#but it popped up on my docs so I figured I'd share since it's unlikely I'll actually turn it into anything else but a draft

[coldercreation]

Random WIP, likely to remain a WIP

(--) “Boy! C’mere! Take this to the captain‘s (rooms?)??” the cook called, gruff and short, but not unkind.

?? skirted around the kitchen hands, ducking under pots, trying to avoid getting underfoot (??) (--)

“Me?” ?? asked, taking the covered tray that was being handed to him. “But-"

“The quartermaster called for you, son.”

“The quartermaster?” ?? repeated, frowning. “But... Why?”

“Still askin’ too many questions,” the cook grumbled. He piled another nice plate on top of the already heavy tray, eyeing ?? critically, probably to make sure he wouldn’t topple over with the food. “Do as ye’r told.” The cook stuffed a bite of warm bread in between ??s teeth. -- He?? grinned around the mouthful, eyes squinting pleased as the doughy, savoury taste exploded on his tongue. The cook scowled, waving him off. “Now, get!” 

-- ?

?? was slow going up the stairs, wrists straining and arms shaking. Even after all these months at sea he hadn’t been able to build the same sort of mass most of the crew seemed to put on so effortlessly. Still as puny?? and birdlike as ever, precisely what the courts and ballrooms had expected a fresh, malleable, noble youth like him to be.

Somehow ?? had managed to grow up to seem exactly what everyone around him had wanted him to be, whilst also being the absolute opposite of that.

A tarnished, wasted, angel, one of the ma’ams had called him --?? And she hadn’t even known the ‘worst’ of it; just an elderly lady scoffing at a young man’s carelessness, horrified that someone of his stature would be caught running about the gardens, barefoot and clothes damp with dirt.

“Sneaking a bite?” Crew?? asked, callused fingers reaching towards the tray. ?? shouldered past him, turning his back so the food would remain untouched. “Oi! Who’s that for?”

“The captain. And quartermaster. I think?”

“Why’s the cook not takin’ it ‘imself? Did y’steal that, y’rat? Hey!”

?? Ignored the questioning, knowing they just wanted a piece of whatever the tray held.

Not that they weren’t right to be suspicious. ?? definitely wasn’t the one who would normally interact with the captain’s quarters, nor the men who’d frequent it the most.

He knew to stay out of their way. The less they saw of him, the better. 

It was a miracle the first mate had even allowed him on board; too skinny, too polished, and too ignorant to be of any real help. 

Too naive, they had called him. Won’t last a week. Made of that posh sort of glass, not a cut to his soft hands. The sea, she’d eat him alive.

All true. Humiliatingly so.

But ?? had vowed to make it worth it for the first mate. Had given all the money he had stolen from his father and his older brothers. The steep earnings he had gotten from secretly selling one of the estate’s best stallions. 

The merchant sailors had looked at his offerings as if they were meagre pennies. Looked at him like he was just a wealth-ruined son of a lord(??) Too gullible and coddled, blind to the reality of life outside the riches he had grown up in.

And perhaps they had been right.

Perhaps someone less coddled would’ve been able to tell merchant sailors apart from the navy, and the navy apart from the... 

Well.

The pirates took his money, gladly, but at least they also took him, holding their end of the deal.

They said that, in time, he’d make a good decoy; sun bleached hair creating an aura of innocence, pale skin that burned pink in the summer heat showing he wasn’t used to the elements. He looked like a lord’s son, even in his ratty clothes. Posture pin straight, hands always politely placed, blue eyes 'pure like his bloodline'.

No one’d suspect him, they said. He looked useless, out of place, here. They’ll let their guards down for someone like him.

A decoy, they said. All ?? heard was that he was disposable.

Which he supposed he was. 

An inconvenience, more than anything. A spoiled brat who’s father and uncles were powerful enough to be wary of, who’s mother was wealthy enough to pay someone to find ??, if she’d feel inclined to do so.

Not that she would. 

Not after her maids had tattled to her about ??s games with the stable hand.

?? pushed the image of his chronically stern-faced mother out of his mind, instead focusing on the problem of knocking on the captain's door when both of his hands were occupied.

He used the worn point of his shoe, wobbling slightly balancing on one foot.

