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George’s earpiece crackles to life as he crouches behind a large wooden cargo. From his position halfway up the iron barred stairs he had the advantage of height on his targets— useful as a sniper.
“404, what’s your status?”
George cocks his sniper and plants himself onto his stomach, steadying his sniper rifle in a ready position and aiming down at the open area of the warehouse. There were many more large cargo crates placed around the dim warehouse, effectively creating a maze full of traps and targets laying in wait to strike.
It was also the perfect place for a bomb, especially since the warehouse was full of evidence of a drug lab shipped in from the East.
“In position,” George mutters quietly, flexing his index fingers a few times before resting it against the trigger and lining up his eye to the scope, his world suddenly turning a dark shade of green— or yellow— just, a different colour. He doesn’t know which.
“Copy. Pandas, what’s your status?”
George takes a deep breath. These kinds of missions are never easy; bomb threats have endless implications and consequences that he’d much rather not think about, and there’s a different outcome each time.
Although no civilian lives were at immediate risk, George’s team still had to secure and defuse the bomb before it blew up the masses amount of evidence stored away in this very warehouse. Hell, George was even hiding behind a crate of it. The shit is everywhere he looks.
They also had to consider the possibility of having to neutralise the targets depositing the bomb; killing them would mean they would have no one to question, so only injuring them would be more beneficial to the case when it’s taken to court. But, if push comes to shove, George and his team would not hesitate to eliminate targets if they pose a significant threat.
“This is Pandas confirming that I am in position. Ready, and waiting for your count.”
George blinks, hard, preparing his eyes before the count.
The plan was to flush the targets out from their hiding places, in the hopes that it would give some idea of where the bomb may be.
Yeah— they didn’t actually know where the bomb was, nor if it was set to blow or not. They were against the clock.
“Roger. On my count.”
George lets out a deep exhale, flexing his index finger again and resting it back onto the trigger.
It was now, or never.
“Three—”
Dream will flush out the targets with smoke.
“Two—”
Pandas is laying in wait on the ground floor, ready to take down targets with flashbangs.
“One—”
George’s duty is to take out any rabbits fleeing from the scene, and to provide eagle-eyes reports from his position.
Easy peasy.
“Deploying smoke.”
From George’s left, there’s an echoing clanking noise as the smoke dispensers clatter to the concrete floor, followed by hissing and a few alarmed shouts as their targets rotate around and away from the smoke.
George spots a khaki green figure dash between two crates, away from the suffocating smoke. “Heads up, Pandas, target heading your way.”
“Do you have eyes?”
George squints through the eye scope of his rifle, searching for the same figure he saw, or any others that may follow the same route. “I no longer have eyes. Unsure if there are multiple targets heading your way. Stay on guard.”
Two loud pops carry through the warehouse, making the hairs on the back of George’s neck rise up. No matter how many times he heard that sound, George will never get accustomed to it.
“Dream,” George says urgently, “what’s your status?”
“Code Ten-Fifteen. Two suspects in custody. No sign of the bomb. Stay alert.”
George breathes a sigh of relief. Dream had always been brilliant at his job— after all, he was team leader for a reason.
George returns his eyes to the open area below him, surprised that no one had passed through it yet— nevermind . Three armed suspects stumble into the open area, coughing and spluttering from the smoke they had just escaped from; one of which was the khaki guy that George had seen a minute earlier.
“I have eyes on three suspects in the central open area. Pandas, deploy flashbangs,” George orders, watching the suspects down his sniper scope.
“Copy. Deploying flashbangs.”
George quickly shuts his eyes as the flashbangs clatter to the floor, the bang ricocheting throughout the warehouse, making George’s ears ring, before he reopens them to see the three suspects on the ground, hands over their ears and eyes fasten shut. He wastes no time to line up a shot at the suspect closest to him, pulling the trigger back and bracing against the recoil as the bullet flies and strikes the suspect in the thigh.
“Far-right suspect down with leg wound.”
Two more shots ring out as the other two suspects drop back to the cold concrete with matching cries of pain.
“Three suspects down. Going hands on. 404, cover me,” Pandas reports, emerging from George’s left with his Colt M4 Carbine raised and cocked, carefully eyeing the three suspects as he approaches.
