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sidewaysTitle: Ten Steps
Rating: PG 13+
Series: Red Vs Blue (Washington, Tucker, Caboose, Doc, the Reds)
Wordcount: 2129
Warnings: Some language, great big spoilers through to the end of season eight.
Summary: It takes a little while to get used to being in a team.
Remarks: Set between seasons eight and nine. Wrote this a little while back and it turns out I still rather like it, so there you go. RvB punches my inspiration buttons in the weirdest ways considering that it started as a cynical comical machinima and is actually still that quite a lot. Also I am the straight-up worst at titles sometimes jeebers.
UNO
They are not trained to be leaders, or seconds, or partners. These would not be abnormal roles within the UNSC, but normal had proved itself to be insufficient the moment the insurgency reared its head and so normal they are not. Their purpose lies within their very name; they are Freelancers, and they do not work with, they work for.
They are therefore definitely, absolutely, without the slightest shred of doubt not trained to be mediators, advisors, teachers, babysitters, cleaners, step-ladders, or companions.
Sometimes Washington doesn’t think the Project prepared them very well at all.
DOS
“Because I told you to do it” – 30% success rate. 80% if he pulls a firearm.
“It’s a sensible request, which you can tell because I have all these good reasons, and because all your counter-reasons are ridiculous” – 56% success rate that can reach 90% if he keeps at it for longer than fifteen minutes, but comes with a 99% chance of a severe headache.
“It’s what Church would have wanted” – between 0-100% success rate, depending on the team member and how much sarcasm can be masked.
“Look, do you want there to be magazines and cookies in the next supply drop or not?” – 100% success rate, guaranteed.
This is the art of diplomacy.
TRES
He lacks the same technological gift as the Meta, but Wash knows his way around machines, and the base’s store of damaged equipment quickly becomes something to fill in the void of purposeful tasks and any decent reading material. In his first week he fixes the radio, sparing an absent moment to wonder how it got in such a state of disrepair in the short time between now and when Caboose last used to it hail him. In his second week he evaluates their tool stores more thoroughly, fixes the sixth corridor’s lighting, and adjusts the base’s heating system to something with more options than ‘barely noticeable’ and ‘everything plastic is melting’. He also finds himself flatly refusing to build a laser cannon, spy plane, or roller coaster.
In his third week he fixes the radio again and no longer wonders.
CUATRO
The additional—and oddly familiar—sniper rifle in the armoury seems to have suffered from the touch of Blue Team. It doesn’t match those provided with the base; it’s worn, scuffed and dirty, clearly used by someone before and not taken care of too well in the process. Wash reaches a hand out towards it with a frown; the sight of a weapon that hasn’t undergone proper maintenance is almost physically painful, and it doesn’t do to have-
“You can’t touch that!”
He freezes, remembers shortcut for team kills, and curls his fingers away from the rifle’s barrel. A carefully tilted glance over his shoulder shows Caboose in the doorway, standing in the same kind of stiff agitation as when he defended a ship AI’s right to courtesy.
“Alright, no touching.” Caboose doesn’t make any sudden movements, and Wash chances a slow step away from the weapon. “I didn’t realise it was yours.”
This doesn’t seem to be the right thing to say. Caboose shifts from one foot to the other, almost like a guilty child, but his shoulders are still set in a tight position and there is still that distinct thread of unhappiness in his voice when he says, “Oh no, no no, not mine. Nobody’s allowed to touch it.”
A forbidden gun lurking the bowels of the armoury is less unlikely than it should be, but he thinks he may be missing some link that would help the situation make sense outside of Caboose’s mind. He knows the team has had encounters with alien technology in the past, but he also knows UNSC property better than his own passwords, and there is nothing unusual about this rifle. A leftover, perhaps, of some earlier mishap? The property of someone they don’t want to…
…remember.
It comes to him then, that early flash of familiarity strengthening into full thought, and he realises he’s picked the wrong word entirely. Not forbidden—sacred. Not a remnant of unwanted memory, hoarded in the dark—a relic to mark an absence, kept safe in the centre of the base. “It was Church’s.”
This time Caboose nods enthusiastically, oblivious to how quickly they’ve switched places in being unsettled. “When he accidentally died this one time, I looked after it for him. So now I am looking after it again! He will definitely want it back when he returns, and then he will see what good care I have taken of it, and he will be very happy with me.”
“Yeah,” Wash says. “I guess he would be.”
He leaves the rifle where it lies.
