Work Text:
“What’s with the scowl?”
Temple’s thoughts are forced away from the paper in front of him, and he looks up, expression softening into a frown. “Huh?”
Biff has leaned himself back in his chair with his feet comfortably resting on top of the table. “You’re looking like a villain trying to scrawl down your plans of how to take over the world.” His hands are folded behind his head. “Brighten up a bit. Or do you need a snack break?”
“I thought you ate all the snacks,” Temple points out while rolling his eyes.
“I may have some for later. And I may be a generous soul.” He finally sits straight in his chair to reach across the table. A chocolate bar with coconut filling brushes against Temple’s hand.
He accepts it. “Thanks.” He breaks a piece of chocolate off it, but never brings it to his mouth.
Biff watches him until he gets tired. He tires easily. “Okay, tell me. Did Brenda leave love letters in your locker again? I know that glasses and braces and an above average amount of pimples don’t usually turn your on but, hey, if she shows this much effort you could at least give her a chance.”
“Says the guy dating a cheerleader.” Temple finally takes a bite of the snack and leans back in his chair. “Only took you two years.”
“Hey, it’s hard work.”
“Well, I never expected you to be the hardest worker.”
Biff laughs softly. There is a moment of silence, but then he reaches out, too quickly, and snatches the note from the other side of the table. He brushes away Temple’s attempts to shield it. “Let me read this.” He clears his throat. “‘The UNSC needs you’.” When he looks up, his brown eyes are widened in surprise. “Are you kidding me?”
Temple crosses his arms and looks away. “I need the money.”
“Well, so do I but I was thinking the fucking coast guard or something.”
“You can’t swim,” Temple says and he can’t stop the corners of his mouth from moving upwards.
“Well, neither can you!” Biff grins, staring at him. The amused look in his eyes fade for a moment as he considers the situation. “So you are serious about this?”
Temple meets his glance. “I heard the military is in lack of heroes.”
“Ah, so you wanted to show the flyer to me.”
“Shut up,” Temple says when he sees Biff’s smug smile. “I could totally make it.”
He tilts his head. “You do realize these people aren’t just running around with water guns like we used to do in your mom’s garden.”
“And I used to win those battles, if you recall.”
“Throwing the plastic gun at me when you couldn’t figure out how to shoot does not count as winning.” Biff takes a look at the flyer again, sighing. “Alright. So where do I sign up?”
There’s a moment of silence.
“What?”
“Well, I can’t let you steal all the glory.” Biff crushes the paper into a ball. “You don’t expect me to sit back home in my couch, watching you getting handed a medal on the tv? Nah, I’ll be right next you – telling you how the color doesn’t match with your suit.”
Temple laughs, just briefly. “So we’re going?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, firmly, staring into the barrel of the gun.
Temple’s finger is on the trigger.
The shot rings out, loud enough to echo inside his ears, and he breathes in heavily.
“Nice shot,” Biff says, leaning against the wall. They can see the shooting targets from here.
Temple missed.
“Shut up.”
He pulls the trigger again. The bullet flies past the target, an embarrassing distance inbetween.
Biff snorts. “You are shitting me. Right?”
“Shut up,” he hisses. He pulls the trigger.
Biff whistles, impressed with how many times he can miss in a row. “I really, really hate myself from having to say this but – you do know that the shooting range is in that direction?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He pauses. “Then why are you firing in the opposite-“
Temple spins around to glare at him, snarling, “My aim is just fine!”
“I don’t know how you aim, buddy, but you aren’t hitting anything.”
“Watch me.” He readjusts his grip on his rifle, eyes darting around as he searches for a new target. The training ground is empty except for them. The Sergeants don’t know he stayed for extra practice.
A bird settles on the roof of the building next to them. Temple sets his jaw and lifts his weapon.
Biff walks over to stand by his side, tilting his head to look upwards as well. “Dude, that’s a pigeon.”
“Which I am gonna shoot.”
His finger is on the trigger.
“No, wait, I think that’s a dove,” Biff says, and the bird flaps its wings.
“Whatever.”
He looks at him. “Like, the symbol of peace and innocence.”
“So?” Temple’s eyes are on the target. He flexes his finger, brushes it against the trigger. The bird lets out a soft sound. He keeps his aim while he turns his head to stare at his friend. “You are not going to stop me?”
