#both processes involve divesting yourself of everything

[irrepressible-miracle]

That video that interprets the philosophy of the frenzied flame paralleling a person's mindset before commiting suicide makes me look at ascension to godhood a different way ngl

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (15)

Wow that took longer than expected, but I hope it was somewhat worth the wait. The next chapter should have some certain things revealed.

<<Chapter 14

It is not something Hanzo would have or could have known beforehand, but the sheer number of things that come to light after the failed attack is earth-shattering, and not even half would be covered by day’s end.

It starts with Lúcio and Soldier rushing you out of the kitchen and toward the medical bay with Zenyatta floating behind, who gives him a painfully meaningful look without being able to change his expression at all.

The look keeps his feet glued to the ground, stops him from chasing after them.

Not that he had any good reason to do so. There was nothing he can do. Assassin as he is, he cannot help a dyi—an injured person except to end their suffering. That fact and the memory of Zenyatta's silent request keeps his feet stuck in place.

Soldier barks an order to Mei who comes rushing in, looking grimly resolute and with her homemade gun in hand, taking aim and sealing the Cellar door with a well-placed ice wall before pointing it at their new found prisoners.

Never before had Hanzo seen such a look on the bubbly scientist—it is so alien on her, but so eerily familiar; Hanzo sees it in the mirror and on the veterans who turn away when their faces are cast in the dark. He grits his teeth and turns away, lamenting his inadequacies.

If only he were faster. If only he had known. If only he dug deeper, pried harder, tried harder, then none of this would need to happen.

It’s not until this moment that he needs to know what is in that Cellar more than ever and what occurred here.

But that need is quickly forgone (but not forgotten) when McCree arrives on the scene, a little winded and more than willing to be put to work, helping Hanzo and Winston ‘escort’ the Talon agents they have in their grasp down to the few holding cells the base has, leaving Mei and Snowball to fend for themselves.

“I’ll be fine. Go on ahead,” she manages through a forced smile before turning her attention toward the sealed door.

The cells are not well-fortified or separated enough from the rest of the infrastructure, but they’ll have to do. It will at least keep any more blood from being spilled if he so chooses to beat their faces in.

McCree calls the shots here, instructing Winston who clumsily tries to follow with the hands of someone who has never had to restrain or frisk another living being before.

Questions upon questions crowd in his head which he has to stuff away into the very recesses of his mind where an avalanche of other, older questions reside, threatening to spill over and out of his mouth in an endless stream. He clamps down on that urge, focusing on his current task, methodically checking the belongings their prisoners, divesting them of all weapons, communicators, or anything remotely useful.

This, at least, he is familiar with and good at (and if he had a choice, he’s just strip the people naked and yank out the circuits of the Omnics and leave them—though he knows that would not stop the best of assassins like himself).

It’s a good distraction.

He even has the presence of mind to search the inside of their mouths and common areas where small implements could be held (not that he believes any of them have that sort of resolve, but it’s always best to be thorough—he cannot fail his responsibilities).

One or two of them put up a token resistance, but they're no match for Hanzo, McCree, or Winston. It’s cute, if irritating.

Looking through their belongings yields nothing. It's the standard fare of guns, ammunition, night vision goggles, and the like. The communicators are encrypted with more than just the standard fingerprint scanner.

The end result is a pile of junk that is left for Athena to process later.

“All right, boss, how d’you want to do this?” McCree asks after he’s inspected Hanzo’s and Winston’s work. The cowboy is a lot more thorough in looking at them, nearly getting spit in his eye for it. Strangely enough, it didn’t seem to bother him; he just moves on like he was used to it.

Winston looks confused, a little unsure. It’s hardly the look of a leader. “Pardon me, but do...what?”

McCree jerks his chin at the three cells Talon occupies, who watch them all with defiant trepidation. (It's hard to take them seriously when they've been relieved of everything but their underthings.) “What’re we gon’ do with ‘em. Turn ‘em over to the Gibraltar authorities or hang on to ‘em?”

“We interrogate them, of course,” Hanzo snaps without hesitation, pulling his shoulders back and glaring at each Talon agent with a look that makes nearly every one of them flinch.

Winston looks taken aback. “Interrogate—?”

"Hang on jus' a sec."

McCree walks over to a control panel nearby and does something that makes hard light walls appear in between the empty spaces of the bars.

"It's so that they can't hear us but we can hear them," he explains as he returns, his back to the cells. "And s'much as I’d like t’ agree, I can’t condone that, partner. Or if we do, we gotta do it lawfully.”

“Since when did you care about the law?” Hanzo sneers, more biting than he had intended.

The cowboy just throws him a shrug that looks like it took more effort than it should’ve to seem nonchalant and then looks at the cell where Talon is being kept.

“Since we became ‘Overwatch’, I guess.”

He bites back a snappy remark to that, because as much as it stings Hanzo to admit it, McCree had a very good point.

This isn’t Hanamura or the right political climate to do the stuff that Hanzo would have liked. Hanzo's brand of interrogation ranges from literal heavy-handedness to threats that are often followed through. He had the luxury of doing so because his Shimada clan was the law. This is different. Trying to rebuild Overwatch and establish its legitimacy is already a herculean effort; adding further criminal activities to the fray would only hinder their efforts now and in the future.

"I say we hold off until we have a better grasp of the situation," Winston suggests. "It's unclear if this is the only attack or if this is just a scouting force. We should try to regroup and solve this together."

McCree scratches the side of his face thoughtfully before he shrugs.

"You're the boss."

"...understood."

So he has no choice but to (figuratively) sit on his hands while Winston tries to gather his thoughts and the statuses of every reachable agent.

The questions come back again along with a new sort of unease that slithers beneath his skin, the why’s and how’s chipping away at his concentration.

This unease is not brought on by instinct—that has long faded away—but by the familiar makings of his own mind.

Each recollection of you brings about a different detail for him to focus on. It replays for him over and over in an all too familiar way.

The paleness of your face. The shallow, shuddering breaths that shook your body. The amount of blood, too much and already coagulating, and what seemed like it could have been viscera peeking out from the bullet torn portions of your shirt—regular civilian shirt.

You weren't even wearing your uniform.

It's such an innocuous and negligible fact, yet the thought of it is shocking.

You never intended to return, did you?

Talon may have very well forced you here in the middle of whatever you were doing.

If so, what is Talon after? Is it supposed to be a message? To whom? What’s the message? And why did it involve you?

The simmering anxiety rises, twists in his stomach with a mix of cold, dripping horror and perverse intrigue.

What is your involvement with this? Or is it because they know you’re involved with Overwatch and they wanted to make an example out of you just to show they’re not above such means? But if that were the case, then they would've been more flashy about it, not sneaking around like thieves.

Maybe you yourself were involved in Talon’s operations and you had been double-crossed by them?

He shakes his head violently and runs both hands through his hair, which he thinks he can feel grow even more grey with each unanswered question that ailed him.

No. It’s not possible. You’re just a chef. Like the many times he’s told himself before, you’re not capable of something that would get you in trouble with people so dangerous as Talon. It's illogical—what would Talon have to offer you that Winston couldn't get for you? Money? Fame? Threatened your friends and family?

His head snaps up with a potential realization, startling McCree whom he pays no mind to.

Is that why there are no other chefs? Were they captured and used as hostages?

But then wouldn’t Winston have known about it? Underneath the roof and protection of the once-mighty Overwatch, a few chefs shouldn’t be a problem for Winston to send protection for. (Though Hanzo knows the reality wouldn’t be so simple given Talon’s underhanded tactics and Overwatch’s current reputation.)

But even if the other chefs were captured, there should be no reason for you to risk health and hunger. There would be no reason for you to be kind to anyone or work so hard in the middle of the night.

The more cynical side of him rears its head: unless it’s a ploy for you to get closer to everyone. Listening in on conversations, stealing plans and passing along information while pretending to care about them.

“Y’mind thinkin’ any louder? I can almost see the steam risin’ from your head.”

Hanzo shoots McCree a glare, but he doesn’t seem the least bit cowed by the look. Instead, he seems amused.

“I guarantee whatever you’re thinkin’, it’s probably not what it looks like.”

The audacity. What would McCree know about what he's thinking? He bites back a scathing comeback that he so desperately wants to make. Instead, he settles with an "Is that so?" through clenched teeth.

"Yep." He looks fairly confident, flashing Hanzo a grim grin that looks a touch menacing behind the shadow of his hat. "Either you're assumin' Chef sold out or we're gettin' played like a deck o' cards."

Hanzo says nothing, sour. It's irksome to know that McCree is already several steps ahead of him in something that he should be good at.

"Bold assumption."

"It's only logical."

"Even if those were my thoughts, how are you certain it is neither of those options?"

McCree chuckles but it's bereft of any actual amusement. It's bitter and sticks to him fiercely like there's a story that needs to be told and is begging to be heard.

"Let's just say I got my sources."

"Either provide answers or do not bring it up all," he snaps. With the situation being as blackboxed as it is, he has no time to be playing idiot mind games. Those days of political tiptoeing and nasty implications are over and Hanzo prefers to keep it that way.

McCree seems to consider that for a minute before reaching into a pocket and pulling out a silver case, popping it open to get an unlit cigar to mull on.

The urge to smack it out of his mouth is tempting, but he crosses his arms, hands firmly tucked beneath his armpits hard enough to at least numb them a little so McCree would have a bit of a fighting chance should it come down to it.

"Since you asked so nicely," he starts sarcastically, casting a glance at the Talon members in their cells. "Been checkin' up on the chef since it ain't usual to go AWOL so long. Chef ain't too good at keepin' secrets or duckin' under the radar like the rest of us. So I did some trailin' and found out a few things."

He pauses, looking briefly to the ceiling. More solemnly, he says, "Whatever happened last night wasn't supposed t' have happened. Chef bit off way more than I think even any of us can chew. Heart's in the right place, but…”

McCree hums around his unlit smoke. “Sometimes when you’re too single-minded tryin’ to do something for people, y’ end up hurtin’ everyone around you.”

Something dark wells up from the bottom of Hanzo’s stomach, muting the unease throughout his body.

He utters coldly, “Are you implying something?”

“Nope.”

Hanzo squints at McCree, trying to ascertain the truth behind his words. McCree raises his hands, palms up in clueless surrender. It’s vexing that he would know so much and give so little. It’s not an unfamiliar game with him but usually he had the power to end it.

“And what is it that Chef did?”

The cowboy takes the cigarillo out of his mouth, rolls it between his fingers, and holds it. He takes a pensive breath, and leans forward.

"To help—"

“Agents, your presence is requested over Channel 6. Please check-in,” chirps Athena from out of nowhere.

Hanzo stares at the ceiling in disbelief. This sort of thing could not have been accidental.

He sends McCree a look that he hopes conveys very clearly that this conversation is not yet over. He only gets a shrugs in return before they both tune into the 'official team conversation' on their communicators.

The screen is split into parts and the only ones who look like they're in the same place are Winston and Soldier, who surprisingly, is missing his signature jacket. Winston clears his throat loudly, shuffling some papers that look like they're more for show than any actually notes. There is the noted absence of several people—the most notable being Genji—and he can't be sure if he's grateful or resentful of the fact.

“Thank you everyone for being available on such short notice."

A chorus of echoed sentiments sound off.

"For those who are unable to make it or have become unreachable, we will update them as soon as possible." There is also the distinct lack of Junkers though Hanzo isn't sure if that's intentional or not. "But since this matter is most pressing, allow me start.

"At 0451 today, seven Talon members entered Watchpoint: Gibraltar proper. The exact method of entry has not yet been confirmed. The chef was injured as a result and is currently undergoing treatment. The connection between Talon and the chef is not known at this time.”

Morbidly, Hanzo thinks that Winston has gotten a bit better at speaking to crowds and probably took some time to actually pull himself together.

“Unfortunately, we are unable to confirm this. It seems all cameras inside the kitchen were turned off some time ago—”

"Wait. The cameras? In the kitchen? They were turned off?"

Winston fumbles, stuttering at the sudden outburst from Fareeha, ruining any semblance of confidence or authority he had at the beginning.

Athena explains, “Several months ago, the chef had asked for them to be turned off for privacy reasons."

Security agent that she is, the dumbstruck look on her face is almost expected. Winston seems to know this, shrinking just slightly. “How could you let that happen? A chef does not get to override basic security protocols! Who even authorized this?" she shouts, fist raised and ready to strike, but she unfurls it and presses her fingers to her head, muttering, “What were you thinking?”

