Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first strike of the match is the worst. Fuse and Bloodhound were trying to secure a better position in the Arenas, but Rampart and Valkyrie had them trapped behind crates with a steady stream of amped fire. Loba had left the two behind when a skirmish with Revenant carried her across the valley, so the hunter and cage fighter are left to strategize.

"I didn't join the Apex Games to sit on my arse, did you?" 

"I did not, but it is difficult to fight when the air is thick with bullets." 

"I'll get us out of this. You can count on ol' Fuse." 

First and foremost, Fuse is a bare knuckle brawler, but you don't survive decades of cage matches without some battle sense. He loads a grenade into his arm launcher, thinking he can bounce it off a wall and flush the defenders out. However, the angle isn't right, so Fitzroy has to improvise further and recline onto Bloodhound's bent knee. 

"Pardon me, mate. Just gotta lean back to get the right shot." 

"In battle, we do what we must for survival, felagi ." 

The next few seconds nearly mirror each other, for Valkyrie has the same idea as Fuse, albeit with a barrage of missiles. As Fuse's launcher sends a grenade flying and bouncing, he can hear the sound of rockets being fired. 

"Hit the deck!" he yells, but not fast enough for Bloodhound to be fully clear of the incoming swarm. 

As the smoke clears, Fuse peeks from behind a rock, repeater at the ready, blood dripping from a gash in his forehead and catching on his mustache. First, he checks to see if any enemies are still out there, but then lowers his rifle as the victory bell sounds. Now that it's safe, Fuse rushes to find Bloodhound and see how well they faired. Judging by the red trail leading into the trees, the situation is dire. 

"Bloody hell, where are you headed? How are you even gettin' there?" 

Finally, Fuse locates them by the sound of their heavy, filtered breathing. Bloodhound lunges from behind a tree, axe in one hand, ready to strike any who would hunt them down. Their wounds are too great, and the tracker stumbles to the ground, cursing as they fall. They're thankful that it is a comrade that witnesses this and not an enemy. 

Fuse helps them up and sets them against the massive tree roots, noticing the spent syringes on the ground and a fistful of orange ferns they had gathered. Much of their legs are in terrible shape, metal and rock shrapnel stuck in numerous places. The grenadier has seen his share of wounds, and these are dire. 

"Easy mate, she'll be right. We'll use these last syringes of mine, bind these wounds," he says while taking off his shirt to make tourniquet, "and get you to the ward. You buy me a new shirt and we'll call it even, eh?" 

Bloodhound's head rocks back and forth, the blood loss draining them as they mumble, "I hope it is enough, Allfather. Is it?" 

Fuse grabs their headgear with both hands and locks eyes with Bloodhound (at least, he thinks he does) and says, "Keep steady, right? Of course it'll be enough. I may not look it, but I've patched plenty in my day, mostly my own." 

"I will see you," Bloodhound wheezes, "I will see you." 

They continue to repeat this, delirious from injury and exhaustion. Fuse repeatedly wipes blood and sweat from his brow as he keeps binding Bloodhound's wounds. 

And he hopes, so dearly, that he isn't too late. 

---

3:48 A.M. 

Bloodhound's eyes open to a dimly lit clinic room, one they are very familiar with. The games come with all manner of injuries, and the closest medical center they have in Talos is a small clinic situated between villages. In most visits, Bloodhound has waited in these rooms while being checked over by a doctor, as their wounds are usually minor and require little assistance. 

This time, however, they're unable to move their legs. The hunter tries to lean forward and inspect their legs, but they find that only their spirit has returned to their body. Their strength, on the other hand, is many days out, slowly siphoning in via the IV drip, the hospital's respirator, and a steady diet of "nutrition" that has the flavor of wood pretending to be a meal. 

At least they can move their hands to brush the long, frayed braid of red hair that has fallen in their face. 

Hair. 

In their face. 

