20/20 Hindsight: Louisiana

Louisiana didn’t know how and she didn’t know why; she just knew that the sneaky little… agent in brown, EOD-armor had rigged the match.

Not to misunderstand, of course—the diminutive, usually-silver Freelancer in CQC-armor liked Agent Washington just fine, certainly more than she ever let on, but she also had no problem pointing out that he wasn’t exactly the best fighter in the Project.

Every chance she got.

She might have made him cry once, too. On accident, of course.

But, she digressed; Agent Connecticut was a cheating whore who had made a bet with Louisiana and a couple others about the outcome of a certain training match, which they had lost. Then again, did it really count as losing when the deck was stacked against them…?

Louisiana contemplated that mystery as she watched Agent Oregon with a deep-seated wariness that came from having grown up around a large number of males, none of which had any concept of personal boundaries. They generally wore that same expression of smug, muted glee right before doing something that would land the young female soldier in the med-bay for broken bones and bruised knuckles, being chewed out by a superior officer.

So, suffice it to say that she was less than looking forward to her impending training match against Oregon. Both of them normally had completely different types of partners, and while she was grateful that he’d agreed so quickly to leave off his armor—what with the wardrobe limitations set forth by Connie—Louisiana was also suspicious… because he’d agreed so quickly to leave off his armor. The Hispanic Freelancer just looked too damn happy for comfort as he waved to them from the door and made his way over, back from the locker room.

“You a’ight, lass?”

Louisiana jumped nearly a foot in the air when she heard a very Irish voice coming from right behind her, and spun around to face Staff Sergeant Daniel O’Hara. She would have sworn that the auburn-haired Standard Issue soldier had been up in the observation room not seconds ago, but then, she had a tendency to lose time when she was brooding about the injustice of The Universe. And cookies. The Universe and cookies: the two things most likely to make Agent Louisiana zone out when she really probably shouldn’t.

“‘Cos you look a little green ‘round the gills,” Dan continued grinning.

The currently-pink-clad agent of Project Freelancer did what she would have done in any other situation and slugged her friend in the arm—then hissed at the pain that consequently lanced up her knuckles.

Damn, she’d forgotten his armor. It may not have been MJOLNIR, but it was still a Hell of a lot tougher than little girl hands. If little girl hands had burns, calluses, and a Hell of a lot of scars.

“I don’t like it,” Louisiana grumbled as she narrowed her eyes at the normally burnt-orange Freelancer walking towards them from across the room, rubbing her knuckles the way people did when they’d injured themselves. For whatever reason. “He seems too happy.”

Long past being sucked into his friend’s farfetched conspiracy theories and convoluted schemes thought up to avoid actual work, the extremely Irish Staff Sergeant simply rolled his eyes. “He’s a sexually frustrated military soldier, stuck in a tin can floating through space, about to practice close-quarters combat with a moderately attractive young woman wearing pink lingerie. I’d be happy. And I’m gay.”

The moderately attractive young woman in question turned to glare daggers at the older soldier she’d somehow befriended, through no fault of either of his or her own. “You’re mostly gay, meaning you’re one of those people who refuse to just pick a team and stick with it… And they’re nightclothes,” Louisiana corrected in the affronted voice she would use if he’d stolen her cookies or suggested that kicking puppies would be great fun.

Dan gave the female Freelancer a Look.

“You’re wearin’ silk shorts and a baby-doll top, most of which is so sheer it’s more th’n likely illegal on several Colonies,” he responded flatly. “They’re lingerie.”

Louisiana opened her mouth to respond in a not-so-kind manner, but was cut off by Oregon finally reaching where they were standing and saying, slightly awkwardly but powering through, “Oye, chica, most of the usual training equipment is meant for people in armor, but I asked FILSS and it turns out that they’ve got some of that old-school stun-paint that Marines use to train with and some non-electrified pugil sticks.”

She nodded her head in understanding, remembering the few times she’d trained with the stuff. It hurt like all Hell, but was non-lethal and did a better job of simulating GSWs than the lock-down paint—that nasty purple foam stung like a bitch, but once it was cleared off your armor, there weren’t any side-effects. Stun-rounds, on the other hand, kept you numb and woozy (depending on where you were hit) for hours after training was over.

“So,” the usually-silver Freelancer began, steadfastedly not looking anywhere other than his face. Granted, constant eye-contacting was inherently aggressive in her mind—but the Hispanic agent had simply stripped off all his burnt-orange outer armor, instead of changing into sweats or something, and the black body-suits were very… clingy.

“How ‘bout we go hand-to-hand first, then use the training pugil sticks, and then end with just a single round of stun paint? No muss, no fuss,” Louisiana suggested.

