A/N: Guess who's back? Yeah, this shitposter. Since canon has gone out the window, I can do this my way. Feels good.
*Chapter 80*
Malcolm Hargrove was about to take a sip of coffee when a screech of pure, unadulterated rage tore through the cosmos. His flagship shuddered from the vibrations it left in its wake, and the chairman of Charon Industries let his mug clink gently down on his large desk. He straightened his tie, took a deep breath, and while he wasn't a religious man by any means, sent up a brief prayer that he wouldn't have to tangle with that. Become the main manufacturer for nearly every UNSC contractor known to man, they said. You'll rake in the billions, they insisted.
'I do hope those two don't get themselves killed facing whoever that is.'
He sighed and looked through his contacts for an old, familiar number. There was more than one man who owed him a favor.
"Yeager, is that you? We have a problem."
Locus's suit blared out a shrill warning; he knew not from the sound, but rather the blinking red light in the corner of his HUD. That shriek had deafened him. On the plus side, he didn't have to listen to Felix's obnoxious voice and could claim disability now. 'Huh. I may have found a way out of this shit.'
It was about looking at the bigger picture. He didn't have to commit suicide via Spartan, Felix would be too dumb enough to live for much longer, and he could claim a paycheck from the comfort of his home. Win-win scenario as far as he was concerned.
South took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself down. She would be the first to admit she had a very short temper but being around the Reds and Blues for as long as she had made her tolerance for bullshit go through the roof. Or so she thought.
The last echoes of her infuriated scream ceased tearing a hole through space and time, and the woman closed her eyes and counted to ten.
A tree toppled over behind her before she could even get started.
She tossed a hand in the air and walked away, the last vestiges of her patience disintegrating into nothingness. 'Fuck it, I quit.'
Time to go sod off into the sunset and not look back.
"W-wait, you're leaving us!?" Donut wailed. "After we came to rescue you and everything!?"
Yes. Yes, she fucking was.
She didn't get more than twenty feet away before she bumped into something tall, broad, and white flecked with orange. South looked up, and then looked up some more to see Maine. He let out a confused growl, as if to ask what the fuck just happened, and South's eyes flashed with deadly intensity, shadows flickering over her face. Now, she looked like a predator on a hunt, and she growled.
Maine glanced back over his shoulder towards Blue Base, judging the distance and whether or not he could outrun her before she could utterly destroy a certain bone connected to his lower anatomy. South's hawkish glare watched his foot slide back and his weight shift over to one side.
Poor Maine didn't even manage to turn around before South pounced on him like a puma does to its prey, an animalistic screech tearing from her throat.
The massive Freelancer's terrified roars followed him as he was dragged by his ankles across the jungle floor and into Blue Base. The door to the two's shared room slammed shut with enough force to cause part of the structure to crumble, dust and rock tumbling down.
Tucker came outside, looked at Donut and Doc on the ground next to a flaming airship, and sighed.
"Dude, what the fuck just happened?"
Still sore from being launched across a fucking jungle, Grif let out a long sigh and looked through the scope of his battle rifle towards Blue Base. Simmons' concussed ass was lying on the ground next to him and he shuffled behind the bushes. "What are they doing?"
"I don't know." Grif groaned. "All I know is that the big death robot on the Blues just... wait, the fuck? What the hell are Donut and Doc doing here!?" He rubbed his eyes and looked through the scope to make sure he wasn't just seeing things. It would really be too convenient to have Doc and Donut on this shitty little rock on the ass-end of the galaxy. For a brief moment, his heart was filled with hope. For them to be here, they had to take a ship of some kind.
Grif noticed the smoking wreckage of a ship not far behind the two idiots and he groaned. 'I fucking called it. I knew this was too good to be true.' Tucker was close by, doing squats for some odd reason. Grif was more than fine with calling it a day then and there, but Sarge was not going to let them go back to base unless they made sure the Blues weren't up to anything.
Which they weren't. At all. Just standing around, talking to Donut and Doc, and working out.
"This is pointless," Simmons sighed, echoing Grif's own thoughts. "We should just grab those two and drag them back to base. Make them do all of Sarge's ass-kissing for a change."
"Watching men stand around and work out is making me feel kind of weird," the orange-colored soldier agreed. "Red Team Option 2?"
