A Familiar Face [Bloodhound x Fuse]

Leftovers

Five squads left. Good odds. Allfather willing, they would claim victory this day.

Bloodhound crouched behind an open supply bin and took quick stock of their inventory. They were running low on Heavy Ammo, but they had enough stacks of Light to get them through if they were careful with their shots. They patted their purple body armor, ensuring both their shield and health were full. Their HUD displayed four kills and two assists and they gripped their R-301 and prepared to add more to their count.

They used a quick scan and highlighted the three foes cowering behind a boulder a short distance away. Gibraltar covered the trio with his Dome of Protection and threw out his Ultimate. Missiles began raining down on the area, buffeting the shield, but they were safe underneath. The telltale shocked cries and cracking noises of body shields rang out in the clearing.

Bloodhound bolted towards the bolder once the skies had cleared. Their jaw clenched as they ran in - none could hide from their sight. They would slátra . They sprinted and slid across the grass before leaping behind the rock to flank with Loba. After so many seasons in the Games, their shots were instinctive, their bullets easily finding a home within Mirage, Wraith, and — Walter Fitzroy.

Bloodhound halted and stood over him, weapon aimed point-blank at the man's face, their vision darkening around all else except him. It was clear that he was only a single bullet away from death. Their breathing quickened as they watched him slump against the rock, his hand clutched over his abdomen, blood pouring from between his fingers. The air in their lungs suddenly felt far too thick, their stomach lurched.

The Óséður rearing. Deafening roars and a flash of jagged teeth. A slice from shoulder to hip, Boone's eyes wide as he was torn asunder, flung across the Thunderdome. Sand flying, dust clouds rising. Crowds screaming, guards rushing in. Ragged breathing. Theirs. Dark hair splayed out. Blood pooling around his still form. Lifeless. Gone. The weight of his body in their arms. Heavy. His dishonor. Their dishonor.

Their fault.

"'S'alright, Houndy. Do what ya gotta," Walter wheezed, his voice bringing them back to the present. His hand was up in surrender, a pained, blood-stained smile on his face, but his eyes were soft despite his injuries. "No hard feelings, ya hear?"

They nodded, a barely perceptible tilt of their chin, but could not force themself to pull the trigger. Their body was frozen, fingers suddenly made of unmoving stone. Their inner voice screamed at them to shoot, to reach for their axe, something, anything. But, they could do nothing except stare.

Loba ran up and ended the man unceremoniously with a single bullet to his temple. "I don't know what's going on with you, but get it together, hon. You're lucky no one killed you while you were daydreaming over here out in the open."

"My apologies," they said, watching Walter's face fully relax in his death, sightless eyes staring upward. They knelt and passed their hand over his brow, closing his eyelids as he bled out. When a death box took the corpse's place, they finally allowed themself to tear their gaze away to look up at the woman who stood over them, arms crossed. "I lost my focus."

"Well, find it quickly." She reached her hand out to them to pull them up, decorated acrylic nails bright against the dark, worn leather of their glove. Loba drew them closer, hissing, raising her eyebrows up towards the drones that hovered in the sky. A reminder - they were always being watched out here, their every move televised if it was deemed exciting enough.