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The issue, ultimately, is the trail he left. Fresh blood is easy to follow if you know what you're doing, and it's hard to stop it from dripping off of your chestplate or brushing against the leaves.
Especially in a dense jungle, Locus knows there's a trail anyone with enough experience can follow.
He can't be bothered to move, though. There'd more blood to track him down with, and right now, the main concern is the sniper round lodged in his shoulder.
Plates of his armor lay at his feet, his helmet lays where he dropped it on the cave floor. It's the best position he could find, one with only one entrance, but it also means he can get boxed in.
It doesn't matter right now. The pirates that got a shot off on him seemed far more focused on the Chorian soldiers, and he either needs to pack this or get the bullet out.
Really, it's not the best place to dig a bullet out, but he's done worse in worse places with far worse supplies.
Locus tries to sanitize his knife the best he can with what limited resources he has, the first aid kit barely having enough wipes even just for his hands, and he loathes to think of trying to steal antibiotics from a Chorian base.
Carefully, he lines his blade up with where the bullet slipped in. The main issue will be stitching the damn thing with one arm, but he'll manage.
He always does.
A rock clatters as he presses the knife against his skin, and his head snaps up.
He locks eyes with a yellow visor as a shotgun levels with his head.
The deep red armor is very, very familiar.
His hand twitches towards his pistol, knife still in hand, but he doesn't fully commit.
Locus won't shoot Colonel Sarge. The man wouldn't deserve that, and out here, even an immediately non-lethal shot can spiral into a lethal infection.
The visor of the helmet catches the sunlight creeping in from outside of the cave, and Sarge tilts his head. It's slight, but noticeable.
Locus stares back, the gaze burning on his naked face and blood coating his hands.
"If you're going to shoot me," he rasps, "make it quick."
The shotgun wavers, just slightly, as Sarge adjusts his grip on the barrel. Locus takes a breath in, ignoring the pain shooting from his shoulder. He'd been hoping he could make more change, fix more of his mistakes.
It seems he won't have the chance.
The shotgun drops into a loose, relaxed grip. "Dibs!" Sarge barks, seemingly into the void.
Locus blinks. Once. Then twice, as the soldier in front of him snaps- presumably into his comms- "Of course Dibs Protocol applies here! In what world would it not!"
He clicks off his comm with a hand on his helmet, and turns his gaze to Locus. "Not like there's any damn blues around to counter claim, anyhow."
The man trots further into the cave, and Locus stares at him in bewilderment as he comes to a stop infront of Locus. "What-what are you doing?" Locus says.
Colonel Sarge leans forward, investigating the wound. Locus doesn't dare lean back to move further away. "Lookin at your terrible first aid supplies! This is a disgrace!"
He doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything.
Very casually, as if he's done it hundreds of times, Sarge tugs the knife from Locus' loose grip. There's a lot of things Locus could do with a knife to escape this situation, but Locus lets him take it.
He has several more concealed in his armor anyways.
He watches in dead silence as the Colonel digs around in Locus' medkit, inspecting what supplies he has and occasionally clucking disapprovingly to himself.
"What is happening." Locus finally musters.
Sarge scoffs. "Ain't it obvious? You're under international dibs protocol."
That doesn't explain anything.
It becomes very clear, very quickly, that Locus cannot understand Sarge.
Even if he tries.
Rule #4: Don't nitpick the rules
"Rule 3 sucks, though."
Grif sighs loudly. It's more of a groan, and he twists his head to glare at Simmons through his helmet. Simmons juts his chin out a little in response, like he has something to prove.
His arms are wrapped firmly around a large box, and Simmons nonchalantly has a second one tucked under his arm. His helmet is off, and his eye darts around in a way that's sure to draw suspicion if anyone stops him.
Grif cannot, for the life of him, understand why he was assigned to help sneak resources for Locus out with him. Simmons is terrible at sneaking, and everyone knows it.
"Okay, first of all-" He begins, eyes fixed firmly on Simmons as he strides down the hall.
He's cut off. "Grif, you have to agree with me, it's stupid, we don't need to be told not to-"
"First of all," Grif interrupts firmly, rolling his eyes under his helmet. "It's not stupid, there's a reason. You just don't like it because Donut suggested it and Sarge told him it was a good idea."
Simmons starts sputtering. "I-no I do not, that's childish, I-"
Grif zones his complaints out, eyes landing on the end of the hallway. There, looming like a vulture, is Agent Washington. His arms are crossed, and his foot taps away like an impatient dog.
His visor is firmly fixed on Grif. He doesn't move an inch, but he blocks every exit out.
Grif comes to a stop. Wash uncrosses his arms, letting them drop to his sides. His foot stops tapping. His visor remains fixed on Grif like a dog with a bone.
