A/N: Here we go. Been a roll since I've been enjoying old RvB again.
Paradox Effect
Summary: Dying sucked. Dying and being killed by the same teammate again? That sucked even more. Dying and being sent back to Blood Gulch as a girl? That REALLY sucked. Now, Leona Church will have to put up with Tucker's perverted looks, Caboose's stupidity, and worst of all, Tex's laughter…
*Chapter 48*
The filtering process to find out who Red Team's next XO would be had gone on for about an hour now. And yet somehow, much to Grif's despair, it looked like it would go on for another two. He was hot, tired, and still sadly sober. He wanted to be anything but sober if this was seriously going to go on for much longer.
Maybe fucking with Simmons was a mistake.
"After three rounds, it's still anyone's contest." Sarge rumbled.
"Yeah, burn Wrench!" Donut crowed victoriously. "Anyone includes me!"
"Donut was leading after the obstacle course and talent contest. But then the mysterious skull pulled ahead in the questions and answers part," Sarge continued.
"That doesn't seem physically possible!" Donut moaned.
"So the order is the skull, Donut, and then the wrench, who is the current crowd favorite."
From Red Base, the Puma honked twice in support.
Grif rolled his eyes and with incredible sarcasm said, "Maybe the skull can be your new sidekick." His voice deepened comedically. "Hey Sarge, how can I kiss your ass if I don't have any lips?" God this was so stupid. Why was he out here sweating his ass off again?
"And in last place, Grif," Sarge finished.
Grif choked on air. "I thought I was ineligible!"
"Ineligible to win, dead man," Sarge specified like it made any difference. "Luckily there's no chance of that happening since the last round is the evening wear competition."
"Oh ho, you boys are going down!" Donut screamed out in victory, while the skull somehow procured a top hat and the wrench a bowtie from out of nowhere. Grif long since stopped questioning this stupid canyon's lack of logic and didn't bother asking how two inanimate objects had evening wear.
Grif sighed in despair and looked over at Sarge. "Can I quit?" Quitting was the lazy way out, but he never claimed to be anything but lazy.
"Of course not. Only eligible contestants can withdraw from the competition."
Grif really wasn't sure why he expected anything else. A long and tired sigh left his lips and he wished he could just go hide away in a cave for the next forty years.
"I guess you'll just have to settle for sixth place, dirtbelly."
Grif's brain stopped, rewound itself, and processed the old man's words a second time to make sure he heard them correctly. "Sixth place?" The orange-colored soldier sighed in exasperation. "Should I even ask who's in fourth and fifth?"
"Wyoming is in fifth place and I'm saving fourth for any late entries who would obviously be better than you," Sarge explained with absolute certainty. "Such as a turd or a turd farmer."
Grif let out another sigh and turned his brain off, imagining himself in a much happier place, like an island resort or an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. Dumplings sounded really good right now. His stomach growled in agreement, and he slowly started to sneak his way back to base, hoping no one would see him moving at a snail's pace.
Dammit, if only he could hide in a snowman.
After nearly dying of heatstroke in a fucking desert, Tucker was now grateful for the heavy downpour that had been going on ever since they left the Burning Sands. Accurate name, because Tucker was ninety percent sure his feet caught on fire during the trek through it.
"Where the hell are we?" he asked to the alien still on point duty, leading their party through what appeared to be a giant swamp covered in an eternal thunderstorm. Still better than the desert.
"Honk blarg. Blarg blarg honk."
"These are the Wet Plains," Andy translated.
"The Wet Plains are directly next to a fucking desert. Makes perfect sense." Tucker's sarcasm was thick enough to suffocate on. God, how the hell did falling into a hole make him into a hero? This alien's whole culture was so fucked up. Anyone who trips seemingly got worshipped.
Tucker was pretty sure that made Caboose the aliens' chief god.
Now that he actually noticed it, the big dumb Blue was being unusually quiet. Normally it was impossible to make him shut up, but he was currently staring long and hard at something behind their party. "Uh, Caboose? What's up?"
"I think we're being followed," he whispered.
"Yeah, I noticed it too." Andy said, unusually cautious for once. "Maybe they're here to try and steal the sword."
"My awesome dead-monster-slaying sword?" Tucker rolled his eyes. "Please. He can fuckin' have it. Not like it'll work for them."
Yeah, having a glowing sword that only worked for him was cool and all, but he expected, well, more. He figured he'd learn to become a master Jedi or something and use his legendary skills to get all the fine ladies. So far, he killed a dead cow. Such skill and technique. Absolutely masterful.
"Don't worry about it. I've got a plan. We'll set up camp a little further; once we do, we'll lay an ambush."
Tucker had a bad feeling about this.
"BLARRRRRG!"
WHACK!
"OW! The fuck was that for!?"
Tucker's eyes shot open, his sleep rudely interrupted by a loud cry of pain, and he rolled to his feet in a hurry. His sword ignited in his hand, ready to chop them to bits, only to lower it upon seeing exactly who the alien was attempting to beat to death. "Tex? The fuck?"
"Get this fucking thing off of me!" Tex roared angrily. Her knees rose up and she kicked the alien off of her, sending it soaring through the air. It landed in the smelly swamp water with a loud, 'Blarg!' of indignance and the black-armored Freelancer glared angrily at them. "What the hell, guys!? I come here to help, and this is how you treat a lady?"
