- Seven: Modern-Day Bootleggers (Pt. III) -


(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.)


Murphy's Law was a cruel, cruel mistress. Gravity was even more so as the Red Base soldiers were tossed about the room.

Simmons's armour had taken the brunt of the blow, but he still could feel the explosion rattling through his armour. Through the static of his in-helmet radio, he could hear Carrie screeching like a banshee, swearing an ungodly number of things as she fired off a shotgun. Grif's voice came through the radio, terrified and disoriented from the rocket going off, Sarge berating him.

The last thing Simmons wanted to hear after that was an UNSC soldier yelling loudly at Sarge to drop his weapon. Carrie happily obliged Simmons's wish for the soldier to shut up, grabbing a Covenant plasma sword and thrusting it through the soldier's visor. Still, he could hear more of them coming, and growled and staggered to his feet. The small timber that laid across his back meant nothing thanks to the muscle Sarge had helped him build.


Michael Caboose had a tendency to go on tangents. Some of them made sense, and some of them didn't; his thought patterns had been off for a long time. A certain incident with a certain AI that his mother did not wish for him to talk about had made him, for lack of a better word, about as loopy and spontaneous as a ship's course flown by a drunk. Being with Sheila - one his mother's A.I.s - however, had the ability to make him more quiet than a mouse. Perhaps it was because Sheila was always a nice lady - unlike his sisters, she didn't have that "time of month" (whatever that was) to make her cranky, and she was always happy to answer questions. That, and she let him lean on her as long as he wanted.

"Sheila," asked Michael, "did you ever wonder if the clouds were made of muffins?"

"My systems indicate that clouds are composed primarily of water vapour that comes from the atmosphere and various bodies of water," the Pelican replied. Despite Sarge's orders, she had a soft spot for the only male Caboose, and the gruff Sergeant wasn't around to see her little "infraction". "I have never doubted the composition of the planet's clouds as a result."

"Oh," said Michael. "That's nice."

Silence came between them, Michael staring out into the grasslands that gently swayed in the breeze. He wondered if Sheila could do the same - didn't the ship inside have a window she could look out of? Or was it dark and cramped where she was stuck, like a closet? Michael had always thought that AI ports were too cramped. His mother had yelled at him and smacked him over the head the time he had tried to make it bigger; how was Michael supposed to know shoving a wrench into a port could ruin it?

"Sheila, can you see in there?" Michael asked.

"Yes," replied the ship. "My sensors allow me to perform a complete 360-degree scan of the entire area, with an effective range of up to 1.5 kilometres."

"So can you see that bird over there?"

Sheila's sensors flickered to the northwest, lining up with a small patch of tall grass that Michael was pointing at. Sure enough, an oozlum skink - a four-winged, gliding, lizard-bird mix that used echolocation like a bat - was perched on a stalk. Its winged legs and fluffy tail grasped the stalk, the small claws on its winged arms allowing it to chomp down on a glowbuzzer cocoon. From what Sheila could see, it was a mature, adult female, indicated by the streak of red winding down its back, like blood on an otherwise white body.

"That is not a true bird, Michael," said Sheila. "That is an oozlum skink, Oozluminus pax, that resembles an Earth dinosaur in much of its physiology. It is named after the mythical British oozlum bird, which is said to be able to fly backwards and up its own - "

A resounding boom echoed in the distance, followed by faint screams and smoke. Michael quickly stood up, recognizing the source of the explosion as from his own home. On Sheila's channels, Sarge's voice crackled through, gunfire and shouting mixed in.

"Pelican, come in Pelican! We have a Situation Alpha, I repeat - Situation Alpha! Prepare for evac, stat!"

"Oh no!" cried Michael. "Mommy must have blown up the muffins again! I'M COMING, MUFFINS!"

Sheila was too preoccupied with preparing for emergency lift-off to stop Michael. The eldest Caboose ran for his cabin, praying that his mother was okay and that the muffins were safe. He hoped she had made bran ones; those were always his favourite!


Simmons gracefully leapt unto the slice of timber, the edges smoldering and burning from the rocket's impact. He jogged up the piece and ducked beneath a jutting, sliced beam, quickly scanning the area left and right. Carrie was to his far right, and two of the soldiers were already down - she had a thing for headshots. To his left, Grif was grappling with another soldier, fighting desperately to hold onto his gun. Sarge had just kneed someone in the groin, only a few metres in front of Grif and enveloped in what looked to be a smoke bomb's cloud. Growling, Simmons knelt down and grabbed a Needler that had fallen off the ground, still with a few spikes left despite a premature fire. Why did guns always have to be so sensitive?


