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Bullets ricochet off the metallic interior, a cacophony of sound that deafens and covers the encroaching footfalls of the enemy combatants. This was not an optimal location in which to defend, and yet, he’d been left little option given his teammates’ predilection for impulsive gunfights and generalised lack of intellect.
Fuse’s calloused, perpetually-filthy hand slaps him across the back of the head, in what the Salvonian most likely assumed was some form of companionable action. “Hey, you need to lighten up, ‘doc, me’n’Tavi have this. Might just surprise you, one day.”
The man winks in that overly exaggerated style that he must have developed after losing his alternate eye, and grins infuriatingly.
An acidic retort sits heavily on the back of Caustic’s tongue, longing to be unleashed on the person who ruined all chances for a potential bunker option in prime position, by announcing their location to all nearby squads less than a full minute after reaching ground. The rage simmers like a burn, hot and sharp, but he masters the disgraceful sensation by clenching his fists and straightening.
“Enough, your foolishness has placed us in this situation, and it seems my superior strategising will be the catalyst that shall remove us from this imperilled situation.” Caustic manages with an even tone, ever mindful of the camera drones peeking through the windows and hovering nearby. It would not do to show emotion, to be seen to break the facade of a psychotic evil genius, by losing his temper at the irritating teammates he had been saddled with. No matter how desperately he wished to wring the necks of the pair.
Upstairs, a canister trap triggers, dispersing hissing green chemicals into the air and choking the breath from a would-be ambusher. From the distorted heaving, it must be Bloodhound, for the hunter’s mask often muffled their coughing.
Of course, from the brief second wherein the Salvonian’s gaze softened as he glanced up, Caustic could easily draw the same conclusion. How intriguing, on a theoretical level, what a rush of biochemicals could do to a dangerous man… perhaps if he altered his formulae, would it be possible to inspire others to engage in perilous acts and near lethal loyalty through manipulation of the same?
“Well, are you to dispose of them, or must I step in to assuage your precious feelings?” he goads, tone thick with a pointed derision that did as intended. Shaking Fuse from his no-doubt revoltingly romantic reverie and snapping him back to the here and now.
“Hold your bloody prowlers, mate, I’m gonna do it. Just thinkin’ about how to make it look good for the cameras, ‘ey?” There was anger in that expression, so swiftly smothered by the smooth, camera-ready expression that the Salvonian was quick to display. His tone changing to playful, friendly, as if they were drinking buddies in some backwater tavern on the hellhole planet.
Caustic wasn’t fooled for a moment, the false charm was merely a veneer to something deeper and more dangerous than few of the other Legends could fathom; predatory and cold, like a knife in the dark. In that, he did feel a kinship with the Salvonian, though he would much rather submit to torture of the most deviant kind than admit it. Though he did not bother with any false airs of familiarity, and therein lay the real difference between them.
Well, that and the fact that their intellects were on vastly different ends of the spectrum.
“Ah well, just gonna have to go show Houndy that sometimes… love hurts .” Fuse grins, looking dead into the nearby camera as he cocked the peacekeeper.
No doubt there were people across the Syndicate worlds positively swooning right now, and it curled Caustic’s stomach at the ridiculous display. Such pandering to the simple-minded denizens who cheered at their holodisplay screens; for Legends whose reasons for the games were nowhere near as noble as the Syndicate-concocted backstories would have them believe.
With a sharp hiss, his attention is drawn to another canister triggering to a door on the lower floor. His disgust for this ridiculous new map on the crumbling moon of Cleo was already heightened by the continued need to utilise those undignified skyrails, and yet this was another factor that really frustrated the scientist. The buildings seemed created deliberately to thwart his abilities, and that of Miss Pacquette… and perhaps the loud mechanic as well, Rampage or whatever her name was.
One could not effectively safeguard a building with so many floors, doors, windows and miscellaneous roof openings. Gritting his teeth, Caustic suppressed the irritation, as emotion could cloud one’s logic and give the enemy an advantage.
In his hands the Devotion whirred to life, the turbocharger spinning the barrel rapidly as he jumped over the stair railing to the floor below, aiming at the hacking figure there. Ah, the new woman… Catalyst.
