deathchasing

[deathchasing]

"I would've guessed that office, but there's a couple of studies too. And a library. I dunno, I'm not his keeper," he grumbled. "He didn't really spend that much time here anyway - what you'd really want is probably in his office at Silva Pharm, but you ain't gettin' in there. Big chance legal's already taken everything important out of there anyway."

He followed along, ruminating over Revenant's answer with a thoughtful hum. "Do you still feel that old? Or do you feel like four-hundred something? Seems like time would blur after awhile," he mused. He couldn't imagine it. Nothing like living on the edge to remind oneself of the looming mortality of human existence - it was a wonder he'd made it this far to begin with.

Maybe that was part of the reason some people detested him so much. He had haters like any popular streamer. His in particular loved to denigrate him for "squandering" the life he was given. There were people in the universe living well beyond their means, sick or poor or otherwise disenfranchised, that would kill to live a full life. They were wrong, though, about the waste; he cherished living, never felt more alive than when defying death by the skin of his teeth.

It made him ponder whether his approach to life might bother a man confined to a robot body for hundreds of years, cursed to never die.

But he didn't ask. "Two doors down is the library. Don't bother going all the way to the end, that's where my old room is."

"More or less," the sim answered. It was hazy, sometimes, trying to distinguish between what was a REAL memory from his actual life and what was something that happened under Ego Retention. Of course, his authentic human memories weren't in his memory logs.

And his memory logs were all dated and indexed. There was a lot, and much of it blurred together in his mind... so just like real memories, it was impossible to recall all of it off the top of his head. But he could always search the logs and review or reference anything he wanted.

Revenant gazed down the hall. He had been here enough to be familiar with the LAYOUT of the home, but he hadn't investigated every room yet, and he wasn't interested in opening doors at random. "2400," he answered, continuing ahead. "I was 44." Pretty good run for his line of work, he thought. If only it had ended there. "Where'd your old man spend the most time here?" He pressed. There had to be a work computer somewhere, unless the legal team had taken it.

#; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #simulamortem

[deathchasing]

Octane perked up a bit. That answer seemed to satisfy his competitive instinct. He pocketed his knife and scooped up the whiskey before trailing after Revenant through the door.

"Well, yeah, that was when you were-- not yourself." He couldn't think of the technical terms. Ego something. "But you still remember everything, right?"

Curiosity clawed at him with an insistent desire to ask countless followup questions, uncertain whether the sim would humor him. He closed the door behind them and looked up and down the hallway, trying to think of the next best room they could search.

"Okay, your turn. Pick a door." He turned to squint at Revenant. "So when did you die? How old were you?"

Was it really so hard to believe? He was surprised Silva didn't accuse him of the skill being PROGRAMMED. It wasn't. But he knew most people might assume otherwise - just as Octane had assumed his Spanish had been programmed, too.

He watched the other Legend's hit of stim and carrying on about their age difference. The simulacrum appeared to give it some thought, gaze roving as he tried to REMEMBER. "... No," he seemed to decide. Not all of it. "Maybe early 30's." Checking on his data transfer and finally unplugging the hard drive, stowing the drive and its cable away again.

"Besides," Revenant began, rising from his seat and rolling his shoulders and neck, fixing some at his jacket and hood as he turned for the door - "300 of those years didn't exactly work like that." He had spent 288 YEARS being 44. Whatever learning he had done over that time, programming had done for him, making his time and experiences blur together for the sake of learning from each fight, each mistake, while still maintaining his belief that he was living his human lifetime.

Maybe he had gotten better at his knife tricks in that time, but he hadn't learned any new ones except for what was relevant to his work.

#; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #simulamortem #if u saw me posting this while waiting in lethal company no u didn't

[deathchasing]

Once the knife was in his hands, Revenant wasted no time in launching into a series of movements that snared Octane's interest in rapt attention.

"No way."

He leaned back in, watching like a hawk for error or oversight, any indication that could grant him bragging rights over the simulacrum. Nothing. Revenant's execution was absolutely flawless, and furthermore, he could pull off moves Octane had never been able to replicate. Not enough coordination-- what he did know was only a result of stubborn persistence and a significant lack of self-preservation.

The fluid transition from icepick to blade buried into the wood grain made him huff in disbelief.

