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Locus read the files Hargrove gave him.
He knew what missions entailed. He knew that the best way to deal with an enemy was to know them. So when Hargrove dropped a load of files on his desk about Project Freelancer, he read every single one.
There wasn’t much. The Director looked to have purged his records. But he still had service records to go off of, medical write ups, basic facts. He knew that one of their men had 17 sisters. He knew one of them had a shining record before being demoted. He knew one of them had given birth to an alien child.
Okay, knew wasn’t exactly right; Locus had never actually believed it. He thought it was a flaw in the records, a practical joke of some sort. Maybe a typo. Human life couldn't sustain the progeny of aliens. And even if they could, it wouldn’t be due to an “alien sword.”
So he hid that fact away in the depths of his mind. Ignored it. It was ridiculous. Illogical. Even as his world fell apart, and his personal label went from soldier to monster, he never even considered that it could ever be true.
A year later, finding himself saddled with an alien child and a glowing sword, Locus was beginning to believe that maybe he’d never been right about anything.
At first, he plans on giving her up.
The option is there, when he has her. He’s fortunate to find himself in Sangheili territory when it all goes down, fortunate enough to survive the incident with only a new scar to show for it. The Sangheili’s don’t explain what’s going on until after everything is said and done, this remote tribe speaking to him in broken English about being the chosen one and children, and Locus is very confused about the whole situation until they plop a squirming alien in his arms and say “it’s a girl.”
It is in that moment, Locus can hear Felix in his head, shouting “what the fuck” at the sky.
They want him to stay with them, to raise this child like he’s apparently supposed to. This child he’s never asked for or wanted. He almost laughs when the bring it up, all casual like he’s suppose to know this already.
He can’t raise a child. He’s a killer. A monster. A man with guns on his trail and blood all over his hands. Not some suburban parent to this...thing.
That’s what he tells them, more or less. If they’re offended, they don’t show it, offering to take the child in easily enough. Locus only plans on staying for a week before booking it, leaving this chapter of his life behind him before continuing on his revenge quests.
He would have too, if it wasn’t for learning Sangheili. Because Locus overhears them, hears what they plan on doing to this child when it’s grown, and he can’t leave. Can’t leave her. Can’t let more blood stain his hands. Not when this creature looks so much like the failure that still haunts him every night.
When he picks her up in the middle of the night and carries her far away, he hopes he isn’t making another mistake in his long list.
He stops seeing her as an alien a week after they leave the compound.
They’re sitting in front of a fire, trying to keep warm in the cold desert nights of this planet. It’s quiet, far too quiet for Locus’ nerves and he focuses on the sound of himself breathing through his helmet filter to keep himself sane. The child is in his lap, wrapped up in a thick blanket Locus stole from an outpost (he supposes it could be called a baby blanket). She doesn’t make much noise, just occasional chatter, and Locus is able to ignore her for the most part until she starts chewing on his gauntlets.
"What are you doing?” Locus says, looking down. The child has started to gnaw on his gloves, biting down on the fingers with raw gums. She doesn’t have teeth yet for biting. “I am not meant to be edible.”
The child doesn’t stop, still chewing. At first, Locus thinks she’s hungry, maybe he had underestimated how much a creature of this size needed to eat, but then he notices that the alien’s bite isn’t much more than careful nipping. Like she’s doing it to distract her.
Locus looks down into her, sees what looks to be a tooth and sighs. Teething. And here he thought his life was weird enough.
Locus pulls back his hand. The child just reaches up her hands to pull it back. “Desist. I will find you a substitute. My gloves are not hygienic.” He makes another attempt to pull back. The alien just keeps holding on.
Locus looks down at her. She’s not giving up anytime soon. Too stubborn. Just like her-
His brain freezes. Rewinds. Replays the thought in full.
Her father. Just like her father. He’s this child’s father.
Locus reaches down for his glove and detaches it from his armor. The alien- no his daughter, chirps happily with her new gift, gnawing some more on the fingers.
“You can’t use that forever,” Locus says. “It’s still not suitable for a child your age.”
Locus has never heard himself sound so defeated in his life.
He names her Charlie.
It’s a silly name and he knows it. Entirely unsuitable for the Elite she’ll grow into. If he was a good father, a good man, he’d choose something more proper. Something she won’t mind later in life, something more in touch with the culture she’ll one day be a part of.
Locus knows he will never be a good father. He knows he’s not a good man. And for that, he hopes his daughter will be able to forgive him.
Because here’s the thing; Locus knows how unlikely it is to see his daughter reach adulthood. He knows that she’ll never really look like him. And because he is selfish, still after all these years, he can’t help but give her something of himself to carry with her.
