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gingerpeachtae · 5 years

Text

Concentric [18]

masterlist

Words: 4.3k

Genres: fantasy!AU, angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, eventual smut (?)

Warnings: n/a

Summary: You had been ready for the end of the semester. You had been ready to spend time away from your best friend, Jimin, and finally move on from the feelings you harbored. Yet, after your friend was forced to reveal a secret, you found yourself in a new world that was chock full of magic, war, and wonder. So, here you were, basically thrown into your own fantasy novel, with your best friend on one side, and six male warriors on the other.

A/N: Everyone say thank you to my momma’s moonshine for helping my writing juices flow lol. Pls engoy! 💙

“And every single day you make me want you even more.”

His words echoed in your head. Overwhelmed every other thought. Consumed your mind.

Three hours later and you still couldn’t think of anything else.

Not when the boy who said those very words had his arms wrapped around you as he slept soundly. His front pressed against your back. His legs tangled with yours. His warm breath fanning across your neck and shoulder.

“And every single day you make me want you even more.”

You smiled softly to yourself as you recalled how shy he had gotten after confessing. How his cheeks had flushed, and his peridot eyes had widened. The way he had pulled back from you to stammer out a nervous apology as you stared at him in silent shock.

But before he could utter one more ‘oh my goddess, I’m so sorry sweetheart,’ you had grabbed his face in your hands and pressed your lips against his.

Gently. Slowly.

Until he had seemed to understand that you weren’t mad at him and he eagerly reciprocated.

“And every single day you make me want you even more.”

Raising your hand, you grazed your fingertips over your lips and let out a shaky exhale as you remembered how the kiss had turned much more urgent and passionate after that. Full of tongues and teeth and heady breaths.

Eventually, Jungkook had placed one final, prolonged kiss to your lips and, in a raspy voice that made you want to push him down and crawl on top of him, had told you that you both should get back to camp. He had even joked that his brothers might think he had murdered you if you didn’t show up soon. You had rolled your eyes and shoved him lightly for his comment while giggling. In response, he had caught your hand and leaned in to capture your swollen lips once more… but stopped halfway.

His eyes had flickered up from your mouth to meet your puzzled, lidded gaze and his shoulders had drooped slightly. He had begun pouting in the moonlight, muttering to himself about how he didn’t want to go but how he also didn’t want his brothers to show up and interrupt the two of you. While you bit your lip to keep from laughing at the cute burgundy head, he had groaned and reluctantly stood up from the cliff’s edge. Which meant you had involuntarily followed suit since your hand was still caught in his. Once you were on your feet again, his fingers had linked through yours and tightened their grip. Sending you a soft smile, he had tucked some of your hair behind your ear, causing a fluttering feeling to erupt in your heart.

Then, with stars twinkling above your head and tingles surging within your body, you had maneuvered yourself onto his back and crossed your arms over his chest. After verifying that you were good and bracing his hands underneath your thighs, he had stepped back into the trees. Trading the cliff’s edge and clear view of the moon for a seemingly endless maze of trees and shadows.

Both of you had stayed quiet throughout the walk back, simply enjoying the other’s presence instead of talking. Though, if you were being honest, you had had no idea what to say anyway. Part of you had thought you were dreaming, it all seemed too unreal. And if it was a dream, you didn’t want to wake up anytime soon, so you had just snuggled further into Jungkook’s warm body. Breathing in his intoxicating scent and feeling the strong, comforting beating of his heart beneath your palms as he continued to make his way back to camp without a sound.

By the time the dark outline of the temple appeared, the moon had risen high in the sky and most of the Saeni were already tucked in the for the night. As Jungkook walked over toward your sleeping mats, you saw three figures lounging by the still-burning fire. The flames and moon had both been just bright enough to allow you to make out that it was Yoongi, Hobi, and Jin. You had waved to the trio while Jungkook simply nodded his head in their direction. In the flickering firelight, you caught sight of Yoongi and Hobi smirking at you and although there was no way of them knowing what had just occurred between you and their brother you had still buried your face into Jungkook’s back, feeling embarrassed for some reason.

You had heard their chuckles at your reaction mix in with the clicking of bugs and whistling of wind as Jungkook finally made it to where your things were. The Saeni had lowered you down gently and once your feet were safely on the ground, he had turned around to face you and stepped closer so his chest was brushing against yours. In the low light of the night, you could just make out his features and you had wrapped your arms around his lean torso as you fought off a yawn that had suddenly attacked you. He had scrunched his nose and shook his head at you fondly before tugging you down to lay on top of your mats. Letting out a moan at the heavenly feeling, you had flopped around, trying to find a comfortable position as Jungkook just watched you with a smile. Your movements had caused Tae to stir, and the grey-haired Saeni shifted, murmuring your name and going to cuddle you as he usually did in his sleep. But just as he had placed one arm on your tummy, Jungkook had made a noise suspiciously reminiscent of a growl and threw his brother’s hand off. With a huff, he had brought you closer to him and folded your bodies together. The action had made your breath hitch and your heart to thud crazily as he secured you in his arms.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart. We’ll talk in the morning,” he had whispered in your ear.

Soon after, his breaths had evened out and you were left alone with a brain that wouldn’t shut off.

“Because of this.”

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

“You’re the most beautiful flower I’ve ever seen.”

“Every single day you make me want you even more.”

But… what did he mean by talk in the morning?

You sighed and peered up at the dark sky for what must have been the millionth time tonight. You tried everything to calm yourself down so you could get some sleep. Counting the stars. Focusing on the symphony of wind dancing through tree leaves. Timing your breaths to Jungkook’s slow, heavy ones. But nothing was working. You were too wound up.

“And every single day you make me want you even more.”

He said he wants me, but he didn’t say in what way…

He only said he was attracted to me… but that could mean that he still doesn’t actually like me the way I like him…

Fuck, you were tired. But you just couldn’t stop thinking.

