Red vs Blue: The Blood Gulch Chronicles
I'm sure that this is of course redundant, but this novelization has simply been put together in my own time, on my own initiative, over the past two months (I probably could have done it in a month, but life). This novelization is going up on both and on the Rooster Teeth forums.
Red vs. Blue is an incredible work and I have nothing but utmost respect for the good folks at Rooster Teeth. As a result, if they request for this to be taken down then I shall do so; I merely had the urge to write this and wish to share it with people.
This novelization attempts both to capture the humour of the original as best the medium can and inject my own brand through continuity foreshadowing, assumptions, and monologues in a similar manner to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
Enough from me; I don't have the benefit of being as entertaining as the creators of Red vs. Blue. So I'll neuter any tangents and just shut up.
Why Are We Here?
Our story begins in a truly unremarkable canyon. So unremarkable in fact, that if anyone with too much time and money on his hands bothered to rent a Slipspace-capable starship and go on a tour of the galaxy for the most unremarkable canyon in existence, he would probably choose this one as the third most unremarkable canyon in all the known galaxy. The factors that keep it from being number one are the two bases that are emplaced at opposite ends of the canyon, while the factor that further keeps it from being number one is that these bases are occupied by some truly remarkable people.
Of course, when we say truly remarkable, we mean in terms of personality. While it is certainly remarkable that such people would be wearing MJOLNIR Mk V armour, the fact that the basic form is used by these individuals severely lessened their visual interest, especially in comparison to the legendary Master Chief.
Two of these individuals were currently on sentry duty. However, as this is an extremely unremarkable canyon, this inevitably meant that they suffered from the condition that was scientifically referred to as "sheer boredom".
One of these individuals was clad in orange armour, though one could be forgiven for mistaking it for yellow or gold. The second donned maroon armour, and despite the obvious colour difference, he handled the heat better than his companion. And as these soldiers were currently suffering from sheer boredom, they had nothing better to do then discuss the inane and the meaningless.
The soldiers' names were Dexter Grif and Richard Simmons, known generally by their last names. Grif wore the orange armour, orange, mind you, and Simmons the maroon, a colour of both individuality and dedication to the Red Team.
"Hey," Simmons said, turning to his...friend.
"Yeah?" his companion replied.
"You ever wonder why we're here?" Simmons asked.
"It's one of life's great mysteries isn't it?" Grif asked in reply. "Why are we here? I mean, are we the product of some cosmic coincidence, or is there really a God watching everything? You know, with a plan for us and stuff." He turned and stared dramatically into the distance to punctuate the gravity of his statement. "I don't know, man, but it keeps me up at night," Grif admitted.
For a moment, there was silence in the canyon, silence not even broken by the usual background noise.
"...What?!" Simmons asked incredulously. "I mean why are we out here, in this canyon?" he explained.
Grif was struck by a feeling of embarrassment, the kind that is up there with soiling your pants in a combat situation or being turned down by a girl at the prom. "Oh. Uh... yeah," he uttered, attempting to compose himself.
"What was all that stuff about God?" Simmons asked curiously.
"Uh...hm? Nothing," Grif replied innocently.
Now, the two soldiers had known one another for a long time, so Simmons knew that Grif's excuses were bullshit. Not unkindly he asked, "You wanna talk about it?"
"No," Grif replied casually.
Simmons accepted that. It was his friend's privacy after all, and in a place like this, one took it where they could get it. Backtracking to his original point, he asked, "Seriously though, why are we out here?" Now Simmons was staring dramatically out into the canyon, while also maintaining both a good look at Grif and a firm grip on his pistol. "As far as I can tell, it's just a box canyon in the middle of nowhere. No way in or out."
"The only reason that we set up a Red Base here, is because they have a Blue Base over there. And the only reason they have a Blue Base over there, is because we have a Red Base here," Simmons explained patiently.
"Yeah. That's because we're fighting each other," Grif said apathetically.
Simmons shook his head; Grif was missing the point completely. "No, no," he said. "But I mean, even if we were to pull out today, and if they would come take our base, they would have two bases in the middle of a box canyon." He shrugged. "Whoopdee-fucking-doo."
Much to his delight, the intelligent conversation had gotten Grif to start talking again. "What's up with that anyway?" Grif asked. "I mean, I signed on to fight some aliens. Next thing I know, Master Chief blows up the whole Covenant armada and I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere, fighting a bunch of blue guys."
You may remember that we have already mentioned the Master Chief. The Master Chief is a legendary hero in the UNSC Navy - the United Nations Space Command. He has earned every medal save the Prisoner-of-War medal, as the aliens don't take prisoners, nor does he allow them to take him prisoner. He is also sadly, completely inconsequential to this story, so his tale must wait for another time.
A tale that is not inconsequential, however, despite the apparent normality of the individuals in this canyon, is that of the Blue Team soldiers. You may remember that Simmons had mentioned the Blue Base, and these two were the sole occupants (until recently) of that base.
Both of them were Private First Class, though Leonard Church led the team by default and garbed himself in cobalt armour. His companion Lavernius Tucker was currently suffering from the all too common syndrome of sheer boredom, and stood out like a sore thumb among the dirt in his aqua armour.
The two soldiers were currently engaged in espionage. Church was using the scope of his (currently empty) sniper rifle to determine what the enemy was discussing. Unfortunately for him, past experience and a somewhat decent set of ears were both informing him that the enemy was, as usual, talking about-
"What're they doing?" Tucker asked.
Church lowered his rifle, and he slowly turned around to face Tucker. "What?" he asked in aggravation.
"I said, 'What are they doing now?'" Tucker asked.
"God damn, I'm getting so sick of answering that question!" Church snapped in frustration.
"You have the fucking rifle, I can't see shit," Tucker replied defensively. "Don't start to bitch at me because I'm not gonna just sit up here and play with my di-"
Fortunately for both his sanity and ours, Church interrupted Tucker as quickly as he could. "Okay, okay, look... they're just standing there and talking, okay?" he said. Then he started to get angry again. "That's all they're doing. That's all they ever do, is just stand there and talk. That's what they were doing last week, that's what they were doing when you asked me five minutes ago. So, five minutes from now, when you ask me, 'What are they doing?' my answer's gonna be, 'They're still just talking, and they're still just standing there!'" he yelled.
For a few moments, there was silence. Sweet, sweet silence.
Of course, it couldn't last.
"...What're they talking about?"
Church glared at Tucker from behind his visor. "...You know what? I fucking hate you," he groused.
Unlike Church, Grif and Simmons had neither the benefit of decent hearing, nor a sniper rifle, and thus they were unaware of their eavesdroppers.
"Talk about a waste of resources," Grif complained. "I mean, we should be out there finding new and intelligent forms of life... you know, fight them."
"Yeah, no shit," Simmons agreed. "That's why they should put us in charge."
"Ladies, front and centre on the double!" roared a deep Southern accent.
The owner of that Southern accent was a soldier patriotically clad in the traditional armour of the glorious Red Team, though it was often said that he would take any armour, even the dirty Blue, if it was painted red with the blood of his enemies. Of course, in a canyon where half the population always wanted to kill him and the other half were significantly apathetic, he was the only one who made such claims.
He was the Staff Sergeant of the Red Team, based at Blood Gulch Outpost Number One, and his name was unknown even to his own men, but this was the Navy, so everyone just called him "Sarge".
Simmons' mind sifted through all of this information in the space of half a second and spat it out as a single word. "Fuck."
"Yes, sir!" Grif replied.