Legal Disclaimer: I do not own Red vs. Blue or any of the show's characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.
Chapter Four:
The Slums
The condensation on the metal piping collected into a small droplet of water that slowly dripped down and fell to the tunnel floor. Grif was watching the repeated drip so closely that his eyes were threatening to cross, the voices nearby droning on and on incessantly.
Fuck, he was bored.
Tucker, standing next to him, suddenly elbowed him in the side.
"Jesus, what the fuck?" he turned to glare at his friend, "Tucker-"
But the rest of Grif's angry remark trailed off when he saw the reason as to why his friend had interrupted his attempt to doze off where he was standing: a skill he was starting to master with aplomb, he might add.
An old man in red battle armor was glaring directly at him, fingers twitching as if he was just barely resisting the urge to grab the shotgun always strapped to his back when he wasn't holding it. To be honest, the guy had way too strong of an attachment to that weapon. Grif was surprised he hadn't given the fucking thing a name yet.
"Grif," the man said his name in a rough-sounding voice, grimacing somewhat as if even addressing the younger man directly by name offended him horribly, "Did ya get any of that, dirt bag?"
Okay, so he was referring to the boring report meeting they'd just gone through like they did every morning. He was somewhat surprised that Sarge kept asking him that same question everyday, given how he must know what his response would be by now.
"No, not really."
Sarge mumbled incoherently and then he was suddenly holding the shotgun. Grif raised an eyebrow.
"Dangnabit, Grif! Why do you even bother showing up for these things?"
"One: because you try shooting me when I skip out on them. Two: because there's free food."
"…Don't forget about the juice bar!" a blond-haired young man with an almost perpetually blank look in his blue eyes supplied helpfully from the background.
"Thanks, Caboose." Grif shrugged and turned back to Sarge, "Three: there's also a juice bar."
Tucker scoffed next to him, "Yeah, some bar. It only has one kind of juice."
"I like orange juice the best." Caboose interjected again.
Grif's friend sighed, "Shut up, Caboose."
The grimace on Sarge's face became even more pronounced during their exchange, "You need to at least attempt to take this seriously."
Grif frowned, not quite sure how to respond to that.
It wasn't like he didn't know how serious this whole thing was. Far from it. He'd been there when Above Ground took their retaliation on those Insurrection assholes out on The Slums. Hell, he still had nightmares about all of the screaming he'd heard and sometimes he would wake up feeling like fire and smoke were still stealing the air from his very lungs.
He hated those assholes for it and he hated those Insurrection dicks even more. Fortunately for them, he supposed, that they'd all pretty much died in their initial assaults on Above Ground three years ago.
Now it was just left up to the poor bastards stuck down here to deal with the aftermath of their stupidity.
But, admitting that especially to someone who had pretty much forced him to face that reality head-on when he hadn't wanted to, well, that was pretty much impossible.
So Grif did what he did best in this type of situation. He pretended he really didn't give a fuck.
"Well, maybe if there was anything actually new or vital in these reports…"
While they'd been talking, a dark-skinned woman in tan and cobalt armor walked over to them. Any remark Sarge may have had for Grif in response to his comment died away as he hastily saluted her.
Vanessa Kimball, de facto leader of what little remained of The Slums' Resistance groups after Above Ground's purge, ignored the gesture and regarded all three of them tiredly.
"Another problem?" she asked.
From the look on her face, she already knew what was going on. She confirmed it by cutting off any comments from Grif or Sarge.
"You're right, Grif. This information is dated and we haven't been able to gain any new intel from reconnaissance for quite awhile. There is very little reason to keep having these meetings." Before he could look triumphantly at the older man though, she continued, "However, some of our troops need a sense of routine and normalcy to keep them going. The least we can do for them is this much."
Couldn't really argue with that logic. He nodded his head in understanding.
"Although part of that routine now evidently includes a pool to see how long it will take for a certain fighter in orange to tune the entire thing out." She smiled in amused exasperation, "And just how long it will take before Sarge shoots him for it."
Sarge grinned at this line of thought, "Can I place a bet then?" he asked, lining the orange-armored soldier in his sights and chuckling.
Grif groaned, "Just kill me."
"Grif, weren't you even paying attention? That was the whole point, dirt bag!"
If someone had told him a couple years ago that Dexter Grif would find himself as a soldier in the Resistance, Grif would have probably laughed his ass off and asked for whatever it was that they had been smoking.
Seriously, he didn't have the energy or time for that bullshit. He didn't want to shoot a gun or get shot at. He didn't want to leave Kai behind all on her own if something happened. He had worked his whole life just to ensure that they had an existence that was somewhat decent: one where they were provided for but he could also nap all he wanted too.
It seemed pointless to throw that all away on a situation that wasn't going to change, for a cause that would likely lead to a painful death and potentially just piss off a military with no qualms about killing teenage civilians they came across either.
But then those stupid Insurrection assholes went ahead and made their move. Grif wasn't even sure how they had managed to sneak past the security gates into Above Ground. No one really knew, truthfully. The group had been pretty damn secretive even amongst other Resistance cells. They had set their explosives and charges, and people lost a whole lot more than just their power for awhile. From what he gathered, the collateral damage had been pretty high and there were several deaths.
He tried not to think about Simmons when he had heard that. Hell, he tried not thinking about Simmons at all anymore.
Kind of made him even less eager to be in this damn war if he thought of the possibility that he might see his friend on the other side of a rifle barrel. Even if said friend had been kind of a dick and left like he had without saying anything.
Retaliation from Above Ground was, as could be expected, swift and brutal. It was easier for them to make it down to The Slums from the surface because they were the ones who held all of the security clearances for the gates.
They had made it clear who was to blame for what had happened in the reports they broadcasted through the information networks in The Slums, but apparently identifying the Insurrection as the culprits wasn't going to stop Above Ground from taking out their anger on the general populace.
Grif had been there on Level One when they had started setting things on fire. He could still hear the screams from people trapped there, burning with the junk around them. Could still feel the heat searing his skin and the smoke burning his eyes and lungs as he somehow managed to dodge for cover and crawl through a small ventilation duct to the relative safety of the mining tunnels beyond.
To this day, he still had to fight a gagging urge when it came to smelling smoke.
He'd been lucky though, he supposed. A lot of people who had been on Level One at the same time weren't.
Tucker's mom, for one.
Kai had cried so much when she had found out and Grif had felt awful when he later learned she had been visiting friends who had just been relocated to the new housing there.
He wasn't sure what he could have done, really, given how quickly things had happened and with so many soldiers there with weapons drawn. But if he'd been able to get to her, then maybe he could have…
"Just fucking don't." Tucker had told him when he'd expressed those thoughts, his voice raw and eyes red, "We both know there wasn't a damn thing either of us could do."
Then Grif had looked at the blood, dirt, and soot covering his friend's clothes and that was still embedded underneath his fingernails and in his hair. He knew Tucker had tried clawing his way through a sealed-off tunnel from Level Two when he had heard about the attack- and so he left it at that.
Tucker retreated into himself for a good long while afterwards. He laughed and joked and flirted like always, but it was obvious from the look in his brown eyes when he didn't think anyone was looking just how much of that was a distraction so he wouldn't have to dwell on what had happened.
Grif would have killed those Insurrection assholes himself if they hadn't already been killed off by then by the Above Grounders.
Naturally, things couldn't really go back to normal after something of that magnitude. People mourned those that were lost and how all of the work that had gone into making Level One the ideal place to be in The Slums was gone, and the Above Ground presence lingered even more over everything like an ominous cloud: "Look at what we'll do if even one of you pisses us off!"
It was a long, long while before most people (Grif included) ever even ventured back to Level One. He never even thought of going to his secret ultimate napping spot after that, terrified now of what he would see when he looked down.
