The calm of the vibrant green grass and blue water around them clashed with the deep crimson and pained gasps that came from the figure lying on the ground. As they surveyed their teammate's injuries, Bloodhound was keenly aware of the environment around them- the gentle wind, the stillness after the surrounding wildlife had fled the site of the battle. Hands and forearms stained red, struggling to hold closed the gaping wounds torn through the other fighter's chest and abdomen by shrapnel, the hunter remained vigilant. They would be alert to disruptions in the movement of the grass or air- tiny changes that would give away the position of an approaching enemy.
The tracker already knew that only they would make it out of this fight. The damage to Mirage's body was too extensive to be managed by superficial treatment with the resources that they had available. An injection from one of the syringes that were distributed around the arena would create synthetic fibers of muscle, layers of skin, whatever tissue was needed to hold a damaged body together- unfortunately, neither of them had any syringes at the moment. There was nothing for Bloodhound to do but wait patiently with their teammate until the end came.
Even though all competitors would be brought back after the match - even though there was a good chance that, this early in, they'd be able to bring Mirage back into the game - their personal honor code wouldn't allow them to run off and leave their friend to suffer alone.
"Hey, don't- don't let me do this… again."
Mirage gasped for breath, struggling to get the words out. It took too much effort to suck in each breath, to move his jaw, to keep repositioning his lips and tongue in order to facilitate speech. The fighter, known for his flamboyance, had become slow and dull as the life drained from his body.
"The Games… not worth the fame… or glory. Remind me-"
Behind their mask, the corners of Bloodhound's mouth pulled upward in a slight smile. "How many times do you suppose you've said those words before, felagi fighter? This situation, this pain- do not last forever. You will return to the arena, eager to prove yourself again."
Whatever Mirage planned to say in response, his lungs were unable to find the breath to force the words out. He coughed and gasped weakly, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His grip on Bloodhound's arm weakened and relaxed, and his body stopped moving entirely, finally as still as the air around him.
Head bowed, Bloodhound gently folded their fallen teammate's arms over his chest. They said a quick prayer to the Allfather as they searched through Mirage's pockets for the data card that would bring him back to life. Within a few seconds, their fingers closed around it: a digital storage device barely larger than their thumb. Their teammate's consciousness, soul- the digital copy that would return him from death, Bloodhound now held in a satchel strapped across their chest. The hunter turned away and ran, moving swiftly from cover to cover, the sharp electrical crackle of the Ring closing in behind them.
Before the Apex Games could begin, contestants were brought to a staging facility for processing. The human participants of the Games could expect to spend six hours there- up to eight, if something didn't move along smoothly.
The beginning of the procedure was simple enough - a nurse did a basic physical examination to ensure that they were healthy before entering the arena. After that, they were moved to another room, where a technician drew two vials of blood. Following that was the most time-consuming part of the process: the contestant would lay in a metal tube, while a machine around them hummed and whirred and crackled with electricity. The machine measured every tiny electrical impulse transmitted through the body's nervous system, between each neuron in the brain, and even those electrical and chemical signals used by individual bodily cells to communicate with one another.
That information - a copy of the person's life force, their thoughts, their very consciousness - was stored as a digital file. One copy of the file was stored at Headquarters for use by the Apex Games biomedical team. The other was uploaded to a portable drive that the contestant carried with them through the competition.
Those portable drives had come to be nicknamed "banner cards" by participants out in the field, as the fighters tended to tape a photo of themselves over the flat part of the drive. To the technicians who facilitated the process of bringing back a dead competitor, the file format of a consciousness was termed a syncording. Everyone - technician and fighter both - thought about what would happen if something ever went wrong with the syncording. Would a competitor killed in combat come back as a completely different person? Would they be stuck in a vegetative state? Or would they simply… remain dead? It was on many minds before a game, but no one dared speak those concerns out loud. Issues with the syncording were unheard of- so why jinx it?
Androids, as one might expect, required much less processing than human contestants. The electrical imprint of their consciousness was easier to download, and their bodies could be replicated without DNA on file. As such, Revenant wasn't needed anywhere in particular and was wandering around the staging area, observing the other competitors for slight weaknesses- and trying to avoid Pathfinder's mindless chatter.
