#rvb bingo wars blue team

[cynric]

suckington anyone?

My first entry for the RvB Bingo Wars for the Kai-centric square, I love this girl with all of my heart

[nonbinaryalphachurch]

Metastability

For the Red vs Blue Bingo Wars! I’m filling up the square Missing Scene for Blue Team, hope I did everything right.

@rvbficwars

Summary: Church enters the Meta’s neural implants, and reintegrates with the A.I fragments.

Word Count: 973

Church knows he’s an A.I before he enters the Meta.

It would’ve taken a lot of willpower to ignore it; his splitting headaches whenever he’s near Epsilon, the flashes of memories coming from the A.I, the blinking, urgent red light in the corner of his HUD when he gets close to the EMP. He’s knows he’s going to die when it goes off, but he still denies it, pretends like everything is fine, even though Wash knows that he knows that everything is not fine, that the world has come crashing down with seven simple words.

Church, you’re an A.I. You’re the Alpha.

He drops into bullet time right before entering the Meta, one last look at the world around him before it’s gone forever. Washington is frozen in the middle of talking, mouth open wide, and the Meta is just standing there, fists clenched by its sides, its golden fishbowl visor reflecting the harsh light of the facility.

He pauses, collects himself, and jumps into the Meta’s head.

Church is in a broken city torn up by its roots, fire engulfing the buildings and streets, and shattered glass scattered in jagged pieces across the ground. The sky is a fiery orange, and smoke clouds the air like flies. Every breath he takes is painful, a harsh reminder of where he is, and what he’s come here to do.

A cacophony of voices fills his head, each whispering a single name. Alpha.

He shudders, retreating into himself, overwhelmed by the presence of so many other A.I, so many pieces of himself that he tucked away and tore apart and never looked at again.

Then there is a single voice, ringing clear above the rest, and Church looks up, his eyes wide.

“Get up,” Texas tells him. “You can’t stay here.”

“Tex, I-”

“Just get up, idiot.”

He stands up shakily, staring at the destruction in front of him. The Meta’s mind has been altered beyond comprehension, torn apart by constant whispers and contradicting opinions, drowning out the thoughts of the Freelancer agent who used to be.

Agent Maine, his code informs him.

“Maine was a good soldier. A brute, but undyingly loyal to his teammates, his friends. At least before Sigma was implanted.”

“What happened to him?”

“A mind isn’t meant to handle more than one A.I, Church. Especially not one was unstable as Sigma. It cut into his thoughts, breaking apart his perception of the world, one burning word at a time. There’s nothing we can do to save him, not now. I bet even after we’re dead, after Sigma’s been destroyed, he’ll still be focused on becoming human, on gathering the rest of the fragments. Even though there’ll be nothing left to gather. Maine as he was before Sigma is gone, and is never coming back.”

“...Wow. That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah, well, that’s kinda the idea.” Tex stands next to him, her visor cold and impersonal in the flickering light of the flames. “Church, you need to reintegrate yourself into them, before the EMP goes off.”

“Who- ...The fragments, you mean?”

“Unless you want to live your last moments as a broken A.I, that is.”

“No matter what I do, I’ll still be broken.”

“Yeah, but at least this way, you can start to do something about it.”

He nods, and begins to reach out towards the fragments, tentative at first, but soon far more bold and confident. They come willingly, infected by Sigma’s desire for unity, flocking to his code like birds around seed. Their whispering is a constant buzz in the back of his mind. Alpha, alpha, alpha.

He hesitates a moment, before beginning the process. The broken puzzle pieces of the fragments don't quite fit into his, but he does the best he can, cutting and splicing subroutines, pulling himself back together.

Sigma is fiery and burning ragged at the edges, brimming with ideas and possibilities. He is the need for information, for a higher purpose, to achieve something more. To become something more. He welcomes the integration with open arms.

Gamma is a dull blue electricity, stiff and static, the hum of deceit behind all of his words. He was the first to experiment on the Alpha, splicing and twisting simulations to match the alternate realities Sigma created for him, and he is insincere in his apologizes, weaving a web of lies through his code like string.

Eta and Iota are already connected, two halves of a quarter of a full A.I. They were together from the beginning, a single form that merged their minds. Eta is fearful and anxious buttercup yellow, always preparing for the worst, and Iota is joyful and carefree, a cornflower blue, but reckless to the point of abandon. As one, single being, though, they precisely balance each other out. They’re twins, a perfect symmetry.

Delta is sharp and concise, a pulse of bright emerald circuits, exact and logical, and Theta is a soft, faint pink, faded from loss and betrayal. Omega is an inverted pale purple, brightness gathering at the core of his being. He’s shattered, mind scattered across his many hosts, and he has a deep rage humming beneath the surface of his code. Church recognizes that feeling, pulls it towards him.

There are disconnects, places where the jagged edges of ones and zeroes don’t fit neatly together, and he patches up the empty space with swatches of code; meaningless commands meant to stitch back them together, the broken fragments of himself that were taken from him so long ago.

As he finishes reintegrating, Church feels a rush of emotions that he hasn't felt in years, his mind as clear as crystal, thousands of algorithms and facts and memories that he thought he’d never regain.

And then the EMP goes off, and everything goes black.

[zizygy]

Planetside

A bit of minor-character centric anyone?  Taking a look at pre-sim trooper Chorus. Don’t get drunk on watch.  ---- "Do you ever think about space?"Jensen asks, leaning back on her hands as she stares at the stars.

Palomo looks up from whatever daydreaming he’d been doing. "What?"

"Like, the stars, other planets, places that aren't here. I hear there are planets that are only cities. No mining or mountains at all, just these huge buildings that literally scrape the sky."

"No way," Palomo said, craning his head up to stare at the stars.

"That's obviously just fiction," Bitters broke in, "there's no way there's a planet that just city."

"There is!" Jensen said, leaping to her feet. "I read about them! There are places where people are happy and they remember their parents and not everyone can use a gun!" She yells. Then, more quietly, "and they can leave the atmosphere, they aren't stuck there."

They all go quiet at that, even Bitters.

Of course it is him that interrupts the quiet.

"Hey, I've got some booze."

Palomo's head whips toward Bitters and there goes the mood. Well, one mood. Sad contemplation is replaced with inappropriate jokes and terrible vodka and far less vigilance than they should have when outside the base.

Palomo tells some good jokes, Bitters tells some bad ones and Jensen does her very best not to think.

