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Prancing down the halls of the Mother of Invention, Agent Florida was smiling. Now, that wasn't abnormal in and of itself. Florida was known for smiling quite a lot, actually. This, though, was not the kind of smile people usually found comforting. It wasn't an 'I just made a whole bunch of the best cookies you'll see for lightyears and wanted you to have some!' smile, nor was it a 'This mission went swimmingly and I'm happier than a dandelion that you got the objective!' smile. It wasn't even an 'I have a new list to midnight requisition and you're invited!' smile, though those weren't precisely as pleasant as the first two. Rather, this was the sort of smile that earned him sideways glances, and nicknames like 'the Creepy Cobalt Fuck' or simply... unnerving. The sort of smile that spoke either very very well for someone, or very very poorly. It was the kind of smile he was wearing, though, and Agent Florida was nothing if not committed to wearing it.
Even if he was decidedly unhappy about the circumstances.
Rounding the corner from the general maintenance section, and into that of the primary residence for Freelancers, he nodded to agents Connecticut and Maine, who both winced when they caught his eye, but offered aborted waves in acknowledgement. Bounding past them, Florida couldn't help but shake his head. They weren't precisely rude, few agents were, but they still weren't very nice. He could guess at why, and that reason was fairly understandable, but that was no real excuse.
Approaching his intended door, Florida kept himself from speeding up now that the goal was in sight. It wouldn't do to go rushing now after he'd been so amply patient on his way. Just because he wanted to be through that door three minutes ago didn't mean he had to be unfair to this hallway and not walk through it with as much time as he'd given every other one.
Finally reaching the room, and maybe he dawdled a little bit right outside, he keyed in the right code to open it, and stepped in silently. The faint swoosh of the door was barely enough to be heard as it was, and the change from the general overhead lighting in the hallway flashing in through the door around a Florida-shaped shadow was much more a give-away than his boots on the flooring would have been. Blithely, he hoped that wouldn't be enough to reveal his position, but he was entering the bunk of a sniper. Perhaps that was a little much to hope for, even for him.
"G'd evening, Butch," came the bleary voice of agent Wyoming. It was a little early yet for the man to be sleeping, a mere 22:17, but considering the incident that brought about Florida making best time to the agent's room, it stood to reason.
"Now, I'm very disappointed, Reginald." Florida's tone was decidedly more bitter than would usually be his standard, even if the sweet syrup he normally filled it with belayed what sting it had. While that favoured tone of his usually turned whatever discussion it was applied to more civil and pleasant, this particular application generated more of feeling of a cough syrup than a corn one. The kind even sugar-driven six year olds baulk at drinking. Suffice it to say, that got Wyoming's attention.
"What'd I do this time, love," he forced out through a groan, taking the span of his own sentence to sit up properly and flick the low level indirect lighting to something more intense. Something that might hope to bring Florida's face into focus.
"A little birdie told me, that somebody, is going on a mission tomorrow," Florida started, and stepped farther into the room. "And, that that somebody who is going on the mission will be going on it alone." Wyoming sat up straighter and opened his mouth. Florida made a shushing movement, and never let it be said that Reginald lacked a sense of self preservation. "I wasn't finished."
"Yes, sorry," Wyoming apologised, wincing. Florida's smile flashed cheerier for a moment, closer to the typical, before darkening again.
"Thank you. As I was saying," he took another step forward and sat on the foot of the bunk, the door no longer recognising him and wooshing shut. "I also heard that this same someone refused backup even when it was offered." Reginald clearly had something to add at this point, but was displaying some manners and waiting for Florida come to a full stop. When it was clearly his turn, Wyoming sighed.
"It's a simple intel sweep, and I'll hardly need backing up if I'm never closer than a hundred feet to the fellows I'm meant to be spying on," he pointed out. Florida shook his head.
"See, just because you think you won't doesn't mean you actually won't. In fact," Florida paused, voice lilting up. "That just about guarantees you will," he declared, "And this little leader-board stunt will only have the reverse affect of what you want of you need rescuing."
"Who told you th-- Oh. right." Wyoming glared at a particular point on the sheet. A moment later Gamma's hologram fizzled onto the spot. "I tend to forget you two talk to each other, now." Gamma's rendered form made a mockery of a shrug. "See, though?" Wyoming looked back to Florida. "I have backup right here," he finished, and swiped a finger through Gamma.
"It would be stupid of you to go tomorrow alone," the AI pointed out in customary monotone. "Then you would have to have this conversation in medical, instead."
"Bloody blue fellows, teaming up to try and take care of me," Reginald muttered, and Florida's grin finally returned fully to the expected cheery-bright.
"Now now, if you can see that much then you can see we're right," Butch pointed out, and simply sat through Wyoming's predictable glare.
"What exactly do you want from me, mate?" he demanded, any haze of what sleep he'd gotten had cleared out as well.
"Request assistance. Namely, request my assistance. You know the Director knows I'd be happy to help!" Butch retorted, sunny as ever. The cracks in that disposition had re-covered themselves in the appropriate epoxy and enamel, leaving only the memory printed in his body count. Wyoming huffed, and appeared to be deliberating further. "Besides," he started, leaning in. "What would happen to that reputation of yours, if you don't let me come? Reginald Wyoming, who sometimes gets his man?"
Gamma turned his rendering to look at Wyoming, pleading as he could in simple movements. In a matter of seconds, Reginald caved.
"Fine, I'll file a sodding request. For specific tactical aide only," he stipulated. "Happy?"
Gamma nodded, and flickered out, going to play around in the ship's main drive space. Wyoming stared at Florida. Florida stared back, features schooled to something bland and none too revealing.
"As a clam who just barely didn't get picked for a fancy meal!"