sveer

[sveer]

simulamortem:

Hot blood was a COMFORT. Never more so than when he could feel it running between his teeth, slick on his tongue, dripping from the metal jaws of the beast. And Hammond’s blood tasted sweetest. Interrupted by the shriek of tearing metal, the smell of gunsmoke. Even Spectres were no match for this model. But the machines were inevitably tied to the building’s security; setting off any one of them triggered a fast-acting domino effect of security protocols. Most of all THE ALARM. The sound blared in turns through the whole of the building. What few posts were manned by skinbags were quickly abandoned, with human personnel directed to designated panic rooms while Spectres began to converge inside toward the source of the trouble. A limited number of the machines remained at certain checkpoints as sentries, watching over the flow of human traffic and surveying for signs of the INTRUDER.

There was that unsettling calm, where Obi thought he was doomed to watch an endless succession of box-lifting and box-opening monotony, and then there was chaos.

The distant squeal of metal and muffled screams were just-barely blanketed by the howl of an alarm. Employees trickled out of their rooms and converged into one panic-fueled mass, a tidal wave broken only against a handful spectres marching the other way. 

For one heart-stopping moment Obi thought he’d been discovered, and this was the search party hunting for him. It wasn’t until a very distressed human employee shoved past him (was that dark stuff staining his uniform blood?) did Obi realise there was a larger threat occupying their space.

A hivemind of machines barricaded the entrance to the control room, dormant killer bees armed to the teeth. Obi hung back, dithering behind a crate, suddenly very aware of the threat of their guns and roving eyes, and the unknown quantity wreaking havoc beyond the door. It would be so easy for him to turn tail and flee, but his feet had obstinately sprouted roots, keen to condemn him to bear witness to whatever unfolded next apparently.

And where was Revenant, anyway? With all the commotion going on, it was hard to believe the bloodthirsty simulacrum hadn't reared its ugly head yet.

[sveer]

simulamortem:

No more traps - the rest of the route was clear but for the natural obstacles of fallen logs, wayward branches, mossy boulders. Revenant didn’t move with perfect silence, careless of dried sticks and leaves… until his movement grew quieter and QUIETER as he neared the building. The Hammond facility on Talos operated on something of a skeleton crew after Revenant’s first visit, especially now that operations on Talos were largely limited to the Games. SECURITY outnumbered normal personnel, and was mixed with as many Spectres as skinbags. Obviously meant to save on loss of life in the workplace and all the messy PR that came with it, but to Revenant it almost seemed as if Hammond knew having a little less WARM BLOOD on the premises made the place less appealing to him. But today, he was not here just for blood. The chirp of a cricket. The soft rustle of the wind through the forest’s leaves. And all at once, the simulacrum had VANISHED. Ahead, the treeline opened to the facility’s property, where the perimeter and a neglected loading bay appeared patrolled by Spectres. On one side of the building, already braced HIGH along some piping on the wall, the metal beast briefly caught the sunlight before disappearing into what must have been a vent or some kind of maintenance duct.

Eventually, the forest thinned as they neared an industrial building. Squinting against the afternoon sun, Obi searched for a painted sign, a logo, anything.

And just like a trick of the light, Revenant was gone. 

It didn’t take long for Obi to realize he was in Hammond territory. The loading bay was dotted with spectres; idling foot soldiers incapable of detecting the only human presence amongst them without the necessary line of sight. Obi didn’t planned on breaking the delicate silence anytime soon. 

The spectres guarding the armory had shot at him then. Obi wasn’t about to test their abilities now.

Maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t be sticking his pretty nose into someone else’s business when he already had his own to contend with. But curiosity had won over every time, and the arduous, companion-less journey home seemed no more appealing than venturing forward. So the illusionist waited, biding his time, studying how each spectre made its programmed, lumbering circuit and choreographed his footwork to evade their surveillence.

Here, the cameras were not his friend, but Obi knew just when to keep out of the spotlight. With his back against the wall, his eyes vigilant to wandering machines and a deep breath-- Obi stole into a vacant dock. One of the many that opened up to a large warehouse bustling with activity.

Even then, it was mostly spectres loading and unloading boxes, with only a token few human personnel present to supervise.

[sveer]

I have to admit... I'm not a Seer main. I don't even play him. I loaded into a match, scanned 5 people sending it for me and... died.

