- One: A Brief Recalling -
(Halo (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators; Red vs. Blue (c) the Rooster Teeth team. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate language.)
What was it like to have a mother?
According to Sarge, Jackal mothers weren't very nice. They squawked loudly and liked to rip things apart; they ate the humans they dragged out of burning equipment. They were ugly and they were foul-smelling, the scent something salty and acid-like; Sarge always said the stench of their corpses was like inhaling sulfur after battle. He also said - and quite often - that Simmons stank a lot when he was little; the young Skirmisher could remember being forced into a cold shower at every day's end. It hadn't felt very nice at first - the Skirmisher's tropically-adapted nature called for warmer water - but he grew used to it as he got older.
The war had been over years ago. He had been little older than a chick then - three or four years old in human years. Although he could vaguely remember Sarge being right about Jackal mothers - why his mother was a Jackal instead of a Skirmisher, Simmons didn't know, but it had to do with crossbreeding and related species - he could also remember kindness. He had seen a motherly softness in those harsh, bulbous eyes. Then, there had been fire, followed by explosions and a scream, with Sarge's soot-streaked face suddenly looking down at him ...
The story had been told to him again and again. There had been a UNSC raid, and Sarge had been dropped onto the surface of the Kig-Yar colony; bombs fell everywhere as the buildings lit like matches. It didn't matter if they were soldiers or civilians, males or females, chicks or the elderly - everyone was to die, gunned down if the flames did not consume them first. In Sarge's words, "It was justified - the damn dirty beasts kept trying to mooch off our supply routes. It was high time to teach them a lesson, and with a hell's load of firepower to boot!"
Despite the near-genocidal destruction, the operation was not completely merciless - prisoners had been taken. Apparently, Simmons's mother had been one of them; Sarge and a few other ODSTs had been assigned to looking after her, along with several other Kig-Yar of importance. (From what Simmons remembered, Sarge's group had lived in some asteroid-based colony with the saurian aliens, and thus, were the best qualified to deal with such.) There was an attempt in questioning her, but she resisted; as a result, they threatened to execute her chicks. She threatened to bite their heads off in return, going berserk and screaming profanity in Eaynian. Hell broke loose, and the ODSTs promptly shot her, as she somehow got loose and pulled a gun.
(Simmons couldn't believe himself as he recalled the tale - for someone known to be "so smart", he was making a lot of "something like thats" and vague guesses. He blamed it on a lack of sleep, due to the fact his newest accommodations had a bad case of bed bugs from Earth. And Sarge said the Kig-Yar could be unsanitary, feh!)
His brothers and sisters had died off quickly. Sarge had said that they needed their mother to survive; Simmons was the only exception. He was born a Skirmisher - probably from his non-existent father's side - and, physiologically, was hardier than the rest of them. "A bonafide natural upgrade," was the term Sarge had used, if the Skirmisher remembered correctly. Other than falling victim to a "pet the dog" moment, Simmons never really knew why the Sergeant had kept him around; the old ODST could have easily put a round through the chick's head, and sent him off with the rest of the siblings. Kig-Yar were defiant, vicious and prone to chronic backstabbing; the others had said Simmons was better off dead, lest Sarge find himself with a traitor in his midst. But, in a fashion most typical of the veteran warrior, he brushed off their concerns; Sarge was an ODST, with a loaded shotgun on hand almost every hour of the day. If the "miniature bird brain" was to pull anything, the Sergeant would gladly use him for target practice!
Despite whatever the debating soldiers had said, both human and alien had grown attached to each other, and there had been no backstabbing. Although, it was debatable on how much of a parental figure Sarge was; if the human was in a bad mood, then poor Simmons could say good-bye to any positive attention he could get from him. Hell, the Sergeant could even wave off an entire apocalypse if he didn't care about it -
"SIMMONS! Where's that motor oil!"
Oh, great ... he had dozed off again. When had he become so lazy - wasn't that Grif's job? The stinking, fat excuse for human waste rarely lifted a finger, among other vital things. Never cleaning his armour or his weapons, always stuffing his mouth with cheese dip and snack cakes ... Feh. Simmons was disgusted by the very thought of his human roommate. Heck, he wasn't all that fond of humans in the first place, except maybe Sarge - why did he have to invite Grif to live with them in the first place? Couldn't Sarge find someone else to pay the rent for a room in the old military outpost?
"Coming sir!" the Skirmisher called out, hurrying from where he sat on top of what had been Red Base. Above him, the never-setting sun beat down harshly upon Blood Gulch, and Simmons had a feeling Sarge would be chewing him out for another shower sometime soon.
Author's Note: This is another experimental fic, so please forgive me if there are more errors than I pick up on. As a quick recap (in case the narrative seemed confusing, which I apologize for), Simmons is a Skirmisher (a canon sub-species of Kig-Yar), raised by Sarge out of what Simmons can guess is pity. The war is over, Sarge is retired, and he and Simmons have purchased a defunct military base to turn into apartments. Grif is their first tenant.
I promise to explain more later on, such as why the base still has armour and weapons lying around.