Warrick detested being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to tend to frankly undermanned and underfunded TERCOM and ATRU systems. He detested it even more when he was dragged out by humorless, smirking grunts in full kit without much consideration for his nervous admin. He'd felt her trembling faintly under his reassuring pat to the shoulder as he passed, and calmly stated that he would be back in time for breakfast so to please not delay putting on the kettle and cook-stove.
It was ridiculous, really. There was no reason to come to his lab with weapons in hand and an entire squad devoted to picking him up as if he were some unwilling local under invasion instead of a loyal member of the Commonwealth temporarily expatriated in the name of scientific advancement. The fact that the military insisted upon the use of technology they could barely afford and scarcely understood was nothing to do with him. Still, it was easier to grumble and slide out of bed than to put up a fuss and dodge bullets. Perhaps he could manage to teach one of their technicians how to stop being a brainless idiot and they'd finally leave him alone to finish his work in peace.
"This really couldn't have waited until morning?" he muttered to one of the soldiers penning him in as they walked to the waiting transport. There was no reason for them to surround him while walking as if he were a prisoner either, but Warrick figured they were doing it simply to be irritating. "Or have been conducted with less unnecessary fanfare? At this rate I'm going to need to pay for my admin's personal therapy and anti-anxiety medication."
This was fucking awful. Awful in a way that it really wasn't that awful, but it wasn't what he had signed up for, either, and so he was going to complain relentlessly about it in his mind and in the barracks when he could finally let off some steam. Shiny tech and the maintenance of it wasn't his prerogative and neither did he want it to be, but it wasn't like you could really tell the chain of command that you wanted to be a prissy fuck about what missions you took. You got what you were given and that was that, and you said 'please' and 'thank you' when you got bent over and royally fucked. For the fucking Commonwealth.
The sound of footsteps in unison on the pavement echoed in the quiet night. Toreth barely batted an eyelash at the muttered question, and for a few seconds he remained silent, content to listen to the familiar rhythm of the footfalls of his squad mates, as if he hadn't heard the scientist's little invective. To engage or not to engage? Fuck, the man was probably some left-wing arsehole who thought he knew better about the whole war. An ivory tower academic. If he didn't say anything now, the over-privileged fuck would think he could spend the whole time bitching and moaning.
"It's S.O.P, not fanfare," he said coolly, not sparing the civilian a glance. He looked at BC instead, who he could see was keeping an impeccably polite expression, maybe the barest traces of exasperation in his eyes if you knew where to look. "And you know, a few of the men here would be more than happy to help with your admin's personal therapy, me included, so don't get too torn up about that. We take care of our kind, as long as they're happy to be our kind."
He shot a wink at the civilian at the last comment, all easy grin.
Well that induced a flicker of amusement and a raised eyebrow. He hadn't actually thought that any of the soldiers would deign to answer him, seeing as how he was a lowly civilian and possessed more intellect than ammunition. No one had spoken to him the last time he'd been summoned, except to tell him he was required and there would be no arguments about it. He snuck a glance at the one who'd spoken, taking in his angular features and casual arrogance. He carried himself too unselfconsciously to be a mere private, but still low enough on the totem pole to be relegated to babysitting the civilian scientist. Corporal, maybe?
Either way, he certainly seemed to think enough of himself that Warrick felt the petty need to bring him down a peg. He offered up a cool smile to counteract that grin and let his gaze go speculative and critical.
"If you're hoping to inflict your kindness on the timid Miss Weatherby, you'll be disappointed. You have the entirely wrong equipment for the job," he said crisply. "Much like your tech division."
That arrogant fuck. Not that Toreth gave a rat's fucking arse about their tech division, because not his problem, but still. That arrogant fuck.
There was a low whistle from somewhere off to Toreth's side, one of the other men finally cracking thanks to the exchange, and he could see the beginnings of a smirk pulling at BC's lips. Ah. Good to know his squad was getting a kick out of this. Toreth's expression remained unchanged, still casual and at ease despite the outright insult. It was going to take a lot more than that for him to be baited and humiliated in front of his team. If he could stay cool while dealing with his fuckwit of a commander, he could stay cool dealing with this civilian.
"Mm, that might be so. But you know, seeing as you apparently have the right equipment for the job tonight, maybe I should be directing my kindness elsewhere. You know, as thanks for the midnight help and all." Fucker.
Toreth checked his watch as they approached the vehicle, his men peeling away and setting off to their designated positions. He nodded to the back of the truck, waiting for the man to comply before he climbed in after him.
The stifled smiles of the other troops was satisfying. Warrick didn't pretend to know much about the inner workings of the barracks, but he did know a thing or two about shoving aggressive young men together for endless stretches of time and he knew his dress-down of this particular soldier would produce some good-natured ribbing for a while. No one would pass up a chance to tease their commander.
Again, the response surprised him. He'd expected to be glared at and told to shut up, or simply ignored if he didn't manage to anger the man enough to bother with a rejoinder.
"As magnanimous as that offer is, I don't sleep with killers, government-approved or not," he said, then made a show of looking the man up and down as they got closer to the truck, letting his eyes linger on the musculature he could imagine beneath the bulk of kevlar. "Or at least I try not to make a habit of it."
Then it was his turn to smirk as he hauled himself up into the vehicle.
Christ, he was going to cop it from the other lads. Toreth had no doubt he'd hear some remarks along the lines of 'hot for teacher?' and 'Corporal's going to get some' much, much later, when they were all at ease and thought they could get away with the shitshow.
He raised an eyebrow at the slow gaze upon him, frankly surprised more than anything at the audacity of it. Did he not think that anyone would try to fuck him, being the civilian that he was, or was he genuinely giving Toreth the option of going for it? He was going to be very horribly mistaken if it were the former, because some of the men out here would go for it with no hesitation or qualms, and if it were the latter? Well...
Toreth shut his mouth when he realised he had become slack-jawed at the closing remark there, then climbed into the vehicle after the other man, shaking off his surprise at the smooth reply. He had apparently recovered in the few seconds it took to settle into his spot opposite his charge, because he was smiling again when his eyes fell upon the scientist, regarding him carefully now that he could get a better face-to-face look.
The civilian was good-looking, certainly. Not fit like the other men he was used to seeing, all chiseled muscle and hardened bodies thanks to their training, but definitely handsome, and with the allure of somebody who probably thought they were too good to even be talking to anyone in the military. And that fucking remark, the one about not sleeping with government-approved killers? Toreth almost laughed as he made a mental vow that he'd have the scientist begging to be fucked by one sooner rather than later.
"Promise I'll have you coming back for more once you get started. Habits started out here get hard to break, you know." In more ways than one.
He leaned back and gave the side of the truck three strong thumps with his fist, signalling the good-to-go. Five seconds later and the vehicle was lurching forward with a groan as the gears shifted, and Toreth settled in, made himself comfortable. His rifle rested in his lap, the strap of the weapon slung across his chest as he held onto it, so used to its presence that it was like an extension of his body at this point.
Any satisfaction Warrick felt from their exchange soon evaporated when he felt the truck lurch forward in an uncomfortable reminder that it was still the middle of the night and he'd still been hauled out to do regiment tech work that should've been handled internally. He slid sideways on the hard bench as the truck bounced along, pride forcing him to keep his hands down instead of bracing against the sides like he wanted to do. It wasn't going to be a comfortable ride. He thought about his own car conveniently parked at the garage beside the compound, and the driver on call that he could have easily directed to take him to the base camp in air-conditioned comfort at a reasonable hour of the morning and scowled.
S.O.P. my ass, he thought uncharitably. This is Tillotson trying his best to irritate me. And succeeding, damn it all.
At least the commander had issued him a moderately interesting escort. The soldier had seemed mildly impressed by his boldness and yet somehow condescending about it, as if he couldn't quite believe Warrick's audacity. Most people, he knew, shut their mouths in face of so much intimidating uniform and weapons attached to twitchy trigger fingers. Warrick was far too used to getting his own way to be cowed by a gun he knew would not be fired in his direction. He was far too valuable an asset for that and besides, there were rules about shooting civilians.
Not, he figured, that the rules actually counted for anyone but expatriated and wealthy British nationals around here. How many innocents had been ripped apart by the man sitting across from him, just as a matter of course? A job statistic. The grim calculus of war. How sickening.
"I'm sure once would be more than enough to leave a permanent scar," he said, anger leaving his voice clipped and cold and only somewhat ruined by the jouncing he was getting from the truck.
Toreth only smiled mercilessly as he watched the other man jostling, the other man apparently having a hard time of it in a transport like this. The key was sitting with your legs spread, feet planted firmly on the floor with your back straight against the barrier, just as Toreth was doing now. It helped with the sliding, though not with the bouncing -- that was just inevitable. Toreth didn't care enough to pass on the advice like he might have to a private.
He counted the anger in the other man's voice as a victory, satisfied with ripping away that smart tongue for the time being. So, someone was all show after all, now that they were alone.
"Suit yourself. Suppose you're more delicate than you look after all." Toreth laughed derisively, then muttered to himself, "permanent fucking scars." The scientist must really be on some sort of high horse, then, if he was tossing that around in regards to fucking military personnel. Toreth might have been offended if he weren't so self-assured of his looks.
He apparently lost interest in his charge, then, one gloved hand reaching into his front pocket to pull out a few folded documents. Reminding himself of where he had to take the civvie once they got to their destination, and who he had to pass the fucker onto.
Delicate. Warrick eyed the amount of armor covering the man head to toe and then brushed his hands up his own arms and chest, shielding by nothing but the soft cotton and crisp linen of his suit. Rich as the fabric might be, it wouldn't stop a bullet. So yes, he was feeling a bit more fragile than a man carrying a rifle and wearing however many pounds of kevlar.
He opened his mouth to say so and then almost rocketed out of his seat when the truck bounced to a sudden stop. Far too soon to be at the base camp. It was too dark for Warrick to see much as he peered out the back of the truck, so he turned to the soldier instead.
"Why are we stopped?"
A road block, maybe? But there hadn't been one that afternoon when he'd traveled from the village to the compound. A strange, suspicious feeling crept over him, making his skin crawl and the hair on his arms lift. He struggled to remember the name he'd been given while still half-asleep and being hauled out of bed. "Corporal Toreth, why have we stopped here?"
Good bloody question. Answering the civilian was the least of Toreth's concerns, though. He steadied himself, hurriedly shoving the papers back into one of his front pockets. Stopping was very decidedly not in the plan, and if any sort of roadblock had been set up here, it hadn't been communicated through the Bowman. Not that the piece of shit was reliable, anyway.