Suddenly Hanzo is reminded very vividly that she is Ana’s daughter. It seems that he’s not the only one with that thought as Soldier looks away from the screen for a moment to cough away something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

“As the kitchen currently belongs to the chef, the request for privacy was granted after some consideration.”

“The kitchen is Watchpoint property and is a public space. There is no expectation of privacy in a public space," she stresses, irritated and grumbling beneath her breath. “Are they turned on now?”

“Affirmative, though leaving them on 24/7 will expend a large amount of power that the Watchpoint cannot sustain, I recommend setting up motion sensors in the kitchens using the remaining inventory.”

“We’ll do that then." Clearly, the Helix agent had a lot more to say, but her lips are pulled tight and the glare she has aimed at Winston does not alleviate any of the tension in the room. “Continue.”

Winston clears his throat, takes a breath, and raises three fingers. “Right. So here's the plan. We regroup. We secure the base. And we get answers. Tracer, will pick up as many agents as possible in the next two hours. After that, Tracer's group will meet up with Ms. Vaswani who will then use her teleporter to bring everyone to the Watchpoint."

A globe appears on the table in front of Winston, the blue light illuminating the shadows and weary lines on his face. Red dots appear with a bubble of several agent's faces, a line mapping the course for Tracer connecting each of them.

"Agents Pharah, Reinhardt, Symmetra, and Torbjörn are projected to be in your path for pickup. The second round will likely have Mercy and several others. As several agents are still not responding with their locations, we will do an availability check when the first group returns."

"Hey! What about me?" A new voice chirps from what seemed to be Reinhardt's screen. From the back of the giant of a man, a ponytail peeks out before the curious face of a young woman appears.

"Oh! Brigitte!"

"Of course you can."—"Of course you can't!"

Reinhardt and Torbjörn stare each other down from their respective screens. The effect is diminished when they’re looking in different directions on Hanzo’s screen.

"No civilians," Soldier stresses.

"But Dr. Zhou is a civilian."

At the mention of her name, Mei jumps to attention, the slightest bit of a blush on her face, hands up defensively.

Soldier: 76 looks like he's holding back a sigh; the weight of it can even be felt through the screen. "Dr. Zhou was formerly Overwatch. A different branch, but still Overwatch."

"Then what ab—"

"No, Brigitte. I told you not to get involved."

"But Papa!"

Winston holds up a hand and pinches his head with the other. "Please. Save your bickering for later."

"Coming anyway!"

"Brigitte!"

Winston clears his throat loudly, picking up and tapping his stack of papers against the table. The map disappears at his silent command, as does the family argument.

"You all have your assignments. Details for pickup and transportation will be sent through a series of secure messages. Time is of the essence if we don't want another surprise attack. Is everyone clear?"

""Clear!""

"Yes, sir!"

""Crystal!""

"Understood."

"Right, then meeti—"

“Wait, Winston?”

“Yes, Mei?”

Mei puts down the hand she raised, concern etched all over her face. “How...is the chef's condition?"

The conference falls silent, all eyes on Winston who sags just a little bit as though the weight of everyone’s gazes are pinning him down. Hanzo unconsciously leans forward into his screen, pressing the volume up button twice.

"We're waiting for a full diagnosis from Dr. Zielger. Until then, we can't say." After a pause, Winston adds, "However, based on the information I received from Zenyatta, the chef’s condition may be...precarious.”

Hanzo sucks in a sharp breath.

“Bu-but not to worry! Dr. Zielger is currently working remotely and is overseeing the treatment along with Zenyatta and Lúcio.”

“Why did Talon hurt Chef?” Zarya asks from her panel. “Chef does not fight, does not leave, has no business with Talon.”

Winston shakes his head. “We’re still trying to find the answers. We have to wait until Chef is better or until Talon decides to talk.”

“Oh, we’ll make them talk, all right…” mutters Torbjörn beneath his breath, his metal claw clinking menacingly. No one else seems to disapprove of the idea, and it is the slightest bit relieving.

They wouldn't let you die. If there was one redeeming quality about this mess of a ragtag peace-keeping organization, it's that they would never abandon one of their own (for better or for worse). At least they all seem to trust in you, believing in your innocence even if Hanzo is still skeptical.

"Winston, a moment.” Satya looks as prim as ever, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I recall Watchpoint: Gibraltar and it's perimeter was fully equipped with turrets prior to this incident. From which point did Talon manage to enter the premises?"

"That's, ah, still being investigated."

"Give us a break, Winston!” Torbjörn shouts so loud that even his screen shakes. “It's the Cellar, isn't it? Always knew that'd be trouble."

Again, it’s Fareeha with the hard hitting questions and demands. “Winston, I think it’s about time you tell us what’s in the Cellar. If Chef was attacked in the kitchen, there is no way Talon got in through the front doors. So talk. What’s in the Cellar?"

The tension becomes palpable even through the screen as everyone’s attention is focused on Winston. His eyes dart around, seeking answers before they settle on Soldier, after which he closes them and takes a deep breath.

“To tell you the truth,” he says ever so slowly, “I don’t know.”

"What do you mean 'you don't know'? You're the commander—"

“That information is classified.” Soldier uncrosses his arms and leans heavily into the table before him. It’s strange to see it now, but he really is much more well built than his silhouette implies, scars running up and down his shoulders and arms. Hardly the look of someone who calls himself ‘old’.

Several people have the decency, including Hanzo, to look affronted.

"Classi—"

"—he just said he didn't kno—"

"Stop playing dumb—"

Winston holds up his hands. "Please. Soldier. I think it's time you told us. I admit, I, too, am curious about the Cellar."

From above, Athena warns them, "It is not a wise idea to do so without the chef's expressed permission. I have assure—”

"We should not need permission from the chef," Fareeha states, voice full of the authority she likely uses with her team at Helix. “This is a matter of security. Life and death. We can prevent this from happening again and putting everyone’s lives on the line because of a promise or privacy is foolish.”

She raises a hand. "Vote: everyone who wants to know what's in the Cellar, hands up."

First, it’s Torbjörn, though from the way he speaks, he already knows. Then it’s Zarya. Satya. The girl behind Reinhardt. Ever reluctant and with a wary eye on Soldier, Winston.

Hanzo hesitates. He wants to know, but not likely this: given to him on a silver platter instead of his own prowess and investigative skills.

But knowing would be for the greater good.

He does not raise his hand. Neither does McCree.

"There. Majority.”

So quietly that Hanzo thinks he imagined it, he could swear she grumbles, "Shouldn't have to do that in the first place."

Soldier looks like he feels the same way but in a different context. He rubs the skin above his mask and gives Winston one final look that—if the mask weren’t there—might have been pleading or exasperated. The scientist returns it, lips drawn in grim determination.

Voice weary, Soldier begins his story.

“The Siege Tunnels of Gibraltar. When Watchpoint: Gibraltar was built, the architects incorporated some of it into the design plans. After the Watchpoint was built, the Head Chef at the time decided to expand the kitchen and incorporate an abandoned section of the tunnel. That expansion was the creation of the cellar.”

“How come we didn’t know about that until now?” Fareeha asks.

“It was omitted from all blueprints. The chefs kept it secret and never let anyone else near it long enough to have it mapped.”

McCree snorts from his holovideo. “‘Secret’, sure.”

“Secret enough to keep anyone from actually finding it until now,” Soldier snaps back. “Everyone knew the Cellar existed, but no one's been in there beside those cooks. If you want someone to spill their guts about it, check the operating room.”

“Listen Jack”—an icy hush falls over the room—“you knew the tunnels were down there. You knew it was a weak point. You knew Chef was there and what it’s being used for. So if you knew so much, why didn't ya stop it?”

There is something in his voice that implies the question is far deeper and far more than what is being asked.

Though is that Soldier's true name? Jack?

“I tried.”

“Tried doin’ what? Not eatin’ the chef's food?” McCree snorts, voice increasingly accusatory and taking on an edge of outright defiance and authority that Hanzo has not yet heard before from him. "You know each ‘n every single one of 'em are stubborn as a mule. You don't eat, you get it forced down your throat. You knew, Jack. You knew this would happen.”

Winston speaks up, hesitant and meek. “I—I suppose I'm partly to blame. Soldier: 76 did want to get rid of the chef because of this exact reason. I stopped it. I just didn't realize just how accessible the kitchens were. By all accounts, it is actually one of the most secure areas on base—”

“I ain't askin’ for excuses, Winston. No 'ffense, but this wasn't a decision you should've made. ‘Sorry's can't fix what landed Chef upstairs.”

“Agreed,” says Fareeha. “Security detail is not your expertise. Jack is at fault for withholding crucial information, and you made a bad call based on it. That's called...what was it again, Jack? Misconduct?”

Hanzo has long given up on keeping track of these secrets.

“So you all knew,” Soldier mutters.

“My friend,” Reinhardt says solemnly, quieter yet more powerful than Hanzo has ever heard him, “we never thought any less of you.”

There's a moment of silent agreement among all members on the call until Fareeha mutters, “I did.”

“Fareeha!”

She rushes onward, McCree’s momentum seemingly too infectious not to take advantage of. "Even if Winston is in charge, you had a responsibility as a part of Overwatch to disclose this weak point.”

"We never had the chance,” Soldier shoots back. “Chef was always there up until the past two weeks. We would ha—”

“—when Chef was gone, you could have at least taken the time to patch up your holes! What if Chef wasn’t there last night? Would you have waited until everyone got shot in their sleep?”

“That isn't the point. We needed a plan and—"

“Oh, please! You know that's not the case! Everyone could have died—"

"We had countermeasures!"

"What countermeasures? Your stup—"

“If Ana were here—”

“She’s not! You’re a fuc—”

“Everyone, enough!”

The yell pierces through Hanzo’s earpiece and everyone flinches away from the sound and the image of Winston, halfway through a transformation of primal rage. An oppressive silence descends upon them all until bit by bit, the standing fur on the scientist flattens once more.

Steely, Winston announces with unwavering authority finally befitting of a leader: "I believe we have extracted enough information as of now to determine next steps. Standby and await your instructions. Meeting adjourned."

The feed cuts off.

The tense silence from the call carries over between himself and McCree. The meeting definitely did not turn out the way either of them anticipated, but what's done is done and nobody can take back the secrets that have been spilled.

“He’s Jack,” McCree says bitterly. “Jack Morrison.”

Where has he heard the name before? It’s so…

Hanzo balks. “Jack Morrison? The Strike Commander of Overwatch?”

“Former Strike Commander.” McCree turns away, practically rending the cigarillo in half with his teeth. “Former.”

“...and you all knew.”

He grunts, taking a moment to compose himself. “Sorta. Had a huge inklin’, but I wasn’t gon’ bust some secret in case he had some reason for it.” Underneath his breath, he mutters, “‘s a fuckin’ coward, is what he is.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know the history behind it to even try, but what he does know is that this may be the first time he’s clearly seen the darker side of McCree that he has been constantly hinting at.

To think...the legendary Jack Morrison was among them. He thought the man had perished, having heard nothing about them since the incident in Switzerland. By then, Hanzo had been on the run already, seeking his next kill rather than political angles he could abuse.

His father had kept a wary eye on Overwatch, smiling wryly whenever the then-Strike Commander came on the news to speak, silently dissecting his words and judging him. When he was feeling indulgent, his father would point out the missteps and hidden meanings in Jack Morrison's televised appearances. Other times, he would ask Hanzo to give him his thoughts, and he—not knowing Morrison personally or expecting to ever meet him at any point in his life— spoke harshly and loosely.

It was silly posturing at the time.

He could not have guessed the silver-haired man with the abrasive tongue could be the man once cloaked in gold—fool's gold.

If that's the case, truly, then why is Winston leading this operation? Why not allow the former leader to take his place? Is there infighting already? Or did Morrison not want the position, already scorned and disillusioned by his previous tenure?

Hanzo supposed he'll have to ask the man himself, but it's not important who the leader is or what Jack Morrison's reasons are. He is supposed to just follow orders.

He raises his head and squints at McCree, who seems to be in no mood to continue speaking. While he wants to know, he's not so tactless as to ask about you now. Or about Morrison.

The awkward silence stretches out between them until Athena takes mercy on him and breaks it.

“Agent Hanzo, your presence is required in the kitchen.”

