Prompt: For Fluff Week, if you're doing it! Could we have a fluffy sequel to This Is What Family Means? Preferably with Grif and Simmons' reconciliation!
Author Note: I originally planned to wait until I had this finished to start posting but– I dunno, I just really want to share what I have. And the pressure of reader demand to keep writing will, I think, be beneficial for this story.
FYI, this story WILL have chapters and scenes from Grif's POV, as well as others, so don't get scared off. 3
Excerpt from Khloe Goodnight's new biography on Captain Dexter Grif, "The Griffin: Herald of Courage and Bravery".
The United World of Chorus is a pretty popular beat for reporters these days. Five years removed from the end of its bitter civil war and the capture of the Staff of Charon , it's worked hard to rebuild. For a journalist, it has a heady mix of local color, excellent food, and the kind of stories of terror, heroism, and self-sacrifice that break hearts and win awards.
Unsurprisingly, it's also the backdrop for profiles of some of the most notorious individuals to emerge from the Great War - the soldiers of Project Freelancer. Erick Rottenburg and Dylan Andrews's three book Freelancers series is unquestionably the definitive work on the ill-fated Project and its agents. Get Your Hard On by Eduardo Falencki is an entertaining and saucy look at the life of Captain Franklin Delano Donut, and who can forget Elena Wood's masterful Red vs. Blue: The Soldiers Behind the Simulation?
And yet, despite countless news interviews, Special Reports, and a few movie adaptations (of varying degrees of accuracy), there isn't a historian or reporter alive who wasn't painfully aware of the hole in the different tellings of Project Freelancer and the end of the Chorus Civil War: the story of Captain Dexter Grif.
The photo that accompanied the incomparable Dylan Andrews's original story that brought the Reds and Blues to the attention of the galaxy, Colorful Space Marines Stop Corruption (Interstellar Daily), perfectly summarizes Captain Grif's attitude towards the press. By which I mean, he's clearly wholly unimpressed and uninterested in every bit of the attention being paid to him and the other soldiers, simulation and otherwise. You can't look at that picture and not think that he would have stepped out of the frame if he thought he could get away with it.
As a result, when my agent called and asked if I would be interesting in taking a swing at writing a biography of this notoriously private and tetchy individual, I have to admit, I had my apprehensions. It's also a sign of how desperate the publisher was to finally get Captain Grif's story that they made a point to not tell me how many other journalists had tried to interview him and failed until after I'd signed the contract.
But signed I had, so with my book advance in hand, I packed my bags and booked the next flight to Chorus.
In the end, I spent two years on that planet. Two years ricocheting from city to city like a ping pong ball as I followed the threads of different stories; two years of writing and rewriting and rewriting again the same stories because there was always just one more layer to it; and two years slowly growing closer to Captain Grif and his family.
I am incredibly humbled that Captain Grif eventually opened up to me as much as he did. The story of his life, contained in this volume, is without question a story of a man who has spent most of his life surviving incredible hardship without ever losing his fundamental desire to protect the people he cares about.
Any part of his life, from his childhood in Honolulu, surviving the fall of the colony world Aurelia, his time as a soldier in Project Freelancer, to fighting in the war on Chorus, has enough in it for half a dozen documentaries. When you put them all together, you find yourself looking at one of those rare people in any generation who plant their feet and refuse to be moved when an entire galaxy takes a swing at them.
In medieval times, the griffin was used in heraldry to represent courage and bravery. A mythical creature with the body of a lion and the head of an eagle, the king of the beasts and birds respectively, I can think of no better symbol for Captain Dexter Grif.
Thank you, everyone, who helped me learn about and tell this story. The contributions of the Reds and Blues, the former agents of Project Freelancers, and the many citizens of Chorus whose lives intersected with Captain Grif's made it possible to find those hidden layers and moments where one man stared hard into the face of danger and refused to flinch.
