- Eight: Feathered Relics -


(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. This chapter has some mature references.)


Sarge was not a man of favours. He was a firm believer in "an eye for an eye", and always expected someone to pick up their end of the bargain. Grif was not a tenant just because; he was expected to work, and despite being a lazy pile of fat with smoker's lungs, he had his own brand of intelligence. Simmons was quick, lithe and cunning - he'd be a real S.O.B. if Sarge hadn't raised him to be such a good subordinate. Sheila paid her due in self-repairs, scans and acting as a general security system, always on the radio with Sarge when she picked up something.

That entire belief was thrown out the window when an old friend tracked him down.


Grif sighed, tired from a long day of ... well, Sarge wasn't quite sure, but it had something to do with him "going on a hike". (Unlikely, considering how Grif's first reaction to work was to lie down and fall asleep.) Simmons stood quietly, waiting for the next order; both were decked out in full Red Base attire. Sarge had insisted that they "look good for company", and Grif couldn't help but entertain the thought that Sarge had a special someone. The joke he had let slip while Sarge was in another room earlier earned him a good, swift kick from Simmons.

In the distance, a dropship of some kind was heading straight for Blood Gulch, Sheila prattling off on their radios that it was some sort of civilian ship. Sarge was oddly quiet himself, save for a loud, "Soldiers! Atten-HUT!" when the ship finally landed. Grif looked oddly at Sarge as he tensed; the man looked like he was waiting for some long-lost CO to come and inspect the troops. Again, an obligatory "special someone" joke popped up in Grif's head, but he managed to keep it to himself.

The ship's door hissed open and slowly, gracefully placed itself on the ground. Out stepped a battle-scarred, older-looking man, face weather-worn and with a jagged scar cutting through his left eye. The milky whiteness of that eye showed the wound had blinded him, and he had to look around before realizing Sarge was on his left side. Jumping down from the ramp the ship's door had formed, the gentleman walked forward, grinning as Sarge removed his helmet.

"Long time no see, Christofferson!" the fellow said, laughing as he and Sarge shook hands roughly. "You look well and stressed, as usual."

"And you look like a broad shoved one of your lockpicks into your face ... what is it that you go by now? York?" asked Sarge. York nodded with an "mhm-hm" of confirming.

"Yep. Doesn't seem right not using my codeword; I've been in this d*#$*( business too long, and Delta won't stop calling me that."

"Delta?" asked Sarge, furrowing his eyebrows. "You still have yours?"

"Relax, Christofferson," said York. "D is perfectly harmless, you know that. He specialized in tactics and information gathering/decoding; he's programmed to be logical and helpful to a fault. Not like that crazy b*/^# they stuck with Carolina, or Tex's A.I. ... now that was a real f(*#$*. Say, how is 'Lina?"

York's face seemed to lighten at his other friend's codename. Sarge's face nearly fell, but he managed to keep his expression cheerful; he couldn't tell York. The two of them had been ... close, or at least as close as that ripoff of a SPARTAN program would let them be. It didn't help that Sarge owed York a few more favours than he was comfortable talking about.

"I'm not sure about Carolina," said Sarge. "Last I heard, she packed up her lot and was heading for another colony. I haven't heard from the little hellcat in months."

York's expression itself fell slightly, but he managed to keep face. He'd been hoping to catch up with Carolina - the woman had gone to great pains to hide herself and her family after falling out with the UNSC. It was one thing to commit friendly fire, even under the influence of a rogue A.I.; it was entirely another thing to fake one's death, desert, and then drag an entire family to some backwater, uncontrolled colony. How Carolina had done it, York wasn't so sure, but she had always been one of the craftier agents. Only Maine could beat her in creativity whenever a prank war or mass hazing broke out.

"So what have you got for me, York?" asked Sarge, turning towards the ship. "Now, I don't mind live cargo, but are you sure I'm not going to have some sort of official on my tail, going on and on about some s*&# involving 'introduced species' or whatever the hell gets them in a knot?"

"I don't think you'll have any problems here, Christofferson," said York. "These guys are practically a relic; I paid good money to get them off the market. You make this work, and you'll have environmentalists, scientists, biologists ... basically any of those 'tree-hugger hippie types' that drive you insane just begging for a specimen."

The pair walked into the ship, where squawking and cawing of some sort could be heard from within. Instinctively, Simmons could tell it was some sort of bird or bird-like animal; what exactly was there, however, didn't sound like anything he had heard of before. There was the sound of a cage opening, Sarge going, "Whoa now!" as something ran past him -

"Scrawk!"

"Nyaah-ah!" went Grif as several tall, grey birds ran past him, looking like an ostrich with some sort of purple crest on their heads. There were seven in total, with the first one that ran out the largest. They quickly scattered all over Blood Gulch, Sarge watching fondly as they stretched their legs. A few stopped to squawk and call out, curious and a little disoriented in their new, lush home.

"Hehehe ... now that's a sight for sore eyes," said Sarge. "I haven't seen a moa since Reach. How'd you find the little b#^*/)&*, York?"

"Several of the survivors raised moas for meat," said York. "Moa burgers were a bit of a delicacy on Reach. Some of them managed to smuggle their stock onto transport ships, and were keeping them on some of the other colonies. Rumour has it that the UNSC is paying them to raise the moas as 'living relics', to keep Reach from being forgotten. I would have brought you a gueta pair, too - "

"Ah no no, let's not talk about the gueta," said Sarge with a fond chuckle. "I remember what happened the time you convinced me to try and ride one. That s*/# was crazy."

"Yeah, well you're crazy," said York, giving Sarge a teasing punch. "If I remember correctly, you jumped on without a second thought."

"I was young. And stupid. The CO wasn't happy when I had to explain what happened to his new Warthog - GRIF! What in hell are you doing, boy?"

Grif jumped backwards, startling the moa that he had been trying to sneak up on. The bird quickly turned, squawking in surprise and giving a sharp kick. Both York and Sarge winced as the blow landed on Grif's crotch, the yellow-clad ex-soldier crying out and falling to the ground. Not even shields could lessen the pain of a low blow.

"That's going to leave a mark ... " said York.

"Yeah, well, he deserves it," said Sarge. "He's lazy and none too bright, anyhow. SIMMONS!"

"Yes sir?"

"Go grab the idiot and take him back to the base before he kills himself. I've got business to discuss!"

"Yes sir!" cried the Skirmisher, running over and hauling Grif to his feet. Once the two had returned to the base, Sarge turned and looked at his old friend.

"Ignore the moron, I won't let him do anything with the flock. They'll start laying eggs by next spring, right?"

"That's how it should work," said York. "Ádám and Noé are the dominant males, and there's five other females they'll service without issue; you should have a full set of eggs by spring. You'll have to contact that me when it happens, since they'll get aggressive with any male chicks - there's a pecking order there to keep inbreeding from happening."

"Reminds me of the fathers back home."

"Really? I thought hicks weren't picky when it came to the broads."

Sarge punched York in the arm again, this time a little harder. His friend let out a yelp, but laughed, saying, "Okay, okay ... no more hick jokes, I'm starting to sound like Reggie. Where was I? Oh yeah - if there's any male chicks, you'll have to have someone go and get them after a couple of months, to keep the flock in balance. Make sure to grab a few of the female young, too. I'll go through my contacts, make a pretty penny pawning off the young and we'll split the profits evenly. You happy?"

"Anything for you, York," said Sarge, placing a friendly arm around the ex-Freelancer. "I still owe you a million times over for what you did for me on Reach."

"I know you'd do the same."