#Yeah that spinal implant shit they did

[sunnycanwrite]

you know what's ridiculous: disabled characters getting magic cures.

[musesbykai]

“Yeah… yeah, I understand.” V sighed, then leaned back to stretch, arms raised and fingers intertwined. Their spine audibly popped in the way that only the Kerenzikov spinal implant could. Which just sounded very uncomfortable. “A’ight. I’ll write up some shit to make working with the guy easier. And t’keep him from askin’ too much ‘bout Nekuma. ‘Cause, dammit, ah don’ wanna risk her getting sent ta Area Fifty-one or somethin’.”

And just like that, V moved away from Nekuma so they could start writing.

Meanwhile, the pale woman shifted her gaze over to Oron. Relying on the sound of his voice to do so.

“Oh, of course. I even remember what year I first woke up. Ma- ahem, Nicholas created me in the Amazon rainforest. But had us move to Germany once he had put the implants in and tested to make sure they worked. Two separate universes. But he comes from a different planet in yet another universe.” ~ kaiju-crimson-storyandask

Oron was… dumbfounded to say the least. This whole multiverse thing really was just a string of webs that was beginning to fall apart at the seams. “So your creator is from a different universe on top of your own? Do you know anything about that one?” Anything information was useful at this point, especially if there was the off chance that they will have to potentially fight off this ‘Nicolas’ in the future. 

He did look over at V to see what exactly they were writing. Only to start taking some mental notes himself as Nekuma was talking. “Not only that, he originally isn’t from earth so there are multiple high intelligent species in your world?”

Ohhhh this was giving him a headache.

@kaiju-crimson-storyandask

[nitewrighter]

How about some post-defection Spiderbyte, realising that they enjoy the domestic life?

*Checks fic continuity* Clearly I need more fics of Spiderbyte settling in to the Watchpoint.

----

Late afternoon light shined through the doorway as Sombra’s eyes flicked around the apartment skeptically. She could hear Widowmaker opening and closing drawers from the kitchen. A kitchen! A part of Sombra wanted to laugh at the concept--the illegal splinter cell of a disgraced UN Peacekeeping force having apartments with kitchens! But another part of her mind was flinching back from the idea. People didn’t just give apartments--the dormitory, yes, that was acceptable. Drafty, annoyingly exposed, literally anyone able to come down the stairs at any stupid moment because she and Widowmaker were defectors and therefore not to be trusted. But an apartment--an apartment with a kitchen---Sombra rapped a knuckle against the wall, frowning.

“It’s quite solid,” Symmetra explained behind her, “Since architectural hard-light’s primary function is, well, structure, it’s far more resilient than my other constructs you’ve seen.”

“Do... do you like it?” Winston’s voice seemed almost shy, just as laughable as this apartment.

“...what’s the catch?” said Sombra.

“Catch?” said Winston.

“You need me to hack into the Pentagon again, is that it?” said Sombra.

“Penta--I never asked you to hack into the Pentagon--When did you hack--? I just thought---”

“All the kitchen utilities are functioning?” Widowmaker cut in and Sombra shot her a bewildered look. This was Overwatch--not real estate agents!

“Well, with all the engineers and scientists on the team, and our resident architech, of course,” Winston gave a gesture to Symmetra, who gave a gracious nod, “It wasn’t all that much trouble to put together--”

“Yes or no?” said Widowmaker, turning the sink in the kitchen on and off.

“Yes,” said Winston, “Though uh... the higher settings on the oven may need some adjustments. Torbjorn’s been known to set things a little hot. But feel free to call us if you run into any trouble!”

Like a building super... thought Sombra with a short huff out her nostrils. It wasn’t exactly premium real estate--there was an ugly support column in the middle of their would-be living room, a remnant of the auxiliary server room for Athena this space used to be, but it was still pretty much right next to the other watchpoint apartments.

“And what was it you wanted me to do?” said Sombra.

“Live...here...?” said Winston, “Er--that is--you could stay in the dormitories if you prefer, but we figured with you risking your life on this team as much as anyone else...”

This team, the words caught Sombra.

“You might want a space with more... privacy,” said Symmetra, pressing her hands together in front of herself primly on the word ‘privacy.’ Sombra resisted snorting under her breath. As if Symmetra and Pharah had any right to judge with the way they swooned and hung on each other.

“You sure you can risk that?” said Sombra, arching her eyebrow, “Giving the Talon Defectors privacy?”

“Sombra...” Widowmaker started wearily.

“I’m just asking!” said Sombra.

“Trust is an important part of any team,” said Winston, as if that was obvious.

He keeps saying ‘team,’ Sombra rolled the words over in her mind, Are we on this team? I thought we were just trying not to die.

“We’ll try it out for a few days,” said Widowmaker.

“What?” said Sombra.

“If we don’t like it, we can stay in the dormitories,” Widowmaker finished, glancing at Sombra.

“You’re sure?” there was a brightness in Winston’s voice now. An earnest, ‘You like it?’ as he looked at Sombra.

“...a few days,” Sombra conceded, her side-eye flicking between Winston and Widowmaker.

“Excellent,” said Symmetra, quickly weaving miniature holograms of different furniture out of thin air just above her prosthetic arm, “Do you have any preferences for furniture? Revival? Craftsman? Ooh--! Bauhaus?”

“We’ll uh... just move in some futons from the dorms for now,” said Sombra, “...we’re old fashioned like that.”

“But--!” Symmetra started.

“Understandable,” said Winston, with a wave of his hand.

----

“...you’re being weirdly okay with this,” said Sombra, the first night.

“Vaswani was right. We’d be better off with privacy,” said Widowmaker, spooning her with her bare only faintly lavender-blue arm draped over Sombra.

They had shoved their dormitory mattresses together on the floor of the bedroom. The dim glow of evening hung at their window. Widowmaker liked having a window. It was a nice change from the dormitory.

“Well, yeah, but they’ll want something for it. No such thing as a free lunch,” said Sombra.

“Winston said we were already risking our lives just as much as anyone else on the team,” said Widowmaker.

“So this is what they want,” Sombra huffed, “Their stupid little ‘Team.’”

“Why shouldn’t we be on the same team? We’re just as invested in taking down Talon as they are... if not more so,” said Widowmaker.

“Do you hear yourself right now?” said Sombra, suddenly turning over on her mattress to look at Widowmaker dead in her yellow eyes, “You remember the reason why you’ve gone through all the shit you’ve gone through is because they failed you, right? They couldn’t protect you. I didn’t get us out of Talon so we could die for the people who should have kept you safe in the first place.”

“Do you think we’ll die for them?” said Widowmaker.

“I’m just saying we should be able to cut our losses if shit starts hitting the fan,” said Sombra, furrowing her brow.

Widowmaker smoothly tucked some of Sombra’s hair back from her temple, before craning her neck forward to kiss Sombra just between the eyebrows. “My survivor,” she said, running her hand down the side of Sombra’s face, “I hold you to no fate but what you choose.”

Sombra’s brow crinkled. “Don’t do that,” she said quietly.

“Mm?”

“Don’t act like you’re just a part of this fight and not an entire fucking person,” Sombra’s voice was thick.

Widowmaker’s face softened at her words, and she pulled Sombra close, setting her chin on top of Sombra’s head.

“I’m sticking with you, you get that, right?” Sombra’s voice was quiet against her collarbone, “I don’t do that for anyone. You--” Sombra’s voice took on a dense, suppressed quality, like she was stuffing a sob down to the pit of her solarplexus, “You might be the first. I don’t remember having anyone in my life I would be willing to do that for. And I hate it. I feel stupid. I feel--” she huffed a breath against Widowmaker’s neck.

“...Are you afraid of having a home?” said Widowmaker, smoothing Sombra’s hair slightly.

“This isn’t a home. It’s an apartment they whipped up out of junk, hard light and an old server room,” said Sombra.

“I’m not talking about this place. I’m talking about me. I’m talking about you,” Widowmaker’s whisper hung in the air of the room.

Sombra pulled away slightly to study Widowmaker’s face. Widowmaker looked back at her with placid affection.

“...I don’t think I can be anyone’s home,” muttered Sombra, breaking eye contact, “I’ve built so much of myself around climbing up, tearing down, and disappearing.”

Widowmaker ran her fingers down the spinal implants running down the back of Sombra’s neck. “You’ve been the surest thing in my life for a while now,” she said quietly.

“Says a lot about you, huh?” Sombra fell back into the safety of her own snarking, a grin tugging at one corner of her mouth, but it faded as Widowmaker curved her body around her, holding her tighter. Widowmaker closed her own eyes but knew Sombra’s were open. 

“...it’s not that bad,” Sombra said after a few minutes of silence, “...as far as a converted server room goes...better than the dormitories, anyway.”

“Mm,” Widowmaker grunted in agreement.

“...would probably be a better place for the new processors....” Sombra murmured. Widowmaker smiled a little sleepily. At the very least, she could trust Sombra to push practicality in front of her own Crisis Orphan hangups. There was an incredible bravery in that, Widowmaker thought. Another few minutes of silence passed, and the words in the air of the room sank down, surrendering to Widowmaker and Sombra’s mutual exhaustion.

 “Mon coeur?” Widowmaker said at last.

“Mm?” Sombra stirred in her arms.

“...we’re having Satya put in a bedframe,” said Widowmaker.

Sombra snorted.

----

Over the next few weeks their apartment (their apartment) came to be furnished with a mix of hard-light, what they could manage to grab from rummage sales and giveaways around Gibraltar, and a few bits of furniture Sombra had delivered to an anonymous P.O. box and had definitely not paid for with her own money. The dining room table was hard-light, the couch was not. The bedframe was hard-light, the mattresses were not. The apartment came to remind Sombra of an art piece where sections were being painted in but there were still swathes where the sketch and canvas were still visible. Moving her own processors in to the apartment was probably what marked the mental change from “just trying it out” to “dwelling place” for Sombra. There was a caginess in her she knew would never fully leave, but she did appreciate having what she could call “A base of operations” to get back to from missions.

 The Watchpoint itself seemed to come more of a firmament in that time--what had previously felt like squatting started to feel like something... almost like a neighborhood. “Compound” would have been the closest word but that didn’t seem right either. Not disciplined like a Talon base, but the rocket launchpad, the hangar, the turrets, and the fact that virtually everyone on the base was more or less equipped to fight Talon, including a clunking Crisis-era bastion unit, made it feel significantly removed from any normal living situation. And yet, opening the door to the apartment and smelling food cooking filled her with a feeling she couldn’t describe, or maybe didn’t want to describe because giving it shape might make it that much harder to deal with when it was inevitably ripped away from her.

“What is that?” said Sombra, closing the front door behind her and trailing into the kitchen.

“A poor man’s cassoulet,” Widowmaker answered from their well-worn couch, not looking up from her book, “...technically all cassoulets are that but--” she gave a dismissive wave, not looking up from the book, “Anyway. They had white beans and frozen chicken in the watchpoint mess hall.” 

“Since when did you cook?” said Sombra, a slight laugh shaking the word ‘cook.’

“It was on Ziegler’s recommendation... try new things, maybe get more involved in the process of making food to get myself more used to the concept of... eating,” she glanced up from her book at Sombra, “How was session 97 of spilling hundreds of secrets Talon will most certainly kill you for?”

Sombra snickered and slid over the arm of the couch, “Same old same old,” she said with a shrug, “When’s dinner ready?”

“Another half hour. But I warn you: I don’t even know if it’s edible,” said Widowmaker, setting her book down.

“I trust you,” said Sombra, with mock offense.

“Or are you hungry and don’t want to bother with heading to the mess hall?” said Widowmaker.

“It’s called multitasking,” said Sombra, bringing up a purple screen with a flick of her wrist, “What’re you in the mood for? Action? Period drama?”

“...you have some of the powerful known neural interfacing technology in the world grafted onto you, and you’re using to pretend to be a streaming service?” said Widowmaker.

“Hey, I’m not a streaming service for just anybody,” said Sombra, snuggling in close to Widowmaker.

“Mm... something short,” said Widowmaker.

“And in black and white? And depressing?” said Sombra.

“Ha-ha,” said Widowmaker dryly, adjusting herself so that she and Sombra were comfortably leaning against each other as Sombra mindlessly flicked through different data streams.

“...this is weird, isn’t it?” said Sombra, still scrolling.

“It’s... certainly unlike anything we were doing with Talon,” said Widowmaker.

“Should we stop?” said Sombra, bringing up several pre-crisis media streams and leafing through them.

“...no,” said Widowmaker after a beat, “I... I like this.”

Sombra turned her head to look at Widowmaker and smiled, then kissed her on the jawline. “You’re getting soft,” she said, teasingly.

“I am not.”

“You really are.”

“So are you.”

“Am not.”

“You’re worse than me.”

“Don’t make me put something terrible on, Araña.”

[border-spam]

Leech Lord - The writing’s on the wall

Here we go, folks. Heavy time. Big one.

Tonight was just them, happy in the afterglow of laughter and far too much to drink. That calm quiet that falls with trusted company you can be at ease around. It was nice.