Bloodhound quickly glances to the door, but is unable to see it due to the curtain next to their bed. However, the room seems fairly dark, only slight beams of light from the monitoring equipment and the moon outside their window. They aren't very comfortable without their helmet, cap, and goggles, but they suppose it's necessary when in this kind of care. Hopefully the nursing staff followed their privacy agreement with the games and limited their visitors. 

That hope falters when a low, rumbling snore comes from the other side of the curtain. Bloodhound tenses, but that quickly fades away when the snoring is followed by a faint mumble. 

"Gonna have to put in the hard yakka if ya gonna beat me, Mags." 

Fitzroy. 

Had he... had he been there the whole time? Bloodhound stares at the clock and calendar on the wall, but their near-sightedness gets the better of them. Their goggles are nowhere to be found - probably too "unsanitary" for this environment - but there are a pair of reading glasses on the table next to them, a note leaning against the circular frames. They pick up the spectacles, put them on, turn on a small light behind their bed, and start to read the note silently: 

"Not too good at condolences and whatnot, but I wanted to leave a note just in case I'm passed out when you come to. I'll try to stay up, but these old eyes might wear down after a day or two. I told the docs to keep the door closed and keep visitors to a minimum. Also tried to let you keep the headgear on, but they wouldn't have it. If you are reading this, though, just gimme a shout and I'll be right up. Fusey's got ya back." 

Bloodhound puts down the note and checks the clock and calendar again. They've been unconscious for three days. Some of the memories come back to them, but it's all too hazy to make sense of. What is clear is that they know good and well that Fitzroy has been here the entire time. 

Another strength starts to come back to them, one they had not thought to regain while still breathing. 

--- 

As for Fuse, he would regret having fallen asleep if he weren't so caught up in this dream. More of a memory, really. It feels like one of those out of body experiences you get when you're almost dead, and now he's getting a few games in with Maggie on a basketball court. 

Time is... off kilter , it seems. Maggie looks much younger, with only the beginnings of creases in her forehead. And Walter himself is also back to his youth, probably mid-20's, based on the smell of the pineapple cologne he was obsessed with back then. But he dribbles the ball with his right arm and doesn't really feel the rubber. Still missing; even in his dreams it's still gone. On Maggie's chest lies the golden grenade, shimmering brightly like a massive star in its final years. 

Walter checks the ball to Maggie and asks, "So what are we at now?" 

Maggie checks it back, "Even score." 

For some reason, Walter checks it to her again, "And what are we going to?" 

She grins and passes it back, "Probably to ruin at this rate." 

Walter looks up to see if he can sink a shot from here... but there's no goal. Great. So much for gaining the lead. At least he knows why everything feels so odd yet familiar. 

"Is this some kinda dream?" Walter asks. 

Maggie shrugs, "Eh, some'd call it a dream. Others'd say it's a flashback, or a vision, or a literary device. Does it really matter, Wally?" 

"No. I don't s'pose it does." 

"Well, go on," Maggie says, "Ball's in your court ya drongo." 

Walter sits on the basketball and asks, "What, I'm supposed to say something?" 

"It's your dream, mate. You tell me." 

Walter mutters to himself, "Thanks, Me, for tellin' me bloody nothin'," then he looks back at Maggie and the golden grenade... except now it's on his chest. Or was it always there? That part's a bit fuzzy. 

"Why'd you chase me, Mags?" 

"Bloody hell, Wally, skippin' straight to the finish. You tryin' to cut your word count or something?" 

The kindness leaves his face as Walter replies, "I'm serious Maggie." 

"Alright fine. At least give a girl warning before you come in at flat tack. But it is your dream, so don't come crying to me if my answer sounds too much like your own ego," she says, now sitting on the basketball with a beer in her hand and the golden grenade hanging from her neck. 

It shifts back and forth so seamlessly, and for what? Just to take charge? Take charge of what, exactly? 