"The 'Fuck it, we're lazy' option?" Simmons sighed. "Might as well. We have nothing to report, apart from Doc and Donut being here."
"Yo, assholes. The fuck are you two doing squatting in the middle of the canyon?"
Grif and Simmons looked up to see a slightly winded Tucker standing over them, looking equally confused and tired at all once.
"Um..." Simmons shared a glance with Grif. "I'm sorry, I can't hold my partner back! He's crazy!"
Grif choked on air.
Tucker did, too. "T-the fuck!?"
"I mean... show me your hands!" Simmons aimed the barrel of his rifle at Tucker's chest.
Wind rustled through branches above them.
Part of the canyon wall crumbled down in a shower of dust and rock.
Grif's hair slowly started to turn to a silvery grey.
"I-I'm sorry..." Simmons lowered the weapon with a dejected noise.
"Solid detective work there, Officer Simmons." Grif slowly clapped, sarcasm thick enough to strangle someone.
Tucker backed up two paces, giving Simmons an odd look. "Right, so, could you guys maybe not spy on us while I'm working out? It's kind of weird."
"That's what I said!" Grif groaned.
"Sarge's orders," Simmons explained, sensing Tucker's complete bewilderment. "He thinks you're up to something."
Tucker scoffed and rubbed his head. "Dude, the only thing I'm up to is fucking drills. Clean the base, run drills. Check the armory, run drills. I have glorious calves and a miserable fucking life! I just want to stop running drills and dealing with the fucking chore list."
"Chore list?" Simmons perked up.
"Yeah dude. Wash is cool sometimes, but others he's completely obsessed with rules and order. The guy even brought out that old Blue Team organizational chart that we never made use of."
"You guys have one of those too? Shows who's in charge and everything?"
"Yeah man. Sorry Grif, but your sister is the lowest of the low. She apparently has less power and authority than fucking Caboose."
That wasn't at all surprising. Kaikaina was many things, but smart enough to move up from Major Junior Private Negative First Class? No. No, she was not. This was the same girl who tried to overdose on aspirin of all things. And gave birth to an alien.
That was actually really fucked up now that he thought about it.
"Where's Maine?" Simmons asked, noticing the lack of the massive Freelancer.
A pained roar echoed throughout the canyon and the ground shook from something violently crashing down. Tucker winced. "Horse riding."
Grif and Simmons both stared, eyes flat.
"Horse riding?" Donut joined them, nursing a glass of red wine with Doc looking over him for injuries with his medical device. "Why didn't you tell me you guys had stables? You know I can't resist a good mounting!"
"NO!" Fuck's sake. Now Grif remembered why he didn't like being around his pink-colored teammate.
"Just get back to base, you assholes..."
Sarge held onto the slim hope that a certain disloyal subordinate would meet his doom via a giant death robot, but when Grif came back with Donut and Doc in tow, that hope was sent into the shadow realm to never be seen again. "Grif. You're alive." He didn't bother trying to hide his disappointment and Grif responded with a middle finger, puffing away on a cigarette. Treacherous bastard.
"Did you find anything?" Sarge asked gruffly.
"Uh, yeah. The Blues aren't fucking doing anything and you're a paranoid old man bordering on senility," Grif said with an incredible lack of sarcasm.
"I will take that diagnosis into consideration. Now for our more intelligent observer?" He looked behind the fat orange-armored man and frowned when he noticed the lack of one of his subordinates.
"Where the hell is Simmons!?"
"With the Blues. He was really eager to look at their base for some reason."
Donut, sensing that this was going to devolve into something absolutely ridiculous, happily skipped away to investigate Simmons' vegetable garden. Doc muttered something about making sure some semblance of health and safety protocols were followed - fuck OSHA - and went with him, leaving Grif alone with their senile old sergeant.
Sarge let out a dejected sigh and looked out over the canyon mournfully. "I always knew this day would come..."
"What, that Simmons would eventually desert the Red Team?"
"Desert Red Team? Grif are you even paying attention!?"
"No, not really. Then again I don't really care." Grif shrugged.
"Those bastards have kidnapped one of our men! Backstabbing Blues."
