- Eleven: That Thing You Love -


(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.)


He levelled his shotgun with the creature's head. She glared back at him with bulbous eyes, dangerous and angry. His own narrowed, his comrades beside him, the Covvie wretch outnumbered. Not even threatening her children would make her flinch.

"I'll ask nicely, one last time," said Sarge as he flipped off the safety. "Where did you get the ship from?"

He never got his answer. He got a fight, and he did what he had to do. He would do what he had to do with Simmons, as well; the shotgun's barrel was focused in on the forehead of the young Skirmisher.

"Don't make me hurt you, Private."


If the war had lasted, he would have been a weapon. A perfect mole into Jackal culture and politics, the bloodthirsty savages completely unaware. He was a smart kid, and he took to military doctrine like a fish to water. Polished, obedient, the ex-ODST's pride and joy, a legacy that would follow feet first into hell. Sarge counted on the kid to watch his six, the mutant little crap one of his greatest successes.

They called Simmons a thing. Sarge didn't blame them; they called his shotgun a thing, too. Yet, when they were all cowering, ducking and covering, he was out there with his beauty, blasting the night away. So many skulls blown apart, so many Covvies driven back, the thrill of the hunt making him wolfish with joy. He could see that same want in Simmons's eyes, too - his species was naturally aggressive. The Skirmisher still growled and snapped at things he didn't like, and his angry eyes were harsh and glimmering. They were kin, father and son, and they both chased down anything they didn't like. A recent pair of thieves who had gone after the moa flock had been swiftly taken care of by Simmons.

But Sarge never let his guard down. Simmons was an adult, but he still had his own recklessness, his own defiance. He was loyal as a dog, but even dogs tired of being yanked around, digging their feet in eventually. A shotgun pointing and a loaded threat were enough to get him on the move, but Sarge was never sure. His mother had been a defiant b!&^# to the end, not fazed one bit by a squad of elite soldiers surrounding her. That streak of stubbornness would not exist as long as Simmons was still under Sarge's thumb.

Was there any parental love from Sarge? In a twisted, militaristic sort of way, yes. Sarge would gladly beat down anyone who tried to tear apart Simmons. He couldn't turn on his adopted son without proof - it should have been obvious that the Skirmisher was a valuable asset. A rare breed of alien, swift and stronger than most, feared by fighters on Reach for their ruthless pack tactics. Besides, the two had lived together long enough, bonded, and trusted each other with their greatest secrets. There were many things about the UNSC that Sarge had told Simmons - things that, in another time or place, would have had Sarge killed. But the Skirmisher's lips (if they could be called that) were sealed, and Sarge wouldn't have it any other way.

Perhaps one might be jinxing it if they asked how long that might last. With a bloodlust that could eclipse common sense, added to a love for force that could be destructive, Sarge could be a ticking time bomb. When his temper flared, his bark was as weak as thin ice compared to what bite he had. He could be sadistic, inflicting as much pain as possible if angered enough, and his trigger finger twitched at so much as an insult. At least, that's what the "thing" he loved thought - but Simmons would never voice this. He had enough problems to deal with because of Grif, the base, and the recent run-ins with the UNSC.