For a foolish iota of a second, his mind switches immediately to the thought of food—that you're calling because he's late for lunch, and his stomach responds accordingly, stirring awake and hungry.

But no, the reality of that is crushed far too swiftly when Mei comes down through the stairs, still armed. She smiles at them both, clearly strained but trying to maintain a brave face.

"Hey there."

McCree nods at her and Hanzo does the same, dumbfounded that she would be the one to take his place.

“I’ll be here to help until Torbjörn and the rest get here.”

It’s uncharacteristic for him to hesitate, even for a moment, but he does and asks, “Are you certain?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me! I’m not as good as you, but I’m going to do my best.”

Internally, he cringes at that. Once upon a time, he may have wanted to hear those words from all of his peers, but hearing them from Mei just feels criminal.

McCree just waves at him. "Jus' git, we'll take it from 'ere."

They both nod at him, urging him to go.

It should unnerve him to leave Mei with a bunch of criminals, but she has McCree there. McCree seems like the type who would rather die than to let a friend get taken. He resolves not to think on it, making his way to his destination.

The mess hall lives up to its namesake a little more than usual: dirty, dragging boot prints from Talon draw a clear map from the kitchen to the door where Hanzo stands; the kitchen counter still covered by a block of ice, near white from the number of bullets it had to take and probably two more hits from shattering, a puddle of water already pooling around the base. The floors will warp, no doubt.

He could see you now, getting angry over the blockage of your counter. You'll probably bash at it with the back of a ladle by yourself, not ask anyone for help. Maybe you'll make everyone's least favorite foods for them or give them a lecture.

It's be preferable to whatever is happening to you now.

He almost dreads going through the double doors again. It feels like every time he goes through them, the scene behind them only get worse.

They stand impassively, waiting for him to make his move, betraying nothing of what happened several hours ago. Like they always do.

With a deep breath, he places his hands on either door. Even at his gentle touch, they begin to part. Another push and they swing open completely.

There, he is greeted with the still fresh carnage in its entirety and Soldier: 76—Jack Morrison, former Overwatch strike commander—who has his jacket back on. Chillingly, the front of it is covered in a brownish stain that reminds Hanzo far too vividly of what has transpired this morning even more so than the destruction around him, and he has to look away.

"Took you long enough," Soldier says gruffly.

"I apologize; I was not aware I was being timed."

"You weren't, but you sure stood outside long enough. Thought Talon might've gotten you."

Despite his mortification and offense, Hanzo schools his face into something neutral. "Unlikely."

"Hmph. We're still waiting on Fareeha, but I want to make sure you have the right equipment on you."

At that, Hanzo jumps to attention. "What is it you require?"

"Your Sonic arrows, for one. The path is straightforward, but there are rooms in there that need to be inspected for any agents in hiding. Close range weapons, and this."

From one of his many pockets, Soldier produces an earpiece with a short microphone which Hanzo takes, giving it a quick inspection. It looks like an older radio wave receiver. He doesn't recognize the model but it bears the well-worn symbol of Overwatch on it.

"We'll be using those for communication. The signal in the Cellar is bad, and we likely won't be able to contact each other without it. It's already set to the right channel."

Hanzo closes a hand around it. "Is it secured?"

Soldier snorts. "Nothing is 100% secured. Talk loud enough, it won't mean anything."

It's hard to overlap the image of the bright-faced Jack Morrison with this cynical old man. Though, a few years a leadership position and a building falling on top of you amidst a blazing explosion could help in changing a person.

"Understood. What is our mission?"

"We'll get to that when Fareeha gets here. Any minute now." The last part is muttered so low that Hanzo's not sure he should have heard it.

She does not magically appear, unfortunately. Hanzo wants to say something about it, just to give the older man a hard time, but the appeal is not high when there is so much else happening.

"Was the kitchen inspected?"

"Already did. But you're welcome to do a once-over." Soldier jerks a thumb behind him. Even his gloves are colored with the brownish stains. "Couldn't hurt to get a Shimada to give it a seal of approval."

The comment strikes a strange chord inside him: pride and a touch of shame and irritation. He can't be sure the true intent behind Soldier's words and says nothing. Instead, he puts on the counterpart contact lenses for his sonic arrows, the earpiece which he gives a successful test before he surveys the area under Soldier's watchful eyes—he can pretend he's not watching all he wants, but there's no mistaking the tingling on his back where his red gaze lands.

Hanzo ignores it. There's more pressing matters at hand than Soldier's perverse curiosity.

Looking around, the kitchen is a complete mess. Strangely enough, this mess makes it feel more homely and personable than the pristine condition you had kept it in, almost like you were trying to preserve it.

After all the excitement of hours ago having long faded from his ears, the kitchen is also eerily quiet. There are mechanisms running still, but there is a distinct lack of sound and rhythm and calm that Hanzo had long begun to associate with this place. It's not the first time he's thought this, but being in the kitchen is by one's self is a very isolating and lonely experience—and not in the comfortable way either.

Even on the run, Hanzo still had interactions with people (some food, some bad), but you don't even get to see anyone's face. Objectively, your customers may as well not exist.

And if you were truly a traitor, it would make your job that much easier to never know the faces of the people whom you would eventually betray.

He shakes his head. No. That still hasn't been confirmed yet. More evidence is required, and most of it should be in this room and the Cellar beyond. He just has to find it among all the rubble.

As he walks around, he makes mental notes of everything out of place. The normally well-organized drinkware and container racks were all smashed. There’s a sink or two that have their faucets knocked off, the water still gushing from it quietly. Bullet holes riddle the walls and every available surface. Even the ceiling wasn’t spared.

The glass doors to the walk-in freezers haven’t been fixed or replaced, chilly air leaking out in waves, the faint scent of rot lightly entwined in it and curling at his shins and ankles.

Stepping gingerly inside the cooler through the outline of what could've once been the shape of a person, the smell becomes more pronounced and the chill makes even the hot-blooded Hanzo shiver, the wind blowing straight through his clothes and hair. Glass and spilt vegetables at his feet become an obstacle course to navigate around; a deathtrap for anyone who wants to navigate through this space.

Food and raw ingredients sit in their boxes, some wilted, other visibly rotting and off-colored. There's a hefty amount of food here lining the wire racks from floor to ceiling where an industrial fan continues to spin loudly.

Looking around and tapping his feet against the floor for any sounds or signs of trap doors, he could find nothing out of the ordinary among the steely walls and tiles.

The other walk-in freezers are similar. Nothing of interest or suspicious (beside the floating tuna fish whose dead eye stares at him from beyond it's cryogenic prison).

In the last freezer, just as he is about to leave, something catches his eye in the corner of the freezer and Hanzo does a double-take, nearly stepping straight into an unfortunate pile of some reddish, chunky sauce which has long lost its aroma in his haste.

Miso.

...there's miso in here. Not just one type, but several small containers of it, the name and brand labelled in Japanese: white miso, red miso, yellow miso, and more from different regions in Japan like Yamanashi and Nagoya.

What are they doing here?

The contents of the transparent containers seem untouched. Were you planning on cooking with them?

What would that be for other than Japanese food? Why so much if you were going to make anything at all? Surely you didn't know how to use them all.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe you bought them long ago and left them to rot—ferment—like miso does.

The expiration dates stamped onto each container says otherwise, too far out in the future to have been an old purchase. You were planning on using this.

He dares not let himself hope it could've been for him. It had to be for the team. There’s just too much of it., yet each container is small. You must have just been waiting to experiment.

It could be for Genji.

A sinister voice in the back of his head reminds him harshly that Genji cannot eat. Another whispers that awful reminder: it's all Hanzo's fault.

He shakes his head, backing out of the freezer with less finesse than before. He can't afford to speculate on something so silly. It's just miso. There could be hundreds of foods that use miso and many reasons that does not involve himself or Genji. There had to be.

But somehow, it didn’t feel as convincing as he would like it to be.

Ignoring that thought, he searches the rest of the kitchen with Soldier dallying in the background. Maybe having been at the top of the food chain puts these sorts of activities beneath the great ex-Strike Commander.

However, no matter how he looks, there doesn't seem to be anyone else around. The rubber mats on the ground hide the footprints Hanzo would've needed to determine the exact number of people in this room (except Zenyatta). He mentally maps out the markings on each counter, the dents, the skid marks, discarded equipment—everything he can to piece together a moving picture of each strike and attack that had taken place until he can determine that yes, it seems that everyone in this room had been accounted for.

The final piece of the puzzle is the Cellar door.

It seems as sturdy and unyielding as when he first encountered it that fateful night he discovered you were—are—so painfully human and learned the hard way that you did not allow trespassing without a semblance of a fight.

The only clues he has are the obvious dried blood on the hand scanner and the faint dents of the ammunition fired against the door. He runs a hand over the ones near head-height, the divots smooth and dusty except for one which is singed with something dark. He rubs his fingers together.

Just how much firepower could this door withstand? What is it made of? What could be so important that this door was made to withstand even a barrage of bullets and pulse munitions?

The smear of a handprint, fingers pointed downward.

At the bottom of the door, blood pools in a thin line as though trying to get in. Hanzo crouches down to get a better look. There is a trail beneath the holes of the rubber mats, but nothing substantial enough to indicate it was swept down from the floor itself. It had to have come from directly above.

"This blood is…?"

"The chef's," Soldier says matter-of-factly. "As you probably guessed, the door has a hydrophobic coating. The scanner is the only thing that doesn't. Must've worn off over the years."

The scene in his mind becomes clearer.

Talon likely injured you and you stumbled back, leaving behind a trail that seeped in through the floor mats. Your clutched at the wound, and then held your hand out to activate the scanner. Talon continued to shoot. There are gouges near where your head might be. Someone had tried to get you in the head for an instant death, but clearly did not succeed. They may have gotten you once or twice before the door opened.

It is not likely any of them managed to come after you. You were still alive when he saw you, after all.

A now familiar grip on his stomach gives him pause.

You’re definitely still alive.

"I see."

“So, what’s your analysis?”

Hanzo glances over at Soldier: 76.

“...based on the facts, there does not seem to be more enemies. Though, given the number of Talon agents in our custody, I’m afraid that...they will not be handled adequately.”

Soldier gives a sharp nod. It's very likely he was just as uncomfortable sending Mei down to watch over Talon. “When Torbjörn and Symmetra arrive, we’ll have turrets available to monitor Talon. I also want Genji to get here and stay with Lúcio and Zenyatta just in case the chef is far more involved than we thought.”

Hanzo raises a thick eyebrow. “You have proof of Chef's involvement in this?"

“Talon came through the Cellar without a doubt. Who else has access to them?”

“The chefs.” Hanzo narrows his eyes dangerously at Soldier. “And you.”

“Nice try, Shimada,” Soldier says, not sounding the slightest bit amused but not overly angry either. “We're going down there to change that. It's for the chef's own good. And ours.”

"You've already done the chef harm based on the conversation before."

"...it wasn't intentional."

"Hard to believe anything you do is not intentional, Jack." Fareeha steps in through the doors, quietly holding them back from making noise. She’s not in her usual gear—no hover jets or rocket launchers. Instead, she's in fatigues and a sturdy vest, a stern look decorating her face.

The thickest part of Soldier's neck quakes like he wants to turn away, but forced himself to be still and face Fareeha.

"Good, you've made it. We can finally get started."

He tosses her an earpiece and she snatches it out of the air with ease, giving it a similar check before putting it on. "So, what's the plan?" she asks, unconcerned with the fact Soldier blew off her sarcasm.

"Tunnels need to be checked for Talon soldiers and any other surprises they might have left in there for us. I conducted a sweep before but I didn't find anything at the time."

"When did you get the chance to do a sweep?" Hanzo asks.

"Before tonight."

Fareeha waves him off. "So that information is useless then. Let's get in there and do a thorough check; leave no rock unturned. Has this kitchen been checked?"

Hanzo nods. "Thoroughly."

"Great." He could see her eye the kitchen as though itching to do it herself. The assassin and ex-clan head inside him is offended that his work would be doubted, but Hanzo understands the feeling of needing to check the work of others just to be sure. There have been cases where his subordinates have made very human mistakes that cost someone a finger here and there, and in other cases, a head. Cases like these should be handled like any other security incident: with several fine toothed combs.

"Fareeha, you'll be doing a security assessment while we're down there. Hanzo, you'll be the lookout."

