#final approach. landing gear down. full flaps. just gotta land this thing.

[strangermoons]

it really is true what they say; sometimes you have to write the absolute worst version of a scene before you can find your way to the good one

[subbing-for-clones]

The Alpha and The Omega Part 4

Alpha Maul x Omega Reader

Word Count: 4.6k

WARNINGS: Cursing, Mentions of death (bounty hunting), mentions of drinking to be done in the next chapter, reluctant pining

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        Maul had stayed in the cockpit much longer than it was necessary, allowing autopilot to guide the Wolf through hyperspace. He was silently obsessing why you had felt the need to call another hunter; another Alpha. He couldn’t explain to himself or anyone else who would be stupid enough to ask why this upset him so much. He remembered what Zeni and Coth had said; Bane got you into the guild and the both of you had traveled around together for a bit over a year, long after your membership had been established with the house. He had been told that you were unmated but he couldn’t stop his mind from wondering if a close comradery was all you had shared with the Duro. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

    He eventually left the cockpit when he smelled something in your pheromones change, not being able to place it exactly, he ventured out. When he found you, he almost smirked at the sight before him. One he hadn’t ever seen before. The mighty lone Omega had buried herself completely in his sofa bed under the blanket she had lent him. Every few seconds her hand would dart out to snatch a piece of jerky from a plate on the nearby table and pull it under the blanket.  

    He slowly approached; mind set on taking some of the food for himself but he stopped in his tracks when a low growl rumbled out from the mess of fabric. He took a step back until it subsided. Warily he took another step forward and outstretched his hand earning a second growl that he was sure humans wouldn’t normally be able to make.

    He had become familiar with some of the cultural dynamics of the cross subspecies but as for the specific habits and instincts, he was uneducated to say the least. Equally confused as he was humored, he took another step back, gauging the perimeter around you that you suddenly required. He finally decided what the smell you were giving off was; aggression. But not outwardly so, a defensive aggression. One that said back the fuck up, so he did; not without poking the proverbial bear though.

“I understand that this is your ship, and everything in it belongs to you. However,” he watched as you peered out from your wrap, “we have six hours before we reach Hoth and I would like to rest.” He didn’t really need to. He had and could again go, days without sleep. However, he was not one to avoid getting under someone’s skin when the opportunity presented itself.

    You eyed him carefully with your eyes narrowed. Finally, ‘the bitch’ gave up for a moment so that you could understand his reasoning. With a huff, you stood with his blanket still wrapped around you and grumbled nonsense under your breath until you reached the door to your room. You glanced over your shoulder just long enough to catch his confused gaze before you turned and entered your sanctuary. Ignoring how he sniffed the air in the path you had just walked. You locked your door and turned on the incredibly dim colorful lights and pressed a remote that played soft music. You continued to grumble about stupid inconsistent cycles. It wasn’t a full-on heat like you normally experienced, more like a nagging annoyance in the back of your mind, dulled needles underneath your skin.

    After trying several different placements for the blanket saturated in his scent you finally found one that ‘the bitch’ was satisfied with. Clamoring into your vast array of blankets, pillows and other various soft things you settled in its center and closed your eyes; preparing for the tremors that you were convinced would come. Just as you got comfortable, your vambrace started beeping and an obscenely offensive red light blinked in time with the wretched noise. Growling audibly, you reached for your table and strapped it on to your wrist, violently pressing the answer button.

“Fucking. What?” your teeth clenched so hard they could crack.

“Last I recall you’re the one who wanted to talk. Had a question or something,” the Duro’s head lit up in that blue only holo-comms could emanate. You pinched the bridge of your nose and scrunched your eyes shut apologetically.

“Sorry. Yeah, yeah I do,” you opened your eyes slowly and looked at him, almost hoping he could just pry the information out of your head so you wouldn’t have to say it out loud.

“Well, you gonna ask or what ‘Meg?” he folded his arms across his chest already tired.

“So, I’m sponsoring an Alpha who didn’t know what he was until a few months ago…” you started, hoping that either Zeni or Coth had filled him in in the few days that you’d been gone.

