Project Red Code Freelancer Chapter 8: Episode 7, a red vs. blue fanfic

Disclaimer: If you recognize it from outside this fic, it isn't mine.

To Guest: I'm a Christian, don't approve of swearing, and love chocolate. And hate Cornelius Fudge from Harry Potter. Plus, with Grif's relationship with food provides lovely alternatives. Hopefully, the story will be exciting enough for others to over look the edits. I'm glad you've enjoyed it so far!

Episode 7: Oh What Fun is Shooting

While Doughnut was off doing goodness knew what, Grif had snuck off to his hidden gym. Silently, he shucked off his armor and changed into the shorts and t-shirt he had stashed there. Calmly, he began his stretches. As was his custom, he started at the top with his neck, and slowly worked his way down to his ankles and toes, even going so far as to stretch his wrists and fingers. When one's life depended on one's ability to pull a trigger or land a solid hit, one tended to want one's fingers and wrists flexible. After his thirty minute stretch routine, Grif went through his weight workout. He knew he didn't have the time for the full five hour deal, so he'd stick to the resistance and leg training. Still, it took him about two and a half hours to get back to base. Some of that was taken up by his rinse off and re-armoring. When he got back, Simmons was fiddling with a computer and muttering about some guy called Flowdie and bullets in... uncomfortable places. Grif decided to skirt around that mess and stare out in the general direction of Blue Base. "Newbie hasn't come back?" he asked his muttering comrade.

"If he had, I'd have locked him in the freezer. Why don't you go make sure your frozen burritos are still there?" Simmons bit back. Grif winced. Okay. Note to self, don't try to make small talk with McGeek when he's...

"What are you doing?" Dagnabit! And right after he'd made a mental note to leave the obviously irritated geek alone! He must have a death wish. Simmons was decent with a gun, but at this close a range... yeah. Grif didn't want to think about how many bullets the geek could pop in him before he died.

"Trying to fix an absolutely ancient radio, now buzz off!" Simmons bite out.

"Where did... ?" Grif asked, despite that little voice in his head telling him it was a bad idea.

"Sarge." Grif blinked.

"Sarge is back? But I don't hear him bellowing my name in absolute rage and disgust," he said, truly curious. Simmons chuckled.

"Yeah, that's likely what he'd do the moment I told him you vanished. Again. No, I found it in Sarge's room. Turned it on, it worked for a moment, then made a truly awful grindy noise, and stopped. Figured I should fix it before Sarge got back," he explained. Grif 'ah'ed and nodded. That made a lot more sense then Sarge handing Simmons a radio and asking him to fix it. And then not bellowing for Grif in absolute rage and disgust. It sad, but it was a fact of life. Sarge really didn't care for Grif. Putting aside the rather skewed team dynamic, Grif settled in to watch Simmons work. After the tenth muttered curse, the Hawaiian sighed and tossed the geek his rifle. "Huh?" said geek questioned when he felt the gun colliding with his armored head.

"Pick up your gun and stand up," Grif ordered, already lining up a shot. Simmons tilted his head slightly, in the way that projected a raised eyebrow, but did as he was told. "See that tree over there? I bet you an hour's work I can hit it," Grif said, gesturing to a tree that was just in range with his rifle. Simmons snorted.

"I'll take that bet," he said. Grif chuckled, put his eye to the sight and...

"I win. That's an extra hour to my break tomorrow," Grif said, clearly proud of his shot. The tree now had a barely visible notch in the bark.

"You clipped it! Clipping and hitting are two different things! I get an extra hour break!" Simmons contested. Grif grinned.

"Oh yeah? Well how bout this. If you can hit the tree, I'll admit defeat and take an hour of your work. You don't even clip the tree, and you take an hour of my work. Deal?" he asked, holding out a hand. Simmons groaned, but smacked his hand in a low five.

"Deal," he moaned, then lined up the shot. It wasn't the trickiest, but for a Blood Gulcher, it was pretty hard. He took a deep breath, steadied his hand and then...

"Aw man! Now I have to do your work!" Grif cried, acting dismayed at Simmons' excellent shot when he saw the tiny hole in the bark, five inches away from his own scoring. Simmons preened slightly while Grif moaned.

"Hey, it was your bet," the science officer reminded smugly.