He hasn’t used the name Charles in years. He hopes Charlie will carry it better than he ever did.
Once Charlie starts talking, really talking, Locus is thankful that he bothered to learn Sangheili.
It’s odd, how his child is born knowing the language almost instinctively. Even though his classes mentioned that Sangheili is much different than Human languages, he never suspected that it went this far. She doesn’t start all at once, only speaking in small words at first, but soon enough she’s rambling on in full sentences. Unlike a human toddler, language isn’t something she has to learn. It’s something she just knows.
Locus is not so lucky. Because while his knowledge of Sangheili is enough to allow him to understand the words that pour from his daughter’s mouth, it’s not quite enough to let him respond to all of her questions.
It seems the Sangheili toddler-esque question asking stage hits at six months instead of three years. And because of that, Locus is entirely unprepared for the plethora of questions she begins to throw at him.
“Why do you wear armor all the time?” She asks him as he’s making dinner for the both of them. Charlie isn’t picky when it comes to food; as long as it contains meat, she’s fine. It makes it a little hard to find, war criminals aren’t usually welcome at grocery stores, but Locus’ good aim makes hunting suitable to keep them afloat. Even if he has to sustain himself on mostly rations. He’s considered using the money he steals from the Charon bosses he kills as a resource, but that would mean forgoing things like house repair, and textbooks to teach his daughter, and for that, Locus is okay with surviving on the basics.
“It’s a habit.” He says, lapsing into English for the sentence. He doesn’t know the Sangheili equivalent for habit. Charlie knows enough English to catch on, but unlike her native language, the process is slow going. Locus doubts she’ll ever be able to speak it given the way her vocal cords work.
“A habit?”
Locus flips the piece of chicken (well, this planet’s equivalent) on the piece of metal he’s been using as a frying pan since hitting the road. He doesn’t really need to cook it, Charlie can deal fine with raw, but she likes it better this way, and Locus has never objected to cooking. It’s relaxing. “Something humans do over and over. Because were used to it.”
For a second, he thinks he’s satisfied her question. But she makes a small growl Locus now recognizes as a hum of confusion before speaking again.
“Do you have to do it?”
That throws Locus off guard. He looks over his shoulder. Charlie is sitting on the floor, she doesn’t use chairs really, and she’s got this look on her face that Locus has started to recognize. Reading Sangheili expressions is almost impossible, human brains aren’t meant for it, but after spending everyday and night with this child, he’s started to get a hold of it.
“No,” Locus says slowly. “Why do you ask?” He has a feeling he won’t like where this is going. It’s similar to the sensation he used to get when Felix said he had an idea, but there’s a lack of a sinister edge to it. More just worry.
He wonders what Felix would think, of him being such a mother hen. He’d probably find it hilarious. Or disgusting. Locus isn’t quite sure. He hasn’t been sure of what Felix was since he left Chorus.
Charlie’s mandibles curl in, her way of almost biting her lower lip. She doesn’t quite look him in the eye. It’s the one thing humans and the Sangheili have in common.
“Your helmet. It’s a little scary.”
That throws him off guard. Locus can smell the chicken behind him beginning to burn and he reaches behind him to flip it on another metal scrap they often use as a plate. Charlie has never said anything about it before. While Locus is self aware enough to realize that his helmet is somewhat intimidating, Charlie should be used to him wearing it by now. He’s rarely without it.
“It is?”
“It wasn’t. But then there was the bad men that one time and-” Locus feels the pieces slot into place. The incident last month where the Charon soldiers followed him to one of their temporary homes rushes back at him. It was a close call. Too close. it was a miracle he made it out without them noticing Charlie. Noticing his weak spot.
No wonder she finds it scary. The other men were wearing the same type of helmets as they tried to beat down their door to slaughter him. To slaughter Charlie too, if they knew she was there. Locus resists the urge to curse. He’s a fool. A stupid fool.
“I understand,” he says, passing her the metal scrap with the chicken. “You understand I need to wear this outside? For security.”
Charlie lowers her head. “Yes, Father.”
She not looking at him, so when Locus reaches to take off his helmet, she doesn’t realize he’s doing so until he undos the clasps. He sets it on their pathetic excuse for a counter.
“However,” Locus says and it’s weird hearing his voice without the filter. Like he’s someone different. It makes him feel naked, but he forces the sensation aside. “Since we are inside now, I suppose I can let it be. And in the future.”
Charlie looks up to him. Her expression isn’t one he can recognize, but he hopes it’s joy. He pushes her meal further forward.