Grif groaned as he suddenly noticed the Warthog parked conveniently only a few yards behind his sergeant. It was recently cleaned, and he just knew this was going to get so much worse than it already had. No amount of trying to convince Sarge that Simmons wasn't taken hostage by the Blues would work. The old man was doing what he always did, and that was ignore criticism entirely and do something stupid that'll cause headaches for everyone in the vicinity.
"Now, mount up Grif. It's time for the Red Team's signature maneuver!"
Grif screamed angrily.
Tucker wasn't sure why the actual fuck Simmons was so insistent on coming to Blue Base with him while Grif took Doc and Donut to see Sarge. If he were Simmons, he'd want to be as far away from Blue Base as humanly possible. Maine was down and out from a case of suffocation, Wash was missing and presumed drunk or asleep, and they had a killer robot stalking the perimeter. There were more problems here than anywhere else, and Simmons practically dove straight into the lion's mouth by coming here.
"Hey, so when is Wash coming back?" Simmons asked.
"I don't know, and you're mistaken if you think I care."
"Well I've got a suggestion for Blue Team. Chore Wheel."
Tucker's eyelid twitched. Fuck no. It was bad enough Wash imposed rules and order; he was not dealing with this idiot's suggestion. "And I've got a suggestion for you. How about, 'fuck off'?"
Simmons retreated back into Blue Base, though not without one last comment about his stupid idea. "Think about it. Wheel of Chores."
Tucker groaned and looked up at the sky for help. Nothing but some trees, birds chirping, and the distant stomps of Freckles as the mech looked for more people to blow up. Fuck this jungle. "I fucking hate my life."
"TUCKER!"
"Never mind, I take it back. I don't hate my life. I hate other people's lives. Wish they didn't have them."
Tucker paused.
"Oh my god, I'm turning into fucking Church."
Wash stumbled outside with a face carved from of stone and a rifle in his hands. For a moment, Tucker was concerned that the man would open fire on him for merely existing, but he gestured to the flaming wreck of an airship behind him. "What the hell is that and why is it still smoldering away?"
Oh, right.
Tucker breathed out a sigh of relief and relaxed. "Oh, that? Well, Doc and Donut were coming to stage a rescue."
Wash's eyebrow rose in disbelief.
"Freckles shot it down. Sadly, they're still alive. If you want to deal with them, they're over at Red Base."
Wash wisely decided to not do that, funnily enough. He stared at the wreckage with a faraway look in his eyes that basically told Tucker that the man had turned his brain off and was imagining himself in a much happier place. It looked practiced.
"Wash! Hey, what's up!?" Simmons called from the top balcony of Blue Base, waving down to them. "Hope you don't mind me crashing with you for a bit!"
Wash closed his eyes., now sadly snapped back to reality, and pinched his brow. Tucker could see his lips moving as the man slowly counted to ten. When he did speak again, his voice was strained and desperate for answers. "What the hell is he doing here?"
"Beats me. If I were him, I'd be as far from this base as possible."
Washington groaned. "Simmons, I don't have time for you. Go away."
Simmons disappeared back into Blue Base to do whatever nerd shit he liked, and Tucker had to ask the question. "Why do you look like you got into a fight with a bear and lost?"
A roar tore itself from Maine's throat inside the base.
"Ah. Never mind. Still, what's with the looks?"
"I don't know," Washington admitted. "I just have a really bad feeling that something's going to happen, and we might be a little fucked."
"Please. No one's going to attack us-"
"ATTACK!"
"Shit!" Tucker and Washington both split up from each other, Washington going left and Tucker right. The battle cry had drowned out the noise of the vehicle, and Tucker blinked stupidly as the Reds smashed their jeep headfirst into a tree, replete with their stupid Spanish music blasting from the stereo.
Sarge was on the turret, Grif behind the wheel, and the turret slowly drifted over the two Blue Team members.
Crickets chirped.
Weeds blew past him.
Wash looked like he was told he couldn't consume alcohol anymore.
Tucker broke the silence with a sigh of exasperation. "You idiots have the worst fucking timing, I swear to God."
"Silence, traitor!" Sarge roared angrily. "You backstabbing bastards! You made me think we could intermingle and be a little purple together!"
"We are!" Washington all but screamed. "Seriously, what the fuck are you on about!?"
"You kidnapped one of my men!" the senile old man accused.
Tucker and Wash shared a look.
"You mean... Simmons?"
"YES!"
"We didn't kidnap him, idiot." Tucker rolled his eyes. "We can't get him to leave!"