"Obviously." Hanzo glances over at Fareeha. He doesn't remember her being so irritable before. It reminds him of McCree a little.

"Understood."

Briefly, they all go over the hand signs they plan on using and what to expect in the Cellar. Apparently the place is outdated with low ceilings and stone walls. Fareeha will likely be documenting any issues she finds and Hanzo will be constantly checking for traps and taking care of any enemies. Soldier will be supporting them both. Once everything was agreed upon, they all came face to face with the Cellar door.

"Good. Let's go.”

Soldier places his hand on the scanner, right over the dried blood. Hanzo can't help but wince internally, breath running short as the image collides with a memory where the panel is replaced by tatami.

As usual, the door beeps and slides open immediately, inviting everyone inside with a rush of air. Finally, the chance to see what is inside, but…

Hanzo says nothing as the three of them take their first steps inside. Hanzo's heart thuds loudly in his chest, picking up speed with every single step.

The tunnel goes straight down, sloping slightly. Long lights flicker above them. Wires cling tightly to the half-heartedly fortified walls at the very top corners, some sagging and hanging down, low enough for Hanzo to touch. The tunnel lacks the distinct cold, musty smell that most stone tunnels have. The air is not stale or overly humid either. He deduces there’s an air filtration and environmental control system somewhere, and if Athena isn't the one maintaining it, it has to be manual or done by some other AI.

Their pace is slow, careful.

However, not even a few meters in, Hanzo lingers, something on the ground catching his eye and his stomach plummets as he recognizes it for what it is.

Blood spatter.

"You don't look very enthusiastic, Shimada. Remembering the time Chef threw a tantrum at you?" Fareeha teases softly.

Hanzo’s head snaps up and he scowls. To her credit, she doesn't flinch or seem intimidated.

"..."

"Thought you would've wanted to look inside here. The bet with Jesse and all."

Unconsciously, his lip curls. "That is between us."

"Well, you better get moving if you're going to win. Doubt the cowboy made it this far. Ever."

"Less talking, more moving."

Fareeha and Hanzo simultaneously make a face at the man's back. He whips around as though in tune with their thoughts. Hanzo barely manages to return to a neutral expression in time and wonders if Soldier's reaction isn't due to extensive experience.

Still, he is begrudgingly grateful for his intervention. The bet is tertiary at best, the mission is first and foremost. To that end, his eyes drag across the ground while his ears listens for anything out of the ordinary.

The trailing blood spatter continues your story: you were stumbling backward, shoes stepping into the puddles you left behind, bumping against the wall a few times, the bleeding growing worse or bleeding through whatever was being used to stem it. Your hand, maybe. There are two sets of prints, one leading into the tunnel and a different set leading out. His first conclusion is Talon, but then it doesn't explain why they didn't finish you off or take you hostage.

You fell down, hand prints where you tried to catch yourself clear. Rested a while and let yourself bleed. Then you tried to drag yourself up with the wall, stumbling but determined until you fell again, dragging your hands down.

The story ends with an oddly shaped puddle, too large for the stay to have been short. It's here that Hanzo finds it hard to breathe, his heart having leapt into his throat and blocking all air and words. This is also where the second set of footprints begin. Whoever it was came from the opposite end of the tunnel.

"This where Chef was found?" Fareeha asks solemnly, kneeling beside the dried puddle.

Soldier nods, arms crossed. "Yeah."

There are things that Hanzo wished he never knew—Genji's first sexual encounter for one—and being able to deduce you were on the verge of shock based on the size of the stain is another. Perhaps you had already begun to slip into it when Soldier had retrieved you. You couldn't have been doing well and knowing just how close you were to the other side makes his stomach sink lower and lower. Were you still conscious then, gasping and fearing your mortality? Did you regret being involved as you felt your life drain away into the ground?

Beside the puddle is a glimmer of hope—a discarded biotic emitter, and he doesn't dare voice it but the weight that lifts off his chest upon seeing it is liberating.

Did you carry one on you and use it when you realized your life was draining away?

Before Hanzo gets a chance to take a closer look, Soldier snatches it up from the ground and stuffs it into his pocket.

"We'll get Mercy to recycle these."

Faint boot marks that look like they stopped to face you. Someone knelt down beside the blood. Maybe it was from when Soldier came to fetch you. It only made sense.

Either way, you were still breathing when you were found. You were receiving treatment. You…

You had already lost too much blood.

And the blood stain on stone then overlaps again with tatami.

He pulls in a sharp breath, shakes his head, teeth clenched tight to stem the churning in his stomach. You’re with Zenyatta and Lúcio. Two of the most soft-hearted people—beings—on the base. They won’t let you die even if you were on the very verge of death.

He forces himself to exhale. Guilty or not, they won’t let that happen.

Soldier turns his back to them. "We should get going."

Eventually the tunnel walls are no longer fortified by steel; instead they’re back to stone and doors are carved into them. Old fashioned wooden ones with the knobs, barely able to withstand a kick. Soldier signals both Fareeha and Hanzo who press themselves against the walls.

All nearly identical and some marked with number signs, nothing to indicate what could be inside. At Soldier’s signal, Hanzo fires off a sonic arrow which lodges itself into a door frame.

There’s no sign of life or a reaction from any of the rooms the sonic waves can reach, and he gestures back such.

They’ll have to look into them one by one, just in case.

Soldier takes the nearest door on the left, Hanzo takes the door on the right while Fareeha keeps watch on the tunnels, ready to provide backup and noting any security issues.

Hanzo's room looks like a storage room. Tall racks on wheels and spare kitchen equipment, all caked in a sheet of dust. Nothing interesting here or anything to indicate someone ever entered this room recently.

“All clear,” grumbles Soldier through the earpiece.

“No intruders found,” Hanzo responds back.

They both leave their respective rooms and continue down the hall just like that, one by one, going through doors.

Eventually, Hanzo finds himself in what seems to be an office or document room too small and jam-packed with stuff to harbor any actual criminals. The humming of an air vent is loud here. On a wall of glass were words, unintelligible and, when Hanzo runs a finger through them, they do not smear or budge. He can barely make out words like 'glace' and 'framboise'.

Old fashioned books that had withstood the test of time lined the uneven shelves drilled into the stone walls and were strewn about the room. Some were even opened, enticing Hanzo to read their contents.

To his disappointment, they are just cookbooks. Recipes written in a language that looked like it could be French. The other books have are similar but in different languages and with varying amounts of now faded, but still delectable-looking pictures caked in dust.

In the side of the room, behind a tall shelf, there is a computer, however.

As he approaches, two things stand out:

One: the area around it was used more recently than the rest of the room.

Two: the computer is still on.

Hanzo raises a hand to his ear, never taking his eyes off the power button, breath coming up short. “Pharah. I have found a computer. It's still on."

“Great. That might be just what we're looking for. Standby.”

He waits, not paying any attention to the banter that started between Fareeha and Soldier in his ear.

Was it you? Sitting alone in this room and tunnel, facing a computer doing whatever it is you were doing? Or was it Talon who sat here, stealing data from a machine that looks like it is ten years out of date?

Slowly, he approaches the desk, eyeing all the scattered papers that added to the mess. They were small rectangular papers, the top edges torn and the lines filled with near illegible scribbles.

It seems that whoever wanted to protect this terminal forgot the number one rule of security: never write your passwords anywhere. Instead, there’s a little note with the words “username” and “password” clearly written. For a place with such a sophisticated door guarding it, everything else in here is ridiculously shabby. Whatever fool designed this place must have assumed the Cellar door would solve all their security problems.

Hanzo rolls his eyes. Not that it would’ve stopped him regardless, but this was just sloppy.

Before he can do anything with the information, the door swings open and Fareeha comes in, signalling for him to switch with her.

He debates asking to stay but knows when to concede; computers just aren’t his expertise. Besides, everyone has their role, so he stands guard outside, watching as Soldier walks into another room on the opposite side of the hall.

It takes some time, but Fareeha is back, a scowl on her face as she turns around and marks an inconspicuous place on the door frame with a sticker of sorts, probably for later identification.

“What did you find?”

“It looks like this controls a few places here like the HVAC system, but not everything. Judging by the traffic, there's a few more endpoints on the same network, different VLANs.”

“Meaning?”

“We got ourselves a lot of work to do." She shakes her head and pulls out her communicator.

"Athena.”

“Yes, ho—may I a—ist?” She frowns, raising it up for better signal.

"Athena."

"..."

“We’re in too deep, I think.” Fareeha waves a hand at the walls surrounding them. “The rock and whatever else is here is messing with the signals. We'll have to run a line here after we secure the area."

From across the hall, Soldier comes out from the room he was inspecting and shakes his head. Nothing.

Hanzo can't say he's disappointed with the results, but it is underwhelming. There are only two more rooms, bathrooms with multiple stalls and showers and lockers. Nothing exciting.

If Soldier has found anything more interesting, he says nothing of it.

Further along, the path splits into another few parts, but even after investigating, they still came up empty-handed. Dead-ends and more storage rooms. There was even something that looked like a common area, equipped with well-worn couches and tables and even a water cooler.

It feels strangely voyeuristic as they move from room to room, like he’s peering into your personal life and history.

But if you used these facilities, it would be no surprise he never saw you leave the kitchen; you have all you need here.

Seeing all this, however, deep in a tunnel away from anyone’s knowledge and prying eyes, your existence seems even lonelier than before. He can’t say why, but knowing all this brings an ache to his chest.

He takes back what he says about the cafeteria and kitchen being a sanctuary.

It’s a prison.

Your prison.

With yourself and the past as the guards.

Prisons are meant to keep people in, but in your case, perhaps it was to keep everyone else out?

The realization nearly bowls him over.

Maybe he has been misinterpreting your isolation. What if he sees this from a different angle? What if you were trying to keep your contact with the other agents as scarce as possible, put up a literal and figurative wall between you and them, kept the kitchen as pristine as it is in the hopes that when your other fellow chefs returned, they’d be returning to something familiar?

That would explain so many things. It would explain your discomfort in asserting your own rules even in a space that you would be considered the master of. It would explain why you never ate with them despite your excuses. Your isolation, self-imposed, is all preparation for when you are no longer needed.

You’re hoping to fade back into the background when the Head Chef—if he’s even alive—returns.

The realization settles heavily in his stomach, holding back his pace and his mind scatters, plunged into a white noise.

What would the Watchpoint do without you?

Sure, he's always thought of a chef as dispensable and a luxury that the current Overwatch cannot afford, but after suffering through takeout and MREs, he doesn't know if he wants that anymore.

Having a taste of that luxury, of homemade meals and warm drink whenever he wants, has spoiled him once more.

Hanzo barely manages to catch himself, nearly crashes into Soldier: 76 when he stops abruptly.

He's almost about to demand an explanation when he hears it: voices.

His stomach clenches, the anticipation of an ambush strums in his veins. Finally.

All of them take their positions seamlessly, directed by Soldier's silent orders. Creeping toward the source of the echoing voices, they find themselves at another crossroads. Hanzo grabs at another sonic arrow and moves in front of Soldier, slipping just slightly past the mouth of the room to take aim at anything other than rocks or metal.

But then, he catches a glimpse of their mystery guests.

Releasing the pull of his bow and his breath, he lowers his weapon, annoyed.

“Junkers.”

Junkrat jumps into the air, clearly startled and not expecting anyone but themselves. Roadhog doesn't even react.

“Heya! What's you lot doin’ here?” He points at them accusingly as everyone files out from their hiding spots.

“What are you doing here?”

Fareeha grunts in what seems to be disgust, waving a hand in some vague direction. “You blew a hole somewhere in the Siege Tunnels, didn't you?”

Junkrat can only laugh nervously, poking his index fingers together, looking the most sheepish he's ever been, bare shoulders the slightest bit pink (though that could just be the lighting of the place).

Soldier looks like he's barely holding himself back from decking the Junker across the face.

"What are you doing here?"

"Ehehe, well, mate. We—ah, what's it again, Roadie?—oh yeah, makin' ourselves a home!"

"...at home."

"Right you are! At home!"

In unison, Soldier's, Fareeha's, and Hanzo's face fall into a skeptical deadpan.

"In the tunnels?"

"Is just like the Outback."

"Hiding what you're doing?"

"Just like home."

"Trespassing and blowing things up?"

"Whad' I tell ya?” Junkrat stretches out his arms, presenting the gate behind them. “Home sweet home."

