A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

Warning for use of terrible pun in chapter title.

Seeing Red ('Cause That's a Lot of Blood)
Not Red-y for This?

"Uhm, Sarge? I think we might have a little – no, scratch that, we have a huge fucking problem! And it's bleeding!" It really was. Grif had a hand on the top of the entry hole to prove that what he was saying was true.

"Arh, dagnabbit." Sarge kicked the body but his stare was aimed at Grif when he complained with an annoyed voice, "I should have known you would screw up this mission, dirtbag."

By this point, Grif should have known not to argue against Sarge. That was the one thing he should have learned from his time in the army. But one thing was to get fucking shot – another thing was to get fucking shot and then get blamed for it when it totally was not his fault. You could only take that much unfairness while dying.

As the realization slowly sunk into Grif, the desperation set in. 'cause, damn it all, he had been fucking shot and that was fucking bad and they had to fix this. Like now. Grif was not going to let himself die on a fucking cargo run. There were cooler ways to die, after all.

But desperation did, surprisingly, not sharpen his mind and he snarled at his commanding officer who was yet to offer hand or just a sympathetic gesture. "Holy fuck, Sarge, could you just forget your own fucking lunacy for a moment and help me." While Grif meant every word, it was perhaps not the smartest thing to say since this was fucking Sarge.

With a lot growl from the back of his throat, Sarge took a step forward and Grif did not believe he was on his way to extend a hand. Two seconds later they learned that insulting Sarge was apparently a very good thing to do, since a bullet embedded itself in the spot where Sarge had been standing just before.

"Fucking sniper!" Grif yelled, just in case the reality had not hit Sarge yet. That could be very possible.

But this time Sarge was sensible enough to dive two meters away to use the nearby rock as cover. Which was a good move. The bullet marks on the rock even proved that it had been used earlier in the previous battle. Good move indeed. Except for one little thing.

"Uhm, Sarge? Aren't you forgetting something?" Grif called from the ground where he was stuck because of a bullet wound. Just to clarify.

Sarge growled under his breath, but did reach out to grab Grif's foot and pull him behind cover as well. Which hurt like hell – but not as much as another bullet.

Still, by the time Grif was no longer out in the open, he had squeezed his eyes shut in pain. Being dragged over the rocky ground was not exactly the same as a massage, and the motion was definitely not appreciated by the bullet hole in his body.

He tried to control his breathing, turning it into deep breaths since he was pretty sure that Simmons had said something like that the time where one of his cyborg parts had malfunctioned, a quite painful problem, and Grif had helped him back to the base with the cyborg slumped over his shoulder.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, he could see Sarge peaking over their cover with his shotgun.

"Hey, Sarge?" he managed to get out through gritted teeth. "Just so you know – you're holding a shotgun."

"Ya think I don't know that, numbnuts?"

Half of his mind was busy keeping his breathing in check, which caused a slight pause before he was able to continue, "It's just… Sniper rifles have a really painfully long range and shotguns… don't."

Sarge finally crouched down to look at him. He cocked his shotgun. "Long enough to shoot you in the face. Care to be put out of your misery?"

Grif looked at the barrel of the firearm before setting his glance on Sarge's visor. "Uh… No?"

"Are you sure? I've saved an extra shell for you."

With gritted teeth, Grif managed to push himself further up against the rock, so he was sitting more than lying on the ground. "Tempting," he spat dryly. "So what's the plan, Sarge? Kimball said this place would be empty!"

Sarge growled again but for once it was not directed at Grif. "That's what happens when you put a Blue to work. Should have known they would fail miserably."

"Isn't that usually our job?" Grif was not sure if snarky replies were just some sort of defense-mechanism that flared up in moment of near-death, but he sure as well could not stop them from leaving his mouth. This one was apparently pretty spot on since Sarge just let out a grunt as a reply. Grif's breath was stuck in his throat, but since Sarge had fallen quiet, he felt compelled to continue their conversation. "So, let's say we try not to die a horribly death, we should probably not be hanging around here. If the Blues missed one asshole, who says there can't be more?"

That earned a dismissive snort from the Colonel. "And miss the chance to fight to our death? Grif, what have I told you about wanting to run away screaming?"