She'd assumed he felt the same way from the barely audible whistle of his breathing to her right. Figured that he was relaxing too, enjoying the dull heat of wine numbing his joints and their usual simmering pain. It was good, it felt right, until the peace was interrupted by the clink of his glass as he shifted, and the hoarse, strained whisper of -

" You're gonna leave one day, I know you will. I'll chase you away. You'll get sick of having to deal with me just l-like everyone does."

The groggy cloud behind her eyes dissipated instantly as his threat landed like ice-water, and she clumsily sat forward, wineglass dangling from her loose hand as she stared at him in confused disgust.

" What?... What are you talking about.”

“ Don't put that shit on me, Troy. Don't... don't even fucking dare try to drip feed that self hating poison into who I am. God, what is wrong with you? "

He didn't meet her eyes, still staring at the glass in his hands as he hunched in his seat, like he was about to crumble into himself. Looking somehow so much older and so much younger than she knew he was - like a child carrying the weight of the world. He mouthed something, then stopped. Started again, paused again. Reconsidering what he'd been about to say as his brows furrowed and lips tightened into a grimace.

Chasing what he wanted to express to her, grasping at it futilely, trying to find the right words and stumbling. Same self made snare as usual, tightening around his neck. The same trap he always set for himself, triggering as he stepped blindly towards it.

He sunk a little lower into himself as he wilted under her disgust, hair falling forward and blocking the shame burning across his face.

" I... I'm sorry, Sei. "

By @godkingsanointed​

???: She just drives me fuckin crazy man! She just- UGHH 

??: She's like fire. 

???: Yeah, a hot headed little- 

??: NO. Can keep you warm, safe, give light to see by. But if you don't treat it with respect, it you think that's all it's for, try to contain it, you'll be burned. 

???: I don't think that's all...  I-I respect her!!!! I can't believe you're taking her side in this!" 

??: No sides. Just something to think about. 

???: Ughhh, screw this! 

(Sounds of a door slamming shut)            

(A few moments of silence) 

??: I know...He's gunna burn her out. All of us.  

(Ding of a voice message being received) 

???: Thanks. For listening. 

??: Ha..we got him thinking. 

By @hieroglyphix​

S: Wh- Ven?! what the fuck are you- how the fuck did you get in here? 

V: Aw c'mon Sei, is that any way to treat a guest? I get that you're a bigshot s-saint and all but c'mon-- 

S: Last time I checked, people who break into other people's houses are considered burglars, not guests- and get your fuckin' feet off my desk!

V: Hey now, just cause I broke in doesn't mean I stole anything. Im more of a buddy, paying you an....impromptu visit! Yeah! 

S: ( sigh ) God, forget the semantics of it all, what the hell do you want? 

V: It ain't about what I want, I came here 'cause of what you want. 

S: ...Pardon? Oh God, tell me this isn't some kind of-

V: Waitwaitwait it ain't like that, S-Sei, you know i don't run that way anyhow. I came because you need a s-sign. 

S: ...A sign. 

V: Yeah, a sign. s-see, I know what you're planning on doing, I've seen it all laid out in the path ahead of us. But you're draggin' your feet too damn long, and it's only gonna get worse from here. so Sei, listen to me, I'm your sign. Get the fuck out of here, and don't look back for nothin'. 

( silence )

S: So, let me get this straight. You broke into my house, just to....tell me to leave?

V: Well when you put it like that it doesn't sound super great, but...yeah.

( silence ) 

S: Who else knows about this? 

V: Only me, and I ain't about to rat on you. I don't blame you for wanting out, things....well, between you me and the floorboards, things ain't gonna get any better around here. 

S: ( deep sigh ) Good God... 

V: Look doll, I ain't here to force you into a decision, and I won't judge you for not leaving. I'm just tellin' you which way the wind's blowing. One friend to another. 

S: Right. 

( uncomfortable silence )

V: Well, you think on what I said. I've gotta get home to my brother, it's spaghetti night. 

S: Try not to let anyone see you on your way out, the last thing i need is more brainless gossip out on my hangar. 

V: Heh. Not like they caught me on the way in, not exactly the sharpest tools out there. Anyway, nighty night Sei.

( the maglock doors hiss open )

S: And Ven? 

V: Yeah? 

S: ...Thanks. 

V: Don't mention it. 

[end echo log]

I’m just a bit shook up…” her voice cracks as she mutters. “He said some stupid shit tonight, bout how everyone leaves him and he knows it’s..” she sighs, letting her head drop to face the table with a weak shrug.

“Stupid as in.. it got to me. He ever say anything to you that’s just.. you know it’s off? I sometimes think it’s me..”

JK waited patiently, wanting to reach out and rest a hand on her shoulder but not quite knowing if that would overstep their tentative friendship as it formed.

“…that I’m going crazy and feeling things that aren’t real, overreacting…” she pauses, swiping her auburn hair back from her forehead, thumbing at her temple as she lets her eyes stare unfocused at the wall behind their shoulder.

JK grunts thoughtfully, then shakes their head a little, their mask tilting downwards as they rumble out a huff of air. “He’s… talking a lot more recently, yeah, bout things no one asked.”

They empty the bottle in a deep dreg, and lower it carefully to the table in front of them, spinning it slowly on its edge. “Like he’s replyin’ to a question that was never said, and he’s pissed about it. Gets snappy at nothin’. Gets angry at nothin’. I don’t say things, I just listen. He likes when you just listen, I think you know that too.”

She nods, watery eyes looking up at them through her thick eyelashes.

“It’s just, the thing’s he’s saying now, this last year?” JK glances to their side again, towards where Troy sleeps.

They turn back to Seifa and reach out then, touching a finger against her forearm as it rests against the table, happy to see she doesn’t flinch away even though she’s hurt too. Proud that though she’s struggling to hold back tears that swell along her lash-line, she’s still listening to them. Really listening, like what JK thinks matters.

“It’s the same kind of things axe-hands I knew in the clan would start to say before they’d go wrong. Harsh things to themselves, about themselves, about how others were seeing ‘em. I don’t like that kind of talk much either, I’ve seen where it goes. People start doing that and they aren’t themselves for much longer. Become the same thing they were worryin’ everyone already saw them as.”

They turn the bottle to its side, idly twirling it with their index finger, only the hollow grind of the glass on the table filling the silence.

“I’ve seen him goin’ the same way. Same way they did, and I don’t know how to stop it, I’m not good with..” they gesture at the bone-white mask still marked with that crumbling splash of old rust-red blood, pausing to collect their thoughts. “..Not good with talking the way it would help. Saw him hurt acolytes the last few months. He used to just grab, threaten…”.

Their leg bounces beneath the table, nerves firing haphazardly as they swallow down the frustration lodged between their teeth. “Now he grinds. Cracks their bones in that metal fist. Not enjoyin’ it, not laughin’, but doin’ it anyway. He smells like bitter antiseptic sometimes, and I think he’s takin’ things out on himself where he figures we won’t know, under the steel.”

“I don’t think he is well. Inside him. None of us are here, lady. We’re all broken a little, but we learn how to live with it. It’s that or die. He doesn’t know how to do it. We gotta…”

“… we gotta watch out for our brother”.

By @godkingsanointed

He'd dare let venom drip about Seifa around them, and Troy knew from the palpable atmosphere change that it wasn't going to be swept under the rug. He would have crumbled, he would have backtracked into sickening apologies, but after the grilling Tyreen had already given him? How helpless and powerless he already felt, child was the straw that broke him.

He span on his heels to face them, spinal implants flaring and eyes all cruel angles and rage. It only took one or two stalking steps for them to be at odds face to face, not that he was sure what he'd do when he got there.

"The fuck was that pal?" He seethed, letting jaw plates click and flicker. They didn't seem intimidated, too full of fury to even care.

"Ungrateful. Fucking. CHILD. She made you, made both of you. Without her, you'd be skag shit right now." They paused to look him up and down before continuing. "Instead of a shit eating skag."

His reaction was instant, flesh hand snapping forward to grab at the decorative chains around their neck he'd gifted them, pulling them close. "You fuckin-" he choked, mind clouded on what to do. He wanted to smash them to bits, he wanted to pull their fucking head off, but he had enough control yet to hesitate.

"If you wanna spar big man, let's go. You know the rules." They spat. They'd set out a few of them a couple of months back, not really thinking it would come to it, more so sharing a part of clan life so he felt included. Clan members could fight out frustrations, as long as it didn't go so far as to lose a body for raids or hunting. No using the prosthetic, no hitting Troys left side, no weapons. That was what they settled on, and now staring him down? They didn't like the idea of fighting him, of fighting any family. Never had. But if he refused to talk and instead was intent to act like this? They could find some satisfaction in landing a hit or two. 

Mention of that past conversation seemed to snap him out of it, hitting home just how far JK was willing to take this. They didn't care about title or siren status, as far as they where concerned this was a family matter. And as far gone as he was, Troy had no intention of full on brawling with family. He pushed them away as he let go, face burning in shame and frustration as he backed down. 

"Not worth my fucking time..." he mumbled, storming away and letting a metal fist impact a wall as he went,one final show of force.

They stayed put after he was gone, head tilted back and taking deep breaths as they steadied themself. Seifa...didn't need to know about this. She hardly needed defending and she'd scold them for almost coming to blows over a few nasty words but...They couldn't have just bitten their tongue either. 

Ven - "I mean boss, have you considered ever actually thinking about what you want?" 

Troy - "..." Troy - "...Everything. All the time. I want e-everything. Everything. Everything I see, all the time. The way you love Eli, and the way he smiles at you and it's real 'cause he knows how to love, I want that."

Troy - "...I want it, and how Sei puts her arms around all of you and never me but she looks at me and I feel s-something but I don’t know how to say it in words, I want that."

Troy - "...I want Jak-Knife and the way their mask a-and their face - both of them are beautiful and better than anything I can pretend I see in a mirror and I want everything all the time, Ven, and I don't even know if it's me that's actually wanting."

Ven - "Right..." Ven  - "...Ok bud, so first of all, I'm going to get us some drinks..."

By @godkingsanointed​

-- Uroboros log - M0noli7h / S0litar3 prsnl e-dev com msg log //Private Line - SAVED-  blame=GKT -- Machina: So Adalphus is where you’re saying is the best bet.  Aurum: Simple logic. Close enough to Pandora for you to still perform your role, far enough from.. well. What you need to be far from.  Machina: Feels apt somehow, ending up wasting away on some off-world base. Never did belong here, huh. Aurum: A feeling I understand better than I’d like. Regardless of our personal opinions you’ve been one of the few colleagues I’d describe as competent, A’Rosk. It’s a reassurance to know you aren’t abandoning your position.  Machina: Mutual on that, Sol. Staying on isn’t by choice though. I’m sure you know that too. You remember Fragor.  Aurum: I remember what was left of her absolutely ruining a pair of Ausler dress shoes, yes. You’re going to be hounded. You know that. Machina: I know that, I’m just praying it will be gently. The Crusaders are under Troy, and Troy..  Machina: I Machina: I trust Troy

Aurum: That’s your prerogative, regardless of how stupid. Machina: Thanks, you nasty shit. So you’ll manage the fund movements once I’m out, keep the flow going to the accounts I gave you? Aurum: Yes, yes. Not exactly work deserving of my touch, mind you. Junkers leave residue. I prefer to keep my hands clean, Seifa. I’m sure you appreciate that, considering this deal.  Machina: Ohhhh absolutely. You scratch my back, I’ll stab yours.  Aurum: Cute. I’ll manage your assets this side, and my little history with those slag shipments to Elpis will remain off your people’s raidar. Machina: That they will. Solomon, much as it pains me to say this, it has been a pleasure. Thank you. For.. for everything.  Aurum: Not needed, Seifa. It’s just good business. [end log]

[fairie-gothmother]

In The Shadow of Starlight, Part 2: Negotiating With Gods

Read Part 1: The Fall

Octavia took a deep breath outside the door, steadying herself in preparation for what Lilith asked her to do. How did she get into these situations? A week ago, she was in her room, sipping on a Moxx-tail and watching a Lord of Skags stream on the EchoNet. Today, she was interrogating the cult leading, pseudo-siren monstrosity known as the God King. Lieutenant Cramer wasn’t making things any easier. He was ready to go. She stumbled when Cramer clapped her on the back a bit too forcefully.

“Enough waiting around. Chin up, kid,” he said. Shouldering his gun and wasting no more time, Cramer kicked the door open. “Look alive, rat boy!”

Troy sat with his head resting on a small table at the center of the dimly lit holding cell. The walls and floor were made of concrete. The only entrances were two heavily reinforced steel doors. The door at the front of the room was the one they had entered. The other one was at the back beside a wide mirror that took up the majority of the wall.

Troy lifted his head. “Aw, that’s adorable. They employ senior citizens here. At ease, Pops. The Corporate Wars ended a while ago,” he said.

Octavia braced herself while giving Cramer a sideways glance.

“Wipe that pedophile smile off your face, boy! I have gray pubes older and wiser than you!” Cramer yelled, his face nearly turning purple.

Troy sneered at him, slowly rising from his chair and standing at his full height. He towered over Cramer in an intimidating display. The sporadically sparking remains of his damaged cybernetic arm dangled from his shoulder. The red light of his siren marks cast eerie highlights across the angled features of his face. 

Octavia stayed close to the door, unsure how this would play out.

