( not how i remember you, he almost says, but the past is a gaping crevice between them and felix only knows how to go forward. that's how he survived, year after year. that's how he made it on chorus. that's how he found ephemera when it was all over, when ortez left and the simmies and the fucking freelancers crowned themselves king of the hill. unconscious, helmet off, knocked out with the butt of a rifle, and felix dragged his obscenely heavy ass into the passenger's side of an abandoned warthog.
he dragged him right out of that warthog, too, into his ship in the canyons hidden in a massive cavern under a cascading waterfall. ortez hadn't taken it, miraculously. then they left, one massive failure tucked under his belt. he doesn't look back. he can't.
his fingers trail his knives, lingering on a blade to the far right of the table. different from the others, more ornate, with a handle carved from ivory. a gift, from ortez. he presses his thumb into the blade's tip, smearing the edges in blood. )
Careful, or I'm gonna start thinking you like me or something. ( a soft hum, perfectly neutral. he flips the dagger into the holster on his thigh, then systematically works the remaining knives into their proper places. two in his boot, one tucked into his laces, one on his belt.
he pulls open the bedside drawer next, snagging a neatly bundled wad of cash between two fingers and dragging the bills under his nose. smells like vodka. yep. that's his. )
no subject
he dragged him right out of that warthog, too, into his ship in the canyons hidden in a massive cavern under a cascading waterfall. ortez hadn't taken it, miraculously. then they left, one massive failure tucked under his belt. he doesn't look back. he can't.
his fingers trail his knives, lingering on a blade to the far right of the table. different from the others, more ornate, with a handle carved from ivory. a gift, from ortez. he presses his thumb into the blade's tip, smearing the edges in blood. )
Careful, or I'm gonna start thinking you like me or something. ( a soft hum, perfectly neutral. he flips the dagger into the holster on his thigh, then systematically works the remaining knives into their proper places. two in his boot, one tucked into his laces, one on his belt.
he pulls open the bedside drawer next, snagging a neatly bundled wad of cash between two fingers and dragging the bills under his nose. smells like vodka. yep. that's his. )