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As he exited the conference room, Fred ducked his head to avoid the ornate wooden door frame that many aging UNSC officers favoured around their personal spaces and conference rooms. He used to find the polished fixtures indulgent and misplaced, but as the years passed he learned to appreciate their artistry. Just so long as he remembered to duck.
After navigating through too many crowded hallways, ignoring the many leering glances cast his way, Fred felt relief in the inelegant office he'd been granted. He and Blue Team were staging for an upcoming operation - allegedly an escort detail. The briefing he'd just attended however, had offered less intel than he was comfortable with, and nobody in the room had been keen on smoothing over his many concerns. The entire op was rife with typical ONI red tape. Moreover, the mission included interfacing with another AI, and already the nape of his neck was tingling.
The door was hardly sealed before Fred loosened his tie and hung his jacket, standing in the low light with his eyes closed and drawing a long slow breath. Some days always felt longer than others, and more often than not, they were the ones lacking in gunfire. The office was sparsely furnished - a temporary cot sat pressed into one wall with an empty footlocker at one end, a mounted sink with a small mirror above it on the opposite wall. Centered was an unimpressive chair and a flimsy metal desk, the blue glow of a computer waiting atop it, brightly reminding him that the day wasn't over yet. He didn't actually mind the paperwork. After all, it kept his mind from wandering, and offered him a little time to himself. Sitting down, Fred woke the hardlight keyboard beneath the holoscreen and logged in, watching rapid strings of encryption flow by.
Kelly had likely retired to their quarters after time in the gym, no doubt settling one too many 'challenges' from the enthusiastic dock workers and enlisted. Linda, he suspected, was tinkering in the armory still, handling her own preparations for tomorrow.
For him, sleep would have to wait - it was time to draft several insistent requests for additional intel. 'Squeaky wheel,' he mused.
The secure channels he'd use would offer the advantage of an exclusion delay which, unlike the frustrating events of the briefing, would prevent anyone from interrupting him mid-sentence.
'Can't treat me like a kid at the adult's table now, Tulerio,' Fred thought with a smirk. He knew this sort of remote needling was a practice of pettiness, but if it could afford even a fractional increase to the safety of his team, he was not above it. This was...Fred clicked his tongue as he found the words - 'insurance of tactical superiority' sounded nice.
Waypoint booted with a successful chirp and Fred had already mentally drafted his first complaint, when he spotted a notification on a very familiar dummy account; a new message was waiting.
It'd been five months of silence.
The intel requests could wait a moment longer.
--I do miss your handsome smile...//
Fred's eyebrows rose. He may have blinked too many times and, didn't know why, but leaning toward the screen just felt appropriate.
Exhaling long and heavy, he felt his face and chest getting warm, prompting a few hurried glances toward the door. Locks were on.
He read and re-read the short message too many times to be reasonable for all six words of it. His comprehension felt sharp, despite the words themselves seeming almost fantasy.
The timestamp was recent as well, hardly twenty minutes ago. Scrolling the chain up a few entries, he found only the doc request notes they'd previously exchanged. No other context to be found - though really, he didn't need help unpacking something so direct.
'What could have prompted...', Fred silently moved his lips along with the thought, as though it even mattered what had spurred the note.
Hands moving to the keyboard, he went to tap out a response, desperate to seek clarification, or at the least, to remind Veta that these systems were monitored. Neither of them needed an ONI inquest dropped in their laps.
But after some quick consideration, he did neither. Pushing down each new knee-jerk impulse, and pulling his hands back onto the desktop.
'Am I overthinking this?'
A thoughtful expression deepened the creases around his eyes, brow furrowed.
In his mind, he was always the one being a little too awkward, struggling now and then to make sense of the motivations of civilians and soldiers alike. Regular people. He'd miss cues, misinterpret turns of phrase, or flat out fail to react when he didn't realize there was a "thing" happening. Was there anything to misinterpret here? Moreover, was Veta 'regular people'?
She'd certainly made a strong and successful career out of understanding them to a science. Having had the privilege to work alongside her many times, he had seen firsthand the quality of her analysis. She could read a man as though his every deed lay written across his chest. Peel apart any personality to reveal the core. Just days after they'd met, she'd managed to find the seams in his armor - in every sense, as it turned out.
Leaning on his elbows against the desk, Fred stared into the thin brush strokes coating the metal surface, tracing them with his fingertips.
Most of his life he'd had the oft confirmed impression that the sum total of his personality only had value in how neatly it could be applied in a professional capacity - aptitude for leadership. Clarity amidst tension. Rational. Analytical. Methodical. Words that were all a part of who he was, but the dossiers didn't much care if he was 'kind of funny' or that he liked to draw even though he wasn't very good at it. He'd learned to make origami cranes, and liked how the activity centered his thoughts. The UNSC didn't care about that.
