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It baffled him how much of a crybaby Caboose could be when it came to boo boos. Horrible, life threatening injuries? No problem! And yet, for some stupid reason, that Tucker didn't want to understand even a little bit, a scratch was cause enough for whining like the saddest puppy on the planet. Of course, firefights were never fun. Cuts and bruises were never fun. Evacuations on pelicans that rocked back and forth crazily were never, ever fun. All of that was painfully obvious, but Caboose had a way of making these things the worst possible things of all time if he wanted to. Tucker could only take so much of Caboose's sniffling before he finally gave in and decided to clean Caboose up rather than wait for a medic who would be infinitely more useful elsewhere anyway.
Blood trickled gently down Caboose's forehead, between his eyes, dripping off the tip of his noes. "I'm gonna die." he moaned in despair, blinking watery eyes at his fellow blue as Tucker sat beside him, emergency medical kit in hand. "It's so gross and sticky. I hate dying. I hate it, Tucker."
"You're not dying." Tucker sighed, cleaning up the long cut that crossed Caboose's forehead. It would probably leave a scar, but it was in no way fatal. Not even close. "It's just a little cut, moron. Shut up and hold still. I'll make it better." Ugh, it felt wrong, babying Caboose. "You just got grazed. It's not even a big deal. Big baby."
"I got shot. In the head." Caboose replied flatly, as though Tucker was the moron in this situation. "Church told me that if I got shot in the head, I would die and so I shouldn't ever ever ever ever take my helmet off outside. I'm going to die. Church said so. And it hurts. It really really hurts, Tucker."
Tucker groaned and shook his head, beginning to wrap up Caboose's wound, probably poorly, but it didn't really matter. "Well, fortunately for you, I know how to save you from death. And if it still hurts after that, then you can take a nap and be super lazy until it's better, even though that's normally Grif's job."
"Hey, fuck you." replied a cracked voice from the other end of the pelican. Tucker couldn't stop the grin that fixed itself upon his lips. The grin, however, was short lived.
"It's a scratch, he doesn't need to lie down and nap. Tie off the bandage and we can get to debriefing."
Carolina's arms were folded across her chest, her helmet sat abandoned on the seat behind her and she watched them like a hawk with that classic scowl that Tucker had learned by now was her default expression. "We have work to do."
There was a silence that filled the pelican for a moment before Wash shrugged and sighed. "We're just used to something different, Carolina." he said, looking up from his head in hands seating position. "A lot of the stuff we get away with here wouldn't have ever flown in Freelancer."
"You're not kidding." Carolina scoffed. "We had to go into the field with broken bones."
"And bullet wounds." Wash added, counting on his fingers. "And sharp and blunt weapon damage, unstable technology, untested technology, unusable technology."
"Not to mention all of the mind games."
"The fucking leader board."
"And the Dakotas. Main...the Meta"
"Let's not talk about them. I don't want to talk about them."
"Can you imagine telling the Director that you couldn't go on a mission because of a headache?"
Wash chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "I can't. I can't even begin to imagine. But they don't get that, Carolina. It's not their fault. They haven't been through what we have, so don't be so pissed at them."
"Okay! We get it! Your dicks are the biggest!" Tucker shouted before he could stop himself, forcing an end to the freelancer's conversation. The pelican once again fell silent, all eyes were on him, all of them very wide, few of them blinking. Tying off Cabooses bandage, he stood and turned to fully face agents Carolina and Washington, his expression a scowl. His arms hung limply at his sides, his hands balled into fists. With a deep breath and a heavy sigh, he forced his clenched jaw to relax enough to form words. "You know what, I get it." he spat. "Project Freelancer fucked you guys up, but you chose to join the army."
His eyes left Carolina to scan around him, landing on everyone in turn. Grif and Simmons were pointedly not looking at them, Simmons playing with his fingers while Grif had his eyes stubbornly closed. Sarge was watching him closely and gave him the smallest of nods when their eyes met. Donut was shifting from foot to foot, looking back and forth between Tucker and the freelancers. Caboose wasn't paying even a little bit of attention, too distracted by trying to pick at his bandage without getting caught. This was the best fighting force in the universe? These were captains and colonels? These were hardly soldiers at all.
"You chose to join the project." he muttered, his gaze snapping back to Wash and Carolina. "Everyone at Blood Gulch...everyone...was drafted. None of us even had a choice!" Was he shouting? Who was shouting? "We were ripped away from everyone and everything we’d ever known!" Yes, that was him shouting. It was his shoulders that were shaking. It was his hands that were aching from strain as his fingernails tried to break through his gloves. He couldn't look at them. Two freelancers, side by side, sharing their memories about a life only they knew about, trying to pretend that their pains were the worst of pains. Trying to make light of the reds and blues who had died for a cause that had turned out to be fake. A simulation.
"You guys at least have each other." Why was his throat so tight? Why was it so hard to form words? "I..." Fuck. It was so difficult. Why? Why was it difficult? "I am the only living member of the original Blue Team." His voice didn't sound like his own. He didn't recognize it. Caboose had started to look at him, those huge eyes a little less watery and a lot more worried. "N-not one of two. I am the only one left!" There was a fire beginning to bubble in his chest. There were more eyes on him, but he cared less and less. "I am so sick of hearing you guys go on and on, never even considering that we've had to go through some pretty tough shit too!"
