The armor comes easy for Carolina.

A thousand pounds of multilayer alloy matches her strides seamlessly, servos reacting to signals from her new neural implants without lag or delay. Her blows land with shocking precision and force; her dodges become effortless weaves and sways. The pain and stiffness of old injuries fade into obscurity. Second skin, they call it. Second self.

An Insurrectionist's blade skitters harmlessly across her chestplate, tracing out the trajectory of a scar from an earlier battle. Carolina blocks the return stroke, jukes left, fades right, lands a solid blow at the back of her attacker's spine and watches him crumple.

Beside her, York spins, fires his shotgun three times, and downs three enemies with machine precision. She's turned off her own HUD's auto-aim functionality until she can reprogram its target prioritization to include nonlethal measures where possible, but seeing him in action puts a new itch in her trigger finger. He's only one spot below her on the leaderboard, and she's watched his numbers creep closer to hers every day.

"This is incredible!" he yells, grappling with a heavy who's got a hundred pounds of sheer muscle on him. "Why did I wait so long to start up in special ops, man? Turns out we get the nicest toys!" To punctuate his statement, he blocks a punch and twists the heavy's arm around, obviously ramping up his armor's force mods to show off.

She grins into her helmet, can't quite muster the motivation to reprimand him for his comm chatter, and focuses on dispatching the remaining two Innies quickly and efficiently with a blow to the solar plexus and a devastating haymaker, respectively.

When she's finished and her HUD's painted the room clear of hostiles, York says, "Uh, little help here?"

She turns. The Innie heavy's on the ground, but York's standing with... well, it's hard to call the posture of a soldier in full experimental battle armor hangdog, but he's pulling it off pretty well. He's also got one hand punched clean through the wall, where it's apparently wedged in place. "Yeah," he says. "So I maybe need to play around with the settings on the force mods a bit. I'm kinda stuck."

South's voice comes in over their comms. "He needs to play around, all right. We're clear on our end, boss."

"The targeting systems in this armor are incredible," North puts in. "I was setting them up and South was knocking them down. Mostly."

"Yeah, well, you pick boring targeting solutions."

"Boring is safe, South."

"Boring is predictable. I don't wanna get shot because you've got a hard-on for some fucking tactical pattern."

"All right, you two," Carolina says. "Maine should have the compound doors open soon. Make your way back to the rendezvous point."

"Got it."

Carolina crosses her arms and cocks her head to one side, pacing around York, who wilts a little under the scrutiny. "Wow," she says. "You're really stuck in there, aren't you?"

"Oh my god," says South over the still-open comm channel, and North says, "South."

Drawing on months of experience, Carolina tunes them out. "Yeah," she says, "guess we'll have to brute-force it." Unable to come up with a more elegant alternative, she stands behind York, planting her feet and hauling back on his shoulders.

He yelps when his arm finally pops free of the wall with a shriek of tearing metal, but manages to keep his footing, stumbling back past her and shaking out his hand. They both pause when the ceiling groans ominously above them—these prefab buildings don't take much to come down completely—but the structural integrity holds. "Thanks, boss. Guess they don't make the, you know, walls like they used to."

She rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to speak, but South's voice cuts in past her. "Fuck. New guy's in trouble. I show a couple... couple dozen... couple hundr— a whole fucking lot of hostiles converging on his position."

Carolina straightens. "Maine, report!"

"Explosives planted," he says. He sounds relatively unperturbed at the prospect of taking on the entire Insurrection outpost singlehandedly.

She doesn't have a good read on him yet—she's gone through as much of his files as she's managed to access, but apart from some very public commendations and some very private reprimands, there's not much there to see. Uncommunicative, though. Could be a problem. "I need more than that, Maine. Can you get to extraction?"

"No," he says, and this time she's pretty sure there's a hint of unease in his voice. He sends them a feed of his HUD's overlay, a sea of red dots converging.

