1: Obligations

"The fuck ya mean lockdown?!"

Samael chuckled, making it sound easy even as he cast a wary eye to the doorway. "Sounds like it sounds, hon. Mama don't want me duckin' outta here any time soon 'cept fer Movement business..."

"That's some fuckin' bullshit, we was tryin' to get her some fuckin' high-end weaponry!" Samael leaned away from the microphone with a half-smile as if Andee's infuriated response could electronically transmit the flurry of acid. "We got ourselves locked up for that shit, too!"

"Be honest, now, sweetie-pie...how many missiles was you actually gonna let me bring back here?" Samael replied around a playful lilt. "One, two?"

"It's more than none, the greedy cunt!" Andee spat out, his wild flailing practically visible across the airwaves. "She's bein' a real bitch about this whole thing -- you didn't even get shot or get no broken bones this time, truck came back in one piece...the fuck's she got to be so goddamn pissy about?!?"

Samael grinned while propping his head up with his free hand. "How much do you like owin' a favor to ol' Miz Wash?"

"I don't owe that skinny-ass, squirrely-ass bitch nothin'!" Andee exploded as Samael did his best to keep his giggling to a minimum. The bat released a well-deserved string of muttered curses before adding moodily: "But yeah, okay, that's fair. She musta lit ya ass up after she found out who rescued her miraculous Movement midget molester..."

"She weren't none too happy, naw," Samael chortled as he tapped the microphone against his maw a couple times. "Though it mighta been a li'l less rough if you'd come back with me to help explain, honeybunch..."

"Check the front'a ya shorts, Fiffy, 'cause you gotta be in the middle'a some kinda wet dream if Nelson ain't more bitchy when I'm around," Andee retorted mildly. "Either way, worked out for the best, feh..." Samael tilted his head with intrigue as Andee's tone danced between annoyed and lofty. "A pack'a stupid fuckin' Blues got snagged in one'a the perimeter traps...and then not one goddamn period later, Lutane's crew dragged in a buncha Reds!"

"Hot damn!" Samael exclaimed. "The fuck was they all doin' out there?"

"Not gettin' stabbed to death, apparently!" Andee seethed as Samael made out the sound of a microphone being slammed against a table, followed shortly by Angel's voice scolding Andee through a closed door. "Ah, shaddup, woman, I ain't broke it!" he yelled back before returning to the radio. "It's almost like some dumbass puppy came by a couple quarters ago, started fuckin' things up, gettin' our people actin' all stupid like you mud-stompers ain't supposed to get strung up on sight! Like the good ol' days!"

Samael couldn't hold in his laughter this time, half-spinning in the rickety chair as his tail swung back and forth cheerfully. "Awww, c'mon, now. You 'n me, we done worked real hard makin' things a li'l friendlier 'tween chupa-folk 'n bat-folk! It ain't so bad, is it?"

"Yeah it fuckin' is!" Andee raged back as Samael continued to giggle into his wrist. "These guys fuckin' suck! They ain't even rebels, so they ain't heard of us, they barely know anything outside the fuckin' war; they's practically more naive than you!" Samael smiled and tasted a sliver of self-loathing, but it passed quickly into his gut. "Hell, one'a them's still in lock-up, Juwo's got everyone all fired up over this bastard bein' the white wolf..."

Samael blinked. "White wolf? Wuzzat?"

Andee grumbled but seemed to be in a chatty mood, at least. "It's one'a our ancient legends. The White Wolf's a mythical beast who goes 'round like some blind, rabid asshole, devouring everything before him whether they's friend or foe. Signifies the end times or whatever. And like always, only a righteous hand can stop him, blah blah blah, it's one'a those stories ya tell your kiddies at night so they don't go wanderin' off into the jungle. And since this Blue army bastard's kinda big, kinda shaggy and kinda white...it wasn't exactly no hard leap for the rumor to start goin' around, put everyone on edge."

The chupa twisted a finger in the microphone cable thoughtfully while giving a cursory glance to his own pale hide. "Oh...uh. Shit, guess I'm lucky they ain't said that 'bout me..."