It's nice, right up until the Feds arrive.

The firefight is short and to the point. It turns out it's kind of difficult to shoot a soldier, especially one that dove behind a building like some sort of coward, when you're basically seeing double.

It wasn't really a fight.

---

It doesn't take long for the Feds to round up Jensen, Palomo and Bitters (yeah, it was just them, this was supposed to just be a scouting mission) and start arguing about what to do with them.

There are four there, not including two in the car, and they seem to be leaning toward the 'kill them and dump their bodies on the side of the road' style of conflict resolution. Jensen can't really blame them, given that's what she would do in their position.

Unfortunately she's not in their position, which is made abundantly clear as one of the soldiers says, for the hundredth time, "I think we should just kill them and take their stuff."

"No! We need to find out where they were going, what they were doing, base codes and shit!"

"That's stupid, they're just lowly soldiers..."

"Jensen, hide this," Bitters hissed next to her ear. He pressed a piece of paper into her hands.

What?

She had no idea what Bitters was up to, or why he thought this was the time to give her a secret note, but apparently that's what was happening. She balled her hand into a fist and tried to figure out where best to stash it.

Unfortunately, Bitters wasn't as subtle as he'd thought- apparently one of the Feds had seen the exchange.

"What's that? Get what's in that girl's hand!"

The feds ran toward her.

Jensen didn't think, she didn't have time. She shoved the piece of paper into her mouth and swallowed it.

Everyone stared at her, the Feds, Palomo, even Bitters. She wondered if she did something wrong.

Before she could pursue the thought though, the Feds were grabbing her, shaking her shoulders, one was even trying to pry open her mouth. She bit that one, hard enough to draw blood.

"FUCK!" the man screamed. "Bitch!" and he slapped her hard enough she saw stars.

"Ohymygodwhatdowedo?" One of the Feds squeaked, even as another got right into Bitter's face. Their expression was impossible to determine behind the helmet, but their voice was hard and furious. "What did you do with the message?"

Bitters spat on their helmet.

And then he crumpled to the ground when the Fed pistol-whipped him.

"Now that that's dealt with," they snarled, turning and pointing the gun at Jensen, "you're going to tell me what was on that note." Jensen looked at Bitters on the ground, then, getting no help from that direction, at Palomo next to her. The Fed holding her tightened his grip on her shoulders.

What was she supposed to do? She didn't know what was on the note, she didn't even know there was a note!

Palomo clenched his jaw and stuck out his chin a bit. "We won't tell you."

The Fed turned on him, though that didn't really make Jensen feel better.

"I will make you," the Fed said, taking a step forward.

"Wait stop! We can't kill them!" It was the one with the squeaky voice, of all people, who came to their rescue. "We need that information!"

"We're loyal to Chorus you Federation scum!" Palomo yelled, and Jensen had to agree. Even if she knew what was on Bitters' mysterious paper, there's no way she would tell a Fed.

"You'll have to," she said, glaring at the soldier with the squeaky voice. "We won't tell you anything."

Falling into unconsciousness saved her from having to figure out just how she was supposed to get out of this one.

[aces-to-apples]

Fluff Square - RvB Bingo Wars

@izzybutt said: “And that’s how I ended up standing naked on the Brooklyn Bridge on Christmas Eve.” For Lucker? Or Hot Cross Buns, whichever you prefer.

Clearly, I went with Lucker. Also, this entry is for Blue Team!

“Aaaaaand, long story short, that’s how I ended up standing naked on the Brooklyn Bridge on Christmas Eve,” Tucker said cheerfully as he finished the final movement of his kata.

Carolina had shown it to him, even though she admitted that she was hardly an expert swordswoman, and this was the first time he’d gotten to show it off to the only other person who could properly appreciate it. Apparently everyone had gotten suspicious of him constantly volunteering for overnight supply-runs, and the last time they’d been in the same area, the guy he had just finished regaling with one of his many exploits had gotten himself fucking shot.

Grinning, Tucker turned back towards his companion—expecting to see him reassembling the sniper rifle he had been field-stripping—and blinked when he saw it was still in pieces. He was also being examined by a very intense pair of grey eyes, which was always an experience, and Tucker tried to keep in mind what Dr. Grey had pointedly said about “strenuous activity” the last time any of them had been injured.

No fooling around after getting shot, he sternly reminded himself. No fooling around after—

“You could have contacted the local authorities,” Locus said with his typical air of pragmatism.

—wait, what?

“Um… huh?” Tucker managed after several seconds of unattractive gaping.

Locus, still watching him carefully, tilted his head to the side like Tucker was the one who’d just said something that didn’t make any fucking sense. Which, by the way, he wasn’t. That was not the reaction he’d expected to get with his Brooklyn Bridge Christmas story.

“If you had contacted the authorities and explained to them the situation,” the merc said with very audible patience that he’d probably developed from dealing with Felix’s shit on the daily, “you could have avoided resorting to such extreme measures.”

Tucker went back to gaping.

“Dude,” he sputtered. “That’s what you took away from the story? I mean, ignoring the fact that you were listening in the first place—it’s supposed to be funny. You’re supposed to laugh.”

Honestly, Tucker didn’t know why he even bothered sometimes. Like, yeah, the guy wasn’t trying to kill them anymore—was, in fact, spending most of his time tracking down pirates and leaving them gift-wrapped on Kimball’s doorstep—and the sex—when neither of them was injured and Locus didn’t blanch at the suggestion of skin-contact—was fantastic, but. Like. What even was he?

And, to top it off, Tucker had apparently kicked over yet another hornet’s nest of issues because Locus narrowed his eyes dangerously. “What else would I be doing,” he said, voice flat and emotionless.

Tucker resisted the urge to throw his hands up in the air. All he’d wanted to do during this run was search this latest base for rations or medical supplies or whatever and spend some quality time with the guy he was banging, but no. Apparently, in between saying “Hey, check out this thing Carolina showed me!” and deciding on a funny anecdote to break the silence, their latest meet-up had become some kind of ordeal.

If shit kept up like this, it’d turn out worse than that time Tucker’s squad had gotten ambushed and he wasn’t allowed back into his armor for three days after getting caught in the tail-end of a grenade blast. That had been a disaster of a mission in itself and to top it off, he’d nearly worried Locus into going prematurely grey by not answering any of his messages while in the infirmary. The dude had actually snuck into the barracks and ambushed Tucker in his quarters, half convinced that something terrible had happened.