"Jesus," York says, quietly. "There's gotta be five hundred guys out there."

North's voice is hushed, too. "Where the hell did they come from? South, can you hack that terminal—"

"Already on it," South says. Carolina clenches and unclenches her fists, waiting. "Fuck. There's a whole fucking ship in dock we didn't have intel on. What the hell are we even doing here?"

"Keep it together," Carolina says.

"Keep it together?" South echoes, incredulous. "New guy's about to get pulped. If we want to make it to extraction, we gotta go now."

"I can detonate the bomb," Maine says, and it's the right play, Carolina knows it's the right play, but there's that hesitation again. There's nothing so obvious as a quaver in his voice, but he's nervous, she knows.

She inhales, slowly, squares her shoulders on the exhale. "South, you and North head for the LZ. York, you're with them."

"We're with them," he says. She doesn't respond, and he takes a step toward her. "Carolina, that's five hundred guys. Five hundred. What the hell are you gonna do?"

She taps one finger against the side of her helmet. "All the nicest toys, right? I've got those experimental enhancements."

She sees him jolt. "We're not... that's, that's untested! I mean, more untested than usual! We don't have a hardline to Command! How the hell are you gonna run them?"

"Very carefully," she says.

"That's not even a little bit funny."

"I'm with York on this one," North says. "In training, under controlled conditions, Utah just about died trying to activate his."

"This isn't a vote," she says. She keeps her tone calm and direct. "Either way, I'm staying. This way I've got a chance to get Maine out of this. I've got a plan."

"Oh, sure," South says. "Sacrifice yourself for the newbie, who by the way hasn't said a fucking word through this whole debate. Very noble. I'm sure it has nothing to do with Falcon Punch over there coming really close to fucking up your first-place spot on that shiny new leaderboard."

"South." North's voice is a snarl.

York is quiet, just watching her with his head tilted to one side. Then he says, "Okay, guys, c'mon. We're leaving."

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," says South.

"Look, if she says she can handle it, she can handle it."

Over South's protests, Carolina hears a telltale chime indicating a private comm line York's just opened to her. "Hey," he says. "I'll see you on the other side, right? We'll wait around as long as we can. Good luck."

"Thanks. I won't need it." She hesitates; her tone softens. "Don't stick around too long."

He watches her for a moment longer, then nods and jogs away.

There are two experimental enhancements equipped in her suit of armor, directly linked to her neural interface. The first is a speed mod. The second is a camouflage mod. With a hardline to the Mother of Invention, they can be activated or deactivated on command; without it, they're set to run on a timer. For her plan to work, she'll need both active simultaneously.

The activation process is a simple toggle and confirmation. As she passes through the menus, she opens the team channel again. "You still there, Maine?"

"Hiding," he says.

She holds off on the final confirmation, pulling up the feed from his HUD, confirming. "They'll all have to pass through the hangar. I'm gonna need you to start making your way toward the back of the complex and get into the server room."

"Where the bomb is," he says, and there's more than his usual monotone in the flatness of the reply.

She fights down a totally inappropriate smile. Hell, maybe the guy's got a sense of humor after all. "Don't be a baby. It'll be perfectly safe until you transmit the detonation codes."

"Perfectly safe," he echoes.

"Hey," she says. "I'm risking my ass to save you. Possibly not the best time for insubordination."

A snort. "Right, boss."

"Right," she says. Now or never.

Her armor flickers to a neutral grey, matching the walls of the compound behind her, and then her foot presses into the floor, launching her like she's running track, but she's moving fast, she's moving really fucking fast, and it's like a highway on overdrive, it's like flying. She laughs loud and banks around a corner so fast her hand raises dust when it brushes the floor to steady her. She's a human projectile traveling 100 kph. She's had dreams that were slower than this.