"Ha! Nice try, shortstack...you's way too small to be no scary beast!" Samael pouted while Andee rambled on. "It's all a buncha metaphorcastical bullshit, anyhow. This fucker ain't no beast, either...though he does look like he 'devours everything before him' based on that fuckin' gut. You might not be a giant, but fuckin' hell, you're in way better shape than all these dumb Army bastards."

The pout quickly morphed back into a beaming smile as Samael bounced a bit in the chair. "Awww, you think I'm hot!"

"Of course I do, dumbass! I ain't fuckin' you for ya brains!"

"But you do fuck 'em out when you get in one'a yer moods...it's real sexy," Samael teased, once more relaxing his muzzle into his open palm.

He could feel Andee's scowl burning through the radio, along with the hint of his flushed features. "Ahhh fuck off, ya horny pup, Angel's gonna kick my ass if I jerk off all over the fuckin' desk again, christ..."

Another gale of laughter as Samael wiggled with delight. "At least I ain't the only one rubbin' rockets in the radio-room!" he crowed.

Andee groaned, though the chupa could detect the corners of his smile squirming free. "Anyway. The only thing notable about the big fat fluffy fuck izzat he's got a tattoo like ya best-boyfriend York, so..."

Samael sat up as he dropped some of the levity. "Aw shit, so he's prob'ly a warwoof, too? Hmm, guess that could kinda go with that legend, eh?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, enough about these fuckers -- I wanna know if Sov called you about that heist they want ya on!" Samael smiled to himself; Andee must have been a little stressed if he was willingly detouring from gossip. "I ain't heard a fuckin' peep since we had that cunt and her cunty husband on the boat!"

Samael snickered and glanced at the clock perched on an nearby equipment rack. "Naw, but I'm actually goin' out with Vinny to meet 'er later tonight."

"What the fuck!? Does she wanna see how good you suck her kid's dick or what?!"

"Lawd, no, no, it's actually fer Nelson," Samael explained while rocking his head back and forth. "Purdy sure she's tryna work out a deal fer some more safe-houses. I think the Club's got more people out in Stigma 'n Blarganthia, now..."

Andee grumbled for a moment. "Well why didn't the bitch tell me she was meetin' you already...ehhh, whatever, guess it all works out. Find out what what the gig is after ya finish doin' ya momma's dirty work, and whatever it is -- do what the Sov bitch asks!" Samael winced a bit. "I don't need you pullin' none'a that fuckin' redneck-rebel-morality shit, especially since I can't leave to come keep an eye on you and your bleedin' heart..."

"Aww, I was hopin' you'd be comin' out to meet up with us and --" Samael's plead was cut off with a biting interruption from the bat.

"Nah, nah, nah, I just said I can't leave! Ugh, I'm babysittin' all these dumb fuckin' Reds and Blues, it's like when you got here but seven times as loud 'n smelly...and I guess because of you, Juwo's just got me permanently pegged as Xulod's tour guide, it fuckin' sucks!"

Another smile floated across Samael's muzzle as he tickled the microphone and imagined Andee's snout wrinkling in that adorable way it always did. "Yer the cutest dang li'l tour guide, plus you know all the best spots in town! Just make sure Mutt don't sweep none'a those soldier boys off their feet like he did Vinny! They'll be heartbroke before they even figger out where they're gonna be headin' next..."

"Feh...yeah, I ain't sure what the old man's plan is," Andee muttered, his disconsolation seeping into each word. "He's got one'a the Blue fuckers training with the guards, the greasy bastard found some glowy sword. And surprise, surprise, it's an ancient artifact. All kindsa ancient shit coming around the caves lately, you'd be sportin' a stiffy non-stop if you were here." Samael smiled shamelessly as Andee sucked on his teeth with frustration. "Makes him a big deal here if you believe the legends."

"Haw, ain't nothin' wrong with a li'l action 'round them wet 'n wild caves. Just make sure this fancy sword guy don't get as popular as me," Samael teased. "I'd hate for you to lose yer title of ownin' Xulod's favorite top-sider!"

Andee snorted and Samael felt his grudging smile. "You finally startin' to pronounce our words proper. Nah, don't worry -- this guy's just a flash in the pants, ain't no one springin' Xulod's boners like you, Fiffy."

Samael beamed proudly again as his shoulders pressed together happily, and he cradled the microphone in both hands. "Yer so sweet, hon..."