“Copy,” George responds, watching the two suspects closest to him. They both seem to be more worried about their wounds rather than the agent approaching them, but both Pandas and George knew that they could not be trusted. “Dream, what is your position? Requesting back-up in central area.”
“On route to your location. Surveying area for planted bomb.”
“Roger.”
George watches as Pandas kicks away each of the suspect’s guns, metal scraping against concrete before the weapons spin to a stop. Pandas then lowers his rifle, swings it onto his back, and kneels against the first suspect’s back, grabbing both hands and making quick work of tying them behind their back with rope.
It doesn’t take long for the other two to be neutralised.
“Code Ten-Fifteen. Three suspects in custody,” Pandas says through his earpiece. George watches him as he drags each of the three suspects into a corner of two crates, far away from their weapons. “Any eyes on the bomb?”
Dream’s voice crackles through the line: “Negative. Stay on high alert. Something tells me this isn’t it, it feels too easy.”
“We’re just too good at what we do.”
George smiles at Pandas’ comment, swallowing back a laugh that could reveal his position to the enemy.
“Pandas,” Dream scolds with a tsk, but George can hear the grin in his tone.
“Oh, lighten up! You guys are no fun on missions.”
“You need to be more professional, Pandas.”
A sigh from Pandas: “Lord, give me patience.”
“I think you mean ‘give me strength’,” Dream retorts, completely going against his word of ‘professionalism’.
Sometimes, George can’t believe that he’s on a team with these idiots, and that they’re trusted to take down America’s most dangerous criminals. Out of the job they’d just seem like normal stupid guys who like the gym a bit too much— not men who are highly trained in weaponary and eliminating suspects.
“If God gave me strength, you’d be dead.”
George bites his lip, a laugh threatening to spill out from his mouth, and takes a breath to ground himself. “Pandas, retreat to your original position. Dream—” his throat tightens when he hears footsteps from overhead on the metal staircase he was hiding out on. Despite it, he swallows, and continues, “—watch your six. I’m fairly certain that we’re not finished here.”
George signs off after receiving two responses of “Roger”, and uncocks his sniper rifle to collapse it before clambering to his feet, swinging the sniper back around his shoulder and grabbing his own Colt M4 Carbine from where it had been resting on his back. He poises the rifle, quickly cocking it before stealthily moving over to the base of the stairs and stepping onto the first step, turning and pointing his rifle up and around to check his back, quietly moving backwards up the steps.
The footsteps above him grow louder— seemingly closer now— and George wonders if Pandas could hear the sound from his position on the ground. It’s not like George needs any help, he was more than capable of taking down a couple of suspects by himself; he just didn’t want Pandas to leave his position to help him.
George rounds to the next flight of steps, rifle still cocked and poised, and decides to stand in wait for the suspect to round the flight in front of him; it was better to have the jump on them standing still on a flat platform, rather than in movement and halfway up a flight of steps.
The footsteps grow louder and louder until a masked individual rounds the flight of stairs in front of George, and, at the sight of him, whips out a Glock to cock and point at George. It was now a stand-off; neither moving, neither blinking.
George is the first to speak. “What are you doing here?”
“Hiding.”
“From what?”
The man shrugs. “That’s not your business.”
“I think it is,” George replies coolly, readjusting his grip on his rifle. “I have a warrant to search this property, which immediately makes you a suspect of a crime. Put the gun down.”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
George swallows, irritation for the man quickly growing. “Put the gun down and get on your stomach.”
The man chuckles, low. “As far as I’m aware, you can’t do shit to me unless I actually shoot you first, so it looks like we’re gonna run in circles here because I’m not gonna put myself in such a sticky situation.”
“Activity coming from the South end of the warehouse,” Dream reports through their shared comms system. “404, do you have eyes?”
Well, shit. This is really not the best time. George better make quick work of this guy.
“C’mon mate,” George tries again, stepping closer to the flight of steps. “At the moment I can charge you for failing to comply, suspicion of aiding and abetting, and maybe even carrying a weapon without a full licence— don’t add onto that.”
