Chapter Text
She is alone, and she can see the orange hue over the horizon. Alone, holed up in a shelter with no reserve ammo, huddling behind electric fences for security. It was a stupid play, a brief moment where her tactical mind has failed her, and she knows in her bones there is another squad out there, waiting.
Wattson sighs, bites her lip, and waits for the inevitable.
The Ring was once a thing of her creation, and she needs no stopwatch to know how long she has left before her competitors appear. A minute, give or take, and she loads her sniper rifle, charges her shields. The other members of her squad fell in battle; Wraith’s blood is dark on her jumpsuit. All she hears for miles is the breeze, and the low metallic hum of the Ring’s approach.
When the gold static of a sonar hits the walls, she exhales a shaky breath.
‘It is just the two of us,’ comes a crisp, filtered voice. Wattson almost drops her rifle in shock, reaches for a grenade in her belt. How long have they been there, waiting above, toying with her? She curses herself for her lack of foresight.
Behind her, she hears a thump, the sound of thick-soled boots against metal. The door behind her flies open, and there, at last, is Bloodhound, tall and imposing in their survival gear. They edge close to the electric that separates the two of them, that is Wattson’s last attempt at a win, and they pause, static reflecting in the goggles of their mask.
‘We are the last two alive. I have checked,’ they say, and Wattson raises her arm to strike. Bloodhound simply shakes their head, folds their arms, and Wattson scowls in frustration.
‘Don’t take another step, hunter,’ she warns. ‘A shock hurts more than you can imagine.’
‘To destroy your fences requires two grenades,’ Bloodhound says calmly. ‘At this range, consider the amount of damage you can withstand.’
Wattson calculates the shield damage, wide eyes searching for the answer. Bloodhound is right, and she knows it. Even if she shot from here, they have the advantage of range, and Wattson is not one to hedge her bets.
‘Take down your fences,’ Bloodhound says.
Wattson stares through electric currents, stares at Bloodhound’s mask where she approximates a face should be. It is far easier for her to stare, this way, with no expressions to mislead her.
‘You should have killed me already,’ Wattson says, and Bloodhound nods. ‘What’s your strategy here?’
‘I wish to ask you a question,’ Bloodhound says, and Wattson’s eyes widen in surprise.
‘And you cannot ask it through a fence?’ she retorts, and she hears what she can only describe as a metallic, muffled laugh.
‘I do not think that is considered polite,’ Bloodhound says, and Wattson is certain she can hear an unusual lilt to their voice. ‘But if it puts your mind at ease, so be it.’
‘What do you want to know?’ she says.
Bloodhound stands silently for a moment, their gloved hands fidgeting.
‘It is not like you to fight alone,’ they say, their voice crisp and measured. ‘I feel as if I must ask - are you alright?’
Wattson stops, feels acutely visible in a way that makes her clasp her arms around herself.
‘Of course I’m fine!’ Wattson says, with unusual shrillness. ‘And what do you mean, I do not fight alone? You saw to Octavio, and Wraith was downed by Anita moments ago -’
‘I did not mean in battle, félagi.’
Wattson’s hands fist in the sleeves of her jacket, as she realises just what Bloodhound is asking.
‘I don’t want this conversation,’ she says firmly, her lip wavering. ‘I would rather you just kill me.’
Bloodhound laughs again, filtered and glassy, and Wattson only feels more on edge.
‘What is it?’
‘You do not fear death in the way the others do,’ they say plainly. ‘You do not fear me in the same way, either.’
Wattson stares at them in shock.
She fears Bloodhound more than she would care to admit. Much like her, they keep themselves to themselves, distant where other Legends have all but adopted her. The little she does know of Bloodhound is communicated through the wounds Makoa returns with, the wounds that not even an accelerant can fully heal. All of a sudden, Wattson understands the perception required of a hunter.
‘I fear you plenty,’ Wattson admits, her eyes cast down to the floor. ‘Perhaps my face does not show it.’
‘A useful ability to have,’ Bloodhound says, and Wattson stares, feels a heat rise to her cheeks. ‘Why do you think I wear a mask?’
‘Perhaps you are grotesque underneath,’ Wattson says flatly, and there it is again, Bloodhound’s laugh.
‘Perhaps,’ Bloodhound concedes. ‘Obscurity is a source of power here. That which you cannot identify, you can never truly know.’
‘I suppose I never thought of it like that,’ Wattson says, glues her eyes back to the floor. ‘As something advantageous, I mean.’
‘You have a brilliant mind,’ Bloodhound says. ‘That is not your only asset.’
Wattson stares up at Bloodhound again, stares at the mask that conveys nothing. Slowly, she lowers her fences, keeps one hand around the pistol in her pocket.