Cramer was unimpressed and got right down to business. The dude had nerves of steel. “Commander Lilith has ordered the removal of that smoking fire hazard you’ve been dragging behind your sorry ass. Ellie will be doing the honors. You are expected to behave yourself.”

“And if I don’t behave?” Troy challenged.

Ellie entered the room right on cue. “Then yer gonna make this a lot harder than it needs ta be.” Octavia had met Ellie a few times before. She was a squat, stout woman wearing overalls, every pocket filled with tools and gadgets. “Let’s just git through this. I don’t wanna be here any more than you do.”

Troy put his hand over his chest feigning a broken heart. “Hey, that hurts my feelings.”

Ellie ignored him and flipped her welding mask down over her face with a nod of her head, plasma cutter in hand. Troy got the message and sat down. Loose cybernetic parts dangled from the back of his neck. He winced when Ellie reattached them into the bleeding ports of his spinal implant. The mechanical arm barely hung onto his right side by chucks of charred metal and wires. Ellie removed the arm with little effort. When she reached to do the same with the shoulder brace, Troy grabbed her arm with his remaining flesh hand before she was able to touch it.

“Leave it,” Troy said through clenched teeth.

Ellie yanked her arm from his grip. “Suit yerself. I’m gonna fix the hinges on yer jaw modification. The higher-ups are comin’ and I don’t want ya droolin’ all over the place. Open up.”

Troy slurped and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. His modified jaw split open at the chin revealing rows of pointed fangs. He leaned closer to Ellie, flicking his long tongue. Dear god, Octavia thought. She forced herself to look away.

Ellie was in no mood to put up with any shit. “I could smother you under one tit, string bean! Now back off ‘fore I decide ta weld yer monster mouth shut.”

Unable to articulate, Troy growled in response but did as he was told. Ellie finished the touch ups in a matter of minutes. Without a word, she gathered her tools and stood. Troy snapped his jaws back in place and ran his fingers along the newly repaired hinges.

After finishing her job, Ellie walked over to stand by Octavia. She leaned close to Octavia’s ear and said, “That guy’s creepier than slow dancin’ with a hot corpse. Watch yerself.”

Octavia’s throat felt like sandpaper. She approached carrying her medical bag in what she hoped looked like a confident stride. Never in her worst nightmare did she think she’d meet the Calypso in person. He was thin and monstrously tall. His usual bulky, fur trimmed coat was missing which left his upper body completely exposed apart from the black collars around his neck. Lithe muscle slid beneath tanned, bruised skin. Radiant red siren marks coiled in looping patterns around his left arm and across the left side of his face. Icy blue eyes pierced through deep shadowed sockets with traces of black eye makeup smudged underneath.

“Like what you see?” Troy asked.

Octavia snapped out of her stare. Remembering her bedside manner, she extended her right hand to Troy. “Hello, Troy. My name is Octavia.” Troy raised an eyebrow at the gesture. Octavia quickly recoiled realizing that Troy didn’t have a right hand to shake with. “Right, sorry,” she said.

“Jesus. First the redneck mechanic, now an incompetent doctor.”

Octavia took offense to that, momentarily forgetting her nerves. “While I’m legally obligated to say I’m not technically a doctor, I am a highly qualified herbalist.” Octavia set her bag on the table. After putting on a pair of gloves, she pulled the stopper from a vial. “This is gonna sting.” She hesitated before touching him. Cautiously, she applied ointment to a laceration across Troy’s collarbone.

“Perfect. A witch doctor. Even better,” he said sarcastically. He hissed in pain. “The hell is that? It reeks.”

Octavia continued the application. “Scab root reduction. It’s a plant based antiseptic. It burns like hell and stinks just as bad, but it does the job.”

“Sorry I asked.”

Dried blood flaked from his skin as she applied more ointment to a lesion on his human shoulder. Uneasiness writhed in her stomach as her hands passed over the glowing red tattoos that adorned the limb. She expected them to feel warm to the touch, but they felt exactly like the rest of his skin.

The wounds were deep. She carefully cleaned and stitched them, working until she was satisfied that he was safe from infection. Much better, she thought, feeling pleased with herself. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for the condition of the metal brace on his right shoulder. It bent inward in such a way that it likely put an uncomfortable amount of pressure on whatever tissues were underneath.

“I’d like to see the extent of the damage under your…” Octavia slipped the tips of her fingers beneath the shoulder brace. 

Troy lunged forward and shoved her into the wall in one fluid motion. Her head bounced off the concrete causing her vision to blur. His forearm held her across the chest, his body flush against her, pinning her against the wall. Cramer reacted immediately and aimed his gun at Troy from across the room.

“Don’t ever do that again.” Troy’s threat was delivered in a hot whisper inches above her face. His lips curled back in a snarl revealing gold capped fangs on his canine teeth. The stench of blood on him was sickening. She couldn’t move, completely at his mercy.

“Stand down!” Cramer yelled, still aiming a Jakob’s shotgun at the side of Troy’s head.

There was a tremble in Troy’s grip. Octavia noticed he was using his weight rather than his strength to hold her in place. He drew sharp breaths while his lungs struggled with the effort. Despite his incredible endurance, he was still weak.

“Rat boy, if you think for one moment that I won’t put a hole in that greasy head and watch your tiny brain drain out, you’ve got another thing coming! I said stand down!” Cramer repeated.

Troy’s enraged expression contorted into a playful smirk as he released Octavia and backed away. He raised two fingers to his brow in a mock salute to Cramer.

Octavia pressed a hand to her chest both to calm her pounding heart and to recover from just having the wind knocked out of her. Ellie rushed to her side to put a comforting arm around her. “You okay? He’s all bark ‘n no bite the way he’s in. He’s just tryin’ ta intimidate us.”

Octavia nodded. “It’s working.”

After collecting herself, Octavia took a seat across from Troy, who had reverted back to being aloof with his feet propped up on the table. He looked at her expectantly. This dramatic change in demeanor was unsettling. He was ticking time bomb begging for an excuse to explode.

Octavia cleared her throat. “I think it’s safe to assume that anyone else that found you in your condition today would’ve killed you on the spot.”

“Yeah, woulda been the smart thing to do. Which is why I can’t help but wonder why you chucklenuts didn’t,” Troy prompted.

“Lilith sees potential to make something of this circumstance, crazy as that sounds.” Octavia paused, wanting to choose her next words carefully. Her voice softened. “You’ve hurt a lot of people, Troy. This could be your shot at redemption.”

Troy snickered. “Redemption? Yeah, no thanks. The only thing I’m after now is revenge.”

“You’re not the least bit interested? People are calling you a monster.”

“So what? You get in a God’s way, you get smited… smitten… smote? Whatever. Point is, fear turns out to be the perfect motivator. So if keeping the masses motivated makes me a monster, let them think what they want.” Troy nonchalantly rested his hand behind his head.

“That doesn’t bother you? Even if you’re not leading the Children of the Vault anymore?”

“Like I said, let them think what they want.” After a moment, Troy sighed heavily. He glanced at the mirror that ran across the length of the back wall and rolled his eyes. “I get why you Crimson Traitors see me as a monster. Tyreen and I attacking your commander and all. Before you decide to torture me or whatever you plan to do, let me just point out that I spoke up and stopped Tyreen from dusting your precious Firehawk.”

Octavia hesitated. She never knew exactly what happened the day Tyreen stole Lilith’s powers. If that was true- “Why would you do that?”

