Meanwhile, back at Valhalla . . .

Simmons and Grif were back at doing the usual at Blue Base. And their usual was nothing. Simmons was supposed to be standing watch, but since he had been doing that for weeks on end, he was starting to let his guard down. He was beginning to lean against Blue base's walls like Grif was doing. He kept his eyes up on the sky, watching a couple of stray clouds swirl around the never setting sun. These were the first puffy clouds that he's seen since the last battle with the Meta, except they weren't dark storm clouds that never broke.

The river next to them was very quiet, except for the occasional ripple of water. The alien fish seemed to agree with Simmons and Grif, and they tried to soak in as much of the sun as possible. The fish were in a trance as they didn't move from their position. It was a strange sight. Relaxing, but strange nonetheless.

A slight breeze pushed through Simmons. It would have felt cool to Simmons if he wasn't wearing all of his armor at the time being. It was the perfect breeze too, just soft enough for someone to enjoy the sun's rays without burning up like a piece of bacon left on the frying pan for far too long.

It was almost silent. At the time being, no bird songs were given off. Simmons didn't know why. He didn't even question it. If he did, he would have given into the sheer beauty of the day.

Simmons had never been so peaceful in years.

Grif, however, had been this peaceful multiple times in years. In reality, it was more than multiple times, more like most of the time. He was still dozing off at his post, and his head was becoming heavier for him to hold up. Simmons had recently given up on kicking Grif awake, and for that, Grif was extremely thankful. Currently, Grif was dreaming about being back in Hawaii with his sister, Kaikaina.

They were on a beach by Honolulu. It was almost normal, except the beach wasn't as crowded as it usually was. But he didn't question it; he just enjoyed playing in the sun with Kaikaina. They were throwing a Frisbee, which was the most energetic thing he did back then. They were laughing, they were fooling around, but most importantly, they were eating. Grif missed his favorite Hawaiian food, and couldn't wait until he could get some when he would ship back home.

Grif found his Ukulele on the sandy beach and started to play an unknown song for his sister, Kaikaina. She enjoyed it very much and paid most of her attention to the chords and rhythms. That is, until she started sucking tongue with an unknown boyfriend.

Grif ended up smashing the Ukulele on the poor boy's head for that.

Grif missed his sister immensely and hoped that Lopez wasn't serious about killing her. He was starting to believe Lopez, though, and he regretted that. Sister was like a rash to him: apart of your body that once you thought you were rid of it, it would come back and make your life a living hell once again.

But their tranquil worlds were shattered as the sound of a car's engine came roaring to life right next to them. Both literally jumped a foot off of the ground, and Grif was lying down on the job, and came to attention. Simmons saluted while looking for his superior officer and Grif just crossed his arms in annoyance and let out a long string of cuss words.

Sarge, the commanding officer of the Red team, was sitting in the driver's seat of the newly fixed Chupathingy, their Warthog. He had his shotgun in the passenger seat, along with his helmet. Sarge had always treated his shotgun as if it was a person, or an extension of his body. So his trusty shotgun always deserved its own designative seat in the Chupathingy.

He gave both of his still living soldiers a deadly glare before he jumped out of the Chupathingy. A large, red bump on Sarge's head was slightly visible. Simmons studied this very briefly, but soon paid attention on Sarge's rising voice.

"Listen up!" Sarge ordered, even though both Simmons and Grif already were giving him their attention, "It seems that those dirty Blues had started up their old trick again. Those scheming scoundrels! They seem to have changed bases with us. And without us noticing it, too!"

"But Sarge, this was a joint agreement with the Blues. We aren't fighting anymore." Grif pointed out between big yawns that didn't seem to end.

"Nonsense! I don't know one Red that would make an agreement with a Blue unless it dealt with surrendering!" Sarge exclaimed. His fuzzy, grey eyebrows highlighting his facial expressions of shock and contradiction. Sarge continued to grumble as Simmons spoke.

"But Sir, we've made loads of deals with the Blues for years. Even before we were battling the Meta with Agent Washington" Simmons explained. "Though we've been more corporative with the Blues since our battle with both Freelancers."

"What! Where's the Meta! And I thought we were trying to get away from Washington." Sarge said, aghast at Simmons' words.

Quickly, Sarge scoped their perimeter out while using the Chupathingy as cover. He pulled up his armor covered hands to keep the sun out of his eyes just like a kid would do to make binoculars. It was amusing to watch, and Grif let out a small snicker. Simmons gave him a quick nudge to shut him up.

"Did we fall right into their trap to bring us back here in Valhalla?" Sarge continued, sounding crazier than ever before.

Grif and Simmons just stared at each other for a long minute as they tried to fight down Grif's chuckles. They questioned Sarge's sanity very briefly, but then they remembered that Sarge was not really connected to reality at all times. It had just been so long since his last period of insanity.

What had caused Sarge to go into another period of insanity? Simmons was the first to speak.