Khloe Goodnight
Chapter 1
"Did you really try to sell Red Team's ammunition like it was some shady back alley deal when you were at Rat's Nest?" I asked, dropping down onto the sand without any kind of greeting.
Dexter Grif, a man with graying brown hair and a fierce scar bisecting his face, looked up at me with notable exasperation.
I grinned, fluttering my eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion. I'd been chasing the man for an interview for months. I'd read through every biography and profile on the Reds and Blues and Project Freelancer, and even studied the fall of the colony world Aurelia, hunting for every possible mention of Grif I could find. And it wasn't a lot.
"Rat's Nest," Grif repeated. He was wearing a pair of green swimming trunks and an open yellow button down shirt. He'd been surfing all morning and had finally come back to land about fifteen minutes earlier.
Not that I was stalking him or anything. It's just that the house my publisher had rented for me was beach side and I had an excellent view of the spot he'd chosen to drop his things. For the third weekend in a row.
"What do you mean a 'shady back alley deal'? Grif demanded, looking more bemused than upset.
I offered him a stack of papers I'd printed off when he'd finally emerged from the ocean. "Red Army Case File No. 41278," I said as he took the stack. "Most of Project Freelancer's files were destroyed by Agent Washington when he set off the E.M.P. in Freelancer Command but this supposed transcript from the sale of the ammo to Private Caboose and Private Jones of the Blue Army survived in hard copy."
Grif flipped through the short stack, eyes flickering as he skimmed the pages. He started snickering about halfway through. "You know, I'd forgotten about this," he chuckled. Once he reached the last page, he offered the papers back to me. I waved him off; I had copies. "What this doesn't show you is that Jones is the one who started like it was an actual drug deal a few weeks earlier. I think for a while he actually thought Caboose was buying drugs."
"You're kidding," I laughed and he grinned, teeth flashing.
"Cross my heart," he promised, matching action to words. "By the time I started selling the ammo to Caboose, they were willing to believe anything that might explain him. Drugs was just one of the theories we heard them arguing about."
"Why were you selling the ammo? For the cash?"
"Nah, nothing like that." He shrugged and looked out over the ocean and beachgoers frolicking in the surf. "Me and Simmons knew the whole Red vs. Blue thing was BS by that point. I mean, we didn't know about Project Freelancer, not really, but we knew the war was fake. But we couldn't convince the others and definitely not the Blues at Rat's Nest. Which meant they were more than happy to keep trying to kill us. So, I sold them our ammo. They had Caboose on their team. He took out half their guys before they started locking him up. More than we could have managed in that amount of time."
"That's really sneaky," I replied with fascination.
Grif shrugged again, still watching the people playing in the blue water. "I'm not great fighter. Never have been. And I sure as hell can't lead people into battle. But sneaky? That I can do."
"I'd love to hear more about how sneaky you can be."
He looked back at me, amusement returning in full force. "Now you're digging," he teased.
"If only there was a way to get me to stop," I sighed wistfully. "Like sitting down for a few hours while you tell me your entire life story so I can write it all down in a book."
"You're not getting an interview," he shot back. Happily, he still looked more entertained than mad.
"But I can have anecdotes?"
"You've been persistent enough to earn anecdotes."
"I appreciate your candor, Dexter Grif."
We shared a grin. Anecdotes were more than I would have gotten when I first arrived on Chorus a few months ago. It was taking time but I liked to think Grif was starting to get used to me. Maybe even liked me a little bit.
His eyes shifted to the side slightly, looking past me, and his face brightened. Turning his gaze back on me he made a dismissive gesture with his hands. "Shoo," he ordered, "no more reporters. Bitters and Annette are finally here."
"Your granddaughter?" I asked, turning slightly, knees rubbing against the hot sand.
"I'm not even forty," Grif corrected automatically. "I'm not a grandfather. And neither Bitters or Matthews are my kids."
"You let her call you Grandpa," I pointed out, trying to be helpful.
He didn't seem to appreciate it. "Kids come up with their own names of people. Now shoo. Go away. Family time." He waved his hands again.