[sveer]

For once, a conversation starter that wasn't about the moon. Most approached him that way, in poor taste. Seer had already taken a shine to this gentleman, and judging from that sharply-tailored suit, his fine sense of style.

“That would be me, Mr. Thompson,” Seer greeted warmly, reaching out to take his hand and giving it a firm shake. "It is my pleasure to meet you."

It could've been an offhanded comment, but Seer paused, genuinely thinking it over. “Supermodel proportions. I imagine it must be for modelling the merchandise we wear when the Games fall on hard times.” The metal piercing his mouth flashed as he grinned. “But some say there is a... benefit to being on the smaller side.”

Competitive advantage aside, it left more room for compliments across the magazine spread, perhaps.

@sveer // sc

❝ Is there some height requisite for you legends? Why are the majority of you all so tall...? ❞ as if he had even indulged in the company of anyone else besides one of the two moody simulacrums.

He clucks his tongue, exhales a sigh, and offers a hand in greeting.

❝ Thompson. What is it they call you again? Seer, correct? ❞

[sveer]

@enccrypted: Crypto creeps up behind Seer to scare him.

There was nothing Seer liked more than basking in the afterglow of a well-earned win– or the after party, or the one too many glasses of champagne Loba plied him with. It followed him back into his apartment suite, reduced to a pleasant buzz between his ears.

It was only when Obi was comfortably slanted across the couch, did he allow the ache from the day’s activities settle deep into his bones. Attention drifting from the flickering square to something… posted outside the ribbon windows. It was with a kind of slow realization that Obi was, in fact, staring at Crypto’s drone. The TV must’ve drowned out its distinctive hum, but the unexpectedness of its presence startled him all the same. 

How long had it been there? What had it seen? 

A deep breath for composure, before Obi gently nudged the window open, mindful of the delicate piece of technology lingering outside. Leaning against the ledge with his chin propped against his open palm, Obi gazed at Hack’s unblinking eye attentively, just as he would regard its reclusive owner in person.

“Hello, Hyeon.” Obi’s usual, friendly tone betrayed none of the weariness that weighed on his eyelids. Crypto was likely watching. Listening. It would be impolite to act otherwise, especially when the hacker had gone to the trouble to ‘visit’...

“We did well today, my friend. Your performance was immaculate.” A pause, and it occurred to him that neither Crypto nor his drone could not respond, but Obi decided to continue his one-sided exchange anyway. “It's a shame that you left before the party. Elliot asked about you. Said he named a drink after your winning maneuver in your honour.”

[sveer]

There was something nice about listening to that tender, accented English. A welcome respite from the audio pollution he’d just experienced earlier in the chaos of Kings Canyon. Even over the comms, Natalie’s voice never cracked once with how delicately she spoke. 

It was easy to get caught up in the bloodlust and treat everyone else as just another number added to the tracker, but at the end of the day, they each came home to their books and pets and experiments, things that made everyone unique and worthy of adoration beyond their abilities or performances in the games.

And even then, he was still learning something new about the Legends. Like how Elliot preferred his porkchops slathered with ranch dressing over barbecue sauce, that Hyeon thought not having kimchi as a side dish at every meal was a travesty, or that Xiomara was allergic to cat fur.

Part of Obi wasn’t too surprised to hear Natalie’s fondness for books, or the genre, but the secrecy of her tone suggested it was a confessed taboo. 

Wholesome? “Sure.” Came Obi’s seamless reply, ever suave and unassuming. He probably wouldn’t bat an eyelash either, should the engineer confess it was erotica she read. It would be cruel to judge this part of her she decided to share with him.

“You are not alone, Miss Paquette. I find… pleasure in watching old romance films myself.” Yes, the arthouse kind with blistering passion-fueled scenes that would leave Natalie burning scarlet, but he knew better than to elaborate. The confession was but a wildcard he sacrificed for Natalie's comfort.

“What we indulge in is the product of someone else's artistry. To enjoy is to appreciate. It is nothing to be ashamed about.” And yet... there was that impish twinkle in his eyes, a playful quirk at the corner of his smile that flavored his next words. “But I understand. It can get lonely sometimes.”

     Yet another giggle slipped by as Obi gave his answer to her playful question; it was no wonder why he had only allowed for the speedster a mere look. The collection would be nothing more than a mess had he been permitted inside.

And Natalie knew then, by Obi's offer for her to view the collection, that he trusted her more than their fellow Legend. A sentiment that probably wasn't that kind to Octane, but one that Natalie couldn't help but allow to warm her heart.