It was supposed to have been a smooth, uninterrupted twenty minute ride, and a safe one at that, in fairly familiar territory. Not a hundred percent safe, of course, because nowhere was during a war, but it hadn't been declared hostile, either. At least they were in a Mastiff, heavily armoured, although Toreth had made the fucking mistake of shifting his crew around on account of the civilian. If any attack came, they were possibly fucked if it didn't come from the front. Toreth's fingers tightened on his assault rifle, thumb pressing the PRR switch on the grip of his weapon as he went to one knee, business end of the rifle aimed out the back of the truck. His eyes searched the darkness for any signs of movement as he spoke, unconsciously echoing the man's question.
"B-C, why in the fuck have we stopped?" His lance-corporal was in the leading Husky, hopefully with a clue about what the fuck was going on. He released the comms switch, expression carefully blank as he waited for the response. It took a few seconds.
"There's something on the road." B-C sounded calm, if not slightly wary. "Body. Should we take a look?"
A body. In the middle of the fucking road. Right. Christ, they weren't born yesterday.
"Not yet. Sit tight and don't get out of your vehicle. If it's a trap, they're going to have to make the first move." Being in heavily armoured vehicles was highly preferable to setting foot outside. "Carter, scope the surroundings, but don't make it obvious. As far as they're concerned, we don't know what the fuck to do about that body yet. If it's an ambush, there can't be that many of them. This zone is supposed to be clear."
Off the comms, "What the hell are we taking you out to fix, again?"
A lack of response from the Corporal wasn't reassuring, but he figured asking a third time wasn't likely to do anything but annoy and distract the only person within five feet who could actually do something if things were to suddenly go pear-shaped. So he shoved aside his impatience while the man spoke quietly into the comm unit and checked his watch. 0214 hours, military time and 2:14 am according to the rest of the country. They'd been on the road barely six minutes from the compound and there'd been no forewarning. If this was an ambush it was either something pulled together at the very last minute by an unprepared group or the result of some kind of nasty leak in security.
Or a third option that sat and festered disturbingly at the back of his mind.
Warrick's ears perked at the muffled response from the comms. A random body in the road, because that wasn't suspicious at all.
"Staff Sergeant Tillotson has been requesting aid with the Automatic Target Recognition software. Specifically the IFFs, which haven't been responding correctly to interrogation commands with the correct sequence because they are cheaply made and outdated-" Warrick paused and shook his head. This definitely wasn't the time for a lecture on how the military spent its budget. "Basically I am here to reprogram your drones so that you aren't accidentally blowing yourselves up because the sensors couldn't identify the proper targets."
Proper targets being enemy military installations and not schools and hospitals, both of which Warrick had already seen fall victim to drone strikes, although whether that was the fault of broken sensors or simply lazy recon work remained to be seen. It made little difference to the devastated township why they were being bombed. That twinge of unease started again and Warrick considered whether or not it was worth expressing his concerns.
"I'm...not sure it's important information," he said finally, his voice hesitant, "but we've received several written threats. Or Simtech has, anyway. Since the project began. Most of them having to do with being a Western research operation out here, and nothing ever amounting to more than the equivalent of a nasty letter. It's never been serious enough to do more than entertain our security team, really."
Under different circumstances, Toreth might've echoed the scientist's opinion on the IFF systems being shitty and unusable, because at the end of the day, it was men like him who had to use them and cop the psychological after-effects of them fucking up. Not that the psychological after-effects bothered Toreth in particular, but he wasn't exactly fond of the tactical implications of the colossal fuck-ups and all the bullshit paperwork that came afterwards, required for saving his and his squad's arse.
For now, though, all he did was nod a fraction and listen patiently to the civilian's reply. Relatively patiently. His fingers tightened and loosened upon his weapon in cycles, waiting for an eruption of sound and movement that would necessitate shouting orders and springing into action.
Well, it'd certainly make sense that the enemy would want to fuck up this little escort team up if they had somehow caught wind that that they had someone who could fix the piece of shit code that had them doing the enemy's dirty work for them. Toreth grimaced, and then shortly after balked as the civilian continued.
"Wait, what did you say?" He gave the man a sideways glance, incredulous at the new information. "You've been receiving written fucking death threats and you didn't think it was a good idea to let us know? What kind of inept fucking security team do you people have? Are they fucking hoping we'll do their job for them or something?"
"We've received letters of discontent from various groups for over eight months, ever since we set up here," Warrick explained, the calmness of his words at odds with the internal flare of anger he felt at being chided like a child. "Exciting enough at first, but ultimately nothing ever came of it and no attempts were ever made to infiltrate Simtech's lab or interfere with daily operations. No, the residents of the village aren't very happy we're here, but they would feel the same about any British national taking up space in their backyard and honestly I can't blame them for that. And this was long before you and your men even thought of arriving on the scene and blowing up vast quantities of sand. So no, I didn't think it relevant to tell you about our 'fan mail'. Not when it seemed like a matter of course for so long."
He glanced again out the back of the truck, squinting into the pitch black and raked his hand through his hair, combing furrows into the dark strands. "Though I am sorry for not providing you with all information, no matter how trivial it might have seemed. I know I'm not entitled to the whole picture here. If this is about the threats...does it change anything about how we proceed?"
Which was just a prettier way of asking what the hell they should do next. If admitting he knew absolutely nothing about how to go about thwarting an ambush in progress--if that's what this was--would provoke the Corporal into revealing some kind of plan, then that was fine with Warrick. The silence from outside the truck was becoming oppressive and he could do with a little reassurance right now.
He wished now that he'd called McLean to accompany him, despite the armed escort. Having his personal bodyguard around might not make much difference in firepower, but he'd have felt a lot more comfortable with someone specifically responsible for his protection.
'Fan mail' my fucking arse. And letters of discontent from various groups? Bloody yes it changed things. One, they would've been given more manpower and firepower, and two, Toreth wouldn't have been in the back talking about fucking of all things. He kept the abrasive comments to himself, though, reigning in his irritation and defaulting to a more professional tone. No use agitating an asset, especially one that he was now responsible for in whatever clusterfuck was to come.
Calmly, "It changes a lot. We would've sent a unit up ahead to scout the route for starters, and we'd hardly have taken a Mastiff. And that's just scratching the surface." A less obviously-transport vehicle would've been Toreth's choice, and in fact another route altogether would've been the most optimal plan of action. The fact that whoever was pissed could've had months of planning -- eight months, potentially -- completely negated his initial hunch of it being a small force.
The silence outside seemed to stretch out for miles, and Toreth was losing his patience, less keen to engage now given this new information. He let his patrolling experience take over. If the civilian showed any signs of beginning to respond to him, he ignored it, directing his speech into his comm again as he checked his watch.
"Gentlemen, forget it. We're going to run standard on this. B-C, deploy a smoke screen in fifteen. As soon as you do, we're going to reverse the fuck out of here, and your crew's going to follow. Gill, I'm counting ten -- get ready to get us out of here. Everyone else, suppressive fire when the shooting starts."
S.O.P to book it and run when you encountered a potential enemy on patrol. Even if it delayed the mission, it was better to go back through territory you knew rather than panic and potentially drive through some cleverly laid mines. Toreth kept his gaze trained on the darkness outside the truck, but gave the civilian a countdown from five with his fingers regardless.
Warrick took the brief countdown as an opportunity to slide towards the back of the truck bed, deeper in, so he could hook an arm around the thick bar bolting the benches in place. He doubted it would help much with the jouncing but it would keep him from smashing open his face on the walls of the truck if they did a hard turn. The position would also keep him out of the line of sight if anyone happened to shoot at the back windows. The fact that Toreth seemed fairly certain that there would be shooting was no comfort. He knew the armored car would offer some protection and all the windows were bulletproof glass anyway, but that didn't necessarily deter certain types of ammunition.
And it would be of no help at all if a group managed to pry open the doors. Or merely blow up the entire vehicle with an RPG.
There was a muted pop of the smoke screen being deployed, followed by the jolt of their vehicle reversing while Warrick clutched at the bar and tried not to bruise himself too badly in the process. His teeth clenched to keep from rattling painfully as the truck swerved over rocky ground. It wasn't the smoothest exit but for a few moments it seemed as though they would get away with it without incident.
And then it started. The percussive clatter of AK fire somewhere to the left of them and then the zip and thunk of ammunition that Warrick couldn't classify ricocheting off the side of the Mastiff. Someone was shooting at them. More than one someone from the sounds of it.
Toreth had braced himself for the bumpy ride, fingers gripped upon the bench beside him tightly as the tires screeched and skidded into motion. He had given his orders, and his job now was to listen carefully to his comms chatter as his team carried them out. As they reversed, he counted the seconds before the firing started, half-listening to Carter's sudden observation of the enemy being entrenched somewhere within the trees. Well, that would've been fucking helpful five seconds earlier.
The shooting had started after about three seconds, and Toreth was more than a little surprised to note just how much shooting there actually was. Where in the fuck did these guys get all their guns? AKs. They at least had to be some sort of organised unit -- not the pathetic, mismatched outfit that Toreth had originally imagined, and maybe SimTech needed to be more fucking forthcoming with their information from now on.
Outside the gunfire continued, the sound of the enemy's gunfire becoming overwhelmed by the sound of his own team's suppressive fire. The shots at them appeared to falter against the barrage, their frequency falling, and Toreth could hear muted screaming from outside that indicated that some of his team's shots had found their mark. He calmly looked at the asset, apparently unfazed and unbothered by the possibility of the Mastiff's defences being penetrable. The enemy would've opened with an RPG or any other real threat if they had one, was his logic. His look was questioning.
"How much do the natives know about what it is you do here?" Also known as, are you publicly advertising the fact that you help the British Army and Royal Marines with their killing? Their government-sactioned killing, of course.
"Christ." Warrick breathed out the curse in the absence of more gunfire, the only sound now that muted roar of their retreat and some unintelligible yelling that he assumed had to come from whoever had attempted to ambush them. Presumably everyone from Toreth's team was uninjured, otherwise Warrick wagered he'd have heard about it over the bowman and the Corporal wouldn't have been sitting there so calmly, but still...
They'd just been shot at. Warrick had never been shot at before.
He released his white-knuckled grip on the seat and little and checked his watch again for the time and the GPS positioning unit installed within it. A gift for his birthday from Dilly. So you don't lose your way home, she teased him before seeing him off, her nose wrinkling at the idea of her brother wasting his time flitting about a hostile desert. Perhaps she'd been right about that if it'd led to this, but Warrick hadn't cared about anything but the research when he signed the contract to go.
