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“Do you ever wonder why we’re here?”

Grif watches Simmons from the corner of his eye, sees him shift the weight on his feet and adjust his grip on his rifle.

For a second he knows what the answer is going to be, even before Simmons opens his mouth. It feels like a scene from a movie he’s watched too many times, this sense of familiarity.

The maroon soldier tilts his head towards him. “You asked that yesterday, dumbass.”

“Huh.” Frowning, Grif looks up towards the sky. “Did we answer the question?” He can’t remember but the familiarity is still there, the déjà vu, the headache.

“No,” Simmons replies immediately, like the answer is obvious. “Because-“ He then trails off, frowning as well. But it only lasts a second – then he sets his jaw and looks away. “Because we have better things to do.”

There’s a pounding inside Grif’s skull. “Like what?”

Simmons moves away from him to leave the roof. “Like moving your fat ass before Sarge decides to take a shot at it ‘cause you’re not on patrol,” he hisses at him before disappearing inside the base.

Grif looks at the weapon in his hands. “Uhh, why are we shooting at the Blues again?” he asks as they cower behind a rock.

Bullets from a sniper rifle dig into the ground around them. Simmons flinches. “What sort of question is that?” he asks as he tries to take aim above their cover.

“A good one? Usually you have a reason to try and kill people.” Grif can hear the Blues cheering in the distance when they almost hit the rock. He frowns for the second time that day. “Except when you’re Sarge. He’s trying to kill me for no reason.”

“Oh, he has plenty of reasons,” Simmons sneers at him and pulls the trigger.

“I feel like we’ve done this before,” Grif says when he has enough air in his lungs. He feels like he is about to fall over. His legs burn. His head is aching, again.

“Would you stop with the déjà vu comments?!” Simmons says as he runs past him. He tries to straighten out his back, but he can’t keep his sentence free of pants.

There’s sweat running down the back of his maroon t-shirt.

Grif isn’t sure why he is staring.

“I mean it,” he says, and forces himself to keep going just so he can continue the conversation. “This lap. I feel like I’ve run it before. Like eight times already.” He makes sure to glare towards the base where Sarge is watching them, arms crossed, white brows furrowed in dissatisfaction.

“And now you’ve just tripled that amount, Private Grif!” he yells at him. “Gimme twenty-six!”

Simmons raises his head. His usually pale cheeks are decorated with red spots from the strain. “Actually, sir, that’s not-“

“And that’s a double for you, Private Simmons.”

Grif stares at the ceiling. “Hey, Simmons?” he says.

“For the love of god, shut up.” He can hear Simmons turn in his bed. “Aren’t you supposed to love sleeping?”

There’s something about that word, ‘supposed’, that makes Grif uncomfortable. He knows he likes sleeping. He doesn’t know why he can’t sleep right now. “I guess?”

“Then shut the fuck up and sleep.” Simmons groans into his pillow. “There’s only 5 hours left before Sarge will wake us up, and that is not enough time to get the recommended 7 hours of sleep, even if we hurry!” He can’t see it but he knows Simmons is glaring in his direction. “You’re literally corrupting this army!”

Grif licks his lips. “By not sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” He’ll never admit it but maybe Simmons has a point. “I guess I should go back to what I do best.”

Simmons turns in his bed again. “Yes.”

The headache is still there. Grif closes his eyes, feels nauseous. That’s weird. His stomach is sturdy, he never feels sick. “I think-“

“I don’t want to talk about it, Grif!” Simmons says in the darkness. “Just shut up.”

The sun is high above them. Grif doesn’t recall seeing it rise. He stares at it and feels hot inside his armor. Simmons is next to him on the roof. Like yesterday. “Do you ever wonder-“

“Cut the chitchatting, ladies!” Sarge yells at them when he steps out of the base. “The Blues won’t be waiting for us all day!”

“It’s like they’ve been waiting for us all day!” Simmons shrieks when they are forced to retreat, bullets flying in their direction.

In a moment of pure stubbornness or stupidity – could be both, actually – Sarge stops to shake a fist towards the enemy base. “Damn you, Blues! The revenge will be sweet! And spicy! Like Grandma’s famous pumpkin and bacon pie!” He turns towards his men with a huff and places his shotgun on his back. “Don’t give up yet, soldiers! We’ll get our revenge-“ 

“-tomorrow after Sarge has finished the daily morning speech!” Grif suggests, throwing his hands up in the air by the sheer genius of the idea.

Simmons isn’t impressed. He just shrugs Grif off as he brings his plate to the sink. “No, Grif, I’m not helping you dig a new napping spot.”

“Why not? I’d get out of your ass for a while.” Grif has thought about this for a while, that’s why he knows it’s a good idea. A calm and quiet place for himself, perfect for napping. In the back of the base, in the shadow. It just needs a little digging. Then Grif will have the perfect place to try and deal with his headaches.

Simmons turns on the water with a rough movement. “Look, the only reason why I’d help you dig a hole is to bury you in it afterwards.”

“That was harsh.”