A form crashes into his back. "Grif, what the hell!"
Then, he hisses an exhale. "Oh. Shit."
They both stare back at Wash. The man doesn't speak a word, and Simmons nervously glances at Grif in his peripheral.
"Do you think he figured us out?"
Grif exhales through his teeth. "Nah."
There's a brief silence. The yellow visor down the hallway glints with light from the sun shifting into view through the window. Wash finally speaks. "Found you, Grif. You can't run anymore."
Simmons jerks, and his head twists towards Grif .
"What the fuck did you do, dude?!" He hisses, head swiveling back and forth between Grif and Wash.
Grif doesn't break eyecontact with the predator. Wash stares at him, waiting for him to run. To show weakness.
"Simmons," he says with a very carefully measured tone. "I need you to take my box."
The man startles. He processes Grif's request quickly, and shoves him lightly in the shoulder. "I'm not ditching you to Wash!"
Like he heard it- and he probably did, he has good ears and even better armor- Wash calls, "Come on, Simmons. You know you can't protect him."
"Grif, seriously, he'll tear you apart, I'm not gonna leave you-" Steeling himself, Grif passes the box to Simmons.
Simmons is cut off as he fumbles with the box, struggling to adjust the one he's been carrying and the much larger box Grif has been managing.
Wash, down the hall, very minutely, shifts his foot. He positions it further back, moving his center of gravity.
Grif is so fucked.
Honorably, he breaks eyecontact with the beast down the hallway to look back at Simmons. "I'm not getting out of this no matter what I do."
His partner looks back, his human eye glancing down the hall to Wash before settling on Grif. "Fine. Fine."
"Good choice." Wash says. He takes a step to the side, enough room for Simmons to walk through.
As Simmons silently walks down the gap between the two of them, the hallway eerily silent, Grif and Wash stare at eachother.
"Before you like, kill me, or whatever" Grif starts, "Can you uh. Tell me what I did."
Simmons silently passes Wash.
Wash goes very still.
Grif, briefly, has hope.
"Start running, Captain Grif."
The words hang dead in the area for just a moment. Simmons vanishes around the corner.
"Shit." He says. "Shit!" Grif says again as he whirls on his feet, and starts booking it.
He slams into the corner of the wall as he tries to get away from Wash as quickly as possible.
Footsteps rapidly approach from behind. Grif runs faster. "This is cruel and unusual punishment!" He rushes out, as the footsteps get closer and closer as he runs. "At least read me my charges-"
Grif hits the ground screaming with Wash ontop of him.
It's only an hour later, laying on the ground wheezing from exertion as Wash looms over him, that he realizes he knows exactly what this is about.
And it's stupid as hell.
Rule #7: Divide his laundry equally between red team members
Locus is soaked to the bone. He shakes, despite his best efforts not to, and Sarge scolds him like he isn't a genocidal maniac who almost killed them all.
Not like Lopez cares. What he does care about is the irritation of having to ferry laundry to the Chorian base.
Whoever decided that he, the robot, would have a good fucking excuse to have a wad of wet clothes to throw in the dryer should be shot.
(It was Grif.)
The water drips off his armor, and down the seams of his joints. Lopez stomps his feet a little harder as he walks. He cannot understand a single one of them.
They do not bother to learn Spanish, despite being around him for nearly nine years, and they do not bother to outgrow their fucking stupidity!
He regrets, often, not just killing the whole lot of them while he had the chance. This is simply yet another moment of raw stupidity from the Reds, and every time he gets his hopes up they stamp it out with blundering, oblivious footsteps.
Lopez really could kill all of them. Nobody would even know, he could do it while they were all out in the caves, there would be no witness except Locus.
The base itself is mostly empty as he turns the corner into the room that's been converted into a shitty laundromat. It's quiet, and while he doesn't come in here often, it's unusual to be in here without the tumble of a load.
Either way, he seeks out a dryer. If he remembers correctly-
"Lopez?"
The voice rises from the back of the room. His systems flag the voice as Kimball. "Mierda." He says outloud. Not like they'll understand to call him out.
He turns. Kimball stands at the entrance, a bemused expression on her face. Carolina stands at her shoulder, in casual clothes, leaning against the door to the room. Her expression is unreadable.
Lopez calculates the likelihood of her suspecting something to be nearly 65%.
"Are the Reds having you run their errands again?" Kimball says, glancing at the clothes in his arm. Then, she makes a bit of a face. "…Are those wet?"
"¿Estás jodidamente ciego? Sí, están mojados."
She stares at him.
Lopez stares back.
"…Should I know about what happened?"
"Sí, deberías. Pero esos idiotas creen que tienen un cachorro asustado."
"…Do I want to know?" Kimball says.
Lopez runs the question through his probability calculator. Eyes the bundle of wet clothes in his arms, and then looks back up to Kimball.