He still cared about the research, enough to worry about their retreat taking them within the vicinity of the labs with a hit squad on their tail. "SimTech's operations are restricted intel only. All those who work within the compound have been vetted personally and signed the company's standard confidentiality contracts. I doubt even your commanding officer is aware of exactly what we do here, it's all been kept very secret. What I do for the military is a side-track that barely scrapes the surface of SimTech's purpose here, and it is also a matter of the highest security."
Warrick could count on one hand the number of people aware of just how often the Royal Marines' Tech Division requested his expertise, and those were members of his personal staff and highly trusted. No, if there was a leak it was from outside of SimTech. He was certain of it.
"The natives who protest the existence of the lab, protest it because it is a private compound for a wealthy Western corporation in a destitute area only made more so by military invasion," he said, pressing his hands together to stop the tell-tale shaking of unspent adrenaline. "We could be hear for humanitarian aide and the natives would still hate it because we're here. Where, they feel, we are not meant to be."
Well, someone sure had a high opinion of his company and its personnel, not to mention the worth of his own research. Toreth refused to be impressed -- he wasn't even sure he'd give such a high opinion of the entire Royal Marines themselves outside of his own team, and what kind of important research could they be possibly doing out in the middle of fucking nowhere, anyway?
"Matter of the highest security. Right." He grimaced, partially inclined to not comment on the matter any further. The man had at least hit the nail on the head with his last remark; he had seen humanitarian efforts fail spectacularly before, when attempts to vaccinate or feed or mend were met with bombs and slaughter or just a flat-out refusal to cooperate. Still, he had a hard time believing that such an apparently organised force was waiting it out on the side of the road so specifically just to get at a Western corporation. Maybe if the military weren't here, sure, but when the enemy had bigger, more pressing things to worry about?
His eyes fell to the man's hands, pressed together tightly. No prizes for guessing what he was doing that for.
"Well, I don't know what to tell you, but generically fucked off natives don't sit in ambush like that if they're just fucked off about your compound, not when they're busy dealing with a bloody invasion. Did you hear the amount of gunfire?" Toreth stopped, momentarily distracted by the background chatter on the comms. Everyone was fine, and there were a few congratulatory remarks on the downed targets. He tuned it out, continuing. "Look, I'm not asking you to tell me your company secrets -- I couldn't give two fucks about that. But when I've got my men on the line and my job's to deliver you -- before morning -- and you've got heat on you, it fucking helps if you tell my CO fucking everything. You can always sue the fuck out of us afterwards if something leaks."
Not that it was any use chastising or being angry. What was done was done. Toreth shook his head, preempting any rebuttal. "Just something to consider for next time. Hardly matters now, does it? B-C, are we clear, or are they pursuing?"
"We appear to be clear. No vehicular pursuit. I think they must not have expected us to make it past the body. Mines. What's our destination now? Are we aborting?"
"No, we're not fucking aborting. Our asset here is responsible for some pretty fucking heavy stuff, and we've got a delivery time on him to meet. As for our destination... head for the nearest military outpost. There should be one halfway, shouldn't there? Don't go back to the compound. Christ, where's my fucking map?"
Warrick was tempted to snap back that the ambush could very well have nothing to do with him or SimTech at all and more to do with an ambitious attempt by restless dissidents to take marines out on a well-known road. The convoy would have passed countless bolt holes and encampments on the way to the compound to pick him up, and it wasn't as though the Mastiffs were inconspicuous vehicles. But it was clear that the soldier was determined not to listen anyway so he might as well save his breath.
He watched Toreth scramble around in pockets for a map with a sigh and brought up his watch again, tapping a very inquiries into the GPS. After a moment he spoke up.
"We're forty klicks north of the nearest outpost at 33.996 and 68.076. The compound is to the left of us, but you're right I don't think we should go back. If there's any chance at all of us being followed I don't want to lead them to the labs." He should place a call to McLean as well, tell the security team to put certain protocols into action now that his safety and the compounds might be compromised.
"If we want to avoid the main roads, then there should be a turn-off to the right just ahead that will serve as a detour. I'm not sure if that's the best option or not. I haven't ever traveled the backroads here."
The words came out more measured and calm than he felt at that moment. The movement of the truck hid just how badly he was trembling, which was a blessing, and hopefully he looked exhausted instead of terrified. They were fine after all, he wasn't hurt beyond a few bruises from being bounced around the truck and he hadn't even seen any of the gunmen. Just heard the shots and ricochets and drove off like it was nothing. The men on the comms sounded self-congratulatory and jubilant about their hits. All Warrick felt was razor-sharp awareness of everything; the quickness of his own blood through his veins and the scent of gun oil and stale sweat clinging to Corporal Toreth. Everything was unbearably real, visceral in a way that the sterilized environment at SimTech wasn't.
Toreth paused in his efforts of pulling out his map, once again considering the civilian again. It was a more real sort of consideration this time, accompanied with a genuinely thoughtful look as he watched the man rather calmly rattle off coordinates and information. Interesting that the scientist wasn't just a shaking mess in the corner, as Toreth might have expected a civilian to be. The apparent composure made him grin slightly, amusement replacing his earlier irritation as he resumed unfolding his map, eyes flicking over the grids to the coordinates and locations the man had read aloud. He examined the aforementioned detour in particular, following the line of the road. Rather massive fucking detour, but it was still a way through. He bit his lip slightly, worrying at it as he traced a finger along the lines of the map, his rifle once again hanging loosely by his side.
"Warrick, right?" He had known the scientist's name all along, of course, having been given at least that much detail for this little escort mission. Hadn't bothered to actually use it until now, though. "Assuming the natives don't have a vehicle like B-C said, and assuming their communications are just as shitty as we think, the detour seems like the best choice. If the road still exists."
The maps were always constantly being re-drawn and updated as the invasion continued, what with entire villages and roads and bridges being wiped out in the chaos of battle. Toreth tapped the road thoughtfully as he scanned the map for other routes. The other routes were either further into unsecured, unknown territory or they required going off-road, which meant a hundred more potential obstacles. They didn't have time for that, especially not in the dark.
"33.996, 68.076, that's the outpost. I repeat, 39.996, 68.076. There should be a right turn a few hundred meters ahead that'll get us on the way. We'll take that."
"Copy that, sir." B-C, being ever-reliable.
"And Gill? Excellent fucking driving. Barely felt a thing back here. Really. Think you only battered our package just a little." Toreth grinned as he said it, and nodded over to Warrick, directing his speech off the comms again. "Are you alright?"
There was barely a pause after Toreth's question before his driver was answering him smartly. "I know you like your little liaisons rough, Corporal."
"Don't be cheeky and just drive, thanks, you bald fuck. Couldn't even pull your fucking hair while I fucked you even if I wanted to. Don't get jealous just because you've got a mug only your inbred mother could love. Fucking Welsh piece of shit."
Well. One could certainly tell that he was in the company of soldiers.
The flurry of good-natured insults and profanity seemed so absurdly out of place that for a moment all Warrick could do was stare in shock. Then a giggle burst through his lips and he had to clap a hand over his mouth as the laughter overtook him, bending him at the waist until he sat with his head almost between his knees, ribs aching.
"S-sorry," he sputtered when he could breathe again, voice thick with relieved amusement. "Delayed panic response, I think. Christ, I can't believe we were just shot at. No, I'm fine. A few bruises at most, nothing serious. My back will likely be black and blue tomorrow."
His dark eyes gleamed a little in the low light of the truck as he grinned back at Toreth.
"But you can tell your wheelman that I had rougher liaisons than this in uni, though they usually had the decency to get me properly drunk first. And it's Dr. Warrick. Or Keir."
The truck lurched a little as they made the turn and Warrick leaned in the opposite direction to keep his balance, mimicking Toreth's posture now that he was aware enough of it to do so.
Toreth was slightly astounded at the laughter, having barely batted an eye as he delivered the barb at his driver the whole thing was so normal to him. There was a response from Gill -- something along the lines of 'just because your ma never loved you' -- but it was lost in the scientist's outburst, and he forgot to respond entirely.
Maybe the civilian wasn't as stuck-up as he had originally thought, then. The grin didn't leave his face as he watched Warrick recover, watched him straighten and speak. Bruises sounded fine. If he hadn't strained, pulled or broken anything, it didn't need to be looked at, and Toreth was more than happy to let him shoulder the pain. But Christ, the man was just asking to be fucked, wasn't he? Between all that adrenaline. The grin turned smug as Toreth lowered his eyes and watched the other man through his lashes.
"Interested in my driver now, are you, Dr. Warrick? Gill's one of the nicer ones, so he probably won't play as rough as it sounds like you'd like, but he might go the effort of getting you drunk and all." Bluff. Gill loved women too much to deviate. Not that Toreth had actively tried to sleep with any of his team -- that was simply too messy and unprofessional, even by his standards. Everything he knew about his team's tastes was through outlandish stories, told to kill time.
"I wouldn't, by the way. Have the decency to get you proper drunk first. It'd dull the experience, don't you think?"
"It might very well be the only way you'd get me to go home with you in the first place," Warrick countered, still smiling despite the painful pull of his shoulder when he reached behind him to brace against another bumpy section of road. He deserved a massage after this trip. The medical center on the base would likely have a physical therapist and Warrick would be taking advantage as soon as possible.
Toreth seemed more relaxed now, which comforted him more effectively than the lack of gunfire in the air. The danger might not be completely over and done with but things were apparently back on track enough for the Corporal to start flirting with him again. What would it be like, he wondered, to have a one-off with a military man? He'd never been tempted before, as most of his encounters with the Royals had been frankly antagonistic affairs in which he tolerated them at best. He didn't come to this country to correct the failings of the Defense Ministry and he didn't come here to roll around the sheets with grunts either.
Still, he imagined it would be a hell of a ride. He let his eyes roam over Toreth again, lingering at his hands and the way the man casually held his weapon, long fingers cradling the grip away from the trigger. Relaxed but ready to slip into lethality between one breath and the next and every bit of him dangerous.
"No, I don't think 'decency' would factor into things at all," he murmured, just barely audible above the growl of the engine.
Toreth followed the civilian's gaze, fairly conscious of what the other man was looking at. Adrenaline from being shot at meant he was already half-buzzing, restless with the need to do something, and the feeling coupled with his sleep deprivation and coffee crystals meant he was feeling utterly reckless beneath his cool exterior. Hearing snatches of Warrick's murmured words didn't help his attitude, either, the words thrilling him a little.
