#simulamortem

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.

then the two women were gone, and they would remain gone for the next twelve or so hours.

the children stirred when they heard the vault door open before quickly shutting when the two lovers escaped with their handmaiden. most were successfully able to ignore it and fall back asleep, but a few never settled back down, especially after their imaginations ran wild with who it could possibly have been. only one person——or THING——came to mind however. two of the youngest traded glances in the dark. ❝ you don't think...? ❞

❝ haro, shut up, ❞ a girl's voice whined beneath a blanket before a body could be seen rolling over to lay on her stomach on one of the many mattresses that sat on the living room's floor. the room quieted again after that... only for it to be DISTURBED almost an hour later.

soft gasps erupted amongst the children when the simulacrum reentered their shelter. ALONE. groans and hisses followed as the youngest of the children crawled on top of the teenagers for protection before they too sat up and gasped in horror when they realized the source of the little ones' terror.

only one amongst them didn't react with as much fear. jace stood up from the small sea of mattresses, casually bending to pick up his lightsaber that rested next to his bed, as if to make a SHOW of it. his dark eyes didn't leave revenant as he moved.

❝ where's the queen? ❞ the young padawan asks.

around his feet and scattered among the floor were WRAPPINGS. candy wrappings. a half empty tin of cookies were on one end of the room while a nearly empty box of GAEAN CHOCOLATES sat on the other end of the room.

❝ i don't know how you do it, ❞ the queen complained once they were in the privacy of their speeder. ❝ i can't make eye contact with her knowing that she knows our weird, kinky secrets. ❞ a select few of her handmaidens knew SOME details about their bedroom life, only because there's some tears and STAINS she needed to explain, but that was different. a trusted friend knowing about her sex life was way more different than a customer service worker.

Piper wasn't a Scav, god no, but she did like to breathe life back things when she could. Her motorcycle? Scraped out of a scrapyard and put together with sheer force of will and a lot of net videos. Why let things go to waste when they could be fixed?

Maybe that was why she was currently dragging a bot home. No one in their right, or wrong, mind would ever call Piper an 'engineer', but they would call her stubborn and even driven. The thing still seemed to work, well, kind of. She had seen a light turn on in the optics, so clearly it wasn't totally scrap.

What was she going to do with a bot? A problem for future Piper. Current Piper was busy breathing through gritted teeth as she hauled the metal up a second flight of stairs. Of all the days for the lift to be busted.

Her eyes gleamed blue before the door to her apartment unlocked and slid open with a hiss.

"Ah, Christ." Piper hauled the bot inside and placed it with its back against the wall near the door that had just shut once more. Reaching down, she gave the bot a fond pat on its shoulder. "Oof. Well, home sweet home."

The apartment wasn't big. One room with a set in couch, a small computer set up, a bed tucked into an alcove, and the only door leading to a bathroom. But hey, it was home, and it was surprisingly neat for someone who was, well... her.

Pushing her hair out of her face, Piper put her hand on her hip and eyed the thing again. Her experience with bots was limited, but luckily for her, she had access to the net.

@simulamortem (planned starter.)

     To say Natalie was nervous about all of this was an understatement. It was a high risk versus high reward kind of situation. It could all blow up in her face, or maybe they would be closer because of it. She hoped and prayed that the outcome would be the latter; what had been done had been done purely out of love and affection for him.

     Idle conversation and setting up for the festivities allowed her some time to work up the courage. Once they had finished decorating the tree with bulbs and trinkets, a gentle hand reached across to take Revenant's. Fingers immediately attempted to intertwine, a thumb started to stroke his palm.

     "I have one last thing to share with you, mon cher." Natalie spoke warmly, then switched to a slightly more playful tone. "And it requires no more labour on your part."

King's Canyon felt like home. Octane welcomed the grit of blowing sand and the sweeping cliffs jutting sharp against the soft sky, the towering leviathans wading docile and plaintive through angry ocean waves. But as comforting as the familiarity was, it provided no less mercy than any other scape in the Apex Games, and today that reminder came in the form of Gibraltar's bombardments raining fire down upon the settlement between the bunker and the airbase.

Squads scattered as the rolling explosions shattered windows and doors. Octane fled through the chaos and dove into one of the perimeter buildings, barely missing a direct hit. The blowout shattered his shield and he hit the floor hard, catapulted further by the force of the blast. Shrapnel scattered through the broken doorway and dark smoke billowed in, blown wild by arid winds.

He groaned and propped himself up on one arm. He felt blood trickle down from his forehead and clawed off his hat and shattered goggles breathlessly, blinking in the haze of dust and smoke to take stock of the damage. Gunfire rapidly started up once it was clear the bombardment was over. That didn't concern him-- his gaze had fallen to his legs, where one prosthetic had been blown off at the knee, metal shards of its remains strewn behind him.

A horrible, unearthly pain hit him like a freight train, a shadow of agony in the space where a limb should be. He knew what this was, logically, but that didn't give him any control over the power of illusion; in moments he was writhing in the rubble and screaming, clutching at the space where he could feel the phantom flesh and tissue torn asunder and hemorrhaging dark and wet into pale dust. He began to shake and fumbled frantically for his comms.

"I'm down, fuck, I'm down," he choked. "I-I can't--"

"It makes sense you would have not seen a Jedi in these territories before, I suspect it's been a decent number of years since we were even sanctioned to travel so deep into the outer rim." The Order had stopped lacking the resources to give the Explorcorps their usual free-reign early on into the war, needing every Jedi they could back at the temple and ready for deployment. And above their lacking funding, the senate rarely approved for them to delve so far from any of the core planets or into wild space itself. Once, they would have ignored such orders, but it had proven to be too dangerous to ignore the senate's rule—not worth being at the opposing end of their ire—so they only went where they were called, only willing to spare a knight or two for the most dire and subdued of emergencies.

If this were an example of this system's defense then Obi-Wan could understand why they had never called for aide before. Without being able to sense a living energy signature, he would have easily presumed he were speaking with an advanced and equally impressive droid, something more impressive than Grievous had ever put before him. Had they the numbers, he bet they would give Mandalore a run for its money.

@simulamortem

This place was foreign. Unfamiliar, in a decidedly lonely sort of way. But not unkind; the waters were plentiful with fish, the woods were abundant with game. Nature was thriving, here, in the way that it was not on Talos. In the way that it hadn't been, for a long time.

It was a new set of hunting grounds to learn, but their people were adapting well to this new environment. Bloodhound had ventured off for the evening to see what they could learn, on their own.

Instead, they found themself staring absently into the flames of their campfire, thoughts circulating around the botched match from before.

They had lost, ultimately. Their team had moved on without them, during the time they had allowed themself to be distracted by Revenant, and perished in a fight. It left Bloodhound alone, and in the final few zones, they hadn't lasted long.

What a foolish endeavor it all had been.