About his lips, handsome face, or beautiful voice. Or his words that both elated you and left you in this confused, worried state.

Am I getting my hopes up for nothing?

You wished you could just flop onto your stomach and dig your head into the ground in frustration, but you couldn’t move much within Jungkook’s steel embrace. Your eyes darted around aimlessly, searching for something that could finally ease your mind and let sleep overtake you. Failing to find that magical thing, you released an annoyed exhale and wiggled and wormed until you managed to face the male holding you. With effort, you were able to free one of your arms from its muscle-y constraints and you lifted it until your hand was only mere inches away Jungkook’s face. The moonlight kissed his features, highlighting his cheekbone and making his earrings shimmer faintly.

Gently, you traced the extension of his elongated ear and followed the curve of his jaw with your fingertips. “You have no idea what you do to me either…”

As hundreds of draikensu marched through the night, Amarok watched them pass with a content expression. His wolves were prowling throughout the ranks, watching intently for anyone to step out of line. If they did, they would become the predators’ next meal.

Amarok crossed his arms over his chest. Although he had been furious to hear the key was still alive, he was delighted because it meant he would be the one to severe the lifeforce from the boy. And doing so would bring him immense pleasure. Soon, he would kill the key for his master and the driakensu would execute anyone who defied them as they took over Illain in Uzjuk’s name. Amarok’s lips twisted into a satisfied smile. The world would finally be in the state it was to meant to be in.

Chaos.

Uzjuk taught him the genuine nature of the world. How anarchy is the true way of things. Adjusting the straps of his weapons, he tightened them harshly as he recalled the snow, smoke, and pain. The blood, claws, and revenge. The cave, pups, and appearance of his master. The beginning of his awakening to the true order of the world. To the demanding truth of all that Uzjuk stood for.

As Amarok remembered the savagery of that winter, a frozen talon abruptly scraped against his mind, causing a chilling shiver to trail down his spine. Alerting him of his master’s arrival The shadows caused by the moonlight expanded and pulsed, curling down towards the male and surrounding him as he closed his eyes and welcomed the wispy darkness.

“Master.”

“Why hasn’t the key been disposed of yet?” His master’s raw and hoarse voice echoed in Amarok’s mind.

The male sighed, knowing his master was not happy. “I shall deal with the boy myself. The magic tracker Eltoc placed on him when he first arrived back in Illain has not faded so we still know his location.”

“Well, deal with him quickly.” His master hissed impatiently. “And don’t disappoint me.”

Amarok raised a brow. “When have I?”

An all too familiar pain erupted in the male’s mind, gouging and searing. Though it was more agonizing than previous times. Hotter, deeper, more intense.

“Don’t get cheeky with me. Only a portion of my will may be able to invade this world, but my presence is growing stronger every day.”

The darkness swirled around Amarok wildly as the pain drilled further into his mind, making his vision blur. Gritting his teeth, the male endured the pain for one, two, three more seconds until his master released him.

As Amarok caught his breath, his master croaked out, “I tried latching onto the mind of one of the key’s companions again.”

“Were you successful?”

“No. I didn’t have enough time to work my way in before he was woken.” Uzjuk growled in annoyance.

“What a shame. That would have made things quite easy.” Amarok returned his gaze to the draikensu making their way past and sneered. “But this way will be more fun.”

Jungkook hovered over you, his hands placed at either side of your head he leaned down ever so slowly, teasing you. You arched upwards, aching to reach his body. To touch his lips. To have him ruin you.

He chuckled deeply, pleased to see you so desperate for him.

Ghosting his lips against your jawline, you mewled and tilted your chin to give him more access to your skin as he settled between your hips. He rocked against you lightly and attacked your neck with his sensual mouth, making you crave him even more. But suddenly he collapsed his body on top of you, the drop of his weight causing you to grunt and gasp for air. Then he began to poke your sides.

“Wake up, little scorja!”

Huh?

Jungkook wrapped his arms around you and snuggled into your form whilst still poking you.

What the fuc-

Your eyes popped open at a particularly hard jab, and you saw a tuft of grey hair underneath your chin instead of burgundy.

Tae.

“Little scorja it’s time to get up!” His voice was muffled by your chest.

You sighed and lifted a hand drowsily to pat his head. “Mmmmmorning TaeTae… now get off me, you’re heavy.”

And you ruined my good dream dammit. You pouted internally.

With a sulky expression, the male rolled off you and cuddled into your side. “Where did you and Kookie go last night? You were gone for a while…”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you coughed and looked up into the light blue, cloudy sky.

Shit, should I tell him? He’ll most definitely blab to his brothers, but if I don’t tell him, he’ll get so sad…

“Um, he told me that you all wanted to make me an honorary kiela member.” You paused briefly, taking a deep breath to brace yourself, before continuing. “And he, uh, alsomayhavekissedme… anyway, wow, what time is it? Let’s get something to eat!”

You went to get up, but has hand darted out and gripped your arm strongly, ensuring you weren’t going anywhere.

“He WHAT!?”

You peeked over at the male and saw that he had his head propped up with his free hand and his blue eyes were shining. His mouth, which was initially dropped open in surprise morphed to display his signature wide, boxy smile.

You couldn’t help but smile back at the endearing sight, but then you pursed your lips in uncertainty. “He… yeah, we kissed… but we haven’t talked about it yet, so don’t say anything, okay?”

He puffed out his cheeks with air as if he had to physically restrain himself from asking more, but after a few seconds he blew the air out and nodded. You gifted him a kiss on his cheek and pulled your backpack over to you so you could dig out your daily petals.

As you shivered from the assault of their magic, you tapped Tae’s shoulder. “Where is he anyway? We’re supposed to talk this morning.”

Whatever that means.