He hefted his weapon, tilting it slightly so that Warrick could get a better look at it. Toreth kept his gaze on him as he spoke, voice smooth and practiced.
"It's an SA80 A2 ACOG. Gas-operated assault-rifle, with an overall length of 785mm and a barrel length of 518mm. Five kilos when all kitted out, about four kilos when it isn't. Has a muzzle velocity of 940m/s and it's effective up to 400m, though you can do fairly well with it from up to 600m if you use the right gear and know what you're doing. Fires 610 to 775 rounds per minute." He paused, letting the words sink in for a moment before continuing. "It's very fucking dangerous. Want to hold it?"
Warrick knew about guns in theory; how they worked, what specifics of engineering differentiated one type of weapon from another. He'd never held one himself, though he made certain that SimTech's security team was outfitted with the best. Despite the few self-defense courses he'd been obliged to take through the company, he'd never really felt comfortable with the idea of carrying or using a gun. He felt that sort of thing was best left to his bodyguard and the professionals.
Even now, with the offer made, Warrick still wasn't sure he actually wanted to hold the rifle. It looked natural in Toreth's arms, like an extension of his body. It wouldn't look the same in his hands at all.
He looked between the gun and the soldier, his fingers reaching to trace over the barrel, cold metal that would become burning hot if it were to fire. He shivered.
"I think perhaps not," he decided after a moment, taking his hand back and sliding it between his legs, as if to warm his fingers. "I don't have much experience holding dangerous things." The words were flirtatious but his tone was thoughtful.
The answer and reaction seemed to satisfy Toreth in some way, because he smiled after seeing and hearing it. Nice double-meaning. If all escort missions were this entertaining and featured this attractive of potential -- no, he had already sworn, definite -- fucks, he might not object to them so much.
He let the rifle rest against his lap again, loosely gripping it with a hand as he gestured with the other, giving a casual wave.
"I'd be happy to let you practice at your own leisure whenever you'd like," he said generously, the smile still on his face. He was about to leave it at that, but then a thought occurred to him suddenly, and he wanted to try and throw the other man off-balance. That it seemed difficult to do so made it all the more appealing of a venture.
"So tell me, how rough do you really like it? I'm curious."
If the question startled Warrick at all, he didn't show it. There wasn't even a hint of a blush on his cheeks and he looked Toreth right in the eye as he answered.
"Rough enough to be extremely selective in my choice of partners, lest I end up in an unsafe situation. What I like is not to everyone's tastes. And sometimes it's entirely too much to someone's taste. I need to know that my evening isn't going to end in a mess my bodyguard needs to tidy up."
And to be honest, Warrick hadn't indulged in his particular tastes since the divorce. Messiness with Lissa over his contract work and the settlement followed by a long stretch of being too busy with SimTech for much of anything else had kept him fairly celibate. He had the occasional 'tame' fling with colleagues during conferences and benefits and that was it.
"What about you, Corporal?" he asked, turning the question back around at the other man. "How rough do you like it? I don't imagine they let you lot 'fraternize' much, but do you get tired enough of violence during your day job that you'd rather indulge in mild cuddling in your off hours?"
Toreth couldn't hold back a chuckle at the question, simply because it was fucking outrageous. Mild cuddling? If any of his men heard that, even posed as an interrogative, he'd never hear the end of it.
"Quite the contrary. This marine enjoys continuing the violence into the wee hours of the morning, if asked nicely for it, and is utterly unapologetic about the fact." He was half-joking, but his tone lent a certain degree of ambiguity to the words, making it sound rather matter-of-fact.
Toreth looked lazy, almost bored as he spoke. In truth, he was having a hard time believing that the earlier question hadn't gotten a rise out of the man. Warrick had thrown the question back at him, after a rather effortless and intriguing reply. Rough enough to be entirely too much to someone's taste, was it? Toreth could imagine that: the stubborn civilian requiring a bit of shoving around and threatening before he complied with anything, moaning denials and putting up a serious fight as he was held down upon the floor or up against a wall. Twisting and writhing, not wanting to be touched and groped and eventually fucked by a 'killer', but liking it all the same despite his fancy fucking morals.
Definitely intriguing.
He tried again, determined to ruffle feathers. Determined to make that cool mask break.
"Given your preferences, now I'm incredibly surprised you don't make a habit of fucking government-sanctioned killers. We're fairly good at following the rules given to us, you know. Operating within safe boundaries. We're good at giving commands, too. For example..." He hesitated for only half a second. Unprofessional to do this on duty, but he wasn't planning on taking it too far, so it couldn't hurt that much, could it? Not unless the civilian here went crying to his CO about sexual harassment or some other bullshit.
Toreth leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His voice hardened, and whatever conversational tone he had going disappeared completely. His tone was dark and dangerous, and unmistakably a command.
'Utterly unapologetic' was almost expected at this point. Unlike the 'if asked nicely for it' part was not. How many people, Warrick wondered, had ever asked for the sort of things he was imagined when he thought about taking the man to bed? There were those that got off on the thought of being with a soldier, he was sure. Men in uniform was a specific kink for a reason. But that wasn't quite it for him. Corporal Toreth would be just as dangerous without the body armor and the gun.
Warrick was confident that he wouldn't ask for it nicely, though. At least, not at first. The marine would have to earn his capitulation and he didn't plan on making it easy to obtain. He had a feeling Toreth was used to it being all too easy to find forgettable bodies to fuck, without even a hint of effort being put into it. It must be rather boring for him, he mused. If the Corporal was lazily flirting with civilian scientists in the middle of a warzone, he must have run through his options fairly quickly out here.
Did he really want to offer himself up as an alternative? The mention of safe boundaries made his eyes narrow in skepticism. It was true that soldiers generally were good at following explicit instructions. And it would be fairly stupid of the marine to put himself in a position where Warrick would be inclined to file a report or give a complaint. Dishonorable discharge awaited many a disgraced soldier who couldn't keep to the rules and injury to an allied scientist with corporate connections wouldn't go over too well with Toreth's superiors.
Which is why it startled him to hear the shift in the man's voice and posture, and the words-
The words hit him like a punch to the gut, sucking all the air from his lungs and leaving him stunned and tensed. Toreth's voice promised a whole host of things; things Warrick shouldn't want in the first place. His legs jerked with the instinctive urge to buckle under the force of that command, but he was already sitting and this wasn't really the time or the place. Something he was sure the corporal was aware of already.
Warrick's eyes closed for a count of five, rebuilding his composure until he was certain he could speak without betraying himself. He licked his lips before he tried.
"Not the best time for games like that, sir. This might not be exactly what I meant by an 'unsafe situation' but I think escaping an armed ambush qualifies, don't you?"
If that had drawn the reaction that Toreth had intended, satisfaction didn't show through on his features. He remained as he was, perfectly poised to easily reach over and grab, his gaze intense as if he were seriously contemplating jerking the civilian down so that he'd comply. He let Warrick's words settle in the air, not answering for a few long seconds.
Sir. Sounded nice from Warrick's lips, even tainted with disdain as it was. He had liked how careful the man was, too, so persistent on keeping his cool, even after his rather telling stunned silence. Eyes closed, then measured tones, and then no indication of outrage at being spoken to like that. Just, not the best time. Later, then. The reaction spoke volumes.
Toreth finally laughed again, breaking character as he leaned back, far enough that he was slouched against the wall of the vehicle. The back of his head rested against the wall, which looked a little uncomfortable, really, as the vehicle continued on its path, shaking over the dirt road. He glanced at the flimsy excuse for a door and barrier separating them from the other two men, and he didn't have to guess that they were being eavesdropped on. There was a reason the comms were so quiet.
"Probably. Don't worry, your safety is actually -- and unfortunately -- my top fucking priority right now. I'd hate to make Gill blush, anyway." This time there was no indication that he was clicking the comms on when he directed his question, and as a result he spoke up. "How are we for time, Gill?"
There was a silence, a complete lack of a response, and Toreth practically rolled his eyes, reaching over to thump on the barrier. There were words in Welsh, presumably curse words, before the reply came.
"About fifteen minutes to the outpost, Corporal. Great thing about the lack of intrastructure here is there are no speed limits. I've been doing bloody 100, can you believe that?" Through backroads? Yes, actually, because fuck, this was an awful ride. "Anyway, fifteen minutes is probably enough time for a combat jerk, but Bradley and I would really prefer you didn't get the back of the Mastiff dirty. You know we have to clean that up, and that might count as sloppy seconds. Does it, Bradley?"
"Do you know what sloppy seconds even means, you fucking retard?"
Toreth didn't respond, too busy thinking over the logistics of the whole operation. Despite the assertiveness with which he had said he was going to deliver the civilian by morning, it was looking like a less and less likely venture the more he thought about it.
It was a military outpost, which meant a lot of army fucks manning it, which meant a face-off on whose dick was bigger (the marines', obviously). What Toreth really wanted was a vehicle swap-over and to send some men out to catch the terrorists or sabs or whatever-the-fuck they were to find out more intel, but that would be a lot of negotiating that he really had no authority to do, and he knew Tillotson would be fucking inept about the whole thing. A bonus, though, was that the army arseholes had more to worry about in regards to the systems going haywire -- on top of the drones, they were trialing the Tracking Point TP750s. Marines were too old hat -- and elitist at that -- to switch to the self-aiming rifles. The whole thing was a fucking disaster, anyway. Sniper rifles that could potentially be bricked or purposefully fed the wrong target coordinates? A fucking nightmare.
Maybe he could convince the civilian for a quick fuck before he delivered him, if the delays were going to be long. The thought seemed to cheer him significantly, because he was smiling slightly, though a part of him doubted he would even be in the mood for fucking once he was done waving his dick around metaphorically.
Having internalised most of his thoughts, his words seemed to come out of the blue.
"I hope your schedule wasn't too busy, because there's no bloody way we're going to get you there on time." And then, almost immediately after, "Are you really the only one who can fix these systems?" Toreth raised an eyebrow.
This was most definitely not standard operating procedure, although it was what Brad was trained for. Special operations, reconnaissance. In and out. Better than driving around a desert in a humvee, even if the thing was practically his pride and joy. No, this is infinitely better, being able to do what he was trained to do -- being able to utilize his skillset and not wait around for four hours for a fucking translator.
