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Chapter 6: Upgrades are for Suckers

The UNFC ship landed with a heavy thud, the Reds' shoulders bumping against each other from the impact, the metallic echoing noise barely audible over the roar of the Pelican's engine. Grif, with a sleepy yawn, was roused from his slumber, rolling his shoulders as he looked around for a moment in confusion. Ah yes, how he could forget? Sarge was so disappointed that no one was properly tortured … Well, except probably Simmons. The kiss ass. He actually, kind of, felt bad for him. It had been funny for the first day, but after that … Courtesy flush now had a whole new meaning and Simmons was probably going down in history as the longest poop ever.

Despite himself, Grif did kind of chuckle at that.

Simmons quickly threw a glare at the other, no words needed to express his hate over the situation. For some reason Simmons had blamed him for the incident … and karma. Whatever that meant.

The back hatch of the Pelican fell open, raining light down on them. Grif couldn't help but sigh. He really wished that they would just send them, or specifically him, home already. It didn't matter where this place was, but it promised to be the hell hole. It didn't matter that Command was technically under new management. Command was still command and if there was one thing Grif had learned during his time in the army was that they were always idiots.

"Alright, ladies," said the pilot as he stepped back into the ship, "Unload your cargo and welcome to your new corner of hell … Unless, you want to stay with me." The male pilot chuckled as he leaned on the bulkhead of the ship and over Grif slightly, the other's cod piece a little too close to the orange soldier's face. Grif, awkwardly leaning back, looked to his side for help, but Sarge and Simmons were both already on their feet, grabbing supplies.

Grif, sighing, not even wanting to answer the creepy pilot, grumbled to himself, "I can't believe I'm actually going to say this …"

"Hey, guys," Grif's voice squeaking as he awkwardly dodged the white armored man standing over him. "Let me help you with that."

Simmons, who had been trying to lift something by himself, was surprised that not only did Grif suddenly help lift the large box, but that he was actually lifting it and not just pretending to. Walking backwards out of the ship, noting the orange soldier's nervous glances behind himself, Simmons asked, "Okay, what do you want lard ass?"

Grif, turning his attention to the other, said, "Huh? What was that Simmons?"

Growling in his helmet, still upset that Grif apparently ignored almost everything he had ever said to the other man, the cyborg grumbled, "What do you want? We both know you would not do work willingly. If I was Sarge, I would be crying the end is neigh and to repent."

Grif, unsurprisingly, dropped the large crate when they got outside, Simmons barely getting his feet out of the way in time.

Grif merely looked over his shoulder and admitted, "I just … I don't … Ugh, everyone's been fucking creepy, okay. And generally I wouldn't fucking care, but all of the soldiers keep looking at me funny and invading my personal space and I can't get a fucking nap Simmons because they keep finding me and saying weird shit! Do you know what it's like to have your naps interrupted constantly especially when weird men keep calling you things like little lady and sunshine and good looking. It's fucking creepy. Just right now, I think the pilot was hitting on me."

Simmons almost tripped and fell on his face, finally understanding all the strange attention Grif had been getting recently. Apparently, it had gotten around that the yellow one was a chick. And, it wasn't that females were completely uncommon, it was just that Grif wasn't giving off the half-chick half-shark vibe like most women apparently did in the military. If this wasn't going to get pinned on him, he might have thought that that was extremely funny.

"… You don't think he was hitting on me, do you? I don't give off that kind of vibe, do I?" squawked Grif, horrified at the prospect of becoming obsessed with hand creams like Donut.

"You mean the girl vibe," said Simmons, speaking his own thoughts aloud only to stall when he realized what he had just said, not catching onto Grif's train of thought at first; his voice squeaked like a drowning rat as he tried to cover his trail. "I mean gay vibe. No, no. I think it's just you. Yep, totally just in your head. I mean … why would anyone think you are a girl, I mean gay?"

