Shiny Things

“Okay,” Dexter Grif’s voice spoke into Trocadero’s cool night air as he and Richard “Dick” Simmons exited the mess hall, “I can safely say that the food on Chorus is way fucking better.”

Simmons couldn’t help but roll green eyes at the orange-armored mech pilot’s comment, “And yet you still ate five platefuls, fat-ass.” He reminded the chubby human.

Grif tsked at Simmons as if the redhead was a moron, “One has to be prepared to endure hardships, Simmons.” He stated pseudo-sagely.

“This is a small research colony with limited resources, jackass!  Of course their food isn’t going to be as varied as it is back on Chorus!” The Strassian shot back, blue-tinted freckles alighted with a reddish hue due to his annoyance.

“Even still…” Grif began, no doubt trailing off into a tangent from the quality of colony food to a philosophical query about the nature of all things that would probably have even brilliant minds shaking their heads in disbelief.  Unfortunately, Orange’s pilot had a gift that was wasted on his lazy nature.

But, Simmons was no longer paying attention to whatever it was that Grif was going to say next.  His brain wandered off, the sound of the human’s voice fading into the background like the sound of raindrops on a stormy day.

No matter how much he wanted to do so, Simmons couldn’t struggle.  He could barely move so much as a centimeter.  The redhead glanced around the cushioned room that had served as his prison for who knows how long.  A person’s back was currently facing him near the doorway, and Simmons’ eyes lingered on the all-too familiar figure.

The man was humming as he prepared the tray of food.

Simmons tried squirming on the pillows he was propped up with.  He was uncomfortable like always, but he especially didn’t like the feel of the cool air on his exposed chest due to the shirt that the man had already unbuttoned because Simmons was such a “sloppy eater.”

Still, every time Simmons attempted to move, a dizziness washed over him and he’d remain immobile.  Trapped in his own body.

The man was older, a fellow Strassian who had never bothered having the decency of even giving Simmons his name.  The unnamed man turned around and smiled at Simmons with a tray of soft foods, liquid, and soup ready to go.

Simmons grimaced inwardly at the sight of the tray, imagining that all of the food was laced with the tevkask fruit.  He was glad it wasn’t a shot this time, or the I.V. that the man had used when he had been gone for a few days.

“You’re coming along nicely, Simmons.” The man stated in that revoltingly conversational tone, as if he wasn’t holding Simmons here against his will due to his father’s wishes, “A few more weeks, and we can try.”

Simmons wanted to cry at the words, and he wanted to vomit at their meaning.  The urge to do both all at once was suddenly overwhelming, but again he couldn’t move.  Damn tevkask.

The man set the tray down on a table next to Simmons’ bedside, and patted Simmons’ rounded stomach as he often did before his touch came to linger uncomfortably on the younger Strassian’s shoulder.

“Now be a good boy and eat without complaint, all right?”

“…” Grif stared at Simmons, his long waxing poetic lazy rant all but forgotten.  Likewise, the redheaded Strassian seemed to be staring into space with a suddenly wide-eyed look on his face, as if he wasn’t standing right there with Grif.

Tentatively, the orange-wearing human reached over to put a hand on Simmons’ shoulder, “Hey, Simmons, you all right or…?” His question lingered, unsure of how he wanted to finish it.

Just as Grif’s fingertips were about to brush the fabric on Simmons’ shoulder, Maroon’s pilot suddenly recoiled as if the expectant touch would burn.  The reaction shocked both men, and Grif quickly lowered his hand.

It took a few more minutes for Simmons to collect himself, to know that he was on Trocadero and not back at that awful, terrible place.  When he looked over at Grif, he was taken aback by the sudden look of concern in the tanned human’s dark eyes.

“S—sorry.” Simmons finally managed to weakly get out, smiling hesitatingly though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “I keep…my mind keeps going somewhere else.”

“It’s no big deal.” Grif quickly told him, though a frown was still on his face, “That tends to happen when you work too hard and don’t get enough sleep.  Maybe you should take that as a sign to chill.”

