Eternal Summer – Ch. 3

Title: Eternal Summer
Chapter: 3 – Instincts Rising
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: The story is finaly picking up, and I’ve got a solid outline worked out up to 6 chapters (though I don’t know exactly how many it will come out to). So, um… Yay for plot, I guess? Thanks to all thsoe who’ve commented so far (katyclanton, tttroy, hiroshine). You’ve all really made me feel loved and given me alot of incentive to work to get things done.

Smoking with Simmons on the face of a cliff within battle rifle range of Blue Base was not something that Grif had ever expected to be doing. It was something new that could be added to the long list of things he never believed he’d be doing. This list included such things as ‘wear MJOLNIR’ and ‘not stab his commanding officer to death’, a list that seemed to grow every day he was in Blood Gulch. Today was an unusually productive day for “The List”, it having already gained ‘not let Simmons fall to his death’ and ‘smoke with Simmons’ in the course of the last 10 minuets. Instead of talking and ruining the moment, he just enjoyed it. No one had taken a smoke-break with him since before he’d gone into boot.

He managed to contain his curiosity for about 10 minuets before his resolve broke. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I didn’t know you were an Alien.”

“Kaelsar are genetically engineered. We’re more like a human sub-speci-” Grif’s explanation was cut off by Simmons.

“I know what Kaelsar are. I was in boot when Gawain Harper’s tried to commander a planet.” There was no effort to contain the anger in his voice, and Simmons continued his rant. “I didn’t hear about anything but Kaelsar for the last 3 weeks I was in training.”

“Pulled it off, too. The Covenant Armada rolled in. By the time Master Chief had that cleaned up we actually owned the planet on a technicality. Harper timed everything right so that the Kael Settlers met the time requirements to classify as colonists before they had time to deal with it.” Grif opted to ignore the anger in Simmons’ voice, choosing instead to enjoy the only major victory his species had one in it’s short existence.

“Whoever created you idiots should be shot.” Simmons sighed the words as he stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking. Clearly he didn’t properly appreciate nicotine.

“Government doesn’t talk about it much… But during the Kaelsar Revolt most of those responsible were killed. They also cover up the fact that we were supposed to replace the Spartans.” Grif shrugged, enjoying actually talking about something so central to his life. Something that he hadn’t gotten to talk about in years. “I think they don’t like to talk about the fact that they created something that could take Master Chief down and forgot to make sure they could control it.”

Simmons was incredulous. “You couldn’t take Master Chief.”

“Never said I could. But I’m…” He had to think about it. “I’m 3 generations removed from the originals, and not completely Kaelsar.”

“How can you not be entirely Kaelsar?”

“You claim to be Dutch-Irish. It’s the same thing.” Then it clicked. “Oh… My Grandfather was human.”

“Humans can reproduce with Kaelsar.” Simmons stated that with absolute certainty. “Everything I’ve seen says you can’t.”

“According to your articles wasn’t I supposed to throw you off the cliff?”


It was a good 3 hours before they managed to reach the bottom of the cliff without either being sighted by the Blues or falling again. “So, what’s your plan for Sarge? Aren’t be supposed to stay out here until we learned something?”
“We have learned something.” Simmons scanned the landscape, ignoring the nonchalant way Grif didn’t worry about either cover or keeping a lookout. He always brushed the overconfidence off as stupidity… But could Kaelsar survive bullets? It wasn’t like any of the Blues were particularly good shots.

“You can’t tell him what I am.”

“I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about the fact that their isn’t an effective way to get close enough to collect any useful information. Technically, that’s something.”


“You maggots mean to say that all you learned was their’s no way t’ spy without being seen?” Sarge didn’t sound particularly impressed.

“I’m sorry sir,” Grif rolled his eyes as he listened to Simmons shift into kiss-ass mode. “We both nearly died.”

“Y’ didn’t try hard enough, if Grif’s still here.” Their red-armored commanding officer stalked around in front of the Warthog like the big cat Grif though it would be better named after. “Fine. If that’s all you two lily-livered nincompoops can come up with, it’ll have to be enough.” Grif wondered if his eyes would get stuck in the back of his head with all the rolling they were doing today, turning to return to the top of the base, where he and Simmons were supposed to relive Donut of watch duty. Never mind that they had nearly died. Granted, the fall was a lot shorter in Simmons‘ report than in reality… Which was probably for the best.

Grif couldn’t help but notice how boring guard duty was. And it was warm. And Simmons was a big Kiss-ass, responding over the radio to irritating comments Sarge kept making. At least things weren’t in ‘lynch-Grif’ mode. Sarge didn’t need a legitimate reason to shoot him in the eye. Grif was pretty sure that the only thing restraining his commander from actually killing him was explaining it to Red Command. All of the adrenaline currently coursing through his system was not good for him keeping control of his aggressive side. Between actually getting to use the live-steel in his body, and the almost dying something deep inside wanted blood and the hunt. It was why he’d gone out of his way to avoid excitement and activity since he’d come to Blood Gulch. He was just trying to ride-out his draft and survive the army without accidentally outing his entire family.

Grif lowered the sniper rifle, ignoring the interplay between Sarge and Simmons in favor of pacing the top of the base like a caged tiger. He wanted something to happen, something that he could mulch into a little pile of red fleshy bits and pieces. He didn’t notice he was growling under his breath.

Simmons, on the other hand, did. The radio fell silent as Sarge settled into some project on the Warthog, and there it was. Growling behind him, moving with Grif. It only took a few seconds for him to realize that it actually was Grif. He watched the orange and black figure move, not sure how to interpret the noise. When it continued to increase in volume, he figured he’d better say something. “Grif, you’re growling.” The noise stopped abruptly, and the gold visor of the helmet whipped around to face him. No words came from the other man as he started to stalk towards him.

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