“Heard something about that. I know the guy, did a job with him back before I picked you up. Something about a captured Jedi he wanted to hunt. Didn’t talk much.” Your eyes widened at the new information. “You haven’t told anyone about that bit, have you?”

“The fuck do I look like kid?” he was almost offended at the implication that his lips even held the ability to flap. Even if they could they wouldn’t. The sigh that escaped you was exasperated in your relief.

“So, what about him. Is he fucking with you?” his eyes narrowed further and the last word came out as a protective growl.

“No, no he’s fine but I’m not.”

“’Meg if you don’t start speaking plainly, I swear to Maker I’ll find and kill you both.”

“He smells…. Different. Intense. More so than any other Alpha I’ve ever come into contact with,” you chuckled, “even more than Fett.” His eyes widened and he thought for a moment before responding.

“When was your last cycle? Has he triggered another one?”

“I mean maybe a week or so ago? I wouldn’t call it a new one, feels different. Lighter? ‘The Bitch’ is talking more in my ear and I’m starving. Like, fucking famished.” He nodded with his fingers on his chin looking off to the side.

“Where are you right now and where is he?”

“On the way to Hoth.”

“No, I mean on the ship. Where are the both of you?”

“Oh, I’m in my room; doors locked. He’s in the common,” you glanced at the door like it was possible he could’ve manifested on your side of the durasteel door. The force could do some crazy shit but teleportation wasn’t on the list as far as you knew. Even for a Sith.

“Good. You’re not gonna like the answer ‘Meg. Don’t shoot the messenger,” your eyes snapped back to his projection, waiting for him to continue.

“Someone always smells best, stronger. Mine did, Coth and Zeni got that. Not everyone gets it or waits long enough to find it but I’d put five quarries’ credits worth on the fact that that guys’ your Alpha.”

“W-what? No, that story’s bullshit. That’s not real, is it?” He growled slightly angrily in his response.

“I said.. I fucking had it. It’s why I can’t ever have another. Don’t doubt anything cause you’ve never known it before. Like me saying your Jedi force shits fake. Ignorance I can handle ‘Meg; arrogance I won’t put up with.”

    You couldn’t respond. This is not what was supposed to happen. You were going to live your life as the lone Omega, ‘Meg the hunter. Live your life in solitude only occasionally coming to the surface to socialize with your pack members to stave off the inevitable loneliness.

“Sorry, no you’re right. I just, don’t want that? I guess, you just shocked me was all. I didn’t mean to offend you or your Omega.”

He visibly relaxed and sighed as he rubbed his head under his hat.

“Do what you gotta do. Whether that means scenting him, mating, kicking him out now, or waiting till you finish what you started with him. You don’t need to explain yourself. But that’s my best guess to your question kid.” You nodded and stared off for a moment away from the door. You thanked your old friend for his time and his insight before hanging up and rolling over and failing to find rest as the tremors started.

      Maul truly had no clue what had crawled into your skin and possessed you. He wondered for a moment if some cousin to Dathomirian magick had made its way into the ship before shaking his head. That would be ridiculous. He had grabbed another of the no less than what guessed were a thousand blankets from the shelf and laid back. He didn’t really try to eavesdrop but when he recognized the voice that was speaking to you, he bristled. He only caught a few words while he passed, faking a trip to the fresher should you be able to feel him through the force. On his way there he realized that you were in fact as affected by his scent as he was yours and that it wasn’t necessarily normal.  On his way back he couldn’t hear your words but it sounded like you had received some information that you really didn’t want to hear.

    The pheromones that you gave off were those of fear mixed with frustration and anger. He wondered how long you would’ve lasted as a Jedi if they hadn’t thrown you out. Despite his bitterness the overwhelming urge to comfort you assaulted his every sense. He pushed it down with a snarl at himself before stalking back to the cockpit trying to put some distance between the heady smells.

    He must have watched you eat at least three pounds of the dried meat hastily while gearing up to venture out onto the frozen wasteland. A small part of him wanted to ask what all this was about with you but the larger part of him knew it wasn’t his business unless you made it his business. He settled for simply asking if you were alright. You threw a sarcastic ‘perfect’ over your shoulder before throwing yourself out into the blizzard.