Troy shrugged. “I have my reasons.”

~~~

Lilith & Maya were listening in on the conversation behind the two way mirror from the connected observation room. It was obvious to Lilith that her siren companion was uncomfortable after this sociopath had subtly told them he knew they were watching. Maya shifted her weight from side to side, arms crossed, nervously drumming her fingers.

“I really don’t like this, Lilith.”

“I’m not sure what to make of it either. If Troy is telling the truth about wanting revenge on Tyreen, he could help turn the tables in our favor. On the other hand, if this is all a trick and he’s still with the COV, it’d be bad news for all of us.”

Maya threw her hands up in frustration. “That’s exactly why we shouldn’t be taking any chances. There are a lot of people that we keep safe, including the ones inside that room. What would have happened to Octavia if Troy was at his full strength?” Of course she already knew what would’ve happened. “The Calypsos took your powers without a shred of mercy.”

Lilith interrupted, “That’s not entirely true. I’m standing here with you, aren’t I? Tyreen had me by the throat, drained my powers, and was ready to finish me off. But Troy stopped her. He said they were in a hurry to leave. I don’t know if I’d call that mercy, but it may not exactly be malice. I want to test where his loyalties lie. We convince him to cooperate, then we can decide how to use him.”

Maya huffed and resumed staring daggers through the two way mirror, her siren marks pulsing in reaction.

What a strange turn of events. Not in a million years did Lilith foresee a situation like this. One of the Calypso twins was in her custody seeking revenge on the other. It was too good to be true. She expected Troy to jump at the first chance to coordinate with the Raiders, but he refused. If he was trying to infiltrate, that would have been his way in. Did Tyreen really cast him out? What was the catch here? Lilith was determined to find out. Enough of this quiet observation. She opened the door, and entered the holding room.

Troy’s gaze instantly locked onto Lilith when she entered. His cold eyes followed her all the way up to the table at which he and Octavia sat. Though her composure didn’t falter, the contempt in his look made Lilith’s skin crawl.

Lilith put a hand on her hip. “Let’s assume what you’re telling us is true. You got denounced, and Tyreen made an example out of you. Surely some of your devoted followers would’ve wanted to help you out.”

“Some tried. There weren’t enough of them to cause a mutiny or anything.”

Octavia chimed in, “So there were others thrown out, too?”

“Maybe,” Troy said. “If there were, they must’ve been poofed somewhere else. I was alone when I got beamed out. It’s more likely that Tyreen ate them all.”

At last, Lilith asked the question everyone was dying to know the answer to. “Troy, why did Tyreen kick you out of the Children of the Vault?”

“It’s a family matter. Kinda personal. I’m sure you understand.”

“We just want to make sense of your situation,” Octavia pleaded.

Troy looked back and forth between the two women a few times, then scrunched up his face. “Are you actually going for the good cop-bad cop routine?”

Octavia suggested, “We could both try bad cop.”

Lilith could tell this wouldn’t go anywhere. “Alright, fine. Keep your secrets. As you already know, the Crimson Raiders are pursuing Tyreen and the COV. As much as I hate to admit it, we could use each other’s help. You know the ins and outs of their entire operation. We’d like to offer you the chance to coordinate with us.”

The expression on Troy’s face was hard to read. “You do know who I am, right? Calypso twin, God King, ex-Holy Father of the Children of the Vault? After everything I’ve done, why would you want to offer me anything?”

“Don’t take it the wrong way. You’re still at the top of the shit list,” said Lilith.

Octavia cut in. “Embarrassingly, we don’t have much on the COV. We’re outnumbered and our intel is outdated. What have you got to lose? You know the saying, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ You get your revenge, we stop Tyreen from leeching the entire galaxy. Win-win.”

Troy was silent, those cold eyes narrowing skeptically. Losing patience, Lilith added, “Or Cramer could keep you company while you rot in a max security prison cell.”

Cramer still stood at attention at the front of the room. When the Calypso looked at him, a vein throbbed in Cramer’s neck and he shouted, “What are you lookin’ at, cock snot?”

“Pff! Screw that. If it gets me out this hellhole, then I’m in,” Troy said. He looked to Octavia. “I guess your good cop strategy worked after all.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Phew! I apologize if this one felt a little long winded. I crammed in lots of exposition, some backstory, and foreshadowing. Thanks for sticking with it. Part 3 will be much more exciting, I promise. In all its bloody, chaotic glory. 

Feel free to ask questions or just let me know if you like the story. I am fueled by feedback.

[softderekhale]

the sterek pseudo-altered carbon au one shot no one asked for

Just kidding. I asked for this, and then I wrote it, because I’m avoiding work and I have no self control. This also kind of blended with a White Collar AU suggestion I read earlier this week. Anyway, writing this was a nice palate cleanser and maybe someone will read it! (Also, I don’t think you actually need to have watched Altered Carbon to get this; the gist is that human brains/consciousness are downloaded to and stored in these little spinal implants. When you die, if you have the money, you can be plugged [spun] into a new body. Criminals and those whose devices are in storage are “on ice.”)

“Stilinski?” Danny’s face crackled to life in the corner of Stiles’ screen.

“Yo, Danny. What’s up?” Stiles slid the call into the middle of the glass pane, minimizing the other notes and feeds crowding the space.

“Got your guy spun up. He’s ready in room 3.”

Stiles scoffed. “Took ‘em long enough. Thanks, Danny.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t particularly seem to care for resleeving. Almost knocked Finstock out cold with a supply tray before we got his sister to tell him to calm the fuck down so we could transfer him over to the precinct,” Danny said, still unflappably calm considering the unusual circumstances.

“Jesus.” Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face, took a deep breath, and grabbed his coffee as he closed out of the call and stood up. This day -- no, this month -- had been too fucking much.

***

“Derek Hale. Fifteen years for forgery, armed robbery and grand theft auto to top it off,” Stiles said by way of greeting as he stepped into the small interrogation room.

Derek remained completely silent, eerily still as he glared at Stiles from his chair.

“Detective Stiles Stilinski. Nice to meet you too,” Stiles sighed, dropping into the other chair and letting Hale’s file fall to the table with a slap.

“Why the fuck am I here?” Derek growled, voice seething with the same anger and tension that radiated from his taut, defensive posture.

Stiles rolled his eyes with a tsk. “Now, Mr. Hale, your sister paid a pretty penny to get your original sleeve back. I just have a few questions for you, and if you cooperate, we won’t have to put you back on ice for the rest of your sentence. I think it was another what -- twelve years?” Stiles hated playing the bad cop, but it wasn’t like he had a choice between this guy’s attitude and the downright shitty circumstances that had brought him here.

Derek leaned forward and stared Stiles dead in the eye. “Why the fuck am I here?”

Stiles sighed, actively trying to soften his tone and attempting not to let his shitty fucking week interfere with what was probably an equally shitty and terrifying day for the man sitting across from him.

“We know you got set up. And we know who did it,” Stiles said, pausing carefully to gauge Hale’s reaction.

Derek’s nostrils flared. His frown deepened -- which Stiles truly hadn’t thought was even possible -- but he remained silent, choosing instead to continue attempting to bore into Stiles’ skull through sheer odious willpower.

Stiles sighed again and leaned back in his chair. “Why’d you do it, Hale? Why’d you cover for Kate?”

He thought he saw Derek flinch nearly imperceptibly when he said her name. Kate Argent was one of the world’s most infamous white collar criminals, and Derek had been working as one of her close backups when he got brought in after a museum robbery in Bay City a few years back.

Derek’s gaze finally shifted. “Who… who said I covered for her?”

“The evidence. We picked her up again last week. She had her niece working with her this time. The niece took a plea bargain in exchange for all her backups of Kate’s files. We found the doctored footage, Hale. You weren’t anywhere near Bay City that night,” Stiles said, carefully noting the way Hale’s eyes fell blank as he spoke.

“So,” Stiles asked again, leaning forward. “Why did you cover for her? Cash? Dirt? Love?” The rest of the precinct had their money on the last one. Stiles didn’t.

Derek snorted. “Sure as fuck wasn’t love. But… I thought it was. She had me brainwashed. Had all of us brainwashed. When she started threatening to use my sister as leverage, I told her I was going to try and get out. She didn’t want me going to the cops, so… It was either slag me, or leave me on ice.”

“Why didn’t she slag you?” Stiles knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from Hale. He wanted to make sure he was about to make the correct decision by offering what he had in mind.

“You already know why. You know who my parents are, Detective,” Derek scoffed.

Stiles smirked. Hale had a pretty face, but he didn’t make it in as deeply as he did by being stupid.

“I do know. Not exactly sure how James and Talia Hale’s kid ends up a professional forger, but I’ve seen weirder shit on a regular Monday here.”

Derek cracked a small smile. “The kind of people we sold to had so much money, it made them stupid. You know the type,” he said with a shrug.

Stiles laughed. Yeah, he did know the type, and they were a fucking pain in the ass when they found out they’d been duped. If Stiles was being honest, art forgery was literally at the bottom of his priority list when it came to the types of crimes that went in and out of BCPD. But the Meths had the money and the time to get what they wanted -- petty revenge.

Derek finally moved, uncrossing his arms and folding his hands carefully in his lap. “Not that this hasn’t been great, Detective, but am I free to go? I have... a lot to catch up on.”

Three years on ice. For as distant as Derek had clearly become from his family, Stiles couldn’t imagine losing that much time. Derek was lucky that Kate had gotten caught as relatively early into his sentence as she had. Stiles cleared his throat and leaned back, appraising Hale before answering.

“Your pardon went through today. However, there’s still the matter of all the stuff we have evidence on you for. The backups, remember?” Stiles tried to break the news gently, still feeling sympathetic despite Hale’s demonstrated criminal streak.

Hale’s face fell so quickly that Stiles almost had to look away, until it turned back into a mask of anger and resolve.

“So you woke me up just to tell me that you’re fucking putting me back on ice for the rest of my goddamn life?” His voice was a snarl, but Stiles could hear the fear underneath the words.

“And let your sister pay for your sleeve just so we could dick you over for a few minutes? Don’t worry. Not my style,” Stiles said, watching some of the tension leave Derek’s shoulders.

“So,” he continued. “To answer your question and tell you why the fuck you’re here, as you so elegantly put it, I wanted to bring you in. Explain what’s going on. You’re pardoned for the Bay City case, since we can prove you got set up. All things being equal -- primarily, the Chief and I not giving a rat’s ass about a couple dickhead Meths getting sold some fake Picassos -- we talked the DA into reducing your sentence down to time served. There’s still the matter of your probation, though.” Stiles paused, giving Derek time to process the information.

“They were Monets, actually, but keep talking.”

“God forbid. Anyway, probation. I really don’t want to deal with the paperwork, and I’d be willing to bet a decent chunk of change that you have little to no interest in wearing an ankle monitor. If you’d even keep it on for a day without hacking it off,” Stiles replied.

“You read that in my file? I’m touched by the attention to detail,” Hale said, cocking an eyebrow.

Stiles scoffed, internally scolding himself for finding verbally sparring with an ex-con this fucking hot. It’d been a while, okay?

“Of course. I’m a cop’s kid with a contrarian streak a mile wide, and even I never managed to pull that off.” Stiles’ stomach swooped oddly as Derek laughed again.

“So here’s my offer. Work with us, and there will be no babysitters. No ankle monitors. You can walk out of this building and light a fucking joint before you’re out the door, for all I care. But you have something we can use, and we can use it to actually help people,” Stiles said, lacing his words with as much sincerity and urgency as he could. He truly believed Hale was something special, and the probation paperwork was a pain in his ass that he really didn’t need.

Derek smirked. “Seems like you get the better end of the deal, Detective. How long am I on your leash?”

“Eighteen months. Same amount of time you’d be on probation. We’ll work on a contract basis -- an honest job, with an honest salary that you can tell your parents and sister about. Eighteen months go by, and we can decide if it’s still a mutually beneficial arrangement.” Stiles didn’t like playing the sister card, but it was clearly a weak point for both siblings and for whatever reason, he really wanted Derek to take his offer. He wanted to know what made the infamous Derek Hale tick, even if was in the decidedly uptight realm of the precinct.

Derek took a deep breath. “Alright. I’ll take your offer, Detective Stilinski.”

Stiles couldn’t help his smile. He held out his hand across the table, the back of his neck tingling as Derek’s strong fingers wrapped around his. “Call me Stiles. Welcome to the team, Mr. Hale.”

[sumigakure]

we’re getting the band (back) together

To: @modernart2012

From: @arrowsbane​

Title: we’re getting the band (back) together

Rating: T

Wordcount: 1486

Prompt: Pacific Rim AU. Preference for MadaTobi, but I’m open to any pairing, romantic or otherwise. Doesn’t have to follow the movie, can follow the comics.

Notes: I went very AU with this, but right now Idek bc I swapped prompts halfway through, and this is what my brain came up with.

Summary: “We’re getting the band back together!” Jiraiya crows exuberantly. Tsunade, of course, is just there to knock some heads together; and Orochimaru… Orochimaru hates them both. He’d rather being science-ing in his lab right about now.

After the shinobi villages formed, when the clans finally came together in order to stop the wars, the worst thing anybody really had to worry about was politics and conflicting missions…

And then… everything changed.

When the Zetsu first began attacking, it was the Samurai who came up with the concept for the Jaegar Project. It was a great idea, two people piloting a giant, fifty foot mechanical robot to combat the threat… until, of course, the Shinobi nations took one look at the machine and started to laugh.

The Project wasn’t scrapped – it couldn’t be scrapped, not with the panicked civilians’ screaming en masse at the politicians. Instead, it was made the public face of international defence.

Instead, the Parabatai Project was designed – which in turn spawned the Cerebus Program as the years passed; implants inserted directly into the spinal column and interfacing with the CNS and brainstem, wirelessly connected to partnered hubs.