"Thank you for the anecdote," I said, pushing myself to my feet. I took a moment to shake the sand out of my flip flops, then slid them back on and started the short walk to my beach house. "Say hi to your kids for me!" I called over my shoulder.
I got a Look in response, equal parts amusement and faux menace, but the bright, cheery "Grandpa!" shouted by the two-year old running excitedly towards him stopped any sarcastic retort he may have given me.
After I stepped through the small gate in the fence around my meager backyard (barely big enough for a freestanding grill and a small patio table and chairs), I turned back around, smiling at the happy scene unfolding on the beach.
Grif had his arms full of an excited toddler, pudgy arms wrapped around his neck as his adopted granddaughter planted a wet kiss on his cheek. Meanwhile, Bitters started unfolding a large sheet and setting up an umbrella. He still had the orange tips but the dramatic undercut from his old New Republic profile had grown out. He looked older, more filled out, and generally happier. Married life suited him. I wondered if his husband, Matthews, would be joining them later.
Leaving my flip flops at the backdoor, I returned to my computer and let out a string of curses when I saw the mess of papers on the floor below the printer. The damned thing had fought back when I rushed to make copies of the Rats Nest transcript, refusing to actually do its job. Apparently, it had magically fixed itself while I was outside talking to Grif and printed all the jobs I'd queued up trying to get the stupid thing to work. There were days I hated technology.
With an aggravated sigh, I paused to gather up the mess and dropped it on the counter to deal with later, then sat back down at the small bar to type up my latest Grif anecdote. At this point, I had a lot of them: Red Army Basic Training, giving Sarge CPR, the decision to help Caboose rescue Tucker at the desert temple, and more. Nothing that I couldn't have heard about from others but still. He was sharing pieces of himself, testing me to see what I would do with them.
Even with only the sketchiest outline of his childhood and a piecemeal record of his military career before Project Freelancer, it wasn't hard to see that he'd been constantly used and abused. I knew others I'd profiled who'd grown up like he had on the fringes of criminal activities. The people in those profiles tended to lie by default and tell the truth only when necessary. So it was important to be mindful with the stories Grif had shared, to get as much independent verification as possible. But so far, all the research I could do checked out everything he'd told me.
Fingers slowing on the keys, I looked out my window. Bitters was out of sight but Grif and Annette were still there, digging a hole in the sand. The little girl's hands pawed happily at the ground, a bright smudge of blue next to Grif's yellow.
Another smile spread across my face at the sweet sight. It was a good reminder why I was on Chorus, why the story I was here to find out was so important to tell. In the aftermath of the Great War, there were plenty of stories of thrilling heroics and dazzling heroes. There weren't a lot like Grif, though. Stories about soldiers from the edges of society, who'd grown up getting their teeth kicked in more than receiving hand up. Soldiers who may not be the best fighters but excelled at surviving and protecting others. And that was Grif's story. I knew that much from the few pieces I had. And if I could just get him to trust me, I could tell everyone all the pieces he kept to himself.
"Morning, Khloe," Grif greeted me as I stepped onto my back patio the next morning.
I screamed, adrenaline surging at the unexpected welcome.
Glancing up from the datapad he was reading, Grif gave me a once over, taking in the angry flush spreading across my olive skin, humidity frazzled black hair, and ratty pink bathrobe.
Teeth clenched, I debated throwing my coffee at him.
Unconcerned with how close he was to a severe burn, Grif pulled his feet off the patio chair he'd propped them up on and gestured at the table. "I got you a muffin," he said cheerfully, pointing at a white paper bag sitting at my usual seat. As thought that made up for sneaking into my backyard.
My hand tightened on my coffee mug as I started calculating trajectories.
"It occurred to me last night that I should ask you were planning to write about my family," Grif continued. He cocked his head to the side and set his datapad down on the table next to a travel mug. "In this fancy biography you're apparently writing about me."
My eyes narrowed. Interesting. He'd never asked about the book before.
