Chapter Text
The press, the endless interviews that followed a Season -- hell, even a single Game -- was just part of the package of being a Legend. It was one of the few areas of their strange status that Elliott exceeded at. He knew exactly how to make the journalists laugh, when words failed him -- as they so often did -- he could usually make up for it with a charming smile and self-deprecating joke. The crowd would laugh, some of his fellow Legends would chuckle, some would roll their eyes, but all in all, entertaining a crowd was what he was renowned for. And so, he did it extremely well.
But no one is infallible, least of all Elliott.
He’d learnt to dodge the obvious questions, derail them with some unrelated tangent or extravagant display that made people forget the subject altogether. Questions surrounding his family, his background, and most of all: his mother, Evelyn Witt.
(Later, he’ll wonder if perhaps the more talented journalists had noticed his tactics, and altered their own in order to try and coerce a semblance of truth from him.)
He should have figured as much, when he signalled to answer a question from someone like Angela Fazia. Such an incredibly stupid idea, in retrospect, but he’d been still running on that high following a win, thought he was damn near invincible.
“Mister Witt -- oh, excuse me -- Mirage.”
Chuckles all round from her fellow colleagues. That alone had set an uneasy stirring in Ellliott’s gut.
“I apologise for such a -- well, for lack of a better word, a ‘fluff piece’ question, but you know just how much your fanbase reveres you and enjoys this kind of insight -- but if I may -- what would you say is your happiest memory?”
Such an innocent question, but he feels the colour drain from his face all the same as he struggles to maintain his smile.
Breathe, he tells himself, breathe.
But the memories sweep him away all the same. And at a certain point, there is nothing you can do but simply let yourself be carried away by the current.
**
It’s a simple answer, really. But not one he would choose to share with the world.
Simple, but the one he clung to above all others during the countless nights he lay awake in his apartment, alone, staring at the ceiling.
His family. The last time they had been altogether.
Or, at least; the last times all his brothers had come home before they never came back.
**
It is six years ago, and Elliott is shrugging off his jacket, grumbling to himself about that customer at the bar that just wouldn’t fucking leave. He is stomping the sand from his boots on the steps to their relatively small home, muttering under his breath as he bends over and undoes the thick laces, knowing Evelyn Witt would give him more than an earful if he dragged sand into the house on top of being late for dinner.
It’s in that moment that he catches the aroma carrying through from the kitchen, and hesitates.
Pork chops. Huh . She rarely took the time to make their trademark family dish these days, unless it was a special occasion. Since all his brothers had left, she was more typically found toiling late into the evening in her workshop.
In his usual autopilot routine of arriving back home, he realises that he had failed to notice the multiple pairs of dirty boots kicked into the corner beside the welcome mat, or the extra jackets haphazardly tossed on top of the coat hanger. Elliott straightens up slowly, as if in a trance, reaching out and gently turning over a lapel to reveal the stitched name tag ‘WITT’ across the front. Which could have belonged to any one of them, but he recognises it as Roger's from the scent alone. He exhales sharply, stepping back and taking a moment to actually count the number of discarded shoes, jackets, wondering, desperately trying to stop himself from hoping that --
“Elliott?”
His mother’s voice rings out from the kitchen, and her cadence is more than enough confirmation. He stumbles in his frantic kicking off the rest of his boot, excitement, anticipation and for some strange reason, even fear sending electric currents rushing down his spine as he hastily heads towards the kitchen. The closer he gets towards the slightly-ajar door, the louder the once-familiar din coming from behind it sounds, that he finds himself hesitating -- just for a moment -- as he lays his palm against the sanded wood.
Just for a moment. Just long enough to take a deep breath, to close his eyes. To pray that once he pushes it open, it didn’t mean this was some kind of peculiar dream or hallucination or --
He opens the door.
It was rare all three of his brothers managed to get shore leave at the same time. So rare, in fact, that Elliott was pretty sure it had only ever occurred twice since they’d all enlisted, once for a holiday and the other on the anniversary of Dad --
But there they were. Elon, leaning back in his chair with his usual lazy smirk, hands clasped behind his head. He had always been the best of them at managing to take up the most space in an already crowded household. When Elliott had been younger, Elon had been the one who usually went out of his way to make his life as difficult as possible, between his taunts about his stammer, from his repeated teasing of ‘lil Elli, the mama’s boy ’, but such resentments tended to fall away when war tore your family asunder, ripped away your friends, left you wondering whether every time you said goodbye, would it be the last time you see them again. Ricky and Roger sat beside one another, flashing identical smiles although the twins had taken steps to diversify their appearance from one another since the last time Elliott saw them; Ricky had shaved his head and Roger had grown one hell of a beard, but --
Here they are. Every single one of them, around one table, and of course, there, behind them all, smiling with a radiance the sun could never dare to rival:
Evelyn Witt, leaning against the sink, face flushed whether from the joy of all her sons in one room altogether, or the exertion of cooking for so many all at once, or any number of things --
It’s that smile, Elliott remembers.