“Now, what would I be aiding and abetting?” The man asks slyly, tone slippery. George automatically decides that this guy is trouble, and climbs up the first two steps.
“404! Do you have eyes?”
If George doesn’t respond soon, Dream and Pandas would assume that he’s in trouble. But he didn’t want to respond to the request in front of this guy, as that would then lead to the likelihood of his possible accomplices figuring out that George wasn’t alone here.
One wrong move from George and this whole operation is a bust.
The man lowers his gun with a sigh. “You’re boring,” he says simply, tucking the glock into the waistline of his jeans before swinging his backpack around to his front to unzip it.
George tenses up— he hadn’t realised that the bloke had a fucking bag. Still, he climbs up three more steps before the guy grabs his glock and points it at him again as a warning. “Come any closer and I may just reconsider shooting you,” he spits out, gun unsteady since he was only holding it with one hand, but George wasn’t scared of the gun, he was more concerned about what was in the bag and what the guy would do with it.
“What’s in the bag?”
The guy wordlessly tips the bag upside down, and out of it drops a large block of C-4 explosives taped together, entangled in a mess of wires.
Well, George notes to himself, he found the bomb.
The guy hums, gazing at the bomb at his feet before glancing back up to George. “I s’pose you have a good reason to shoot me now.”
“That’s right,” George mutters before aiming and pulling back his rifle’s trigger to get the guy in the thigh, the muffler on the gun’s nozzle doing a good job of silencing the shot. The guy grunts at drops to the floor, clutching at his leg with an agonising groan, giving George the window of opportunity to activate his comms system again; “I have no eyes. Apologies for delay, engaged with an armed suspect. I have a Code Ten-Fifteen and I have the bomb in my possession.”
George then quickly moves up the steps to detain the suspect, kicking the dropped glock from his reach and tying his hands together with rope. “You’ve got a few more charges to your name now, mate,” he mutters, pushing the man to lay face-down against the cool metal grate, making a face when the guy spits at his feet.
He turns, picking up the block of C-4 for further inspection, when Dream’s voice carries through the channel again; “Roger that. Return to your post immediately, I need eyes on the South entrance.”
“Copy,” George replies, picking up the suspect’s glock and disarming it, dropping the cartridge several feet away from the gun itself. As he makes his way back down to his original post, he takes a closer look at the bomb in his grasp. “Well, fuck.”
On the blocks of C-4 was a ticking timer, steadily decreasing every second. George hadn’t noticed the suspect activating the damn thing.
They had four minutes before this whole warehouse blew to bits.
“Pandas, where are you located? I need this bomb defused, pronto,” George asks hurriedly, rounding the last flight of steps before stopping at his post.
A response from Pandas: “What’s the time on it?”
“Four minutes and counting—” George’s eyes flicker up to activity at the South entrance of the warehouse, briefly noting that the large electronic shutter was rising, “—I have eyes on South entrance, I believe that they have called for reinforcements. The large shutter door is opening.”
“Four minutes is plenty of time to eliminate them all,” Dream bets. “Pandas advance forwards towards me, we can take them from the ground. 404, run along the metal grating scaling the wall and give eyes. Watch for rabbits.”
George uncocks his rifle and swings it around back onto his back before tying the bomb to his waistline— ignoring the depleting time on the explosive— and grabs his sniper rifle again to cock it. “Roger,” he responds, making his way along the metal grating running across the warehouse walls. His position continued to give him good eyes on the ground floor, and he was able to offer excellent support to his team members on the ground.
Although the light streaming in from the opening shutter cast some more visual onto George, he hopes that no one would have enough sense to check up on the grates, because then otherwise his cover would be blown and his teammates would be at risk.
George continues to survey the ground when he spots Dream and Pandas slowly navigating their way through the maze of crates, rifles raised, foot placements calculated and soft. “I have eyes on you both,” George says, voice low. “Keep advancing— path seems clear for now.”
A clanging sound echoes from the opposite side of the warehouse, and George immediately plants himself and his sniper onto the metal railing, scoping out the metal grating parallel to him before spotting a suspect laying face-down, finger curled around the trigger of their own sniper rifle. “Sniper spotted on opposing metal grate. Take immediate cover!” George orders through the comms system, watching from the corner of his eye as Dream and Pandas take no hesitation in dipping behind a large wooden crate.