Tae’s blue eyes widened dramatically, and he quickly, but gently ushered you to stand as he informed you that Jungkook was with Yoongi getting something ready for the marking, the rest of the hyungs were waiting for you to arrive at the ceremony location, Mingi was watching Jiae, and Chungha was interrogating the draikensu prisoner.

“Oh, that poor bastard. Chungha’s probabl-wait. Did you say waiting at the ceremony location!? It’s today!?”

You blinked at Tae, who rapidly nodded. “Yup! I was in charge of bringing you and we’re going there now! Yoongi hyung said it would be better to do it sooner rather than later since it’ll help heal you.”

“I-now-what-hold on-Tae!”

But the Saeni already began dragging you into the trees. Though, in his excitement, he must’ve forgotten about your injured leg that still wasn’t completely healed because he was flat-out booking it. You did your best to keep up with him and not trip over every tree root you came across, but it wasn’t very elegant. Luckily, he didn’t take you very far into the forest, so you only had to aggressively penguin waddle for just a minute or so.

Through the greenery and shrubs up ahead, you saw the kiela, minus Yoongi and Jungkook, standing in a tiny, open space. As you and Tae broke through the trees, they all turned and smiled, though a certain apricot head hastily looked down at the ground after you met his gaze.

Jimin…

Your own smile faltered as you watched him avoid your eyes, but Hobi rushed over and tackled you into a hug before you could say anything.

“Hey there, little scorja. Kook told you what this is all for, right? I mean, you two were gone for a good while, so he had to have mentioned it. Unless, of course, you got preoccupied with other things…” He leaned back and winked at you, a teasing glint in his light brown eyes.

Your eyes widened and you felt like squeaking under his mischievous gaze, so you shoved him away fast, but he just laughed and took out a knife to fiddle with.

“He told me!” You said and crossed your arms defiantly.

Hobi began walking backwards away from you while waggling his brows. “Must have been quite the long and detailed explanation.”

He twirled his blade and used the hilt to scratch an itch on his silver-white head while pivoting on his heels and walking over to Jimin, not allowing you the opportunity to make a retort. While he lightly punched Jimin’s shoulder, Namjoon and Jin came over to greet you, both of them loudly exclaiming how excited they were to have you as part of the kiela. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Tae not so slyly skirt around you and jog over to Hobi and Jimin to whisper in their ears.

That little… for fuck’s sake, he really is the biggest gossip head I’ve ever met.

With a disappointed, yet not surprised type of sigh, you brought your eyes back to the two males before you and smiled sweetly as you told them how honored you felt as well as how thankful you were to have met and befriended them all. The three of you continued to talk while the clouds lazily floated by high above you until the two remaining members of the kiela finally showed up.

You saw Yoongi first, who just gave you a curt nod before making his way over to Tae, Jimin, and Hobi. The three Saeni grabbed his arm when he got close and yanked him into their little circle, no doubt spilling the new tea regarding you and Jungkook.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Speaking of the devil, you turned and saw him standing a few feet away from you, shifting back and forth on his feet as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“H-Hey,” you stammered out shyly, not really sure how you should act with him.

Should I be casual? How can I even be casual after last night? Should I ask him about it? Though this really doesn’t seem like the right time…

At your nervous response, his green eyes lit up and he sent you a cocky smile while dropping the hand from behind his neck and approaching you.

The morning sunlight gleamed off his burgundy hair, emphasizing the pink highlights. Though there wasn’t the usual metallic glint coming from his ears. Cocking your head to the side, you wondered where two of the earrings from his left side had gone.

“What happened to-”

“Alrighty,” Yoongi clapped his hands together, causing sparks of blue to flare up, and walked over to you. “Just in case our Kookie did a shit job explaining-”

“Hyung.” Jungkook whined.

“-I will graciously explain it as well.” Yoongi finished without even glancing at his youngest brother.

The magic user looked to you. “Since you have proven your skills on the battlefield, saved some of our sorry asses, become part of our tiny family, and other sappy shit I’m not going to say, we would like to make you an honorary member of the kiela. Do you accept?”

You blinked. That was… a very Yoongi way of putting things.

You felt Jungkook nudge you.

“Oh, uh, yes. I accept.”

Yoongi nodded and continued. “To induct you, Jungkook is sharing part of his draeva connection with you. The mark will be on the back of your neck. In addition to becoming connected to Illain and receiving heightened senses from the mark, I am also infusing it with the petal magic, so you won’t need to take them anymore.”

Well, that’s gonna be mighty convenient.

“So… what do I need to do?” You asked, not entirely sure how this whole magic connection thing actually worked.

Yoongi instructed you to just stand still and look directly into Jungkook’s eyes. They would take care of the rest.

That’s… easy. I can do that.

As Jungkook positioned himself in front of you, the kiela spread out into a semi-circle behind you. Yoongi stayed at your side and began cracking his knuckles and stretching his arms. After catching your glance, he shrugged and mumbled something about not wanting to get a cramp.

“You need to look at me for this to work.”

You returned your gaze to Jungkook, who had his arms crossed and you noticed his jaw tick once. Rolling your eyes, you stuck your tongue out at him, and the action made him blow out a puff of air. If you weren’t mistaken, he also tried to hide a tiny smile because he pressed his lips together firmly after expelling the air. But before you could comment on it, the wind suddenly picked up and sent some of your hair flying. And of course, a few strands got caught in your mouth. You went to push your hair out of your face, but Jungkook stepped closer and softly brushed the strands away for you. His peridot eyes lingered on your lips, and you swear you saw them dilate a bit as they flickered back up to yours. The world seemed to pause around you and all you could see was green. Green trees and green eyes. You wanted to get lost in it.

The sound of a clearing throat startled you back to reality and you felt your face grow warm for getting a little lost in Jungkook with everyone around you. You whispered an apology to Yoongi as Jungkook also cleared his throat and moved his hand under your hair, so his palm rested on the back of your neck.