Grif sighed and rolled his eyes. "Never steal Donut's job," he responded in a monotone voice, as if the words had been drilled into his brain after too many repetitions. Which they had.

"Exactly."

Grif fell quiet when he looked down at himself again. It felt sickly unreal to see the bloody armor parts but unable to actually feel the blood due to the gloves. Too be honest, it did not look that bad. A bloody entry hole, some blood around it, the bloody hand after pressing against it… So maybe a good deal of blood. But not a fountain or anything. He had seen fucked up wounds on the battle field before. The kinds that could not be fixed. This… This just needed to be patched up by Doctor Grey.

Of course he could not see how bad it looked under the armor – that thought kept making its way to Grif's brain, no matter how hard he tried to shrug it off. But he was still alive so there were limits for how bad it could be.

Still, it could not hurt to get out of the enemy's line of sight. Especially if more were hanging around. One sniper had proved to be bad enough, and Grif knew that shit would hit the fan if another one attacked them from a different direction. So Sarge wanted a fight alright, but Grif decided he was not going down with him. He made an attempt to convince them dying could be postponed to another day. "Sarge, is it possible we could - ?"

"Fine."

The reply came to sudden and unexpectedly that Grif pulled his head back in confusion. "Huh?" It was not often that Sarge would agree on a plan that involved retreating.

"We make a break for the warthog. If we manage to create a slow-motion escape, I would call this mission satisfyingly accomplished. With the loss of the requested cargo and your dignity as a Captain for completely failing your objective."

Ignoring the fact that Sarge for once had a sensible plan (with the exception of the slow-motion part – some things could only be done once), Grif had to come with the harsh news. "About that… I think the jeep might be stalled."

Sarge quickly turned his head towards him. "What?"

"I don't know!" Grif would have thrown his hands in the air, had he not been using them to try and stop the bleeding. "It made some pretty weird noises before. I was going to take a look at it but that was before I knew I was going to get fucking shot!"

"Grif!" came a growl from the back of Sarge's throat.

"I'm just saying, if we get into it and it won't move, we're pretty fucked." They were already fucked now, but it could get worse. Much worse.

Sarge growled again before crouching down next to him. "So what do you suggest, dirtbag?"

"Well, the shelter has walls and a ceiling – that sounds pretty good to me. Fucking bandages would be nice, too." Getting to the shelter meant he had to run, or at least just walk. His legs were not really a fan of that idea. They were shaking like crazy as Grif tried to stand up, pressing his back against the rock for support. After some seconds of struggling, Sarge seemed to have enough with the pathetic sight and grabbed his shoulder to pull him up harshly. Even though it was not exactly gentle, Grif appreciated the help. "So how are we going to get there? Would it kill you not to say human shield? 'cause that would kill me."

"You've already ruined your one and only purpose – to be a human shield. Nobody would shoot a man who's already bleeding to death, numbnuts," Sarge told him dryly as he peaked over their cover again. "You've expanded your meaningless existence to the point where you are too much of a waste to spend bullets on."

Grif was pretty sure that Sarge had not meant to comfort since that would be very unlike him. But just the fact that Sarge had decided not to sacrifice him in order to save himself did not feel as great as it should be as his words slowly sunk into Grif's brain.

In fact, Sarge's words had only caused a lump in the back of his throat.

He forced himself to swallow it and focus on the plan to get them out of here alive. "We need something to distract the sniper. Uh…" He looked around, trying to spot something, but seriously, throwing a fucking stick probably would not get the job -

"Done," Sarge said, waving a grenade in front of Grif's face.

Grif wondered if blood loss could cause hallucinations, 'cause what the hell?! "Wait, where have you been keeping that thing? In your pocket? Have you been fucking sitting on it?!"

Sarge proudly straightened out his back, momentarily forgetting that they were hiding, before immediately slumping forward again. "They say you never feel more alive than when you're just about to die. I like to keep death close. Right behind me. In my pocket. Just where I need it to throw it at my enemies."