The implants enabled the user to link-up with others, and essentially become one mind simultaneously piloting and co-ordinating multiple bodies. If used by an ordinary swordsman, it would be lethal… used by Ninja… well, that was just inspired.

And so began the evolution of the ninja villages – Senju Tobirama and Uchiha Madara paved the way, demonstrating the deadly efficiency of two compatible genii able to share a hive mind-set. The land of Fire was set ablaze in their attempt to wipe out the Zetsu, but even their combined might was not enough. 

Genin teams were put together for balance, but ninja were assessed again as Chunin, and often reassigned to different units in order to test flexibility and search out the best ‘fit’. Partners were usually set around the age of sixteen, once puberty had evened out – chakra helping to stabilise the mind and body ahead of civilian standards.

When Sarutobi’s Genin team were slotted together, nobody had really expected much of them – well, they had expected them to become brilliant ninja… separately… in their own right… but nobody had foreseen the titans that they would be in the field.

The implants stung at first, they always did – Jiraiya bitched, Orochimaru scowled… and Tsunade… Tsunade was smug, because the idiots had ignored the opportunity to learn the healing techniques she’d used on herself within five minutes of leaving the Cerebus Centre.

Sarutobi shook his head and sighed, directing them to training ground twenty-three, and settling in to watch the no-doubt hilarious show that would be the three of them (re)learning to navigate while sharing headspace with minds that weren’t their own.

“Ouch!”

“Out of the way!”

“Ow. Ow OW OW TSUNADE!”

“Mooorrrooon.”

Sarutobi found himself dropping the rice ball and hastily intervening as Orochimaru’s words began to slur together in the telling manner that threatened the destruction of the whole training ground… or the village being swamped in snakes. Again.

The Sannin weathered so many storms, so many encounters with the Zetsu over the years before the cracks begin to show.

Time isn’t kind, nor is life. Some grow close, some grow apart… and constant expectations of high success rates, expectations of perfection, of setting the bar, of succeeding in an impossible war…

Tsunade lost her brother and fiancée, Orochimaru’s humanity slipped further and further from his grip with every passing year, and Jiraiya buried years of pain and disappointment beneath a wide grin and creased-closed eyes.

And then the cracks met in the middle, and the team shattered at the seams.

The Sanin were no more.

Time ticks on, and the Zetsu keep coming.

New teams step up to the plate, nations rise and fall in the leaderboards for ‘have killed the most useless monsters’… and eventually the Hokage throws his hands in the air, sighs, and sends his ANBU out to drag Jiraya away from the Hot Springs and into his office – by the ear if necessary.

“Enough,” He tells the wayward brat – fifty years old or not, he’s a brat – “Enough. This has gone on for long enough.”

Jiraiya, of course, scowls.

“I’m not the one who left,” He grumbles, crossing his arms and ducking his chin, the picture of an angry pre-teen. Sarutobi sighs and rubs the crease between his brows.

“No,” he replies, “you are not; but that doesn’t mean you can’t go after them.”

Jiraya, tellingly, doesn’t answer. He sits there in sullen silence for a long while, and then slinks out of the office. Sarutobi has a sinking feeling. This will not end well.

Tsunade is drinking in a bar when he finds her, flushed pink from the alcohol, and halfway to falling asleep on a bill she won’t ever pay.

“No,” she says before he can even open his mouth, before he’s even in her line of sight – like she knows what he’s there for – and she does, because she’s still got the implants, and he would never give his up.

“But–”

“No.”

Jiraiya sighs, and flops down into a seat next to her, raising an arm to the bartender who nods and sets down a bottle of Sake and a cup in front of him.

“Kampai,” he mutters in a subdued tone.

Fuck. Now he remembers why he never chased after them before now.

The next morning dawns bright and clear – the sun is shining, the birds are singing… the local castle is exploding in a cloud of dust and rubble.

The fuck?

Jiraiya bolts upright, and groans, supressing the urge to drop back down into bed as the force of his hangover – and Tsunade’s, shit, how did he forget about that perk of the bond? – hits him smack in the cap of the skull, and his eyes feel like they’ve been burnt out of his head.

Goddammit, what was that?

He squints out against the morning glare, wrenching the window open and pushing off of the sill with practised ease, zoning in on the source of the noise.

Boom usually equals bad in his books.

And he’s right. He’s not the only one there though – Tsunade and her apprentice (Shizue? Torune? Shizune?) follows them, carrying a pig of all things.

Not only that, but looming out of the dust and snarling with frustration is–

“Orochimaru?” Jiraiya yelps. He hadn’t sensed the snake nin nearby. How had he not sensed the man when he’s lit up like a fucking chakra beacon?

“What did you do?” Tsunade screeches angrily, staring at was once a piece of local cultural history and is now a mass of stone and dirt.

“It wasn’t me,” Their wayward teammate snarls back at her; and as one, they turn to see a writing white mass melting into nothingness. But of course, where there’s one Zetsu, there’s dozens more.

“We’ll talk about this later,” She orders, ignoring Jiraiya’s whine of pain, and smashing a chakra-coated fist through the head of a Zetsu that had been trying to sneak up on her.

“Sure, “Orochimaru snipes backwards, “Sometime after the two of you have drunk your weight in sake again I suppose?”

“Please,” Tsunade snorts, kicking another Zetsu into a group, and the lot of them go down like bowling pins. “I’d need a lot more than that to handle your crap.”

Jiraiya tunes them out, focusing on using their connection – something he hasn’t done in over ten years – to handle the situation, although the back of his brain feels the familiar to-and-fro of death threats and general snarking.

He’s missed this.

When it’s all over and done with, and they’re standing in the wreckage of the battlefield, Jiraiya lets his shoulders slump, and turns to his old friends with a grin on his face – a grin he’s not worn in a long time.

“That was fun,” Tsunade admits as they make their way down to the town. She’s going to need sake to get through the rest of they day.

“Yeah, it was.” Jiraiya agrees happily, and Orochimaru snorts. “Oh don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.”

“I didn’t hate it…” Orochimaru acquiesces, stepping over a large chunk of stone and mortar.

“Aww, I love you too.” Jiraiya latches onto his teammate like a limpet on a rock.

“Get your hand off of me, Moron.” Orochimaru hisses, flipping his hair over his shoulder and trying to squirm out of Jiraiya’s grip.

“You’re both idiots.” Tsunade grumbles, shaking out her clothes.

“But we’re your idiots.” Jiraiya tells her cheerfully.

“You’re certainly something,” She grumbles, and then freezes as a thought passes through Jiraiya’s head.

“No,” She says.

“No.” Orochimaru agrees with her.

It’s too late though, they both know he’s not going to let them go again.

“Don’t say it,” Tsunade groans, rubbing her aching temples and Orochimaru groans.

“We’re getting the band back together!” Jiraiya crows exuberantly. Tsunade, of course, is just there to knock some heads together; and Orochimaru… Orochimaru hates them both. He’d rather being science-ing in his lab right about now.

If you enjoyed this piece, why not take a look at other pieces written by the same author on AO3.

[xadoheandterra]

Title: Don’t Write Me A Postscript Chapter: X (I / II / III / IV / V / VI / VII / VIII / IX / XI / XII / XIII) Fandom: Red vs Blue Characters: Micheal Caboose | Agent California | Micheal-210, David Church | Agent Washington | Recovery One, Church | Alpha, Frank DuFresne | Doc, Epsilon Summary: He was all sorts fucked up and didn’t want to admit it. Being alone for fourteen months didn’t help matters--except, well, Church was tired of being alone. Tired of people leaving and dying--and he thought, no more. I’m done. I’m out.

Won’t Say You’re Sorry (I / II / III)

Do You Even Feel Compassion? (I / II)

Church hated to admit it but he stopped functioning the minute David slumped sideways into unconsciousness. It felt like everything that made Church into Church up and crashed, completely, incapable of comprehending that David could be that far gone. The thought of another death—of another loss—became too much. His brain blue screened—and wasn’t that fucking hilarious?—and when everything rebooted Church felt—

—felt—

everythingandnothingandsomuchbeyond

It felt like a film covered everything. Church worked quickly, quietly, and settled David into a position that wouldn’t fuck up his neck even further. He categorized what he could see—the suit said unstable; pinpoint where, what is broken—there. The implant. How? Jammed; has to be jammed. Fix?—and then with a thought Church manipulated the radio waves until he reached the one frequency he knew could direct him further.

“Field Medic Frank DuFresne, speaking!”

“I need everything on repairing a jammed implant against the spinal column, now,” Church said shortly.

“Wha—Church?! How did you—why do you need to know that?!” Doc sounded so horrified.

Church slid his gaze off of David for a brief moment and over to Caboose. He made a quick gesture, a twitch of his fingers in a manner that he knew the other man would recognize if only because it’d been so deeply ingrained into him. A second later Church jerked his head back toward the smoke that rose in the distance, where their crashed jeep was, and Caboose climbed to his feet in silence.

“You don’t need to know,” Church said hollowly. “You just need to provide me the information.”

“But—there is a lot about implants, Church! They’re—one wrong step and you could leave someone braindead for life! I can’t have that—”

“You tell me what I need to do,” Church narrowed his eyes, “or I hunt you down and put a bullet in your head. Now.”

For a moment Doc said nothing, and then quietly, “When did you get so mean?”

Church shuddered, then bent forward and buried his face into his knees. He fought down the twisted confusion that warred inside him—memories and thoughts and everythingandanythingandtheuniverseathisfingertips—and said lowly, “Wouldn’t you do anything for family, Doc?”

“I…” Doc seemed to fumble for words. “I’m sorry. I just…don’t feel comfortable with this, Church.”

Church closed his eyes. “Wouldn’t you do anything for your own child, Doc?” Church whispered, like he admitted to something so forbidden and wrong—but wasn’t he, in some respects? Wasn’t he?

He heard a faint, “Oh dear,” and then a sigh. “I—alright. Alright. But if this doesn’t work…”

Church clenched his fists. “It will work,” he said. His hands trembled.

“But if it doesn’t—”

“It will work,” Church ground out.

Doc was silent. For a moment Church just stared at David, stared at the face drawn with stress and gaunt from nightmares and from the other man pushing himself beyond his limits like an idiot. Church’s hands trembled.

(he had no right to David anyway)

(that man)

(not after how he threw him away)

Doc sighed. “Alright,” the medic mumbled. “Alright. Here’s what you need to do.”

(he had no right to David)

(David was Alpha’s now)

(would always be…)

(he had no right to David anymore)

Church’s hands trembled.

Wash woke back up and felt like his head went through a blender or two in three different ways. His neck ached something fierce and his implant honest-to-god burned. Wash blinked bleary eyes and for a moment he saw—he saw—

—pale and blue and cackling laughter with bright eyes filled with madness and hate.

“Don’t you get it yet? Don’t you? Don’t you?”—

—regulation “blue” and a concerned face of Caboose. The young man blinked back at Wash and then smiled.

“Church! Church! He’s awake!” Caboose shouted and Wash winced as the noise seemed to jam straight into his implants.

Wash hissed, “Fuck,” under his breath because that was honestly a new feeling. The next thing he knew before he could even try to push himself up was Church right in his face.

“Follow my finger,” Church said sharply and Wash tracked the finger in a sort of daze. “Good,” Church mumbled. “Recite your name for me.”

“What—why?” Wash questioned. What had even happened?

“I need to make sure everything’s working right, dammit,” Church snapped out, then turned his head to the side with a frown. “Yes I’m asking him the damn questions shut up Doc I’m focusing,” Church hissed and then turned back. “Recite your name,” Church repeated shortly.

“Agent Washington?” Wash mumbled and blinked.

“Great, now your legal name?” Church sighed tiredly.

“I—what? How would you even know that?” Wash frowned.

“Just…just recite it, please,” Church sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand. Wash frowned and then mumbled his name, but Church seemed to accept it readily enough all the same. With a tired sigh Church continued to have Washington recite random facts back, and then told the other man not to move as he shifted over to check at—

“What the fuck!?” Wash shrieked and quickly jerked to shy away from the touch at his implants, but Caboose suddenly held him steady. “Why are you—get away, don’t touch that, fuck stop—”

“I need to make sure the damn thing is adjusted properly, goddamn it David!” Church snapped back. “Stop trying to struggle, fuck, you piece of shit. I need to—ugh Caboose hold him steady!”

Wash canted a litany of no over and over and fought hard against Caboose—the man had strength and it bothered him something fierce, reminded him of another behemoth that he worked with and cared for and—David couldn’t take it. No one touched his implants, no one got close—it was wrong and dangerous and Epsilon—

“Since when did you have autonomy?” he cackled, and cackled, and madness spread like a disease through every pore and orifice and—

“Good, good it’s back into place. Shit you gave me a scare,” Church mumbled and pulled back. Caboose let go and Wash scrambled. He breathed and twitched and one hand reached back to protectively shield his implants for the world around him as he stared. Church stared back as Wash panted and hyperventilated and kept distance between them.

“You damaged it in the crash,” Church said plainly. “It wasn’t obvious at first, not until you passed out. The import jammed back into your spinal column and cut off some of the blood vessels and the flow of spinal fluid.”

“What?” Wash rasped.

“The jeep?” Church said carefully. “You crashed, remember?”

“Yes, but? My—”

“Your implant, yeah,” Church nodded with a sigh. “The whiplash? Or just the impact of the crash or something it smashed your implant, the AI port, straight into your spine. Didn’t see the damage until after you passed out—thought it was fine, had the pry the fucking thing back into place.” Church grimaced. “Your suit readout says its all good now, though,” he mumbled. “Vitals stable and shit.”

“We thought you just scrambled,” Caboose said, and his voice was so chipper it hurt. “Like me! I threw up. Again. And things were very fuzzy and strange and Church said not to sleep but you slept which was wrong.”

“I—did?” Wash glanced between them and tried to piece everything together. He took the bits that Church and Caboose threw out and puzzled them into place. It calmed him, to slot the facts and nonsense together until he got a semi-formed picture. “Oh.” It took a second more before the full situation hit him. “Wait, you performed brain surgery on me in a goddamn forest with no training?!”