"Eh, I just ain't about to let no second-place bitch dick me down," Andee reasoned. "But that's why you gotta handle this shit for Sov alone, got it?! Don't fuckin' disappoint me, Sammy." He paused and Samael held his breath a moment. "Don't forget this shit's gonna be good for us both, yeah?"

Maybe it wasn't a new reassurance, but the familiarity didn't make it any less effective. Samael exhaled and smiled again, resting a hand atop the radio like Andee's wrist might have been there to curl around. They'd been through a lot lately, and the last time they'd had a bit of time apart ended up a blessing in disguise. "Yeah. I got you, Andee. Can't wait to tell ya all about it!"

"Just do ya best not to bring home any more fuck-buddies, dumbass!"

"Well, you know we's always recruitin'!" Samael laughed. "Ain't so bad gettin' two birds with one hump!"

"Ya dirty whore...heh, don't ever change, Fiffy. Gimme a shout when ya done the job, maybe I'll be free of these douchebags by then!"

"That's a big ol' copy, sweet-cheeks," Samael sang before he reached out and twisted the radio back to scanning mode.

He leaned back and smiled at the ceiling, rubbing a hand across his chest and pretending he didn't already miss the feel of the bat snoozing against his broad form. The drive back to Sidewinder had been serene enough to almost be worth the absolutely savage dressing down he'd gotten from Nelson the moment he'd pulled the truck into the cliffside hideaway.

But he knew he didn't have the free time to reminisce as he grunted and hopped out of the chair, allowing the high note of his conversation to inject a shuffling box-step into his paws. He bounced and jigged rhythmically to the hall--

--directly into the awaiting glare of the most terrifying sight this side of the Vossler.

"Gawd-damn fuckballs!" he squealed, flinching backward from the thunderously mute expression on Nelson's stony features. "Yer liable to scare a man half to death creepin' around like that!"

"Then it's a good thing I don't see any men," she deadpanned while leaning forward to glare into his eyes. "Only a hormone-addled boy abusing Movement communications to chat up his yapping dick-sleeve."

Samael let loose a quick grin while rubbing the back of his head. "Awrrr hell, Mama, I jus' wanted to make sure he got home a'right after our li'l trip out in--"

"How many times do I have to tell you to drop that sweet-talking shit around me, Wurlitz!" she growled as she edged the wheelchair closer. "And that goes twice as hard when you're already laying a truck-full of bullshit at my feet! The only reason I'm sending you with Sov is because his bitch of a mother requested it, otherwise I'd be hard-pressed to ever give you access to a fucking vehicle again!" She reached up with a hand that was faster than even Samael's reflexes to clutch into his chest fur and yank him forcefully downward. "I'm in a Freelancer's pocket now, you inbred midget, so next time at least have the balls to push the knife all the way in!"

Samael smiled weakly, his tail piercing scraping along the icy floors in a show of submission. "That's a li'l harsh, Mama, I ain't no back-stabber..." Her eyes glowered dangerously but he persisted. "We fucked up, a'right? An' we really were gonna bring some'a them fancy rockets back here, it woulda been--"

"It woulda been fucking pointless if we'd lost you," she snarled, shoving him backward and forcing him to stumble for purchase.

As he righted himself and gazed down at her bared fangs, Samael wondered if she was about to show a rare flicker of emotion.

"We're already weak in numbers, having one of my few fucking capable field agents kill himself on a selfish business deal might as well be an act of fucking betrayal!"

Apparently not.

He kicked childishly at the ground and shoved his hands into his pockets, doing a poor job of hiding his embarrassment. "You already hollered at me plenty 'bout that whole thing. I get it."

"Do you?!" He glanced up to meet her furious glare once more. "Because now every time I catch you talking to that flying rat, I feel the hair on the back of my neck rising."

Samael attempted a goofy grin. "Er, maybe you jus' discovered the legendary lady-ruff, an' you jus' gotta give Ashley a ca--"

"It means someone's trying to take advantage of my blind spot," she interjected crudely. "And you think you know exactly where that spot is. You think you can slide right in, like I'm one of your fuck-drunk targets." She leaned forward and jabbed a claw into his chest hard enough to make him flinch. "Do not mistake the excruciating effort I make to keep you alive as anything more than simple fucking strategy."