Setting my mug down, I turned and went back into the house, using the opportunity to take a few calming breaths before grabbing my computer off the kitchen counter. Bringing it outside, I sat down and opened the folder with all my notes then gave my uninvited guest an expectant look. He blinked at me for a minute, then stood up and moved his chair around next to mine so he could see the screen.
"I haven't started writing yet," I explained as he studied the folders, "seeing as I'm still in the research phase. It's taking a bit longer than usual," I added in a pointed voice. I opened the folder titled Childhood.
Inside, there were photographs, a few video files, and a long document with my notes and sources. I opened the text file and tucked it to one side of the screen, then clicked on the photos so we could skim through the preview images. At my side, Grif set out a soft sound of surprise. He raised a hand, then paused.
"Can I?" he asked, gesturing towards the computer.
"Sure," I replied, rotating it towards him. "By the way, I back this up every night so you can't sabotage the biography by accidentally deleting things," I added in a cheeky voice. I didn't think he'd do that but still. People could surprise you.
"Blast, you've caught on to my fiendish plan," Grif murmured as he scrolled through the photos. There weren't many of them, just whatever I could find online or in public records. Mostly yearbook photos and a few shots from surfing competitions. He paused on one of the pictures I really liked: Grif and Kaikaina, both clad in swimsuits and standing in front of long surfboards with medals around their necks. They'd both taken silver that year in their respective age brackets and made the local news. "Could I get a copy of that?" he asked, sounding surprised.
"Sure, just give me your email and I'll send it over." I cocked an eyebrow at him. He'd resisted sharing contact information so far, leaving me to drop by Griffin Events and keep a weather eye out for him at the beach or around town.
His lips twitched slightly and he rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said. "You were going to get it out of me eventually." Shaking his head, he turned back to the computer. He ran through the other photos pretty quickly, and watched a few seconds of one of the videos of Kaikaina surfing before switching over to the text document. Almost immediately, his eyebrows went up and he pointed at the screen.
"This is wrong," he told me, indicating the simple family tree I'd sketched out.
"What?" I leaned forward in horror. That couldn't be right. This was all straight from government records!
"Kai and I don't have the same father. Edwin Carter dated Mom for a long time but he was doing a short stint in jail around when she got knocked up with Kai." Grif's voice was casual as he explained but I could see him watching me out of the corner of his eye.
"Well. That's…" I tried to process what he'd said. "Carter's name's on your sister's birth certificate," I pointed out desperately. I had copies of their certificates!
"Yeah, because putting down the name of whatever john knocked her up instead of her boyfriend would've a smart idea," Grif snorted.
"You don't know who?"
"Of course not, I was two. I only know about it because Mom rambled about it when she was drunk sometimes." He was starting to sound annoyed.
"Right. Sorry." Squeezing my eyes shut, I rearranged my to-do list. Edwin Carter had died in a robbery gone wrong shortly after Kaikaina had been born so I'd put researching him near the bottom of my list. Time to bump him up and see if I could find prison records to corroborate Grif's story.
Dexter Grif and his family. Wheels within wheels, secrets within secrets. Sighing softly, I opened my eyes. "Any other egregious errors?" I asked.
He shrugged and turned back to the computer, eyes skimming across the text. After a minute or so, he spoke again. "I don't get why you'd want to write about the son of a drugged up prostitute," he commented in a soft voice. "I didn't do anything special during the war. Mostly got shot." He pressed his lips together in an unhappy twist.
My eyes went wide at his words. "Grif, you saved lives. You survived hellish conditions that a lot of people didn't and brought hope to so many more."
Slumping back from the computer, Grif gave me an unhappy look. "If you're talking about Aurelia, you should be writing about the others who were there. All I did was not die . They're the ones who fought."
"That's not true," I shot back. "I know what the your report said but I've heard about your injuries and the state your equipment was in. And your words don't match the statements the UNSC got from the other soldiers and civilians they got off Aurelia with you before they died from the chemical poisoning.
