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After a night filled with more tossing and turning than sleep, Tucker is jolted awake by a bang and a bright light as Caboose bursts into his room. Tucker peels open his eyes to glare at Caboose.
“It. Is. SNOWING!” Caboose bellows, his eyes wide like he’s just chugged a gallon of coffee.
Tucker rolls his eyes and dives back under his blankets.
“Caboose—”
He’s cut off as Caboose sprints over and jumps onto his bed, sending him flying.
“Oof!” Tucker wheezes as he hits the cold—and very fucking hard—floor.
“Oh, good. You’re awake,” Caboose says, rolling off Tucker’s bed.
Tucker pushes himself onto his back and glares at Caboose’s dumb, grinning face. The only good thing Caboose has managed to do so far this morning is block some of the light blaring down on his aching eyes.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Tucker growls, struggling to his knees.
“Well, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Caboose huffs.
Before Tucker can retort, Caboose is gone, running through the corridor and shouting about the goddamn snow. If anyone could ruin the first snow of the winter, it’s Caboose. Tucker decides he’s going to be pissed off about this all day.
Groaning as he rises to his feet, Tucker looks over at Wash’s bed. Neatly made, razor sharp corners. You could probably bounce a quarter off it. It looks like it’s never been slept in and, knowing Wash, that isn’t that much of a stretch.
The rest of the morning is a blur of aching eyes, dusty coffee, and Caboose bouncing around the mess hall like a coked-up kangaroo. Wash looks like he’s about to use his cereal as a pillow, Grif is using his cereal as a pillow, and Carolina looks ready to commit murder. Simmons and Sarge are, of course, wide awake and trying to fill the grumpy silence with meaningless chatter. Tucker hates them for being morning people. Assholes.
As they’re finishing up breakfast, Donut bursts into the mess hall. The handful of New Republic soldiers in the room turn as one, and Tucker follows their gaze.
Donut is clad in pink snow pants, purple boots, and fluffy white earmuffs. He’s got a pink coat draped over his arm. Then Tucker realizes that under the snow pants, Donut is shirtless.
Tucker chokes on his coffee at the sight. Grif startles awake, blinks, and smacks Tucker on the back.
“Oh, god,” Grif groans. He brushes some cereal flakes from his hair, stands up, and saunters out of the mess hall.
“Grif, your plate!” Simmons calls out after him. Grif doesn’t even pretend to pretend not to hear.
“Thanks for volunteering to do the dishes, Simmons,” Tucker says. He springs up from the table and takes off. Simmons shouts something after him, but Tucker’s too far away to hear.
Tucker slows his pace to a walk, relieved to be free of Caboose’s antics and Donut’s… Donut-ness. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to sneak back to his room and sleep before Caboose—
“TUCKER!”
Heart plummeting into his feet, Tucker slowly turns to see Caboose bounding towards him. Grinning from ear to ear, Caboose all but screeches to a stop as he reaches Tucker. For a few seconds he doesn’t say anything, just stares at Tucker expectantly, rocking back and forth on his heels. When it’s clear Tucker isn’t going to ask Caboose what he wants, Caboose speaks up.
“Are you ready to go outside now?” he asks.
“Caboose,” Tucker sighs, “I would rather die.”
“Ah, well, you see, Agent Washington says we are training outside today,” Caboose says. Leaning in close and lowering his voice to a whisper, he adds, “Agent Washington will be sad if you miss more training.”
Tucker opens his mouth to argue but Caboose is already on the move.
Part of him wants to believe Caboose is lying to get him to go outside. The other part of him knows that Wash is Wash. And Wash wants to train out in the goddamn snow.
When Tucker steps outside, his sour mood evaporates.
A thick layer of snow blankets the Chorusian landscape. Flakes of snow are still falling from the sky, some of them getting caught on his visor. Off in the distance, some of the News are busy digging out vehicles and clearing pathways, while others hurl snow at each other. The last time Tucker saw this much snow was on Sidewinder, and he didn’t really have the chance to sit and appreciate it at the time.
“Tucker! You are here. Great!” Caboose jogs up to him, kicking snow up with every step.
“Hey, Caboose,” Tucker says, resigning himself to spending the day with the equivalent of a puppy that also happens to be able to flip a tank.
Wash, Andersmith, and Palomo trudge through the snow after Caboose, using the blue sim trooper’s tracks to move more easily. They’re all in their power armor, and Tucker remembers that Donut is wearing no shirt and pink snow pants under his armor. He wonders for a moment how comfortable that is before concluding that it’s probably super freaking uncomfortable.
“All right,” Wash says as they all huddle together. “Now that we’re all here, we can—”
Wash is cut off as a snowball smacks right into the side of his helmet. It explodes in a burst of white, sending Wash stumbling a few steps back. Tucker hits the ground and turns to look in the direction the snowball came from.
