#rvb60min

    Locus chuckled under his breath as he thought of the other man, the one who still sought to change his life, without seeking to change him. As it ever did these days, even the briefest consideration of the small, lithe, and unfairly beautiful man had Locus’s eyes darting to the clock in the corner of the lavishly appointed kitchen of his penthouse apartment. It wasn’t that Locus counted down the minutes and seconds until his boyfriend’s return, just that there was always the fear, the concern, the needling little worry that as perfect as life had seemed to become for them, something would fall apart. The ruin the papers could do to his reputation if they found out that their previous ‘marriage’ was a hoax, or that his partner was a high end personal escort. The damage it would do to his reputation if anyone found out the long-con that the escort had assisted him with against one Lily Johnson, darling socialite and spoiled heiress whose father had doted on her into his death and mother had lacked the will or care or something else altogether to teach the girl that she could not have what she wanted just because she wanted it. And he could not forget just how bad it would be for Felix’s own business if it ever got out that he was dating the man considered one of the most eligible bachelors on the planet.

    But all of those are borrowed troubles, and Locus found himself having no patience for them tonight. No, instead his over eager gaze fell to the clock because he had been held up at the office, and there turned out not to be enough hours in the day before Felix’s return from his engagement for the evening. Kimball, the head of the high-end Dolce escort service known only to the rich and famous, had been forced to call Felix in on a job on his weekend off. Of course it was because of a major client who was also a politician seated on a panel meant to review a law that could make even hands-off escort services illegal, a client that had a fondness for Felix and who was as swayed by that man’s golden tongue and winning charm as Locus himself was.

    A complete necessary rescheduling in Locus’s opinion, but it meant that all of his plans for the day had been thrown out of whack. Locus remembered the call coming as he and Felix had been at the store, stocking up on supplies for the week. Such a mundane task, going out shopping for the little things that Locus could easily have done for him. Once he had prided himself on doing it mostly because of his love of cooking. Now he reveled in the small touches of domestic bliss that Felix allowed him. He loved fighting over sugary cereals and different types of cookies, and what they would eat for dinner.

    But the day, Locus thought, could be salvaged, and now he found himself racing against the clock. The final touches on their dinner had to be completed before Felix returned from his engagement, and from the text Locus had received, his partner was due at the apartment in just a few…

    “Ugh!” a loud voice declared from the door and Locus cursed as he quickly moved to plate the dessert cake that he had put aside to cool just minutes before. Not enough time. Dammit, he was going to have to tell David down at the front desk to delay Felix with chitchat next time. And maybe find a way to make his apartment door make more noise when Felix came in.

    “What a handsy fuck,” Felix called as Locus picked out the sounds of his partner moving through the apartment, likely shedding his fancy clothes from whatever party he was at.

    Locus ignored the comment and moved to the fridge, fishing out the previously prepared bowls of cream and strawberries. Those returned with him to the island, situated next to the little plate with dessert. Carefully he scooped the fresh-cut strawberries, left to chill in a little of their own juices and sugar, from his bowl and arranged them in an artful little pile on top of his cake. Meanwhile he heard socked feet padding heavily through the living room and toward the kitchen.

    “Locus? Babe? You here?” Felix called, and at last Locus submitted to the need to respond.

    “In the kitchen, finishing dinner,” he responded, setting the strawberry spoon aside and taking out another. This one was dipped into the bowl of hand-whipped cream, beaten until it formed perfect soft peaks, and he carefully dolloped the divine sweetness over the berries. Another strawberry, this one small and whole with the leaves still on, found itself nestled down on top.

    “Okay, so I know that this man is, like, the most important fucking thing for the company right now, but I’ve always hated working… with… Locus?”

    The burner under his double-boiler went off as Felix continued talking, and Locus just had time to get a few spoonfuls of chocolate and drizzle them over the top of his creation and around the edge of the plate before his lover started to trail off, his footsteps clearly marking him as now in the kitchen proper. Which, of course, meant that he was well placed to see the whole of Locus’s hours of work. The covered plates that held steaming portions of shrimp scampi with a fresh medley of steamed summer vegetables waited at their seats. A bottle of white wine chilled in a silver pail on a stand by Locus’s seat. And, of course, the crystal bowl filled with scented rose water on which a delicate orange candle shaped like a rose floated, providing scenic light. All the touches of the romantic dinner Locus had prepared for his lover.

    “Hey,” Locus answered at last, turning around to present the crowning glory of his dessert to his lover. “Hard day at work?”

    “All of this for me?” Felix questioned instead, his voice as incredulous now as it was every time Locus went out of his way to prepare a romantic dinner for them. Locus would have thought Felix would be used to it by now, three months into their proper relationship and his promise to truly ‘woo’ Felix to his side.

    “No, I was considering inviting David up here. He’s been working so hard on security lately,” Locus answered, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. Not that he minded, what with the smile it drew to Felix’s lips.

    “Asshole,” Felix chuckled, shaking his head and moving to Locus’s side. They shared a quick kiss, a light peck on the lips that Locus yearned to turn into more. “If you keep being this sweet I’m not going to recognize you when I talk about how we met.”

