- Two: Modern-Day Bootleggers (Pt. I) -
(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.)
When someone was dealing with Sarge, there were two things one had to remember.
One was that, especially if the end of a shotgun barrel was where that soul didn't want to be at, you didn't ask questions. Sarge provided the food, the water, the electricity and protection; he expected people to shut up and pay their rent in return. If he gave someone the go-ahead, then sure - they could ask away to their heart's delight. Start trying to pry into Sarge's private life, though, and he wouldn't hesitate to execute the unlucky moron on the spot.
Second, if someone didn't pay rent on time, then that someone was a waste of Sarge's resources. Sure, he'd let the first payment or two slip a few days, but keep it up and he'd start aiming. He was running a business, and if he wanted his clientèle to have the best place he could provide, money was necessary. Besides, what was the fun of owning his own land if Sarge couldn't spend anything to make it look nice?
Simmons didn't know why they didn't shoot Grif there and then. Anything would have been better then trying to bring the fat, reeking ex-soldier along for the supply run. Who cared if he was the only inhabitant in Sarge's new housing project? With all the wanderers after the war that were living on ships, for God's sake, they could always find someone else!
"Nrgh ... hrk ... ack! How the hell do you fit into this!" cried Grif - or rather, Yellow Two as he was to be known. "It's like trying to fit comfortably into a waffle iron!"
"Oh, shut the hell up, numb-nuts, " growled Sarge, placing the last of his shells into his trusty shotgun, giving the weapon a good pump. "This wouldn't be happening if you'd pay your due on time! Do you know how hard it is to get hot water in the middle of that canyon? There's a reason Command abandoned it!"
"Yeah, but you didn't say I had to leave the ship!" argued Grif. "I thought I was supposed to stand around and stay on watch!"
"You were," said Simmons, adjusting the holster around his hips to fit more snugly. "But where we're going, you'll need a suit of armour. It's a bit ... out there."
"Wait, what?" cried Grif. "We're going into orbit? F*-(!+/# orbit? What in the hell do you guys do?"
"Oh, quit being a such a baby and get some," snapped Sarge, giving his helmet's visor one last wipe-down. "You want to stay on my land, you either pay me or get out. If all else fails, and you want to see another day, you compensate. Unless, of course, you want to skip right ahead to the 'get out' part here and now? Because it's quite easy for me to throw you out of this ship if you want me to. Simmons, the hatch?"
Grif yelped as the Skirmisher strode over towards the dropship's single escape hatch. "Okay, okay! You win!" cried the ex-soldier, running forward to try and keep Simmons from continuing forward. "Fine! I'll quit complaining - just don't throw me out of the freakin' ship! Do you know how high we are?"
"Exxxactly, dirtbag," said Sarge with a nod. Placing his rag on the bench he sat upon, he stood up, holding his helmet over his head. With a hiss, it clicked onto his shoulders and connected his systems, the HUD quickly popping up in front of Sarge. A quick scan revealed everyone to be in good health, although Grif's heart rate was a little high; the veteran chuckled. Grif gave the Sergeant a look after noticing the sound.
"What?"
"Don't p*&! your panties now, boy," said Sarge, flicking at something on the side of his helmet. "We've got work to do. SHEILA! Status report!"
From the closed channel Sarge had just activated, he could hear the female A.I. say, "ETA at five minutes, seven seconds and counting. Approaching the colony of Burnsburnia at a casual 21.598272138 knots. Weather is sunny with a light breeze, and perfect for landing. UNSC not detected."
"Excellent," said the ex-Sergeant. "Then this should go smoothly. Simmons, get the goods ready, and take the dirtbag with you! You'll know when we'll land!"
"Yessir!" replied the Skirmisher, placing his own, specially-modified helmet onto his shoulders. There was a snap and a hiss, and Simmons too flicked on his closed channel radio with Sheila. He turned to Grif, glaring from behind the visor.
"Well, quit standing around! Put on your helmet already, a**#-/{!"
The Pelican landed without incident, just outside of the tiny merchant town known as Burnsburnia. A UNSC colony, it was a haven for those who had escaped the glassed planets, as well as ex-Insurrectionists. With the rebuilding of Earth and her larger colonies the main priority, places like Burnsburnia had mostly been ignored; the people had been left to fend for themselves. Other than farming the mostly-warm fields outside of the colony, trade had become popular with ... less-than-legal goods, such as old UNSC equipment. Sarge had bought the deed for the Blood Gulch Outpost here; where else would one find the documents for land that had been used as classified testing grounds?
"Don't ask any questions unless you're told," said Sarge as Sheila opened the main hatch. "We're dealing with some d*!/ dirty folk here. Don't make any comments, just shut up and follow - not hard enough for you to understand, hm?"