“Really? Good.” Simmons hunches over the sink, gets his hands wet. “Sarge has implemented a routinely creative writing class where we try to come up with new way to insult you. You’d know that if you actually bothered to show up for a Red Team meeting.”

Grif doesn’t even blink. “Well, I-“

“-dreamt about a golf club yesterday. And a sparkplug.” Grif sinks deeper into his seat and rests his head against his palms. “Fuck, I have a headache.”

“Maybe Sarge is poisoning your cereal again,” Simmons says and takes a bite of his toast.

Grif stares at his bowl filled with milk and colorful cereal. It’s the only source of sugar in this hellhole. “Worth it,” he says and fills his mouth with a spoonful.

Simmons glares at him in disdain. “You’re so-“

“-fucking annoying!” the Blue shouts at them, standing on top of his base. “Get off our lawn, Reds!”

“Yeah? What’re you gonna do about it?!”

Three bullets bounce against the rock. Grif remains unharmed. He looks over the edge to yell, “Nice aim, asshole! At this rate the war will be over in-“

“-forever.” Grif looks at the ceiling and sinks deeper into his bed. “It’s just the same-“

“-bullshit-“ Grif exclaims when Sarge suggests they cut the lunch break to count ammunition. Sarge huffs. Simmons says nothing. 

“-over and over and-“ Grif gasps for breath as they’re forced to run around the base again.

“-I’m going-“ he snarls back at Simmons when the maroon soldier tells him for the hundredth time to put his dishes in the sink.

“-insane,” Grif mutters to himself as he makes his way inside the cave. “Fucking Sarge! Aerial attack, my ass. I’m not jumping from any cliffs.” The air inside the cave is chill. He can hear drops of water roll off cliff walls.

Otherwise, it’s quiet.

He settles down in the corner of the space, curls into himself for a comfortable position. His helmet is off, and some of the drops trickle down the back of his armor, and he lets himself enjoy the cooling sensation. It soothes the pain inside his skull a little.

Sarge gave him a headache when he’d yelled at him to put on the parachute. Then Simmons gave him a headache by agreeing with Sarge that the plan was a good idea.

And Grif had already had a headache before speaking with his team.

Grif rests his cheek against the cold surface of the cliff. He closes his eyes and sleeps.

“I said, there's no Red versus Blue! It's all the-“

“Grif, this looks like it's it. Listen, there's something I always wanted to tell you.”

“Here, check this out, I'm looking at the list of missions for all the different bases, and some of them look... familiar.”

“Hold on! Hold on! Don't let go!”

“Everyone, just say 'sync' whenever she says that.”

“You see, in the end, we all worked together, and everyone got what they wanted.”

“Wait, where do you think you are?”

“If you help us take back our planet, we'll help you take back your friends.”

“Captain Grif, we have visual on the main compound. Over.”

“Well, I don't wanna be the guy who gives shitty orders that nobody wants to follow. I will not become a Sarge, dammit. There's no way I'm making a bunch of stupid rebels get shot for something I want.”

“Nice throw, Tucker!”

“And I'm Dexter Grif! Reporting for duty. Oh, wait, never mind! I forgot that I'm a worthless sack of human excrement, that wouldn't be caught dead following orders, because I'm too busy wishing my parents loved me as much as my sister!”

“Gentlemen, looks like this is it.”

“We said we wouldn’t talk about that!”

“While you've been here a group of people that look a lot like you have been going around stealing, hijacking, and robbing the UNSC. While looking into that I discovered every former Freelancer has vanished.”

“Your actions tell a different story. A story of someone who always answers the call. Who always helps his friends and fights for the greater good.”

“You've always been selfish, but this is bullshit!”

“So much for heroism. Join your friends in the circle or die here.”

“We have no time to lose! We’re all in grave danger! We must escape… into the past!”

“But you… want to save lives. So pizza can wait.”

“I’m not a lens flare! I’m a sentient light being. It’s not that weird—heck, you’re the one made of blood and bones and meat.”

“Turns out all our time traveling has been doing some serious damage to some serious shit.”

“All this time I’ve been hung up on religion, on aliens… but you gods… you’re actually something else.”

“I understand perfectly well. You Shisno! You’re going to ruin everything!”

“Oh, Grif, no. I’m not here to stop you. I’m here to make sure you go through with it.”

“But nothing shatters time like a paradox.”

When the memories return to Grif, there are tears in his eyes and a mocking laughter echoing in his ears.

He pushes himself up by the palms despite his shaking hands. “Paradox…” he says and his lips feel numb.

The Blue steps out from the shadow, spreading out his arms in excitement. “Tada!” he says, and it’s Genkins. Grif remembers the voice, it’s echoing inside his skull with the rest of his memories. The armor is all wrong, blue, cobalt.

It’s Church’s armor but that’s not Church.

It’s not Temple either.

It’s worse.

“Genkins…” Grif says, reaching for his gun.

“Are you done unwrapping you gift?” he asks him, taking another step closer. The big smile can be sensed through the visor. His stance is relaxed, casual, like he is greeting an old friend. He stares at him, like he is waiting for him to react, waiting for Grif to say something. And eventually he gets inpatient. “Your memories, Grif! All shiny and sparkly and mildly disturbing. I figured you’d appreciate it.”