Simmons snorted, “As—as if you’d know.”

“That’s why I always take things one step at a time, Simmons.”

Simmons sighed, “I guess.” He shakily agreed, nodding his red-haired head carefully as if the action would rattle his thoughts too much.

The two men continued on their way to their temporary shared room, trying to put the odd incident from both of their minds.  A little rest, and hopefully everything would be okay.

*****

“So, how are things going on Chorus?” Tex asked disinterestedly over her shoulder at the communication console on Black as she continued her routine maintenance on the mech.  Just a few more adjustments, and she’d head into the colony proper to reunite with the others.

Leonard Church snorted, “Oh, they’re fucking peachy.” He informed her with an exasperated edge to his voice, “I swear, everyone on this goddamned planet has way too much fucking time on their hands!  They want nothing more than to drag me into their bullshit.”

The blond-haired woman smirked at the Veroni’s tone, the slightly glowing black lines on her face becoming more prominent in the process as she turned to actually see Church through the console, “Oh, come on.  You know you love it.”

The cobalt-wearing man rolled blue eyes at her teasing, “Never mind that.” Church stated without preamble, “How long do you expect things to go on your end?”

Tex frowned in thought, wiping a grease-stained hand across her forehead, “I’m not sure.” She admitted after a few seconds of silence before turning back to her maintenance on Black, “Something about this place feels off even though this is a rather routine mission.  Besides Price’s involvement, that is.”

There was a slight pause on Church’s end of the conversation as he considered her admission just then, “I’d be fucking cautious around that guy still.” He advised at length, “You’ve always had good hunches, Tex.  You just never listen to them.”

Tex couldn’t help but smirk at him again as she glanced over her shoulder, “Like I need you to tell me that.” She teased.

“I know, I know.” He sighed before smirking conspiratorially back at her himself, “Just be sure to rely on your good old Texas instincts.”

“I will.” The blonde assured Church before she reached over and turned off the communication terminal, not bothering with a formal signing off.  That wasn’t her style.

Black was once again in pristine condition, so the former Freelancer headed back from the mechs towards the area of Trocadero where everyone from the Chorus traveling party was being placed for the night.

“…Good old Texas instincts, huh?” An oddly familiar voice suddenly mocked her from behind.

Tex spun around, fists clenched at her sides. The Veroni was shocked to see herself standing where the voice had come from.  This “Tex” was decked out in her full assortment of black armor, save for her helmet, just like she was.  It was very much akin to standing in front of a mirror.

“Now, which Texas do you think Church meant when he said that?” Tex’s replica asked, a smirk forming on her face.

*****

David Washington, Frank “Doc” DuFresne and Franklin Delano Donut arrived at the entrance to one of Trocadero’s Elvari ruins with very little trouble.

Washington supposed he could understand why that was.  After all, their investigation was happening later at night than he’d originally intended.  The few research colonists that they actually ran into were just about to call it a day and had been preparing for rest themselves.

If any of them thought it odd that two of the mech pilots and their resident medic weren’t doing the same, they chose not to comment on it and continued on with business as usual.  Sometimes other people’s laziness could be a godsend, not that he’d ever tell Grif that.

“Well, here we are!” Donut stated without preamble, gesturing widely at the huge, open doorway that stood before them, “And it’s all prepped and ready for us to go ahead!”

…Washington was seriously starting to miss Tucker.  He couldn’t help the fond smile that spread upon his lips at the thought of the teal-wearing, younger man who was no doubt just now finishing up his communication with his son back on Chorus.  Donut and Doc had a level of enthusiasm that bordered on jarring.  The Strassian found that he needed a buffer, for his own sanity’s sake.

“We should still be careful though, right?” Doc asked a second later, “There’s no telling what we’ll find in here.”

“Oh, Doc, we’ll be fine!” Donut hurried to reassure the brown-haired Elvari, “When it comes to looking in holes, I’m your man!”

…Washington was definitely missing Tucker at this point.  He could almost hear the half-Strassian’s “Bow-chicka-bow-wow!” in the background.