Behind the Junkers is certainly a room protected by a large man-made wall. It’s dome-shaped and white, the stark contrast so strange, Hanzo wonders why he never saw it before.

At the base is a segmented gate, large enough for a vehicle to go through. On the very edge are doors, probably for people. The door itself looks like it’s seen better days, flowers of black marring the white paint all around its edges and barely hanging onto its hinges, propped closed by a shovel, of all things.

Is this where they've been hiding this whole time?

Annoyed that they were able to go into the Cellars before him, he grinds his teeth together.

They are likely covering up the treasure, coveted it for themselves. Probably already sold it off for a shiny credit. If there was alcohol in there, Hanzo has no doubt that they probably drank it all, leaving nothing for them.

There goes his bet with McCree. (A small voice in the back of his head wonders if he can't just buy some and pretend it was found in the Cellar; it's not like the cowboy had ever made it down here. He would hardly know the difference. But the deal was to split the alcohol—hardly worth it if Hanzo had to pay for it all.)

Soldier takes a few steps forward as does Fareeha, but Roadhog is quick to move in their way, using his bulk to protect most of the choke point between room and tunnel.

"Do you mind?” Fareeha asks.

Ever the silent wall, Roadhog only stares down at her, daring her to do something.

Soldier opts for a different tactic. “We’re here to check for Talon. The Watchpoint got attacked. Seen any of them?”

Junkrat vehemently shakes his head, waving his arms, but that does not assure any of them in the slightest.

“Nope, just us!”

“You're sure about that?”

“Ey! Have I ever lied t—”

“Just us,” Roadhog insists. To punctuate this point, he taps on his shotgun, gripping it by the handle.

It seems that no one would be able to pass so long as they were there.

Soldier, Fareeha, and Hanzo look at each other, a silent conversation held between them.

Fareeha straightens herself up, refusing to be dwarfed by either Junker. "Fine. We'll be going. But if there's anyone—"

"Just. Us."

Roadhog stands just a little taller to lord his height over everyone else and Junkrat scrambles to follow suit, not quite managing to pull himself out of the near permanent hunch he's gotten himself into, but he tries nonetheless to look intimidating.

The standoff drags on for several moments, neither side budging.

They silently agree they'll come back when neither of the Junkers are here.

They can hear the echoes of the Junker’s conversation—

“’s a close one, right, Roadie?”

“Hrmph. Work.”—and the sound of a door opening and closing.

The journey through the remaining of the tunnel is short; there isn’t much left and Hanzo's beginning to think they'd never find any signs of Talon or evidence that they came through here.

Fareeha glances backward, past Hanzo’s shoulder and the bend. "Are you sure it’s okay to leave them alone, Jack?"

He shrugs one tense shoulder. “I doubt Talon would be with them. Or have anywhere to hide in there.”

“So you know what’s inside?”

It takes a moment for him to answer but he only replies, “Never been."

The answer grates on Hanzo’s nerves harder than expected. Knowing now who Soldier: 76 really is, the space in between his lines only seem wider. But he holds his tongue, deciding there’s no point in stirring a pot that he doesn’t know the depth of.

Eventually, the tunnel leads to a room with mismatching stone walls that look like parts of it has been excavated and modified, tables, chairs, metal shelves, and hand trucks stacked up against the side of the room, bright lights hanging from the ceiling where a ring of metal is embedded, creating a gateway into a room above. Directly below the ring is a truck with a familiar logo on its side: a heart with green scales, each one fading from a darker to a lighter green.

Hanzo squints at it, sifting through his memory. He knows he's seen this more than once. Soldier stops them before they all make it into the room, gesturing for Hanzo to make a move.

It takes only a few moments for him to fire off another arrow, confirming there is nothing resembling a person or omnic lying in wait.

Fareeha wastes no time, already taking pictures, documenting it and everything else around the vehicle. Hanzo doesn't even manage to take a step before Soldier's arm shoots out, stopping him in his tracks.

"Stay back. Let her do her assessment," Soldier orders. The two of them hang back, the itch of inactivity settling into Hanzo's skin almost immediately. Each of Fareeha's movements seem to have slowed to an unbearable crawl, her inspections too slow and too thorough.

Patience. He needs patience.

There's a tense moment when Fareeha gets to the back of the truck. Her hand rests on the handle and she gives Soldier a very hard and meaningful look, one that conveyed a message Hanzo couldn't hope to decipher before the sound of a lock echoed in the chamber and the rhythmic clacking of the door sliding up counts down the potential bite of a deadly trap.

Clack, clack, clack, click.

The door rises up fully and silence reigns over them. Shining a light into the interior of the truck, Fareeha disappears for a moment, the truck visibly sagging beneath the added weight before springing back up.

Relief comes when Fareeha gives the all-clear signal, allowing the two men to approach and do their own investigation.

Hanzo checks the front seats, immediately noticing the pile of clothes on the passenger's seat, almost thrown there haphazardly along with a courier's cap. The color is familiar, too, and cautiously, he opens the door, a watchful eye for hidden wires or other traps.

There are none, luckily. Instead, he ends up holding up the shirt that's been discarded haphazardly onto the seat like whoever took it off was in a rush. On the arm of the shirt is the exact same logo as the side of the truck. Was it yours? The size seems just about right, and you definitely wore a similar uniform when he first saw you in person—as a person—maneuvering through the kitchen and challenging him with those angry, unerring eyes.

What is your connection to this logo?

“Do you think this belongs to Chef?”

“Most likely. I can't imagine Chef being able to leave Gibraltar wearing the Overwatch uniform."

Fareeha's joke falls a little flat, but it still elicits an amusing image of yourself strutting around Gibraltar, advertising Overwatch's return with your apparel.

The possibilities run through his brain, each nearly landing on identical solutions: you're a traitor. And McCree is not as clever or in-the-know as he may think.

"Found something."

Both Fareeha and Hanzo rush over. In between Soldier's fingers is a small device barely larger than a fingernail.

Inhaling a sharp breath, Hanzo hisses, "Tracker."

It's a sobering piece of evidence that perhaps you were only a victim and used for your connection to Overwatch. Chances are you never told Talon about this tunnel or they didn't trust you and planted the tracker without your knowing.

"Under this truck. This type of adhesive meant it was temporary. Whoever put this here just needed to track this vehicle long enough to get the general path."

"Talon?"

"Likely. But this looks too commercial." Soldier flips it over, holding it up to the dim lights. "Not a lot of dust. Either it's newly installed or…"

"The truck hasn't been driven much," Fareeha finishes, crouched by the vehicle in question, doing her own checks. "Hard to tell since this dust and dirt is old. If we get this truck into the base, Athena can analyze its data and maybe find out from its inbuilt GPS what it's used for. But..."

Hanzo shakes his head. "It's too risky."

"Right. If the tracker really is Talon's work, who knows what other presents they could have added."

They all unanimously agree to leave the truck alone for now lest they find out the hard way the entire thing is rigged to explode. The tracker itself gets stuffed into a special pouch Fareeha has brought and placed carefully on her person.

The room itself yields nothing else out of the ordinary or interesting other than the work bench where tools of different sorts are mounted and a closet so chock full of equipment, Fareeha barely managed to close the doors before it all came toppling down on her. (They were more careful about what they touched from then on.)

Finally, they turn their attention to the lift, slightly out of date with a round hoverpad on the ground and a single terminal. All three of them look at each other and nod wordlessly.

They all board, pressing themselves as close to the edge as possible. There’s only two levels: up and down. Down does not produce anything, so up it is. As soon as the button is pressed, blue hard light comes up around them, stopping just past waist level, and the lift begins to move.

Hanzo breathes slowly, arrow nocked and ready. The gate above them slowly opens up and immediately, Hanzo’s arrow flies out into an arch, hitting the floor immediately above.

There’s mere seconds left.

The signals from the sonic arrow flood the area.

To his surprise and relief, Hanzo signals there’s nothing, but nocks the next arrow just in case.

Slowly, the lift comes to a halt. A gentle 'ding' lets them know they’ve reached their destination, the force field around the elevator sinks back down into the ground.

Nothing.

It's the darkness of the night, the quiet of nature that greets them. Hanzo’s heart knocks against his ears. Cautiously, they all step off the lift and Hanzo retrieves his arrow.

It's a garage of sorts. Small enough to house two trucks, but little else. Even more baffling is the lack of anything in this place. Soldier: 76 braves shining a dim light around. Everything looks ordinary by all accounts. Except for two muted glints.

Hanzo signals to the others. "Cameras. By the doors."

They were hard to see in this darkness, but even without it, they were well hidden in the architecture of the beams that crossed right above them.

If there were cameras, that means they had to have footage of what occurred last night.

Fareeha signals them both, crouching by the only door leading out of this place, peeking out from a sliver.

"All clear...there's no sign of omnics or humans around us," she says after a few moments, glancing at the device around her wrist. “GPS tells us we're close to the border to Spain.”

“We’re close to the Watchpoint then.”

“Is this all then?”

“There weren’t any other paths we could’ve taken except the one where the Junkers were.”

While Soldier and Fareeha speculate, Hanzo slips into his own thoughts for a moment. Is that all there is to it? You risked everything to protect a tunnel not even a five minute drive from the Watchpoint? A stupid tunnel?

He inhales sharply and breathes out as slow as he can, trying to stem the rising heat inside. Briefly, he pinches the bridge of his nose.

No. There’s still the possibility of the Junkers hiding what you’ve been protecting. There’s a possibility that you were angry that your cooperation with Talon would be discovered.

Even with all the clues at hand, he can’t piece together the entire picture. Are you guilty or are you an innocent victim?

All of that remains unanswered.

“Hanzo, get into position, we’re opening the door.”

That snaps him out of his thoughts easily enough. Right, he still had a mission to do.

Bravely, Fareeha presses a button on the side of the door. Groaning and creaking, the sheet of metal slowly rolls up, allowing the three Overwatch agents to take their first steps outside where the city lights of Gibraltar glitter at them and the sun wavers out of sight.

The air is crisp for once and wraps around Hanzo, caressing his face. Hanzo breathes in deeply, drinking in the sight of the city and the horizon where the dusk skies pull in the night and its stars.

It’s beautiful, relaxing in a way that makes the last few hours feel surreal; a stark reminder that life goes on and cares very little about the minute details of anyone's life. It makes him and his troubles feel so infinitesimally small.

—

Their return is even less exciting than their departure. They go back the same way they came, finding nothing new or of interest while Fareeha locks up doors and gates behind them with some of the gear on her person. Briefly, they debate going back to check on the Junkers—maybe they’re not there and can actually determine for themselves if there truly are any enemies around—but they decide against it in the end. It’s a foolish move, but it would be even more so to incur the wrath of the two biggest wildcards in their team.

Though, the biggest surprise when they return at the number of turrets that immediately swivel at them from the very edge of the Cellar door when they step out.

“Vaswani’s been busy, I see.”

They don't have a lot of time to admire the handiwork; Athena calls them all for another meeting. Despite the attendance, there is still no sign of Genji or Mercy.

Winston, looking a little like he is about to fall asleep on his feet, announces, "Thank you everyone for all your work today. Now that we are together, we can now share what we have discovered. McCree, I’d like to being with you, if you would."

“Y’ got it," McCree says from his holovideo, still apparently down with their prisoners. Though strangely enough, the number of Talon agents seem to have diminished.

“Here’s what we know.

“Talon’s been planning this attack for a while. No idea who gave the orders or what they were really after, but we do know they’ve been skulkin' 'round these parts for weeks.

“They finally went after someone named ‘Tanuja S. Deshmukh’, former Overwatch.”

Winston tests the name in his mouth quietly as do some of the other agents, but McCree presses on.

“Singh gave up intel that Chef’s been heading between here ‘n’ there in exchange for immunity.” Something bitter tinges McCree’s voice, but it’s overshadowed by his grave professionalism. “Talon’s been tailin’ Chef and found out ‘bout the tunnels.

“Chef was just at the wrong place at the wrong time and walked in on ‘em right as they were strategizin’. ‘Cause surveillance in the kitchen was turned off, Athena didn’t know ‘til it was too late.”

A flood of refreshing relief washes over Hanzo. You weren't involved. It was an accident. You never tried to betray or take advantage of them. But the relief is short lived, engulfed by an undercurrent of guilt and disgust. This is Overwatch, where people trusted and believed in each other. Yet here he is, having doubted your intentions even as you lay injured upstairs, taking bullets and spilling blood meant for people like himself.

