A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

Set after season 13 (not that it matters that much – Church wouldn't have appeared in this story no matter what), but it is not really that important, I guess.

Also, credit to NJ7009 for helping me with the summary. You are a sweetheart and you know it! (But pudding is still disgusting, and you know it! I win that argument, and I make it official here!)

Seeing Red ('Cause That's a Lot of Blood)
Hindsight Is a Bitch

'Bullshit', Grif thought even before the battle began. They had not even known it would evolve into an actual fight. It was still bullshit, though. After ditching one too many training sessions, Simmons had dragged him by the arm – or, actually, he had made a fake promise about a confiscated box of snack cakes that were free for Grif to steal (in hindsight, he really should have noticed how suspiciously good that had sounded) – to place him in front of Kimball who had demanded him to start working.

"What work?" he had demanded to know. "We fucking won!" And so they had. Kinda. Well, they had survived. Or, you know, Church hadn't. But that was Church. Didn't fucking count, considering the amount of times Church had died and come back. So maybe this time he had left a big sappy goodbye speech that had made Donut bawl for hours (which really wasn't that big a deal, considering the fact it was fucking Donut), but this was Church. Grif would still put his money on the fact that in a year he would return and be just as annoying as he had always been. 'cause that was just how the Blues worked. Right?

So everyone, except Church, had made it off the ship. Too bad everyone also included Hargrove who had managed to flee as well. And as long as that fucker was still alive, Chorus still had stuff to deal with.

Like the remaining pirates who were still skulking around on the planets because for some fucked up reason Chorus could never have total peace. And, as a consequence, neither could Grif.

"You are aware of Blue Team's mission today?" Kimball asked, like it had not been the hot subject during lunch.

"Yeah, they are raiding that compound. The one north of Crash Site Alpha?" If he brought in enough facts, he could fool her into believing he was a good attentive soldier, and then perhaps Kimball would go easy on him during this meeting, whatever it might bring him. Grif was still not quite sure why he was here. As in here – Kimball's office. It was too early to wonder about life's great mysteries. "What? Do they need my help?" he snorted, although they were both painfully aware that it could not be the case.

Kimball had to be smiling behind her visor. Her tone was just a bit too smug when she said: "Actually-" Grif visibly deflated by that one word. "-the cargo turned out to be less valuable than expected. More men than cargo – and those men ran when the others attacked. Currently, Blue Team is tracking them down but someone needs to extract the cargo we did attain."

"So, is this cue my speech? 'cause I just have the urge to mention future cubes – the cubes of the future."

"As you should be aware, our supply of the transportation cubes-" As she refused to call the cubes by their original and proper name, Grif could not help but let out a small sigh. "-is dwindling. Right now, we are talking about a few yet valuable crates. Wash counted six. We can't waste the few resources we have left to retrieve them. The area has been cleared of enemies but the cargo needs to be recovered as quickly as possible. I hear you're an efficient driver."

"Right. Road trip. I'll go fetch Simmons –"

"Captain Simmons and Donut have already been assigned to weapon delegation. The armory is still pure chaos after the attack on Hargrove and they are the only ones who seem to have a clue on what to do with the remains."

Right, 'cause even though Grif did work in the armory, that did not make him qualified? Well, okay, he did spend most of his time trying to sneak away from Simmons to find a good place to nap, but still, he had laid ears to the whining soldiers ("I want a shotgun!" – "My rocket launcher has no rockets!" – "My gun malfunctioned and I accidently shot my friend!") just like the rest of his team.

Kimball continued nonetheless. "Lopez is spending the day at the garage. I think."

So Kimball did not know Spanish either. That made the robot just as useful as before they landed on Chorus! "And since this mission is a matter of heading to point A and return with the cargo to point B, I figured you would be willing to make the trip."

'Willing' was a very strong word. But spending some hours in a jeep, picking up a couple of crates and then driving home sounded hell of a lot nicer than fucking dish duty. If this could keep Kimball off his back for a while, he would do it. "So I'm going alone?"