     "I'm sure it's not boring at all," Natalie responded reassuringly, "Octavio is just more of a..." One of her hands gestured vaguely to the air, searching for the right words, "... You know... Hands on person, perhaps?"

     It was clear that Natalie was trying to be considerate and kind, despite more or less agreeing with Seer. She happily allowed for the conversations topic to be re-directed before she put her foot in her mouth about one of her friends, though the topic being about her books made her momentarily falter.

     "Oh, um, yes, I read quite a bit." Natalie answered with a nod, confirming the other's observation before giving a cheerful, yet slightly awkward, smile. She was suddenly a bit uncertain of herself. "Well, I read a lot of text books of course. Education is important after all!"

     "Umm, I like thrillers, and horror. Mystery novels can be fun too, but a lot of the time I find the answers rather obvious." That wasn't much of a surprise; Natalie was incredibly smart both academically and emotionally. But then there was a small pause as Natalie anxiously looked around. If her hesitancy wasn't clear before, now it was written all over her face. Even a subtle pink began to blossom on her cheeks-- she was embarrassed. "I also read some, um, romance novels. They can be really... Wholesome."

[sveer]

@falskihundr: Bloodhound touches up Seer's makeup.

Most teammates brought back from the brink of death would be medkitting by now. But there was no imminent threat of a squad looking to upgrade their shields and loot, so he bided his time, his recharged shields his only line of defense for now. Something else demanded his attention, he decided, digging around his pockets..

Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise anyone that the artist carried makeup on his person. Silva once likened his vanity to a kind of macabre compulsion– like a lung-disease patient reaching for a cigarette on their deathbed. Everyone would meet their ends eventually. Seer just wanted his to be beautiful.

But here, in their hard-earned spot in the ring, existed no mirror to preen in. Seer was half-tempted to peer into a muddy puddle, even, but his forearm ached terribly when he raised it beyond his chest. Bloodhound must’ve seen him wince, because a shadow fell over him. Then, an outstretched hand.

What swelled within was a strange cocktail of gratitude, residual embarrassment from being caught in the crossfire, and… awe. Bloodhound, who so often declined to partake in the frivolity of keeping up appearances, volunteered to mend the crack in his façade. 

A gentle, gloved hand to guide his chin. Then, a dab of rogue to conceal the bruise blooming on his cheek. The pencil tracing his waterline could have been the tip of their blade, but Seer scarcely blinked, keeping his gaze fixed on the twin reflections of himself in their goggles. He would trust their hand, be it on the trigger, the handle of their axe, or the stimulant they injected into his chest earlier. 

One more favour, and he would be indebted.

[sveer]

Contrary to popular belief, the update to Seer’s kit wasn’t meant to put him into the grave. If anything, it was yet another seasonal challenge to overcome, and Seer was determined not to let this change make his performance any less stunning. He would give his opponents and audience something breathtaking to see, and he was here at Encore to rehearse.  

And yet, no amount of choreographing could prepare anyone for the unpredictability of the games. So unpredictable Seer would be, like a moth driven wild by the allure of the flame, surrendering his body and mind to be guided by instinct alone. Even then, he moved with elegance; like smoke curling from burnt incense. Elusive, in the way expensive satin slipped through fingers. A metallic clanging noise echoed throughout the arena, ruining the illusion. 

Several years on, and you would think the artist would have learnt something about having expectations, especially where the speedster was concerned. But the familiar, gut-sinking feeling of disappointment or– on better days, surprise never got old. It was just like Octavio to make an appearance, or, depending on his mood, a… spectacle, else he would physically combust (he did, once) from not having eyes on him. There was always some mishap waiting to happen, some trap or fence tripped by his sheer restlessness. This time, Seer discovered him sprawled in a mess of his own doing. 

Garbage was strewn everywhere. Fortunately not the wet, mushy kind that reeked– the organisers had instated a rule about that years ago, but the odd empty drink can and flyers— pamphlets advertising pharmaceuticals… which was offensive all the same. Seer cast a disdainful look at the mess at his feet. Today would not be the day he ruined his manicure.

Before, when Octavio took that tone, it prefaced their fights, muted emotion simmering just beneath the surface. Now, he seemed uncharacteristically rattled, if his stammering was anything to go by, like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

“What am I doing here?” Seer echoed, not too far away from sounding incredulous. His eyes shone just like the metal piercing his mouth as he laughed at the absurdity of it all, the sound ringing deep in his throat. I could ask the same. 