(--)“Why’s the runt here?” the captain asked tiredly, clearly having expected the head cook, as usual. The man barely glanced at ??, eyes flitting between the food placed in front of him and the books on his desk. “I thought you said we have someone who can help.”

The quartermaster rolled his eyes. “He can read and write.”

The captain paused, rings clinking against the gold trimmed plate he had been reaching for.

“That’s it?” the captain asked. His tone made ?? shift uneasily, eyes to the floor, hands behind his back. “We‘ve been sailing aimlessly for weeks... You think a lad who can read will solve our problems?”

“And write,” the quartermaster repeated, shrugging. He didn’t seem too concerned by the storm building in the captain’s gaze. “Better than nothing, surely.”

The captain closed his eyes, a deep, tortured cut pressing in between his brows. The man sighed, for a moment looking like he was praying, even though ?? knew that these men prayed to nothing but the devils living deep below the seas.

“Fine. Gods... Fine.” The captain grabbed a fork, lifting the cover from the tray to stab through a deliciously steaming potato. ?? himself had eaten barely nothing but gruel for months, their last docking just a distant memory. 

The quartermaster ushered ?? to the desk behind the captain’s more impressive decorative piece, leaving the darkly scowling man to his dinner. --

Although nothing like the main desk??, the smaller piece of furniture was still made of fine wood, its surfaces sanded smooth. It was bolted to the wall and the floorboards to keep it in place against the rocking of the ship. 

The quartermaster had a smug air to him as he piled some of the heavy books and scrolls in front of ??. He even pulled a fresh candle out just to light the space some more, the wax smooth, wick catching easily despite how damp everything on board usually was. (??)

“Anything you find about a gannet’s nest, you mark with a clear tag. Write it down, and tell one of us, or the first mate.” The quartermaster snatched a pot of ink from the captain’s shelf, pressing a silky white quill in ??s hand.

“A gannet?” ?? asked, pulling one of the scrolls closer to him, eyeing the messy cursive pensively. -- If only his old tutor ?? could see him now... “The seabird?”

“Aye, the seabird.” The quartermaster’s heavy hand landed on ?? nape, his fingers squeezing down briefly, pointedly. “Blue bill, golden cap, eats like the devil’s about to take our tomorrow. Write down anything that even hints to it, and not a word ‘bout it outside these rooms.”

The last bit, it wasn’t a question. Not even a request.

?? frowned in confusion, but he nodded all the same.

“Good lad. I’ll tell the ?? that I’ve taken you off his hands, for now. Do well and maybe we can consider keepin’ you off the – - ”? 

?? knew he wasn’t particularly smart. 

He wasn’t quick on his feet and he knew nothing of the street smarts most of the men under this sail had needed to find over the years. 

Maybe ?? wasn’t the cleverest son of a lord, but still, he refused to be thick enough to believe that the 'gannet’s nest' he was told to look for was referencing an actual gannet. 

Perhaps another ship?

Perhaps a cyphered coordinate? A sea current? A term for astrology and sailing maps?

The captain cleared his throat, dark wine spilling into his tall glass when ?? turned.

“Start with this,” the man said. Two of his smallest fingers flicked towards a thick book, the rest of them lazily wrapped around the stem of his drink.

The book was titled ‘Gannets’. 

?? tilted his head, confused, and silently questioning the sanity of these men. 

(--?)

Captain's orders, ?? read on.

The book was about... gannets. 

(--)

[agentoli]

Implant Miniseries: Delta [pt. 1]

Words: 2.5k

TW: panic attacks, mention of death, mention of blood.

Summary: Simmons gets to share his brain with a computer chip, and he is terrified. Luckily, Grif is there to help his friend keep his cool.

Notes: Grimmons warning (mild). It's been a while since I've actually written anything, so apologies if the consistency is a bit wack.

In the brightly colored waiting room sat a rather dreary man, who sat with his elbows on his knees and hands loosely clasped. Between his feet lay his helmet, freshly polished and free from any damage. He preferred it that way. Despite his job and its dangers, he found solace in routine.