Maybe down there was where he'd always belonged and the scared little kid he'd been before had just been deluding himself.
And yet, despite the added surveillance and security from Above Ground to monitor the situation in The Slums more carefully, despite the physical and mental repercussions from what happened there still permeating the very air everyone breathed- some people still wanted to fight.
The Resistance factions, only loosely organized before and largely peaceful beyond select groups like the Insurrection, all banded together: becoming the new targets of Above Ground's ire once their initial outrage over what had happened dissipated in lieu of the Insurrection's demise and the massacre of Level One. Fighting became commonplace in the mining tunnels and corridors outside of the settlement proper, but it remained localized only to those regions and nowhere else after what had happened at Level One.
He hadn't really understand the reasoning for why the Resistance continued to fight, but now he knew it as a strategy of sorts. They were essentially offering themselves up as scapegoats to divert some of the newly-enforced pressure from Above Ground away from the general populace, to give them a chance to move on without worrying so much about such a tragedy happening again.
Since they weren't invading Above Ground territory or threatening its citizens, The Council seemed content to follow more traditional combat guidelines when dealing with the Resistance fighters. One couldn't help but wonder how long that would last, though.
Grif didn't really get involved with any of that shit until two years later, when both he and Tucker did something kind of really stupid.
A group of people had been harassing a blond-haired young man with big, frightened brown eyes in the park in Level Three with the Warthog ("Puma") statue.
At first, Grif had assumed that it was because the guy was wearing what was obviously a pink shirt, which most guys would have avoided wearing for that very reason. Well, even if he would probably make fun of someone himself for that kind of a fashion statement if he knew them personally and they could take it, threatening them and physically harming someone over that sort of thing was not fucking cool. At all.
So when one of the men threw a punch at the kid, Grif was there with one of his own and Tucker was right there behind him.
It wasn't until after the group of six were down for the count and a crazy old man in red raced over to them, yelling and waving a shotgun in the air that they figured out the real reason the blonde had been harassed.
It turned out that the two of them had just unwittingly helped out a member of the Resistance. Resistance members often tried to keep their identities as such secret for that very reason: not only would they be in trouble if Above Ground found out, but there were some Slum residents who blamed the Resistance as a whole for what the Insurrection had done and didn't actually take too kindly to them either.
The old man, a soldier of some kind by his build and attitude, though Grif suspected he'd maybe seen one too many fights given how insane most of his viewpoints were, introduced himself simply as Sarge. Whether or not that was his actual real name or he still just wanted to be identified as a Sergeant, no one knew for sure. …Sarge subsequently then forced the two young men by gunpoint to meet the new leader of the Resistance forces, the blonde in the pink shirt following close behind with a literal skip in his step.
Grif wasn't sure which one of them he hated more at that point, though he wagered it was probably Sarge since the younger fighter was just insufferably annoying with his way-too-perky-for-the-situation attitude and wasn't actually threatening him with a potential gunshot wound.
It was under those strange circumstances that they ended up meeting Vanessa Kimball.
The woman looked them both over carefully as Chipper Blonde and Sarge filled her in on what had happened. She pointedly ignored the suggestive wink Tucker sent her way and Grif once again marveled at his friend's innate ability to somehow not get shot for inappropriate flirting, especially when someone like Sarge was hovering around Kimball with his shotgun, harrumphing at everything and almost acting like she was his long-lost daughter- which she was also decidedly ignoring.
He hadn't really known what to make of the encounter until she asked why the two of them were there.
"Why, isn't it obvious?" the old man puffed out his chest triumphantly, "They might not look like much, but they roughed up those fellas botherin' Donut pretty fierce. Figured they could at least fill in body space around here."
"We do need every available man we can get, ma'am." Chipper Blonde, whose real name apparently was the inconceivably unfortunate one of Donut, said, "…And how!"
Both Tucker and Grif ignored that odd commentary, the train end of the conversation having taken a decidedly not ideal turn for them.
"What?" Tucker beat his friend to the punch first, "No fucking way!"
Sarge's eyes narrowed in anger, "And why in the Sam Hill not?"
"Because someone brought us here at gunpoint, for starters." Grif chimed in, "And if you'd told us why you were doing that in the first place we would have said 'No.' to begin with and everyone could have saved themselves some trouble."
Kimball sighed wearily, glancing over at the grumbling old man who was now refusing to look her in the eyes.
"…Again?" she asked him.
"Wow, you mean he's done this before?" Tucker let out a low whistle, "No wonder you guys are fucked when it comes to recruiting."
Sarge huffed, but said nothing. He probably knew he couldn't argue with that, especially with his faction's leader all but having confirmed it moments ago. Or he was just regretting that he hadn't shot Tucker earlier when he'd noticed him winking at Kimball.
The woman turned to both of them with an apologetic look in her brown eyes, "I'm sorry for the trouble. Sarge is enthusiastic when it comes to the Resistance."
Grif scoffed, 'That's putting it fucking mildly.' He thought if that was the senile fighter's way of trying to get people to join the fight.
"I need to discuss some important issues with him as a result of that, however." She motioned to what appeared to be something of a mess hall further down the corridor, "Donut can help you with anything you might need, so why don't you get comfortable?"
And with that, she turned briskly and marched off in the opposite direction, Sarge muttering behind her. Her body language was tense, through and through.
Donut started chattering away in a friendly manner the second his two apparent seniors were gone, though Tucker and Grif both tuned him out to look at each other.
Neither one of them had failed to notice that, despite her quick apology for Sarge's actions, that the woman named Vanessa Kimball hadn't dismissed them outright just then.
"Your name is Dexter Grif, correct?"
Grif started, having dozed off to sleep in the chair he'd sat in after Donut had left him alone. He could still nap like a pro even in a bizarre situation like this.
Kimball was looking down at him with a friendly, almost sympathetic look on her face. She had two mugs of what appeared to be coffee in her hands, one of the steaming beverages held out towards him as though it were some sort of peace offering.
He took it, groggily, glancing around to see if he could figure out what time it was. Unlike in The Slums proper, there was no cyclic lighting in the mines to signify day and night patterns: lighting was on all the time unless there were problems in the wiring or someone turned it off manually. It was somewhat dimmer in general though, thus why a lot of moveable auxiliary lighting was often used in combination with it, which always gave him the impression of it being later than it usually was.
No wonder being in the tunnels drained him so much.
Kimball seemed to be able to read his body language and the way his eyes flicked around the space, "It's been two hours since Sarge forced you both to come here."
"Uh."
She looked embarrassed, "Sorry it took so long to get back to you."
He took a sip of the coffee. It tasted horribly bitter, but at least it was hot.
"It's terrible, but I'm addicted to the stuff now." She supplied helpfully after seeing his expression. It looked like she probably drank it all the time just to stay awake if the dark circles under her eyes were any indication.
"How'd you know my name?" he asked as his faculties finally started lining up again, "I don't remember that Sarge guy ever bothering to ask."
"Your friend Tucker told me." She sat down across from him and was staring at her mug resting on the table surface intently, "We had a chat earlier."
Speaking of Tucker… Grif glanced around the makeshift mess hall, but couldn't see his friend anywhere. The place was nearly deserted: there were only a few Resistance fighters milling about aside from Donut who was still practically skipping to and fro out of the corner of his eyes.
Beyond Donut, who he swore if they could probably find a way to bottle some of his excess perkiness then caffeine sales would probably drop, there was a very obvious fatigue running through the people here. It made sense, he supposed, given all that they were going up against.
It certainly made it harder to converse with Kimball though, realizing that. The exhaustion on her face was practically palpable and looked even worse than what he saw in her troops.
"Tucker wanted some time alone." Kimball seemed to be trying to choose her words carefully, "He asked if I could speak to you first."