Although he longed to speak to her about the ferrofluid he deployed as a weapon and deterrent, he had recently heard tell that she was somewhat infatuated with crystals, magic and similar ideologies. All of which were nothing more than fanciful pastimes for the gullible, often rich elites, with more money than common sense… or the desperate, who could not obtain cures by any other means.
He saw the moment she registered him through the billowing green clouds, and allowed himself a cold, satisfied grin as the bullets forced her backward. Cracking her shield and leaving her little recourse but to use her ultimate in panicked response.
Somewhere above the muffled sound of knuckle grenades crackled and popped, as shotgun blasts and the ever-distinctive ping of the wingman went off every few seconds. The fight above would conclude as anticipated, with the hunter already weakened from the toxins infiltrating their system; and yet, the small potential for an alternate outcome to the experiment could not be ignored.
This fleeting thought nearly cost him his advantage, and only the sudden resurgence of their third squadmate physically slamming them both aside at the last moment, allowed Caustic to avoid the inky black wall rising betwixt him and his prey. A minor inconvenience.
‘Yo, dude you okay? She nearly flattened you, doc!” Octane crowed, utterly unabashed and seemingly oblivious to the impending threat of a potential further ambush. “I saw Fuse grappling with Bloodhound, and then I heard her going off, but I didn’t see anyone else when I did the perimeter. Maybe it’s just the two left?”
Caustic, as always, was mildly surprised to learn there was a brain capable of anything more than marinating in sugar and adrenaline in that green-haired skull of the runner’s. However, he did raise an interesting point… they had not dropped long ago, and no one had heard the First Blood signal yet. So where was the final person on this encroaching squad?
With practised ease, Caustic twisted a decompressed canister from his suit and tossed it to the floor by the wall. A second following and inflating a split-second later, like perverse and deadly gate wardens that merely awaited the right entrant.
Somewhere above, a distant, “Aw c’mon love, give us a pash for the fans, hey?” could be heard, followed by the sound of something that was awfully similar to a helmet connecting to a skull in what must be a rather brutal headbutt. There was a brief heartbeat of silence wherein even the runner paused his jittering to identify if further support was necessary above…
…when suddenly a rather stilted, woozy tone added, “Y’know I like it when ya play rough, Houndy, but this ain’t that kind of event, right?”
Followed by a long, loud, slightly mechanical sigh. “I know, Walter Fitzroy. I know. Now please, felagi… die for me.”
“For you, love, anything… but me teammates might have an issue with that, yeah? Still, reckon we can hang out on the dropship later, have some steaks, make a day of it. Sound good?”
“Of course. See you there.”
And then the rather final sound of a wingman being emptied into someone at point blank range. “Farewell, my love, I will fight to honour you.”
Caustic restrained himself from rolling his eyes behind the mask, but only barely. A man’s steel-clad self-control did, unfortunately, have some limitations when faced with such emotionally unstable idiots, and the regularity with which their sentiments resulted in failure on the battlefield.
“Are you able to dispatch the hunter, or must I do everything around here?” he queries, sarcasm evident in every syllable. Though, for all his effort, it appears to pass directly over Octane’s head and keep going, likely all the way to Boreas.
“Oh I so got this, amigo, watch this!” the runner yells, tossing down his jump pad and launching recklessly upwards, seemingly unfazed by slamming into the ceiling before double-jumping to the next level’s stairs. “Come out Hound, let’s test my speed against your Knowing-Where-People-Are thing!”
Leaving the fool to his fate, and internally lamenting all the work he could have done in this time period had the Syndicate not ‘insisted’ he partake in this utter travesty of an event match, Caustic levelled the weapon between the two cannisters. Slowly, the viscous obsidian ichor descended into a puddle upon the floor, revealing the almost fully repowered Catalyst attached to Lifeline’s Doc.
Ah, the third.
