Part IV
After a moment Grif glanced up from the laminated table-top. He stared at Sarge for a moment. Indecision roared through him for split second before he turned his gaze to Donut. His eyes were stony, but after another second he shifted his gaze to the last person at the table. Simmons.
"I suppose I should thank you all for saving my life, but excuse me if I'm not overjoyed." It felt strange that he was having this conversation, that he had to go through this experience twice now; albeit with different circumstances. He was more of a freak now than he was before; at least before he could hide it. Simmons dealt well with this... defection. But Grif... he only felt worse. Why would Sarge even bother to save him? Wasn't he hated enough by these people? Did Sarge only repair him so he could kill him himself, torture him a little longer with the insults? Grif didn't think he could pretend they were like water of a ducks back any longer; inside he was falling apart. If that was the only reason to be saved... He pulled himself away from those thoughts, his gaze softer as he stared at Simmons.
He knew how he must've felt now.
Was this just fates cruel trick to get him to be nicer to Simmons? If it was, he'd change, if only he would just wake up. Even if Simmons continued to call him names, continued to suck up to Sarge with promises of his death. He just wanted to go back to soaking up the sun. At least then he could change the different skin pigmentation. The scars would become less noticeable in time and maybe he'd be able to create a new life for himself when they left this hell-hole.
Sarge glared at Grif. His hands fisted on the table, but Donut reached over and put a tentative hand on his forearm. Shock broke up the anger in the CO. Simmons shifted closer to Grif, looking him straight back in the eye. The other man was searching for something. After a moment he looked dejected.
"What do you remember, Grif?" The odd, comforting tone shocked him. He stared, confused. "What do you... remember about all of us?" Grif turned his eyes to the table, searching its old surface for the answers—the right answers—to this question. This was a dream, what would happen if he said the wrong thing? Would it change?
"We never really got along... any of us." Simmons sat back in his chair, worry wrinkling around his eyes. It was an expression he hadn't seen in a long time—hell, had never seen. Grif shifted uncomfortably, eyeing Donuts' miserable look and Sarge's stony gaze that appeared... fractured. Was his relationships with these people different? Grif creased his brow in thought.
"What... that... huh? I'm wrong? Did... did something change while I was sleeping? Oh God, what's going on here?" Grif shuddered, head falling into his hands as he tried to pull himself back together. "It's just a dream, you'll wake up soon. You'll be on the roof of the base, and everything will be okay. You'll be Frankenstein, but not a Cyborg. It's just a dream. Just a dream. Not real." He continued to mutter to himself for a moment longer before a gentle hand startled him. It was Simmons.
"Come on, let's go talk." Sarge seemed to shoot him a disapproving look, but Simmons payed him no heed.