Truthfully, very few instances existed, since his life began at six years old, that would countermand the status quo. Moments, when people would see him for something more than the only thing he was ever raised to be. Fewer still with regard to anyone outside of his inner circle. Rare as it was, it was precious; calling back to those important moments during times of pain or discouragement were like a miracle salve on any heartache, offering him almost limitless resolve under pressure. There was a deeply meaningful notion to being seen by someone.
As it stood, he wasn't ignorant about his place in any society. With a tired sigh, his gaze searched the room with no particular focus in a bid to avoid allowing his mind to idle, one hand sliding along the beveled edge of the desk.
'To be seen...', Fred flexed his jaw as he thought, swiveling side-to-side in the chair.
Most didn't seem to think of Spartans quite as human beings, specifically those of his generation and the next. He knew that. Instead, people regarded them as combat machinery. Of extreme value, to be certain, but assets none the less. Like a highly decorated Pelican. A Scorpion tank with more than one engagement under her treads.
He found that there were two distinct sides to this mindset as well. A popular camp were those that saw Spartans as nothing short of deified constructs. Idolic monoliths. Products of some genetic perfection. The whole concept was unsettling, and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Being glorified and propagandized. Claims of Spartans acting as divine tools - Mankind's perfectly forged hammer.
Then, there was the other side of the coin - the one's who felt their own destinies were somehow being subverted simply by occupying the same space.
The thought reminded him of a time he'd brought about a confused chaos amongst an entire unit of marines, after raising his faceplate and revealing he was in fact just a man in a suit after all. The soldiers had later called him a cyborg when they thought he couldn't hear them. It was clear it was not a good-natured nickname.
Regardless, he'd held no contempt for those soldiers. Never had and never would. The lot had upheld their commitments, took pride in their dedications, and looked out for one another - all tenets of service that he valued himself.
Spartans, by design, are a genetically aberrant genus of humanity with an almost singular, identifiable, purpose. An unsavory beginning, some would point out, only to be later petitioned as 'the heroes who turned the tide'. No matter - they were still, to most, little more than hardware.
He didn't like it, but he understood it, and he couldn't fault anyone that. He'd never felt like a hero anyway.
Leaning back in the chair, much to the fret of the burdened furniture, Fred felt a brief pang of frustration. Biting lightly at his lip, he reconsidered if it wasn't instead a case of confusion. Maybe both. People's perceptions and assumptions didn't really bother him, though he'd admit some pushed worse than others. When it came to leadership, the welfare and advocacy of those under his command always took priority. His popularity otherwise seemed irrelevant.
ODSTs were notorious loud mouths, but also highly effective soldiers that could set aside their personal grievances to get the job done. They'd reserve their stubborn bias until after the dust had settled.
The cycle was reliable. Accountable. It made sense.
So, what was it that he had done differently with Veta?
There had been a time when she'd hated him.
As he thought back to the mission on Gao, back to meeting her, and immediately facing her critical and explicit derision. Truthfully, he understood that too. The citizens of many outer colony worlds held similar opinions, and the UEG hadn't done themselves any favors to improve those sentiments. Her general insults had been harmless enough, but when a driven insistence started to develop, he'd been worried that officials had sent someone unfit for the job. That Veta wouldn't be able to bridge her bias and handle the investigation with the impartial scrutiny and professional discipline they'd needed to maintain cohesion.
She wasn't infallible and she'd made some mistakes, but in the end, what he'd realized was that he'd been the one who was wrong about her.
Narrowing his eyes, Fred tilted his head slightly. 'Of course, you did later put a bomb in my backpack, didn't you?' A single laugh left his lips as a small puff.
Fred eyed the clock on the screen, and rolled his shoulders. Had an hour really passed?
Drawing his eyes back to Veta's message, the words floated in front of him wistfully, reminding him of the very excellent news that Veta Lopis thought he had a handsome smile. Nobody had ever told him that before. Would it have meant the same from anyone else? The sight of the message was almost hypnotic in its own right, as he constantly felt the urge to grin each time he read it over.
It was amazing, he thought, how so few words could say so much. Could feel so much.
Without a doubt, Fred had come to enjoy his once casual, eventually companionable, conversations with Veta anytime they were able. Always looking forward to stolen moments if ever the opportunity arose, and it seemed for a time that Blue Team was tasked with providing security and support for the Ferret team with relative frequency. He got to watch her evolve from a solitary operator, into a team-oriented leader. An unaugmented agent working in lockstep with a team of S-IIIs. Caring for the forgotten and the used in a way those kids hadn't known since before they'd lost everything.