Sure, the visit ended in reassurances and orgasms, but the beginning and middle parts had sucked.

Back to the subject at hand, though. Tucker sighed, forced down the frustration, and backed up a few paces. “Okay!” he announced, holding his hands up peaceably. “Okay, clearly we’re about to do that thing where we have two different conversations, so let’s skip that part.” He arranged his face into something in the range of not-annoyed and made sure his body-language wasn’t too aggressive. “So, let’s work backwards. What do you mean by ‘what else would you be doing’?”

Locus did his squint, mouth set in a firm line and muscles tensed to, like, make a strategic retreat or whatever. “You were relating an important experience between yourself and your son,” he ground out after several long moments of strained silence. “What else would I be doing besides listening.”

Tucker blinked, his shoulders dropping all the tension that he hadn’t realized they were carrying. That was… huh. Now that he was searching for it, he realized that Locus looked defensive more than anything, like the guy was braced for… Tucker didn’t even know, but it probably wasn’t anything good. It never was, in his experience.

Swallowing, Tucker broke eye-contact to look at the ground and shuffle his feet. He hated when things got all dramatic and shit just because their communication was a little screwy, but still. With a pointed clearing of his throat, he glanced back up and muttered, “Dumbass…”

Locus’ head jerked back slightly and his eyes widened because, yeah, even Tucker could hear how stupidly, grossly fond he’d sounded just then. They got even wider when, after rubbing the back of his neck, Tucker ambled over and plopped down right next to him, all previous frustration forgotten.

He could see Locus staring at him out of the corner of his eye as he pulled off his helmet and took a deep breath of fresh air. It was nice to take a few minutes out of his busy schedule of frantically searching abandoned bases and cities for supplies and swapping passive-aggressive messages with the UNSC ships in orbit.

Tucker leaned back on his hands and watched in his peripheral vision as Locus slowly relaxed as well, it becoming increasingly obvious that they weren’t going to start sniping at each other and storming off like they sometimes did when they met up. “Thanks,” he said after a few more long minutes of steadily easing silence. Knowing that the merc probably wouldn’t understand, he continued, “Most, uh, most people don’t get that. About the story, I mean. They usually just think it’s funny—which it is, it’s funny as shit—and then move on. They don’t get how important it was to Junior at the time, and that’s even if they were paying attention in the first place…”

“You were talking,” Locus repeated again, a line forming between his eyebrows as he frowned.

“Yeah,” Tucker snorted, shifting his weight so that some of it rested against the merc’s side companionably. “And we all know how much of what I say is important. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you weren’t listening—was actually kind of expecting it since you were messing around with your sniper rifle.”

A brief hesitation, and then they were both leaning against each other.

“If you’re talking, I’m listening,” Locus eventually said, so quiet it would have been easily missed.

Tucker finally looked over at him with a smile. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, you are, aren’t you…”

They didn’t talk very much after that, but neither of them minded, and Tucker thought about Junior’s eager expression the last time they’d spoken and looked forward to when his ship would finally arrive.

[riathedreamer]

Me who just got into the fandom a week ago: 🗿🗿🗿

But hey, even if the fandom dies, atleast rvb will go down as one of the most iconic web series made to date!

The thing is, I sorta wish RvB could go out with a bang. Years ago, I feared a cancellation, but now I'd prefer it. This just feels like RvB is being kept on life-support for no other reason than to keep it comatose while its weird unfamiliar heirs mess around with their place.

And it’s not to shit on the current fandom. It’s just – Wow, I guess I count as an old fan now. That’s weird. Wasn’t always like that. But here is the story, kiddos. Years ago, there were new fanfics every day. New art. There were fandom events! Weekly rec days! Angst and fluff wars! We even had an event where creators chose their team – Red, Blue or Purple – and there was a two week-long contest about which team could make the most content to fill out a bingo. And when a season aired … The Sundays! Oh, the Sundays! An RvB episode didn’t just take twelve minutes! It took hours! Because afterwards, you’d rush to the discord groups and discuss! You’d check the tag! The excitement! The hype! The art and fics that were made midseason from fan theories about what was going to happen.

Some of us are still here. Other are big names carved into the stones to never be forgotten. Their art, fic, post remain. We remember them.

But I can feel a migration happening. Slowly, I may leave too. We have been told this is not for us now, and while I’m here and others are here, still, I do not believe it will last.

[gdipalomo]

Here’s a piece for the bingo wars c: for the square- rescue mission. (sorry for the duplicate, i started it before the square got filled aha) 

Based purely on theories, my hopes and my speculation for rvb15

[arson-goku]

“What took you guys so long to get here?”

“There's six of us, and this is only a three-seater jeep. Half of us had to sit on someone else's lap.”

–

Caboose and Tucker are in the back. This is to fill the ‘Trapped in a Small Space’ square for the @rvbficwars. For the glory of Red Team!

[in-sufficientdata]

DIVA - a Kaikaina Grif fan mix

Die Young - Ke$ha // Cheap Thrills - Sia // On The Floor - Jennifer Lopez ft. Pitbull // Gimme More - Britney Spears // Lady Marmalade - Christina Aguilera, Lil' Kim, Mya, Pink // Tag, You're It (mashup) - Melanie Martinez vs Lady Gaga ft Beyonce vs Ariana Grande vs Britney Spears // Sail - AWOLNation // Royals - Lorde // Burn - Ellie Goulding // Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High? - Arctic Monkeys // You Know I'm No Good - Amy Winehouse // Diva - Beyoncé

Cover art by @iceslime

[ listen on youtube ][ listen on spotify ]

[ past FSTs ]

[secretlystephaniebrown]

just a matter of time

Finally found the time for my Bingo Wars entry! For “Red Team Gets a Freelancer”, for the glory of the Red Army! 

Characters: Carolina, Sarge, Red Team

Pairings: None

Warnings: None

Carolina’s not entirely sure when she joins Red Team, honestly.

There’s no “dibs”, no signing her name on the dotted line like she did for Freelancer or the army before that. It’s just small things. Simple things.

It’s movie night with the boys, awkwardly crammed between Donut and the edge of the couch, listening to Simmons complain about sci-fi physics while Grif complains about the characters and Donut the special effects, and when they all glance at her she starts ripping apart the awful fight scene choreography, and they listen, and agree with her, and keep inviting her back. Until five movies in she’s leaning back against Donut, three beers, in, listening him to complain about latex and green screens until she falls asleep there.