"Athena, who is Tanuja Deshmukh?" Winston asks, seemingly unable to come up with an answer.

A pause.

"Tanuja Singh Deshmukh. Former Overwatch Operational Department, Field Logistics division."

"The Field Logistics division?"

"They're in charge of making sure supplies get to the front lines and negotiating with vendors, land owners, and ensuring services and goods have been appropriately delivered."

"Glorified mailpeoples," Torbjörn mutters darkly.

"Right," says Winston slowly, pointedly ignoring the comment. "Now where is that communicator?"

"According to our records, it has been in Gibraltar for the past several years."

From her screen, Mei seems to be with McCree still. "I'm surprised she didn't answer Recall. What could this person have to do with Chef?"

"Their communicators seem to have been in close proximity. We can conclude both the chef and Tanuja know each other."

"They knew each other? Oh, I guess they must have if..."

Reinhardt butts in. "Ah, but all chefs knew everyone. Always greeted me by name and knew how I liked my eggs!"

"They knew you, big guy!" McCree retorts lightly.

Zarya crosses her massive arms, glaring down at the screen, "We should find this person, bring here, and ask questions. Convince this Tanuja to talk."

"Whoa, there, partner. S'much as I'd like to dispense some good ol' fashion justice, don't think that's the right approach this time."

Fareeha snorts. "That's rich coming from you, Jesse."

He holds up his hands. "All I'm sayin' is that there's different priorities right now. Chef's with us now and ain't goin' nowhere. 'sides, Chef probably don't want to see the face of the person who sold 'em out. So I vote we focus on securin’ our blind spot t' keep Talon out and t' keep Chef from looking for revenge. How’s that goin’, ‘reeha?”

She nods sharply. “There’s a lot of work to be done, starting with connecting Athena’s network with the standalone ones in the kitchen and back, but we should be done in four days given that we have the supplies."

"So the Cellar was controlled through a separate network," Winston muses. "We knew that was the case, but the extent of its scope is still not yet known to us."

"We're not 100% sure if everything it controls without getting a network topology, but that shouldn't be too difficult to figure out." She tilts her head toward the ceiling. "Athena? We will need you to visualize a topology once the connections have been made."

The AI takes a few moments to respond. "...while that is indeed possible, I would like to inform the chef of these proceedings."

"Are we still on that? Chefs are not equipped to decide on security matters! They cook! That's it! No further discussion."

A flash of irritation strikes Hanzo straight in the gut. How dare she.

"I understand. I merely wish to keep Chef informed."

It's strange to think that a faceless AI has more compassion and a desire to protect a promise to you than anyone else here does. But Fareeha isn't wrong either despite the irksome way she speaks of you as though this is entirely your fault. You have been temporarily cleared of blame, but there are still many questions that require your cooperation to answer before anyone can make a judgement call.

“Fine. But Chef doesn’t get to make decisions about it.”

Reluctantly, Winston agrees. “Right. We will be...making an executive decision. All security matters will be handled by Pharah and approved by myself.”

“Hmph. Can’t wait to see this,” Torbjörn mutters, a sly smile on his face.

"Back to the point. Once we have a topology, we can then begin to make the necessary changes to the network and protect it. The computer the chefs were using doesn’t have the right security updates on it and needs to be locked down. Additionally, we found the other end of the Cellar. There was an abandoned truck and a lift to an abandoned garage. We’ll need at least two people to guard it until we can put the right defenses there.”

“Interesting. Please give the coordinates and we’ll see if we can find who the building is registered to.”

The Helix agent's face turns dark. “We also found the Junkers in a part of Cellar.”

Winston groans. “What are they doing there?”

“They apparently found something interesting and didn’t let us through. They insist Talon isn’t there with them but we need to be sure.”

“I see. I’ll...have to have a word with them, it seems.”

"Feh, you'll need a lot more than just words," Torbjörn grumbles. Hanzo is inclined to agree—they didn't seem like they wanted to leave for any reason; only a whole arsenal of Ana's tranquilizers would be able to put a dent in them. "Sounds like they found the Head Chef's project, though," Torbjörn continues. "Loads of scrap went into that thing and I don't think the chef's ever really knew just what it could do. Chances are those Junkers'll do better. Who knows."

“What project?” Hanzo asks faster than he could stop himself.

Torbjörn waves him off. “Nothing you’ll be interested in, that’s for sure.”

"That is for myself to decide."

"Yeah? And I decided it was none of your business."

Anger swoops down on Hanzo and he only manages to lean forward, a scorching retort at the ready before Winston steps in and demands that the meeting remain on topic and to take any bickering outside. They both grumble but acquiesce.

Beyond that, the meeting focused on securing their base of operations and next steps for handling Talon. (Someone even jokingly asked that the kitchen get fixed first so you wouldn't have a fit, but no one was particularly amused by the suggestion.) It's risky to keep Talon here, but they couldn't just give them back either. Shifts for watching over them was decided and next steps required Soldier—now openly referred to as Jack (and not in a particularly nice way by some), Ana, and Winston.

Winston told everyone to break for dinner; more instructions will come in the morning.

Among all the excitement, Hanzo had forgotten he was hungry at all. It only serves to remind him that the reason they're in this mess is because of you (and for you).

Hanzo pauses at the fork in the hall looking down the one to his right, the medical bay. No one had emerged from that area yet to disclose the news of your wellbeing to anyone.

He shouldn't go down that way, he has no right, especially not after considering even for a moment that you were complacent in Talon's schemes. You were just a pawn. An innocent victim.

The more he thinks of it, the more the hall seems to stretch, running away from him and expanding the distance. Further and further away.

Until the sound of heavy footsteps cut through his illusions and Lúcio appears, crossing the hall in absolutely no time, making a joke of the imagined distance Hanzo put between himself and you.

“Hey, Hanzo. What’s up with you?”

“How the chef?” he blurts out, a little mortified but unwilling to take it back.

Lúcio wipes his hands, a persistent grimace on his face that he can't hide even when he forces a smile.

"Chef's gonna do great. Mercy really came in with the clutch, handled the surgery remotely, going in and out and zap!" His smile fades a little and Hanzo's stomach plunges miles below hit feet. "Though, it was a little rough. Some wounds were starting to heal over and we had to actually...make more cuts and redo the injuries and a bit of intestine had to get taken out. Won't be eating any of that for a while. Ugh."

Hanzo pointedly ignores the intestines comment.

"Is…" He swallows, suddenly nervous and tries to not blink too many times or breathe too deep. "Is Chef able to receive visitors?"

Lúcio's brief grimace lands heavily against his chest. "Sorry, Hanzo. Mercy says not yet. We should let Chef rest for a bit. Or a long bit. Long, long while. Some good old peace and quiet will go a long way…” There is something unspoken behind his words that sound suspiciously like ‘I hope’, and Hanzo hopes so too.

It’d be an insult if you died at the hands of the very enemies they’ve all been fighting against. Even with Talon in their custody, it would still feel like they won if they took away your life.

"Whoa, Hanzo, you—you okay there man?"

Blinking away his thoughts, he regains his focus on Lúcio who has taken a step back.

"You were...lookin' kinda...feral there."

"No, I'm fine. I just, had a thought."

Immediately, Lúcio perks up, clapping his hands together. Likely an attempt to change the solemn mood. “Yeah? I also got one! What’s for dinner? I’m starving!”

Even with Lúcio leading him down the hall, he could not help but look back at the long stretch of the medical ward where, in one of those lonely rooms, you were laying, and how he’s once again walking away from another person he does not and cannot help.

Though the food is spread out in front of him, he doesn't have the appetite for it; the sauce transforming into the blood puddle in the tunnel, the taste drying up in his mouth. Hanzo polishes it off quickly, forcing himself not to think of how unsatisfying it is or just how odd the texture of the meat is.

No one talks to him and he likes that just fine. Everyone else seems to be locked in their own heads, most just taking their meals with them to do whatever work they were assigned, the air practically humming with tension.

There is much to process and even after a quick shower, he has not untangled the mess of information from today.

He sinks into his bed, the excitement and revelations finally descending upon him like a mudslide in his moments of solitude. The facts and opinions are difficult to sort. You’re innocent. The cynical side of him feels justified in accusing you—you’re always putting up a wall between yourself and the other agents, your behavior is too suspicious. But another part of him that he thought dead asks for rationality—you’re too softhearted and tied too deeply to your past.

It’s probably your softheartedness that got you into your current situation, and his gut clenches with a heat that could be anger and irritation. How could you get yourself so injured to let yourself get protected by the Cellar instead of protecting it?

Most of the mystery of the Cellar has already been solved. It’s not as exciting as Hanzo expected it to be, but it is definitely not what he expected. Though, the chances of a ‘treasure’ still had to exist in the white, dome shaped gate that the Junkers have made their home. That looked like it could be hiding something good, and he can’t even get a hint as to what it could be—the Junkers liked anything and everything.

Then there was McCree and his secrets, Soldier and his, you and yours.

A drink or eight would be the perfect distraction from this, but as much as he wants to, the memory of having made an absolute fool of himself adds to the weight of today, and he decides against it, letting all of his thoughts smother him into an uncomfortable sleep.

There is much to do.

Chapter 16>>

[pass3rby]

Caught By Your Past

24th Part

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Pairing: Altair x Malik Warnings: modern AU, mature, OOC, original female character; unbetaed.

A/N: Here’s to a better Monday (hopefully)

Even a snail-speed did not stop a development. If somebody tried to put it into a picture show, it would be a night or a hanging-out nap per slide and each would star Altair a bit closer to the bed than the one before.

As much as Malik was trying to keep his annoyed facade going and on, things were gradually changing for them and if he should be honest at least to himself, he didn't do his best to avoid it. He made the exact opposite actually – which meant letting things happen. Therefore, they had trash-talks and they didn't tiptoe around each other. Neither missed the opportunity for a good ribbing; Altair had nagging down to a science and Malik always repaid his affection in kind with a dash of dry & salty on top. His unparalleled claim on the bed stayed respected.

Among other things, the three of them also had a movie night, full of Malik's condescending remarks aimed either at the screen or at Altair who kept shoving his feet on his lap and his sister lording over them both with popcorn thrown at whichever of them she decided deserved it the most at a randomly selected moment; which ended spectacularly with half-a-comforter and the same amount of a passed-out sister on him, exclusive Backpain edition of a Death in The Making and Altair seated on the floor in between his legs, out cold as well.

They still did not “get their freak on” – and thank you, sis, there is never going to be any after hearing you sing-rap… What the even… What was that? Altair nearly laughed his ass off when he heard that one. Must have been something real dreadful then.

It was only a matter of time until this unmanned train took them to another level, though. Therefore, Malik wasn't surprised when one day he found himself lying in his bed with Altair loosely spooning him. Either a lethargy hit his system hard or his brain stopped overthinking everything for that moment; maybe both. But he didn't pull away and neither did he kick Altair off the bed.

Being tense was just a far-off memory now; one muscled arm thrown over Malik's side in a relaxed manner only accentuated the feeling. Random patterns being drawn on his hip... How exactly did they get there? He honestly couldn't tell – or remember. The only thing his mind was able to recognize, be aware of and distinguish was the proximity, warmth and overall tranquil ease of the moment that he was soaking up. Things he grew unaccustomed to overtime slowly settling over his body, then gradually seeping into him.

As sappy as it sounded even in his own head, Malik didn't want to lose this. Not again. It was worth everything, all the costs that went along with it. Like it had been worth it to the very moment he could not keep up. Like the memory was, still.

Recently, Altair's phone came back to life. For the whole span of his visit here the device must've been on plane mode or something, otherwise there would be no reasonable explanation of the phone suddenly blasting various hits through the flat so much only as of late. Malik could count on the fingers of one hand how many times he saw the man use the device before. That sudden trilling mania somehow popped the isolated-reality bubble which formed around the three of them.

The knowledge of the world outside, its existence, was always there; Malik interacted with it all the time, contrary to popular belief. The amount was limited, but there. Intellectually, he got that covered. Still, as absurd as it sounded, that cursed piece of technology set all alarms in Malik's head off. Soon after he realized why. There was still the rest of the world that could concern Altair and worse – that would demand him back. And as much as Malik was sure of his own worth, accepting that wasn't as easy as it sounded. The world was exactly what took Altair away from him the last time, too, after all.