"A lady? Who are you kidding? I've bet you've got more balls than a Roman candle!" Andy laughed.
"Ugh." Tex groaned and shook water off of her armor. "I knew this was a bad idea..."
"You didn't come here to help, butch. You came to steal the sword."
"What part of you thought that one up? Because it couldn't be further from the truth. I just wanted to get away from Blood Gulch and steal whatever your reward is."
"Blarrrrrg!"
"There is no reward. Just the sword and the emancipation of his race."
Tex wasn't deterred by the alien even though it attempted to kick the shit out of her. "Tell you what, I'll go 50-50. You keep the emancipation; I keep the sword."
"Honk."
"Deal."
"What about me?" Tucker asked.
"You get to live." Tex's flat stare met his. "But no promises."
Tucker snorted and leaned against a nearby tree. "That's not a reward for me. That's a reward for all the fine ladies in the universe."
"I'm a woman, and somehow I don't feel any luckier."
"I said fine ladies. Do try and keep up."
Tex's response was to take a very long and heavy moss-covered branch, shake the water off of it, and slam it into his kidney. He toppled over like a sack of potatoes and Tex jumped on top of him, hands reaching for his throat. Tucker, being the man of culture he was, grinned through it. Being choked out by a domineering woman was not a bad way to go, even if he would have preferred to suffocate between her thighs.
"Damn Tex! I didn't know you were that eager to choke me. Don't tell me Leona doesn't let you."
Tex growled and continued her attempted and largely unsuccessful murder.
Andy came to his rescue. "Hey Tex! When you bend over, I can see where you tucked it!"
Tex's furious roar sent every spec of wildlife running for the desert, if only to not be in range when she started shooting. The way Andy kept digging at her, it was only a matter of time.
"Aw, Tex, baby, come on! It's just a joke between the two of us guys!"
The contest to finally see who'd become the next executive officer of Red Team finally came to an end. After the evening-wear competition, Sarge's mind was made up and he had chosen a winner. "And now for the winner of our contest. Grif, the envelopes."
"Envelopes? We don't have envelopes. This is the army." Grif scoffed.
"Donut's the winner." Sarge rolled his eyes.
Simmons felt his desire to live shrivel up and die. Donut was the one who replaced him? Seriously? His eyelid twitched under his helmet, and he turned around just to spare his eyes from witnessing that catastrophe waiting to happen.
"Well, that's it. My life is over. Time to go kill myself."
"Wait for meeeeee~!" The tank started to follow him, and Simmons walked deeper into what was Blue Team's territory. The Blues had all but abandoned it, apart from the tank, and the maroon-colored soldier sighed as he heard the rumble of the heavily armored death machine behind him.
Why it wasn't blowing him up, he had no idea. But he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth right now. He was too pissed off to really give much of a shit about being killed anyway.
When he figured out the tank wasn't going to fuck off and leave him alone, he let out another sigh and turned around to stare fearlessly into the cannon. "Look, sorry, Imaginary Tank, but I don't believe in you. You're just a product of my imagination."
"Actually, I'm a product of the military contractor who made the lowest bid." The cannon dipped down in what looked like embarrassment. "I'm a little ashamed of that."
Who knew tanks could feel embarrassment or shame? Simmons didn't think it was possible. Just more proof he was hallucinating, he guessed.
"Well, look. I can't have imaginary tanks following me around ruining my good reputation. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go dig a hole to live in." Simmons turned smartly on his heel and walked away with his head held high.
It didn't take long before he found a decent spot, where the ground wasn't too hard and sandy. He knelt down and started to dig, grumbling as he did. "Man, I wish Grif was here. I could convince him there was chocolate underneath and he'd dig a hole for me." He paused.
"Maybe more like half a hole. And then he'd use the shovel to eat oatmeal." On second thought, he didn't wish Grif was here.
"Y-you could live with me..."
"Just ignore it; it's not real..."
"I have a base."
Simmons turned, stared in the direction the cannon was pointing, and frowned. "Isn't that Blue Base?" The only sign of it being Blue Base were the blue lights and flags adorning the outside, its occupants somewhere else at the moment.
"I think so. They left me to guard it, but I can't remember what from."
"Wait, what?"
"The last software update I installed was actually a virus and it corrupted a lot of my databanks," the tank sheepishly admitted. "Can you remember what the Blues were fighting?"
"Uh..." Sweat beaded on Simmons' brow and he said the first thing that came to mind. "I think it was pirates."
"Are you sure?" The tank giggled. As in actually giggled. What the fuck? "I think it was another army. I think they were another color."
Oh shit.
"Nope, it was definitely pirates," Simmons insisted.
"That doesn't sound right."
"Yeah, pirates. And I think there were some ninjas with them."
"Nooooooope~. I don't think so."
"And I think they had traveled from another planet."
"Incorrect."
"I think it was called Cowboy Land."
"Negative."
"They were here to wrestle up some cattle."
"Noooo~."
"But the Blues were gonna stop them."
"Mmmm... nah."
"No, wait! Monkeys! Monkey pirates."
"Nope~."
"From... Uranus."
"My logical data analysis sector indicates that would be highly unlikely. And my Bullshit Meter agrees."
A/N: This the start of the real ship? Sheila and Simmons? Jokes aside, Sheila is adorable in Season 4.