    You had yet again, not permitted him to bring his saber. Jabba usually wanted a head over a warm body but bodies couldn’t pay their debts, and this particular Talz owed him big. He had thought it worth the expense to make an example himself out of this smuggler. Maul was just as frustrated as he had been last time but was silent about it, much to your personal relief. You were in no mood for argument and he no doubt could sense it.

    He had landed the ship just outside a large cavern, the tracking fob blinked rapidly, signaling that the one you sought was close by. As you entered the cave you had expected to run into a Wampa or two. Bones of different creatures varying in size had alluded to it being home to one of the creatures. What you had not expected was to walk right into an onslaught of blaster fire.

    Maul had force pushed you roughly to the ground a couple meters away from your position; landing you behind a large enough boulder for you to take cover behind. Cautiously, you looked to the side through the bolts to find him taking refuge along the wall behind stone that jut out from the wall with his blaster pointing to the circling, looking to you for approval.

    You took a flash grenade out of your utility belt, hit the countdown button and tossed it; taking cover before the blinding light filled the cavern. It must have been cheaper to hire guns than pay Jabba, six humans doubled over covering their faces allowing you to take a few shots. After putting down three yourself fairly quickly you looked over at your companion again. He was firing alright but not hitting a damn thing.

“I thought you said you were ‘quite familiar with other forms of weaponry!’” you shouted over the returned fire in a slightly mocking tone.

    His response was only to look at you with wild, angry eyes that made you double over laughing in the thick of the standoff. You rolled your eyes and shook your head. You raised your blaster and took out two more, leaving one man and your quarry. You turned to face Maul and crossed your arms in your seated position behind the boulder smiling toothily at him, nodding your head to the last man.

    It took him a few shots but he managed to hit the hired gun square in his chest. You missed the glint in his eye but felt his pride through the force before he covered it again and chuckled to yourself once more. You could see the Talz shaking as he raised his blaster in his trembling hand as he slowly backed up. You pulled out your blow gun and loaded one of your tranquilizer darts. The long needle glinted ominously in the low light of the cavern, Maul watched as you took a deep breath and bring the long tube up to your mouth and wrap your lips around it. The dart flew with a short huff of breath as the Talz turned to run; striking him directly in his spine.

    The toxin took hold before the quarry could take another step, dropping to the floor with a thud and a grunt. You stood from your position and made your way over to the first of the dead body guards. Maul went to bind and secure the smuggler while you scoffed at the small number of credits you pulled from the dead’s pockets. They really didn’t get paid shit, and they died for it. You almost felt bad for them; now wasn’t the time to get soft though. They took the job and they paid the price for it, just like you risked each and every job you took. No different from the rest of the pack.

    You handed Maul half of the measly amount and one of the better blasters that one of the men carried. He hoisted the Talz onto his back and raised his brow at you before taking what you had offered.

“I told you half of what we make is yours. This falls under that category despite the fact that it’s not technically a bounty prize, I don’t go back on my word once I give it.”

    He nodded his head in thanks and followed you back to the ship. Once the smuggler was frozen in the carbonate, you led him back to the cave. He watched as you dragged the bodies of the fallen gunmen to various positions and distances. You made your way back to him and when he opened his mouth to speak you raised your hand to cut him off.

“That was a fucking atrocious display if I’m being honest. Mildly disappointing if I’m being kind,” he snapped his mouth shut with a quiet clink of his teeth. “You can’t bring your saber to the higher paying jobs, as I’ve said, too many witnesses. Do you want to pick off the bottom of the barrel, cheap thieves for your career?” he crossed his arms and glowered at you.

“No, but what would it matter if I only go after those who are wanted dead?” you jut out your hip and rested your hand on it while rolling your eyes.

“You allow yourself to wield a crutch. What if you’re attacked in public? The longer you play the game the more likely it is to happen. You going to flash your pretty red blade and take out an entire town to maintain secrecy or are you going to be smart about it?”