“If clear, take the shot, 404,” Dream assures. They both knew that once George fires, all hell will break loose, but Dream’s reassuring tone offers some comfort to George as he takes a deep breath and lines up his shot.
He pulls back the trigger, the shot resonating through the warehouse, and the opposing sniper’s head drops down against the metal grating. “Suspect down,” George reports gruffly, picking up his sniper to continue walking down the metal grate. “Clear for advancement.”
“Roger that.”
George’s shot had clearly caused some disturbance down at the South end of the warehouse, as various yells and shouts carried through the open space along with the echoing sounds of running steps. From his height, George spots four suspects heading directly for Dream and Pandas.
“I have eyes on four suspects heading your way— all armed with AK-47’s.”
On the ground, Dream and Pandas duck behind a wooden crate in wait for the suspects to round the corner. “I could flash ‘em,” Pandas suggests.
“Copy. On my count,” George responds, watching as Pandas readies two flashbangs, covered by Dream. The armed suspects continue to prowl towards them, seeming relatively relaxed as their guns weren’t poised before them.
Idiots.
George props his rifle up against the railing, ready to catch any rabbits from the flashbangs and waits a moment before the suspects approachhis teammates. “Three… Two… One!”
He looks away from the scene so as not to blind himself from the flashbangs, and his ears ring for a second before he’s able to readjust his senses and turns back to survey the scene. Two shots— followed by another a moment later— ring out, informing George that three suspects were down.
Dream confirms it: “Three suspects down—”
“We’ve got a rabbit, 404!” Sapnap yells through the comms, alerting George. “Headed towards you. Blue top, black sweats. Still armed and possibly headed to the North-end of the warehouse.”
“Good-fuckin’-thing they’re in blue, huh?” George jokes to himself with a huff, leaning away from the rifle scope to survey the area for the suspect before spotting them darting between crates. And exactly like Pandas had said; the suspect had darted right (towards George and away from his team), and then turned to head past Dream and Pandas and towards the other end of the warehouse. George chuckles under his breath, leaning back into his rifle and slotting the scope against the bridge of his nose. “Acting all slick and shit like I’m not gonna spot a rabbit.”
He zeroes in onto the suspect with ease, the barrel of his sniper rifle following their every move before they pass by George’s position above, giving him the perfect target to shoot at— the bullet hits the suspect square in the back.
George leans back and picks up his rifle from where it was balanced on the railing. “Suspect down. This is almost boring,” he gins, despite his teammates not being able to see, and continues to walk parallel to Dream and Pandas along the metal grating.
“Don’t get cocky, Georgie,” Pandas scolds lightly, and George’s grin dissolves into a grim line.
“Isn’t there a rule where you literally cannot call me that on missions?”
“Well, it isn’t your real name, and it has more effect than just calling you by your codename.”
George sighs and runs a hand down his face. “It’s close enough. And you know I hate it when you call me that— not the codename, the other one.”
“You let Dream call you it—”
“Shut the fuck up, you idiot,” Dream snaps, and George has to hold back a snort from crawling out his throat.
“You do! Why are you allowed to call him that and I can’t? It’s really not f—” there’s an unexpected pause that forces George to halt in his tracks, and he whips his head around to scour the area below for his teammates, but to no avail.
“Pandas? Dream? What’s your status?” George asks hesitantly, pressing his waistline against the metal railing when he suddenly remembers that he had a fucking bomb strapped to him.
There’s a sharp whisper down the comms channel: “404, we are surrounded. Five to six suspects. All armed. Help.”
“God fucking dammit,” he curses, glancing down at the bomb to note that it had a little over two minutes before it blew. Lifting his head again, he observes the scene below and struggles to find any way he could get a clear shot of a couple suspects from his height.
He’ll have to join the party. Hurrah!
Similarly to earlier, he disarms the sniper rifle, flings it onto his back, and grabs his normal rifle instead, quickly cocking it before looping it over his shoulder again to swing a leg over the metal railing, soon followed by the other.