"I know. I just didn't think you'd be a better shot than me," Grif shrugged. Honestly, he could have hit the tree dead center, and he knew Simmons could hit it solidly enough to count. He was just trying to cheer the guy up and if it meant he had to take some of his work, so be it. At least Simmons wasn't cursing. Or muttering about putting bullets where bullets really shouldn't go. It was a bit scary when he did that.

"Yeah? Well, I actually do this thing called practice. You should try it sometime," Simmons teased.

"Uh... I thought that's what we were doing?" Grif shot back. Simmons jerked slightly, their version of a violent blink.

"What?"

"I thought I was getting you to do some target practice with me," Grif easily replied, bringing his gun back up and hitting a, slightly closer, boulder and chipping some of the top off it.

"Why?" Grif shrugged.

"Yeah. Yeah, I feel a bit better. Can I get back to my project now?" Grif chuckled and leaned against one of the not-really-turrets that ringed the top of the base, looking out over the canyon.

"Sure, Simmons. Sure ya can," he said. Simmons muttered a thanks and went back to the radio. Keeping his head pointed out toward the canyon, Grif watched Simmons out of the side of his visor. A slight smile played across his lips as he noticed how much calmer Simmons seemed after their, very short, bout of target practice. If Grif'd had his way, they would have shot the rifle a bit longer, but if the other man was calm enough to work without cursing, it was good enough for him.

/*/

When Grif headed over to the cave, Marley decided to drop down with Flowers and work with Simmons on his girl issues, as well as his mechanical skills. Sure they had Lopez, but what would happen when Lopez wasn't around? The guys would still need a tech, and Simmons was really the best option for that role. He was smart, analytical, methodical, and organized. Honestly, the guy needed something that required him to get dirty. Working on cars seemed like the logical step. But in the absence of a busted car, or ship, a busted up old radio would do just fine. Besides, having a guy around who could fix a radio was always a good thing, especially in this 'army.' "Wait wait wait. Who's this guy?!" Simmons protested, pointing his pistol at Flowers. Who was wearing his new gray armor with cyan accents.

"Agent Hippie. I call 'em Flowdie. Flowdie, say hello to Rick!" Marley said. The gray helmet, with a cyan stripe down the middle, nodded to Simmons.

"Hello Rick," he said in an eerily familiar voice. Simmons narrowed his eyes at the man, finger itching to pull the trigger.

"What's with the cyan... Flowdie," he growled. Marley stepped forward, pushing Simmons' gun down(he made a mental note to work on his upper body strength. She pushed both down with far too little effort).

"Flowdie's been a friend of mine for years, Rick. He just likes the color alright?" she said. Simmons sighed and holstered the weapon. "Thank you. Now, as to why we're here. I couldn't leave Flowdie in the ship because if I did, he'd fly off to help his old team, so that's why he's here. Why I'm here, is to not only work on your girl issues, but also on your repair skills." Simmons groaned.

"You love to torment me, don't you?" he groused. Marley just chuckled while Flowdie clasped his shoulder in the Man Code 'I feel your pain brother, I feel your pain' way. This was going to be a long day, he could just tell. Turned out, it was only two hours, but those two hours were brutal for Simmons. Marley didn't even bother masking her voice. And she flirted. It didn't matter that she was flirting with Flowdie, it made Simmons highly flustered. Flowdie found it highly amusing and was, ultimately, the reason Marley left. Of course, while she took Flowdie with her, she left the museum piece of a radio behind for Simmons to continue working on. Half an hour later and he was not only ready to shoot Marley and her 'friend', but blow the radio to kingdom come. Grif turning back up and asking questions didn't really help him fix the blasted thing either. It was when Grif was just silently watching him that Simmons got unnerved the most. Who knew what was going through that crazy head of his? His musings, and cursing, was cut short when a rifle impacted on his helmet. Now, Simmons wasn't against guns, he just... couldn't understand why Grif would toss one at his head.

"Pick up your gun and stand up," Grif ordered. Now why would Grif be telling him that? Shouldn't it be Sarge telling him to stand guard? All the same, Simmons did as he was asked. "See that tree over there? I bet you an hour's work I can hit it." Simmons snorted. There was no way either of them were hitting that tree, least of all Grif.

"I'll take that bet," he said. He was already thinking of what he'd do with his extra work-free hour when Grif proclaimed himself the winner of the bet, clearly proud of his shot. Simmons couldn't help but gawk at the clear, even from here, line of pale wood scoring the bark of the tree Grif had aimed at. "You clipped it! Clipping and hitting are two different things! I get an extra hour break!" he contested. No way was he giving up his extra hour. Especially if it meant getting Grif to work.