Grif’s mouth falls open. He closes it again, bites his lip. The air gets caught in throat, like Genkins is choking him from a distance.

Eventually he manages to stutter, “You- this is- you.” He raises his gun to point it at his visor. He’s reminded of the scene in Temple’s lair, back when Temple had kept him at gunpoint, when the roles had been switched, cobalt aiming at orange. “Why are you doing this?!”

“Because watching you all run around in circles becomes so tiring. So I thought – how do foolish humans learn? And I remembered: mistakes!” Genkins snaps his fingers. “That’s the key. But how could you learn from your many mistakes when you can’t remember them?!”

Grif’s head is pounding again, enough to make him feel nauseous. The memories are still filling his skull to the breaking point. All of them. “What do you want?” he asks, finger on the trigger.

“My golf club,” Genkins answers promptly, tone dry. A second passes, and then he throws his head back to laugh. “Just kidding!” He clears his throat and his voice is softer, almost indulgent, as he continues, “Grif, I already have everything I want. I won.”

Grif grits his teeth. “So you just want to rub it in my face?” It won’t be the first time. Grif remembers now, back in Temple’s lair, how Genkins had played him for a fool, only warning him of the incoming disaster to see him fail.

“Of course!” Genkins says, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world. “I know I’ve been hard on you, Grif, old boy, but it’s just so much fun!”

“You did this. Why?”

Genkins makes a buzzer sound, like Grif just failed a quiz show. “Wrong!” He stretches out a finger to point straight at his chest. “You helped!”

Grif doesn’t say anything.

And naturally, Genkins takes that as a cue to keep monologuing. “Yes! We had such a good long chat back then. Exactly like you wanted it! There’s no such thing as wasted time, am I right?” He laughs again, tilting his head to each side. “With all that walking you’d been doing, for a split second I actually thought you had the legs to pull it off! Maybe you should have listened to Sarge about his morning laps. One second, Grif. One second too late! The tension was just- oof.” He flexes his fingers, trying to illustrate stress that had filled the situation.

Genkins had been watching him, of course, he’d seen him fail.

Grif now remembers how his lungs had burned, how his legs had ached, how he’d screamed his throat raw and how his finger had been on the trigger, ready for the shot… “What’s your point?” he asks, biting back his regret. He can’t change that now.

In a strolling-like manner, Genkins comes closer to him, clasping his hands together. “That you must feel terrible! Not only did you doom you and your friends to spend the rest of your life running around in a figurative hamster wheel – you had to doom poor Huggins first.”

Grif has too many memories of turning his back to his friends.

He’s tried to convince himself Huggins would forgive him. But he hasn’t been that convincing.

Still, he hasn’t thought…

He’d just figured she had been mad at him. “Huggins…”

“I killed her. Whoopsie! My bad!” Shaking a finger in his direction again, Genkins leans forward towards him, like a teacher putting their attention on the students. “But you told her you were about to unravel time like a poorly knitted washing cloth! And then I had to deal with a potential snitch. See, that’s another mistake you could learn from-“

The shots ring through the air.

Like some horrid glitch, Genkins seems to simply glide out of their path, leaving him unharmed as Grif finally moves his finger from the trigger.

He isn’t sure how Genkins managed to move that quickly. But if he’s right – if this is real-

Can a god be killed?

“That almost tickled!” Genkins exclaims, sounding strangely pleased. “A third mistake – ah, I feel so smart! What you can learn from this, Grif, is that I’m absolutely amazing now – isn’t that wonderful?!”

His eyes are burning. “Fuck off!”

The god tsk’s at him. “Such harsh words, Grif. And I just showed you how gracious I can be! But I understand why you are mad. I did almost get you killed after all! You really must have been hungry.”

Grif can hear the water dripping from the walls again.

He doesn’t understand. The world isn’t real, Huggins is dead, Genkins is god, Grif should be gone.

He should have stopped existing. That should have been the punishment, that’s what he’d prepared himself for when the world had started to fade, when his friends had disappeared before his eyes…

But Dexter Grif just can’t seem to die. Even when he’s supposed to.

Genkins laughs and throws something towards him in an elegant arch.

The object is small, like a baseball, and by instinct Grif’s hands catch it.

“A parting gift,” Genkins explains. He is snickering again, sounding a bit like O’Malley. “In case you’re up for a second round.”

Grif looks down and sees that he is holding a grenade.

When he lifts his head again, Genkins is gone. 

His lungs are burning. His legs hurt.

Grif can’t run fast enough.

“Simmons! Simmons!”

He’s run across the canyon before. Sarge has made him run the lap over and over (it never stops, does it? Life in Blood Gulch. The same useless day over and over and-) but the distance has never felt so endless before.

Simmons is outside the base, polishing the Warthog. He looks up when Grif keeps screaming, despite the lack of air in his lungs.

The maroon soldier lets go of the wrench, straightens out his back. “Yes! Why the fuck are you scream-“

Grif clamps his hands around Simmons’ shoulders. They are firm beneath his grip.