The drop down to the wooden crate beneath George was perhaps about 10ft— which he could do easily— but he was worried about whether the crate would be strong enough to hold his weight.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” he mutters, letting go of the railing and dropping feet first onto the crate with a loud slam. The crate holds him with a creak and with a sigh of relief he wastes no time in using the connecting crates to run along, scouring over the sides for his teammates. His thick leather combat boots thump against the wood— a sure telltale sign to the suspects that backup was on its way— and George pushes on, faster, stronger; determined.
There’s a sharp shout from George’s right that immediately draws his attention to a certain area, so he plants a boot, twists his hips mid-motion, and heads straight towards the shout, jumping from crate to crate with ease.
Not a moment later he’s launching himself off the end of a wooden crate and he’s flying through the air towards his teammates being surrounded by six armed men— just like Pandas had reported. He lands beside Dream and Pandas with a thud before raising up his rifle to observe two suspects.
“How the fuck did you do that?” Pandas exclaims from behind him. He had his gun pointed at two other suspects. He also had the bomb defusing kit, which George so desperately needed.
“Skill,” George says simply before quickly glancing at Dream to his left, far too trusting of the guys that currently had them held at gun-point. “Hey, you.”
“Hi, sexy,” Dream replies with a smirk, eyes not leaving his own two men. “Nice of you to finally join us. I missed you.”
“Missed you too.”
“Here? Right now?” Pandas cries, flying a boot back to kick George in the back of the leg, to which George grunts, but his stance stays unfaltered. “You two are disgusting. Truly revolting. I never want to go on missions with you guys ever again. You can take Quackity instead, I’m going with Karl.”
George snorts. “Yeah, alright. Have fun with him, he can barely scale a wall.”
“He just needs a little more… training ,” Padas argues back, and Dream chuckles from George’s side. Pandas would defend his boyfriend until the day he dies, but in reality he knew that the three of them worked much better together on missions. They were called the ‘Dream Team’ for a reason— definitely not because Dream was called, well, Dream.
“So how are we gonna tackle this one, boys? There’s two for each of us,” George chirps, eyeing the two men in front of him with a slight smirk. One of them steps forwards, and George snaps his rifle to point directly at his chest as a threat, but the suspect doesn’t falter.
“You fellas ain’t going nowhere,” he chuckles, voice so disgustingly gravelly that George grimaces at the sound. “We got you surrounded now. Ain’t no way out of here.”
George only raises an eyebrow at the bloke, waiting for Dream’s directions.
“Twelve, four, eight, starting North,” Dream mutters, loud enough for Pandas and George to hear. At his word, the three of them begin to rotate in a circle, their backs to each other’s and rifles still pointing out at the men surrounding them.
The Clock Method: their own creation, making them experts at it— well, it’s unlikely that any other team would use their method but still, it’s the thought that counts.
The tactic was simple enough— Dream would offer three numbers that, funnily enough, correlate to points on a clock, and then state a point at which the clock would start, which is usually North because that makes the most sense, right? The order of the numbers matter too; Dream is the first one, George the second, and Pandas the third. They agreed on the order a couple years back when they first developed the Clock Method, just to avoid any confusion.
The main point is that when they each reach their point on the “clock”, they shoot the suspects. Surprisingly, it requires a lot of hand-eye coordination and silent communication since each of them had to keep an eye on the suspects (which, when this method is being used, usually means that there are multiple suspects), and each other's points on the clock so that they each knew exactly when to shoot.
It was safe to say that it took a lot of time, energy, and arguments in training rooms to perfect.
So, when George approaches his point, he notes that the other two have stopped as well, and he takes his two shots at his suspects, followed by four other shots from Pandas and Dream. And just like the experts they were; each suspect drops to the floor with loud grunts of pain.
“Going hands on,” Dream says, shouldering his rifle and approaching his two suspects, kicking away their weapons and grabbing their hands to tie them up with rope. George and Pandas copy him with their own men.
