Several months later...
"You know, Simmons, I could get used to this," Grif said, kicking his feet up on the desk as he settled his bulk more comfortably in his chair. The beleaguered furniture gave an alarming creak as it tilted back to accommodate his new posture.
Simmons looked up from the other side of the desk. "You could get used to being under siege?" he asked with a hefty amount of incredulous derision.
"Fuck yeah. I mean, I always assumed it'd be just as awful as everything else in the army," Grif said, lacing his fingers together behind his head. "But we've been under siege for three months now, and nobody's attacked us, we've got plenty of food, minions at our beck and call, and we haven't had to do shit. This is great!"
"You haven't done shit," Simmons corrected, "Everyone else has been trying to find a way to break through the orbital blockade the space pirates set up."
"Why bother?" Grif scoffed. "It's not like these people were interested in interstellar travel anyway, and where the fuck do we have to go?"
"Do you want to be stuck here the rest of your life?" Simmons asked.
"Are you kidding? That'd be awesome! Getting stranded here is the best thing that's ever happened to us," Grif said. "We've got an entire planet to ourselves as long as these guys don't start fighting each other again. That's not likely because we already stopped them from doing that, and people love us so they'll listen to us when we tell them to knock it off if they start fucking around again. We can't go back to the military and the military can't get here to take us. As far as I'm concerned they can keep that blockade up forever."
"But we are still in the military. We're on watch right now!" Simmons said.
"No, we're the watch captains. We have our own office! We're the guys the people who are actually on watch report to. And you wanna know what they're gonna say? 'All clear, nothing to report.' Same as yesterday, same as last week, same as last month," Grif said. He gave a happy sigh, wriggling deeper into his chair. "This is the best war ever."
"We're crammed in a repurposed supply closet because all the actual offices were converted into apartments to try and contain all the soldiers they brought in," Simmons said, gesturing to their dank surroundings.
"Have you ever had your own office before, Simmons? Even a repurposed supply closet office?" Grif challenged.
There was a beat of silence as Simmons thought. "... No," he finally admitted in a sullen voice. He jabbed a finger a Grif. "But you have to admit having to share quarters sucks."
"The more soldiers there are, the more bodies are between me and oncoming bullets. Bring 'em on," Grif said.
"You're only saying that because you don't have to share a room with you," Simmons said in a scathing voice. "I got one of your socks stuck to my boot once and they almost put me in quarantine because they registered a biohazard on my armor."
"So, same as Blood Gulch, except here you can order some jackass to clean our room. I just pick someone I hate and have them do it."
That... was a very good point. Simmons frowned, setting his pencil down on his sudoku puzzle and trying to think of bigger flaws. Something had to be wrong with it; sieges were supposed to be bad things. But aside from not letting anything enter or leave the planet, the pirates were content to leave them alone for now, and with the Federal and New Republic armies pooling their resources no one was going without food or shelter (however cramped). The most exciting thing to happen since confronting the Chairman were the scattered fistfights that occasionally broke out between the former enemy soldiers. The Blood Gulch crew's involvement in the civil war had come with promotions, something Simmons had always dreamed about. He had subordinates now, some of whom even respected him.
"Aren't you curious why the pirates haven't been attacking?" he asked.
"God damn it, Simmons, don't fucking start," Grif snapped, sitting up slightly to glare at him.
He leaned away, taken aback by the sudden heat in the fat man's voice. "Start what?" he asked.
"Every goddamn time someone starts asking questions about what the enemy's doing or not doing, they start doing something. Then what starts off as a seemingly simple situation gets really fucking complicated, and suddenly people are shooting at us and there's some kind of mysterious conspiracy that we never really fully understand because it's usually centered on the fucking Blue Team and we miss half the shit they do but we still have to help them break into some heavily guarded and really fucking dangerous place to get something to stop the bad guy, all because we spat in destiny's eye by not just accepting that sometimes shit isn't blowing up in our faces. So no, Simmons, I'm not fucking curious why the enemy hasn't attacked," Grif said. He started to lean back then straightened again, pointing a threatening finger. "And I swear to God if something happens because you questioned fate I will shoot you in the fucking mouth."
"Me?!" Simmons protested, "If anything happens, it'll be because you provoked irony by saying how nice everything was!"
"Oh, fuck, right. Okay, shut up about it," Grif said, his chair protesting with a squeal as he leaned back in a show of forced casualness.
Simmons made a rude noise. "Well, it's too late now," he said with a smug grin, "You already brought it up. Someone's gonna come running through that door with an emergency any second."
"Maybe they won't if you shut the fuck up about it," Grif growled.
"No, because at this point even if I stop talking about it, just enough time will pass for you to start to relax thinking nothing's gonna happen, then something's gonna happen," Simmons said. He started collecting his things off the desk and got a pen ready for the log book.
"Well, then, fuck it, keep talking about it — if we don't stop I can't relax, right?"
"Nope. Then it would just happen as we're talking about it for maximum Murphionic effect."