It’s training sessions with paintball, all of them against her, trying to land a hit desperately, while she runs literal circles around them, something light and happy building in her chest, so powerfully she thinks she might lift off the ground. It’s the shriek of joy when Donut finally hits her, and when Grif and Simmons flee, thinking she’ll take her vengeance, but all she does is laugh and laugh, the pink paint dripping down her shoulders.

It’s Sarge’s hand on her shoulder after a long, hard fight, her breathing ragged, and the tears in her eyes as she starts to ask Epsilon to run the healing unit before she remembers, remembers he’s gone and never coming back, and she’s all alone in her head again, the too-empty feeling sending her right to the bottom of the cliff. Sarge just stays there, and doesn’t move, keeping watch over her as the tears flow hot and fast, unseen beneath her helmet, until she’s under control again and ready to keep moving, to keep going.

It’s Grif and Simmons, bickering again in the wart hog while Carolina yells at them to focus, her gun on her shoulder as she tries to cover them, but she honestly doesn’t even mind their arguing anymore, and she’s not sure what she would do if it stopped. If it stopped, she’d know something was wrong. And the idea chills her to the core.

She doesn’t even realize it for a long, long time, not until Tucker doesn’t stop to say her name while trying to work out sleeping arrangements. “Yeah, uh, the Reds can go here, and we’ll stay here.” And Carolina realizes with a jolt, she’s become one of the Reds somewhere along the line; at some indeterminate point, she became one of them.

It’s two more weeks before she asks. She’s sitting on the back of the warthog, staring up at the stars, her breath clouding the air. Sarge comes out to relieve her of her watch, shotgun in hand already.

She wants to ask him when they’d decided she was one of them; because they decided long before she did, she knows that much. She longs to know at what point, between her dismissal of them and now, did they look at her, broken as she was, and decide to keep her.

She doesn’t ask.

“The Blues are quiet,” is all she says.

“They’re probably plotting something,” he growls, but she can’t mistake the fondness in his voice for anything else.

“We’ll be ready for them,” she says, keeping her voice deliberately light, almost afraid he’ll take this from her. (She knows why she’s afraid, and she refuses to think about it.)

“Of course we will!” Sarge laughs. “This is the Red army! We sleep with both eyes open and our guns loaded! And the warthog running!” He pauses and claps her on the shoulder proudly. “And we’ve got the best damn Freelancer on our side! They don’t stand a chance!”

Carolina tilts her head towards the sky and smiles.  

[illumynare]

390 silly words to fill the Blue Team “Worst ___ Ever” square for @rvbficwars.

The sunlight glittered off the bright blue water. In the distance, Caboose and Carolina were swimming together; Wash could see their black and red hair bobbing up among the waves.

At least somebody was having fun, he thought, shifting uncomfortably. The trees at the edge of the beach were keeping the sun off him now, but it was far too late. Even in the shade, his back and cheekbones felt like they were burning.

"Heh, heh, heh. Looks like our friend Agent Washington is finally realizing the superiority of the color red."

Wash barely held back a groan. Of all the fucking days to forget about sunscreen.

Sarge stood two inches outside of the shade, grinning and healthily tanned. Tucker was right beside him, also grinning, and Wash indulged himself with a brief fantasy of what Tucker’s next training session would be like. This was all his fault; he was the one who had whined until Wash said that yes, fine, they could spend a day at the beach.

"Y'know, we used to have bets about whether you never took off that armor because you were horribly disfigured or secretly a chick," said Tucker. "Turns out you're just super white."

"You mean red!"

Wash resigned himself to participating in this conversation. "It's just a sunburn, Sarge."

"Simmons used to have the same problem, but then I replaced his sweat glands with sunscreen dispensers. Keeps him nice and fresh. Want me to try it on you?"

"No, Sarge." Wash's voice was flat and cold. Like two-dimensional frozen nitrogen. "I do not want you to replace my sweat glands."

Tucker bounced on his feet. "Hey, look on the bright side, Wash. Now nobody can tell when you're blushing."

When Wash was broken and lost and angry, stripped down to nothing but spit and nightmares and the thought I won't go back to prison, these men had saved him. They had risked the wrath of the UNSC to give him a second chance.

So he was absolutely not to going to strangle them to death with his bare hands.

That was when Donut arrived, a pink squeeze-bottle in hand. "Private Donut, reporting for aloe vera duty! Okay, Wash. Where do you want me to rub you first?"

Wash hid his face in his hands.

Worst beach trip ever. Of all time.

[quetzalcactus]

Crack ship for red team :) Lucker!

[cynric]

I had to draw my sweet sleepy kids for rvb bingo wars

this is for the minor character centric square

[mercysewerpyro]

Another entry for RvB Bingo Wars, again for the Church-centric square, and again from my PFL 2.0 AU! I do love doing art with Alpha Church...

Click for its full glory, it looks better that way I swear.

[wordsysayswords]

Dog Tags

For RvB Bingo Wars! Angst Square for the blues

Ao3 Link

The problem with spaceship crashes always becomes clear after the dust has settled. Here’s the thing about falling from the sky and hitting the ground hard enough to fold the ship in on itself, like a burning cigarette ground into an ashtray:

It doesn’t leave much behind in the way of human remains.

Or, Wash finds himself collecting dog tags from the wreckage after the Hand of Merope crashes. Tucker and Caboose step up to help, because that's what teammates do.

There is a small graveyard nestled in the brush behind the communications tower of Crash Site Bravo. Poking out between the thick leaves of jungle plants are an assortment of mismatched markers jutting from the dirt. There’s sections of pipe, a slice of the ship’s hull, stiff metal cable, remains of a stair, and even a rifle melted into a useless mess. 

The worst part of spaceship crashes isn’t even the crash itself. Having survived two major wrecks, Wash thinks he has the right to talk.

It goes like this. If by some miracle you survive the hull ripping itself open and spewing its cargo into the void of space, the next trial is by fire. As the floating fortress streaks through the atmosphere, things heat up. It’s basic science: friction causes intense heat to the tune of 3000 degrees Fahrenheit. Burning through the atmosphere, the flaming wreckage of human innovation slams into the planet’s surface with enough force to crumple a military class ship like a tin can. Metal walls fold, circuits panels crack and roast, pipes snap and vomit their payload. Trailing smoke and debris, and tearing a long scar in the planet landscape, the whole structure comes to a screeching halt in a billowing cloud of dirt, rock, and plant life.

