@hexclaimed; continued from here.
The undersized trench was kept close with every step through the harsh terrain, further shielding the man of resistance from the bite of winter's chill and the snow overhead. If it weren't for the cruel reality that emblazoned itself upon his very being, the sight of the gentle flurry in the star-filled sky would be a beautiful one. Jayce trudges ever onward, unto the unknown among the ruins of the world he once knew.
He slips through building after building, maneuvering around every battlecast patrol with all the grace of a survivor. The remnants of his eye burns with every uncomfortable shift that has his face scrunching with effort; be it lifting debris or his own worn body come every silent morning. He allows the vestiges of pleasant memories to drape over him like a blanket when he sleeps.
Hunger pangs low within Jayce, clawing incessantly as he forces his body to continue onward, further and further away from his prison and toward the only salvation he knows. The whirring of wicked machinery in the distance is his only company as he scavenges the ghosts of civilization, consuming what he can before pushing forth— once more, unto the breach.
Weeks pass, with Jayce just narrowly avoiding patrol after patrol. When he thinks he catches them looking at him, that he had somehow slipped up, they never seem to notice him. And for the briefest of moments, he thinks that it's purposeful. It's both a disconcerting yet comforting thought. He holds the coat close.
When he's able to linger in one place for a good period of time, he takes the opportunity to jerry rig what he can— small monitoring devices, location scramblers, short range EMPs. Nothing strong enough to dismantle the battlecast effort, but enough to make a dent in his journey, and hopefully allow him access to better scrap. His efforts are fortuitous when he manages to snag one of his rival's artillery units in his trap. It's dismantled for parts and repurposed into the beginnings of a recreation of his signature hammer.
He sets up a bit more in one of the deeper ruins; well fortified and inconvenient for larger battlecast patrols. The presence has notably increased due to his brazen activities, so he's forced to hunker down. Mere weeks turn into a full month, the small scrounged base turned into a haphazard temporary home. Everything is well guarded with the parts he's been collecting during his travels, still too far away from home base to do much else.
Careful fingers work on his eventual prosthetic eye, soldering iron in hand, when a gentle thrum of familiar wiring reaches his ears. Jayce turns his head to look over his shoulder and back at the smallest sentry bot he's ever seen, bereft of its signature tendrils and remaining nothing but a floating eye. Under normal circumstance he'd perceive this creation as a threat; but it didn't set off his security, nor did it immediately blow him up. Not an adverse way to go. But if Viktor wanted him dead, he'd have done it already. Still, Jayce is very much on edge, not knowing what to expect. He silently hopes the coat on his makeshift bed isn't in its line of sight.
❛❛ Viktor, ❜❜ Jayce attempts to speak flatly towards the sentry, remaining casual as he returns his attention to the project on his table. ❛❛ What do you want? ❜❜
