Although Rooster Teeth make Red vs Blue, they use the Halo game format engine… so I have no ideas for a disclaimer. Whatever.
Set sometime after Reds and Blues fought and defeated the Meta, in-between the several months long off-season between Seasons 9 and 10.
OC Freelancers used. Comedy aspect may pale in comparison to actual story presented.
RED VS BLUE
THE UNKNOWN FREELANCERS
MANY YEARS AGO
Formal message for the Director,
Justin McQueen reporting from scientific R&D development centre Zeta, sir.
As you know, we have spent many years trying to develop the perfect battlefield AI to surpass even the Omega implanted currently in one Agent Texas of the Freelancer black project. Through trial and error, we have finally been able to put forward two, yes, you hear right, TWO perfect AI's that assure total victory in battle.
We have called the patch AIs Zeta and Omicron. We shall have implanted them by the time you send a reply, sir.
Formal message of an urgent nature for the Director's eyes only,
Justin McQueen here sir. I'm afraid in the last fifteen hours since my last message was sent, we successfully installed Agents Iowa and Virginia with the powerful AI constructs Zeta and Omicron.
Afterwards in the medical bay, they awoke and went AWOL, killing most of the one thousand stationed here without hesitation. I'm afraid that Zeta, our station of research, is in disarray and beyond repair.
I am hereby placing high level recommendation on sending a Freelancer after Iowa and Florida. They're dangerous. Sir… although it isn't my place, I strongly recommend the Freelancer black project be abandoned with haste.
This incident is proof that all we're doing is creating soldiers beyond control and reasoning, intent on killing us. The AIs prompted this change.
Director, I implore you. We'll all have died by the time this reaches you, as Snowpoint in the far north is a renowned graveyard, so please.
Shut. It. Down.
Valhalla was boxed in a small canyon between the crevice walls of two different mountains. One side ran with small waterfalls and a shimmering lake that bisected Valhalla and the other cut off by a large mechanised wall nearly seventy feet high. Behind this wall was a small cut-in tunnel that led to the freeway on the other side of the mountain.
Two abnormal structures loomed on either side of the canyon. One in the furthest shaded corner and one exposed to the light with the beginnings of a gargantuan lake behind it.
They were the Blue and the Red bases, respectively.
Valhalla, while minute in scale as the boxed-in canyon for the hapless soldier trainees, had a few slopes through its grassy knoll, both gentle and steep.
Perfect for battlefield training.
Agent Washington, a Freelancer clad in light blue armour with yellow accessories, sneezed slightly behind his mask. He and another were stood on the balcony of the second level of their tower-like base.
"Dude, gross. How the hell are you gonna wipe your nose?"
The disgusted voice was his Blue ally, the light blue Tucker.
"Probably by taking my helmet off, dumbass, how else?" Wash replied acidly. "Besides, nothing happened, it was just a light sneeze."
"Just keep your distance. I don't want a cold or anything like that. If I go, then the Blue command structure crumbles."
"Yeah I suppose-," Wash snapped to attention, "Wait, what the fuck do you mean, it'll crumble? I'm the commanding officer."
"No, you're a Freelancer asshole who is trying to muscle in on my crib." Tucker pointed lazily at Wash with his chin, "I'm in command since I clearly hold the skills with both weapons and hand to hand."
Washington's mask was blank, just like his face within, "Let's see here, I took on the Meta by myself long before you guys got to the facility a while back, and you got your sword stolen after three seconds." he paused for effect, "I'm sure trembling at your 'skill', Tucker."
"Hey, do you have a magic key sword that only you can use?" Tucker viscidly intercepted, "Didn't think so!"
"Because a sword crossed with a key is all out gay at your age, Tucker. If an idiot like you was the commanding officer, we'd be in deeper shit than Caboose doing a math test."
"Did I hear my name?" Caboose's rather dim-witted voice echoed from inside the base.
"No… just go back to your colouring book!" Wash ordered.
Tucker reeled a little, "Are you psychic, or was that a complete fluke?"
"It's Caboose. If I was guessing I would've told him to polish his grenades or something stupid like that."
"I caught him doing that yesterday."