"How many years was it, Wally? 30, 40? You and me. On the road, in the streets, up in everyone's face. Fuse and Mags! Mags and Fuse!" she says, loosely waving her arms, "and then you turn around and betray Salvo, betray me for the Syndicate. What was the point in our freedom fighting, Wally? I thought you wanted a free Salvo."

"That's what you wanted, Mags!" Fuse shouts. 

Maggie is stunned as Fuse continues, "I was by your side since the beginning, but every step of the way it was your plans and my fighting. Toss the dog in, let him have a go. You wanted to fight for freedom, and I just wanted to fight. The cause didn't matter so long as it was us two. But then you finally got it. You got your freedom, Mags. Big bloody warlord bludger, cocking the hammer of Salvo, blowin' away anyone in your sights, and I guess I was just a bullet. 

"But the Bonecage felt empty. You felt empty. You got what you wanted and it wasn't enough. You got your freedom, and I still wanted mine. But you can't keep talking about freedom for decades and get mad when someone's path there is different from yours." 

Fuse rips the golden grenade from his chest, pulls the pin, drops it, and walks away. But it doesn't explode. That had already happened a long time ago. Walter and Maggie had been riding the blast wave for so very long, two bits of shrapnel flying parallel. It was only now that their paths diverged, one piece stuck in Salvo, the other still flying. 

--- 

"Really, it is not needed, felagi ," says Bloodhound. 

Their denial is betrayed by the fact that they are energetically fixing the straps on their headgear and affixing a slipper to their one healed leg. The other leg is taking longer to be in walking condition, but the doctors say they are still on the track to recovery. They continue to deflect while standing up in their crutches. 

"You should not worry on my account, Walter Fitzroy." 

Fuse smirks as he holds up a stack of clay targets and says, "Come on, mate, it's just crackin' a few rounds. Maybe knocking back a couple tinnies." 

The grenadier then whispers, "You can have a little alcohol, right?" 

"After being stuck in this búr , I will do whatever I please," they reply cheerfully while opening the door to their room. They peek out carefully, checking slowly for any possible doctors that would stop them.

The coast is clear, so Bloodhound hobbles down the hall with Fuse close behind. The two of them sneak out a back door and slowly make their way to a suitable picnic spot. 

Fuse had already picked out an area with a tree for shade. The tree had red and white bark, and it's giant leaves gently swayed in the wind while, at the same time, its roots grabbed and crushed the rocky soil it had sprung out of. 

"Here we go, this seems as good a spot as any," says Fuse as they arrive. 

This echoes in Bloodhound's mind, and the hunter stares far off into the mountains. Where was it? It should be... yes, right there. Just over that ridge. That's where Boone stopped with them on a cool autumn hunt. Present day fades away as their mind is lost in a memory. 

"Yup, this seems as good a spot as any," Boone says, brushing a strand of raven hair from his face. 

They had been tracking a local beast, something Boone called "a rhinoceros with thumbs" and something the locals called "food". After a brief encounter, the brotsjór had disappeared into the trees and fled further up the mountain. However, their feet are weary after a full day of hiking, and this stream was a perfect chance to rest. The water slowly trickles over a few feet of jagged stone, hundreds of miniature waterfalls forming in its descent. 

"There is still daylight to track by, felagi ," says Bloodhound. 

"I know, I know, but you said it yourself: it ain't nocturnal and it can't see too good in the daylight. Now, I'm still figurin' out Talos, but I'd say we got about 30 minutes of light left and about 2 minutes 'fore you start wheezin'," replies Boone, sitting on a rock and removing his boots to dump out a few sticks from inside of them. 

Bloodhound doesn't dignify this with a response, but thinks to themself: "I do not wheeze . I simply breathe stronger after a long day of hiking." Still, their respirator could use a cleaning, so they suppose a rest is in order. 