Church waved a hand and glanced to Caboose. The sim soldier already began to gather up the supplies they’d retrieved from the wrecked remains of the jeep what seemed like so long ago. “Nothing so complex,” Church grumbled. “Just…pried it back into place. Had a walking, talking medical journal to help me out.”

“I resent that Church!” Doc said with a frown over the radio. “Although I gotta say, you did good for no medical training!”

“Like you’re any fucking better?” Church snapped back. “What’s a medic without any clue how to be a medic?”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Doc replied sagely.

Wash watched them. “You are…all insane,” he rasped. “Just…shit.”

“Certifiable in certain sectors,” Doc agreed. “Now you’ll need to get that checked out by a professional. A jammed neural implant is no joke! Who knows what kind of brain damage that could cause?”

Wash stared at Church’s helmet, and then glanced to Church and Caboose. “That’s…great. Thanks.”

“No problem! Have a safe trip!” Doc said brightly. “Church I’m going to disconnect now. Sounds like you got shit well in hand.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Church mumbled distractedly. He helped Caboose pile things back into place as the radio clicked off. Washington watched, mumbled about insanity again, before he gingerly climbed to his feet and helped with the pack up.

“How long was I out?” Washington questioned carefully.

“Two days,” Church replied. “What the hell was that anyway?”

Wash blinked. “What?”

“You crashed the fucking jeep, did the impossible and somehow got it caught on fire until it exploded which is…practically impossible. That’s not how shit works,” Church ground out. Wash winced.

“Ah…cars hate me.”

Church stared. “Lame.”

“Fuck you. The breaks didn’t work on the damn thing anyway,” Wash added. “And the gas pedal jammed.”

“Lame,” Church repeated, and he drew the word out slowly.

Wash rolled his eyes. “We’ve wasted enough time already,” he grumbled and took a step forward. Church caught him before he tumbled over and smashed into the ground. “Ugh, perfect.”

“Just take it easy,” Church said sharply. “I don’t want you to fucking fall unconscious again.”

Wash grimaced, but accepted the help. He reached for his helmet to tug it on and frowned when Church slapped his hand away.

“Not until the inflammation dies down,” Church said. “Doc’s orders.”

Wash stared, and then mumbled, “Lame,” back at Church. Church snorted.

“Sure, man, whatever,” he said. “You good to go Caboose?”

Caboose slauted and slung the crate of supplies onto his back. “Yessir Mr. Grumpypants Sir!” Church rolled his eyes.

“Let’s go then,” Church grumbled and supported Washington as they started off in a random direction. “Road’s gotta be here somewhere.”

Caboose nodded and turned. “Autobots transform and roll out!” he chirped and led the way with a bounce in his step. Caboose made the sound effects as if he transformed into a car as he moved and Washington blinked blearily.

“Does that make him Optimus?” Wash questioned, and then wondered why he even bothered to play into it. He had to be going crazy.

“Weren’t you already?”

“Shut up Epsilon,” Wash mumbled.

Church glanced to him, then shrugged. “I think he’s supposed to be Bumblebee,” Church said, and Wash felt at least relieved that the other man didn’t seem to notice his sudden slip over nothing. “I’m Optimus.”

Wash frowned. “What does that make me?”

“I don’t know. Our human sidekick?”

“Great,” Wash said dryly. “I’m the damsel in distress.” He paused, and then groaned. “Oh fuck I really am.”

“Bingo.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey I just saved your ass, be grateful!”

Somehow Church convinced Agent Washington to drop into civvies between the forest, the dirt road, and this small out-of-the-way refueling station. Caboose and himself followed the transformation and, in Church’s opinion it made travel less of a hassle. Also he had better access to glance over at Wash’s implants just to make sure everything was okay without actually tossing the man into another panic attack.

“Thanks,” Church mumbled to Caboose when the other man handed over the set of maps he’d quite happily purchased. Church commandeered the lone table in the very small food court—literally just a soda machine and a hotdog roller like you’d see in those gas stations back on Earth—and with barely any how-do-you-do unfolded the maps onto the table.

“What are you doing?” Wash questioned around the straw of his ridiculously sugary soda while he watched Church. He had to admit this moment to take a breather was much needed after hours and what felt like weeks of travel between nothing and a forest.

“Calculating,” Church said absentmindedly. Quickly Church began to scribble on the maps, a mix of calculations and notes that he remembered from his workroom back at High Ground. He interspaced what he recalled with additional information he’d gathered from their walk and observing the land, scowled, and scratched out several calculations.

Wash watched the entire work, how Church’s hand moved across the page quickly and smoothly. He sat up a bit straighter when he recognized the landmark for Valhalla, their destination, and how Church made several small circles around the location, and then further marks with increasing distance from Valhalla. He watched as the notes scribbled across several additional maps that noted roadways and flightpaths, and then a small canyon that actually wasn’t even named on the map to Wash’s surprise. He felt certain that had to be Blood Gulch the way Church scribbled directions and drew several short arrows in a northeasterly direction.

Once finished Church leaned back away from the maps, spun them around, until they rested in front of Wash.

“Additional potential wreckage sites,” Church said, and carefully pointed at the marked and scribbled circles. “Following Tex’s trajectory, the explosion, and accounting for weather plus the crash site discovered at Valhalla, these are the most likely impacts of any additional portions of the Pelican.” Church glanced to Wash. “Just in case Valhalla is a bust.”

Wash gaped. “I—how did you do that?” he squeaked.

Church shrugged. “I was always more of a scientist than a soldier,” he said tiredly. “Don’t tell anyone. It’d ruin my reputation.” He gave Washington a glare at that, and the Agent nodded his head quickly as he pulled the map closer to study the information there. He traced a finger along the road, including the refueling station they were at now, and blinked.

“We’ll hit this before we hit Valhalla,” Washington said. He sipped his drink as he tapped one of Church’s marked locations. “It’ll put us out by a few days, but if you are right….”

Church cocked his head. “I’m right,” he said plainly and crossed his arms. Wash raised an eyebrow at the arrogance, and then leaned back in surprise when Caboose bopped Church on the head. Church twisted. “What the fuck Caboose?!”

Caboose frowned. “You were being rude again,” he said. “Stop it.”

Church gaped. “I was not!”

Caboose nodded his head. “Yes, Church. You were.”

Church couldn’t even formulate words. He just sort of squawked and made sharp, incoherent shrieks before he threw his hands up with a growl and a groan and turned his head away. Wash watched how Caboose smiled, almost devious like, and decided that he didn’t even want to know. Something about the interaction made him a little uncomfortable, and maybe it had to do with the way that Caboose was coherent and clear—and then that smile that wasn’t goofy at all.

Caboose glanced to Wash, and winked. Then he gathered up the maps and rolled them up. With a cheerful hum and his usual absence to the world around him Caboose piled everything into the crate and carefully replaced the lid. He hiked it back up onto his back just in time for Church to jerk to his feet with a scowl.

“We’ve wasted enough fucking time,” Church grumbled. He shot a glare to Wash when the other man slurped at his drink loudly, and with a huff Church stormed from the refueling station. Wash lamented the fact that he wouldn’t be able to finish his drink before with a sigh he too got up. At least they had a plan of action again now.

[nitewrighter]

Anything Mcsombra? Please?

Since all my mcsombra stuff is not with my main continuity, that gives me an excuse to do weird shit like say… have sombra astral project into a computer all cyberpunk-y which stresses McCree the hell out.

—-

McCree stood near the door, peacemaker at the ready. He gave a wary glance over his shoulder at Sombra, who was biting her thumbnail at several screens surrounding her.

“How’s it going–?” McCree started but Sombra held up a finger and McCree fell quiet. She had that look on her face again. That ‘don’t say anything because I need every cell in my brain working on this’ look. But this whole little ‘errand’ (as she put it) didn’t exactly feel right to begin with, and it didn’t help that she didn’t have the usual smug little smirk she wore when hacking now. Between her cloaking and his Blackwatch infiltration skills, they had made it in past the guards fairly easily–staying in one place though? Staying in one place had ‘trouble’ written all over it.

“Dammit…” muttered Sombra.

“Hey… uh… not to rush ya but–”

“So don’t rush me,” said Sombra.

“Just… you said hacking this would take seconds,” said McCree.

“I thought it would take seconds,” said Sombra, she started tapping at her screens with more frustration, muttering, “Stupid–outdated—I should be able to—” A giant ‘X’ appeared on the largest of her screens and spread to the smaller screens flanking it, “Mierda!” Sombra closed all of the purple windows with a wave of her arm.

“Nothing wrong with scrubbin’ a mission, pumpkin,” said McCree, “We can find another way—”

“No,” said Sombra, and then she pressed her knuckles against her forehead, “Think. Think,” she said to herself. She gave a glance over to the terminal, then stepped over to it and started feverishly tapping at the keyboard, “This is going to take a bit more hardware,” she said.

“Hardware?” McCree repeated.

Sombra swept her hair off the back of her neck, “Give me a hand with this, will you?” she said.

“With… what?” said McCree stepping over. Sombra undid the odd fasteners at her shoulders and pulled off her outer jacket, which, it turned out was actually sleeveless. The gradient pink and purple sleeves remained on her arms as she pulled off the jacket, revealing a zippered sleeveless gray tunic with a high neck underneath.

“Do you mind?” Sombra gestured at her back.

McCree warily stepped around her to see a zipper down the back of the tunic. “…your clothes have a stupid amount of zippers,” he said, taking hold and unzipping the back, revealing Sombra’s spinal implants.

“Noted,” said Sombra, “Okay, you see my implants?”

“Yeah,” said McCree.

“Okay midway down the thoracic vertebrae you’ll see two plates on the side of my implants. You need to pinch them.”

“Thoracic?” McCree repeated a little helplessly.

Sombra sighed and grabbed his wrist and guided his hand toward the bottom of her spinal implants. “Do you see the plates?”

“…these plates?” said McCree, pressing down with is thumb and forefinger. 

Sombra flinched a bit, her shoulders jerking at his touch. “Yes. Those. Push them in until you hear a click.”

McCree complied. Sombra drew a sharp breath as he pressed down. Then there was a click and the bottom point of Sombra’s spinal implants suddenly clicked open, McCree flinched back hard at the click, fearing he’d broken something.

“Good,” Sombra said, her hand trailing up to the bottom of her spinal implants. She felt around and McCree noticed the gleam of something silver within the now-open compartment within the implants.

“…the hell…?” McCree said quietly but then Sombra took hold of it with her fingers and pulled it out. A wire. It was a port.“…the hell?” McCree said again. 

“I told you,” said Sombra, “Hardware.”

“…you’re going to… to…plug yourself into that terminal,” said McCree.

“Yep,” said Sombra.

“And…that’s not creepy or fucked up at all to you,” said McCree.

“Nope,” said Sombra. She looked thoughtful. “Keep an eye on my body, will you?” she said.

“Your body?” said McCree, “As in… you’re.. you’re not going to be…in your body?”

“…not exactly. I mean, I’ll still breathe and all of my major organs will be functioning, but it’s like.. it’s like sleeping. My consciousness on the other hand…” she tapped the screen of the terminal with her fingers.

McCree processed what she was saying for a moment, “Okay can I go on record as saying I really, really don’t like this idea?”

“Aw, Vaquero…” she patted the side of his face, “I’ve done it before. It’ll be fine.”

McCree did not look convinced. Sombra assumed a cross-legged position and pulled more of the wire out of her back. It was more than a little unnerving how long it was. She plugged it into a port on the side of the terminal and a window featuring her purple sugar skull icon appeared on the screen. Sombra settled in a little bit where she was seated. “All right,” said Sombra, “Can you hit the ‘enter’ key on that keyboard?”

“…Uh…” McCree looked at the keyboard, “You sure about this?”

“Tch. It’s fine, Jesse,” Sombra said with an eye roll, “Just hit it.”

McCree drew a breath then hit the ‘enter’ key.

“Be right baahhhh–” Sombra’s jaw went slack before she could finish her sentence and her eyes rolled back in her head before closing.

“Sombra?” McCree bent down toward her body. She didn’t respond. “Pumpkin?” No response. He dropped his voice a bit more, “…Olivia?”

“McCree. What was our rule?” a binary voice, not Sombra’s but clearly some old voice-based AI system for the terminal, spoke.

“…what?”

“Our rule, McCree. About the ‘O’ word,” the terminal spoke again.

“Are… are you in there?” McCree looked at the screen of the terminal.

“Our rule, McCree,” said the terminal again.

“…Not to say it?” said McCree.

“Thank you,” said the terminal.

“…is that you?”

“Yes, Vaquero,” the AI voice clearly didn’t recognize the Spanish and said ‘Vaquero’ like “Vackwer-o.”

“I….” McCree gave a glance back to Sombra’s body before looking at the screen again, “I’m not gonna lie, pumpkin, this is freakin’ me out a little.”

“Keep your pants on. I won’t be long,” said the terminal. Windows started opening and closing with and lines of code started running across the screen at dizzying speed. McCree glanced down at Sombra, eyes closed, still cross-legged on the floor, and noticed a slight twitch to her eyelids. REM sleep, but it wasn’t sleep, it was the nerves of her body responding to whatever the hell her brain was doing to the terminal. With her jaw slacked open she was drooling a little. McCree gingerly reached forward and closed her jaw with his fingertips, before wiping away the bit of drool from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. He drew in a deep breath and tried to exhale some of the anxiety this whole situation was giving him.

“Got it,” the terminal said at last and McCree huffed in relief, “Uploading the intel.”

A loading bar popped up on the screen of the terminal, rapidly filling in purple before the purple sugar skull icon flashed on the screen again.

“See?” said the terminal, “I told you. It’ll be fi–”

The screen suddenly went black. The lights overhead went black. McCree found himself sitting in pitch darkness before the backup generators for the building kicked in dim and red. “…Power surge?” McCree said, looking around. Sombra was still sitting in front of him, cross-legged, eyes closed.

“Sombra?” McCree said. He gave a glance back to the terminal, still black, “Oh no…” he glanced back at her body. There was no longer the twitch of REM on her eyelids. “Hey—” McCree reached forward and tilted her head up at him, “Come on. Quit foolin’ around. You’re in there. You got the intel. You did it. Wake up.”

Sombra didn’t respond.

“Sombra–” McCree said, putting his hands on her shoulders, “You hear me, right? Can you hear me? Come on, just say something.”

Her head only lolled forward with his hands on her shoulders, her hair falling over the side of her face.

