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Legends lined up all in a row, dressed in flashy outfits and designer pieces for the awards night. The theatre was filled to the brim with people, eager to collect their trophies for their respective categories, clients, and the like. The stage was grandiose. Red curtains lined at the edge with gold hung high, the rest of it tucked nicely at the sides. The center had a handful of soft white spotlights, holographic fog dancing against the shine. The backdrop was designed with gigantic renditions of the trophies: gold-plated britannium vague silhouettes of the commissioner, Kuben Blisk. It looked of him standing erect, a Mastiff gun held upright as the stock set foot on its base.
Lifeline was relieved, but at the same time, annoyed. Looking at the performances of quickly rising stars, the awestruck looks of those in attendance, and the beautiful camerawork, Lifeline felt nothing more than a watcher than an actual fighter.
It’s not to put any offense to watchers, though. Without them, there wouldn’t have been the games in the first place.
Her head throbbed hearing the drums pipe up during the performance. Which was a damn shame, given Lifeline and her affinity of such. Weak, she tried to reach over the table to grab the remote.
“I’ll get that for you,” the MRVN unit assigned to take care of her swiftly shut the TV off by pressing the button behind it.
In fact, the MRVN’s voice was strange. Mainly due to how they shouldn’t have one.
Lifeline shot up. The sudden movement made her nauseous, but it meant little if there were an intruder in her home.
Wait a second, she thought, intruder? In this neighborhood?
“Sit down, skinsuit.” The voice chatted back, coming from behind the couch she rested on.
She turned to the source slowly, fighting against the headache. Long, cold, titanium fingers on the back of a hand pressed on her fore head forcefully, but slowly, guiding her back to her pillow. “That’s a high fever. What the hell have you been doing?”
As if to confirm his point, Lifeline went into a short coughing fit, her torso elevated by a pillow and the handle of her couch. She coughed into her elbow covered by a separate arm sleeve. “What—“ she let out a cough sounding more like a deep wheeze. Her voice was frailed and bumpy, much like what someone would sound like after screaming for a long time, “—what do ya think you’re doin’ ‘ere?”
Revenant’s glowing LEDs for eyes looked down at the legend, stoic. “Have you seen that awards show?”
“A bit.”
“Can you see me being anywhere close to that?”
She thought about it for a second, pulling her hands out of her cozy duvet and plopping it in front of her. She tried to reach to the table beside her for a drink, only to find her pitcher of water empty. “Right. Weren’t you on a murder spree before the games pulled you in?”
Revenant chuckled, deep and sarcastic. He found a MRVN unit coming out from cleaning a room and motioned to the table, alerting the MRVN of the empty pitcher. “Give them some credit. They’re trying.”
Lifeline shrugged, looking at the simulacrum. “Still don’ ‘xplain ya being ‘ere.”
The simulacrum took to sitting on a bean bag right of her wall-mounted television. He fit snugly into the seat, half expecting it to burst.
The MRVN unit poured Lifeline a glass of water and handed it to her. She thanked the robot and gestured the simulacrum to grab some for himself. Seeing his lack of response, she placed a hand on her face. “Ah, eediat, you don’t drink at all! Why did I think you would?”
He studied her face from his seat, confused. Instead of cowering or formulating a plot to get him out, the sick legend asked only of his reasons for being there. Hell, it even seemed like she understood his presence, asking only for an explanation from the simulacrum himself. Even to fellow competitors, he was tall, brooding, and intimidating. He couldn’t find a single trace of that on the medic’s face.
“Why aren’t you afraid?”
“Afraid?” Lifeline readjusted the duvet slowly slipping down to her rich, white carpet. “I’ve been worse. And besides—I am really bored, so I don’t really mind you.”
Revenant sat motionless, unsure of what to think. He looked to the dark, redwood and glass coffee table, to the fireplace under the television, to the MRVN bot fluffing her pillows. “You want to know why I’m here?”
“Of course I do! It’s not every day I get a visit from anyone that isn’t Octavio. Not that yours isn’t any welcome… or his is… but that’s beside my poi—“ She coughed again, clutching at her chest with the other hand. “Bumbo! T’at stings.”
He blinked a few times at the medic, entertained. Lifeline sneered. “So you came here to bully me?”
The MRVN bot offered him a glass of water. Revenant grinned, knit his fingers close and elongated them. He took a step forward and lunged at the bot, fingers cutting deep within the unit like knives cutting through jelly.
He stabbed at the unit again, and again, and again through different parts until it was nothing but a mangled mess of metal and wires. One look at the robot gave him a momentary sense of satisfaction before throwing it beside the front door.
Lifeline’s face soured. “You seriously killed my caretaker and shoved your mess at the side? I worked hard to keep this place clean!” The medic downed her share of water at a concerning speed before aggressively setting it down the table. Her tone of voice implied she was yelling, but with her voice as of now, it didn’t seem like it. “And now, I have to do more things on my own no thanks to you!”
The simulacrum sighed, hand put up defensive, but low. “Quit whining, they’ve got enough bags of bolts to send over for a lifetime. I’ll get out once that stupid event is over. For now, I’m going to spend my time blowing their budget.”
“And—“ she interjected, wiggling a finger at him, “—being my temporary caretaker. My house, my sickness, my rules. Also, carcasses on the front yard, please.”
He scoffed. “What makes you think I’m going to let you boss me around?”
“Excuse me? Because I’m cooler than you and you want my MRVNs?” Lifeline giggled, looking only to see Revenant’s face, deadpan. Her eyes rolled. She sat up, leaning forward. “You have no humor.”
Although he hated to admit it (and he really did), she wasn’t wrong. She had the right dash of… well, everything in her personality. Smart, serious, humorous, formal, polite, sarcastic, respectful—it wasn’t a chore to deal with. He was quite surprised by how pleasant she was with the whole ‘breaking into her house’ thing. “I won’t kill the next ones for the first 2 hours.”
“Three.” She countered.
“Two and a half.”
“Four.”
“Three and 45 minutes.”
Lifeline slunk back into her chair. “Great! Now, do you mind cleaning up? I can’t sleep with a body in the room.”