#deathmarked

THERE'S REALLY LITTLE STAKE, other than death, for shepard in the games. gain the syndicate's interest — he'd checked that particular box as early as the qualifiers ... when shepard had smiled up at a smug bastard twice his size before his eyes had crackled blue and the man was sent flying into the side of a crumbling building. the smell of blood thickened the air within moments, the sound of wood splintering indistinguishable from bones snapping. the screaming was too distracting for him to really tell, anyway. and shepard had turned and walked away, thoroughly unconcerned, shaking his head to-and-fro as though that could dispel the static in his hair.

he had felt eyes burning into him, even through the drone cameras, the very moment his skin began to glow. there: syndicate interest piqued. and now, to keep it. 

but he's still got to survive long enough to make any use of his new notoriety. revenant's a wild card — shepard's known that since the day the simulacrum was introduced to the apex games, and seasons of observation through a screen has done little for shepard's opinion of revenant's sanity and trustworthiness. regardless, having revenant on his team should help shepard more than hinder him.

something's not right. evidently.

he approaches revenant in the aftermath of the battle, helmet tucked beneath his arm. the smell of burnt metal lingers between them; a gash from an L-STAR seared a gash in the side of his helmet just minutes ago, splitting the N7 insignia in two. sweat trickles in rivulets down shepard's now bare temple, and he wipes at them with his forearm. it doesn't do much — grime rubs from his armour and onto his skin, streaking blood and dirt across his forehead. but shepard doesn't seem to care.

" what the hell's wrong with you? " he meant to snarl the words, to let the rising rage in his chest unfurl. but the question comes out a low hiss, quivering despite his otherwise carefully evened tone. it's harder still to hide the dilated pupils swallowing ordinarily steel-grey eyes in black.

" listen. i don't give a shit what you do when you run off. if you wanna throw the game on your own, that's your prerogative — but this? this was too fucking close. " swarmed beneath two squads that had exchanged glances before turning their guns on shepard, and in the sight lines of who knew how many more teams ... the only reason he'd gone in was because the simulacrum was there. because they had a plan.

             He was quiet throughout the evening, something she couldn’t exactly blame him for. Where he had been, the things he’d seen, it was enough to make any normal man go mad- and certainly not something most walk away from alive. Why it made sense, that their departure from that town was done in a mutual silence, as if waiting on bated breath for something to go wrong. Yet eventually the fog would clear, day would shift into night, and soon enough, the once static filled radio would be brought back to life with a song- reassuring them the danger had passed. 

             There was only so long he could go, however, the exhaustion still clear on his face in passing headlights. Why she would point out the motel signs, state that she was tired, if only to encourage him to make the decision to stop. A comfortable quiet between them, from the car, to the moment they reached their room, a friendly face passing over a key on the second floor, giving them a far corner room for some peace and quiet, the man pointing out how clearly James needed it. A couple on a road trip to a passerby- unaware of all they’d endured only a short while prior.

             It would take some getting used to, entering a clean room, with fresh sheets, a working television- running water. How she felt out of place, her heels making soft clicks on the wooden floor as she’d wander around the space, curiously exploring the closet and drawers, as if waiting for something to pop out and scare her- but it never came. Instead she’d settle on the side of the bed, the mattress softly squeaking as it would give to her weight, but her eyes would remain fixed on him, concern clear in her bright, blue eyes, her voice softly stirring the room to life.

             “You should get cleaned up, big guy. The sooner you do that, the sooner you can get some sleep… You look like you could definitely use it.” An understatement, to say the least, but she wasn’t about to push his buttons, not at a time like this- not when they needed each other. “If you’re hurt, or need anything… I can help. Just say the word, okay?”

BONES AND ALL PROMPTS. ACCEPTING.

he gives pause to her statement, never one to reply brashly and without adequate thought and reflection. his journey has been a poignant one : from the shimada clan to near death, blackwatch to talon. sometimes he queries whether his life could have turned out differently, then envisages the whirlwind he has always been caught up in. he is the eye of the storm. but to feel something, an impossible task. he is cyborg, destined to kill — until all things turn to rust. to be enhanced and modified to talon's needs, an unstoppable agent the same as she. for they are two humans made unto weapons, he the blade and she the scope. together, their force is limitless. who would have guessed their idle coffee talks consisted of this ? they have killed, this is fact. but feeling, that is an ever more subjective thought he is not necessarily privy to. not anymore. hasn't felt for a long time.