CINCO
Wash believes in respecting people’s property. Truly. They were trained to take advantage of useful things they found on the field, but that was under a specific set of circumstances and a matter of survival, not greed.
The suspicious look Tucker shoots him when he enquires about the sword is entirely unnecessary.
SEIS
You might be surprised what I know, Director.
Wash had never written the failsafe code down because, since Epsilon, he has very little need to write anything down. Each AI had been unique, a specialised fragment, carrying within their code abilities beyond normal human capacity. The Project had hardwired them into their soldiers’ minds without a second thought, and the effects are not so easily shaken off.
What I know.
“Three of hearts.”
Tucker makes an angry noise and slaps the final card of the deck down against the table, throwing himself back in his seat in a disgruntled slouch. “Fuck!”
He cracks his eyes open, leans back in his own seat more slowly. “Satisfied?”
“No,” Tucker says sulkily. “This is bullshit. There isn’t even a casino within a million miles of here, and the Reds are always broke.”
“I wouldn’t use my powers for selfish reasons anyway,” Wash replies, and starts to gather the scattered cards together. “Now, as we agreed. Go get the mop.”
SIETE
“Blue Base? Come in, Blue Base.”
Wash glances up from the array of dismantled rifle pieces in front of him and, after a moment, reaches over to thumb the necessary button for reply. He was never as fond of the voice synthesisers as some of the others, but keeping his voice quiet and neutral will do for now. “This is Blue Base.”
“Oh, thank goodness!” the voice burbles. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to find this frequency! Everything’s such a mess these days, and you just can’t get the help you used to. It’s always ‘this isn’t a priority’ or ‘sorry, we don’t have that information’. What’s up with that, anyway? You guys should be at the top of their callers’ list, you’re always getting me to come over and get kidnapp-”
He drops the cloth. “Doc?”
There is a long pause. Then, very tentatively: “Wash?”
Blinking like a freshly landed goldfish is even less productive over the radio than it is face-to-face, and he forces his mouth into motion. “Yeah. It’s me.”
“I, uh, I guess you made it back to Blue Base then.”
“Yes.” He clears his throat and finally re-gathers enough composure to lace his next word with actual sarcasm. “Obviously.”
“Obviously!” A nervous giggle floats through the speakers. “And it is obvious, isn’t it, because here you are. Answering the radio. Though who would have guessed? I mean, I know there are only three of you, but you could have been somewhere else, and someone else could have answered, and then it wouldn’t be so…obvious. Right?”
There is really no response he can give that won’t make him sound like an ungrateful asshole regarding past events, so Wash tactfully sidesteps the issue altogether. “What did you need? If you had trouble finding us, I assume this isn’t a UNSC call.”
“Oh…” If anything, Doc seems even further flustered. “I-it’s nothing really, just uh, passing through.”
“I see.” York would have been delighted to know there was someone out there even less capable of telling a decent lie than he’d been. Nonetheless, Wash thinks he’s beginning to understand, and starts to slide his chair back. “Doc, do you want me to get Tucker?”
“No, no, no!” Doc says hurriedly, making Wash pause halfway to standing as his understanding disappears again. “That’s okay, that’s not—I really don’t need anything else. In fact, I think I’m just going to go.”
Wash frowns down at the radio. “Anything else? You didn’t ask-”
“Yeah, definitely going away now. Bye!”
“Well,” Wash announces to the empty room. “That was interesting.”
OCHO
There is a hill near the middle of the canyon that forms a high point between the bases, and from there sound can carry clearly over the perpetual thunder of the falls. It soon becomes Declaration Hill, the point from which insults are hollered, negotiations are bellowed, and the occasional bullets are exchanged.
The day the Reds shout out an echoing request for milk, Wash gives up on the idea of battlefield standards. He also gives up the milk.
NUEVE
He never does build a laser cannon, spy plane, or roller coaster.
One particularly hot afternoon, however, he adjusts the grav-lift's propulsion to provide a direct, high-flying trip into the river.
Caboose evens uses it after he agrees to name it Sheila II.
DIEZ
“Hey, dude.”
Wash snaps the safety into place and pushes himself upright, turning away from the roof wall. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah, it’s all good. Just wanted to see what all the shooting was about. Target practise?”
When the Wash tilts his head in affirmation, Tucker saunters forward to lean against the edge, locking an assessing gaze on the field in one of those rare moments that give Wash hope for genuine military competence blooming in these bases. It’s a hope further nurtured when Tucker pinpoints the flash of movement in the distance. “Hey, are those the Reds out there?”