She leaned back slowly again, her fiery eyes unblinking. "The minute you are no longer worth that effort, I will leave you to the fucking wolves. Then you can find for yourself whether or not anyone else on -- or below -- this godforsaken ring sees your true worth the way I do."

His name echoed silently between them and Samael finally cast his eyes to the side as genuine shame trickled down his spine. Maybe she was manipulating him, maybe she was treating him the same way she did any other flaking recruit.

But he was more unsettled that she might have meant it.

He failed to muster another shot at levity, but she was kind enough to brashly crush any hope of reprisal. "When you come back from the meeting with Sov -- and I want you to look at me, Wurlitz, and grasp whatever tiny sliver of literacy you have achieved to read my fucking lips -- you will only stop long enough to drop his ass off here before you proceed to Q-Base."

He tried opening his muzzle to ply for a modicum of lenience, but her jaws snapped faster than the speed of his charm. "Shut it! This is not a fucking negotiation! You will attend this meeting, you will let Sov do all the fucking talking since I've already briefed him and made him well aware what will happen if he allows you to speak out of turn, and then you will continue to keep that fucking maw sealed and bring him immediately back. Am I fucking understood?!"

His eyes had already locked with his own paws, his murmur barely escaping the thick fur of his breast. "Yes, ma'am."

She didn't even bother to correct the verbiage she loathed far more than his familial monikers, only rolling backward a half-meter as if to give him more space to wallow in his humiliation. "You're not going to ask what you need to do in Qoppa?"

"Would it matter if I did?" he mumbled, one hand lifting slowly to rub the back of his head.

She was silent for a second or two. "You're too strong a swimmer to drown in your own self-pity, Wurlitz, so feel free to climb out of this puddle any fucking time. You're a pain in my ass, but this isn't what I want from you. And you're not stupid enough to think it is, either." Her voice lowered enough that he was compelled to raise his head slightly and meet her gaze. "You and I have been through more than most on this ring, Samael. That is a gift, that is what compels us to fight." She thumped a fist against her chest while her eyes dared him to disagree. "I may be a cold-hearted old bitch, but we signed up for the same fucking thing when we got our burns. I don't want you to change who you are, I just need you to fucking remember why you're here, and to remember when it's time to fucking commit."

The echoes of his sonorous voice swirled into the pit of his stomach, an icy reminder of every unspoken oath. Samael managed to nod a couple times while raising his own fist to his chest. "I will," he whispered.

"Good." She nodded back curtly before spinning around and briskly wheeling away. "I'll brief you on Q-Base once you're en route after the meeting with the Sovs. I'll have more details then."

He sighed but tipped his head to her back in understanding. "Talk to you soon, Nelson." As she disappeared around a corner, he grimaced and stared at the bottom of his wrist before closing his eyes. "Now I know what you meant, old man. I miss when I thought gettin' close with York was a bad idea...fuck..."

"Six of our men died, sir. I'm telling you, we had bad intel! They were completely wrong about the number of Blues!"

Private Rivers. The only 'voice of reason' during the last mission. The guy thought he was smarter than everyone else...and the problem was that he was smarter than everyone else. But his attitude just made him sound like a whiny bitch.

The sergeant snorted dismissively and crossed his arms. "The mission was still a success, Rivers. We captured the flag and recovered two of their vehicles. This region now belongs to us and two of our esteemed colonels are on the way with an additional platoon!" He grunted and nodded with a proud grin. "That is a victory in my books, and in the books of Command, too! We'll be featured in this quarter's Red Review."

Sergeant Bento. An asshole more concerned with sucking the dick of his superiors than ensuring the well-being of his soldiers. A piece of shit by all standard accounts, yet that just made him the pinnacle of normalcy in the middle of this bullshit war where every mission had a bullshit goal to help achieve some bullshit victory. The only upside was that Bento liked sending them on suicide missions. Way more fun than the average skirmish.

Rivers worked his jaws in frustrated silence for a few seconds before blurting: "The only reason we survived was because this crazy asshole blew the charges while our guys were still inside the base!"