"No."
She nods. "Thank you, Lopez."
Maybe humans aren't all bad. Lopez can be a little harsh with them.
Kimball exchanges a few words with Carolina as Lopez loads up the soaked clothes into the dryer,
Once Kimball has been gone for exactly 41.3 seconds, Carolina rounds on him. He retracts his prior statement, and prepares himself to stonewall Carolina.
She tactically boxes him in, against the dryer he's just closed. And he was so close to escape, too.
He may think the Reds are all morons, but he won't disobey Sarge's direct orders. Rule #1. Don't tell Carolina.
"I know you're up to something." She's practically in his face. He doesn't twitch. She shifts ever-so-slightly closer. "You and the Reds. You're keeping a secret, and I will find it."
His fans whine without his input as his back bumps into the dryer, and there's something slightly smug on her face as she leans back.
Given some room, he tries to edge out of her grasp.
"Carolina?" Wash stands, hesitant, at the barrier to the room. Lopez's helmet locks onto him. There's a laundry basket in his arms, and a bruise on his cheek.
Carolina, conniving as always, immediately drops the voice she was using. "Hi, Wash." She takes a further step away from Lopez, and he eyes the exits.
Wash blinks at her. "…What's happening."
She smiles at him. "Nothing."
There's a look of doubt. He looks at Lopez. "Did she threaten you?"
Carolina stares at him.
Lopez's fans whine slightly louder. "No," he lies.
The freelancer squints at him. "…Ohhkay," he says.
When Lopez flees the room, there are two sets of eyes following him with raptor-like focus, and an uneasy feeling that a human would likely classify as a sense of impending doom.
Luckily, Lopez isn't a human, so he logs it as probable systems malfunction and moves on with his life.
Rule #2: Do not let Agent Washington find out
The crux of the issue was that they couldn't keep Locus in a cave forever.
Donut is the first one to realize this, and the largest arguer in favor of moving him. He had minimal suggestions onto where, and so, Simmons started looking.
Grif made the argument that they could keep him in the cave. He had many reasons, but they mostly looped back around to concerns about giving Locus a moment to run.
When Locus started hacking up a lung from the mildew, Grif lost a lot of ground to Sarge suddenly becoming concerned for the health of their fucked up stray.
…That, and Simmons convinced him that if they didn't move him Locus might just take off. And they can't have that.
Better to keep a good eye on the psychopath.
So, they're moving Locus. It's a badly put together escort party, with Lopez in the back and Locus firmly locked into the center. He retains his armor, and nobody has been brave enough attempt to talk him into surrendering his cloaking unit.
The walk would be dead silent, if it wasn't for Donut's chatter. He fills the empty air effortlessly, even managing to coax a word or two out of Locus as he lumbers on and tries not to participate besides a grunt or two.
"-which is why we have Rule 3, obviously, can't risk that sort of fruit disaster-"
It reminds Simmons of the early days with Wash, when they still thought he'd killed Donut and they were still… hostile towards him. It's not the same thing. It can't be the same thing. Locus is.. Locus. It's different.
Sarge laughs, and Simmons lifts his head from where he's watching his feet. He tunes back into the conversation.
"-And you know me, I can take three guys at once-"
Locus makes a sound that resembles that of a man being strangled, and suddenly, Simmons feels much better about this situation.
"-It's just not to hard for me since I was careful when working my way up from one-"
He snickers to himself, locking eyes with Grif over Locus' shoulder in a brief glance.
Grif tilts his head lightly, and Simmons jerks his chin up a bit. Grif snorts, and looks away. With a grin hidden under his helmet, Simmons looks into the jungle surrounding them.
The birds are very quiet. They always are, here. Kimball says they've mostly been killed by the war, and he misses the incessant chatter they used to hear. Blood Gulch even had a few pesty birds, but Chorus-
Something in the bushes crunches. Locus flickers in the middle of them, snapping out of visibility as rifles level with the treeline.
Sarge lifts his chin slightly, not wavering from his positon. "Who's there?"
The bushes shift. Silently, rifle in hand, Washington steps out of the woods. It's dead silent.
His helmet is fixed on the empty space between them, and tracks the slight ripple of disturbed space as it slinks its way behind Sarge.
Wash stares for a moment. Simmons' shoulders hike up to his ears, preparing for what's sure to be an outburst-
"What! The fuck!" His voice goes so shrill that Simmons recoils, eyeing the trembling freelancer. Wash's hands are tight on his rifle, and it remains fixed on the now-imperceptible mercenary hiding behind Sarge.
The colonel takes another step further away. The leaves behind them flicker as Locus shifts, before he uncloaks and becomes fully visible. He's stiff, held as still as he can manage, with his helmet locked onto Wash.