"Man, whatever." He shook his head and grabbed the knife, flipped it the stim side and gave it a practiced plunge to his shoulder with a sharp breath. The kick at least eased his irritation somewhat, but now he was back to full energy, immediately noticeable in the bounce of his feet.

"Fiiine, I'm wrong. But I was kinda right about advantage. Twenty-six years ain't much time to learn compared to-- what are you? Four-hundred something?" He set the knife to the side and grabbed the bottle of whiskey in exasperation, squinting at the label. "This thing is half your age and only gets better."

He set it back down and folded his arms, pouted. "Could you do all that at twenty-six?"

He still didn't look at Octane to bother to meet the daredevil's WARY GAZE, but he noted that Octane didn't answer about his favorite color. Chuckled at his musing before finally being passed the knife Silva never seemed to go without.

Revenant started on copying over the next email account before leaning to take the balisong, sitting back again. He had seen the things Silva tended to do with it while standing idly, so he had some idea of what seemed EASIEST for him, anyway. He started with something well beyond the basics, but something he had seen Silva do: reversing the handle over his index, throwing it over the thumb, looping a few times. A BLENDER.

Then something he hadn't seen Silva do before: a LADDER, rotating the handle through every one of his metal digits before finishing in a more ordinary rollover. Following that with a BACKHAND aerial, flipping the balisong backwards through the air before catching the knife at the opposite handle, winding down through a spinning flourish, and finishing with a second, shorter aerial into catching the knife like an ICEPICK. His favorite catch.

He liked ladders, too - if his often toying with his Silence in a similar fashion was any indication - because the sim next moved the knife up through another effortless ladder rotation over his fingers, flinging it free of his hand briefly, catching it from half a spin... and then REVERSING it into tighter and tighter circles over his index and thumb. Torquing the handle then down through a long, dizzying fan rotation - and finally up into another CLEAN icepack catch.

Which was neatly stabbed into a wooden portion of the desk nearer to Octane, returning the blade to him.

#; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #simulamortem

[deathchasing]

The first question went ignored. Octane gave him a long and measured look, eyes flitting over him for some kind of tell. Historically it was a fruitless endeavor - Revenant had no facial expression to read, less pronounced body language to suggest anything in particular. Octane figured he'd gotten pretty decent at noticing changes in the sim's demeanor, but right now he seemed deceptively aloof, perhaps a little derisive; the air of a predator judging the worth of its prey.

"Seems that way," he said slowly. "But you have the advantage of time. Hundreds of years of it. I wouldn't bet on being right - just going off what I know. Which, thanks to you, isn't very much."

Revenant's offer was far too tempting to refuse, almost wasn't fair. Handing a weapon over to a renowned killer might have sounded ridiculous to anyone else but Octane. It was the exciting choice. Something to shatter the mundane, sterilized atmosphere of this place he hated so much. Why not?

The butterfly knife slid across the desk, small and innocuous on its own, formidable in the right hands.

"Be my guest. Si me equivoco, demuéstremelo."

"Thought so," the sim responded. Adding without looking at Octane, "That's yours, too, isn't it?" If he had to make a GUESS.

Revenant answered without missing a beat. "Pass me a knife and I'll show you." Curious then if halfsuit might actually indulge him, most of all when handing a knife to a MURDER MACHINE may not be the most inspired idea. Not like the simulacrum would need one if he really decided to bleed the other Legend in the privacy of this little office, though.

"That so?" TESTING, turning Silva's suggestion over through the cadence of his voice as if inspecting a plate of food or a piece of art. How many times had Octane been personally victim to the sim's luxuriating in a kill? Or witness to his PLAYING WITH HIS FOOD? There had been less of that in his former life, to be fair. But lots of time spent honing his skills, training muscle and reflex. And lots of downtime lying in wait for a mark.

#; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #simulamortem

[deathchasing]

Octane looked at him like he was stupid. "Uhh, green? Duh."

He straightened and put his hands on his hips with a scoff. It was a joke. He supposed he could count on Revenant for the humor not to land. That or the sim was playing him for a fool. Both were equally likely.

"And anyway, what do you consider a knife trick, then?" he challenged. "I can do all sorts of 'em, not just games. But tricks and stunts don't really sound like a hitman's wheelhouse. No offense. You're just--" He gestured broadly. "--To the point, I guess."