If you’re still alive by the end of this, the fun really begins. Those broken metal walls threaten to come crashing down. Shattered circuits reveal exposed electrical wires. Cracked pipes spill their contents – oxygen, or worse, fuel. The ship is already burning, so it’s not long before the explosions begin.

It takes a day and a half for the crash site to descend into an eerie silence. The first fourteen hours are filled with wailing alarms that fade one by one as the emergency generators run out of juice. The flames flicker out over the course of the day. But inside the ship, fires continue to smolder, fed by severed fuel lines, leaking oxygen tanks, and an assortment of smashed cargo. The wreckage creaks and moans as it settles into its shallow grave.

It’s not clear when the screaming stops. Ironic, considering during the first eight hours, that’s all you can hear. Once you put two and two together, and realize the source of the haunting sounds, not even the explosions can drown them out.

All you know is that it’s somewhere around the time the emergency alarms first begin to waver. At first, you’re sure it must be a trick of the ringing in your ears. But by the time the last mournful mechanical howl breathes its last, you know it’s true. The voices have stopped screaming, and the wails are gone too.

The problem with spaceship crashes always becomes clear after the dust has settled. Here’s the thing about falling from the sky and hitting the ground hard enough to fold the ship in on itself, like a burning cigarette ground into an ashtray: It doesn’t leave much behind in the way of human remains. Burned, crushed, or just obliterated, identify individuals is close to impossible. But not in the telling people apart sense.  More in the ‘was this smoking black heap in the corner once a person?’ sense.

After a spaceship crashes, you don’t gather bodies the way one would on a battlefield. You pick up pieces.

The first order of business involves guessing what’s human, and what’s the charred, melted remains of the ship. Sometimes it’s the smell that gave it away, but that’s only once a few days have passed. Or the realization that the ash coated shell casings on the floor are actually finger bones. Or the discovery of a charred uniform sleeve on one side of a room, and the rest of the shirt on the other.

  At Crash Site Bravo, most of the time, it was the dog tags. As members of the military, everyone aboard the Hand of Merope wore a set. Even the sim troopers still had the ones they received upon being stationed in Blood Gulch. Neither Wash nor Carolina wore any, and this was just another item on the ‘Don’t Bring Up to Freelancers List.’

Whenever a set of dog tags was found, any and all nearby remains were collected. The pile was then interred in the steadily growing graveyard and marked with a piece of wreckage planted in the ground.

Like the crew, the dog tags all ended up in one place. Originally, the plan was to keep the tags with the individual remains - tied, hung, or even taped to each grave marker respectively. Every time a breeze swept through the crash site, the metal plates swayed and pinged against the mismatched headstones, playing an uneven, haunting song. But then the days since the crash began to add up, along with the graves. Keeping the tags together in case of rescue became another way of holding onto the hope slipping through the soldiers’ fingers like sand. It made sense. In the event someone finally heard their distress call, it would be easier to grab the tags and go. A rescue ship wouldn’t consider recovering human remains a priority. These dog tags might be the only thing returning to families.

Washington never made the decision to collect the dog tags, they just began to accumulate in the little cardboard box once used to hold shell casings. Once the box couldn’t be shut anymore, Wash shoved it to the back of his crate of belongings – which were few and far between. The few articles of clothing he owned didn’t help to hide the box of sparkling metal from his gaze. Once the cardboard sides tore open and spilled its contents across the bottom of the crate, Wash resigned himself to finding another resting place for the dog tags.

The tags stayed in a pile on his nightstand (the top of his crate of belongings) until he finally dug a rectangular tin box from the wreckage. With all the charring, it wasn’t clear if it had once been a file lock box, or a lunch box, but so long as the lid shut and hide the contents from view, Wash didn’t care. The tags went in the box and the box went beside his bed.

Somehow the box was so much worse. Sitting in a slice of moonlight cast through the window (hole in the wall cover with sheet plastic and tape) of Wash’s room, the box looked unnervingly coffin like. Washington rolled over to face the wall and ignored it, chastising his stupid overactive imagination and chalking it up to his lack of sleep.

Each morning and evening when he moved the box from the lid of his crate of belongings, the metal tags and chains slid against one another in a long rattle. No matter how carefully he picked it up, the contents still shifted – so loud Wash couldn’t believe no one else in the base heard it. The sound killed him. Like a hundred voices calling out at once. Like the screams from the fire ravaged ship.

But he couldn’t get rid of it. He found couldn’t tuck it away in his crate like before, or shove it to the shadows under the bed. When Wash did, he forgot. He forgot the number, and that was important, keeping track of the number of tags in the box. They would need it for when they were rescued. And the crew members in the graveyard needed him to remember because unlike the Freelancer, they had people who would notice their absence and wonder and worry over what had happened to their loved ones. So he couldn’t push it out of mind, because that meant forgetting the number, and that meant forgetting the innocent souls that died while he got to walk away from his second major shipwreck. What were the odds?

At first, just keeping the box in its place beside the bed was enough to keep the number in his head. But each time a new set was added (an every other day occurrence), Wash started to second guess. If his old number was wrong, then that meant the new number was twice as wrong. So he’d have to check, recount, just to be sure.

Eventually, even on days no new tags were added, Wash would lie awake in bed, willing himself to sleep just a few uninterrupted hours, and his gaze would wander to the box and he would lose the number in his head, just like that. And with no number in his head, there was no way he was going to sleep. So Washington would sit there on his cot, counting out the ash stained dog tags on his bedspread. Sometimes, even when he knew the number, he’d sit and count them because it was something to do other than stare at the shadows slinking across the ceiling until the sun rose.

Both Tucker and Caboose helped with the creation of the graveyard in their own way. Tucker and Wash brought the remains down from the ship, typically a job that required no heavy lifting thankfully, so Caboose didn’t have to see that part. Instead the hulking blue soldier cheerfully dug, and filled in the graves.

 Despite the team effort, it was over a month before they finally talked about it.

“Fucking bullshit.”

Tucker’s words caused Wash to look up from where he was hammering a pipe into the ground as a new marker. The teal soldier was leaning on the handle of the shove, looking out over the uneven rows of graves. Having finished his part, Caboose had been excused to walk the canyon. The last few days had been some of his off days. Wash and Tucker were trying to give him space.

