A/N: Well I'll be fucked. 38 chapters of this shit. My lazy ass has no excuse for a delay this time around. Just been procrastinating way too damn much lately.

Paradox Effect

Summary: Dying sucked. Dying and being killed by the same teammate again? That sucked even more. Dying and being thrown back into Blood Gulch as a girl? That REALLY sucked. Now, Leona Church will have to deal with Tucker's perverted looks, Caboose's stupidity, and worst of all, Tex's laughter…

*Chapter 38*

Wyoming grinned as he showed off the Warthog he had nicked from the Reds. They'd be cross, no doubt, but he had preordered one for them that would arrive in a few days. They'd manage. It's not like the Reds were going to do anything besides stand around and talk all damn day.

"The scope of my engineering genius literally knows no bounds. As you can see, the vents I've cut now operate as windows," he boasted proudly. His handiwork was a marvel to behold. It would put even master craftsmen to shame. "The engine remains nice and cool, and we can see where we're going. All is well."

York let out a groan and went back inside Blue Base. "It's too early in the morning for this shit."

"Yeah, dude." Leona grimaced. "I don't care about you stealing shit; that bit is fair. What I do care is you doing such a shitty maintenance job. You've left sharp edges, it's not neat, and you've wasted material. Caboose could do a better job for fuck's sake." Ow. Low blow.

"I couldn't find any tools," Wyoming objected, hurt by the rude criticism of his handiwork. The greatest artists were never appreciated during their life.

"The entire fucking base is filled with them, you dumbass!" Leona glared. "The biggest tool in this operation was you! There's a pair of tin snips in the workshop and they look like a pair of giant scissors, not a hammer or a woodcutting axe."

"The ruddy hell do you even have a woodcutting axe? You're in the middle of a desert. What trees are there for you to cut?"

"Don't change the subject, jackass! I could have done a better job with a bulldozer!"

Wyoming grimaced. Maybe he underestimated just how cross the blue haired woman could be when she was annoyed. "Good God you act like you haven't had sex in months." Or she was just incredibly hungry and needed to eat something. He did drag them out of bed to look at his work at what was apparently five in the morning. He couldn't tell the difference here. Fuck this canyon.

"No, dickhead. It's just too fucking early for this shit and I haven't had any coffee to suppress my urges to murder," Leona snapped. "So yes, I am pissed off. And now, I'm going back inside to get my fucking coffee before I am tempted to see how far you'd fly if we stuck you in the barrel of our tank."

The aforementioned tank swiveled its main cannon around to the white armored Freelancer, almost like it was staring at him. Wyoming could feel the sweat beginning to drip down the back of his neck and he tried to look like he wasn't somewhat nervous of being blown up. "C-can you kindly refrain from pointing that thing at me? I'll try to tidy it up…"

"You fucking better." Leona glared before stomping back inside Blue Base and Wyoming groaned in despair. He traded constant idiocy for permanent anger.

"Fuck my life."

Somehow, in ways he wasn't sure, it still could be worse.

"Where in Sam hell is our Warthog!?" Sarge bellowed, kicking both Simmons and Grif out of their bunks. Both troopers fell out of their beds with yelps of shock, the angry red sergeant pumping his shotgun and pointing it at Grif's head.

"It should be outside, asshole!" Grif grumbled. "Dude, what the actual fuck is wrong with you!? It's five in the morning!"

"Look outside, dirtbag!" Sarge growled and pointed at the windows. The sunlight was streaming through already and Grif let out a frustrated sigh before looking outside. Simmons joined him. Silence was their only answer when they saw that the Warthog they received from Command was indeed missing, presumably stolen by those backstabbing no good dirty rotten Blues.

Or one of their highly trained military operatives. Bastards getting two of them to aid them in this conflict of Red and Blue.

"Oh…shit." Grif sighed in exasperation. "Motherfucker. I guess we better make a phone call. Didn't we have a Freelancer anyway to help us out with this kind of bullshit?"

"Yeah, we did. And if you've noticed, he's also gone." Sarge let out a frustrated snarl. "Damn backstabber went to go help those traitorous Blues, I just know it!"

"Sarge, I know that Leona is an asshole, but I seriously doubt she'd want to deal with another Freelancer." Simmons rolled his eyes. "Why would she purposely rope in yet another source of pain?"

"Because she's a masochist?" Grif offered helpfully. When Simmons and Sarge both stared at him he sighed. "Oh come on. I've heard her say it loud enough for an entire military base in the middle of the tundra to hear. She gets off on that."

"Dude, too much information." Simmons was blushing. Ha. Fucking vanilla nerd.

"Goddammit, what happened to pure wholesome relationships?" Sarge groaned. "All you damn youngsters and confusing kinks. I just wanted a nice wife I could eat with at the dinner table and lay on the couch while we watched a movie together."

"Yeah, look at how your wholesome plans for the future worked out for you, old man," Grif deadpanned. "News flash, they didn't fucking work. We're stranded out here, with no fucking transpo—"

Grif was cut off by the sound of a Pelican dropship releasing its cargo. In this case, a nice shiny new Warthog without a single scuff on it and instead of a machine gun turret, it had eight rocket tubes at the back.

"You, uh, you want to continue what you were saying?" Sarge smirked.

"Fuck you."

"What was that, private!?"

"Ugh, fuck you, sir." Grif rolled his eyes.

"That's better dirtbag. Now get a move on and gear up." Sarge pumped his shotgun. "We have ourselves a date with our good friends the Blues."

"Please refrain from putting it like that in the future, sir."

"Shut up, Simmons."

"Bitch." Grif smirked and started getting dressed in his armor. Good God it smelt like burnt nachos and cigarette smoke.

"The fuck!?" Simmons cried.

"Ah shut up, Private Bitch," Sarge said with a grunt of amusement. He may have hated Grif's laziness with a passion, but there was one thing he agreed with the fat bastard on. Simmons was definitely a bitch.

"Yes sir…" Simmons lowered his head in shame.

"Bitch," Sarge and Grif echoed at the same time. They had a Freelancer to beat the piss out of.

A/N: Poor Wyoming. I love UK humor way too much and just have to fuck with him constantly.

-Classiest#8332