The two went back to watching over the box canyon and across to the Red base.
"Well, Simmons?" a powerfully southern voice questioned, "What are the Blues doing?"
The purple clad soldier turned to his crimson superior officer, "What they always do, Sarge. They're talking and are perfect sniper targets. Just let me shoot!"
"No!" Sarge imperiously ordered, "Those filthy Blues will be expecting us to take advantage of such a strategic and simple chance! We'll play right into their hands!"
"Oh, what are they gonna do to us," Simmons propped his sniper rifle against his chest, "duck and send Caboose to stupid us to death?"
"That's bad! Sarge is in danger!"
"Private Grif! You're supposed to be in Donut's Seminar! Why're you here?"
The sun-yellow soldier cockily walked up, "I didn't think 'Donut's Seminar on not being a dirtbag' was up my alley."
"Well think again!" Sarge belayed, "Now, if you don't stop bein' a dirtbag, I'll shove a spike grenade up your alleyway! Get goin'!"
"Sarge," Simmon's called him over, focusing through the scope of his sniper rifle, "I'm getting some sound through… they're talking about… a cold I think…"
"HOLY GUACAMOLE! IT'S AN EPIDEMIC! WE HAVE TO CONTAIN THE PROBLEM," Sarge cocked his shotgun and faced an uneasy Grif, "EMERGENCY PLAN DELTA!"
Sarge started laughing maniacally as he chased Grif back to Red Base, shotgun blasts echoing into the distance.
"…" Simmon's sighed, again having achieved nothing today. He longed for the days of Blood Gulch with Church as the offensive mind-set of the Blue team.
Although they now knew that was merely training for Agent Tex, it was easier and more comfortable than the people they had recently had to fight like Wyoming and the Meta.
Wash and Tucker listened passively to the distant shotgun blasts.
"Sarge is shooting Grif again." Tucker noted.
Wash turned on his heel, "Guess that means its quitting time for today." Although quitting implies there is something to do…
The small room was dark, the only exempt example was a small screen that flashed with the visage of an intelligent looking black man with a docile face.
A silver with red trim armoured soldier was reporting through the transmission.
"Well then, what do you make of the massacre at Zealot Providence Centre, Agent Rhode Island?"
The soldier had a thick, hoarse Irish speech, "Well sir, I believe that the massacre coulda been a diversion for us."
"Why do you believe that?"
"With all due respect, sir, that facility was black op central for the UNSC. It was the command centre for the small scale missions of Freelancers against the resistance and the alien race years ago. Whatever they recovered was returned there."
"And this gives you reason to suspect a theft?"
"Of course, sir. That facility was well hidden and protected by sheer cliff faces and the tundra itself. There were never a short supply of clouds. Only by truly searching with background investigations could you find it. Why all for a massacre? No soldiers were ever needed, and only researchers were present."
"I am aware," the councillor's voice became gritty despite himself, "do you mind getting to your point?"
"Sir?" Rhode was deposed behind his helmet. Did this man not care for the two hundred filled with bullets?
But he thought better of it, "Well, anyway, I think you would only go there to look for something… something recovered in one of the Freelancer missions. I was just about to go through this storage data I compiled," he presented a data disk, "when you called."
"Well get on it."
The screen switched off. The room was plunged into the dark before the lights automatically reset and activated. The Freelancer walked across and began work on the data.
He had flicked through around eight encoded pages before locating one promising find. Filed as 'alien tech', it was filed as accordingly top secret.
Luckily, Rhode had been trained to be capable of cracking sophisticated programming as an active Freelancer. It was only a moment before he was presented with every dirty secret pertaining to the tech.
"Let's see…" he scrolled down carefully, searching.
Finally at the bottom, a synopsis of the tech and project to replicate it was detailed, even up to the catastrophic failure as the head researcher died prematurely of unknown causes.
He had titled the tech, resembling the visage of an advanced spear or sceptre, 'JAVLIN'.
Attached was a small data payload Rhode had gathered with security, allowing him sight of the storage facility just before the invader force destroyed the cameras.
Watching it over, he saw a large allotment, easily the same size as Valhalla, stacked to capacity with crates of recovered tech. A large, air tight gate suddenly dented with a doom-ridden clang. And then another.