    “You were an ass,” Locus countered, leading them both to the table with a simple tilt of his head. He placed the sweet concoction between their seats, knowing the chocolate would cool just enough to make a nice, firm pattern on the cream while leaving puddles to dip in on the rim of the dish. It was going to be nice, feeding bite after bite to Felix, watching his eyelashes flutter in pleasure as he hummed his delight around every forkful. The very thought made him lick his lips.

    “So… how long would you say this has been sitting?”

    Locus looked up from straightening the bowl with candle and found Felix leaning a little against his seat. There was a kind of calculating look in his eyes that made Locus’s heart race just a little faster.

    “Five minutes, why?”

    “So this,” Felix’s hand reached out to gesture over the whole of the spread, “should last a while with the covers on and all that? Not need reheated.”

    “It could be reheated really easily,” Locus answered, and yeah, the pair of jeans he was wearing because Felix had bought them for him (they showed off his nice ass better than slacks according to Felix) seemed a little too tight.

    He watched with a mix of apprehension and excitement as Felix reached past him and took up the plate of their dessert.

    “Well, then I want my dessert first.”

    Before Locus could protest he found a hand wrapped around his wrist and pulling him away from his carefully constructed meal. There was a light in Felix’s eyes that was more than simple hunger, and, well, who was Locus to deny that?

    “This is going to taste so good while I’m licking it off your chest.”

    And with those words, Locus found himself rushing forward, dragging his laughing boyfriend with him.

    Locus knows more about his partner than any man alive, he thinks. He knows how Felix operates, he knows how Felix deflects and distracts and creates with his voice and the tilt of his head and the act of his personality. But he never believes, would never dare to given what he knows, what he’s always known.

    There’s an interesting thing about the way that Felix lies. A trick to it that took years for Locus to really appreciate. The first time he heard it was when they’d been back in the military, on their first deployment together. Both of them had been late coming back from a make-work scouting exercise. The reason, of course, had been Felix. Had been the way his hands caught Locus up, lifted him so high, and then his mouth had brought Locus back to earth, filled with a heady kind of pleasure. Their CO had demanded where they had been, and Felix just chuckled. Said they were out on their mission of course, and Locus had lost his cool over something he heard.

    The CO chalked it up to how green Locus was. Locus had glared at Felix, because thing he had lost his cool over was Felix’s very blatant offer to blow him. Worse, he knew the whole squad was going to tease him over jumping at the slightest sounds, when the only thing that made him jump was Felix. Still, Locus had been impressed by the skill with which Felix had managed their cover story. Just enough of the truth to let people come to their own conclusions, but not an ounce of true lie to it.

    Lying by omission has always, Locus knows, been Felix’s particular vice. Telling people exactly what they want to hear and backing it up with the pure force of conviction, because, well, there is no reason he shouldn’t believe it. What he is saying is true. Sometimes Locus can’t help but wonder, though, just how it is Felix keeps from laughing his ass off as his victims swallow his very carefully designed truths hook, line, and sinker.

    Locus, though, has stopped buying it. No reason to believe what he knows to be inherently false. If Felix says he ‘loves’ Locus, then there is clearly something more to it. Loves how well they work together. Loves the fact that Locus let him have the dubious pleasure of convincing one of their New Republic captures talk about every bit of intel he has. Loves that Locus lets him do this, even after all these years and all this tension.

    But all of those are, ultimately, somewhere in the range of narcissism. Not true love, not emotion, not fulfillment in another person. They are just ways that Locus has been a vehicle for Felix’s passion for himself, for his own reflection, for his power.

    Lies of omission, and Locus thinks their relationship is the biggest omission of all. He doesn’t know what Felix gets out of this beyond his orgasm and his ability to ‘break’ Locus with pleasure. Not the same thing Locus gets from it, for sure. Not what Locus longs to have in the slightest.

    Locus knows Felix too well. Knows his lies and how they’re wrapped in deceptive truths.

    What then about the holographic projection unit? To be able to literally be in two places at once, at least as far as the enemy might believe, surely that has some value, does it not? As their best fighter, as the one that makes those split-second decisions that a holographic unit might require fast already, could it not be helpful? Already she’s good in a fight, but with this she could be a master of misdirection. But, well, she supposes she can understand the rationale of passing the mod to Connie. Connie is also fast, but her style, unlike Carolina’s, is heavily based in evasion and coming at weak points. The distractions could not only help her defensively, but make her an offensive weapon to be reckoned with. And is Project Freelancer not supposed to be an attempt to turn regular ‘great’ soldiers into combatants on par with if not superior to the longer to develop (and in far fewer numbers) SPARTAN program?

    Truth be told she doesn’t lust after the healing unit that York gets for a single second. Carolina doesn’t enter fights with the intention of being injured. In fact she finds the idea that you can accept such a thing as admitting weakness? No, she doesn’t want a healing unit, and she can even understand giving it to York, considering how often her second seems to get himself into trouble. Nor can she find herself envying Maine’s strength mods. His fighting is more easily compensated for by the extra strength, and he is the team heavy for a reason. Extra strength would make her, well, less suited to the way she fought. How quickly could she adapt to that added force, how likely was it that she might throw herself off with her own unrealized strength? No, the adjustment curve for that is just too much.

    They give the twins a strange combination. Advanced motion tracking systems that suit South’s stealth specialty and North’s long term sniping and surveillance. But come on, Carolina is an all purpose team member. She gets into places that other people can’t, takes on forces others wouldn’t consider, and surely it would be nice to know earlier than there was a larger number of enemy forces coming in than she expected, wouldn’t it? Let her see through walls and pick out enemy deployments to make her breaching more effective? Carolina can get on board with that.