"No. You will be heading out there with backup, just in case."

'Just in case of what?' Grif was about to ask (hindsight was a bitch because that was a really good question) when a greater worry filled his mind.

"So who am I going…?"

Grif considered the question for a moment when the realization hit him like the butt of a shotgun to the face – a bad omen. "You have got to be fucking kidding me!"

What fucking bullshit.

Simmons' jaw dropped as he slowly turned around to get a proper view of the storage room. He was pretty glad he was wearing his helmet. At least the visor worked as a shield against all this… Donut-ness.

He walked out of the storage room to join the pink soldier by the desk. "Donut, did you move around the boxes?" And that was a vast understatement.

"If 'move around' means 'organizing spotlessly', then yes! Isn't it just a delight to the eye?" Donut grinned, far too pleased with himself.

Simmons wanted to shake his head, but settled with spreading his arms out in despair. "But it was already organized! I've already organized it!"

Donut put his hands on his hips. "Now that's not true. It looked like a mess in there!"

"No, it didn't!" Simmons shrieked, obviously offended. "I spent hours putting all the boxes in alphabetical order! It cut down our service time by 34 percent!"

"But it was ugly!" Donut declared confidently, like a lawyer that [] knew they had won the court case. "Seriously, Simmons, a colorblind could have made a better arrangement, and I've seen how Grif's sister looked under the armor. Not pretty, I tell you. Azure blue tank top with merlot-colored shorts – someone was definitely not up to date with the latest fashion, nah-ah! Luckily, there was still hope for the storage room. I had to get on my knees in order to get the job done, but now all the packages are just right, no matter which size or shape! Oh, it took more than just sweat and blood to get the room's color schemes sorted!"

They walked into the room to survey the damage – Donut with a bounce in his steps and Simmons' legs being weighed down by despair.

"Donut, what have you done?" he asked in horror as they stepped into the chaos.

"Look! Isn't it a masterpiece? Now the armory signals control and happiness!"

To be fair, Donut had put quite the work into this. It began with the purple boxes and crates on the lower shelves, and as Simmons' raised glance, the color changed into blue, green, yellow, orange and then finally red on the top shelves. Donut had, somehow, turned the storage room into a representation of a rainbow. Simmons was not sure whether to be horrified or amazed that the pink soldier had somehow turned a war-related facility into a ray of sunshine.

"Oh, it signals something, alright," Simmons muttered flatly.

"Hey, losers!" someone – they knew who – called out from behind them. "Stop slacking off before Kimball gets to you to – I don't need more assholes in my car!"

Simmons sighed. He had not expected the orange soldier to find them so quickly, though he should have expected it. He had, after all, been the one to put him in front of Kimball. "Hey, Grif."

Grif joined the others in the storage room and resisted the urge to raise a hand in order to shield his eyes. "Holy crap. Did you move in here, Donut?"

"Well, they do say your working place is your second home, though I admit this would be a bit of a tight space to get yourself comfortable in. Not that I wouldn't try my hardest!"

"I'm sure you would, Donut," Grif said deflated before turning to Simmons with his rifle in his hands. "Loading up for a cargo trip. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"It's your own damn fault for being a lazy fatass," Simmons spat, turning around to pick up the ammunition Grif needed only to realize he was facing a green box containing rockets. Cursing mentally, be began searching through Donut's so-called arrangement to find the right package. "If you hadn't fallen asleep during the last meeting, you probably could have lasted another week before Kimball had enough. I still don't understand how you thought you could skip Wash' training courses five days in a row."

While Donut followed Simmons around to carefully correct the boxes Simmons pulled out (with more and more aggression - he kept failing to find the correct bullets) Grif watched them work with no desire to step forward and help. "Hey, Simmons. Newsflash – the war is fucking over. Why do we need to be training now?"

