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Carolina stares at Sarge who stands proud and tall. When she speaks her voice is low with a tint of disbelief. “So you are saying Red Team will outlive Blue Team… because you are immortal.”
Sarge nods, Wash looks like he is resisting a face-palm but Tucker, of all things, lets out a short laughter, “This sounds good. I wonder if it can be better than your ‘we don’t need blood ‘cause we are red at the core theory’.”
That earns him an offended huff from Sarge – the blood theory, if anything, at least proved that Reds are Red by nature, and not unnatural creatures like the Blues. With his arm crossed he decides to share his knowledge, “Proof one: we’re not dead.”
“Wow, I am mindblown,” Tucker says with a flat voice. “Your theory is totally bulletproof – oh wait, I am not dead either! How come I never noticed?!”
Sensing the growing argument, one of those that would either end in headaches or as cheap amusement, Carolina steps in. “Sarge, I don’t think that is how it works-“
“Don’t disagree with him – you’ll just tempt him to try to prove his point.” Wash has leaned closer to her, making sure she is the only one who heard his low voice. She seems to accept his advice and stays quiet.
Sarge is still focused on the Blue who has dared to disagree with him. “No. Red Team lives, Blue Team dies. Except they come back. And then they die again, and so begins the endless cycle of resurrection. Cheaters, the lot of you.”
“That doesn’t go for all of us…” Wash adds quietly under his breath.
“Reds don’t die,” Sarge says and straightens out his back. “We hang on by the skin of our teeth and we get up and we punch Death in the face since he is clearly working with the Blues.”
It is hard to tell who is most surprised when Tucker admits, “He actually has a point.”
“What?” Carolina asks and both of the Freelancers turn their heads to stare at him.
Tucker shrugs and holds up a hand to show everyone his fingers as he counts. “Let’s go through the cases. Donut got a grenade in the face, you got shot in the head, someone ran over Grif with a tank-“
Wash coughs quietly and corrects him, “-You ran over Grif with a tank.”
Undisturbed, Tucker continues, “-Simmons survived the cyborg surgery, Lopez has been blow up how many times now? Grif fell off the cliff, someone shot Donut – what, you’re not going to correct me this time?”
Tucker is still staring at him but Wash dodges his glance, shifting the weight on his feet, and decides to end that topic here. “I think you have proven your point.”
Sarge looks like the Blues just admitted their obvious incompetence; back straight, arms crossed in confidence and the chin tilted upwards.
“So all this really happened?” Carolina asks and turns towards Wash as she prefers a somewhat neutral answer.
The other Freelancer sighs. “Unfortunately for all the laws of logic in this world; yes .”
Sarge lets out a huff of pride, and Carolina says slowly, “That’s… quite impressive… and a bit horrifying.”
“So the Reds are basically cockroaches,” Tucker cuts in. “That’s what you are saying.”
Behind them the unnerving sound of wheels spinning too fast can be heard, and the Freelancers turn their heads to see the remaining Reds in the Warthog, driving in a speed that indicates Grif is the driver, and at some point it flips over, crashes, and the whole scene end with a marvelous explosion.
Before anyone can consider whether or not they should be worried, Simmons’ voice calls out loudly, “We’re okay!”
Both Freelancers let their shoulders fall slightly in relief – that is one catastrophe less to deal with.
Tucker has not as much as flinched once during the time the episode took place behind him, and both he and Sarge huff in satisfaction as their points are made.
“No.”
“But-“
“No, Simmons.” His voice is more stern this time and the cyborg flinches slightly.
“Agreeing with Grif here,” Tucker says as he picks up some drum sticks. He uses them to wave Simmons away. “Get that thing outta here.”
That only causes the cyborg to hug the instrument tighter. “You said you needed musicians and I-“
“We don’t let in lame instruments,” Grif informs him with a roll of his eyes.
“…You have a ukulele,” Simmons points out dryly.
Grif’ eyes narrow and he basically cuddles his own instrument at this point, leaning over it so he can shield it from Simmons’ judging glance. “Don’t you dare insult the uke. It’ll beat your shitty banjo every day.”
“But…”
“No banjoes allowed!” Tucker says again and Grif nods, and they act like they are so cool and in sync, and Simmons feels like flipping them off.
He doesn’t.
Instead he tightens his grip on his banjo and shrugs them off. “Whatever. I did not want to be in your stupid band anyway.” As he marches out of the room they can hear him mutter, “…just like high school….gonna start my own band…”
His absence gives them about a minute of silence where they can prepare but then-
“What in Sam Hill are you doing down here?”
