Divided We Fall is a short fanfiction written by Zeon1. It details the calm, peaceful lives (or lack thereof), of the Reds and Blues following the fiasco known as Blood Gulch. It is based slightly on one of the false endings of the Blood Gulch Chronicles.
Old Friends, United Against the BreachEdit
Leonard Church's day began with a cup of coffee, accompanied by a brownie that his senses told him was defrosted, in the Spacebucks on the corner of Westlake and Brownfield. A simple life was his, untroubled by complexities or the like. Once he finished his coffee, he usually took a short walk to his workplace, the Happy Friends Anger Managment Services. Every time he walked towards it and saw the smiley face logo, Church could barely contain a snort. The amount of psychos he'd dealt with...
It had been a long time since Blood Gulch...
Don't go there, Church mentally scolded himself, you were happy it was over. A chance to live normally, or some semblance of normal, anyway. To settle down, have a job, a family... A family, at least, he had.
Church's eyes travelled up to the clock on the wall. 9:30. Dammit. He mentally scolded himself for losing track of time, being caught up in his own musings. Oh, well. He had made perfect attendance the past few months. Slacking off a little wouldn't hurt him THAT badly.
Church leaned back in his chair, and took another sip of coffee. As he did, however, he caught sight of a African American male, wearing egg-shaped glasses, turning the corner, wearing an aqua suit and struggling to hold a large amount of papers and staplers.
Lavernius Tucker misplaced the Document again, and, for the 100th time that evening, cursed out of his breath. Was being a highly respected member of the United Planets worth all this?
The Document was a simple treaty between the aliens (or the Blargians, as commonly refferred to), and the kind men and women of the United Nations Space Command. It had an official name, one so long and convoluted even the most dignified members of society simply referred to it as "The Document".
The reason it was of the upmost importance that The Document be present in today's presentation was due to a trading dispute. The Blargians had been pushing for years for the legalization of Xenocco, a brand of tobacco that was ferociously addictive. When the UNSC had refused to let them sell it to Earth and it's colonies, the Blargians had called upon The Document.
And Tucker, as the only person who understood BOTH sides of the argument, had been entrusted with safeguarding The Document on it's way to court. Lucky him.
As he rounded a corner, a pedestrian bumped into him, sending several papers and a stapler to the ground. Tucker readied a cry of despair, but before that action could be taken, a hand shot out from nowhere, cupping the papers in it's palm and the stapler landing neatly on top of them.
"Almost dropped that," came a familiar voice from slightly above him. Tucker looked up, only to find himself face to face with a tall man with black, wild hair, and stubble of the same color decorating his chin.
"Church?" Tucker asked. The other man nodded. "Oh my god," Tucker said, "holy crap, it's been a while. How you been?"
"The usual," Church replied, taking a swig of the coffee he had brought outside with him, "I was on my way to work when I saw you running for the hills."
Tucker flushed slightly. "It wasn't the hills, butthead. It was a very important meeting and-"
"Whoah, whoa," Church said, "Tucker, is that really you? Are you taking a deadline seriously for once? What happened to you? Has it been that long since Blood Gulch?"
"It's been seven years, Church," Tucker sighed, "some of us have to except some maturity."
"Tell that to Caboose," Church chuckled.
"I know, right? Last I heard, he was acting as Donut's personal bodyguard!"
"Bet that means he gets all the free toys."
"Yeah.... what's going on with Donut, anyway? One moment he's the owner of a bar in Honolulu, and the next, he's living in a fancy mansion in Canada!"
Chruch shrugged. "Married an exotic dancer. Guess that means he gets to live easy."
"Yeah," Tucker said, then muttered something that sounded suspicously like lucky. He then looked back up at Church. "So, what have you been doing?"
"The usual," Church replied, leaning against a wall, "married, maybe a kid on the way. 'Some of us have to except some maturity', remember?"
"Ah, you got me by the berries," Tucker muttered, "Tex, huh? She work?"
"That... is unusual."
"So," Tucker said, hoping to change the subject, "anything on the other guys?"
"Nope. Haven't met up with them in years..."
Simmons swivveled around in his chair, following the loud knock at his door. "Some people have work to do," he muttered, relucantly getting up, away from the busy buisness that was accounting. He walked towards the door, still swearing.
Right as he opened it, Dexter Grif barged in. "Food," he moaned softly, wasting no time and heading towards the fridge.
"Hey, wait a minute," Simmons said, running after him, "who said you could eat my food?!"
"You did," Grif said, turning around, his face stuffed with chocolate cake, "when I couldn't afford a fridge."
"You can afford one now, right? With your job as a bartender?"
"Yeah," Grif muttered, "but first payday is tommorow night."
"And?" Simmons asked.
Dexter Grif swore as he buttoned up his threadworn coat, stepping out of Simmons's apartment building, and walking out onto the street. All he had wanted was some food, and that dirtbag had to kick him out just because he didn't have any himself!
Still angry over what he viewed as a damnation-worthy offense, Grif payed almost no attention to were he was going. Unfortunatley, this lead him to slam into a old man walking at a fast speed towards him.
When they began pulling themselves up, Grif noted that the old man had crew cut style white hair, wore tight-fitting clothes, and there was a lump that looked suspicously like a shotgun. In an instant, Grif remembered who it was.
"H-hey Sarge," he said, reaching over and pulling the Sargeant up, "long time no see-" He was cut off rather violently by a punch to his jaw, sending him staggering backwards.
"Who are you, and how do you know my name?" Sarge asked, eyes narrowing. Apparently, he could not recognize Grif without the armor.
"I-I... no reason," Grif said, lowering his head, realizing that he could potentially escape a murder attempt, "I'm sorry, sir. That was my fault."
Sarge let out a grunt of approval. "Now, there's a youngster who has some manners," he said, patting Grif on the shoulder, before walking away. Grif stood there, frozen. Had Sarge just... patted his shoulder?!
Sarge walked slowly into his spartan living quarters. Only a old, sagging couch, a cot with no blankets, and a small TV were all he had to his name. Sitting down on the sagging couch, Sarge reached over to the cot, and pulled a small scrap book out of nowhere.
Flipping through the pages, he finally found the one were the entire Red Team were standing there, taking a picture with their helmets off. Sarge smiled slightly, as his eyes traced over the different figures. Himself, Lopez, Donut, Simmons, and.... Grif!?
Sarge's tired mind clicked, registering the image of the face in the photo with the man who had bumped into him just a few minutes before. And he... and he... had PATTED HIM ON THE SHOULDER!
Sarge stood up, taking off his clothes, revealing his old armor underneath. He lifted his helmet from a small closet barely visible behind the couch, and slid it on. He spun his shotgun, then quickly loaded it.