A/N: So, we're back again. It's about high time that we got to see everyone's favorite mercs. Locus and Felix. Oh yeah, and Donut. Donut has to come back.

*Chapter 76*

Reach stared out the window of his little makeshift bunker, watching as the Reds finally moved away from the radio tower and over to the remains of the Warthog. It had begun to rain heavily and he was definitely not smiling with smug satisfaction as they ran for cover. Nope. Not a single bit.

Nor was he sipping tea like a posh bastard.

Simmons had offered him the recipe months ago, but the retired Spartan had dismissed it as something only idiots would drink. According to their resident hippie, it was a wonderful dandelion and nettle blend. Good for cleansing and just taking it easy. Seeing as Reach was absolutely desperate for anything to relieve his stress before he started collecting heads for decoration purposes, he decided to finally give it a shot. After the first sip, there was one thing that immediately stood out to him, mainly because Simmons neglected to tell him about one crucial detail about his supposedly cleansing tea.

It tasted like shit.

It wasn't as bad as the Special Forces emergency ration bars, but it was pretty fucking close. The only thing that kept Reach from throwing his cup into the jungle was the fact that it couldn't be worse than dealing with the Reds' bullshit.

'Definitely not drinking this shit again if I can help it.' He swirled the contents of his cup around, wishing it would somehow make it taste at least a little bit better. He wasn't asking for English breakfast blend; just something that didn't make him want to spit it up. 'And never listen to Simmons' recipe advice ever again. When did he become a hippie? I thought some of my good taste would take with them. Then again, I thought the same about training.'

Thank fuck both Maine and Wash were still able to keep Tucker sharp. South too, if she actually took a break from salvaging equipment. He knew that there was still plenty to raid, but good God woman. How much spare armor and paint did one need?

'Like I have any room to talk shit about raiding whatever survived the crash.' A nice shiny new machinegun turret from a Warthog now adorned his little bunker's outer walls, aimed specifically at Red Base for no reason in particular. Nope. None whatsoever. It also was definitely not stolen from the Warthog he happened to destroy with a railgun twenty minutes ago.

When it came to the Reds, especially Sarge, it was best to limit the amount of dangerous weaponry they could get their hands on. Reach was in no mood for the senile old man to try and restart the whole 'Red vs. Blue' war all over again for reasons unbeknownst to anyone but Sarge.

Where the Red purposely trying to make him fall into the pits of insanity? Because there was just no fucking way this amount of bullshit was accidental. 'Sometimes, I really do wonder how surviving here would work if we just poisoned them all and called it a day.'

Great, his more government-sanctioned sociopath tendencies were coming out again. 'Maybe we're wrong in thinking any of us could have a normal life after the things we were all involved with. Project Freelancer's mess stretched across the entire Milky Way and everyone wants a piece.' Damn it all.

Reach glanced back out the window to see it pouring with rain and he sighed, grabbing a sniper rifle. Screw the rain; he needed to do something that would relieve some of his pent up irritation. Like finding some wildlife to hunt. 'Giant jungle like this, there has to be something living here that would make a decent meal if enough sauce is added to it.' Was it completely overkill to use a rifle designed to bring down a freaking Banshee to hunt? Yes. Did he care?

No. No he did not. But to save himself from the inevitable whining he'd hear from Simmons if he was spotted dragging a mangled carcass behind him, he took an assault rifle with him too. The SRS99 would be used for scouting and releasing anger. The AR would be what got his dinner.

"You're going out while it is pissing down rain?" Texas asked, waddling towards him with a groan. "Are you out of your mind? I don't need my husband being electrocuted."

Reach snorted. "Do you really expect me of all people to get struck by lightning while I'm out on a hunt?"

"Considering you have a robotic appendage? Yes," the pregnant blonde deadpanned. "Wait until it clears. I…have a bad feeling for some reason." Tex always trusted her gut; when she had an uneasy feeling about something it usually happened like she said it would. Reach wouldn't argue with his wife over that.