Grif could not help but feel dumbfounded. Sarge's logic never stopped being so breathtaking flawed. "Okay, this is the last time I'll ever drive with you!" Grif exclaimed, but then immediately regretted it since it probably was not the best choice of words given the situation. But idiotic logic be damned – the grenade was their savior. Now they just need to throw it. He doubted they could throw far enough to actually threaten the sniper, but that was not the plan. They just had to make a distraction. Still, it would be great to shove a grenade in the face of the douchebag sniper. "Aw man, where is Donut when you need him?"

"Dead or knee-deep in estrogen-smitten lollygagging," Sarge replied.

"That is… pretty on point, actually."

Sarge leaned back to prepare his throw. "Kiss your crash-dented bumpers goodbye, rustbucket."

"Sarge, I don't think he's… " Grif trailed off when he realized Sarge was not aiming at the sniper who had to be hiding on top of the canyon walls, so far above them. Instead, Sarge was turning towards something that was stuck down in the canyon with them. "Wait, are you fucking aiming at the jeep?!"

"Of course!"

"Why?!" Grif almost sobbed, wanting to face-palm so badly but the wound kept him doubled over.

"If I can't have my slow-motion escape, you better damn well believe I'll have my explosion!" Sarge told him sternly and brought his arm back. "Ya better prepare yourself to run, scumbag."

"Right," Grif said through pants, bracing himself. "Running. Not a fan."

"On three," Sarge warned him. "One – SURPRISE ATTACK!"

The sudden outburst was indeed a surprise and Grif almost fell over. Startled, he tried to look over his shoulder to see the explosion, but a hand on his shoulder forced him forward. As he stumbled his way towards the shelter, the grenade fulfilled its purpose and the jeep exploded loud enough for the ground to shake underneath them. Everyone's eyes flew towards it – even Grif had to fight the urge to turn his head.

While the distraction would not last for long, it did buy them the seconds to get into shelter.

Grif had always hated running, but he had just found the one thing that could make running worse (did that make him a scientist?) – a bullet in one's torso. Grif's eyes were watering, and he knew that he was slowing down and the sniper soon would be onto them again.

He was saved by Sarge giving him a shove in the back, sending the orange soldier that last meter forward, through the open door and into the shelter. Grif landed face first, the pain in his torso so intense that he almost blacked out, but appreciated the fact that he was still alive. Tough love, he guessed.

Sarge had made it as well, and slammed the door shut just before a shot rang out – hitting the metal with a clang.

"And they never expected it!" Sarge chuckled, happy with the fact that the plan had worked. He cocked his shotgun before remembered it was not exactly useful in their situation. That did not affect his mood, however. "Works every time!"

"Running fucking sucked," Grif told him, his voice muffled both from the fact that his tongue still felt swollen and because he was still face down on the ground.

Strangely, Sarge seemed to take pity on him. Grabbing his shoulder, he shifted him onto his back and rested him against the wall so he was forced into a sitting position. Then the colonel suddenly marched away, deeper into the shelter, before Grif could utter a surprised thanks.

Grif took his time to get his breathing under control again before calling out, "Hey, Sarge. Don't want to alarm you or anything, but I'm kinda bleeding out here."

"I know." Sarge was leaning over one the crates that had caused this mess to begin with. He had removed the lid and was searching through it. He must not have found what he was looking for, since he quickly moved on to the next crate. "Why do you think I am so happy, dirtbag?"

"So what are you looking for? Fucking confetti?!"

"Have you never listened to the Red Team's delegations, scumbag?" Sarge huffed, giving up on the crates and was now looking at the pirates' own belongings. "Simmons is in charge of confetti – that matter was settled a long time ago."

"Well," Grif said and inhaled sharply. "Tell him he fucking sucks at his job then." His eyes darted around the room, desperately trying not to look down at himself, and he took in their surroundings. The shelter was crap even compared to the standards of the Rebels' HQ.

The crates seemed to be the only thing of value and Grif was not even sure what they contained yet. But everything else in the room was tattered and worn and scarred from battle. There was some fabric on the floor that were supposed to be sleeping matts, and Grif took comfort in the fact that the place at least had a napping spot.

There were piles of broken armor bits in the corner of the room, along with several empty bottles that Sarge knocked over on his way to a made-do night table that had been built with bricks and pieces of wood.

With a satisfied nod of his head, he pulled his hand back that was holding on to a can of biofoam.