All eyes turned to Private Castro. An asshole as well, but cut from a much different cloth. He didn't care about the well-being of his fellow soldiers, either...nor his own, for that matter. And he also didn't mind sucking dicks, but it sure wasn't in the pursuit of moving up the military ladder. He was perfectly happy where he was: a grunt following orders to shoot, stab or punch anyone labeled as an enemy. He didn't care about obedience, but following orders that simple kept the rest of his life simple, too. Less that he had to think about, less he had to decide for himself.

Less he had to feel.

He took his time glancing up from the prosthetic from which he'd been rubbing a few stubborn stains. Mud, blood, shit, who knew, who cared. The scathing eyes of his compatriots would have made most other soldiers cringe but he met them evenly, sensing the frustration, the disgust, the wariness...maybe even some pity from those who hadn't yet had their compassion squeezed out by the war. It all bounced off his chest without effort as he merely shrugged while waving the curved metal leg in a small circle. "You guys were yelling for help. I helped."

"Helped?! You motherfucker, you're the reason Bryan--"

"Private Castro did what needed doing!" Sergeant Bento declared, even as his interruption was cushioned with a sidelong look at the stone-faced soldier. "Guy's missing both his legs and still got the job done! He's proof Red Army makes true men out of her troops!"

"He's proof that we're all fucked," someone muttered, too low for the sergeant to pinpoint as he whirled around to snarl at the gathered soldiers. Robin was pretty sure it was Private Willis, though. Guy was actually kind of funny when he wasn't dropping doom-spiraling comments, as if the entire Holy War wasn't already just a giant tub swirling the drain into a cold, dark finale.

"That's the kind of heresy that gets paid in Red Army blood!" Bento growled before glancing at his hip as the communication device on his belt buzzed violently. He offered another sour glower across the restless survivors before turning to examine the contents of the message.

Robin went back to scraping the final crusted-on bits from the crescent-shaped prosthetic, already content to ignore the muttering that rose around him. A shadow eventually draped across his reclined form, however, but he kept his attention on his industrious claws while opting to only idly wag his stump of a right leg. "Ya in my light, Rivers."

"You think all this is funny?! Bastard, Bryan was my fr--"

"Which one was Bryan again?" Robin interjected while peering into the socket of the metal leg. "Blond mane? I'm pretty sure I told some puta with a blond mane to look out." He shook a few motes of grit from the prosthetic. "Maybe? I can't remember, everyone was wearin' the same thing..."

"Fucking asshole!" Rivers choked out, lunging forward but restrained from pouncing Robin by Willis grabbing his arm.

"He's not worth it, man," Willis grumbled.

"Nah, I'm not," Robin taunted as he leaned forward to fit his stump back into the false leg, grunting in concentration until he heard the soft hiss and click of interlocking metal parts. He grinned up at the fuming soldier, his oversized steel fang gleaming in the harsh overhead lights. "But that just means you ain't gotta put up shit to lose, eh?" He planted his palms on the ground and then shoved himself up to stand. Rivers and his voice of reason both flinched and couldn't seem to help glancing down at the not one, but two pairs of thin metal legs that supported the broad-shouldered chupa.

Robin smirked while throwing his arms wide. "Don't worry, guys, no one's gonna judge ya for picking a fight with a cripple." The grin parted his maw once more. "Only if ya get your ass kicked by one."

"Fuck you!" Rivers snarled, thrusting an arm at the nonplussed chupa. "You and me, behind the mess as soon as this fucking meeting's done!"

Robin lifted his muzzle haughtily. "Yeah, alright. We gonna arm-wrestle for who's on top or --" He didn't bother to tense up when Rivers broke free from his companion's clutch to launch a vicious uppercut into Robin's jaw. It had more power than he expected, knocking him back a step as he tasted copper. Willis cursed and jumped forward to try and pull Rivers back again, but Robin had already sprung toward him with a blistering haymaker of his own.

His fist crashed into River's cheekbone and knocked the soldier sprawling to the side as Robin grinned through his crimson-stained teeth and slammed his palms against his chest armor. "My kinda foreplay!"

"Rivers, Castro!" Sergeant Bento barked over the clamor that had rapidly exploded around the two bloodied soldiers. Robin paid him no mind, continuing to stare eagerly at Rivers as he prayed for another maddened swing. "Stow that goddamn baggage and save it for the Blues!" he roared.