Finally, on the third strike, the gargantuan metallic doors tore away and flew across the allotment like softballs.
Pausing the footage, Rhode carefully observed two figures. Enhancing the image, Rhode leaned back, "Hmph."
Two armoured beings were there. One big as life and one averagely sized. Tubing lined the jawline and formed a respirator at the front of the big, violet coloured guy, and the other had a normal mask of the trainee Red and Blue teams, possibly from one of his victims as a trophy. He was white with a black exoskeleton lining through the arches in his armour.
The small guy was paused on, his hand with a loaded pistol lifting toward the camera.
Rhode went on to research the artefact he believed stolen. It was the one piece of alien technology in the section of the facility storage area tampered with, according to UNSC reports.
The JAVELIN was recovered by a team of Freelancers, referred to in the mission briefs as 'Team Fallout' in Operation Bisento years ago.
"Right… and those of the team still alive are…" Rhode's fingers clattered and chatted with the keyboard almost rhythmically. This system was obsolete, but he was good regardless.
He ceased searching, the compiled list before him.
Rhode recited the names, "Maine, South Dakota, Wyoming and… Washington…"
Switching off the computer, he drew his pistol and shot the hard drive. Basic Freelancer protocol and conduct demanded it on the field.
How could he locate Washington? He knew him too well to believe him dead like the UNSC released a few months ago as one of three dead rogue Freelancers.
The good thing was, he was the greatest tracker Freelancer alive. And he knew he could find the Red and Blue teams that were likely hording him in a snap.
The bad thing was… bah.
What command didn't know wouldn't hurt them.
MANY YEARS AGO…
Aboard the star-ship Mother of Invention at the helm of the deck in almost an eagle's eye perch, the Director, Leonard Church, a middle aged man with a mousy beard and short hair, felt his blood run cold.
"And this report said Virginia and Iowa have vanished?"
The Councillor nodded glumly. "We now have rogue Freelancer Agents… what should we do, sir?"
"Ignore them," he whispered to not allow his subordinates to overhear his anxiety, "forget they ever existed, Councillor."
The Councillor was relieved in the southern accent regaining its strength and wisdom, the Director turning and putting his hands behind him.
"We cannot allow such a black eye for the project. UNSC protocol dictates we shut down in an event such as this… but I still have my goal to achieve. We cannot allow them to go unpunished, though… who is the most skilled and secretive Agent at this stage?"
The Councillor presented an image on his wireless to Church.
"Agent Rhode Island is our foremost black ops insurgent and soldier. The others have no idea when he's here or not due to his duties, so he won't be missed."
The Director relieved his bated breath slowly, "Send Agent Rhode Island after them. Tell him not to return unless he has killed Iowa and Virginia. As for the codenames of these two rogues, grant them to two new prospects. And from now on, no MANUFACTURED AIs like Zeta and Omicron. Stick only to the AIs in the programme already. Lord knows the Covenant would have a field day if this ever saw the light of day."
"As you wish, sir," the Councillor respectively complied, walking away to locate Rhode in the locker room on one of his rare breaks.
The night had passed without incident. The Reds daren't move against the Blues, and the Blues couldn't be bothered trying much anymore. Thanks to Washington, they vastly outmatched Sarge's bumbling squad.
"Simmons, what're they doin'?" Sarge yawned, coming out from his base of operations and to the second level. Simmons leant against the barricade wall at the end as a sniper den.
Simmons drooped his grip of the rifle and audibly clicked his tongue, "What they are always doing. Standing around, talking about their colds!"
Sarge ignored the irritation in Simmons' tone.
"Colds? Jiminy Christmas, Simmons, do I have to grab my shotgun again?!"
"NO – YOU FUCKING DON'T!" Grif shouted from somewhere.
"What's he so mad about?" Simmons put disinterestedly, turning to face Sarge.
"I kinda pumped a round into his ass." Sarge said smugly.
"Sarge… don't think you should reword that?"
"Why? Either way you take it, he's my bitch."
"True enough, sir."