It was like comparing the talents of a jester to a king. Why learn knife tricks when the wielder could just as well end lives without a second thought? He supposed a little fun didn't hurt, but if he had to guess, killing trumped the thrill of a few flashy weapon maneuvers every time.

He wouldn't know the first thing about that.

"Mmm," a thoughtful hum. Drawling, "You don't think a faulty trigger finger would've made your matches a little more exciting?" DRY as ever.

Revenant, too, regarded the other Legend's hands as Silva held them out to observe the scars. "That what you consider a knife trick?" Sounding less than impressed. When documents had finished copying, he targeted a couple other folders, then started on one of the email accounts, which would take a few minutes.

"No... Mostly legal docs, having to do with everything outside the company. And emails, which I'll go through later..." There might be something to glean from these emails that wouldn't be in WORK emails. He wasn't going to dig into them now, just copy everything over for him to look through when he felt like it.

"Tell me," Revenant answered then, CURIOUS if he might be able to GUESS.

#; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #simulamortem

[deathchasing]

"Oh-- yeah." He turned and pulled his sleeve up, wriggled his fingers around. "Good as new! Thought about letting it heal on its own, might've been kinda cool to have all the scars. But I probably would have lost feeling in a couple of fingers. No bueno."

He approached the desk and set the whiskey on top, paused to hold his hands in front of him in scrutiny. "Besides, I got enough scars on these guys already. You don't learn knife tricks-- or get really fuckin' good at five finger fillet-- and come out without a scratch."

Snickering to himself, he leaned his elbows on the desk and put his chin in his hands to watch the holo display scroll around, the idle flick of the sim's claws through scattered light vaguely soothing to him. Gaze darted about for any files that might stand out, grasping onto a lingering hope that there might be any proof that Torres had valued him or his family life at all. Nothing. He expected to feel disappointed, but he supposed he was all out of that these days. He dug around to find what he could feel, and much like what he was presented with, he also found nothing. Maybe that was for the better, but he didn't like anything that implicated his similarities to the man.

"You find anything good yet?" he asked conversationally, eager to avoid following that thread. "Secret messages? Blackmail? What his favorite color is? I could tell you that one."

Revenant scoffed. Stupidity and ARROGANCE, hand in hand. He browsed through what little had been left in the drawers before golden glow flicked again to Octane at his answer about drinking. The sim chuckled.

He sifted through some other storage in the room despite the other Legend's advice. Some things were kept SAFER in a physical medium, completely excluded from any risk of digital access; sure enough, he came upon a small data drive in a hidden compartment. Examined it just briefly before stowing it in one of his pockets. Searched a couple more places before finally returning to the desk.

Studying the desk's surface, the sim quickly recognized the interface and moved to open up the holo display, gaze searching then over the menu and folders he was offered. This, too, had obviously been unlocked in search of a will. He browsed through folders, and while there were some items - documents regarding various properties and legal proceedings, photos, a couple of email accounts and adjoining storage - it was clear the elder Silva hadn't used this computer much. Probably because it didn't appear to have been used for WORK.

REGARDLESS, Revenant produced a cable and hard drive from his pockets to plug in and start to COPY THINGS OVER. He sat himself in the desk chair in the meantime, slouched comfortably. Optics roved over the room, observing Silva, and then settling on the whiskey he was staring at before looking him over again.

"You ever get your hand looked at?"

#; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #simulamortem

[deathchasing]

Octane mirrors him, takes a step forward, then another, hooked and reeled in before he has a chance to see past his eagerness and his triumph. The balance shifts.

He detests the notion his old man ever held him back despite his knowledge of the contrary. He has spent so long convincing himself he's been living life doing what he wants when the reality is that everything he's ever done has been in direct opposition to Torres. Even with him dead, his shadow lingers. It's just as Octane said in the ring: this isn't freedom.

But he doesn't know what is.

"It doesn't matter what I do," he says quietly, irked. "'Cause I don't need them. Mírame, you think being alone is new to me? Something can only break so many times before you can't put it back together again."

It hurts him to say it-- as if he needs to convince himself, make himself believe it, for his own good and for everyone else's. It's no secret he thrives on dysfunction, that his relationships have always been in disrepair. For Revenant to suggest he could fix them is a different kind of cruel; not only will he not do it, he can't. And Revenant knows it. It slowly dawns on Octane that the sim is right - he is his own tether. Worse, maybe he always has been.

