#sveer

[deathchasing]

@sveer cnt'd from x

Let your heart follow the truth you claim.

He squinted. He wasn't sure what that was supposed to entail. His heart told him to give the old man a chance. But having joined Torres in Syndicate matters had only made his shadow that much longer in the eyes of his fellow Legends. Even Che didn't seem to trust him anymore. It wasn't like he could blame them, but what was he supposed to do? All his life, all he'd wished for was to be wanted. And now that he had a shot at it, no one wanted him to have it? It wasn't fair.

Obi had a way with words that made Octane furious. So slow and careful, just the right cadence; things that made Octane want to plow ahead with impatient words of his own, but somehow he couldn't, not with Obi, such a showman that he could hold Octane's attention even with the most boring of accounts.

At the heart of it he knew it was because he valued Obi's viewpoint; apart from all their differences, Obi too knew what it was like to be unwanted. Octane had always been jealous of his supportive parents, but the rest of Boreas had never wanted anything to do with the child borne of a curse. No matter what Obi tried to do to make things right, it seemed it might always be that way.

"Yeah," he answered weakly, visibly uncomfortable. "Yeah, that-- that shadow stuff."

Some of the defensive tension ebbed from his body, leaving him feeling wobbly. Usually he had to keep his guard up - the only other person he tended to confide in was Che, and sometimes she could be as scathing as Torres. Octane was lucky at all that Obi chose to be kind to him now, given the circumstances, especially after Torres had usurped their plans for the new Apex venue and all but splintered Obi's relationship with Boreas irreparably.

"Always a lot of things chasing me." His gaze flitted away again, couldn't handle the warmth in Obi's eyes, as if he could see something in Octane that needed it. He was fine. He was fine. "But I'm faster than all of them."

[kxllerblond]

@sveer // sc

❝ Is there some height requisite for you legends? Why are the majority of you all so tall...? ❞ as if he had even indulged in the company of anyone else besides one of the two moody simulacrums.

He clucks his tongue, exhales a sigh, and offers a hand in greeting.

❝ Thompson. What is it they call you again? Seer, correct? ❞

[simulamortem]

Maybe he had gotten a little too close to one of Hammond’s properties, or maybe THE HUNTER had been looking to have a word for him. The simulacrum had been snared -- far too thoroughly for the trap to be designed for anything but him. He hung suspended from the trees, his body, limbs, even his jaws entangled securely in cabling; it was something he could probably cut through with a bit of effort... if he had use of an arm.

Not far from the arena of World’s Edge and approaching a Hammond facility stationed nearby, Revenant knew he was bound to be found sooner or later, either by Hammond personnel, Apex personnel, or by somebody trekking World’s Edge in anticipation of a match. Some of the LEGENDS were known to explore or train on the terrain between matches, but there was no telling whether any of them would feel so inclined to free the likes of him.

He had been trapped for half a night and half a day before the sim finally heard someone APPROACHING through the foliage.

[deathchasing]

| | @sveer

The skies ignited with waves of hypnotic golds and purples as the sun slid behind planet Boreas. In a rare moment of stillness, Octane stopped on his way down the bleacher stairs to watch it go, giving an appreciative hum. The tiny lights of hovercars and ships in traffic flickered to life in the ensuing darkness, like fireflies waking from slumber, sleepily motoring past the towering walls of Encore, Boreas’s only Arena stage. The Apex games were done until tomorrow; Octane had taken a ferry on a whim from Cleo’s last Battle Royale match of the day, feeling discouraged and unbalanced by his recent streak of losses. Lifeline had pointed out unhelpfully that perhaps instead of blaming his own teammates, a little introspection would do him good. Octane despised being told what to do and he especially hated introspection. It took too long and it made his stomach hurt. And that’s exactly what he’d said to her, but somehow he still found himself here at Encore after-hours, hoping to brush up on his skills.

“Blah blah blah, you gotta work together if you wanna win together Octane, stop fidgeting and use your head for once Octane,” he grumbled in a high-pitched mockery of Ajay’s voice, beginning to skip steps as he descended the rest of the stairs. “Why don’t you roll over and do a trick while you’re at it! Mierda.”

He faltered and his shoulders sagged. He felt bad. “Sorry Che.”

Like she could hear him. Maybe he did need some introspection.

He finally hit flat ground and made his way closer to the center of the stage. It didn’t sound like anyone else was here— fantastic, nothing to distract him, are you happy, Lifeline?— until he heard quick-moving footsteps around the side of building he’d skirted. He shied backward and peered around the corner, instantly rigid with tension. Obi! They hadn’t spoken in a hot minute and Octane was not interested in getting lectured any further today. This was a sign. He would just take a shuttle back to Psamathe and go for a run or something.

But his legs didn’t seem to want to move.

