He has been declared dead at least three times, but there aren't any bodies shuffling toward him moaning for brains, just his boys with scraps for skin. His limbs feel tingly, and he isn't sure whether that's from effort of being shoved through space by the intricate future cubes or whether he's just getting old.
Simmons takes up a familiar backup position three paces to Sarge's left and just stays there. Red Team forms up like nothing happened, like Sarge hadn't been away working for an opposing army in a fabricated war. Carolina and Epsilon explain their problem with space pirates, and Sarge wonders, comfortably, whether the little blue guy would ever get anywhere without Freelancers. The Reds don't rely on crutches like that.
Carolina's secret hideout is brown and green, nice neutral colors. Sarge hasn't asked what's out beyond the fog and he doesn't plan to. He'll find out when it all comes in.
For now, it doesn't, and Simmons ambulates over to him, still skinny and still putting on airs. Sarge had wondered, a few times, what diabolical tortures Grif and Simmons might be suffering without him. Some of those thoughts were comforting, but even entire armies finally having the right idea about Grif's laziness didn't really filter down to him while he was busy watching Wash's odd interactions with the general and the doctor, and keeping Donut out of trouble.
Simmons looks out at the fog, between a mossy cliff wall and a brown scrubby tree. "We thought you were being tortured," he says, not sadly but with exasperated surprise, as if he hadn't received his expected punishment but rather a worse one.
"Yes," Sarge says. "And I am darn glad you met up with me again after all this bamboozlement. Must've been a wreck. Donut was a wreck."
"Donut? I thought you were being held comfortably in a Fed camp equipped with state of the art equipment."
"We were."
"Listen, Sarge, you probably ought to know that..."
"What is it? Was the Horatio thing true, 'cause, I can keep that secret, until someone overhears from behind a curtain, and - "
"No. Listen." Simmons slows down and enunciates, like he does when he's serious. "In the New Republic, we were given our own commands. Grif and I were captains. And we actually did stuff."
Sarge's other comfort zone is a 2535 Ford Destrix rusting in a horse trailer in Iowa. That car is older than Simmons.
"Sir, you probably ought to know that Grif..." Simmons pauses, and Sarge can without a doubt hear him decide whether or not to keep talking.
The wait goes on too long. "Out with it, man!"
"You know, I think maybe he ought to tell you himself." Simmons takes two steps backwards.
"Now you're being all secretive-like."
"I think the important part is me being a captain. We had our own squad, our own guys. Er, girls. Some of us."
"And where is this squad now?" Sarge asks.
"Um, those are the guys that Carolina said Felix was going to get to fight the Feds. They really think they're on the good side."
Sarge is getting old. He's almost certain that's why just talking to people makes him tired. Sarge has fought the good fight, but God up there in the fog likes to take his people and shake them like fireflies in a jar.
"Then they'll fight," Sarge says.
"But they're fighting for the wrong thing! We're still alive!"
Sarge shrugs. "They'll live or die just the same."
Simmons shakes his head and backs off. Grif and Donut are talking in the distance behind him, and Sarge does a quick, almost instinctive headcount. Red Team looks incomplete without a vehicle. At least they've still got a Lopez, battered and reborn as he is.
Donut is gesturing wildly. He's a good kid - never panicked under imagined pressure. Only real pressure.
Sarge is coming at them up a hill, so if he stands behind a fold in the earth they won't be able to see him until he pops out next to them.
Grif shuffles, crosses his arms over his beer gut. "It's just, like, what would you do if you left a squad of guys to die because you didn't know something?"
"I'd...probably scream," Donut said quizzically, voice cracking, as if wondering what other options there could possibly be. Sarge shifts from foot to foot, hearing his joints creak.
The nervousness is infectious. Grif gets louder. "And I shouted at them, and I couldn't help it!"
"Oh no!"
"And I'm going to die an old man and alone!"
Donut wailed.
"Hey Grif," Sarge starts. He pushes up the hill.
Grif looks up. "What?" It's an exasperated shout, his voice cracking like a teenager's. "Donut and I were talking about feelings."
"Feelings time is over!" Sarge says.
"Nah," Donut says. "Feelings are everywhere."
Sarge crests the hill. "I think you're cata...catastrof...You're making it worse, son."
Grif uncrosses his arms and bristles.
"Well go on then," Sarge says. "Continue."
"Where were we?" Donut says.
Grif sighs. "I'm going to die an old man and alone."
"Better than dying young next to people you hate!" Sarge says.
"That's not what I - you don't get it. You alienate your team all the time and get them thrown into stupid situations, and whenever we come out alive it's no thanks at all, just aargggh we're the Red Team, and...oh."
"What?" Sarge says. "I don't get it."
Grif waves limply. "Feelings time is over."
Sarge has been declared dead three, maybe four times. He can't always remember.
There are no ghosts on the team, though, no fancy Freelancers. Red Team has come out with no lasting deaths neither, which is not something that can be said for Blue. Carolina is sitting on a boulder on the other side of the camp, stretching out her injured leg while Tucker and Church conspicuously avoid talking to one another. Whatever Grif learned, Sarge hopes it doesn't make him a better leader than he is, because Sarge doesn't need Grif putting on airs and getting in the way. Grif is smarter than he thinks already; just needs to get out of his own way sometimes. Sarge sits down with his shotgun across his knees and starts thinking up zombie plans for the new terrain.