“…Look if this is a joke…” McCree started, but then couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, “Come on, Sombra, I know you’re in there! You got the intel! We need to get moving, let’s go!” He brought one hand up under her chin with one hand and tucked her hair back behind her ear with the other, “Please…” he said.

Her eyes stayed closed. McCree felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. “Sombra–come on–,” he shook her shoulders a littl, “Okay, you got me. Real funny. Real funny. Got me good. Now come on, open your eyes.”

She just slumped with the shaking. Silent. McCree’s breath caught in his throat, then his mouth drew to a thin line. His jaw tightened and he swallowed hard. He gripped Sombra’s shoulders. “Sombra?” he said one more time, then he started actually shaking her. “Olivia Colomar you get that pert little ass of yours out of that terminal right now or so help me god—”

“GAH!” Sombra’s eyes snapped open with such suddenness McCree drew back and Sombra gasped sharply.

“Jesus Goddamn Christ…” McCree said, pressing a hand over his chest as his breath seemed to finally return to him, “You scared the shit out of me back there.”

“Woah…” Sombra woozily brought her fingertips up to her temples. “That was weird. What happened?”

“What happened? The screen went black is what happened! I thought you—I didn’t know if you were—” He brought a hand up to the side of her face, “You… you okay?”

“Yeah…” Sombra rubbed her forehead, “Yeah things got… dark… there, for a minute. But yeah, I think I’m—” Sombra suddenly found herself caught up in a tight embrace from McCree, “I’m good…” she said quietly, half muffled into McCree’s shoulder. Her arms found their way around his waist to return the hug. “…you were pretty scared, huh?” her voice was soft on his serape. He didn’t say anything. He just squeezed her a little tighter.

[nitewrighter]

"Shadow" Since Reaper increases the chance of cutting in the prompt line :]

…Y’all are getting sneakier. Okay I’m combining this one with ‘Don’t Leave Me’ because that was requested and then we get some double-reapy goodness.

—-

Maybe I was never meant for normal sleep, thought Sombra when one of the neural implants scoring her undercut lit up red, prompting her eyes to flick open. Amélie’s face was buried in her pillow, her hair splashed out across the bed in all directions like a spider’s limbs. Sombra rose from bed and brought up a screen, small, red, not too bright so it wouldn’t disturb Amelie, and read the message. She pulled on her clothes and was fastening her jacket shut when Amélie spoke behind her.

“Going somewhere, mon coeur?”

Sombra glanced over at Amélie, sitting up in bed. Sombra’s hand instinctively went up to activate her thermoptic cloaking.

“Turn on your cloaking or translocator and you’re sleeping on the couch for a week,” said Widowmaker, furrowing her brow. Sombra’s hand dropped.

“Go back to sleep, I’ll be back before sunrise,” said Sombra.

“Not happening,” said Widowmaker simply, getting out of bed.

“Araña, please—” Sombra started, but Widowmaker was already pulling on pants.

“I don’t know where you’re going, but knowing you, I doubt it’s somewhere I should let you go alone.”

Sombra pressed her fingers to her brow. “I’m supposed to go alone—otherwise I won’t be safe.”

“That sounds like a threat. All the more reason I’m coming,” said Widowmaker,

Sombra half-sighed half-groaned. “Fine. But keep your distance.”

“I’m most effective at a distance,” said Widowmaker, pulling a crate out from under their bed, opening it, and fitting her recon visor onto her head.

—-

They didn’t travel far from the Watchpoint. Widowmaker kept to the rooftops of Gibraltar’s dense little city while Sombra used her cloaking to pass under streetlights only to disappear back into the shadows. Sombra flinched and took a few steps back at the sound of rustling and clanging from an alley, then turned on her heel and watched a macaque scramble out of a trash can then swore under her breath.

“Not like you to be nervous, mon coeur,” said Widowmaker over their private comm channel, “Care to tell me what this is about?”

“You’re not going to like it,” said Sombra, tossing a translocator up onto a roof.

“I’m not going to like what?”

“Get out of sight,” said Sombra, “Now.”

Widowmaker complied, dimming the red lights of her recon visor, and dipping into the shadows on the roof. Widowmaker held her rifle close. She didn’t like this. Sombra was secretive, of course, she was Sombra, but something felt off. Things felt less in Sombra’s control than usual, then again, Sombra had been a lot more desperate for a while now since their defection from Talon. Widowmaker stayed hidden, but then she heard a rasping voice on Sombra’s end of their private comm channel.

“You were told to come alone.”

Widowmakers eyes widened and she slunk to the side of the roof and looked through the scope of her rifle. Sombra was standing at the base of an Omnic crisis memorial. Reaper was with her.

“Yeah. Like I would come alone for a meeting with the Reaper,” said Sombra, putting her hands on her hips. Reaper looked straight into Widowmaker’s scope. He gave a slight wave and Widowmaker broke her eye away from the scope, her breath catching in her throat.

“Say the word and I have a clear shot,” said Widowmaker. Sombra clicked her comm off. “Merde,” muttered Widowmaker.

—

“She seems well,” said Reaper, glancing away from the rooftop.

“She’s doing a lot better,” said Sombra, folding her arms, “What, you were worried about her?”

Reaper folded his arms and Sombra’s lips thinned. He wasn’t going to say it, but Sombra wondered if deep down he was glad to see someone escape the hell of a technologically induced living death. “What was it you wanted, Gabe?” said Sombra, “Or did you just miss us?”

“I’ll make this brief: The only reason you left Talon and lived was because I permitted it. So you owe me.”

“Awww,” Sombra’s hand went over her heart, “You do care.”

“I’m not done,” said Reaper, black smoke rising off of him, “I permitted it because Overwatch–or at least the newest cluster of idiots to call themselves Overwatch— may have resources Talon doesn’t, and there would be times when Talon needs access to those resources.”

“Is that what you tell Talon? We’re your little double agents?” said Sombra, grinning.

“This is one of of those times,” said Reaper, “Talon needs Dr. Ziegler’s lumbar nanite stabilizer.”

Sombra’s face dropped. “What?” a slight chuckle escaped her, “You’re–you’re joking, right?”

Reaper continued standing with his arms folded.

“Right. You’re Reaper,” Sombra said with an exaggerated hand wave. “Okay well… yeah that’s not happening.”

“Talon needs–” Reaper started.

“I need Doctor Ziegler alive to keep treating Amélie and I’m pretty sure her little ninja boy toy will slice me in half if I try ripping out her spine.”

“The prototype,” said Reaper, exasperated, “She’ll have a prototype somewhere in her lab. Or better yet, a backup model.”

Sombra frowned and brought up several violet screens. “So Talon’s developing systems similar to Ziegler’s spinal biotic distributors, huh?” she said. She looked at Reaper. “Quid Pro Quo. I get you that prototype, you give me information. Why does Talon want this?” she paused and her eyes widened, “Widowmaker,” she said softly, “They’re making another Widowmaker. A sturdier model. A spinal distributor means she can stay out in the field longer and—”

“I’m not giving you anything until I get that stabilizer,” said Reaper.

Sombra frowned and opened up several screens containing her notes on watchpoint security systems, “Give me a couple days to find it without detection and we’ll establish a drop-point so—”

“They need it tonight,” said Reaper.

Sombra raised an eyebrow and closed her screens, “Excuse me?”

“Tonight.”

Sombra scoffed and chuckled, “Look, these people aren’t idiots,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, “I can’t just—”

“I don’t want excuses. You got out here, didn’t you?” said Reaper.

—

With Sombra’s comm off, Widowmaker couldn’t be sure what she and Reaper were talking about. She didn’t like this.

“Sombra can really lock down a comm channel like no other, huh?” she heard a gruff voice behind her and quickly turned around, her rifle locking into automatic mode. Jack Morrison put his hands up and Widowmaker lowered her rifle.

“You followed us?” said Widowmaker.

“Do you really think we’re dumb enough to let you two wander off somewhere alone?” said Jack.

Widowmaker shrugged. “Fair enough,” she said, “Stay low and keep that visor dimmed.” she said. Jack nodded and looked over her shoulder. He saw Reaper and instantly he moved to raise his pulse rifle. “And don’t be a fool,” said Widowmaker.

“I take it this isn’t as simple as you and Sombra selling us all out to Talon,” said Jack.

“I meant what I said back in Dorado,” said Widowmaker, “I would die before I let Talon put one hand on me again, and I know Sombra would do the same.”

“You trust her that much, huh?” said Jack.

“You find that unbelievable?” said Widowmaker.

“I find it a relief, really, for your sake,” said Jack with a shrug. He looked back at Sombra and Reaper, “But be careful. I had someone I trusted that much too. Didn’t end so well.” Jack paused. “You’ll take him out if he tries anything?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?” said Widowmaker with a roll of her eyes.

“Right–sorry,” said Jack.

“Hmph,” Widowmaker looked back through her scope. They both watched, both doing their best to hide their impatience and the dread that creeped up from the pit of their stomachs. “Did you love him?” said Widowmaker at last.

“Are you really asking that right now?”

“Gérard said you loved him,” said Widowmaker, “Said you had no right calling him a lovesick fool the way you carried on.”

“I—” Jack’s words caught in his throat, but he just sharply exhaled before composing himself, “It’s hardly relevant at this point, isn’t it?”

Widowmaker gave a shrug. Jack’s rolled his grip on his pulse rifle as they waited and watched.

—

“Why tonight?” said Sombra.

“I told you. You’re not getting anything until I get that stabilizer,” said Reaper.

Sombra was quiet for a while. “I don’t like this,” she said, frowning.

“I don’t care how you–ngh—feel about this,” said Reaper, suddenly visibly wincing. His shoulders caved inward suddenly and his hand clawed at his stomach

“Gabe?” Sombra’s eyes widened and she took a step forward, “Are you—?”

“I’m fine, don’t touch me,” said Reaper, pointing a clawed hand at her to keep her back, “If we’re going to keep Talon from killing all of us, you’re going to—”

Reaper’s arm fell off.

“Ay mierda!”  Sombra took several steps back from the limb in shock, “Gabe–what’s–?”

“Get me that damned stabilizer!” Reaper’s voice came out in a rasp at her as he dropped down to one knee next to his arm, which seemed to be decomposing into smoke. “Shit–” he muttered, “Shit–come on–” Reaper’s fallen-off arm turned completely to smoke and then reformed itself against his body. He seemed to catch his breath as he curled his reformed fingers into a fist.

“The stabilizer isn’t for Talon…” said Sombra, “It’s for you.”

“Obviously,” said Reaper.

“Gabe this is bad,” said Sombra.

“I’m aware,” said Reaper.

“Talon can’t help you?” said Sombra, “Gabe, I don’t know if I can get that thing to you fast enou—”

“Stop talking and get it!” Reaper snapped.

“Okay just–calm down,” said Sombra, “Keep it together.” Reaper shot a glare at her and Sombra coughed. “Okay, poor choice of words,” she said. Reaper suddenly let out a cry and buckled over, then dropped to his knee as one of his legs crumbled away into smoke underneath him.

—

Widowmaker made a repulsed noise as she watched Reaper’s arm fall off through the scope of her rifle.

“Something’s wrong,” said Widowmaker. 

“What do you mean something’s—?” Jack started but Widowmaker fired off a grapple and shot off of the roof, leaving Jack alone. “Dammit–” muttered Jack, vaulting over the side of the building and scrambling down the fire escape.

—

Sombra was about to run off back toward the watchpoint when Widowmaker landed lightly in front of her.

“You are unharmed?” said Widowmaker, touching the side of Sombra’s face.

“I’m not the one to be worried about,” said Sombra, glancing over her shoulder at Reaper. Widowmaker shouldered her rifle and stepped over to Reaper, who was furiously attempting to get his leg to be solid again.

“Mon dieu,” said Widowmaker.

“I told you to go,” said Reaper.

“We’ll go, we’ll go,” said Sombra, backing up and wrapping an arm around Widowmaker’s waist.

“Should we leave him?” said Widowmaker.

“You should get me the damned stabilizer,” said Reaper.

“We will! Just—” Sombra gestured a bit helplessly, “Sit tight?”

“Sure,” said Reaper, “I’ll just be here,” he itched under his mask, “Falling apart in a nanite-induced living hell.” He watched as Widowmaker and Sombra shot off again.

–

As Sombra and Widowmaker shot through the air on Widowmaker’s grapple, Widowmaker put a finger to her ear.

“Jack,” she spoke, “I realize this looks bad—”

“Yeah it looks pretty bad,” said Jack, over the comms.

“But Reaper is dying. I know he’s your enemy–our enemy, but he’s in agony. There’s something that might help him, but we’ll need you to keep an eye on him while we’re getting it.” 

“You two realize you’re both going right back on probation–if not being sent directly to the authorities—once we get back to the Watchpoint, right?” said Jack over the comms.

“Turn us in and I’ll bring Overwatch down with me,” said Sombra over the comm.

“Mon coeur, please,” said Widowmaker.

“What? I will,” said Sombra, “He’s falling apart, Jack. We can’t just let that happen. Keep an eye on him. Shoot him if he tries anything.”

“I don’t believe this…” Jack muttered before his comm clicked out.

–

The fingers fell off of the hand Reaper was gripping his leg with and he swore. It wasn’t the first time he thought he would die alone. He had been in better places to die alone in, but he had also been in worse.

He wasn’t sure if they would make it back in time. He wasn’t sure if he wanted them to. The fingers fell off of the hand he was gripping his leg with and he swore. It wasn’t the first time he thought he would die alone. He had been in better places to die alone, but he had also been in worse. There was a certain level of acceptance at the core of his being that had been there for years. This level of acceptance had remained virtually unchanged until Reaper’s realization that the last thing he wanted to see before his death was not, in fact, Jack Morrison rushing at him with a pulse rifle in hand. At the same time, however, Reaper knew this wasn’t quite death. Not yet. The nanites in his system that kept him in a constant state of decay and repair granted him a certain level of consciousness when most humans’ brains would shut down from the strain.  His hand went to one of the shotguns ever at his side, but decomposed into smoke, crumbling like ash before he could grip it fully.

Jack Morrison stopped while still several feet away. “Gabe,” the name fell out of him and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. What he was speaking to wasn’t Gabe. It hadn’t been Gabe for years.

“You don’t want to see this, old man,” came Reaper’s rasping reply, his hand still dumbly destroying itself as it attempted to clasp around his gun.

The reports said Reaper was in a constant state of decay, a fact Jack had more or less taken for granted. Without this state there would be no way that the Reaper could do the things that he could do. Jack Morrison realized at this point that Reaper’s effectiveness as a mercenary and assassin, further bolstered by these abilities which gave way to the horror stories cropping up across different war zones, was still fueled by something that was constantly creating and destroying him.  “Even now you still want me dead?” said Jack, lowering his pulse rifle.