Simmons is real but this world isn’t. “Simmons,” he says breathlessly.

His teammate pulls back, expression changing into one of disgust as Grif refuses to let go of him. “Grif, what the fuck are you-“

“Simmons, this isn’t real.”

“What?” Simmons is wide-eyed. His helmet is off, and Grif can see his face. His intact face. No cyborg implants, no scars.

Grif can still remember feeling the metal beneath his fingers when they’d fallen on top of each other in the storage closet. He remembers the cool touch, the smooth skin when he reached the scars gained by so many years of fighting.

This Simmons is young. This Simmons is glaring at him in annoyance.

This Simmons does not know him.

Not well enough, at least.

Grif tries to get the air past the lump in his throat. “I talked with Genkins-“

“Who?”

“-and he’s the one doing this-“

“Why?”

“-because I didn’t run fast enough and then we destroyed time-”

“We what?”

“-and this is like a time pocket, like a tutorial level except it never ends! We already did this, Simmons! And it’s fake! The war is fake, Sarge gets sad, we beat the Meta, I get pulled over a cliff, you grab my hand, Church gets stuck, Carolina finds us, we beat the Director, we crash on Chorus, we become Captains, Felix is a dick, Church dies, we beat Hargrove, we fuck in a closet-“

“We what?”

Simmons’ skin is human and red, burning brightly in embarrassment.

Grif forces himself to inhale. Exhale. “-we go to the moon, I act like an ass, you guys leave, I go crazy, Locus helps me save you guys-“

“Who?”

“-we beat Temple, we go back in time, I meet Huggins, we find you guys, we meet the gods except they weren’t really gods, we realize we are fucking the timeline, Wash is fucked up-“

“Who? Who are you talking about?!”

Simmons pulls himself loose from Grif’s grip, takes a few steps back.

Grif does not stop talking.

“-I tell Huggins what we’re gonna do, and we actually do it, except I smell pizza and I find Genkins and he had this whole monologue but that was his plan! His monologue was his plan! Because he wants us to save Wash so we can ruin time and I try to stop you but I’m not fast enough and we fucked time. We fucked time harder than when we fucked in the closet-“

Simmons looks physically ill.

“No fucking way-“

“-and now we’re stuck here. It’s not real, Simmons. It’s an alternative universe and Genkins – Genkins is Church and it’s all wrong and we have to fix it. You guys have to remember so we can kick Genkins’ ass and- and save time. I don’t even know how but we gotta do it.”

When Grif stops talking, the canyon goes quiet. He can hear the sound of his own breathing, ragged and quick.

Grif stares at Simmons.

Simmons stares back.

Then Simmons’ eyelid twitches and he turns his head towards the base, hand raised to shield his voice as he yells, “Sarge, I think Grif is having a heatstroke!”

The sugary breakfast Grif ate earlier must be eating his inside. He can feel the burning sensation, like his organs are dying, like his lungs are collapsing. He can’t breathe.

“Simmons, you have to listen to me!”

The red-haired soldier won’t look at him. His face is turned towards the entrance of the base. “He’s talking nonsense!”

“THIS ISN’T REAL!”

“And he’s yelling!”

“Genkins did this!” In the heat of the moment, Grif reaches forward to grab Simmons’ shoulders again, to keep him still, to make sure Simmons won’t leave.

His hold on him is so tight Simmons can’t back away, even when he tries. He leans his head back, yelling louder, “And he’s being physically intimate!”

“It’s my fault!” Grif admits, voice hoarse.

“And he’s… crying?”

Simmons’ eyes go wide with confusion. It’s a nice change, better than the cold distaste that had been filling them before.

As Grif lets go of him, he raises a hand to his own cheek and realizes it is wet with tears. “I fucked up. I didn’t stop you and- and now we’re stuck here. I didn’t even remember… You don’t remember! And he’s playing Church because he thinks it’s funny! And he’s a god now, I think, and he- he is playing with us like toys!”

Genkins called the memories a gift.

But Grif already knew he is a lying fuck.

This is anything but a gift.

Sarge appears from within the base, holding his shotgun, looking more annoyed than concerned. “What’s all this talk about gods?” His grey eyes set on Grif. They narrow. “Is he trying to convert you?”

Simmons shakes his head, sending him a small smile that doesn’t look remotely happy. “Don’t worry, sir – logic and facts are my gods!”

Simmons is so smart. He figured the gods out before. He did that, all on his own.

He needs to figure this out again.

Grif needs him to find a solution to this mess. “This is time travelling, Simmons!” he says, voice raised again. “It’s science! And we broke it! We broke science! You have to remember!”

“What?!” Simmons screams back at him. His cheeks are still red. His eyelid keeps twitching. “I have to remember what?!”

Their lives. Rat’s Nest. Their almost-execution. The cliff. The sensation when their fingers had been intertwined. Chorus. Their new titles. Sharing a shitty bedroom where they could hear each other scream in their sleep after a bad mission. Their farewell to each other right before the door had been forced opened. The storage closet. Iris. The movie nights. The day Grif taught him how to swim. The morning Simmons had made pancakes for him when he woke up. Grif quitting. Grif returning. His apology. The softness in Simmons’ voice when he’d said that he missed him. The way Simmons had looked at him right before everything had faded away.