It was utterly silent in the small clearing besides the sounds of your and Jungkook’s breathing and the natural sounds of the forest. Shadows danced across Jungkook’s face as the leaves swayed in the wind and you admired the way it made the green of his eyes appear even lighter as you stared into them.

Yoongi took a deep breath, and it hit you that you were actually about to do this, and you had no idea how it was going to affect you and holy shit what if it killed your ass?

Uh, death registration? It’s me… again. Don’t know if you’ve gotten my previous messages but here’s a new one.

“Wait wait wait!” You gasped out and Jungkook looked at you in concern. “Um, what if the mark harms me since I’m not Saeni? Since it’s not intended for humans? I’ve read The Mortal Instruments, you know, and I don’t want to become an unforsaken zombie thing!”

Jungkook pursed his lips as Yoongi rolled his pink eyes. Behind you, Tae softly asked what a zombie was and Jimin told him not to worry about it since it was ‘just another human thing.’

“Y/N, if that were the case, you would have been hurt the first time you took a petal back on Earth. It’ll be fine.”

“O-Okay.”

“Don’t be scared sweetheart.” Jungkook smiled at you and you let out a breath, feeling yourself relax, trusting him completely. “I got you.”

You took one more deep breath and nodded, signaling to Yoongi that you were ready. The magic user then placed his hand over Jungkook’s at your nape and began murmuring.

You continued gazing directly into peridot eyes as the back of your neck began to get warm…

Then hot…

Then scorching.

You started to pant as the heat drifted over your skin and sunk down into your body, making you wince in discomfort.

“You’re okay… I got you.” Jungkook whispered reassuringly, though his own voice sounded a little strained.

Then your vision darkened and darkened and darkened until the galaxy you see every time you taken the pink petal exploded behind your eyes. But it was much more vivid than it had ever been before. More bright. More alive. You could feel the universe moving beneath your fingertips as if it were a ripple in a pond. You could hear the stars scream, the moons sob, and the comets sing. Could see all the cosmos intertwine and separate from one another. Constantly mingling and parting. And then they crashed over you. You gasped at the cool feeling, reminiscent of an ocean wave. Slowly, it transformed into a heavy, warm, and comforting blanket. It draped over you. Enwrapped your entire being. You smelled your favorite homecooked meal. Tasted the sweetest fruit on your tongue. Heard the tinkering of rain and the sound of masculine laughter. Felt the euphoria of being content with yourself and being held in someone’s arms.

The heat in your body travelled until it was all collected at your nape. Then, as it began to fade, so did the galaxy and comforting feelings. It all dimmed and dimmed and dimmed until your vision cleared.

But it was different.

More vivid. More bright. More alive.

Everything was sharper. Your sight, hearing, smell, touch. You blinked slowly, trying to process all these new sensations.

You inhaled and through the sweet air and dewiness of the morning, you could easily make out the scent of florets and steel as well as an unfamiliar but familiar combination of ashes and smoke that reminded you of a certain magic user.

The sunlight was even more radiant and as you gazed into Jungkook’s peridot eyes, you could see flecks of gold you hadn’t noticed before.

You could hear him swallow dryly through his labored breathing as he returned your stare.

Could feel his heartbeat through his fingertips at the back of your neck.

And if you focused beyond all of that, you could still faintly feel the expanse of the universe, as if its energy was thrumming through you.

In a way, you guess it was. You were now connected to it all.

To the universe.

To Illain.

To Jungkook.

And you never wanted it to fade away.

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howtowhumpyourhiccup · 5 years

Text

Unlucky Enough

Summary: Set during Httyd 2. Hiccup and Toothless fell above a frozen ocean and neither of them had much luck landing.

Rating: Teen and up

Words: 2 013

Prompt: Falling Through Ice

Author’s Notes: This was written for the monthly prompts held on the Httyd whump Discord server that I take part in.

Constructive criticism is highly appreciated.

Enjoy!

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"TOOTHLESS!"

The Night Fury heard Hiccup yell after he was torn out of the saddle by another dragon.

He wasn't sure of the exact species. He just heard it coming and tried to warn his Rider of its approach, but by then it was already too late. It had dug its claws into Hiccup's shoulders. It looked like a Shovelhelm.

He'd heard Hiccup shout when he was grabbed, before calling out his name, but Toothless was already plummeting.

The ocean was frozen below them. The ice he landed on was thick. Too thick to break even under his weight and with the amount of force he'd smacked onto it.

Upon colliding with it, fire ran through Toothless' entire being and he couldn't help but release a roar of pain as he lied on it. With Hiccup for a rider, he wasn't a stranger to crashlanding, but it was rare for them to hurt as much as it did this time.

He needed a moment to regain his composure, to let the painful agony in his body settle. His left fore- and hind legs and wing hurt especially bad. There was a particularly terrible headache brewing after the impact his head made with the frozen sea.

Once able to breathe a little easier, Toothless stared up to the sky to see the mysterious dragon rider with their Stormcutter and all the other dragons in their pack still circling them. Searching for and finding the offending Shovelhelm, the Night Fury noticed that Hiccup was no longer in his grasp.

He'd grabbed Hiccup by the shoulders instead of his arms. It was without a doubt a minor slipup, but it probably caused him to lose his grip.

Scanning the area for his Rider, Toothless' keen eyes quickly caught sight of a gap in what must be a thinner sheet of ice someways away. The water within it rocked, as did the broken chunks and pieces. It was newly created.

And Hiccup was nowhere to be found.

'Hiccup!'

Pushing himself up to his feet, every inch of him hurting and his left side protesting, Toothless dragged himself with a limp and hurry towards the break. The need to find his Rider motivated him to fight the pain.

It took him seconds longer to get there than he would've liked. If the hole had been created by Hiccup, he hadn't reached the surface at all in that time.

