- Nine: Calling Out -
(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.)
Dexter Grif wasn't much of the athletic type. He had barely passed all of his physical exams in the UNSC; too many packets of cigarettes and too many doughnuts snuck out from the mess hall had done a number on him. The ex-soldier had a talent for disappearing whenever there were drills, and whenever his superiors found him, it was usually when he was hiding on the roof or in the toilets. Grif always found it a pain when they took away his more dubious magazines - he was a soldier, he deserved a little release here and there - and the make-up punishments nearly killed him. In fact, Grif had even had a heart attack out on the track once, after a hundred laps left him wheezing and with burning legs.
But that time, he had good reason to scale the ... incredibly high and dangerous cliff's side, a waterfall spewing more gallons of water per second than what Grif liked to think about. (That is, when he did think about water; usually it was in the context of watering down beer enough that Sarge wouldn't notice it was beer. He was stingy about alcohol, despite the fact that they weren't in the army anymore.)
Grif felt like his heart was about to stop. No, scratch that - that his heart was going to stop, his arms were going to fall off, and everything in his digestive system before his small intestine was going to be coughed up. He swallowed back something acidic, gritting his teeth and reaching upwards, blinking back tears of exertion. Yes, Sarge would have called him a pansy, but at least Grif was scaling the d#*& thing like a man.
During such times of stress, it was force of habit for Grif to want someone more capable to do the job for him. Alas, Sarge was busy trying to perfect Blood Gulch's wiring, and his neck was so bruised from Carrie's attack, he couldn't turn his head properly. Such a fact meant that Simmons, his pet bird-thing from hell, would be using his naturally flexible body to squeeze into impossibly small spaces to get at a loose wire. Simmons wouldn't have been able to scale the cliffs anyways; though his shields had saved him from most of the gunfire at their last job, part of the suit had been badly damaged by stray bullets. Being sycophantic enough to be "the meat shield" led to the damaged parts shorting out spectacularly on the ship. Simmons had been dizzy from electrocution for three days, and there was a borderline third-degree burn that had scorched most of his left thigh. The mutant chicken hadn't stopped mentioning it - or rather, complaining about it like a baby - unless Sarge threatened to shoot his head off.
Grif yelped as a rock slid out from under his hand. The stone clattered, clacked and knocked a few pebbles loose as it fell down the steep slopes Grif had just ascended. He gulped, forcing himself to look back up, thinking hard to himself that he was not several hundred feet up. And no, those crow...like...things probably didn't think he'd be delicious, splattered like a loose pancake on the ground below, frying on the stones in the hot summer sun -
NO! Think happy thoughts! he yelled inwardly. Hot babes ... oh yeah, hot babes ... no, too distracting! Uhhh ... cream cakes? Yeah, cream cakes ...
He reached upwards with a shaky hand, searching for a handhold.
Especially double fudge. I. Love. Double fudge. Although that b(&$#*& Simmons enjoys them too; why should he? He eats like a freakin' celebrity on a diet, all dainty and poking at his food. Pansy. I bet he couldn't win an eating contest to save his life -
"Caw!"
What looked like a cross between a crow and a small dragon dove down at Grif, snapping angrily at his hair with a toothy beak. The soldier yelped, one half of himself swinging to the side, his back now against the cliff as he stared at the ground below. More rocks slid out from under his foot and hand; Grab the cliff, grab the cliff, GRAB THE F&^#$*^# CLIFF!
With a small, "Nyah!" of panic, Grif managed to swing himself back around and find his footing. He was white as a sheet, his eyes focused on the crow-thing and the crow-thing only as it circled back around. The creature cawed ominously, four taloned feet stretching out so that it could land daintily on a nearby outcropping. As soon as Grif's panic waned, he glared bloody murder at the creature, muttering a few choice words as he set out to climb again.
Stupid f&^#$*^# freak-birds and their stupid f&^#$*^# meddling and their stupid f&^#$*^# - "HEY!"
"Caw!" went the crow-thing again, landing on the opposite outcropping after swiping its little claws across Grif's scalp. "Caw caw!"
"Yeah, yeah, nevermore nevermore ... " muttered Grif irritably, reaching up with another hand. Sure enough, the crow-thing launched itself at Grif again -
Shmuck! A well-aimed punch slammed the beast into the cliff face, just before it could ram into Grif's face again. Its neck snapped like a twig as Grif's knuckles pushed inward, and the corpse tumbled to the ground below, leaving a purplish smear where it had been killed. Grif grinned, but then looked at the coppery-scented purple on his hand, and muttered a quiet, "Ew." Shaking off his hand, the man continued to climb.
"CAAAAAAAW ... ! CAAAAAAAAW ... !"
Grif stiffened. Oh, hell no ...
"CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAW!"
"JESUS CHRIIIIIII-ST-ST-ST ... !"
From the top of the base far below, Simmons and Sarge lifted their heads, wondering where the yelp had come from. The vicious cawing also was a bit startling, and the pair quickly turned their heads to look at the nearby cliffs.
