Somewhere else, in a sunny valley, life was incredibly slow and boring for its inhabitants. While the forest was cursed with never ending rainfall, this valley had never seen the night sky. The sun sat still in the same place for as long as the soldiers living there could remember. It was hot, but not dry, because a river flowed through the valley, much to their delight. Well, maybe for one soldier in standard blue armor in particular who was playfully splashing anything within range like a little kid.

Like the forest, there were two bases. One sat by the roaring waterfall that fed the river, the other at the mouth of the river. Unlike the forest, there was no tank. However, there was one crashed Pelican, or the remains of it, as the soldiers used its scrap for their own contraptions. All that remained of the Pelican was its wings and the internal skeleton.

There was a car, but it was also heavily damaged and one soldier specifically spent most of his time working on it. Its windshield was badly cracked, three of the wheels either flat or in shatters, and the turret's barrel snapped in half. It was currently resting on its right side, and precariously about to tip over.

There were other vehicles, but none were in as bad shape as the Pelican or Warthog. At each of the bases rested two Mongooses. The residents at both bases had made an agreement that both teams would share these vehicles in case an emergency has sprung up, as that was in the norm around them. But, as the weeks went by, and the boredom grew, nothing seemed to threaten their lives.

Due to the high temperatures, most of the soldiers were not seen outside. It seemed like a smart idea to them to stay inside and rest the heat away. However, they have been doing that for a couple weeks now, and some soldiers were starting to become restless. The restless soldier decided that it was time to start actual work. For instance, the soldier in standard red armor that continued to slave away on a hopelessly destroyed Warthog.

He was not alone outside; there were two of his colleagues guarding one of the bases entrances. One stood tall and acted very seriously in his maroon armor. This soldier kept his weapon ready, even though he hasn't fired it in a long time. This soldier gritted his teeth as he painfully watched his partner goof off.

The other soldier in orange armor was not serious at all; as he had the barrel of his gun stuck into the ground and was now leaning on the butt of his weapon. The orange soldier would frequently sigh heavily. As the minutes in the hot sun's rays dragged by, the orange soldier began to slump down to the ground. It wasn't long until he was leaning against the base's wall and was just minutes away from sleep.

The maroon soldier rolled his eyes as snores escaped the lazy orange soldier. Before their superior officer could notice the sleeper, and give both of them lip about it, the maroon soldier gave a quick kick to the sleeping soldier. Instantly, the orange soldier woke up and quickly jumped onto his feet. For some reason, he held his dirt filled weapon up and looked for his attacker. After seeing it was his partner, the orange soldier once again put his weapon on the ground and leaned against it.

"Hey." The orange soldier broke the endless silence.

"Yeah?" The maroon soldier answered, finally breaking his unneeded concentration.

"You ever wonder why we're here?" The orange soldier asked in an overly bored tone.

"You know what, Grif? I happen to be asking myself that question a lot lately. I mean, ever since we found out that we, I mean us and Blue Team, found out that we weren't fighting a real war in a real army; there hasn't been a lot of motivation around here. Ever since we killed the Meta, not much else has been happening. We haven't even been spying on the Blue Team; there's just no need. Everything we've done was pointless. For the past several years, we were just pointless guinea pigs." Maroon soldier questioned.

But he didn't stop there, nope, he just continued with no sign of ending. "I'm just surprised that Sarge hasn't gone into denial again like at the Freelancer facility a couple weeks ago. And not even that, why are we here now? For all that we know, Command is probably shut down. We haven't gotten a fake mission from Command, or even a checkup. All they ever do is give lists of dead Freelancers at the same time every day. They finally think Washington is dead, and that Church is still alive."

"So maybe I don't actually ask myself 'why are we here'. Maybe I ask myself why we haven't been shipped into an actually army and make ourselves useful. Or if we're lucky enough, get shipped back home to our friends and family. Why did they just desert us here, as if we're dirt? We are real people! And we should be able to actually do something productive in our short, miserable lives."

The maroon soldier stopped there, finally finished his venting session. He was gasping for air, as if his monologue took up a lot of his energy. The orange soldier, Grif, just stared at him. And the maroon soldier stared back at Grif; his body was still tensed from his overly long speech. It was silent for about five seconds.

"What the hell, Simmons?" Grif said to the maroon soldier, "I just wanted to know why we're we here at the Blue's base, and why the hell the Blues are at our base. It just doesn't make sense."