Her brain's not working faster to compensate, and she's stunningly aware of the sluggishness of her thought processes. It's like driving a motorcycle for the first time, trying to work out where you've gotta be looking to see what's coming, how you've gotta shift your perceptions. She clips a wall, spins into a stagger, recovers, pushes back up to speed in seconds. She laughs again. She feels light, weightless. Her jaw is clenched, sending a dull ache down into her collarbone.

Maine's HUD feed is flickering in her severely overtaxed and underpowered armor, but she suspects she's bearing down on the Innies' position. She confirms that suspicion when she hits the first guy square-on, clotheslining him with an outstretched arm. The force of the blow wrenches her shoulder, and she adjusts, planting her feet and bringing up her arms in a blur of rabbit-punches and throws. She moves on.

Most of the Innies don't see her coming. The ones that do clearly don't believe what they're seeing. One or two of the fastest among them take potshots at her. They're fast. She's faster.

She just... she just has to stop clenching her jaw when she concentrates. The pain's radiating along her clavicle, down through her ribs, a strange, distant counterpoint to the throbbing in her shoulder.

She rolls her shoulders, rolls into another hit. Effortless.

She's dimly aware that there are voices over her comm, but her heartbeat is too loud in her ears. She shouts, "Maine, get into that room now," and pushes forward. She's got about twenty seconds left on her mods. It'll have to be enough.

She plants the palm of her hand across the face of one guard, slams him back into the wall with enough force to crumple one of the support pillars. The hit's deliberate; there are five support pillars holding up this side of the ceiling. Even with the mods, she can't fight five hundred people, but gravity? Gravity can help.

The second and third pillars are no problem. By the time she's moving for the fourth, she can feel the speed mod beginning to falter, her steps beginning to falter in turn. The Innies are wising up to her presence, moving back to the edges of the hangar, and she doesn't have time for this, she doesn't have time. A clearing kick sends two guards into the nearest pillar, weakening it, and it'll have to do.

Stumbling back, her pace uneven and halting, she brings up her rifle and fires at the final support pillar. She smells... smoke. She smells smoke. In an airtight suit rated for EVA, that's not good. That's really...

She's tired. She plants her foot again, ramps up the last of the speed unit's faltering power, and propels herself into the reinforced server room just as the ceiling comes down.

It's loud. Even with her helmet's automatic filters, her hypersensitive ears ring.

She stares down at her arm, arrested by the sight of a thin wisp of smoke rising from her armor. She stopped clenching her jaw a while ago, but there's still pain radiating down her neck and across her chest, and her breathing comes shallow and too fast.

She turns, sees Maine uncoiling from a crouch in the corner of the room, apparently unharmed. She bends down to her hands and knees, then flops forward onto her stomach, pressing her helmet against the floor, focusing on each halting breath.

Her hearing fades back in. York is saying, "Holy shit, did you see that? That was incredible! That was fucking—" He cuts himself off. "Carolina? Carolina! Your vitals just bottomed out. What the hell's going on over there?"

Carolina inhales, but the pain in her chest wrenches and grinds and she gasps it out again. Something heavy closes on her shoulder, rolling her roughly onto her back. Someone's hands are at her throat, pawing at the seals of her helmet. The cooler air of the facility against her skin shocks her into another gasping breath. Maine is staring down at her, his golden helmet blank.

"Got you," she wheezes, and lets the darkness fade in around her.

When she wakes up, it's to South snarling, "Go fuck yourself, you fucking fuckstick fuck."

North sighs. "I think we've exhausted your vocabulary. Just hand over your sixes, South."

Carolina opens one eye. Her vision's blurry, but she immediately recognizes the MoI's infirmary. By the way the mattress shifts, someone's sitting on the edge of her bed. A couple cards skitter across the sheets, and a hand comes into her field of view to pick them up. She blinks, slowly, and says, "What the hell kind of special operatives play Go Fish?"

Or, well, she tries to say that. What she actually says is more along the lines of an incoherent groan, and then the cards scatter and people start leaning in closer and talking all at once and it's a little... she has this headache and it's hard to hear...

