I'm the fox you've been waiting for [o, joining]

[OCTANE.]

Making the decision to leave behind his adoring fans was difficult, Octane had lived in the spotlight for so long, camera attached to his body to stream each rush of adrenaline for his fans. Octane was born riding a grenade blast to victory, and had never left the camera since. Each match was a new high to chase, new fans, new victories.
Octane didn't mind the dying part. All his fans got to watch it happen, and the extreme rush of battle with a swift, painful death was its own high. That was why Caustic and Octavio had gravitated towards each other. He didn't know Caustic's real name, no one did, but Caustic had always called him Octavio, never shortened. He was sure Caustic's true identity was somewhere out there, and possibly in the files for the Apex Games, but asking for that invasion of privacy officially or unofficially from Crypto would cross boundaries. The man didn't love him, not in any capacity, but Caustic was a high of danger and a promised death.
They needed each other to test their limits. Caustic's gas and Octane's heart. It was a mutually assured destruction. Caustic's need to watch things die, test and observe like the calculating wolf he was, Octane's desire to go beyond.

When Caustic went missing, and Wraith had to explain herself, solutions had to be devised. Blisk had spent too much time and money on each legend, saving their bodies and resources used upon each respawn. Maybe it would have disgusted one of the legends- each one was an asset and Caustic was expensive by nature. He was a villain in the games and the company needed their villains. All for show, all for fans and marketing. When they devised which dimension Caustic had landed in, the next point of contention was how to get him back. They thought about sending in grunts, anyone less expensive to grab the toxic trapper and get out.
Maybe it was Octane's persuasion, or giving them a blank check for damages if he didn't return in proper time. Losing one legend was enough, but two? All of his fans would cherish his disappearance. Octane's mind swirled in the idea of postmortem fame. Memorials, interviews with his family... he wouldn't be around to see them, but it was a last glimmer of fame.
He wanted this new adventure, and he fantasized about the new ways Caustic could kill him here. They gave him the proper supplies, and uploaded his subconsciousness into a fabricated cheetah. It was two feet tall, most of height taken by legs, and with a Mohawk to match Octane's, dyed green, and his tattoo printed on its foreleg. It was missing its hind legs, as requested. That's what Octane wanted. It was his trademark. They gave him legs, a running mask for his face, a box with new toes for Caustic, and the teleporter. They, with the help of Wraith, explained very carefully to him how it worked. Don't get it wet. Don't damage it. That was critical above all. They fitted the legs to the cheetah, and watched as their million dollar asset leaped headfirst into the portal.

Pain registered to him first, landing on his feet, slipping and tripping. Octane rolled, landing on his back and hearing a crunch under him. "Oh no, no, no-" He flipped onto his stomach, shaking himself, staring at paws and scraping his metal legs together. He released the harness from himself, staring at the crushed teleporter. A string of cursed left him in spanish, as he removed and opened the box strapped to his shoulder. Cautsic's prosthetics were fine, but the teleporter? He strapped it back to himself, and pressed the button with his eyes closed.
It fizzled near lifelessly.
"Carajo!" He kept cursing, pressing the button as if it change anything. Octane gave a heavy sigh, pounding his paws into the sand, a chitter leaving his throat. Okay, okay, he just had to find Caustic, and he would fix it, and then they could go home, together. Easy. Okay.
Now.... where was he? Forepaws dug into soft white sand, bad for running, as brown eyes looked across the Barracuda Bay for other signs of life.

© LEXASPERATED