Grif tilted his head. "'Murphionic?'" he parroted.
"As in 'Murphy's Law.' You know, 'anything that can go wrong, will?' 'If everything seems to be going well you've overlooked something?' Patron saint of something fucking up? And you went ahead and invoked him," Simmons said, leaning back in his own chair and lacing his fingers together over his stomach.
No sooner had he finished speaking then the sounds of a scuffle filtered through the thin walls. Simmons tilted his head to hear better; if it sounded like real trouble he might actually have to get up to investigate.
It was expected that bad blood would still exist between the former Federal and New Republic soldiers. Armonia was filled to bursting as they fortified their position in anticipation of Charon's attack, and the cramped quarters rubbed already-frayed nerves raw. Old enmities didn't vanish overnight, especially in a civil war as bitter as this one had been. Most understood that they had been played by Charon but it was difficult to ignore that there had been deaths.
So while the altercations were not officially sanctioned, it was almost impossible for those in command to punish every infraction unless they wanted to try and throw the entire army in the brig. So officers were subtly encouraged to turn a blind eye to minor incidents as long as they didn't become overly violent or interfere with the war, and let the soldiers work it out among themselves. They didn't have the time or resources to do anything else.
There was a thump and a muted curse from the hallway, then hurried footsteps approaching the office.
The door burst open to admit a female in New Republic armor with maroon accents. "Sschirss!" Jensen cried as she stumbled into the room. Once she caught her balance she snapped into a salute. "Sschirss, Generalssch Kimball and Doyle requesscht your presschenssche in the war room immediately for an important sschtaff meeting!" she cried, her lisp rendering her almost indecipherable in her excitement.
"Told you," Simmons said, dutifully jotting it down in the log as he stood and returned the salute.
"Fuck Murphy, and fuck you," Grif snapped back. He shoved away from the desk with an angry kick, grumbling under his breath as he laboriously rose to his feet, shoving his helmet on his head. Simmons grinned as he grabbed his own helmet.
They all turned as a soldier in Federal armor charged into the room, throwing himself to attention next to Jensen. "Sirs! Generals Doyle and Kimball — " he started.
"I already told them, ballsschack," Jensen jeered.
The other soldier didn't relax from his salute. "I was repeating it in case they actually wanted to understand what was being 'sschaid,'" he drawled. Simmons scowled; somebody had just volunteered for "Grif Room Cleaning" duty.
"You're an assschhole."
"You tripped me in the hall so you could get here first, bitch."
Simmons felt a swell of pride; Jensen was ambitious and underhanded, two traits he felt were critically undervalued in the military today.
"Well, I can see the brilliant plan to mingle Fed and New squads together is working great. You can really feel the healing," Grif said.
"It's a theoretical solution," Simmons said, "I mean we fought the Blues for years and look at us now."
"They've met Sarge, right?"
Simmons wasn't touching that one. He turned to Jensen, opened his mouth, and squeaked when his throat seize shut and panic gripped him. He coughed and tried again, this time successfully managing vocalization. "Uh, thank you, lieutenant. Message received? Thank you," he said, wincing every time his voice warbled. He cleared his throat, forcing his voice back down from the octave it was climbing. "For the message. That we received. You are... dismissed?"
"Thank you, sschir!" Jensen said.
"Actually, sir, we're to man your post while you're with the generals," the Federal soldier said with an undue amount of smugness.
Jensen wilted slightly. "Oh. Yeah, right," she said, embarrassment clear in her voice.
Protective anger burned in Simmons' stomach. He tried his best to loom over the Fed, who was a head taller than him. People were rarely intimidated by a short, skinny man with ginger curls and freckles, but they were definitely discomfited by cyborg implants. "Nobody likes a smartass," he growled.
The Fed twitched, clearly not expecting Simmons' hostility. "Uh, but sir, I was just — "
"Is that backtalk?"
"No, sir, but I — "
"'No?' Now you're disagreeing with a superior officer?"
"I was just relaying our orders — "
"More backtalk? You're not going to get far in this army with that kind of attitude, soldier!" Simmons said.
The Fed started to sigh but caught it. "Yes, sir," he said, his voice sounding as if it had escaped from between clenched teeth.
Simmons bobbed his head in a satisfied nod, sniffing disdainfully. He stepped back, slapped on his helmet, and turned to Jensen. "Carry on," he said.
"Yessch, sschir!" she chirped, snapping another salute.
Simmons nodded again, hesitated as he tried to think of if he needed to say something else, gave one more nod and led the way out of the room at a fast clip, Grif close behind him.
"You're getting better at that," Grif noted after a moment.
Simmons shot him a glare over his shoulder as his face heated. "Shut up," he said.
"No, no, I mean it. You didn't make a complete jackass out of yourself this time," Grif said. "I mean, it was still embarrassing as hell to watch, but one day at a time, buddy."
"Shut. Up."
"Hey, I was always worried you'd die before you managed to talk normally to a girl, but at this rate you'll get to it just after you're too old to get your dick up! I'm proud of you."
