Chapter Text
The first time you meet him, even learn of his existence, is when he puts a bullet through your shoulder.
It comes from nowhere - the metal ripping through skin and muscle, which effectively destroys the tattoo there, before exiting through the front. You scream and falter, you drop your gun but spin on your heels, hand on your knife and ready to throw at the overconfident sniper with the lucky shot. Your eyes, narrowed and filled with rage, quickly spot the too far-away, giant shadow who practically blocks out the sun. He stand cliffside, cocks his rifle, and then disappears into thin air - cloaked.
You growl and put your knife back. Still seething, you make your way back to the rebel camp, pushing away overly concerned kids who try to pass as soldiers. Kimball treats you much the same way, insisting that you go to a med tent and get looked at. You brush her off but eventually comply, trying your best to keep your friendly facade on but the cracks are there and noticeable; you'll need to do something ‘heroic’ later to make up for this sour attitude.
That night, you can't sleep. You keep clenching yours hands and grinding your teeth, huffing like a child as you toss and turn on the worn-out cot that was provided to you despite the screaming pain from your shoulder. Who did that asshole think he was, a phrase that repeats itself in your head over and over again until you're not even sure you haven't been saying it out loud. That shadow, that sniper… You knew who you were: Felix, mercenary with a heart of gold, playing this army gig up for all it was worth, con-artist, murderer, fucked up piece of shit, monster, and about to be filthy fucking rich.
You can't sleep, there's no point in trying. Instead, you spend the night fantasizing about how you'll kill him, how you'll pull his eyes of their sockets with your bare fingers and hell, maybe you'll even peel his trigger finger like a piece of fruit, flaying the top layer of skin all the way down to the muscle. The grotesque thoughts begin to put you at ease until you eventually pass out.
The next day, you’re back at the war table with Kimball berating you. You don’t listen...you can only think. Think about the sniper, about the warning shot, about the destroyed tattoo on your shoulder, about the searing pain every time you move, about how you’ll kill him...you want to think about anything else than what’s coming out of her mouth.
Eventually, she asks you to respond and you find you can’t. It’s not like you to break character like this, to stray so far from the carefully crafted mold of helpful if cynical Felix, but you don’t bother repairing it.
What she tells you next does pique your interest though...they have intel on the sniper. Her scouts were scouring for anything they could in the name of revenge; she knows that if you were to die then this war really would be a lost cause. It’s almost disgusting how much she cares about you, you can see in her eyes, tell it even from behind a visor...it’s a little disturbing to be honest, and you know your own standards for that are fairly high. She goes on to say the sniper calls himself Locus, after his own armor, and he too is a mercenary.
From your spot at the end of the table, the corners of your mouth begin to twitch and pick up at the corners. Your features are carefully concealed by metal, fibers, and bulletproof, tinted-glass but you try to control your excitement nonetheless. She assumes you’d be upset, she’s wrong. You're ecstatic. You can feel heat pooling from the bottom of your stomach and gradually heading lower at the mere thought of it all...another mercenary, a huge power play, proving you’re better than him, bringing him down, torturing him, killing him... Kimball asks if you know him; you laugh her off, asking if she really thought mercenaries all hung out together at the end of the day. You laugh and find you can’t stop, you’re still giggling like a maniac on the way out the door and back to your own room, but not from Kimball’s ignorance.
You have recruit training today but decide to skip it.