BAMBOOZLED

It had been a few days since Elliott had left that gift on Path’s doorstep, watched curiously from somewhere concealed just how he’d reacted to it. How the robot had grasped the gift, making no effort to hide his excited glee, in a way that made the fluttering of Elliott’s heart alternate between delight, and then -- fear.

Which was, like most of his anxieties, ridiculous. Path liked the present. He’d liked all of Elliott’s gifts! Path was...not just a unique MRVN, but unique beyond anything he knew how to fully comprehend. Elliot found himself lost in thought more than the occasional night, chewing a fingernail as he gazed off into space. Pathfinder was self-aware, that much was obvious, He was a person. But did the feelings of a self-aware synthetic mirror whatsoever those of a human? 

And if so, what kind of feelings was Elliott worried were not reciprocated?

None of this got him anywhere, of course. Nor did ruminating in his empty flat, or drinking alone at a bar, or even just aimlessly wandering the streets of this strange city. His goal remained ever fixed upon making his way back home, the thoughts of his family never far from his mind. 

But, they were in this together, he and Path.

It wouldn’t quite be going home without him.

And so, Elliott finds himself here, outside Path’s, rapping his knuckle firmly against the door. Upon receiving the affirming ‘come in!’, he pushes the door open and makes his way inside. 

He knows the place well enough by now to scuff his shoes against the mat, begin to shrug off his coat when he turns and locks eyes with Path and --

Oh.

He can feel his cheeks tinging with a sudden heat, which is fucking ridiculous, because for fuck’s sake, he was an engineer -- he had stripped mechanics down to the bare ‘bones’ for a living. But --

That strange cognitive disconnect again. Path wasn’t a machine -- but he was -- he was a person -- too.

“Uhm,” he says, wincing at how awkward it sounds. “I ju-just. Was passing  by and I-- I --”

Luckily Path saves him from himself, intervening to invite him to help.

Which -- oh.

He can feel his cheeks heating a deeper shade of red as Pathfinder invites him to assist in his maintenance. A perfectly reasonable request, given that, yanno -- he’d offered before, and he was good at this usually. 

All the same. He smooths his hand over his face, stifling back his blush and emerging with a slightly-forced smile.

Elliott yawns, tugging on a kimono and dragging the heel of his palm across one of his eyes as he hears the rapping on his door. He wasn’t even sure what time of the day it was; he tended to be...distracted, in such a strange and unfamiliar kind of way these days that watching the clock hardly seemed to matter. Easier to spend his time tinkering with his tools and not spend too much time thinking about that uncertain feeling that itched somewhere deep within his chest.

“Who’izit?” he calls, albeit to no reply. He sighs, pushing the tangled, ungroomed mess of curls out of his eyes, and shuffling towards the doorway and opening it just a couple of inches. 

It was...no one. Elliott is just about to slam the door in exasperation, when his eyes catch something on the doormat.

His expression softens instantly, as he recognises the flowers on sight.

Zinnias. Along with white roses.

He unlatches the door carefully, before bending and scooping up the bouquet. He’s aware there’s an additional box beneath the flowers, chocolates he suspects, but for now he’s caught inhaling the familiar, reassuring scent of the thoughtfully arranged bouquet, closing his eyes as he does so.

His eyes flutter open on the exhale, scanning the porch and his surroundings for any indications of the mystery deliverer. 

But nothing. Nothing attached to the flowers, or to the chocolates either. No sign whatsoever.

Except, for the only person he thinks might have known his favourite type of flower.

There’s that tight squeeze behind his chest again, and so he swallows, gathering up the gifts and shutting the door behind him.

The scent of zinnias flood him, as he allows his head to fall back against the door, then the rest of his body to slide down the surface until he’s seated on the floor, staring down into the petals.

It didn’t really mean anything, he supposes, thumbing a petal thoughtfully.

It couldn’t.

“Elliott, I’m in–”

Then he meets his friend’s expectant gaze, and realizes he’s making a terrible, selfish mistake. Mirage is not in love with him. Mirage is his best friend, and he would never do anything to ruin that.

“–terested to know how you made this! You should show me!

