𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘...

"Still such a caballero, huh?" He grinned and nudged Obi with an elbow as he passed him on his way to one of the arena exits, eager to catch their ride. "Tryna get my guard down so you can lure me into an art gallery?"

Octane laughed, but at this rate, he was so hurt for company he'd follow Obi just about anywhere.

A little voice warned him not to get too carried away in the current of his fellow Legend's magnetism. There was a reason things hadn't worked out in the past and it had a lot to do with both their tendencies to jump first and ask questions later. For every quality they shared there was another they did not; alike as unalike. Ramya had told him that much once during a rough patch, back when they'd all fought together. But together they were greater than the sum of their parts, and Octane's admiration for him never diminished, not even with the passage of time and his distractable tendencies.

He spun on his heel by the exit. Obi's gaze was far off; maybe he already regretted asking Octane to go anywhere. That wouldn't do. Octane leaned dramatically in the direction Obi was looking, trying to intercept his line of sight and catch his eye.

So of course, Obi let himself be coaxed into the cab.

Their talk was light at first, skipping between familiar topics: who among the Legends was stirring trouble this week, and how Mirage, ever devoted, had apparently discovered a new barbecue sauce to obsess over. The words filled the ride in easy fragments, slipping in and out the way stories do when old friends get to talking.

But as the city came into view, Obi drifted into thought, his gaze catching on familiar places. That one noodle shop with the best broth; a cinema sagging with age, the same one he and Octavio had once slinked out of, Obi feigning a mask of nonchalance when someone recognised them. And how could he forget the shuttered shop of curiosities he had passed a hundred times as a boy, its windows once crowded with oddities that had seemed like treasures to him then?

Each landmark pressed against him like a thumb on a bruise. The city was still vibrant, still loud and crowded with more faces than he remembered, yet that brightness only sharpened the pang in his chest. Time hadn’t dulled it. If anything, it left him suspended between aching and longing.

By the time the cab slowed into the press of the dinner rush, Obi was quiet. Humidity clung to his skin as he stepped out. From where he stood, the space was stimulating as much as it was overwhelming. Splashes of color spilling from fabric stalls, merchants calling over skewers and fried batter. Seer had been here many times, yet the shuffle of storefronts always made it feel new.

“Your playground today,” Seer declared, voice lilting with the suggestion of a flourish. “Tell me, does his majesty hunger for a meal, or movie, or perhaps... an art gallery?”

Suffice to say, Octane relaxed when it appeared Obi had nothing more to add. But when he felt those discerning, glacial eyes leave him, he was only relinquished minor relief in their wake, craving that gaze on him as much as he shied away from it.

He perked up at Seer's suggestion, however-- some of his reignited spark apparent in the bounce of his legs-- and took the offered exit almost immediately.

"Forreal? A-are you sure? If you were busy practicing, it's no biggie, I can leave you alone..." he trailed off, looking very much like he did not, in fact, want to leave Obi alone.

The secrecy returned to his smile, curved and conspiratorial, piercings catching light as he laughed. “It’s okay. Any more, and it'll be a performance spoiled.” And then, ever indulgent, Obi thought to remind Octavio once more, “My time is yours tonight. Let us see what the city has to offer.”

The words left his mouth, and almost at once Obi felt a tug of doubt.

It had been some time since he last stepped into Boreas’ public gaze. He could endure the looks, the whispers... but to bring Octane into it… that was another matter.

It felt strange, even indulgent, to frame their outing as though it were nothing more than two friends idling away an evening. And yet, he realized, he had missed this. Missed the restless company at his side.

His gaze dropped to the device in his hand. A few swipes, and transport was set for the central hub in Chikuum-- where their nights had always begun, spidering into the city’s depths before reconvening with each other again at some tucked-away eatery or nameless watering hole, closing the evening side by side.

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.

His mouth opened as though he had more to say, then closed again... rare proof Seer knew when to stop philosophizing. Perhaps it was also kinder that way, not to dredge up the dirt that only weighed down a man already running.

After all, what good was there in stewing? Hate only curdled where it sat. Constancy, and the simple act of staying himself, after all, had its own quiet grace.

The glow of neon pressed at his eyes, sharp enough to sour the quiet they’d found. Encore had always been his to endure, but beside him, it was easy to imagine how its openness might cut another way.

Instead, Obi let his gaze fall aside, fastening on some distant point, though his voice came threaded with the same softened warmth. “The night’s still ours,” Seer considered, then thought to ask: perhaps a change of scene might lift Octane’s spirits.

A focused breath seemed to keep the other Legend from startling too badly. DISAPPOINTING. Revenant scoffed. "You're one to talk," he chided. Ever the performer, always Seer entered a room with a style, warmth, and confidence which drew the eye.

The sim had long since learned that, because he had learned to appreciate it as a distraction.

Inside, the place was nondescript. Eerie, if not for the towering shape at his side. Dust lay thick, the hum of electricity louder now that heartbeats no longer stirred the air.

Only the terminal gave light; a bar crawling steadily as Revenant stuck in his drive. Odd, how little resistance it gave. Almost as if the system recognized him.

@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."