A roar of panic left the Night Fury, as if calling out to his Rider, before he sunk his head down into the water to see and make sure whether Hiccup was there or not. The freezing water bit even into his tough and heated hide, but Toothless chose to ignore it. What mattered to him was finding Hiccup.

He found him quite easily.

Hiccup was unconscious and sinking. And was that blood he spotted in the water?

Toothless wasted no time. He took a quick breath of air and dove down into the hole with him. The bone-chillingly cold water did his sore limbs no favours, but he refused to be held back when his Hiccup needed him.

With strong and swift strokes Toothless attempted to reach Hiccup as he slowly sank further and further away from him into the dark depths down below.

The stranger who had intercepted them moments earlier did not agree with his efforts. Before long, the Night Fury felt himself be pulled out of the water by other dragons. Toothless struggled as hard as he could, roaring in rage when he broke through the ocean's surface.

Hiccup was right there. Toothless only needed to grab him and he could've saved him had those dragons not interfered. The same Shovelhelm that had failed at keeping his hold on Hiccup properly was the one who held him in an iron grip now.

Toothless roared at him.

'My Rider is down there! He's drowning!'

Instead of listening, the Shovelhelm growled back at him. It wasn't necessarily hostile. It was more of a warning to calm down and not fight them any further, lest he lose his grip again.

With a simple wave of their staff, the dragon rider told the pack to move. If Toothless' efforts to be let go of so he could save Hiccup weren't desperate enough already, his struggles grew fiercer. At the same time, the Shovelhelm's grip on him grew even tighter, just shy of piercing his hide. Toothless' cringed at the sensation.

It took some tries, but eventually, a second dragon joined them to keep the Night Fury from escaping. All that Toothless could do was watch as the break in the ice Hiccup had fallen through became smaller and smaller as the entire pack flew away from the scene.

No amount of angry snarling or close warning shots could convince any of them to turn back around for his dear Rider. His calls of fury turned to calls of despair. And they weren't for the other dragons, they were for Hiccup, his significant other.

"I know Bud."

Remembering the last time his Viking came close to death by drowning didn't lessen the blow of losing him in the slightest.

"I wouldn't leave you either."

Toothless left him. It wasn't of his own will, but Toothless still left him. That was the only part that would ever truly matter to him.

They pack heard the telltale whine, but Night Furies were rare enough that they didn't immediately realize what Toothless was planning on doing. Once they did, it was already too late.

The Shovelhelm was blasted right out of the sky. As he fell, so did Toothless and the other dragon.

All three of them landed on the cold hard ice. While the other two were slow to recover from the crash, Toothless was quick to get back up on his aching feet. Injured or not, he needed to move.

He could hear that accursed staff rattle again, could hear the Stormcutter let out a roar, and the entire pack stopped.

Toothless needed to reach Hiccup before they could grab him again. He wasn't going to leave Hiccup behind. He didn't abandon him in the straits, he wasn't going to leave him to his fate now.

They hadn't gotten too far yet, fortunately enough. But still, Toothless was sure he must be seeing things as he sprinted back towards where his Rider had fallen. It almost looked like Hiccup was already out of the water.

The closer he came, Toothless realized that his eyes weren't tricking him. Hiccup truly was out of the water. He quickened his pace.

The dragons in the sky seemed to be watching him from a distance instead of chasing him. Did they figure out Toothless would be too much trouble to bring to wherever if he weren't reunited with the other rider?

Hiccup was lying next to the break. He wasn't moving. Thankfully, Toothless could still tell that he was alive. He didn't know on whose side they were, but he noticed a Seashocker disappearing into the darkness of the sea.

"... Bud?" Toothless couldn't thank the Berkian Gods, or the Seashocker, enough for the fact that Hiccup was still with him and breathing. The relief that swept over him upon hearing his voice, hoarse as it was, was indescribable.

Hiccup heard his dragon cooing and felt his warm breath as Toothless pressed his nose to his temple. He was cold. So, so, so cold. His fingers and toes were tingly, but numb. His stump was frozen. He shivered, the winds were relentless.

Toothless checked Hiccup's body out to get an assessment on his health. The fall could've been brutal to him.

He was lying on his left side, facing the other. His right arm was limp as it laid there at an odd angle and there was a terrible head wound that he'd previously been sniffing too. But that wasn't where the blood was coming from.

The Shovelhelm, on top of grabbing Hiccup wrong and losing his grip on him, one of his large talons had pierced through Hiccup's leather flight suit. The wound must not be deep enough to be life-threatening or Hiccup would've bled out already, but that still needed treatment.

"I'm really cold, Bud." Toothless heard him and wrapped himself around the Viking as he lied down, both of his forelegs held him close. He held him close and hidden from view. Hiccup was sopping wet. In this kind of weather, so far up North, it wouldn't take long for him to freeze to death.

To make matters worse, Toothless knew the stranger and the dragon pack were approaching them again. He heard the rattling, heard the thunder coming closer.

Toothless bitterly realized he would have to let them do as they wished and take them. Hiccup needed treatment and shelter and he was in no fit condition to mount up and travel all the way back to Berk. He was close to passing out again. Hiccup's best chances were with the same ones who'd torn them out of the sky in the first place.

"Heh, I regret leaving Berk, Bud." Upon hearing Hiccup speak again, Toothless focussed his attention back on him. He was breathing through his pain, momentarily reminding Toothless of his own aches as he tried to suppress them for Hiccup's sake.

"Maybe I should listen to dad once in a while." Hiccup gazed up at him. Though he said it in a joking manner, Toothless could see he was truly sorry. To comfort him, Toothless cooed and pressed their foreheads together.

'It's okay.' That is what he tried to tell him. Hiccup smiled, closing his eyes. Whether he understood his dragon or not, at least Hiccup figured out what he was trying to do. His left hand held onto his right shoulder. That was a hard landing he'd made, who knows the kind of injuries that were still hidden by his flight suit.