Elliott anxiously tucks his hands into his jacket pockets, before removing them -- and promptly stuffing them back inside his pockets once more. It’s not like he’s never given anyone a gift before; he’d presented many a partner with bouquets pulled from his sleeve in the past, even the occasional live animal on special occasions. But any time he’d tried to gift anything of meaning….

The very memory has him bunching his fists inside his jacket pockets again, gritting his jaw as he tries to swallow the rising panic he can feel stirring in his gut. He was doing Pathfinder a disservice. Path was far from the type to scoff, to veer away in thinly-horrified shock at such displays sentiment, he was -- 

It strikes Elliott, suddenly.

That for all his insecurities, his fears, his self-loathing -- 

He never seemed to doubt himself around Pathfinder.

Elliott’s fists bunch tighter in his jacket pockets, completely unsure what to do with themselves. Path  is studying the gift, and Elliott does his utmost to ignore his instinct to mistake his silence for distaste. 

It’s beautiful, friend. Thank you.

Elliott allows the tension to escape him with a relieved laugh, self-consciously raking his fringe out of his eyes as he hopes the blush rising on his cheeks wasn’t too obvious. This might just be the first time someone who wasn’t his mother appreciated his corny knack for sentimental gifts for what they were.

The bare minimum he could do, to show how much he cares.

Path studies the gift so closely for such an amount of time that Ell is surprised enough to stagger a step or two backwards when the MRVN turns his attention back upon him. It’s odd. Pathfinder has no facial expressions, beyond the emojis he chooses to project on his chest screen, but that glowing, inexpressive optic trained upon him makes Elliott feel like Path is staring at him harder than ever before.

A breath catches in his chest. He has the strangest urge to step that bit closer. He pulls his hands out of his coat and --

“I’m interested to know how you made this! You must show me!”

For a moment, Elliott is frozen, still gazing up at the MRVN’s optic. A beat -- and then another -- his gaze halfway between terrified and curious -- before lapsing back into his natural charm.

“Sure, pal!” he declares, a little too enthusiastically, clapping the back of the synthetic’s hard shoulder. “You’re more than able for it. C’mon, find me a workbench and we can get to it.”

There’s an uncertain, confused feeling brewing within his chest, which he’s unsure how to identify or what he’s supposed to do with. Or if he even should.

Path gestures to follow, in a direction he can only presume leads to more tools, and thus he follows.

He hesitates, as his friend steps out of view, lays a hand over his rapidly beating heart.

Nothing, he tells himself, taking a steadying breath and following after the other.

Nothing.

B: BOUQUET: does your muse like flowers? Which kind are their favourite?

Elliott adores flowers; partly because they’re an easy trick to incorporate into his magic act, partly because his mother loves when he brings them home to her. In his magic tricks, he opts for carnations, occasionally plucking a rose from behind an unsuspecting someone’s ears. 

His mother’s favourite flowers used to be lilies. These days he favours Zinnias.

A: answered here!

T: answered here!

R: ROMANTIC  - is your muse a romantic or a cynic? 

Ell is a hopeless romantic at heart. His ultimate goal is to quit the biz altogether, and buy a ranch with his partner on the outskirts of Solace City where they can raise a couple of kids and numerous dogs. He’s been known to perform outlandishly romantic gestures for partners in the past, but they have been generally ill-received. That has led to him being much more emotionally guard all-round, and to therefore struggle to actually permit anyone to properly pierce the facade of the Mirage persona. Once he feels comfortable though, he is always incredibly eager to demonstrate to a partner just how much they mean to him, be it home-made trinkets or, well… Private moments best suited for the bedroom.

I: answered here!

C: CHOCOLATE -  does your muse like chocolate? Which kind is their favourite?

Elliott is relatively indifferent regarding chocolate; he definitely nurses something of a sweet tooth as is obvious from his family’s secret recipe of maple syrup soaked pork chops. All the same, chocolate is something he can take-or-leave, and has no particular preference. Dark, if anything, given how well it can be paired with cooking.

K: KISS - is your muse a good kisser? Why/why not?

P: PARTNER - what does your muse look for in a partner? looks / personality?