"Hey Reds!" Caboose, the darker blue armoured soldier greeted, walking up the rear ramp way to the second floor, "Is it okay for me to do target practise here?"
Simmons and Sarge shared a glance.
"Why can't you do that at your own base?"
Sarge added conceitedly, "Yeah, you dirty Blue. Just seeing one of you makes me want to drown you."
Grif walked by Caboose, "Was that supposed to be funny?"
"No, I was serious. Also, Grif; how long have you been sitting on your backside for?"
Grif stared at him, "A few hours… why?"
"You should've gone to that seminar, dirtbag," Sarge cocked his back mounted shotgun with a single hand, "looks like I gotta blast the insubordination outta you."
"How the hell does that work?"
Sarge took aim, "It doesn't, but I need to start my day on a good note."
"Sergeant!" Caboose stepped inbetween Grif and Sarge, "Shooting isn't nice!"
Doc, a velvet shaded medical soldier stood in the corner, "I'm sorry, Caboose, but… why are you in the army if you think shooting is wrong? Didn't your parents talk to you about what a contradiction that is?"
Doc's weak voice barely came out as a whimper, even though he was calm.
The Blue noticed everyone staring at him, waiting, "Well, my mom is the reason why I'm here. She took me to a recruitment office when I was ten and gave me a note to give to the people. When I turned around, she was gone! She became a ghost!"
Sarge chuckled darkly, muttering under his breath, "I wonder why…"
"Dude, that's rough!" Grif agreed, "Something like that happened to my sister when she got sent off to a nunnery."
Sarge inquired, "Why? Your family religious?"
"No. She was an A-Grade, tax-deductible prudish junkie whore."
"Wow." Sarge looked up at the sky, "That's actually a pretty good tagline. Not as good as mine though – Ammo Blammo!"
"Yeah, yeah… wait," Simmons rubbed his helmet, emanating his confusion, "why was Caboose here again?"
"I wanted to do target practise."
"Do it at your base."
"I was but then I kind of shot Tucker in the legs and then I may have run away and Tucker may or may not have been throwing grenades at me."
Just as he said that, Tucker raced up the ramp way, stopping in place with a spike grenade in his clutches, "There you are, Caboose!"
"Oh, hey, Tucker!" his voice came out dim-witted with a tint of fear in it.
"Caboose, we got trouble back at base! Wash is getting a signal for a recovery beacon!"
Everyone turned to Tucker in surprise.
"You mean… Freelancer beacons? The kind that led us to the Meta and you," Sarge's words tumbled out his mouth, "and got our asses handed to us? That kind of signal?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
"Well, hot-diggity-daffodil, it's time to lock and load, ladies!"
Before Grif or Simmons could voice opposition, Sarge and the others had raced off toward Blue base using the thruster pads facing toward it, flying over much of the canyon.
"I so hope that he is heading into a trap."
"Hold on… where the hell is Donut?" Simmons asked.
"The Queer that Brings the Fear? Not a clue." Grif offensively put, using the pad to follow after Sarge and the others. Simmons quickly followed, albeit reluctantly.
"Son, this better not be a waste of time," Sarge felt like spitting on the Blue Base, "I've still got an episode of Cheers to watch."
"Dear God, Sarge," Wash laughed mockingly, "that shit is ancient! How have you- no, how did you manage to watch that crap?"
"One of the main characters reminds me of my mom."
Grif was bitterly looking for revenge, "The big, fat, hairy guy reminds you of your mom?"
Everyone chuckled, except Caboose, who seemed to be miles away.
"Yeah, how'd you know?"
Deadpan silence followed.
"Anyway…" Wash began, presenting a small communication device to them, a small red beacon flashing, "This is the signal. Priority One Recovery."
"So they're as good as dead. Who cares?" Tucker pointed out.
"We should care, one since it's a Freelancer's suit sending out the signal, and two since there shouldn't really be any here besides me and possibly Carolina. All the others that are still alive are either in prison for war crimes or are fighting the actual war."
"So, is this like, a rogue Freelancer like the Meta?" Simmons asked.