“Yes. Those are the targets.” Wash takes a quick glance through his scope. Simmons has evidently decided to make use of the pause in gunfire to make a frantic dash for more substantial cover; understandable, but kind of a shame, as there isn’t much ground to go before he reaches the more comprehensive safety of the base. It seems this session is close to wrapping itself up.
Tucker also seems bothered, though less so by Simmons’ approaching escape. “Uh, I thought you’d moved on from, you know, trying to kill us all.”
“Relax. I’m not trying to hit them. I’m trying to get as close as I can without hitting them.”
Tucker stares at him a second longer, then snorts and shakes his head. “Man, you Freelancers really are alike. Tex did the same thing when we first hired her.”
He thinks he might be a little offended at being termed alike to the maniacs he knows Tucker has met, but before he can protest the grouping the second statement sinks in. “Wait, are you saying Tex…pulled her punches on the Reds? On an enemy?”
“Oh, hell no, she beat the crap out of them. She did her ‘target practise’ with Caboose.”
Wash cants his head in a silent Ah. “That does sound a little more like her.”
They pause for a moment in what might be silent reflection, or remembrance, or oft-thought ill-wishes, and somewhere in the distance Simmons' voice floats a relieved yes! back towards them as he crosses the line to bullet-proof sanctuary.
“CT was a bitch too,” Tucker muses at last. “And that was before I knew he was a girl. It’s like you guys go out of your way to pick psychos or something.”
“I wish I could disagree.” With his targets all fled, Wash turns fully, cradling his rifle in his hands as he leans his back against the wall. “If you’ve had such a bad experience with Freelancers-” as if there were any other kind of experience to have “-why did you help me? Getting me away from Command more than pays off anything I did for you, so why let me stay?”
The Blue soldier shrugs. “Eh, you seemed alright. For a Freelancer.”
“You’d never seen me before,” Wash points out, “and you still don’t know anything about me.”
“I know plenty about you,” Tucker says easily. “You don’t hog the shower, you don’t eat all the food, and you fix stuff. What else matters? Though seriously dude, you can play around with the lighting but you can’t get us cable? I call bullshit.”
Wash looks at him for a moment. Then he says, “Go over to the hill and convince the Reds to come out again, and I’ll think about it.”
Tucker grins.
This is the art of being a team.
Rating: PG 13+
Series: Red Vs Blue (Washington, Tucker, Caboose, Doc, the Reds)
Wordcount: 2129
Warnings: Some language, great big spoilers through to the end of season eight.
Summary: It takes a little while to get used to being in a team.
Remarks: Set between seasons eight and nine. Wrote this a little while back and it turns out I still rather like it, so there you go. RvB punches my inspiration buttons in the weirdest ways considering that it started as a cynical comical machinima and is actually still that quite a lot. Also I am the straight-up worst at titles sometimes jeebers.
UNO
They are not trained to be leaders, or seconds, or partners. These would not be abnormal roles within the UNSC, but normal had proved itself to be insufficient the moment the insurgency reared its head and so normal they are not. Their purpose lies within their very name; they are Freelancers, and they do not work with, they work for.
They are therefore definitely, absolutely, without the slightest shred of doubt not trained to be mediators, advisors, teachers, babysitters, cleaners, step-ladders, or companions.
Sometimes Washington doesn’t think the Project prepared them very well at all.
DOS
“Because I told you to do it” – 30% success rate. 80% if he pulls a firearm.
“It’s a sensible request, which you can tell because I have all these good reasons, and because all your counter-reasons are ridiculous” – 56% success rate that can reach 90% if he keeps at it for longer than fifteen minutes, but comes with a 99% chance of a severe headache.
“It’s what Church would have wanted” – between 0-100% success rate, depending on the team member and how much sarcasm can be masked.
“Look, do you want there to be magazines and cookies in the next supply drop or not?” – 100% success rate, guaranteed.
This is the art of diplomacy.
TRES
He lacks the same technological gift as the Meta, but Wash knows his way around machines, and the base’s store of damaged equipment quickly becomes something to fill in the void of purposeful tasks and any decent reading material. In his first week he fixes the radio, sparing an absent moment to wonder how it got in such a state of disrepair in the short time between now and when Caboose last used to it hail him. In his second week he evaluates their tool stores more thoroughly, fixes the sixth corridor’s lighting, and adjusts the base’s heating system to something with more options than ‘barely noticeable’ and ‘everything plastic is melting’. He also finds himself flatly refusing to build a laser cannon, spy plane, or roller coaster.