Simmons needs to remember that.

“Everything!” Grif screams.

No one understands.

Sarge turns to Simmons, brows furrowed. “What in Sam Hell is he talking about?”

Even with his cheeks red from embarrassment and voice breaking every second, Simmons still tries to keep a straight face as he explains, “He said that he- that we- that Grif and I fucked in a closet, sir.”

Grif can hear the vein pop on Sarge’s forehead.

Obviously Simmons hears it too. He wrings his hands, bites his lip.

A bit more pressure and it’ll start to bleed. Grif takes a step forward, tries to calm him. “Don’t worry, we only did it because Tucker turned on the temple.”

“Who’s Tucker?!” Simmons sneers, panic and anger mixed in his eyes.

They don’t even know their names.

Grif tries to swallow but there’s no saliva left in his mouth. “The Blue!”

Simmons’ face goes blank.

“You’re saying,” Sarge says slowly, voice dangerously low, “you were shaking the sheets with a Blue?”

Grif holds up a finger, ready to clear up the facts. “First of all, there were no sheets in the storage closet.”

A tortured sound escapes Simmons’ lips.

Sarge doesn’t look away from Grif, as if fearing he’ll jump at him at any second. His eyes are on Grif, but his voice meant for the maroon soldier. “Simmons, can you distract Grif while I go fetch my shotgun. He’s too far gone. The only thing merciful is to take him out in the back and pull the trigger.”

Simmons salutes him. “Can do, sir.”

This isn’t real.

This is the worst reality.

“Simmons-“

“Shut up, Grif.” He can hear Simmons turn in his bed to face the wall instead. “I don’t want to talk.”

It’s dark in the room. Grif remembers sharing quarters on Chorus. It’d been dark as well but Simmons’ red cyborg eye had been a light in the blackness during their pillow talks. They’d spent hours like that, staring at each other, separated by the gaps between their beds.

Until the nights where the nightmares had grown too bad and they’d managed to share one bed, Simmons complaining about Grif’s smell and how he’d steal the blanket all for himself, and yet he always fell asleep with his face tucked against Grif’s neck despite his complaints.

Grif stares into the darkness. “But we used to talk.”

“When?” Simmons asks him, sounding genuinely confused.

There’s no gently hissing from Simmons’ cyborg lungs. It’s quiet until Grif replies, “All the time.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“I’m not insane,” Grif says.

“Then stop saying things that don’t make sense,” Simmons hisses at him before putting his pillow on top of his head, pressing down on it to cover his ears. His voice is muffled by the fabric when he adds, “And stop giving me a headache.” 

Grif can’t sleep.

That has always been a bad sign.

It’s happened a few times before. After the colony. On Chorus after a mission that resulted in three of his men blowing up. On the moon when it’d become too quiet.

Now too many thoughts are going through his hurting head. He doesn’t know how to fix this. He isn’t even sure what this is.

This world isn’t real.

But what if there’s nothing left?

So far his only plan is to make the others remember. Even if they still can’t get out of here, they can at least be miserable together. That seems to be a perfection description of most of their lives, anyway.

But Sarge and Simmons don’t react when he tells them the truth. He’s brushed off as crazy now. And somehow, even on Red Team there’s a limit to how crazy a soldier can be before you stop listening to him.

Grif slips out of his bed and sneaks his way out of the base. Strange. Back in Blood Gulch, the real Blood Gulch, Simmons had usually caught him when he tried to go for a midnight snack.

But Chorus has given him extra practice when it came to stealth.

With the Reds unwilling to listen to him, that leaves one other place in the canyon where he might be able to seek help. Though his hopes aren’t high.

Blue Base is just as quiet as its Red counterpart.

Grif shifts the weight on his feet and wonders if this will get him killed.

He decides that he is running out of options.

Well, at least he put on his helmet before leaving Red Base. Just so that the Blue would recognize him.

“Tucker!” he yells, putting a hand near his visor as if it could enhance the noise. “Hey, Tucker!”

It takes almost half a minute before the Blue stumbles out to show himself on the roof, apparently still half-asleep. His armor is a mess, the shoulder plates put on backwards, and Tucker has barely tugged the helmet in place when he looks down at Grif.

“What the fuck, Red?” he says, holding a pistol. “What do you want?!”

It’s strange, seeing a friend aiming a gun at you. Not counting Sarge, of course. “I need to talk with you!” Grif yells back.

“Uhm, how about no?!”

“Why?!”

“Because we’re at war,” Tucker shouts, a ‘duh’ obvious in his voice. “And it’s the middle of the night. And you’re not a hot chick!”

Sadly, all those facts are true now.

They are fighting each other.

Grif looks up at him. “I need you to know that this isn’t real!”

Tucker goes quiet.

For a second Grif thinks this might be it. If Tucker can remember, then he can help him spark the others’ memories. And if they all realize what is happening, they can bring down Genkins. Together. Somehow.

Grif doesn’t have a plan on how to do it. He can’t make plans. Simmons makes the plans.

