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“... the hell kind of a callsign is Fluke? You a fuckin… dolphin or somethin’?” The southern drawl was thick, a classic Texan accent. The kind always used in movies and TV. The man it belonged to was exactly someone who would have such an accent; clearly farm-raised, big and burly. Built like a vintage refrigerator with how broad he was.
The smaller man—Fluke—shifted his weight from foot to foot. This was the most nervous he had been in years, since basic training. Hell, he was less nervous even on his first combat deployment.
“Uh- I survived some bullshit. My C.O. described it as a complete and utter fluke, and it just sorta… stuck.” He sounded nervous. Teflon—the Texan—supposed he couldn't blame the man. The Company had a reputation, and being recruited into it made most people uneasy until they got settled. Fluke was a younger soldier too, so that definitely didn't help.
In a career where men die young, beware the old men, or so the saying goes.
“Fuck, I guess that ain't the worst.” Teflon replied. “One o’ our medics is G-string. I think ya can guess how that happened.” He let out a rough huff of a laugh.
“I'll show ya where yer bunk is, Fluke.” Teflon began walking, Fluke following behind dutifully. ‘Almost like some bottle raised calf’, Teflon thought with an eyeroll.
———♞———
Fluke settled in better than anyone thought. In fact, the unit betting pool about if/when Fluke would fuck up majorly in various ways was quickly dashed. It was down to only a couple of options, and those were quickly running out of time.
“Damn, I really thought he'd step on someone's toes by now…” Their medic, G-string, groaned as he crossed his own bet off the whiteboard.
“What's left?” Someone asked. G-string scanned the board for whatever wasn't crossed off.
“Uhhhhh we got Vex with her never-winning classic for two-point-five by the two month mark… Lawson said Fluke gets got by a fool's errand, same timeframe, for half what Vex bet…” G-string replied, reading off the board. “Shit, Bow-wow got in on this?”
“No kidding. What's he betting?”
“FNG misplaced or damaged something and had to S.T.E.A.L. a replacement from another unit. By month three...” The medic squinted at the board. “Oh fuck, Fangs bet on the same thing. Man, I’m really hoping they both lose now. Especially Fangs.”
“Whaddabout me?” Fangs called out. Speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear. In the opinion of many in the Company, the devil would have actually been preferable to the duo that made up Hollow Incorporated. One of them is bad enough, but where there's smoke, there's fire.
Of course, Wraith was right behind Fangs like some kind of shadow, the taller American looming over the shorter Canadian by roughly half a foot. ‘Fuckin’ spook…’ thought G-string bitterly. He was glad he knew somewhat how to deal with those two; deflect Fangs' anger off you and to someone else.
Wraith, however, was still a mystery to nearly everyone.
“Oh, just that Bow-wow made the same bet as you.” G-string replied with a practiced shrug.
“...He fuckin what?” Fangs’ eyes narrowed.
“F.N.G. would misplace or damage something and would have to tactically borrow a replacement from another unit. You made that bet too, yeah?”
“... Yeah. Who made it first?” There was no missing the brewing anger in his tone. The ex-marine was known in the company for two things.
His temper, and his penchant for brutality.
“You.” G-string could feel his stomach tightening in a knot from the lie. He didn't actually know who made it first, but it was a simple enough lie it should work. The issue was more if Wraith caught him out.
Judging by the upwards twitch of Wraith's lips, the former intelligence officer found it amusing and wasn't planning to intervene. Hopefully.
“Where the fuck is that dog?” Fangs’ shoulders drew tight. “Stay the fuck off my bets, everyone last one o’ you know better. Fuckin stupid fuckin grunt.”
“Aren't you also a grunt-”
“Shut it.” Fangs snapped, making G-string hold his hands up in a placating gesture.
“Not sure where he is. Sorry.”
Fangs stalked past G-string, shouldering him purposely in the process. Wraith slunk after him like some specter. As he passed the medic, he gave a small, approving nod; he knew what G-string had done, and found it amusing.
Once Hollow Incorporated was out the door and gone, everyone still there let out a collective breath they didn't know they were holding. G-string especially; that was a narrow miss.