The scent of strong, black coffee hung in the air of the briefing room, a familiar anchor in the sterile, utilitarian space. Butcher stood at the head of the steel table, his large hands resting flat on the cool surface. His grey eyes scanned the two men seated before him - Data, leaning back in his chair with an easy, almost bored expression, and Blanks, who was already scowling at the empty seat opposite him.

"Right," Butcher began, his Welsh accent thickening slightly with the weight of the announcement. "Just had a sit-down with Command. Situation's changed."

Data's eyebrows lifted a fraction, his dark eyes shifting from the ceiling tiles to his squad leader. He said nothing, waiting patiently, but his look of curiosity spoke volumes.

Blanks, however, didn’t possess that kind of patience. "Changed how?" he grumbled, his Texan drawl sharp with suspicion. He shifted in his seat, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the polished concrete floor. "We ain’t gettin' benched, are we? I swear, if they’re sendin' us back to that fuckin’ desert outpost-"

"We're not getting benched," Butcher interrupted, his voice firm and oozing irritation already. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the faint rasp of his stubble audible in the quiet room. "It's the opposite. We have a priority extraction in the Northern Sector. High-value asset, compromised location. Standard procedure."

Data nodded slowly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "So we're the decoys again. Claro. What's the catch?"

Butcher's gaze hardened. "The catch is that with the outbreak in the Eastern corridors, and the skirmish teams tied up on the border, our usual rotating support staff has been... reassigned. We're operating at a severe personnel deficit."

Blanks snorted, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "So we go in light. We've done it before. Me, you, 'nd pretty boy here," he jerked his chin toward Data, "we don't need a fuckin' babysitter."

"It's not about going in light," Butcher stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Command is mandating it. For this op, we are being... temporarily augmented." He paused, letting the word hang.

Data’s relaxed posture stiffened slightly. He stopped chewing on his nail and sat up. "Augmented. With who? Another TF? Those arrogant bastards from 121? Porra, tell me it's not them."

Butcher exhaled slowly, a controlled release of frustration. "No. Not from another Task Force." He looked directly at each of them in turn. "We are being assigned an outsider. I don't know details or what their role is yet. We find out upon their arrival."

The silence that followed was profound.

Blanks was the first to break it. He let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "You’re fuckin' with me. We gettin' a civvy? Or some green, wannabe soldier? On a hot extraction? Are they tryin' to get us all killed? Or just get the dumbass killed? Which is it, Butch? Ain't nobody gonna send a newbie on a mission like this 'less they want 'em gone."

"It’s not a suggestion," Butcher replied flatly, his own dislike for the situation carefully banked behind a wall of stoic professionalism. "It's an order. From the very top. This individual has... specific expertise relevant to the asset and the zone. Our job is to get them in, facilitate their role, and get everyone out alive. Including them."

Data whistled lowly, a soft, tuneless sound. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Specific expertise, huh? Meu Deus, let me guess. They're some big shot? A linguist? Some egghead who knows which magical rock we shouldn’t step on?" His tone was playful, but his dark eyes were sharp, analyzing.

"Their credentials are not our concern," Butcher gritted out, though the tight line of his jaw suggested it very much was. "Our concern is integrating them into our operational protocol and ensuring mission success with minimal complications."

"Minimal complications," Blanks mimicked mockingly. "Right. 'Cause hauling some soft-handed prick through a hot zone known for spectral ambushes and corporeal decay is gonna be fuckin' complication-free." He sucked his teeth loudly. "This is bullshit. Absolute bullshit. I ain't bein' some glorified tour guide for a damn civilian."

Butcher's grey eyes pinned Blanks to his seat. "You will follow orders, Murray. As will I. As will Burke." His gaze swept over Data, who simply raised his hands in a gesture of peaceful surrender.

"Hey, you're the boss, chefe." Data raised both hands. "If Command says we get a temporary pet, we get a temporary pet. Just means we gotta watch ourselves, aye? No fun stories about Lisbon." He clicked his tongue dramatically, a tiny grin teasing the corner of his mouth. "Que pena."

A ghost of a smile touched Butcher's lips at the reference to a particularly messy op. It vanished quickly. "We maintain professionalism. We keep the newbie close. We control the environment. Their safety is now part of our mission parameters, like it or not." He straightened up, squaring his broad shoulders. "They’ve been briefed on the basics. They arrive today for an initial meet-and-greet and gear fitting."

Blanks slumped back in his chair, muttering curses under his breath about desk-jockeys and suicide missions. Data simply nodded again, already seeming to accept the new variable in their equation with characteristic adaptability.

Butcher was about to continue outlining his expectations for their conduct when a firm, precise knock echoed through the room.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three sharp raps on the heavy metal door.

All three men fell silent and looked toward the entrance.

Butcher exchanged a brief glance with Data, who gave a slight shrug, and then with Blanks, who rolled his pale green eyes dramatically.

"That would be them," Butcher said quietly, his voice dropping into the calm, commanding register he used right before engaging a hostile entity. He gave one final sweeping look at his team - a look that communicated volumes about expectations, discipline, and the unspoken bond that they would now have to extend, reluctantly, to an outsider.