Simmons replied in a flat tone without even looking at him: "Because, Grif, newsflash – the Blues are out fighting pirates right now."

"Yeah, and we're working in the armory. The only time we need to be running is when the mess hall finally bakes cookies and they announce limited portions."

Simmons turned over a box to read its bottom, resulting in its contents falling to the ground. Simmons let out a pained sigh while Donut immediately began to fix the mess. "Correction: we – as in Donut and I – are working in the armory. You're out in the fucking field."

"To pick up some stupid crates the others left behind. It's not like Wash' training prepared me for it – I learned to drive before I got drafted."

Simmons finally found the right box and pulled out two packages with ammunitions that he harshly shoved into Grif's hands. "If the mission is that harmless, then why do you need bullets, dumbass?"

"To have an easy way out when Sarge finally drives me insane," Grif replied dryly. "And you're the one to talk. You're fucking armory clerks, and you still have a fucking rifle over your shoulder, which, by the way, is covered by full body armor."

Simmons shifted his feet, knowing that Grif had a pretty good argument. "Yeah, well, old habits die hard."

The mess cleared, Donut rose to add to the conversation, "And you have to admit, Grif, the colors are a part of our charm! I personally can't imagine walking around without the ability to stand out in the crowd with my light-ish red outfit."

"You've certainly changed your mind since your first day with your armor, Donut," Simmons said, eying the pink soldier for a moment before taking in the new glory of the storage room again.

"Well, I hadn't taken the big leap back then. I was not ready to terms with the fact that I was –" He made a dramatic pause before continuing: "-man enough to wear the color. They say clothes make the man but I say it takes quite the man to fill them out."

They took a second to let that statement sink in (or rather, erase from memory) before Grif smacked his lips and declared: "As fun as this conversation is, I have a mission to complete. Sucks to be me. Have fun."

Before marching out of the room, he quickly stopped and turned on his heel to face Simmons. "Hey, if this thing drags out, you better save my dinner for me. And keep it warm. Some of us are working hard."

Simmons rolled his eyes behind the visor. "Just try not to drive into a ditch, asshole. Lopez will beat you up if you wreck another car. He has enough wreckage to work with already."

"Not like he is ever allowed to have a break in this place," Grif muttered darkly under his breath.

And as if the universe had some kind of perfect timing mechanism, Sarge showed up from out of the blue (or, since this was Sarge, out of the red) to angrily push the service bell on the front desk. "Grif, I need you to prep our vehicle pronto. We need to leave now in order to get back before the Blues."

"Why? This is not a race. We're not even on the same mission!"

"Fire up the jeep or I'll fire up your hide," Sarge growled. "Now, dirtbag."

As he walked out of the armory, Grif angrily exclaimed: "Oh, just shoot me already!"

Later, the irony would not be lost on Simmons.

Lopez was, in fact, having a relatively good day so far (boy, was that about to change soon!). The term 'a good day' basically meant a day without the Reds. Or Blues. Or anyone that could make a mess out of the stuff he had just fixed.

So Lopez was as happy as a robot could be as he lay under the warthog in order to get a better view of the problem. It was a nice position, actually. Quiet. Lonesome.

Reaching out to grab the wrench that had been placed next to the car, Lopez would have frowned in annoyance had he been able to do so, when a couple of red boots kicked the tool away as the soldier marched straight forward without even realizing he had stepped on something.

Lopez pulled himself up from the ground to confirm his fears.

Sarge spotted him immediately. "Lopez! You've prepared for the car for us, huh? So effective you finished Grif's job before he even got here."

"Hey, I was briefed about this mission like ten minutes ago. Can't blame me for being unprepared," the orange soldier defended himself as he stepped into the scene and Lopez' mood fell another inch.

"Not only do we have to put up with your normal level of laziness – now you are not preparing for orders you have not even been given yet. I would call that planning ahead if it weren't the completely opposite of what you are doing."