Rivers shot Robin a venomous look but refused to bow to the primal urges Robin could smell bubbling just beneath the surface. Shame, it would have been a good match-up.

"Yes, sir," Rivers uttered before spitting a wad of blood at where Robin's feet would have been. "Willis was right. Not fucking worth it."

Robin shrugged easily and was halfway to reclining once more against the supply crates when the sergeant addressed him directly. "Private Castro, since you're so popular with the men, I'm volunteering you for this urgent transfer request!" He held up the data pad that had previously drawn his attention. "Red Command needs one more man for a special assignment." He glanced at the screen again as Robin crossed his arms idly. "Truck's leaving for the depot in Lochland in an hour. Pack your shit and be ready to leave." He studied Robin for a few seconds, and when the private only maintained a bored eye contact, the sergeant grumbled. "Now, Private! I need to debrief the platoon and you are no longer part of this platoon, so move your ass!"

He figured a noncommittal grunt was appropriate enough for a sergeant who was no longer his commanding officer, and Robin twiddled his fingers at Rivers with a saccharine smile before strolling leisurely out of the room. The uncomfortable mutters and slurs were plenty audible but they simply ricocheted off his back as he headed for the barracks to collect his things. No point starting shit with these guys anymore.

It was his third transfer in just as many weeks, so he already knew "collecting his things" wouldn't mean much more than throwing his toiletries and spare under-armor into his duffel bag; he hadn't bothered to unpack anything personal with how often the Red Army shuffled him around Sirca.

He'd never requested a transfer, but he no longer cared where he ended up. Between raising his hand when no one else did, or simply earning a reputation of distaste among his fellow soldiers, his name usually ended up on the requisition sheet. This felt like the same thing all over again: Command wanted soldiers for some undesirable assignment, and Robin was the newest member of the roster...and probably the least liked in his few days with this platoon.

He zipped up the canvas bag and threw it over his shoulder, then flinched as a light clink against his chest plate drew his eyes downward. He paused long enough to stare at the hand-carved charm hanging from his neck, spotting a tiny smudge of blood on the two-toned stone. His own blood, probably.

He could hear Carlos's amused but exasperated voice reminding him that he was more than fast enough to avoid a sloppy hit like that. The guy was always on his case about letting his opponents get too many free hits in. But as Robin rubbed the blood off and tucked the necklace back under his armor, the voice faded as they always did, and he strode out of the barracks and away from his latest home.

As he always did.

The dust-covered gravel pinged off Robin's dangling metal leg as it swung easily off the back of the truck. The sergeant hadn't been exaggerating -- it was a literal pickup truck hauling Robin and two other privates along the rough road toward Lochland. They apparently couldn't even afford to spare a hog for this assignment, which probably meant it was even more shitty than he'd thought.

One of the other two 'volunteers' was seated in the cab with their driver, while the third had opted to sprawl out in the dingy truck bed alongside Robin. The Red had attempted to strike up conversation with Robin once or twice, but Robin found it about as easy to ignore a stranger as he did his now-previous platoon. And to his credit, the guy knew how to take a hint, and had taken to staring silently into the passing landscape with an expression nearly as bored as Robin's own.

They'd been humming through the Blarganthian valleys for a couple of hours, avoiding the highlands to try and prevent contact with any roaming Blues. Occasionally they'd roll onto paved road, racing alongside signs of civilization whenever they passed a small town. His eyes glazed over as the trees blurred together, unwelcome memories attempting valiantly to worm their way in.

He'd always hated driving, but Mom and Dad worked long hours, and sunny days like this were perfect for a picnic in the foothills. The minivan was a tight fit for the eight of them, even if some of the girls doubled up. But they were always so overjoyed to get away from the concrete jungle of their neighborhood, and Robin willingly faced his fears to treat his sisters to a few hours of freedom, willingly navigated the ugly-ass van through Omegradian traffic, willingly white-knuckled the winding mountain pass to get to their favorite patch of natural Sircan perfection. He willed himself through a lot for them -- never out of obligation, no, it was for lo--

"Fuck, this truck fuckin' sucks...my ass hasn't been this sore since Basic..."