The avowed ‘heart’s match’ for Octane, and therefore someone for whom the runner was anticipated to struggle to kill, given the theme of this ridiculous special tournament. How the Syndicate assumed that the Legends would suddenly change their normal tactics when faced with other Legends they have romantic or sentimental attachments to, today of all days, when every other day they downed them with a regularity that bordered on mundane… even the genius was struggling to understand.
Octane had easily shot down Miss Che on dozens of occasions before. Caustic had taken out Miss Pacquette, a young woman of stunning intellect that he felt vaguely paternal appreciation for. Even Bangalore, who played against her own brother for whom she expressed strong affinity, did not hesitate when given the opportunity to complete a kill.
Although, as he had been advised by Gibraltar in the unnervingly friendly man’s way, sometimes siblings were just like that. As a general only child, until he found out about Crypto and his ilk, it had seemed an unusual sentiment to hold against a potential organ match… but, he had accepted the explanation to conclude their conversation with great alacrity.
Say what the tabloids would, but Caustic was not a man completely blind to human emotions, actions and motivations. Of course this match was merely to capitalise on a holiday that had once been about emotions and engendering strong relationships into which offspring could be born, brought or otherwise obtained… and had been so far construed from its original purpose that the expectation for gifting and courtship on this date was bordering on the obscene.
To even suggest that there was an element of romance to watching people believed to be in love, lust or other infatuation murder one another for the entertainment of people on Valentine’s Day was, in truth, a fascinating contradiction of the general human ethos. Had Caustic ever felt the need to lower himself to studying the humanities, it would be an interesting topic to dissect.
Mind whirring along this bizarre track, Caustic almost hesitated a second too long as Catalyst launched herself forwards with a spike trap landing at his feet. Thankfully, the years of being a gilded hostage to this gladiatorial game had honed some rather impressive reaction times and instinctual responses in the scientist.
With a sharp step backwards and slight pivot, his weapon tore through the restored shield and forced the other Legend backwards. Catalyst aimed a P2020 in his general direction and began to fire, the bullets aiming for his ample chest and torso region without any real target in mind other than to cover the retreat.
Caustic grunted as several impacted deeply into the layers of his suit, and at least one made shallow contact with his flesh. More than likely, these areas would bruise severely. However, death was not imminent and it afforded the opportunity to dispatch the other.
“Uh-uh, not so fast, doc.” interjected Lifeline, cocking the weapon placed at the base of his skull. It felt like a Mozambique; which can be rather awful for headshots of this nature, and not a clean passing into respawn. Unfortunate.
“Ah, Lifeline… I assume you are aware that firing that, even at this height, will trigger my canisters to release? You would risk death to finish me off, and likely eliminate your teammate, at the same time.” Caustic said, tone flat and with a tinge of smugness that he had noted tended to unbalance ambushers when they paused to have confrontations of this nature. No one liked a confident hostage.
“Shut ya’ mouth, Caustic, anything you can break me’n’Doc can mend. I can tell ya just stalin’ so whoever’s upstairs can try to pick me off. Well I ain’t havin’ it.” Lifeline’s tone betrays that she’s clearly grinning, enjoying this moment. To be fair to Miss Che, he had killed her in the last three matches run this month, and at least one had been a surprise headshot from a distance.
With a metallic clunk, the gas grenade clatters to the floor, green plumes exploding out as Caustic ducks forwards and to the side, evading the weapons fire as its bearer begins to hack and choke. Lungs filled with burning, searing chemicals that felt like one might imagine drinking bleach or chlorine might, on the skin, the eyes, the lungs…
He watched, impassively, as Octane skidded around the outside of the building and began firing at Catalyst. The woman downed quickly, trying desperately to utilise the level one shield as a means of defence, but quickly realising she was no longer of interest to the runner.
Octane slams a stim into his thigh and races past, heartbeat audible to anyone within a few feet. One day, Caustic would like to study the drug, identify what was in such a substance and if there was a potential to use it in conjunction with his serum for the toxic gas.
“Che, run!” Catalyst yells over the burst of gunfire, as Octane uses his R-99 to shatter Lifeline’s shield. Caustic whirling around to aim his gun at the other Legend as well, taking no small amount of pleasure at the reversal of fates.
