Baby blue (eyes)

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Please don't steal thank you very much. Working on cover art, but don't expect it quickly.

I take constructive criticism, would love to know if I made any mistakes (which is highly likely seeing as I wrote this dead tired :P ). If you have any ideas for the story you'd like to see, feel free to tell me and I'll see if I can't work it into the plot.

Very much so love comments so feel free to do so :D

What to do.

Sarge went to call Command, only to be reminded by Simmons and Grif that, hey, Blue had been erased from the database.

His only response is a grunt and he leaves to mull it all over and configure the best method of attack.

He finally opts for a plan to put them back into the system, and it's only then that he remembers Donut. Donut, who was missing. He pointedly ignores the jump in his chest and declares that they must go to the Blue base. Grif scoffs, and Simmons yessirs! him cheerfully.

He yells for Caboose to exit the base, and waits.

And waits.

"You dirty blue! What is this trickery! Get out here right now, or I'll invade your base and then blow it up! No, I'll capture it first! For the Reds! Then I'll blow it up because anything Blue is dirty and treacherous!"

Still, silence, and Sarge ventures into the base, huffing and ignoring the squabble his two subordinates have gotten into, sticking outside.

He hears nothing, and goes further in, now slightly worried; not for the dirty blue! No, for the spirit of war itself, for honor! Which Caboose would have none of if he had fled. Not because the boy was so silly minded that he could very likely wander off a cliff edge without realizing it.

He hears something.

The shotgun raises a tick, Sarge calms his breathing, stepping quietly to the hall bend, twisting to the side suddenly, aiming to the next hall till he drops his gun.

The clatter doesn't reach him through the blood rushing through his ears, and he can't breath, words he'd been prepared to exclaim falling back down his throat, swallowed dry and stinging him from the inside, his brain dreadfully empty.

Before him, curled around the Epsilon unit, is a sniffling infant, and Sarge melts. Armor sits discarded around the baby, oversized clothes pooling around the tiny limbs, a head that would fit in his palm, probably. Not really, Sarge's rationale whispers, to which he answers shut up, mongrel. Donut is collapsed a little ways off, body strewn to the side against a gray wall, unmoving save for the rhythmic up and down of his chest that quells the concerns Sarge has for his soldiers.

Confirming that Donut was alive - not that the boy seemed to grasp the concept of death, with how he kept coming back - Sarge goes to the little one. Big hands release the tiny body from the fabric constraints of too-big clothes, simultaneously pulling the little one away from the metallic capsule.

Wails break out like water through a breaking dam, flooding the air, and big wet baby blue eyes open, turned to Sarge, loosely clenched fists flailing, vaguely hitting Sarge's arm.

The man squints, thinking hard. He hurriedly bundles the boy into the fabric on the ground, tearing it with his hands to shorten certain bits, and ends with a baby wrapped in massive rags, looking something like a young hobo. Face scrunched and tomato red, wails beginning to quiet when Sarge finally struggles to pick the Epsilon unit - victory for the Reds when he succeeds, though his success comes as no surprise, just look at him! - and finangles the two in his arms so that he cradles the boy, and the unit is squished between Sarge's chest and the calmed body of the baby.

He still has a fair bit of the clothes from the ground; enough to make a sling, which, after cautiously placing the baby and unit in a corner, Sarge gets to work on making.

He is quick to find that his chest armor is too big to tie the fabric around. His solution, after a few minutes of thought, is to take his chestplate off, an act done with great reluctance and hesitance, but done nonetheless. The sling sits snug on him, swung over his left shoulder and around his waist on his right side. He has a bit of a sleeve left, which Sarge ties to his removed armor and Donut's prone body, securing it off the ground on Donut's chest, the boy rolled onto his back.

Sarge moves back to the baby and the unit, resting the baby in the sling against his chest, the little one puffing away in exhausted sleep, Epsilon in his chubby arms, facing outwards, clutched as tight as a sleeping baby could possibly clutch anything.

Sarge grabs the back of Donut's chest armor, hand wriggled into the gap between the back plate and helmet, grabbing the exterior and interior for better grip, and drags the boy back to the entrance.

Sarge grunts, and steps outside.