    He growled at your logic and took out the blaster you had plucked off of the corpse. You watched him take a few rushed shots before snarling to himself at all of his misses. You silently walked over to him and kicked the insides of his ankles lightly to widen his stance and kicked one of his heels to push it forward a few inches. He allowed you to but not without a glare. You pulled out your own blaster and demonstrated how with your dominant hand you gripped it tightly, pointer finger lined up with the barrel. With your other hand you held your palm to the bottom of the grip and wrapped your fingers around both it, and your other hand to stabilize it; bending your elbows slightly and raising the sights to your eyes.

    He followed your movements with the accuracy of a mirror. You didn’t speak until you saw him close one eye to aim, “both eyes open, its more accurate,” you demonstrated again and fired your blaster a single time, hitting the furthest target square between his eyes.

    In only three shots, Maul had hit two targets square in the chest, knocking them over. You backed up and watched him practice. It was slow going but after resituating the corpses he knocked over multiple times he had started to get consistent hits on them. When you were satisfied with his progress you lifted a head sized rock with the force and moved it side to side a decent distance in front of him. Moving targets were always a different game compared to stationary ones and the victorious glint in his eyes when he landed a single shot took you back a few years to when Bane was teaching you to shoot.

    The twin suns were beating down on you harshly in the desert that stretched out as far as you could see in any direction. The sand here was what water is to the ocean, swallowing up everything in its path. The durasteel of the ship was growing hotter and hotter by the minute under your belly and you could hear Bane curse under his breath. You didn’t have to see him on the ground below you to know his eyes were pointed in the same direction as yours, the massive skeleton of a creature you couldn’t name even if you tried. Hopefully they were extinct or at least, nowhere in the area. It lay against the horizon three hundred meters away, unscathed by your attempted blasts.

“Bane, it’s really hot up here. Can’t I come down and try again tonight?”

“Hell no, next job ‘m gonna need you to cover me from ‘nother building ‘Meg. Either you’ll hit the target or melt onto my ship tryin. Focus, the scope is doin all the hard work for you. Breath like those Jedi taught you over so many years. Take the shot when you let your breath out. Closest thing I ever come to meditation is behind the scope and you’ll do the same now until you make your mark.”

    You had taken his suggestion to heart and waited before your next shot, breathing deeply and slowly. Sweat pooled on your forehead before gathering enough to drip down your face and streaming between your breasts as the minutes ticked by. Bane was silent as you focused your shot. With one last deep breath you slowly let the air out of your lungs and squeezed the trigger. You looked through the scope again and saw that you had indeed scorched the beast just below its eye socket like you had been instructed to do. You leapt to your feet and whooped unceremoniously in your gleeful victory. You cast a prideful look down at Bane who never turned to look at you.

“You can come down after you do it five more times.”

    Your shoulders sagged and you audibly groaned, the skin on your belly getting ready to blister from the hot hull of the ship. You could have sworn at the time you had heard your literal and figurative cold blooded companion chuckle.

      You smiled at the memory as you now spoke the words of your mentor to an all too full of himself Zabrak after he hit the floating rock a single time. “We can warm up in the ship after you hit it five more times handsome.” Just as yours had, his shoulders visibly dropped but he said nothing and carried on his target practice.

    When he had accomplished the goal you laid out for him you had reached your limit in the frigid environment. When you left the cavern, the air whipped around you violently while a vicious flurry burned the exposed skin of your face. Snow had piled up even deeper around you and a thick white blanket shielded your view. You hit a button on your vambrace to open the hatch that both you and the Zabrak scurried inside. You shivered wildly as you stripped out of your already soaked outer layers. Blizzards always caught you off guard on Hoth, you hated the planet for a plethora of reasons and would take a planet like Tatooine over this frozen wasteland any day if you had the choice.

    By Maul’s body language you assessed that he would as well. His jaw was clenched yet his body still shook of its own accord from the cold. You set a pot on your stove, readying it to brew life-saving hot caf. While the water boiled you had taken first dibs in the sanistream. Under the hot water you thanked whatever gods were responsible for staving off whatever kind of ‘light heat’ you had experienced. Maul barley waited for you to fully exit the fresher before he was stripping off his tunic an indulging himself in the shower just as you had. You bit back a chuckle while you made your way to the cock pit with steaming caf in hand. You watched the blizzard from the safety and heat provided by the combination of durasteel and trans-durasteel walls of the Wolf, allowing your mind to wander.

