Eternal Summer – Ch. 2

Title: Eternal Summer
Chapter: 2 – In a Cloud of Smoke
Rating: PG
Pairing: None Yet (Eventual Grif x Simmons)
Warnings: Swearing

Summary: Simmons isn’t the only one who’s not completely human.

Author’s Notes: I took so long due to my new Laptop, Bumblebee, finaly getting here. The process of settling in and getting him on the netweork proved to be one hell of a challenge. All the while my notebook with the rough draft sat next to my bed (My “Zen place” involves sitting cross legged on my bed. Something I just can’t do with the PC, so I hand-wrote these first two chapters’ drafts. Things will go faster now with Bumblebee around to make it so I can type strait into the computer wherever I feel like writing.)

And, in response to the hopes of someone kind enough to commment (something I really need to start doingg more of on the stories I read…) There will be violence. I accctually have a few plot points in mind that kinda… hinge on moments of violence.

*giggles* the scene at the end of this chapter really makes me wish I knew how to draw people properly.

“Recon blows, Simmons.” Dexter Grif was panting heavily as he fought to follow the maroon armor ahead of him. He was strong, but in the lift-move-push sort of way, not the scramble-drag-climb-a-rock-wall-with-his-bare-hands-in-rigid-armor kind of way. “Tell me again why we can’t just make up a load of crap to make Sarge happy?

“As you put it: Sometimes the tank actually kills someone. If we try we might be able to learn a way to keep it from happening again.” A golden visor caught the sun as Simmons looked over his shoulder to speak. Grif had no idea how he could scale solid rock so easily, but his best guess involved cheating with Cyborg-magic all while using Gif’s own brand of ‘magic’ could mean court martial and probable death. Life just wasn’t fair sometimes. Simmons continued to drive the pair along, climbing from ledge to ledge and cliff to cliff in an attempt to find a position suitable for covert spying on the Blues.

Disaster never waited for an opportune moment for anyone but itself, choosing a moment when Simmons was directly above Grif before a section of the ledge collapsed to send the maroon-armored soldier sliding down the cliff-face in a shower of rocks directly into the other man. The chink of rock off armor, and the clash of Spartan against Spartan rent the air. The blow was solid, but even with the size difference and the amount of metal used to turn him into a Cyborg, the impact didn’t manage to knock Grif completely from the stones. Instead the pair continued to slid, Gift watching other mother man around the chest with one arm without conscious thought. Coincidence alone had run Simmons into the arm he had given up to save Grif’s life. It left the unaltered arm free to save them both from a fall that would leave them little more than obvious piles of damaged enemy no more than 20 meter’s from the foot of the Blue Base. A sound like steel on stone joined the cacophony of falling rocks, while the pair ground slowly to a halt.

Dick Simmons was not a particularly religious man, preferring to leave the serious praying to serious church-goers in all but the most serious situations. This was just on of the those moments where a man couldn’t help but accept the fact that some higher power (apparently one with a warped sense of humor) had to exist. Hanging from the arm of a teammate who was somehow clinging in turn to the sheer face of a cliff where forearms and lefts from knee to ankle touched it just did that to a guy.

“How the fuck?!” The question carried an undertone of exclamation as he uttered the words, not daring to twist enough to get a good view of exactly how Grif (the laziest man in Blood Gulch) had managed this miracle.

“Ask me when we’re not about to die.” Grif snarled the words, his growl almost eating the coherency of the sentence. You’re either gonna hold on yourself or fall.” As quickly as Simmons managed a hold where he was relatively secure he was scaling the wall, moving one limb at a time. His arms displayed pale mitotic spikes at wrist and elbow, whole legs possessed the same at knee and ankle. The climb was slow but effective, letting them reach a ledge that would provide some semblance of cover.

“You’re a K’sar…” Simmons managed the words once they were settled behind the rocks that provided a wall of cover for the pair. He was trying desperately to match Grif to the horror stories he’d been told his entire life.

“Kaelsar is the species. K’sar is the language.” Grif settled back against the protective wall, facing the cliff that had betrayed them while reaching to remove his helmet. For the first time Simmons noticed the silver-shot undertones of the hazel eyes.

“I thought Kaelsar were supposed to be dangerous.”

“You say that like you don’t think I’d ‘accidentally’ kill you if I thought Sarge would let me get away with it.”

“How in the hell did you become a Spartan?” Dick Simmons knew he should report this. Eliminate the monster with Spartan training that was removing gloves and bracers. But how did you do that when his being what he was was the only reason he’d even managed to save you?

“I was drafted.” He tossed the bracers and gauntlets into a pile next to his discarded helmet. He decided that he would just ignore Simmons and try and unwind. Nothing like almost falling to your death to stress a guy out. He leaned back and sank down to ensure that if the Blues did glance up this way they wouldn’t see his armorless head. He forced aside the instincts that screamed in his mind for him to take measures to ensure that Simmons wouldn’t attempt to kill him, the way humans usually did when they worked out the person they’d known wasn’t actually another human. Instead he drew the pack of cigarettes from their compartment in his armor. Once he’d lit one he tossed the pack aside and closed his eyes. He was just going to sit and enjoy the meditative properties of nicotine until Simmons manned up and did it.

Simmons could only stare. Grif was not acting the way every article, book, or news report he’d ever seen claimed he should. According to the media Grif should have torn him into little ribbons and drank his blood, not started smoking. His head ached while he tried to make sense of the situation. Some things were just too much to handle all at once.

Grif finally heard Simmons start to shift and stilled the still snarling instincts that demanded he fight to survive. Then the other started to move and Grif could feel the shadow of the kiss-ass cross over his face as he moved closer. Just as quickly as the shadow had closed in the sun returned to dye the insides of his eyelids red. Another second and there was an unmistakable snap and the sound of flame. He opened his eyes in time to see Simmons exhale a cloud of smoke

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