After they get a fire going and set up some hammocks high in a nearby tree, Boone starts to roast a few small vegetables they had gathered along the way. Bloodhound is sharpening one of their knives, listening as their companion hums a folksy tune. Some may say they can never find a moment's peace, but Bloodhound certainly has. The fire snaps and breathes, the stream gives its tiny pops and claps from its waterfalls, a rhythmic swish flows from the knife, and Boone's melody creates a home where there are no walls. 

Vegetables roasted, knife sharpened, and twilight waning, the two sit down and enjoy each other's company. It had been a few months since Boone had arrived, and Bloodhound found more and more that they enjoyed Boone's "tests." At the same time, Boone had to keep telling himself they were only "tests" of Bloodhound's tracking abilities and certainly not something more. 

And yet, he was always keen to know more about the secluded hunter, so Boone's next question was to be expected, like so many before: "Do you have a favorite kind of music, Blóð ?" 

Bloodhound gave it some thought and returned, "We have several traditional songs in the village, mostly folk tales and legends. I do not have much music to listen to otherwise." 

Now, there was that one data chip Bloodhound had bought off of a trader years ago. The one that had a guilty pleasure playlist of "Hip and Peppy Showtunes to Jump and Shout To." But no one was to know about that. No one.  

"Well, in that case," Boone starts while reaching into his bag, "I reckon you might find my stylins agreeable. Or you might not, we'll see." 

Bloodhound leans in as their companion pulls out a collapsible instrument and assembles it. It is light, taut, and decorated with feathers from past hunts. Boone puts on three fingerpicks and begins to tune the instrument, its strings still loose from being collapsed. 

"You ever heard a banjo afore?" 

"I cannot say that I have." 

"Well you," Boone says, still tuning, "are about to. From yours truly. It's an old instrument. Lot of history, not all of it purty. But my folks have been playin' it for centuries, so I reckon I'd share it." 

"I would not have taken you for the musical type," Bloodhound says, unaware of the smile on their face as they watch Boone set up with such enthusiasm. 

Suddenly, Boone stops, looks back at Bloodhound, and asks, "Before I get ahead of myself, you don't mind if I play, do you?" 

"Not at all. I would like to hear whatever comes from your fjölskylda ."  

"Great! Now, lemme think. What's a good one to start on? 'Man of Constant Sorrow'? Nah, e'erybody does that'n. 'Oh Lonely Grave'? Phew, that might be a bit too dark. Oh, I know, I know!" 

Boone excitedly fishes in his bag for something, then returns with a small jar filled with clear liquid. 

"You can have alcohol, right?" 

"I will drink you under the table, if this is a challenge. And if we had a table," Bloodhound bluffs. In truth, they're a bit of a lightweight, but Boone doesn't have to know that. 

"Just don't swaller this all at once. 'It'll make ye talk forwards, back'ards, and sideways,' that's what my papaw used to say." 

Bloodhound takes the jar and eyes it speculatively. It is unassuming and light. They unscrew the lid, raise their respirator, and take a large sip. 

It tastes like liquid pain. 

Boone looks on intently, "Purty good, ain't it?" 

The burning in their throat has vaporized all of their words, so all they can do is sweat under their helmet and nod. 

"That's a taste of home and a long tradition. Got that from my third cousin's wife.. or does his husband run the still now? Lord knows those three never could decide who'd run it. Anyways, I figured it'd only be right to let you have some while I play this. Normally I'd like a fiddle accomp'niment, but I don't suppose you've got that kinda bow hidden in your gear, do ye?" 

Bloodhound still cannot speak, but they shake their head 'no'. Boone then begins to pick his banjo with a slow melody. He closes his eyes, and Bloodhound can see something on his face as he begins to sing: home. 

"Now when I was young,

About five or six,

Daddy lost a job and my momma took sick.

And times got tough,

And momma got sicker,

Daddy started running that good corn liquor 

Well the sun don't shine 

On a moonshine still,

Copper line hidin' in the side of a hill.

It'll get you there,

It'll get you there quicker,

Fruit jar full of that good corn liquor." 