In his third week he fixes the radio again and no longer wonders.
CUATRO
The additional—and oddly familiar—sniper rifle in the armoury seems to have suffered from the touch of Blue Team. It doesn’t match those provided with the base; it’s worn, scuffed and dirty, clearly used by someone before and not taken care of too well in the process. Wash reaches a hand out towards it with a frown; the sight of a weapon that hasn’t undergone proper maintenance is almost physically painful, and it doesn’t do to have-
“You can’t touch that!”
He freezes, remembers shortcut for team kills, and curls his fingers away from the rifle’s barrel. A carefully tilted glance over his shoulder shows Caboose in the doorway, standing in the same kind of stiff agitation as when he defended a ship AI’s right to courtesy.
“Alright, no touching.” Caboose doesn’t make any sudden movements, and Wash chances a slow step away from the weapon. “I didn’t realise it was yours.”
This doesn’t seem to be the right thing to say. Caboose shifts from one foot to the other, almost like a guilty child, but his shoulders are still set in a tight position and there is still that distinct thread of unhappiness in his voice when he says, “Oh no, no no, not mine. Nobody’s allowed to touch it.”
A forbidden gun lurking the bowels of the armoury is less unlikely than it should be, but he thinks he may be missing some link that would help the situation make sense outside of Caboose’s mind. He knows the team has had encounters with alien technology in the past, but he also knows UNSC property better than his own passwords, and there is nothing unusual about this rifle. A leftover, perhaps, of some earlier mishap? The property of someone they don’t want to…
…remember.
It comes to him then, that early flash of familiarity strengthening into full thought, and he realises he’s picked the wrong word entirely. Not forbidden—sacred. Not a remnant of unwanted memory, hoarded in the dark—a relic to mark an absence, kept safe in the centre of the base. “It was Church’s.”
This time Caboose nods enthusiastically, oblivious to how quickly they’ve switched places in being unsettled. “When he accidentally died this one time, I looked after it for him. So now I am looking after it again! He will definitely want it back when he returns, and then he will see what good care I have taken of it, and he will be very happy with me.”
“Yeah,” Wash says. “I guess he would be.”
He leaves the rifle where it lies.
CINCO
Wash believes in respecting people’s property. Truly. They were trained to take advantage of useful things they found on the field, but that was under a specific set of circumstances and a matter of survival, not greed.
The suspicious look Tucker shoots him when he enquires about the sword is entirely unnecessary.
SEIS
You might be surprised what I know, Director.
Wash had never written the failsafe code down because, since Epsilon, he has very little need to write anything down. Each AI had been unique, a specialised fragment, carrying within their code abilities beyond normal human capacity. The Project had hardwired them into their soldiers’ minds without a second thought, and the effects are not so easily shaken off.
What I know.
“Three of hearts.”
Tucker makes an angry noise and slaps the final card of the deck down against the table, throwing himself back in his seat in a disgruntled slouch. “Fuck!”
He cracks his eyes open, leans back in his own seat more slowly. “Satisfied?”
“No,” Tucker says sulkily. “This is bullshit. There isn’t even a casino within a million miles of here, and the Reds are always broke.”
“I wouldn’t use my powers for selfish reasons anyway,” Wash replies, and starts to gather the scattered cards together. “Now, as we agreed. Go get the mop.”
SIETE
“Blue Base? Come in, Blue Base.”
Wash glances up from the array of dismantled rifle pieces in front of him and, after a moment, reaches over to thumb the necessary button for reply. He was never as fond of the voice synthesisers as some of the others, but keeping his voice quiet and neutral will do for now. “This is Blue Base.”
“Oh, thank goodness!” the voice burbles. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to find this frequency! Everything’s such a mess these days, and you just can’t get the help you used to. It’s always ‘this isn’t a priority’ or ‘sorry, we don’t have that information’. What’s up with that, anyway? You guys should be at the top of their callers’ list, you’re always getting me to come over and get kidnapp-”
He drops the cloth. “Doc?”
There is a long pause. Then, very tentatively: “Wash?”
Blinking like a freshly landed goldfish is even less productive over the radio than it is face-to-face, and he forces his mouth into motion. “Yeah. It’s me.”
“I, uh, I guess you made it back to Blue Base then.”
“Yes.” He clears his throat and finally re-gathers enough composure to lace his next word with actual sarcasm. “Obviously.”
