deathchasing

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Drew this for my buddy's birthday as he is a problematic octane main

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so i basically just can't go back to the US ever again huh

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Anne Enright, The Wren, the Wren

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Octane spends Father's Day this year doing the same thing he's always done.

"Feliz Día del Padre to this tin can," he announces inebriated on-stream as he downs his sixth drink, because an inanimate object would have been a better dad than his old man.

The chat rolls with exclamations and emojis, thousands of them, but it's all text and images on a screen. It's not the same when none of them know him, and it doesn't abate his loneliness. He would know - he's made it this way on purpose. The same thing he's always done.

Later, when the stream is off, he sits in the dark in the glow of all his screens, spinning his butterfly knife around his fingers, watching the light glint off the blade. His eyes see, but not what's in front of him. Nothing will scratch the itch under his skin or soothe the noise in his head - not the risk or the liquor or the drugs. The knife scores across his thumb after a wrong turn of his hand. He's too numb to notice, starts again. Another fumble, starts again. And again. It's not until his hands feel wet that he returns to himself, astounded he's done as much damage as he has. The same thing he's always done.

He washes and bandages his fingers. Burrows into his bunk. The blankets are soft but the contrast to his sharp edges makes his head throb, his body ache, his wounds finally scream when they're supposed to. The pain radiates warmth where everything else is cold, a familiar comfort, a chance for rest. He types slowly on his phone, eyelids heavy.

You there?

One finger hovers over 'send,' but his eyes shutter closed before he can press it. Slowly he turns over and finds sleep somewhere in the restless ebbing tide of dopamine, and he waits to do it all again.

The same thing he's always done.

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Nuclear bomb on its way🫡

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Seertane my beloved

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There was some relief when the sim finally withdrew from him-- acquiescing enough respite for Octane to at least relax some-- in violent opposition with the disappointment of no longer being filled to such satisfaction.

Perhaps most criminal, however, was that at no point tonight had Revenant put his teeth in him.

But whatever hesitance had crept across Octane's frayed sense of reason was ushered away by the bone-deep, full-body shudder at the slow draw of tongue over sluggish streams of rich red. He swallowed down something strained and plaintive, hit like a sack of bricks by the dizzying wave of desire that so often accompanied him into the spiral of self-collapse. What he would give for Revenant to tear him apart.

Speechless with want, the same quiet sweetness that had dripped from his earlier pleading returned unbidden. Where his hands had once clung, they now slid through the tangle of the beast's mane, lost, unfocused, all his attention gathering at the hungry maw sliding through the wet of his bloodied thigh.

"Revenant," he uttered, hushed, like a prayer. "Me estás matando."

Claws clung tight against the other Legend's struggle. It was awareness of the BLOOD there that managed to reach his consciousness perhaps more than anything that came babbling out of Silva's mouth.

Still there was some delay.

But finally, the synthetic tongue stilled. Revenant lingered, frozen like that, as if it took another few moments of delay before he had the sense to withdraw with a soft, wet sound - only to turn his head, ease the hold of his righthand claws enough to start licking there instead. Lapping lazy, unhurried, at the trails of blood with the thick of his dark tongue, steel teeth pressed CLOSE against flesh. It could almost be imagined he might be kissing, sucking there, if he were capable.

Even easier to imagine that the wrong move might trigger the beast to altogether clamp his jaws around Octane's thigh, sink his teeth into the MEAT and attempt to make a meal of him.

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Octane watches the other program give him a quick once-over, cold and discerning gaze catching where any program's typically does. The daredevil snorts and shifts his weight.

"Who's asking?"

It wouldn't really endanger him to answer, not to a single off-duty henchman. Clu's people act like they've perpetually got a Bit stuck up their ass, though, and this one should know the answer. Octane knows all too well he's-- suggestible, easily manipulated-- but he's not stupid. Tall, dark, and overbearing over here won't get any more information than he's earned.

"Surprised you don't know who I am, not gonna lie. You Black Guards don't get much free time, huh?" Before the other program can give him any surprise or sass, he adds, "Yeah, it's that obvious."