And just like that, the wheels turned. Grif forced himself to look her in the eyes and see the pointed seriousness in them.
There could only be one reason Tucker would do something like that. Suddenly, that lost and sad expression that he had seen in his friend's eyes ever since his mother had been killed filled his head with a vicious sort of clarity.
"He signed up."
It wasn't a question, it was a statement. He didn't really need to even see Kimball's nod of affirmation to confirm it.
'That fucking asshole. He's going to get himself killed!'
"It's his decision, Grif, even if you're upset with it." Kimball reached out to grasp her coffee mug between both hands, "All of us who sign up for the Resistance know exactly what we're getting into. We just have our own reasons for doing so."
He let out a strangled kind of noise, almost like laughter that he'd choked back on, "Oh, believe me, I have a pretty good idea what his reasoning is. Still doesn't mean I won't deck him for it."
She smiled grimly, "Good. Perhaps that will give him a little more time to think things over and really be sure this is what he wants to do."
Well, at least she didn't threaten to shoot his ass for threatening a new soldier to the cause. He was sort of surprised by that, truthfully.
"So, why talk to me about any of this though?"
Kimball sighed, "While I don't agree with Sarge's methods when it comes to potential candidates, I can't deny that our numbers are lessening by the day and we're in desperate need of more fighters in general."
Grif sipped his coffee since it seemed like she had more to say. He knew what the lead-up was heading towards and how he would respond besides.
"You both showed a lot of potential by helping Donut as you did and I thank you for that." She paused, raising her mug to her lips and regarding him carefully over its rim, "So I am asking you officially as the leader of the Resistance for your help."
He frowned, "Listen, lady, I respect what your group is trying to do here." And he did, truly, because, let's face it, Above Ground was populated by a bunch of heartless dicks and it took a whole lot more balls than he would ever have to intentionally seek out their attention to keep them away from other people, "And I understand why Tucker joined. I think he's a suicidal fucktard and I'll tell him that the next time I see him, but I understand it."
Now she was the one waiting patiently for him to finish.
"But if you think I'm going to get myself killed in some pointless fighting, you can just think again."
He stood up from the table then and turned to leave. Maybe he could find Tucker now and give the idiot a piece of his mind for good measure.
"You're raising your little sister all by yourself, aren't you?"
Kimball's voice when she spoke up was soft and he'd barely heard it. He whipped his head around, prepared to yell at her for dragging Kai into her argument and wanting so much more now to find Tucker and smack him upside the head for being a blabbermouth on top of an idiot to boot, but the genuine sympathy and thoughtfulness in her gaze made him stop in his tracks.
"Having that kind of responsibility…" she paused, gripping her mug again as if for warmth, "I can understand why you wouldn't want to get involved with us. And why Tucker would, given what happened."
He said nothing and Kimball's gaze and tone were both even when she continued once more: "Don't you want to ensure that you're in the best possible position to protect her though, if Above Ground decides to change their stance on The Slums once more?"
And with that, she fell silent and drank her coffee again.
Grif left, unnerved somewhat by the effect her words had on him, by the doubt that suddenly started to creep into his resolve to not get involved.
It probably wasn't too surprising then that he signed up himself for the Resistance two weeks later.
Though he did still punch Tucker the next time he saw him and called him a dumbass.
Tucker's only response was to grin and give him the finger. They both acknowledged how stupid they were being, but at least they'd be idiots together for what little it was worth.
"Are you sleeping again, fat ass?"
Tucker's comment elicited a yawn from his friend and an upraised middle finger, which was promptly grasped by a tiny hand with only four long digits.
"Blargh!" a small voice cried near his face.
That got Grif's attention. His brown eyes opened quickly from his dream-reminiscence. It seemed horribly dumb to recap all the shit he already knew instead of dreaming about beer or Old Earth animals like dinosaurs or something else more entertaining in general, but what could he do? It probably was a sign he shouldn't eat snack cakes he found on the floor anymore, even if they'd had very little dirt on them and still tasted good. He nearly jumped up from his napping spot in the back of an old mining shaft not having expected the teal and blue creature's presence.
"Jesus, Tucker! You brought your kid?"
His friend frowned, looking down at the alien child with a guilty expression on his face, "I had to. Kai's off doing something and no one else I know wants to babysit. Except Donut, but since he's here…" he shrugged and let his sentence just trail off.
"So it's Take Your Alien Kid to Work Day?" he joked, because, really, the only way Grif knew how to deal with that fucked up situation was through joking.
How does one generally go about processing that the resistance group you joined found what was probably the only surviving alien on the planet which somehow led to your friend having a magic glowing energy sword of some sort of sacred alien origin imprint on him, only for said surviving male alien to impregnate that friend without saying anything (that anyone could understand, at any rate) and subsequently get killed by Above Grounders because for whatever reason they decided surviving aliens should be killed instead of studied?
He was pretty sure there was no code or protocol for that kind of shit in proper military channels. Or even any afterschool specials on the topic from Old Earth. Or greeting cards, because Donut had to make his own for the occasion: a little too glittery for Tucker's taste, but the kid's heart was in the right place.
"It is probably better than Take Your Teenaged Sister to Work Day was for you, isn't it?"
Leave it to Tucker though to take it all in stride. In actuality, he wasn't that bad of a parent when all was said and done: it was obvious he loved Junior and vice-versa, and that was all that really counted in Grif's book.
"Thanks for the reminder." Grif groaned, wishing he could wipe that memory clean from his brain one day.
After that whole fiasco, he'd pretty much forbidden Kai to go anywhere near the tunnels. Which subsequently led to her usual "You suck!" exchange, though she got over it quickly enough since the one thing Kaikaina excelled at was being able to have fun anywhere. Grif just wished her idea of fun didn't always result in police visits and headaches for him in particular later on down the road.
"You know me, always happy to put things in perspective."
Grif groaned again and stood up, deciding it was best to not comment on that or think about what his little sister was doing that meant she didn't want the extra babysitting money Tucker gave her for watching Junior. Kai was pretty self-sufficient now for all of her wild ways, so he knew she could take care of herself in most situations, but the "wild ways" portion of that last sentence would still always worry him.
"Is there a reason you were interrupting my naptime or did you just want to talk?" he looked down at Junior, who was twisting his head from side to side, looking at the exchange, "You know I'm not the best with kids."
No, he had done an okay job raising Kai but that was only because he'd sort of had to. Given how she acted sometimes he knew a lot of people would say he hadn't done a great job of it, but she was happy and healthy, and knew how to look after herself when push came to shove even if her common sense was next to nil. Plus, she was way more properly adjusted than most people who grew up in their situation would be, so those assholes could shove it.
Tucker scoffed, "The last thing I need is for him to be on an all-cookie diet. He's hyper enough as it is!"
"Blargh!" Junior enthusiastically agreed, his little jump proving his father's (mother's? Grif wasn't honestly sure how you would classify Tucker to Junior given the how bizarre his birth was) point fairly well.
"It's a perfectly healthy eating style."
"Please, I'm amazed you can even walk in that armor without breaking into a sweat."
Okay, well, he actually couldn't walk in his armor without breaking into a sweat, but Grif figured it probably wouldn't be helpful to let Tucker know that.
It wasn't like he wasn't getting better though. He could move a lot farther now without totally getting winded, which he supposed was sort of a win. At least the one thing fighting in this damn war did was help him stay a little more fit, which meant he could eat his fill of unhealthy food. Not that he wouldn't have done it anyways, but at least he could do it without as much guilt- he was a guilt eater on top of it all too, so it really was something of a vicious, ironic cycle.
Well, he assumed it was "ironic" at any rate: he had never quite figured out what that word really meant.
"Donut was looking for you."