Grif was about to argue with Sarge when he realized it would have no effect whatsoever, so instead he turned to Lopez who was now standing up. "So this jeep is fixed?" he asked, knowing that the majority of their vehicles were still busted after their conflict with Hargrove.

"Sí. Está arreglado. Es por esto que yo estaba tendido debajo de él con una herramienta en mi mano, tonto." [Yes. It is fixed. That is why I was lying under it with a tool in my hand, moron.]

Grif who was able to pick up the few words of Spanish he understood but not able to detect sarcasm, said: "Great." After all, if Lopez had wanted to kill them, he would have done it a long time ago.

Lopez decided to give them a fair (or maybe not so fair) warning. "El depósito de gasolina está goteando."[The fuel tank is leaking.]

"Nothing better than a tuned-up jeep fit for the battle," Sarge chuckled as he swung himself into the vehicle.

"Si explota, no voy a reparar él otra vez."[If it explodes I will not fix it again.]

Grif, completely ignoring Lopez because if the robot wanted to say something important it was about damn time that he learned to talk English, jumped into the driver's seat and said: "Hey, Sarge – hate to break it to you, but we are not heading out there to fight."

"Y si acabarse la gasoline, por favor no volver." [And if you run out of gas, please do not return.]

Sarge set his visor on Grif and asked dryly: "Then why did they ask for me and my shotgun?"

"I don't know," Grif shrugged. "To punish me a bit further?"

"Huh. Good point." With a final huff, Sarge leaned out of the warthog to look down at the robot. "Goodbye, Lopez. Take care of yourself while we are gone."

"Espero que el jeep puede durar el tiempo suficiente para que estaís muy lejos de aqui cuando se rompe." [I hope the jeep will last long enough for you to be far away from here when it breaks.]

"I love you too, Lopez."

Grif turned the ignition and the jeep which sprung to life with a reassuring growl.

Sarge leaned back in his seat and said with delight, "Purrs like a cat."

Behind his visor, Grif smiled smugly and added, "Yeah, like a puma."

And Sarge immediately smacked his shotgun against Grif's helmet, earning an "Ow" before the two of them drove off, leaving Lopez behind. Unaware of how the day would eventually turn out, he picked up his tools and headed to the next car.

The silence did not last for long, however.

"Hello, Lopez!" Jensen lisped happily as she walked close to his vehicle in the big garage, a tool box in her hand.

Lopez did not look away from the jeep, but automatically responded, "Hola."

"And I thought I would be the only mechanic down here today," Jensen chirped and, to Lopez' horror, put down her tool box as she settled down next to him. "The others are all busy with Feierstein's birthday party – not that I wasn't invited, we just never saw eye to eye after I completely overshadowed her version of 'Imagine' in the last season of Chorus Idol." She coughed to cover up the passionate lisp she had just let out.

Lopez did not answer – partly because he had no comment on that information and partly because he hoped his silence would make her go away as quickly as possible.

Jensen did not seem bothered by the silence, but instead exclaimed, "Oh my, is that a VDO 1x85mm screwdriver?"

The robot slowly looked down at the tool in his hand. "Sí."

"I've been looking all the over HQ for this beauty! Would have made yesterday's work a lot easier." She crouched down next to him, visor set on the tool. "Is it yours?"

"Sí."

She tilted her head hopefully. "Can I borrow it?"

Very slowly, Lopez handed her it. "Thank you!" Jensen lisped happily and hummed as she began to work on the jeep.

Lopez was rather annoyed that she had taken over his vehicle, but knowing that they had a whole garage full busted vehicles, he simply moved on to the next broken jeep right next to him. While Jensen had interrupted his peace and quiet, she was at least not one of his so-called teammates, and now when she was at a safe distance, Lopez sink into his work again.

So when Jensen suddenly popped up, staring over his shoulder, Lopez grew annoyed once again.

"This one's really busted, huh?" Jensen said and opened a panel to begin her work.