About thirty feet away Grif, Simmons, and Donut stand keeled over in laughter. Standing next to them, arms crossed, and head tilted to the side, is Carolina.
“Snowball fight!” Caboose shouts, stooping down for an armful of snow.
“Oh, it is so on,” Tucker says, a grin breaking out across his face.
“Okay you guys. This is it. What we’ve been training for,” Wash says, his voice grim.
They’re all crouched in a lopsided snow fort, waiting for the Reds to make their next move.
“Dude, it’s just a snowball fight,” Tucker snorts, elbowing Wash in the arm. Although, he has to admit, this is the most fun and loose (bow chicka bow wow) Wash has been in weeks—if not months.
Wash gives Tucker what can only be a death glare.
“All I’m saying is, chillax,” Tucker says. “What are the Reds gonna do? Snowball us to death?”
As he utters the word ‘death’ the faint sound of polka music creeps into his ears.
Tucker eats snow and his words as the Reds’ Warthog slams into their snow fort.
Palomo yelps and dives behind Andersmith, who’s already hurling snowball after snowball at Simmons. Simmons, perched on the back of the Warthog, throws his hands in front of his face just as a snowball smacks into him.
Tucker springs into action, crawling backwards away from the Warthog, scooping snow up as he goes. His back hits the remnants of the fort wall. Taking aim at Sarge, who’s howling with maniac laughter, he fires, hitting the Red square in the chest.
“You dirty Blue!” Sarge shouts. He jerks the wheel and starts driving the Warthog straight at Tucker.
“Better dead than Red!” Tucker retorts, leaping out of the way just as the Warthog plows into—and through—the wall.
“Tucker, on your left!” Wash’s voice.
Tucker whips around to his left just in time to get snowball right to his visor. His head jerks back a little, but his armor takes the brunt of the impact.
“Ha! Suck it, Blue,” Grif taunts.
Rather than shouting dirty words back at Grif, Tucker takes the opportunity to charge. Grif, still howling with laughter, realizes too late what Tucker is doing. Tucker slams into Grif, who lets out an “oof!” as they hit the ground. Tucker scoops up a fistful of snow and smushes it into Grif’s visor.
“Motherfucker!” Grif kicks out, sending Tucker flying backwards.
“That’s just karma, dude,” Tucker says before taking off. He can hear the polka music behind him getting louder, and he’d rather not live the rest of his life as a pancake.
Running through the snow is harder than Tucker remembers from his days playing in the stuff as a kid. His escape is slow going, while the Warthog rolls closer. Fear shoots through his body, and he thinks Sarge might be crazy enough to actually hit him. Actually, yes, Sarge is definitely crazy enough to hit him.
“Ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck—” Tucker wheezes.
Just as Sarge is about to overtake him, a familiar gray and yellow blur flashes in the corner of his eye.
Tucker stops running and looks over his shoulder, mouth agape, as First Name Agent, Last Name Washington charges at the Warthog.
Wash jumps onto the hood, reaches over the windshield, and grabs the wheel. He yanks it, and the Warthog careens to the right. Sarge, apparently in shock after seeing Wash run at a moving vehicle and leap onto it, is thrown out of the Warthog as it takes the sharp turn. Simmons is quick to join him as Wash hops in the cab and starts doing donuts in the snow. A cloud of snow gathers around the Warthog until Tucker can hardly see it.
A few seconds later, Wash bursts through the sparkling white cloud. Tucker feels a surge of pride for Wash, who only an hour or so ago wanted to spend the day training.
Wash grinds to a halt next to Tucker and looks over at him.
“Need a lift?” Wash says. It comes out awkward and formal, because it’s Wash, but it’s also super freaking badass.
Tucker hops up next to the machine gun in the back and Wash floors it. Tucker barely grabs onto the gun in time to keep from sailing off the Warthog like Sarge and Simmons.
The two of them speed off, passing Palomo and Andersmith. The two lieutenants, taking shelter behind a pile of plowed snow, look up as Wash and Tucker pass. Tucker cackles as the lieutenants rise, realize Wash isn’t stopping for them, and start chasing after the Warthog.
On the horizon behind them, Tucker sees the silhouette of who can only be Michael J. Caboose. Tucker watches, jaw dropping as Caboose passes the lieutenants and starts to catch up with the Warthog.
“Jesus Christ, he’s fucking superhuman,” Tucker mutters. Turning to look at Wash, he yells, “Faster!”
There’s the sound of the engine revving as the Warthog picks up speed, and Tucker cheers as Caboose starts to fall behind. Tucker knows his teammate will catch up eventually, but for a few moments, Tucker enjoys the roar of the wind and the puffs of snow the Warthog leaves in its wake. For a few moments he can forget about this civil war he never signed up for.
For a few moments, he feels like a kid again.