Hiccup was growing colder in his embrace too. Toothless gave him all the body heat he could provide, but it would mean very little for as long as Hiccup still wore his soaked clothes. Hypothermia could already be setting in.

With light footsteps, the stranger approached after having jumped off the Stormcutter. The other dragons in the pack were still up there in the air, but the two of them had joined them on the ground.

"Hmmm, Toothless!" Toothless held Hiccup tighter even despite his protests. He looked over, watched the mystery rider approach and bared his teeth in a snarl. It was a warning to not come any closer. At least, not with ill intentions.

The rider stopped, crouching, and removed the mask that they wore.

The face that met Toothless was that of a woman and he was only briefly taken aback before growling again.

She didn't look like someone who would be a threat. In a way, she reminded him of Hiccup somehow, but only vaguely so. Toothless wasn't fooled. He hadn't expected her, that was for sure. He would give her that much at least.

The woman made eye contact with him and continued her advance with caution. She was still crouching, her behaviour was that of a submissive dragon, a defensive one. Toothless never knew he'd ever meet a human who acted more dragon-like than Hiccup, but there she was and once again Toothless was dumbfounded.

Perhaps she could tell and she could very well be using that to come closer until she was right next to Hiccup, opposite to Toothless.

Gazes still connected, she slowly removed the armbrace that looked like a claw and placed it on Hiccup's shoulder.

She wanted to help.

Despite her draconic behaviour, her eyes were still that of a human and Toothless recognized a familiar kind of compassion in them.

"Bud?" Hiccup, though previously as stumped as he was, looked up to him. He was searching for an answer to only one question.

Could they trust her?

Hiccup would give her a shot if Toothless did and he decided, for his Rider's sake, that he did.

57 notes · View notes

overdrivels · 6 years

Text

The Way to a Heart (8)

/falls to knees

THIS CHAPTER IS DONE, GODDAMN IT. THANK YOU, @dickbutt-writes-again FOR YOUR ENDLESS PATIENCE WITH ME AND MY SCREAMING AND UNSURENESS HOLY FUCK

Thank you everyone for waiting, please enjoy Hanzo making a fucking ass of himself.

<<Chapter 7

The warehouse is busy with different people bustling around, chatting, carting items around into trucks, the thick smell of hot food (made even thicker by the steadily rising summer heat) hardly willing to remain contained in their boxes. A cap is pulled tight over your eyes and you remain by your truck tucked deep in the corner of the room, keeping your back to the rest of the crowd, pretending to inspect the ridiculously long handwritten list in your hands.

The loading takes a little longer than usual, but it can’t be helped. You had vowed not to make the same mistakes as the last few times and ordered more food just in case. (There’s a voice in your head that taunts you for your inadequate portion management that you quash with a childish ire.) This was for the protection of Overwatch. The shipments must be carefully timed and portioned out to avoid suspicion from customs and various markets here on Gibraltar. These long intervals you’ve picked masks your presence better and makes you more available to the agents.

You tell yourself it’s the most optimal solution.

(There are days that you truly regret having taken Overwatch’s reputation and wealth for granted in the past—abundance of ingredients to play with and test, an unlimited budget for the best of equipment and staff; it is the stuff of recent dreams.)

Asim comes out from the shadow of your fully loaded vehicle and closes the shutters behind him, leaning heavily against his empty hand truck, his tank top thoroughly soaked.

“All done, boss.” He wipes his brow with a gloved hand and brushes his curly hair out of his face. “Man, Argus is lucky. She doesn’t sweat.” Behind you in the middle of the room, Argus Twenty stands out like a sore thumb in her semi-formal wear, giving orders and instructions to various people like a conductor. “Me? I feel like I just took a bath.”

“She’s an omnic,” you reply flatly, frowning over the list, “and you’re still on therapy.”

He shrugs, a sort of self-satisfied smile on his face. “It’s still not fair.”

“You know what’s not fair? The price of fish,” you sigh, leaning heavily against your scorching truck. It shakes against the added pressure. “Even with negotiations and switching to a new vendor, we still had to eat an eight-percent increase.”

“Climate change,” Asim supplies bitterly. “You know it’s been bad lately, but it’s only going to get worse, they say, since the fish are migrating elsewhere and ruining a ton of businesses here. Do not get me started on cryogenically frozen fish or grains—that’s even worse. It’s hard just getting our share even with your negotiations.” He jerks his stubbly chin at the general direction of the rest of the warehouse. You turn just head slightly to see some people notice and wave, carts passing around them. A pang of welling pride and equally growing sorrow jolts your insides.

You smile at Asim instead, tugging the hat over your eyes further. “They like you.”

“It’s all your fault.”

“I can’t make people like you.” If you had that power, the world might actually be a much better place. “It’s all you. They like you for who you are.”

The man hides a shy smile into his fist, sealing it in there before looking at back at you solemnly. “If you hadn’t left, they would know you and like you, too.”

“I...I prefer it this way,” you say, resting your list against the lower half of your face. “I don’t regret my decision.”

Asim makes a noise of discontent. “Glad someone doesn't.”

“What was that?”

“What Asim means is that we'd wish you showed more consideration toward us.”

You wince at the sharp words and Asim give Argus a wave as she comes up behind you both, seemingly finished with her duties. She crosses her arms, staring steadily at you through the slits of her eyes.

“Sorry. I was really trying to keep this order lean, but…” You wave your hands helplessly before resting them over your mouth.

“No, not that,” the omnic starts. “It's just...it’s been several months since you have decided to lend your aid to them, dear." "And?" "Is it not time to return to us?”

Oh. This talk again. You frown, squaring up your shoulders. "They still need my help." "Until when? Until they've become established again or until they are dismantled?" You clench your teeth, sucking in a sharp inhale. "Please, my dear, the sooner you wipe your hands clean of them, the better."

“Argus,” you say exasperatedly, “you’re the one who said that you’ll go along with this. Please.”