Freckles came back from his patrol and loomed over them menacingly. Tucker shivered as he felt the mech's cannons aim directly over his head and at the Warthog. This was going to end badly; he just knew it. He pointedly ignored the Mantis more than capable of reducing the entire base into a smoking crater and glared at the sergeant. "So can you guys not randomly attack us? It was funny when we were in Blood Gulch, but now it's just fucking annoying."
"Couldn't have said it better myself," Grif and Washington muttered at the same time.
Simmons joined them, looking at Sarge and Grif in the Warthog in confusion. "The fuck is going on?"
"Simmons!" Sarge barked. "Is it true you've deserted Red Team!?"
"It's all Grif's fault, sir!" came the automatic reply.
"How!?" Grif screamed.
"You're fucking disgusting, that's why!"
"Yeah but I've always been like that. It was Sarge who decided to take half the fucking base for himself."
"Oh." Simmons titled his head to one side and shrugged. "Then I guess it is your fault, Sarge."
"Traitor!" Sarge's grip on the turret shook violently and his growl was thick with murderous rage. "You'll pay for this betrayal!"
"What betrayal?" Simmons asked in bewilderment. "I'm only here as a guest."
"An uninvited guest," Washington muttered none-too-quietly. It went unheard by Simmons and Sarge, who were now arguing over the amount of space Sarge was taking up for no fucking reason. "To repeat my good friend here, can you guys please consider fucking off entirely?"
"How about you consider getting some bitches?"
Washington reached for his handgun and suddenly the air became thick with his sense of murder.
"Washington has no bitches? Fuck this team, man..." Simmons started to walk over to his actual teammates.
"Desertion is now punishable by death, Private Simmons," Freckles said.
Simmons choked on air and screamed angrily.
"Uh, Sarge?" Grif snorted in laughter, taking pleasure in his teammate's self-inflicted misfortune. "Now the Blues have kidnapped Simmons."
Oh son of a bitch...
"This means... WAR!" Sarge let out a fierce battle cry and the turret began to rotate as it heated up.
"Firing main cannon." Two missiles fired from the pods on Freckles' right arm and struck the Warthog, blasting it away across the canyon. It crashed on the other side of the canyon, near Red Base, and Grif groaned as he got to his feet, having been fired into another tree.
"Why...?" he asked with a whimper. "What did I do in a past life to deserve such a stupid team?" Something evil, probably. "You alive, Sarge?"
A grunt of affirmation came from the sorry red carcass on the ground next to him. The jeep had been ass-blasted into next century and wasn't going anywhere in the near future, so Grif now had a free, 'Get Out of Sarge's Bullshit' card to cash in. Score him. Tucker envied the lucky bastard for that. He wished he could get out of this shit.
Maybe he could spend retirement growing cabbages.
Yeah, that sounded nice...
Felix tracked the shuttle as it landed near the top of the canyon ridge and away from the prying eyes of the simulation troopers, keeping it within his sights at all times. The message from Control had been brief, but then again, their employer was never one for long-winded speeches. Felix appreciated that kind of attitude. It made working for the man more tolerable, that's for sure. "There's our backup."
The ramp from the shuttle descended and two figures came out, both of them wearing the orange and black armor of Control's Space Pirates. One was tall, broad and carried a rocket launcher on his back; the other was wiry and shorter with a sniper rifle slung over one shoulder and moved with a grace that Felix had only seen in a handful of people. Their gait was slow and purposeful, and he caught the subtle glances left and right as they checked out their surroundings. Whoever they were, they moved like a predator. A killer.
Just the kind of person they needed if they were to bring down the remaining Freelancer agents.
"Don't say anything stupid," Locus said with a grumble, sitting down and patiently waiting for their reinforcements. "We don't know what kind of people we're dealing with, and I don't want to explain to Control why your sorry ass decided to piss them off."
Felix rolled his eyes. He wished his partner would shut up with the cryptic warnings, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
The tall pirate towered over Felix and Locus by a solid foot or more, and he was built like a truck in his heavy security armor. The man's gauntlets were kitted out with two retractable rods and his air assault helmet had a shark face drawn around the edges of his blacked-out visor. 'I think I know who we're throwing at Agent Maine.'