When it comes to hook-ups, there’s very little that Elliott doesn’t look for. As long as you’re at least in your late twenties, willing, and down for a good time, then Elliott’s game. He’s a pretty muscular guy, making him that bit more difficult to throw around in the bedroom, so he does have a preference for folk that are taller and/or stronger than him, but he’s not particularly fussy.

Elliott has not had the healthiest track-record of actual relationships: if he were to be honest with himself (which he rarely is), he tends to self-sabotage or else, commit to the wrong person out of a desperate desire for intimacy. Elliott craves real love above all things, whilst simultaneously being completely terrified of it. 

Were he to be slightly more self-aware, he would realise he’s drawn to people who don’t make him constantly doubt himself and at ease with his own insecurities. People who are generally kind, warm and affable, and see past the persona of Mirage, and appreciate him as Elliott – faults and all. 

A: AFFECTION - how does your muse show affection?

Elliott is notorious for being a relentless flirt with just about everyone, but when it’s real, he can actually be quite shy. He’s very sentimental, and likes to surprise people he cares about with gifts; preferably hand-made, albeit it takes him a good while to overcome his anxiousness about actually delivering said gift.

There’s been very few people he’s actually shared such tokens of his affection with, and the reception they were met with have only further fuelled the flame of his fear of intimacy. He hasn’t risked crafting gifts made with that level of care for some time – up until very recently.

T: TRUE LOVE  - does your muse believe in true love?

Absolutely. On camera, or whilst embodying the persona of Mirage – which takes up so much of his energy these days – he tries to deflect his profound loneliness, with limited success. Elliott likes to talk a big game about wanting money and fame from the Games, but in reality, his biggest wish – after his mother’s happiness, of course – is finding true love.

So he believes in it. He has to.

What keeps him awake many a night, however, is that someone like him isn’t someone that can be loved in return.

H: HEART - is your muse quick or slow to give their heart away? 

In a way, both, but realistically, slow. Elliott falls hard and fast, but when it becomes apparent that this is the real thing, he resorts to self-sabotaging the relationship out of sheer terror that he’ll fuck it up further down the line, when he’s in too deep. It takes a partner with patience and awareness of Elliott’s self-destructive tendencies to recognise when his panic response is kicking in, and to take his hand and guide him through it in a healthy manner.

I: I LOVE YOU - does your muse find ‘I love you’ easy or hard to say?

Oh, Elliott finds it nigh-on impossible to say. Not out of callousness or anything of the like, but due to the fact – as previously mentioned – he either bolts or sabotages a relationship before it gets to that point. Or, once it gets to that point. Elliott finds it very difficult anyone could actually love him a romantic sense, therefore usually decides to ‘opt out’ before another person can confirm his deepest fear that he is, at the heart of all things, someone too broken to be loved.

E: EMBRACE - does your muse like hugs? What are their hugs like?

Elliott loves hugs. He’s quite a touchy-feely kind of person – albeit still learning who amongst the Legends appreciates a celebratory hug, versus those who give him murder-eyes as he approaches prompting him to settle upon a quick handshake.

Elliott’s usual hugs are full of laughter and smiles, usually wrapping another person in his arms in exuberance – even occasionally twirling them round, depending on their height – before breaking away easily and suggesting where to head next. 

 When…well. When there’s something more – when Elliott is overwhelmed by the feelings that detract from his usual terror surrounding intimacy – he is the one who likes to be wrapped up in another’s arms. That’s the way he prefers it: being able to lose himself just in the comfort of someone else willing to hold him.

There’s very few people he allows to see that side of him. 

he seems to spot her too, and is quick to embarrass himself. his easy recovery makes natalie smile.

❝ hi, elliott! ❞

Natalie is taking stumbling upon a former squadmate from her universe in this place considerably better than he ever did, but then again -- most people handled things better than Elliott did. Still, he feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment, especially given being caught in such an unflattering, borderline humiliating position. He pushes himself up so that he’s sitting up on his knees, hurriedly brushing the snow clinging to the front of his jacket before trying to smooth his hair back into place. The effect is limited, given the frost still stuck to his gloves, and if anything, leaves him looking even more disheveled than before.

“Fancy seeing you here!” He tries to keep his tone casual, but he can’t help feeling curious. Natalie was the first person from their world that -- to the best of his knowledge -- hadn’t been in the other place, and he had never heard Path or Octane mention her stepping foot there either.

