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Hiding himself within the ranks of the Republic was easy; get on Kimbal’s good side? Check. Seem like the good ol’ charismatic Mercenary who just wants to help out? Check. Get even the Reds and Blues to trust him? Check and check. This had to be the easiest, most god damn boring mission Locus and he had ever taken; if it wasn’t for the payment, he would’ve abandoned it long ago.
But, perhaps not everything was easy—sure, anything that mattered was a slice off the cake, but when it came down to the fucking slop he consumed in that broken down mess-hall, he would rather be eating dirt. Subjecting himself down to these ‘soldiers’ levels was not in the plan, he was a mercenary—hell, he was Felix, not some broken down wannabe soldier who ate crap that he wouldn’t even feed to dogs.
And now here he was, clad in armor in the blaring heat, waiting around for the lieutenants and color-coded sim soldiers to make their ‘jump’ on him, and stomach rebelling to the shit he’d shoveled into it before this. A shaky sigh leaves his lips, a slight fog coating the visor of his helmet—nope, as always, the feelings would pass and he’d be fine. Now, all he had to do was focus on shooting down those idiots confidence, and he could go soothe his stomach in peace.
Now he’s just restless, normally on his toes and ready for anything that this group would throw at him, but the nausea traveling through his body was clouding his current goals. Like he’d let anything like a little upset stomach throw him off his game—no way, no how. He could not let the Reds and Blues think they can actually take him, that’d be just plain embarrassing.
Yet, he’s tucking himself away, out of direct sight, knowing that the little group wouldn’t take the extra time to look around every corner. He could rest here, just until everything is settled and he’s fine to do whatever it is to take them down yet again. Slow breaths are sucked in and let out through the mercenary’s nose, the flipping feeling in his gut not showing any sign of surrender. God, how the hell did all these Rep’s eat this shit? The feeling of bile rise in his throat causes a sense of panic to arise, but he swallows it down, shaking himself out as a low groan forces from his chest.
The sound of footsteps catches Felix’s ears, head popping up and gaze peering around the corner he’d hidden himself by—dammit! How the hell did the lazy orange one happen to stumble upon his spot first? Teeth clench and fingers curl, readying a punch to hopefully knock the guy flat on his ass if he came around that corner, something that would give him some time to find a more hidden area—
And now he hears the rest of them, chatting away and giving their own spots away if Felix was on the hunt. The merc silently cursing himself, why’d he agree to this stupid thing anyway? It wasn’t like they could ever actually get the jump on him, they’d already failed countless times, he should’ve just ended this charade early.
A lurch in his gut and he backs himself up flat against the wall, brows knitting in irritation and discomfort—the feeling would pass, and he’d get this over with quickly, nothing to it. Let them round the corner, get the jump on them, and leave.
Or, that’s what he would’ve done if he wasn’t so focused on the second round of nausea that bubbled, allowing the group to catch him off-guard. Felix knows they’re there, he can hear the annoying sound of voices in his head, knowing that they’re having some sort of pointless celebration for finding him, and yet, they do nothing about it. Fingers uncurl and curl again, the mercenary pushing himself from the wall and opening his mouth to lecture them about how loud they were being and how they’d easily be spotted by an enemy—though, instead of words coming out, a disgusting, wet stream of half-digested slop forces itself up his throat, the man unable to catch himself before it’s splattered on the inside of his helmet.
Now all he hears is various sounds of disgust from the group, all of which had taken a jump back from him—though, he couldn’t care less about whatever it was they were saying. There’s a moment of shock before he fully realizes what had happened, gloved hands reaching up and pulling the helmet from his head, carelessly throwing the object to his feet. Lurching forward a wet burp catches in his throat, resulting in another round of vomit, this time, being splattered onto the dirt and dust. A cough, and he spits, grimacing at the mess that was, unfortunately, not only coating his helmet but dripped down onto the protruding chest plate he wore.
Of course, he goes vomiting right in front of these idiots, he shows weakness that should never be let free—and even still, the feeling doesn’t pass. He wants to vomit again, but he can’t, the sensation pools in his stomach and eyes squeeze shut, thick swallows causing him to gag at the taste that lingers in his throat.
Disgusting. Raising a hand he uses the back to wipe his mouth and face, shaking it out to get anything off before standing himself up straight again. His breathing is heavy, a slight shaking wracking through his frame—if there was anything he wouldn’t tell Locus about his time with the Rep’s, it was this. He swallows again, and a piercing glare is shot toward the group standing before him, not needing words to warn them to keep their mouths shut and pretend that they’d never witnessed this. They seem to understand and the group scatters, leaving Felix alone yet again.
If there was any time he felt relief, it was now, knowing that he would finally take care of this problem in peace. His gaze travels to the dirtied helmet, grimacing at it before walking over and crouching to lift it off the ground, the item being held loosely between his fingers. He looks it over, quickly deciding that it was now garbage—no way in hell he was spending time to clean it. He spits again, an irritated growl leaking through his raw speech.
“Looks like I need a new fucking helmet.”