Red Vs. Blue. Dick Simmons. 033. Too Much.
(little damn table)
Title: Under Pressure
Fandom: Red Vs. Blue
Characters: Dick Simmons
Prompt: #33 - Too Much
Word Count: 1,580
Rating: PG-13, for violent themes
Summary: Simmons is captured at war.
Author's Notes: Couple of things about this one. First of all, I've always wanted to write a story explaining why Simmons is such a "kiss ass." Also, remember that Simmons is at Sidewinder/Containment. Simmons is tied up on the floor, his armor cast to the side (he's not nekkid, unfortunately, he's just down to the bare minimum -- and it's Sidewinder. Nearly nekkid = cold Simmons). Remember, too, that he's a young'un. Also, his captor has his helmet off, but he's still mostly in his armor. And no, I won't be dwelling in backstory for the entire fanfic100 experience. The next one will be more "present time."
"Ah!"
Simmons gasped as his body twisted in a most uncomfortable way and yet another whip mark sank into his flesh. His eyelids were pressed so tightly together that his eyes didn't water from the unbearable pain he was suffering through.
"Tell me what the others are planning!" a cold voice shrieked. Simmons could not even muster up the strength to shake his head no. All he could do was pant and utter a weak whimper every now and then. He would not be a dirty traitor like his father; he just would not. Even if he had to live the rest of his life laying twisted and contorted on this cold concrete floor of some prison cell, whipped and worn until he bled on exhale, he refused to betray his squad the way his father did his.
It was his sixth day in captivity, and the Blues had not let up. Simmons didn't even recognize his own body any more. His flesh was a sickening shade of purple, and he was cut or bruised in almost every square inch of his body. He swore to himself that, though they may break his bones, they would never break his spirit. But after nearly a week here, he was starting to lose all hope that he would be rescued.
His captor seemed to know his thoughts, and he preyed on them. "Your buddies haven't even tried to rescue you. They know you're here, but they don't care about you. Come on, don't you want a little payback?"
Simmons looked up into the eyes of his tormenter, breathing heavily, blood seeping out of the center of his bottom lip where he had bit down too hard in all his pain. The man grinned wickedly down at Simmons, a large knife winking at him from the tyrant's clenched fist. Before Simmons knew what was happening, the knife was at his throat. He instinctively tilted his head back away from the blade, but it collided harshly with the concrete wall behind him. This was too much for a soldier, a young boy his age, to have to endure.
"You don't want to make things difficult," the knife-wielding Blue snarled. "You're young; you've got your whole life ahead of you. You don't want to give all that up for a bunch of traitors who can't bail you out -"
"I would be the traitor," Simmons croaked. It was the first time he had spoken words in days, and he instantly regretted it.
"What did you say to me??"
Before the Blue could act on his outrage, there was a sudden commotion outside the prison. The captor's head snapped up at the sound. He craned his neck to see what was going on outside, but he did not remove the knife from Simmons's throat. Shots were being fired, bodies could be heard cast against walls and slumped down to the ground. The Blue captor finally lowered his knife and rose to his feet, grabbing his shot gun from the corner. The commotion fled almost as quickly as it had arrived; someone was approaching the prison.
The Blue captor raised his gun, but the soldier who entered the enclosure was another fully-clad Blue. Simmons's captor lowered his gun at the sight of a fellow teammate. "What's going on out there?" he demanded.
Simmons watched the new Blue soldier approach his captor, his gun still raised and pointed at his teammate. "There's been an invasion," the Blue soldier said in a raspy, Southern-accented voice.
"By the Reds?" the other Blue demanded, eyeing the other man's shotgun curiously and wondering why it was pointed at him. "Did you drive them out, or what? What's going on?"
Before Simmons knew what was happening, the armored Blue soldier pulled the trigger four steady times, shooting Simmons's captor square between the eyes. His corpse slumped to the floor. "Dirty Blue," his assassin growled.
He then turned his gun on Simmons, who flinched out of instinct. "You all right?" the Southern Blue asked roughly. Simmons didn't answer out of terror. He had no idea what was going on, had no idea why this Blue had turned on his teammates or what his plans were for Simmons. He sat very still, but trembling slightly in fear. He knew he was facing the end of his life.