"Oh yeah? Well how bout this. If you can hit the tree, I'll admit defeat and take an hour of your work. You don't even clip the tree, and you take an hour of my work. Deal?" Grif asked, holding out a hand. Simmons groaned, but smacked his hand in a low five.

"Deal," he moaned, then lined up the shot. He took a deep breath, steadied his hand and then... He made the shot. Grif's dismay had him preening slightly while Grif moaned. He pointed out that it was Grif's own fault, then felt a bit irritated when Grif expressed his doubt in Simmons' aiming skills. "Yeah? Well, I actually do this thing called practice. You should try it sometime," he sniped, dropping into a ready stance, rifle pointed near Grif's kneecap. He didn't even notice.

"Uh... I thought that's what we were doing?" Grif said. Simmons could have sworn the other man was smirking.

"What?" he asked, bewildered. That was what Grif called target practice? If so, it was pathetic.

"I thought I was getting you to do some target practice with me."

"Why?" Grif shrugged.

"Figured you were getting too into that radio and needed to clear your head. Believe it or not, this is how I clear my head. At least, it is when I'm irritated. When I'm mad, I lay into my punching bag. Other than those two emotions, I either take a walk or a nap." The orange solider shot the boulder again before shouldering his gun and turning to Simmons. "You were clearly irritated, so, target practice it was. Feel better?" Simmons just stood there, speechless. Grif was... trying to help with his irritation? Yeah, it did seem pretty unbelievable that Grif used target practice as a form of anger management, Simmons had thought even that would be too much work for the man, and the thing about 'his' punching bag was strange too, but Grif helping him? That was even harder to fully wrap his head around. Sure they were sorta friends, but still. Grif. Helping. It was a strange concept. Then again, as Simmons examined his emotions, a lot of the irritation and frustration was gone. He smirked at his comrade. Confusing and lazy and strange as he was, Grif was an okay guy. Once you got past the aforementioned defects.

"Yeah. Yeah, I feel a bit better. Can I get back to my project now?" Simmons said, fingers already twitching to get back to work. Grif chuckled and leaned against one of the not-really-turrets that ringed the top of the base, looking out over the canyon.

"Sure, Simmons. Sure ya can," he said. Simmons muttered a thanks and went back to the radio. He'd never say it, but leaning against the base like that with his rifle held in a confident, easy manner, Grif actually looked pretty cool.

/*/

"I am seriously lost," Doughnut muttered, running in circles not too far from Blue Base, which he still thought was the store. Up in the stratosphere, Flowers was banging his head against a table.

"How dense is this guy?!" he asked. Marley chuckled, enjoying the show. Both of them.

"Pretty dense Flowdie. Pr~et~ty dense," she said. Flowers moaned and dropped to the floor for a moment before peeking at the screens yet again. He didn't really want to miss anything.

/*/

"Oh skits. Hey Tucker. Look at his armor. It's red," Church said. Tucker winced.

"Oh man, that means it's their Sargent," he stated, for the newbie. Who honestly didn't know why giving 'the general' the flag was bad. Okay, so if it was 'the general' and he'd asked for the flag, maybe it would be alright. But it wasn't really 'the general.' It was Red Sargent. That guy... oh, that guy...

"Well, that makes sense. At least now we know how he got past our defenses," Church said. The new guy titled his head like he was confused.

"Uh, ya know, he came in the back door where you guys were standing," he said. Tucker gave a little sigh. Church was just going to ignore that. And the slight it put on him. Come to think of it, Tucker was going to ignore it too.

"Uh yeah, okay. Well lets take him out then," Tucker said. Yea for ignoring!

"Roger that," Church said, dark glee underscoring his words. Hum. Was Church secretly a psycho, like that orange guy on Red Team? "Okay. Say good night, Sarge," Church said before firing four shots, each one missing the crouching Do... I mean, Sarge, by a few... feet.

/*/

"Wow. Okay. Alpha sucks at aiming. Good to know," Flowdie remarked, unsure of how exactly he felt about that.

"Maybe all of Church's weapon functions were all shunted over to the fragments," Marley suggested with a shrug.

"... You just love heaping more sins on the Project, don't you?"