He sighed, "Of course he was."
Leave it to fate that he ended up getting put in a squad under the direct command of Sarge and with Donut.
Truthfully, he didn't have too many issues with Donut. He was actually a pretty nice guy who tried to get along with everyone, but his cheerfulness could be a bit over-the-top and his can-do attitude wasn't the most fitting for Grif's general can't-really-be-bothered-to-do-anything one. It just generally meant Grif had a hard time being in the same room with him for more than ten minutes because of that.
"Would you rather have my teammate?" Tucker joked.
Grif let out another sigh again. He did suppose having Donut as a teammate was slightly better than having Caboose for one.
At least Donut could aim and his throwing arm was incredible: just don't get him started on his "tosses" and you'd be fine. Caboose, well, beyond being harmless for the most part as well as clueless, had the nasty habit of somehow causing machinery to inexplicably catch on fire just by touching it or inadvertently somehow shooting his teammates whenever he did try to help.
Grif wasn't quite sure why he had decided to join the Resistance, beyond Caboose's recollection of the "nice lady" (Kimball) helping him out when he'd had nowhere to go.
From what they could gather, Caboose was actually one of the people often dubbed "Throwaways": a former citizen of Above Ground that was exiled into The Slums for whatever reason. From the childlike way Michael J. Caboose acted, Grif supposed there wasn't room for him amongst the "elite, productive" thinkers.
It was kind of depressing to think on that though, so he didn't. At least Kimball had decided to be nice to the poor kid and give him some semblance of a home away from any large pieces of construction equipment in the settlement proper he could catch on fire.
"Did Donut say what he wanted?" he asked, hoping it wasn't that Sarge had tasked Donut with finding him for some inane assignment. Usually those involved having an excuse to get Grif into a position to get shot at, which he wasn't too keen on.
"No clue, but he said it was important."
Which could mean that something extremely vital was happening involving Above Ground activities in the tunnels or that Donut's new paint swatches had just come in: "Come on, Grif, I know we're living in tunnels and caves right now, but the right color accent can really brighten things up!"
Fuck it.
He let out another sigh, turning to exit the tunnels and sort of hoping it was more on the interior design side of the spectrum.
"Oh, good, you found him!" Donut's cheerful voice seemed audible no matter how far away from someone he actually was.
In this case, it was from across the mess hall and Grif had to wince at the loud greeting which was followed by Donut waving his arm enthusiastically over his head as if there was any chance that they would miss someone wearing pink armor like he was. Already he was drawing massive amounts of attention from everyone in the room.
One of whom was a woman with red hair cropped just above her shoulders and a face that was either usually expressionless (seriously, it was almost as if someone was talking to a mannequin at times) or extremely pissed off, that he really hoped wouldn't approach them.
"I mean, I would have thought I could have found him first in whatever hole he was hiding away in." Donut seemed oblivious to the attention he was receiving, all too happy to chat away, "I am an expert when it comes to looking into holes, you know."
Grif groaned, "Donut, we talked about this before, remember? What did I tell you?"
"Um," the younger soldier paused, face scrunched up in thought, "That I should always stop talking a sentence before I usually do?"
"Yes. Or try not talking at all." He could already hear the snickering starting up.
"Aw, but that's no fun! How would you know what I'm going to say then?"
"He has a point there." Tucker chimed in, looking amused at the exasperated look on his friend's face, "How would we know?"
"Thanks, Tucker! I always know you're behind me!"
Tucker's expression changed from amusement at Grif's reaction to Donut's innocent innuendo habit to being a little put off at it being directed at him, "Then again, silence is golden."
"So, what did you need, Donut? Did Sarge want me for one of his suicidal strategies again?"
Seriously, he knew that there was talk about how Sarge had apparently served in the Above Ground military before showing up down here, but Grif sort of had his doubts about that after the fifteenth "have Grif run out onto the battlefield and draw enemy fire for twenty minutes or so until they're out of ammo" strategy he'd come up with.
Unless Sarge had been shipped down to The Slums because he was insane. He supposed he could buy that take on the theory, if nothing else.
Franklin Delano Donut frowned and looked suddenly very sheepish, avoiding Grif's gaze.
In a lot of ways, Grif supposed he could almost look at his relationship with Donut now in a similar way to the one he had with his sister. It didn't hurt that Donut was only one or two years older than Kai and probably even more girly. Grif liked him well enough, he just often found himself horribly annoyed and exasperated by some of the things Donut said and did in the same way he often felt with Kai.
It had helped lessen his annoyance somewhat early on in their forced comradeship under Sarge's command that he found out the reason as to why such a generally easy-going nice guy like Donut had gotten involved in the fighting: he had grown up in a somewhat comfortable, very loving and accepting home in Level Two. As a result of the proximity of the levels, he'd lost several people he cared about during Above Ground's retaliation raid. Knowing that had helped Grif's disposition soften towards him.
"This isn't about something Sarge wants or paint swatches, is it?"
Before Donut could respond, a harsh-sounding voice cut in, "Afraid not. I asked him to get you."
The red-haired woman he'd been afraid to even look at earlier glanced disinterestedly at both him and Tucker when she moved closer, "Both of you morons, actually."
"Oh, fuck me." Tucker muttered under his breath.
Grif's hands instinctively went to protectively shield his balls at her sudden proximity, although he didn't know why. It wasn't like the fucking cone had done anything to shield them the last time so what would his hands do?
"Tucker, not in front of the b-a-b-y!" Donut admonished, putting his hands over where he thought Junior's ears would be on the sides of his oddly shaped head.
"What does spelling out 'baby' do, exactly?" Grif asked him in mild confusion.
"Yeah, besides, that little guy is Tucker's kid." A tan-armored man joined the exchange, his one good eye looking highly amused, "I bet he's heard a hell of a lot worse than that growing up!"
"And how!" Tucker frowned a moment later, suddenly getting what he'd just said, "Hey, wait!"
Junior decided it was his turn to get his two cents in at this point, "Bow-chicka-honk-honk!"
His father (mother?) sighed, "You're so not helping, Junior."
The woman in black waited through this exchange with a surprising amount of patience for her. However, she apparently thought Tucker's final comment was a good stopping point.
"Don't encourage them, York." She said pointedly to the brown-haired man before turning back to Tucker and Grif, "Are you both done?"
Tex, formerly known as Agent Texas and apparently a big badass extraordinaire super soldier from some really fucking high-end military program in Above Ground called Freelancer, was, generally speaking, not someone you wanted to piss off. …Or even look at, lest she take it as some form of a challenge.
She and two other Freelancers had shown up at the doors of the Resistance shortly after Grif and Tucker had joined. All three were injured and looking like they'd been through hell to get there. One of them, a man in violet armor called North, had been the worse off: someone had shot him from behind and he'd been on the verge of bleeding out. Tex had literally been carrying him across her shoulders.
They were strangers wearing Above Ground military equipment. Yes, all of the Resistance fightrs wore it too but theirs were cobbled together from whatever was salvageable after a battle. Grif really didn't want to dwell on how so much of his equipment was pilfered from dead people. The three Above Grounders were bound to not get a friendly welcome at first.
…Which resulted in Agent Texas handing off care of their more injured comrade to the man in the tan armor, York, and subsequently kicking the asses of several platoons before Kimball was able to properly get the situation under control.
Since Tex was well and properly ticked off by that point a flirtatious remark from Tucker afterwards had gotten him slammed into a metal wall and a comment from Grif about needing to learn to chill had resulted in a still very-painful-to-remember punch to the balls.
Sarge had made an almost awe-sounding comment about how she must be some strange combination of man, an Old Earth animal called a shark, and some sort of cyber-shark.
It was one of the few comments from the old man that Grif was inclined to agree with.