The medical bot, Doc, deploys and tries to assist, but is superfluous as Lifeline is downed beneath the unrelenting light and energy ammo barrage. As she hits the ground, Lifeline and Catalyst disappear, replaced by ‘death boxes’ while the battered Legends were sent to a medship above for treatment.
“Whooo, that was AWESOME!” Octane crows, doing a little victory dance and tossing the R-99. “Damn, all outta ammo though, hope Che won’t be too mad later. I wanted to go see the new theme park on Gaea with her. I heard that there’s a coaster there that has antigrav turns that can make you throw up everything you ate a week ago. It sounds AMAZING!”
That caught his attention. Not the inane rambling, but the content.
“Why would anyone think to build a tourist-based attraction on a planet known for agriculture, untamed jungle and herd beasts?” The words slipped out before he even recognised the folly of the statement.
“Pfft, that just means there’s more land to like, flatten and put down the theme park. Besides, I bet they love to have tourists there, right? You can look at cows laying eggs, and then milk a rooster, or whatever it is people do on farms.”
Out of principle alone, Caustic wanted to argue with the runner, especially about the incorrect animal beliefs that he seemed to hold. However, some part of the scientist was exceptionally glad that Fuse was already out of the match, because at least part of that sentence would have been misused by the perpetually-aroused older Legend to make lewd statements for whatever remained of their time in the ring.
“While it would likely be futile to point out your inaccuracies in those statements, Octane, I believe our time is better spent looting these death boxes and moving before the ri-...”
“RING MOVING.”
“We remain in the central sector of the map, where the ring is predicted to close, it would make sense to remain in this location and create a barricade.” Caustic advised, moving throughout the frustratingly terrible architecture to place canister after canister against each of the six doorways in the building.
“COMPETITION REDUCED TO FINAL THREE TEAMS.”
“Aw, I didn’t even get to try out the new weapon, amigo!” Octane laments, pulling a Nemesis from Catalyst’s deathbox and noting it was out of ammo. He looks to Caustic hopefully as the man returns to the bottom floor, bouncing as he squatted by the box, like a child on Christmas requesting permission to open presents.
With a somewhat exaggerated sigh, Caustic tosses his energy ammo to the runner and heads to Fuse’s deathbox to retrieve the mastiff and shotgun pellets. It was the most effective in conjunction with his gases.
“RING CLOSING.”
Tension remained in the small building, the other competitors were very likely descending on this location with haste, and it would only be a matter of time before the combat for first place would occur. Octane was bouncing with excitement, fingers rhythmically dancing along the barrel of the Nemesis, unable to contain himself.
The tell-tale sound of a skyrail echoed in the too-silent world. Two distinctive sets of feet clanked upon the outer upper floor, one heavy and the other almost oddly dainty; past experience pinpointed that the latter was likely Loba. Who she had been paired with for this match was unclear, as Caustic had not been paying attention at the time, given that Miss Pacquette had been uncharacteristically eager to talk to him that morning.
Traps hissed on the uppermost floor, and two sets of voices coughed, hacked and swore. Ah, Bangalore and Loba, of course. The fans would likely enjoy seeing those two forced to cooperate given the recent emotional nonsense they had participated in for all the world to see.
Octane opens and closes the door downstairs, nodding back to Caustic, a subtle trick to infer they’d left the building. It seems to catch the attention of the incoming squad, who easily disarm and deflate the traps on the alternate door before leaving.
“Oh hey, this is weird, right?” says a third voice, as jets roar to life. “Sorry babe, gotta do it and all…”
“Oh no you don’t!” Bangalore shouts, hurling down her ultimate and firing at the aerial assassin, as Valkyrie opens fire on them with her rockets. Loba attempts to jump away, but misaims in the sudden smoke of Bangalore’s charges, and it drops off the cliff. Her shield cracks quickly, as does Bangalore’s, until the hail of bullets is able to down the pair.
The rolling thunder slams into the ground a second later, downing Valkyrie and leaving a deathbox where she once lay. No squad to revive her, and so… an instant fate.