Grif could have fainted with relief – or perhaps it was just the loss of blood. No matter what, the can was a sigh for sore eyes. "Oh thank fucking Christ! I thought I was dying here. With you. I don't want a lame death."

Sarge stopped right in front of him, looking down at the injured soldier with a tilted head. "Just hold your horses. You have plenty of time to bleed out yet. Yep, pleeenty of time."

"Just give me it."

Sarge placed the can on the ground with a snort before walking away to crouch under one of the holes in the wall that functioned as windows. He was gripping tight onto his shotgun and Grif wondered how many times he would have to explain Sarge how the range of the weapon worked.

But that would have to be later. Right now he was occupied with the task of not dying. Which was pretty fucking hard, actually. Figuring that being dragged across the ground and then running for his life had not done wonders to the wound, Grif decided to remove his chest plague to see how bad it looked.

The problem was that his hands were shaking too much to loosen the clasps. Grif bit his lip, holding back something he was not quite sure what was, and wished the this whole fucking deal would be over with soon 'cause this was fucking bullshit and it hurt and Kimball had fucking said –

His thoughts were cut off when Sarge crouched down next to him, unclasping the plate and tore it off. It was sticky near the wound and it hurt when the armor was peeled off. "Hopeless," Sarge muttered under his breath, followed by various insults, before proceeding to pick up the biofoam and applied it to the wound.

It hurt.

A lot.

"Ow, ow, ow, fucking ow! Are you trying to kill me?!" Grif screeched, squirming, but Sarge's grip on him was unyielding, like the times he had dragged Grif outside the base for him to serve as a target cone.

"You wish," Sarge snorted. "Would have been a hell less painful. Still saved a shell for you, Grif, if you change your mind. I've heard dying from blood loss should be pretty excruciating. Blasted by shotgun is simple. Quick. It's been your fate all along. No point avoiding it." Deciding that this would have to do, Sarge retracted his hand.

"Yeah, if that's right then how come you haven't killed me yet?" Grif's voice was wavering and humiliating tears were falling from his eyes in pain, though it was slowly fading now when the treatment was done. At least his helmet hid it all.

"And spoil the fun already? Consider yourself lucky I am easily amused, dirtbag."

"Yeah," Grif said and looked down at the bloody black suit he was wearing beneath the armor. While the biofoam had stopped the bleeding, the area around the wound was still wet and sticky. "Real lucky."

When Kimball had briefly called him on the radio with the order for him to visit her office, Simmons figured he would be in trouble. They had probably heard about the catastrophe in the armory, and now he, as a responsible Captain, would have to take the blame for not keeping it under control.

Simmons rounded the hallway and swallowed deeply. Today sucked.

But Simmons realized Grif was having a worse day than him when he overheard a rather worried-looking Doctor Grey trying to teach Sarge emergency treatment through the radio channel.

The doctor was inside Kimball's office – Simmons could see that since the door had been left wide open – and both she and Kimball was leaning over the panel where Sarge's voice would appear from the speakers.

"Oh, it is very important you don't let him doze off – a small nap can turn really long when you're bleeding like that. So keep him awake. A smack on the cheek usually does the trick."

"How about a good old-fashioned boot to the side?"

Doctor Grey shook her head even though Sarge was unable to see it. "Not recommendable when it's the area where the patient is shot."

"Dagnabbit."

"Hey, I'm still fucking awake!" Grif screeched over the radio, and Simmons knew him well enough to recognize the pained tone in his voice. It made him hurry into the center of the office.

"Wait, what's going on?" Simmons asked, first turning the Kimball and Grey, but after losing his patience in less than a second, he spoke to the panel, "Grif, did you get fucking shot?" "Hey, not my fault! Turned out the place wasn't fucking empty." Grif sounded somewhat pissed off, desperate and pained all at once. But it was better than if his voice was weak and fading, so Simmons guessed (well, hoped) his teammate was not dying right at the moment.

Simmons turned to look at Kimball, remembering that she had been the one to bring him here.

The General looked remorseful, briefly wringing her hands before realizing she was doing it."I've tried contacting Blue Team but… they were occupied at the moment."

