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Time had a strange way in Blood Gulch. Every scorching, neverending day felt like a thousand years, but it could get away from you.
They’d been in Blood Gulch for 33 hours when Private Simmons saw Private Grif without his helmet for the first time.
They were minding their business, Simmons focused on cleaning and checking all the weaponry, and Grif securing a perimeter at the shady spot provided one of the five old trees in the whole canyon.
The unmistakable hiss of the Mark V helmet’s airlock piqued Simmons' interest. He turned and time seemed to slow. A mass of curly black hair tumbled from the orange helmet and down the soldier’s back. Grif’s gloved hand twisted his hair up into a bun, revealing the deep tan of the nape of his neck.
Grif turned to him but Simmons was already facing the other way, heart racing. The fleeting glimpse left him strangely captivated.
Quick, insult him! Say something, anything! Wait not anything, he cannot give himself that kind of clearance.
Luckily, Grif shatters the reveries and spits out, “The fuck you looking at? Loser.”
“Nothing much, clearly.” Simmons shoots back but he wishes he’d said something else. “Fatty.” Wow. As usual, he makes it worse.
“Yeah alright,” Grif responds, over the sound of his helmet relocking. “Don’t you have some regulation red ass to kiss?”
And then everything was okay. For being stuck in Blood Gulch as Private Dick Simmons.
For the next two years, the only faces Simmons saw were unfortunately his reflection and—only ever against his will—Private Donut’s.
He didn't care to know what anyone in that godforsaken canyon looked like; they were all just nameless, bobbing helmets and bothersome voices, and that suited him just fine.
Except for Grif.
Grif had already seen Simmons behind the visor. Back in Danger Canyon, on that stupidly narrow bridge that introduced them, he’d thrown off his helmet to puke off the side of it. Simmons’ face in all its honest glory.
Simmons didn’t expect Grif to look anyway in particular, other than generally unkempt, but he definitely wasn’t expecting that hair . Bouncy black curls, tumbling down his back, defying the usual “helmet hair” that plagued everyone else. It was honestly the most beautiful hair he had ever seen. Though he wouldn’t be caught dead ever admitting any of that.
Simmons decided he was better off never seeing his teammate’s face, but he was unable to shake the curiosity that had taken root in his mind.
He began to notice the nuances that were hidden beneath Grif's lazy and sarcastic demeanor.
Talking about old TV shows together and which characters he seemed drawn to, how he knew the names and stories behind so many stars and constellations, actually kinda enjoyed school and attended Ithaca before getting drafted, how he cared deeply for his family.
Sometimes, he would reference something Simmons had mentioned. Anything about duties or computers was usually coupled with a sarcastic comment, but Grif listened. He remembered. Even if he acted like he didn’t, especially in front of the others.
That set him apart from anyone else Simmons had ever met, especially since coming to Blood Gulch.
“THE FIRST TIME I SAW YOUR TREADS
AND ENORMOUS CHASSIS OF STEEL
I KNEW THAT I HAD FOUND SOMEONE
TO SHARE A ROBOT LOVE SO REAL”
With Lopez’s horrendous song blaring as his soundtrack, Simmons stood frozen, staring down at Grif’s mangled, bloody body, his orange armor cracked and crushed and suit in tatters.
Sarge walked right up and nudged Grif with his foot. Harder than necessary.
“Sarge!” Simmons sputtered.
“ Help- ” Grif croaked out and Simmons gasped in relief.
“Fuck.” Sarge murmured, clearly disappointed, and started helping him up. “Nurse Donut, front and center. Simmons, quit playing looky-loo and radio Doc!”
What was left of Grif’s helmet was knocked loose and rolled off, stopping just in front of Simmons. He picked it up slowly and made eye contact with Private Grif for the very first time.
Through the blood-stained mess, Simmons could see his deep brown eye clearly. Wide and shell-shocked, bloodshot and teary. His face… he could see his face but not all of it was there… Simmons doubled over and ripped off his helmet just in time to vomit.
“Radio Doc, now! ” Sarge barked. “This is war, son, get used to it!”
In a daze, Simmons complied, but his message to Doc rang out with the thud of him hitting the ground, falling unconscious.
When Simmons woke, he found himself lying on a cot in the Red base's med bay.
That was all he was able to process before the last image he saw reentered his mind. His best friend’s mutilated body. He threw his hands up to his face and clang! Metal. His left arm was, his face was… He promptly passed out again.