Oregon nodded easily and began to move away, but was caught by the arm and practically dragged away by Dan. “Just be a second, lass. Need ta talk ta this boy-o, here,” the Irishman called over his shoulder as they moved to the other side of the room.

The female soldier crossed her arms over her chest and gave the two brothers (half-brothers, whatever) her best Unimpressed Look as they spoke in what she knew instinctively were low voices.

Without his helmet to mask his features, the Louisiana could see that the older brother was giving Dan the same look, clearly unmoved by whatever he was saying. After a minute of being talked at by the Irishman, Oregon cut him off with a sharp word that Louisiana couldn’t quite read, and an even sharper hand-gesture.

The gesticulation escalated, as did the volume of their conversation, but neither developments really helped her because she was still most of a room away.

After a few minutes, Louisiana rolled her eyes, tired of being ignored when she was supposed to be training (only she was allowed to hold up a training session by talking to Dan, fuck you very much), and cupped her hands around her mouth to amplify her voice. “Yo! Any day now, princess!”

The two men looked over at the same time, before looking at each other, and proceeding to have some kind of silent conversation via weird staring match. Oregon blinked first, figuratively speaking, and moved away from his brother to the middle of the training room floor to join his teammate. Dan caught his arm as he passed, and they looked at each other for another long moment—Oregon threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender, and Dan nodded. The Irish soldier turned to wave jauntily at Louisiana before hurrying out of the room.

The pink Freelancer frowned as Dan beat a hasty retreat, and looked over at her teammate with a quirked eyebrow, “The Hell was that about?”

Her Hispanic teammate shook his head fondly and responded, “Nothin’ you need to worry ‘bout, chiquita. You good to go?”

Louisiana raised an eyebrow at the endearment, but rolled her shoulders to loosen them and nodded. Both soldiers approached each other, meeting in the center of the training floor, and Oregon tilted his head up, “Ready to go, FILSS!”

“Acknowledged,” came the pleasant voice of the ship’s onboard-AI, and both Freelancers got into their preferred stance. “This match, Agent Louisiana versus Agent Oregon, will consist of three rounds. Round one, hand-to-hand combat, beginning in five, four, three, two, one… Round, begin.”

Louisiana ducked his initial jab and retaliated with a right hook to Oregon’s jaw and a knee to the solar plexus. The man took it like a champ, using the momentum to swing around and knock her legs out from under her. She kicked out when he made to pin her to the ground, then rolled to her feet as he cursed and did the same.

They circled each other for a moment before Oregon made his first mistake and lunged for his teammate, balance off-center and giving Louisiana the perfect opening.

Taking full advantage of his slip, she dodged his right fist and slammed her knee into his stomach, knocking all the air out of his lungs. She followed up by putting a slight amount of distance between them and smashed the flat of her right foot into his chest, knocking the puertorriqueño to the ground in a daze.

Louisiana was grateful as all Hell at that moment that hand-to-hand was not the Hispanic man’s specialization, and made to pin him to the ground. She got in a couple good elbows to the face, but didn’t manage to pin his arms in time and he flipped their positions.

It continued for several minutes like that as they grappled on the ground, both winning and then losing control, but neither actually one-upping each other long enough to change anything. The female agent may have been much better at close-quarters than her teammate but, for all that he was only 5’7”, Oregon was still an extremely in-shape man and could out-muscle her any day of the week that ended in a “y”.

Fortunately, Louisiana clipped him in the temple with a roundhouse as they finally disengaged and made their way back to their feet. She had managed to be just a hair faster than him, and Oregon had still been on his knees when the kick struck him.

He tried to use the momentum to roll to his feet, but she tackled him to the floor again, this time succeeding on pushing him onto his stomach and pinning his arms to his sides with her legs. Louisiana didn’t waste the opportunity to wrap her arm around his neck from behind and within moments felt his body begin to stop struggling and relax.

She loosened her grip on his arms slightly, and Oregon leaped at the chance, pulling his right arm up near his head and tapping out. Louisiana released her grip immediately and rolled off the other Freelancer.

FILSS’s voice rang out as soon as she did. “Round one: over. Hand-to-hand combat: complete. Point awarded to Louisiana. The current score is: Louisiana, one point; Oregon, zero points. Advantage, Louisiana.”

The Hispanic Freelancer spent a moment on his hands and knees, coughing, before getting unsteadily to his feet. Louisiana stepped forward, concern evident on her face, but Oregon waved her off with a wry twitch of his lips and made his way over to the weapon table that had risen from the floor to grab his pugil stick in preparation for the next round.