Robin's eyes shifted to the other occupant of the pickup's bed. His instinct was to suggest the guy try starting with something smaller, but he instead only pressed a metal leg against his duffel bag to shove it silently toward his fellow soldier. They traded a momentary look, then the other Red grunted his appreciation and moved to drop down upon the bag. Robin's gaze moved back to the distant horizon, only to be interrupted by his companion's discontented snort.

"Man, I shoulda gotten a job with them," he complained as he gestured to something at Robin's back. "I heard you can avoid enlistment if you sign up with certain companies..."

Robin glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes hardened at the five letters stamped in bold atop a silhouette of heavy machinery.

OLEST.

Something else he'd willed himself to do, joining his friends at the industrial site despite his young age. Dad was in the hospital, Mom had all but quit her cleaning job, trading in broom handles for bottles...but the girls still had to eat. The work sucked, but it was steady, and it kept his body tough and lean. He could afford to give his sisters real food again, supplies for school. Hell, sometimes even a toy or two to help them pass the time during his long shifts.

That tough, lean body was useful in his free time, too. Carlos would always ask if he wanted a break after their shift before hitting the ring, but the answer was always the same. "Why waste time on two showers?" His punches grew harder, his weaves became faster. Plus being able to outrun the local militia after a fresh tag session with Rico, well -- you couldn't put a price tag on that.

His hand hovered near his chest for a moment as he wondered what his sisters were eating now. It'd been almost two years, Maria would have been able to drop out and pick up a job somewhere. She'd always talked about working as soon as she was able, so she and her hermanito could pool their paychecks and move them all to a nice apartment somewhere outside the city.

The guilt tasted like shit.

Robin watched as the billboard disappeared behind a cluster of trees and communication poles, desperate for the void to replace the abandoned obligation. He wondered briefly if Pauline would approve. All those hours she'd spent with him on stage, encouraging him to absorb the smiles of their audience and revel in that momentary freedom they all shared, freedom from the war, freedom from the House, freedom from the oppressive emotions that every single person felt in his or her own way.

But he wasn't free from the guilt, the same way he wasn't free from the damp, hot memory of Carlos's blood splattered across his features, or the echoes of Rico screaming for his mom. Freedom had always been a pipe dream. This godforsaken ring was grounded in reality, and the only escape from reality was to give the bloodthirsty bitch something else to feast on long enough for you to take a few more steps.

Numbness suited him just fine. Sirca gave him plenty to feel on the outside anyway.

Robin turned a wan smile up to his grumbling companion. "You musta heard wrong, pendejo, 'cuz guess where I got these." Robin slapped one of his metal prosthetics as the other Red grimaced. "But maybe I just missed the memo about getting out of the draft. Mama always did say I was a little slow in the head."

His fellow soldier fell silent again and the truck continued into the city amid the settling discomfort.

No, of course Pauline wouldn't approve. But what were the words of ghosts to an empty house?

Robin glanced up as three more chupas wandered into the massive garage, each wearing a set of mostly-matching Red armor. With these guys, he estimated nearly twenty Reds who'd been summoned, shipped off or shoved to join this contingent. This was starting to smell less like an Army job and more like something you'd hire a cut-rate group of non-vital soldiers to handle if you couldn't afford the SSF or some other abbreviated paramilitary service.

Didn't matter to Robin -- working for the private sector offered opportunities far more brutal than Sirca's sanctified battlefields. The rules of engagement only applied to soldiers, after all; the non-combatants of the ring weren't held to the same glorified standards. Cruelty was practically written into Sirca's legacy.

He'd been approached by a few of the other 'volunteers', making a half-assed attempt to remember their names as they'd grunted an obligatory salutation and a line or two about their origins. Not that it mattered, he was just gonna be shipped off somewhere else in a day or two.

Harris was a three-time Specials flunk-out who thought this might actually get him another shot, and Miller was a recently-demoted corporal? Captain? Whatever it was, he was an officer-turned-grunt who'd probably only been spared time in a cell (or a noose) due to his being assigned to this mission. Robin couldn't remember if he'd explained why he was demoted. Probably hadn't been very interesting.

Meanwhile, Zeke had only talked for a few minutes before it became clear he just wanted to watch the whole ring burn, so he'd be entertaining, at least. He'd come in with a gruff long-range specialist who went by Duke. Someone had already asked her why she didn't go by 'Duchess', and he'd wound up on his back with blood leaking from his dazed jaws. Robin figured he might get along with her, too.