    You had never really been a caf drinker when you were a Jedi. Your master couldn’t drink it and most of the others you surrounded yourself with looked down on the drink despite filling themselves with various teas like your old friend. You had always teased Obi Wan for loving the sugary flowery varieties over any else. Like with many other things it was Bane who introduced you to the dark ‘life sustainer’ as he called it. He laughed at how you scrunched your face up the first few times you drank it but after thirty-three hours awake steaking out a quarry you needed the boost to function.

    Your eyes rolled to the back of your head when you downed the last of your cup and you sighed at the chore of walking the six meters to the kitchen to pour yourself another cup. Like he could read your mind, and he probably could, Maul’s hand extended from behind you and took your mug. He returned a few minutes later, two steaming cups in hand, and took his seat in the co-pilot’s chair. The two of you continued to watch the snow storm in a comfortable silence.

    The quiet was broken by an incoming holo-comm. You always found the beeping to be unnecessarily jarring when the air was still. Maul simply leaned back in his seat while you answered it, the top half of your favorite Mandalorian appearing in the familiar blue hue, you grinned cheekily at the man who had half-heartedly tried to court you on multiple occasions.

“Mando Fett,” you teased, “What’s up?” His helmeted head lowered slightly in a silent sigh but your companion quickly caught his attention and he straightened his back again.

“Heard you were rolling around with another Alpha.”

“Mmm, yeah, some of what Zeni spills is the truth. Or at least half true. Heard you were the one who gave him the card.”

Maul nodded his head once in greeting to Jango who returned the gesture.

“Yeah, I did.”

“So what’s going on? Need a hand getting out of a sticky spot or do you come with holo-roses this time?” you leaned back and put your feet up on the dash, taking another gulp of caf while waggling your eyebrows at your fellow bounty hunter.

“Neither actually,” he chuckled, “I know how you love a good hunt and I’ve caught word that the Jawas on some back water planet are offering an unusually high price for Mud Horn eggs. Plus their horns always fetch a nice price, someone’s always ready to buy the hides. I figured I’d extend the invitation to you and your cold-blooded outlaw friend. New guy can come along too of course. What do you say, wanna go have some from away from the office?”

“Hmm,” you animatedly tapped a finger to your chin, “the promise of a good hunt, decent credits and you bring the beer, what’s the catch?” you smiled coyly.

“First off, bring your own booze. Secondly,” he unsheathed a large viroblade, “I say we make it interesting.”

“No blasters?”

“No blasters.”

“You’ll have to pry Bane’s from his cold dead hands.” Jango laughed loudly, “please, he’s not just a gunman, he’s an alpha. All I have to do is poke at his pride a bit and he’d take a few down with his bare hands and his teeth just to put all us younglings in our place.”

You laughed this time and turned to your tattooed companion, “what do you say? Wanna take a break from chasing quarries and go on a hunt for a day or two? It’ll still get you credits.”

    Maul took a second to glance around the cock-pit and looked at all the pictures that had been taken from various hunting parties and for the first time in his life he actually had the want to experience something like that. Yes, he had battled and defeated an array of fearsome monsters but it had always been a solo operation and for only the benefits of getting stronger and proving his worth to his master. It seemed like his new peers viewed such acts as a time to be enjoyed and remembered, the promise of credits was an added bonus as well.  

“Alright, a day or two wouldn’t put us behind schedule, would it?” his velvety yet raspy voice that you hadn’t heard in hours cut through you like a lightsaber and you caught your whimper in your throat but not without creasing your brows in annoyance.

“No it wouldn’t. you’ll just be stuck with me a little longer.” He shrugged his shoulders in response so you turned your attention back to the image of the other hunter.

“Alright, we’ll be there. Send me the coordinates. We’re on Hoth at the moment so we’ll be there in however long it takes to meet you leaving from here.”

“I’ll wait just for the sake of missing your complaints of taking a head start.” You couldn’t see his face but you could hear the smile in his voice. You pointed a finger gun in his direction, “head start or not I’ll still bag more eggs and more horns than you.”