    Failing that why can’t she find one of those bubble shields in her possession? The ability to throw that down with a grenade inside and a handful of enemies with it? Or what about turning it into a brawling area to capture enemies in forced combat? Imagine how easy it would be to subdue a force you are pursuing if you can just drop a curtain force field down on them and neither of you could get out until one of you went down? It’s genius and Carolina spends days thinking about the combat applications, regardless of what happens to Utah.

    Then there is Wash. For the life of her, Carolina can’t understand his pairing of mods, but she does sort of envy them. The biomedical scanner is genius. The Director has clearly given it to him in a defensive manner. To monitor the team. Carolina can already see a number of ways to run it. Find weaknesses in enemy forces. Know whether you should spend your time taking out the tired man before you that doesn’t hit as hard or turn your attention to the fresh combatant that may be stronger. Read enemy shield levels, check even their equipment if you modify the parameters of the program a bit. The EMP? Well, that’s just a stupid application of disastrous tech if something damages the shielding in their armor. Carolina just doesn’t understand why that is in their arsenal at all.

    The things her father gives her?

    The ability to blend into the background. Isn’t that what she did all of her life, in the shadow of her mother? Did he ever really see her the way he should have? Could he respect her as a woman in her own right, for the things she achieved? Had he even realized she was in the program before the first time they had met for a briefing? She’d known about him, been hyper aware of his voice and his presence and the back facing her like it always did. Again, she thinks as she reads the specs on her mod. Again he’s melting her into the background despite what she’s achieved. Just wait until he can see what she does with it, though.

    But the speed mod, that’s the real slap in the face. When Carolina learns of it she… Yes, she envies everything else, but this? She’s fast enough. She’s always been fast enough. Strove for it. Pushed her body harder and harder, faster and faster. Does he think she’s going to be her mother? Is this his way of protecting her? Giving her a way to get away quickly from the danger, and then expect her to melt into the shadows with the other mod? No. She won’t be her mother. Carolina is always going to be fast enough. The mod can’t possibly push her harder than she pushes herself. She’s not going to die to let a few more people get onto a transport, or because she wasn’t good enough to cover her team and so she runs and hides. She won’t fail.

    Carolina will not be her mother. She’ll be better, and she won’t need his fucking mods to prove it.

    Carolina is a survivor.

*        *        *        *        *        *

    It’s not enough.

    She’s not enough.

    Not fast enough. Never has been, never will be. No application of her mods, no strength, no fighting skill is enough. Back then she didn’t see Maine approaching her on the cliff until it was too late. Before that she hadn’t been fast enough to stop Texas from bringing the MOI down around them. Not fast enough to save York from Texas’s corruption. Not fast enough to keep Connie from turning away from them or from dying or the Insurrectionist leader from escaping. Not fast enough to keep Maine from getting shot, multiple times, in the throat. Not fast enough to be in the right place to have that first sparring session against Texas and thus spare York the loss of his eye.

    Not fast enough, never fast enough.

    It’s a point that doesn’t really sink in until now. Doesn’t sink in until she’s here, on this relatively boring island in what is clearly meant to be some sort of sinister base, staring at the blackened char of stone and little else.

    Part of her says go forward. Says search. Find something, anything, that proves it isn’t true. Because it can’t be true. Not York. Not here. Not now.

    So long tapped into the PFL comm channels, so long monitoring in hopes of finding one of them that wasn’t Maine or Texas so she can save them. Help them. Lead them. Protect them from the danger she hadn’t been able to outrun despite how fast her father made sure she could go. And now her she was, at least a day too late because she just didn’t have the resources. Her body is screaming in pain from the time she’s clocked on her mod, pushing it and herself to limits she hadn’t known existed. All in hopes to be here in time and save…

    Save what? York? He’s not here. He’ll never be here again.

    Her fingers stroke over the blackened char. Once his body rested here. Once he was alive in this place, in this space, alive and breathing and if she’d only been faster, if only she’d been…

    No time to waste like this. The recovery beacon for York had come in so shortly before another had gone off. Already she’s too late for a man she could, should have loved. A man she could have saved if only she’d been fast enough to realize how wrong she was. Now all she can do is try and not let him down. Not fail again.

    They’re her team and she has to do this. Has to save them from their betrayed beliefs, and her own failure.

    Carolina allows herself only a few minutes to grind down a few bites of an MRE and some of her water before she’s ready to move again. Then she stops, hesitates. Maybe she can’t let herself search, can’t let herself do this and wait here and die with him because others need her. But…

    But it only takes a few seconds to retrieve the flask from a storage compartment on her armor and pour the last few swallows she’s been saving for something worth celebrating out on the char marks. She owes York that much.

    She owes him being fast enough to save the next one too.

    This time she’s… she’s going to make it. Has to.

*        *        *        *        *        *

    This time the pieces aren’t all blown away. The stone are uneven below her, and Carolina struggles over them. Her body is screaming in fatigue, ready to collapse. That doesn’t mean she can stop.