Caustic grimaced in distaste, feeling the victory forced upon them utterly unearned. That this was once again a waste of a day… when he noted something very vital, and quite concerning. The rolling thunder had stopped but the ground was continuing to shake.
Cleo was an exceptionally unstable location for anyone to build a battleground on, let alone one that would be subject to repeated explosions, bombardments and whatever Fuse deigned to call his fiery ultimate. The seismic activity triggered off the traps through movement, and obscured the room utterly.
Although Caustic could see well enough, Octane was fumbling nearby; immune temporarily to the toxins and breathing fine, but utterly blinded. Before he can reach out to grab the incompetent speedster, the building tilts, with a sharp cracking sound that is near deafening.
Their placement by the cliffsides was a positive tactical advantage, but understandably an exceptionally dangerous location should something trigger the moon to begin breaking away again. It had only recently been partially restored through great expense and effort, with missing pieces being retrieved and reconnected by De Silva industries.
Octane said a string of something highly intelligible and grabbed out for something tangible the room’s objects began to move. He could feel the vibrations, but not see well enough to avoid a bookshelf slamming into his shoulder, or the bed that tumbled down the stairs and pinned his leg to the wall.
Going on contextual clues, Octane was using some very creative language at this development as Caustic loomed out of the fog at him. On the one hand, it would be exceptionally interesting to watch the runner die under such unusual, and hard to replicate in a lab, circumstances. On the other, it was not conducive to his experiments and they were currently matched as a team, both variables wherein it would be inappropriate for him to allow the runner to expire.
“Oh dude, you scared the hell outta me with your movie villain entrance, but I’m stuck and, hunh, the servo connection on my prosthetics is malfunctioning. Wanna lend a hand, amigo?” Octane’s face was going pale, which seemed unusual, but he had mentioned the nerve connections were damaged by the bed pinning the prosthetic to the wall at an incorrect angle.
“Are you able to detach the limb, or do we need to find a means by which to move the bed?” he asks, curious despite the situation, as any scientist should be.
“I-I can take it off normally, but it’s all twisted and I dunno if I can get it off like this. It needs to click the other way and then jerk off, which I can’t do by myself right now.”
Once again, for a brief second, Caustic was glad Fuse wasn’t with them right now.
“I understand. We also need to avoid unnecessary movement, any of these shocks could send the building into the chasm, especially if there is excess force applied.” Caustic adds, mouth moving as he considers the situation, and comes to a decisive conclusion. “With the force of gravity on the bed, your position on the wall and the current location of the building, we are unlikely to move the mass.”
“H-hah, sounds like you’re really… p-pulling my leg, amigo!” Octane jokes, trying to remain calm for the cameras despite clearly being impacted by the servo feedback. Caustic makes a show of rolling his eyes when the camera returns to him.
“Indeed.”
He darts a palm forwards with all the precision available to him in such atypical circumstances, and strikes Octane at the temple, surprising the runner for the brief second between the impact and falling unconscious. The sagging body curls into an outstretched arm as the scientist’s free hand probes the mechanism connecting the prosthetic.
It does appear to be of a simplistic design for rapid attachment and connection. With deft fingers, he manages to adjust the prosthetic enough to click it into place for disengagement and then pull Octane free.
The metallic limb twitches and sparks as it separates from the human, but ultimately it is of little consequence. Caustic manipulates the limp body of his teammate into his arms, primarily concerned about the damage a full body’s weight might do to the tubing on his shoulders if he attempted a carry of that nature, and makes steady progress to the exit.
There is a frustrating moment wherein the scientist is forced to climb over an awkward lip, to settle on the cliffside beyond, and briefly considers simply hurling the runner as far onto the solid ground beyond as possible. To allow himself the use of both arms and legs in these difficult circumstances; what little difference it would make.
This level of exertion is below his intellectual dignity, and it is an oversight that no Syndicate rescue squads have yet arrived to manage the unmitigated disaster of this match. However, the ever-present hoverdrone camera remains close by, clearly indicating that someone knows the peril they were in… and simply cared about exploiting it for fan entertainment as long as the pair remained breathing.