He gives a few impatient bounces on his feet, eager to move around again. He seems oddly unperturbed in the face of imminent reproach, energized even, albeit mildly bored. After a glance around the empty court, he hums. Just like one of Clu's lackeys to saunter into his business and waste his time standing around doing nothing. Maybe they all needed Flynn's spirited teachings after all.

"What was that User saying? Break a leg?" He flips the disc from his finger over one shoulder and catches it mid-air with a conspiratorial chuckle before deliberately turning his back on the looming program to head in. "Come on, I'll even give you an answer if you win. Not like you need it."

" sounds like you're the one getting ahead of yourself, " is all he dignifies that claim with. Though he's on the fence about if he wants to step into the court, now, to wipe that smirk off the Basic's face. He requires an opponent to play against, in any case, but already he feels the sure beginnings of irritation creeping along his nerves. He's not sure even the certainty of rubbing his victory like salt in the wound of the Basic's hubris will be worth the effort of enduring its antics.

Both verbal and physical. Certain as Shepard is of his combat prowess, this Basic looks like it's got a few tricks up its sleeve. At the least, he looks to be capable of some mildly impressive stunts — though whether they do anything for him in a disc game or are good for little more than visual amusement still remains to be seen. If Shepard entertains the obvious taunting.

He glances the miscreant program up and down. A brow quirks upward as his gaze hits the knees. But the delay is momentary, and Shepard's eyes continue their trawl shortly before snapping back up to meet the other program's. His expression's unchanged, features stoic as they had been upon his curt introduction; there's no sign of recognition in the unblinking white-grey ( near colourless irises ) of his stare. A few moments pass, as many as the other program will afford him of silence, that is, before his lip curls just slightly.

" ... that military tech? " Of course it is. Shepard knows it when he sees it, and he knows very well when he sees technology designed for Clu's army fitted where it doesn't belong. Still, the question's bare in its phrasing, his tone deliberately measured though tinged with the slightest of disbelieving curiosity. If he's lucky, the Basic might feel like bragging ... then he'd have all the answers he needs, and then some.

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It was Revenant's turn to burn.

Smoke that didn't smell of burning but it was smoke, nonetheless, that seemed to mark when the simulacrum's functioning waned under heavy load. Cold, too, where it should have been hot; but his plates were warm enough anyway, warmer still where claws held fast in trembling thighs.

But he wasn't stopping. Octane thrashed briefly through the overstimulation, fought to maintain some semblance of thought; he was struck with the memory of this same beastly visage tearing through viscera, steel teeth closed around a still-beating heart. Was Revenant as mindless with hunger now as he was then, pushing and pushing until he had his fill, only to remember he would never find it? Was nothing enough for either of them?

"Fuck--" he rasped, nails digging into inky mane in his attempt to anchor his own squirming, "Fuckfuckfuck, espera, wait, Rev, holy shit-- you're gonna catch on fuckin' fire--"

It wasn't fair how good it felt, not when the sim's sparking circuits nagged worryingly at the back of his mind. He didn't know enough about the workings of Revenant's frames to know if it was a concern. He couldn't handle that kind of responsibility. He couldn't even look after his own body, nevermind anyone else's. He wasn't made for this.

Chassis rattled quietly at the rough tug of his mane. Some stifled, strained sound came clipped through his vocoder as he felt the other Legend's high run through his every muscle in a fitful tremor. His claws were hot with blood; a pit of HUNGER carved away inside of him with every one of Silva's cries and harshly-hitched breaths. His metal burned, dizzying - he couldn't think.

Octane's frame eventually seemed to crumple against the floor, but even as smoke continued to ebb from between the simulacrum's plates, Revenant didn't stop.

His claws held steady, and the motions of his tongue persisted inside Silva without pause, starved, trance-like. Like he could think of doing NOTHING ELSE.

Like he might never be SATED.