Biff laughs. “Dude, I know you’re not going to hit it, even if you try.”
He pulls the trigger, and hits the roof. The bird takes to the sky.
“See?” Biff says. He is looking at the flying bird that is getting smaller and smaller in the distance. “Maybe you should stick with immobile targets for a while.”
He doesn’t move.
Temple stares into the orange visor, waiting.
There’s no begging or apologies or movement. He doesn’t follow orders, doesn’t say anything else.
It leaves Temple with the choice.
He sets his jaw. “Have it your way.”
“Dude, I didn’t ask for this,” Biff says. His arms are crossed as he watches him pull the trigger, over and over and over. “Hell, if I’d known Basic would suck this bad, I’d let you go on this adventure alone.”
“Yeah, right,” Temple snorts and keeps firing.
“Okay, I’ll bite – why are you pissed?”
“What do you think?”
His finger is ready to add the pressure again, but then Biff steps within his field of view, blocking his path to the shooting targets in the distance.
“C’mon. You’re worried about tomorrow.” Biff puts a comforting hand on shoulder. “You passed the algaebrea test in high school – you can survive tomorrow.”
Temple tears himself away. “It’s pronounced algebra. And how the fuck do you even compare that to the training course?!”
“Relax. I’ve seen you jump. And run. You got a fine speed – especially if someone is firing at you-“
“Haha.” Temple turns his head to stare at the wall instead. He hesitates for a moment before saying, “Drill Sergeant Rivers said my poor aiming could affect my final scores.”
“So?”
He clenches his fists, voice bitter as he says, “If I get low test scores they won’t put me on the field.”
“Isn’t that good? Less chance of painful maiming that way.”
“I won’t spend the rest of my life stocked away in some petty office where I’ll be lucky if I get to polish someone’s boots.” Temple looks at Biff and remembers how he won a wrestling match this morning, using his body weight to his advantage. “’least you don’t have to worry. You just need to try and you’ll do just fine.”
“Okay, look.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not saying you won’t have to spend the rest of your life in some shithole. But-“ He looks at Temple, gaining eye-contact. “You’re the reason I’m here. So let’s just keep it that way.”
Temple blinks. “What?”
“You’re in squad B, right?” When Temple nods, he points a finger at his own chest and continues, “I’m squad C. You guys take the test first, then it’s my time. So when you’re done, just hold up the number of fingers that’s equal to how many targets you hit. I'll make sure to get the same score.”
Temple considers the offer, thinking about the sacrifice and their childhood plans and how Biff had waved goodbye to Georgina one morning before jumping into Temple’s car.
“What if I hit more than ten?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. For the first time in days, he smile just the slightest.
Biff snorts. “Dude,” he says and stares at Temple until he admits defeat.
He stares back at him, waiting, unmoving.
Temple’s finger is shaking.
He doesn’t move his head as a voice says, “What’s the matter, Temple?”
“Afraid I’ll kick your ass?”
Temple paces back and forth, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I can’t believe they did this!”
Biff doesn’t move. He is leaning calmly against the rock, watching him yell out his frustrations. “Well, technically my plan worked. We both get to serve in this shithole.”
“On opposite teams!” Temple shouts. “Fucking, stupid, corrupted, asshol-“
“Language.”
Temple’s head snaps in his direction. “Why are you so calm?” he hisses.
“You mean besides Surge making me run circles around the base until I can barely stand on my legs? Dude, I’m too tired to give a shit.”
“It’s a big deal!”
“Why?” Biff asks. “You’re not gonna shoot me, I’m not gonna shoot you.”
Temple freezes. “The others might-“
Biff cuts him off, voice gentle but firm, “The others got just as low test scores as we did. They suck. We suck. Face it.”
Temple stares at him.
“It’s a good thing, Mark,” he promises him. “When we’re all useless, we all get to live longer.”
“It’s gonna be pretty hard for you to poke me if you’re in the other end of the Gulch, trying to act like you want to kill me.”
He shrugs. “We can just sneak out and meet during the night. You know, like we did when we got grounded.”
Temple returns the smile. His breathing has eased out. “Hey, we wouldn’t have gotten caught if you had just kept your mouth shut!”
