- Three: Adventures in Cooking -


(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.)


"SKAKARARARARARAWAWAWK!"

Ker-RASH!

Birds flew from their trees at the terrible sound. Small beasts stood on their haunches, wide eyes looking around fearfully at the noise - some even hurried back to their burrows. To a veteran soldier of the Human-Covenant war, the great screech would cause him or her to reach for a gun out of habit. Jackals, whenever angered, wounded or frightened, could make horrendous screams - Sarge hadn't heard something like that since the war.

But there were no Jackals in Blood Gulch, only a Skirmisher - a subspecies of that foul mix between a chicken and a dinosaur. That particular Skirmisher sounded mighty furious, causing Sarge to mutter, "What in the Sam hell ... ?" before hurrying back to "Red Base Apartments". His projects could wait for later - if Simmons was making that much of a racket, then the safety of the apartments could not be guaranteed!


Grif was near-hyperventilating. He had pinned himself into the nearest corner with terror as Simmons continued to squawk, flailing around like some hopeless drunk dancer. Smoke filled the tiny "kitchen" of the apartments, the cheap, almost-defunct automatic stove reeking of burnt food. One feathered arm ablaze, Simmons furiously attempted stopping, dropping and rolling, his lanky legs and taloned feet kicking out wildly. He even hit the barely-functioning refrigerator hard enough to make it work again!

"SIMMONS! GRIF! What in tarnation is goin' on in here?" yelled Sarge over Simmons's continued shrieks of pain. He ran into the kitchen just as the toaster went flying, yanked onto the floor after the cord tangled around a foot. Eyes widening, the ex-Sergeant grabbed a nearby bowl of moldy juice - not minding one bit it was full of day-old food bits - and threw it onto the Skirmisher. The avian alien froze in sudden shock, charred arm hissing with steam.

Dead silence filled the kitchen. Sarge scowled darkly, growling, "What. In. The hell was that?"

"Simmons set the soup on fire!"

"I did not, a*}/(#!" snapped Simmons, breathless from his panic attack. The great, feathery mane that all male Skirmishers had was puffed up like a panicked cat's fur. "You're the one who left the bread by the f&^*#+( burner! How the hell are we supposed to cook when you won't follow kitchen safety?"

"Oh don't blame this on me, chicken boy!" snapped Grif. "'It just needs a bit more heat,' he says! 'Quit worrying; Sarge taught me how to cook!' he claims! You made a burner explode!"

"SHUT UP AND PUT THAT MESS OUT!" barked Sarge. By then, the fire alarms were blazing loudly, and the nearly the entire upper half of the kitchen was filled with a black haze. "What are you trying to do, call the UNSC via signal fire?"

"Putting out fire!" yelped Grif, hurrying to a nearby pile of rag as Simmons leapt to his feet. Despite his arm smarting like never before, the Skirmisher grabbed a random bowl to be washed, fumbling with the tap for a moment. Grif grabbed a nearby washcloth and began smacking the stove's top, desperately trying to smother the flames, a frantic look on his face as the fabric caught fire.

With a disgusted grunt, Sarge growled under his breath. "Useless little ... " He stomped over to Simmons, grabbing the bowl from the alien and slopping water over the side. With practised efficiency and a marksman's aim once more, the ex-Sergeant tossed the liquid onto the stove, creating a loud hiss of steam and a large spark. A resounding bang went off as the stove's electrical burners shorted, and suddenly, all the lights went out in the building.

Once again, there was dead silence, until Grif quietly said, " ... That was one of the most terrifying things I've ever seen."

"Oh, shut up, dumb***," snapped Simmons, turning his head to glare at Grif. The human did the same, huffing and then coughing from the smoke. The Skirmisher snorted in amusement, only to start coughing himself, hacking breaths stirring the miasma around his beak-like mouth.


Author's Note: This is only a brief interlude to the Modern Day Bootleggers series, meant to give readers not familiar with the Halo aspect of RvB a better mental picture of Skirmisher-Simmons.