Except, he has no idea what he's after this time, and he's without the rest of his squad, and that already makes him a little uncomfortable. He'd be fine with it if it was completely solo work, even, but when he has to work with an unknown factor, he'd prefer having at least one other person he knows he can rely on.
This unknown factor comes in a red-headed, female flavour. Sort of femme fatale, which makes a smile pull at the corners of Brad's mouth, but he manages to fight it off. He hasn't said much to her yet. They only rendezvoused ten minutes ago, in a dingy hangar where they're supposed to wait for... something. Not knowing frustrates him, but that's how it is sometimes. Some things are just on a need-to-know-basis.
He crouches behind a set of crates, padded knees resting against cement as he waits. It's quiet out here. Whatever they're waiting for, Brad's sure they'll hear it from a mile away. There's nothing else around but sand and dust and the occasional sound of a raptor soaring past, after all.
Brad clicks his tongue, eyeing off his companion. She's sexy, almost appallingly so. Maybe that's why Nate saw fit to assign this job to him -- because the other marines behave like fucking animals at the slightest suggestion of the fairer kind. Retards probably wouldn't be able to keep it in their pants long enough to focus on their mission.
"Am I going to find out what we're here for?" He leans his head back against the crate, closing his eyes for a few seconds before he opens them again, looking at her expectantly.
Being paired with regular grunts wasn't exactly on her wishlist. They lacked the training she had and they had an almost fatalistic need to constantly have an alpha in their midst. Someone they looked up to and took commands from. There was always a very clear hierarchy in the military and it took a specific mindset to be okay with that. Nat wasn't of that mindset. Sure, she took orders from her superiors, but she could and had been paired with other 'alphas' without butting heads. They knew what they were good at, where their skills lay, and they played up to them. With grunts, it was a constant pissing match while measuring their dicks, all while smashing beer cans on their head to prove who was entitled to rule the roost, so to speak.
She'd been told this one had training, but as he was, at the end of the day, a grunt, she was doubtful. But right now, he was all she had, so alienating him right off the bat before she got to see if he'd be any use beyond as target practice wasn't her go-to reaction.
So when he spoke, she slitted her eyes open (having been listening for the approaching stealth copter that hadn't arrived yet), glancing at him and wondering just how nice she felt like being. "Inevitably. How, however, depends on you. What's your skill set, soldier?"
Brad didn't flinch at the word, but only on account of her being a woman. Soldier. If it had been some army fuck trying to talk him down, he might have bristled and snapped back, blue eyes bright and intense as he stared them down. But no, because it was a woman, his drawl was patient rather than snappy.
"Marine, ma'am. U.S. Reconnaissance Marine." She had asked a specific question, though, and so he continued smoothly, the words clearly practiced. "Trained for deep reconnaissance, specifically geared towards stealth. Sneaking behind enemy lines, remaining undetected. Covert missions. Sabotage, rescue, intel. "
His tone was more matter-of-fact than that of a braggart. Given that she had simply lumped him in as a soldier, Brad suspected she didn't particularly care what he was specifically. Practical. He could work with that.
"All of which I've been briefed is what you need."
Being in the dark about things might have been the status quo sometimes, but that didn't mean he liked it.
Ah, right. Marine. She was surprised he'd corrected her so... politely. Most marines she knew would go from zero to fuck you the second they were referred to as what they thought of as 'lesser' than they were. He sounded calm, though. Even with the extra emphasis on the ma'am. Listing off his strong points, she nodded, glad that the powers watching over them had actually picked someone suited to this instead of giving her some wet behind the ears greenie. That he didn't fly off the handle and try to prove himself to her spoke more than most of his resume. He was confident in what he could do, stating it like a fact instead of trying to roll out a list of things to make himself seem like the top dog.
She liked that. "Good. Then you'll actually come in handy here. We've got a stealth inbound, two targets; one living, one not. Target one is a flashdrive with intel that needs to not be spread beyond the damage its already done. Target two is the carrier. Only one needs to be brought in."
He raised an eyebrow, faintly surprised that she had decided to divulge what he had asked for so readily. He had expected some flippant answer on how the info was above his paygrade, or maybe something along the lines of how he was only there to provide support and therefore it didn't matter. As a result, the surprise showed on his face, and for a few seconds he looked quizzical more than anything as he studied her. Then he nodded.
"Yes, ma'am." No extra emphasis on the ma'am this time. He shifted so that he was more comfortably crouched -- he could feel pins and needles beginning to creep in already. "We bring in the carrier. Got it." There was a dry quality to his voice, and he cracked a faint smile.
"If I thought you were even a little bit serious, I'd take you out now just to save you from further embarrassment." The corner of her mouth lifted as she looked over at him before she settled back in her crouch. She took turns flexing and focusing on each muscle group in her body -- like relaxation meditation, only for the purpose of keeping things from falling asleep. She watched him shift, knowing it was likely for the same effect.
Natasha ran on the basis of 'need to know'. She'd hold mission specifics from people she thought might compromise them, but if she felt it would garner full participation, she'd share what was needed. Keeping him in the dark would just breed disdain on his end and there was no way she was having backup she couldn't trust to watch her back. So she'd rather have him a little in the know and happy than ignorant and spiteful.
Forget the fact that there's freaky shit going on that should be leaving the entire town in an insomniac state. Roman feels like he can't sleep for other reasons.
He's pissed.
He kind of doesn't like the way Peter hangs with Letha. He hates it, in fact. It fucks with him somewhere deep down inside, for a reason he can't quite pinpoint. He loves his cousin with all his heart -- however much that means, because do Godfreys even have hearts? -- and Peter is his best friend -- only friend? -- and so it really shouldn't matter, right? But it does.
All he knows is he feels a restless sort of anger. He wants to pace back and forth, he can't keep still. And so -- fuck his mother and her batshit, obsessive behaviour and rules -- he decides to go for a midnight wander. If his wandering takes him close to Peter's, well, then, that's just a coincidence.
One hand's shoved in the pocket of his black coat as he walks, the other carrying a bottle of bourbon by the neck, the bottle clearly already fairly gotten-into. His car's parked not far away from Peter's place. He's not sure what he really wants out of this. He'll be satisfied just seeing Peter and Letha apart, he thinks, because shit, it's like they're joined at the hip lately.
He doesn't see Letha's car tonight, and so that's a good start. Maybe that will be enough -- maybe he'll go home with just that observation made. He leans against the side of his car, taking a swig from the bottle, idly watching. ]
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The Calculus of War (Military AU) - Warrick/Toreth
It was ridiculous, really. There was no reason to come to his lab with weapons in hand and an entire squad devoted to picking him up as if he were some unwilling local under invasion instead of a loyal member of the Commonwealth temporarily expatriated in the name of scientific advancement. The fact that the military insisted upon the use of technology they could barely afford and scarcely understood was nothing to do with him. Still, it was easier to grumble and slide out of bed than to put up a fuss and dodge bullets. Perhaps he could manage to teach one of their technicians how to stop being a brainless idiot and they'd finally leave him alone to finish his work in peace.
"This really couldn't have waited until morning?" he muttered to one of the soldiers penning him in as they walked to the waiting transport. There was no reason for them to surround him while walking as if he were a prisoner either, but Warrick figured they were doing it simply to be irritating. "Or have been conducted with less unnecessary fanfare? At this rate I'm going to need to pay for my admin's personal therapy and anti-anxiety medication."
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The sound of footsteps in unison on the pavement echoed in the quiet night. Toreth barely batted an eyelash at the muttered question, and for a few seconds he remained silent, content to listen to the familiar rhythm of the footfalls of his squad mates, as if he hadn't heard the scientist's little invective. To engage or not to engage? Fuck, the man was probably some left-wing arsehole who thought he knew better about the whole war. An ivory tower academic. If he didn't say anything now, the over-privileged fuck would think he could spend the whole time bitching and moaning.
"It's S.O.P, not fanfare," he said coolly, not sparing the civilian a glance. He looked at BC instead, who he could see was keeping an impeccably polite expression, maybe the barest traces of exasperation in his eyes if you knew where to look. "And you know, a few of the men here would be more than happy to help with your admin's personal therapy, me included, so don't get too torn up about that. We take care of our kind, as long as they're happy to be our kind."
He shot a wink at the civilian at the last comment, all easy grin.
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Either way, he certainly seemed to think enough of himself that Warrick felt the petty need to bring him down a peg. He offered up a cool smile to counteract that grin and let his gaze go speculative and critical.
"If you're hoping to inflict your kindness on the timid Miss Weatherby, you'll be disappointed. You have the entirely wrong equipment for the job," he said crisply. "Much like your tech division."
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There was a low whistle from somewhere off to Toreth's side, one of the other men finally cracking thanks to the exchange, and he could see the beginnings of a smirk pulling at BC's lips. Ah. Good to know his squad was getting a kick out of this. Toreth's expression remained unchanged, still casual and at ease despite the outright insult. It was going to take a lot more than that for him to be baited and humiliated in front of his team. If he could stay cool while dealing with his fuckwit of a commander, he could stay cool dealing with this civilian.
"Mm, that might be so. But you know, seeing as you apparently have the right equipment for the job tonight, maybe I should be directing my kindness elsewhere. You know, as thanks for the midnight help and all." Fucker.
Toreth checked his watch as they approached the vehicle, his men peeling away and setting off to their designated positions. He nodded to the back of the truck, waiting for the man to comply before he climbed in after him.
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Again, the response surprised him. He'd expected to be glared at and told to shut up, or simply ignored if he didn't manage to anger the man enough to bother with a rejoinder.
"As magnanimous as that offer is, I don't sleep with killers, government-approved or not," he said, then made a show of looking the man up and down as they got closer to the truck, letting his eyes linger on the musculature he could imagine beneath the bulk of kevlar. "Or at least I try not to make a habit of it."
Then it was his turn to smirk as he hauled himself up into the vehicle.
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He raised an eyebrow at the slow gaze upon him, frankly surprised more than anything at the audacity of it. Did he not think that anyone would try to fuck him, being the civilian that he was, or was he genuinely giving Toreth the option of going for it? He was going to be very horribly mistaken if it were the former, because some of the men out here would go for it with no hesitation or qualms, and if it were the latter? Well...
Toreth shut his mouth when he realised he had become slack-jawed at the closing remark there, then climbed into the vehicle after the other man, shaking off his surprise at the smooth reply. He had apparently recovered in the few seconds it took to settle into his spot opposite his charge, because he was smiling again when his eyes fell upon the scientist, regarding him carefully now that he could get a better face-to-face look.