"Yessir," said Simmons.
"I was talking to Grif, boy."
"Sorry sir."
Grif sighed. "Yes, Sergeant."
"Good."
The three made their way down the hillside Sheila had landed on. A gentle wind blew over the landscape, rustling the yellow-tinged grass lightly. Some sort of field bird sang, a strange melody of yips and tweets drifting over the landscape. Almost instinctively, Simmons tilted his head upwards to hear it, but quickly brushed the sound aside. Ever since he was young, he had reacted to birdsong reflexively; Sarge had said it had to do with his species.
"So," began Grif, deciding to make conversation as they walked rather slowly. "How come you live with Sarge, Simmons?"
The Skirmisher was silent, focused only on the task at hand. Eyes forward, he was completely oblivious to the awkwardness that now enveloped Grif. The yellow-armoured soldier frowned.
"Like the weather here? It seems nice."
Once again, no conversation, and Grif sighed - it was going to be a long walk. Unbeknownst to him, there was an entirely different reason why Simmons and Sarge weren't responding ...
"Look, it'll only take me two seconds to shoot him, and five minutes to dispose the body. Heck, I could give your four or two, depending on whether or not I could find a grav lift."
"Absolutely not, Simmons!" said Sarge on the two-way radio, the "mute voice" function on their suits preventing any communication from being heard by the outside world. "As a distraction, possible cannon fodder and the general third wheel to berate, Grif serves in a valuable place among the team! If you're so frustrated with the situation, why don't you contact that pacifist in town for a yoga lesson? Then maybe you can dress up for a little tea party, and explain all the problems in life while going, 'Boo-hoo-hoo!'"
Simmons chittered in annoyance - a habit natural to his species, in lieu of the grumbling a human would usually make. "I don't need therapy from some medical school drop-out ... sir. I just am trying to analyse the situation for the best end result of this mission."
"Which will be determined by me, your ranking CO," said Sarge. "It's your job to shut your beak unless I ask for a status report. And where the hell is Grif's heavy breathing? Didn't you tell him to turn on the radio?"
Simmons said nothing. Sarge sighed.
"Right."
Plonk!
"OW!"
"Good, you're on line - welcome to the private Red Team radio channel," said Sarge. "Turn on your mute, boy."
Grif was stunned for a moment, trying to figure out why Sarge had just smacked him across the face. Upon Sarge's word's sinking in, there was a short, "Huh?" followed by a, "Oh yeah, right," from the yellow-armoured soldier. A soft click signalled that only the three could hear each other inside their suits now, much to the annoyance of Simmons.
"Now here's the plan," said Sarge as a small, wooden cabin appeared in the distance. "We look intimidating and demand the goods. I pay, you and Simmons grab what we need - "
"Wait, you didn't say there'd be any heavy lifting!" interjected Grif.
" - And high-tail it out of there before we get funny looks. Until we get back to the base, don't. Open. Anything. Grif, I expect you to follow this order straight through, since you seem to not be quite getting the whole reasoning behind a supply drop."
"Figures," Simmons mumbled, just barely enough for anyone to hear. He was ignored, though, as the three continued on to their target.
In the window of the cabin, a blond-haired woman looked out anxiously, twiddling her thumbs as she watched the three approach. Behind her, an adolescent of African-American descent laid back, bobbing his head to the music played from his chatter. It wasn't the cleanest of tracks - the old bat would have probably given him an earful for "corrupting her brood's minds" - but with the miracle that were wireless earphones, he didn't have a thing to worry about. One eye peeked open at the woman as she gently shook his foot, which was propped up on the arm of the couch he rested upon.
"Lavernius, go round up Michael and the girls," said the woman, motioning for the young man to pull out an earphone. "Tell them Mr. Sarge is here. You know the drill."
"You got it, Mrs. C," said Lavernius, swinging his legs off and down, standing up and giving a stretch. Leisurely walking towards the back garden, he tossed his chatter and earphones onto a nearby side table, not wanting to be bothered about them by his charges. All he needed was Michael, the oldest of the children, bugging him about playing "that awesome-tastic (but somewhat scary) flip music" Lavernius liked.
- To Be Continued -
Author's Note: "Flip music", in the Halo canon, is a descendant genre of what 21st century humanity refers to as "metal". The chatter, from what I can tell, is a sort of super-cellphone, with a system that is a mix between an iPhone and a laptop computer. (Please correct me if I am wrong.) The wireless earphones are a fanon creation (as far as I know), a descendant of the headphones of today; they are like the headphones you get with an iPod, but without the wires. They instead pick up signals from the chatter, just as a wireless radio would.
