I WILL TURN THIS ------- CAR AROUND!! [o]

[OCTANE.]

You know, being injured fucking sucked. Back home, Octane would have slithered his way into Caustic's labs, and splayed himself across the scientist's counter. He would shove all the papers off, knowing it would piss Caustic off, and wait. He knew how it would play out. Caustic would get mad at him, grab him, slam the daredevil into the counter, and oh, he would hold Octavio's throat so tight. Caustic would mercifully finish him off, knowing Octavio would be popped into a new body, good as new.
They couldn't do that anymore, and Octane's twisted, poisoned subconscious hungered for the end that was not the end. Danger and death were adrenaline, and the rush was far more gratifying than anything Stim or weed could ever give him. This cheetah vehicle was not tarnished in the same way Octane's human self was. It was not constantly abused and updated, it didn't know Caustic's hands or bullets ripped through it. Debatably, his human body did not know pain that well, either. It was updated for new scars and no more, but it never felt pain long enough to learn to tolerate it. Octane realized if he kept sustaining injuries in this form, and healing slowly from them, his tolerance would increase. Such thoughts upset him, and Octane detested the idea. It was more work for both of them, but... did it matter? He could he be useful or run if he was sitting around injured half the time? Like he was now.
Octane had sent a bird Caustic's way, one of the NPCs with a poorly-written letter that explained his injuries. He hoped, the wolf would be here in a day or two and not leave him to suffer alone. Knowing Caustic though, that fucker would leave him on read and when only come at Octane's pestering. Octane could pester only him now by sending more birds, but that would take too long.
Octane laid on the floor of his hut now, door wide open as an invitation to come inside. Rain fell outside, wetting the doorway of his hut. He laid on his back, legs held awkwardly close, as if he was trying to cross his arms. He had popped off his legs hours ago, tossed to the side and wiggling in an attempt to stimulate himself. He rolled to his side, claws gripping the wall and digging right in, dragging down the side.
A trap of his own accord, in a way. He was too injured to get up properly and move around, without being sore or reopening any wounds. Octane felt like a caged tiger snapping at the bars, and he didn't know if he would snap at anyone who walked in here, either. He was twitching and he kept dragging his claws along the wall, leaving marks in the wood. It wasn't productive by any means, but it was something material and it made noise. He was trying to remember something, maybe some of the songs lost to the other dimension, as he beat his paws into the wall. Oh, how did it fucking go? "So you're a tough guy, like it really rough guy, just can't get enough guy," Songs from the generations before that survived the wars and time, artists born generations before him, only surviving on the legacy of music, free on public radio. He hummed out the drum beat,
"I'm the baaaaad guy. Duh." This would have been the part where Octane made a shooting motion with his hands, but settled for hitting the wall again. If he could just like, smash his head right through that would be great.

© LEXASPERATED