He falters in the little dance they've created and squares his jaw, at last at a loss of what to say. All he can do is argue to the contrary like he always has. "You don't know anything about me. You can guess and make judgments all you want. It doesn't make you any different from the next jackoff who thinks he can beat me at my own game."

HOW EASY IT WOULD BE TO END IT ALL RIGHT HERE. to drive dagger-like fingers right through his chest cavity, to tear open his abdomen & allow for his entrails to spill out, to splinter his skull over & over again against the wall just inches behind him until all that remained was a bloody pulp. ANYTHING TO MAKE HIM SHUT UP. & yet, he can't ( he won't ) bring himself to do so. why can't he bring himself to do so? were it anyone else, it'd have been easy— a senseless, thoughtless act. maybe it was due to the fact at he didn't show value in his life, & hence there'd be no SATISFACTION in snuffing that light out. maybe he'd miss the antagonizing too much.

body remains statuesque even as the younger draws nearer ( completely diminishing what distance had been briefly created by the simulacrum ), & once more does backlit gaze falter about; an ever changing shift between peering into octavio's own gaze, and falling upon the grin that's split across his face. other's words echo in his mind: you could ignore me, but you just can't, can you? oh, but he could .. he could, & it'd be SO EASY, too ( it's oh so tempting ). he'll humour him, however. just a little while longer. he's finally understanding the game they're playing.

❝   oh, but can't you ? after all, you, too, have all this newfound freedom .. now that your old man is dead, right ? he was the one holding you back ? so you could do whatever you'd like, now— maybe patch up some of those unstable relations you have with your so-called 'friends'.  ❞ a pause, blaring reds shifting to a calmer gold. ❝   you won't.   ❞ he knows him better than that. ❝   torres' passing might've cut you loose, allowed you free reign .. but it seems now that you're being held on another tether— only this time it's by yourself.   ❞

he takes a step back, then .. & another; slowly creating distance between the two of them. ❝   am i wrong ?   ❞

#; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #deathmarked

[deathchasing]

"No," he replied. "That's why legal's been in touch. Otherwise I'm sure I'd be left out of all this."

An absence of a will did seem to imply Torres hadn't expected Revenant to react the way he did. The thought made him smile a little. As far as blunders went, that was a pretty bad one. Hubris was a bitch.

He finally stepped further into the room and relegated himself to its borders, idly looking over cabinets and shelves. Unsurprisingly, there were no framed photographs, no keepsakes that would hold any personal value - just some modest decor, a few fancy clocks, a single generic painting on one wall. Cold and empty, befitting of a man whose whole world had consisted of only work.

He stopped at a bottle of whiskey— probably priced in the thousands, he ventured— and subconsciously touched his chin where metal claws had lifted to look at him moments before. He’d been too preoccupied to really think about it until they had entered the quiet of the office. His hand tapped the glass anxiously.

“And to answer your other question: no to that too. I was planning on it, was halfway through my first drink til you showed up.”

His tone was only half accusatory, but fuck if he could’ve used it, as boring as he found champagne to be. The whiskey on the other hand - tempting. A rebellious and angry part of him thought about downing the whole thing just to spite his old man. Maybe he’d steal it for later.

His eyes remained on the bottle but he continued, “The desk doubles as a touch interface. Whatever you’re looking for, your best chances are probably digitized.”

It was all too easy to hear when the metal springs in Octane's feet fell silent, at which the simulacrum paused, gazed back for him. Allowed him a moment to catch up before reaching, abruptly catching the other Legend's chin in cool metal digits. "You been drinking tonight, stimbag?" Revenant half-teased, looking Silva in the eye before letting his hand fall away with a CHUCKLE.

Silva made a good point, anyway. From what he'd seen, Duardo Silva didn't seem to be here much. But that might make it more likely he'd had some things stashed here, AWAY from locations he was known to frequent. They would just need to be secured from Octane's meddling.

The sim followed, pace leisurely, where Silva led to the office door. Watched him anxiously HESITATE before opening it.

He observed the space as the lighting was switched on. Searched first for a computer or laptop before stepping further into the room to observe the shelves of books and displays, then approaching the desk. Drawers that had obviously once been locked were now opened without issue - probably searched by whatever legal firm had been looking for the will.