"Did Carolina use her do-not-disturb-voice?" Simmons asked, feeling bad for Kimball if that had been the case. When Kimball nodded, Simmons added, "Well, shit."

Kimball turned away from him, leaning over the radio with both hands planted firmly on the panel. "Is it possible for you to leave the area on your own if you leave behind the crates?"

Simmons nodded stupidly, excited for the idea. "If you could make it to the jeep –"

"Oh, we blew that thing up," Sarge said casually, sounding like he was giving them a light shrug.

"What?! Why?!" Simmons exclaimed, hands in the air. Judging from the way Kimball and Grey were looking at him, they were thinking the same thing.

"Dramatic moments don't appear on their own, son."

Behind Simmons, Kimball visibly face-palmed.

The radio flared to life again, this time with Grif's voice. "Also, it was fucking broken to begin with. If Lopez tried to set us up, he did a damn good job."

"Or you perhaps did not understand his warnings," Simmons suggested.

"Whatever. Look, we're pinned down pretty bad here, so if you could save our asses that'd be – " Grif cut himself off to breathe in deeply. Simmons' winched on the behalf of Grif, knowing that he had to be in pain at the moment. "-That'd be just great," Grif finally finished, sounding just tired enough for Simmons to notice it.

"And by that, he means we need now volunteers for the meat shield, now when Grif has screwed up his only purpose of existing, so we can make our dramatic escape. Simmons, how do you feel about a promotion? You'll be taking over all Grif's roles in our emergency plans."

"Ehm…" At Sarge's suggestion, Simmons flinched and looked at Kimball for help. He received none.

Sarge continued, his voice a bit lower as he tried to lure Simmons into saying yes. "It's the opportunity you've been waiting for, Simmons, ripe for the taking."

"We could also head to your location and take care of the bad guys, Sarge," the maroon soldier offered carefully, earning a huff from the Colonel. "And then you can lend our jeeps for a dramatic escape."

"I vote for Simmons' idea," Grif piped in. It was unnerving to hear him agree with Simmons so quickly on a topic that did not involve the fact that Blue Team problems sucked and that Star Wars were the best sci-fi films ever. Of all time.

Sarge grumbled loudly. "Fine. But only if your jeeps are capable of a slow-motion escape."

"Yes. Yes. Whatever," Simmons said, barely aware of his own words now when the severity of the situation began to sink in.

"Grif, do you have count of how any pirates in the area?" Kimball asked, her voice stern enough to make Simmons relax a bit. It felt like the General had it under control. Of course she had, she was the General. She would fix this mess.

"Well, not fucking zero."Grif's voice was dripping with bitterness, and Simmons noticed how Kimball clenched her fists. "At least one sniper. We killed one dude- giant asshole by the way- but there are probably more fucktards hanging around." In the background, they could faintly hear a clang, and then Grif breathed in sharply. "Screw that – there are more fucktards hanging around. Sarge, save your shotgun for when they gather up the courage to fucking come down here instead of assaulting our walls. Nice walls, by the way, keep up the good work."

Hearing Grif praise fucking structures made Simmons freak out. A little bit. "Okay." He wanted to run a hand through his hair, but forgot the helmet that came in the way. He breathed in and repeated the word. "Okay. I'll fetch Donut and we'll get you out of this mess."

"Wow," Grif said dryly. "I am so comforted by the thought of you two coming to our rescue. Aren't there any others? Literally? I could settle with one of the mechanics."

"Oh, shut up. This is your own fault." Simmons paused, shifting his feed, and realized that he had to ask in order to completely clarify the situation. "Wait, are you like bleeding out right now?!"

"Sarge managed to treat the wound with biofoam," Doctor Grey informed him, her joyful voice oddly soothing at the moment. "But further treatment is recommended. This will slow the bleeding – especially if he refrain from kicking him. But Captain Grif should consider himself really lucky. It could have been a lot worse."

Simmons exhaled deeply. "So it's not that bad?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course it's bad, silly! It's a bullet in the torso! That can be really lethal! But not as lethal as a bullet in the head! Had that been the case, you would have been heading out there with a hearse! Not that we have one, but you understand my point."