To his surprise, the Blue armored soldier removed his helmet. He had a gentle-featured visage with short, stiff blonde hair. Further to Simmons's surprise, the Blue soldier smiled at him.
"Who are you?" Simmons found the courage to ask.
"Just call me Sarge," the Blue soldier said. "You can relax; I'm not really a Blue. I'm a Red in disguise."
Almost as though in answer to Simmons's unspoken inquiry, Sarge's armor quickly faded from standard-issue Blue to standard-issue Red.
"How did you -?"
"I've always been a fast changer," Sarge grunted. "I'm very shy." His smile broadened. "Come on; let's get you out of here."
He held out his hand, but Simmons hesitated in accepting it. He was fully aware that this could all be an elaborate set up, perhaps a twisted form of torture. Then again, Simmons could not imagine how his situation could worsen. He had failed his troops, he had been beaten and tortured for the last six days; what did he have left to lose?
"I can't move," Simmons muttered laboriously, demonstrating by trying to sit up straight and succeeding in only slumping further down to the floor. Sarge squatted down next to him, setting his gun down on the floor. Simmons had the fleeting mentality to grab the gun and flee on the off chance that this soldier was not who he claimed to be, but his current incapacitation quickly drove that irrational impulse from his mind.
Besides, Simmons didn't know why, but he couldn't help but trust this man.
"I never was too good at this medical stuff," Sarge admitted gruffly. "You're gonna need some professional attention on these wounds, boy. Looks like they done you in pretty bad."
"Yes, sir," Simmons uttered.
"What's your name, son?"
"Simmons, sir."
"Well, Simmons, I reckon we got about seven minutes 'fore the Blues next door figure out what's happened and head on over here. I've got a Pelican in a cave outside we can hop on and get on out of here, but I can't carry you and your armor. You're gonna need to muster up the strength to walk about half a mile. Can you do that?"
Simmons saw no way he could move half an inch, let alone half a mile. However, his survival was hinging on his ability to travel that distance; he knew he had to try. To show weakness now would be to destroy his reputation, which was only in its first stages of life, and set himself as pitiful in the eyes of a superior officer. He was destroyed, both physically and spiritually, but he was determined. He was more determined than he was broken, and he firmly nodded his head.
"Now, I'm gonna hafta carry your armor under one arm and point my gun at you with the other. If anyone spies us, they'll think I'm only taking you hostage. By the time anyone realizes something fishy's goin' on, we'll be blowin' this pop stand."
"Sir, with all due respect," Simmons voiced bravely, "wouldn't it be easier to leave my armor behind? I'm sure we can have command issue me a new -"
"Don't question me, private," Sarge said sternly, but not angrily. "We don't have a lot of time, so we need to get going."
Sarge replaced the helmet on his head and collected Simmons's armor from the corner where it had been abandoned for the last week. Simmons closed his eyes briefly in an attempt to focus his attention on getting his limbs working again; when he opened his eyes again, Sarge's own armor was already back to its standard-issue Blue disguise. Sarge caught Simmons staring, and he laughed huskily. "A little trick I'll have to teach you someday."
Simmons maroon-colored armor was tucked safely under Sarge's left arm, and he held out his right hand again to help Simmons up. Despite the fact that Simmons entirely believed what Sarge was saying, he couldn't help but be reluctant.
"If we're gonna save both your ass and mine, you need to trust me, private."
Sarge gave the boy an encouraging nod. Even through Sarge's helmet, they made eye contact for a brief moment; there was just something so real about it; something honest. Simmons experienced something he could not recall ever feeling before; here was a man who genuinely cared about him, about what happened to him. He had risked his own life to save Simmons. It was more than just an offer to help him stand that Sarge was providing in his outstretched hand; it was freedom, it was safety, it was a future that he was offering.
Simmons smiled in spite of himself. He met Sarge's hand with his own shaky one, and the Southern soldier pulled the boy slowly but steadily to his feet. It surprised Simmons how easy it was to rise to his feet with the help of another human being. Sarge gave him a look that, without words, asked one more time if Simmons was sure he could do this. Simmons returned the look, this too without words, to express that, under Sarge's protection, Simmons knew he could do anything.