Sarge kicked the unlucky grunt's legs out from under him, using his trusty shotgun to fire a round into the middle of the man's visor. Kicking the body aside, he jumped and rolled out from the smoke, just in time to miss a few rounds from another soldier's rifle. Gritting his teeth, he pumped the shotgun, firing off another couple of rounds through at the target's shoulder. There was a loud bout of cursing, the man ducking and firing, and Sarge had to roll out of the way of oncoming fire. Another soldier had to abruptly stop, nearly tripping over the tumbling ex-ODST as he got out of the way.

Inwardly Sarge was swearing a mile a minute. How in the hell had they been busted? Had Carrie been getting careless again? That laser model couldn't just appear out of thin air; a weapon like that probably had come from somewhere important. Would she be insane enough to try and pinch something from the UNSC, though? She had looked too surprised by the explosion for that guess to be sound.

A UNSC-issued knife nearly embedded itself into the back of Sarge's skull; he swung around just in time to catch the arm of the one wielding it. A swift, trained kick to the groin, despite the armoured codpiece, quickly brought the soldier down just like another of his friends had. Another shotgun blast, this time to the neck, and the man was no more - a hit, finally! Seeing no others swarming him, Sarge quickly reset his suit's mute function, tapping into the private channel. Thank God for Sheila's seven-layer encryption!

"Maroon One, status report!" barked Sarge. The radio was fuzzy with static, and then Simmons's harsh voice came online.

"There's about three squads' worth, Sarge!" barked the Skirmisher. "Between you and Mrs. Caboose, about four or six kills!"

Bam! "AND DON'T YOU B*-)^#)/ TRY PUNCHING ME IN THE CHEST AGAIN!"

" ... Make that seven!"


Grif, seeing no other option, followed Sarge's example and kicked the soldier as hard as he could in the groin. The man yelped and fell, allowing Grif to stomp on his codpiece, followed by the poor soul getting a round in his belly. He squirmed and cried out, and Grif, panting, ran away as fast as he could. He lifted his gun and aimed again, just managing to skim the shoulder of another enemy. Rolling for cover, Grif wheezed with smoker's lament, having one of the few moments where he was mad at his eating and tobacco habits. Who could imagine smoking almost a pack a day could do this to his breathing?

"Yellow Two, Yellow Two! Come in, Yellow Two - do you copy?"

Grif let out another gasp before accessing his radio. "Yellow ... Two ... here ... "

"For God's sake, man, mute your radio!" yelled Sarge. "There are hostiles all around us! What are you trying to do, sabotage us?"

Grif let out an, "Ugggh," before putting on his full-suit muting function. "Yellow Two ... mute activated. What's the situation... Sa - "

"GET OFF YOUR KEESTER AND HELP MAROON ONE, FOR GOD'S SAKE!" Sarge yelled, using his command voice combined with an impressive battlefield yell. "He's got four enemies on him! Were out-gunned six to one! Stop hidin' like a jackalope and move tail!"

"Yes, sir ... "

"I said MOVE IT, YELLOW TWO!"


Simmons chattered angrily inside his helmet, thankful for the fact his suit could block out all sounds. The UNSC red-shirt in front of him easily took the roundhouse kick, Simmons leaping in a roll to his right. However, the soldier was not down for long, firing after Simmons as the Skirmisher swerved around, grabbing a knife from the magnetic slide on his leg. With a great leap and an avian screech, he ran the blade towards the soldier's visor, but only managed to slice through the foe's shoulder. The blade, edge red with human blood, glinted as the Skirmisher aimed it at the soldier's face; the target had enough sense to jump back in a dodge despite his stinging wound.

With a sweep of his claw, Simmons grabbed a machine gun off the ground, fighting with the kick as he fired after the latest target. The model was shoddily put together, no better than the Archaic "Tommy gun" of hundreds of years past. After the war, resources such as metals had been particularly hard to find, and a lot of weapons seemed to be produced mainly from recycled materials. It was why Carrie was such an asset to Sarge; her stock was genuine, pre-war factory quality.

Which reminded Simmons - there was a Needler lying nearby. He dropped the machine gun, swearing as he nearly filled his foot with holes when it landed on the trigger. Picking up the infamous weapon - it was a shame there weren't more crystals in it - he fired at a man advancing on Carrie. The Skirmisher's aim was completely off, only surprising the soldier and making him stumble. The target cried out and dropped to the ground for cover, allowing Carrie to give him one of her infamous headshots ...

