2Michigan slowly eased out of bed. The last night had been restless. Walking out of his quarters, he sleepily walked to the mess hall to meet with his fellow Freelancers and get some of the remaining good food. On the Mother of Invention, the best food was quickly swooped up by the fastest on the ship, leaving the slowest with slop and mush. The Director, and the UNSC, believed this was the best way to train their soldiers without them knowing it.
However, when Michigan finally got to the mess hall, all the good food had gone. Probably snatched up by Maine. Everyone on the ship knew he had a big appetite. He collected his tray of foul-smelling paste and went to the table with the other Freelancers. Most of the seats were taken. Only a few remained. Michigan sat down next to Nebraska, or Brask, as he was colloquially known. Brask turned to him with a puzzled expression.
'Where were you? You're usually one of the first here, Mitch.' Nebraska asked, using Michigan's nickname. That was how Brask was: always looking out for other Freelancers, taking care of them and making them feel at home.
Michigan looked at him sleepily, then back to his food.
'I . . . slept in. I didn't get much rest last night, Brask.'
'Nightmares?'
'Yeah.' Michigan picked up a fork and started to prod his meal absently.
'You've really got to talk to someone. If Idaho finds out about your sleeping problems, he'll flip; probably drum you out of the squad.'
At the mention of talking to someone, Michigan's tired eyes narrowed. He wanted to be rid of the nightmares, but there was no way in hell he would ever talk about them to anyone. Not Brask, not the Counsellor, not even the Director.
'If it's all the same, I'd really rather not.' Michigan responded flatly.
'OK, can't say I tried.' Brask sighed, turning away to chat with Wisconsin, Indiana and Delaware.
Michigan stared into his tray, put his fork down, and placed his head in his hands. No one was to know about what he dreamed about. His mind wandered back to last night. It was fuzzy, but he could remember snow, blood and death. But whatever it was, it would have to wait. He grabbed his tray, and quietly switched the gooey mush with Burns's meal (a hash brown which tasted nothing like a hash brown, a cup of coffee, and a baloney sandwich, for those curious), while he looked the other way. He began to wolf down his new breakfast with increased vigor. As he exited the mess hall, he heard Burns's voice yelling angrily.
"OK, which one of you pricks switched my breakfast?!"
'Training will commence in 5 minutes.' Michigan had never heard anything more robotic or rehearsed than F.I.L.S.S's announcements. He shook his head and ran as fast as he could to the training floor. Along the way, he saw the training teams. Wyoming and Maine vs. Delaware and Michigan.
Michigan quietly swore. He wasn't expecting to be first to train. And against Wyoming and Maine? The mercenary and the feral animal? He knew he was screwed. They may be rookies, but together, their skills were on par with the members of Trident Squad. But he did have Delaware on his side. She was an excellent fighter, regarded by even Maine as the best assassin Project Freelancer had ever seen, and Maine was hard to please.
Indiana pulled up behind him, and began to check the training floor roster. Upon seeing Michigan's foes, he snickered.
"Michigan and Delaware vs. Maine and Wyoming? Talk about the Maine Event. Better hope you have your "Oming" rounds."
Michigan turned around, a quizzical look on his face.
"Why 'Omi...'?" Mitch started to speak, but shut his trap when he realised his mistake. Indiana, or Indy, was known as the jokester of the team, constantly making stupid puns, lame jokes, and projecting a goofy attitude. However, he was not to be underestimated: on the battlefield, he was Trident's sniper, known for being able to kill three men with one bullet, infiltrate a heavily guarded base and pull recon, and his ability to disable almost any technology known to man.
"One of these days, Indy, and I swear to God, I'll whip your ass."
Indy raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh. True, it wasn't that great, especially since that the origin of that pun, a series of classic movies , had faded into obscurity, but he didn't want to acknowledge that the pun was pretty funny.
"Keep trying kid. You'll get there." Indy patted his shoulder, then walked off in the direction of the observation area. Mitch watched him walked away, then slid the helmet he held under his arm onto his head. Ready or not, Maine and Wyoming, you'd be meeting your match today.
Standing on the training floor, Michigan grabbed his pugil stick, although it could be more accurately described as an electric shock staff. If you were hit with the end of one, it would deliver a mild shock. After enough hits, your armor would go into 'Lockdown' mode, signifying you were down and out.
Delaware was a trained melee combatant, and was often regarded by the Marines as the 'Swordsman'. Michigan would need all the help he could get. Across the room, Wyoming sliced his throat with his finger and Maine snarled. F.I.L.S.S's voice sounded.
'Round 1 in five. Four. Three. Two. One. Round begin.'
Wyoming and Maine charged. Delaware swiped her pugil stick across and sent Wyoming flying. Maine jumped and brought his pugil stick down like a hammer. Delaware tried to dodge, but wasn't quick enough and was brought down.