"What? No, that wasn't heaping more sins on the Director. That was putting forth a theory! Goodness Flowdie, you've really got issues. Where'd your happy-yet-grounded perky personality go?" Marley asked, looking at her companion in surprise.

"It died. Church killed it. With aspirin," Flowdie drawled. Marley wasn't sure how to decifer the tone he used, but it wasn't complementary, that was for sure.

"... Wow. You sure you didn't really die? Like, for a few minutes? It'd really explain your mood swing," she asked, trying to lighten the mood. It didn't really help much. Man, Freelancer must have messed her up more than she thought. She remembered being a bit better at psychology than this.

"I'm... fairly sure," Flowdie responded.

"Uh huh. Sure," Marley drawled, still eying her friend warily. A beat of silence passed before she asked, "You're not... bi-polar... are you?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Flowdie answered easily. Marley quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Split personality?" she inquired.

"Don't think so," he shot down.

"Duly noted Butch. Duly noted," she acquiesced, writing down a few notes. Flowdie rolled his eyes at the woman, but couldn't help a fond half-smile.

/*/

Doughnut ducked and screamed as sniper rounds impacted the ground around him. What the heck man?! Why was he getting shot at?! "Son of a gun!" he exclaimed, dodging while crouching. Well, at least he had one thing on his side. Whoever was shooting at him was a terrible shot with that sniper rifle.

/*/

Tucker could only stare in shock as Church's shots all missed. "Aw skits," the not-a-sniper muttered, putting away the rifle and pulling out his pistol. Tucker was still staring when Church turned to him. "What?" he asked. Tucker huffed a laugh. What, he asks?

"You're really not very good with that thing... are you?" the cyan /*/ 'Little armor thief.' 'Stuff it Flowdie!' /*/ soldier said.

/*/

Meanwhile, on the valley floor, Doughnut was running back and forth, waving the flag and shouting, "Hey! Don't shoot! I'm the guy who bought the flag remember?!" It didn't occur to him that this... might not be the best idea. In fact, the best idea would have been to leg it as far away from the 'store' where people, who apparently didn't know how to use guns, had sniper rifles and were shooting at him. However, at this point, Doughnut was the dumb comic relief who didn't know a thing. So, he stayed there, running back and forth, screaming. Noob.

/*/

"Hey! Did you hear that?" Grif asked, looking toward the blue base. Simmons jerked out of his geek-trance and looked up from his radio. It wasn't like he was getting much of anywhere with the thing.

"Hear what?" he asked, looking around in confusion. Grif huffed.

"Sounded like a sniper shot. Four of em. Stay here, I'm gonna go get our sniper rifle. See if I can't figure out what's going on over there," he said, rushing inside the base. Simmons blinked, realizing there was something odd. He could have sworn Grif was sitting, cross-legged, resting against the 'turret' part of the base just a moment ago. Perhaps he'd leapt to his feet while Simmons was still wholly focused on his radio? Simmons shook his head. A fully armored Spartan leaping was bound to make some noise. He would have heard it... right? He sighed and stood up, putting the nearly finished, if not fixed, radio aside and squinted toward the Blue Base. What could they be up to? They hardly ever did anything! It was rather boring actually. If Marley didn't come kidnap him for 'field trips' he was fairly sure he'd be a raging sycophant trying to get promoted just so he could get out!

/*/

"Oh great," Tucker remarked as he watched the red solider run in circles, "now he's taunting us. That's just embarrassing." Church growled and switched to an assault rifle.

"Alright, that's it. I've had it! Rookie? You stay here, me and Tucker will take the teleporter and cut him off at the pass!" he said. Tucker could do nothing but look at his sort-of friend in shock and horror. Did he really just suggest going through the teleporter?! The same glowy green thing that made the rocks all hot and black?! "Tucker! You ready? Let's go!" Oh Captain Flowers NO! He was suggesting that!

"There is no way I'm going through that thing," Tucker refused. Church sighed.

"Tucker, we don't have time for this. Why would they give us a teleporter if it doesn't work?" he asked. It was a reasonable question... if you were laboring under the idea that 'command' was filled with competent and reasonable folk. Which it wasn't.

"I don't know! Why would they send us a tank that no-one can drive?" Tucker countered. Another reasonable question under the same circumstances. Church, however, was having none of this. He wanted to use the teleporter dagnabit!

