Grif

Grif's Room (Armonia) — Present Day

Grif strolled through downtown Armonia, tuning out the soldiers surrounding him. It was just another day of pointlessly fighting a war he never wanted to be a part of. Another day of living a limited lifestyle because they "didn't have enough resources to thrive," as Doyle would say.

"Good morning, Captain Grif!" a member of the New Republic cheered as she passed him.

"Hey," he huffed, turning his face the other way as he sped up. Despite being the first person to interact with him since leaving the mess hall an hour prior, Grif was already sick of everyone.

Next, a member of the Federal Army noticed him and called out, "Good morning, Captain Grif!"

Grif sighed, hurrying, "Yeah." Despite being treated as heroes, Grif was just a normal person. Everyone looked up to him, but wouldn't treat him as specially as he wanted. There were no perks to being a hero, only bragging rights. He wondered if he could live luxuriously if they were to unite the planet and take down Charon.

Then again, he wondered if that would be possible at all. While the peace treaty ended the war between the Chorusans, the two teams' hatred for one another proved exhausting. The blind rage they felt made progress slow and tedious. The only things the teams had in common were the war against Charon Industries and calling the members of Project Freelancer heroes.

And despite being considered heroes, he wasn't allowed second helpings in the mess hall.

The most annoying member of the New Republic pulled the orange-clad soldier out of his trance. Matthews. "Oh, oh! Captain Grif!" he cheered. Grif knew not giving him the attention he craved would only lead to Matthew following him.

"Yes, Matthews?" he asked unenthusiastically. Here we go again...

"Hey! Uh, uh..." Matthews stuttered, "I just wanted to say, uh..." Though he had trouble explaining what he wanted, Grif perfectly mouthed what his subordinate would say. "I just wanted to thank you again for what you and the other Reds and Blues did for us! If you guys hadn't shut down the radio tower when you did, we'd all be dead!" He laughed nervously.

"Gosh, Matthews! Thanks!" Grif exclaimed with over-the-top sarcasm. "I really appreciate it. Almost as much as I did the other fifty-seven times you thanked me!" Matthews grinned from cheek to cheek, having been validated by his idol. Grif sighed. The soldier clearly didn't understand what sarcasm was. "Look, do you know where Kimball is?" While the New Republic member wasn't on the super-elite team, Grif was hopeful he had at least seen the General in passing.

"Kimball? Uh, uh... I'm not sure. I think I saw her at the armory a while ago," he said unconfidently.

"Great, thanks," Grif hurried away. When the Private offered to escort him, Grif quickly rejected him and moved on. Despite knowing Matthews had only guessed where Kimball was, Grif figured it wouldn't hurt to try. Plus, he was aimlessly searching anyway, and this would be his best bet.

Continuing to the armory, Grif quickly found himself lost in the streets. He stopped a nearby member of the Federal Army to ask for directions before grabbing a nearby warthog. Not only would traveling by warthog be faster, but Grif could also get out of interacting with others while he traveled. He turned on the radio to a random channel and drove.

His journey wasn't long, only about ten minutes to the armory. Grif jumped out of the vehicle and began passing by a long line of soldiers. "Outta my way! Captain on deck, official officer business!" he called, walking toward Simmons and Donut—the two in charge of handing out supplies. While the other soldiers were aware he wasn't there for gear, they groaned, knowing he could waste a lot of their time talking to his teammates.

Simmons, trying to get back to business, quickly spoke up. "Can't you see we're busy here?"

"Where's Kimball?" Grif ignored the question, knowing all too well Matthews had guessed her location.

"I don't know. Where were you during training this morning?"

"Literally anywhere but there. You should know that by now," Grif chuckled.

"Well, that's too bad for you. I heard she was inspecting the troops there earlier, but I don't know if she's still there. But good luck, if Wash sees you, he'll make you train."

"Aw man, I really don't wanna go there," Grif whined. He slumped over and trudged away. On one hand, his problems could probably wait. On the other hand, he didn't want to wait. Hungry and needing the General to knock some sense into those at the Mess Hall, he jumped back in the warthog and sped away.