Grif's voice was disturbingly grim when he used the radio again. "Yeah. We get it. So hurry the fuck up, Simmons, would you?"

"You should take this." The doctor shoved a medical pack into Simmons' hands before he could even take a look at it. "Extra bio-foam and painkillers! He's going to need it! And also a book called 'Emergency Treatment for Dummies' ."

"That'd be you, Simmons," Grif said dryly. "The Doctor declared it."

Simmons grumbled something about 'Cargo Trips for Dummies' but clasped the pack close to his chest.

"I called Smith to gather the other Lieutenants," Kimball told him as she turned away from the radio that had gone quiet. "I will not let you go unprepared into the area again."

"Doctor's advice!" Grey cut in. "I'd say you get going now. Blood loss is a pretty cruel time limit. And biofoam can only last so long."

"Right," Simmons said and nodded sharply. "Is there anything -?"

The radio let out static before Carolina's voice rang out in the room. They all turned to the panel in surprise. "Kimball, I need you to send me the location of the pirates' position during last week's raids. The ones we are chasing now have managed to meet up with another armed group. Something isn't right. We think it's a part of a bigger plot. You might need to send more men to our position."

"Dips on the Lieutenants!" Simmons called out over his shoulder as he hastily left the office. It did not surprise him to hear that the Blue Team was currently facing problems as well. Not that he could care about that. Red Team had enough to deal with.

The moment he was outside the office, he stood face to face with Smith, Bitters and Palomo – the latter looking at him with a tilted head. "Did you just call dibs on us?"

"Why?" Bitters asked, genuinely confused by Simmons' choice of help.

Smith saluted him. "General Kimball informed us that we should prepare to head out. Jensen is still located in the garage, awaiting our arrival, but we stand ready to serve."

"If 'ready' means we still have no idea of what the fuck is going on," Bitter muttered with his arms crossed.

Simmons unconsciously tightened his grip on the med pack. He began walking down the hallway, gesturing for them to follow. "Grif is shot. We need to extract him and Sarge from their current position."

His explanation caused a moment of silence from the Lieutenants. They struggled to keep up with Simmons' quick pace.

"See?" Palomo turned to Bitters and broke the silence. "I told you they wouldn't pull us out of the party if it wasn't for something important."

"Then why did you insist of bringing your cake with you?" Smith asked distastefully with a nod towards Palomo's hands.

It was first then that Simmons noticed the plate Palomo was holding. By the sight of the white-glazed cake with brightly colored sprinkles, Simmons remembered the talk there had been of a birthday party among the young soldiers.

Palomo shrugged. "For the trip."

"That won't be necessary," Smith told him. Bitters remained silent, but kept glancing at the cake from the corner of his eye.

Palomo, however, refused to throw it away. "Well, it's for Captain Grif. I'm sure he'll appreciate a good piece of cake before dying."

As a response, both Bitters and Simmons could not help but exclaim in unison, "He's not dying!" They then awkwardly pulled their head back, rather horrified that they been on the same line of thought, and spoke no more of it.

Simmons cleared his throat. "You go find some functional warthogs. I'll fetch Donut." As he walked down the hallway, they saw his hand reach up to his helmet, obviously calling the pink soldier. "Donut, I need you to find a substitute for the armory immediately! Or just shut it down – it's pretty much unusable already. Look, Grif's hurt. We have to go help him and Sarge. Yes, I need you to come!" He froze in the middle of a step, realizing his wrong choice of words. "…wait."

Then he walked out of their range of hearing, and the three Lieutenants continued on their own down to the garage.

Palomo was walking so eagerly that sprinkles fell off the cake. "I told Katie she wasn't going to miss anything today! I'm a fucking oracle!"

"You're still going to miss out on the karaoke bar," Bitters said, words dripping with annoyance as if Palomo had been talking about that thing for hours. Which he had.

"Aw man. I was going to use Captain Tucker's advice and hit on the girls who are crying after they have been torn to pieces by their aggressive fellow women after they've delivered a mediocre performance. It's a jungle out there but I can handle the claws!" That only earned him awkward flinching, but when Tucker was your idol, stuff like this was bound to happen. Palomo, still unsatisfied with the fact that he was missing out on karaoke, asked, "Hey, how long do you think it will take for somebody to be saved?"