Octane was almost unnervingly limp in his arms, a bruise swelling on his temple and the occasional twitch to indicate he was experiencing discomfort. Such matters could not be helped, as it had been the most efficient way to engage the necessary support with minimal resistance… and limited distress to the injured party.
Above, a familiar whirring sound arose, stirring a sense of boundless irritation within Caustic until he could place it. The noise was emanating from Hack, the beloved pet drone of his blasted technical half-sibling, Crypto.
It hovered close, angling down to show the full extent of the building damage and then scanned over the prone form of Octane. Clearly imparting this data to another, likely Lifeline and Gibraltar; the latter and his family being rescue specialists for generations on generations.
“Is it possible to have a dropship come to this location, or do we need to move to a more stable section before this can occur?” Caustic asks, raising an eyebrow at the drone. Watching as it moves back a few feet and pauses, and repeats the action when he moves in that direction. “Understood.”
Hack didn’t move too far, or too fast, which Caustic strongly inferred meant that a steady measured pace was necessary for now. The main complication was maintaining hold of the now stirring runner, who may feel constrained by such a pace and try to run or jump to the detriment of them both.
“Nnngh?” Octane groans, blinking slowly as they reach more solid ground. Nearby the skyrail system has collapsed and bent, twisting with each shudder the moon gives, reminding Caustic of how precarious their situation is.
“Yo, what’s going on?” Octane blinks, trying to sit up and realising he’s being carried, not flat on the floor somewhere. “Can’t feel my-... oh yeah. You got it off, nice work, Doc. Doesn’t even hurt anymore or anything… but my head kinda does though.”
“In order to minimise your discomfort as I disconnected the nerve-uplinks in the prosthetic, I deemed it appropriate to use… sedation. Limited as the options were, at the time.”
“Hah, you have a weird bedside manner, Doc, but it’s cool… I forgive you for knocking me flat out, and like, thanks for the save.”
Caustic hums in response, but doesn’t put him down.
“I think I can hop-along like this, if you don’t want me in your space and all…”
“The ground we walk on is incredibly unstable, thus the pace we are maintaining dispute the urgency of the situation. It would be potentially hazardous to have you hopping and unevenly distributing your weight, force and pace on the fractured and unstable ground at this time.” Caustic responds, following the drone around the final rounded clifface to sight the welcome sight of a dropship waiting for them.
Gibraltar is present with several smaller Gibraltars in their rescue gear, talking to groups of MRVNs equipped for the operation, clearly identifying how to manage the situation and locate any missing human and robot workers moonside. By the base of the ship is a crouched Crypto, and a rather twitchy Lifeline, who looked of two minds about whether to hug or throttle Octane for making her worry.
Hack slipped back into Crypto’s hand as the hacker stood up, making a solemn sort of eye contact with Caustic as he nodded. The moment lingered between them, an odd understanding that the feud was at rest… and it was gone.
Then Lifeline was there, shoving a medical trolley at Caustic and gesturing for him to place Octane onto it. Already fishing in her various pockets of medical items for a penlight to check his pupil dilation and the various other first symptoms checks she was trained in.
“Oh, hey doc?” Octane says, turning towards the man who’d had to carry him for what felt like a very slow eternity out of a dangerous predicament. Before Caustic could even open his mouth to reply, Octane had surged up with the fingers of one hand clenched into the fabric of the scientist’s attire for leverage, and the other pulling the man’s respirator aside in a move so fluid it had to have been planned.
The kiss was as chaotic, imperfect and brief as could be expected, and Caustic felt his mask slip back into place at the same second he dropped the impertinent runner onto the medbed. With a trademark glare at the runner, who was grinning ear to ear, he turned to face a stunned Lifeline and several now very-busy dropship techs.
“I believe that Mr De Silva may have a concussion, so I would suggest a brain scan, if only to assure us all that there is one in there.” he says, wryly, and turns away to enter the dropship as Lifeline begins to ask Octane what on Psamanthe that was about.
Thankfully, with his respirator restored to pride of place, no one could see the supposed evil genius smiling. Now that… had been a truly unexpected variable.