"Well what do you know," said Sarge, lifting his eyebrows at the giant, croaking black cloud that had materialized around a nearby outcropping. "There's a corbie nest over there. We should take care of it."
"I'll add it to the list, sir, along with painting the base's interior and getting a new refrigerator."
"Excellent, Simmons! I always counted on you to keep a keen memory. Pass me that electrical tape, will you?"
Half an hour and many thrown punches later, Grif was finally at the top of the waterfall, covered in slashes, bite marks and scratches. Corbies, as he had just found out, were vicious little beasts when someone approached their nests. The closest thing that part of the planet had to crows, they were known scavengers, but preferred to hunt and packs and kill everything they could eat. Grif made a mental note to plant some sort of bomb on the cliff face when he was done with it.
Taking a moment to catch his breath on the grassy summit, Grif rubbed at his hands, the fingers red and scratched despite the war-born callouses that adorned them. The last of the corbies flocked to their nests, waiting patiently for Grif to come back down. Grif, peeking over the edge, gave them a look before getting to his feet, still huffing and sweating like a pig. What looked to be Simmons's distant cousins could go to hell; the ex-soldier had more important things to do.
For five minutes, Grif walked around, seemingly surveying the top of the cliff. When he was sure that he was alone, that no more corbies would try and gouge his eyes out and that there didn't seem to be any storm clouds, he stopped. Turning, he walked towards a small, thick patch of wildflowers and grass, the blades waving gently in the wind that had picked up, one could see a small, silvery glint. It was a metal rod of some sort, attached to a base deeper within the plant life. Grif's hands gingerly moved the foliage aside, handing that same base as soon as they reached down as if he was handling a wounded bird.
Grif might have been lazy, but he was not stupid. Thinking just tired him out most of the time; indulging in mindless pleasures like food, cigarettes and "tasteless" magazines helped lessen the mental strain. Before the war had become dire enough that conscripts were needed, there were other responsibilities - probably to Simmons and Sarge's amusement - that he had taken care of. One such responsibility was probably drifting around in space somewhere, constantly looking for another man to spoil her or something to get high of off. She was the bane of his existence, and yet, she was the only family Grif had; their mother had abandoned them at a young age because of financial issues.
Kaikaina Grif hadn't been heard from since Dexter had been sent to war. He had made her promise to take care of herself, to flee Earth if the Covenant managed to breach the Inner Colonies. He had also made her write to him, just to make sure she was okay, and that nobody was giving her trouble while Grif was off blowing aliens to pieces. None of these promises were kept - Kaikaina, as usual, had run off with some boy and never looked back.
Now, however, that would change. Grif, whenever Sarge would allow him in Burnsburnia, had been asking around. Countless "refugee ships" floated in space, travelling from planet to planet with homeless survivors of the Great War. In their particular corner of space, there were as many of those ships floating around as there was debris floating in the junk field around Earth. Finding passenger lists was not easy, as many of the ships were ... not exactly the best thing around in the eyes of the UNSC. Criminals, pirates, smugglers and various other folk of ill repute were known to take payment from those needing a place to go.
Once again checking to make sure he wasn't being watched, Grif pulled the small radio out from its hiding place. Save for a couple of bird-like droppings on the base, it didn't seem to have suffered any damage since he checked last. Fiddling around with the knobs, he tuned in to the open channel that was tapped into the various ships circling the planet. Sarge wouldn't notice that his radio had a few loose wires; the man had a mountain of work to do on the base, and it wasn't like the radio was busy. The only time it came to life non-stop was when Sarge was organizing runs, and that hadn't happened since he had planned out the ill-fated stop at Carrie Caboose's. Placing the makeshift headset into his ears - it was amazing what he could do with some spare wire and a pair of wireless earphones - Grif picked up the microphone he had fashioned out of a mint tin and more earphones.
"Calling all refugee-carrying ships, come in refugee-carrying ships," said Grif. "This is D. Grif of Blood Gulch Valley, just outside of colony Burnsburnia, planet Saldana. I'm looking for a Kaikaina Grif - female, twenties, freckled, Caucasian and strawberry blonde. She is my sister and I have been searching for her since the war ended. If a Kaikaina Grif is on your passenger list, please respond. I repeat, if a Kaikaina Grif is on your passenger list, please respond."
Static came in over the channels, mixed in with the odd bit of interference. That was all Grif had received for weeks, the radio's abyss silent and fragmented-sounding. Grif remained quiet, praying that this time someone would answer. He needed to see his sister again; she needed him. She wouldn't survive on her own - she threw herself into any situation where she could get a high. It was a miracle she had even survived to see Grif conscripted.
"Calling all refugee-carrying ships, come in refugee-carrying ships," repeated Grif. "This is D. Grif, searching for a Kaikaina Grif. Description is female, twenties, freckled, Caucasian and strawberry blonde. Please respond if you have a match; I repeat, please respond if you have a match."
And still, there was nothing.
