deathchasing

[deathchasing]

Revenant brushed past him again, but Octane made no move to inhibit him this time. He'd given the sim pause, which was about as much as he'd get from this particular play. He did, however, take the opportunity to quickly but gently land another sticky note on the loose back of a sleeve. Revenant's metal frame generally seemed to have less minute sensory input than flesh and bone; Octane was now determined to see how many he could stack up before the sim noticed.

"Nope, bad choice," he quipped as Revenant went for the first door. "Unless you think he hid something in a fancy coat. Maybe you should check just in case."

He strolled leisurely along with his hands behind his head, easing into his usual antagonism. "Man, it's almost like you need me if you don't want this to be a massive waste of your time. Big house." He pointed down the hallway. "Try that one! I'll try to act surprised."

Revenant regarded the sticky note, but his stride didn't pause or falter until Silva's trotting backwards in front of him - at which he altogether STOPPED.

He could give halfsuit some credit; the guy knew his strengths.

Optics looked him up and down, gaze unaffected. He wouldn't hesitate to crush another phone if he was being filmed, but Silva seemed to imply that wasn't his only camera. But why would he have another on him right now? Revenant was sure he was BLUFFING.

So he scoffed again and continued, and if Octane tried to slow him down again, the sim would dip low in an instant, slip a long leg out to CATCH Silva's metal on his own and swiftly trip him before moving on. And otherwise, he merely moved for the nearest door now that it was clear he would not be provided a tour.

#normal people do something relaxing when they're stressed. octane just turns the 'brat' dial to 10 #; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #simulamortem

[deathchasing]

Revenant turned to glare at him and Octane's face lit up like a firecracker.

"Yeah." He doubled down without hesitation, skittering after the sim down the hallway. They crossed through the main room again over to the other side. "Not like I could kick you out, but I could be waaaay more annoying. You wouldn't wanna stay. Por ejemplo, ves? I already got this on you without you noticing."

He plucked a bright green sticky note from the back of Revenant's jacket and wiggled it in front of him. A devilish smiley face in sharpie matched Octane's face grinning back at him. He crossed in front of Revenant's path and walked backwards, deliberately slowed his pace so Revenant either had to slow down too or simply move him.

"And," he added, "I could stream - I could be streaming right now, even. But, where is the camera? Oooh, we just don't know."

The space was large, but he could see enough of it to tell there didn't appear to be anything he wanted. He gazed over his shoulder to where Octane strained on metal tiptoe behind him, then TURNED fully to face the daredevil, yellow glow staring him down. "Letting me?" Revenant answered airily.

Scoffed before rounding past him back out into the hall. "As opposed to stopping me?" BOLD of Silva to even ask if this might be considered some kind of exchange. He'd killed for less. Most of the Legends knew better.

The simulacrum turned back in the direction of the stairs, intending to head to the opposite second floor wing. Silva had mentioned a couple more studies; at least one of them was probably downstairs, but he would obviously be searching there last, wanting to avoid the auction space and public eye as much as possible.

#; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #simulamortem #throws him off a cliff.

[deathchasing]

"Oh, right-- hitman." Of course he hadn't lived anywhere, it would defeat the point. Distracted, Octane quickly typed a couple of messages into his phone while Revenant stood towering in the library doorway, seemed to be giving himself a rundown of the room. Three separate event coordinators were arguing in Octane's texts about where something or other was supposed to go-- he hadn't read the specifics, didn't care-- because they had all been hired to do one thing and they were doing it poorly.

He finally silenced his phone altogether. His eyebrows came together where he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "I fucking. Hate doing this stuff," he murmured, mostly to himself. He never would have survived an office job.

He came up behind Revenant and stood on his toes to peer over one pauldron, hydraulics hissing quietly in the springs of his heels. "Aye, hombre, do I get something in return for letting a murderbot ransack the family mansion? Or does this qualify as just one of those Revenant Things you woulda done anyway?"

Technically following the sim around was its own reward-- he'd have taken anything besides weathering the mundane, and it helped that it was such a desecration of Torres's name-- but there was something to be said for how stressful and exhausting the past month had been, and watching someone whom he still knew very little about root around in the privacy of his home did not exactly help.

He stopped out in the hall, staring for the doors to the library. Other rooms felt more important, but he supposed it was worth a look. The sim scoffed, treading ahead.

"I didn't live anywhere," he responded. "Unless you mean the rotted CAGES I was kept in, in which case no, I never went back."

In life, he had moved between hotel rooms or extended stay suites for work. Under Ego Retention, Hammond had set him up with fake ones to return to whenever he was dormant between jobs; isolated cells which at some point had stopped being maintained. Seemed his handlers had quit giving a shit until no one remembered where he slept at all.

He'd had an apartment once, but he had rarely been there. He had grown up in a townhouse but had no attachment to that either. Both locations were unrecognizable now. Revenant let himself into the library, stopping in the doorway just to observe the space and see if there might be anything of INTEREST here.

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

[deathchasing]

Octane turned his head to look at him when his question wasn't addressed immediately; the sim's optics wandered over the pictures a brief moment more. His response had a markedly flatter affect. He turned away, then, leaving Octane even more confused than he'd been when they'd entered.

He watched him head for the door-- a surreal sight, he realized, for the simulacrum to be here of all places-- and turned briefly back for the pictures framing the window. Carefully, almost tenderly, he unstuck the little drawing Revenant had pointed out and folded it into his pocket.

As he ambled toward the door himself, he thought about what might make him want to see where Revenant lived. Distant interest, he supposed. Maybe it was just that simple for the sim too.