He needs Simmons.

And then, Tucker leans over the edge again. “…Is this some sort of scare tactic?”

“This is an alternative universe. ‘cause we accidentally screwed over the real one. But in the real one we were already done with Blood Gulch and we were friends, and your fellow Blue – that should be Church! Not Genkins!”

“Who the fuck is Church?” Tucker asks him. His voice seems louder in the quiet night. “And what the fuck are you talking about?!”

Grif opens his mouth. No sounds come out of it.

“What the fuck is happening out here?”

Like Grif, Tucker’s head snaps towards the other end of the roof where a cobalt soldier is casually making his way towards his teammates.

Tucker shrugs. “I don’t know, dude. Some Red came over and started to yell about some conspiracy shit.”

There’s a sniper rifle in Genkins’ hands. Grif keeps staring at it.

He knows he must be a strange sight, standing here in his pajama and helmet, yelling about how this universe is fake.

Tucker must be confused.

Genkins has to be amused.

“That sounds like a distraction for an ambush,” Genkins says, raising his weapon.

Next to him, Tucker keeps turning his head back and forth to glare at his enemy and teammate. “What do you want me to do – shoot him?”

Grif can imagine Genkins’ finger twitch against the trigger. He turns his stare on Tucker instead and shouts, “Tucker, you are supposed to want the sniper rifle!”

It’s one of all the small things, all the small flaws that makes the boxed canyon feel like it’s strangling him.

Tucker takes a step backwards. “Okay, this is just weird. I say we throw some rocks on him and call it a night.”

“Sounds good to me,” Genkins says, a smirk in his voice.

Grif runs. 

When he looks up at the sky, he counts the stars, praying for it to end with an even number. It keeps his brain busy during the long walk back to Red Base.

The stars seem so far away. They don’t burn as bright as they used to. It’s like there’s a murky glass between them. Grif rubs his eyes and realizes he is exhausted.

His vision is still trying to adjust from the pressure of his knuckles when he looks up, freezing when he spots the flash of light.

“Huggins?” he says, terrified and grateful at once.

The ball of light is right ahead of him, quiet, and Grif takes a step closer, wondering about what to say. He needs to apologize, of course, but he also needs her to know that he’s so happy to see her, that she was right and he’s the idiot-

Had Genkins lied-

Is she here-

The hum of the Warthog shakes him out of his thoughts.

“Sarge wanted to see if you’d committed suicide by walking into Blue territory,” Simmons says as he steps off the vehicle. He turns off the headlights. The gulch is engulfed in darkness again. Grif’s lip is quivering when the light fades away.

Simmons turns to go inside the base. “I guess I can tell him you’re just walking around talking to no one.”

Grif tries to leave the next day.

He scrapes his armor against the steep cliffs, and he doesn’t even scream he first times he falls down. The air is knocked out of his lungs when his back hits the ground.

He lies there, staring up at the sky.

For a moment, he thinks he sees it – a red taint, a glimmer, a flash of distortion. It feels wrong-

It’s probably a concussion.

“Fucking Blood Gulch,” he mutters, letting his head fall back against the dirt.

Blood Gulch is a boxed canyon. He knows this.

There’s no way out of here. 

He stays with his team, making sure to be right next to them constantly to give them small reminders, to nudge their memories in the right direction.

Maybe it’s only a matter of time. Maybe he’s just the first.

He just has to wait. Just like back on the colony. Grif has to suffer through a horrible situation alone, and then – then things will turn out alright.

He just needs to wait it out.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t try to give it a head start.

“Don’t you think it’s weird we’re a bunch of idiots fighting another bunch of idiots?” he asks Simmons when they’re on patrol. “It’s almost like we’re all just cannon fodder for the army!”

“I’m far too smart for conspiracy theories, Grif,” Simmons sneers at him, keeping his chin raised. “Unless you’re talking about the fluoride in the water, go spread your nonsense somewhere else.” 

“Hey, Sarge, what if I told you that in another life, you managed to find another purpose in your life than killing Blues? At least, like forty percent of the time.”

Sarge huffs, turning his back against him as he grabs his strawberry Yoo-hoo from the fridge. “Well, Grif, I’d say we better be grateful the gods were merciful enough to place us in this universe, letting us be a part of the mighty war against the plague known as the color Blue.”

Grif leans against the kitchen desk, rubbing his thumbs against his temples. The headache is worse than ever these days. “You were a lot nicer in the other universe, Sarge.” He grimaces at his own words. “It feels horrible saying that out loud.”

“Feels even worse hearing it. Grif, I think you might just have had a vision of Hell.” 

He tries not to sound desperate.

But like any other plan that Grif touches, he fails at this too.

He stays right at Simmons’ heels as he talks, ignoring how the maroon soldier is obviously trying to ditch him. Grif knows not to reach out and touch his shoulder. He knows he can no longer do that.

“Okay, Simmons, just listen to this. You’re a great leader! Really!” His face falls slightly when Simmons doesn’t even react to the praise. “You led a whole team of teenagers and you almost didn’t have a mental breakdown when Sarge was gone, and you were all leader-y when Carolina took us back in time-“

“Is this supposed to be a compliment?” the maroon soldier asks him dryly, rolling his eyes in resentment.

