Red vs. Blue, on the road
Oh my gods what have I done. I'm going to regret this so fucking much.
Warnings: Swearing, general assholishness.
It was going to be a long drive to Freelancer HQ, although, if Wash were being honest, it could be a five-minute drive and it would still feel like an eternity with these clowns. Seating arrangements were therefore of paramount importance, and Washington had finally decided on keeping the married couple in the jeep with him while Church, Caboose, and the Red sergeant took the tank.
"Quit kicking the back of my seat! Ow! You shithead, that hurts!"
"It's not my fault if someone calls shotgun every. fucking. time. And then pushes the seat so far back it breaks my goddamn knees."
"Look, I can't help being better than you in every possible - OUCH! Fucker, I think that was my kidney!"
Of course, final seating arrangements didn't need to be final. If Wash slammed on the brakes hard enough at the right spot, he could change Grif and Simmons's seating to a place just in front of the jeep, where he could run them over at his leisure. Then let the tank run over them. The Red sergeant would probably enjoy that, judging by previously observed behavior.
"This is religious persecution," Grif said.
"How can it be religious persecution?" Simmons asked. "I don't even know your religion, dumbass."
"Yes you do! I'm Muslim! I told you that the first day we got assigned to that fucking canyon, when we did those stupid get-to-know-each-other exercises."
There was a long, flat pause before Simmons said, "You're not Muslim."
"I am too! You can't just say I'm not, it's not up to you."
"Okay, asshole, if you're Muslim, how come I never see you praying?"
"I didn't say I was a good Muslim," said Grif. "Besides, how the fuck am I supposed to know where Mecca is from here? Do I just pray in the general direction of the fucking sky and hope?"
"You don't even know which way Earth is from here?" Simmons said.
"So? It's not like you do."
"Sure I do, it's - uh - that way."
"You just picked a random direction! That doesn't fucking count!"
Washington hit the brakes, unfortunately not hard enough to send Grif and Simmons flying. He reached for his battle rifle and leaned out the window to look for the flash of movement he'd caught from the corner of his eye.
"What the hell was that for?" Grif said, and then his voice went up a notch. "Did you see something? Was it the Meta? Was it bats? Simmons, gimme a grenade!"
"There is no way I'm giving you explosives," Simmons said.
"That's racist!"
"I'm not racist! I've never wanted to give you weapons."
"Because I'm Muslim!"
"Because you're a lazy asshole who would just sell them to the Blues."
"Racist!"
"I'm telling you, I'm not -"
"Private Simmons, stop making excuses and give Private Grif a grenade," said Washington.
"Oh shit it's bats," Grif said. "Give me all the grenades, I'm blowing those fuckers to hell!"
Washington sighed, took aim, and fired. Bits of armor exploded from a bush and clattered to the ground.
"Christ, what was that for?" Simmons yelled.
"Someone followed us from Valhalla," Washington said. "We can't have that. Private Grif, throw the grenades at the trees over there."
"Is that where the bats are?"
"Just do it."
Grif threw, and Washington hit the gas and swerved away before the grenades could go off right beside them. The radio exploded with shouting from the tank crew, but Wash was already used to ignoring Church and Caboose.
"Third worst throw of all time," Simmons said. "Ever."
"Wait, what? Which one was the second worst?"
"I'm saving that in case there's a worse one later. But seriously, good fucking job almost blowing us up, you fucking terrorist."
"HEY!"
"It doesn't matter," Washington said, turning the radio off. "I just wanted the explosion to confuse the trail a little. No more slurs, got it? Also, Grif."
"What?" Grif said, pausing in the midst of trying to move his seat back further.
"There's an app for that."
"Huh?"
"There's a program in your helmet that can calculate the position of Earth in the sky relative to your current location," said Washington. "Surprisingly, about half the time it's actually east of most bases. The program can also provide approximate times for fasting during Ramadan, since the sun doesn't actually rise or set here, and tracks the moon's cycle to estimate the beginning of Eid. Very handy little thing, I've found."
"Holy shit," Grif said. "Seriously? That is so sweet! Thanks, Washington!"
"Just stop embarrassing the faith, okay," Wash said, not that he had any genuine hopes of that.
"Guess I'll have to figure out how to set the clock in here, though... I'll kinda miss the blinking. Wait, no, I won't."
Simmons said, "I thought you didn't care about the praying."
"Oh, I don't. But that's five times a day I can take a break!"
"You mean besides all the other times that you take a break? Which is all the time."
"But Sarge can't yell at me for these breaks! If he does I can sue him for religious discrimination! Oh man, this is gonna be fuckin' great."
"I can't believe you're actually Muslim," Simmons muttered.
"Well," said Grif, "I can't believe that you keep coming up with new ways to kiss Sarge's ass, but you always manage to surprise m- ow! Stop kicking my fucking seat! Agent Washington, make him stop kicking my seat!"
"Who's a kiss-ass now? Hey, Washington, why'd you stop again?"
"If I listen to any more of your flirting," Washington said, "I'm going to shoot you both in the face. Go get in the tank and send Church up here."
As they were walking back, Washington heard Simmons say, "If you're Muslim, why were you drinking bacon grease that one time?"
"It doesn't count if it's your organs."
"I'm pretty sure that would still count."
When Church hopped in, he saw Washington slumped over the steering wheel, banging his helmet softly against it, and said, "Yeah - you're gonna need another coping mechanism. Shouting at Caboose really works for me!"
Inshallah, Wash thought, I will get to kill all of them at the end of this mission.
Red vs. Blue and characters © Rooster Teeth, Halo & etc. © Bungie/Microsoft, only I am responsible for my abominable creations.