When was the last time any of them had gotten the chance to see their families? When was the last time they'd ever been given leave? He hadn't seen his son in so long that he sometimes felt utterly hollow. Like scum. The last news Grif had ever gotten about his sister was that she was dead. Why the fuck had Caboose even been allowed to be drafted in the first place? Tucker had thought there were laws protecting people as fragile as Caboose from being thrown into evil, disgusting war. Then again, no one gave a shit about sim troopers, did they? No one gave a shit about them. Poor freelancers. So perfect, so powerful, so important. What did the health, well being, happiness, and safety of some random draftees matter when used to train perfect, beautiful goddamn freelancers?
"Hell." he breathed, shaking his head and taking off his helmet, setting it beside Caboose. He couldn't breath filtered air. He would choke to death on it. "None of us even had proper fucking training." They were left to die. They were left to be lab rats for the greater good. When had the names Lavernius Tucker, Michael J Caboose, Dexter Grif, Richard Simmons, Franklin Donut, Sarge...whatever the hell Sarge's name was...when had these names become variables and not human beings? When had they become means to an end?
The scowl was back on his lips as he pushed his helmet aside in order to take back his seat beside Caboose, adjusting the bandage that had been so nervously picked at. "We understand." he spat, refusing to look at them anymore. He was sick to death of their shit. Sick to death of everyone's shit. The burning in his chest was dying down slowly, replaced with something cold and slimy. He wasn't sure which feeling he hated most. "So stop pretending that you guys are the only ones that suffered because of Project Freelancer. Please..." Caboose was giving him those worried eyes again. Tucker couldn't even hear himself anymore. His voice hurt. Everything hurt. "Please just...stop."
The pelican was silent for years. A generation of silence. A century of silence. Tucker occupied himself with swatting Caboose's hands away every time they reached up to check the bandage. Caboose's eyes never left him. Caboose had never looked at him like that before, as if there was something under his skin that Caboose was seeing and trying to understand. Tucker didn't like it. It felt like pity. It felt like worry. Tucker didn't want either of those things. Not really. He just wanted to be heard. Was that so much to ask?
Finally, at long last, the silence was shattered like glass. Tucker felt it break in the air around them.
"Yeah...fuck you guys." Leave it to Grif to back him up in the laziest way possible. Still, Tucker felt that slow, cold feeling ebb away ever so slightly at his words.
"Tucker..." this time, it was Wash. A Wash who wasn't chuckling and shaking his head. This Wash was quiet, his voice just above a whisper. "Shit...Tucker...you're right."
That was unexpected to say the least. What had he been expecting? A fight? A big fuck you from the last of the perfect freelancers? A kick to the back of the head? An eternal silence? Certainly not a "you're right." that was for sure.
Tucker heard someone stand and forced himself to turn around and blink eyes that were absolutely not red at the newest member of Blue Team. Wash was pale, a frown etched onto his face as though it had been there all his life and would never leave. It was with the heaviest sigh in the universe that Agent Washington sat down beside him, holding himself as though there were fifteen tons resting on his back.
"I didn't think." breathed the freelancer. "I don't have an excuse for that. I've been around long enough to know this shit. How am I supposed to call myself a member of Blue Team if I can't get off my shitty freelancer soapbox?"
"It is shitty." Tucker replied, the smallest of smiles gracing his face. "It's the shittiest."
"I'm sorry." Wash replied, the frown still in place, though softening at a snail's pace as his bright eyes watched Tucker carefully.
"Yeah, well...Blue Team has a lot of problems. I don't need my teammates to be one of them. So...whatever." Tucker shrugged before quickly swatting at Caboose before the bandage could be picked loose.
Carolina cleared her throat loudly, demanding attention once more. Her expression was stony as she stared at Tucker, then Wash, then back to Tucker. "I'll work on it, okay?" she said flatly.
That was probably as good as it was going to get, and for the time being, that was okay. It was better than nothing, after all. "Okay." he replied. Carolina simply nodded at him stiffly before putting her helmet back on and turning away from them.
The eternity of silence returned with a vengeance, and it might have lasted until they landed had it not been for Captain friggen Caboose. "So..." he hummed, nudging Tucker nervously to get his attention. "Am I still allowed to take a nap when we land? My head still hurts. I'm pretty sure I'll die if I don't."
Before Tucker had a chance to open his mouth, Wash had beat him to the punch. "Yeah, Caboose. We don't want you dying, after all. But you have to see a medic first. Then we can find you a really good place to nap."
There was a new feeling in his chest, this one warmer, a little more like sunlight. Sunlight on Earth in summer. It was easily the best feeling of the day. A little less bullshit in his life would be a welcome change. As they landed, there were medics waiting for them. Caboose instantly latched onto one and quickly went about explaining how death was coming if he didn't take a nap, Wash standing just behind him, explaining to the poor medic what the actual problem was. Carolina breezed past as usual, but her hand alighted on Tucker's shoulder for just a moment, and that was enough. Their ragtag team was a mess, but they were his mess. He wouldn't trade them for the world.