Michigan ran at Maine and swung one end of his stick into Maine's stomach, in an attempt to wind him. After his stick collided, he brought his stick back and slammed the other end into Maine's back. Maine turned and began to brawl with Michigan. Michigan blocked and swung, blocked and swung, his stick becoming a blur among the sparking poles, whistling air and the guttural growls emitting from Maine.
Michigan eventually brought his stick down like a hammer, and Maine caught it, flipping it and Michigan over his head like he was a twig on a branch. Michigan lost his grip as soon as he hit the ground. The next thing Michigan knew, he was on the ground, being pummeled by Maine's stick and his own. After many beatings, his armor froze, and he knew he was finished. He couldn't see Delaware, but knew she would soon succumb. His fears were soon confirmed when he heard F.I.L.S.S announce the winner. It wasn't them.
Round 2 was hand-to-hand combat. Michigan wasn't the greatest, but he knew that Maine had a brutish, but unrefined and sloppy style and Wyoming preferred long range attacks. At least he and Delaware had a chance this time.
'Round 2 in Three. Two. One. Round begin.'
'Del, springboard approach?' Michigan whispered.
Delaware flashed a thumbs up. She ran forward, then crouched. Michigan jumped on her back and leaped, hoping to catch his foes by surprise. He landed, rolled and drove his right fist into Wyoming's gut. Knowing that that alone wouldn't stop Wyoming, he followed up with a leg sweep, tripping Wyoming. Delaware soon followed up with a spinning kick to Maine's head. Both Delaware and Michigan jumped back to prepare for the next attack.
Maine and Wyoming quickly recovered and charged again. Delaware ran, and flipped over the two, clubbing the backs of their heads as she did so. Michigan quickly followed up with smashing their heads together and backflipped, kicking their chins to send them down again. Maine and Wyoming were tough nuts to crack, as they continued stubbornly charging, only to be pummeled down. Eventually, they went down, twitched, and then lay still.
'Round two over. Hand-to-hand combat complete. Point awarded to Michigan and Delaware.'
'Already? We were just getting started!' Delaware yelled.
The snow crunched underfoot, as Michigan slowly stumbled away from the burning wreckage. He was injured, but still able to stand, despite the throbbing in his brain that threatened to make his skull split open like a melon. He kept walking, but the trauma was too much, and he collapsed in the snow.
As he lay there, looking at the stars above, Michigan could've sworn that he saw one star in particular brighten immensely, then faded from view. If only he could be granted that same embrace. A million years of war, and where he lay... Michigan felt as though he had never experienced peace until now.
A cloaked man stepped into his visage. Michigan could not see his face, but he knew what stood above him.
A voice whispered in his ear, emanating from no one, and heard only by the two in the snow.
"Run all you want. You know, deep in your heart, you will never escape me." The voice had anger in it. No, not anger. Hatred. Pure hatred, rage and vengeance.
The man cocked his left fist, and unleashed a blow onto Michigan's head, with the strength of a MAC round. Michigan felt the cold metal fingers of the man's cybernetic arm, heard his head squish open like an overripe melon, and the darkness overtook him once again.
Michigan blinked, his eyes not used to the harsh light after having his visage encased in lockdown paint. His armor slowly freed up, and he started to feel the pain Wyoming and Maine had dealt to him in Round Three.
Washington and North Dakota looked at him, concern apparent on their faces. The looks soon morphed to relief after Michigan was able to move again. North Dakota was a rookie who shared a great friendship with everyone and showed deadly accuracy with a sniper rifle. North also had a twin sister, aptly named South Dakota. The two were one of the most lethal pairs in Project Freelancer.
Agent Washington was also a rookie, and was very outgoing. He looked out for anyone who needed help, and gladly offered advice. Many Freelancers came to him for advice on personal problems. He was as innocent as they came, his locker containing pictures of kittens and a skateboard. Wash wore steel armour with a yellow trim, North wore purple with a green trim.
'Glad you're OK, Mitch. Those two really pummeled you in training.' North started.
'I don't really remember much. What happened?' Michigan asked.
Wash soon explained. Delaware had been ambushed while she looked for Wyoming and Maine. She put up a fight, but was soon taken down. Wyoming snuck up behind Michigan and plugged two shots to his feet, one for each, anchoring him to the ground. Not being able to run, Maine shot as much of the front, and Wyoming shot the back, literally encasing him in paint.
Michigan soon remembered everything that had happened. 'So, all in all, we…' he plainly stated.
'Lost, yes.' Wash finished.
Michigan hung his head. This was a new low for him. If he kept performing like he did on the training floor, he would soon be removed from the program.
'Attention all personnel, will Trident Squad please report to the briefing room immediately.' F.I.L.S.S's voice rang through the room. Michigan didn't need telling twice. He sprung up and ran for the door. Before leaving, he turned back.
'Guys? Thanks. And do me a favour?' Michigan asked.
'Sure. What do you need?' Wash asked.
'Tell Maine and Wyoming that it was a good game.' Michigan couldn't really get mad at them. They were his friends, after all.
He turned and exited, running for the briefing room as fast as his legs would allow.