This was nonsense. He behaved like a teenage girl here. They were good and those were just silly phone calls. And if he strengthened his own hold on the arm embracing him a bit so what. It was comfortable, and he fucking liked it.

It was going to be fine, he firmly decided. Suck it up.

Trying to hide the subtle change behind reasoning, he shot off the first question that came to mind.

“What do you do for work anyway?” Coming to think of that, it wasn't a stupid one. What was stupid was the fact that even after three weeks, Malik actually didn't know the answer.

“I'm a BASE jumper.” Fingers kept on drawing yet another pattern into Malik's skin, obviously disinterested in the topic and overall not finding it worth stopping what they were doing. Which perfectly complemented Altair's unphased words. Malik? Not so much. His muscles spasmed and his whole body froze.

Well, Altair never did anything by halves, did he…

His anger simmered forth and an elevated pulse didn't stay far behind. Having to call upon the trademark scowl to get back where it belonged only made Malik register that it was missing in the first place and what an utter wanker!

There was never a better opportunity to drop that pin.

Dear idiot, have you ever heard of the silence before–

Apparently, Altair never did, because he didn't make a mad dash for exit the very second.

A book hit Altair's head.

Fast.

Hard.

“You told me you're staying, you fucker!” Malik surged up, glaring at the liar. Does he honestly think Malik's an idiot who doesn't know what BASE jumpers do to get their rocks off?!

“I am, though!” Altair followed his example and as much as his voice was vehement, his face was painted with a dumbass look. Unsurprisingly, it didn't keep strictly to his face; Malik could almost see the idiocy seeping into the brain matter, too. As if Altair needed any more.

“No, you're not! You travel the whole blasted world!”

Trying to kill yourself in the process!

“Malik, what the hell?!” Self-preservation instincts must've finally kick in, because Altair made a quick escape out of the bed. The temptation of maiming him lessened a bit. For now.

That uncomprehending, confused expression didn't disappear, though.

As if he had any right-

“I've said what my job is right on the first day here. What's so wrong about it all of a sudden?”

Way to make Malik go beet red. Because, unbeknownst to him, the brunette pointed out that it was Malik's own fault. This is what you get for spacing out at a wrong moment. Altair must've mentioned his occupation when Malik was still too busy trying to ride the sudden tsunami wave of…everything when he saw Altair for the first time in twelve years. Not only was he acting like an absolute moron just seconds ago, but he was also frustrated and desperate now – thanks to his own lapse. That was just so–!

He hurled yet another book Altair's way, wishing he could fling it at himself instead.

  ***

  After Altair left to seek safety outside the room, Malik started to gradually cool down. It didn't happen of its own accord; the anger would most probably insist on staying until it burned him up physically just as it had mentally, but Malik wasn't fond of letting anything or anyone control him. He might've had a temporary, weak moment, but it was time to reign the fire back in. Only to find out he had nothing to do.

No, let him rectify that statement. He had loads to do and the only thing that separated him from it was the power button on his laptop. Currently, however, he would only add more errors than corrections. Disgusted at himself for such loss of control, the more motivation it was to recall his unfocused mind back in order. If he ever wanted to regain his mental equilibrium back, though, he had to divest himself of the pressing distraction. And the first step to achieve that was to address the matter. So, folding his arms on his chest, he did.

As much as both him and Altair were stubborn, as much as the room refugee was venturous in his very core, Malik was proud. Not that he didn't have grounds to be. However sometimes, the trait made it hard to admit a mistake of his own doing. He was very careful to avoid situations that would push him into the very act, but nobody's perfect and the recent argument had only proven that statement once again. Malik was adept at owning his mistakes nowadays; he still did not enjoy doing that but was capable of the action. That alone wasn't all there was to the problem, was it.

The real issue was Altair's... job. Hobby. Both, because Altair would not spend an hour of his time on something that wouldn't be worth it to him. Arguing aside; the thing was serious. Dangerous business. Heaps of adrenaline. Exactly what Altair always craved. Malik was no stranger to dealing with this situation. An exact same one. He could swear it wasn't so hard to do when he was seventeen, though. And back then? Altair was far from holding back, too. Those who'd dare to think that him being younger forced some limits on him would be sorely mistaken. He used to dab into all sorts of things anyway which was no wonder, considering his crew of madness.

Ezio was overly fond of walls to the point that indoor wall climbing didn't even register on his radar anymore and instead, he went for urban parkour and freerunning. While Altair and the Italian weren't necessarily joined at the hip – small miracle and mercy spared on Malik – they sure shared similar, if not identical mindsets overall. Kenway would be another rebellious breed; mostly into activities involving water. These two, he and Ezio, were really tight, therefore where Ezio was, Kenway turned out to be nearby as well and vice versa. Therefore, although their diverging hobbies, the guys stole moves and tricks from each other and developed their styles even further down the road. Bec seemed like the least insane of the bunch, but even she had her own brand of crazy. In her case, the calling was technology, which sounded innocent enough. Until Malik witnessed her “fucking around” on a skateboard and glanced off a part of her snowboard-rave holiday trip, documented with the help of her baby drone.

That would be the main influential group of people that surrounded Altair for what seemed like ever since forever. And the teen wholeheartedly inhaled all he could from each one of them and then some, because his own specialization? Heights and jumps. Seriously, if you saw a spot so high your head spun, and Altair wasn't there already? All you had to do was mention the location.

Malik had been fine with who Altair was when they hit it off. He knew the guy equaled a walking, unbridled composition of insanity. They couldn't've been more different and that was fine as well. Thorough the time they've been an item, there were countless occasions where Altair turned up with some sort of injury – bones broken, black eyes, bruised ribs, cuts, you name it. Far from ideal to an outsider and yes, Malik wasn't delighted with all the bloody clothes either. Hell, the medicine cabinet must have gotten more action than he did in total. But when push came to shove, Malik would always accept it.

Accept it.

Malik reverted back into his present self. The one that was now clenching its fists and teeth. Unclenching his hands, releasing them out of the spastic prison, he forced the real issue – the truth out.

He was afraid.

Fear got to him this time around and it was the bone chilling kind, too. It was so easy to believe that Altair couldn't die, that nothing serious could happen to him when he was younger. The teen had pulled through so many failed attempts at whatever; he seemed immortal and excluded that level of confidence as well. Why would Malik worry back then?

Altair still got that vibe going on. The only difference here was, that Malik went with what his brain said much more these days. He was older. He was supposed to be sober-minded; smart. A fat lot of good it did to him here.

He didn't like it, alright?! He. Fuckin'. Didn't. BASE jumping was hazardous – at best. It was something Altair obviously had to do, loved to do, though. So, in the end, it didn't really matter what Malik thought. This wasn't about whether Altair would stop, quit the job for him or not. It was about Malik deciding to either go and tell Altair to fuck off or apologize and hope for the best.

He took in his whole room. The rackety chair still stood on all four, his books were sorted precisely the way he left them, there was no secondary background sound, only the wind sweeping through the trees outside.

Neither here nor there, that's where Malik stood at the moment and for the next couple of minutes. Then, done with the limbo, he bit the bullet, leaving the door open as he marched forth.

  ***

  Of course this would be when it all went to shit.

Altair had no idea what exactly provoked Malik to such extent, but that didn't mean the result would disappear. He was still in the kitchen and Malik was still in his room.

Until he wasn't.

Hearing a noise behind him he spun around only to end up with a chest full of Malik's forehead. This was certainly unusual. No matter, he was far from refusing the gesture and what it meant. Wrapping his arms around the man, he was just glad that whatever that previous outburst was for, it was gone and done with; over.

Not that he wasn't interested in finding out what caused it; Malik wasn't one to lash out for something trivial. Altair sensed it was better to let it be, though. If and when Malik would want, he'd tell him. Of that, his sorry exiled ass was sure. The man was the least person to keep his mouth shut if he didn't like something, Altair thought with certain amount of affection.

“Wanna go grab a coffee?” They were bound to separate any minute now, so he might as well rid them of any possible awkwardness.

“Got to get my phone,” was a mumbled reply before Malik began pulling away. Altair didn't stop him.

“I'll wait by the door.”

Next

[bidennisreynolds-archive]

Title: Consequences

Pairing: Victor Zsasz x Reader x Ed Nygma

Summary: Ed told you there would be consequences. He didn’t mention exactly what they were though. (Shout out to @ruffles-the-fluffalo for requesting this glorious idea)

Warnings: I have a thing with calling Ed ‘Sir’ and ‘Mr. Nygma’ so sue me. I also really love when he talks dirty apparently. And Zsasz calling Reader ‘kitten’. All kinks ahoy, matey. There’s biting, blood (mentioned), hair pulling, slapping, anal sex, blowjobs. Everything is consensual though. Mostly. There’s literally no fluff in this at all. Just really rough fucking.

     When you agreed to work for Oswald Cobblepot you had no idea that also meant you would be working for Ed Nygma. And with Victor Zsasz. You’d heard so many stories of those three men. So many terrifying, awful stories. If you’re being perfectly honest with yourself- and anyone really- that’s why you accepted the offer so quickly. That part of a person’s brain that tells them “danger, run” never really developed in you. Sure, you would run. But it would always be towards the danger rather than away. The three most powerful and horrible men in Gotham would be your bosses and coworker. How exciting is that?

     Apparently the appropriate answer is ‘not at all’ if the glares from your best friend are any indication. You wake up, she glares. Go to work, she glares. Retell a riddle Mr. Nygma made you figure out, she glares. Show her the way Zsasz brushed against you in the hallway, she glares. The only time she isn’t completely disgusted by your job is when you talk about the mayor. She quickly becomes attentive and responsive. It would be adorable if it wasn’t so annoying. Sometimes you wonder if you should hint to Oswald he’s garnered a lot of female attention. A lot of positive female attention. Even if he doesn’t want to pursue any of them romantically he can always find a way to work the predicament to his advantage.

     You think about it all day at work, tapping your pencil against your desk while your mind wanders to how exactly you would approach the subject. Mayor Cobblepot is a very… temperamental man. You don’t want to lose your job for suggesting something he takes the wrong way.

     A loud thud pulls you from your thoughts. Ed is standing in front of your desk, arms crossed, tired expression on his face. He gestures to the files he lovingly and gently threw down in front of you, saying, “Have all of this reviewed by the end of the day.”

     “What? There’s no way!” And there really isn’t. The stack of papers are thicker than your thighs.

     “This isn’t an option. Oswald needs it by tomorrow.” Ed starts to walk away, tossing one last comment over his shoulder with what seems like practiced ease. “If you’re unable to perform the task satisfactorily there will be consequences.”

     The way the word rolls off his tongue has you pressing your thighs together. As badly as you want to find out what those consequences could be you set to work, reviewing speeches and expense reports and job resumes. It takes six hours and three cups of coffee, but you get it done. Ed takes it, making a noise in the back of his throat. He flips through each sheet while you shift awkwardly in front of him. His office is dark save for one single lamp in the corner and the desk he sits behind is covered in various work related things. A pen here, some paper there, nothing personal except the name plate sitting on the very edge. You stare at it until the letters blur and you’ve memorized how to spell his name forwards and backwards.

     Ed sets the papers down finally. “This isn’t finished.” He folds up one single file about as thin as your pinky nail. No wonder you over looked it. It’s barely even there. “I’m sure you remember I said there would be consequences.”

     “Yes sir.” You can’t help but notice the way he shifts in his seat when you answer him. A faint blush colors his cheeks. “Please just… don’t fire me.” There’s no way in hell you could ever face your best friend’s inevitable I told you so if you got fired.

     “Fire you? Goodness, no. I would never do that.” Ed waves his hand at the door and you hear someone walk inside. The air shifts dangerously. “Would I Zsasz?”

     “Nope. Never.”

     Before you can completely process what’s happening Ed has a fist full of your hair, yanking sharply so that your head snaps back and your throat is bared. He smiles and traces your neck with his lips. At your pulse point he bites. Hard. You cry out and a hand covers your mouth.

     “Shhhh,” Zsasz whispers in your ear. “Pain can be pleasure if you let it.”

     “Will you let it?” Ed’s lips move against your skin softly as he presses you closer to the man behind you. Zsasz grabs you by the hips sharply, bruises the shape of his fingerprints almost certainly beginning to form. Meanwhile, Ed keeps working on the overly sensitive skin of your neck. He bites down over and over, lips coming away crimson when he finally looks at you.