"¿Por que trabajas en el jeep mismo como yo? Hey literalmente un garaje todo que está lleno de vehículos averiados. " [Why are you working on the same car as I? There's literally a whole garage full of broken vehicles.]

"I'm afraid I can't speak Spanish," Jensen said with a apologetic tone. "I never had the time while I was studying engineering and basic mechanic, oh and the military practice of course."

"¡Qué sorpresa!" [What a surprise!]

"But 'vehículos' sounds a lot like 'vehicles' so I suppose you are saying we have a lot of work ahead."

Lopez paused before admitting, "Eso no era demasiado malo. Al menos lo que está diciendo es verdad." [That was not too bad. At least what you are saying is true.]

Jensen was suddenly pointing at a white smear on the front of the jeep. "Oh, I think I might have been the one to wreck this one. See? That is paint from Gutterson's armor. Doctor Grey says he'll be out of the hospital in a few days. Minor concussion. Wasn't even angry. Didn't even yell at me, but that might have been caused by the lack of consciousness."

"Dios mío."

Jensen looked down at the tool in her hand. "I'm a better mechanic than a driver."

"Yo sé. He visto te correr." [I know that. I have seen you drive.]

"I usually work alone down here. It's a nice change to talk with someone while fixing stuff," Jensen sad before disappearing under the jeep to check for any interior damage.

Lopez considered walking away while she was busy, but figured she would just keep following him. "No estamos conversando. No entiendes lo que estoy hablando." [We are not talking together. You do not understand what I am saying.]

"It's a good thing you lent me that screwdriver! I think the problem is this loose screw," Jensen's muffled voice came from under the jeep.

Lopez tried to sigh. "Sí. Hay señaladamente un tornillo suelto en algún logar." [Yes. There is definitely a screw loose somewhere.]

"Drive faster, numbnuts."

Grif had tried to keep his eyes on the road straight ahead, but now he had to turn his head to stare at the Red Colonel. "You sure, Sarge? Wouldn't want to get you carsick," he said dryly.

Next to him, Sarge growled, "You want to drag this scene out? You're getting me all misty-eyed here, Grif, you wanting to spend time with your favorite Sergeant."

"You're not even a Sergeant anymore! You're a fucking Colonel, for whatever reason!"

"Damn right I am! That means you better step the gas before you turn this tense uncomfortable situation into a long-drawn-out tense uncomfortable situation that I will have to put an end to – which, inevitably, means your end."

Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, Grif could not help but ask, "Why the fuck did you even agree to go on this mission? I'd expected you to follow the Blues into a gunfight instead of choosing a lame road trip." Amazing as it was, Sarge had sometimes left them behind to go on missions with the Blues instead. Grif had almost been unable to comprehend it at first, but if Sarge could put away his distaste for the Blues in his hunger for a firefight, Grif would be the last person to stop him.

"Don't you think I am happy with this outcome, dirtbag. One hormone-driven perverted Blue who uses dancing moves as warm-up – that I can handle. Beat. Maybe even slightly outshine by one last shotgun-shell to the head to add to my kill count. But the perverted Blue, a mentally traumatized Blue, a rather trigger-happy Agent Washington and, what we fear but shall never say out loud in respect for our remaining healthy organs, an unstable Agent Carolina running on the exquisite yet dangerously delicate cocktail of grief and the need for revenge? I'd choose you every day."

Grif frowned, unsure of what he had just been told. "Uh… Thanks?"

"That wasn't a compliment."

Grif could live with that and did not complain. But that meant the uncomfortable silence fell over them again, with only Sarge's growls to destroy it time to time whenever he thought of something that caused him annoyance (Grif would put money on this subject being either himself or the Blues).

Finally, he could not take it any longer and reached out his arm to turn on the radio. The warthog's theme song immediately drowned out their thoughts.

"Turn that junk off," Sarge barked, staring daggers at the radio.