‘Thank you,’ Bloodhound says, raises their arms to show their hands free from any weaponry. It hardly eases Wattson’s mind, as the stories of Bloodhound vastly precede them; death positively nipping at their ankles, hands strong enough to rip flesh. Wattson backs away a little as Bloodhound enters the room, keeps a distance that she can only describe as respectful.
‘How long do we have before the next Ring?’ they ask.
‘Five until the next, and another fifteen before it consumes us,’ Wattson says, counting on her hands. ‘I positioned myself as central as I could, given the circumstances.’
‘Circumstances?’ Bloodhound asks, and Wattson grimaces, because in no strategy is it advisable to let your adversary know you’re out of damn ammunition.
‘Your face suggests I should not ask,’ Bloodhound says, and Wattson looks up, tries her best not to smile at the deadpan delivery.
‘I did not expect social niceties from a hunter,’ Wattson says, straightforwardly. ‘You learn something new every day.’
‘Such is life’s rich tapestry,’ says Bloodhound, and Wattson hears a lilt to their voice which she could easily confuse for humour. ‘I enjoy speaking with you. Perhaps I could suggest a brief reprieve from the hunt. A temporary truce between us.’
Wattson frowns, tries to think of any possible strategic advantage it would provide for them.
'I can see you are surprised,' Bloodhound says plainly. 'Your end is already decided. Would you not like to postpone it a while longer?'
Wattson stares into inky-black goggles, scours their depth for any indication that this is a trap.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ Wattson says, loosens her grip on her pistol. ‘Fifteen minutes until we shoot each other.’
Bloodhound nods, whispers something to their raven in a tongue Wattson does not understand.
--
They sit on the roof of the shelter, Wattson’s short legs dangling off the edge ungracefully. Bloodhound sits beside her, a foot or so between the two of them, orange of the Ring casting their surroundings in a sunset-like glow. They hit a button on their vest periodically, sending out gold sonars to the increasingly small arena; it comes back empty, each time. Wattson trusts their judgement, imagines the behaviour is hard to turn off. She feels the same in the way she frequently checks her pistol, her shields, her earrings buzzing with electric charge.
The two of them sit there fidgeting, hardly conversing for a while. Wattson’s eyes follow Bloodhound’s raven as it flies around the arena, moving gracefully and impossibly fast, much like its owner.
‘Does he have a name?’ Wattson asks quietly. ‘Your bird?’
‘His name is Artur,’ Bloodhound says, extends an arm for the raven to perch on. ‘Most favoured of the gods. It was the name of my uncle.’
Wattson fiddles with her hood, bites her lip as she searches for the right words.
‘He must have been very special,’ she says.
Bloodhound nods, but says nothing, strokes the raven’s beak with a gentle hand. As quickly as it has appeared it flies away, disappearing over Lava City.
‘Where is he going?’
‘Reconnaissance,’ Bloodhound says. ‘I may trust your scientific expertise, but that does not mean he does.’
For the first time all evening, Wattson unashamedly laughs.
‘You think you and your bird know this arena better than I do?’
‘I would bet on it,’ Bloodhound says, and Wattson smiles, shakes her head.
‘Don’t make bets you can’t win, hunter,’ she says, no malice in it. ‘You forget who developed the technology in this arena, non?’
‘Technology can serve a variety of false gods,’ Bloodhound says, and Wattson snorts.
‘You know, until now, I never met anyone religious,’ Wattson says, absently kicking her heels together. ‘Not in this day and age, anyway.’
‘All humans believe in something,’ Bloodhound says sagely, ‘religious or not. What do you believe?’
Wattson looks taken aback at the question, and looks down at her hands.
‘Well, I believe in science,’ she says plainly. ‘In science, and innovation. As do most people.’
‘Science can be a religion,’ they say, and turn to face Wattson properly. The raven lands on the floor above them, silent and unnerving. ‘It is certainly the only power to rival the might of the Allfather.’
Wattson sits quietly, brow furrowed in quiet disagreement.
‘Both have their majesty, and both rule my decisions,’ they say. ‘It is like - how you would say - the unstoppable force and the immovable object.’
‘Newton’s flaming laser sword!’ Wattson says excitedly, her face beaming. ‘You know, mathematical philosophy is probably my least favourite part of universe theory, but still, it was certainly valuable to think about when we tried to re-create void technology for the containment timing intervals, and -’
Wattson stops when she is acutely aware that Bloodhound is staring at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, smiling sheepishly. ‘It doesn’t take much to get me fully charged.’
Bloodhound laughs behind their mask, shakes their head.
‘I find it interesting,’ they say. ‘Technology sparks creativity in me, also.’
Wattson shuffles over, closing the distance between the two of them.
‘I mean, I was hoping to ask about that sensor of yours,’ she says, grinning. ‘How does it operate? Only if it won’t put you at too much of a disadvantage to tell me, of course.’
