In the grand scheme of the soldier there are three classifications:
the cannon fodder- the clueless who's extent of knowledge is surmised by breathing and standing in front of bullets until they are unable to perform said first task,
the traffic cops- the ones that direct the cannon fodder to the nearest cannons because they have voices that can reach louder than average decibels, and, finally,
there are the Freelances- a title of supposed honor that basically means your good at murdering.
Mono-talented is probably the best way to put it. I've spent some time with them so I should know. Enough time to get over how "awesome" these "gods" were to the point of sheer boredom or hatred. Enough time for them to perfect ignoring me or making my life miserable. After all, I was still cannon fodder level to them.
They were surprised when I was first brought aboard the Mother of Invention. I wasn't a Freelancer; I wasn't any sort of representative. Project Freelancer is fairly well known, but their inner-workings is pretty much top secret. No one just came aboard their base of command- especially one of the sim-troopers they enjoyed manipulating so much.
I have to admit, I had a pretty big chip on my shoulder coming on board which I since learned was probably my second mistake. My first was living. It was like they could smell fresh meat was walking through the halls, and it was confirmed with some beverage spilling and gasps when they saw my tell-tale, Red armour walking through the corridors of the state-of-the-art military fortress.
I just didn't understand why he lied to us. Why couldn't he have just let his Freelancers have some practice on actual UNSC training bases instead of forcing us to fight against each other in a fake civil war? There were good guys down there in red and blue armor who just wanted to protect what they loved. That was what rattled through my mind that day. I told the man on the monitor exactly how I felt, and he seemed to listen. He was curious to know how I figured it out. After feeling something was up when there wasn't a real reason to be fighting the Blues other than we were told to, I did some digging. After a few calls to a worried Command Com officer, Command told me to stay put and my questions would be answered. Answering my questions went a little something like kidnapping me from my base in the middle of the night and stuffing me inside a space ship with some armed guards. Badaboom, I was looking at the Counciler himself, the second in command to the whole plot.
I wasn't really angry. I really wasn't. I just wanted some answers. If they were valid, hey, I was perfectly content with going back to my base. As long as it really did have some valid purpose that would train us to protect our homes, I was cool with it. I knew I wasn't the smartest. I knew I wasn't the one calling the shots for a reason, but I just wanted to know what those who were in charge had to say. And, thus, began the first of several bad experiences I would have with Project Freelancer.
At first, it seemed, they were impressed with me. I had some promise to something other than a Red because of my resourcefulness. The compliment was unexpected, and I basked in it as the acted like they would take me under their wing, show me the ropes, and a promotion was just around the corner. If they were actually telling the truth, I wouldn't know. Every once in a while, I still think how different my life would be if I had actually been promoted, or if I had just kept my big mouth shut and still been chillin' back at the base. I might not be going through the hell that I'm going through right now. Although, I thought, I would never have had this view.
I sat in my small cupboard of a room. It was just big enough to stand up in, and the lights flickered, not often enough to be a strobe, but just enough so that you couldn't ignore it. The only good thing was that I had a window. When we were in orbit, space was the most beautiful sight in all the galaxy. Okay, less redundant. Space was pretty, you happy? It was looking out at this void and thinking in which I retained some of my sanity. I saw a cynical view in everything, and it got depressing after a while. Just like how if you put too much passion into everything it's exhausting, refusing to put too much passion into everything is exhausting just as much. But, seriously, how could anyone look out into the limitless vacuum, infinite horizon of ebony and energy, and shrug, "It's just space." I always wanted to be in space, and the army just seemed like the most practical way to do that.
The vents that blew an artificial hurricane above my head stopped shaking after another hour increment passed. Ugh. Time to get to work. I wandered down to the back of the ship.
"Red alert." Someone said sarcastically as several other ever-stupid jeers and taunts made their way to my ears, but I refused to let them catalyze no response other than my teeth gritting. Not that they could even see it under my helmet.
Someone threw a piece of their shoulder plate armour at my head as I passed by the Freelancer weight room.
"Get all the dents out of it this time." The guy smirked as I was forced to pick up the stupid piece of metal and walk away from their sneers.
That was why I wore my armour all the time. Many of the top Lancers also wore their armour constantly because they thought they were something special. I mean, they already had awesome codenames, but, I liked to think it was that they were just ugly underneath. Kinda like girls without makeup.
I just didn't understand why everyone makes fun of my armour colour when they get even more obsessed over colors than Reds and Blues. Not everyone knew who Agent New York was, for example, but everyone knew who the tan Freelancer was. That sort of thing. Me? I was the Red. The only one with Red armour I noticed begrudgingly. Blue was also another colour avoided, but, Carolina had teal armour. Although, he couldn't even imagine how fast she could kill whoever even suggested her armour was in any way similar to a sim-trooper's. Me, I stood out even more. My regulation Red could be seen a million miles away and had several psychological connotations with pain. Laser-red, blood-red, seeing-red, all those must flash through everyone's minds when they look at me. I haven't even done anything to them!