A deep breath, exhaled slow. “Must you always make such an entrance?” Seer’s voice was soft, though it was vaguely scolding, the faint edge of someone who’d already felt the carnage echoing through this place. 

back, sender gives receiver a back hug.

beckon, sender beckons receiver closer with a finger.

blood, sender cleans blood off of receiver.

book, sender helps receiver get a book from a higher part of the shelf.

care, sender takes care of receiver when they're sick.

catch, sender catches receiver by the waist after they bump into each other.

choke, sender saves receiver from choking by giving them the heimlich.

cold, sender places their jacket over receiver's shoulders.

cry, sender wipes tears off receiver's face with their thumbs.

dance, sender sticks a hand out to receiver and invites them to dance.

dip, sender skinny dips in front of receiver and invites them to join.

dog, sender's dog pulls them in receiver's direction.

drive, sender drives receiver somewhere in their car.

drag, sender drags receiver into a room and closes the door behind them.

draw, sender draws receiver like one of their french girls.

face, sender turns receiver's face towards them.

flower, sender gives receiver a flower.

footsie, sender initiates footsie with receiver under the table.

forehead, sender presses their forehead against receiver's.

grab, sender grabs receiver's wrist to stop them from leaving.

jump, sender jumps onto receiver's back.

kiss, sender kisses receiver.

link, sender links arms with receiver while walking.

massage, sender offers receiver a massage.

patch, sender patches up receiver's wounds.

piano, sender teaches receiver how to play the piano.

pin, sender pins receiver's hands behind their back.

pluck, sender plucks something out of receiver's hair.

press, sender presses receiver against a wall.

propose, sender proposes to receiver.

quiet, sender gestures for receiver to be quiet.

rest, sender rests their head on receiver's shoulder.

serenade, sender serenades receiver with a song.

sign, sender walks into a sign and receiver sees.

size, sender measures the size of their hand against receiver's.

shoes, sender removes receiver's shoes for them.

sun, sender rubs sunblock onto receiver's back.

tattoo, sender gives receiver a tattoo.

tie, sender helps tie receiver's tie.

tuck, sender tucks receiver's hair behind their ear.

umbrella, sender lets receiver under their umbrella.

warning, sender presses a knife against receiver's neck as a warning.

Mixed amongst the noise of fearful chatter, the metal joints and steps of Spectres, the blare of the alarm - SCREAMS sounded from the labs on the second floor. He would tear through as many science geeks as it took to find answers. Somebody had to have SOME IDEA why this was happening to him. Why the headaches, the flickers of code. Why his Totem had been... uncooperative. Either the answers had to be buried somewhere amidst the skeletons in Hammond’s closet, or they were at home in the skull of some skinbag - and Revenant would rip open skulls, make meatbags talk, until he found them. Of course, nobody would be left alive to TELL TALES about what he was here for. As far as Hammond needed to know, it was only a routine visit. But no luck here, yet. More Spectres were torn into pieces, their heads and limbs and guns weaponized as the beast moved on toward the building’s central server room, leaving a TRAIL of blood and destruction in his wake.

The deeper Seer threaded into Hammond’s maze, the thicker the stink of burnt wiring and iron became.

Somewhere above, a scream split the air-- jagged, raw, chased by the staccato rip of gunfire. Each turn drew him closer, and with it came the certainty of what lay ahead: a trail of red and ruin, perhaps a half-dozen Spectres gutted, and at the center of it all the executioner he’d agreed to accompany.

A scientist twitched at his feet, choking on his own blood.

Obi stepped over without slowing... then, on second thought, turned back. With a flourish, he plucked a data slate from the man’s coat pocket, the motion crisp and deliberate, and let the body slump as if discarding an unworthy card from his deck.

The lift accepted the stolen ID with a genteel chime, doors sliding open like a stage curtain. Inside, the hum of machinery was deafening in its calm compared to the chaos below. The ascent was short, but each passing floor made the air feel heavier, hotter.

When the doors opened, the server room corridor yawned ahead. The scene was oddly pristine, save for the bodies strewn like discarded props across the floor.

Obi approached the final door, swiped the card again, and waited. Somewhere beyond, he could hear the low mechanical growl, deliberate and unhurried.

Mixed amongst the noise of fearful chatter, the metal joints and steps of Spectres, the blare of the alarm - SCREAMS sounded from the labs on the second floor. He would tear through as many science geeks as it took to find answers. Somebody had to have SOME IDEA why this was happening to him. Why the headaches, the flickers of code. Why his Totem had been... uncooperative. Either the answers had to be buried somewhere amidst the skeletons in Hammond’s closet, or they were at home in the skull of some skinbag - and Revenant would rip open skulls, make meatbags talk, until he found them. Of course, nobody would be left alive to TELL TALES about what he was here for. As far as Hammond needed to know, it was only a routine visit. But no luck here, yet. More Spectres were torn into pieces, their heads and limbs and guns weaponized as the beast moved on toward the building’s central server room, leaving a TRAIL of blood and destruction in his wake.

The deeper Seer threaded into Hammond’s maze, the thicker the stink of burnt wiring and iron became.

Somewhere above, a scream split the air-- jagged, raw, chased by the staccato rip of gunfire. Each turn drew him closer, and with it came the certainty of what lay ahead: a trail of red and ruin, perhaps a half-dozen Spectres gutted, and at the center of it all the executioner he’d agreed to accompany.

A scientist twitched at his feet, choking on his own blood.

Obi stepped over without slowing... then, on second thought, turned back. With a flourish, he plucked a data slate from the man’s coat pocket, the motion crisp and deliberate, and let the body slump as if discarding an unworthy card from his deck.

The lift accepted the stolen ID with a genteel chime, doors sliding open like a stage curtain. Inside, the hum of machinery was deafening in its calm compared to the chaos below. The ascent was short, but each passing floor made the air feel heavier, hotter.

When the doors opened, the server room corridor yawned ahead. The scene was oddly pristine, save for the bodies strewn like discarded props across the floor.

【お仕事】

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