The other's helmet was styled to look like the MJOLNIR Mark VI suits used by the Spartan IIs, just with the colors of the Space Pirates and matching black visor. A single CQC plate across her right bicep and the left bare of any attachments. A single combat knife was sheathed across the breastplate and on their hip sat a silenced magnum commonly used by ODSTs during stealth operations. One heavy hitter and one sneaky. Good duo to have as support.
"Felix, Locus." The tall one briefly dipped his head to them, voice thick with barely contained anger. "Reporting in, sirs."
Sir? How quaint. Felix liked him already.
"It's a pleasure." He extended a hand and after a moment's hesitation, the tall man took it. "Did the boss tell you what we're up against?"
The man shook his head and glared thunderously down at the canyon below. "He neglected to mention there was a Mantis-class assault droid."
Felix winced. "Yeah, he does that." He normally didn't like throwing his employer - and person who could easily make his life hell - under the Scorpion, but something about the man told Felix to not be a prick and just let it play out. Big bastard had presence and was aware of it.
The other let out a soft chuckle. "Chairman Hargrove leaving out important details? Color me surprised." Soft voice, female, but tinged with a certain edge that screamed, 'dangerous'. She reminded him of Locus, and not purely because of the sniper rifle casually hanging off her back. Not many knew the true identity of Control.
She pushed past her partner, who tensed and glared at her back. She either didn't notice the dirty looks or just didn't care, and she stopped at the edge of the cliff face. Her rifle swung around and she bent over, lying flat on her stomach and making slight adjustments to the weapon's sights. Satisfied, she looked through the rifle's scope. "One high value in range. He's got company though. Three sim troopers. I can still take the shot if those are your orders."
Locus tensed. Felix saw the silent threat and shook his head. "No. Don't fire. Not until the Federal and rebel armies are here. We'll catch them in the crossfire." With all the chaos of an all-out assault for the canyon happening from both angles, the Freelancers and simulation troopers would be caught in the madness of it all and wouldn't be able to tell who shot who. Messy, but it was better than trying to challenge a Spartan to a one-on-one fight. Or Felix's first suggestion of just nuking the place from orbit.
Felix didn't consider his partner weird for not wanting to fight a walking war machine.
"As you command." She pulled away from her rifle and stood. "Any orders?"
"I assume you know your role?"
"Take out the Freelancer agents. Don't be seen doing so." Her rifle was slung back over her shoulder and her partner backed away to make room for her as she walked into the thick jungle. "I'll be in radio contact if you need me."
"Got a name, sweetheart?"
"I do."
Silence.
Locus snorted beside him, amused.
"You going to give it to me?" Felix asked with a sigh. Fucking bitch was a smartass too. 'Just my fucking luck...'
"If you don't know, then you don't need to." With that last quip she vanished into the jungle, leaving Felix and Locus alone with the shark paint man.
"Please tell me you have a normal name," Felix begged.
"I have a normal name," the man grunted.
"Oh thank fuck."
"You may call me Sharkface."
Felix stared at the ground. '...what did I ever do to deserve such a stupid team?'
At least those four scouts of Locus' were more amicable...
Reach sipped at the glass in his hands, sighing in annoyance as the motion detectors picked up four contacts - scratch that, three now, for one must have realized its error and run for the hills - at the edge of the jungle, blinking red and alerting him of a possible threat. He thought he was pretty fucking clear when he built his bunker that anyone who tried to threaten the life of his wife and unborn child would be torn to shreds, but clearly some idiots didn't get the memo. Or just had no self-preservation instincts whatsoever.
He set his glass down and opened up a drawer. Inside was his personal handgun, and he secured it to his hip. Out of a second drawer came a shotgun and several boxes of shells. He loaded the weapon, put the excess shells in his leg pouch, and grabbed a few grenades to attach to his belt. His sword slid into the sheathe across his back and crossed over that was a BR85.
"Great. Just when I promised her I wouldn't kill anyone without her..."
Reach casually checked his personal comms, noted the lack of anything that needed his immediate attention, and nodded once. Satisfied, he pumped his shotgun and walked out of his bunker, the doors sliding shut behind him and locking.
He was going to show these three unfortunate bastards the error of their ways.
A/N: Oh noes. Reach has spotted hostiles. And has a various assortment of murder weapons. Much shame when they end up eviscerated.