He has no idea of what Grif is talking about. Even now, days after Grif remembered everything, his explanations are still dismissed as crazy talk.

“I’m just saying,” Grif says slowly, inhaling, “you don’t have to listen to Sarge all the time.”

Simmons turns to stare at him. There are so many freckles in his face now, with all the metal gone. Grif wants to count them, like he did with the stars. An even number. An even number and everything should be alright.

“Sarge was right,” Simmons says, giving him a dirty look. “You are trying to start a mutiny.”

“Maybe, if we just kill Genkins-“

“The Blue?”

“Yes!”

“We are already supposed to kill the Blues,” Simmons reminds him. They’re standing at the edge of the roof again, helmets off after Simmons complained about the heat.

It gives Grif the opportunity to stare at his face, to count.

He nods eagerly. “I know.” He sends Simmons a small smile, hoping he might return it. He won’t. He knows that despite his hope. Simmons just looks confused at Grif’s happiness now, suspicious. “If we can just get a clear shot at him, then maybe the universe will restart itself!”

It’s his best plan so far. Restarting their memories obviously isn’t working that well.

But this is Genkins’ universe. He’s the god.

Kill him, and everything would have to unravel.

And that should be a good thing. He thinks.

(Can you even kill a god?)

“Would you shut up about the time travel nonsense already?!” Simmons hisses as he rubs the bridge of his nose. He’s in pain, obviously.

Grif takes a step forward. “Simmons, you’ll have to remember eventually. I just have to keep reminding you-“

“No. You don’t.” Simmons’ head snaps up towards him, glaring at him through narrowed eyes. The sun burns above them. “In fact, you should shut the fuck up because you’re giving me a headache.”

“Maybe that’s a good sign!”

“No, it isn’t!” Simmons is clenching his fists, cheeks flushed with anger and frustration. Grif knows that expression, he’s seen it so many times before, when he didn’t put the dishes in the sink, when he spilled soda on Simmons’ carpet, whenever he made a mess. But this time Simmons’ eyes are different, colder, unfamiliar to him, and it scares him. “You’re the headache. You’re literally a walking headache and it’s driving me crazy. And we don’t need two insane soldiers on this team.”

Grif blinks. “…Is that counting Sarge or-“

“I don’t want to talk with you, Grif,” Simmons tells him before turning away from him, leaving him behind on the roof. “So leave me alone.”

Grif’s shoulders fall.

There are 47 freckles on Simmons’ face. 

“I think that’s a great idea, sir,” Simmons says, nodding happily. They are sitting around the round table in the kitchen, having their official Red Team meeting as they do every Wednesday. It’s routine. It’s normal.

Simmons is eating toast with a mirrored egg, like he always does. Sarge is drinking his Yoo-hoo as he always does.

It’s normal. Nothing is out of the ordinary.

“What about you, Private Grif?” Sarge says, turning in his chair to stare at the soldier. “Do you feel the need to question the universe today or are you ready to be the meat-shield in the daily surprise attack?”

Grif is twirling a spoon around in his cereal, not feeling hungry.

They won’t remember.

He can’t save them.

Just like before.

“No, sir,” he replies. “Let’s just get it over with.”

“And what are you going to do about it, Reds?” the Blue yells at them during their daily afternoon attack. They’re still following the routine. Sarge, feeling particularly clever, makes sure to change between an ambush or direct attack every other day, just to keep the enemies on their toes.

“Except filling your hide with bullets?” Sarge yells back at them. “I’m filing an official complaint! A public nuisance for extensive use of the color blue! You’re tainting the innocent youth! Aaaand we’re poisoning your drinking water!”

“Too bad, Sarge – we ran out of that weeks ago!”

They never injure each other. It’s like every other day, yelling insults, shooting some bullets, then return home to start over in the morning.

Genkins is on the roof, looking down at them.

Grif doesn’t even touch his trigger.

“Aaaaand we’re leaving trash on your lawn. Grif, stay there until I tell you to move. Which is never.”

Grif sighs at his leader’s orders. “Fine.”

Nothing else to do but play along.

If Genkins wants to shoot him while Grif is playing trash bag, he’ll let him.

He knows Genkins won’t kill him yet.

That won’t be fun enough for him.

Grif isn’t sleeping when Simmons’ hand grabs his shoulder. He jerks at the sudden touch, eyes wide open.

Then he is pulled out of the bed, landing on the floor with an ‘oomph’ leaving his lips.

“You left the dishes in the sink again!” Simmons tells him, staring down at him as he hovers above him.

Grif closes his eyes. His head is pounding and he can’t blame it on the impact against the floor. “I’ll do them in the morning.”

“You sleep in the morning.”

“Then I’ll do them when I wake up after you’ve screamed in my face. Geez.”

Simmons glares at him while he pushes himself off the floor. “It’s not my fault you’re a lazy fatass,” the maroon soldier says, crossing his arms before heading over to rest in his own bed.