Wattson’s smile is infectious, her cheeks flushed-pink with anticipation.
‘I will show you. Here,’ they say, offering forward their arm, pointing to the various controls they have built into their sleeve. Wattson follows their hands eagerly, all of a sudden the world’s most active listener, and Bloodhound is encouraged by her enthusiasm. They explain the origins of their sonar, developed at first from creaking parts raided from Hammond storage, to a more sophisticated panel financed by the spoils of their first win.
‘It may be primitive in comparison to your laboratory,’ Bloodhound says, bowing their head slightly. ‘However, for the needs of the hunt, it lacks nothing.’
‘Magnifique,’ Wattson breathes, positively clambering over their shoulder. Bloodhound sits politely, stiffens slightly at the warmth of her body. They have never been one to be touched.
‘I did not expect the range to be so broad.’ Wattson says, sits back on her knees, eyes wide. ‘No wonder you find everyone so easily.’
‘That is the grace of the Allfather,’ Bloodhound says evenly. ‘It is not due to my creation alone.’
Around the two of them, a siren wails twice, demanding their attention. The Ring encroaches upon them further, approaching close enough that Wattson can outstretch her arm and have the tips of her fingers broach the barrier, wincing at the sensation. Bloodhound stands up with a staggering speed, Artur taking his customary position on their shoulder. Wattson pounces to her feet quickly afterwards, taps the copper coil on her back twice to charge her gloves.
‘To arms, again,’ Bloodhound says, their fists clenched. ‘A shame to end on a sour note, but the hunt awaits.’
Wattson nods, brow furrowed. She cocks her pistol, suit humming with a sharp electric charge that reflects in Bloodhound’s lenses, a reflection that almost distracts her until she hears an all too familiar crackling, Bloodhound’s gloves simmering with red static. They move lightning-fast, and Wattson fires once, twice, slides down the metal bunker as she hears footsteps below her. There is nobody there, not even the tell-tale crow of their raven - until, all of a sudden, she feels a shot to her shield so powerful it sends her flying backwards.
As Wattson falls to the ground, her vantage changes, and she sees Bloodhound crouching on the tip of a neighbouring roof, smoke issuing from their Mastiff. Wattson aims two shots badly as she hits the floor, only one grazing them at all, barely denting golden armour. She scrambles backwards into another room as she bleeds profusely, hands fumbling with a syringe as a sonar fills the room, and she knows as well as they know that it is over.
The door creaks open, a crack of light revealing Wattson doubled over, coughing, cradling her mangled chest.
Bloodhound makes a noise that sounds almost pitying.
‘I truly am sorry,’ they say.
--
Natalie spends three days and four hours on board the hospital ship, in which time she has received eight bouquets of flowers, three get well soon cards, and one glitter-laden VIP pass to the Mirage Massage Experience. Even with as much accelerant as her small frame can tolerate, it takes two days for the blood to coagulate, and another for the bones in her sternum to reset.
She is written out of the Games for two weeks.
When she is finally permitted to return to quarters, Makoa envelops her in a hug so deep it threatens to shift her bones out of place all over again, but she doesn’t let go. Instead, she allows herself to be held, his presence a balm to the turbulence in her head. As he always does with these things, Makoa senses her unease, senses her fatigue before she has to stumble around words for it.
‘It’s not your fault, kid,’ he says, his voice low and reassuring. ‘We’ve all had a close-range wound like that. Comes with the territory.’
Natalie nods weakly, her eyes downcast.
‘I think I want to rest,’ she says quietly, and Makoa nods.
He helps her to her dormitory, which she notices has definitely been tidied since before the Games; Ajay, Makoa says with a tired smile. You know how she is. Her desk is significantly less cluttered, the myriad of coffee cups gone, and Natalie smiles, feels a rush of emotion so overpowering it threatens to knock her over.
‘Fed Nikola, and all,’ Makoa says. ‘Got real close. He’s a mean old bruddah until you get to know him better, and well - don’t be surprised if he comes knockin’ on my door soon. I’m a father now!’
Natalie nods as Nikola immediately stakes a claim for her ankles, as he rubs against her and purring affectionately. She sits slowly on the edge of her bed, Nikola clambering into her lap too, and she sighs, her body slowly crumpling.
‘Did -’ she asks, before each question she wants to ask dies in her throat. ‘What happened after the match?’
Makoa hesitates, before sitting down next to her.
‘Bloodhound took the win,’ Makoa says gently, ‘but I’m sure you guessed that part.’
‘You’re hiding something,’ Natalie says, more intently. ‘Tell me why.’
Makoa sighs, and places a warm hand on her shoulder.
‘Your death was just - a bit unusual, Nat.’
Natalie looks at him blankly, her brain morphine-tired.