He feels a shameful and bizarre thrill of excitement at potentially no longer being the newest Legend thrust into the realm of alternate universes. It’s kinda shot dead given Natalie’s complete calm in comparison to his total panic when he was in her position, but hey.

Elliott springs to his feet with relative ease -- mentally shooting those who teased him for being an ‘old man’ a smug look -- and gives a stretch, ignoring the crick in his joints as he shoots his fellow Legend a grin.

Goddamnit.

Elliott reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he hears the oh-so-familiar vrrrmmm of Octane’s legs speeding towards him. The snow didn’t seem to hinder his movements all that much; perhaps he’d bought something to aid his mobility. Or else it really was true, and nothing known to man could slow the speedster down.

All he’d been doing was casually observing the club – Amarlyiss or some other stupid name– near his own housing that everyone in the locale seemed to be talking about, when Octane had sped up and caught him totally unaware.

You spend enough time around the other man, you pick up the feeling that he’s grinning beneath that mask of his; despite the lack of all other facial features. Elliott hesitantly reaches out for the box he’s carrying, unsure whether he should accept it at face value. Octavio had blown off his own legs then told his press that he considered it his ‘birthday’. Lord fucking knew what he gifted the people in his life during the holidays.

The package doesn’t explode upon receival, which is a good sign, thus Elliott decides to risk taking it apart to uncover what lays inside.

He can’t help but laugh aloud when he lays his gaze on the gift held within. It was considerably less flammable than he’d anticipated, and a tad more thoughtful as well. He takes the toy Wingman replica out at first, spinning it betwixt his fingers before tucking it in a back pocket.

The cards however, he flourishes towards Octavio – after chucking the gift box over his shoulder – and winks, a sparkle in his eye.

The MRVN trots over, slowing the closer he draws to his friend until he’s reached a timid pace. Staring down at the colorfully gift-wrapped box in his hands, he appears to be experiencing momentary doubt over his decision, though he inevitably shakes it off and shoves the gift at Mirage enthusiastically.

“Today is a day for giving gifts in some cultures!” he announces, though he’s sure the other already knows. “I wanted to tell you that being your friend is one of the best things to ever happen to me, but I made you something special, too!”

Inside the box is a large, impossibly soft hand-knitted blanket, and a silver picture-frame containing a photo of Mirage himself–he’s glancing away from the camera (or more accurately, optic) with a laugh lighting up his entire face, from the sparkle in his eyes to the warm hues darkening his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose.

There’s no-one and nothing else within focus. Just Elliott Witt, and his genuine happiness, immortalized in the highest priority memory files of one enigmatic blue robot.

“It’s my favorite memory of you,” Pathfinder explains, shifting restlessly with his hands clasped behind his back. It’s clear he’s unsure if the other will like it. “When you laugh it makes me happier than being champion, or skydiving from the back of a leviathan, or–”

He tilts his head back and looks up at the decorative street lights twinkling above them, searching for the right words.

“I hope I can always try to make you happy, Elliott.”

Elliott had been sat beneath one the varying hot chocolate stalls dotted around Wisteria Square, turning over and over the latest prize he had won in the maze in his hands with no small amount of wonder. Sure, sure, he’d won some money and an entry into a raffle that the game-masters had all seemed very excited about, but the snowglobe had been the only thing he’d been able to think about ever since they awarded him it. He’s no idea how the powers to be had managed to capture her likeness so well, but there she was: Evelyn Witt, her arm around her youngest son, frozen in a cheerful wave whilst some chintzy music crackled out in tandem to the movement of their arms.

He sips his hot chocolate -- spiked to keep off the cold as well as considerably more chilling memories -- and gives the globe another shake, when he hears his name being called.

Elliott instinctively snatches the snowglobe and tucks it away in his nearby backpack, before sitting back up and squinting through the glare of the fairy lights against the backdrop of total darkness.

Ah. Path. He feels a little silly for secreting away the globe; Path would be the last person in any System to tease him over it. For a brief moment, Elliott even considers showing him it, but -- 

He wants to keep it to himself. For now.