"What was the last thing you remember, Sir?" Simmons asked, a reason already formulating in his mind.

"Well, I remember that the floating ball person let that Tex girl out. And we got our asses kicked. We were just about to put the Blues into that F.I.L.S.S. computer thingy. I faintly remember Grif dying though, and you turning into a motorcycle." Sarge said, reminiscing, "And then, after that, I remember just being here and fixing the Chupathingy."

Grif and Simmons stared at each other, again, at a loss for words. What could have caused Sarge to instantly gain Amnesia for the last couple weeks, making him forget the battle with the Meta, Church disappearing in search for Tex, and Washington joining the Blues? And the fact that they were just simulation soldiers for Project Freelancer?

Both knew the answer after that last thought. It was a good explanation, but it was also wrong, as they hadn't known about the accident that Caboose had caused earlier.

"Denial." Grif and Simmons said at the same time.

"What? Whose denying?" Sarge asked, utterly confused. "Are you telling me that those dirty Blues are denying the use of our base and our holographic workshop? Would they be using our holographic workshop to try and build a mechanical bull that is a strong as a real one, but immune of a matadors stabbing, leaving us unprotected without Lopez to subdue the mechanical beast? Those are clever ones, they are . . ."

Silence.

"Uh, what was that about the matador and a bull again?" Grif asked.

"Never mind, you dumbass. You're too stupid to ever understand the tricks of those blues." Sarge muttered. "But I'll tell you, they're denying us our holographic workshop for their own needs!"

"No Sarge, you seem to be blocking out a piece of information that you just fuckin' hate." Grif stated as he leaned against the rear side of the Chupathingy.

"Huh?"

"What Grif means," Simmons took over, "is that a couple weeks ago, just after the last things you can remember, both Red and Blue teams learned that the war that we were fighting in was a lie."

"That sounds like nonsense." Sarge grumbled as Simmons sucked in a breath.

"Anyways," Simmons began again, "It seems that you believed for a long time that Red Army was a real thing, like we all did. But you more than others, and you took the truth harder than the rest of us. And such, you repressed recent memories so you can still believe the Red vs. Blue wars are existent. The truth is, Sarge, that Red army doesn't exist. That we're just a bunch of Simulation Soldiers. Simulation Soldiers with the sole purpose to best a test for Freelancers like Tex and Washington."

It was quiet for a second. Sarge gave them really weird looks as he tried to stomach this all in. He turned around to pick his helmet and shotgun out of the Chupathingy. Sarge held his shotgun in one hand, and his helmet in the other. He looked a lot like the Statue of Liberty actually, but in a more demented, army focused state.

Sarge put his helmet on and turned to face his inferiors again. It was like the crazy fool that Sarge was known to be was hidden by the helmet. Any other soldier would have guessed that he was a good soldier and leader. However, Grif and Simmons knew otherwise.

"You're making that up." Sarge said as he cocked his trusty shotgun.

"Dude! How did I know that Sarge would crack under the pressure of truth?" Grif rhetorically asked.

Sarge raised his shotgun to Grif's face. Both Sarge and Simmons couldn't see it, but Grif just started to recently sweat like a pig over an open roast. Sarge has always threatened Grif's life, but Sarge's mental state was questionable at best at this moment, so Grif could actually be killed.

Grif managed a semi-believable laugh, "That was a joke, Sarge."

Sarge made an unintelligible grunt and lowered his shotgun. He jumped back into the Chupathingy and started the engine.

"You two seem to have been taken under the Blue's mind tricks! I would have expected that from Grif." Sarge said, shaking his head. "But never from you Simmons! I thought I put some cyborg parts in your system that made you immune to hypnotism. Guess I was wrong! Soon, you'll go all native on me and use me as your sacrifice to the Great Blue Gods! Which are really demons!"

Both Grif and Simmons shook their heads. Sarge's plans and explanations were always abnormal, at best. But after years of serving with Sarge as their sergeant, this one took the prize.

"I have to finish them off while I can to save you. But I fear it's too late for Grif . . ." Sarge muttered more to himself than to his awestruck inferiors.

"That's just fucked up!" Grif exclaimed. "You're fucked up!"

Somewhere else in Valhalla . . .

Tucker was sleeping on Red Base's couch. A pillow in one hand, and his sword, deactivated, in the other. A blanket with the Red Army's emblem on it was sprawled across his body. His chocolate colored feet were sticking out at weird angles; one was even off of the couch and rammed onto the floor. He was snoring loudly and obnoxiously.

Caboose was on the floor next to couch, bent over the only book he could read. The book was his Blue Army Manual that he received his first year at Blood Gulch. All of its pages were illustrated and Caboose was currently studying how to use a Rocket Launcher. His eyes were practically glued to the page. But don't say that to Caboose, because he could very well do that if mentioned.

Through Tucker's snores, his lips formed almost silent words in his sleep. "Bow . . . Chicka, Bow . . . Wow . . ."