Grif did what he was told, but left his hand hovering above the panel. "So we are preferring the awkward silence now?"

"Won't be any silence when you are screaming like a pig. You think that hand will stop me from blasting the radio?"

When Sarge raised his shotgun to aim at the radio, Grif had to retract his hand. He did need that limb to drive, after all. And shoot. And eat. And… stuff. Having hands was important.

But it did not make the silence any more bearable.

Grif tried to focus on their surroundings (oh look, another stupid tree! Oh look, a rock!) and, of course, the road so he could keep his promise to Simmons and not drive into a ditch. In the end, it was Sarge who had enough. Letting out a growl, he suddenly turned the radio back on, letting the music warn their surroundings of their presence.

Leaning back in his seat, Grif could not help but smile smugly at this small victory.

Sarge cocked his shotgun. "Don't think I can't see that stupid grin on your face, dirtbag."

"I'm wearing a helmet for fuck's sake!"

"Oh for the love of-" Several boxes fell from the shelf Simmons had been trying to reach which resulted in them landing on his head. Winching, Simmons called out, "Donut, this isn't working!"

Leaving the desk to see the problem for himself, Donut entered the storage room. With his hands on his hips, he eyed Simmons who was angrily brushing dust off himself. "Well, you certainly don't look happy."

"You put the shotguns next to the .22 calibers bullets! That makes zero sense!" Simmons shrieked and grabbed his helmet in frustration. He was used to being the only one able to see the strategy in organizing, but this was a whole new level of obliviousness from his teammate. "What is your practical theory in all of this?! Am I just supposed to remember this specific model comes in a red box?!"

"Silly Simmons, that's not red – that's currant," Donut said forbearingly, gesturing towards the box that Simmons was pointing at.

Simmons stared at the box, breathed in deeply, and then turned to his teammate again. "Donut, this is not functional!" He paused and wondered if it was necessary to bring Kimball into this. He would rather not, as he would like to at least pretend to have the armory under control. "What do you want to do when a customer arrives? Ask them which color suits them?"

"Judging from the lack of burgundy and olive colors, I say no one here has caught up on the latest fashion trend. It wouldn't hurt to give them some tips."

"That probably won't save them should they be attacked."

Donut seemed pretty happy with Simmons' (ironic) suggestion and said, "But they would blind the enemy with their extravagant style."

Simmons had already opened his mouth to disagree (because there was certainly a need for disagreement) when someone cleared their throat behind them. They both turned around to see a customer eyeing the service bell before realizing he had been noticed.

"Donut, can you handle that while I fix this mess?" Simmons asked, gesturing towards the fallen boxes. At least none of the rockets had exploded.

Donut nodded and eyed the customer carefully with a tilted head and a hand on his hip. Finally he came to the conclusion: "Plum and white."

"That's not what I meant!" Simmons shrieked, not even the slightest impressed by Donut's ability to give fashion tips to a person who was already covered by full body armor.

"Don't worry, Simmons," Donut reassured him before heading towards the desk. "I'll never leave any customer unsatisfied."

"This is going to be a long day," Simmons sighed as he began to clean up the mess.

That may have been the truest words ever spoken.

The jeep came to a stop with a strange gurgling noise that made Grif freeze in his seat. "Huh, that's weird," he mumbled, eying the steering wheel as if it was disrespecting him behind his back.

"Finally." Sarge jumped out of the jeep, clearly unaware that the stop was not completely unintentional. They had, after all, reached their destination, even though Grif would probably have preferred to drive the last final meters to shorten their distance to the shelter. He had driven the jeep down into the canyon where the pirates had hidden their compound. It was not really that impressive. The compound was indeed a quickly put-together shelter that brought up bad memories of Crash Site Bravo. "I was beginning to think you had fallen asleep behind the wheel. And that really wouldn't be a surprise after the Mongoose accident."