"Yeah, why would anyone … wait?" Grif stalled, horror washing over him. Generally, Grif cared very little about much of anything, but there were something things he just couldn't let stand. Bats were up there but this was taking second place at the moment. " … Do you think they think I'm a chick? My armor is orange, dude, orange! Not yellow. It is not yellow! I even sound like a guy. This doesn't … I just can't …"

"Hey, powder puffs," Sarge suddenly interrupted Grif's emotional breakdown.

"I'm not a girl!"

"They got us some new armor," finished the team lead, not the least bit distracted by the outburst as he stood between his two subordinates, his new armor looking extra spiffy and murder-ready in the sunlight.

"What, really? That sounds great," said Simmons, glad for the distraction, ignoring Grif as much as he could whilst standing next to him. "This is like a whole new world for us. New bases, new armor; it's a fresh start … where mistakes that we made won't come back to haunt us in horrible emotional explosions."

Sarge, standing there a moment as if dwelling on the other man's strangely specific words, seemed to forget it a second later as he tilted his head and basically threw a crate at Simmons and then Grif, stating, "The fly-boys want our old armor, ladies-"

"Not a girl!"

"-something about looking for AI remnants or something. Now stop standing there like a bunch of girl scouts-"

"Stop calling me a girl!"

"-and put these on. Pronto."

Grif barely had time to look over his crate before a newly-armored Simmons replied, "Done, and might I say I love that new armor smell. Mmm, lingering traces of uranium."

Grif and Sarge just stared at him in a questioning manner.

"What? You know I'm a fast changer. I'm not comfortable with people looking at me without a shirt on," stated the maroon man, Grif finally turning his attention to his own small crate.

Prying it open, eying the contents critically as if trying to decide if it was more yellow or orange, he lifted up the chest piece first, hating the chore that was about to occur, only to stall, eyes going wide. This had to be a joke. A sick, sick joke. Flipping it around, making sure the two mounds matched the other side, he confirmed his suspicions.

"What, the fuck are these?" he said flipping the armor around so the other two men could see the roomy indents in the chest area.

Sarge actually chuckled at this, "Well, I know that they said they were adding some girth to your armor, but this gives breast plate a new meaning. Heh, heh. It seems even new command knows you are weak like a girl Grif."

Somewhere, in a desert, a soldier in green-ish blue, maybe teal, armor twitched. The need to say his coin phrase left unheard where he was needed.

"In fact, that would explain all the feminine hygiene products we received, to add insult to insult. I thought they were for Donut, where ever he may be, but it seems that the universe has decided to degrade you further, Grif. It's almost enough to make a grown man cry," said Sarge, making a sniffing noise beneath his new helmet. "Though, luckily you aren't really a girl, otherwise I wouldn't be able to hit you, like this. Eat that, dirt bag!"

"Youch, what was that for!" cried Grif as he grabbed for his helmet, where Sarge had just hit him with the butt of his gun.

"For trying to take the easy girly way out again!"

Holding his helmet, trying to stand up straight, the orange soldier whined, "I didn't ask for this? Why would they even give me a woman's armor? Unless … what if they really think I'm a girl? How could they even get that mixed up in my files?!"

Simmons had already taken a good several healthy steps backwards (more like a few yards) at this point when both Sarge and Grif turned their heads to stare at the maroon soldier in an accusing manner. Standing there a moment, the breast plate falling back into the crate as Grif's hands slowly started to become fists at his side, Sarge raising his shot gun as well.

Simmons found himself stuttering. "W-well, it-it sounds like a technical error to me. Not anything I did thinking it was one of the last things I would ever do in this world."

Sarge cocked his shotgun, a deep part of him saddened that he couldn't point it at Grif, because Command was never wrong. Even when they made them wrong. And he would never hit a girl, even a fake one, like Grif... And Tex, but they were not going to get into that technicality … or that he hit Grif three seconds ago.

"I'll … just be leaving now."

XXX

Paw07: Seems Simmons has finally been outed. As for if women have different types of armor, I can't say. Sister doesn't exactly mention if hers was different internally. She merely mentioned not having enough room, so if I feel there should be some space for the ladies, bam, there is. Fanfiction baby! To the next chapter!