    The char marks and the small, scattered pieces of purple tell her…

    It doesn’t make sense, she thinks as she sits there for a while, staring at the newest mark of her failure. These were people she was responsible for, and more than that, they were the best. Better than the best. She can understand how someone could catch York off guard after all of these years. Can even understand Delta failing York, or maybe going rampant a bit early, or demanding to be pulled, or… Hell, she doesn’t know.

    But North?

    York may prefer to be lucky over good, but Carolina has always found that it’s North who has all the luck. It’s hard to explain, but the man just… Her fingers brush over the char marks once again, and she shudders at the sight. What can be after them, what hunts Freelancers and is strong enough to defeat North with his bubble shield?

    Part of her wants to say South. Hell, most of her wants to say South, but that really isn’t giving the woman the credit she deserves. No matter how it ended, Carolina saw them at the start. No one could hide the love and devotion the twins have for each other. Had for each other she guesses. Have to change the tenses now. Never forget. Another burden, another screaming voice in her head that says she failed to be there, failed to do what she should.

    Another bit of proof that she’s not fast enough.

    When she finds the deep boot prints of an almost impossible size a bit away, the answer comes.

    Even they can’t outrun the demon out of her own past. The only hope, Carolina thinks, is that she gets there first.

    She sits there. It could be hours. It could be years. It’s so hard to tell anymore. It’s like she’s drowning in the limitless potential of the time distortion unit. Of course that’s impossible. Wyoming never actually got it working back in the program. Or so they all heard. Who knows with him and Gamma. Or maybe knew. His beacon went off a long time back, and then… Then she hadn’t been able to move. Same with Florida’s. They…

    They didn’t feel like family, like the people she’s letting down now. Never could, never would. Wyoming had never treated the rest of them like a team. Wyoming had hurt York. Wyoming hadn’t… Maybe he hadn’t been hurt like she’d been told. Was she too slow to get that when York told her?

    Her fist hits the ground in frustration. And seconds later (or an eternity, it’s hard to tell these days) another beacon goes off.

        This time, she tells herself as she gets to her feet, she’ll be fast enough. Has to be.

*        *        *        *        *        *

    Again she’s too slow, but this time, not by much. Carolina shows up at the abandoned military structure just in time to see the beast out of her past. He stands over Washington, Wash, their precious recruit, hand going down for his armor.

    When he sees her, when Maine…

    It’s not Maine, that much is obvious. She doesn’t know how she knows, she just does. This creature, the thing at the top of the cliff that tore her mind apart and flung her to her death? Not Maine. But this sees her as prey. Like it did York. Like it did North. And here is Wash, almost his next victim.

    It snarls at her and Carolina can’t help her reaction. The fear is still there, as is the instinct. Instead of running toward, she starts to back pedal. Turns. Runs.

    The mods are too wound down. They need a minute to recharge.

    Terrified, Carolina ducks behind cover and turns on the camo unit, melts into the background and the shadows and oblivion.

    In the end, though, she thinks the only thing that saves her is the incoming Pelicans. No doubt there for Wash. It scares the monster off, just long enough for the speed mod to spin back up.

    She runs like there’s no tomorrow. If she’s caught, there isn’t.

*        *        *        *        *        *

    Carolina thinks it’s been a year since the last time one went off. She hates herself for the fact that she never went for Wash, but she knows the beast that stalks her. Has stalked her. She can still feel it on her trail in every waking moment. If the only way to keep her team safe is to lure it away, then maybe her speed mods will be enough. Maybe the power her father gave her to run and hide will be all she needs to save them.

    Part of her wonders if this was what her mother had felt like in the end. Had she measured out the lives of her teammates in quanta of how far she could run, how fast she could go while still presenting a viable target? Did she hide and weep and curse how weak she ultimately was?

    When the signal comes she gets up and goes. Because clearly somewhere she’s failed again. Failed to keep her team safe. Not that she knows where. The beast could have been on her hours ago. Or maybe not even for months. Maybe he was never even after her trail.

    The abandoned  base reminds her of the last one. Except this time instead of luring the beast away, it’s already gone. Instead she finds the mangled and horrifying remains of another person. It’s the height, the color, and the sinking feeling gut that tells her what she has feared. South lays before her, and the readings on Carolina’s helmet tells her that, at best guess, she’s only an hour too late.

    And there’s another beacon.

    Body screaming for rest, she runs.

*        *        *        *        *        *

    When she shows up at the energy plant it’s abandoned. As she walks among it in camo she finds the place as dead as her friends. She’s a ghost walking amongst ghosts. There are so many signs of the fight, a fight she might have joined if only she hadn’t gotten lost on the way here. Comm beacons only told you direction, and this one had been mangled and blanked out in a lot of ways. The best she could do was run until she saw a likely place.

    The beast has been here. He’s… It’s long gone.

    There are no bodies this time.

    Given the fact that her count says only Wash and the monster itself are left… well, she’s not sure whether to be relieved or pained.

    Carolina finds a small airvent to hide in. Her body is so weak, so tired. It needs to stop. The running needs to end. Camo unit active she curls up as small as she can and closes her eyes. Maybe… maybe she can just stop. Maybe she can just stop running.

*        *        *        *        *        *

    The beacon jars her awake.

    Washington, at Command.

    There’s no way this plays out that she gets there in time. Makes it in time to save his life.

    A point only reinforced moments later when it cuts out abruptly.