“Simmons…Simmons…Simmons…” Donut repeated then shrieked. “ Simmons! Sarge, he’s awake!”
“I am now, you fuck.” He groaned.
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the cot—” Donut sang.
“Sarge, what did you do to me?!” He demanded.
“Exactly what we talked about. Congrats, dirtbag, today is your birthday.” He held up a mirror. “Simmons 2.0!”
Simmons wanted to be furious, but he could only stare. The left side of his face, his eye, ear, some of his jaw and down his neck, part of his shoulder, and his left arm from the elbow down. He wiggled his new mechanical fingers.
The uncertainty of Grif’s fate hit him like a truck. His heart dropped.
“What about Grif? Is he dead?” He asked desperately.
“Unfortunately not.” Sarge grumbled. Simmons fought back a wave of tears.
“He’s recovering in the next room. Surgery was hard on him.” Donut lamented.
“On him? ” Sarge asked incredulously. “What about me? I just did four surgeries! Back to back! To back to back!”
“Four?” Doc questioned. “Uh, we did two ."
“A surgery is like getting your appendix or a baby taken out.” Sarge waved him off. We’ve created a cyborg and a crude Frankenstein. Not too shabby with our resources.”
“I’m still completely flabbergasted that they lived through that!” Donut admired.
“Frankenstein?” Simmons couldn’t keep up.
“We brought your cyborg reassignment up on the list!” Sarge said happily.
“—and just used your parts to save Private Grif! You’re a hero, Dick Simmons!” Doc announced and Donut clapped.
Simmons wished he would pass out again. He wasn’t a hero. He never wanted this. He needed to get out of there. He needed to see Grif.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed to stand and he toppled over. His left leg was gone too, replaced by clicking machinery. He would have to come to terms with this new reality.
He sighed as Doc and Donut helped him up and guided him to his quarters.
Grif didn’t wake up for three more days.
As Grif slowly regained consciousness, he found himself surrounded by his teammates in the Red base med bay. Back in his orange armor, repaired and good as new.
"Aw, man. Where am I?" Grif mumbled groggily.
“Private, don’t try to move too much… Not that you would. You’ve been through quite the ordeal.” Sarge said.
He groaned. “Aw, man. Where am I?”
“Hush now, sh sh shhh sh sh.” Donut cooed. “It was really touch and go there for a while, good buddy. But I did it.” He took a deep breath. “I pulled you through.”
“How long was I out?” Grif blinked, trying to make any sense of what happened; his mind was a fog.
“Don’t you worry,” Sarge said. “Nurse Donut here stayed by your side the whole time. Stroking your hand and keeping you company.”
Grif asked, “Ugh, my right hand?”
“Your left!” Donut corrected.
“Ughh, note to self: cut off left hand.” Grif said miserably.
“Technically speaking, it’s not really your left hand.” Sarge corrected.
“Say what? ” His brow rose.
“I had to replace certain body parts that were severely damaged when the tank ran you over. And a few that atrophied from a lifetime diet of hoohoos and bacon-flavored marshmallows.”
“Wait…which body parts?”
“Well, let’s see. We had to start with the shoulder, then we moved on down to the flank—”
“ Huh? ”
“Yeah,” Donut sighed. “We couldn’t really find an anatomy book… but we did find one of those pictures with the cow and the dotted lines all over it. I think it did the trick!”
Grif’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Wait, where the fuck did you get the replacement parts?”
“Why from our other subject of course.” Sarge replied cheekily.
Simmons crossed his arms. “Subject, my cyborg ass.”
“No way.” Grif shook his head.
“Yeah, I’m real happy about this myself, numbnuts.” Simmons spat.
“Those too.” Sarge chimed in.
“Did I get your lips?” Grif asked, falling easily into their banter. “Maybe then I’ll finally figure out how to kiss Sarge’s ass.”
“And the ass.” Said Sarge.
“What the hell? ”
“The saucy bits…” Sarge went on and Grif started to feel dizzy.
“What didn’t I get?”
“We pretty much replaced all the internal organs and some of the more disgusting external ones. Except for Simmons’ spleen which will be inflated and used for general recreation and esprit de corp!” Sarge said gleefully.
Grif sighed. “This doesn’t seem physically possible.”
“Nonsense! Modern technology makes anything possible. It was as easy as Shake ‘n Bake.” Sarge insisted.
“And I helped!” Donut said too enthusiastically.
Grif thought too hard about it all and in true Simmons’ fashion, promptly passed out.