"Hey, you had kept me awake all night with those 'surprise' nighttime training courses. Which really stopped being a surprise after the first twelve times you woke me up. In one night!"

"Oh, quit your whining. You would have gotten the rest of the night off, had you actually finished a course."

Grif flipped him the finger the moment Sarge had his back turned on him. "You try completing hurdles in the middle of the night! Here's a tip – you can't see shit when it's fucking dark!"

"You did not even complete the course in daytime, numbnuts," Sarge reminded him flatly.

"Oh… Right."

With a final huff, Sarge armed himself with his shotgun and marched straight into the metal shack.

After being stuck with Sarge for hours, Grif took the opportunity to just lean back in his seat and exhale deeply. Well, Sarge had not shot him so far. The mission was going without a hitch. Well, the jeep had acted a bit weird just before, but it was probably just old. It had belonged to the Rebels, after all. Their stuff was pretty much just old salvage they had made usable again.

A bird shrieked somewhere and Grif could not help but flinch. The canyon had been strangely quiet so far – nothing like how Blood Gulch had been. The shelter was pretty much the only object that stood out from the nature, though Grif could spot numerous wheel tracks in the dirt. Actually, now when he focused on the signs of a battle, he could see bullet marks on the shelter's wall and on nearby rocks that had probably been used as cover.

Grif tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Kimball had said the Blue Team had chased the pirates away from here. From the looks of it, they had been in quite the hurry when they fled – and that was not a surprise, knowing they had been attacked by two Freelancers and two… somewhat good Captains.

Still, Grif could not help but tense up despite Kimball's reassurances. Perhaps it was just the quiet. He was not really used to that, after spending so many years with the Reds and Blues.

Unable to shrug the feeling off, Grif called out, "Hey, Sarge? Do you ever have the feeling that something isn't right?"

"Yes," came Sarge's voice from inside the shelter. "Right now, actually."

"Really?" Grif said, somewhat hopeful now when it looked like Simmons' anxiety was not contagious.

"Yes. It is not right that a Colonel should be doing all the heavy work while a dirtbag like you is lazying about. It's so wrong it gives you the creeps. Get in here and start lifting!"

Grif sighed but decided he could just as well get it over with. The sooner they had placed the crates in the back of the jeep, the sooner they could get the fuck out of here. "Alright, I'm coming, I'm coming!"

He jumped out of jeep and started dragging his feet towards the shelter. As much as this placed creeped him out, manual labor was never something to be happy about.

Grif heard a rustle somewhere to the left. He froze, turned his head to look and -

He was on the ground, lying on his back. For a brief second he thought about how blue the sky was – then he shook that foolish thought away and then wondered what the hell he was doing down here. He did not remember tripping. Tripping would require running. He was pretty sure he had not been doing that.

Right. They were at the enemy compound. That was why he was outside. Right.

A sharp jab of agony blossomed from his stomach and spread like lightning through his body. Letting out a gasp of pain, Grif tried to curl up his legs in order to protect his torso from any more blows but his body settled with a weird frantic jolt before going limp. He figured it had to be Sarge punishing him for falling over like a clumsy drunkard (seriously, how had he ended up on the ground again?) but his eyes were still shut tight 'cause Jesus fucking Christ it hurt. Sarge really put some effort into this kick, geez.

Grif had opened his mouth to tell Sarge to knock it off when someone placed a foot on his helmet and then moved the limb so his head was forced into a position where he was looking straight upwards. Grif opened his eyes. No blue sky this time. Just the dark helmet with red trims and menacing gray visor that belonged to one of the pirates.

Oh. Fucking. Shit.

The pirate chuckled as Grif tried to reach for his rifle that he could not get his fucking eyes on. He realized he had to defend himself but his brain was still currently processing the task of getting himself off the ground which really wasn't going that well. Grif's fingers dug into the dirt as he searched for his weapon, but before he could even catch a sight of it, the pirate kicked him again, aiming for the helmet this time.