The civilian was good-looking, certainly. Not fit like the other men he was used to seeing, all chiseled muscle and hardened bodies thanks to their training, but definitely handsome, and with the allure of somebody who probably thought they were too good to even be talking to anyone in the military. And that fucking remark, the one about not sleeping with government-approved killers? Toreth almost laughed as he made a mental vow that he'd have the scientist begging to be fucked by one sooner rather than later.
"Promise I'll have you coming back for more once you get started. Habits started out here get hard to break, you know." In more ways than one.
He leaned back and gave the side of the truck three strong thumps with his fist, signalling the good-to-go. Five seconds later and the vehicle was lurching forward with a groan as the gears shifted, and Toreth settled in, made himself comfortable. His rifle rested in his lap, the strap of the weapon slung across his chest as he held onto it, so used to its presence that it was like an extension of his body at this point.
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S.O.P. my ass, he thought uncharitably. This is Tillotson trying his best to irritate me. And succeeding, damn it all.
At least the commander had issued him a moderately interesting escort. The soldier had seemed mildly impressed by his boldness and yet somehow condescending about it, as if he couldn't quite believe Warrick's audacity. Most people, he knew, shut their mouths in face of so much intimidating uniform and weapons attached to twitchy trigger fingers. Warrick was far too used to getting his own way to be cowed by a gun he knew would not be fired in his direction. He was far too valuable an asset for that and besides, there were rules about shooting civilians.
Not, he figured, that the rules actually counted for anyone but expatriated and wealthy British nationals around here. How many innocents had been ripped apart by the man sitting across from him, just as a matter of course? A job statistic. The grim calculus of war. How sickening.
"I'm sure once would be more than enough to leave a permanent scar," he said, anger leaving his voice clipped and cold and only somewhat ruined by the jouncing he was getting from the truck.
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He counted the anger in the other man's voice as a victory, satisfied with ripping away that smart tongue for the time being. So, someone was all show after all, now that they were alone.
"Suit yourself. Suppose you're more delicate than you look after all." Toreth laughed derisively, then muttered to himself, "permanent fucking scars." The scientist must really be on some sort of high horse, then, if he was tossing that around in regards to fucking military personnel. Toreth might have been offended if he weren't so self-assured of his looks.
He apparently lost interest in his charge, then, one gloved hand reaching into his front pocket to pull out a few folded documents. Reminding himself of where he had to take the civvie once they got to their destination, and who he had to pass the fucker onto.
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He opened his mouth to say so and then almost rocketed out of his seat when the truck bounced to a sudden stop. Far too soon to be at the base camp. It was too dark for Warrick to see much as he peered out the back of the truck, so he turned to the soldier instead.
"Why are we stopped?"
A road block, maybe? But there hadn't been one that afternoon when he'd traveled from the village to the compound. A strange, suspicious feeling crept over him, making his skin crawl and the hair on his arms lift. He struggled to remember the name he'd been given while still half-asleep and being hauled out of bed. "Corporal Toreth, why have we stopped here?"
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It was supposed to have been a smooth, uninterrupted twenty minute ride, and a safe one at that, in fairly familiar territory. Not a hundred percent safe, of course, because nowhere was during a war, but it hadn't been declared hostile, either. At least they were in a Mastiff, heavily armoured, although Toreth had made the fucking mistake of shifting his crew around on account of the civilian. If any attack came, they were possibly fucked if it didn't come from the front. Toreth's fingers tightened on his assault rifle, thumb pressing the PRR switch on the grip of his weapon as he went to one knee, business end of the rifle aimed out the back of the truck. His eyes searched the darkness for any signs of movement as he spoke, unconsciously echoing the man's question.
"B-C, why in the fuck have we stopped?" His lance-corporal was in the leading Husky, hopefully with a clue about what the fuck was going on. He released the comms switch, expression carefully blank as he waited for the response. It took a few seconds.
"There's something on the road." B-C sounded calm, if not slightly wary. "Body. Should we take a look?"
A body. In the middle of the fucking road. Right. Christ, they weren't born yesterday.
"Not yet. Sit tight and don't get out of your vehicle. If it's a trap, they're going to have to make the first move." Being in heavily armoured vehicles was highly preferable to setting foot outside. "Carter, scope the surroundings, but don't make it obvious. As far as they're concerned, we don't know what the fuck to do about that body yet. If it's an ambush, there can't be that many of them. This zone is supposed to be clear."
Off the comms, "What the hell are we taking you out to fix, again?"
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Or a third option that sat and festered disturbingly at the back of his mind.
Warrick's ears perked at the muffled response from the comms. A random body in the road, because that wasn't suspicious at all.
"Staff Sergeant Tillotson has been requesting aid with the Automatic Target Recognition software. Specifically the IFFs, which haven't been responding correctly to interrogation commands with the correct sequence because they are cheaply made and outdated-" Warrick paused and shook his head. This definitely wasn't the time for a lecture on how the military spent its budget. "Basically I am here to reprogram your drones so that you aren't accidentally blowing yourselves up because the sensors couldn't identify the proper targets."
Proper targets being enemy military installations and not schools and hospitals, both of which Warrick had already seen fall victim to drone strikes, although whether that was the fault of broken sensors or simply lazy recon work remained to be seen. It made little difference to the devastated township why they were being bombed. That twinge of unease started again and Warrick considered whether or not it was worth expressing his concerns.
"I'm...not sure it's important information," he said finally, his voice hesitant, "but we've received several written threats. Or Simtech has, anyway. Since the project began. Most of them having to do with being a Western research operation out here, and nothing ever amounting to more than the equivalent of a nasty letter. It's never been serious enough to do more than entertain our security team, really."
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For now, though, all he did was nod a fraction and listen patiently to the civilian's reply. Relatively patiently. His fingers tightened and loosened upon his weapon in cycles, waiting for an eruption of sound and movement that would necessitate shouting orders and springing into action.
Well, it'd certainly make sense that the enemy would want to fuck up this little escort team up if they had somehow caught wind that that they had someone who could fix the piece of shit code that had them doing the enemy's dirty work for them. Toreth grimaced, and then shortly after balked as the civilian continued.
"Wait, what did you say?" He gave the man a sideways glance, incredulous at the new information. "You've been receiving written fucking death threats and you didn't think it was a good idea to let us know? What kind of inept fucking security team do you people have? Are they fucking hoping we'll do their job for them or something?"
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He glanced again out the back of the truck, squinting into the pitch black and raked his hand through his hair, combing furrows into the dark strands. "Though I am sorry for not providing you with all information, no matter how trivial it might have seemed. I know I'm not entitled to the whole picture here. If this is about the threats...does it change anything about how we proceed?"
Which was just a prettier way of asking what the hell they should do next. If admitting he knew absolutely nothing about how to go about thwarting an ambush in progress--if that's what this was--would provoke the Corporal into revealing some kind of plan, then that was fine with Warrick. The silence from outside the truck was becoming oppressive and he could do with a little reassurance right now.
He wished now that he'd called McLean to accompany him, despite the armed escort. Having his personal bodyguard around might not make much difference in firepower, but he'd have felt a lot more comfortable with someone specifically responsible for his protection.
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Calmly, "It changes a lot. We would've sent a unit up ahead to scout the route for starters, and we'd hardly have taken a Mastiff. And that's just scratching the surface." A less obviously-transport vehicle would've been Toreth's choice, and in fact another route altogether would've been the most optimal plan of action. The fact that whoever was pissed could've had months of planning -- eight months, potentially -- completely negated his initial hunch of it being a small force.
The silence outside seemed to stretch out for miles, and Toreth was losing his patience, less keen to engage now given this new information. He let his patrolling experience take over. If the civilian showed any signs of beginning to respond to him, he ignored it, directing his speech into his comm again as he checked his watch.
"Gentlemen, forget it. We're going to run standard on this. B-C, deploy a smoke screen in fifteen. As soon as you do, we're going to reverse the fuck out of here, and your crew's going to follow. Gill, I'm counting ten -- get ready to get us out of here. Everyone else, suppressive fire when the shooting starts."
S.O.P to book it and run when you encountered a potential enemy on patrol. Even if it delayed the mission, it was better to go back through territory you knew rather than panic and potentially drive through some cleverly laid mines. Toreth kept his gaze trained on the darkness outside the truck, but gave the civilian a countdown from five with his fingers regardless.
"I suggest you hold on tight."
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And it would be of no help at all if a group managed to pry open the doors. Or merely blow up the entire vehicle with an RPG.
There was a muted pop of the smoke screen being deployed, followed by the jolt of their vehicle reversing while Warrick clutched at the bar and tried not to bruise himself too badly in the process. His teeth clenched to keep from rattling painfully as the truck swerved over rocky ground. It wasn't the smoothest exit but for a few moments it seemed as though they would get away with it without incident.
And then it started. The percussive clatter of AK fire somewhere to the left of them and then the zip and thunk of ammunition that Warrick couldn't classify ricocheting off the side of the Mastiff. Someone was shooting at them. More than one someone from the sounds of it.
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The shooting had started after about three seconds, and Toreth was more than a little surprised to note just how much shooting there actually was. Where in the fuck did these guys get all their guns? AKs. They at least had to be some sort of organised unit -- not the pathetic, mismatched outfit that Toreth had originally imagined, and maybe SimTech needed to be more fucking forthcoming with their information from now on.
Outside the gunfire continued, the sound of the enemy's gunfire becoming overwhelmed by the sound of his own team's suppressive fire. The shots at them appeared to falter against the barrage, their frequency falling, and Toreth could hear muted screaming from outside that indicated that some of his team's shots had found their mark. He calmly looked at the asset, apparently unfazed and unbothered by the possibility of the Mastiff's defences being penetrable. The enemy would've opened with an RPG or any other real threat if they had one, was his logic. His look was questioning.
"How much do the natives know about what it is you do here?" Also known as, are you publicly advertising the fact that you help the British Army and Royal Marines with their killing? Their government-sactioned killing, of course.
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They'd just been shot at. Warrick had never been shot at before.
He released his white-knuckled grip on the seat and little and checked his watch again for the time and the GPS positioning unit installed within it. A gift for his birthday from Dilly. So you don't lose your way home, she teased him before seeing him off, her nose wrinkling at the idea of her brother wasting his time flitting about a hostile desert. Perhaps she'd been right about that if it'd led to this, but Warrick hadn't cared about anything but the research when he signed the contract to go.