“But not for this long. Two months, three, perhaps? This is too much. We have received rumors of more formers being taken by Talon. It’s only a matter of time...”

Is that why the agents are suddenly getting assigned missions? You will need to ask Athena about the details—it’s not your business and unrelated to your job, but...

“Argus is right, boss.”

You stare at Asim, the weight of something unpleasant in his eyes pressing down on you. “Come on, not you, too.”

“If Talon comes and gets you, everything’s finished.”

“I’m not an agent,” you remind him. “Chefs were never considered agents, so…”

Argus sounds far less patient now. “And under what basis do you believe Talon acknowledges such a distinction? What if they see you there and you become collateral? Will you wait until they’re all killed before you come back?”

Because there's always been that distinction. Because they're heroes. They're brave people who deserve better than a dogged death by an organization that thrives on the destruction of others. "I have confidence in their operations, and I'll stay there until they don't need me anymore." "And when will that be?” Beneath Asim’s accusatory glare, you open your mouth and draw a blank. You thought about this before. You pondered this before, but did you ever come up with an answer? Did you even want to come up with an answer? What did you tell Argus when you announced you'd be helping Overwatch?

"I don't know." The quiet confession leaves a terrible taste in your mouth. "You don’t—? Are you joking me?” Asim snaps, suddenly in your face. "I’m all about fighting for what I believe in, but not when so many people’s lives are on the line, when your life's on the line." "We were prepared for the consequences when I decided—" "When you decided! You didn't consult anyone else!”

“I consulted Argus!”

“After the fact.”

Your mouth hangs open at your omnic colleague.

“Listen,” Asim says, “I don't want you to give up everything so fast. You worked hard to get to where you are, to get”—he waves a hand at the warehouse—“all this established. There’s too much that can go wrong, the longer you keep this up. You know what the world will do to you if they find out?"

The unyielding pressure from both sides forces cruel words to shoot up to the surface, cocked on your tongue, words that would cut so deep you knew it'd kill them, but you barely manage to keep them trapped behind your teeth. Your heart races, your face flushes with the effort, and you force yourself to divert your eyes into the ground and collect your breath.

“I will take full responsibility when that happens,” you finally say solemnly, looking both of them in the face.

“Taking full responsibility by yourself isn’t even going to begin to cov—”

“—do you believe your life will cover the damage—”

The two of them stop abruptly, either having realized they’re causing a scene or there’s little point in continuing the argument. The omnic steps forward, a gentle hand on your tense shoulder, tugging gently at your sleeve where the embroidered image of a scaly heart sat.

“I apologize for being short, but we are concerned for you. Promise us. While you still have the chance, I ask you to please return to us. We cannot continue without you.”

"But…”

Asim holds you by the elbow, a stern look in his eye. “If it’s about the food and money, they can get it themselves. They’re not helpless. They don’t need you. You’re not being kind, you’re being selfish.”

For some reason, those words had more force than the ones before it, striking something so very tender inside you that you choke on the harsh insults and threats you kept stifled inside. They rise with such a vengeance and ferocious speed, you have to yank away your arm and turn away and seek refuge in the cabin of your vehicle. You vehemently ignore them calling your name in urgent, helpless whispers.

You slam the door of your truck closed, fumbling with your seatbelt, and drive off hurriedly through the door with your cap tipped low. Your eyes burn and your skin feels like it wants to burst. You ignore the fading figures disappearing from your mirrors, the feeling of longing and deep-seated sadness solidifying and demanding your attentions.

Overwatch is not a mistake.

What you’re doing is not a mistake.

This was the worst plan (or therefore lack of) that he has ever gone through with, Hanzo decided while wedged up in a precarious corner of the ceiling.

Weeks of saying "thank you" to a tray and the fading echoes of a bell is just a token gesture of his gratitude, but he cannot escape the solemn timbre of his brother's voice, urging him to show his appreciation properly.

And how does he show it? By breaking into the one place he is not allowed in. If he’s honest with himself, he knows he could still leave and pretend he was never here. But pride is so very selfish that it will take away everything from someone else and still never be satisfied. It is so destructive, it will even kill its host and leave behind nothing. Not even itself.

Hanzo knows that it is bad, that it is all-consuming in no productive way, but the thrill that it gives, the little bit of power it offers for just a moment is so very tempting—he’ll have control of his life for a fleeting moment. (After the moment’s passed, well, that’s a different story.)

You’ll have to forgive him for this (if you catch him, that is).

Surprisingly, there are very few places to hide in the kitchen and even fewer with a good view of the Cellar door. The ceilings are much lower than that of the cafeteria’s, compact and spartan. Everything was set up neatly in rows that lead straight from one end of the kitchen to the other, a wide breadth of space between each station for people to come and go without bumping into each other, and a dim light that light up the bottom of these stations and counters. Racks that stood against the walls were all wiry and without anything more solid than the mostly transparent containers that filled them.

There’s no doubt this space was meant to hold more than a single cook, but despite that, there are no obvious hiding spaces at all.

Even more surprising, Athena did not try to stop him, didn’t even utter a word or sound an alarm as he slipped his way in here with little more than the clothes on his back. Perhaps he had an ally in the AI yet. Or maybe she’s waiting for the opportunity to gather incriminating evidence before presenting it to all to see.

He resists the urge to sigh; sound echoes surprisingly well in this space. (It's not particularly surprising—most of everything in here is made of metal.) Neither the subtle rub of fabric or the wink of an eyelash is able to escape notice here, and he doesn’t dare move from his chosen spot.

There’s no telling when you’d be back, but historically, you’ve never missed serving breakfast even for risers earlier than himself, which means that he has another hour and a half at most. It’s more than enough time to understand this space and plan out his next course of action.

Slowly, he runs his eyes around the room, eyes having adjusted well enough to see the details.