“Now eat your dinner.”
She doesn’t object, digging all in. Locus let’s him sit down on a chair across from her and opens his own rations. It’s weird, not eating through his visor. But not in a bad way.
The fresh air on his skin feels almost nice.
Five years pass and Locus is almost happy.
It’s hard to describe. It’s not quite there, not quite the full emotion. He doesn’t feel worthy of it, after all he’s done, after those he’s killed. Whenever he even starts to let joy fill his veins, that weight of his past comes back to clamp it down, to remind him, to whisper “this is what they never got to have.”
But he has his moments. Moments when those voices fade just enough to let him live in the present. To watch Charlie attempt to throw out every scrap of orange in their household when she puts together that it’s a trigger to her father’s night terrors. To watch her try to sing along to an old rock album he steals from Control. To watch his child grow.
He moves them around less. Tries to provide security of keeping in one place. If only to keep her from feeling as boxed in as he once felt.
He’s happy. As close as he’ll ever get to it. For five years.
Until his ghosts come rushing back.
It happens out of the blue.
He doesn't suspect it. How could he? It was impossible. This was supposed to be impossible. Even in their world of theirs where he of all people could survive after all the damage he has wrought, even in their world where there were alien prophecies and magical swords, he never thought this could happen. That the dead could walk. That they could come for him. For his child.
He enters Charlie's room as usual, his lower half in body armor, his helmet off, fresh food under his arm. Expects the usual greeting; Charlie's an early riser. She usually likes to tease him at this hour, like her jokes can make years of pain fade from his face. His child, forever the optimist, thinking she can repair his wounds with a smile.
Locus doesn’t understand how she turned out this way. So different from him.
He lets the door swing close and pauses. Takes in the silence of the room, the lack of jokes or greeting. The lack of his baby girl. And that’s when he smells it.
Blood. Death. Too much cologne. And no, God no, he has to be having a nightmare because he hasn’t smelled this in five years, hasn’t smelled it since Felix gripped his shoulder and called him “partner”.
"No-" he says. He turns towards Charlie’s bed and hopes he’s wrong. But it's there. It's there and it's terrible, it's more terrible than anything, because on his child's pillow is the helmet of a dead man, a helmet with orange trim and no, he was supposed to be dead.
"Charlie!" He yells. It echoes through their small house. "Charlie!" Nothing. No honks, no laughter, no nothing. He pushes his way into Charlie’s small closet, checks under a pile of blankets in the corner. No Charlie. His child is gone. With this pretender. Who left a note.
He picks it up with shaking hands. It’s sitting next to the helmet, a piece of parchment, folded and sealed with wax. Dramatic, just how Felix used to like it. Locus tears the seal open, and takes in the words on the page. It's his handwriting all right. There's no way this could be replicated. The cursive is too neat. Too slanted. Too Felix.
"Missed you, partner. Trying my hand at babysitting. Love, Felix"
Locus flips it over. Sees the drop of blood there and he knows, he's sure of it and God no, he can't survive this, not this time, not ever. He falls to his knees and chokes on air.
Felix has Charlie. Felix would not carry around a live alien. Not for a petty revenge scheme. It’d require too much effort. But he would carry around a corpse.
His child is gone. Dead. Lost to his own sins.
Locus can't fucking breathe.
He kneels there for a few minutes. Or maybe hours. It's easy to lose track. He’s not sure why he does it. Maybe because he doesn’t know what else to do. Maybe because he’s hoping for Felix to come out and kill him already. Maybe he’s just hoping his heart will give out right then and there. But it doesn't. No matter how much he wants it to.
So he reaches forward. Picks up his child's favorite blanket and rolls it through his hands. He knows what to do. Gives himself orders. Falls back into the armor rather than the man because armor doesn't have feelings, armor can't have children, armor can't feel loss this gaping.
It’s simple. He will get up. Take as little with him as he can; Charlie's baby blanket can be the one non-necessity. Find the sim troopers first; they'll need to be warned. Then take the fight to Felix. Throw him in a pit to rot. Watch as his bones crack under Locus’ boots. Relish the sound.
Then he will bury Charlie. Bury her far away from Felix. Somewhere with lots of sun and sand; she’d like that. He will bury only goddamn thing he's ever done right with the blanket she adored. He’ll make sure that grave will be honored.
And then he will let himself rot in the same hell Felix has been burning in for the last five years.
He hopes Charlie will be able to forgive him.
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away on a lone cruiser, Charlie looks out a window and starts to realize why her father so despised the color orange.