Title: Eternal Summer
Chapter: 1 – Like No Other Spartan
Rating: Chapter G (Unknown where the rating will go as the story gets written)
Pairing: None Yet (Eventual Grif x Simmons)
Summary: Simmons isn’t the only one who’s not completely human.
Author’s Notes: At this point, I’m still trying to pound the characters into the storyline that’s been rolling around in my head. Keep in mind that I claim no originality. Most of my overriding concepts are just bits and pieces of everything else that have been reconstituted to resemble something original.
EDIT: Now with IMPROVED BETA ACTION as a result of the glorious kindness of miss_poppet.
Too many people believed that an eternal summer would be a wonderful thing, but none of those people had ever been to Blood Gulch. Dexter Grif figured that Blood Gulch came about as close to hell as any other place in the universe.
“Grif!” The voice was accompanied by a flash of pink. Proof that this is hell flitted through his mind unchecked as he raised a hand to his mouth and pulled a long drag off the cigarette he held.
“What the fuck do you want, Donut?” Irritation riddled his voice while the words came out in a puff of smoke. “I am not on duty. Would I be standing behind the base not wearing my armor if I was?”
“Sarge says he doesn’t care if you’re supposed to be off today. He says that you should ‘stop polluting Simmons’ lungs and put your armor on! There’s work to do’” Donut’s attempt to mimic the commanding officer’s voice fell well short of being as much as an acceptable impression. “He wants you to sort the drop he and Simmons brought back. Sarge needs to work on Simmons, and I’m supposed to keep watch.”
Within an hour, despite all his best efforts, Dexter Grif found himself stuffed into a suit of orange MJOLNIR armor. His kind wasn’t even supposed to be able to become a Spartan. Granted, they also weren’t supposed to be allowed on earth; and seeing as his entire family had been born there, it wasn’t hard to see how well that sort of rule didn’t work on this species. He glared at each package individually as he lugged it past the open door of the workroom where Sarge was disassembling Simmons’ cybernetic arm in search of some tiny malfunction. He reserved extra special glares for the sergeant and his shoddy, malfunctioning cockbite of a cyborg.
It was easily four hours of lifting, carrying, sorting and putting away before Sarge’s announced that the repairs on Simmons had been successful. Gift brushed the Cyborg’s malfunction off. It had been a miracle that Sarge has missed the inhuman aspects of his own body yet neither himself nor Simmons’ had been killed in the process of trading out a good portion of his left arm for spare Simmons-parts. It was no surprise there were issues with Simmons’ hardware. Granted, the man was probably too caught up in creating Simmons 2.0 to notice how much extra bone he must have had to remove from Grif’s arm, and how much denser the bone was than any normal humans. And now Grif was actually, by another independent miracle, growing back some of that extra bone. Sure it wasn’t as stately and solid as it should have been, but it was a start. Give it another year or so and no one would be able to tell they’d been damaged at all.
“All right, ladies. Fall in!” The southern drawl that barked the demand belonged to Sarge. Gift didn’t bother to straighten from where he’d slumped against the wall for a break. His refusal to fall in went ignored. “Simmons, I want you ‘n’ Grif to do some recon.”
“Why do we need to do recon? All that ever happens is the Blues watch us through a sniper rifle, while we catch them back. Occasionally, the fuckin’ tank tried to kill someone.” Grif couldn’t stop the monologue from spewing from his mouth. “Occasionally, the tank actually kills someone.”
“An’ fer that, yer stayin’ out there until you learn something.” Those ominous words didn’t concern Grif. Make some shit up and everything would be fine.