"Oh . . ." Simmons understood. "Doc thought that even though we haven't been fighting, that there's still too much tension between us. Even though there isn't any. So he came up with the brilliant idea to switch bases at last week's meeting. He wanted us to see how it was like to be on the other team."

"That's stupid." Grif exclaimed as he slumped back down against the wall.

Simmons half-heartedly laughed, "Yeah it is."

It was silent for a second.

"You didn't go to last week's meeting, didn't you?" Simmons asked in an annoyed tone.

"Nope." Grif yawned, sounding a bit proud of the fact too.

Simmons let out a sigh of irritation. Grif just sat laid down, and literally seconds later, Simmons heard some snores coming from Grif again. Simmons headed inside Blue base, leaving his post, but he didn't really care at this point. Simmons walked down the hall that held doors to their rooms. Sarge had his own room, while Grif and Simmons shared theirs. For some reason, they kept the third room unoccupied during their temporary stay at Blue Base. It was like the Reds were just hoping that Donut would come back to life and annoy them to death, like the good old days.

"Get over it, Simmons." Simmons said to himself, "Donut is gone and it's all Wash's fault."

Meanwhile, somewhere else in the valley known as Valhalla . . .

A soldier in lightish red armor remained still on the ground of the valley. He was not moving at all; just laying on the ground.

"Uh, hey, I'm not dead. I just can't move and no one can hear my pleas for help." The soldier known as Donut said mostly to himself. "I'm perfectly fine; I think time has healed my wounds too."

Back at Blue Base . . .

"Yep. He's gone, and you can't do anything about it." Simmons reassured himself as he headed into the radio room.

Simmons turned on the short range radio and called the Red Base, hoping that someone would answer him. He waited for a couple minutes, all the while still clenching his teeth harder than he thought possible.

Finally someone picked up.

"Yeah?" A familiar voice answered

"Hi, Tucker." Simmons greeted.

"Oh, hey dude! What's up Simmons?" Tucker said over the radio.

"I'd like to speak to Doc, please. I just wanted to know how much longer we have to switch bases. Sarge is getting a bit temperamental; he won't leave the Chupathingy until it's fixed. And I'm pretty sure that it's high time we buried Donut's body. I think it'd be decomposing by now." Simmons summed up.

"Oh yeah, we forgot to bury Church's first body when Caboose killed him. Let me tell you, it didn't smell good." Tucker said.

"Tucker did it!" Simmons faintly heard Caboose yell on the other side.

"Shut up, Caboose! I'm not talking to you." Tucker yelled back at Caboose. "Anyways, sorry Simmons, but Doc and Wash just left a couple minutes ago to get some spare parts from Sheila. They'll be gone for about an hour."

"Wait, why did they need spare parts? What did you guys break over there?" Simmons panicked, his voice going higher in pitch with each word.

"Relax, dude. It was one of our own equipment that was trashed. We barely touched any of your stuff; though we did have the misfortune of Caboose finding Donut's diary." Tucker shuddered, "But like I said, it was ours; Caboose just had some trouble with one of the Mongooses. He drove it straight into a tree! How stupid is that?"

"Again, Tucker did it!" Caboose yelled off somewhere.

"Shut the hell up, Caboose!" Tucker screamed at him.

Simmons sighed. He didn't know which place he'd rather be. Here at Blue Base with a semi-insane commanding officer and a lazy partner? Or back at Red Base with Tucker and Caboose going at each other's necks non-stop?

"Fine, but when Doc comes back, can you tell him to call me? Or can you just tell him this experiment isn't working?" Simmons asked as politely as he could at the moment, which was, of course, not very polite at all.

"Dude, you think that you're the only one who hates this? Trust me; the only person over here that isn't complaining is Caboose! And I don't think he even understands that we switched bases. From what I can tell, he thinks this is vacation." Tucker explained.

"Did you just say that you wanted to switch socks, Tucker?" Caboose asked as he walked closer to the microphone. "Well, okay, but usually I only switch socks with General Butter-Crust. And then I fill his socks with my old candy wrappers . . ."

"What? No Caboose! And how do you even get candy bars; Command doesn't ship them with our supplies." Tucker side tracked.

"Oh, I stored some candy bars into Sheila before Tex left with her." Caboose said as if it was obvious.

"But that still doesn't answer—never mind, just go back to doing whatever you do when you're alone." Tucker ordered.

"Okay. . . " Caboose said as he left.