The both of you laughed as you hung up the call right before the transmitted coordinates synced in your nav computer. Three Alphas, one Omega, and a promising hunt. This is going to be really fun or go horribly wrong. Either way, you’d get some good pictures out of it.

Taglist:

@thundersheild

@gotham-city-uber-driver

@scorpioxsith

[grizzbe]

Outbreak

How about Fallout, guys? What a freaking great movie! I’ve already seen it a few times in theaters and was so inspired by it that I wanted to know if I could write my own sort of Act 1/Act 2 Mission: Impossible heist! I’m afraid I might’ve tried to be a little too funny with Brandt’s and Luther’s back and forth, and there might be a little too much exposition, but I hope it worked out! Also, it’s touched upon lightly in the following fic, but Ethan x Ilsa is wonderful, and you all should expect a hefty helping of it in Pt. 2. Please let me know what y’all think in the comments! Thanks for reading!

On an unnamed island roughly 65 miles off the coast of Venezuela, a boat docks at a small pier, and a general debarks. He flashes a salute to the contractor holding the door open to the black car, his tie flapping in the wind. The general climbs in before it takes off towards the facility at the other end of the island.

The island is sparsely vegetated and entirely flat other than the large hill immediately next to the dock. The only other feature of note on the mile-long stretch of land in the middle of the Caribbean Sea is a heavily-guarded facility. Inside the car, with the partition up, the general fusses over his bushy mustache and rearranges his hat and glasses.

“I don’t know if I mentioned this before, but my Spanish is a little rusty,” whispered the general. “I’m fairly certain I’m mixing in quite a bit of Portuguese, as well.”

“You only mentioned it about a dozen times at the briefing Benji,” said Ethan. “And if you had wanted to infiltrate the facility by SCUBA, you should’ve said so.”

Ethan went back to working the torch on the grate, the fire oxidizing into bubbles that floated up, a variety of the more curious species of fish swimming around him.

“I’ve only had to fend off three barracudas so far,” added Ethan, the smile in his voice unmistakable.

“Barracudas you say?” said Benji. “Yeah, I think I’m okay in the car.”

“Are you sure?” chimed in Luther. “I’m pretty sure we could land this prop plane on the island, and we could switch. You can land a plane, right?”

Luther sat cramped in the back of a King Air 200 flying a mile away from the island, surrounded by monitors and electronic surveillance equipment, security footage and computer terminals rolling across the various screens.

“Yes, I can land a plane,” an exasperated Brandt crackled in over the comms. “They don’t just give licenses out to people that can’t actually fly.”

“A license you’ve had for a whole month. Why couldn’t I do this on a boat?”

“And I was the top trainee in the program, Luther! I don’t see what you’re upset about!”

“I’m sure Luther has full confidence in you, Brandt,” chimed in Ethan, slicing through another bar on the grate. “And besides, you can’t really outrun that storm in a fishing boat.”

The plane buffeted against the increasing winds, the tell-tale dark clouds of a tropical storm gathering off the plane’s starboard side.

“Yeah, Ethan, I meant to have a word with you about that,” said Brandt.

“Don’t worry, Will,” said Benji. “It’s not even a hurricane! Yet…”

“Yet? Benji, did you just say yet?” asked Luther.

On an island not too far north, a few old men sit in a bar, its shutters flapping in the wind and rain starting to come down. They watch an old TV as the weatherman talks about how Tropical Storm Marco is now officially a Category 1 Hurricane, with winds exceeding 75 miles per hour and shifting course quite unexpectedly towards a chain of uninhabited islands. The old men continue to drink their beers, unconcerned with the development.

“The storm is supposed to miss us by 50 miles,” continued Benji. “And I don’t know why anyone else is complaining. If my cover gets blown, the only person looking out for me is the rookie.”

“Rookie?” asked Brandt.

“Yeah, the rookie,” said Benji. “You know, the newbie, the greenhorn, the raw recruit still wet behind the ears.”

“I’m not sure I’d say any of those things,” said Luther.

“Oh, come on guys! What’s a little good-natured ribbing between colleagues?” said Benji, his smile skewing his mustache.