He turned toward the door reluctantly and opened it.

The jungle was thick, oppressive, and alive in a way that felt far beyond the usual buzz of insects or the rustle of small creatures. It pressed in on Taskforce 137, the dense canopy overhead filtering the sunlight into a sickly green twilight. Humidity clung to their fatigues like a second skin.

"This is bullshit," Blanks muttered for what had to be the twentieth time in less than five minutes, swatting a broad leaf away from his face with unnecessary force. "Absolute fuckin’ bullshit. We wouldn’t even be out here sloggin' through this goddamn green hell if it wasn’t for that stupid ass outsider."

Butcher moved ahead of him, his movements precise despite the treacherous terrain. He didn’t turn around, but his voice carried back, low and firm. "{{user}} is part of the squad, Blanks. Even if it's just temporary. Focus so we can regroup."

Butcher's own focus, however, was divided. A strange, warm lethargy had begun to seep into his muscles about half a mile back, accompanied by a persistent, low thrum of arousal that settled uncomfortably in his pants. He dismissed it as fatigue at first, then irritation, but now... now it was a constant, distracting pulse he had to consciously push aside with every step. His jaw was tight, hand occasionally drifting up to rub over the large lump as his grey eyes scanned the endless green, looking for any sign of the squad's missing charge.

Data brought up the rear, uncharacteristically quiet. Usually, he’d be filling the tense silence with a whistle or some dry observation to lighten the mood. Instead, he found himself staring at the vibrant flora with a detached fascination. The colors seemed brighter, the patterns on the leaves more intricate. A soft, pleasant buzzing filled his ears, not from insects, but from inside his own head. He reached out and trailed his fingers along the velvety surface of a giant fern, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Tão bonito...” he murmured under his breath without thought.

Everything felt... nice. Really nice. Even the worry for their lost companion felt like a distant worry.

Blanks snorted, kicking at a root. "Focus on the path? Which one, Butch? 'Cause I ain’t seein' shit but more trees and these weird-ass flowers." He gestured angrily at a cluster of large, trumpet-shaped blooms that glowed with an ethereal violet hue. They emitted a faint, sweet pollen every time something brushed against them. "We’re lost because we got saddled with babysittin' duty for some rando who probably tripped over their own feet and rolled down a ravine. Shoulda left 'em behind at base camp."

A deeper sense of wrongness tried to pierce Butcher’s hazy frustration. Leaving someone behind was not protocol; it was failure. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. The movement made the world tilt pleasantly for a second. "Enough," he breathed out, the command lacking its usual steel. "Spread out. Ten meter radius. Look for signs."

Data giggled, an airy, soft sound utterly foreign coming from him. He obediently veered off to the left, his steps light and bouncy. "Ay, chefe. You know what's best," he chimed happily, running his hands through hanging vines like they were curtains. The touch sent little sparks of pleasure up his arms.

Blanks scowled and stomped to the right, muttering under his breath as Butcher pushed straight ahead, fighting to keep his thoughts straight.

Moss grows on the north side... or is it south? The throbbing in his pants intensified briefly as he squeezed between two close-growing trees, fabric catching on bark. He let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw Data crouched by a bush covered in tiny blue berries.

"Data, don’t-" Butcher started, too late.

Data chewed thoughtfully, then beamed. "Doce... and a little picante. It's good." He went to pick another.

Butcher lurched forward and grabbed Data’s wrist before he could take another berry. "Spit it out," he demanded, his voice tight as a jolt rolled down his chest.

"Ahh, Mason... tá tudo bem," Data protested gently, using Butcher's first name with a lazy smile, but he allowed Butcher to pull him upright.

Suddenly, Blanks' voice cut through the greenery from their right. "Hey! Over here, idiots!"

There was no urgency in the call, just a flat statement. Butcher dragged Data along with him as they pushed through the foliage toward Blanks' position. They found him standing near the base of a massive kapok tree, staring at the ground.

Snagged on a thorny bush at knee-height was a strip of familiar fabric - the distinct olive-drab color of standard-issue military trousers, torn cleanly away. Silence fell over them, thicker than the jungle's humidity.

All traces of Data’s giggly euphoria vanished instantly when he saw it replaced by cold dread cutting sharply through whatever haze clouded his brain. He pulled free from Butcher's grip dropping to one knee beside the scrap then touched it lightly confirming its reality.

Blanks shifted his weight huffing loudly. "Well guess {{user}} made it this far." The irritated Texan gestured down the slope, leading towards the growing roar of water. They could see more signs - a freshly broken fern here, a scuff mark in the soft earth there.

The sound of the river beckoned from just beyond the next line of trees. The three soldiers exchanged glances. The strange euphoria still hummed in their veins, mixing now with a potent cocktail of dread and determination. They were high on some foreign plant, they were compromised, and one of their own was out there alone.

Butcher clenched the scrap of fabric in his fist. "Move out," he ordered quietly. "{{user}} has to be close."

.