"A hell of a lot quicker if you shut your mouth," Bitters barked at him before slamming the door to the garage open. By the force he used upon doing so, it was clear that he was stressed out at the moment.

Jensen was waiting for them near the entrance. Only knowing the little information Smith had given her, she was naturally curious to hear what was going on. "Hey, guys! Did you find out what the fuss is about?"

"Captain Grif has sustained injuries on the field. We are to head out there with Captain Simmons and Donut to provide covering fire while they assist Captain Grif and Colonel Sarge out of the enemies' territory," Smith explained with a voice just a bit too even to talk about such bad news.

Jensen gasped. "That sounds bad."

"Well, they rely on us to help, so it can't be that bad, right?" Palomo said, and they all had to agree that he had a fair point.

"We need three functional vehicles."

"Well, Lopez and I – " Jensen gestured towards the robot who was trying to hide from the now four headaches by crawling under a broken Monogoose with a tool in his hand. "-just fixed these three."

"That's convenient!" Palomo said out loud, because it truly was. "Sho-"

"Shotgun." Bitters cut him off, swinging himself into the driver's seat of the nearest warthog.

"Aw." Palomo turned to the other vehicle, trying to snatch his other opportunity, only to see that Jensen was already behind the wheel. "Really?"

"You can have the machine gun, Palomo," she told him as a comfort.

Palomo took a moment to consider, eying the weapon, before deciding, "Okay, that's cool enough. Let's go."

After placing his cake in the back of the jeep, he jumped onto the mount, holding tight onto it as Jensen in her eagerness immediately hit the gas. She would have been speeding out of the garage, had it not been for one small accident.

Only a few meters away from where the warthog had been parked, the vehicle jumped as if they had just run over a speed bump.

"¿Me estás tomando el pelo? [Are you kidding me?]

As Lopez had reached out from under the car to grab the VDO 1x85mm screwdriver, Jensen had, in her hurry, run the limb over. The dismembered arm was now twisting around itself a meter away from the rest of Lopez.

"Oh, Lopez!" As she realized what had happened, Jensen promptly drove into another jeep in pure shock (causing Palomo to let out a disappointed "Aw" as he accidently stepped in his cake) but barely registered that as she jumped out of the warthog to get to the robot's side. "Are you okay?"

Lopez was holding his own arm, trying to attach it to his shoulder, but he could just as well have been sitting with a broken toy.

Jensen reached out to grab the limb. "I think some wires may have snapped." The arm was still moving, trying to slap her in the face, but Jensen somehow managed to keep it at a safe distance without realizing it was deliberately trying to harm her. "But it looks like it hasn't taken much damage."

Had they not all been wearing helmets, it would have been obvious that the Lieutenants' expression were priceless.

Smith was looking at Jensen with a raised eyebrow, wondering how many accidents one person could be the cause of while still being allowed to drive. Palomo looked like a spooked lady from a soap opera as he stared at the still moving arm, his mouth so round that it could be a second before it let out either a scream or vomit. Bitters tried to keep a neutral expression, but failed by squinting his eyes in annoyance. It was clear that he did not have the time for this – after all, it was his Captain who was bleeding out. And the worried frown that he could not hide was definitely not due to Lopez' situation.

"Oh, that is so weird," Palomo finally croaked out, unable to force his eyes away from the limb that looked like it had been taken out from some bizarre sort of sci-fi zombie film.

"I can fix it," Jensen promised, stopping herself from hugging the arm. "I just need the proper tools and- "

"Jensen, kind of a rush here," Bitters said through gritted teeth as he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.

Jensen looked absolutely torn, glancing back between the scowling Lopez and her comrades in the warthogs. It was clear that she wanted to fix the mess she had created, even with the others waiting for her and Lopez trying to snatch his own arm out of her grasp. "But…"

She was cut off by a panting Matthews who stumbled the last steps before placing himself in the middle of the group. "I managed to catch up with you guys," he wheezed, leaning against one of the warthogs for support.

"Private Matthews, I don't think you're supposed to be down there," Smith told him, jumping down from Bitters' warthog to take a look of the situation on first-hand.