❛ since when are you concerned with anything we should do ? ❜

quirk of his brow is not visible beneath his visor but he likes to think the cant of his head that accompanies betrays his idle curiosity. the infamous widowmaker, surely not experiencing guilt ? it is tantalising to consider though, for if she is capable of emotions ( she who killed her own husband, ever so similar to the shimada that left his brother for dead ) then perhaps he is, too. these musings may be revisited later however, in private. he'll be damned to reveal such vulnerabilities to another agent.

𝐀 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐆𝐒 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑. mary shrugs off her sweater to be placed on the back of kitchen chair, shoes slid off of her feet beside the door before walking back into the kitchen, hand already working on taking a few things out of the bags & sat down on the counter. then, a pain right behind her eyes ... something that felt like it'd been building the entire day. a pressure all around her skull, a stabbing ache behind her eyes & in the front of her head. it makes her halt, makes her palms press against the kitchen counter to take a few deep breaths to try & steady herself until the pain passed. what was going on with these headaches, recently ? it had to be the change in the weather, in the ease on of cold & turning leaves. the sound of the front door opening, familiar jingle of keys, makes eyes snap open & her body lean to the side to peak through the door. ❛ james, honey, is that you ? ❜ asked in as up beat, but tired, tone as she could manage for the day. ❛ you're home early. i didn't even get the chance to start cooking yet. ❜

THERE WAS NO DENYING THE URGENCY OF THEIR STATE, : THE VERY CAUSE TO BLAME WITHIN THEMSELVES. ( she swears she can feel it squirm within her head sometimes, reminding of the threat. ) ... but neither there was denying the golden heart : 𝐀 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐄! the suffering of the tieflings, how could she possibly turn her back to it? ... ❝ they need our help. ❞ argument made within the privacy of their camp, TWILIGHT SKY THEIR WITNESS! @deathmarked + durge ' we have slightly more pressing matters to attend to. '

daryl's hand wipes across his nose and mouth, smearing bright blood over his skin. it's not often that someone gets this good of a hit on him. the aftermath leaves him irritated, sparks flying in his belly and threatening to set his insides on fire.

did you punch 'em back? @deathmarked asks, earning himself a cutting glance from daryl. rick's accusatory sarcasm is not appreciated, and it does nothing to calm the fire that's about to be roaring up his throat.

Octane had always felt at home in King’s Canyon. Maybe it was the nostalgia of his first games— back then, the novelty had kept him entertained and far away from the monotonous complexities of the latest Silva family drama. Nothing had mattered outside the ring, where the scarred ecosystem of whirling gunsmoke and bloodspattered sands had kept his life in stark and invigorating contrast to whatever corporate drivel dominated the news cycle that week. Unfortunately as with all things that offered reprieve to his thirst for danger, the games weren’t a solace anymore so much as another desperate search for something greater. And although the relationship with his father— grandfather— had been somewhat restored in the past months, it came at the cost of his best friend and the trust of most of the other Legends. Turned out being a Syndicate dog wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Needless to say, being back in King’s Canyon didn’t quite feel the way it used to.

But these were problems for future Octane. Right now what mattered were the bullets whizzing past his face in the violent chaos that followed the initial hotdrop at the start of a match. Combatants scrambled for shields and guns while he sprinted past easily to get to the loot ahead before anyone else could take it, throwing open a handful of bins only to find mostly garbage. He grunted in frustration and flung open the nearest door to one of Skulltown’s dusty shacks, metal legs click-clacking as he weaved through the building’s narrow hallway, scooping up a Flatline as he went. He couldn’t say he was pleased with his team matchup, a couple of nobodies that didn’t even want to drop Skulltown, and now they were bogging down his comms with frantic callouts he couldn’t respond to without ammo even if he wanted to.

He finally gave pause when the average screaming among the wounded and dying outside reached an abnormally loud and raucous pitch. Rapid gunfire pierced the smoke followed by organic ripping and wet thuds. Exasperated, Octane pressed his earpiece closer.

“Yo, what the hell is going on out there?”

A swath of blood whipped thickly across the glass panels of the door in front of him, answering his inquiry with alarm. He barged out into the baking sun, nearly tripping over a crumpled body before he beheld a sight he hadn’t seen in a long time. Of course. Revenant.

The last eviscerated body dropped at the simulacrum’s feet. Blood dripped from twitching claws, catching the sun and gleaming brilliant red. Though his back was turned, Octane could tell he looked different. Taller, more sinister, adorned with blacker and greyer tones than he’d donned in the past, even when slathered in blood. Octane had heard whisper of something different about him, but his disappointing team matchup luck had continued for some time, robbing him of the chance to see for himself. As always, Revenant was a chilling presence to bear witness to, but the rapid increase in Octane’s heartbeat was welcome and thrilling. Finally something exciting.