He still cared about the research, enough to worry about their retreat taking them within the vicinity of the labs with a hit squad on their tail. "SimTech's operations are restricted intel only. All those who work within the compound have been vetted personally and signed the company's standard confidentiality contracts. I doubt even your commanding officer is aware of exactly what we do here, it's all been kept very secret. What I do for the military is a side-track that barely scrapes the surface of SimTech's purpose here, and it is also a matter of the highest security."
Warrick could count on one hand the number of people aware of just how often the Royal Marines' Tech Division requested his expertise, and those were members of his personal staff and highly trusted. No, if there was a leak it was from outside of SimTech. He was certain of it.
"The natives who protest the existence of the lab, protest it because it is a private compound for a wealthy Western corporation in a destitute area only made more so by military invasion," he said, pressing his hands together to stop the tell-tale shaking of unspent adrenaline. "We could be hear for humanitarian aide and the natives would still hate it because we're here. Where, they feel, we are not meant to be."
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"Matter of the highest security. Right." He grimaced, partially inclined to not comment on the matter any further. The man had at least hit the nail on the head with his last remark; he had seen humanitarian efforts fail spectacularly before, when attempts to vaccinate or feed or mend were met with bombs and slaughter or just a flat-out refusal to cooperate. Still, he had a hard time believing that such an apparently organised force was waiting it out on the side of the road so specifically just to get at a Western corporation. Maybe if the military weren't here, sure, but when the enemy had bigger, more pressing things to worry about?
His eyes fell to the man's hands, pressed together tightly. No prizes for guessing what he was doing that for.
"Well, I don't know what to tell you, but generically fucked off natives don't sit in ambush like that if they're just fucked off about your compound, not when they're busy dealing with a bloody invasion. Did you hear the amount of gunfire?" Toreth stopped, momentarily distracted by the background chatter on the comms. Everyone was fine, and there were a few congratulatory remarks on the downed targets. He tuned it out, continuing. "Look, I'm not asking you to tell me your company secrets -- I couldn't give two fucks about that. But when I've got my men on the line and my job's to deliver you -- before morning -- and you've got heat on you, it fucking helps if you tell my CO fucking everything. You can always sue the fuck out of us afterwards if something leaks."
Not that it was any use chastising or being angry. What was done was done. Toreth shook his head, preempting any rebuttal. "Just something to consider for next time. Hardly matters now, does it? B-C, are we clear, or are they pursuing?"
"We appear to be clear. No vehicular pursuit. I think they must not have expected us to make it past the body. Mines. What's our destination now? Are we aborting?"
"No, we're not fucking aborting. Our asset here is responsible for some pretty fucking heavy stuff, and we've got a delivery time on him to meet. As for our destination... head for the nearest military outpost. There should be one halfway, shouldn't there? Don't go back to the compound. Christ, where's my fucking map?"
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He watched Toreth scramble around in pockets for a map with a sigh and brought up his watch again, tapping a very inquiries into the GPS. After a moment he spoke up.
"We're forty klicks north of the nearest outpost at 33.996 and 68.076. The compound is to the left of us, but you're right I don't think we should go back. If there's any chance at all of us being followed I don't want to lead them to the labs." He should place a call to McLean as well, tell the security team to put certain protocols into action now that his safety and the compounds might be compromised.
"If we want to avoid the main roads, then there should be a turn-off to the right just ahead that will serve as a detour. I'm not sure if that's the best option or not. I haven't ever traveled the backroads here."
The words came out more measured and calm than he felt at that moment. The movement of the truck hid just how badly he was trembling, which was a blessing, and hopefully he looked exhausted instead of terrified. They were fine after all, he wasn't hurt beyond a few bruises from being bounced around the truck and he hadn't even seen any of the gunmen. Just heard the shots and ricochets and drove off like it was nothing. The men on the comms sounded self-congratulatory and jubilant about their hits. All Warrick felt was razor-sharp awareness of everything; the quickness of his own blood through his veins and the scent of gun oil and stale sweat clinging to Corporal Toreth. Everything was unbearably real, visceral in a way that the sterilized environment at SimTech wasn't.
He wasn't sure he liked it.
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"Warrick, right?" He had known the scientist's name all along, of course, having been given at least that much detail for this little escort mission. Hadn't bothered to actually use it until now, though. "Assuming the natives don't have a vehicle like B-C said, and assuming their communications are just as shitty as we think, the detour seems like the best choice. If the road still exists."
The maps were always constantly being re-drawn and updated as the invasion continued, what with entire villages and roads and bridges being wiped out in the chaos of battle. Toreth tapped the road thoughtfully as he scanned the map for other routes. The other routes were either further into unsecured, unknown territory or they required going off-road, which meant a hundred more potential obstacles. They didn't have time for that, especially not in the dark.
"33.996, 68.076, that's the outpost. I repeat, 39.996, 68.076. There should be a right turn a few hundred meters ahead that'll get us on the way. We'll take that."
"Copy that, sir." B-C, being ever-reliable.
"And Gill? Excellent fucking driving. Barely felt a thing back here. Really. Think you only battered our package just a little." Toreth grinned as he said it, and nodded over to Warrick, directing his speech off the comms again. "Are you alright?"
There was barely a pause after Toreth's question before his driver was answering him smartly. "I know you like your little liaisons rough, Corporal."
"Don't be cheeky and just drive, thanks, you bald fuck. Couldn't even pull your fucking hair while I fucked you even if I wanted to. Don't get jealous just because you've got a mug only your inbred mother could love. Fucking Welsh piece of shit."
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The flurry of good-natured insults and profanity seemed so absurdly out of place that for a moment all Warrick could do was stare in shock. Then a giggle burst through his lips and he had to clap a hand over his mouth as the laughter overtook him, bending him at the waist until he sat with his head almost between his knees, ribs aching.
"S-sorry," he sputtered when he could breathe again, voice thick with relieved amusement. "Delayed panic response, I think. Christ, I can't believe we were just shot at. No, I'm fine. A few bruises at most, nothing serious. My back will likely be black and blue tomorrow."
His dark eyes gleamed a little in the low light of the truck as he grinned back at Toreth.
"But you can tell your wheelman that I had rougher liaisons than this in uni, though they usually had the decency to get me properly drunk first. And it's Dr. Warrick. Or Keir."
The truck lurched a little as they made the turn and Warrick leaned in the opposite direction to keep his balance, mimicking Toreth's posture now that he was aware enough of it to do so.
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Maybe the civilian wasn't as stuck-up as he had originally thought, then. The grin didn't leave his face as he watched Warrick recover, watched him straighten and speak. Bruises sounded fine. If he hadn't strained, pulled or broken anything, it didn't need to be looked at, and Toreth was more than happy to let him shoulder the pain. But Christ, the man was just asking to be fucked, wasn't he? Between all that adrenaline. The grin turned smug as Toreth lowered his eyes and watched the other man through his lashes.
"Interested in my driver now, are you, Dr. Warrick? Gill's one of the nicer ones, so he probably won't play as rough as it sounds like you'd like, but he might go the effort of getting you drunk and all." Bluff. Gill loved women too much to deviate. Not that Toreth had actively tried to sleep with any of his team -- that was simply too messy and unprofessional, even by his standards. Everything he knew about his team's tastes was through outlandish stories, told to kill time.
"I wouldn't, by the way. Have the decency to get you proper drunk first. It'd dull the experience, don't you think?"
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Toreth seemed more relaxed now, which comforted him more effectively than the lack of gunfire in the air. The danger might not be completely over and done with but things were apparently back on track enough for the Corporal to start flirting with him again. What would it be like, he wondered, to have a one-off with a military man? He'd never been tempted before, as most of his encounters with the Royals had been frankly antagonistic affairs in which he tolerated them at best. He didn't come to this country to correct the failings of the Defense Ministry and he didn't come here to roll around the sheets with grunts either.
Still, he imagined it would be a hell of a ride. He let his eyes roam over Toreth again, lingering at his hands and the way the man casually held his weapon, long fingers cradling the grip away from the trigger. Relaxed but ready to slip into lethality between one breath and the next and every bit of him dangerous.
"No, I don't think 'decency' would factor into things at all," he murmured, just barely audible above the growl of the engine.
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He hefted his weapon, tilting it slightly so that Warrick could get a better look at it. Toreth kept his gaze on him as he spoke, voice smooth and practiced.
"It's an SA80 A2 ACOG. Gas-operated assault-rifle, with an overall length of 785mm and a barrel length of 518mm. Five kilos when all kitted out, about four kilos when it isn't. Has a muzzle velocity of 940m/s and it's effective up to 400m, though you can do fairly well with it from up to 600m if you use the right gear and know what you're doing. Fires 610 to 775 rounds per minute." He paused, letting the words sink in for a moment before continuing. "It's very fucking dangerous. Want to hold it?"
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Even now, with the offer made, Warrick still wasn't sure he actually wanted to hold the rifle. It looked natural in Toreth's arms, like an extension of his body. It wouldn't look the same in his hands at all.
He looked between the gun and the soldier, his fingers reaching to trace over the barrel, cold metal that would become burning hot if it were to fire. He shivered.
"I think perhaps not," he decided after a moment, taking his hand back and sliding it between his legs, as if to warm his fingers. "I don't have much experience holding dangerous things." The words were flirtatious but his tone was thoughtful.
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He let the rifle rest against his lap again, loosely gripping it with a hand as he gestured with the other, giving a casual wave.
"I'd be happy to let you practice at your own leisure whenever you'd like," he said generously, the smile still on his face. He was about to leave it at that, but then a thought occurred to him suddenly, and he wanted to try and throw the other man off-balance. That it seemed difficult to do so made it all the more appealing of a venture.
"So tell me, how rough do you really like it? I'm curious."
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"Rough enough to be extremely selective in my choice of partners, lest I end up in an unsafe situation. What I like is not to everyone's tastes. And sometimes it's entirely too much to someone's taste. I need to know that my evening isn't going to end in a mess my bodyguard needs to tidy up."
And to be honest, Warrick hadn't indulged in his particular tastes since the divorce. Messiness with Lissa over his contract work and the settlement followed by a long stretch of being too busy with SimTech for much of anything else had kept him fairly celibate. He had the occasional 'tame' fling with colleagues during conferences and benefits and that was it.
"What about you, Corporal?" he asked, turning the question back around at the other man. "How rough do you like it? I don't imagine they let you lot 'fraternize' much, but do you get tired enough of violence during your day job that you'd rather indulge in mild cuddling in your off hours?"
Somehow he couldn't picture it.