The artist waved a hand against the backdrop of the illuminated stage, his home away from home. “I would think you of all people would know.”  

A moment coalesced, and the glacier in his eyes thawed a little. Seer stooped to extend a hand for Octavio to take, and allowed it to linger a little while longer even after he scrambled to his feet. It was a strange sight, truly, to have the speedster standing still for once, like singling out one of the many images from a zoetrope slowed to a standstill.

Curiously, Seer wondered if the recent games had anything to do with this unscheduled visit. He bit the bullet then. “Do you have a favour to ask?” 

| | @sveer

The skies ignited with waves of hypnotic golds and purples as the sun slid behind planet Boreas. In a rare moment of stillness, Octane stopped on his way down the bleacher stairs to watch it go, giving an appreciative hum. The tiny lights of hovercars and ships in traffic flickered to life in the ensuing darkness, like fireflies waking from slumber, sleepily motoring past the towering walls of Encore, Boreas’s only Arena stage. The Apex games were done until tomorrow; Octane had taken a ferry on a whim from Cleo’s last Battle Royale match of the day, feeling discouraged and unbalanced by his recent streak of losses. Lifeline had pointed out unhelpfully that perhaps instead of blaming his own teammates, a little introspection would do him good. Octane despised being told what to do and he especially hated introspection. It took too long and it made his stomach hurt. And that’s exactly what he’d said to her, but somehow he still found himself here at Encore after-hours, hoping to brush up on his skills.

“Blah blah blah, you gotta work together if you wanna win together Octane, stop fidgeting and use your head for once Octane,” he grumbled in a high-pitched mockery of Ajay’s voice, beginning to skip steps as he descended the rest of the stairs. “Why don’t you roll over and do a trick while you’re at it! Mierda.”

He faltered and his shoulders sagged. He felt bad. “Sorry Che.”

Like she could hear him. Maybe he did need some introspection.

He finally hit flat ground and made his way closer to the center of the stage. It didn’t sound like anyone else was here— fantastic, nothing to distract him, are you happy, Lifeline?— until he heard quick-moving footsteps around the side of building he’d skirted. He shied backward and peered around the corner, instantly rigid with tension. Obi! They hadn’t spoken in a hot minute and Octane was not interested in getting lectured any further today. This was a sign. He would just take a shuttle back to Psamathe and go for a run or something.

But his legs didn’t seem to want to move.

Instead he watched. Seer was pulling off some impressive acrobatics— practicing dodges, Octane suspected, if unnecessarily flashy ones— and it hit him that he should have known better. Of course Seer would be here, he’d played in Arenas for nine years, and if Octane’s own experience had taught him anything, it was that nostalgia harbored safety. The twists and turns of Obi’s limbs mesmerized him. He wondered if this was what people felt like watching him do his death-defying stunts and maneuvers. He leaned further around the corner for a better look, mistakenly expecting a railing where there was none, and realized too late his hand fell on empty air. He lurched forward and reached for anything to break his fall, finding purchase on the edge of a metal trash can—

Which fell along with him, filling the Arena with a loud CLANG and the following clatter of his metal legs kicking away the trash can lid in a panic. He scrambled upward, heart beating like a rabbit’s, pulse in his ears, utterly mortified.

“Uhhh, hola, hey— what are you—” he pointed a finger accusingly, sputtering, “—what are you d— I mean, I was just, uh—hi. Hi.”

[sveer]

𝟏𝟎𝟎 𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑳 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 .    (  a  collection  of  100  nonverbal  action  prompts .   mature  and  potentially  triggering  themes  are  present .   add  “ + reverse ”  to  swap  assigned  roles .)