Grif sighs, tuning his ukulele with a violent motion and hopes Sarge can sense his cold behavior and leave again. Leaning over his instrument, he says, “Starting a band. Nothing that will interest you.”
“On the contrary I think this is just what we might need.”
Both Grif and Tucker exclaims, “What?”
Sarge stands firmly, his head slightly tilted as he thinks about the idea of a band. “Obviously the next in our plan is to make the ground tremble beneath our feet.”
“Sweet,” Tucker says, a bit hesitant. “You got any good speakers then?”
Grif is scowling by this point. Having been around the Red Leader for years it is not hard for him to figure out what will come next. “…I don’t think he is talking ‘bout turning up the bass.”
“Then what is he-“
Sarge goes on undisturbed, as if he has not even heard Grif’s comment. “Our new enemy has one hell of a defense – the very ground we stand on.” He growls at the thought and threatens the floor with his fist.
“Oh god.” Grif hangs his head in defeat.
“In order to beat gravity we must crumble the ground with fear. A good marching band knows how to intimidate-“ When the earsplitting sound pierces through the wall, Sarge halts his speech and asks with wariness, “What is that despicable noise?”
Tucker and Grif are both covering their ears; knowing very well where the sound is coming from.
Raising his head slightly to look at Sarge, Tucker explains with his hands on his ears, “So Carolina volunteered to be our singer…”
They all turn their head to stare at the wall. Judging by the sound it seems like someone is skinning a living rat on the other side of it.
“Oh,” Sarge says and considers this new information. Then: “What is that, Lopez?” Sarge looks up, as if some Spanish voice had called for him to come outside. “You need my help with the whatisit? I’ll be right there!” He is already retreating, turning around to exit the music room. He calls over his shoulder, “I’ll leave you to your shenanigans, no need for me here, I’ll be on my way.” This is followed by some innocent humming until he is out of the room and away from the danger.
The rat seems to have finally been put out of its misery, but Tucker and Grif barely has the time to sigh in relief before Carolina enters the room. “Was that Sarge?” she asks. Apparently (but it is no wonder) she has not heard him.
“Yeah.” Grif gulps and looks at Tucker. “Your singing left him… speechless.”
“I don’t know what to do!” Simmons wails. He has finally managed to convince Wash to come with him. Donut and Sarge followed for some reason (mainly because “I can’t get Grif to stop running” is a sentence that will cause everyone to wonder), and now they are standing on the field, watching the orange blur run in a circle around them.
“-heySimmonsdidyouseemeSimmonsIamtoofastnowIamgoneagainseeyoulaterSimmons-“
Grif runs further away from them again and his voice fades.
Simmons watches him go and then comes to the conclusion: “If he continues like this he’ll just run off the cliff.” When nobody reacts, he adds bitterly, “Which is a bad thing.”
“How long has he been like this?” Wash asks, helmet tilted as he orange soldier run faster than when limited breakfast is announced.
“The last ten minutes, at least.”
Donut whistles. “That’s an impressive time.”
Grif is almost done with another lap and he comes close enough so they can hear a seemingly endless sentence from him.
“-didyouseehowfastIamSimmonsseehowfastIamyouseeyouseeyouseehowfastI-“
He runs off again, and Simmons buries his visor in his hands, groaning, “This is just like the time with the speed enhancement.”
Wash looks at him and resists the urge to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Well, what did you do then?”
The question causes Simmons to look up again. “Uhm, we waited it out. Do you think it’ll work here? Grif isn’t meant to move this fast – maybe he’ll have a heart attack.” He freezes, as if hearing his own words, and quickly adds, “And I can’t let that happen to my heart.”
“None of us want your heart broken, Simmons,” Donut tells him comfortingly and begins to rub his back. The cyborg shrugs him off.
Wash watches Grif run towards him, knowing (hoping) this cannot be caused by some Freelancer equipment. “I can see why this can be a cause of concern.”
“-heySimmonsSimmonsheywhydon’tyouanswerwhenIamspeakingtoyouamIfasterthansoundIamsofastsee-“
Grif’s voice grows louder as he is about to run past them again, and before he can begin another lap, Sarge casually stretches out a leg.
The orange soldier trips with enough force that he slides three meter down the field, face first. When he finally stops moving, he has crumpled into an orange heap.
“Oops,” Sarge says with no regret in his voice. “Heh.”
“Oww.” Grif is still groaning loudly when Simmons marches over to check if he is alive.
The cyborg looks down at him in distaste. “Okay, dumbass, what did you do?”