Title: Under Pressure
Fandom: Red Vs. Blue
Characters: Dick Simmons
Prompt: #33 - Too Much
Word Count: 1,580
Rating: PG-13, for violent themes
Summary: Simmons is captured at war.
Author's Notes: Couple of things about this one. First of all, I've always wanted to write a story explaining why Simmons is such a "kiss ass." Also, remember that Simmons is at Sidewinder/Containment. Simmons is tied up on the floor, his armor cast to the side (he's not nekkid, unfortunately, he's just down to the bare minimum -- and it's Sidewinder. Nearly nekkid = cold Simmons). Remember, too, that he's a young'un. Also, his captor has his helmet off, but he's still mostly in his armor. And no, I won't be dwelling in backstory for the entire fanfic100 experience. The next one will be more "present time."
"Ah!"
Simmons gasped as his body twisted in a most uncomfortable way and yet another whip mark sank into his flesh. His eyelids were pressed so tightly together that his eyes didn't water from the unbearable pain he was suffering through.
"Tell me what the others are planning!" a cold voice shrieked. Simmons could not even muster up the strength to shake his head no. All he could do was pant and utter a weak whimper every now and then. He would not be a dirty traitor like his father; he just would not. Even if he had to live the rest of his life laying twisted and contorted on this cold concrete floor of some prison cell, whipped and worn until he bled on exhale, he refused to betray his squad the way his father did his.
It was his sixth day in captivity, and the Blues had not let up. Simmons didn't even recognize his own body any more. His flesh was a sickening shade of purple, and he was cut or bruised in almost every square inch of his body. He swore to himself that, though they may break his bones, they would never break his spirit. But after nearly a week here, he was starting to lose all hope that he would be rescued.
His captor seemed to know his thoughts, and he preyed on them. "Your buddies haven't even tried to rescue you. They know you're here, but they don't care about you. Come on, don't you want a little payback?"
Simmons looked up into the eyes of his tormenter, breathing heavily, blood seeping out of the center of his bottom lip where he had bit down too hard in all his pain. The man grinned wickedly down at Simmons, a large knife winking at him from the tyrant's clenched fist. Before Simmons knew what was happening, the knife was at his throat. He instinctively tilted his head back away from the blade, but it collided harshly with the concrete wall behind him. This was too much for a soldier, a young boy his age, to have to endure.
"You don't want to make things difficult," the knife-wielding Blue snarled. "You're young; you've got your whole life ahead of you. You don't want to give all that up for a bunch of traitors who can't bail you out -"
"I would be the traitor," Simmons croaked. It was the first time he had spoken words in days, and he instantly regretted it.
"What did you say to me??"
Before the Blue could act on his outrage, there was a sudden commotion outside the prison. The captor's head snapped up at the sound. He craned his neck to see what was going on outside, but he did not remove the knife from Simmons's throat. Shots were being fired, bodies could be heard cast against walls and slumped down to the ground. The Blue captor finally lowered his knife and rose to his feet, grabbing his shot gun from the corner. The commotion fled almost as quickly as it had arrived; someone was approaching the prison.
The Blue captor raised his gun, but the soldier who entered the enclosure was another fully-clad Blue. Simmons's captor lowered his gun at the sight of a fellow teammate. "What's going on out there?" he demanded.
Simmons watched the new Blue soldier approach his captor, his gun still raised and pointed at his teammate. "There's been an invasion," the Blue soldier said in a raspy, Southern-accented voice.
"By the Reds?" the other Blue demanded, eyeing the other man's shotgun curiously and wondering why it was pointed at him. "Did you drive them out, or what? What's going on?"
Before Simmons knew what was happening, the armored Blue soldier pulled the trigger four steady times, shooting Simmons's captor square between the eyes. His corpse slumped to the floor. "Dirty Blue," his assassin growled.
He then turned his gun on Simmons, who flinched out of instinct. "You all right?" the Southern Blue asked roughly. Simmons didn't answer out of terror. He had no idea what was going on, had no idea why this Blue had turned on his teammates or what his plans were for Simmons. He sat very still, but trembling slightly in fear. He knew he was facing the end of his life.