Ever since then, his instinctive reaction to Tex seemed to always mildly amuse the woman if nothing else.
So it made sense, then, that when the three ex-Freelancers wanted to sign up for the Resistance there were no protests despite the wariness on whether or not they could be trusted completely. Apparently, whatever they'd discussed in private with Kimball and Sarge seemed to convince the two leaders that they were genuine at least, though what that was exactly no one else really knew.
Both York and North seemed pretty decent and easygoing besides, ingratiating themselves pretty well with everyone once they had joined up and North was healed. Their combat skills, while not on the same level as Tex's, were nothing to sneeze at either: well above and beyond what most of the soldiers in the Resistance were capable of. Well, as much as people with no military background to speak of could even be considered soldiers. Even with the fact that North never fully recovered from his injury and he'd lament how he couldn't move around as quickly as he used to with a wry self-deprecating smile on his face, his skills as a sniper were still second-to-none.
Tex, on the other hand, generally remained unapproachable and most gave her a wide berth. She got along well enough with Kimball it seemed, and with York and North given their shared past (he supposed choosing to defect like they did for whatever reason would cause a sort of kinship to form between people), but she usually only tolerated everyone else- and not for too long if they tried her patience.
But the three of them joining up had definitely helped the fighting in the corridors be less one-sided than it had been before, something Grif was grateful for.
"Your teammate went missing in Tunnel 32-A a few hours ago." Tex informed Tucker.
He looked nonplussed, "Caboose? He wanders off all the time. He'll be back. He probably thought he found something shiny."
"32-A had been used to house some very high-grade military tech from Above Ground when they came through here during the last mining skirmishes over twenty years ago."
Tucker's face paled slightly and he exchanged a look with Grif.
Caboose plus heavy machine or tech of any kind generally resulted in an inferno of some kind. Even Donut had long since stopped trying to teach him how to use the stove. He had cried at the thought of having to pencil in his eyebrows until they finally grew back.
"If you're so worried about this, why not tell Kimball? Or go find him yourself?"
Tex fixed Grif with an icy glare, causing him to let out a small "Eep!" and shield his crotch again.
Instead of retaliating, she let out a tired sigh, "Kimball has enough on her damn plate trying to keep you idiots alive as it is. And Caboose is scared of me." She almost smiled slightly at that, "He calls me the 'mean lady' and refuses to get anywhere near me."
"Gee, I wonder why." Tucker muttered under his breath.
Grif moved away from him slightly and Donut did the same while gripping Junior's hand to push him along too just in case Tex decided to react to that comment.
Thankfully for Tucker, Tex ignored his sarcasm this time. That sort of proved just how serious she was treating this matter.
"But he trusts you morons, so I figured you'd be my best bets to get him out of there without incident."
"And preferably without getting anyone barbecued." Grif filled in.
She nodded, "That too."
"Sarge's robot is already standing watch at the tunnel's entrance in case something happens." York told them.
So, Lopez was involved too.
Lopez was a humanoid robot Sarge had built for…well, whatever reason it was that Sarge decided to do anything. He was an efficient worker whenever he did stuff, but Sarge had somehow "ingeniously" programmed him to speak a language called Spanish that no one here could speak or understand save Donut, apparently, but he wasn't sure his translations were horribly accurate.
Lopez seemed about as keen on his creator as Grif was, though, so Grif sort of suspected his involvement didn't come so much from concern for the situation as it did probably from having an excuse to be away from Sarge.
Not that Grif could blame him on that front, and while he honestly would prefer doing nothing instead himself, he supposed this would be better than if Sarge had him doing some hare-brained scheme involving grenade-catching again.
And, generally speaking, it was probably just smarter in the long run to agree to do whatever Tex wanted for your own health.
"What about Junior, though?" it seemed Tucker had the same thought, but understandably he wasn't as keen on bringing his kid into a potential danger zone, especially not with Caboose there.
York patted his shoulder understandably, "Don't worry, we'll drop the little guy off with North before we head out." He shared a look with Tex, an odd expression clouding over his face, "He's great with kids."
The entrance to Tunnel 32-A was in a myriad maze of mining tunnels and corridors even farther away from The Slums proper than the tunnels and shafts that served as the makeshift base for the Resistance were.
Grif was honestly surprised that Caboose would wander this far on his own or that Tex even knew about it in the first place. Judging from the expression on her face, though, asking her to elaborate on the situation would probably result in either silence or a face-slam into the ground.
Better not to risk it.
Eventually, the brown-colored armor belonging to the robotic Lopez came into view. He turned around to face them.
"Oh, bueno. Más de ti." {"Oh, good. More of you."} His voice had a filtered, monotone quality to it.
"Oh, hey, Lopez!" Donut waved cheerfully, "What's up?"
"Oh, Dios, que tenía que llevar el rosa con usted." {"Oh, God, you had to bring the pink one with you."}
He couldn't be positive, but Grif was almost certain the robot had groaned- or whatever it was robots did that was the mechanical equivalent of a groan.
"It is a fine day, isn't it? Perfect for an adventure."
"Te lo ruego: por favor dejar de hablar a mí." {"I am begging you: please stop talking to me."}
Tex marched right past Lopez, ignoring the talk, more like miscommunication, between Donut and him. She peered out into the dim recess of the tunnels beyond, a frown on her face.
"Doesn't seem like he's returned."
"But there's no smoke and no one's shouting 'Tucker did it!' yet, so that's good, right?" Tucker tried lightening the mood.
"Unless he got injured somewhere." York frowned, "Who knows if parts of this tunnel are all that stable?"
"And we still have to go in there after him, huh?" Grif frowned himself, jumping slightly at any imaginary change in the shadows filtering through the place.
"There aren't any bats, fat ass." Tucker scoffed at him, earning a shut your fucking mouth glare from his friend.
"Let's move before he does something stupid and gets himself killed."
With that cheery thought, Tex strode forward and into 32-A. York sighed, shot sympathetic looks to the others, and shrugged before following after her.
"Si ninguno de ustedes vuelva, yo no estoy diciendo a nadie." {"If none of you come back, I'm not telling anyone."}
"Thanks for the pep-talk, Lopez!"
"En serio, sólo tiene que ir ya." {"Seriously, just go already."}
"I'm just saying, what's the worst that could be down here?"
York seemed to be mentally ticking things off from a list in his head in response to Tucker's question, "Oh, lots of things: weapons, explosives, giant mechs-"
"Which would all be bad if Caboose got his hands on them." The teal-armored soldier finished, hand subconsciously going to the sword hilt at his side as it often did now whenever he was feeling nervous.
A pause and then the former Freelancer smiled slightly, "Yes, Tucker, that would be very bad."
"So why didn't the Above Grounders take this shit out of here with them when they left or disable it somehow? Or try to seal the goddamned tunnel?"
Tex answered from further up ahead, "There were complications in the last skirmish."
Grif raised an eyebrow, "You mean from bombing unarmed miners?" he asked incredulously.
She sighed, "Records are classified from that time, but the miner protests really weren't the main reason the army moved in. It was just a convenient excuse and a chance for some assholes to flex their muscles."
"So what was the actual reason all those people died then?" Donut's voice sounded lost and sadder than what was normal for him. Not that Grif could blame him: hearing about the more brutal side to war and politics would leave a bitter taste in anyone's mouth.
She stopped and glanced backwards at Tucker, "That's a nice sword you've got there."
"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me!" he did not seem pleased at this revelation, "You mean they were a bunch of assholes for some stupid alien relic only one person can even use and they didn't even get it?"
"I'm sure they found lots of interesting things to occupy their time with and to make the whole thing worthwhile in the end, don't worry." She reassured him in a mocking tone, "Why do you think they were so eager to fall back to the surface if their only opposition was a bunch of defenseless Slum dwellers?"
