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Here, beneath the stone raven’s sheltering wings, is where Bloodhound sits to save themselves the dishonor of looking upon their home. Talos is plastered with their banner, the emblazoned title of CHAMPION staring back at them wherever they look, and it is easier to sit atop this cliffside sniper’s perch, facing the arena’s edge, than to bear witness to the destruction of all they hold dear. Behind them, Skyhook looms, and though the Harvester has stopped its violent beam into the sky, the heat of the lava that ripples through the arena curdles Talos’ once clear, still air.
The planet is dying. Despite their mask, and the bloody taste of victory upon their tongue, they can taste the death of their homeland. It is copper, it is heat, and it is vile.
They hear him clinking in their direction before the voice rings out.
“Houndy! How’s my favorite champion?”
The voice, while not entirely unwelcome, breaks apart their thoughts much like its owner’s weapons of choice. Fuse sits down beside them, not waiting for an invitation, and holds out a cold beer, already having opened one of his own. He deposits a few more bottles between them, careful to make sure none fall off the cliff’s edge.
Condensation drips down the walls of the bottle, and Bloodhound cannot help but to think of the ice gathered in Climatizer, and the way it steams into the lava below.
They take the beer, but say nothing.
“Figure we’ve earned a victory drink, eh? Good work out there!” Fuse clinks his bottle to Bloodhound’s and takes a drink, downing the small amount that was left. He takes another from the pile between them and holds it, waiting. Bloodhound does nothing, says nothing; they cannot drink, nor celebrate. Not yet. The smell of death is still too close, and Talos’ winter winds will only sting their throat more.
Fuse lets the silence sit between them for a minute, remarkably quiet. He is waiting for them to speak first, Bloodhound realizes, and they sigh, knowing that he may be waiting for quite some time yet.
“Talk to me, Houndy,” he finally says, hazarding a smile. “Clearly there’s somethin’ on your mind.”
And he asks it so easily, too. Like it is nothing to him. Like he can bear it.
“It will not mean anything to you,” Bloodhound scoffs. “You did not grow up here. These burdens are not yours to carry.”
Fuse snorts and opens the beers for both of them. “So?” he asks. “I've listened to countless drunken rambles in dozens of Salvo bars that meant nothing to me. But anything you have to say? ‘Course that'll mean something. Cuz it's comin' from you.”
Bloodhound looks up from the water droplets on the bottle and stares. Never before had they been so grateful for the impassive lenses of their goggles, or else Walter would have seen their bewilderment.
Composing themselves, they sigh once more. They reach up and detach the lower portion of their mask, setting it gently on the ground. They take a deep drink, letting the bitter lager drown out the taste of blood, and consider what to say. Fuse grants them silence as they drink together, the thundering clouds of Talos a fitting accompaniment to their thoughts.
“It is not anything noble or grand. Our daily lives are—” they falter, cough. Correct themselves. “Our daily lives were nothing to write stories about. They mean nothing to anyone but us.” Quieter, they add, “Nothing to anyone but me.”
Fuse takes a long drink and hums. “Stories don't have to be grand to mean somethin', Houndy,” he says with a shrug. “Like I said, it's comin' from you, so it means the world already.”
Bloodhound blinks. They clear their throat, and while something in them is curious, hopeful even, they falter. Hope has led them astray before, far too many times.
For what it is worth, Fuse allows the silence. He looks at them for a while, raising his eyebrows and grinning in open invitation, but when Bloodhound turns away, he lets them sit. Lets them stew. Though Walter is, like a handful of the other legends, worthy of their time and therefore their respect, he does not outweigh their planet. He does not outweigh their sins.
The dried grass crumbles beneath their gloved hands as they brush their fingertips along it. A sign of something frosting over far too quickly only to be thawed faster still. Roots that have been dried to dust…not entirely unlike themselves.
The striations of the rock upon the cliff face stare back at them, the untouchable majesty of something so ancient and stalwart and constant, something that withstood the test of time only to be undone by the touch of man. Stripes that tell the stories of ages and storms too great to understand stand tall around the arena, this spectacle of death. For all their prior judgment of Boone’s interpretation of the hunt, it is shameful to see how much further they have fallen. Would he blame them now? Would he understand? And truthfully, would it even matter? To be justified in the eyes of one person could never outweigh the rightful fury of those they have committed to death.
So lost they are in their contemplation, that when Fuse brushes his shoulder to theirs, they start at the touch.
“C’mooooon,” he says, voice low. “Try me. Swear I’ll be quiet.” Another wiggle of his eyebrows.
Despite it all, Bloodhound cannot help the chuckle that escapes them. They look back down to their beer, picking at the corner of the label as the condensation soaks it through. “Very well,” they say, and consider how to begin.
“I do not know Salvo’s weather patterns, but here, before…” they gesture behind them, in the direction of the Harvester, “The first sensation of winter creeping in, when you step out into the dawn’s soft light and your breath crisps up in the cold. You breathe in through your nose and start coughing right away, as the chill settles in your lungs.”
They look in the direction of the Geyser. “The microbial pools. The stench of sulfur and metal is even worse when there is not the smell of construction and fuel to overwhelm it. And though it burns your eyes to look upon it, every color we can perceive you can see in the pools. On clear days, the clouds reflect upon the still surface, and what lies beneath is far more beautiful than even the stars at night.” They look up, sighing wistfully, as though the stone roof of the raven’s wings holds within it the night sky. “And the stars? Too many to count, and so many that learning to navigate by them involves more mistakes than successes. Being in a ship and flying among them cannot compare to sitting beneath them on a warm summer’s night, with someone you—”
They stop themselves. No. Not that, not those memories. There is none of this that they can get back, and these memories ought to be of Talos, not of him. They clear their throat, hoping Walter does not notice their voice catching as they do.
“The first flush of birds from the forest,” they begin again. To their relief, Fuse does not comment on their blunder. “When you snap a twig underfoot, and the shame that comes with it. So you learn to walk quieter. You step softer, and with respect. My uncle taught me to go out every morning with the sunrise and sit at the same spot by the water’s edge. There, the animals would come to know me; the rabbits and birds began to ignore me in the same way that they would a tree, and would reveal their hidden lives without fear. I learned how to smell a prowler on the wind from those rabbits, and which plants and berries I could eat. And I learned how, when winter strips us of our comforts and compassion, those same rabbits could feed a village for a day.”
Countless, timeless little memories, all lost. Their goggles are fogging up now, with tears that have been waiting far too long to spill. Without thinking, they reach to wipe them away, and succeed only in rubbing at the lenses.
Walter does not hesitate when he reaches out to wrap an arm about their shoulders. Bloodhound wants to shake his arm away, wants to insist that they are more, that they have learned the lessons of the rocks and mountains and can shoulder the weight that they have brought upon themselves. But the bottle in Fuse’s hand drips against the fabric of their jacket and dampens the cloth, and it feels so much like cool rain against their skin that they let themselves pretend they are worthy of it.
“It was always others,” they finally say. “It was always someone else sacrificing something for my home. My parents died here. My uncle died here. My culture and my home dies here. And I alone have walked away the victor.”
They gesture to the banners across the field, their name brightening the screens.
“How does that make me a champion, Walter Fitzroy?”