"Alright, I'll wait," he conceded, setting his weaponry down. He knew better than to ask what was the worst that could happen.

His point was proven five seconds later. A bolt of lightning struck near Red Base and he turned around at the sound of confused screaming. 'Not today. Find someone else to bother.' Reach could look at his job description and would bet money that it definitely did not have 'clean up after simulation troopers' in it. Fuck that, someone else could take one for the team. He was tired of dealing with their shit.

Not adding more stress didn't do much for the amount he was already dealing with, though. Luckily for him, Tex had a suggestion.

"You have the look of someone who's about to burst. Get my meaning~?"

Simmons liked sleep. Being unconscious meant he didn't have to hear Sarge's grating voice or Grif's lame attempts at smartass remarks. It was essentially a free trial of death and the longer he was stuck in another shitty canyon, the more death was soon looking like an easy way out of this mess. Sorry Sarge, but Simmons isn't here. His finger accidentally slipped off the trigger of his—

"Simmons! SIMMONS! Where the hell are you!?"

Fuck. Never mind.

'Yep, still fucking hate all of them.' Simmons made zero effort to move off of his bed and tucked his hands behind his head. He might have been awake now thanks to Sarge yelling like an idiot, but that did not mean he was willing to move from his comfortable position. 'Sarge can fuck off if he thinks I'm going to be roped into another one of his bullshit ideas.'

He had reached the point of just not caring anymore. Not as pleasant as he imagined. Oh well, could be worse. "What? What could you possibly have that needs my immediate attention this very fucking moment?" He reached under his pillow to feel the sidearm he had stashed underneath. You know, in case Sarge tried to drag him out in the middle of the night or if someone snuck into his room.

Simmons was definitely not running through five different scenarios in his mind that involved him murdering his teammates and fucking off to go live in a cave for the rest of his life. No sir. He was a good soldier. And good soldiers didn't give into the overwhelming temptation to snap everyone's necks and call it a fucking day. Bullets did a better job. Just saying. He doubted Reach or Maine would be particularly upset if they heard gunshots and came to find Sarge and Grif dead with Simmons cleaning blood off of his armor.

If Reach's brain exploding out of sheer fucking irritation while he blissfully slept was anything to go by, he'd probably thank Simmons for it and give him a pay raise. 'Happy thoughts. Like puppies in a basket. Or kittens in a lap. With a nice cup of hot—'

"SIMMONS!" Sarge literally kicked the door down and glared at the unfazed maroon trooper lying in bed. "What in Sam hell do you think you're doing, private!? We have a war against those dirty Blues to plan!"

"You mean you have a war to plan," Simmons corrected with a yawn. "Not interested. Find someone else to bother with this."

"But—"

"NO!" Simmons's outburst caught Sarge off guard and stunned him silent. Seething, the designated 'bitch of Red Team' got off of his bed and stood up to his commanding officer. Normally, Simmons would just go with the flow and see himself get proven right by watching Sarge fail spectacularly. But he had finally snapped.

"I have had enough of your bullshit!" Simmons snapped. "It's always, 'Simmons do this', or 'Come on Simmons, we have to go randomly be fucking retarded and attack the Blues'. Fuck off, and keeping fucking off until you reach a sign that says, 'No fucking off past this point', and fuck off past that. I'm not your whipping boy. Go find someone else to bother or I'll start shooting."

"You dare to disobey a direct—"

BLAM!

Sarge looked at the large bullet hole a mere two inches above his head and then at the smoking barrel of the pistol currently in Simmons's hands. The maroon armored soldier's hand didn't shake and he glared. "The next shot will be lower. Do you need a translator or did the message get through that thick fucking skull of yours this time?"

"Excuse me, I heard a gunshot. Do you need assistance?" Lopez 2.0 was back up and running. Possibly after being struck by lightning or something; he wasn't an expert in electronics, despite playing fuck knows how many MMOs. Too bad Lopez 2.0's newfound life was cut terribly short.