Pandas stands up and dusts off his hands with a laugh. “Never gets old, does it? We’re sick at—”
A frantic beeping interrupts him, and George jumps up from his knelt position over his groaning suspect to desperately grapple at the bomb strapped to his waistline. “Fuck, fuck, shit, shit— shit! Get it off me! Get it off me now!” He squeals, shoving the bomb off of him to thump to the concrete floor. “Quick, Sapnap! Defuse it! Defuse it! Defuse it now—” Sapnap dashes towards the beeping bomb, time running out quicker than ever, and slides along the ground, swinging his rucksack around to grab the diffuser from inside, “—Quick! Do it quick. Quicker!”
“Shut the fuck up, George!” Sapnap yells, hands and fingers moving expertly to attach the correct wires to the bomb. “How’d you even let the timer get under thirty seconds?”
“Because you idiots got yourselves into some deep shit and needed my help!” George retorts, voice rising in both frustration and worry of the bomb detonating. Then there’s a solid hand grabbing his shoulder, and George is being pulled away from the bomb and behind a nearby wooden crate. He looks over his shoulder to see Dream, and he receives a reassuring smile along with a gloved hand slipping into his.
George’s chest tightens. He trusted Sapnap to defuse the bomb— his specialty was bombs— sometimes he just needed to be grounded again once tensions ran high. Forgetting that he had an active bomb strapped to him definitely made him anxious, but Dream was quick to assure George that he no longer had anything to worry about.
George returns the smile and squeezes Dream’s hand before turning back to watch Sapnap defuse the bomb, and a moment later the beeping stops and Sapnap straightens back up to send a wide grin to his teammates. George drops Dream’s hand and goes to clap Sapnap on the back, but his movements are faltered when there’s a loud crack followed by a searing pain spreading through his calf.
From beside him, Dream whips out his secondary weapon in a flash and sends two bullets into the chest of the guy who shot George, sending him to the floor without a second thought, before he rushes over to George’s side, panic laced in his voice. “Are you okay? Where did he get you?”
In a flash, Sapnap is by George’s side too, wrapping an arm around his waist and asking the same frantic questions, but all George can do is laugh. “Of course the bastard hits me where I’m not wearing body armour!” He chortles, but his face twists in agony and he feels blood seeping down his leg.
“God, George, shut up and tell us where that fucker got you,” Sapnap mutters harshly, shoving his own secondary Glock (which he had, too, whipped out to shoot the guy) back into its holster to give him the use of both hands.
George inhales through his nose, biting his lip in efforts to ignore the pain taking over his leg. “Got me in the calf. I’m okay though, you guys can let go of me,” he tries to assure, but Dream was having none of it.
“No, you can’t walk out of here like this. I’m carrying you.”
George faces Dream with a frown. “Sorry— is this our gunshot wound? I don’t think so. I’m walking.”
“It may as well be,” Dream mumbles, but still releases George from his hold.
George rolls his eyes with a slight grin. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Only for you,” Dream winks, and Sapnap gags.
“You two are actually gross,” he shrieks, backing away from the both of them. “At least wait until I’m not near you.”
Dream and George only laugh at Sapnap, following him away from the scene before Dream requests for the clean-up team to enter the premises and take the suspects into custody.
Within a minute of exiting the warehouse, Dream throws George over his shoulder— making him shout— and carries him over to the ambulance to be checked over for his injury. The paramedics quickly decide to take him to the hospital for surgery, but not before Sapnap has the three of them put in their hands to an informal toast.
“Another successful mission, boys! Nothing can stop the Dream Team, not even a bomb seconds away from blowing us to bits,” he winks at George, and Dream struggles to contain a snort.
“The next time there’s a sniper with their barrel pointed at either of you, I’m not taking them out,” George grumbles, but he still swings his arm up when the three of them break their celebratory circle with a victory shout.
Despite their constant teasing and bickering, the three of them trusted each other entirely and wholly. They knew that they each had the other’s backs in any dangerous situation they found themselves in, and that’s the one thing that George treasures about them the most.
He truly had the greatest teammates and the bestest of friends.
“I carried, by the way,” he quips, just as the paramedics were shutting the ambulance doors on him.
Sapnap turns at the last second, and sends George a wild look before the doors slam shut on his face; “You got fucking shot!” could be heard through the thick doors.
George smiles to himself. “Still carried.”