Wash nodded, "Most likely. But don't worry, the Meta was an extreme case. Also, only eight AIs were administered to me, Tex, Maine, York, Wyoming, South and North Dakota and Carolina. That means no flashy tricks with this one. It'll be a fist fight with our numbers favourable."
"Okay… where the hell is it?"
Wash pulled out a holographic depiction unit, holding it palm up as images of a barren wasteland with a ruined facility showed. It seemed to slant slightly, and mist shrouded it.
"Here. At a place known as Zeta on the Cherubian Mountain."
Doc perked up, "Oh, I know that place!" he said excitedly, "That mountain is known by a second name!"
"Doc!" Wash vigorously shook his head, imploring him to shut up.
Caboose spoke up at last, "What's it called?"
Doc strained in thought, "Up the Rear Mountain… I think."
"The hell kind of name is that? Sounds like Grif and my foot in a relationship."
Washington conceded defeat and sighed, "It's called that because no one who tries to go up comes back. It literally screws you up the rear."
"Why not, I dunno, fly up there?" Grif scoffed as if anyone who attempted the climb was an idiot.
"The barometric pressure is too great in the cloud. Any Hornet or Pelican that entered the cloud is blinded and slowly crushed. Only Freelancers like me know how to enter what's beneath, to enter Zeta."
Donut suddenly spoke up, "And that would be?"
"HOLY CRAP!" the group of Reds reeled back instantly like their teammate was fire, "When the hell did you get here?!"
"Wherever the Reds go, I go." Donut put simply, "All for one, one for all."
"Son, that dogma crap works if you're a slight shade of red, but you're pink! You're like one of the floats at a gay pride parade!" Sarge spat.
Donut pointed at Grif, "What about yellow-y over here? He isn't even close to being red!"
"Private Grif is an utter disgrace. That I grant you. Hell, I even agree with you. But unfortunately, command thought he was like the sun, and by some mystical 'he's technically Red' crap, we're stuck with him!" Sarge feigned a step back, "But you, pinky boy, I'm afraid to go to bed without my night light!"
"You sleep with a God-damn loaded shotgun! How the hell does a night light protect you?"
"The fact that you know that from the middle of the night but haven't dared pounce shows the night light works its queer-warding magic, Donut!"
Donut groaned, sensing his Staff Sergeant could go at this all day.
Wash was half-amused, half-annoyed at the unscrupulous nature of the Reds, "R-ight… so… shall we head off?"
"How, Wash? In case you haven't noticed, I've only managed to make a Warthog since the Meta fucked our shit up a while ago."
"Not everything, Sarge." Wash began to head down the ramp and toward the mechanical wall-dam structure. "Not everything."
Rhode Island stood, prepped for the eventual arrival. He had cleared out the bodies and the staff of recovery teams present to UNSC headquarters.
He chose a preferable spot atop the second story of the deceptive charade that was Zeta's foremost levels on the surface. It looked like an abandoned factory.
Receiving an incoming transmission through his helmet, Rhode focused, "Hello? Agent Rhode Island here, command."
"Yes, Agent Rhode Island?" the woman speaker replied as if he had called him.
"Um… yes? What is it?"
Rhode fell silent for a few seconds. Were they wasting his time?
"Agent Rhode Island, the Director would like to know your current status."
The Director? He hadn't bothered Rhode in years. He figured only the Councillor remembered him. Tracking Virginia and Iowa had taken him all around this planetary sized space colony housing the Simulant Soldiers like the Reds and Blues. A lot of the time, off-radar.
He figured the Director was mad at him or something. All of the Reds and Blues camps he'd come across in the year since tracking the fugitives here had been met by pure idiocy, bordering on lunacy. They were all incompetent beyond belief!
"Well, tell the Director," Rhode hid his spite in the name, "that he should contact me more. He'll be too far behind to bother with. Goodbye, now."
He switched it off without argument.
The Director wants information after this long period of radio silence? Screw him.
Rhode may have been too nonchalant, as he froze at the tingling sensation in his back. Flicking his rifle around, he carefully aimed at the being, a husky click of the tongue making itself known.
"Well, well. If it isn't Agent Iowa."
A/N: Passing fanboy-worship of Red vs Blue. Felt like doing this. End of discussion.
Did you like it?