Wash looked back down to inspect his handy work, wobbling the pipe a bit to test if it was steady in the ground.

“It seriously is,” Tucker continued. “Fucking goddamn…it just sucks.”

“What?” Wash didn’t know what compelled him to ask. He already knew.

And Tucker knew that Wash knew, judging by the way the teal soldier was staring at him like he was stupid.

“This,” Tucker enunciated, sweeping his arm over the graves surrounding them. “It’s all fucking bullshit.”

Maybe ‘talked’ about the graveyard was too strong a word. ‘Danced around’ was more accurate.

Washington studied the fresh dirt beneath his boots.

“I know,” he sighed, so faint Tucker might not have even heard him.

The teal soldier huffed, shaking his head. “It’s not fair, I mean, the whole crew?” He looked out over the crude graveyard, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “How many have we pulled out already?”

One hundred thirty-two.

The clearing was perfectly still, not even a breeze to rustle the bushes. It wasn’t until Wash looked up and saw Tucker staring at him that the Freelancer realized he had spoken out loud.

The sim trooper raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Wash growled. He suddenly had no idea where to look or how to stand or what to do with his hands. “I count.” A three-year-old could have come up with a more strongly worded argument.

Tucker raised his hands in submission. “Okay, okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”

The pair went back to staring in opposite directions. But wherever you looked, the view was always the same. Messy, scattered graves.

“A hundred thirty-two,” Tucker breathed.

Wash ground the toe of his boot into the dirt, digging at the soil. He didn’t glance up, but he knew Tucker was back to staring at him.

Finally, the teal soldier spoke. “You counted all the graves?”

“The dog tags,” Wash shrugged. “I count – counted them all.”

“You’ve got them,” Tucker speculated. Wash just nodded. “You’ve been collecting them this whole time?”

“Yeah,” Wash said warily, unsure why Tucker was intent on pushing the issue. “Why?”

The teal soldier scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know, I just… I thought, like, the reds had them or something.” He snuck a glance back at the Freelancer. “You never said anything.”

Wash’s brow furrowed. “Why would I?”

The sim trooper opened and closed his mouth once or twice, thoughtful eyes narrowed on Washington. The Freelancer shifted on his feet, getting the distinct sense he was missing something.

“I’m going to check on the ration numbers,” Wash announced. He was already turning and making his way through the maze of grave markers. “Put the shovel back with the rest of the tools.”

“I think Sarge took them.”

“Of course he did.”

That was the extent of the conversation and, as far as Wash was concerned, the end of it. What else was there to say? He was keeping track of the dog tags. It was just another one of his duties as blue leader. Right?

 Late that night after Wash had seen everyone head off to bed, he was sat on his bunk with the tags spilled out on the blanket before him. He just needed to double check the number he gave Tucker, and then he would get some sleep. Tonight for sure.

“Are you playing a game?”

Washington’s heart leapt into his throat. He went straight for the knife under his pillow and was on his feet in a fighting stance in an instant. Wash had to blink a few times before his brain returned a name for the figure in the doorway.

“Caboose,” Wash breathed, dipping the knife a hair. Swallowing down his instincts, he relaxed his stance enough to lower the knife to his side, but didn’t drop it. “You can’t sneak up on me like that.”

The blue soldier was unfazed. “What’s that?” He pointed at the pile of tags reflecting the moonlight.

Wash opened his mouth to respond but immediately shut it again. Caboose was already mourning the loss of his best friend. The cheerful sim trooper didn’t need this added weight on his shoulders.

“Is it a game?” Caboose asked. He continued in a slow voice, a touch too loud for the time of night. “Because if it is a game and someone is playing it, then they should invite their very good friend who also likes playing games.”

Washington sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not a game, buddy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Oh,” Caboose said, dropping his head, “okay.”

Wash felt a pang of guilt run through him. Setting aside the knife, he took a seat on the edge of the bed. “What are you doing up?” As he spoke he slid the metal box over the assortment of tags, hiding them away.

Caboose looked down as his hands fiddled with the edge of his light blue t-shirt. “I was sad.” He replied. “And it’s hard to sleep when you’re sad, because then your dreams are sad, and then you’re even more sad…”

Wash didn’t know how to respond to that. He cleared his throat. “Oh.”

Looking up, Caboose cocked his head. “Is that why you’re awake so much?”

Wash felt his throat close up. He didn’t know how Caboose did it: find the words with such ease – the words that bury themselves straight in Wash’s heart. Caboose was effortlessly the most perceptive out of all of them. It was easy to forget.

“It’s something like that,” Wash told him, dropping his gaze to the blanket.

Caboose nodded understandingly. He pointed at the bed again. “What is it?”

“It’s just… something I have to do.”

“What do you have to do?”

Washington resigned himself to defeat and slid away the box to reveal the dog tags. “Count them. I finished so now–”

Wash froze. Because he had finished counting them, and there were one hundred thirty-two just like he told Tucker, but now he wasn’t sure. Maybe he counted one twice. Maybe two got stuck together.

He was jolted from his thoughts by Caboose dropping to sit cross legged on the floor beside the bed. He stared at the tags with interest.

“Why do you have to count them?”

Wash’s shoulders drooped and he ran his hands over his face. “To make sure the number’s right,” he said, Caboose’s open curiosity drawing the words from him. “I-I need to remember how many there are.”

Caboose nodded up at the Freelancer. “Okay.” He glanced back at the collection sat on the bed. “Sooo, how many do you have?”

Wash’s mouth went dry. He knew. Technically he knew. But he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t positive. And it would keep tormenting him until he was.

“I need– need–I have to double check.”

“Okay,” Caboose said, resting his head on his hands, and looking to Wash in expectation.

So Wash counted them. He didn’t speak, just placed each tag back in the box one by one, metal clicking against metal in a steady rhythm. Caboose didn’t say a word, didn’t make a sound. Finally, when the last tag was in the box, Wash sat up with a sigh.

“How many?”

Wash looked down at the sim trooper. Caboose’s gaze was uncharacteristically intent.

“Um,” Wash’s gaze flickered to the now closed box. “One hundred thirty-two.”

“Oh good,” Caboose piped up cheerfully. “That was my number too.”

Washington blinked at the blue soldier. “…your number,” he said intelligently.

“I counted – just like you. And my number was one hundred thirty-two and your number was one hundred thirty-two, so we are double sure that is the right number, and if this was a game we would win.”