    Now the only one she has to run for is herself.

*        *        *        *        *        *

    It’s two years before Maine’s goes off again, at a place she never wants to see again.

    Two years she doesn’t remember, spent she doesn’t even really remember how. Not in any way that was fulfilling. Not even superficially.

        Carolina knows it doesn’t matter. She isn’t fast enough, and never will be. Still, she goes anyway. This, at least, she has to see.

    What she finds is an icy ruin, the icy ruin. It’s a military installation of some sort now. Not that it matters. There isn’t anything or anyone of value here. Men and women in UNSC armor mill around, and her camo lets her move among them with little problems. They’ve trampled the ground so much that no one will ever see a few more footsteps.

    Slowly Carolina walks to the edge, closer now than she remembers. Maybe the memory of her near death distorted things in some manner.

    She’s silent as she listens. Maine gone, fallen over the side and dead. Tex’s body broken and gone. And only one bit of gossip on anyone’s lips.

    Red and Blue ‘fake soldiers’ responsible for it all. Rumors that they killed Wash as well…

    At least she has something new to run toward now, Carolina thinks.

    Maybe her speed isn’t meant for saving.

    No.

    What really didn’t set in until after the betrayal (until after all of the conflict and she had no choice but to team up with General Donald Doyle, first class idiot, a step beyond when it came to shows of cowardice, and ultimately enemy number one to everything the New Republic believes in), is that it runs on rumors too.

    The rumors fly fast and furious within days of the arrival of the forces of the New Republic to the capital city of Armonia. Not that many come from her own men. They have long since learned that you don’t mess with General Kimball. Doing so was an assurance that her right hand man, Andersmith, would come visiting in the night to knock a few heads together. Now the prevailing threat was team building exercises with Captain Caboose, which no one wanted either, and there was a definite air that no one wanted to be subjected to both Caboose and Andersmith.

    If only that opinion extended to the Federal Army.

    “I’m just… I’m just so TIRED of it,” Kimball fumes one early evening in her office to the only person who really gets the burden of leadership like she has.

    “Tired of what?” Carolina asks, her voice maddeningly level and controlled like it always is when Kimball turns to her for help.

    Kimball growls under her breath before calming down. She can achieve nothing if she’s clearly enraged, and Carolina doesn’t seem to appreciate such mindless hostility. Hypocritical really, because Carolina is prone to it herself. Once she finds she can keep her voice stable, Kimball speaks up.

    “Did you have the pleasure of a shower today?”

    Truth be told she quite enjoys the confused look that Carolina gives her for the evasive question. Not that Carolina rises to the bait. Sure, the look on her face invites response, but Kimball stays silent a moment longer before responding to the prompting expression.

    “I did,” Kimball continues, lacing her fingers together in front of her on the desk to keep them shaking with remembered rage. “As of yet the female officers of the Federal Army either do not recognize our ranking female members, or do not care. Due to this, I was subjected to a rather lengthy and crass discussion of my sexual deviance shared with Felix.”

    “Oh,” Carolina says, and there is laughter in her eyes. Kimball wants to lean across her desk and pinch the other woman until the expression goes away.

    “From there the conversation turned to other topics,” Kimball continues. “Including the suggestion that I was capable of fornicating with myself as my anatomy is not standard.”

    The giggle is clearly there in Carolina’s expression, but damn if the woman isn’t masterful at holding it back. Curse this woman and her sense of humor.

    “So, what you’re saying is that the people who have been your enemies for years are painting you as an inhuman villain?” Carolina asks after a moment, one likely meant to allow her to gather her substantial composure. Jerk.

    “Exactly,” Kimball agrees, fuming. “What have I ever done to them to deserve…”

    “Besides spend years in a bloody war with them, and manage to become the head of an enemy force which was hell bent on defeating them?” Carolina interrupts. “Not only that, but you are also one of two currently standing military leaders who put their trust, however noble and ‘right’ your intentions were, into the hands of a pair of mercenaries who turned out to be working for a third party that wants to doom this entire planet to genocide?”     “That isn’t my fault,” Kimball protests. “I was merely continuing a contract that my predecessors left me and Felix…”     “Mercenaries who betrayed both sides,” Carolina continues as if Kimball hadn’t opened her mouth at all, “and as these soldiers are members of one side of this clusterfuck war and have for a long period obeyed and respected their leader, they have no one else to blame for the betrayal but the mercenaries and you, their former boogie man?”

    For a moment Kimball considers protesting, and then she clamps her mouth shut with an audible click, refusing to dignify Carolina’s perfectly good point with a response.

    “Honestly, if you ask me, I’d suggest that first, they didn’t know who you were,” Carolina offers. “For one thing, they’ve seen Doyle unhelmeted more often, and if you hadn’t noticed, he’s a good deal older than you. You came into this war as a kid, more or less, and he did as a full adult whose military career had more or less stalled out, and for pretty good reason.”

    Kimball nods in agreement. Finally, someone who understood her pain about that man. But no, Carolina wouldn’t be so kind as to leave it there. This is what Kimball gets for having a smart, respectable, militarily aware friend like her. Stupid Carolina always being a reasonable middleman in this whole conflict.