"If that information is classified, how did you find out about it?" Grif wondered just how high up in the food chain that meant Freelancers were.
York seemed to read the real meaning behind his question easily enough, "Believe me, we were told nothing about anything going on behind the scenes with The Council and the military." There was a surprising amount of bitterness in his voice at that for a guy as easy-going and friendly as York tended to be, and he shared yet another secretive look with Tex.
"That information came from a friend." She supplied enigmatically in turn.
"Who?"
It was probably a moot point to ask, but Grif figured 'what the hell?' at this point.
"Someone you don't need to know about."
Well, at least it wasn't a punch to the crotch.
"At any rate, I'm assuming that even though they left in a hurry they no doubt followed standard military protocol and probably tried dismantling or disabling everything they couldn't bring back with them when the order came in."
"But there's always the chance they overlooked something, right?" York concluded for her.
She nodded, "Human error and stupidity have to always be factored in."
"And knowing Caboose's dumb luck, he'll probably stumble upon the one active piece of tech left in the place." Tucker muttered, "Probably blowing us all up with it."
Another nod. Tex was on a roll with interacting with people today.
He sighed, "Fucking great."
Donut wasted no time cupping his hands around his mouth following that and shouting, "Caboose! Caboose! Where are you?"
Grif half-heartedly chimed in with, "Come on out and we'll get you a pony!"
"Dude, you tried that the last couple of times, remember? He's dumb, but he's figured out by now that we don't have ponies here." Tucker told him, "You have to come up with something else to bribe him with."
And, to illustrate his point, he shouted out, "We have crayons!"
There was silence for a long while following that, and the faint lighting in the corridor blinked ominously.
Tex signaled that they should move on, since odds were good Caboose was out of ear range wherever he was.
But then the ground started to noticeably shake and Donut let out a high-pitched shriek when a couple of small rocks became loose from the ceiling and fell on his shoulder.
The others tensed, clasping their helmets on if they already hadn't done so and looking around nervously while bracing for a potential collapse. Armor could keep you alive for awhile if your helmet was on and properly working, but it didn't amount to shit if someone didn't come to dig you out soon enough.
"Crayons! I love to color. I can use them to draw a pony!"
And suddenly Caboose was there, grinning from ear to ear with his blue helmet under his arm.
"Caboose, what the fuck?" Tucker was racing forward with an anxious expression on his face. Tucker said a lot of stuff about Caboose at times in exasperation, but the last thing he wanted to see was his simple-minded teammate get hurt, "This place is going to cave in! Get your helmet on, moron!"
The grin never left Caboose's face, innocent blue eyes regarding Tucker in amusement, "Oh, silly Tucker, that isn't the tunnel. That's just my new best friend coming to say hello!"
That gave Tucker pause and out of the corner of his eye Grif could see Tex bringing out one of her guns. They were used to Caboose not making sense, but this one was on a whole other level.
"New best friend?" Tucker repeated and frowned, "You mean like a dog or something?"
"It would have to be the biggest damn dog I've ever seen." York mumbled, looking a little disconcerted that the shaking was intensifying still and not lessening.
"A dog. Yes!" Caboose's smile brightened even more than one would think was possible considering how wide it had already been to begin with, "That is what he is."
He turned his head back to the darkened space he'd just emerged from, "Come on, Freckles, say hello to everyone!"
Nothing. The shaking suddenly stopped too.
"Oh, he is very shy." Caboose said in way of explanation for this, "Freckles, come here. My friend Pastry will play fetch with you."
Donut perked up at this, no longer fearful himself in light of Caboose's demeanor, "That would be fun! I'm great at tossing!"
York looked over at Grif, "Um, he means throwing things, right?"
"God, I hope so."
Tucker sighed, "Caboose…" he began.
"COMING."
And just as the booming, electrical voice filled the air the slight shaking commenced again and a giant, robotic form seemed to swallow the entirety of space right behind the blue-armored young man.
"Holy shit." York's commentary was to the point, but all too accurate.
And Grif had to kick himself for the first coherent thought flooding into his head again a few moments later being 'I bet Simmons would love to see this thing.'
Caboose smiled, oblivious to the shocked looks on everyone's faces, "This is Freckles. See, Tucker, now I have a dog too!"
Tucker got over his shock enough to groan, "For the last time, Caboose, Junior isn't my dog. He's my kid! Don't insult family."
Tucker's point seemed lost on Caboose given the blank look that crossed over his face, "Mine can do tricks."
"Oh, for the love of…"
"He can speak too!" Caboose turned back over to the walking metallic death monstrosity, "Freckles, say hello to everyone. They are all nice people, even the mean lady."
York snickered, promptly cutting it off at the glare that earned him from Tex.
"HELLO."
"Do the little dance I taught you, Freckles! It will look so cute once I find you a tiny hat."
Grif sighed, feeling like his brain was about to explode. Maybe it already had and that was why he'd thought about Simmons again after trying so hard not to.
He honestly couldn't tell if he preferred this to an inferno.
Still, it probably beat one of Sarge's "strategies," all in all.
Above Ground
He saw Captain Flowers first, his body mangled and lying broken on the outskirts of the city (hated that he'd never gotten the chance to ask him "Why?" to so many things).
Then he saw his mother: lying peacefully in her bed (hated that he'd been away when it happened, hated that she'd never told him how serious it was, hated how uncaring his father acted in the face of it all).
Then he saw The Slums burning, could make out figures that could have been either Kaikaina or Grif getting dragged and shot (hated that he would never know for certain what happened to them, hated that he hadn't stayed longer, hated that he still wasn't sure about some things).
It played on in an endless loop in his head, the newfound pain all over his aching body making it worse.
"Private Simmons!"
No wonder he woke up screaming then, his throat just as raw and bloody as the rest of him felt.
The only thing that kept him from launching himself up from the medical bed was the strong pressure pushing firmly down on his shoulders.
For a minute he panicked, his last thoughts being of fire and Grif, not sure of where he was. But the metallic green visor swimming in his line of vision helped him to somewhat clear his thoughts.
"Please do not move around so much. Your body needs time to adjust." Sheila's polite voice informed him.
When she was fairly certain that he was no longer going to be thrashing around, Sheila removed her hands. The robot settled down once more in the chair next to his bedside.
"I know it is not always advisable to rouse patients recovering from surgery, but I was worried you would hurt yourself." She said in way of explanation.
"Th—thanks, Sheila."
There had been many changes in his life since the Insurrection's attack on Above Ground. Some a lot more drastic than others. Captain Flowers' death early on in the fighting that followed with the Resistance (though Simmons was still unsure of how Flowers' body had been found in Above Ground if the records stated that Resistance fighters had killed him, but any of his attempts at inquiring further left nothing but dead ends), his mother's passing and now his surgery being some of the more major ones.
By comparison, the transfer of Sheila the Tank's Virtual Intelligence to a robotic body to provide more support during missions was a fairly minor one, but it still unnerved him all the same. She appeared now to be simply a fully armored soldier like any other ("gunmetal green and grey" she would always describe her colors as with that "friendly smile" tone to her voice), though take off the armor and all that was there were wires and circuitry wrapped around a metal skeletal frame. It was a bit odd, to say the least, especially when she spoke without her helmet on.
He'd had issues conversing with her even as a tank as her voice was very feminine and pleasant, which meant his "can't really talk to females without getting flustered" rule had still applied even then, much to his embarrassment. So, at the very least, he supposed that that hadn't gotten any worse. He actually felt somewhat okay with talking to her now, since they'd worked together in one capacity or another over the years.
"You're very welcome." She regarded him for a few moments, as if debating trying to say anything further.
His body hurt. He grimaced, his head pounding and joints aching.