∗ o1﹕ sender  tucks  hair  out  of  receiver’s  face . ∗ o2﹕ sender  offers  receiver  a  bite  from  their  fork . ∗ o3﹕ sender  places  their  feet / legs  in  receiver's  lap . ∗ o4﹕ sender  offers  receiver  an  earbud  to  share  their  music . ∗ o5﹕ sender  comforts  receiver  in  the  aftermath  of  a  nightmare . ∗ o6﹕ sender  gives  receiver  company  in  the  hospital . ∗ o7﹕ sender  wraps  their  arms  around  a  hysterical  receiver  to  calm  them . ∗ o8﹕ sender  shows  up  at  receiver’s  home  late  at  night . ∗ o9﹕ sender  falls  asleep  leaning  against  receiver . ∗ 1o﹕ sender  wields  a  [ gun / knife ]  at  receiver . ∗ 11﹕ sender  runs  their  fingers  through  receiver’s  hair . ∗ 12﹕ sender  invites  receiver  to  dance . ∗ 13﹕ sender  takes  a  [ picture / video ]  of  receiver . ∗ 14﹕ sender  places  their  head  in  receiver’s  lap . ∗ 15﹕ sender  and  receiver  make  eye  contact  across  a  busy  room . ∗ 16﹕ sender  pushes  receiver  against  a  wall  to  kiss  them . ∗ 17﹕ sender  and  receiver  cook  together . ∗ 18﹕ sender  comes  to  receiver  after  being  injured . ∗ 19﹕ sender  sits  in  receiver’s  lap . ∗ 2o﹕ sender  lifts  receiver's  chin ,  invoking  eye  contact . ∗ 21﹕ sender  overtakes  receiver  in  combat . ∗ 22﹕ sender  finds  receiver  [ injured / bloodied ] . ∗ 23﹕ sender  straightens  an  article  of  receiver’s  clothes . ∗ 24﹕ sender  crawls  into  bed  with  receiver . ∗ 25﹕ sender  rolls  their  eyes  at  receiver . ∗ 26﹕ sender  lights  receiver’s  [ cigarette / joint ] . ∗ 27﹕ sender  is  caught  wearing  receiver's  clothes . ∗ 28﹕ sender  strikes  receiver  with  a  pillow . ∗ 29﹕ sender  writes  a  note  on  receiver’s  skin :  [ note ] . ∗ 3o﹕ sender  wraps  a  blanket  around  receiver’s  shoulders . ∗ 31﹕ sender  runs  and  jumps  into  receiver’s  arms . ∗ 32﹕ sender  shoves  receiver  out  of  anger . ∗ 33﹕ sender  hovers  over  receiver’s  shoulder  as  they  complete  a  task . ∗ 34﹕ sender  is  found  by  receiver  somewhere  they  shouldn’t  be . ∗ 35﹕ sender  curls  up  against  receiver  in  their  sleep . ∗ 36﹕ sender  is  found  drunk  by  receiver . ∗ 37﹕ sender  throws  an  item  of  sentiment  bitterly  at  receiver . ∗ 38﹕ sender  joins  receiver  in  the  shower . ∗ 39﹕ sender  is  caught  following  receiver . ∗ 4o﹕ sender  traces  one  of  receiver’s  [ scars / bruises ] . ∗ 41﹕ sender  twines  their  fingers  with  receiver’s . ∗ 42﹕ sender  barges  into  receiver’s  home  unannounced . ∗ 43﹕ sender  kicks  receiver’s  shin  beneath  a  table . ∗ 44﹕ sender  aggressively  shoves  past  receiver . ∗ 45﹕ sender  kisses  receiver’s  [ forehead / cheek ] . ∗ 46﹕ sender  pulls  receiver  out  of  harm’s  way . ∗ 47﹕ sender  is  found  sobbing  by  receiver . ∗ 48﹕ sender  locks  receiver  out  of  their  room . ∗ 49﹕ sender  brings  receiver  [ coffee / tea ]  in  the  morning . ∗ 5o﹕ sender  rests  their  forehead  against  receiver’s . ∗ 51﹕ sender  plays  a  song  for  receiver  that  reminds  them  of  them :  [ song ] . ∗ 