Part VII
Later, when he felt he was ready to leave the room, Grif stood. He'd eaten the entire plate of cookies, and he could almost hear Simmons muttering about him being a hog or a pig; but realised afterwards it was far more likely for Simmons to call him both. He knocked his new arm on the way out, jostling the bandages that covered where it joined his body. He muffled a cry of pain. It was okay; it was what he deserved—all this wasted material could undoubtedly done Sarge and the others much more use as another Lopez.
He wandered the base aimlessly, taking stock of the minute changes. It was far cleaner, far brighter, Donut had photos in his room where everyone was... happy. Grif felt slightly guilty as he looked over them, noting Sarge even looked happy—he large his sarcastic smirk. As he went further along he noticed one of him and Simmons. He paused. Photo-Simmons had his arm slung across Photo-Grif's shoulder. This... was definitely a dream. Grif frowned, his brow furrowing. He turned around, the movement was abrupt, and stalked out of the room. This was all some cruel joke; they must've known what he dreamed about, decided to lull him into a sense of security only too--- tear it out from under him.
Grif paused at the entrance (or exit, depending how one was to look at it) and stared up at the sun. It was quiet again; surprisingly so. The sun was warm. Grif let his eyes slide close, enjoying the feel of relaxing for a moment.
"Hey." Simmons sidled up next to, appearing a little hesitant. Grif stared at him for a moment, still very confused. They said nothing, just watched each other's movements. "Grif. What Sarge interrupted before... I was going to tell you something very important. But he thought you weren't ready for it. And then... he told me about a conversation you had just before." He paused, looking at Grif with hard eyes. Grif sighed; he knew it was too good to be true—of course they still hated him. It would never, ever change... He was just a lazy, good-for-nothing dick. "You remember before, but you just took this as a convenient way to end it all, didn't you?!" Grif paused, lifting his head and giving Simmons a wide-eyed, confused look.
"Remember what, that you all hate me, that you all threaten to kill me every day?! I'd rather forget the insults, the threats, thank you very much! This all felt like such a good dream until a moment ago... I knew it was too good to be true." Grif took a deep breath, coughing as his new lungs wheezed. He grimaced, eyes shut tight, as he bore the brunt of the pain. "I-I'm gunna just..." He cleared his throat a little, tears pricking his eyes at the remnants of soreness that lingered. "Go lie down..." Grif moved to a tree that stood fifteen or so metres away and gently lowered himself to the ground. He stretched his legs out before him, pretending for a moment that his metal leg was flesh. He ignored Simmons, who stared after him with a dropped jaw.
Slowly, he closed his eyes, and shadows rose up and curled around the corners of his mind.