“Obviously!” A nervous giggle floats through the speakers. “And it is obvious, isn’t it, because here you are. Answering the radio. Though who would have guessed? I mean, I know there are only three of you, but you could have been somewhere else, and someone else could have answered, and then it wouldn’t be so…obvious. Right?”
There is really no response he can give that won’t make him sound like an ungrateful asshole regarding past events, so Wash tactfully sidesteps the issue altogether. “What did you need? If you had trouble finding us, I assume this isn’t a UNSC call.”
“Oh…” If anything, Doc seems even further flustered. “I-it’s nothing really, just uh, passing through.”
“I see.” York would have been delighted to know there was someone out there even less capable of telling a decent lie than he’d been. Nonetheless, Wash thinks he’s beginning to understand, and starts to slide his chair back. “Doc, do you want me to get Tucker?”
“No, no, no!” Doc says hurriedly, making Wash pause halfway to standing as his understanding disappears again. “That’s okay, that’s not—I really don’t need anything else. In fact, I think I’m just going to go.”
Wash frowns down at the radio. “Anything else? You didn’t ask-”
“Yeah, definitely going away now. Bye!”
“Well,” Wash announces to the empty room. “That was interesting.”
OCHO
There is a hill near the middle of the canyon that forms a high point between the bases, and from there sound can carry clearly over the perpetual thunder of the falls. It soon becomes Declaration Hill, the point from which insults are hollered, negotiations are bellowed, and the occasional bullets are exchanged.
The day the Reds shout out an echoing request for milk, Wash gives up on the idea of battlefield standards. He also gives up the milk.
NUEVE
He never does build a laser cannon, spy plane, or roller coaster.
One particularly hot afternoon, however, he adjusts the grav-lift's propulsion to provide a direct, high-flying trip into the river.
Caboose evens uses it after he agrees to name it Sheila II.
DIEZ
“Hey, dude.”
Wash snaps the safety into place and pushes himself upright, turning away from the roof wall. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah, it’s all good. Just wanted to see what all the shooting was about. Target practise?”
When the Wash tilts his head in affirmation, Tucker saunters forward to lean against the edge, locking an assessing gaze on the field in one of those rare moments that give Wash hope for genuine military competence blooming in these bases. It’s a hope further nurtured when Tucker pinpoints the flash of movement in the distance. “Hey, are those the Reds out there?”
“Yes. Those are the targets.” Wash takes a quick glance through his scope. Simmons has evidently decided to make use of the pause in gunfire to make a frantic dash for more substantial cover; understandable, but kind of a shame, as there isn’t much ground to go before he reaches the more comprehensive safety of the base. It seems this session is close to wrapping itself up.
Tucker also seems bothered, though less so by Simmons’ approaching escape. “Uh, I thought you’d moved on from, you know, trying to kill us all.”
“Relax. I’m not trying to hit them. I’m trying to get as close as I can without hitting them.”
Tucker stares at him a second longer, then snorts and shakes his head. “Man, you Freelancers really are alike. Tex did the same thing when we first hired her.”
He thinks he might be a little offended at being termed alike to the maniacs he knows Tucker has met, but before he can protest the grouping the second statement sinks in. “Wait, are you saying Tex…pulled her punches on the Reds? On an enemy?”
“Oh, hell no, she beat the crap out of them. She did her ‘target practise’ with Caboose.”
Wash cants his head in a silent Ah. “That does sound a little more like her.”
They pause for a moment in what might be silent reflection, or remembrance, or oft-thought ill-wishes, and somewhere in the distance Simmons' voice floats a relieved yes! back towards them as he crosses the line to bullet-proof sanctuary.
“CT was a bitch too,” Tucker muses at last. “And that was before I knew he was a girl. It’s like you guys go out of your way to pick psychos or something.”
“I wish I could disagree.” With his targets all fled, Wash turns fully, cradling his rifle in his hands as he leans his back against the wall. “If you’ve had such a bad experience with Freelancers-” as if there were any other kind of experience to have “-why did you help me? Getting me away from Command more than pays off anything I did for you, so why let me stay?”
The Blue soldier shrugs. “Eh, you seemed alright. For a Freelancer.”
“You’d never seen me before,” Wash points out, “and you still don’t know anything about me.”
“I know plenty about you,” Tucker says easily. “You don’t hog the shower, you don’t eat all the food, and you fix stuff. What else matters? Though seriously dude, you can play around with the lighting but you can’t get us cable? I call bullshit.”
Wash looks at him for a moment. Then he says, “Go over to the hill and convince the Reds to come out again, and I’ll think about it.”
Tucker grins.
This is the art of being a team.