"He leave a will?" He remembered a search for a will being reported in the news but not what had ever come of it.

#I wrote half of this from my phone so if half the text looks weird like it does on my phone that’s why #; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #simulamortem

[deathchasing]

independent ﹠  private  𝐌𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐈 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄  ( ft. muses from red dead redemption, resident evil, uncharted & more ). penned by jay.

#OMG HIIII JAYYYY #everyone should write w jay he is a fantastic writing partner and fantastic person #smooches u #; CATCH ME IF YOU CAN #(promo.)

[deathchasing]

can we PLEEEEASE TALK ABOUT THIS

#i'm hyperfixating i need to calm down #; I DON'T THINK THEY'RE SELLING COOKIES #(ooc.)

[deathchasing]

There were a lot of things Octane could have said to defend himself, but they remained unspoken. He wanted to say he would have never done something to hurt the other Legends - but he wasn't sure how much truth there was to that, he realized, thinking back to some of the tasks he'd stooped to, particularly the Icarus fleet incident. Barring that, he'd been deep in denial when he was in Torres's employ, had turned a blind eye to every red flag just for a sliver of his old man's recognition. He wrinkled his nose; shame was not a common emotion in his limited repertoire, but this was one such case that warranted it.

Revenant was right about the Syndicate, but Octane wasn't so sure anyone else would have actually finished the job. Torres had always been one step ahead, perpetually mapping out every move he made like a damn chess board. Everything he did was a game. Like father like son. Octane hadn't thought about it much, but Torres being the way he'd been made it all the stranger that Revenant was the guy he'd had chosen to gamble on. It didn't make sense. Some part of Octane was almost scared Torres wasn't done, even in death. He'd seen him torn asunder. That should have been enough, but--

He looked up, suddenly aware he'd stopped following. "Sorry, um--" He shook his head and tried to double back on whatever Revenant had said before. Just wanted to take a look - sure.

"The non-specifics ain't gonna help you here, dude. Waaaay too broad. But if I had to guess," he said, looking at the sim pointedly, "You probably want stuff about you. And I dunno if you're gonna find it here. I think he kept important stuff as far away from me as he could. Less chance for me to mess things up."

Granted, they had spent many years simply staying out of each other's way. It had only been in the last few that their paths had crossed again by way of the Games. It was possible Revenant could still find something of value to him.

He ran a hand through dyed hair-- bright red today-- and looked down the wing to their left, gestured vaguely. "You could try his office, I guess."

This time he took the lead, the typical tap of his metal legs muffled by an extravagantly-patterned runner that spanned the spacious hallway. He stopped in front of a comparatively ordinary door, marked special only by the security scanner to the side. Normally he'd need Torres's fingerprints to get in, but legal had overridden access for him in the absence of a will.

He fidgeted, visibly uncomfortable, before he put a tentative hand on the knob and opened the door.

He hadn't been in this room since he was a boy - Torres had locked him out long, long ago. He'd forgotten what it looked like. Similar to the rest of the mansion, it was designed with a blend of sensibilities: aesthetically vintage-- old bookshelves, ancient fireplace, grand desk in the center of the room-- but modern in practice, outfitted with expensive tech and backlighting, finished by one wall of broad, sleek windows that opened up the space.

He glanced at Revenant expectantly. "Well, have at it."

"They didn't trust you because they didn't trust your FATHER, and you were at his beck and call," the sim responded, continuing toward the nearest hall. He scoffed. "Even the Syndicate didn't trust your old man. If I hadn't knocked him off, it would only have been a matter of time before somebody else did," Revenant said confidently with a vague gesture of his hand.

That had been his very FIRST THOUGHT when Duardo Silva had been elected head of the Syndicate: how incredibly stupid. There was good reason why the Syndicate was run by a council, and why those council members stayed out of the limelight.

Becoming the public head of the organization was a lot of power, sure. But it also made someone a very big TARGET.

And regarding what he was here for - "Dunno." Anything with his name on it. "Just wanted to take a look." Data was the priority. Anything to do with what had been planned for him, regardless of if it had been executed or not - along with any Syndicate plans, notes, communications, so he could put together a bigger PICTURE of all of the elder Silva's schemes and anything the Syndicate might have access to now.