‘I mean, I been in the Games for over a year and I never saw anything like it. Bloodhound, they - to have someone in their sights, right there, but then to sit and talk with ‘em, then give ‘em a religious send-off after killin’ em - even for Bloodhound, that’s kooky.’
‘We were talking,’ Natalie says, insistent. ‘About science, and - I don’t remember properly, but -’
‘I’m pleased you been out cold for some of the media coverage, Nat,’ Makoa says plainly. ‘It’s not kind.’
‘What do you mean?’ she says, eyes wide and confused.
Makoa sighs again, rubs his hands absently through Nikola’s fur.
‘Speculation, y’know,’ he says. ‘About you, and how you haven’t - uh, had the best season - some pundits on OTV were going on about how it was a stunt to make you more interesting to sponsors.’ Makoa laughs at the suggestion, loud and booming. ‘Like Bloodhound’d ever go for something like that!’
Natalie nods, moves Nikola over to Makoa’s lap as she pulls her knees to her chest, wincing at the sensation. Not the best season is a very Makoa way of saying she’s second to bottom, and Natalie sighs at yet another thing to make her insides feel ragged.
‘It really wasn’t that, at all,’ she says quietly. ‘We were talking, and it was so interesting, and - I really liked talking to Bloodhound. It reminded me of how I used to talk to -’
Her voice stills, and she presses her head into her knees.
‘And then they shot me.’
Makoa nods, places an arm around her shoulders.
‘What’s rule number one?’
‘Quoi?’
‘You only been in hospital three days, Nat, they ain’t taken your brain cells yet,’ Makoa says, laughing heartily. ‘What’s rule number one?’
‘What happens in the ring, stays in the ring,’ she recites glumly.
‘Exactly,’ Makoa says, smiling. ‘Had to be one of you, at the end. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You’ll get your mojo back soon, promise, or my name isn’t Gibraltar!’
Natalie nods, knows Makoa is right as always, but still feels on edge.
‘Have you -’ Natalie asks quietly. ‘Have you seen them lately?’
‘Not since the game,’ Makoa says. ‘Bloodhound knows I got all the respect in the world for them as a fighter, but after taking down my sis like that? They know to steer clear.’
Despite the ache in her chest and her head, Natalie laughs.
‘Here to defend my honour, I see,’ she says, shaking her head in amusement. ‘Whatever would I do without you?’
‘Everyone loves you, kid,’ Makoa says. ‘It hurts to see you get hurt.’
‘Some advice then, Gibraltar,’ Natalie says, a broad grin on her face. ‘Perhaps don’t enrol in a bloodsport.’
Makoa laughs his hearty, booming laugh, and stands up.
‘They ain’t callin’ you a genius for nothin’,’ he says, smiling. ‘Now - you want that rest?’
Makoa helps her into bed, puts her pain medication and her well-worn Nessie at her bedside, places a sleeping Nikola back into his basket. He fusses over Natalie until she is almost asleep, until she is telling him not so politely to bugger off in her native language, just one of the few phrases he recognises now.
‘Night, kid. Sweet, scientific dreams.’
--
She never sleeps well on accelerant.
She wakes at a godless hour in the morning, awake and doubled up in pain, clinging Nessie to her chest as if a toy dinosaur can offer her first aid. Light streams through the blinds, a purple hue that casts the room in shadow and makes her head spin with fatigue.
She sits up, breathes deeply. Part of her wants to call for Nikola, for some comfort; but he is sleeping so quietly that it seems almost cruel. Instead, she holds Nessie in one hand, braces herself against the headboard with the other, waits for the dizzying sensation to pass. She has always been sensitive to accelerant, to any synthetic substances; they make her nerves misfire, make her acutely aware of every sensation in her body, and she wonders if any of her fellow competitors feel the same.
Natalie has always known she is different to others, in the way her mind fixates on needless details, in the way fresh clothes feel heavy on her skin. It has never been something she has paid much heed to, aside from the little things; her sensitivity, her confusion with faces, her painfully photographic memory. The last one is particularly cruel. She remembers minute details of how it feels to have blood in her lungs, how it feels to watch a grenade burn through flesh.
How it feels when they tell her her father is dead, wood of the table leg pressed into her back. How it feels when a synthetic growl issues from Crypto’s drone. How it feels when -
She wonders what kind of stupid she must be, to be so easily excited and so easily deceived, even now. How easily she dropped everything to chat with Bloodhound, as if it hadn’t been an obvious strategy, as if their interest in her was only ever for the purposes of their loftier vision; to win, no matter what. She forgets that not everyone sees the Games as familial, that not everyone has to piece together a life from people who kill each other for sport.
Reminiscence is a waste of valuable time, Miss Paquette.
She grasps Nessie tighter, seizes a fistful of painkillers.
Awake, and exhausted, there is only one place she wants to be.