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"Quite the contrary. This marine enjoys continuing the violence into the wee hours of the morning, if asked nicely for it, and is utterly unapologetic about the fact." He was half-joking, but his tone lent a certain degree of ambiguity to the words, making it sound rather matter-of-fact.
Toreth looked lazy, almost bored as he spoke. In truth, he was having a hard time believing that the earlier question hadn't gotten a rise out of the man. Warrick had thrown the question back at him, after a rather effortless and intriguing reply. Rough enough to be entirely too much to someone's taste, was it? Toreth could imagine that: the stubborn civilian requiring a bit of shoving around and threatening before he complied with anything, moaning denials and putting up a serious fight as he was held down upon the floor or up against a wall. Twisting and writhing, not wanting to be touched and groped and eventually fucked by a 'killer', but liking it all the same despite his fancy fucking morals.
Definitely intriguing.
He tried again, determined to ruffle feathers. Determined to make that cool mask break.
"Given your preferences, now I'm incredibly surprised you don't make a habit of fucking government-sanctioned killers. We're fairly good at following the rules given to us, you know. Operating within safe boundaries. We're good at giving commands, too. For example..." He hesitated for only half a second. Unprofessional to do this on duty, but he wasn't planning on taking it too far, so it couldn't hurt that much, could it? Not unless the civilian here went crying to his CO about sexual harassment or some other bullshit.
Toreth leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His voice hardened, and whatever conversational tone he had going disappeared completely. His tone was dark and dangerous, and unmistakably a command.
"Get down on your fucking knees, doctor."
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Warrick was confident that he wouldn't ask for it nicely, though. At least, not at first. The marine would have to earn his capitulation and he didn't plan on making it easy to obtain. He had a feeling Toreth was used to it being all too easy to find forgettable bodies to fuck, without even a hint of effort being put into it. It must be rather boring for him, he mused. If the Corporal was lazily flirting with civilian scientists in the middle of a warzone, he must have run through his options fairly quickly out here.
Did he really want to offer himself up as an alternative? The mention of safe boundaries made his eyes narrow in skepticism. It was true that soldiers generally were good at following explicit instructions. And it would be fairly stupid of the marine to put himself in a position where Warrick would be inclined to file a report or give a complaint. Dishonorable discharge awaited many a disgraced soldier who couldn't keep to the rules and injury to an allied scientist with corporate connections wouldn't go over too well with Toreth's superiors.
Which is why it startled him to hear the shift in the man's voice and posture, and the words-
The words hit him like a punch to the gut, sucking all the air from his lungs and leaving him stunned and tensed. Toreth's voice promised a whole host of things; things Warrick shouldn't want in the first place. His legs jerked with the instinctive urge to buckle under the force of that command, but he was already sitting and this wasn't really the time or the place. Something he was sure the corporal was aware of already.
Warrick's eyes closed for a count of five, rebuilding his composure until he was certain he could speak without betraying himself. He licked his lips before he tried.
"Not the best time for games like that, sir. This might not be exactly what I meant by an 'unsafe situation' but I think escaping an armed ambush qualifies, don't you?"
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Sir. Sounded nice from Warrick's lips, even tainted with disdain as it was. He had liked how careful the man was, too, so persistent on keeping his cool, even after his rather telling stunned silence. Eyes closed, then measured tones, and then no indication of outrage at being spoken to like that. Just, not the best time. Later, then. The reaction spoke volumes.
Toreth finally laughed again, breaking character as he leaned back, far enough that he was slouched against the wall of the vehicle. The back of his head rested against the wall, which looked a little uncomfortable, really, as the vehicle continued on its path, shaking over the dirt road. He glanced at the flimsy excuse for a door and barrier separating them from the other two men, and he didn't have to guess that they were being eavesdropped on. There was a reason the comms were so quiet.
"Probably. Don't worry, your safety is actually -- and unfortunately -- my top fucking priority right now. I'd hate to make Gill blush, anyway." This time there was no indication that he was clicking the comms on when he directed his question, and as a result he spoke up. "How are we for time, Gill?"
There was a silence, a complete lack of a response, and Toreth practically rolled his eyes, reaching over to thump on the barrier. There were words in Welsh, presumably curse words, before the reply came.
"About fifteen minutes to the outpost, Corporal. Great thing about the lack of intrastructure here is there are no speed limits. I've been doing bloody 100, can you believe that?" Through backroads? Yes, actually, because fuck, this was an awful ride. "Anyway, fifteen minutes is probably enough time for a combat jerk, but Bradley and I would really prefer you didn't get the back of the Mastiff dirty. You know we have to clean that up, and that might count as sloppy seconds. Does it, Bradley?"
"Do you know what sloppy seconds even means, you fucking retard?"
Toreth didn't respond, too busy thinking over the logistics of the whole operation. Despite the assertiveness with which he had said he was going to deliver the civilian by morning, it was looking like a less and less likely venture the more he thought about it.
It was a military outpost, which meant a lot of army fucks manning it, which meant a face-off on whose dick was bigger (the marines', obviously). What Toreth really wanted was a vehicle swap-over and to send some men out to catch the terrorists or sabs or whatever-the-fuck they were to find out more intel, but that would be a lot of negotiating that he really had no authority to do, and he knew Tillotson would be fucking inept about the whole thing. A bonus, though, was that the army arseholes had more to worry about in regards to the systems going haywire -- on top of the drones, they were trialing the Tracking Point TP750s. Marines were too old hat -- and elitist at that -- to switch to the self-aiming rifles. The whole thing was a fucking disaster, anyway. Sniper rifles that could potentially be bricked or purposefully fed the wrong target coordinates? A fucking nightmare.
Maybe he could convince the civilian for a quick fuck before he delivered him, if the delays were going to be long. The thought seemed to cheer him significantly, because he was smiling slightly, though a part of him doubted he would even be in the mood for fucking once he was done waving his dick around metaphorically.
Having internalised most of his thoughts, his words seemed to come out of the blue.
"I hope your schedule wasn't too busy, because there's no bloody way we're going to get you there on time." And then, almost immediately after, "Are you really the only one who can fix these systems?" Toreth raised an eyebrow.
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Except, he has no idea what he's after this time, and he's without the rest of his squad, and that already makes him a little uncomfortable. He'd be fine with it if it was completely solo work, even, but when he has to work with an unknown factor, he'd prefer having at least one other person he knows he can rely on.
This unknown factor comes in a red-headed, female flavour. Sort of femme fatale, which makes a smile pull at the corners of Brad's mouth, but he manages to fight it off. He hasn't said much to her yet. They only rendezvoused ten minutes ago, in a dingy hangar where they're supposed to wait for... something. Not knowing frustrates him, but that's how it is sometimes. Some things are just on a need-to-know-basis.
He crouches behind a set of crates, padded knees resting against cement as he waits. It's quiet out here. Whatever they're waiting for, Brad's sure they'll hear it from a mile away. There's nothing else around but sand and dust and the occasional sound of a raptor soaring past, after all.
Brad clicks his tongue, eyeing off his companion. She's sexy, almost appallingly so. Maybe that's why Nate saw fit to assign this job to him -- because the other marines behave like fucking animals at the slightest suggestion of the fairer kind. Retards probably wouldn't be able to keep it in their pants long enough to focus on their mission.
"Am I going to find out what we're here for?" He leans his head back against the crate, closing his eyes for a few seconds before he opens them again, looking at her expectantly.
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She'd been told this one had training, but as he was, at the end of the day, a grunt, she was doubtful. But right now, he was all she had, so alienating him right off the bat before she got to see if he'd be any use beyond as target practice wasn't her go-to reaction.
So when he spoke, she slitted her eyes open (having been listening for the approaching stealth copter that hadn't arrived yet), glancing at him and wondering just how nice she felt like being. "Inevitably. How, however, depends on you. What's your skill set, soldier?"
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"Marine, ma'am. U.S. Reconnaissance Marine." She had asked a specific question, though, and so he continued smoothly, the words clearly practiced. "Trained for deep reconnaissance, specifically geared towards stealth. Sneaking behind enemy lines, remaining undetected. Covert missions. Sabotage, rescue, intel. "
His tone was more matter-of-fact than that of a braggart. Given that she had simply lumped him in as a soldier, Brad suspected she didn't particularly care what he was specifically. Practical. He could work with that.
"All of which I've been briefed is what you need."
Being in the dark about things might have been the status quo sometimes, but that didn't mean he liked it.
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She liked that. "Good. Then you'll actually come in handy here. We've got a stealth inbound, two targets; one living, one not. Target one is a flashdrive with intel that needs to not be spread beyond the damage its already done. Target two is the carrier. Only one needs to be brought in."
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"Yes, ma'am." No extra emphasis on the ma'am this time. He shifted so that he was more comfortably crouched -- he could feel pins and needles beginning to creep in already. "We bring in the carrier. Got it." There was a dry quality to his voice, and he cracked a faint smile.
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Natasha ran on the basis of 'need to know'. She'd hold mission specifics from people she thought might compromise them, but if she felt it would garner full participation, she'd share what was needed. Keeping him in the dark would just breed disdain on his end and there was no way she was having backup she couldn't trust to watch her back. So she'd rather have him a little in the know and happy than ignorant and spiteful.
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Forget the fact that there's freaky shit going on that should be leaving the entire town in an insomniac state. Roman feels like he can't sleep for other reasons.
He's pissed.
He kind of doesn't like the way Peter hangs with Letha. He hates it, in fact. It fucks with him somewhere deep down inside, for a reason he can't quite pinpoint. He loves his cousin with all his heart -- however much that means, because do Godfreys even have hearts? -- and Peter is his best friend -- only friend? -- and so it really shouldn't matter, right? But it does.
All he knows is he feels a restless sort of anger. He wants to pace back and forth, he can't keep still. And so -- fuck his mother and her batshit, obsessive behaviour and rules -- he decides to go for a midnight wander. If his wandering takes him close to Peter's, well, then, that's just a coincidence.
One hand's shoved in the pocket of his black coat as he walks, the other carrying a bottle of bourbon by the neck, the bottle clearly already fairly gotten-into. His car's parked not far away from Peter's place. He's not sure what he really wants out of this. He'll be satisfied just seeing Peter and Letha apart, he thinks, because shit, it's like they're joined at the hip lately.
He doesn't see Letha's car tonight, and so that's a good start. Maybe that will be enough -- maybe he'll go home with just that observation made. He leans against the side of his car, taking a swig from the bottle, idly watching. ]