Ethan stopped his torch a few bars short, “Benji, do you really want to be ribbing the person sitting behind the high-powered rifle?”

On top of the hill next to the dock, nestled between a rock and some brush, Ilsa Faust lay perfectly still in a ghillie suit, practically invisible and cradling her sniper rifle, slowly tracking the car as it drove towards the facility through her scope.

“Right,” Benji said as he considered Ethan’s words. “Sorry about that, Ilsa. Have I mentioned how excited I am that MI6 so generously loaned you to the IMF?”

“A few times, Benji,” said Ilsa. “You might want to remember that I can take the hat off a man at three kilometers, though.”

Benji gulped and unconsciously took off his hat. A mile away, Ilsa smiled as she watched him through the scope.

“Three kilometers?” asked Benji, noticing his hat next to him and putting it back on. “I thought you said two?”

“The three-kilometer shot was unofficial,” said Ilsa. “Off the books. Now eyes up, Benji, you’re at the first guard post.”

“Just remember, Benji, the guards are South African, they probably don’t hear Spanish that much,” said Ethan as he sliced through the final bar, removing the grating.

“Or Portuguese-” interjected Benji.

“Or Portuguese,” said Ethan, swimming through the grate towards the facility. “They’re not even supposed to talk to you. General Santos is known to be a bit of a hot head, just give them a good glower, and you’ll be fine.”

“A glower?” asked Benji.

“You know, a glower,” said Luther, who proceeded to make a low-timbre guttural noise into comms.

“You sure this isn’t a glower?” asked Brandt, making a similar noise in a slightly different tone.

“Guys-”

“No, it’s gotta be lower than that,” said Luther, continuing to make low growls in the back of his throat.

“Guys, I think Benji can manage!” interjected Ethan. “Luther, I’m at the entrance point.”

“Wouldn’t want Ethan to fry down there, would we, Luther?” asked Brandt, at least somewhat pleased that he wasn’t the one potentially getting barbecued for once.

“Well, it would be more ‘cooked’ than ‘fried,’” said Benji, taking a brief moment to stare down the nearest guard in what he hoped was an intimidating manner. “There’re at least 3,000 milliamperes flowing through that tunnel. If it hits Ethan, his heart will seize up, his other organs will cook, and he’ll be covered in severe burns.”

“Benji,” said Ethan.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Right,” said Benji, looking up as his car came to a stop next to the entrance. “Good luck.”

“Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen, Luther,” said Ilsa, tracking a pair of guards moving to open the door for Benji. “Ethan still owes me a Manhattan.”

“Oh, a Manhattan?” asked Brandt, his flight control shaking as the wind from the storm picked up. “Do tell.”

“We were at dinner,” started Ethan.

“Eleven Madison Park, actually,” added Ilsa. “I had to call in a favor for that reservation.”

Luther whistled, not looking away from his computer and doing his best to ignore the rattles from the plane, “Eleven Madison Park? Fancy.”

“We were only at the first course when the Maître D’ brought a pair of reading glasses and asked if we wanted to look at the rare wines list,” finished Ilsa.

“You’re going to have to make that one up, Ethan,” said Brandt.

“Agreed,” said Ethan, still gripping the handle to the electrified tunnel. “Now, Luther, could you please -”

A mile away, Luther worked furiously at his keyboard, typing in commands and rerouting systems.

“Done,” said Luther, turning to a different monitor showing the feed from Benji’s glasses. “We’re reading you clear, Benji. You remember the layout?”

Benji almost growled as he walked past a pair of guards at a door emblazoned with warnings of ‘BIOHAZARD’ and gave a heavily accented, “Sí.”

At the same time, Ethan had made his way past the electrical conduits and up to a maintenance station, where he was stashing his SCUBA gear and taking stock of the drybag he had brought with him, mainly the explosives, before taking out the pistol and swinging the bag over his back.

At a security station three levels up, the feed for Ethan’s level shimmered as Luther executed more commands on his computer.

“We’ll have control of the security feed on your floor for the next 15 minutes, Ethan,” said Luther. “Anymore and they start looking into it.”