Grif's head was painfully forced in the other direction, the right side of his helmet slamming against the ground. For a short blissful moment, Grif's brain only registered the newly made crack in his visor that stretched out from the left corner like a cobweb. Then came the pain, like a tank had just crushed his head. And Grif was kinda an expert when it came to things like that.

"Fucking sim trooper," the pirate growled somewhere above him. Right, the enemy was still there. He should acknowledge that to come up with a plan or something. But Grif's brain seemed unable to go from 'holy fucking crap' to an actual practical response to the problem and he just lay on the ground, dry lips refusing to let any words out. He should probably try to kick the dickhead, as weak as the attack would be, just to go down fighting. A little taste of his own medicine. Something. Instead of just playing dead like an idiot. "You think you can just roll in here, you cocky asshole, and steal our payment? 'cause it's you who's gonna pay now."

A shadow pressed against the crack in his visor and it took a second before Grif realized it was the barrel of a gun. Well, shit.

Grif really tried to come up with a smart remark, 'cause damnit all, he was going to die like he lived – he could at least have that honor. But his tongue felt weirdly swollen, unable to form the words his brain was still trying to come up with.

Then the gunshot sounded, and Grif was winching for fully five seconds before he realized it had not been the pirate who had fired a weapon. That should be pretty obvious since, you know, Grif was still alive.

Grif blinked and managed to turn his head to the left, ignoring how his neck ached at the movement. The pirate was on the ground next to him, helmet blown into a mess, and then Grif saw red when Sarge's boots appeared in front of the body.

"Ya think ya have the time to nap, dirtbag? Get up here before I snap out of it and finish the job myself. Adding a menacing yet well-timed one-liner, of course, to capture the moment."

"Give a man a break, Sarge," Grif managed to croak. Even though this time – and wasn't that just fucking terrifying – he was pretty content with following orders. Getting up was in fact better than being dead.

Not that it made the task any easier.

Taking in a deep breath, he tried to gather up the strength to move his stiff muscles. He was trying to push himself off the ground when he realized his right arm was cradling his torso.

When he lifted it in order to use the limb, he noticed how his hand was shaking.

Then he saw noticed how red the palm was. He probably should have seen that first. Should have been a bit more obvious.

"Holy fucking shit."

A/N: First of all, fun fact time (for Simmons' sake!): According to the "Red vs. Blue Ultimate Fan Guide" Jensen did, in fact, win the 17'th season of Chorus Idol. Not that I ever doubted her. Also, the color burgundy is, I quote from the internet where I had to look it up: "a shade of pinkish brown". I laughed – the correct term should be 'light-ish red-ish brown'. And finally, the VDO 1x85mm screwdriver is completely made up. I apologize if I have offended any screwdriver specialist. I do, however, imagine the VDO 1x85mm screwdriver to be very shiny and valuable.

I trust you all to know the meaning of Hola and Sí. I wish I had a reason to excuse my Spanish but I don't. Studied for three years. It was my main class. I got top grades. Still, I apologize beforehand to any Spanish-speaking readers for the many mistakes.

I have been so excited to get this chapter out. This was originally meant to be a long one-shot focusing on Grif and Sarge, but then the longness turned out longer than expected, I added humor to the angst (that will come) because my brain was haunted by Donut's lines, and thus I decided to let all the Reds shine. I have big plan for Lopez. In fact, I have big plans for all of them. I hope you stick around to see what happens.

Due to my other stories and life in university, I'm afraid updates might be a bit slow. I'll do my best.

Also, holy crap, a super-giant heartfelt forever-grateful shout-out to NJ7009 who has been my wonderful beta. She has survived all the typos and grammar mistakes a non-native English speaker can make, plus coming up with wonderful suggestions that with no doubt has make this story a delight to read. I'll make it up to you, NJ. I can buy pudding. I owe you some serious hugs when we meet.

Red Team Feels!