    “So you’re saying they assume I can’t lead because I’m young?” Kimball asks, wanting so desperately to be outraged. She’d had a good hate going on earlier, and Carolina pulling her back from the edge is not what she wants. “They don’t even call me General Kimball. Just ‘Miss’ Kimball, like they can’t believe I’m military, or a leader. Or on part with their precious Doily.”

    Carolina rolls her eyes at that particular nickname Kimball had taken up. “No, that isn’t what I’m saying, Kimball. I’m saying that even though they are aware that the leader of the New Republic is a woman, they don’t know your face, and compared to their own leader, you’re young. They’re going to assume you’re just another officer, like they are. In fact, they were probably trying to start a fight with one of your soldiers. If you hadn’t noticed, your men and women are quite loyal to you.”

    And she to them, but she doesn’t think she quite understand Carolina’s point.

    “So?” Kimball demands.

    “So, they don’t like you, they don’t trust you, and they understand feeling loyalty. But that loyalty is to each other and to Doyle. Not to some strange woman who has been fighting them as long as they can remember,” Carolina points out. “You have to learn to let it not bother you.”

    “Not bother?” Kimball blusters, suddenly angry again. “They suggested I paid Felix by blowing him.”

    “And did you?” Carolina asks, her voice still rational and smooth.

    “Of course not!”

    “Then why should it matter if they say it?” Carolina asks. “You know the truth. I know the truth. Felix knows you wouldn’t come anywhere near him with a ten foot pole. So why should you care about them.”

    “Because… just because,” Kimball protests.

    “You’re a leader now, Vanessa, and you have been for a while. Being a leader means rising above such petty squabbles.”

    “Like you?” Kimball asks curiously.

    That prompts a rather ugly, pondering look on Carolina’s face. “I think you should aim to be better than me.”

    “You’re the former super-soldier of Project Freelancer,” Kimball counters. “Why shouldn’t I want to be on your level.”

    “Because I’ve failed in the same situation in the past,” Carolina answers, her voice a pained whisper. “Or one very like it. Don’t… don’t be like me.”

    They are silent for a while, Carolina’s expression distant. Hell, it almost looks like she’s gazing through the wall into another realm entirely. So Kimball does what she always does to get the other woman’s attention. She stands, circles the desk, and sits down in Carolina’s lap. That jars the other woman back to the present, but Kimball doesn’t stop there. She reaches up with her hands to cup Carolina’s face, manipulating it into just the right position to lay a light kiss on Carolina’s lips.

    “I guess we both have to be better then,” Kimball whispers as she pulls away.

    “Yeah, Nessa, we do,” Carolina agrees, wrapping an arm around Kimball’s waist. “But that can wait until later. Much later.”

    Intellectually General Donald Doyle understands why that is. He looks around at the rank and file soldiers and understands on a level what they’re missing. It isn’t the way the armor makes even an average day swelteringly hot. Or is it the fact that it seems the New Republic favors staging major assaults in the summer months. It isn’t how the war started in the summer, and the seventeenth of June is seen as the herald of another year wasted, more lives lost, more friends that people have no choice but to forget.

    What makes it hard, he suspects, is the fact that they remember what summer used to be like. That long ago time when summers were a time of joy among the heat. When the cities had been filled with the joy-filled shrieks of children splashing around in sprinklers or pools or running through the streets. Summer used to be a time of plenty and fun, a time that reminded adults of the glory days of their youth, when the summer months marked a temporary freedom from school and some responsibilities.

    Summer used to mean peace. Summer used to mean fun. Summer used to be the point that people got to in their lives to mark how far they had come, not how far they had fallen.

    Around the bases all he hears in those months are stories of summers lost and longed for.

    What hurts is the melancholy way people speak of it. The wistful longing for the childhood innocence. The games and fun and wars that ended with piles of children laughing and calling to each other about how they were clearly the winners.

    If only they had known then what Doyle knows now.

    There are no true winners in a war, only the people who got out early.

    Summer is the hardest time of the year, and Doyle always finds himself praying they would end.

    Why does it play a single scene, a single regret, over and over again?

    There’s a poem, that small part of her mind that says this is unfair brings up. There is a poem that fits this situation perfectly. A poem by an Old Earth poet, back in the twentieth century who had been named Robert Frost. A poem about the end of the world, the end of all things. The first part said that the world would end in fire, be brought down around people because of the things they wanted. For a long time Carolina has agreed. But not because of any human desire, not because of any want of her own. She’s seen the pictures of glassed planets. She knows what it looks like when something akin to God’s own fury rains down upon a world, leaving only his fiery wrath in its wake.

    That’s how the world will end, Carolina knows it.

    The poem, though…

    It goes on to talk about ice. How it is an ending fitting for hatred. Cold and consuming, and leaving one in agony as they go slowly.

    This is the end that Maine, that Sigma, that fire itself has chosen for her. Desire for what she possessed, desire for what will make you better, stronger, faster, condemns others to the hateful apocalypse of the cold.

    She falls, and the seconds between each racing heartbeat are a racing eternity. An unending fear and fate as she plummets, devoid of feeling, utterly emptied out by her loss.

    And all she can remember is one thing…

    A single point of fiery light.