It was silent for a couple seconds as Tucker made sure Caboose left the room. Simmons let out an irritated sigh.

"I'll call you guys when Doc and Wash return, okay Simmons?" Tucker offered.

"Yeah, fine . . . whatever." Simmons muttered.

Simmons turned off the radio and headed back outside. As soon as he left Blue Base, the never setting sun's rays hit his helmet and his head instantly heated up. Against his better judgment, Simmons took off his helmet and sucked in a big breath of fresh, unpumped air. This was probably what he missed most during his time in the fake Red Army: fresh air. Sure, it wasn't Earth's air, but he didn't want to push his luck.

A loud snore snapped Simmons back to attention. Sure enough, Grif was lying on the ground, holding his weapon as if it was a teddy bear. Simmons scratched his head and ran his fingers through his short hair impatiently.

"God, when are you not asleep!" Simmons asked rhetorically, "Get up!"

Simmons kicked Grif again. Instead of jumping up again, this time he just shook his head like a dog. And then Grif let out a stream of cuss words.

"Dude! Simmons, you never appreciate how hard it is to sleep." Grif muttered half awake. "Especially since it's so hard going in and out all the time.

"No! Don't say that!" Simmons panicked, knowing how wrong that sounded.

But it was too late; Simmons could hear the radio inside of Blue Base turn on. There was static at first, but then an all too familiar, immature voice crowed out a response.

"Bow Chicka Bow Wow!" Tucker cried out before turning the radio off again.

Simmons let out an irritated sigh for the thousandth time today and ignored Tucker's statement. A frustrated Simmons kicked Grif for the third time. Only, this time he had no mercy for his associate. He kicked Grif with so much force that his own foot hurt like hell.

"Ow! I'm getting up, I'm getting up!" Grif proclaimed as he uncoordinatedly stood up. "I bet they don't have to deal with this kind of abuse at Blue Team."

"And I didn't tell you about the time that I was locked in my hometown's public library for an entire weekend when I was eight." Doc said as he and Agent Washington made their way to Sheila's remains.

Wash rolled his eyes, and tried to tune Doc out. He wasn't successful, at all. Ever since he and the Meta held Doc prisoner, Doc had been growing closer to Wash than a man should have. It was even getting to the point where it was creeping not only Wash out, but everyone around them.

Yeah, Doc had developed Stockholm syndrome with Wash, even though Doc was not necessarily his prisoner at the moment. It was driving Wash insane.

"So . . . yeah, once I was locked in my hometown's public library for an entire weekend when I was eight." Doc restated, "The whole experience caused me to become a pacifist."

"That makes no sense, Doc." Wash told him.

"It does to me." Doc muttered, looking hurt. Wash could have sworn that he was silently crying in his helmet.

The ex-Freelancer and medic jumped off of a rock and landed in the river. The result was that a horde of alien fish attacked Doc as they tried to find their escape. Doc fell down, screaming in the process. The alien fish were startled again, and they again went into frenzy. It was pitiful, yet extremely funny.

Wash let out a slight chuckle and held out his hand for Doc to grab. He gratefully took it and stood up.

"Those fish were way too hostile for my liking." Doc muttered to himself. He rubbed the chin of his helmet, as if he wanted to hold his chin. "I got it! They should learn a thing or two about Chi."

Wash shook his head. Something was wrong with everyone in the canyon, why else would everyone be acting like idiots. Wash only hoped that he wasn't becoming an idiot himself. Or that he wasn't already an idiot.

"There's got to be something in the water." Wash muttered under his breath.

They continued their way to the remains of the downed Pelican. Doc and Wash travelled in the blistering hot heat. Occasionally, some of the trees in Valhalla would shade them as they passed under them. Alien birds sang to each other in songs that neither of the soldiers understood. Slowly they were closing in on the Pelican. During that, Doc was constantly blabbing about stuff that Wash didn't care about. One second it was about vegetarian cuisine, and then to some horrible nightmare he had god knows when.

But the medic meant well. And Wash knew that, he just wished he meant well in a less annoying way.

As they reached the remains of Sheila, some of the forest life that had decided to inhabit her scampered away. Wash instinctively scoped out the area; old habits like military training died hard. His body tensed automatically and he clenched his Battle Rifle tight.

Something caught his eye and he raised his firearm at it. The object Wash saw instantly froze and gave him weary eyes. For some reason, Wash wasn't able to lower his Battle Rifle. Doc saw this and he quickly reacted. He pushed Wash's gun down, and as soon as he did it, the object made a dash for it.