"You ever go back to where you lived?" He asked. "I know how long it was, but - just to see?"

His thoughts wandered to whether anything would be left of him in three-hundred years. He cut off that train of thought before it could derail; he didn't waste time thinking about the future. Wasn't about to start now.

Golden glow followed Silva's gesturing for the sizable shark plush which took up almost half the bed. "Surprised someone didn't hurl on it," Revenant mumbled. The TEETH on Silva's mask were probably a shark motif too, he realized.

He observed some more of the photos of a younger Octane and Lifeline before gazing down at the other Legend's question. "Nothing," the simulacrum responded tonelessly, turning then to trail for the door. He hadn't wanted to see the room just to make Silva squirm. He had just wanted to see it. Idle curiosity.

The Legends were able to hold PIECES OF THEIR LIVES in their hands. Relics from their childhood. Places they had lived. Photos of themselves through the years.

Revenant didn't have those things. He just had his head in a tank, and sometimes the ghost in the mirror. What evidence of his former life hadn't been systematically ERASED had been weathered away by time. Until he had seen it when booting into the new body, he had thought even his old name had been wiped from the Outlands. So it interested him, he supposed, to be able to browse the Legends' pasts in a way he couldn't browse his own. Like little museums.

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

[deathchasing]

He jumped a little, apparently startled, and took a closer look where Revenant drew his attention. He tilted his head to one side - the sim wasn't wrong.

"Huh." It was intriguing, but not exactly surprising. "I mean, I always did like sharks." He pointed up at the bed where an oversized shark plushie-- still about half his size-- laid docile over his pillows. "Won that when me and Che went to a fair. I only remember 'cause I accidentally dropped it off the roller coaster and had to jump the fence after to go get it."

Navi had died a few days later. He hadn't slept without that shark again until he left for the Games. He frowned - he wasn't sure why he hadn't taken it with him. Something about it made him uncomfortable. Everything in this room did. He couldn't put a name to the feeling-- sadness. Softness. Vulnerability. It made him itchy, fidgety.

He sighed and didn't turn to look at Revenant, despite his looming like a devil on his shoulder. He asked distantly, "What exactly are you getting out of this?"

Whether it was locked or not, he would have gotten in either way. He met the other Legend's gaze PATIENTLY until the door was opened for him.

The lack of mess went to show just how little time Silva spent here. Revenant stepped past him, drifting past the television to regard the console, and then on toward the bed. There, he reached for one of the tiny lights, examining its shape in a delicate grasp of metal fingers.

Released it and continued until he stood next to Octane at the window, observing the photos and drawings. Gaze lingered most on the EARLIEST of them. One drawing featured the rabbit riding a shark equipped with armor, jets, lasers. Revenant loosely tapped the illustration with his knuckles, scoffing - "Looks kinda like your new suit."

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

[deathchasing]

"Hey-- nonono, wait--"

Octane hurried at first but inevitably came to a halt in the middle of the hallway, resigning himself to the sim's usual routine of barging into his room uninvited; Revenant, however, merely stopped at the door and looked at him. Brow furrowed, Octane hesitated before he closed the distance and put his hand on the knob, gaze leveled on Revenant's own.

"It's unlocked."

His eyes narrowed, gears clearly turning in his head before he opened the door. Stared a little longer at him, perplexed, and entered the room, only then moving his eyes away. The room lit up softly on LED strips along the wall. He spread his arms wide.

"There, happy? Nothing in here that's gonna be any help to you. I stopped using it when I left for the Games."

It had long since been cleaned by the maid, but the room still clearly looked to be one he'd grown up in. Glow-in-the-dark stars dotted the ceiling, remnants of his younger years. A bright red Apex banner hung from one wall-- likely the most recent addition before he'd vacated-- alongside an assortment of shelved trophies and awards from his pre-Apex stunts. In one corner sat a lofted bed strung up with bunny-shaped tealights illuminating a desk beneath, and in another he had a TV and gaming system setup with a small couch. More or less, the room looked exactly like one might suspect, minus the mess.

He slowly wandered toward the window nook, around which he'd pinned various photos and drawings over the years. Some of them looked to be nearly as old as he was. A good portion of the earlier photos featured some combination of him, Ajay, and Navi; another, later portion showed his time spent with Obi and Ramya. The drawings spanned from childhood scribbles to vastly more complex engineering plans with the trigonometry to boot. The entire display might have been a very clear visual timeline were it not scattered all over the place, chronologically skewed.

Octane went still here, face softened, as he eyed the photos he'd entirely forgotten about.

An amused hum. "I'm not, huh?" Hammond was the biggest fish in the technological pool of the Outlands, and he played through their security like a kid in a sandbox. Probably NO ONE knew their security systems better.

He didn't imagine that Silva Pharmaceuticals employed anything that might surprise him.

"Hmm." A less amused sound at the implication whatever data had been in that office may have been confiscated. He would need to do some digging on the legal firm that had gotten their hands on it... Conduct some INTERVIEWS on where it was now.

"Older," he answered about how he felt, a little quieter, a little more distant.

Older than 44. Older than 359. That many centuries had stripped time of its meaning, put PEOPLE and CIVILIZATION into perspective. Revenant hadn't been perfectly conscious for all those hundreds of years, but he could look back now on all the ways the Outlands had changed in that time... And all the ways they hadn't.

Old room? The simulacrum moved past the library without the slightest pause, stopping instead at Octane's door and then looking to him expectantly.

#; WHAT A RUSH #(ic.) #simulamortem #uh oh gamers it's Feelings time

[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