Back outside of Blue Base . . .

"I agree with Grif, Sir, that was just total nonsense." Simmons said. "We aren't under any of the Blues spells. If there were any spells, they are under ours."

Grif was confused and roughly nudged Simmons in the ribs. Grif put his head closer to Simmons so he could hear his words clearly.

"What the fuck, Simmons?" Grif muttered soft enough so Sarge couldn't hear them.

"Hey, Sarge won't accept the truth. So I had to make something up that he would accept." Simmons whispered back. "Just be glad I didn't tell him to attack the Blues. What kind of explanation could we tell them? 'Oh, sorry Sarge attacked you guys. He completely forgot that we weren't fighting a war and wanted to kill you all. So don't kill him because of that.' They utterly aren't going to believe that."

Sarge hadn't been paying attention to their little conversation and was stroking his shotgun until it glistened in the sun. It was such a pretty sight. Onyx black against the . . . whatever colors the sun was. Sarge didn't really know if the sun's rays could be classified as a color. But if it could, he would be sure that it would be in the red category of the color range.

However, that lost its appeal very quickly and Sarge snapped the two soldiers back to attention by firing a single shot from his gun. What a wonderful sound. It was the kind of sound that silenced everything with its own; demanding attention.

"Well now that your nonsense is over with," Sarge ended that part of their conversation. His voice got very quiet, as if he was a small kid who was about to tell his friends a big secret. "I have a plan to attack the Blues. It's foolproof!"

"What is it, Sir?" Simmons asked, acting genuinely intrigued. It didn't matter to Simmons if his superior was completely mental. Just as long as he could give Sarge compliments, it made him feel a bit better about his problems with his father. And then, quietly, as Simmons thought about his father, he muttered "Stupid Dad, you never take any of my compliments."

"At the meeting tonight, only Simmons and I will attend." Sarge began, not hearing Simmons grumble about his Father.

"We are the only ones who attend!" Simmons cried out. "Grif never goes! He just lies down on his ass all day long! That's all that he ever does!"

"And how do you even remember that part of these weeks?" Grif questioned, slightly tilting his head to the side like a dog when they get confused.

Sarge ignored him and continued to tell them his plan. "While we're at the meeting, Grif will douse himself with Kerosene and light himself on fire. The blues will be so surprised at Grif's suicidal intentions that they'll be distracted enough for Simmons and I to attack them from behind. I know we will lose a man in the process, but it will be worth it."

"Excellent plan, sir. Quite inspirational!" Simmons kiss-assed.

"Thank you, Simmons!" Sarge said, visibly smiling even with his helmet on. "I just came upon it while trying to figure out ways to kill Grif. I'm really proud of it myself."

"What? No that's a terrible idea!" Grif panicked and he stepped on the other side of the Chupathingy. He hid behind the car, only a bit of his orange helmet and visor showing, "You can't make me! I won't do it! You're a loon! A crazy, narrow-minded, red loving loon!"

"You'll do it, and you'll like it!" Sarge ordered.

And with that, Sarge drove the Chupathingy around Blue Base. He started to take Grif with him, as Grif's hand became wedged between the car's seat and the side of the Chupathingy. His feet left drag marks that were a few inches deep. Finally, Grif was able free his hand and the Sarge drove off without further adieu. However, like Newton's Laws states that an object in motion tends to stay in motion, Grif fell into the ground at the Chupathingy's speed.

As Grif picked up his head, Simmons could see a couple layers of dirt coating Grif's visor. And although he was the serious one in the Red Team, Simmons couldn't help laughing his head off.

"Oh, ha ha, very funny." Grif muttered as he brushed the dirt off of his armor. He faced the sky, his arms stretched out. "Why am I punished like this? Couldn't I be punished by having to be locked up in my house for the rest of my life? And what did I even do to earn this punishment?"

"Shut up," Simmons told Grif after he stopped laughing, "no one's listening to you."

"Well, you are." Grif pointed out.

"Yeah, I'm sort of forced to." Simmons snorted.

"And why did you agree to do Sarge's plan? I thought you just said you were against fighting the Blues and killing people without need?" Grif accused.

"No, I said that I didn't want Sarge to kill one of the Blues, making the rest of them mad and trying to kill all of us." Simmons clarified.

"Those don't seem like good options." Grif muttered. "Either way, I'll get killed."

"Yeah, but I've accepted your death a long, long time ago." Simmons comforted Grif, but it didn't cheer him up at all.

Grif walked away from his post, leaving his Battle Rifle there unattended. He headed into Blue Base and instantly made his way to their royal blue fabricated couch. He practically dove into it with as much grace as an Emu. Grif moaned in pleasure; this couch was so much comfier than the Red Base's one. Grif inhaled into one of the pillows and felt his body relax.

"You don't know how much I'd like to be back at our base and sleeping in my room." Grif muttered to no one in particular.