     Zsasz moves his nose to your hair, taking a deep breath. “I’d answer quickly, kitten. Mr. Nygma doesn’t like to wait.” He grinds into your backside and you can feel his hardened length. “Me? Torture is my skillset after all.”

     You groan loudly, eyes closing while you try to even out your breath. Do you really want this? Two sets of hands begin divesting you of your clothes before you can even think of an answer. You’re starting to think they wouldn’t care if you said no… and that’s oddly arousing. It’s a bit startling to realize you want these two men to use you. To fuck you. You’ve always been attracted to them. You’ve often dreamed of having sex with them. But this? This is new and it screams danger.

     “Please,” You gasp out when you feel Ed’s lips wrap around one of your nipples.

     “You’ll have to be more specific with your request, kitten. Please what?” The fabric of Zsasz’s clothing feels particularly rough against your skin. Each button, each zipper, each line creates an indent on your skin. On the other hand, Ed’s clothes are soft and seem to slide against you with each move he makes. “Tell us what you want.”

     “I want to be punished.” The words slip out before you stop them, but the pleased moans you receive from both men is compensation enough.

     Ed pulls away from you quickly, shock clear in his lust blown gaze. He’d expected you to comply… eventually. Yet here you are actually asking for it with only minor prompting. Unbelievable. Ed always thought there was something special about you. If anyone could complete the threesome he and Zsasz so desperately craved it would be you. Now he doesn’t have to think anymore. You’re here and you’re willing and Ed can’t get out of his own clothes fast enough. He loves the way your eyes trail over each new bit of skin he exposes. He loves the soft noises you make as Zsasz dips two fingers inside you, moving in time with the rocking of your hips. Most of all he loves how compliant you look while you try to fuck yourself on the assassin’s fingers, desperate for friction. Desperate for more. Ed gives Zsasz a sharp look and he stops touching you immediately.

     “Lay on the desk.” When you do nothing but blink slowly in reply Ed grips your jaw harshly. “Didn’t you hear me?”

     You swallow thickly and nod. “Yes sir.”

     “Then do it.”

     You hurry to climb on the desk, almost slipping off a time or two because of the scattered papers. Ed didn’t really specify what position he wanted so you just do as he says and lay down. There’s a long moment of silence. It makes you nervous. You don’t like not knowing what’s about to happen especially when sex is involved. So when Ed holds a tie in front of your eyes you begin to wiggle around. Zsasz grabs you, forces you still as Ed puts the makeshift blindfold on you.

     “Open your mouth.” Zsasz demands. You hear the rustle of clothing being shed, feel something hard yet smooth prod at your still closed mouth. The slap shocks you. Ed’s low chuckle at your reaction doesn’t. Your jaw aches but you allow your mouth to fall open anyway. Zsasz doesn’t waste any time with gentleness. He shoves his cock down your throat until you’re gagging, tears wetting the fabric of Ed’s green silk tie. This isn’t a blowjob, you learn quickly. This is Zsasz just simply fucking your mouth.

     “You like this, don’t you?” Ed’s voice is slightly hoarse. Like the sight of you choking on Zsasz’s cock is enough to make him cum. It’s almost enough to make you cum. You can feel the wetness between your thighs and you ache for some sort of attention. “You like being our fuck toy.”

     Almost reluctantly, Zsasz pulls away from you. “Answer, kitten.” He tells you.

     You take a deep, calming breath before saying, “No, I don’t like it.” There’s more to your sentence but Ed doesn’t give you a chance to finish it. He rips off the blindfold and wraps a hand around your throat menacingly. There’s a wild look in his eyes that only increases your arousal.

     “You don’t?”

     You shake your head. “I… love it… sir.”

     Ed smirks and releases his vice grip on your throat. “Zsasz, check that drawer beside you.”

     Zsasz does so, letting out a thrilled laugh as he pulls out a bottle of lube. It’s been used before which makes jealousy rise in you like bile. How many other girls had they done this with? You don’t have time to ask. Ed grips you by the hips and flips you onto your front, taking the lube from the assassin. Zsasz grins down at you. There’s eagerness and a twisted type of joy in his smile. He wants you to hurt. Both of them want you to hurt. And you want to give it to them. You return Zsasz’s grin wholeheartedly.

     Ed leans down, pressing his chest to your back until you feel suffocated. “If I was a nicer man I would prepare you a little better to take my dick in your ass. But I’m not nice. And you don’t deserve that. Does she Zsasz?”

     “Nope.” Zsasz puts extra emphasis on the p, happily watching the scene before him.

     You start to protest when Ed moves away and grabs your wrists to hold them at the small of your back. That protest ends quickly. Zsasz is back in your mouth, his hands grabbing your hair. He tugs and pulls until your scalp burns. He isn’t moving though. He stays completely still and you wonder if you’re supposed to do something this time. When you begin to suck on his length Ed growls.

     “Don’t.”

     You stop immediately.

     There’s a moment where nothing happens and your mind starts wandering. Did you leave the stove on? Is your best friend home yet? Then everything happens at once. Ed’s shoved his cock in your ass with no warning causing you to lurch forward. Zsasz’s dick hits the back of your throat and it hurts. You feel completely raw and there’s pain everywhere. But Zsasz is moaning and Ed is actually whining. They work together, finding a punishing rhythm. Ed thrusts into you, snapping his hips quickly while Zsasz pulls you forward, pushing himself further and further down your throat. Ed drops forward slightly. His teeth sink into your arm hard enough to draw blood. The tears fall freely this time without a tie to stop them.

     “Don’t cry, kitten. You’re doing so well.” Zsasz allows one hand to leave your hair and wipe away the tears. “Your mouth feels so good.”

     “She’s so fucking tight,” Ed agrees. “She’s been the best one yet.” His hips stutter, throwing off the rhythm, but Zsasz quickly remedies it. “I think… I think she was made for us.”

     “Here that, kitten? Mr. Nygma thinks you were made for us.”

     You shudder at their words. The praise mixed with the pain is confusing but it pushes you over the edge anyway. You cum with a loud wail.

     “Oh, fuck.” Ed moans. “She just… we haven’t even touched��� you’re perfect.”

     Zsasz is the first to finish. He holds your jaw while he spills down your throat with a low moan, forcing you to swallow all of it. You can’t actually see him, but you know without a doubt Ed is watching attentively. He grunts once before pulling out, coming all over your ass. Despite the bone deep ache of your body you feel satisfied. A little dirty. But satisfied. Ed and Zsasz help dress you, yanking you around like a ragdoll until you’re somewhat presentable. Watching each of them get dressed is a joy. They’re both sweaty and look just as well fucked as you.

     God, you’re gonna have to do this again.

[snkret-photography]

How an Audit Works

In the auditing world, during your first two years as a staff, you have the potential to go on an inventory count. An inventory count is essentially going and counting widgets hoping that what a client says they’re supposed to have is actually what they have. Why is this important? People lie. People say they have 100 counts of X but in reality, they only have 40. Depending on the type of inventory count, this could be a very monotonous task of going around and counting like objects that only have one or two small differences but you have to take note of the differences and account for if the variance between what the client has told you and what you have observed is significant. Typically if you have come across a variance, you will ask the client what a reasonable explanation is and that can boil down to a number of explanations such as delay in system relay, timing of client’s count and moved inventory, the error in calculation of a shelf unit, improper tagging of a similar item to be the selected one, etc. You’ll always get an excuse and the excuse will always be good enough.

There is also this concept of walkthroughs in which you sit down with the client and have them explain a process or control that they have implemented so that you can document its effectiveness. Walkthroughs are only really crucial for documenting design and implementation effectiveness. Meaning you still need to do some re-performance of what they’ve told you to verify that how they’ve told you something is designed to operate and the way they say it is, is actually how it operates. It’s the inquiry state of an audit but a very crucial part of it. Despite the fact that inquiry alone is insufficient evidence to document the effectiveness of a process/control, it provides a good starting point of where to look for errors and misstatements. This is also the time to ask more probing questions of any missing pieces that don’t necessarily make sense or if they’ve considered areas for improvement. It is almost a mini audit as the point of an audit is to provide reasonable assurance that the client is telling the truth within an acceptable parameter of error or misstatement.

In the world, you encounter people who will tell you what you want to hear and what you don’t want to hear but you will only pay attention to what you want from them in that moment. Everything else can matter at a later date and time. And at the time that everything else starts to come into perspective, it’s magically new information that you sift through still trying to building a stronger pro list of what you want than acknowledging that the quality of cons outweigh the number of things you could quantify on a list. A lot of times we let the words of others serve as sufficient evidence for who we take them as and the roles that they play. On that precedent, temporary people get to overstay their welcome and are garnered with a higher value than their actual net worth. Meaning at the point that you have attributed someone’s value to time over their actions, you have fucked up a crucial part of the audit. You have let the walkthrough serve as sufficient evidence and concluded on the operating effectiveness without ever actually testing it. Meaning you could have just missed a material misstatement. I have noticed that when people reach disagreements, the first defense is the length of the friendship rather than the quality of the issue at hand. More times than not, there is a long list of complaints of the issue being a repetitive action and the only defense offered is the length of tenure. I think the most crucial thing to remember at that impasse is that you’re not throwing something away; the investment simply isn’t generating a return and now it’s time to go invest in something else. This isn’t to say that as soon as someone isn’t serving their purpose that you let them go. But rather at the point that someone is showing you diminishing returns with no chance of recouping your initial investment, why stay invested at the same level? Especially when you don’t have to divest the entirety but rather a marginal percentage so that the impact isn’t as severe. In other words: fall back and let life happen. If you pull back and someone doesn’t try to make up for the lost ground, it’s because they don’t care so you shouldn’t either. 100% believe it’s easier said than done but if you’re crying over someone who’s sleeping peacefully at night, only you’re being damaged in the exchange.

Tying this back to the opening explanation of inventory counts and walkthroughs is the concept of self-audits. In the recent surge of people evaluating the best practices for self-care, taking self-audits of where you are, where you want to be, and how you’re getting there have also become more common conversation. In this, a lot of people forget that the people you surround yourself with are a reflection of both where you are and where you want to be. So when assessing where you’re at and where you’re headed, you have to assess if your circle is in line with the goals that you're setting and compliment the person you are presenting to the world. So when taking an audit, inventories and walkthroughs are important to assessing if people’s words align with their actions. That the value of their errors and misstatements are immaterial to the audit in aggregate. While longevity plays a significant value in the value that we place in other people, nothing corrects or defends actions other than actions. As I get older and figure out more of what I want in life, I no longer place as much value on how long I’ve known someone. A violation is a violation and if you’re not willing to admit your wrongs and try to mitigate future damage as much as possible, why should I care either? Oh, because you got tenure? A lot of my professors in college had tenure and they sucked for that very reason. They knew that they weren’t replaceable because of the years of service rather than the quality of their service and thus began to show their ass which only affects the students… they still get a check. The concept isn’t much different in relationships amongst people. People will show you that they’re not the greatest friend or partner and know that you value the length of your relationship rather than the quality. Especially today where what we share with people is for a fine balance of attention that when measured by metrics, is much more quantifiable than qualitative in nature. The entire concept of views, likes, and followers does not actually give any insight into the quality of people involved but rather gives us quantitative metrics on which to compare ourselves to others and vice versa.

So now I’m paying attention. Both to people who have carried weight in my life and newcomers. I believe that when someone is lost or hurt, you do what you can to offer guidance and healing without losing or hurting yourself. And when someone is winning, it’s important to keep elevating them higher. The point is never to give someone so much that the impact of a fall only grows in severity; rather to keep building new foundations so that they can always stand where they’re at. And a lot of that boils down to personal work of stabilizing one’s self rather than the reliance on other people. But when it comes to other people, It’s not necessarily one strike and you’re out but:

Are your errors an indicator of a future issue? If none of your errors account for much individually, do they in aggregate?

Do your words match your actions?

If I’m there when you call on me, do I get the same in return?

Do you celebrate my wins or do you only show up when I’m down?

Do you bring me good news or do you just bitch?

Are you riding for me or are you along for the ride?

I’m aware that misery loves company and that lows are a great bonding point. But if I’m searching or attaining happiness, you should be there too. It works on the other hand as well. I don’t want someone who only shows up when I’m winning and celebrates me in the light. If I’m rolling through a tunnel, losing my mind, you should be shouting into the darkness with me. Showing up is far more important than showing off.