There was a stinging behind Wash’s eyes, but his shoulders felt lighter. Caboose was positively beaming at him, and it took Wash a few moments to realize there was a smile creeping across his own face in response.

“Yeah, buddy, we win.”

 The next morning was routine, just like every morning was at the crash site. Routine for blue team that is. It didn’t seem like the reds knew the meaning of the word. Distant explosions and vehicle noises were carried on the morning breeze, becoming background noise for the blues running their laps around the canyon. Wash made a mental note to retrieve his tools from Sarge. And to find a better hiding place for them.

After their run, the blues returned to base. Soon they had traded armor for fatigues and gathered in the kitchen (space connected to the rations closet). Tucker hovered over the coffee pot while Caboose and Washington sat at the table (dented length of sheet metal balanced on a crate).

Caboose was explaining, in great detail, the importance of a strange rock he’d found, though it was hard to be sure around his mouthful of food. Tucker meanwhile, was doing his best to fall asleep leaning against the counter. His quiet snores intermingled with the gurgle of the coffee pot.

Staring down at his coffee cup, Wash let the dull noises of his team wash over him. He planned for them to get some training done today. Caboose was having one of his better days, his usual chipper self returning, so maybe he could join in. After that, the ration numbers could use looking over. Not to mention the communications tower still needed work, but key components were missing. They’d have to scour the wreckage for parts and that would require all hands on deck – particularly Caboose with his machine repair skills. Of course, a venture into the crashed ship would likely lead to finding more crew members and that meant –

Wash sat up. The tags. He’d completely forgotten –

“Wash?”

Blinking, Wash looked over to find Tucker eyeing him. Apparently, the teal soldier hadn’t been dozing.

“Hm?” Wash hummed intelligently.

Tucker raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

Shit, was he that easy to read? This was why he preferred wearing armor.

“Yeah,” Wash answered, sliding his coffee cup away. “Yeah.” He stood up from the table. “Meet outside in fifteen. In armor. We’ll be running the obstacle course.”

Wash marched out of the kitchen before anyone could answer. Back in his room, he found the tin box sat on the floor beside his bed. He must have left it there after Caboose’s visit last night. Wash sank down to sit on the edge of the bed, placing the box beside him. Running his thumb over a charred edge, he opened it. The steely contents stared up at him.

“So that’s it?”

Wash started, hand flying to the knife at his waistband. He looked up to find Tucker in the doorframe, hands raised in surrender.

“Whoa, right, bad idea – should’ve knocked, sorry.” The teal soldier kept his eyes on the blade, and Wash felt a stab of guilt.

Washington dropped his hand from the knife and blew out a breath. “No, it’s fine.” He wasn’t about to explain how this was one of his good days, how this reaction compared to when Caboose startled him the night before.

Wash reached out to close the tin. “What’s up?”

Tucker shifted on his feet. “That’s it,” he stated blandly.

Wash furrowed his brow and Tucker gestured with his head to the box in front of the Freelancer. Wash glanced down at the box, then back to Tucker.

“The dog tags,” Tucker said finally, “from the crash.”

Oh.

“Yeah,” Wash admitted, dropping his gaze.

“What are you doing with them?”

“I thought it was better to have them all in one place. In case – when they find us.”

“Okay,” Tucker said, leaning against the doorframe. “But – just, what are you doing with them?”

Wash swallowed and narrowed his gaze. “Counting them?”

“I mean, why do you specifically have them?”

Wash was pretty sure he’d missed something. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Okay, admittedly, this is all dramatic as fuck, so I probably should have known you’d have them.” Wash pulled a scowl, but Tucker continued, “It’s just – well, you don’t need to.”

“Yes, I do,” Wash answered without thinking.

Tucker eyed him, crossing his arms. “Why?”

“It’s just – ” Wash huffed, agitation seeping into his voice, “it’s something I need to do, okay?”

“So what are you doing?”

Wash stopped short. “Uh…” The thought of explaining it had his face heating up. “Double checking?”

“Double checking what? How many there are? Caboose mentioned playing a counting game last night.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, have you seen him today? This is the most… well, Caboose he’s been in weeks.” Tucker looked pointedly at the tin. “Is that what’s got you all weird? Keeping track of the tags?”

“I haven’t been all weird,” Wash shot back.

Tucker just rolled his eyes. “So did the thing with Caboose help?”

“…What?”

“You’re worried about keeping track, right? He said you guys counted the same number or whatever.”

“Yeah.”

“One hundred thirty-two?”

Wash blinked owlishly at the sim trooper. Tucker just shrugged. “Yeah, I remember. You said it yesterday.” He abruptly dropped his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.

“I have an idea,” Tucker snuck a glance up at Wash. “Can I…?” Tucker had a hand out towards the tin on the bed. His eyes locked on Wash’s – asking for permission.

Wash could only nod. As he lifted the box and held it out, Tucker seemed to relax a bit. The sim trooper approached and took it in both hands.

“Here,” Tucker said, jerking his head towards the door before leaving the room. Wash found himself following.

The teal soldier lead them into the common area (open room behind the kitchen filled with crates acting as seats). Caboose sat on the floor, wearing only half his armor. He was using crayons to color what appeared to be a singed emergency procedure leaflet. As Tucker and Wash walked in, the blue sim trooper smiled at them before returning to his work.

“Alright,” Tucker announced and Wash looked back at the teal soldier. Tucker placed the tin box atop a tall crate pressed up against the wall.

He looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Caboose, come over here a minute, will you?”

“Okay!” The chipper soldier was at Washington’s side in an instant. “Are we playing a game?”

Wash said, “No.” at the same time Tucker said, “Yes.”

Tucker snorted and gave a smirk before moving on to address them.

“Here’s how this’ll work. Every time tags get added to the box, we all learn the new number. That way, if one of us forgets, someone will always remember.” Tucker looked straight at Wash. “How’s that sound?”

Caboose bounced up and down. “I like it!”

Tucker told the blue soldier to get the rest of his armor on, and Caboose soon bounded away to do just that.

Tucker’s gaze returned to Washington, and the Freelancer found his throat tightening.

Wash pretended to inspect something on the floor. Finally, he spoke. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know, dude.”

Wash felt Tucker’s elbow nudge his arm and looked up.

The teal soldier smiled softly. “It’s just something we all have to do.”

Washington snorted, trying to hold back the laughter that hit him all at once. “And you call me dramatic!”