On the other hand, Wash seems to be having a difficult time deciding which Red to focus on, head darting between them. He settles on Sarge, pivoting to face him better. "What the fuck is this! What the fuck Sarge?!"
Jerking forward, Donut interjects with waving hands. "Hey, now, we're all part of this, and-"
Wash cuts him off quickly, jabbing a finger in Donut's direction. "Shut up Donut!" he says, before refocusing his attention. "What the fuck were you thinking-"
"I called dibs." Sarge says simply. He steadies the rifle in his hands, and keeps his eyes fixed on him.
Wash makes a sound, a bit like a can of soda that's been shaken and stabbed in the side. "He's not a stray dog, Sarge-" He stops himself, inhaling shakily over the comms.
There's a moment where they all stand in silence, not even Lopez speaking up with an interjection.
Wash takes a pause, twisting his head away from them a bit. Intentionally, he loosens his grip on his rifle. His shoulders hike up to his ears, before they drop as he makes a choice.
There's a sigh. Wash's helmet wavers to where Locus sulks in silence behind Sarge. Internal comms flip on, and he hisses over the mic, "…I'm going to have to tell someone, you realize this, right?"
Locus, not keyed in, doesn't vanish into the trees, and continues to do his best to blend in with the foliage. It's dead silent, for a moment.
"You won't, actually."
Helmets snap to Grif. He leans, relaxed, against a tree. He's very casually crossed his arms, and he tilts his head. "You won't, unless you want me to tell everyone about the real reason you chased me down last week."
Simmons looks back to Wash. The man stands silent. Then, his shoulders slump and his foot twitches like he wants to kick at the rocks.
"…Oh come on."
He's smug at this victory. Simmons knows it by the tilt of his helmet and the way he adjusts his crossed arms. He's not very subtle, when you've known him for long enough.
Locus very barely shifts, and Simmons doesn't want to explain to him what's happened. Instead, he switches channels inside his helmet as Wash and Sarge begin to argue the logistics.
"Grif. How'd you do it?"
He doesn't move, not showing a sign of hearing anything. Simmons knows better though, and rolls his eyes under his helmet. Stubborn idiot.
"I know you keep your radio tuned to this channel. What do you have on him? I won't spill."
"…Not a word, right?"
Simmons nods, once. Grif's shoulders slump slightly in, before he relents. "I stole his juicebox stash. Thought it was Cabooses'."
Silence lingers.
"…His what?"
Rule #8: Never EVER mention felix.
Locus thinks that the Temple of Interior Decorating is a little… Grand for what it does. What it claims it does, anyhow.
What it does is unclear. Santa's answers are vague and unhelpful, no matter how specific Locus gets with his questions.
Being alone here gives him a lot of time to think. Think about his crimes, what he's done, about the Red's incessant desire to fold him in. And, embarrassingly, most of all… what it is that the Temple of Interior Decorating really does.
It's a sharp temptation, haunting him whenever he's left alone. The key slot mocks him, it would be so easy to just.. Quickly use it.
But no. That would expose him. There are only two key bearers on this planet, and he knows that Captain Tucker would immdiately deny any involvement.
But he thinks about it.
Since Agent Washington… Discovered their little charade, he's insisted on at least someone being posted to watch Locus. Today, it's Agent Washington himself.
Which means there isn't much in terms of conversation. Not like Locus usually responds, but the Reds are miraculously good at upholding a onesided conversation for hours at a time.
Washington patrols like something's biting at his heels, and Locus would be doing the same if it weren't for the fact that Washington almost took his head off with the rifle last time he tried to patrol while he was on guard.
Instead, he positions himself carefully in a ledge with good sightlines and watches as the man paces himself into exhaustion. He'd like to know what blackmail it was that Grif had used, but the man had been firm in not saying a word.
Anything that can get Washington to abide must be significant.
He doesn't have a gun. They haven't taken his sword- Something about leaving a man with something to defend himself? It was hard to parse the meaning through all of Sarge's shouting.
Regardless, he can't properly roost. It leaves him keenly aware of being vulnerable, and he finds himself constantly on the verge of cloaking and slipping into the shadows.
"Locus."
He doesn't jump. Locus very specifically does not jump, tensing his muscles to hide his surprise.
Washington stands around a corner, body stiff. In hand, he holds a set of bowls, clearly hastily prepared as an afterthought. They stare at eachother for a moment, before Washington coughs to clear his throat.
"I have food." He says stiffly, adjusting his posture slightly where he stands. He avoids looking at Locus directly, visor fixed at a point behind him.
Locus shifts slightly, widening the gap on his ledge. It's enough that if Washington so desired he could sit down with a good meter between them.
He seems to take this as it's intended, stepping forward. He's tense as he sits down, passing a bowl off to Locus.