"For heaven's sake, Wash, it was just an alien bunny rabbit." Doc exclaimed. "What did they ever do to you?"

"One time a pack of them viciously attacked a group of Freelancers back during the peak of Project Freelancer. I was in that group, and let me tell you, I was glad I wasn't the poor fella who lost some toes to those alien bunny rabbits." Wash stated.

Doc was quiet as he took in what Wash just said. Wash could just picture the beads of sweat that were forming on the medic's forehead. And he was right, because with that statement, Doc was sweating like a pig.

"Well . . . let's get down to business." Doc said a bit squeamishly.

Wash nodded and they began to look for parts from Sheila that they would use to fix the damaged Mongoose. It was hard, as there was almost nothing left to be used. Wires from Sheila's programming dangled over their heads. Doc's first time here he had the unfortunate luck of having his head entangled. Tucker, with the help of Sarge and Simmons, had to come over and release Doc's head with his sword. During the whole time, Doc was hysterical, and that was the most fun that Wash had had in a very long time. Wash couldn't stop laughing, and it took a good nudge from the Reds to get him to shut up.

That experience scared Doc enough that he never entered the remains of the ship again. So Wash was the one who stepped into Sheila's skeleton and looked for spare parts.

"Do you see any wheels or tires anywhere?" Doc called as he waited outside of the ship.

"Why would you think that there would wheels on a ship that flies in space?" Wash pointed out.

"How about the landing gear? Wouldn't that need wheels and tires?" Doc said as his rebuttal.

"I already thought that; I'm on my way there." Wash quickly said. God, why didn't he think of that? There definitely was something in the water.

Slowly, Wash headed down the tail of the crashed Pelican. The sunlight was blocked and Wash turned on his built in flashlight. He saw mass entanglement of wires and the remains of a partially activated bomb. He knew that was the cause of the crash, and he couldn't believe how well preserved this part of the ship was. Even the part of the bomb that was activated should have obliterated everything within ten feet.

Wash searched the remains to find the landing gear. He removed some of the intact floor tiles to expose the majorly damaged wheels of the Pelican. They were slightly larger than the wheels of the Mongoose, but they would do well.

With great force, Wash was able to disconnect two of the wheels from the pelican. He carried each wheel under his arms as he made his way out of Sheila. Slowly, the sunlight brightened the area, and Wash's flashlight automatically turned off.

"Did you get them?" Doc asked as he saw Wash's figure appeared through the ship's skeleton.

"Yeah, and they're not in that bad shape, actually. Just a couple of dents, but we can fix that." Wash said as he exited the remains of Sheila. "Here, take a wheel. You need some manual labor. And before you can say it, I don't think that 'being a medic' is a good excuse."

Doc groaned as he took one of the wheels. He slumped at the weight of it, but took it like a man. Doc continued to grumble as they headed back to Red Base. They walked slower on their way back. Not because of the weight they were carrying, but to enjoy the sound of the river, and the faint breeze hitting the trees.

"Listen, Doc, we need to talk about this switching base thing." Wash brought up.

"Oh no, Wash, we're not talking about this until this week's meeting tomorrow night. And I can't wait to hear how this experience has changed everyone." Doc said, oblivious to everyone hating it.

Wash sighed, "Okay, tomorrow evening, we'll talk about it with everyone."

"That's the plan." Doc said optimistically.

They continued on their way to Red Base. Only a couple minutes away, Wash froze and dropped the wheel. The wheel fell into the river and sat there. Doc was the first to react and he shot to grab the tire.

"Wash, a rusty tire isn't healthy for anyone." Doc scolded.

Wash didn't respond; he was still frozen.

"Washington?" Doc said with concern.

"I . . . I can't believe it." Wash muttered to himself, completely ignoring Doc, "How is this possible?"

"What is it, Wash?" Doc asked, now getting a bit impatient as he held both wheels.

"I just got a recovery beacon. It was extremely short, as if it was intentionally shut off." Wash tried to explain as he headed towards the top of a rock, as if he was trying to get better reception.

"So?"

"So, that means that there's a Freelancer still out there. I'm not alone, Doc, there is at least one more survivor that Command hasn't tracked down. Or was." Wash clarified. "I may be alone, still. The only reason a recovery beacon goes off is in case a Freelancer had been critically injured, captured, or killed. Or in some cases, all three."