The Man in Burgundy

Chapter One: Where and How?

Well… I'm actually gonna do this. I'm gonna make a Self Insert. Something oft considered the lowest form of literacy, unless you're that guy who wrote Dante's Inferno.

Well… let's go.

()()()()()()()()()()

"…Hello? You alive in there?"

That voice sounded oddly… familiar, I thought. Then I realized I was currently lying on the ground, feeling like I had tried to rugby-tackle an angry rhinoceros. Not the best feeling, let me tell you.

I forced my eyes opening, despite feeling drowsy, and looked at the face above me. It was a golden helmet, with matching golden visor, and it resembled a BMX helmet in overall shape, including the little brim over the visor. I realized I was also wearing a helmet, and one that cut off my peripheral vision on the bottom and top, but not on the sides.

I groaned and shifted my position, realizing there was a rock digging into my lower back. I rolled onto my stomach and pushed off the ground, rising to my feet with relative difficulty, stumbling once I was up. I turned to look at the armoured figure.

"Who the hell are you, and where am I?" I asked, getting straight to the point. I was confused, and had no time for games.

"I'm Grif." The guy responded. Hold on a sec, Grif? Where had I heard that name before? "You're in our canyon."

"And where is this canyon?" I asked, annoyed.

"Some planet we crashed on. I dunno, if I started keeping track of every planet I've been on, I'd be still counting." Grif responded, shrugging. "And who the hell has time for that, anyways?"

"Some planet…" I mused, thinking. Golden armoured dude named Grif, crashing on a planet, stuck in a canyon… oh piss.

Was I in Red vs Blue? Seriously? I mean… this could be kind of cool, but… I was seriously in a fictional universe? Well, I supposed I could have an advantage, having watched the series and all… wait, didn't they crash in Season Eleven? And then there was Season Twelve… oh shit. I could probably use Seasons Eleven and Twelve as guides for what was going to happen, but Season Thirteen would be unexplored territory. I would be going in blind.

Whatever, I supposed.

Now all I had to do was make up a believable lie. I played role playing games enough, I supposed, so coming up with a believable life story shouldn't be too hard.

"Listen, I was on the ship too. UNSC cargo freighter, right?" I asked.

"Yeah something like that. I don't remember anyone who looked like you being in the ship, though." Grif said.

"It WAS a pretty big ship." I replied, stressing the past tense. "I never saw anybody who looked like you either."

"Huh… good point." Grif admitted, nodding.

"Grif! Where are you?" There was that familiar Texan drawl. Sarge.

I saw the shotgun wielding team leader round the corner of the canyon, seeing me standing with Grif. He raised the shotgun.

"Ah! Who are you?" He asked, pointing the tubular black firearm at me. I raised, my hands.

"Corporal…" I paused. What the fuck should I say my name was? "Corporal Walker, sir! Corporal David Walker!" That would probably do.

"Are you red? Or… blue?" He asked, noticeably filling the name of his azure counterparts with loathing.

"Sir, perhaps you didn't notice, but my armour's burgundy." I said, gesturing to my dark red armour. I had realized it was the Warrior pattern armour from Halo, mostly, with Scout pattern shoulderpads. This was what my character looked like in Halo 4, I reminisced.

"Hmmm… maybe you're a spy!" He said, sounding almost excited at the prospect.

"Well, my armour's a shade of red. If that's not good enough for you, maybe I will go see these 'Blues'." I said, turning to walk away.

"Woah, that is a BIG gun!" I heard Grif say. I reached over my shoulder, feeling the hilt of a weapon of some sort. I pulled it up and drew it, before inspecting it.

Holy shit. I had a SAW. The bringer of demise, the terror of a thousand online Slayer matches, the Saw. Seventy-two rounds, three-point-five second reload speed, powerful enough to kill a horse with a short burst, the SAW.

"Yeah, it's my SAW." I said, deciding to go for impressing Sarge. Every guy likes big weaponry, right? "I nicknamed her Very Good Advice."

"You named your gun?" Grif asked, still staring at the LMG.

"Yeah. I've had her for a while, killed a bunch of Blues with her, and grew attached to her, so I named her." I replied.

"How many Blues have you killed?" Sarge asked, lowering his shotgun.

"Twenty or so." Well, that was my killcount in most Halo games, so I decided to use it.

"You know what… you can stay." Sarge said, nodding. "Welcome to Red Team. Our base is over there."

