Where were you planning on shooting him from, the fucking moon? If you had backed up any further you would have had to mail him the bullets!
She had a long range weapon, Church. (As if you did any better anyway.)
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I actually only vaguely remember that happening, but I wrote something anyway. =D
It was a glorious plan, like all of his plans, but Sarge reckoned this one had a little more shine to it than the others. Maybe because he’d spent a little more time on it than the others. Or maybe because he’d written it on aluminum foil. Either way, it was one he’d treasured since the moment it was born. It was going to go like this:
“Private Grif!” Sarge barks at the slumped over good-for-nuthin-dirtbag, who’s snoring under a tree. The dirtbag stirs and replies with something insubordinate and reprehensible, like, “Hunh?”
“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” Sarge tells him.
“Is it another lecture on personal hygiene?” Grif says. “Because I’m telling you, there is no way I’m gonna shower every single day, especially seeing as there’s no way to differentiate days here. I mean for all I know this has just been one long extended day, the worst day of my life, and –”
“Shut up, private,” Sarge growls. “I’d hate to have to shoot my own son in the face. Well actually I’d love it! But I guess you’re family now.”
“—and I…I…what?” Grif says, blinking stupidly.
Sarge nods gruffly. “Ye-ep, I had Lopez take DNA samples of all of us, just in case anybody was sportin’ a case of vampirism or zombification or that – that whatchyamacallits – that werewolfery that’s been goin’ around.”
“Wouldn’t you know if one of us was a werewolf?”
“I couldn’t take the chance that Simmons or Donut might look at a full moon and eat us all in our sleep! I already have to worry that you’ll eat us all in our sleep everytime we start runnin’ low on rations!”
“I would never resort to cannibalism,” Grif says stoutly.
“Don’t you lie to me, private. I caught you gnawing on Simmons just the other day.”
“Wh-what?! That wasn’t – he took my Oreos!”
“The point is, Lopez ran the DNA tests and as much as it hurts me to admit it, I’m your father. And what’s even worse is, you’re my son.”
Grif blinks a few times. “But my dad was an elephant tamer. At the circus.”
“That’s what your mother wanted you to believe, Grif! And I don’t blame her. She just wanted to keep you out of my sight, I reckon, since you turned out so godawful ugly.”
“Wait…so…all this time you’ve been trying to get me killed, did you really just want me to…improve as a soldier, so I could better myself and help win the war and bring glory to the family name?”
“Of course not!” snaps Sarge. “You’re a lousy, good-for-nothin-dirtbag and the world would be a better place without you! But as your father, I’m morally obligated to tell you lies about your potential.” He clears his throat. “Son, you can do anything you want to do in life. You are a shooting star. Full o’light and sparkly bullshit.”
“Thanks?” Grif says slowly.
Then Sarge says, “Just kidding, you can’t do anything. And we’re not related.” And he shoots him in the face anyway because what day would be complete without a little Grif-shootin’?
Yes, it was a glorious plan. All he had to do now was wait for the right moment.
(also here is two-year-old proof that i can maybe write things besides freelancers.)
"But as your father, I’m morally obligated to tell you lies about your potential.”
My other favorite parts about this are “reprehensible” and how Sarge mentions offhand that werewolves would have to look at the full moon in order to transform.
I haven’t the foggiest why I didn’t post this here before.
Sarge believes in heaven with the utmost assurance. That’s where he’ll go when he dies, probably, unless he’s done something wrong and winds up in hell, in which case he’ll just keep on fighting the dirty Blues he took there with him. In Sarge’s worldview, God is, if not on anybody’s side, most definitely somewhere.
Maybe He got left back on Earth, and somebody’s still waiting at the office to pick up the package.
But to a soldier of such abject faith, AIs cause a lot of problems. What are the darn things? Are they alive or not? Are they Red or Blue? Most importantly, are all of them likely to start commandeering people’s heads and/or radios in order to go on killing sprees?
Only slightly less importantly, do they go to heaven?
Church didn’t like worlds where people died fast. At least in his case he’d seen it coming: he should have known that that idiot rookie Caboose was going to run somebody over or shoot them very accidentally in the face some time soon. It was inevitable, like the sun never setting. But now, he hadn’t thought of Caboose as ‘rookie’ in a really long time, and man did South die fast.