Ignoring Washington for a moment, he investigates the food. It's surprisingly not the bland rations he's gotten used to- It's a curry of some sort, with good brown rice.
It's likely Chorus cuisine. Seeing as Locus struggles to think of any curry that's.. this particular shade of indigo. He'd need to pull his helmet off to smell the spices.
Washington has not taken his helmet off either. He sits, straightbacked and stiff with the food in his lap. He looks off into the middle distance.
Locus sighs. He settles the curry in his lap, and reaches off, undoing his helmet in the motion. He doesn't let himself pause, or hesitate, as the air hits his face.
The agent is polite enough to not swivel his head to look at Locus, but his shoulders relax a little as Locus sets down his helmet.
"…Grif insisted I feed you this," He says lamely, after they've sat in silence for long enough for it to start to sink into Locus' skin.
"One of his squad made it," he continues at Locus' lack of response, "I don't think he realized Grif is allergic to half the native tubers on this planet."
Locus grunts, finally giving the curry a try. It's got an odd flavor, not one he's tasted before, but not necessarily bad. After a moment, the kick of the spice hits and he blinks.
He looks over to Washington, keeping his movements slow. Cutting down on abrupt moments is easy for him to do, and it makes the agent less jumpy.
"I imagine Captain Grif was fairly upset about that," he muses in response, getting a scoff from Washington.
The man motions vaguely with his spoon while he talks, something relaxing as he talks. "Sure was! Wouldn't shut up about it, not like any of them usually do anyways."
He briefly reflects on his time spent with the Reds. They are, in fact, quite incapable of shutting up.
"You're probably used to it, I doubt Felix was much better," Washington adds offhandedly.
He freezes a second later, the words catching up to him. He doesn't look at Locus, and Locus doesn't look back. Something in his gut drops like a rock, and he tries to find something to say to that.
It's silent for a moment.
"…Felix almost got taken out by his cumin allergy, once." Locus finally musters. "Acted like it was a murder attempt. Wouldn't shut up."
Washington makes a sound- it's almost a laugh, a little uncertain, wavering a bit at the end. He picks at his food after, not making eyecontact with Locus.
Instead of letting them sink into silence again, like he normally would, he continues. "Would've been easier if he had been taken out by that," Locus says, trying to infuse a relaxed tone into his voice.
It seems, for once, it's worked. This time, Washington properly chokes on his food. He coughs, hacking besides Locus.
Once he's recovered, he adds in a slightly raspy voice, "can you imagine?" He coughs again, and Locus' mouth twitches.
The silence reemerges, and Locus doesn't try to break it this time. It's slightly more comfortable.
Something unravels in his chest.
Rule #1: Don't tell carolina
Carolina knows she needs to teach them to cover their tracks better. Grif is good at it, it takes some serious effort to track his feet, but the other reds?
Well, there's a reason she's having such an easy time following their trail. She'd waited until Donut was the one badly sneaking a box out of the base to follow, and it was paying off.
Donut is terrible at covering his tracks, even when he puts work into it. She knows he tried, because he's badly kicked fallen foliage over the footpints. They're easy to follow, not even the rain fully conceals Donut's footsteps in the mud.
She really needs to teach them better. But for now, it works to her advantage.
They lead her to one of the temples. The one there's never been a good reason to visit, the one that's so useless to them that none of the factions had even tried to hold it.
Of all places, they're smuggling boxes of food to the Temple of Interior Decorating. Carolina cannot understand the mind of a Red.
She sleuths along the path, slipping in and out of the shadows. Keeping an eye out for any sign of Donut heading back, she moves quickly. It's easy to be light on her feet, second nature.
It's easy to slip into the temple, following some of the muddy footprints Donut has left.
She can't understand what he could be hiding, what the Reds could be trying to hide here. There's very little to hide on this planet, in her experience.
Carolina peeks a corner, and freezes. A set of eyes stare back, visibly startled, form hunched over a very familiar set of armor in the process of being cleaned of blood.
She stares at a man who is very certainly not supposed to be hidden in a Temple being fed by the Reds.
"…Holy shit."
Rule #5: Don't leave the cave temple
The temple is quiet, today.
It normally is, but the Reds had been planning to stop by to induct Locus with… "Red" activities, whatever that means. And they are very late. It's approaching thirty minutes now.
He wouldn't have worried if it were Felix. He barely knows the Reds, and he knows Simmons wouldn't stand for this.
Technically, Locus isn't supposed to leave the temple. He hasn't dared to break that boundary, not with the amount of slack they'd handed him in the last month.
They're far to trusting.
He isn't supposed to leave the temple, but Locus sneaks through the woods, trying to track down a single sign of life anyways.
The wildlife have finally started to move back in, and he's gotten in a few proper sightings of larger fauna. A few of them had been absolutely massive herbivores.
