closed — for @simulamortem muse: bloodhound
there was no reason for such failure.
bloodhound had been eliminated from the apex games early on this time. last week, their squadmates had captured the win for them as they were eliminated fifth to last. joining their squad at the pedestal to claim their victory felt like a mere participation award, but they had pushed the negativity aside in favor of creating a good memory for their squadmates. the week before that, they had two consecutive failures.
it was embarrassing. of course, the media had begun to latch onto bloodhound's losing streak after they had held strong with so many wins on their record, and it didn't help their sense of humiliation. bloodhound's losses seemingly came out of left field, uncharacteristic of the skilled hunter who could track their prey with precision and catch their enemy off-guard.
they hadn't attended a single press event during this time, didn't open themself to interviews, finding it easier to avoid questions they had no answers to by simply staying back at campus or at their home. how could they explain to the interviewers that their losses stemmed from poor focus, and it wasn't due to a lack of sleep? how could they explain that it was because of that damn simulacrum they found themself interacting with more frequently both on and off the battlefield, that this was his fault and it wasn't even because of anything he'd done?
no, scratch that — he had done something, and it had affected them so deeply that it stirred something within them that had been lying dormant for many winters.
a mere grace of bestial tongue to flesh was enough to crack the hunter's shell. to them, it was almost pathetic. they could still remember the way that black tongue had coiled itself around their calloused hand and wove itself in between their bare fingers, as if assessing the foreign object by touch alone. such thorough examination of their hand that they could remember sending tingles roving through their spine, their face feverish beneath their respirator while inappropriate thoughts probed themself into their brain, like some inexperienced person experiencing touch for the first time.
after that night, bloodhound had distanced themself from him for a short while, to give themself time to process these complex feelings that they had buried along with boone and his memory.
the complexities had settled, temporarily. but then they'd entered melee combat with the simulacrum on the battlefield, admired the way he fought and actually gave them a challenge, and those feelings stirred again until everything went black.
there was no reason for such failure.
it hadn't affected bloodhound at first. in the beginning, a loss was just a loss, and they would go on to earn more wins. but more wins hadn't come, at least not any that they felt they had earned. the more those wins turned to losses, the more of a toll it took upon the skilled hunter. they would perform so well until they saw revenant on the opposite end of their sniper scope, or until they felt his presence looming over them and it was too late to react.
a skilled hunter, with their potential going to such waste.
how can i call myself blóðhundur when i scarcely deserve the title...?
it was late, but bloodhound couldn't rest.
rather than tossing and turning all night, bloodhound had traded their nasal cannula for their respirator and left their campus quarters. they needed fresh air to rid their mind of their endless, bustling thoughts.
bloodhound leaned against the railing of a balcony that overlooked a corner of the outlands that was untouched by the apex games. it was dark enough that they could see comfortably without the tint of their goggles, easy on their icy-blue eyes. a gentle breeze tousled their red locks of hair, most of which was pulled up into a carefree attempt at a bun; compact, though undoubtedly messy.
their pride had been wounded. self-doubt had begun to seep its parasitic tendrils into the depths of bloodhound's mind, infecting their thoughts one by one.
waste... failure... disappointing the allfather... blóðhundur.
but the breeze was like a soothing balm to their weary, worrying mind. physical presence, pulling them from the depths of their mind and temporarily hoisting them back into reality.
the hunter locked themself in a silent, trance-like state of meditation with their hands clasped together, attempting to soothe themself into a quieter state of mind. but their attempt fell short five minutes in as that all-too-familiar looming presence behind them urged them to open their closed eyes. a quiet caw from artúr, perched on a thin tree branch, alerted them that they were no longer alone.
there was silence as bloodhound listened, unmoving. they didn't turn their head to look at who had approached. didn't care to do so. but maybe they didn't need to, for that creeping feeling that itched at the back of their neck combined with the caw of their raven was hardly incorrect.
then, after a long minute of continued silence, bloodhound finally spoke aloud to the presence behind themself.
"...you should be resting at such an hour."