Sarge gave Simmons the task of getting Grif out of the med bay. With his new robot parts, lifting Grif was easy, but since he was still getting used to being a cyborg, he accidentally dropped him one time. Okay, a couple of times. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t wake up. He could sleep through anything.
Simmons set him down in his cot gently and moved his arms and head to more comfortable positions.
He caught his reflection in Grif’s visor, distorted by the curved surface. He stared, suddenly haunted by the idea that now every time he looks at Grif, he’ll see a little bit of himself. Literally.
In the days that followed his surgery, Simmons couldn't shake the feeling of unease about his own transformation into a cyborg. He was upset, or at least he believed he should be. The loss of his limbs and part of his face weighed on his mind, and he struggled with the idea of accepting this new version of himself. But as he spent more time adjusting to his cyborg body and exploring its capabilities, he began to realize something—he actually didn’t mind it.
He never cared for his body. He was always the skinny, nervous one who couldn’t keep up with the rest of the team. His strengths always lied in his intelligence. Now, as a cyborg, he felt stronger, more capable, and oddly more confident. His pale, freckled skin broken up by the plates of metal made him feel… badass. He looked like he’d been through shit. He had, but usually all he gets are eyebags and bruises.
He wondered what Grif would think of him, when it all really sunk in.
Grif was so still and peaceful in his bed. Usually, he snores and talks but now he’s just… It dawned on Simmons at that moment that Grif had nearly died . He just got out of probably the worst surgery ever. Of all time. He might be… He could have… Is he…?
He panicked and shrieked, shaking his friend by the shoulders. “ GRIF! ”
Grif jolted upright. “AHHHHHH! FUCK!” He took a deep breath. “WHAT?! ”
“You’re okay!” Simmons assured Grif but more so himself. “You’re okay.”
“I’m okay. Wanna give me a heart attack next, asshat? Can I go back to my coma now?”
Simmons couldn't suppress a chuckle at Grif's response, still on the high that he’s alive at all. He pleaded, half-jokingly, "Please don't leave me alone with Sarge and Donut."
Grif sighed. "Fuck you, man. Good night." With that, he laid back down.
Despite his grumpy response, Simmos couldn't stop smiling. Grif was okay, and that was all that mattered to him.
The third time Simmons saw Grif without his helmet was a week later.
Grif went back to his usual duties and the usual avoiding of them, but he was much quieter. Whenever Sarge went on one of his crazy rants, Simmons instinctively looked to Grif, expecting his biting sarcasm or snide remarks to break the tension. But now, he remained silent, lost in his own thoughts.
Sarge went about like everything was normal, but now with even more to hold against Grif as he technically did save his life. Donut's persistent attempts to check up on Grif only seemed to frustrate him further. Simmons decided to back off and give him his space. He figured he might be the last person he wants to talk to.
Now that he’s kind of…stuck with him. Forever. Yikes.
Meanwhile, Simmons couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t sure if it was his new state as a cyborg, or the violent, unceasing night terrors every time he shut his eyes. He just couldn’t get those images out of his mind.
He found himself pacing the base while everyone else was asleep. Running probabilities, tinkering with engineering projects, coding sequences, and attempting to master his new cyborg abilities. Anything to keep his mind from wandering.
One particular night, as the hours crawled slowly into the early morning, Simmons couldn't resist the curiosity to examine his new mechanical eye closer. The only mirror was in the restroom.
However, as he pushed open the door, he was taken aback to find Grif standing there at the sink, their eyes locking through the mirror. In that moment, all pretenses were stripped away, leaving only Grif and Simmons, no armor, no visors, their brand new faces on full display.
The sight of Grif's tear-streaked face struck Simmons like a bolt of lightning, revealing a rare vulnerability he hadn't expected to witness.
Simmons found himself unable to look away, taking in every detail of Grif's features. His own pasty white skin and green eye invaded Grif's face like some kind of sickness, a stark contrast from the rest of his features. Grif had dark stubble over smooth tan skin and chubby cheeks. Thick brows and lashes complimenting his remaining deep brown eye.
But it was his hair, once long and curly, that now bore the marks of the accident. Haphazardly shaved off, uneven and patchy, and surrounded by stitches and scars.
Grif closed his eyes and took in a shaky breath. “Sarge… said it was in the way. Trying to even it out but I…can’t. I—”
He tried to look at Simmons but he choked back a sob and turned away. “Fuck, just get out. Go. Please. ” He begged, voice breaking.
