Grif ran out of energy to yell with even before he finished the word. Admittedly, he hadn't expected to have this much time to yell in. The massive cliff behind him might have done the job for him.

He was holding on to the Brute Shot like a starving man holding a box of donuts.

He kicked his feet, only dislodging more powdery snow that fell away into the gulf. Grif's arms were starting to ache as much as his lungs. Sure, the shortness of breath was understandable. He had just been pulled over a cliff by the angriest soldier he had ever met, and that was including Sarge and Church. The Meta's bulbous orange face plate had seemed ready to open up and eat him.

Luckily, the brute himself had let go of Grif's ankle and fallen out of sight so fast that when Grif's vision was cleared from the puff of snow as he stabbed the Brute Shot into the wall, he was gone.

Grif tried to pull himself further over the top of the gun that used to be the Meta's. He was pretty sure he felt it give a little.

The rest of his team was up there right now, like six feet away. He could hear them talking. Sarge was saying that he was sure Grif hadn't survived. Of course! Because all Sarge wanted was the rest of the team to get killed off, leaving him to take one heroic vacation after another-

No way. Really, that was the last thing Sarge wanted. Then he would get bored.

Sarge needed Red Team. He needed Grif. They entertained him.

But Grif needed them too, really, because...well, Sarge's speech in the Freelancer base had been pretty inspiring. It had also definitely been intended for people that Sarge actually liked, but it asked the right question. Why were they here? It wasn't about fighting aliens or being trapped in a box canyon any more. It was about helping Church, who was a Blue and also possible a robot or something. It was about knowing that no matter what death-defying situation a Red got into, they always had smaller things- Sarge, luck, the other guy yelling shotgun-to defy too. And that was, Grif had to admit pretty entertaining.

Simmons was begging Sarge to look over the edge. Stupid brown-noser wouldn't even take a step toward a cliff to save his friend from falling without Sarge's permission...

Grif almost yelped out Simmons's name.

The Brute Shot definitely sank a little. Grif kicked and cursed under his breath and hung on.

Sarge was right about one thing. Grif trusted in low expectations. Exceeding a low expectation just made a man feel so much like he had...exceeded something. It was a thin, watery kind of pride. But it was pride!

So, Grif let Sarge wait a little bit.

Until Grif's arms went from aching to aching and feeling all wobbly.

He started yelling.

"What gets me about this scene is that once you see him you realize that Grif's voice still trailed off even though he wasn't falling."

"[Blue and Red Teams] are just good at being there, rather than actually doing stuff. The only advantage they have is that they know each other."

(paraphrased from the season 8 commentary)