Surprisingly, it turns out Path is actually here to deliver Elliott another gift, this time none other than from the blue smiling robot before him. He blinks in surprise momentarily, before shaking it off. He should know better now than to think Pathfinder wouldn’t seize upon the opportunity to dote upon his close companions, even if he didn’t fully understand their traditions.

Elliott carefully takes apart the wrapping paper, and --

Oh.

His fingers find the soft, hand-knitted blanket first, and that enough is to feel something twist behind his chest at the sheer kindness of the gesture. But then he brushes against something sharper underneath, unearths it to find a framed photo of just...him.

Oh.

It’s not a picture he recognises -- which is saying something, Elliott keeps a careful track of pictures available to the public for the sake of continuing to carefully cultivate his Mirage persona. It takes him a beat to realise it’s from Pathfinder’s own personal databanks: something immortalised in memory by him alone. 

He stares down at in silence as Path speaks, trying to take in what he’s saying as his other hand toys with the wool of the scarf. He doesn’t know what to say. Elliott’s the kind of person used to being heaped with praise, adoration, promises of unconditional love but it’s always been empty, coming from anyone but his own family. It’s always been fans, partners that he should never entered into relationships with from the get-go, it’s never been real.

This sort of genuine kindness… Well, it leaves him speechless.

To the point he realises all of a sudden he’s been quiet far too long, and he finally snaps his head up to try to meet the MRVN’s gaze. His optic is trained on the soft lights hanging above them, and Elliott has to bite down hard on his lip. It’s odd, really: MRVN’s possess no facial features, and yet even without any words being spoken, he can tell Path is nervous.

“This is…” he begins, brushing his fingers over the picture, before huffing the softest of laughs that fogs the air. “This -- this is very special. I mean it. And -- and it means a -- a whole lot coming from, y’know...you.”

He reaches over from where he’s sitting on the bench, and grabs Path’s hand, squeezing it lightly.

“Thank you, Path. And, you should know...”

He smiles, one of those rare smiles of his that’s free of his usual bullshit and pretend charm.

The longer Elliott spent here, the more he was realising the varying amount of entertainment the city had to offer. There were no shortage of attractions to catch a person’s interest, had even participated -- and won, thank you very much, that bloody maze which seemed to be the most talked-about event of this strange ‘festival’ the entire city was currently celebrating. 

Regardless, he’d found himself particularly taken with, of all places, the bar quite literally right beside his current place of residence: Adonis Tavern. There were plenty more glamorous establishments scattered throughout Koi -- even within the very area he lived, there were bars that were much more up to the standard an Apex Legend such as himself should gravitate towards.

And, yet. Something about the bar’s comparative lack of showiness had captivated him more than any of the others’. It had been the same in that other place: he’d always been drawn to the dingier-looking bars, the ones with the clientele that you were never quite sure whether they were simply enjoying a quiet drink, or if they were preparing to lunge at you and press a knife up to your throat. 

The kind of places he’d spent his teenage years, his twenties, most of his time working until he entered the Apex Games and actually made a name for himself. 

In all this unfamiliarity, they just provided the slightest taste of home. 

This time, he’s the one who is seated by himself in a booth by himself, sipping his whiskey as he idly doodles on a notepad with his free hand. Nothing overly complicated; he simply grows concerned that without keeping up his practice of his work, he’ll lose his touch. 

And so; it’s him who is surprised when someone slips into the seat opposite him, almost without a sound. He jerks out of his reverie with a start, before he realises who it is that’s actually facing him. Once he does, he lets out a wry chuckle, pushing his fringe out of his face and smoothing it back over his forehead, trying to hide his embarrassment at being caught so completely off-guard.

“Hey, stranger.”

The stranger -- Snake, he knows now -- slides something across the table, and if Elliott can’t suppress his visible double-take. He cares less about the visible shock on his face this time, shooting a quick glance at Snake before pulling the box towards him and opening it.

Alright. There’s no hiding the smile and ensuing laugh as he pulls out the gifts within, pausing a moment to admire each. In all honesty, he’s touched: they barely knew each other, and the gift was surprisingly thoughtful…

Well. And then there came the piece of paper containing his phone number. Wasn’t that interesting.