"I don't know what happened to you on that world, Grif." I lowered my voice, sympathy lacing every word. "But I'm guessing it was bad. And I'm not the only one who thinks that. Other researchers have noticed the inconsistencies. And now that the UNSC has started the cleanup there, it's possible new evidence will be found that will help us understand what happened."
"They're doing what?" Grif sounded absolutely horrified. His tanned skin took on a grayish cast and his hands spasmed briefly before he clutched at the armrests of his chair. "There's nothing left there!"
"The UNSC disagrees, I guess. You… you hadn't heard?" My voice wavered slightly.
"I don't exactly go looking for news about that place." Grif looked like he was going to be sick. A lot of people thought what had happened on Aurelia was worse than glassing.
"Shit. Okay, Grif, I need you to hear me out on this." He was going to hate what I said next. If I'd known he hadn't heard… Damn it, I could have built up to this instead of dumping it all on him at once. "You need to decide who you're going to talk to about what happened there. Me, Dylan Andrews, someone in the media."
Grif snarled, immediately furious. It was hard not to cringe. He was so laid back most of the time you tended to forget he was six feet tall and mostly muscle. I raised my hands placatingly, feeling especially vulnerable in just my robe and night clothes.
"As of right now, you are the only survivor of that world. The official report on file doesn't fit with what we know right now about what happened there or with the enemy's military doctrine at the time. Once the UNSC has enough of the poison and radiation cleaned up to send teams down- Grif, they're going to come talk to you demanding answers unless you put that information out there before then. And the longer you wait, the worse it's going to look."
He didn't answer, instead sitting frozen and horrified, hands clenched tight on the chair. Finally, he swallowed a few times, then spoke, voice creaky: "They've really gone back there?"
I nodded, watching wary and worried for some sign of what he was thinking.
"Shit. Fucking goddamned- " Cutting of his cursing, Grif shoved the chair back, the metal legs dragging noisily across the wood deck. "I have to go," he said tersely, then, quick as he could, hurried across the sandy yard and slipped through the beachside gate.
Miserable at having caused such sudden distress, I watched as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts and walked down the beach. His posture was hunched over, head down, body tense.
Aurelia.
A young colony with just enough resources that it had gotten its own military garrison. Most of which had been wiped out during the initial surprise alien attack. Dexter Grif's report, his own words, stated he'd slept through the initial attack and had been alone right up until rescue had arrived.
The other survivors who'd been picked up with him (though none had lived more than a few days) cast him as an active fighter working tirelessly to keep as many people alive as possible. Though a lowly private, the other soldiers and civilians alike had described his as the leader of their small band, a man who'd pushed everyone to keep moving, to find new hiding spots and scavenge for food, to keep an ear on known UNSC frequencies in hopes of rescue.
The inconsistency between his words and the others was jarring. It shouldn't have made it into the official record. But he'd been shunted into Project Freelancer as canon fodder straight out of the hospital and further investigation wasn't possible. For a while, the UNSC had even counted him amongst the dead. A medal for courage and bravery had been duly delivered along with a flag to his sister back in Hawaii. Soon after, she'd enlisted.
Whatever had happened on that lost world, it had played a significant part in shaping Dexter Grif into the man who'd eventually helped save Chorus. And no one but him knew the truth.
With a soft sigh, I turned away from the beach and picked up the white bag. It had the logo of a nearby bakery stamped on the fold. Peeking inside, I found a chocolate chip muffin. My favorite. Sighing, I pulled it out and dropped the bag on the table. The slightly melted bits of chocolate smearing around my mouth as I took a bite. Then, spotting his abandoned travel mug, I leaned forward and grabbed it, setting it down on top of the white bag. I'd have to return that later. He probably wouldn't be back today.
As I pondering the mysteries of Aurelia, an idea suddenly flashed in my mind. It was a long shot but… There was one person he might have told about that world. Or at least some small part of what had unfolded there.
I needed to find Dick Simmons.