Fuck, and he had seen the charts too: he knew he was on some pretty potent painkillers.
"It's a lot to adjust to, isn't it?"
"Uh-huh." Simmons winced, desperately trying to avoid tearing up. Not only because it would be horribly embarrassing, which it would be, but because his right eye was burning and he didn't know what would happen if he started to cry because of it.
'Probably nothing, you don't have a tear duct in that eye anymore, remember?'
Right, but he didn't have lungs anymore either yet his body was still straining itself to draw breath into a nonexistent organ and subsequently going into panic mode at the realization that it couldn't and that that wasn't normal.
He didn't have a heart either, but remembering that dream still had him feeling like it was being pulled from his chest all over again.
His limbs, where muscle and bone connected to metal and wiring, were in a special sort of electric agony.
And, because he couldn't think of anything else to say he simply repeated "Uh-huh" again-and-again like an idiot.
"The synthetic epidermal layer over the metallic components looks almost flesh-like." Sheila said in way of conversation, "People will know what happened, but you won't probably get the gawking I do when I strip for maintenance."
"Uh-huh." He knew she was only trying to keep him calm, to keep him from dwelling on the pain and on the 'Oh shit, I've really fucked up' line of panicked thinking he was having now.
"May I ask why you agreed to the experiment?"
He paused from his inner turmoil then, not having expected that line of direct questioning. Sheila was staring at him.
"I was merely curious because I was surprised you would volunteer for cybernetic enhancements." She looked down to her hands in her lap, "I agreed to the transfer of my Virtual Intelligence to this body only because I wished to support you and Church in the field and my previous body's size made that problematic at times."
Right, because the "field" in this case meant underground.
"You don't have to answer though, Private Simmons."
"Er…"
What could he say, really? That he'd volunteered because he hadn't been satisfied with his work as a soldier and that he had hoped cybernetic enhancements would help? That he'd done it because the only person who would have probably objected to it had died earlier? That maybe crossing over a barrier and entering a territory where some wouldn't even consider him human anymore (sixty-five percent metal and wire and fake skin: odd to put it into that kind of perspective) was some weird way to distance himself from his grief, from the one living relation he couldn't even look at anymore?
It was hard to put it into words, and now it seemed stupid and childish and he couldn't take it back…
Thankfully, the door slid open at that exact moment and saved him from having to respond at all.
He was slightly less thankful to see that the person who stepped inside was Leonard Church, though the early animosity that had shown between them had dissipated to quiet disinterest more or less over the years. He thought it had something to do with Flowers' death, perhaps: Church hadn't been on the team as long as he and Doc had, but he had genuinely seemed to respect their captain. Losing someone they had both admired sort of set up a begrudging rapport between the two of them, if nothing else.
"Is the idiot awake yet?" he asked, knowing damn well he was because he stared directly at Simmons when he said it.
"Wishing I wasn't." Simmons' muttered through gritting teeth.
"Yeah, well, cybernetics hurt like hell. You should've done your research before you volunteered, nerd."
Simmons glared at that, for the first time noticing the dual vision he now had: one was the vision he always had from his perfectly functional green eye, and the other gave a slight red tint to everything- complete even with a soft "glow" around the computers and machinery in the room. Simmons knew the eye had other functions as well and that he could lessen or strengthen the effects as he pleased, he would just have to practice and adjust to the concept later. Sheila practically seemed to have an aura about her.
…As did Church, oddly enough.
It figured: he got a new cybernetic eye and it was already fucking broken.
He shook his head to clear his vision, the glow from the electronics lessening as his brain began to adjust to all of the new information it was receiving.
"I knew it would be painful." He said defensively, grimacing at a sudden involuntary twitch in his fingers that sent a wave of fire up his arm, "I just…didn't know it would be this painful."
For a split second, there almost seemed to be a slight look of concern on Church's face, but he quickly schooled his expression into his usual one of angry disdain. That was another thing Simmons had learned about Church over the years: he was either always pissed off at the entire world or largely uninterested in it.
"You're alive and it's too late to bitch and moan about it now, right?" he said gruffly, "So just lay down and rest, and hopefully this whole episode won't end up being a goddamned waste of time."
"Church." Sheila's tone was one of warning.
He looked at her nervously. The one thing Simmons still didn't quite get was the odd bond between the two of them. Church seemed much more respectful of Sheila than others. He supposed it had to do with their earlier association, when Sheila had been inside a tank and was capable of leaving him a bloody smear on the ground.
Church sighed slightly and his tone was a bit softer when he spoke again, "Just recover, okay, nerd? With you in here, it's just us and Doc when he's not training and I'd rather have you being an annoying kiss-ass than listen to the guy who refuses to shoot anything in a fucking war."
"Thanks, Church." He was surprised to find that he actually meant it.
"Yeah, well, now I have to go wash this fucking memory off of me." He shuddered and headed back to the door, "Let's go, Sheila, we have a meeting with Carolina."
Sheila stood and nodded slightly to Simmons in goodbye before following Church outside.
Simmons laid there in silence for a good long while, the soft humming of the machinery of the medical unit filling his ears. It seemed louder now then whenever he'd been in here previously.
He tried his hardest to avoid falling asleep again though, preferring the physical pain of being awake to what else lay in store for him in dreams.
"How are you feeling?"
Simmons blinked, surprised by the bluntness of C.T.'s question.
The two hadn't seen each other for a few weeks and the one time they had run into each other he had been extremely early for a meeting, so he had decided to visit the lounge again where he had first met her and Washington: the view always made him smile wistfully somehow. She didn't beat around the bush.
In a way, he supposed he was grateful for her bluntness. It made it easier to talk to her without being his usual brain-dead self around females.
"Wh-what are you referring to, exactly?"
Okay, well, he had said "easier." He didn't say foolproof.
She pointed directly at his augmented eye, "That. It's only been a few weeks since your surgery, shouldn't you still be resting?"
"Oh." He frowned, "I'm okay. I mean…it doesn't hurt anymore."
Well, that wasn't true. It still hurt quite a bit, just nowhere near as excruciating as it had right after the operation. It actually ached less in general when he moved around more, sleeping was what killed him the most, truthfully, so he had wanted to go back on active duty as quick as possible.
But that would require a lot of words to explain and he didn't really have the energy for it.
She didn't look too convinced, but she let it slide. Instead, she raised a brown eyebrow at the package underneath his arm.
"What's that?"
He looked down and blushed, wishing he'd remembered to return to barracks to store it first, "It's, um…a get-well gift from a friend. Banana nut bread."
Doc was busy with medic training now, having been finally given permission to take a break from active duty to focus fully on it. Whenever he had time still though, he would drop off homemade snacks like that to Simmons if he saw him outside of duty ever since the redhead had his operation. It was nice, though horribly embarrassing all at the same time.
"That's nice." She gave a slight smile, "Too bad I'm allergic to nuts or I'd make you share."
Agent Connecticut sat down at one of the tables, motioning for Simmons to do the same.
She looked extremely tired since he'd seen her last and there was sadness in her eyes all the time now. It wasn't the resentful sadness she'd displayed when they had first met: just a regular, lingering sadness.
"Agent Washington asked about you, you know." She said quietly, "After the surgery."
"He did?" his shock caused his voice to reach a higher octave.
He hadn't actually seen Washington a lot recently, which had been somewhat upsetting considering the young Freelancer had been the second closest person he felt he could call something of a "friend" here beyond Doc. He supposed now too that the list could be extended to include C.T. and Sheila in a way, which was odd to think about considering how he still had trouble talking to them sometimes.
Something bad had apparently happened to him around the same time that the Insurrection attack occurred and when Captain Flowers died, but the details were lost and buried under all sorts of classification codes.