He moves quietly, keeping an eye out for potential threats. The jungle moves quietly around him, a few small rodents scuttling underfoot as he walks.
The issue with the temple-bound unofficial rule, at this point, is that one of it's main barriers is useless.
The remaining blues, Captains Tucker and Caboose, remain oblivious to his presence.
Agent Carolina on the other hand is fully aware, and keeps her silence. The discovery was abrupt, and her leaving was just as sudden.
He had anticipated her coming back with a squad of fully armed Chorian soldiers.
She did not.
Locus doesn't understand her motivations in leaving him and the Reds be. He's not quite sure she understands her own motivations in this.
He pauses, briefly. Stilling so he can hear better above the quiet shuffling of his armor and the crunch of leaves. Distant shouting. Hopefully he won't have to interfere.
Locus can competently intervene with a sword, but he'd really rather not.
Quick on his feet, Locus approaches as fast as he can without making enough noise to alert anyone. It's important, having the advantage of the element of the suprise. Slipping in without being spotted can be the deciding factor of a fight.
The shouting, as he gets closer, sounds less and less like people fighting. Simmons' voice stands out in particular, shrill and high. It keeps breaking on the high notes, panicked.
There's a chance they've encountered a predator. Locus breaks into a run, thinking of that large herbivore he spotted. He doesn't want to know what those horns were made to fight off, but he supposes he may be finding out.
When he slides to a stop on the perimeter of a clearing, his eyes catch on the bright colors of the armor of the Reds. They're.. oddly high off the ground. He can't see any animals, so he slinks out of the brush with his sword activated in hand.
Two of the Reds are up a tree, and he watches as Donut throws a pinecone at the robot standing at the bottom.
"Sois todos unos imbéciles! ¿Por qué carajos haríais-" Lopez yells, getting cut off as he notices Locus approaching. He only looks at him for a moment, before going back to yelling in shittily-translated Spanish.
Simmons visibly perks up. "Oh my god! Locus! Quick, get him-"
He watches as Lopez throws a stick at Simmons, hitting him in the head, loudly threatening to go get his gun. Donut throws another pinecone back. Lopez dodges it, and with a heavy sigh Locus deactivates the sword.
"Come on Lopez," Donut starts in a voice more suited for a child or perhaps an insane man, "You have to consider Rule 3, we had to do it, I know you're mad about the coffee maker-"
"¡NUNCA DIJE NADA SOBRE UNA CAFETERA!"
He moves forward, and ignores Simmons squawking with dismay as Lopez chucks a rock this time. It connects again, and Lopez spits, "¡Sois todos tan jodidamente estúpidos!"
Immediately after, Donut wails, "Do you hate us?! Come on Lopez, please-"
Another rock is chucked, and Donut dodges it.
"¡Sí! Ustedes son todos-"
Simmons, against all odds comprehending a single word of Spanish, jolts up. "You don't mean that, come on man-"
Locus, briefly, considers if he should interfere as requested. Lopez throws another rock at Simmons, and he looks down at the rifle Lopez has left on the ground.
At the very least, he can remove that from the equation. Lopez'll work the rage out in an hour or two, anyways. Unless they're particularly stupid about how they manage this one.
They'll be fine, he decides.
"Good luck," he says as pulls the rifle into his grip, turning on his heel to walk back into the jungle.
"Locus! Locus get him to stop! Locus-"
He has a temple to contemplate the function of.
Rule #6: He is only allowed to attend thursday wine & cheese hour
"What the fuck, Donut."
Locus doesn't look up from where he's poking at his… suspiciously colored cheese. He's never seen cheese like this, and Donut keeps dodging his questions on what it's from.
Brightly, from besides him, Donut responds, "Well, we couldn't just skip it!"
"Yes, we could, holy shit Donut-"
He would really prefer to know what animal this cheese came from. Locus suppresses the temptation to sniff it. He's not that rude.
Voice quiet, Doc speaks up from where he's sat next to Donut. "I'm not going to tell anyone, anyways, it's-"
Locus watches as Simmons throws his arms up into the air, nearly wacking Grif in the face before he dodges the flailing limb. "Can you guarantee O'Malley won't say anything?!"
The silence is very telling.
Locus sighs, and takes a nibble of the cheese slice. Surprisingly, it doesn't taste as dubious as it looks. When he looks up, Donut is looking back with a grin on his face. "It's good, right?" He says.
Simmons bristles. "Donut! Focus, holy shit! Someone's gonna notice we're not doing cheese hour"
He starts moving around some of the crackers to make room for a box Locus is… fairly unsure about. "Wine and cheese hour, Simmons." Donut gently corrects while he lifts it onto the table.