Ethan approached the door that led to the rest of the facility with characteristic quiet and waited while Luther scanned the undoctored security footage from the plane, waiting for a patrolling guard to pass.

“Now,” instructed Luther, watching as Ethan made his way to a corner down the hall. “Wait three seconds.”

Ethan waited precisely three seconds, his pistol at the ready, as the guard down the hall turned around and began pacing the other way. The IMF agent turned the corner, his gun trained on the guard as he quickly and silently made his way to the door and inserted a keycard with wires running to a mini-tablet. In 10 seconds, the locks on the door gave off a pop and Ethan slid into the room.

What met him were four large chambers, each marked ‘BIOHAZARD,’ with a variety of different liquids, syringes, and tubes in them. Ethan slung the bag from his back and went to work, placing the small explosives at crucial points of the machines and activating them.

“10 minutes and counting, Benji,” said Ethan.

“And only three more rooms to go, Ethan,” added Luther.

Ethan collected his bag of explosives and pistol and returned to the door.

“And… You’re clear,” said Luther, as Ethan slipped back into the hall, making his way to the next room filled with deadly bacterial agents.

Meanwhile, Benji, as General Santos, continued on his way to the big lab at the end of the wing, where a man in a white lab coat waited for him.

“General Santos,” said the scientist in English, the common language between the South African and the real General Santos. “The latest batch is very promising, we should be done at this facility in less than a week’s time once we’ve finished follow-up tests, but those are a mere formality.”

“Excellent,” said Benji, going maybe a little too heavy on the accent. “Please, show me this iteration.”

Within a mile of the facility, three IMF agents’ eyebrows arched up silently at the performance, the fourth was too busy to notice. Benji walked in behind the scientist, listening to his spiel as the man guided him toward the wall of test tubes, picking the last one from the lineup, it’s brilliant orange color shining in the light.

“We’ve already sent it on to our labs in Johannesburg, they’ll be able to duplicate it from there in quantities large enough for field use,” stated the scientist, oblivious to the slight shiver Benji had given off.

He continued talking about his benefactor’s plans before finishing, “There is another test that I think you would be very interested in, General. It’s at the lab in the east wing. Please, follow me, it’ll only be ten minutes of your time.”

He started walking for the door, missing Benji expertly lifting the test tube from its slot and sliding it into his jacket.

“Looks like you owe Benji that $20, Brandt,” said Luther, watching the footage like a hawk.

“No. He got it?” asked Brandt. “I’ll be damned.”

“Not even a second glance from our mad scientist friend,” said Luther, noting the unmistakable smirk from Benji on the security feed. “I wouldn’t be gloating too much just yet, Benji. You’ve got seven minutes to get out of there.”

The scientist led Benji along a different path, walking past a security station buzzing a little more than the IMF Agent was comfortable with. As he walked past, he looked inside giving Luther a clear look at a radar screen from his glasses, an ominous blip popping up roughly a mile from the station.

“Is that what I think it is?” asked Luther.

Meanwhile, Ilsa was clocking the different guards making their rotations around the walls of the facility, each shrugging on raincoats as the hurricane began bearing down on the island. As she was making adjustments to her scope to account for the increase in wind speed, Ilsa spotted several guards moving quickly around what looked like a large shed by the perimeter. They slid the doors open before rolling out what looked like-

“Guys, we might have trouble,” said Ilsa, tracking the two drones as they were wheeled out onto the courtyard. “Predators, two of them.”

“They have drones? Since when have they had drones?” asked a flummoxed Luther.

Ethan paused at the third door, “Brandt, can you handle it?”

“I think so,” said Brandt, taking stock of his controls and looking past the rain driving into his windshield.

“Alright, do what you have to do,” replied Ethan. “Plan stays the same for everyone else.”

“You think so?” said Luther, who leaned around a monitor to get a clear line of sight to his pilot. “Even if you were a real pilot, each drone can carry two missiles, and we only brought three flairs! That math does not add up!”

Luther held up corresponding fingers to punctuate the point.

“First off, I am a pilot. I’ve offered to show you my license several times, Luther,” started Brandt, who looked off his starboard wing at the encroaching hurricane. “Second, I’ve got a plan.”