Simmons's pistol swiveled to the brown robot and he emptied the magazine into its visor. The first shot would have probably been enough to get the job done, but he wanted to prove his goddamn point this time. Armor piercing rounds tore through the glass like paper and Lopez 2.0 fell in a heap at Sarge's feet like a sack of potatoes.

"Fix that, asshole." Simmons stomped out and Sarge could only stare in shocked silence at watching robot murder. For at least ten seconds at least.

"WHAT IN THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO MY MEN!?"

Simmons slapped a new magazine into his pistol and flipped off his sergeant, humming a merry tune as he skipped away. Now he understood Reach's anger and he envied the Spartan's incredible patience in not snapping their necks when he could have easily done so and make it look like a tragic accident. The anger and adrenaline rush wore off once he was outside in the rain and he stood next to his other teammate who was just as done with this shit as him.

"Hey dude," Grif greeted with a bored groan. "You look like someone told you Christmas came early. That, uh, have anything to do with those gunshots?"

"Nope," Simmons replied innocently. "Got any cigarettes on you?"

"When the fuck did—"

"Just answer the goddamn question."

"Yeah man. Here; knock yourself out." Grif tossed him a pack that he most definitely stole from the remains of their shipwreck and Simmons took off his helmet to stick one in his mouth. "Shit man, you okay? Don't tell me this place is finally getting to you after this long?" The rain actually felt nice on his face. Refreshing even. Still, it didn't do much to ease his sour mood.

"Just peachy," Simmons drawled sarcastically, borrowing Grif's lighter to light his cigarette. He coughed after the first pull, but Grif didn't give him any shit for it. A pleasant surprise. "Thanks for asking though."

"Shit." Grif sighed and stuck his hands behind his head. "Don't worry about coughing; everyone does their first few times. You get used to it."

"I have a feeling I'm going to end up addicted to these just to keep me from killing Sarge, so there will be plenty of time for my lungs to get used to inhaling smoke." Simmons snorted and took another drag. Not bad. Sure the coughing sucked, but the taste had its own weird appeal to it. "Can't he do anything besides piss me off for once in his life? Is that really too much to ask for?"

"Dude, it's Sarge," Grif deadpanned. "I don't think he even understands the concept of being useful. His idea of a team effort is making either of us do all the dirty work while he yells at us and envisions himself as a charismatic leader. He has less charisma than me and that's saying something."

Simmons found himself nodding in agreement, slicking his wet hair away. "Never thought the day would come."

"What, the day you openly agreed with me?"

"No. That happened a long time ago. I never thought I'd actually finally snap and let loose on Sarge."

"Eh, it's been a long time coming." Grif shrugged. "Someone needed to put him in his place. Just glad it was you and not me. He'd just laugh it off. Reach wouldn't have even said anything; he'd just kill him in the most painful way imaginable and call it a day. I think earlier today he was definitely considering it when we brought Dos. O up to the communications tower. Where is that stupid robot anyway?"

"Oh, he's just come down with a case of being deactivated for the next week and a half after being mysteriously shot seven times in the visor," Simmons answered casually. "I wasn't there, so I can't comment or speculate. I just know he happened to be shot. Seven times."

"Jesus fucking Christ." Grif laughed and puffed out a cloud of smoke from inside his helmet. "You know, Reach said something similar after he blew up our Warthog with a railgun. And stole rain tarps to cover the tower." From their spot just outside the base, Simmons could see the tarps covering the tower and immediately pulled out the most famous of Red Team's options on dealing with it. The 'fuck it, we're lazy' option.

"Not our problem." Simmons scoffed. "If Sarge has a fucking issue, he can fix up the base his damn self. I'm not helping him and I know for a damn fact you're not gonna either." Nope. He had enough of being Sarge's personal whipping boy. He could deal with his own problems for once.

"Welcome to the team. Everything sucks, our commanding officer is a senile old man who has no idea what he's doing, and zero fucks are given." Grif clapped him on the shoulder. "Sorry about being a pain in the ass lately. I took out the trash while you were unconscious."