Instead, Simmons stayed. He picked up the razor and switched it on.
Grif wiped his eyes and looked up at him. Face to face.
Simmons hated eye contact, but in that moment, he felt he could stare into Grif’s eyes for all eternity. Confusion, understanding, relief, sadness. He took in every detail. Every quirk of his brow, twitch of his lips, flick of his eyes, every breath.
Simmons slowly reached up, gently shaving off the tufts of hair. Grif dipped his head, allowing him to carefully work around the sensitive stitches, evening out the cut as best he could.
They stared together at his reflection.
Grif extended his hand, uncurling his fist, Simmons saw the crumpled photo he held. It was a picture of himself, a striking difference to his current state. In the photo, he stood under the shade of a big oak tree, wearing an Ithaca College sweatshirt, his hair in its full glory, and a genuine smile on his face, eyes full of life. It couldn't have been more than a few years ago, but now, lit by the harsh lights, Grif looked as if he had aged decades.
The realization hit Simmons hard—Grif's complaints about the army, about wanting to go home, were more than just laziness or indifference. Grif truly hated this war, and there seemed to be no end in sight to the madness they were trapped in.
They were in too deep and they’d probably die for this godforsaken war. Just another unnamed Red Army casualty. They were just soldiers fighting for people that didn’t give a shit about them and no one would remember them.
Simmons was a cyborg now and Grif was stuck with half his old body. For the rest of their lives. One stupid fucking moment in a stupid fucking war. They could philosophize like they used to, but it all seemed so futile. This was a part of their story.
The only solace through all the bullshit was… well, at least they have each other, right?
The razor buzzed again.
Grif glanced up, eyes wide with surprise as he watched Simmons shave his own head. Eyes set, chin-length ginger hair falling to the floor.
Grif hesitated for a moment before stepping closer and gently taking the razor from him. He was tender as he ran the razor over his head. Simmons shivered, not used to the touch of another person. Shaken by the warmth of Grif’s hands.
When he finished, he clicked off the razor and set it on the sink, filling the room with silence. They stepped back and stared at their reflections together.
Simmons hated his reflection. It always felt wrong. Especially now, so cold and ghastly under the white lights.
But seeing himself there, standing by Grif’s side. It felt right. Orange and maroon. Grif and Simmons.
“We look like hell.” Grif muttered.
Simmons nodded. “Think it’s the lighting?”
Grif chuckled weakly. “Not a chance.”
Simmons glanced at the old photo. “Can’t hurt to try.”
“ Huh? ” Grif’s brow rose.
“Come on.”
“Uh, where are we going?” Grif asked, but obliged and followed Simmons outside to the edges of the canyon. To the greenest tree and patch of grass he could find. There wasn’t much, but the old tree would work.
He set his hands gently on Grif's shoulders, guiding him to the cool shade beneath the rustling leaves. The gentle breeze dappled the sunlight, creating a dance of light and shadow on his face.
Simmons held up the old photo, comparing it to the scene he created before him, and offered a shy smile. “See? Not so bad.”
He followed Grif’s gaze. He looked at the photo, a mix of emotions passing over his tired features. He shoved it in his pocket and looked to Simmons.
They locked eyes.
“Not so bad.” Grif mused, voice soft. He sighed and sat down, back against the tree.
Simmons hesitated and twiddled his thumbs, searching for the right thing to say.
“Sit down,” Chided Grif. “You’re making me nervous.”
He joined him and they sat together in silence. Grif closed his eyes so Simmons closed his.
The gentle breeze, the distant tweeting birds, the buzz of the cicadas. Simmons felt a wave of calm wash over him. They sat together like that for a while.
Simmons thought about it all. The war, the accident, the surgery, the suicide mission that got the two of them sent to Blood Gulch in the first place. It had always scared and angered him, the lack of control and the senselessness of it all.
But now, the thought was strangely liberating.
None of it made any sense at all, none of it mattered, and they would most definitely die for this stupid war and in a stupid way and no one would remember them.
He traced his mechanical finger into the rough texture of the tree's bark, etching his initials into the trunk.
Grif opened one eye and peeked over, letting out a short laugh.
“At least I won’t die in total obscurity. The tree will remember me.” Simmons mused.
“What, you don’t think we’ll outlive this old thing?” Grif asked.
“Not a chance.”
Grif picked up a rock and carved his own initials into the bark, next to Simmons’. Side by side. For the rest of time.
D.G. R.S.
And then everything was okay. As long as Grif was there, everything would be okay.