He pointed to the other end of the canyon, and I saluted in what I considered to be an acceptable display of respect, before following Sarge and Grif to the tiny bunker they called a base. I had no idea how I got here, or what I was supposed to do, but damned if I wouldn't make the most of it.

()()()()()

"Sarge, where the hell'd you find this guy?!" Simmons asked, even as I blasted away more targets with Very Good Advice.

Sarge had decided I had to 'prove I wasn't no durn stinkin' Blue!' by showing him how well I could shoot, reasoning that only Red troopers could shoot well.

Target practice, as it turned out, was fairly easy. The Warrior pattern armour was built for compensating for recoil from big guns like Very Good Advice, and as thus she was pretty easy to aim and fire in bursts. I was a halfway decent shot as well, and so far no-one could match my score.

"I've been part of the Red army for a good few years, and been using Very Good Advice here for most of that time." I replied for my new boss, ceasing my fire and looking at the Maroon armoured soldier. ('Soldier' in the largest quotation marks known to mankind.)

"Why did you name your gun? It's not like it's a person or anything." Simmons asked, looking at the LMG. "And why do you get an LMG?"

I looked at the fairly scrawny man. "One, don't insult Very Good Advice. She's got feelings too." Well, not really, but she reminded me of my own gun, back when I was in the military myself, in my old life. I liked that gun, and had nicknamed it Very Good Advice as well. "Two, I have an LMG because I know how to shoot one. As a matter of fact, I have an LMG because I can shoot, period."

"Oh, cold." I heard Grif say, as I stared at Simmons.

"I can probably shoot better!" Simmons said, voice full of weak bluster.

"Fine then. Ten targets, fastest time wins." I said, crossing my arms.

"What're the targets?" He asked, looking at the makeshift target range.

"Those cones at the end of the range." I said, gesturing for him to go first.

To be fair, he did alright. He took out all the targets with his Battle Rifle in about a minute, give or take. But then it was my turn. I lined up my first shot, pulled the safety, and proceeded to hold down the trigger while moving the barrel from left to right. All the targets fell over in less than ten seconds. I turned to look at Simmons.

"Any more insults for my gun?" I asked, looking at stunned man.

"Umm… no." He said, stepping backwards slowly. I grinned beneath my helmet, before slipping the LMG back over my shoulder and holding out one hand. Simmons took it and shook it, after some hesitation.

"The name's David. Corporal David Walker." I said.

"P-Private Dick Simmons." He replied, and I was tempted to reply with 'I know'. I didn't though. I didn't need my only allies in this universe thinking I was a nutjob.

"Nice to meet you, Simmons. Since your boss over there seems a bit… preoccupied, mind telling me what the Blue situation is around here?" I asked. "Normally, I'd be knee-freaking-deep in bullets and angry cobalt dressed dickheads."

"Well, we're pretty cool with the Blues around here, mostly because they have a Freelancer in charge of their team, and we can't beat him." Simmons replied. "That and we're kind of friends at this point."

"Friends with Blues, eh? That seems pretty odd." I said. "And a Freelancer too? You guys are lucky to still be alive."

"Nah, Washington's an okay guy. I mean; he's still a dick, but he's alright." Simmons said.

"So, by 'friendly', do you mean 'not-shooting-at-each-other' friendly, or 'hey-there-how's-it-going-buddy' friendly." I asked.

"'Hey there how's it going' friendly." Simmons answered.

"Well then, I may have to meet these Blues. They sound like… interesting sorts." I said, trying to hide the fact that I was lying through my teeth.

"Oh, you don't know the half of it." Simmons laughed.

()()()()()

"So, let me get this straight. You were aboard the Cargo Ship, we just HAPPENED to never see you, and you just HAPPENED to be found now?" Agent Washington asked, looking at me.

"Yeah, pretty much." I replied as nonchalantly as I could.

"Well… I don't really believe you, but I suppose you can stay with the Reds." He said, looking at me funny. "But try anything suspicious, and I'll shoot you myself."

Well, he was officially terrifying. Especially when there WASN'T a screen between him and my vital organs.

"Whatever you say, sir. So long as you don't throw me out." I said, legitimately grateful.

After all, I didn't really want to be eaten alive by whatever it was lived on Chorus.

()()()()()()()()()()

Well… um… tell me if it sucked? I guess?

Thanks.