“This is... well. Thank you. Extremely considerate. I wasn’t sure when I’d see you again, but you know, given where we keep running into one another in places like this…” he pauses a moment to vaguely gesticulate their surroundings, before reaching under the table to pull out a wrapped gift of his own and pushing it across the table. Inside it contains a particularly good bottle of nineteen-year-old single malt whiskey, along with a packet of cigarettes. He smirks, perching his elbows on the table and idly toying with the piece of paper containing Snake’s number between his long, nimble fingers and biting his lip coyly.

“I don’t live far from here you know. Right next door, in fact.” 

His boot catches Snake’s right beneath the table, and gives it a teasing tap.

“I am sorry I ran away when you joked about kissing me,” he offers a rather delayed apology, then nods at their ongoing project. He’s done enough hurried research on Christmas activities to have a faint idea of what they should be doing. 

“What should we use for the face? Should I get a carrot for its nose?”

Elliott pushes himself back onto his feet from where he’d been kneeling in the snow, dusting himself off as he did so. Strange how quickly he was becoming accustomed to this stuff. He wonders absently if it will ever end, if the sun will ever rise again or if this was what life here would be like here from now on.

Path comes and joins him at his side with a compliment for their efforts. Their ‘snowman’ was shaping up pretty nicely -- snow was proving pretty damn tricky as a sculpting tool, but they had the advantage of being an engineer and, well, a Mobile Robotic Versatile Entity that just happened to be fully sentient. 

“Your deer has good taste,” he chuckles, folding his arms. “But it’s our snowman.”  

His own crystalline dog is happily trotting around them, pausing every so often to eagerly bury a hole in the snow, settle inside of it, before repeating the behaviour all over again. He might be an incredibly small husky, but it didn’t seem to affect just how much he clearly adored the wintry tundra.

Elliott glances in surprise at Path’s blunt apology -- half confused by the very fact he clearly thought he’d something to say sorry for, half embarrassed by the reminder of what had happened. He’d just taken for granted that he’d made Path uncomfortable with his stupid kidding around: it was far from the first time he’d overstepped or made a fool of himself in social situations. 

He rubs his gloved hands together to generate some warmth -- or rather, so that he just had something to do with them rather than resorting to his usual anxious fidgeting -- and turns back to the snowman so that Path won’t see his flushed cheeks. 

“Nothing to apologise for, pal,” he says with a chuckle, “Like I said. Stupid human tradition. Don’t blame you for… Well. ‘Spose I should be one apple -- appp -- saying sorry.” 

Because he was. It was unusual to go any length of time without hearing from Path, let alone several days, so truly, he must have really made him uneasy. So, he had fretted for the last seventy-two hours before finally deciding to do what he did best: show up and pretend like nothing had ever happened.

Elliott shivers, burying the lower half of his face in his scarf before continuing.

“I’m real sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I would -- I would never -- well. I’d never try… I mean, I’d never purposely -- ah, fuck it.”

He pushes the mop of fringe out of his face, cursing himself. For someone who was supposed to be renowned for his charisma, it was endlessly frustrating how much words constantly seemed to fail him.

Pathfinder? Well, Pathfinder is… Pathfinder.

Which! Is a compliment, by-the-by! Eliott grew up in the heart of Solace City, one of the foremost capitals in the Outlands, a place made up of mostly outlaws. Elliott hasn’t met too many truly genuine people in his life, which is exactly why the tall blue MRVN that had wandered into the Lounge two years ago had managed to catch his attention. 

Pathfinder -- or ‘Marvin’ as he went by back then -- had been so sincerely and cheerful about the very fact he was being taken advantage of that Elliott couldn’t help but intervene. His own dream had been to enter the Apex Games, and when it came down to it, what better way to get someone to notice you than that? It wasn’t that he’d felt sorry for him; far from it, he truly was horrified that the robot was unaware he deserved more.

It had been a surprise, of course, to turn on the television in the Lounge one night, and see Path not only participating in the Games, but actually prospering in them. He’d joined the applause in the bar the night that Path was awarded Apex Legend status, a wry grin on his face the whole time.