There's a loud sputtering. He spends a solid five seconds trying to compose a response, before making a frustrated sound. Simmons whirls on his heel and flees the room, accidentally shoulder checking Grif on his way out.
Donut and Doc watch in silence, and Donut snorts to himself once Simmons is out of earshot. Grif, casually settles down at the table in the meanwhile, poking around at the cheeses.
"You do know he's gonna tell Wash, right?" Grif says. He lifts the same piece of cheese Locus had been investigating, and takes a bite without an ounce of hesitation or contemplation.
Donut shrugs, shooting a grin at Grif. "Eh, what's he gonna do? Shoot me again?" Doc barks a laugh, elbowing Donut in the side.
"Don't say that Donut, god-"
Locus tunes them out, twisting his head to look off into the jungle. They're set up towards the edge of the temple, with a good view. Plans for Locus' exit off the planet are being made, with the help of Wash's higher status in the military.
According to Sarge, the simtroopers have been told they're being given land on the moon, Iris. They intend to get Locus off the planet before the simtroopers leave- which they say may be a while. The crux of the issue is getting a shuttle off the planet without any questions.
And Locus is fully aware of how heavily guarded the spaceworthy ships on this planet are. His shoulder, still twinging with pain when he moves it to quickly, can attest to that.
His eyes catch on something blue moving through the brush, and he doesn't straighten up. Locus keeps himself still, eyes locked onto the blue and scanning for another shade.
It's a similar shade to Agent Carolina's, but it's movement isn't polished enough.
It is, most certainly, Captain Tucker.
Donut leans into his space, angling his head to peak around his head into the jungle. "Whatcha lookin at, Locus?" In the corner, Grif and Doc argue about something benign. Locus watches as Tucker disappears into the foliage out of view.
He finally answers, "Captain Tucker has found us."
Donut stares at him for a moment, and then lunges to his feet. He's still in his blacks, and as he scrambles for his helmet- presumably to comm Washington- Grif stares at Locus. "Are you sure?"
In the middle of picking up a cracker- Better to just keep going, he doubts Tucker will defy a direct order from Washington- Locus shoots a glare at Grif. "Yes, I'm sure. It's that or Agent Carolina, and I wouldn't see her coming."
Donut jams his helmet on, fumbling with the comm unit for a moment before speaking. It's muffled, as he hasn't turned on his broadcast microphone.
"Guess we should be grateful. It'd be a shitshow if Carolina found out." Grif muses, rolling his own helmet in his hands as Doc pulls on his boots. Doc is rather quick with the motions, more experienced then some of the other simtroopers.
Locus stares at where Donut is motioning an excessive amount with his hands for a moment. "…Yes, it would," he says simply.
Footsteps thunk on the flooring down the way, and Washington comes stumbling around the corner. His helmet is on, but his body language broadcasts everything he's thinking as clear as if his face was in the air.
Donut, done with his part, starts pulling on his armor. Locus doesn't quite understand the urgency, watching with a blank expression on his face as Washington tugs his helmet off.
He looks grim as he says, "we need to move Locus off the planet, now."
They all stare at him. Grif chokes on his food, and coughs into his elbow, wheezing while he tries to recover. "…That seems like a poor idea? We barely have a ship?" Donut ventures tentatively.
Wash shakes his head aggressively, "no, Tucker will rat on us to Carolina, and I don't think she'll tolerate this."
For a moment, Locus considers intervening. Carolina had sworn him to silence on not informing them that they'd seen eachother. Something about them thinking she's soft.
Would he rather endure another month on this planet, surrounded by idiots who he is unfortunately being endeared to, or risk a bumpy ride on a 3 decade old half repaired shuttle?
The answer, of course, is obvious.
-
It's worse then he thought.
Lopez's legs are sticking out as he tugs wires and motor parts around, an angry tirade in poorly-translated Spanish echoing around in the engine bay. The summary of said tirade is that Locus has a 75% chance of getting into orbit, and a 60% of landing on Iris safely. Abysmal odds, especially when combined.
He can barely think of a worse ship to take off planet, but as he looks at Grif stress smoking as Simmons welds a plate to the side, he thinks it'd be worse to admit that he lied. So he doesn't say anything as the Reds rush their way through half of the preparations.
It's not like him dying of all people would be much of a tragedy, anyways. And he'd rather not damage what little trust he's managed to collect.
Confirmation of the approach of two troopers makes the whole squad nervous about Carolina being on-route, but a distant bang removes those worries. It's most certainly Caboose. The two dots circle the temple, clearly surveying the area as Wash keeps an eye on them on the radar systems the temple provides.
Why the useless temple provides a radar system completely eludes Locus. It's not something for a wordly human to understand, he supposes.
Leaves crunch from behind as a voice speaks up, "Locus!" He looks up from his sword as Wash trots up to him, helmet off, looking frazzled. He stops in front of Locus, and then just stands there, looking at him expectantly.