Several well-maintained hogs were arranged in loose formation near their gathering point, which was admittedly a surprise considering how haphazardly Robin and his two cohorts had been transported from their base. Didn't mean the job was any less shit, but hey, it beat riding in the back of a truck for the second half of their journey.

His meandering thoughts were sidelined when a chupa in fatigues hopped onto the hood of one of the armored vehicles, whistling loudly through cupped hands and coaxing silence to fall through the clustered soldiers. "Glad all of you could join us today! I'm Master Sergeant Bristol, I will be leading today's special operation. Since you have all been so kind to offer your services for this mission--" He paused long enough to smirk atop the gallery of eye-rolls and muttered curses. "--I will be so kind to brief you on what you need to know! Lucky for you fine representatives of Omega's dedicated Red Army, you ain't gotta know much, so this won't take too long."

Robin joined the others to stand at loose attention, half-focusing on Bristol's drawling overview. "We will be protecting a valuable shipment for a Command-designated VIP. Our duty will be to ensure the safe passage of this shipment from Burrough to Kestral City. We will accompany it from pick-up to drop-off and prevent any interference from outside parties. Simple, right?"

A series of murmurs rippled through the troops before someone called out: "What's the shipment?? Weapons? Ammunition?"

"You don't need to know that!" Bristol replied easily before glancing over as Duke called out.

"Is this 'VIP' with the Army? Or some loaded civvie paying us to be fucking delivery boys?"

Bristol grinned and showed off several silver teeth as he met her sour expression with entertainment. "Guess what? You don't need to know that, either!"

She rolled her eyes as several other soldiers muttered between themselves. Robin assumed most of them had been suspecting the same thing he had -- some rich asshole didn't want to pay the price for professional mercenaries, and the Red and Blue Armies rarely turned down the patronage of an affluent citizen. More coins in the coffers meant more bullets in the barracks.

Miller barked out over the crowd next: "So who should we expect to attack? The Blues? Bank robbers? Highland hornybacks?"

The master sergeant snorted as he studied the soldier for a moment. "Private Miller, right? Real shame about that demotion. You get knocked down for asking pointless questions like that?" Bristol chortled and threw his arms wide. "Don't matter who it is! We defend the cargo from anyone and anything. I told you it'd be simple!"

Miller's features turned even moodier. "Does that mean we engage anyone who attacks?"

"You must be hard of hearing, too, Private! We engage anyone and everything, without prejudice!"

Robin finally pitched in his own question. "What about collateral damage?"

Bristol searched out the source of the voice, and his grin only seemed wider at the sight of Robin's prosthetics. "Looks like you already know all about collateral damage, son! Due to the nature of our arrangement with the client, our transportation has been designated as an official Red Army operation, so I don't give a damn whether it's a battle-hardened Blue, a curious civilian, a lost puppy dog or, hell, one of your fellow Red soldiers!" The master sergeant leaned forward with the same toothy smile. "They try to mess with the cargo?" He reached down and unholstered a combat magnum to hold it next to his muzzle. "You shoot 'em in the head." He straightened and looked around the gathered troops, his grin once more saccharine. "That clear things up for everyone?" A second or two passed before Bristol threw out a raucous laugh while shoving the pistol back into its holster. "I thought as much! We move out in ten minutes, so find your assigned vehicle and make sure you visit the latrines because there will be no piss breaks once we head to the station!"

He hopped off the hood with a grunt and the soldiers broke into smaller groups to grumble about the orders while collecting their bags. Robin shouldered his own pack while glancing up as Zeke approached, his eyes already alight. "You hear what he said, Tinman?? No fuckin' rules." He rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Can't wait to cap some rich bitch who throws a fit about us being in the way or some shit..."

Robin smirked while leaning toward the gleefully-grinning Red. "Or maybe you'll get too close to the shit, gato, then I'll get to cap you."

Zeke stared at him wide-eyed for a few seconds before cackling with excitement. "Fuck yeah! This is the shit I signed up for!"

Several soldiers around them gave the duo uncomfortable looks, but Robin responded only with a relaxed smile as he pushed through the crowd toward one of the armored vehicles. Maybe this was the shit he signed up for, too.

.