't know what did it to him, not really, but they're calling it the Meta. Whatever it was, it didn't pull any punches.

More Recovery beacons have been coming in these past few months. At first it was just one or two, but then there was one coming in every week, and then sometimes three or four a day. All the other Recovery agents have been sent out. Once that thing out there starts killing them, Project Freelancer will have no choice but to send me back out to pick up their precious little AIs.

The latest Recovery beacon to come in was Maine's. Apparently whatever got him was still around, though, because when California responded to the call, his beacon went off, too. By the time the rest of the Recovery agents could get there, all that was left was a pile of bodies, and no AIs. Someone got torn a new ass hole over that one.

The headaches have stopped, for the most part-at least, the ones that aren't brought on by my weekly sessions with the Counselor. He's obsessed with my reaction to the Epsilon unit, and won't stop picking at it. He found my old journals, and keeps asking questions. Somehow I don't trust his confidentiality, because recently everyone seems to know that the damn thing killed itself inside my head.

Vermont's been given an honorable discharge. They're pretending he was shot 'defending his fellow agents from the Freelancer menace known as the Meta.' What bullshit. They should have thrown him out on the street and left him there to die. It was no less than he deserved.

If I've been keeping track correctly, and I think I have, there are only five of us left out there, out of forty-six who were originally sent out (if you count Tex, Maine, and York, who weren't 'sent out' but were out there all the same). I don't know of a damn thing that can take out forty-six Freelancers, even if it is one by one. Word on the street is that only five or six actually got killed by the Meta, but that leads to the question of what killed the other forty, and no one has an answer. That's something I've noticed about this place. If you ask uncomfortable questions, there's never any answers.

One of the Recovery beacons that came in was Tex's, but somehow I don't think she's dead. It's possible she just got the Omega unit out of her head and it started setting off alarms. The signal came in from a box canyon in the middle of nowhere-apparently she ran into a group of simulation troopers and got them to help her (probably by passing off Omega to one of them and then running for it).

I get the feeling I'm not going to be here for much longer, and that's something I'm really looking forward to. I'm tired of acting like one of their dogs. It's about time they let me out so I can find what's killing Freelancers and bring it back here, where it can kill the people who need to die.

That being said, I don't particularly care who finds and reads this journal once I'm gone. I'm the last person they have to send out after Freelancers-who are they going to send for me?

I might never come back here, if I'm lucky. I don't care if I die or if I just find somewhere to hide from them, I never want to come back here. The voices in the walls of the psych ward found their way out. They haven't found me yet, but sometimes I heard them wandering around the hallways. I just ignore them, like everyone else.

Another Recovery beacon is coming in. It's York's.

For better or worse, this is where it starts to end.

There was a knock on Washington's door. He didn't even bother to hide his diary this time.

"Agent Washington?"

"Come in. Private Joennes. I take it I'm needed."

"Yes, sir. Command sent me to tell you that you are being officially reinstated as of right now, sir. They also told me to tell you to get your armor on, sir, and get your ass in gear, sir."

Washington smiled. "Finally. Thanks, Joennes. I appreciate the wake-up call."

Joennes saluted. "Yessir."

"Now get the Hell out."

"Yessir!"

Washington strapped on his armor as though he hadn't been out of commission for five months. He put on his helmet, sealed the airtight gasket, and radioed in.

"This is Recovery One, reporting for duty."

The radio crackled, and then, "Roger that, Recovery One. Sending coordinates to your database. Good to have you back, Agent Washington."

"Good to be back, Command."

Good to be back.