Same went for communications with Hammond. Or the Legends.

#; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #simulamortem

[deathchasing]

i've never spent this much money on a video game and i never will again. i hate u EA.

that being said YAY LOOK AT MY BOYE IM LOVE HIM...

#he's a shark bunny :) #; I DON'T THINK THEY'RE SELLING COOKIES #(ooc.) #seriously genuinely hate how much money this was i do not support EA's scummy practices but ... he's my blorbo #look at his cute lil mecha shark face #boops his snoot

[deathchasing]

been scarfing down ibuprofen like fucking candy the past three days bc i'm suffering

remove my organs from my body i dont want them anymore all they do is inconvenience me

#i'm in so much pain dude chronic illness is stupid #and to not be in pain i have to .. *checks notes* ruin my liver and/or my kidneys? awesome #i hate it here #tbd #/ vent #; I DON'T THINK THEY'RE SELLING COOKIES #(ooc.)

[deathchasing]

oh no me and octane are gonna be horny about her huh

#rip in pieces #; I DON'T THINK THEY'RE SELLING COOKIES #(ooc.)

[deathchasing]

"Great, neither does anyone else. Get in line, cabrón."

He breathes hard from his struggling, wading deep through the post-respawn haze. Blood trickles slow down the back of his neck where the sim's claws have shredded his skin. It's not enough. He tilts his head back against the wall to look up at Revenant properly, gaze for gaze. Red optics move minutely, searching. What does he think he's going to find?

"I don't have explanations. Words don't mean shit." That much is obvious from their spat in the ring. "Doesn't matter what kind of game it is, just matters you're always gonna lose this one."

A smug grin splits his face and he laughs breathily. For all his accusing Revenant of being high on his own freedom, Octane seems just as high on his own antagonism, on every thrill of terrible satisfaction he wrings from Revenant's fury. It's a certain kind of drug, to hold death incarnate's attention so easily, to defy his entire purpose. Every minute Octane's still breathing, still running the tightrope, is a hit that leaves him clamoring for more. He wants to overdose until it does kill him.

"You could ignore me, but you just can't, can you?" He leans closer where Revenant has drawn away. "Can't even shut me up. What's the point of your freedom if you can't do anything with it? Gotta be frustrating. I can't imagine what that's like."

HE'S SEEING RED, & the way octane continues to egg him on doesn't help in the slightest. every attempt to ZONE HIM OUT is made unsuccessfully, the simulacrum unable to help themselves but to listen with intent; allowing for spoken words to fuel a fire that was already in danger of destroying everything in its wake ( lest he find an outlet to extinguish it ). you wanna kill me so bad then fuckin' do it, we both know you won't. they're words that only pour gasoline on an already seething rage, & the grasp he holds 'pon the younger's neck only comes to tighten in response. IT'S TRUE. it's undeniably true ( & he hates it ), yet he's half the mind to do so regardless, despite how he still resists.

question of where they were going being ignored, his strides come to a halt as he stops suddenly ( dead in his tracks ). there's no warning to the way that octane's body is promptly shoved against concrete walls, spindly, dagger-like fingers kept pressed firmly against the man's chest as proximity betwixt the two is diminished. & for but a brief moment, there's silence .. silence, save for the harsh whirring of internal fans that was only amplified by the otherwise EMPTINESS of their surroundings; blaring reds faltering about, the movements subtle ( yet at such close proximity would octane be able to see such, granted he was paying attention ).

❝   what the hell kind of game are you getting at here ?   ❞ question is spoken bluntly, harshly, though there would be a subtle hint of confusion to the simulacrum's tone, too. ❝   you pull some impromptu therapy session back there in the ring, have the nerve to get mad at me for saving your worthless skin—   ❞ from torres, from losing those close to him, from the enemies that hailed gunfire upon them ( which one he speaking of right now, he wouldn't say ), ❝   —can't hold your own when it damn well counts .. and you're continually trying to goad me on.   ❞ it was aggravating. it was enticing.

for a moment longer does he stay crouched, remaining eye-level with the younger, only to stand at full height once more; a distance ( however small ) created between the two. ❝   i don't get you.   ❞

#god they're both freaks #; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #deathmarked

[deathchasing]

"That's not what I meant."