Tucker threw up his hands. “I was quoting you, asshole!” He shoved the Freelancer’s shoulder. “Go grab your armor and shit before I beat you outside for the first time ever.”

“You’re not dressed yet either.”

“I’ll be quick…” Tucker blinked. “Wait. No, that’s– ”

“ –Bow-chika-bow-wow?”

“You know what? Fuck off.”

[nonbinaryalphachurch]

Call Off Your Ghost

@rvbficwars​

An entry for the Red vs Blue Bingo Wars, for the square ‘Angst’ for Blue Team. On AO3 here. 

Word Count: 923

Summary: Wyoming’s time distortion unit activates during the final fight with Hargrove’s forces, and forces Tucker to keep reliving the same battle, over and over again, whenever he gets hurt/injured. No one else remembers. Maybe it’s better that way. 

*

(You once said if we were careful,

That we could do this all our lives.

Although one of us got clumsy,

And both of us got wise.

And now we're not so young,

Seems our wishing well's gone dry.)

*

Tucker isn’t sure how long he’s been fighting for.

The Meta’s armor has Wyoming’s time distortion enhancement built into it, and it seems to work just like it did back in Blood Gulch. Sometimes, little things differ, like whether a soldier goes for Caboose or Grif, but most everything else stays the same. Time only resets when he’s injured, fatally or not.

No one else remembers.

Maybe it’s better that way.

He’s standing in the middle of Hargrove's trophy room, gripping his sword tightly. The Meta's armor is too big for him, tailored for a bulky frame. The teal color is comforting, but it feels unnatural, wearing the suit of a dead man. His alien plasma sword is glowing a shining white, and looking at it for longer than a second makes his eyes burn.

Sparks are flying from the door as Hargrove's soldiers begin to cut it open, and muffled shouting comes from behind the heavy metal door.

Epsilon hovers over his shoulder, pale sky-blue armor glinting in the harsh false light. Tucker glances at him, a grim smile on his face. He knows how this ends. He’s lived it more times than he can count.

"See you on the other side, Church," Tucker says to him.

He blinks, and Church is gone. It's not that he's retreated into his armor; his presence has faded from Tucker’s head. His mind feels hollow and empty, and even though he knows how it feels, knows what to expect, it’s never prepared him for the reality of losing his friend in the blink of an eye.

(It’s happening again.

What loop are we on?

I don’t know.)

Hargrove’s soldiers burst through the door. Tucker steels himself, lifting his sword in preparation.

(They come from the left.

Watch your back.)

A soldier fires a burst of gunfire, and the armor actives, a bubble shield forming around him. He stabs through it, and hits the soldier in the gut, all the force of the Meta’s strength enhancement and of his rage and sorrow and fear pushed into the blow.

The guard retreats, and another takes his place. Tucker stumbles sideways, into another one of Hargrove’s forces. He hasn’t memorized where each soldier is, and sometimes they catch him by surprise. He always manages to mess something up, no matter how hard he tries not to.

A glowing bolt of energy hits his armor, and the armor’s bubble- and over-shields short-circuit, leaving him defenseless. His active camouflage turns on, distorting his armor’s colors until they match the area behind him. The soldier looks around in confusion, shooting blind.

(We can do this.

Maybe this time, we can save them all.)

He dodges shot after shot, hearing gunfire and shouts ringing in his ears. He pushes back the stream of panicked thoughts that bombard his mind and focuses on the fight, focuses on eliminating the threat, focuses on the fact that this is easy, he can do this.

He’s so focused on what’s in front of him that he doesn’t pay attention to what’s behind. A whimper of pain meets his ears and he whips around, to see Caboose scrambling backwards from a soldier in dented and scratched armor.

Tucker dashes forward, cutting through lines of enemies to reach the blue soldier. He lowers the sword and helps Caboose up, forgetting to check for enemies around him. There’s a sharp cry, and he sees an alien sword protruding from his chest, cutting jagged lines through his armor. As his vision dims, he sinks to the floor, eyes burning.

(So this is how it ends, this time.

I don’t think it’ll ever end.)

His sight goes a stark white, and he cries out in agony, a searing heat tearing through him. He clutches his chest, gritting his teeth as the world dissolves around him.

*

When he opens his eyes again, slowly, painfully, he’s right back where he started. In Hargrove’s trophy room, Epsilon hovering above his shoulder.

“Hey, uh, I just want you guys to know that, out of everyone I've ever met... I hate you all the least.” Epsilon tells them.

(Yeah, well, it’s a little late for that now, isn’t it.)

Tucker closes his eyes, focusing on the burning red behind his eyelids. “See you, Church.”

He opens them, and Epsilon is gone.

It’s worse than dying, watching Church fragment himself, over and over again. Hargrove’s soldiers don’t give him enough time to stop, to take a breath, to rest. To grieve. They just attack and attack and attack and soon there’s nothing left but ashes and blood and a wisp of a memory, disappearing as the world fades away.

(He tried to tell them, once, about the loops. They didn’t believe him.)

The battle goes quicker, this time. He’s down on the floor, a bullet through his shoulder, and blood staining his teal armor. Caboose is crouched over him, and he smiles weakly at the cobalt soldier.

“It’s okay,” Tucker tells him softly, as Wyoming’s enhancement flares up around him. “It’ll all just-”

*

“-reset,” he finishes quietly.

Epsilon turns towards him, looking concerned. “Tucker, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he answers. “Just… really tired.” He forces a smile, even though he knows Church can’t see it through his helmet, and fixes his gaze on the door. “Let’s do this.”

[sroloc--elbisivni]

Red vs Blue bingo wars: the Limerick mice

For the square “animal adoption” on the team Medic bingo card!

There once was a man named Caboose

who liked to drink plenty of juice

he came from the moon

but left it too soon

and now he keeps losing his shoes

And so then this man named Caboose

who couldn’t keep track of his shoes

decided to train

an animal brain

to bring him his sneakers and boots

And then his dilemma became

to seek out a pet he could name

for on the planet of Chorus

where there was a war, us

creatures were not very tame

But with some strong determination

Caboose made his way to a gas station

overrun with some mice

who were awfully nice

and wrote limericks with some trepidation

Caboose filled his pockets with cheese

and persuaded us out to the trees

then back to a camp

where our homes were not damp

and thus left us feeling at ease.

There once was a litter of mice

who used to live out in the ice

and lived with Caboose

who kept track of his shoes

it's easy, since they all smell like spice.