"Shut up."
"And using your position of power in a show of petty favoritism? Girls just eat that up."
"I said shut up!
"You should never be ashamed of progress, Simmons."
"I hate you."
He turned down the hallway and headed for the main entrance when he realized Grif had stopped at the intersection. He faced his partner, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Grif, what are you doing? We've got to go!" he said.
"Yeah, so why aren't you heading for the garage? I'm not fucking walking," Grif said.
Simmons sighed in exasperation. "It'll take us longer to drive there than to walk!" he said.
"Yeah, but we'll be walking, and fuck that. If shit's going to go to hell, I want to be as rested as possible for when we have to start running for our lives," Grif said. He turned and headed towards the garage, calling back to Simmons, "Besides, it's hot as balls out there. You can walk if you want, I'm going to drive like God intended."
That was another very good point. Simmons paused, mulling it over, then hurried after Grif. "Hey, wait up!"
After commandeering a jeep the two began the slow crawl towards Central Command. According to Sarge, the city had always been busy with reconstruction and fortifications, but now with the addition of a second army and the preparations for an inevitable attack it was practically alive. The population had almost tripled since the end of the civil war, and now those people swarmed the streets, ensuring Grif and Simmons' car never moved faster than five miles per hour.
"So what do you think they're calling us in for?" Grif asked as he braked to allow a troop to jog across the road.
"How should I know?" Simmons said.
"Well, what does Murphy say?"
Simmons rolled his eyes, watching the last of the troop finish crossing. "What's the worst thing you can think of?" he said as the jeep pulled forward.
Grif hummed in thought. "Charon has managed to clone an army of you. The levels of nerdiness will rise to lethal levels and there wouldn't be an unkissed ass in the entire galaxy," he said.
"Then it'll be worse than that," Simmons said in a sour voice. "Also: suck my balls."
CenCom was a massive, ugly building that squatted in the center of Armonia. Years of conflict had forced the construct to evolve from a typical government structure to a damage-pocked monstrosity, studded with half-finished repairs and bulwarks. What once might have been a charming forecourt filled with grass, trees, and fountains was now a dreary, barren killing ground.
Sarge was waiting for them outside the front door as they searched for a place to park. The flood of bodies going in and coming out of the building eddied around him to avoid bothering him — Sarge's reputation was well-known and well-earned.
Guilty panic skittered through Simmons' belly, and he hopped out before the jeep had fully stopped to hurry and present himself before his superior.
"Simmons! Good hustle. Donut is scouting inside to make sure this isn't some kind of dirty Blue trap! Need you and Grif to run back up when we advance. And by 'back up' I mean 'meat shields.' And by 'you and Grif' I mean 'Grif.' Need you behind Grif to make sure there aren't not any friendly fire 'accidents'," Sarge said.
"Yes, sir!" Simmons said, saluting. He hesitated, then continued, "But, sir, why would this be a Blue trap? Weren't the generals the ones to call us here?"
Sarge hefted his shotgun to rest it on his shoulder. "And who told you that, Simmons?" he said coyly.
"Uh… Jensen, sir."
"And who told her that?"
"I… don't know," Simmons admitted.
"So you don't know it wasn't some Blue trying to lead us into an ambush!" Sarge said.
"Aren't we fighting pirates now?" Grif asked, ambling forward until he was standing besides Simmons.
"Grif! What took you so long?! Missed the entire battle plan!" Sarge snapped.
"I was literally right behind him. It couldn't have been that complicated," Grif said.
"Every second we're out here jawin' over things we've already said is another second for the Blues to fortify their position! You've jeopardized our entire mission!"
"But we're fighting the pirates."
"For now. But just because we have a new enemy doesn't mean the Blues are no longer our enemy! We must remain constantly vigilant! It would be the perfect opportunity for the Blues to take advantage of our preoccupation and strike!"
"Then they'd be down a squad when they went up against the Chairman. Wouldn't that be a disadvantage for them?"
"You think Blues are smart enough to think that far ahead? They're incapable of thinking beyond their own narrow-minded bloodlust! We should take them out first before they have the chance to do it to us."
Grif shook his head in disgust and said, "Tell you what, sir. It's hot out here and there's air conditioning in there, so I'll take point," he said as he brushed past Sarge. "If I die, you'll be right and I'll be dead. Win, win. Great plan, Sarge."
Simmons and Sarge watched in silence as he walked up to the double doors and disappeared inside the building.
"Simmons?" Sarge said once the fat man was gone.
"Yes, sir?"
"I hate that man."
"Yes, sir. Me, too, sir."
Sarge sighed. "Come on," he grumbled as he moved to follow Grif, "Maybe it really will be a Blue trap and we'll find him splattered all over the halls."
"There's always hope, Sarge," Simmons said.
Red vs Blue is property of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC. Halo is property of Microsoft, Bungie, and 343 Industries.
A thousand hugs for my beta, Aryashi.