It’s that glow, the soft sheen on her face lit up all the more by Solace’s sunset behind the window, it’s --
It’s the look she gives him then, her blue eyes meeting Elliott’s with a warmth that takes his breath away.
Like the ones she used to give him when he was a kid, curled into a ball with his comforter as protection, when the sounds of war and gunfire and Titans falling could be heard from even within the protective walls of Solace City, and she would sit at his bedside, holding his hand and whispering over and over:
“Everything will be alright .”
**
It is six years later, and he is no longer Elliott Witt, part-time bartender, part-time engineer, he is Mirage, one of the acclaimed Apex Legends. And he is frozen on-stage at a press conference, over a relatively innocuous question by Anglela Fazia. Several dozen pairs of eyes are trained upon him, and he is dimly aware that the crowd is beginning to mutter. But he can’t -- he can’t do anything.
Ajay stands up suddenly, lets out an exaggerated yawn before grimacing.
“All well an’ good for you people out there, but we were just out there getting shot at, if ya didn’t notice. Don’t know ‘bout the rest of ya, but I’m getting tired.”
Makoa follows almost immediately, creaking his neck and shooting the audience an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, but think that’s it for me today too, brothers. That ring hurts , yanno?”
Both he and Ajay begin to walk offstage, as the other Legends begin to gather their things, no one appearing particularly upset at the sudden end of the press conference. Except, perhaps, Octavio, who seems to be complaining about the incredible stunt he had planned but Ajay has him by the arm and dragging offstage before he can get much more than a word in.
Elliott begins to get his own stuff in order, trying his utmost to look composed. The anxiety that he was doing an absolute appalling job of such a simple task was only fanning the flames.
Until --
A large hand claps his shoulder, squeezes it gently. He casts a panicked glance over his shoulder, only to be shocked by the sight of Makoa Gibraltar smiling reassuringly down at him.
“S’okay, brother,” he murmurs in a hushed tone, just low enough to make sure the microphones don’t catch it. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wanting to keep certain memories to yourself.”
He holds his gaze just a moment longer, before releasing his grasp on Elliott’s shoulder and rejoining the rest of the Legends wandering offstage. Elliott can’t help but stare at his retreating form -- before remembering where he was, what he was supposed to be doing, and hustling to keep up with the departing crowd.
God only knew what they’d report tomorrow. But he tries to keep Makoa’s words at the forefront of his mind as he makes his way home, ignoring the various messaging alerts and phone calls that plagued his phone the entire journey and keeping his focus on the road ahead.
**
He lets himself in, that very same front door. It’s a considerably emptier space now -- several pairs of Elliott’s work boots, and then just a pair of woman's pumps. Two jackets on the coat rack, when once it used to be a struggle to locate space for even one.
“Elliott?”
He sighs when he recognises the voice, and begins to shrug off his overcoat.
“Mr. Witt? Is that you?” Christian, Evelyn’s carer calls again.
“Yeah,” he replies as he makes his way towards the living room, suddenly all too aware how sore his muscles are from the day’s exertion. “It’s me. How is she?”
Christian glances out from behind the door, steps gently forward and closes it behind him.
“Doing okay, all things considered. I...wasn’t sure whether she should watch the game or not. So I just...didn’t tell her. I hope that’s okay?” He shuffles his feet awkwardly. “Tell the truth, I wasn’t expecting you home this early. You usually…”
“Yeah,” Elliott bites his lip. “I usually. Look, thanks for everything, Christian, but why don’t you take off? I can handle things from here.”
The carer looks genuinely surprised.
“Are you sure, Mr. Witt? I mean -- we didn’t watch , but I heard, you know, that you won and all --”
“I’m sure,” Elliott replies, a little too abruptly. Damnit, Elliott. “I mean… No, thanks. It’s fine. I’d like to spend some time with her tonight, is all.”
Christian’s face softens.
“I understand completely. She’s in there. I was just reading to her. Watership Down. She seems to like it.”
**
It is twenty-three years ago, and Elliott is seven years old, curled up in a pile of blankets beside his mother as she reads to him.
“When they catch you ,” Evelyn recites to him, leaning in close to his ear. “ They will kill you .” When Elliott seizes up in terror, clutching his blankets around him, she laughs softly, brushing the hair from his forehead and kissing it gently. “ But first! They must find you .”
“Like the stuff you make, Mom? The invisible Pilot stuff?” he asks her, his gaze seeking.
“Just like that, Elli.” She hefts the book up again, still stroking his hair. “ Be cunning, and full of tricks, and your people will never be destroyed.”
Elliott thinks of the noise of war that raged outside the city’s walls, and for just a moment -- perhaps the first moment in his entire life -- he feels invigorated rather than afraid.
“Can you teach me what you do?”
Evelyn looks genuinely surprised, keeping Elliott tucked close against her but studying him with a bemused look all the same.
“I -- of course! I would -- are you sure , Elli? You might find it awfully boring but --”
“Yes!” he exclaims, tossing off his pile of blankets and throwing his arms around her. “I want -- I wanna -- I wanna learn how to keep other people safe too! I don’t -- I don’t want anyone to be hurt anymore!”