“I was hungry.” Grif’s voice seems slow now when it seems like he is no longer trying to beat the Flash. He sounds tired, exhausted really, like when Simmons tries to wake him Monday morning. He fishes something out of his armor pocket, something glowing, and it takes some seconds before Simmons can even recognize what it is.
When he does he almost drops his jaw at Grif’s stupidity. “And you thought eating strange mushrooms was the answer? Really? Do you have that little common sense?”
“I should have known,” Grif groans and rolls over to lie on his side, “you can never trust vegetables.”
Simmons hovers above him, hesitating, but then finally says, “Technically mushrooms aren’t vegetables.”
“Simmons-“ Grif moans, curling into himself, preparing himself to fall asleep on the spot (which he does – in fact, he sleeps for the next 6 hours until Simmons convinces him the bats will eat him during the night if he doesn’t return to his bed).
“They’re fungus.”
“-shut up.”
“Head.”
“Abdomen.”
Grif tilts his head as he looks at the soldier next to him. “I half-expected you to say tails.”
“Why would it go after the head first?” Simmons snorts loudly. “That’s just a stupid thing they do in the movies to make it more dramatic. If the animal wants nutrition it will go for the abdomen. You know, where all the larger organs are.”
They’re standing at the top of a hill, watching. The roars make the ground below their feet tremble. Grif crosses his arms. “A dinosaur isn’t an animal. It’s a dinosaur.”
“Wha- It is!” Simmons sputters, stomping his foot in a manner that makes Grif smile in amusement behind his visor. “It’s a living creature that can move by its own will! Therefore; an animal!”
“Well, if animals want organs then why shouldn’t it go for the brain then? Zombies love it and they obviously know what to go for since they are outliving humanity.”
“Zombies aren’t real,” Simmons cuts in sharply.
Grif narrows his eyes, wishing that the nerd could see it. But with a dinosaur running around, it is best not to take off their armor. “It’s a theoretical fact.”
“Let’s see how it goes in practice then.” Simmons turns away from him, not in anger but to yell to the Blue soldier in the distance. He even puts hand to his helmet, as if it would shield his voice from the wind and make it sound louder. “Hey, Caboose, when the dinosaur starts eating you will you please tell us if it goes for your head or your abdomen!”
“Okay!” Caboose shouts back happily. He is about to continue his run towards the dinosaur, but then he freezes and yells again. “What is adoman?!”
“Abdomen!” Simmons corrects him. “Your stomach!”
“Oh I love belly rubs!” Caboose informs them before running happily towards his doom.
The Reds watch him go from a safe distance.
Grif crosses his arms and looks at Simmons. “…It’s totally gonna go for the head.”
“Shut up.”
The moment they enter the ship Simmons distances himself from the others, finding a seat in the corner of the room, curling into small maroon shape.
The others leave him be, understanding.
Dylan is prepared to leave too when she notices that Jax is not moving. He is staring so obviously at Simmons that it becomes rude.
“I think you should give him some space,” she tells him softly so the maroon soldier does not hear it.
“But he’s the perfect subject!” Jax exclaims. His voice is lowered as well but not to spare Simmons – just to avoid disturbing his own recording. “This just gave me the inspiration to make a documentary about heartbreak. And look - if you zoom in close enough you can see his tears.”
Dylan follows his glance though she knows she should not. However, it only takes a second of observation to come to the conclusion, “…He’s wearing a helmet.”
“I know!” Jax adjusts the settings of his camera. “It’s fascinating.”
“Is that fancy helmet of yours still working?” Sarge asks Jax less than half a day after they leave the moon. The cameraman seems surprise but pleased with the Red starting a dialogue with him.
But then he thinks about the question and hesitantly asks, “You mean if I am recording this conversation right now? Because I think I’m legally forced to tell you ‘yes’.”
“Hmpf. Good. Now, what are your thoughts on explosions?”
“Are we talking about real explosions or like baking soda volcano explosion?” Jax asks in cation. “Because I’ve done my own remake of Pompeii and it did not really have the desired effect…”
“I’m thinking grenade explosions. Possibly bigger if the dynamite gets here in time.” Sarge makes a dramatic pause and uses another lure. “Imagine chase scenes.”
The cameraman clasps his hands together. “Ooh, I like where this is going.”
Sarge straightens out his back, knowing he has achieved what he wanted. “Then let me tell you about… The Sargening.”
“Oh, Simmons, don’t start crying again,” Donut says and picks up a napkin to help. “I’m sure Grif is regretting his choice of words…”
“Wha- no! I’m only crying because you stabbed me in the eye.” Simmons tears the napkin out of Donut’s hand and wipes his eye, leaving a black smear on both the fabric and his skin. “Why do we have to wear eyeliner anyway?”