52﹕ sender  takes  a  [ punch / stab / bullet ]  meant  for  receiver . ∗ 53﹕ sender  buys  receiver  a  drink  at  a  bar . ∗ 54﹕ sender  needs  receiver’s  help  getting  in  the  bath . ∗ 55﹕ sender  and  receiver  cross  paths  in  the  kitchen  late  at  night . ∗ 56﹕ sender  twists  receiver’s  arm  behind  their  back . ∗ 57﹕ sender  winks  at  receiver . ∗ 58﹕ sender  is  found  collapsed  by  receiver . ∗ 59﹕ sender  prevents  an  injured  receiver  from  getting  up . ∗ 6o﹕ sender  claps  a  hand  over  receiver’s  mouth  to  silence  them . ∗ 61﹕ sender  cages  receiver  against  a  [ wall / the floor ]  with  their  arms . ∗ 62﹕ sender  storms  away  from  receiver  during  an  argument . ∗ 63﹕ sender  is  found  by  receiver  sleeping  in  receiver’s  bed . ∗ 64﹕ sender  [ applies / touches up ]  receiver’s  makeup . ∗ 65﹕ sender  throws  receiver  into  a  wall  during  combat . ∗ 66﹕ sender  dances  sensually  with  receiver . ∗ 67﹕ sender  strikes  receiver  across  the  face . ∗ 68﹕ sender  places  their  hand  on  receiver’s  leg  while  driving . ∗ 69﹕ sender  pulls  a  chair  out  from  under  receiver . ∗ 7o﹕ sender  catches  receiver’s  wrist  when  they  turn  to  leave . ∗ 71﹕ sender  leaves  an  intimate  mark  on  receiver . ∗ 72﹕ sender  beats  receiver  in  a  video  game . ∗ 73﹕ sender  and  receiver  stand  in  stunned  silence  after  a  fight . ∗ 74﹕ sender  cares  for  receiver  while  they’re  sick . ∗ 75﹕ sender  and  receiver  go  on  a  hike . ∗ 76﹕ sender  is  caught  snooping  in  receiver’s  things . ∗ 77﹕ sender  and  receiver  cuddle  while  watching  television . ∗ 78﹕ sender  throws  something  aggressively  at  receiver . ∗ 79﹕ sender  creeps  up  behind  receiver  to  scare  them . ∗ 8o﹕ sender  and  receiver  go  shopping  together . ∗ 81﹕ sender  helps  receiver  [ dye / style ]  their  hair . ∗ 82﹕ sender  draws  receiver  into  a  kiss  by  the  back  of  their  neck . ∗ 83﹕ sender  is  discovered  having  a  panic  attack  by  receiver . ∗ 84﹕ sender  accidentally  injures  receiver  during  sparring . ∗ 85﹕ sender  grabs  receiver  roughly  by  the  hair . ∗ 86﹕ sender  brings  receiver  to  their  knees  during  combat . ∗ 87﹕ sender  shows  receiver  evidence  of  a  lie  they  told . ∗ 88﹕ sender  winks  [ seductively / mockingly ]  at  receiver . ∗ 89﹕ sender  yells  at  receiver  to  put  their  hands  in  the  air . ∗ 9o﹕ sender  helps  receiver  patch  up  a  wound . ∗ 91﹕ sender  holds  receiver  as  they  cry . ∗ 92﹕ sender  silently  and  angrily  points  receiver  towards  the  door . ∗ 93﹕ sender  gestures  for  receiver  to  sit  down . ∗ 94﹕ sender  pulls  receiver  into  their  lap . ∗ 95﹕ sender  cradles  receiver’s  face . ∗ 96﹕ sender  tackles  receiver  out  of  the  way  of  danger . ∗ 97﹕ sender  has  hidden  an  injury  from  receiver ,  and  receiver  finds  out . ∗ 98﹕ sender  confronts  receiver  about  their  unhealthy  behavior . ∗ 99﹕ sender  proposes  to  receiver . ∗ 1oo﹕ sender  has  just  died ,  receiver  finds  out .