******

    Tomorrow everything changes, Charlotte reminds herself as she moves through Errera. Tomorrow she goes up to the MOI and her years of work in the UNSC pay off. Tomorrow she becomes her mother’s daughter in rights, fights the war her mother died for, and looks for the way to end it. For victory. For her father to…

    But no, she refuses to think about him. ‘The Director’ she’s supposed to call him. Not a father. Not a guardian. Not the man who all but abandoned her emotionally even when he’d been a relatively devoted, doting father in the eyes of everyone else around them. The Director is far away, somewhere on a UNSC ship that he probably doesn’t deserve, playing with ideas that could get people hurt, all for a good cause. Charlotte can live with that. It’s not like she isn’t willingly becoming one of his guinea pigs. Together, she’s resolved, they’re going to win the war her mother couldn’t. They will finally find their revenge.

    Which makes tonight the last chance she has to be anything mirroring a civilian until either the war is over or she is.

    Partying has never been so high on her to do list before.

    Eyes are on her from almost every direction. It feels nice, truth be told, to know she can hold their attention this long. There are men, and women, all around looking at her. She can tell by the glazed over look on some eyes that they’re doing a lot more than looking at her, that their minds’ eyes are places they probably shouldn’t be. But hell, she’s spent a lot of time around military men and women, and she knows how important these moments of escapism are, so who is she to burst their bubbles? She’s not going home with any of them. She’s going to dance until she’s tired and then… well, then she’s going to figure it out from there.

    Charlotte walks straight to the bar and leans against it, pushing herself between two occupied stools to get the attention of the bartender. The woman to her left barely even pays her any mind, her attention clearly caught up in the handsome man beside her. The man on her right?

    He’s cute, she decides in just a moment of looking at him. More than cute. Attractive in that way she figures men who think they can have anything they want tend to be. His hair is tousled artfully to maybe look like he just got out of bed. She’s heard of this approach, the ‘just had sex’ look that was supposed to draw people in. Not that she puts any weight in it, of course. The hair just looks silly, but his face? What’s the old saying?

    It could launch a thousand ships. Golden apple material right there. Hell, from how stable he is in his seat, he’s probably dance partner material too. Quickly she puts in her order and turns her attention to the man, leaning just enough over the bar and angling toward him in just the right way to give him a tempting peek at her cleavage. Men tended to be more amenable to her when they got freebies like that. And all she wants tonight is amenable.

    “Hey there,” she says, making sure her voice is just high enough to be heard over the throb of the music, “you come here often?”

    He doesn’t even turn to look at her. Charlotte frowns briefly, looking at the bartender only long enough to accept her martini before returning her attention to the handsome man. Charlotte Church is not to be ignored.

    “Because it looks like you’re made for places like this,” she continues, smiling warmly in his direction. Still he doesn’t look up. “Bet you’re the kind of guy that likes…”

    Even as she speaks the man is doing something with his far hand. Charlotte trails off to watch him for a minute. He flicks his lighter open, the flame coming to life immediately. Flicks his lighter closed. Open. Closed. Open. Closed. And it doesn’t even happen with the beat of the song. So… he’s ignoring her. Well, Charlotte is soon going to put an end to that.

    One of the advantages she’s found she has in any engagement is that she’s fast. Faster than most people her size, and definitely faster than people larger than her like this guy. Maybe it’s because of that, or because he isn’t paying attention to her in the least, that Charlotte is able to catch him off guard. Her hand flashes out and as he closes the lighter again she’s plucking it from his hands and pulling it back.

    “Hey!” the man protests, and finally, his eyes are on her.

    And dear god are his eyes on her. They rove up and down her body like hands do, stroking over her face and down her chest and slipping over the parts of her legs left bare below where the skirt ends. Then, just as quickly, they flash back up to her face, meet her own gaze and the man is smiling.

    “Need a light?” he asks, looking pointedly to the lighter in her hand after a moment.

    The lighter that Charlotte now finds herself compelled to flick open and closed. She can feel the cool enamel under her fingers, almost icy compared to the warmth of the metal from his own grip. She looks down at the thing, quickly picks out the logo for the club on the side, and frowns. So he didn’t even bring it here. This got more and more interesting every moment.

    “I think I’ve got one,” she teases, and the look of confusion on the man’s face is brief. Then he reaches up and Charlotte has to watch in shock and no small amount of understanding as he pulls earplugs from his ears.

    He hadn’t been able to hear her.

    “Care to repeat that, gorgeous?” he asks, his smile wide and warm and Charlotte thinks that if she had a few more drinks in herself she’d melt before that look. As it is she hasn’t had more drinks, and she’s got a pretty iron strong will as it is.

    “I don’t think I do,” she chuckles and winks at him. “Tell me, why come to a club if you’re not going to have fun?”

    “DD,” he explains, sitting up straighter in his feet.

    That… is a pretty good explanation. Score one point for handsome-but-strange.

    “Good thing to be for your friends,” she smiles back. “If only I’d thought to bring one.”

    She can see the look of concentration on his face. Clearly the guy is looking for some hidden meaning there, trying to figure out if it’s a pick up line. Or maybe he’s trying to come up with one. But no, if he doesn’t have one on the tip of his tongue immediately, Charlotte has no intention of letting him think it up. Seriously, if he’s sober, he’s either terrible at flirting, or just not good at being actively approached by a beautiful woman like herself.

    “Well I could…”

    “Anyway,” Charlotte continues, ignoring his clear intention of being charming quite easily, “let’s make a little bargain, okay? You keep me entertained until your friends need to go, and I’ll return your lighter.”

