- Thirteen: Grif Versus the Moa -


(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.)


The moa stared, its beady little eyes intense, wicked, as he pawed at the ground nearby. Grif stared back, flexing his one free hand, the other gripped tightly around a tube of dewormer, stance ready for a spring. The flock was due for its monthly parasite preventative, and so far, everyone had managed to be wrestled to the ground and force-fed their medicine. Everyone, that is, except for the one male Noé, who was proving to be especially defiant and aggressive.

"You and me, pal ... " Grif muttered through gritted teeth. "You ... and ... me."

The two stared at each other for a few moments longer. Then, with a great, wailing battle cry, he ran wildly with flailing arms towards Noé. Noé gave a cry of his own and ran in the other direction, sending clods of dirt into Grif's face as he ran. The hefty soldier huffed and spluttered as he was whacked with dirt, the odd, "SON OF A B&^#)!" echoing across the valley. From another hill, upon a lonesome boulder, Simmons and Sarge watched, amused.

"How long do you think before the moa kills him?" asked Sarge, chewing on a piece of wild grain.

"I'll give him fifteen minutes, maybe less considering how close he is to heart failure," said the Skirmisher. In the distance, Grif had circled around, and just as Noé ground to a halt at the bottom of a hill, he barely managed to dodge Grif leaping out at his blind spot. The moa took off down the little gully between hills, and Grif swore and hurried after him, turning red as a cherry as he tried to ascend another hill to literally get the jump on Noé. Sarge rose his eyebrows.

"He's going to kill himself with the acrobatics."

"I'm betting that the bird will break his neck first if they run into each other."

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" cried Grif as he tried to leapt upon the wayward male, the bird-like alien squawking and putting on another burst of speed. Grif only faceplanted into the dirt and tumbled down the hill, not even jumping far enough to tackle his target. Again he was spitting dirt, standing back up in a huff, barely able to get a breath in without wheezing. He tried to run again, Noé this time running up a hill to try and slow down Grif. It worked, the Hawaiian-born soldier managing only a few metres up the incline before tipping backwards and showing off his smoker's lungs. Sarge chuckled, and Simmons could only roll his eyes.

"And that's why a baker's dozen isn't thirty-eight doughnuts," said the old veteran.

"Did somebody say my name?" came a cheery, pitchy voice from somewhere behind him and Simmons.