[sveer]

Were those words of a sceptic or someone looking to strike a nerve? 

Even without turning to look at his companion, Obi could sense the incredulity in his tone, grating like nails on a chalkboard. Perhaps the stranger hadn't scored tonight and decided to take it out on the likes of him, if his appearance was anything to go by.

Obi took another delicate sip of his margarita. It occurred to him that the man darkening his end of the bar was simply having a reaction. Like most did when faced with art they have yet to understand. It wasn’t worth growing frown lines for this stranger, the artist decided. 

“Oh, don't mind me.” Followed by a flourish of his hand. Obi had no real interest in sparring. Surely the glittering smile he wore sealed the message. “I was just rehearsing. Monologuing, if you will.”

"I emerged into this world, hand in hand with a cosmic dance between a newborn life and a lunar impact."

"The fuck's that mean?"

"Yet, it was within the dark and clandestine Arenas where I found my true calling, where the dance of combat became my language. For what is a fight, if not a graceful adversarial exchange?"

"Two dudes beating the fuck out of each other...?"

"I stand before my audience as an icon for the outcasts, those who felt the sting of rejection, seeking a voice in the face of adversity."

"Hello? Sir?"

@sveer

[sveer]

voltaage:

Every now and then, Mirage threw a smaller, more private party at the Paradise Lounge, just for the Legends. They often attended events, did press, and all the other glorious things that came with being a celebrity for a blood sport, but that was always done with cameras, and eyes, and expectations.      This? This was just for them. To relax, to bond, and to have fun.      And Natalie? Well, she certainly had had her fair share of fun. Light weight and unable to resist the temptations of sugary drinks, the little Legend was stumbling and giggling more than her usual self. A pretty scarlet also decorated her cheeks; all telltale signs of inebriation.      Despite her fun-loving state, she knew when to call it quits. She still wanted to be able to get up in the morning after all. The engineer made her rounds saying goodbye to everyone and had gotten all the way to the door with her jacket on when she was approached.      Natalie looked a little surprised by the offer, but not in a bad way as her expression quickly turned into another smile. "Oh, mon ami, you don't have to. My hotel isn't far and I'm perfectly--" As if the Gods had heard her and were determined to prove her wrong, Natalie stumbled as she reached for the door, "--fine."

As the season drew to a close, what better way was there to celebrate other than drinking yourself stupid? That seemed to be the consensus of several Legends, apparently, and Mirage had, as always, rose to the occasion.

While the artist wasn’t one to over-indulge in drink, that didn’t mean he missed out on a good time. Obi liked making memories with clarity, and raised an empty glass to everything else from where he sat on the chaise lounge. It was all around good company, good atmosphere, and judging from Renee and Natalie goofing off beneath the disco ball, very good drinks. 

Hours flew by, and when Ramya’s rambling turned into raucous laughter deafening one ear, and Silva unceremoniously sloshed half of his monster energy onto his lap, perhaps it was his time to leave. 

As the other Legends began to split off in their own groups, Obi made for the rear exit. There, a shock of blonde caught his eye. Natalie, who apparently retired from the dance for floor the night. He recognized the signs easily enough, those glowing cheeks, the twinkle in her eyes, that sheepish smile… 

“Let me walk you home,” Obi offered, all sugar and brushed suede, and no sooner after her protests Natalie stumbled.  

Perhaps it had been a blessing Obi did not have much to drink. Unaffected by the single daiquiri cocktail he’d consumed for the night, Obi caught the engineer by the arms with the practiced ease of performing a dip. 

“Oh, it is no trouble,”  Obi had to assure insist, and stooped a little to nudge the door open with his foot. “Come.” His tone was soft, but with a kind of firmness that left little to debate. He withdrew his support away for Natalie to compose herself, then offered her his arm to take.

“Please. It would be irresponsible for me to let you cross the street in this state.”   

[sveer]

simulamortem:

His gaze fixed for the vegetation until assured it had only been wildlife. Revenant stood with a tired growl. He studied the other Legend then with what seemed some amount of SCRUTINY - like he was gauging exactly how offended to be at the suggestion he was ‘interesting’. Optics lingered to assess how well or ill -prepared Edolasim might be for the excursion -- but Revenant quickly decided he DIDN’T CARE. Mothman would likely be left to fend for himself anyway if he couldn’t keep up. “Whatever,” the sim answered, turning away to head toward his destination. Even despite his size, the glow of the biolights dotting his frame, his pronounced lack of camouflage, Revenant would be quickly LOST in the foliage if Seer were to fall too far behind.  But at the least, his pace was that of a walk. If he were to break into a sprint or make full use of his stealth, he could probably lose the other Legend with ease, if he chose; but he wasn’t walking for Seer’s sake. Only because there was no RUSH, and he was trying to watch, as he went, for more traps now.

Many had spoken of Revenant’s intimidating stare-down, most notably Elliot Witt, who likened it to being scanned for meat on bones, but Obi simply embraced the gesture. Cast out a hand in an elegant flourish as though posing for the camera. 

But as quickly as it shone, the spotlight shifted away, and the simulacrum turned on his heel and marched on. Surely that had to be his cue to follow.

There was the option to walk by the simulacrum, but Obi elected to keep his distance. He would be Revenant's eyes and ears from behind, just in case. Cautious as he was, Obi still found a way to bask in the nature. His fingers grazed the tops of leaves, and his skin warmed to the mild weather. Beyond the warbling chirp of cicadas, they were alone.

The foliage thickened the more they trudged on, and the light filtering through the trees shrunk to peephole-thin. Soon, the only thing visible of Revenant’s were those bone-white horns.