"Thanks. And don't worry; I've long since given up trying to order you around." Simmons smirked. "But that does leave me with one question. What makes you stay?"

"The fuck are you, my therapist?"

"Grif!"

"Ugh. Fine." Grif groaned and looked out into the jungle. "I don't know why. I've been asking myself that question for a long time. You are right; I could have left at any time and no one would have minded. Even if Sarge threatens me, it's kind of pointless since we're not exactly real military so there wouldn't exactly be any lasting punishments or anything. I think the only thing stopping me from saying 'fuck it' and walking out on everyone is the fact that I have no idea where to go or how to survive in the wilderness. Reach's beatings he calls trainings didn't exactly go over the survival course."

"That the only reason?" Simmons pressed.

"And I don't feel like being a reason you commit murder." Grif sighed. "I know damn well that if I upped and left, you'd strangle Sarge with his own intestines and parade his corpse around the jungle. We could list my faults and we'd be here all day, but I'm not that much of a dick to just desert everybody now. I'm not Carolina and Church."

Ow. That was still a sore spot. Even if it was left unsaid, everyone felt some sort of justifiable anger towards Carolina and Church for fucking off God knows where not soon after they crashed. No note, no phone call, nothing. Just left without a trace or seemingly a care for their wellbeing.

Yeah, well, fuck you too.

"Where do you think they are?" Simmons asked.

"Fuck if I know. Maybe he's powering her vibrator or something." Grif snorted. "Don't know, don't care. All I care about is making sure me and my friends don't die here. Not including Sarge, because I couldn't care less if he dropped dead in the next five minutes."

"Once again, I agree with you." Simmons sighed and he fondly remembered the good old days. The times when it was just them hanging out in Blood Gulch, ignoring Sarge and spending their days yelling random insults at the Blues so they didn't die of boredom. Good times. Things were a lot simpler back then too. Asshole Freelancers had to go and ruin it for reasons of 'fuck all'.

"I can't believe I actually miss the shit we got into in Blood Gulch," the maroon-armored trooper grumbled. "Remember those days? They were so simple and easy. You definitely helped ease the boredom too. Where the fuck did you find snow in the middle of a desert canyon?"

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," the chubby soldier answered smugly.

"Please. Like you've gotten laid at all you fatass."

"You're one to talk. The only sex you've had is in some shitty little RPG. You couldn't even get laid when we were all playing Grand Theft Auto together, for fuck's sake."

"That wasn't my fault!" Simmons protested. "I would have easily gotten some ass if Reach didn't decide to send fucking mercenaries after me!"

"You said the blonde hooker you picked up looked like Tex," Grif deadpanned. "You had that one coming. At least he didn't call down an airstrike."

"Yeah…I guess." Simmons found himself laughing. "Shit. I needed this, man. Thanks."

"Anytime, bro. Anytime. We survived way worse, right? We got this." Grif being reassuring? The world really was coming to an end. Oh how things used to be when everything made sense and his sense of murder only came to him in dreams. Still, could be worse.

Someone had his back and wouldn't let him go completely insane just yet.

Sarge could still fuck off entirely, though.

Felix was a mercenary. He was a damned good mercenary too, if anyone were to ask. No one had his track record with pure luck alone. It was all skill. So when he was sent to investigate Crash Site Bravo with his psychotic partner, he expected he would get to finally have a man to man fight with the UNSC legend stowed away onboard.

But his main quarry, Sierra Beta-312, was nowhere to be seen. From his vantage point at the top of the cliffs, the only ones he saw outside were a pair of simulation troopers standing around talking.

He groaned in exasperation and wished he could at least throw a knife at them. "So bored. Why do we always get the boring missions? Can't we have anything fun?"

"Back off," Locus hissed over the comms. "Control wants them alive." Buzzkill. Another reason why Felix was so not looking forward to this mission. His partner was a stickler for following orders, never letting Felix ever have any fun. Always follow instructions to the letter and get the job done quickly and efficiently.