All Simmons really knew about the incident was that Washington had been shipped off to a rehabilitation facility somewhere else in Above Ground for over ten months. When he came back, he was distant and brooding and made it a point to never socialize with anyone for longer than five minutes, acting for all the world as if he expected them to stab him in the back at some point.
Washington wasn't as bad around Simmons, but that was probably more because the timid soldier didn't exactly rank high on anyone's threat scale. He'd say a curt greeting to him in the halls, but would then move on as fast as he could afterwards, looking over his shoulders in a way that had become something of a ritual for him now.
"He doesn't show it anymore, but he still has some kindness in him." She looked regretful but smiled somewhat, "I wish I hadn't been as hard on him back then."
C.T.'s slight smile went from nostalgic tinged with regret to hard-edged in a matter of seconds, "It was Freelancer that did that to him, you know."
He gulped, not entirely sure he wanted to hear this. He knew there was truth to what she said, even if he couldn't say for sure exactly what it was.
"When I see him next time, though, I'll tell him you're doing well. It'll ease some of the worries from him, if nothing else."
Thankfully, she decided to switch tact again instead.
He smiled, somewhat relieved, "Thank you."
"No problem."
A silence stretched between them after that, with a thoughtful, faraway expression crossing over C.T.'s face.
Simmons debated about it for a moment, never quite as good with social protocols as he wanted to be, but somewhat concerned about the redness he saw in the brunette's eyes.
And he decided eventually: fuck it, fair is fair. She'd already asked him herself anyways.
"How are you f-feeling then?"
He wanted to kick himself for his stutter.
She blinked, surprised at the question. Then she smiled slightly, "Better than you physically, I'd wager."
So she hadn't bought his earlier remark. He felt his face flush in embarrassment at having been found out.
She sighed, "I'm just out of it, I think." She looked over at the window, "I'm worried about my friends and upset that I can't do more."
He remained silent at this, because he honestly had no idea of what to say to her.
"And this whole time of year is always depressing to me."
His expression must have asked the question he was far too afraid to ask for fear of intruding on her privacy because her smile turned somewhat sad.
"Someone I cared for a lot," she paused, choosing her next words carefully, "They died awhile ago around this time."
"Oh." It was all he could think to say, though it was largely inadequate.
"I thought it might get easier to deal with, the more time passed…" she shrugged, a wry look on her face, "But with each year it gets worse."
"I'm…" he paused, tried to start again, "I'm sorry."
She shook her head as if to dispel any lingering depressing thoughts from it and gave him a comforting smile, "Well, I know everyone goes through that sort of thing." She gave him a pointed, sympathetic look, "Florida was killed around this time too. And your mother recently passed away, correct?"
He nodded mutely, the lump in his throat suddenly making it hard to say anything.
"Grief can make us do crazy things sometimes. Like volunteering to be a cyborg."
And whatever response he had to that observation flew completely from his head when a red-haired woman in cyan and silver armor stepped into the lounge area. There was an odd, almost miniature human-shaped image floating just above her shoulder, but it quickly flickered from view before any more details could be discerned the second she turned her green eyes on the two people conversing in the area.
"C.T.," her tone was clipped and to the point, "I thought you were off-duty today."
Connecticut stood straight as an arrow in the presence of her commanding officer, "I am. Just figured I'd finish filing some reports before I headed out."
"Get to it then." Agent Carolina left no room for argument or debate.
Connecticut nodded, offering a quick sympathetic smile in Simmons' direction and a comforting pat on the shoulder before moving past Carolina.
Simmons swallowed nervously, trying to fight the sudden urge to vomit.
He very nearly had a fucking heart attack (never mind that his heart wasn't in his chest anymore), when the soldier took the spot that had been previously occupied by C.T. across from him.
His fear of Carolina wasn't so much his usual anxiety when it came to dealing with women as it was that she terrified the hell out of him. Agent Carolina was intimidating as fuck. Even just sitting there, staring impassively out the window like she was, there was a sharpness about her, a lingering sense that she could (and would, if properly incensed) break every bone in your body before you could even blink.
It took a special sort of elite to be the leader of the Freelancers, after all.
"You're here early, Private Simmons."
He started, surprised at being addressed by her. She hadn't taken her eyes off of the window at all.
"Um…"
Maybe it had something to do with Captain Flowers having been a Freelancer. Maybe it had something to do with Agents York, North, and Tex defecting or with Agent Washington being out of commission for so long and Agent Maine's apparent killed in action status too: other issues he hadn't gotten any details on yet as well. Maybe it was because of the war and being understaffed at the Mother of Invention. Or possibly the people doing all of the paperwork in the military were just really shitty at their jobs.
But for whatever reason, control over Florida's "side-project" had fallen to Agent Carolina at his passing. Which was pretty damn nerve-wracking, all in all, even if she really didn't seem to have much use for them and generally only tolerated the group to go on surveillance missions of very little importance as a result.
On one hand, it was a good way to prove oneself. On the other, well, Simmons really never wanted to experience a tenth of what the Freelancers probably did on a daily basis (his captain's mangled body, C.T.'s sadness, Washington's curt dismissals that he tried not to take too personally because something had obviously happened even if no one told him what it was).
So, naturally, he always practically had a panic attack in her presence.
"Church will be late again, most likely." There was an annoyed resignation to her voice. Her green eyes were still fixed on the window.
In the back of his mind, he briefly remembered having heard something about how Church and Carolina were perhaps distantly related somehow. He wondered if that was why the two talked about each other without any mention of rank or title.
He was curious to know if that was actually true or not, but he sure as hell wasn't going to ask Agent Carolina about it and he had a feeling Church would simply tell him point blank that it was "none of his goddamned business" if he ever asked him.
"Er…"
She finally turned to regard him with a blank, assessing look on her face that gave away nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on the visible synthetic skin graft and red eye of his face.
"You were in recovery for your cybernetic enhancement surgery only a few weeks ago." She noted.
He nodded, mind drawing a total blank on vocalizing at the moment.
"I won't ask how you're feeling. You opted for the surgery to improve yourself and you have to work out how to do that on your own." She did tilt her head to him slightly, tone only softening marginally, "Though I do admit, most soldiers aren't nearly as active so soon afterwards."
Holy shit, was that praise? Before his brain could explode from the notion or come up with some weird, convoluted way he could misinterpret it somehow as an insult because he was never that comfortable with praise, she carried on through.
"I have a lot of high hopes that there won't be any negative repercussions from my decision to send the three of you out on the field for your next assignment."
She waited in silence for her words to sink in, eyebrow twitching slightly when it took longer than she seemed to deem necessary for what she said to process through Simmons' mind.
"Y-you mean…?" his throat was dry and he ignored the aches in his body and the odd sudden realization that, by this point, Doc's "get-well gift" was probably just a bag of crumbs under his armpit as he'd forgotten entirely to put it down on the table when he had been talking to C.T. earlier.
Carolina gave a curt nod, "Yes, your team is going underground."
Author's Notes: More character introductions and some more plot points brought up. I experimented a little by finally using two different P.O.V.s in one chapter, which will probably be happening more often in future chapters. I apologize for how rushed the ending to the third chapter was though in comparison! I'll try to avoid doing that again in subsequent chapters and all of those points I mentioned there will definitely be coming back into the story in a big way later on, I promise!
Also, for some reason, in my head canon Kimball looks a lot like Lyndie Greenwood: the actress who plays Jenny Mills in the Sleepy Hollow television show. I'm not sure how that happened, but it did (which is kind of cool because she is awesome and Kimball is awesome!). :D
So, not much to say on this one beyond that the next chapter will finally have a reunion of sorts (haha, took me long enough! XD). Thank you to everyone who has been reading the fic. I hope that this chapter was an enjoyable one!