Warnings: Swearing, general assholishness.
It was going to be a long drive to Freelancer HQ, although, if Wash were being honest, it could be a five-minute drive and it would still feel like an eternity with these clowns. Seating arrangements were therefore of paramount importance, and Washington had finally decided on keeping the married couple in the jeep with him while Church, Caboose, and the Red sergeant took the tank.
"Quit kicking the back of my seat! Ow! You shithead, that hurts!"
"It's not my fault if someone calls shotgun every. fucking. time. And then pushes the seat so far back it breaks my goddamn knees."
"Look, I can't help being better than you in every possible - OUCH! Fucker, I think that was my kidney!"
Of course, final seating arrangements didn't need to be final. If Wash slammed on the brakes hard enough at the right spot, he could change Grif and Simmons's seating to a place just in front of the jeep, where he could run them over at his leisure. Then let the tank run over them. The Red sergeant would probably enjoy that, judging by previously observed behavior.
"This is religious persecution," Grif said.
"How can it be religious persecution?" Simmons asked. "I don't even know your religion, dumbass."
"Yes you do! I'm Muslim! I told you that the first day we got assigned to that fucking canyon, when we did those stupid get-to-know-each-other exercises."
There was a long, flat pause before Simmons said, "You're not Muslim."
"I am too! You can't just say I'm not, it's not up to you."
"Okay, asshole, if you're Muslim, how come I never see you praying?"
"I didn't say I was a good Muslim," said Grif. "Besides, how the fuck am I supposed to know where Mecca is from here? Do I just pray in the general direction of the fucking sky and hope?"
"You don't even know which way Earth is from here?" Simmons said.
"So? It's not like you do."
"Sure I do, it's - uh - that way."
"You just picked a random direction! That doesn't fucking count!"
Washington hit the brakes, unfortunately not hard enough to send Grif and Simmons flying. He reached for his battle rifle and leaned out the window to look for the flash of movement he'd caught from the corner of his eye.
"What the hell was that for?" Grif said, and then his voice went up a notch. "Did you see something? Was it the Meta? Was it bats? Simmons, gimme a grenade!"
"There is no way I'm giving you explosives," Simmons said.
"That's racist!"
"I'm not racist! I've never wanted to give you weapons."
"Because I'm Muslim!"
"Because you're a lazy asshole who would just sell them to the Blues."
"Racist!"
"I'm telling you, I'm not -"
"Private Simmons, stop making excuses and give Private Grif a grenade," said Washington.
"Oh shit it's bats," Grif said. "Give me all the grenades, I'm blowing those fuckers to hell!"
Washington sighed, took aim, and fired. Bits of armor exploded from a bush and clattered to the ground.
"Christ, what was that for?" Simmons yelled.
"Someone followed us from Valhalla," Washington said. "We can't have that. Private Grif, throw the grenades at the trees over there."
"Is that where the bats are?"
"Just do it."
Grif threw, and Washington hit the gas and swerved away before the grenades could go off right beside them. The radio exploded with shouting from the tank crew, but Wash was already used to ignoring Church and Caboose.
"Third worst throw of all time," Simmons said. "Ever."
"Wait, what? Which one was the second worst?"
"I'm saving that in case there's a worse one later. But seriously, good fucking job almost blowing us up, you fucking terrorist."
"HEY!"
"It doesn't matter," Washington said, turning the radio off. "I just wanted the explosion to confuse the trail a little. No more slurs, got it? Also, Grif."
"What?" Grif said, pausing in the midst of trying to move his seat back further.
"There's an app for that."
"Huh?"
"There's a program in your helmet that can calculate the position of Earth in the sky relative to your current location," said Washington. "Surprisingly, about half the time it's actually east of most bases. The program can also provide approximate times for fasting during Ramadan, since the sun doesn't actually rise or set here, and tracks the moon's cycle to estimate the beginning of Eid. Very handy little thing, I've found."
"Holy shit," Grif said. "Seriously? That is so sweet! Thanks, Washington!"
"Just stop embarrassing the faith, okay," Wash said, not that he had any genuine hopes of that.
"Guess I'll have to figure out how to set the clock in here, though... I'll kinda miss the blinking. Wait, no, I won't."
Simmons said, "I thought you didn't care about the praying."
"Oh, I don't. But that's five times a day I can take a break!"
"You mean besides all the other times that you take a break? Which is all the time."
"But Sarge can't yell at me for these breaks! If he does I can sue him for religious discrimination! Oh man, this is gonna be fuckin' great."
"I can't believe you're actually Muslim," Simmons muttered.
"Well," said Grif, "I can't believe that you keep coming up with new ways to kiss Sarge's ass, but you always manage to surprise m- ow! Stop kicking my fucking seat! Agent Washington, make him stop kicking my seat!"
"Who's a kiss-ass now? Hey, Washington, why'd you stop again?"
"If I listen to any more of your flirting," Washington said, "I'm going to shoot you both in the face. Go get in the tank and send Church up here."
As they were walking back, Washington heard Simmons say, "If you're Muslim, why were you drinking bacon grease that one time?"
"It doesn't count if it's your organs."
"I'm pretty sure that would still count."
When Church hopped in, he saw Washington slumped over the steering wheel, banging his helmet softly against it, and said, "Yeah - you're gonna need another coping mechanism. Shouting at Caboose really works for me!"
Inshallah, Wash thought, I will get to kill all of them at the end of this mission.
Red vs. Blue and characters © Rooster Teeth, Halo & etc. © Bungie/Microsoft, only I am responsible for my abominable creations.