“Yes,” Reaper replied flatly.

Jack sighed and shouldered his rifle. “Don’t you get tired?”

“Always,” said Reaper, “But I don’t sleep anymore.”

Jack sighed and clicked off his tactical visor. “We’re getting too old for this,” he muttered.

“You’re getting too old for this,” Reaper rasped.

“I’m serious,” said Jack, “We can’t keep doing this.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Reaper. “People still want my work. There will always be a buyer for it. No one asked for Jack Morrison to keep running around playing soldier.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Jack, stepping over to Reaper and setting down a biotic field, “Doesn’t mean I wasn’t still needed though.”

“You realize as soon as I can get my hand to work, I’m shooting that ugly mug right off your shoulders, right?” said Reaper.

“I’m aware,” said Jack.

Reaper glanced at the biotic canister. “I used to get you,” he said, “I’m trying to figure out when that stopped.”

“I think it was roughly around the time the statue went up,” said Jack, rubbing at his receding hairline.

“So what is this?” said Reaper, gesturing at the biotic canister with his head, pretty much unable to move his arm for fear of it falling off again. “Guilt trip? Olive branch?”

Jack shrugged. “We’re going to kill each other eventually. Is it bad that I don’t want it to happen like this?”

“I don’t know,” said Reaper, “You do remember all the times I’ve tried to kill you and your people, right? Giza? Numbani? Gibraltar? Volskaya? Utopaea?”

“Yeah,” said Jack. He chuckled a little. “I don’t know how you can stand being with Talon if it means failing over and over.”

A snarling noise escaped Reaper. “You’re going to regret saying that as soon as I have that stabilizer.”

“Probably,” said Jack. They were both silent again for a while.

“You could end it,” said Reaper, “You know that’s the best decision. You know that’s what would keep everyone safe.”

“It hurts that much, huh?” said Jack.

“Not as much as your moralizing,” said Reaper.

Jack scoffed a bit. “You know, I wouldn’t have to ‘play boy scout’ if you didn’t insist on being a massive ass.”

Reaper was quiet for a while. “How do you see this ending?” he said at last.

Jack shrugged. “Not well,” he glanced back up at the omnic memorial they were standing at the foot of, “But I’d like to spare you some irony.”

Reaper made a noise that was half-cough half-snarl.

“What about you?” said Jack.

“What?” said Reaper.

“How do you see this ending?” said Jack.

“I don’t expect you to understand Talon’s vision,” said Reaper.

“I mean for you. Not Talon. What does five years from now look like for you? You on a big pile of everyone’s bodies?”

“Ideally, yes,” said Reaper.

“Seriously?” said Jack.

“I don’t see myself in this,” said Reaper, “I just see everyone who did this to me dead. When I—” his leg decomposed into shadow again and he swore.

“Just, take it easy. They’ll be back soon,” said Jack.

“Are you seriously trying to comfort me?”

“You know I did care about you at one point. A lot,” said Jack.

“Yes, but I destroyed everything else you cared about,” said Reaper, “And I promise you I’ll do it again.”

“Don’t give yourself too much credit,” said Jack, “We had plenty of other messes that had nothing to do with you.”

“Ever the appeaser, huh, Jack?” said Reaper. “What are you going to do when i get that stabilizer?”

“Well you said you were going to kill me so I’m probably going to avoid that,” said Jack, “And… you know I’ll have to take you in.”

“You can try,” said Reaper. He paused. “Sombra and Widowmaker—”

“They’ll be fine,” said Jack, “Well… they’ll have a shit-ton of explaining to do, but they helped us catch you so—”

“You didn’t catch me,” said Reaper.

“Big words for an angry puddle of nanites,” said Jack.

Reaper just snarled again then they were both quiet for a while longer as he attempted to get both his legs back to a stable, solid state. “You said ‘Gabe.’” he said, mostly trying to distact himself from the pain.

“Hm?” said Jack.

“Gabe. When you saw me you called me Gabe.”

“Well maybe I have a hard time taking either of us seriously when I call you ‘Reaper,’” said Jack. 

“Hmph,” said Reaper, “Do you miss when I was Gabe?”

“There was a lot less outright trying to kill me, so yes,” said Jack.

Reaper was quiet for a while before saying, “Some of the other stuff was good too.”

“Yeah it wasn’t all bad,” said Jack.

“Just so we’re clear, I am going to kill you when I get that stabilizer,” said Reaper.

“I’ll be ready,” said Jack. He squinted into the distance and saw the purple flash of Sombra’s translocator. The morning light was creeping in, pink and blue and gray and Sombra was racing toward them with something gripped in her hand.

“Damn well better be,” muttered Reaper.

[nitewrighter]

Perhaps gency #20? (Apologies for the double ask, I sent the last one before I was finished typing haha)

Let’s do some Pre-Fall of Overwatch featuring Genji-who-is-angry-and-has-not-yet-undergone-character-development featuring Young!McCree-who-still-has-both-arms!

—

Genji folded his arms in the front seat of the car as McCree frowned over the engine. He couldn’t really tell what he was doing to the engine with the hood up, but Genji figured McCree knew what he was doing more than he would. Mercy sat in the driver’s seat looking over a map and he realized he had never seen her in civilian clothes or out of a labcoat or scrubs before. Reyes and Morrison’s instructions were for them to keep a low profile, which Genji couldn’t really do with Genji’s whole... look. But with any luck they wouldn’t be pulled over. Besides, Genji was a ninja--his whole point was being unseen. Being stationary in a car though... it made him antsy. Even more so when the car wasn’t moving.

“This is a waste of time,” muttered Genji.

Mercy glanced up from the map. “You keep going on about taking the fight to the Shimada clan,” she said, raising an eyebrow. 

“It would be better to strike at the heart,” he said, looking out the window at the desert, “The Shimada clan conducts many weapons and drug deals with numerous criminal organizations around the world. It conducts these deals in order to keep them in line. One petty motorcycle gang—”

“Deadlock ain’t just one petty motorcycle gang,” said McCree from outside the car, “It’s an organization with an iron grip on the whole southwest, and it’s lookin’ to expand. It might just be the Shimada clan’s way of keeping them in line, but this weapons deal goes through and we’re all in a helluva lot more trouble,” he tweaked at something under the car’s hood. “All right, try turning it over.”

Mercy turned the key and the car rumbled to life. McCree shut the hood and threw his hands up, “Hallelujah,” he said with a grin as he made his way around the car again, “Scoot das boot, Doc. My turn to drive.”

“You do realize you’ve just said ‘Scoot the boat,’ right?” said Mercy, still looking at the map, “And it’s not my fault your car broke down.”

“I realize this is a joint Blackwatch-Overwatch operation, which means yours truly’s in charge,” said McCree, thrusting a thumb at his chest with a grin before putting his hands on his hips, “Now come on, scooch.”

Mercy sighed and clambered between the driver and co-pilot seats into the back and Genji realized why he had been thrown off by seeing her in civilian clothes–it was the shorts. He had never seen Doctor Ziegler with bare legs before. It was always either pants or dark tights. Her legs were surprisingly muscled, but then again, considering a childhood in Switzerland and how she was practically on her feet all day, it made sense. He caught himself and quickly turned his attention back to the front of the car as Mercy plopped into the back seat and buckled her seatbelt muttering “Scoot das boot” under her breath bitterly and unfolding the map again.

“The Orca would be quicker,” Genji said as McCree started driving down the road again.

“We send that thing into Deadlock airspace and they’re gonna clear out fast. We gotta take things easy,” said McCree.

“This location you’ve been speaking of isn’t anywhere on the map,” said Mercy.

“I’m the map,” said McCree. He elbowed Genji. “Loosen up. Both of you. It’ll be another 2 hours before we hit Gabe’s rendezvous.”

Genji leaned back in his seat slightly, but remained somewhat tense.

“So… not much of a driver?” said McCree, rolling his grip on the steering wheel.

“I am better with hovercycles,” said Genji. McCree’s face lit up.

“You shouldn’t have told him that,” said Mercy.

“Why not?” said Genji.

“Because he’ll want to race you,” said Mercy.

“You’re saying that as if it’s not an amazing idea,” said McCree, he glanced over at Genji, “But no kidding? Hovercycles?”

Genji nodded. “Back in Hanamura, we would have a driver. When I was old enough, I preferred riding among the hovercycle escorts,” he paused, “Easier to break off and go do other things.” He glanced out the window to see reddish-orange rock formations. “So this is where you grew up?” said Genji.

“Implying McCree grew up?” said Mercy, tucking the map away.

“In the vaguest sense of the word,” said McCree with a grin.

“It is beautiful,” said Genji, looking out his window as they drove past a lonely abandoned gas station, “In a desolate way.”

“Just like me,” said McCree and Genji snorted.

“Oh so you do have a sense of humor!” said McCree.

“That was not a laugh,” said Genji. He looked out the window again. “Do people still live here?” he asked.

“There’s some communities out here,” said McCree, “Omnic crisis shook everything up. They were targeting areas with big populations so some people fled out to the boonies, made cute little towns that wouldn’t be as big a target. I grew up in one of those towns. Not a whole lot to do except target practice with bottles on fences just in case the bots decided to come for you.”

“And you, Doctor Ziegler?” said Genji, glancing to the back.

Mercy suddenly broke her gaze away from the window. “What—Oh I was…” she seemed to force a smile and then tucked her hair back, “Well I certainly wasn’t shooting bottles off of fences.” She went quiet after that and Genji tilted his head and thought to question her further on it when McCree suddenly pointed out the window.

“Oh hey! Terah! That town’s still standing!” he said as the drove past a sign.

“Still standing?” said Genji

 “Well–you know how it is. Lots of people moved into the big fancy cities once the Omnic Crisis was over. But some people fell in love with the desert and stayed out here. Lot of ‘em were good people but…” McCree trailed off.

“They were vulnerable to the Deadlock gang?” said Genji, and McCree nodded.

Genji stared out the window, “The Shimada clan took advantage of the tragedy of the Omnic crisis as well,” he said, looking out the window, “In the panic of Omnic attacks on cities, we—I mean they would move in and wipe out their enemies.” McCree could see Genji visibly tensing further. “We had the resources to fight back against the omnics, to grant escaping civilians protection, and we only used the chaos to further our own power. I was only a child at the time. Father said looking after our own was what kept the Shimada clan alive.” He looked at his hand and then curled it into a fist, “But then…I was one of their own.”

He glanced up at the rearview mirror to see Mercy staring at him and he glanced off and uncurled his fist. Her brow was crinkled and her mouth was a thin line, like what Hanzo had done to him was somehow her fault. He never knew what to do when she made that face, so he simply straightened up in his seat and said, “So they have no true values, except in power. And they must be stopped.”  

“Well… good thing we’re shutting down this weapons deal then, right?” said McCree. He elbowed Genji again. “You’ll get your chance, I know it. We do this, then we gotta do this right. Right?”

“Right,” said Genji. He glanced back at Mercy and found himself making eye contact with her through the rearview mirror.  She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, then seemed to think better on it and looked out the window again.

—

Mercy was asleep in the back seat less than half an hour later. Unsurprising–she had a tendency to nap when she could. Sunlight was catching in her hair.

“You should get a visor,” said McCree.

“What?” said Genji.

“A visor. Y’know, like on Reinhardt’s helmet. Wouldn’t get dust in your eyes when you’re rushing forward,” McCree smirked, “And you could probably get away with staring more.”

“Staring--!” Genji started but then looked off, “I was not staring. I was just thinking while I happened to be looking in a mirror where she was reflected.”

“Sure,” said McCree with a smirk and Genji’s brows furrowed, “Okay, I’ll bite. What were you thinking about?”

“Doctor Ziegler seemed… reticent when the conversation turned to the Omnic crisis,” said Genji, “Did I overstep? Or say something wrong?”

“Ah–that one’s on me,” said McCree, “I probably should have changed the subject before we got too into that. You don’t know so she knows you wouldn’t…” McCree trailed off.

“Don’t know what?” said Genji.

“She’s a crisis orphan,” said McCree.

“Oh…” said Genji, “Was she there when it…?”

“Yeah. Bombs knocked the roof of her house in. Killed her parents. Messed up her spine something bad. She’s got spinal implants from the whole thing.”

Genji stared at McCree and glanced back at Mercy. “I had no idea,” he said. 

“Well she ain’t in the habit of talking about it,” said McCree.

Genji leaned back in his seat a little then stretched his prosthetic hand out in front of him, “It’s strange–I believe I’ve spent more time with her than anyone at Overwatch, yet I hardly know anything about her.”

“To be fair you’ve been pretty focused on this ‘destroying my family who killed me’ thing,” said McCree. Genji folded his arms. “Which is fair!” McCree quickly added, “Hell, if I went through that shit, I’d probably be derailing every conversation into ‘Reasons why I must destroy my criminal empire family’ too.” 

Genji’s eyes widened with some surprise and his shoulders shrank inward a little. 

McCree sighed, “Okay it’s not derailing–I mean, we are on our way to stop a Shimada-Deadlock weapons deal.”

Genji looked thoughtful. “Now that I think on it, you have barely spoken of Deadlock at all this whole trip,” he said.

“What can I say? I’m focused on the present,” said McCree.

“The present concerns Deadlock,” said Genji.

“Well I guess I don’t like talking about it then,” said McCree. They hit a pothole and Mercy muttered something in german in her sleep before readjusting herself against the window again. “All this time I’ve known her and she still has the most fucked sleep schedule in the world,” said McCree.

“You’ve known Doctor Ziegler a long time?” said Genji.

“Yup,” said McCree, “Couple years now.”

Genji glanced back at Mercy, then over to McCree. “Have you and her ever…?”

McCree snorted, “Nah. She shut that shit down pretty much her first day here. But I’d keep getting the stuffing kicked out of me on missions or just sparring with Reyes so we’d end up talking a lot.”

“What would you talk about?”

McCree snickered, “I dunno. Movies and shit. Maybe some old missions. Mostly just gossip and shit-talking around the Watchpoint. She liked to stay updated.”

“Gossip?” Genji repeated, looking up at the rearview mirror.

“Well that’s the best part about working with us,” said McCree, “No shortage of interesting people.”

“Hm,” Genji nodded in agreement.

“You’re staring again by the way,” said McCree.

Genji straightened up and then quickly turned his attention away from the rearview mirror and out the window. McCree snickered. 

“You know something?” said McCree.

“Mm?” Genji glanced up.

“I think that’s the first conversation we had that didn’t default to your usual ‘I must stop my criminal empire family,’ brooding,” said McCree with a grin.

Genji glanced off and scoffed. “Let us just get to the rendezvous point,” he said, looking out the window again.