When Elliott himself had entered the Games, Pathfinder had been clearly elated to see him again, introducing him to veteran Legends such as Gibraltar eagerly as his ‘best friend’. That had been a surprise -- Path was more than just a somebody these days, he was an Apex Legend -- someone who no doubt had folk clambering over one another to be his friend, never mind some two-bit bartender he’d met years ago.

But no: Path had gone on to enthusiastically introduce him to every Legend, and even the press as his best friend. Other than his own mother, no one had believed in Elliott’s ability to become a Legend quite as much as Pathfinder.

As proved by the excited chirps when Blisk had called his name the day he’d been proclaimed an Apex Legend, just about the only sound he’d been able to make out over the deafening roar of approval from the crowd and the hummingbird pounding of his heart.

The war had taken its toll on Elliott, as it had most people in the Systems. He’d lost too many friends to its devastation, it made growing close to people difficult. His instinct as he grew older had been to keep people at a distance, so as to avoid the pain of any additional loss. Path made that impossible, his earnest and chipper attitude completely oblivious to Elliott’s attempts to push them away. He might curse to the cameras upon being paired with ‘that smiling robot’ during the Games, but the wave of relief that crashed over him each time he found himself on the same team as Path was undeniable.

And now…

Here, outside the Games. Outside their own world. Path had risked his life for him on more than one occasion -- didn’t seem to think such an action warranted much merit -- as well as swore to get Elliott home to his mother. A task that sometimes seemed like it preoccupied him more than getting home himself.

That thought, more than any other, hits him deep. He falters in his movements -- scooping up a handful of snow for the mounds they were attempting to build into these so-called ‘snowmen’ that the rest of the city were so keen on creating during this strange weather pattern. Path tilts his head curiously -- words aren’t exactly needed, when a MRVN’s bright optic peers at you curiously in nigh-on total darkness.

“All good, Path,” he reassures the blue robot, collecting a handful of snow and adding it to the ‘body’ they were currently shaping. “All good.”

It wasn’t home. It wasn’t the family he needed to return to.

     ❝ mirage. ❞      they’re almost RELIEVED upon seeing the ever-popular trickster making an appearance here, seeing as hound has yet to run into any of the other legends who have had the ( mis- ) fortune of showing up in this strange city as well. 

Keep reading

I also miss...home.

Elliott is somewhat taken aback hearing Bloodhound describe anywhere as ‘home’, which was silly, really, given that regardless of what planet or system they came from, it would still be home compared to this strange alternate universe they’d found themselves in. It strikes him, all the same, just how little he knew about the hunter. 

Strikes him again once he realises Bloodhound is reacting to him like they had never seen him outside of their universe before. Ah, fuck, he curses inwardly, pushing his fringe out of his eyes and surpressing a sigh. So the Bloodhound before him was a Bloodhound taken from a different time than the one he’d met in the other place. Pathfinder had informed him the same had happened with another Mirage -- another him -- before he’d inadvertently found himself warped into another dimension, but the information had been so head-fucking that he’d tucked it away for another day.

A day which was here, staring at him curiously. Well, at least he thought it looked like curiosity. What with the mask that covered their entire face, it could be hard to tell. 

There are others here too?

Elliott’s eyes widen at that because -- huh. These last few months, it had been him following the other Legends around helplessly in search of answers, relying on their guidance and experience in this strange new universe they’d been thrust into without any explanation. He was the one accustomed to discovering that his missing comrades from back home had been transformed here.

His first reaction is a pang of sympathy, because hell -- what if he’d never found the others in that other place? What if he’d never met Path that very first day? How the fuck would he have made it through all these months without his friends also trying to help find a way home?

His second instinct is -- well -- fuck. How to begin?

He very much wishes Pathfinder was here. He was much better at this stuff than him.

“Uhhhh….” Eloquent, Elliott, he berates himself irritably, as always. “Well. You -- you really haven’t seen anyone? I mean -- I know you said you haven’t, it’s just -- you know -- there’s been so much -- ah, jeez.” 

He heaves a heavy sigh of frustration. He’s supposed to be someone who prides himself on possessing a silver tongue, but all too often, he just can’t find the words. 

In his defence, the aisles of a supermarket are not the most appropriate place to have this conversation.