And failing, a honeycomb-like, transparent shield appearing around him. Carrie swore loudly and ducked to the side as two more soldiers rushed in. She fired madly with her shotgun, pelting the pair's legs with shells, allowing them to hit the ground and give her a chance to finish them off. The vicious blonde managed to blow out the duo's heads, but not while the other dropped his shield and circled around. Protected by the house, Carrie could not keep an eye on him, and she screeched in frustration.

"I COULD HAVE HAD THAT, YA F*&#(/!" the battle-hardened woman yelled, pumping her shotgun again. Simmons ignored her and ducked to the right, just as someone with a knife came swinging towards him.

Bam!

Just before Simmons could have his throat cut, a shotgun round blasted its way through the side of the soldier attacking him. The Skirmisher leapt over his foe, breaking into a quick sprint. Unfortunately, he was not paying attention, and the soldier who had circled around levelled his sights with the Skirmisher's torso. Finger curled around the trigger, the UNSC fighter fired, tongue curled back around part of his lip.

Bang!

"SCRAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWK!"

The sound wasn't human - it was like the primal screech of some bird-lizard long lost, something only heard in the time of the dinosaurs. Yet, it was all too familiar, the wretched cry not unlike that of a Covenant Jackal's. As Simmons fell forward, the soldier's face twisted in fury, a burning hatred and boiling memory making him repeatedly fire at the Skirmisher's body.

"HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, YOU STUPID COVVIE!" Bang! "I BETCHA YOU -" Bam! "DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING - " Bang! "NOW DID YOU!"

Simmons managed to struggle to his feet in time to avoid most of the shots. His shields had taken the brunt of the damage, but it had been a chest shot, and boy had it hurt. Moments later, Carrie had taken out the soldier, although more were swarming around their comrade. They all levelled their sights at Simmons, struck with such a fury at a Jackal being in their midst -

"Maroon One! Yellow Two!" barked Sarge over the radio. "We're bugging out! Back to Sheila, double-time!"


Grif was thankful a thousand times over that they were retreating. With an awkward punch to the face of the soldier he'd been grappling with, Yellow Two turned and fled. He heaved ungracefully in his suit - ever since the war had ended, he'd let go of himself, and wasn't as in tip-top shape as he used to be. Then again, even in the army, he hadn't been the prime example of the ideal soldier's body -

"OH NO YOU DON'T!"

Grif gave a yelp as something punched him in the stomach with almost superhuman force. Even with his shields, he still felt it rattle through his ribcage and spine, and was further winded when he was knocked onto his back. A shotgun pumped into his face, clacking against the visor of his helmet as Carrie Caboose stared murderously down at him.

"You started this mess," she snarled, before giving a dainty, lady-like laugh. Grif felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "Now, since your little Sargey isn't going to clean it up, I'm just going to blow your brains out now and - OOMPH!"

"Yellow Two, get your *&# in gear!" barked Sarge. "I'll deal with Carrie!"

"RARGH!" went the crazed woman, lunging upwards from the ground and grabbing Sarge in a chokehold. She tackled the man to the ground, despite his super-powered armour, and immediately tried to either strangle him or snap his neck. Grif was pealing across the field in front of Carrie's house by the time she was grappling with the older man.


"WHERE IS MY SHIP!" roared Carrie. "YOU B*#&*)#! YOU BROUGHT THEM HERE TO DISTRACT ME, DIDN'T YOU!"

Sarge gurgled slightly from her iron grip. His suit was useless against her; the program had tampered with her too much, made her too strong. It was why he never liked people like her - they were loose cannons just ready to become insubordinate. The UNSC should have made sure to kill her. "I-I never ... did ... such a - hrk!"

"You even brought a COVVIE HERE!" she added, twisting her hands and desperately trying to crush Sarge's windpipe. "YOU LIAR! YOU LIAR! JUST DIE ALREADY! DIE! DIEDIEIDIEDIE - "

Simmons made sure to kick extra hard when his foot lifted Carrie off of Sarge. The woman grunted, cursing thickly, and the Skirmisher dragged his superior to his feet. The two then took off, Carrie glaring murderously from between strands of her blonde hair. Immediately she grabbed her shotgun, levelling it with Simmons's head.

Bang!

She never got a chance to fire. From somewhere behind her, a round fired, slamming straight into the middle of her back. The crack of bone and the zip of the bullet as it plowed through her torso was as audible as an Earth-cricket on a summer night.


Author's Note: I realize there are a few continuity errors in the AU, mostly relating to the handling of species in Halo canon. Skirmishers, unlike I first believed, are not subspecies of Kig-Yar; they are a phenotype variant, if I am correct. However, these mistakes have given me a lovely idea for a future series in this collection, but I don't wish to spoil anything for future reading. :D