Unlike the armory, Grif knew exactly where the training room was. If he wanted to avoid training, he would have to know its exact location so he could avoid it at all costs. Unfortunately, this was a situation that he couldn't avoid.

When he reached the armory, the orange-clad soldier found Agent Washington trying to train the super-elite team of New Republic Lieutenants. He remembered his days with that military, where he was seen as even more of a hero and could get everything he wanted. While he missed it, he didn't miss the stress of trying to "rescue" his other friends from the Federal Army.

Each Lieutenant fired at cones on a small ledge. Smith, Bitters, Jensen and Palomo. Whereas the first three successfully knocked down the cones, Palomo missed his shot. "Lieutenant Palomo!" Washington exclaimed.

"Yes, Agent Washington, sir?"

"Explain to me how, in light of your recent promotion, you've somehow managed to get worse at target practice!"

Palomo's shoulders tightened as his back straightened. He gasped for air before quickly explaining, "Because the newly-added pressure of my rank makes me second-guess my actions more frequently in hopes I won't let down my fellow peers."

"Well, I—" Washington went to scream at him but recognized the concern as one he had had many years prior. He knew yelling wouldn't help here. It would have made him a hypocrite. "Actually, that's perfectly reasonable, lieutenant."

Palomo glanced behind his superior and noticed the bullet holes in the walls. Washington couldn't see under the Lieutenant's helmet, but Grif knew he was smirking. "I've also been trying to make a smiley face for like, nine minutes."

"You sly animal," Grif mumbled under his breath.

Washington turned around and finally noticed the many bullet holes riddling the wall. While a little annoyed Palomo wasn't taking this training seriously, the shape of the bullet spread impressed him. Despite being angry at the subordinate, he couldn't deny the precision he needed to accurately make the smiley face was far greater than to hit the cone. "You know, that's actually pretty cool," Washington smiled. "That might be more impressive than what I wanted you to do."

"Thank you, sir!" Palomo saluted his superior.

When the ex-freelancer returned to face the soldier, he noticed Grif watching from a distance. "Fuck me," Grif muttered, predicting what was coming.

"Oh, Captain Grif! How nice of you to finally join us," Washington overenthusiastically cheered, clearly sarcastic. "We missed you at training this morning. And yesterday. And the day before that."

"Yeah, I figured. I wasn't there," Grif answered. Quickly diverting the conversation, he asked, "Where's Kimball?"

However, the Blue Team leader wouldn't be so easy to distract. "So you weren't there. And that's why everyone here is going to give me three laps around the training facility. That includes you, Grif."

Taken aback by the punishment of others, Grif only laughed. "You're punishing them?"

"Remedial training," he explained. "Disciplining the group for the actions of a single soldier leads to social pressures, which typically results in the hasty correction of undesirable behavior. It's a classic military strategy. Now get going," he ordered.

Grif laughed. "Typically works, but not on me."

"Four laps!" Washington fired a blank in the air—but nobody knew it was blank. Without hesitating, the lieutenants began sprinting. Grif, however, stood still. He figured Washington wouldn't be so brazen.

"This is the best punishment ever!" Grif exclaimed.

Washington sighed, knowing he wouldn't get through to the captain. "What do you need Kimball for, anyway? She's in a meeting with Doyle right now," he asked curiously. Doubting the orange-clad soldier would need her for anything less than an emergency, he grew concerned for his friend.

"So she's in the War Room?"

"I—Wait. No, no, no. You're not going anywhere until—"

"Sorry, dude. Gotta go! Just, uh... Make them run five laps or something. I'm sure I'll learn my lesson eventually!" Grif sprinted out of the room and back into his warthog.

He barely heard Washington in the distance, asking, "How the hell is he that quick...?" Grif thought back to Simmons' comment several months ago about how his deceptive weight was a reason to be surprised by his speed.

As he raced off in the warthog, Grif heard Bitters bragging, "We sure showed him."

"Alright, the war room... The war room... The war room..." Grif repeated as he glanced between the different buildings he drove by. "Where the fuck is the war room?" Having stayed in Armonia since the truce and leaving himself out of any raids on Charon's bases, Grif had no idea where to go.