Beyond the pane of thick, bulletproof glass and textured steel sheet metal that separated areas of the staging facility, Mirage glanced nervously at the needle used to draw blood, then tried to cover up his phobia by flirting with the technician. Octane paced back and forth, pausing to speak here and there- telling the staff to hurry up so he could get going, if his body language was any indication. Crypto was hunched, hands in his pockets, trying to appear small as he kept to himself. Caustic had swiped something from an unattended cabinet while the technicians were distracted by Octane's antics.
No layperson would describe the competitors of the Apex Games - people who were willing to literally die in combat for sport - as weak. Revenant begged to differ. Those who died in the Games would be brought back in a cloned body, printed cell by cell and free of any injury or ailment they may have suffered over the course of the battle. Their last memory would be of the staging- of having their syncording taken. They would have no memory of the intermingled smells of gunpowder and blood, of the pain, or of how it felt to die.
Revenant was alone in that he remembered.
He was well aware of how it felt to lose energy little by little as the blood drained from his body - surprisingly warm on his skin - until he could no longer move- no longer hold a coherent thought in his head, and his vision was going black. He knew the cold that accompanied the feeling... Deep cold, through to the core, not like the sharp bite of winter air on the surface of one's skin.
He knew how it felt when cold steel pierced between his ribs, the scrape of the knife against the bone, the breath forced out of his chest with a sharp twist and an explosion of intense pain. And to be resurrected, phantom pain from the deathly injuries wracking the newly cloned and printed body as a corporate executive in an expensive suit and tie said, "Nothing wrong with you. Get back out there and keep fighting…"
These fools may have died in the Games dozens of times, but they had no understanding of death.
The irony was that despite being forced to live - if his existence could be called that - with these memories, Revenant had no skin to slice open. He had no blood to bleed, no bones to crush. Those were phantom sensations that had never really happened. He'd never had human body parts, but he knew exactly how it felt to have them.
And humans are weak. He hadn't been able to understand why he never felt right as a human. No matter how hard he'd worked on physical fitness, his body felt… off, somehow. That didn't even begin to touch on his self-image or social role as a human. Now that he knew he was a machine, he wondered how he hadn't figured it out sooner.
Sometimes, in the back of his processor, Revenant did wonder where those memories had come from. Were they of damage that his true, mechanical form had sustained, modified to appear on a human body in his mind? Or were those the memories of a real human he'd never meet, uploaded and merged with his own consciousness via the syncording technology?
In the ranks of the Games, where resurrection and syncording were most frequently performed, he was searching for answers.
Until he found them, he'd settle for kills.
The last of the processing was finished, and the competitors began boarding the drop ship. They still had a long flight ahead of them to the arena. Revenant hung back, hidden by the shadow in a poorly illuminated corner. He preferred to be at the back of the line, where he could watch everyone. Octane and Mirage raced past him to the ship, clowning around and shoving each other. Revenant let out a low growl. Those two fools- easily distracted and devoid of any discipline. He barely considered them worthy opponents. What administrative pencil-pusher had allowed them into the Apex Games?
"You underestimate them. They are stronger than they appear."
In an instant, Revenant spun towards the voice, head lowered and right leg sliding back into a combat stance, a mechanical whirr as his hand reconfigured into a stabbing weapon. A masked figure stood next to him with their arms folded neatly over their chest- not even a flinch at his aggressive reaction.
How the fuck had Bloodhound crept up next to him without him knowing? He'd have to keep a close watch on this one.
"Do not test me. You may not fear death, Legend- but you will fear pain, when I am the one to inflict it. I promise you that."
Bloodhound tilted their head, arms lowering to a more relaxed position at their sides.
"Hmmm. I see."
They turned and walked away to board the ship with graceful movement and relaxed posture. Clearly Revenant's threat hadn't fazed them at all.
The assassin watched them for a moment, then moved from his position in the dim lighting to board the ship as well. His footsteps were silent, well-practiced in concealing himself- until he wanted his enemies to know of his presence.