"We already tested the teleporter, remember?!" he said.

"We threw rocks through it!" Tucker protested.

"Yeah? And? So what? The rocks came out the other side didn't they?" Church asked, sounding for all the world as though it were an acceptable test with favorable results. Tucker wasn't so convinced.

"Yeah, but they were all hot, and covered with black stuff," he rebutted, thoroughly unimpressed.

"Oh, so I guess that's what this is all about then? You're afraid of a little black stuff?" Church asked, equally unimpressed. Tucker bit back nervous chuckles.

"Yes. I am. I am afraid of black stuff," he said, inwardly chuckling at the irony. He himself was black. Not that Church cared to notice. Jerk.

"Tucker," Church began, bringing his rifle up, "I almost hate to do this ta ya."

"You wouldn't," Tucker said, though he was considering taking a step or too back from his crazy teammate.

"Ya know, I look at it this way: either a) we go through there, and get the flag back, or b) we stay here, and I get to kill you. Either way, I win."

"For the record, I just want to say, rocks aren't people," Tucker said, donating valuable words of wisdom to the world at large. Church, however, didn't seem to care.

"Duly noted. Now get in there!" he said, motioning toward the teleporter with his rifle.

"Carp!" Tucker said, drawing out the word before coming forward to face the teleporter. "Alright. 1... 2..." he said, then ran through the teleporter.

"Um..." Caboose, who had watched the whole thing like an in-ordinarily interesting tennis match, drawled after a moment. "He... didn't come out the other end."

"Yeah," Church drawled, mentally berating himself. Sure he was a jerk, but he didn't want to kill his own team. Inside, he was upset about Tucker getting lost. "I've uh, I've decided I'm not going to use the teleporter," he added, running off the side of the base. "Okay. Rookie! You stay here, I'll be back with the flag!" he called, running off.

/*/

Back at Red Base, Grif had come back with the sniper rifle, and Simmons was still confused. "I still don't know what you're talking about," Simmons told Grif, shaking his head at the other soldier, "I didn't hear any shots."

"I'm telling you! It was four shots, like BAM BAM BAM," Grif replied, still scoping out the area in the direction of Blue Base.

"Wait a second," Simmons said, quirking an eyebrow, "that was only three shots."

"... BAM," Grif said. Simmons chuckled softly. He may act like an annoying suck up, but he still had a sense of humor, and Grif had a way of being funny without trying very hard. "Wait a second. We got a blue guy on the move out there," Grif corrected, surprised that the Blues would actually do something. Hey, he wasn't the only lazy soldier in Blood Gulch. Just the laziest.

"Where's he headed?" Simmons asked seriously, instinctively switching over to Agent Maroon's mindset. Grif hadn't quite switched over yet, the scene he was seeing was just a little too odd as he responded with,

"Toward... Doughnut?" he said, blinking. What was that the newbie was waving? "And he's got something," he added. "Looks like..." he trailed off, shocked. How did the newbie get that?!

"Like what Grif?" Simmons asked sharply, still in an Agent mindset.

"Simmons," Grif said slowly and seriously, finally switching over, "get the Warthog." Simmons couldn't help a little jibe, having forgotten how upset Grif had gotten when they teased him after the Warthog first arrived.

"What, you mean the puma?" he asked with a slight chuckle. Grif scoffed.

"Yeah, keep making jokes. That'll win the war," he said, then jumped off the base. Simmons chuckled and followed.

"Couldn't resist," he said, already feeling the adrenalin rush of battle. Rick was often like that, joking in the face of battle, but he didn't have a taste for blood. He preferred to use humor as a means of distancing himself from the horrors of war until a more convenient time. A lot of soldiers used that tactic, and honestly, Rick was of the opinion that if you tell yourself you're happy and that the things people say don't bother you, eventually you'd believe it.

/?/

A/N: And there you have it. Webisode 5 in it's regenengle3'd, edited for language, glory. Hopefully it isn't all that bad and there's enough original content for you. It'll diverge more later on, I promise! I'm still getting the hang of writing these guys. And I can't decide if I want to keep Caboose's almost smart lines from the early webisodes, or edit them to reflect his later self. Hum... decisions decisions.

A/N 2: I decided to stay mostly true to the webisodes. It helps. Anyway, this has been re-visited for various reasons, primary among them being continuity. Plus it's been a while since I've worked on this story and I need a refresher. 8/15/16