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hey did anyone else when they were younger run out into a field in the dark of night and pretend u were being chased cause it gave u a little thrill or is it just me, infamous octane-kinnie-in-denial

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bunny

Description: An illustration set against a bright red background. At the bottom half of the illustration is a rabbit, mid run. It's head is pointed down and the iris of it's eye is the same red as the background. Text overlaying the image says 'If they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you.' Which is from Watership Down by Richard Adams.

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me imagining octane absolutely losing his shit in the club when he gets hit with the SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS SHOTSSHOTSHOTS

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do you?

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much like myself, i think octane is the kind of person who can switch from listening to a song like DAYWALKER! immediately to Moves Like Jagger without blinking

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His free time has admittedly been scarcer since Clu's regime descended upon Argon. The streets crawl with so many reds after curfew they look like scuttling gridbugs from above, choking out the light of the city the further their infestation spreads. He'd never given much thought to what Flynn's abandonment of the Grid entailed-- or any Grid politics, really-- until it interfered with his fun. The recent cycles have shown everyone in Argon what life is to be like for the foreseeable future now.

He doesn't like it.

He is, after all, a rogue program; ignores his directive for more exciting pursuits even if at the cost of the rigid efficiency the regime tries to instill with an iron fist. Any ordinary Basic deserting their job would be reprimanded and at risk of being sent to the Games - but he has his fame to thank. Argon loves him. The sentries and guards detest him. But taking him away would mean unrest, and no one in Tesler's ranks is keen on drawing undue attention with the Renegade about.

Still - he doesn't have immunity, and he's not a fan of having to practice caution. So when a program with a suspiciously substantial build looms at the edge of his court, he doesn't think he can be blamed for his disdain.

He's bouncing his disc off the walls and practicing flashy maneuvers in anticipation of his next upcoming gig when the stranger haunting his peripherals pipes up. Octane scoffs at him and catches his disc as it returns to him, strides to the perimeter and gives the program a quick once-over assessment. Bulkier than him, but probably slower. Nothing he can't handle.

"Yeah! Usually after they've lost," he replies. He makes a show of leaning as casually as possible against the court barrier and sets his disc spinning on the tip of his finger. Pointedly, he looks back at the pushy new program with a grin fiercer than it is friendly, the neon glow of his weapon glinting off dark glass. Then he challenges, "Ain't you a little ahead of schedule, amigo?"

@deathchasing // as per my wall of text on discord

why don't you take a break, SHEPARD? cut loose ... defragment a little. He must have missed the cycle where they covered mandatory time off for Black Guards ( though his upgrade, long ago, had been a shockingly quick affair, his transition to his new role near-instantaneous; it's not as if he ever got a welcome packet or a new workplace orientation ). But those were his orders straight from the top. ARGON, he was told, is in good hands ... why fast track the process any more than necessary?

Slow and steady. Savour it, Shepard, Tesler had said to him with a firm clap to the shoulder and a firmer, non-too-subtle push towards the door. To Shepard, it sounds like maybe the general's starting to get sick of his expedience. But, regardless, he won't push back when it comes to Tesler's command — doing so's more trouble than it's worth to put up with.

Stepping onto the first outbound Recogniser took him near Argon Park. And, nestled in the shadows beneath the overbearing likeness of CLU: several disc courts. That sounds enough like recreation.

Programs are scarcer here now than when he'd first landed in Argon. They're uncertain and afraid ... that he understands well enough. But time will prove to them — once the first stages of the Argon's occupation have passed, along with its hurdles and perhaps a unlucky example here and there — that, though it might seem less than optimal, survival could still come quite easily.

Still, despite the unease, the courts are nearly full. Hardly anyone spares him a glance as he passes by. ( He might be wearing neutral colours, but he's still visibly a tad bulkier-clad than the average program. Maybe they figure he's just overly prepared for a round of disc games, but more likely they're far too occupied with their opponents. ) He moves past several courts, most of them taken, until ...

" Hey — " Program, sits on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. He's technically off duty, unless some state of emergency should somehow arise. For now, he supposes he's meant to present and to act as a neutral program, " anyone ever tell you it's bad etiquette, hogging a whole court to yourself? "