“My mom was threatening to cut the cookie from my lunch pack – what was I supposed to do?”
Temple laughs. After looking him over, he nods towards Biff’s new armor. “Suits you.”
Biff spread out his arms to show it off. “Yeah? Very slimming, right? I always knew orange was my color.”
Orange visor in the middle of an orange helmet connected to the rest of the orange armor.
Temple stares and does not blink.
His finger is on the trigger but he hesitates.
“Dude, are you sure? I'm a terrible shot.”
“Come on, dude, hurry!” Biff yells at him, having made his choice. He holds up his pinkie and waits.
Temple raises his pistol. “I-“ But he pauses. He considers all the new information he has just been given: Georgina, a baby on the way, the consequences Biff is willing to take in order to leave. How he never asked if Temple wanted to come with him…
“C’mon, Mark!” Biff says. “You owe me this.”
It’s what he wants.
“Fine.”
His finger is on the trigger.
He can hear the sound of quick footsteps coming closer, heavy boots against metal floor. Someone is yelling. “Grif! Just-”
Temple doesn’t move his glance from the orange soldier in front of him.
He pulls the trigger.
An orange soldier falling to the ground,
blood spraying from the helmet,
and there is screaming,
the gun falls from his shaking hand.
Maroon is next to the orange, next to the red that keep spreading. “No, no, nononononono. Gri-“
“-iff,” he whispers, looking down at the broken visor. His aim has always been bad, even before his hands began to shake.
“No,” Simmons sobs again, maroon gloves hovering above the bloodstained helmet before they are pressed against the neck.
He won’t find a pulse. Temple knows that. Such a death is quick, if it’s any comfort. Temple reminds himself of the fact quite often, during the silent nights as he stares at the ceiling and the scene replays inside his mind.
“Oh god,” the reporter says, stunned, horrified.
The immobilized soldiers are yelling, voice muffled by the frozen armors.
“No.”
“Goddamn, you-“
“You fucker.” Tucker is grunting as he tries to fight against the immobilization. “I’m gonna fucking stab you right in the-“
“Grif,” Simmons says again, hands shaking as he gently grabs his limp shoulders, cradling him. “But I- He- he just came back, I- Come back, come back, please, I- I care, I care, see! I do! Don’t-“ Another sob. “But I care. Is it not enough? I… Why isn’t it-? Grif!”
Temple looks down at them, and he wonders if he should shoot Simmons while he’s at it. He might as well.
“He asked for it,” he tells him, lips numb.
“You told me to-“
“I gave him a choice and-“
“I just did what you wanted-“
“It wasn’t my fault,” he yells at Simmons.
Blue and red soldiers are surrounding him and he explains the situation, voice shaking with anger. “It’s the Freelancers’ fault! They started the fight, and then he got in the way! They didn't care!”
Temple insists on burying him, but the UNSC claims the body for inspection, and Temple watches them lower the body into a casket.
He lifts his weapon to aim at the maroon helmet.
“No,” a voice says, firmly.
Temple turns his head to see Caboose staring at him. With his freedom to move he might be a threat, but Temple knows better. Though, now when the consequences of death finally being explained to the Blue soldier, he might react in a way different than what Temple expects.
He trails his gun on Caboose instead, just to be sure.
“Caboose,” Tucker’s strained voice warns him.
Temple smiles.
Then he notices that his hands are shaking, barely keeping a hold of the pistol. He doesn’t want to turn his head to see orange armor and blood. Something sickly bitter settles in his stomach, crawling its way up his throat.
He lets out a short, angry bark of a laughter. “You idiot!” he snarls.
Finally Dylan moves, stepping in front of Caboose, holding up her hands as if to calm Temple.
Temple wants to shoot her. All of them, actually. It doesn’t really matter anymore.
When Simmons slams into him, the pistol slips from his grasp. So does the remote.
Temple is pressed against the wall, thin but too strong fingers wrapped around his throat. Simmons doesn’t say anything, just a pitiful raw sound every now and then.
Dylan picks up the remote, and the room comes alive, angry and hurt and bloodthirsty.
The machine is humming in the background.
Temple is staring into Simmons’ visor, waiting.
“Don’t you see,” he tells him. “He asked for it.”