[sveer]

@voltaage: Footsie 🥰

Meetings weren’t uncommon, though being called to one at the end of the season meant changes were due. It could be anything: whose kit they had to tune (and sometimes take down a peg), how much the ring would hurt in the upcoming season.

Often they felt like mediation sessions assorted members of a very large family showed up to. Anita was heading the dialogue today, which she (unfortunately) delivered in a deadpan tone.

Obi was the perfect audience member, truly. He was exceptionally talented at looking like he was listening at rapt attention, if those intense, glacial eyes were anything to go by. Until someone’s shoe nudged his, and the spell was broken. 

Surely it was an accident– after all, five pairs of feet were present under the table, but it happened again. And again. In a sea of blank, sleep-deprived faces, Natalie wore a soft smile. A sight for sore eyes.

Hello, Obi hoped the nudging back of his foot hoped to convey in morse. This gathering lacks intrigue, but consider myself amused for now. Without returning eye contact, Obi hid a smile.

Which wasn't subtle enough, apparently. Suddenly the droning stopped, and Anita was fixing him with a glare that could silence an entire audience. Caught.

[sveer]

...Can't say I'm happy about the Seer tactical nerf. Sounds crazy but I picked him up because he gave me 1 (one) good game where I won a trios match as a soloist. It's the entire reason why I'm here, is all. And now...

[sveer]

Those light blue sapphires, that high-wattage smile. It was the first time he truly got a good look at her. Briefly, Obi wondered if Natalie knew how electrifying she was.

It was common knowledge that Silva and fragile things did belong in a room together. Letting the speedster near his prized possessions was akin to inviting a hurricane into his home. 

“A glimpse into paradaịs he had.” Obi declared with much ceremony, eyes glimmering conspiratorially, “And nothing more.”

And for now, his collection was safe. Untouched, but regularly tended to, like prized art to be admired in a museum. “I have a showroom dedicated to this love of mine. It is unlike an arcade, which I know Silva does not like.” Silva had turned his nose up at the lack of neon signages. That, and the permission to play the machines. “He said it was boring. I think the games have spoilt him from enjoying simpler pleasures.” 

“Enough about me.” Or pinball, really. Any more talk about his strange obsession and she might find him mad with passion. The walk to the cafeteria was long, and the Legend could pad that time getting to know her better… and in the process, hopefully veer the subject of their conversation away from Octane.

“I may be wrong... but I know you like reading. What genre interests you?”

      Natalie nodded cheerfully in response to Obi's suggestion; she would happily stay with him, but he was right that they should leave the med bay. The engineer had a sneaking suspicion that the doctors and nurses didn't want idle bodies in their way.

      She followed after her fellow Legend as he took the lead towards the door, holding it open for her with a sense of chivalry that made her giggle and grin. She stepped through and then twisted to glance back at Seer, delight still dancing in her eyes.

      "Now you're being silly," She replied with a mirthful tone to the pinball comment. There was obviously much more to the Legend than just art and pinball, but she would let him have his jokes, for now. As they continued down the hall of the Legend compound, Natalie blinked, realizing a word Seer had used; collection.

      "You have a collection? How big is it?" She asked genuinely at first, then added with a teasing grin, "And has Octavio seen it? I'm sure he hasn't if it's still in one piece, hehe!"

[sveer]

actions speak louder than words non - verbal / action prompts from yours truly. (add a "swap" to swap the sender/receiver in the prompt (or just do it manually).)

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 into 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.

zip, sender needs receiver's help to zip up the back of their dress.

[sveer]

@doctorsomers: Why are you looking at me like that?

It was distracting. At least for the past minute, where they sat on the roof watching the third ring closing. Blood, dark as red wine, was streaming down the doctor's cheek. Whether it was hers or someone else’s was easily up to debate. 

There was this saying about the performing industry: if something couldn’t be fixed in five minutes, don't bother bringing it up at all. 

“May I?” Was Seer’s only warning, before leaning in. Gingerly, from sideways, he framed the doctor’s face with both hands and swiped at one freckled cheek with his thumb. Crimson coated his gold-tipped fingertips. Even if Seer couldn't see it, he certainly felt the deep gash beneath.

“You are... bleeding, Mrs. Somers.” Seer murmured, gaze gentle, but there was something vaguely scolding to his tone. Surely that had to sting. “How did you not know?”