And so he played, strumming out the melodies of his home, and his spirit wrapped around Bloodhound's as the music crawled up the trees and dug into the mountainside. 

And now, Bloodhound hears the banjo change to guitar as they return to the present. They have been lost in thought for some time now. The hunter thinks they remember telling Walter that they needed a minute, but they were so lost in the memory that it's hard to tell. In any case, Fitzroy is playing a soft, soothing melody, one that wraps around their shoulders and pulls the hunter close. It sounds like a mournful lullaby, a song for a lost father, and the strange, relieving joy found in the embrace of those at a funeral. 

This shortly fades as one note in the melody keeps getting played wrong. Fuse stops and can be heard whispering, "Don't you bloody cark it now." 

Bloodhound turns around to see the grenadier fiddling with his mechanical arm before he slaps the hand against a rock a couple of times. Good as new... as long as "new" means "with some slight chips and scratches." Fuse looks up at the hunter and grins. 

"Sorry about that. Bloody thing locks up at the worst times, in more ways than one." 

"It is fine. Your playing was most fallegur ," Bloodhound compliments him.  

"Ya think so? Just a little somethin' I picked up over the years," Fuse says while picking a few notes. 

Bloodhound lightly sighs to themself, feeling the warmth in Fuse's demeanor overtake the cool wind that blows through the valley. They speak up again, "I apologize for being so distant. I was caught in a memory of... someone from long ago." 

"No worries," Fuse says, his expression growing solemn, "I know all too well that some people stay with you, even after they're gone." 

Bloodhound feels the pain behind this, but not only within their own heart. Fuse, too, is familiar with this loss. They have never left, and sometimes, you feel them staring back at you through different eyes. The ferocity of purpose. The joy of life's music. One chasing the other, always in this loop. 

They turn back to the mountains and point at the old campsite, then say, "At some point, I will take you along many of my old hunting trails. That is, if you would like to know more of Talos." 

"I'd be delighted," Fuse answers, "But we're gonna have to get those legs fixed up first. I still feel right awful that you got torn up like that in the first place." 

There is a humble smile on Fuse's face, one that asks for forgiveness and looks forward to what happiness is yet to come. Bloodhound sees Boone in that smile. And they see the rending. The two of them, torn apart, never again to be mended. 

What is this painful joy? Something so broken, but now given life anew. He sings through his scars and owns the galaxy, even if he doesn't seek it. And he holds out his hand, asking Bloodhound to join him. He's a second chance at something that was supposed to wait until Valhalla. 

But, if the Allfather knows their path, why then would he send another that could offer comfort? Is this a call to cease their battle? If that's the case, why not let them die in glory and head to their rest? Or were they mistaken this entire time? 

The last thought drains the fire from behind their eyes and chains their heart. No. The Allfather sees and knows their path, and guides them as long as they are willing. Bloodhound pushes through the dread, knowing that this is the will of the Allfather, and they will follow the trail. No faith can be had without questions, but a true faith still treads through the unknown. 

"This injury will heal," says Bloodhound, turning to Fuse, "I'm sure you are familiar with the process." 

Fuse leans back against the tree, but stops from glancing at his metal arm. He's tried to embrace it, rather than think of it as a scar. Sometimes, when he cleans it, he imagines Maggie's face in the reflection: not scowling or screaming, but proudly grinning. Perhaps she understands now. Perhaps she knows that loving means letting go, just as Walter does. 

Grenades are often considered killing tools, and they certainly achieve that, but there is another purpose they serve: displacement. A well-aimed explosion reveals much, forcing people to leave behind their defenses. And the panic always reveals what those people are made of. 

"Yeah," Fitzroy chuckles, "Everybody wants a piece of ol' Fusey." 

After an explosion, you may very well try to pick up the fragments. You will never find them all, as some things must stay lost. But you can still take those pieces and cobble them together. What you make may not be the same as before, but it is whole, complete . Because now, it's all you have.