honey, i rose up from the dead. i do it all the time
It isn’t that much later, a day or so since they’d gotten back together. But in the time when the Infirmary had gone up in flames and his return from Halo, he’s managed to get a few of the things made for him that he used to have. It isn’t paranoia if war’s on the horizon and he knew what kind of outfit worked for him, sure that he’d be playing a similar role in the long run, so might as well stick with what you know, right? Right.
So he’s managed to get his hands on a similar enough outfit to the one he wore before – this time, the sleeve of the metal arm cut off to not inhibit his ability to move, and he’s managed to find that damn elusive mask he’d lost in his old house destroyed and tucked away from the main road where people had likely scavenged. And with it all put together? He’s practicing, working on his movements and stealth, trying to get it back up to par after so many centuries rusting away.
He nearly manages for the most part, if not for the way the uniform wasn’t quite as good as the one he’d had before, because he slings a knife at that very same statue, lost in his head, watching as it zings off of the edge and bounces, hurling itself back toward him and shanking himself right underneath his ribs. Of course, there’s the gasp of surprise, muffled by the mask upon his face, but there’s frustration underneath it as well.
Especially because the sensors within him start sparking, iridescent fluid bubbling around the blade, and truthfully? He’s a bit peeved about the whole thing. He still knows better than to remove the blade from his side, so the trek through the rainstorm makes him look like a drowned rat, the wind whipping against the houses in the streets and the rain drenching him to the core, mixing with the slow seeping fluid from the wound.
Varus doesn’t even knock as he enters, doesn’t even announce it’s him, a bit frustrated with himself and still a bit stuck in his mind, closing the door before pausing in the entry way as he drips a mixture of water and fluid, his gaze dark as it scans for any sign of Isla. He doesn't know how it might look, especially given the attack on the Infirmary, but he's a bit too far gone to make the connection.
So he’s managed to get his hands on a similar enough outfit to the one he wore before – this time, the sleeve of the metal arm cut off to not inhibit his ability to move, and he’s managed to find that damn elusive mask he’d lost in his old house destroyed and tucked away from the main road where people had likely scavenged. And with it all put together? He’s practicing, working on his movements and stealth, trying to get it back up to par after so many centuries rusting away.
He nearly manages for the most part, if not for the way the uniform wasn’t quite as good as the one he’d had before, because he slings a knife at that very same statue, lost in his head, watching as it zings off of the edge and bounces, hurling itself back toward him and shanking himself right underneath his ribs. Of course, there’s the gasp of surprise, muffled by the mask upon his face, but there’s frustration underneath it as well.
Especially because the sensors within him start sparking, iridescent fluid bubbling around the blade, and truthfully? He’s a bit peeved about the whole thing. He still knows better than to remove the blade from his side, so the trek through the rainstorm makes him look like a drowned rat, the wind whipping against the houses in the streets and the rain drenching him to the core, mixing with the slow seeping fluid from the wound.
Varus doesn’t even knock as he enters, doesn’t even announce it’s him, a bit frustrated with himself and still a bit stuck in his mind, closing the door before pausing in the entry way as he drips a mixture of water and fluid, his gaze dark as it scans for any sign of Isla. He doesn't know how it might look, especially given the attack on the Infirmary, but he's a bit too far gone to make the connection.
VARUS