    The way he sits there, fumbling for words for a moment, his mouth flapping and his cheeks red just cheers her. He’s going to be the best toy ever for the course of her night. But she’s got to bail him out somehow, right? Before he digs himself a pit of ‘pretty but not smart enough to be entertaining.’ So she simply offers him her hand.

    And this time, well, this time his smile almost seems like it was made for her and only her. That, she thinks, she could get used to. If only she had the time. But no, she’s a civvie for one night and one night only, so there is no point in her trying to linger around and get something more out of him. Hell, she’s shipping out early, so there isn’t a point in getting drunk or attached, or even seeking to hook up.

    A lot of those urges she’s put aside for the sake of the war. Time and time again Charlotte has sworn not to leave behind pain if she dies, not like her mother did. No men to be attached to her and grieve. No child too young to understand why she did it or care beyond the fact that mommy wasn’t coming home to sing her to sleep anymore. Just a soldier in a time of war looking to fight the good fight and save some lives.

    When he takes her hand in his he just keeps smiling, wide enough that Charlotte wants to kiss the look off his face. Instead she makes a show of slipping the lighter into her bra, and she winks as his eyes follow its path.

    “Maybe if you’re good I’ll let you fetch it back out yourself,” she teases, knowing it will never happen.

    His laughter fills her ears as she guides him to the dance floor. She’s got a night to blow, and clearly her first companion is going to be several different types of fun.

    And god is he ever. Through the whole of the night he stays there, at her side. They dance together like it’s meant to be, and the way he smiles at her makes her feel warmer inside than any amount of drinking ever could. His eyes are a warm hazel that never leave hers except when they need to look around to find someone they bumped into and apologize. Truthfully she expects him more than once to make a move, but he doesn’t. For all that their dancing itself could be called more than mildly indicative of where he clearly wants the night to end, he’s a perfect gentleman.

    In another life, she thinks, this might play out differently. She might give him her number or invite him to take her home after he drops his friends off. They might enjoy a night together before all is said and done. Instead, when her internal clock tells her that it’s approaching one, she pulls out of his hold.

    “Going so soon?” the man asks. All these hours and she still doesn’t know his name. Or he hers. But it’s better this way, Charlotte tells him.

    “I ship out in the morning,” she answers. “Need to get some sleep.”

    There is a flash of shock, and then a flicker of understanding in his eyes. Strange. She hadn’t expected to see that.

    “I get it,” he responds, and then he holds his hand out to her.

    For a long moment Charlotte stares at it. What does he expect? Her number hastily scribbled across his palm? What good would that do him? A kiss on the back of his hand? He doesn’t seem that cheesy? A hand shake? God what a terrible way to end a night.

    “My lighter,” he says, clearly reading the confusion on her face.

    Oh. That.

    Charlotte winks as she backs away. “Nope. I’m the valiant knight, fighting to save the kingdom. And you’re my fair lady, who has given me a token of your affection and faith that I might carry into battle. I swear on this charm that I will win. When the war’s over, know that I did it for you.”

    It’s a silly thing to say, but Charlotte is in a silly mood. So she laughs as the man stares at her in shock and amusement, and once she’s far enough away, she turns and runs, laughing at the pure joy in the moment.

    She’s never felt so alive.

    And the next morning, when she sees his face across the aisle on the transport up to the MOI, she doesn’t know what to think.

    “Do I get my lighter back now?” he asks as he sits across from her.

    Charlotte, no, she became Agent Carolina the second she stepped onto the transport this morning, stares at him.

    “Oh come on, it’s not like I won’t get it back eventually,” the man insists, his hand extended to her. “Trust me, if I have about thirty minutes, I can get it from any secure location you could put it on a vessel of this class. It’s what I do.”

    “Who are you?” she asks in wonder, staring at the man.

    “Well, that would be Agent New York according to my paperwork. And you?”

    “Agent Carolina,” she answers, still trying to process her shock.

    “Well, Carolina,” he says, his voice warm and smooth like melted chocolate, “you can give it to me now, or I’ll take it from you later.”

    “It’s my token,” she says, shaking her head. It’s in a pocket of her fatigues, and she intends to keep it there. “You can have it back when I win the war. Remember?”

    He laughs and shakes his head. “Okay. But I’ll hold you to that.”

******

    As she falls Carolina isn’t sure what it is about the memory that holds on so tightly to her. Maybe it’s regret. She threw the lighter up to him back in the elevator shaft. Was that her way of saying she didn’t see herself winning the war anymore? Was it her finally and fully rejecting him, a man she had come to be so fond of?

    Was it something deep down in her recognizing that her end had come, and wanting to give him one last message?

    Maybe, she thinks, her mind caught up in a strange sort of limbo as her arm slowly comes up with the grappling gun and her body tries to save itself even as her mind checks out, maybe it’s something more.

    Maybe in your final moments you don’t see your life flash before your eyes. You see only your biggest regret. And doesn’t that describe York to a T? A man she thinks she can love and will never let herself reach for? Isn’t she just like her mother, to leave him behind, hurting as he undoubtedly did?

    Fire above her. Ice below. Desire and Hatred sandwiching regret.

    But Carolina… it’s not your time.

    The gun kicks back as she shoots and her body braces itself for pain.