“Let’s just…get started, all right?” he said quickly before the conversation could continue.

“You’re the boss, Washington!” Donut happily replied, Doc nodding his head in agreement.

The three made their way inside the stone structure, the dim light from the lighting panels the colonists must have set up casting shadows along the walls.

“Oh, nice atmosphere!” Donut intoned from behind Washington, “Though some added décor would be nice.”

It was true.  The hallways were quite sparse save for the few pieces of research equipment that had been left behind by the colonists.  While the whole area had an air around it that screamed “ancient,” it was hard to really envision what the ruins had in fact been used for.

Washington frowned, noting that there certainly didn’t seem to be anything here to explain Charon’s current interest in the place.

There was a point a little further inside the corridor where the path branched off into two different pathways.  Washington pointed to the right side one, which seemed narrower, “I’ll keep looking this way.” He informed the two Elvari with him, “Why don’t you both head down the left path?”

Doc nodded his brown-haired head, “Sounds like a plan.”

Donut agreed, “We’ll come find you if our way turns out to be a dud!”

With that, the two men turned and began walking down the left path, happily chatting away with one another as if they weren’t in the middle of a mission right now.

Washington sighed, shook his head with a tired sort-of smile on his face, and continued down the right-side path.

The corridor and any attached rooms he came across were just as empty as the previous ones had been.  Washington stopped in the doorway of one, peering inside and frowning.

Maybe he was going about this this wrong way, now that he thought about.  Perhaps it would be wiser to ask Price or one of the other colonists for a detailed list of what exactly they had found or were still searching for here instead of blindly stumbling around in the dark.

Footsteps coming from behind the blond caused him to turn, though the all-too familiar sight of white armor and a domed helmet suddenly entering his vision made his blood run cold.

Maine, no, the Meta was just a few meters away from him.  His Brute Shot was pointed directly at Washington’s chest.

But, that was impossible, wasn’t it?  He’d seen the Meta die!  It had cost him Steel too.  What the hell was going on?

“Wha—what are you…?”

But, the Meta didn’t respond to his former Freelancer teammate’s stammering, instead choosing to attack Washington using the Brute Shot.  Washington barely dodged the assault, the ground exploding in dust and debris behind him.

It seemed like the Strassian had no choice.  Washington drew his own weapon, aimed, and fired…

“Donut!”

Doc’s scream just then from a bit of ways down the corridor was fearful and primal as, instead of it being the Meta who fell to the ground, it was a pink-armored body.

*****

Normally, sleep came easily enough to Dexter Grif.  His head would hit a pillow and he’d be out like a light before he knew it.  It was a gift.

…But, such was not the case this time.  This time, Grif’s dreams were causing him to thrash around in his sheets.  The chubby human seemed to be constantly burning in a feverish state that left him sweating on his bed in their temporary mission quarters.

He was piloting Orange through a losing battle with Charon’s forces, several sights locked on him all at once…

Then he was again a young boy fighting to survive in Rat’s Nest, his parents having just ditched him and Kai to the mercy of the money lenders.  They were surrounded by a group who wouldn’t think twice about harming frightened, abandoned children.

“G—Grif?” Someone was distantly calling his name, from far away and not within his dreamscape.

One of the guys reached for Kai with fists clenched.  The little girl shrieked and pulled back in fear.  Grif gripped something hard, metallic, and cold as a hand closed around his own shoulder rather violently just then.  He thrust out with the unseen object in self-defense…

Then he was back in Trocadero only to hear a choked-back gurgle as Grif’s dark eyes opened and Simmons, who had been standing over him, collapsed to the ground in a puddle of blood.

Grif was, for some reason that totally and inexplicably escaped his mind given where he was, gripping a bloodstained knife in his fingers.

He realized with a dawning sense of horror that he must have stabbed Simmons in the abdomen when the other man had tried waking him up from his nightmare.

“Simmons!”

Grif screamed out the Strassian’s name, heart thundering loudly in his ears, terrified and unsure of what to do to help Maroon’s pilot.