Knowing he could likely convince someone to help him, Grif slowed down beside a Federal Army soldier with a blue visor. "Hey, you! Doyle called me into the war room to help argue against Kimball." He knew that was likely what they were doing anyway, and he knew he couldn't side with Kimball in front of this person. "But he didn't actually tell me where it is. Can you point me in its direction?"

"Yes, sir! Down the road, second left, third right," The soldier explained, twisting his hand in the direction for a visual.

"Great, thanks," Grif sped off.

When he parked the vehicle outside, Grif could already hear Kimball and Doyle arguing inside. He entered the building and crossed through the various hallways, following the sound of her voice. He was amazed he could hear it so clearly from outside when they were so far into the building. "I don't care if your men prefer it. The fact of the matter is: We are going to run out of ammunition faster!"

"But you're not taking the statistical advantage into account! Yes, the standard issue assault rifle has a firing rate of fifteen rounds per second. But if those rounds are being fired at the enemy, then that means we have fifteen chances to kill the enemy every time we pull the trigger!" Doyle retorted. Numbers, just what Grif hated.

"Without our mercenaries bringing in supplies, we need to make every bullet count."

"I can agree with that, General Kimball. But more training means fewer bullets we can use on the battlefield. Using these assault rifles for training is even worse because that's ammunition we won't have access to against Charon. We have no idea what Locus and Felix are truly capable of. They've gone radio silent since we foiled their plans. For all we know, they could have hundreds of new recruits waiting for us. Every bullet has to count, and that means training fundamentals over weapon diversity. Or are you doubting my soldiers' skills on the battlefield?" He turned to face one of the mediators of the meeting, who just shrugged.

Kimball approached him. "I am doubting so much more than that," she spat.

Doyle sighed. "Miss Kimball. It has been over a month since we began this truce. And there is yet to be a day where you have not tested its strength. We have a common enemy. And we must have faith in one another if we wish to survive."

Grif arrived at the room just in time to hear Kimball announce her hatred of the Federal Army General. Knowing his survival was in the hands of these people, Grif made himself known. It would be best to get their minds off of hating one another. "Hey! We've got a problem!"

"Is he white with a golden visor?" Kimball snarled, glaring under her helmet.

Doyle ignored the comment. Grif walked to Kimball and continued, "Now, I'm what most people would probably call a hero. Like a firefighter. Or the guy that invented the microwave. Or, uh... the Oreo dude."

"O... kay?"

Grif turned to Doyle. "So what I want to know is why a hero—like myself—is not allowed to have second helpings in the mess hall!"

Doyle glanced at Kimball, then back to Grif. "Because we're low on food?"

"Oh, so you have the common sense to ration our meals but not our ammo?" Kimball interjected.

"That is hardly relevant!"

"Hardly relevant? I—"

Grif snapped. "Hey! I know you guys are having a hard time playing nice, but there are bigger things at stake here!"

"Get out." Kimball firmly ordered.

"Like actual steak!"

"Grif! Leave! Now!"

Generally, Grif wouldn't be phased. If one of the other simulation troopers were to yell at him, he wouldn't have cared. They were all low lives anyway, and few of them ever actually listened to one another. But Kimball was a different story. After a moment of silence, Grif asked, "So, are we just gonna put a pin in this? Or...?"

"Oh, my God! Will someone please just put him on dish duty for the rest of the day?"

A member of the New Republic with green highlights walked into the room. "Come on, sir," he grabbed Grif by the arm. "Let's go."

"This is so bullshit!" Grif announced as he was dragged out of the room. But knowing profanities wouldn't help him and that he was too lazy to try and fight this, he shut up.

As they left, Kimball sighed. She was sick of everyone around her and just wanted a win. "Can we please just talk about something else for a minute?"

Doyle recognized and validated her not-so-hidden emotions. "Yes, of course. The reason I originally came to speak with you was to inform you of the status of our men's most recent assault. Your plan of action led them to a successful overtaking of Hargrove's base. They're sweeping it clean as we speak," Doyle cheered.

"Congratulations, you guys," Grif whispered as the Generals' voices faded in the distance. "Fuck me."