She sets the book down on the bed, and pulls him in close in an embrace. He is only seven, and cannot yet truly grasp the extent of the things he is feeling, but Elliott knows that he is loved, he is protected, he is wanted.
“Then I will teach you. And they won’t catch you.”
**
“Uhm. Mister Witt?”
It is twenty-three years later, and Christian is looking at him with mounting concern. Elliott blinks back to reality with a jolt.
“I -- uh -- yeah! No, no, it’s fine. Just -- just head on, Chris, I wanna -- I wanna see her.”
Christian does not look entirely convinced, but he plucks the money from Elliott’s hand regardless.
“Same time tomorrow?”
“Uh. Yeah --- yeah. That would be great. Thanks again, Christian.”
The carer nods, moves to take his own coat from the rail and hastily leaves. Elliott finds himself alone in the hallway, breathing heavily, trying not to look back at the simple entry hall that had once been so full of life, but now practically radiated emptiness.
“Who’s there?”
He closes his eyes, and swallows. How he’s come to hate this question.
“It’s me, Mom. It's Elliott.”
“Elliott..?”
He pushes open the door, making sure his smile is fixed in place.
Six years, but so much has changed. There’s more silver in her hair these days than blonde, and she was smaller, thinner now too: muscles earned by countless hours spent lugging machinery about her workshop slowly wasting away. She was sitting in her chair, idly leafing through the book Christian had left with her and staring at him with a confused look that never stopped hurting, no matter how familiar it was becoming.
“Yeah. Elliott. Your son.”
Her face lights up with a smile as realisation dawns, and Elliott feels the tightness knotted somewhere in his chest ease ever so slightly. The sunset spills through the blinds, just like it had that day all those years ago, casting strange shadows that, for the briefest of moments, it is like she is painted gold.
So much has changed, but she still remains the most radiant thing in the room to him.
“Elli? What are you doing home from school so early?” She frowns, just the barest crease of her brow. “You aren’t in trouble again, are you?”
There it is again, that twist in his gut that he never could quite get used to.
No, mom he wishes he could say, no, I did not because I’m a thirty-year-old man. Who owns his own business now, I’m even famous across the whole damn universe. They call me a Legend, because I fight in a bloodsport, using our own technology, the one we built together. The one you gave me, and told me to follow my dreams. And I won, today, Mom. And I wish I could tell you all this, and not confuse or upset you, and I wish we could just celebrate together like we used to.
I wish… I could just tell you how it’s all thanks to you and all you did for me. Do for me.
I wish things could go back to the way they were.
But, of course, he does not say such things. Can’t say such things.
Instead, he makes his way over to her and lays a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He’d like to pull her in for a hug, but he doesn’t want to disorient her too much about exactly ‘when’ this was.
“Naw, not in any trouble, don’t worry. Hey, I’d even go so far as to say I -- I made ya proud!”
She reaches up, lays her hand over where his rests and smiles gently.
“You always make me proud, Elli.”
He curses as he feels the prickling sensation in his eyes that portends tears falling, clenches his jaw and stubbornly swallows the feeling away. He can’t allow himself to fall apart around her.
He can’t.
“You want me to read to you some more, mom?”
She blinks, glancing at the book in her lap, looking perplexed all of a sudden once more.
“Oh...yes, that’s what I was doing before you got home, wasn’t I? My memory these days,” she says with a rueful laugh, “forget my head if it weren’t screwed on. Damn those doctors -- they should let me get back to work; the brain’s like a neglected piece of equipment, you know, just goes to rust if you don’t keep it well-oiled.”
This again. Elliott sighs, not wishing to have this argument for the thousandth time, and thus casting his gaze about the room for some way to divert her train of thought.
“You know what they told you: it’s just too dangerous right now. We’ll keep looking though -- bound to be some doctor out there that can help you. Say,” he slaps the top of their piano with a grin. “How ‘bout I treat you to an exclusive im-- imp-- uh. Improv performance! A treat for my number one fan?”
Distraction has always been one of his stronger skills, and he’s rewarded with a genuine laugh, His own smile no longer feels so forced when he hears that and he sits himself down at the piano bench.
“Oh, please,” she chuckles, and his eyes widen with surprise when she stands up suddenly. She moves towards the piano, and he sidles over to make room so that she too can slip down into the seat beside him. “Do you still remember that song I taught you?”
He’s briefly stunned -- Evelyn’s moments of pure clarity weren’t exactly unheard of, but he’d learned to temper his expectations.
“Well? Do you?”
She smiles at him warmly as she rests her hands over the piano keys. Elliott’s fingers settle next to her’s, wearing a matching smile. A Witt family smile.
“The Inch Worm? Yeah, I think I can just 'bout manage that. Maybe with a little help from you.”
Music fills the otherwise empty home as the sun slips behind the horizon of Solace City.
He doesn’t even think about the trophy nestled in the bag that he’d left hanging on the coat rack.
Instances like this are more priceless than any reward he could dream of.
What year it is no longer matters.
Some moments are simply timeless.