Simmons bit his lip as his green eyes flickered around the childish room, never settling for more than a second lest he fall back into his muddled thoughts. Although, he dipped briefly into the torrent to wonder where his orange companion was. Grif had assured Simmons he would be there for the operation, just in case. At the time, he had callously brushed it off as he always had, waving a hand to dispell the 'silly' notion.

Yet, he felt his nerves grow more erratic as the clock ticked forward. Did the man actually take his deflection to heart? What happened to the Grif that didn't care what others said? And why did he actually wish the heavy set man was here to calm him down?

All of a sudden, his armor felt a bit to tight, and the air was a tad thicker than before. Simmons could feel his pulse quicken in his chest. He grimaced, hands gripping tighter onto eachother. Not here. Not now. You should feel lucky.

Simmons nearly jumped to his feet as the door hissed, sliding open to reveal a larger man in casual clothes. His dark curls spilled wildly over his shoulders, matching the disheveled look the rest of his 'fresh out of bed' attire.

The man's dark eyes meandered over to the figure in armor, a lazy smile growing in his face. "You look like a mess."

Summons scoffed, straightening his posture. "I look put together. Unlike you, I got ready this morning."

"Uh, yeah. 'Cuz you're about to mind meld with a computer chip." Grif practically fell into the chair besides his armored friend, shoving a hand into the pocket of his sweatpants. He pulled out a handful of hard candies, one of which he dexterously popped in his mouth.

The paler man frowned, "Nice breakfast. Hoping your sugar will crash in time to avoid drills today?"

"Simmons, you know me so well." Grif offered a piece without looking.

He froze, blinking for a moment. "Since when do you share your food?"

"If you don't want it, thats fine—"

"No, I'll take it!" Simmons' vooce squeaked out, swiftly snatching the small treat away. He fumbled for a moment with the wrapper before shoving it into his mouth. "Eugh, milk chocolate? Seriously?"

"Beggars can't be choosers. 'Sides, there's no way I'd carry around dark chocolate. That stuff sucks." Grif swallowed another candy, rolling the wrappers into a ball.

Simmons watched his hands, no longer consumed with the ticking clock or how garrishly the waiting room was decorated. His eyes drifted slowly to his face. The stubble, the warm brown eyes, the greasy curls, the flawed skin... He blinked, looking away. 'No! Do NOT think about Grif like some crushing schoolgirl!!'

"So, you're getting an AI, right? How's it feel to he the first sucker on Team Bravo to get one?" Grif hummed, tilting his head to look at his redheaded companion.

The man turned his gaze back to meet Grif's. "Scared...? Like somehow I'll mess up?"

Grif made a face, huffing amusedly. "Dude, how do you mess up getting an implant? If anyone would screw it up, it's Doc, and you know his track record."

"I don't know... what if my AI doesn't like me?"

"That, I can see..."

"Grif!" Simmons whined, pouting. "Aren't you supposed to be giving me a pep talk?!"

"If you wanted a pep talk, you should've asked Donut, or Sarge. Me? I'm an impartial third party." Grif leaned back with a hum. "You gotta realize you aren't the first one to get an AI."

"Sure, but we all know Church is a freak." Simmons replied pointedly.

The disheveled man laughed into his fist. "Don't let him hear you say that."

"What's he gonna do? Cry to The Director? Like they'll do anything." He huffed and folded his arms. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say Church is in some torrid love affair with them. First to get an AI, Captain of Team Alpha, always first pick for missions. It's unfair."

"Hey, less work for me."

"Every day I question why they stuck you in Bravo."

"If it were up to me, I'd be Charlie all the way."

"You want to be bossed around by Donut?"

"On second thought, maybe Sarge isn't so bad..."

Before the conversation could continue, another door slid open, and an unarmored man stepped through. He had tied his black fluffy curls back and wore a white surgical mask. Simmons remarked on how clean his scrubs looked, usually they were stained with the previous patient's bodily fluids. His eyes were heavy behind his circular glasses. Woth a deep inhale, Doc finally spoke. "Richard Simmons, the operation is ready to proceed. You will need your full suit of armor for this, though you may keep your helmet off." He spoke far more professionally than usual. Had he been like this with Church a few weeks ago?

Simmons blinked, feeling his blood pressure spike again. This was it. It was time. Millions of what-ifs filled his head like a discordant choir. His vision blurred, fading at the ends.