Veta was constantly impressing him with her resourcefulness and endurance. Seeking no special concessions, and never containing her candor. It really had only been a matter of time until Osman felt Veta no longer required as much assistance in training the Gammas, though he still remotely managed their education. Sending a few docs along twice a month wasn't a replacement for time spent though.
Fred knew he felt an awesome respect for Veta, and she had absolutely deserved the autonomy, but...
He sighed, feeling dejected. It was entirely selfish, he knew that. But he wished those assignments hadn't ended.
It always seemed like there was never enough time.
There never really had been, had there?
--I do miss your handsome smile...//
A laugh rumbled from his throat, muffled and deep behind closed lips that curled into another warm smile - it felt like magic.
"Maybe there is no difference," Fred whispered aloud, reaching a hand up toward the projected hardlight of the holoscreen to gently run his fingertips over her words. "She just see's me."
Letting his hands drop down into his lap, Fred laced his fingers together, and looked into his palms. There was a slight heat over his face as he stared reverently at the way his fingers fit together, recalling one of those special and important moments. One he thought of often.
It had been fleeting, but private, and deeply - memorably - meaningful.
Blue Team had reassignment orders after a debrief from what he'd later learned would be their last joint op with the Ferret Team. That was near on five months ago now. Fred laughed to himself, remembering how he'd hesitated in his quarters that night, all but practicing what he'd say before he left that evening. He'd been so nervous and unprepared, and couldn't figure out why, or what he was supposed to be preparing for. But when he'd opened the door, Veta had already been there, just steps away, one hand poised to knock. Always anticipating him.
Hindsight, of course, always offers him the lasting embarrassment of how he'd buckled, blurting out a rigid farewell and offering her his hand. She had accepted it, but lingered oddly; her small hand wrapped up in his own. Even now, he's still certain they were both caught off guard when the gesture became an embrace. Not like on the Silent Joe, no, this felt different. He couldn't remember who'd leaned into it first, or if that even mattered at all, but he would always remember the feeling of just the two of them alone in that quiet hallway, blessed in the rarest of privacy. She'd tucked her head against his chest, both arms wrapped tight just over his waist, and he'd felt the warmth of her breath through his clothing. The sensation of his curled fingers into the cloth of her wool sweater has haunted him just as starkly as the feel of her soft hair against his chin. In the moment, he'd wanted nothing more than to fold around her.
Thinking back on it was always a surreal experience unlike any other memory he had. He could almost feel her there against him again, warm and wanted. She'd smelled like soap and cotton and cinnamon.
But it was their hands that he sometimes dreamed about. After Veta had stepped back, he'd run his palms down along the back of her arms until their hands had slid together - her small fingers, fitting one by one, between his own.
Fred blinked a few times quickly, swallowing hard, and looked back around the dark, empty, space of the office. The computer's holoscreen had idled to sleep.
With a hitched breath and the memory fully faded, he hesitantly separated his hands and woke the computer, fingers hovering just over the hardlight keys.
He didn't know what to say.
Somewhere - heavily classified, no doubt - was Veta Lopis.
Fred smiled as he imagined her now, buried in documentation and six coffees in, wearing the same t-shirt and joggers for days on end, while wrangling three teenagers. Who knew what cycle of the day she was in, or of what part of the galaxy.
At least at some point, it had all stopped for a moment, and she had thought of him.
Thought about how she missed his smile.
About how she missed him.
His eyebrows rose slowly, lips parting just enough to allow a soft, but sudden inhale.
"How so few words can say so much," Fred spoke quietly into the dim of the room, revisiting his own thoughts. The notion felt like a revelation, straightening in his chair to type out a short reply. There was no hesitation as he moved to hit send, and there it was. He felt his pulse quicken.
The sight of the two small notes at such stark contrast to the cold workplace minutia hanging above, seemed to brighten the words even more. Two sincere declarations, reaching out across an unknowable distance.
-- I miss you too.//
Leaning back, Fred felt a sense of calm almost as keen as his excitement. It was a thrill, sharing such sentiments so deeply personal with Veta, and over a secure channel no less. Total and willful disregard for proper protocol, for sure.
And entirely worth it.
Fred waited several minutes before setting himself back to task. In a little less than ten hours he hoped to have a clearer picture of the mission ahead, lest he stand out in front of the crew on the Barbarus's deck and make a fool of himself.
'Who'd choose to follow a fool into unknown territory?' he chided to himself, before pausing once more, fingers perfectly still over the keys, and his gaze looking through the screen.
Would she?