A couple of second afterwards, Grif copies his action and crawl under his blanket again. His back is throbbing from the new bruises. “Hey, Simmons?” he says. There’s a gap between their beds but Simmons hasn’t turned off the light yet.

Simmons doesn’t say anything.

He just rolls over to lie on his side. His red brows bump together into a scowl. His lips are screwed into an annoyed grimace, his eyes flash with irritation.

He must be having a headache again. He wants Grif to shut up. He doesn’t want to be near him.

“Never mind,” Grif says before turning to stare at the wall instead.

This Simmons doesn’t like pillow talk.

“Oh Grif! If I’d known I’d be having guests, I would have prepared pizza.”

Grif has just entered the cave when the voice calls out his name. He doesn’t even feel proud of himself, despite having tracked Genkins down at his first try.

He knew he’d be here.

Waiting for him.

Grif is so tired of waiting. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, boots loud against the hard ground. He’s wearing his power armor, rifle strapped to his back. Genkins doesn’t flinch when he is approached- “You said it yourself – you won. You have the power. You can create whatever fucking universe you want so why do you have to torment us?”

“I can’t be a true god without passively watching humanity suffer,” Genkins replies with a shrug. “Besides I don’t see the torment, Grif. In fact, I think your friends are quite satisfied with their small unimportant lives. You’re the one making a mess – but I suppose that’s just a part of your character trait. Charming, really.”

Grif’s fingers curls around his weapon. “Why be Church?” he asks him. “Why couldn’t you just bring him back? What are you gaining from this?”

Genkins holds out his hands. “Do gods need a reason?” he says, spreading them. “Atlus certainly didn’t explain why he enjoyed strutting around like a swan though I had my guesses.” He snickered at his own sentence. “I don’t want to be a bird, Grif. I want to be someone. It’s so much more fun. Playing a role. Watching you all accept me of all people! Being manipulative really is the greatest power. You should try it one day.”

“You’re insane,” Grif says. He knows he probably shouldn’t be the one to say it. The others think he’s lost his mind. On Chorus, his sanity actually slipped away from him.

But he isn’t like this.

Genkins is a source of chaotic madness, ready to twist universes for his amusement.

Even at this insult, he laughs. “Probably! But right now, I’m Church!” He throws his head back, raises his arms toward the ceiling of the cave. “But this is my universe. I could be anyone. Oooh, I think I could have made a very good you.”

The moment the last word leaves his mouth, Grif sees the madness before his eyes. The orange seeps into the cobalt armor, tainting it, changing it, slowly turning it into a reflection of himself.

Genkins won’t stop talking. “All sulky and lazy. All lonely too. Nah, that isn’t really my style.” He tilts his head in wonder. “Though I bet I could be a very good Simmons. Snap of my fingers and you’d never even know the difference-“

“Stop it.”

When Grif blinks, the orange is gone.

In front of him is what should be Church except the voice that comes from the cobalt armor is nothing like his friend’s.

It’s cold yet mockingly sweet. “Oh, Grif. I’m not a god to accept your prayers. But you could ask nicely. I’m in a good mood today.”

This act just increases Grif’s need to get this over with. But he knows there might be the smallest chance that Genkins will answer his prayers. The prankster is so unreliable, he can’t even count on his cruel mockeries.

So Grif inhales deeply and fights against every cell in his body that loathes being polite, that hates giving in to authorities. “Would you please make everything normal again? Make everyone normal?”

“No!” Genkins says and laughs and laughs and laughs. When he finally falls silent, he takes a step forward, hand reaching out for Grif’s face. “You look so disappointed, Grif. What do you think was going to happen, I wonder…”

“This.” With one hand he grabs the approaching wrist, lunging forward while preventing the god from getting away. Grif closes his eyes. With his other hand, he pulls the pin off the grenade.

There’s a flash.

When he dares to look, his vision is filled with colorful pieces of confetti.

Genkins stands before him, unharmed.

The grenade – the gift – did nothing.

Grif realizes his mistake and curses his own foolishness for a hundredth time. This is what he’s been doomed to repeat for eternity. To realize his own stupidity, all his mistakes. To live forever with the regret.

Huggins died because of him.

The universe shattered because he hadn't been fast enough.

This is his fault.

“Oh, I forgot,” the god says. “Simmons is in charge of the confetti, right? All those small details, sometimes they slip my mind.”

Grif is shaking. He can’t open his mouth, doesn’t even know how to respond.

“Did you really think I’d let it be over with? That I’d die? That I'd let you die?” Genkins’ voice is disappointed. “Grif, where’s the fun in that?”

Forcing the air into his lungs, Grif manages to give him the truthful answer: “I don’t know.”

Before leaving the cave, Genkins pats the side of his helmet twice, like dealing with a foolish child. There’s a bounce in his steps as he walks away, leaving a stunned Grif behind in the darkness.

He looks over his shoulder for a farewell. “Don’t be such a party-killer, Grif! Smile! Enjoy yourself! Don’t ruin the fun.” Then he turns his back to him, walking into canyon as his voice calls out darkly, “Because you know what happens when I get bored…”