Locus lets the silence drag on, staring at Wash in complete silence. Finally, he's forced to break the silence on his own. "…Yes?"
Wash startles a little, shoulders jerking back before he nervously glances into the woods. "Did you not read the comm message I sent? There's- There's been a third ping. I think they called in Carolina already."
Pointedly, Locus looks down at the helmet in his lap. Has Washington slept? "No, I didn't- Are you certain it isn't wildlife?"
Before he can even finish his sentence, Wash is shaking his head. "No, it's to fast for the animals we've been seeing- the radar keeps loosing it, to. It'll only pop up for a few seconds before vanishing again."
There are many things that could cause such an error. The temple is old, and he's sure the radar system is faulty. It could be detecting a large bird, or several different creatures. Wash's hair is frazzled, and his brows are pulled to a point on his forehead.
Locus looks at Wash. He thinks for a moment, and shifts the helmet in his hands. "…Agent Washington, are you…" He pauses. Looks away from Wash, down to his hands. "Doing alright? You look…"
Wash doesn't respond for a moment. The suspense of the pause makes Locus looks back up, and the freelancer is staring at him with an unreadable expression. He opens his mouth, and then closes it, before looking off at the shuttle for a moment.
"I'll be fine." He says stiffly, back straight. Wash then adds, "If you need anything out of the temple, I'd get it now."
It's a very clear dismissal. Locus takes it for what it is, and rises to his feet, beginning to flee the clearing for the temple. Something tight coils in his chest, something akin to mortification. He shouldn't have asked, that much was clear.
As he walks, Wash calls after him. "Locus!" He stops. It's only when he turns back to look at Wash that the man keeps talking. He looks back at him with something sharp in his eyes, scanning Locus for a long moment. "…Thanks for asking," he says before turning back to the shuttle.
Locus is left standing for a moment, before he takes a step back, and rushes out of the clearing. Something unidentifiable burns under his skin as he walks, and he tries to bury it best he can.
The walk up the temple into the main chamber isn't long, but it's enough time for him to get some of that strain to calm itself.
It's when he's less then a few corners away from entering the main chamber that he hears it. Footsteps, loud and clear, moving their way down the hallway.
From the sound, he thinks there's only a few seconds before they turn a corner and can see him. Locus sidesteps, tucking himself into an alcove and turning on his cameo. He stands, very very still, as a trooper in dark blue armor comes trotting around the corner.
It's Captain Caboose.
He watches, breathing carefully. Over his mic helmet, Sarge's incredibly loud voice blares, "LOCUS! The shuttle is fixed! Get down here DOUBLE TIME, SOLDIER!"
Locus tries not to panic. Despite it all, every time he's been in a combat scenario with Captain Caboose running around, he manages to stumble his way into messing everything up for the opposition.
Which means, when Caboose accidentally stumbles directly into the alcove he's placed himself, he shouldn't be surprised. His cameo flickers, and he's left face to face with Captain Caboose.
Caboose takes a few steps back, shoving away from the wall and then tilting his head at Locus. He stays very still, like he won't say anything and just move on if he stays still.
"Tuckerrrr!"
"LOCUS! Get DOWN here soldier! Stop slackin!"
Fuck.
"What, Caboose, holy shit-" The captain steps around the corner, and freezes. Locus stares back. Tucker's rifle swings up, leveling with Locus' head. He's glad he put his helmet on, earlier. They stand like this, Caboose looking back and forth, for a solid 10 seconds before Tucker speaks again.
"Locus." Tucker snarls, "what are you doing here."
Locus, in lieu of responding, books it.
It's not much of a chase, with his cameo unit practically useless in close quarters in movement, and the only way forward being a dead end in the central temple. He still commits, listening as Tucker shouts at Caboose to keep up.
When he slides to a stop in the confined area, he whirls to face the duo as they come bowling down the hallway.
Captain Tucker comes to a confident halt, holding his rifle still and square with Locus' head as he speaks. "Stand down." He looks around, scanning the surroundings, before continuing, "we both know there's no way out of this one, fucker."
Distantly, he can hear music. It's the blaring tune of the Reds, and he briefly closes his eyes. He would rather them not run someone over with the warthog, considering the closer quarters.
Well. At least Tucker won't get the chance to comm anyone to come and help them take Locus in for trial. Things'll be a lot simpler way.
Locus looks down at the key slot. It sits unmoving, occasionally pulsing as excess energy is sent to it.
With a distinctive sound, the sword lights up at his side.
"Don't even fucking think about it," Tucker says stiffly. He steps in front of Caboose, clearly anticipating an attack.
Might as well, right?
Locus activates the Temple of Interior Decorating with a flick of the wrist.