"Jeez, give her some room." York's voice is hoarse, and she watches him and North lean back while South scrambles off the edge of the bed, gathering up the deck of cards as she stands. "Carolina. About time."

Carolina coughs, and someone hands her a cup of water. She feels numb, dazed, and she's becoming aware of a persistent ache in her chest. "What happened?"

"You activated experimental armor mods without a hardline to command," York says. Her hearing's still a little off; she can't catch any undertones in his voice, can't tell if he's angry or impressed or relieved. "Overstressed your system. Your heart stopped beating."

Carolina inhales, blinking blearily. She's suddenly very aware of the thudding weight in her chest. "That doesn't sound right," she says.

"Only you could give yourself a fuckin' heart attack," South says.

"It's not as serious as it sounds," North says, quickly. "The Director had a specialist on board almost immediately, and she operated to correct a lot of the damaged tissue. Some cybernetics, I think. But you scared the hell out of us, boss."

Carolina blinks again, still trying to clear her vision. It's frustrating not being able to see their faces, to have only vague senses of smiles or frowns. She wonders how long it'd take to tweak her armor's settings to compensate. "How long is recovery?"

South gives a little snort, mutters something Carolina doesn't quite catch, and leaves the room. North turns to watch her go. "Sorry about that," he says. "Believe it or not, I think she was kinda worried."

York's hand is on her shoulder, and this time she's sure of the smile in his voice. "You'll be back to kicking our asses across the galaxy in three weeks, if you don't push it too hard."

Two weeks, Carolina decides. Two weeks isn't bad. "How's Maine?"

"Weird," says York.

"He's been coming around," North says, and she sees him look in York's direction, although the context is lost again to the blurriness of her vision. "Won't play cards, but he'll visit. He seems like a good guy. Just sort of quiet and terrifying."

"Really quiet and terrifying," York puts in. "I think he's surprised you did that for him."

Carolina shrugs, torn between I didn't only do it for him, which is a little too self-serving, and I would've done it for any of you, which isn't quite self-serving enough. "It worked," she says instead. "We complete the mission?"

"That base is in really tiny, marginally radioactive pieces," York says. "Despite our spectacularly shitty intel, I might add. You pulled the Project's asses out of the fire on this one. Good job, go team."

Carolina exhales, closing her eyes and tipping her head back for a moment. A rustle of clothing makes her snap her eyes open again. Maine is standing next to York and North, his arms folded. He's looming.

"Uh," York says, "I think we're gonna just... yeah, we're gonna just let you get some rest." His hand lingers on her shoulder again, and she summons up a vague sort of smile. He pauses at the doorway. "Hey, you're still top of the leaderboard. Doubt you're gonna fall at all, even while you're out of commission. Thought you'd like to know."

"Okay," says Carolina, and tries not to think too hard about the relief that floods through her.

And then she's alone with Agent Maine. Carolina squints; she's never seen Maine out of armor, but beyond an overall impression of tallness, it's difficult to discern much of his features beyond the blurring in her vision. "Hey," she says.

He sits down in the chair beside her. Hesitates. Says, "Thanks," in his gravelly, booming voice.

She doesn't have to strain to hear the subtleties of his voice like she had to with the others. What he says, he means. "Sure," she says. "Thanks for getting me out, afterwards."

Another hesitation. "Got you," he says, with utter seriousness. Like it's a promise.

"Okay," says Carolina, and can't quite force down a smile. "Same here. We can do that."

She's pretty sure he's smiling in return. "Get some sleep. Your team's here for you."

Carolina yawns. "You get some sleep," she mutters, and is fairly sure she hears a snort of laughter in return.

Everything fades for a while. A nurse comes in to check her vitals. Another comes in to admonish her for trying to get out of bed. The leaderboard swings through her mind again and again and again.

But something low and warm is burning in her chest, something pushing past the pain into the memory of running like flying, of a second skin, of a second self.

Her team. Her team.