“So your expression can be seen from the distance! It’s a well-known trick in the theater world.”
Simmons never even wanted to be a part of the foolishness in the first place but Donut had found him and basically dragged him out of the darkened corner because some fun would be good to him. Too bad this was is not fun. It is stupid. “But we’re wearing helmets!”
Donut pulls back when he realizes all his work is going to be hidden by the armor. “Oh…”
But nothing can stop Franklin Delano Donut from being in charge of makeup. So he proceeds to put blush on the helmets. It goes well, after Donut’s standards, until they leave the room for a minute (Sarge wants to make sure the grenades are still working – Dylan is not a fan of explosions inside the ship) and then Tucker points out that Caboose is gone.
They find him later, covered in all the colors of the world (mainly blue colors, though it seems like he has tried to paint a big group picture on his left arm, using blue and red and orange eye shadows).
That is when the arguments begins since the filming obviously can’t continue without their makeup artist and Donut can’t continue without his makeup and Sarge is a hundred percent convinced the Blues have sabotaged his resources for his movie on purpose.
“For the last fucking time,” Tucker growls, throwing up his hands. Everyone has been a bit on the edge since, well, since they left and someone did not leave with them. “No, we did not try to sabotage your stupid movie!”
“Lies! Dirty Blue lies!”
The door slides open and Dylan walks into the room to see Sarge and Tucker growling at each other, Donut tripping behind them and a multi-colored Caboose watching the scene. Simmons has taken his chance to escape into solitude. “What is going on here?!” she demands.
Tucker is the first one to answer her. “The Reds are saying I let Caboose play with their make-up on purpose.”
“You’re telling me this is about make-up?” Dylan says in a voice so flat it becomes dangerous. “Are you serious?!”
This is when Donut steps in front of her, hands on his hips and gravely declares, "It was a Mac pallet!”
The tone in his voice ends the argument right there.
Caboose feels bad enough to try and replace Donut’s different sticks with crayons. The pink soldier finds them the day afterwards, and sadly holds up the red crayon in front of his face.
“I appreciate him trying but… It’s not the right red.” He lets the crayon fall into his lap and exclaims in despair, “Just imagine how horrible this would look on Simmons’ helmet.”
Simmons is still huddled into his corner and tries his best not to imagine how the color would look on him.
“The only true shade of red is the one we find in the blood of our enemies!” Sarge grumbles, still on the edge. Apparently he did not sleep well last night.
“Well, that’s too fucking bad ‘cause we have no enemies on his ship,” Tucker reminds him sharply, knowing the Red leader has been sending Dylan the stink-eye since leaving the moon. When Sarge grumbles something under his breath, Tucker is forced to repeat himself, “For the last time, Sarge, no enemies.”
“We could always use ketchup,” Jax suggests, and Donut lifts his head slightly.
That plan goes as well as expected. While the ketchup might look like blood it works a bit too well and a panicked Caboose runs to Tucker to tell him that the Reds are leaking.
Somewhere in the process Caboose manages to get ketchup into Tucker’s bed which just reminds him of the infamous mustard accident so many years ago (“Dammit no, Caboose, I'm not cold, I don't want a hot dog, and if you put mustard in my fucking sheets again I'm gonna kill you."), which only worsens his mood.
When he drops down in a seat in front of Simmons, still scowling, the cyborg cannot help but snort, “You can’t complain about dirty sheets before you have tried sharing room with Grif.”
And out of pure habit Tucker loosens up and goes, “Hah, dirty sheets. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”
Then they both remember that is not funny anymore.
In fact no one seems to smile in the next couple of days.
So Caboose fixes it.
By stealing back his black crayon and painting a smiling face on the outside of Sarge’s visor (the Blue somehow manages to do this those few minutes Sarge takes his helmets off to eat – only because the lack of sleep has worsened his reflexes).
Disorientated by his sleepless nights, Sarge walks around, muttering about a levitating smiling face.
“It’s just a smiley, sir,” Simmons explains to him in a tired voice.
Sarge turns around sharply, realizing the complete horror of the situation. “So you’re seeing it too!” Surely, the newslady must have poisoned their meals.
Dylan watches them from a distance, observing the new chaos of today. The Reds and Blues are just as colorful as they have been described, a bit of a mess too, and she wonders how much of that can be blamed on her arrival. “This is… not what I expected,” she admits to Jax.
“I know!” Jax says, his voice cheerful enough work as a comfort. He readjusts his camera and stares at what is sure to grow into a new adventure. “It’s so much better.”