To his surprise, the Blue armored soldier removed his helmet. He had a gentle-featured visage with short, stiff blonde hair. Further to Simmons's surprise, the Blue soldier smiled at him.
"Who are you?" Simmons found the courage to ask.
"Just call me Sarge," the Blue soldier said. "You can relax; I'm not really a Blue. I'm a Red in disguise."
Almost as though in answer to Simmons's unspoken inquiry, Sarge's armor quickly faded from standard-issue Blue to standard-issue Red.
"How did you -?"
"I've always been a fast changer," Sarge grunted. "I'm very shy." His smile broadened. "Come on; let's get you out of here."
He held out his hand, but Simmons hesitated in accepting it. He was fully aware that this could all be an elaborate set up, perhaps a twisted form of torture. Then again, Simmons could not imagine how his situation could worsen. He had failed his troops, he had been beaten and tortured for the last six days; what did he have left to lose?
"I can't move," Simmons muttered laboriously, demonstrating by trying to sit up straight and succeeding in only slumping further down to the floor. Sarge squatted down next to him, setting his gun down on the floor. Simmons had the fleeting mentality to grab the gun and flee on the off chance that this soldier was not who he claimed to be, but his current incapacitation quickly drove that irrational impulse from his mind.
Besides, Simmons didn't know why, but he couldn't help but trust this man.
"I never was too good at this medical stuff," Sarge admitted gruffly. "You're gonna need some professional attention on these wounds, boy. Looks like they done you in pretty bad."
"Yes, sir," Simmons uttered.
"What's your name, son?"
"Simmons, sir."
"Well, Simmons, I reckon we got about seven minutes 'fore the Blues next door figure out what's happened and head on over here. I've got a Pelican in a cave outside we can hop on and get on out of here, but I can't carry you and your armor. You're gonna need to muster up the strength to walk about half a mile. Can you do that?"
Simmons saw no way he could move half an inch, let alone half a mile. However, his survival was hinging on his ability to travel that distance; he knew he had to try. To show weakness now would be to destroy his reputation, which was only in its first stages of life, and set himself as pitiful in the eyes of a superior officer. He was destroyed, both physically and spiritually, but he was determined. He was more determined than he was broken, and he firmly nodded his head.
"Now, I'm gonna hafta carry your armor under one arm and point my gun at you with the other. If anyone spies us, they'll think I'm only taking you hostage. By the time anyone realizes something fishy's goin' on, we'll be blowin' this pop stand."
"Sir, with all due respect," Simmons voiced bravely, "wouldn't it be easier to leave my armor behind? I'm sure we can have command issue me a new -"
"Don't question me, private," Sarge said sternly, but not angrily. "We don't have a lot of time, so we need to get going."
Sarge replaced the helmet on his head and collected Simmons's armor from the corner where it had been abandoned for the last week. Simmons closed his eyes briefly in an attempt to focus his attention on getting his limbs working again; when he opened his eyes again, Sarge's own armor was already back to its standard-issue Blue disguise. Sarge caught Simmons staring, and he laughed huskily. "A little trick I'll have to teach you someday."
Simmons maroon-colored armor was tucked safely under Sarge's left arm, and he held out his right hand again to help Simmons up. Despite the fact that Simmons entirely believed what Sarge was saying, he couldn't help but be reluctant.
"If we're gonna save both your ass and mine, you need to trust me, private."
Sarge gave the boy an encouraging nod. Even through Sarge's helmet, they made eye contact for a brief moment; there was just something so real about it; something honest. Simmons experienced something he could not recall ever feeling before; here was a man who genuinely cared about him, about what happened to him. He had risked his own life to save Simmons. It was more than just an offer to help him stand that Sarge was providing in his outstretched hand; it was freedom, it was safety, it was a future that he was offering.
Simmons smiled in spite of himself. He met Sarge's hand with his own shaky one, and the Southern soldier pulled the boy slowly but steadily to his feet. It surprised Simmons how easy it was to rise to his feet with the help of another human being. Sarge gave him a look that, without words, asked one more time if Simmons was sure he could do this. Simmons returned the look, this too without words, to express that, under Sarge's protection, Simmons knew he could do anything.