Understanding completely, the pink soldier jogged over to the weapons table on “her” side of the room, breathing deeply through her nose. It’d been a long time since she’d had to actually wrestle someone to the ground—and even longer since she’d won. Funny, that. Louisiana cast a glance briefly up toward the observation room and saw a couple figures more than she had been expecting, but didn’t have time to contemplate the new aditions as FILSS’s voice rang out across the room.

“Agents, please make your way to the center of the floor to begin round two of your match.”

Heaving a bit of a sigh—though, truthfully, more than a little invigorated by the straightforwardness of their competition so far—Louisiana did as she and her Hispanic teammate were bid. Grabbing a weapon of the right length, she jogged over to the middle of the room, registering the sound of the table retracting back into the floor only in the back of her mind. The rest was taken up by forcefully fixing her eyes somewhere to the left of Oregon’s ear in order to make sure they didn’t wander.

“Round two, pugil-stick training, beginning in five, four, three, two, one… Round, begin.”

This time, Louisiana took the initiative and struck first, but the loud clack of the wooden staves against each other was jarring when compared to the dull thud and electric hum that came with the pugil sticks they used while wearing armor. It felt odd in her hands, too—lacking the cool reliability of metal—with pads of fabric on either end that were smaller than her fist.

However, her momentary distraction at the difference meant that Oregon was able to easily deflect her wooden stick. His quick retaliation meant that, while she was able to duck the stave aiming for the side of her head, she was too slow when he spun and used to the momentum to add more force to the next hit, striking her squarely under the left side of her jaw.

Louisiana’s head snapped back and she was knocked to the floor, a spectacular bruise immediately beginning to bloom along her jaw-line. All she could think, however, was how much more right this felt—the pain that came from her opponent landing a hit was sharp and debilitating, rather than the dull ache that the regular versions caused and the electric jolt that shocked them into a reaction. Not that she would begrudge anyone (especially herself) the use of the MJOLNIR armor, but there was something much more immediate and invigorating that came with two people going at it with fists and wooden sticks.

Still, it would be nice if the pads on the ends actually had some kind of function, because her jaw was convinced they didn’t make a goddamn difference.

The diminutive Freelancer took half a second to blink away stars and the ringing in her ears before flipping backward onto her knees and whipping the pugil stick still in her hand in the direction of Oregon’s kneecaps. He dodged, but was successfully forced back onto the defensive as she rose up on one knee, stood, and attempted to land a powerful, over-handed strike to the crown of his head—the Hispanic agent countered, and they traded several more blows.

Louisiana tried to take advantage of a (stomach-churning) roundhouse kick she dealt, but on her second step towards her teammate, a wave of nausea hit her and she staggered down on one knee again. Not realizing that it was something other than a simple loss of balance, Oregon pressed the slip-up by sending another full-power strike at her head.

Her eyes glazed and her head spinning, the pink-clad soldier didn’t see the incoming threat, and it consequently landed with an solid thwack! that resounded in her ears and sent her reeling. Louisiana spun and landed in an ungraceful heap on her stomach, scraping her forearms on the floor as they instinctively tried to break her fall.

A second dose of pain exploded in her head, this one radiating from her right cheekbone, and she could distantly feel a hot liquid pouring from the site of the injury. After several seconds, Louisiana felt the hands of someone pulling at her shoulders and felt herself being carefully pushed and pulled until she was on her back. Swimming above her head, she could see Oregon’s face—eyebrows pinched with worry, mouth set in a hard line—and hear him asking her if she was okay over the all-too-loud sound of FILSS: “Round two: over. Pugil sticks training: complete. Point awarded to Oregon. The current score is: Louisiana, one point; Oregon, one point. Advantage, none. Medics alerted to possible Freelancer injury.”

“—siana, can you hear me? Louisiana, are you alright? Can you hear me? Louisiana”

“Nnguh,” she moaned in response. “Fuck’s sake, bro, no need to shout. I can hear you just fine. And keep those medics away from me…”

Oregon’s brow didn’t smooth, but his lips curved upwards at the (slightly slurred) exasperation in his teammate’s voice. Moving carefully, he wrapped an arm around the pink-clad agent’s shoulders, maneuvering Louisiana into a sitting position, and gently tilted her head in order to examine the bloody gash across her cheekbone. His thumb brushed the surrounding skin and the younger agent let out a hiss.

“Yeah,” Oregon said, giving a sharp nod. “It’s bleeding like a stuck pig and the surrounding tissue is inflamed. We need to get you to the med-bay.”

“Ugh, medics” was the irritable, and barely coherent, reply the older Freelancer received; he chuckled at Louisiana’s predictability and moved his arm under her elbow to help the young woman to her feet.