A large, warm hand on his own stilled the waters enough to see clearly, a quick glance confirmed the culprit to be the perfect messy man with perfect messy features. If Simmons wasn't so terrified, he supposes his face would turn red. Instead, he nodded to his friend and stood up, making sure to grab his helmet as he walked towards DuFresne.

"Hey, before you go." Grif commanded one more moment of his attention, waiting until the man turned to look his way. With the softest, kindest smile Simmons had ever seen, the tired agent spoke, "Good luck, buddy."

Simmons had to look away to hide the warmness that crept upon his freckled face, although Doc recieved front row seats. The medic raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he turned into the medbay.

The maroon agent followed, an odd serenity forcing his usual anxieties to settle down and dissapate into the well of conflicting emotions still stirring in his heart. He was led to a hospital bed and told to sit while the medic performed his usual check-up routine. Simmons wasn't really paying attention, mind fixated on his companion's dopey smile and warm hand that he swore he could still feel even through his gauntlets.

"Simmons?" He was pulled back to reality by a gentle hand on his shoulder and questioning eyes. Admittedly, DuFresne was a gorgeous man, but yet his heart never fluttered like it did when he had to wake Dexter up and saw his sleeping expression, or whenever Grif laughed so hard he had to lean against him, or— "Simmons!"

"Huh?"

"Are you alright? You were spacing out." Even, professional, unfeeling.

"Sorry, I'm just a bit nervous." He lied, because the truth was a lot more embarrassing and something he did not want to voice.

Doc held his gaze for a moment as if studying his expression for any dishonesty. Apparently satisfied, he moved over to his desk and pressed a button. A quiet beep sounded off, and within minutes two more people walked through the medbay doors.

Instinctively, Richard lowered his gaze, content to stare at The Directors shoes than dare meet their eyes. Beside them was someone leagues less terrifying, though all the same intimidating.

Vic spoke first, his odd mannerisms spilling out even in his 'no nonsense' tone. "Alrighty duderino. Congrats on being numero dos to recieve an AI! How are you feeling?"

"Uhm... okay. I'm nervous, of course, but I'm—"

"Happy to hear it comrade!" Vic cut him off, and Richard wished he could just swallow his tongue.

A more controlled voice spoke next, "Richard Simmons, are you fully prepared to take on this responsibility?"

He only nodded, remarking on how shiny The Director's shoes were.

"Very well. Vic, you may hand over the storage device." They turned slightly to speak to the Counselor.

DuFresne carefully took the black cube in his hands, moving back towards Simmons. Another gentle touch commanded the agent's attention once more. "You will feel a slight pinch and something close to a jolt of electricity. Try not to flinch to much." With the warning, the hand pushed Richard's head down to expose his neck port, courtesy the procedure a week prior to prepare for the implantation.

Simmons closed his eyes, finally allowing his thoughts to rest on Dexter without reeling in embarassment. As much as he hated to admit it, the image of his orange companion brought him comfort. He must have gotten carried away as he scarcely felt the pinch. Although the shock did well to force his attention. He seized up, hissing in pain as thousands of needles stabbed into his spine and skull, his hands clenched to tightly that if it werent for his gauntlets his nails would leave angry red cresents in their wake.

The idle beeping he had heard before quickened, and suddenly the gentle grasp on his nape turned to two forceful hands on his shoulders. Was he being held down? Why did everything sound so far away? Who was yelling? At him? The only thing Simmons could accurately identify was the sensation of every nerve ending screaming out in discordance.

"..mons!......ap ou... ri... Breathe!"

'I can't open my eyes, I can't breathe, I'm trapped. I'm going to die—'

<Richard Simmons, you are not going to die.>

A lifeboat appeared.

<It seems my implantation has triggered a panic attack.>

A hand reached out.

<You are not in danger.>

He was dragged from the torrent.

<You are safe.>

He could finally breathe.

Simmons' eyes slowly peeled open, squinting as bright florescent lights hit his ill-adjusted eyes. Something held him in a tight, warm embrace. He unconsciously leaned into it, noting how sweet his first breath of air tasted. The ringing in his ears slowly faded, giving way to muffled chatter from distorted voices he struggled to put names to.