"Yeah," Palomo called out. "Did Feierstein ignore – I mean, forget to invite you, too?" As he realized he was in the presence of Jensen, he quickly changed his words in order to avoid hurting her feelings. The mechanic did not seem to have heard it in the first place as she was busy with turning Lopez' arm upside down in order to get a good view of the wires.

"I heard about Captain Grif!" Matthews explained – and by doing so, avoiding Palomo's question entirely.

"And how did you hear that?" Smith asked, a bit impressed by how quickly the Private had caught up on a non-announced mission.

"Well, I was checking up on my deliverance of my new helmet at the armory-"

"-Wait, why are you getting new helmet?" Palomo asked, jealousy tinting his voice.

Matthews suddenly hesitated, shifting his feet. When he finally revealed the reason, his voice was low as if he was ashamed. Which he probably was. "I wanted cameras like you guys."

Bitters sighed loudly, looking like he was either about to drive out of the garage on his own if the others kept taking so long or simply just slam his head against the wheel in annoyance.

Matthews cleared his throat and continued, "But I overheard Captain Simmons telling Donut about it. He sounded really freaked out. So I came here."

"Did the Captain ask for your participation?" Smith asked carefully. If Kimball had only wanted to four of them on this mission, he did not want to mess it up. But on the other hand, the mission had not even truly begun yet, and the Lieutenants had already made a mess.

"Oh, I volunteered! But he might not have heard me - he was yelling quite loudly at Donut."

Smith looked over his shoulder to get Bitters' thoughts on this, but the orange-stripped soldier only shrugged. With a hand on the lower part of his helmet, Smith hesitated, "I'm not sure…"

"He's my Captain," Matthews said sternly. He straightened out his back, lifted his chin and tightened his grip on his rifle. "And I promised I would be there when he needed me."

"We do have an empty spot if I stay here to fix Lopez," Jensen offered carefully. The arm was currently trying to bash a hole in her chest plague, but she did not seem to mind.

Lopez was glaring daggers at her, but his stare was dulled by the visor and the fact that he had no actual eyes. "No necesito tu ayuda." [I do not need your help.]

Smith looked down at her. "Are you sure about this, Jensen?"

"No me dejes solo con ella." [Do not leave me alone with her.]

Jensen nodded firmly. "I want to help, but this is my mess. Again, I'm really sorry, Lopez."

"Devuélveme mi brazo." [Give me back my arm.]

"And I'm sure Matthews will be a good replacement," Jensen said, smiling to the Private who was almost unable to hold back his joy at the prospect of being allowed to come with them.

Her confirmation seemed to be the last reassurance that Smith needed. "Alright, we head out." Smith checked on the jeep Jensen had crashed, noting that she had dented the front part of the vehicle, and placed himself in the driver seat. Matthews went to take the other seat in Bitters' jeep.

The moment the Lieutenants had settled themselves in the vehicles, Simmons and Donut came running.

Bitters glared at them from his seat. "What the fuck took you so long?"

Simmons could ignore Bitters' disrespectful tone but only due to their current situation. He entered the last remaining warthog, placing the med pack in the back before getting behind the wheel. "We had to find bullets for Donut's rifle," he explained with a very dark tone that kept Bitters from asking further into it.

"Wait, shouldn't we bring Doc with us?" Donut asked as he crawled into the jeep as well.

Simmons stepped on the gas, leading the trio of warthogs out of the garage as quickly as they could. Time was of the essence now.

"Donut, Grif is injured and in need of medical treatment. Are you crazy? Of course we shouldn't bring Doc!"

A/N: I have a suspicion my new teacher is a RvB fan. He delivered the most perfect Donut-ish line ever. We complained about the book we had read was pretty dry, to which his response was: "All dry stuff can become wet if you add passion." I about died.

Originally the explosion of the jeep happened in a whole other way. In the first version, it was actually Grif's idea. But then I really wanted to bring in a grenade, but I thought it was too unlikely. They wouldn't just be carrying around grenades. Then I remembered we were dealing with fucking Sarge and of course I could have him carrying around a grenade. God, I love these boys!

I also was not planning to let the LT's come along, but then I decided that I love the too much and suddenly they were to play a large role as well!

Thank you for your support :D