“You know,” Oregon began conversationally as they started their slow trek to the door of the training room. “I will never understand what it is that you people have against medics.”

Louisiana shot him a Look that landed several inches to the right of his face, and paused to sway unsteadily on her feet, blinking rapidly. “The Hell do you mean ‘you people’—oh, right! You were gonna be an ODST. Well, they’re stupid… and annoying… and-and-and evil.”

Her teammate grinned at the petulant tone of voice he rarely heard unless Wyoming or the Director was around. “I take it you’re the kind of person where it takes three or four tries to find the vein when they take blood,” he answered, teasingly.

“Oh, blow me,” she muttered in response, her slurred speech much more pronounced. Oregon’s grinned simply widened.

“Maybe when you’re not concussed,” he said in a low voice. He winced at her reply; evidently, one didn’t need fine motor-skills to sucker-punch a teammate.

FILSS voice sounded when they started to move again. “Agents, despite Louisiana’s injury, to leave the training floor would automatically designate this match as a loss on for both of you, and bring down your overall score on the leaderboard. Are you certain you wish to proceed?”

The usually-burnt-orange soldier let out an explosive sigh, but didn’t stop his attempts to lead his teammate to the med-bay. Louisiana, on the other hand, seemed to have other ideas, and ducked underneath his arm to jog unsteadily toward “her” weapon table. Oregon let out a curse and followed, keeping a hand just below her elbow in case she fell again.

Though she didn’t fall, Louisiana did end up stumbling when she reached the table. Fortunately, it didn’t affect her ability to pick up one of the M6G pistols, load a clip of stun paint, and turn toward her sparring partner. Before Oregon had the chance to object, she fired point-blank at his thigh. He went down.

“Ow! What the Hell?”

Louisiana shrugged unsympathetically before saying, with an unconcernedly cheerful smile, “That’s for the blood. And this is for aiming for my face in the first place.”

She aimed at the foot of the same leg and fired again. Oregon gave another shout of pain, and lunged for the gun in her hand. Louisiana didn’t try to keep the weapon away from the angry Hispanic man with two extremely painful stun rounds in one leg, and kept her smirk even when he retaliated by shooting her in the chest.

For what she sincerely hoped was the last time—although, she was betting there was gonna be at least one more time that day—Louisiana fell squarely on her ass. The landing wasn’t as hard as it could’ve been, but she let her forearms catch her on the ground with enough force to remind her that she’d already scraped several layers of skin from them. Add that to the two head-wounds—plus the new stun-paint round to the chest that felt like an elephant was sitting on it—and this had easily been the most productive day she’d had on the Mother of Invention in weeks, if not months.

Louisiana wheezed out a laugh when the Hispanic agent’s leg buckled and he sat down heavily in front of her. After taking several quiet, companionable moments to breathe, she sat up and held out a fist to her new-favorite teammate. Oregon obligingly bumped his knuckles against hers.

“Touché,” the pink Freelancer said, grinning. Then she tilted her head toward the ceiling and raised her voice. “So, what’s that put us at, FILSS?”

There was a mechanical-sounding sigh, and then the AI responded: “Round three: over. Stun-paint scenario: complete. Point awarded to Oregon. The current score is: Oregon, two; Louisiana, one. Match goes to: Agent Oregon. Please clear the floor for the next training session scheduled in thirteen minutes.”

Sighing heavily, though it pained her chest as well as her head, Louisiana reached out her hands and she and Oregon helped pull each other to their feet. The two Freelancers turned in the direction of the door once again and, both leaning on the other, began to hobble out of the room. “C’mon,” Oregon huffed. “Let’s just get to the med-bay and take some industrial-grade pain-killers.”

“Hoo-rah,” Louisiana puffed, before requesting one concession. “Can we go to the mess hall kitchen first? I really want some icecream, all of a sudden, and I think I saw some in the freezer earlier…”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Both Freelancers ended up sucker-punching Dan the next day when he mentioned that Louisiana owed him twenty bucks for losing him twice as much to New Hampshire and Wyoming—who ended up being the two other figures Louisiana saw standing with the Irishman in the observation room.

Oregon hit his brother for betting against him, and she hit his brother for daring to try and use her moderate concussion to squeeze money out of her.

Iowa ended up high-fiving them both, because they helped her spike York and Montana’s drinks with laxatives (before heading to the med-bay) after the two hapless men made fun of her for what Connie had made her wear.

And despite not making the full four weeks before returning to the blasted medics, it was definitely the most productive Louisiana had been in Project Freelancer to date…