I wore my humiliating armour as a sort of defiance against them and to protect myself in case they decided to chuck random projectiles at me. I got to the maintenance part of the ship. The part only the employees go. No Freelancer would dare show their face here. It wasn't like it was a haven or anything. It was roaring loud with the metal to metal of machines working and the screeches and torquing of the monsters that lived inside the gears and bolts. The scratchy dialogue of checks and code words bantered back and forth on the intercom summoning a rush of white uniformed workers scurrying in a frenzy to get to where the uninterpretable voice called them to. They dodged around me with my less than helpfully slow walking speed. Didn't care.
I got to the armour depot. I was surprised to see that she wasn't there waiting for me like usual. She always did. I immediately assumed the worst. She'd been getting too attached to those lunatics. One of them must have…taken advantage of her. She was so freaking submissive! She acted like they were action heroes. They had taken advantage of her. I knew it. She was so small, there was no way she could get away from them. It was her own fault though! I told her so many times!
"Sorry, Eric! I got sidetracked, and," the small girl sat down the mound of armour that she was carrying, and it crashed to the floor momentarily drowning out the machinery, "everyone wants their armour shined and repaired after that mission." She huffed as she must have been carrying almost a full set of armour all the way here!
He was really surprised she didn't break her arms.
"Why do those jerks keep bossing you around? Don't they know they're supposed to send their armour to through the armour processing shafts instead of making you go around and carrying it for them!"
"Oh, no. I wanted to. You see, Agent Wyoming has a very tight schedule this week-"
"And he couldn't possibly have found a minute to walk to a shaft? He had to make you do it? Busy schedule my butt. He just likes being manipulative."
"You know, even manipulative people have busy days or need breaks or favors. I was simply helping out a friend."
"Friend? Those guys are your friends? Some awesome buddies you have."
"Well, you're one of my friends too. " She said as she meticulously polished every crevice of a shoulder piece.
"I'm your coworker. Not friend."
She smiled to herself and shook her head.
"It's not like you have to sign a legal contract to be someone's friend. Often times, people are friends with their coworkers. Even the "heartless" Freelancers you despise are friends with their coworkers. In fact, they're all each other have. It's a bond that is shockingly strong and fascinating to observe."
Eric wanted to beat himself over the head with the buffer.
"Well, I don't need any "fascinating" friendships. I'm doing this for the money. This is my job, not my life. I'm not gonna sell my soul like they have even if I had "friends" there with me. You know what's gonna happen to them? They're never gonna get a promotion because they're too good at what they do. They're gonna just keep shooting away until a bullet gets them in the heart or the spine, and then they'll be tossed out before they will even know what hit them. Those guys don't have a retirement fund, and there's no desk job to fall back on. There won't be a two weeks notice, and there won't be a one of them that makes it past the age of fourty five."
After a long pause, she said slowly, "It's something that we probably won't ever understand, but it's worth it to them."
He rolled his eyes as he was almost done with one set of armour, and she was still on that stupid shoulder plate.
"Aren't you done with that? It's a piece of protective plating meant to repel bullets, not to wear to a beauty pageant."
"But this is Agent Washington's!"
"'So,' it's the only part of his armour that's a different color than the rest. It's what makes him stand out. It's what makes him unique."
"Well, why don't you just lick his boots and shower him with gifts of gold? Who cares that his armour is different colours! He'd still be the same stuck up jerk if it was periwinkle and sparkly!"
She blushed from embarrassment as she so tactlessly hit a sore subject.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to bring up colours again."
"You're fine. You're not the one who makes my life heck just because of my stupid Redness. They're the ones that make too big a deal out of it."
Fourth in Command Cixalea Jwan here...for the first time in probably a good few years. So that was just my little drabble of RvB. I recently discovered that which is Red vs Blue about half way through season 9. I can't wait until season 10 so I've been just going a little crazy like a kid the week before Christmas. I know that those were mostly OCs, but my plan is to go one on one with the Freelancers we know and love with one chapter dedicated to each member. I doubt I'll get to every one. I'll certainly hit Wash though because I just can't hold my inner fan-girl in. Can't promise an update time. Possibly a one shot. Just need to get stuff off my chest. If any of you were reading any of my other stories, I probably won't be finishing them any time soon- probably never. I'm not dead is basically all you need to know. Anywho, let's see how I do with a RvB crowd instead of a KH crowd. -Looking forward to it :)