just need to try.

[demotivation]

 ["We're really all that made it?"

The question echoes through Grif's head, bouncing around the walls of his skull. No matter how much food he stuffs into his body, the ringing of those words continues, filling him up with something much worse than plaque in his arteries. Even if the others are alive, he's not sure how long that will last, or how long they will last. The uncertainty of their fate - of everyone's fate - has never sat particularly well with Grif-- it rolls around in his stomach like cold leftovers. But not seeing them, losing all contact, is a severed link he's not prepared for.

Top that off the the responsibility of leading and Grif feels like he's going to be sick.

Their quarters are small and hardly private, but at least they're separated by team color, and that adds some familiarity to this whole mess. They're supposed to meet the new recruits tomorrow; Kimball let them off for the rest of the day so they can recover. Not that Grif can see that happening any time soon.

He barely makes it to his cot before he rubs a hand over the front of his helmet.]

Simmons, I swear to christ, this better be a dream. Make that a nightmare, goddammit, so wake me up already!

Comments

[demotivation]

[Grif lifts his eyebrows. His hands hover above Simmons' for a moment, then he taps the backs of Simmons' hands.]

Dude, what the hell are you doing?

[He's about to nudge Simmons' hands into the proper position before he smirks.]

Oh my god, you don't know how to play, do you?

[peon]

I do so. [ Now he's making a fist, in an attempt to show that he knows how. But he doesn't. ] Maybe I just play with a different set of rules. You know, like the CFL and the NFL.

dklfnmk omg

[demotivation]

What are you-- oh my god.

[The fist pretty much does it. He reaches out to slap the top of Simmons' hand just because.]

Red Hands is a game where you slap the top of the other player's hands until you miss. Then you switch and play until someone pussies out. There aren't any fists involved. Unless you're really itching to punch me in the face, in which case I gotta say, I didn't think you had the balls to do.

[peon]

I could punch you in the face! I'm just too nice and patient. Or I get Sarge to do it. [ Unless Grif uses his toothbrush. Then all bets are off. ] But okay, I remember those rules now.

[ As if he fucking knew them to begin with. Master bullshitter, Richard "Dick" Simmons. He almost believes it himself. ]

[demotivation]

Sarge doesn't really do punches. He's more of a pistol whip kinda guy. Or I guess shotgun whip, in his case.

[He leans back, weight resting on one leg.] Don't strain your brain too much. Maybe we oughta call it a night.

[peon]

He also doesn't listen to my requests, even when it's to hurt you. [ He huffs. ] No, just refresh my memory and we'll play. My brain can handle anything.