It didn't help matters that some asshole was being too nosey for their own good and had stolen a shipment of weapons and armor enhancements from a nearby outpost thirty kilometers to the southeast of Crash Site Bravo. Felix would have loved to go after them and carve his name into their chest, whoever they were, but Control saw fit to send their two best agents all the way out into a shitty little jungle. In the middle of the wet season.

Staring at a group of bickering idiots. Or he assumed they were bickering; he couldn't exactly hear their conversation from this distance. All he knew was that he was wet, tired, and not in the mood to deal with this shit. Once more, he complained to his partner. "Why are we here, in this canyon? Don't we have an infiltrator to find? That seems like something that should take priority over a simple scouting run in the middle of a thunderstorm."

"Orders are orders," Locus replied gruffly. "Control says we need to ensure the Reds and Blues do not interfere with our objective. Keeping them fighting each other will get the results we need. The team leaders are our priority. Capture them and we can continue on with our mission."

The orange and black armored mercenary groaned. If he had his way, he'd have just nuked this shitty little planet from orbit and called it a day. But, he knew Control had a point; if the entire colony's population disappeared overnight, the UNSC would inevitably turn up and start asking questions. Or they'd skip the questions and send in the Infinity or Eternity to take out whoever was responsible. The planet-side tractor beams wouldn't work on supercarriers of that size.

Hell, they almost didn't work on the carrier transporting all of the confiscated Freelancer tech. The damn ship tried to change course, power down, and jump into Slipspace at the same time for some reason. Instead of bringing it down close to the surface, the ship ripped in half and now their forces were spread trying to raid two separate crash sites.

"I can't believe I actually miss the Covenant War," Felix grumbled. Things were so much simpler then. If they were human, they were fine. If they were alien, well, bullets solved that problem

Though the Covenant invasion on the planet Reach could fuck right off. New Alexandria was one of the worst battles in the history of the war and he did not like being reminded of how fucked up it made him. "How the hell are we supposed to convince these idiots to fight?"

"Appeal to their honor," Locus said with a growl. "And if not, then we separate them from their commanders. They will fight if they believe their comrades are being held hostage."

Good point.

Felix smirked and drew his knife from its sheath on his chest, casually spinning it in his hands. "So, you want to go with the whole, 'You're coming with me or you die' approach or should we pull out the charismatic charm for this?"

"Neither. Wait until they make contact. Until then, we observe. Going radio silent. Locus out."

His partner had now fucked off to who knows where to take up an observation position. Knowing him, it would be somewhere high with the best vantage point and the best cover. Their time in the UNSC together meant they knew each other inside and out. Locus was a damn good marksman and would find the best place to perform recon without being detected. His active camouflage unit was perfect for someone of his particular talents.

Felix let his knife balance perfectly still on his fingertip before spinning it up into the air, catching and sheathing it. "Always about work, work, work with you. I'd hate to see you in a strip club." He yearned for the day their mission was done so he could go retire on some beach resort on Earth with his bank account overflowing with riches. Chorus did have some valuable technology in its Forerunner ruins, but if he wanted to see any of it, he had to do his part in getting rid of the locals. One part of the job he resented, despite the sarcastic front he put up.

'How many times? How many of these people have called you ally? Or friend? Does the payday really make it all worth it?' Felix brushed aside the guilt. No point in having a change of heart this late into the operation. He already had the blood of millions on his hand; what was another few hundred thousand?

"Looks like there's no such thing as clocking out early for either of us." Felix sighed and took up a scouting position underneath one of the tall trees on the edge of the canyon. The two troopers they observed earlier had gone back inside. The damn storm wasn't going to let up anytime soon.

"Talk about a slow day at the office." If only there was something to do around here.

Fuck this jungle.

A/N: And that's it for this one. Merry Christmas, let's hope 2022 doesn't suck as much as the last two years have.

-Kagerou#9718