(This is a fanfiction I'm basing off a very funny series called Red vs. Blue at www.machinima.com Enjoy! Also, if 35 links to my other fanfiction series shows up over top of this post, just ignore them. They have nothing to do with this series.)
D’s War Journal
Entry 1:
After months of training in the army I have been sent to my first real mission. My new base is called Outpost 101 and is stationed in the center of a large box canyon on a ring world deep in space, which is weird because there are no signs of any life for thousands of miles. My comrades are a little… odd. First there’s Grif. He never does anything, he’s the laziest person I’ve ever seen. I sometimes wonder how he got into the army in the first place. Next, there’s Serge. He’s our sergeant, but his methods are a little unorthodox. I’m starting to get the feeling he doesn’t like Grif that much. In the event of an attack, pretty much all of our emergency plans involve using Grif as a “meat shield.” Next there’s Simmons. I wouldn’t say he and Grif are friends, but they do hang around together most of the time. Mostly they’re complaining about how much this war sucks. If I were to use one word to describe Simmons, it would be kiss-ass. Whenever he gets the chance to please Serge he takes it. Maybe he does it so he can move up in rank, or maybe he just doesn’t want Serge to slit his throat in his sleep like he tries to do with Grif every other night. Lastly, there’s Lopez. He’s the only mechanic we have. I can’t really say much about him because he never really talks to anyone, not even Serge.
About a week ago Serge’s second in command, Private Flowers, died from a massive heart attack in his sleep. Nobody knows how it happened, or even cares. Simmons was pretty happy about it because he got promoted to second in command. The point is, we’re down one man and command is sending us a new recruit. I hope he has a little more brains than the rest of these idiots.
“Hey, D. What are you writing?”
D closed his journal and placed it in one of his suit’s storage compartments. He turned to see Grif. Grif’s armour was bright orange. Basically everyone wore the same armour and helmets with visors too thick to see through. The only distinguishable features they had were the colours of their suits. D’s armour was silver.
“My war journal.”
“What, is that like a diary?” Grif asked. “That’s kinda gay.”
“It’s a WAR journal,” D repeated. “It a journal to record events on the WAR.”
“Call it what you want, but I still think it’s gay.”
“Did you need me for something?” D asked.
“Yeah, I did actually. Serge wants to show us something.”
“Fine, let’s go.” D and Grif left the base to see what Serge wanted. Simmons was already waiting for them. Serge was the one in red armour and Simmons was the one in maroon, which is kind of like a dark red.
“Alright,” Serge began. “Anyone want to guess why I gathered y’all here today?” Serge always had a thick southern accent. D guessed he was probably from Texas or some other lower state.
“Uhh… is it because the war’s over and you’re sending us home?” Grif asked.
“That’s exactly it, private,” Serge said in a very condescending voice. “War’s over, we won. Turns out you’re the big hero, and we’re gonna have a parade in yer honour. I get to drive the float, and Simmons here is in charge of confetti!” He said the last part with more heat.
“I’m no stranger to sarcasm, sir,” Grif said.
“God dammit, private! Shut yer mouth or else I’ll have Simmons here slit yer throat in your sleep!”
Simmons turned to Grif and said, “Oh, I’d do it, too.”
“I know you would, Simmons,” Serge said. “Good man.”
“You mind telling us why you dragged us out here, sir?” D asked.
“Today, we received the first part of our shipment from command.” He turned around and shouted to a nearby hill. “Lopez! Bring out the vehicle!”
The brown armoured mechanic drove a jeep into view. It was green plated and had a turret mounted on the back.
D: “Shotgun!”
Grif: “Shotgun! F**k!”
“May I introduce our new light reconnaissance vehicle. It has four-inch armour plating, buffer suspension, a mounted machine gunner position and total seating for three.” He turned back to the others. “Gentlemen, this is the M12 LRV! I like to call it the warthog.”
“Why a warthog, sir?” D asked.
“Because M12 LRV is too hard to say in conversation, numb nuts.”
“No, but, why warthog?” Grif asked. “I mean, it doesn’t really look like a pig.”
Serge faced Grif. “Say that again.”
“I think it looks more like a puma.”
“What in samhell is a puma?” Serge asked.
“Uhh, you mean like the shoe company?” Simmons asked.
“No, like a puma,” Grif said. “It’s a big cat. Like a lion.”
“…Yer makin that up.” Serge said.
“I’m telling you, it’s a real animal!”
Serge turned to Simmons and said, “Simmons, I want you to poison Grif’s next meal.”
“Yes, sir!”
Serge went to the front of the warthog. “Look, see these two tow hooks?” he asked, pointing to the hooks and spool of black rope attached to the front of the jeep. “They look like tusks. And what kind of animal has tusks?”
“…A walrus.” Grif answered.
“Didn’t just tell ya to stop makin up animals?” Serge said.
“It’s a real animal!” Grif insisted. “It’s a big sea lion with tusks and whiskers, it lives in the ocean.”
“Shut up!” Serge said. “Now unless anyone has anymore mythical creatures to suggest as a name for the new vehicle, we’re gonna stick with the warthog.” He turned back to Grif. “How about it, Grif?”
“No sir, no more suggestions.”
“Are you sure? How bout Bigfoot?”
“It’s okay,” Grif said.
“Unicorn?”
“No, really. I’m cool.”
“Sasquach?”
“Leprechaun?” Simmons suggested.
“Hey, he doesn’t need any help, man.”
“Hey Simmons? What’s the name of that Mexican lizard, eats all the goats?” Serge asked.
“Uh, that would be the chub cobra, sir,” Simmons answered.
“Hey, Grif. Chuba thingy, how bout that? I like it, got a ring to it.”
As Serge continued listing off names of mythical creatures, D reached into his suit’s storage compartment and started writing in his war journal. He change the first few words of the last sentence from, “I hope,” to, “I really, really, REALLY hope.”
“Private!”
D looked up. “Yes, Serge?”
“What’s that yer writing?” he asked.
“It’s his war journal, sir.” Grif said.
“What, ya mean like a diary?” Serge asked. “That’s kinda gay, son.”