<That does not matter. Focus on stilling your mind.>

Whoever kept breaking through the fog, Simmons figured he should obey. Focus on my rapid mind, focus on the warm anchor keeping me grounded, focus on breathing.

<I will not let harm come to you, Simmons. You are safe.>

"Is he alright?" Finally, a second voice pushed past the walls. Still, he wasn't sure who.

A louder voice responded, likely the thing wrapping itself around him judging by how it rumbled. "He isn't shaking as much as before. Just, give it a little longer."

"No... I'm fine." Simmons managed, ignoring the coarse feeling in his throat.

The anchor hummed, questioning, "Are you sure? You seemed pretty freaked out."

Richard finally waved away the cloud muddling his senses, fully taking in his surroundings. With that, he pushed his 'anchor ' away and stumbled to his feet. "Grif? What the hell?!" He cringed at how squeaky and hoarse he sounded.

He was met with a concerned frown. "Are you sure you're all there? The AI didn't eat your brain or anything, did it?

<No, I didn't. I am incapable of consumption.>

"What?"

"I said—"

"No, not you, the disembodied voice! You guys don't hear that?"

Confusion spread across the other occupants, each giving odd glances to eachother (save for The Director who remained stoic). DuFresne carefully approached him, slowly raising a hand to hold the agent's chin. Simmons stood extremely still as the medic tilted his head in every direction, keeping up as another hand pulled at his eyelids to stare into his green eyes.

When Doc finally sighed, the tension in the medbay started to dissapate. "That voice you are hearing is your AI. Grif, can you pass me his helmet?" His voice was much more amicable than before, shedding all monotone professionalism in favor of a soft, reassuring tone.

The casually dressed man obeyed, setting the meticulously maintained helmet in the medic's hands, watching as it was then offered to the armored agent.

Simmons mindlessly fitted it over his head, making sure it clicked into place. Within moments, a holographic figure flickered to life a few inches from his visor. The maroon agent jumped back, swatting at the image. "ACK!"

"Please do not do that." Now subjected to the acoustics of the room, the disembodied voice left his mind.

He looked owlishly at the others, pointing at the hologram with a series of strangled breaths. The charade earned another muffled chuckle from Grif. "Yeah, we see it."

"He is an AI. Delta." Doc subtely corrected, making a few notes on his clipboard. Grif raised an eyebrow but chose to let any comments die in his throat. After a few moments of hurried writing, the medic returned his inquisitive gaze to the maroon agent. "How are you feeling?"

"Dizzy, slightly uncomfortable, and there is this buzzing in the back of my head." Richard relayed.

"Okay... How is your connection with Delta?"

He tilted his head, "I'm sorry?"

"Does he feel fuzzy or distant in any way? Can you feel his presence?"

"No, it's pretty clear."

"Great! One last question," DuFresne twirled to swipe a stress ball from his desk. "In the interval between this ball resting in my hand, and it touching the floor, what is it's top speed?" Without waiting for a response, the medic tossed the item up and let it fall to the floor.

<Approximately 10 meters per second.>

"10 meters per second." He parroted, pausing afterwards to glance at the green holographic soldier, then back at Doc. "That was..."

"Incredibly lame?" Grif interjected, lightly punching his companion's shoulder.

Simmons whipped around to grab his shoulders, a wild look in his eyes hidden behind his visor. "No! It's amazing! Do you realize how efficient this will make me?! Grif, I have a miniature computer in my brain that can make calculations in a fraction of the time it would take for me to even react! This is a dream come true! Sarge will finally acknowledge how useful I am and give me a promotion!!"

Grif patted one of Richard's forearms, "Uh, you know that's not how Teams work, right?"

"HUSH! Now is not the time for your argumentative comments! I need to test Delta out!!" He began shaking the heavy-set man.

"Chill out! You just got done with implantation. Don't you need to recover or something?" He glanced over at DuFresne, hoping for the medic to back him up.

Instead, Doc smiled. "Actually, we were expecting him to conduct a combat test."

Once more, Grif looked like he wanted to argue, but a quick glance back towards his friend killed those words. "Fine. I'll stick around to watch you get your ass beat again."