Scowling, Octane bristled at his scorn, but trailed up the stairs after him all the same. Revenant's stride was long and Octane had to hop over every other step to match his pace.

"Everyone else grouped me in with the Syndicate. They didn't trust me. Even Che--"

He squared his jaw and went silent as they walked. Which was it? Did he want people to trust him or not? It had hurt, being othered, but it was also familiar. Trust, on the other hand, could be damaged. Betrayed. And he was a ticking time bomb as far as he was concerned. In the end he would rather be seen as a threat - at least then he wouldn't disappoint, and as a bonus, maybe someone would take him seriously.

Hostility he could handle. Trust, he wasn't so sure. But it didn't seem to be a matter of trust to Revenant, just logic. That was something he could live with.

"Nevermind," he sighed, resigning himself to be trapped with his contradictions. He didn't want to talk about it in any case, and they'd reached the second floor. "What exactly are you looking for, anyway?"

His gaze fixed Octane's, studying him. "What's trust got to do with it?" He answered flatly. "You already spilled to the masses what a shit father the guy was," he reminded. "Why bother trying to clean up the rest of his reputation? The Syndicate and Silva Pharma just wanna cover their own asses." Why would Octane give a damn about helping COVER UP the army and his father's involvement in it?

He had never known halfsuit to give a shit about his father's company beyond its supplying him with stim.

"Don't tell me you're already looking for a new boot to lick," the sim derided. Then gazed up over what he could see of the second floor. "I've got time," Revenant responded. "So if you don't wanna give me a tour, I might as well get started." Turning away to start up the stairs.

#; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #simulamortem

[deathchasing]

Revenant's obvious glee over every offense to Torres's name still felt like salt in the wound. It really hadn't gotten any easier with time. Octane had just chosen to ignore it. There was nothing he could do, and even if there had been, Revenant was well within his rights to despise the man, as was Octane; but unlike the sim, that didn't stop him from feeling guilty about it. Regardless, the discomfort was his own problem to deal with - Revenant would never feel remorse for what he'd done. No use whining about it to a brick wall.

Octane's eyes narrowed in thought. "What makes you think I wouldn't have a part in that? The legal team contacted me. Why do you trust me?"

Truthfully Revenant had no reason not to trust him. Octane had no interest in any part of Silva Pharmaceuticals or the various crimes against humanity his old man had perpetrated, wasn't even interested in revenge. If he really had to put thought to it, he almost felt empty. Revenant's cold and callous nature comforted him to some degree, moreso than sympathies and empty platitudes. He was real in a way a lot of this-- the money, the people, the fame-- wasn't.

But that didn't mean Octane couldn't be a threat to him. He despised the idea of being passed off like he was ineffectual.

He sighed at Revenant's demand. That part was simple, at least. Every piece of Torres's body would roll in its grave if he knew his killer was about to snoop through his things. "Mira, I don't give a damn about his stuff. But you got a lotta rooms to cover, big guy. I don't even remember what's in half of 'em."

Optics gleamed, pleased, at Octane's initial confusion and then clear exasperation. Likewise, he chuckled again at the other Legend's COMPLAINTS about the resulting PR problems. "I wouldn't have it any other way," the sim all but purred.

While Revenant had no official agent, there was one very underpaid assistant on the Apex payroll who knew him best - and more importantly whom he tolerated best. They had fallen into the role organically - and of course, their job was less about managing him and more about coordinating everyone around him to minimize the risk of an INCIDENT at things like photoshoots.

He did not make their work easy.

"Besides," a vague gesture of his hand, "nothing you said at that podium holds a candle to your NAME being plastered on my shiny new ships." Ships carrying his army of murder machines which had, however briefly, been broadcast LIVE across the Outlands. Revenant scoffed softly - "But that's for the Syndicate and your old man's legal team to try to handle..."

He would not make their work easy, either.

The simulacrum rose to his feet, long limbs seeming to unfurl from where he'd sat. He fixed idly at his sleeves, much like he often did in a suit. "I wanted to see the turnout, I guess," he seemed to muse, surveying over the crowds again. CURIOUS who wanted to stick their hands in Duardo Silva's cookie jar, so he could reference their faces in the future.

Gaze fell then to the remaining Silva. "And I wanna see whatever's left of your pa's stuff." Revenant wasn't ASKING.

#; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #simulamortem