Prompt from SaintAsh: Grif and Sarge "Did you just Blueshell me?"

Wondering Why We're Here
Chapter Fifty-Three: Grif & Sarge: The Ultimate Betrayal

Recovering from the crash and fight from the Charon ship was no small order. Which wasn't to say that individually the Sim Troopers hadn't dealt with their share of injuries and ridiculousness, it was simply that never before had all of them experienced being bedridden together.

While Chorus did above and beyond in providing for their war heroes and planetary saviors, boredom while being laid up was inescapable.

Not for Grif. Having an excuse to sleep eighteen hours in a hospital bed and demand food be brought to him was fantastic, but they, for some god awful reason, put him in a room with Sarge. A bored Sarge with two broken legs. And that was the cruelest torment that the orange captain could ever think of.

After calling the nurse in for the fifteenth time to complain about the arrangement, she had aggravatingly thrown up her hands before wheeling in an old entertainment system with a small selection of video games.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with these! This isn't even a First Person Shooter!" Sarge howled, waving the remote and nunchuck around flippantly.

"Mario Kart's not a real game!" Grif yelled after the nurse only to hear the room's door slam shut.

"Grif, come over here so I can simulate strangling a soldier with these finagles! I loathe to use you in place of a real soldier, but I believe pretending this strap is piano wire couldn't be more satisfying on any other participant," Sarge called out reaching toward the edge of his bed.

Feeling his eye twitch, Grif rubbed his face roughly and groaned before waving to the screen. "Fuck it. Let's play Mario Kart, you old coot. If it'll shut you up for five seconds it'll be worth it."

What was truly surprising about the set up, beyond the difficulty to get even future technology to work, was that for a bit, it really seemed to be working. And by that, of course, Grif was beating Sarge at every turn, even as the old man slowly grew adjusted to the control.

"Slowly" being the operative term considering he was slower than molasses.

The more frustrated the old man became, the more enthusiastic Grif felt about beating him as much as possible in the stupid game.

Which was all well and good until, from nowhere, Grif's near guaranteed victory disappeared before his eyes, a thundering blue shell knocking him right from first place and sending him careening off the map.

His jaw dropped some and he looked in horror at Sarge.

"Did you just blue shell me!?" Grif asked in utter disbelief. "You? Using a blue shell?"

"While you were taking advantage of the injuries of a superior – in every way – officer, Grif, I realized that there were few things in this world I hate: little umbrellas in my drinks, people incapable of laughing of evisceration, and, of course, those damn dirty Blues," Sarge said seriously before turning just enough to glare at Grif. "I've had to lower my standards over the years to justify our alliances with certain less-than-totally-despicable Blues, of course. But ultimately, even the scummiest of Blues, like that Blue Shell power up, are worth working with if it's to knock you down a peg."

"God, I hate you," Grif seethed.

"Yeah, I hate you more."