Instead he watched. Seer was pulling off some impressive acrobatics— practicing dodges, Octane suspected, if unnecessarily flashy ones— and it hit him that he should have known better. Of course Seer would be here, he’d played in Arenas for nine years, and if Octane’s own experience had taught him anything, it was that nostalgia harbored safety. The twists and turns of Obi’s limbs mesmerized him. He wondered if this was what people felt like watching him do his death-defying stunts and maneuvers. He leaned further around the corner for a better look, mistakenly expecting a railing where there was none, and realized too late his hand fell on empty air. He lurched forward and reached for anything to break his fall, finding purchase on the edge of a metal trash can—

Which fell along with him, filling the Arena with a loud CLANG and the following clatter of his metal legs kicking away the trash can lid in a panic. He scrambled upward, heart beating like a rabbit’s, pulse in his ears, utterly mortified.

“Uhhh, hola, hey— what are you—” he pointed a finger accusingly, sputtering, “—what are you d— I mean, I was just, uh—hi. Hi.”

[simulamortem]

“Sounds like a certain TELEVISION HOST could use a few more months of THERAPY if she still thinks playing mouthpiece for the Syndicate is a good idea.”

[deathchasing]

Everything always seemed impossibly choreographed with Seer, and on the rare occasions he fell, it was nothing short of spectacular… but this time the shot caught him clean through the calf. He dropped fast, graceless, like silk collapsing on itself.

Their third was just a banner in his pocket; the field down to a healthy squad, a few stragglers, and the two of them with only a single cell between them. The ring hissed closer, burning amber along the edges, and every sound seemed to blur-- gunfire, the static, the squeak of Octane's restless legs.

“Go,” Seer rasped, voice tight with effort. He pressed a trembling hand to his leg, trying to catch the bleeding with whatever poise he had left. “If I stay standing, it’s only to make a prettier fall.”

"Mierda, you're so dramatic!"

His trademark lively tone left his mouth clipped and hoarse and completely at odds with their chances of survival, as telling as nervous laughter. Under the hazy cover of dust and gunsmoke he was able to get the door to the small building closed without drawing more fire and get Seer propped up against the back of it, but the threat of the closing final ring loomed closer each second, sent a static prickle over his desert-warmed skin even at a distance from them yet. It would not slow down.

He took quick stock of their predicament. The sudden deafening of the visceral struggle outside made more room for the building pressure of the situation to grab him like a vise and shake him; he turned in a circles, paced, seemed to come up with an idea and almost instantaneously throw it away. He crouched by Obi and stuck him with a med syringe on habit alone while he thought, eons away in his own head. He didn't need it - the stim would keep him conscious more or less the same way, anyway.

He glanced at the blinking device on Obi's chest and came back with a jolt.

"Okay!" he exclaimed, restless eyes landing on Obi's face finally. "You're gonna take the last cell. I'm gonna run like hell and distract the other squads while they're moving in from the Ring. Your big radar thingy is almost ready again - we use that when the Ring gets real small, it disrupts all their shit, we take the shots from different positions."

There were only the two of them— no chance now to bring back their third— and there was at least one other whole squad left, maybe one partial, and a rat if they were lucky. But their chances weren't zero, and Octane had come out winning from worse.

He glanced anxiously out the only window and bounced on his heels, hydraulics hissing. "I-I think it could work, yeah?"

[simulamortem]

@sveer cont. from x

Over the hum of the servers came the beep of the door.

Surely no one other than a surviving Spectre would have followed him in here, having to wade through the CARNAGE.

He crept low around a row of servers, toward the door, but stopped short when it wasn't just a meatbag that was standing there, but a meatbag he recognized. Edolasim had really made it in here.

He supposed he'd cleared the way well enough.

Revenant moved aside toward the wall, SILENT as he crept up onto the ceiling - where he waited for the other Legend to step into the room before lowering down behind him just as silent. Steel teeth stained with blood and its RUSTED ODOR leaned closer at the back of Seer's ear.

"Boo."

Followed by the simulacrum's low chuckle.

[falskihundr]

“I only ever wanted to help.”

"Hm. It is a . . . familiar sentiment. A noble one," they say, pausing in their work. Gently, they set the whetstone and blade onto the table before them in favor of turning their attention more fully towards Obi.

The weapon can wait, this cannot.

"It is-- difficult, to feel responsible. Our people, our homes . . ." The words trail off into a sigh; it is difficult to know exactly where Bloodhound looks, but the tilt of their head gives the illusion of down and away.

"I wish that I had some council to give, vinur minn. But this is a dýr too great for either of us alone. Just know; I am with you."

As they turn to refocus on their previous task, something gives them pause. They hesitate, and half-glance in Obi's direction as an afterthought. "And . . . an omen does not always need to be evil or wicked. There is good to be found, as well."