His eyes lingers around the door he knows is his target. It’s a little larger than the four transparent doors lined up beside it. Those lead to small rooms, lined with the same sort of racks that were out in the kitchen, but they were bereft of anything except for a stray box or two and a sack of something. One of them had something a few familiar boxes lined up at the front—the picture of an orange plastered on one and a cow on another. Drinks, then, but far too few to be able to sustain the base for even a day.

He narrows his eyes.

Is that all the food in the base?

No, it cannot be.

A base with people whose appetites are like Zarya’s and Roadhog’s should always be stocked with food. There must be more somewhere he’s not seeing. In the Cellar, perhaps? If you store alcohol in there, it’s not unreasonable to assume that it could store other food items.

No, he shouldn't think so far into it—if all of them have been well fed up until this point, there's no reason for him to think beyond that. It's none of his business.

He redirects his gaze back to the Cellar door.

There’s a biometric panel is integrated directly into the steel, barely standing out among the smooth metal. The door itself looks deceptively standard, but judging by the implements on the door frame, it's a little more sophisticated than it's made out to be. No hinges. No gaps. No seams.

He drags his tongue slowly across his lip.

It smells of a challenge, and reminds him of an old teaching from so long ago: if it exists, it can be killed or destroyed. It has not failed him yet. (Though, there’s a nagging in his heart wants to remind him of a time when that was not true.)

The question is how discreet he wishes to be. While he is no thief, his skillset is closely aligned with one as much as he loathes to admit it. He’ll have to get close to the door, conduct his reconnaissance to determine just how much effort will be required to break through it.

If it managed to stand up against even the covert operation division of Overwatch, it won't be any small amount of effort to get inside. And for that gunslinger to speak well of you, your skills must not be so terrible either. It would be pertinent to take caution, maybe learn a bit more about you from this environment.

Everything else is rather spartan in its own way with little to indicate what could be beyond that door—everything here has a purpose, no more and no less. The floors are lined carefully with black rubber mats dotted with holes. Pots and pans were stacked neatly beneath some counters, all surfaces are clear of anything extra, the sinks at the very far end of the room near the service window seem to be clear of dishes—those are all stacked and lined up in their rightful places.

Though, he can't help but notice on one of the shelves, among the meticulously lined drinkware, there seems to be a small gap where several cups should be. Something nags at Hanzo’s mind about that space, but he's unable to place a finger on it. Maybe because it’s such a careless contrast compared to the rest of the shelves where everything is ordered and neatly aligned, no space wasted.

If this was anything to go by, he may have just developed a profile of you: detail-oriented; tireless; meticulous, and if he were to interpret this with his few interactions, he could even say that you are a very dedicated omnic, following your program with utmost devotion. It’s admirable.

Though, there cannot be that much to do in a kitchen besides cook and clean, now is there? But if that were so, where are you now?

Looking at this place, immaculate despite the hectic image that the action of ‘cooking’ conjures up in his mind and the number of customers you cater to, spacious despite the single omnic it holds, his impression of this space itself is simply lonely.

He dismisses the thought with a grim viciousness.

Omnics do not get lonely.

You likely connect yourself to Athena, anyway, spying on everyone and their appetites. There is no reason to align his sympathies with someone who hides in the shadows, watching everyone with such attentiveness, compiling data to use for (or against) them.

Without warning, light suddenly floods the kitchen and Hanzo has to tighten his grip against the walls, rapidly blinking the stars out of his eyes while biting back a groan.

You must have returned.

A childish excitement buzzes just beneath his skin at the realization, his heart pressing so hard against his skin, he feels like it will burst with the pressure. He forces himself to calm—there will be plenty to do in the next few precious seconds.

To his surprise, it’s the Cellar door that slides open with a hiss rather than the swinging doors that led to the cafeteria. The speed is surprising considering how thick the door seems, if the door frame was anything to go by, it must be at least ten or fifteen centimeters—thinner than some bank vaults he’s seen in his day, but thicker than any standard door by far in this base. The frame shows that the door is much wider than it initially seems. It seemed to sink into the wall and will not be as simple as just slipping a piece of paper or jamming something in between the door and frame. Maybe he can get through from the other doors beside it? The ones that look like freezers?

From within the darkness emerges the beginnings of a shaky hover-trolley, stacked high with boxes that fill up the empty maw of the doorway with nary a gap. There’s a pause and a shuffle and one of the larger boxes shift. Hanzo dares crane his head out a little more. Are you stuck?

The trolley then comes through slowly and without the frame of the door holding everything in place, Hanzo can see how precariously everything is stacked. The room itself seems to take a sigh of relief when everything makes it into the room, wind rushing into the Cellar door. From his angle, he cannot very well see the person behind it. But the rapid speed at which the door closes tells him that you’ve stepped into the kitchen and the door will not remain open long enough for anyone to barge in after another person.

“Oh geez, I’m late, I’m late.”

That voice.

The faintest hint of an unconscious smile makes its way onto his face. He knows this voice. It is, without a doubt, you.

He’ll finally be able to lay his eyes on the elusive chef—you’ll no longer be a torso and a voice and a bell, but something he could finally put a face to blame if his food is inadequate. He’ll finally know the face of his opponent, the guardian of that rumored door.

“Come on, get it together, me. Allons, allons-y.”

Time seems to slow as the cart backs itself up just slightly and begins to turn. He hears the squeak of a boot against the rubbery floor, and a shuddering sigh. From behind the massive tower of boxes and containers, someone comes into view.

And Hanzo’s breathing stops short in his throat.

His thoughts dissolve into static.

You’re a person.

The archer watches numbly as you begin to unpack the cart, taking box after box and spreading them out onto the closest countertop with single-minded determination and practiced efficiency. While you’re not wearing a chef’s uniform, he’s sure it’s you. There’s a level of confidence in the way you navigate this space, placing things with a familiarity that no one should have unless they’re here often.

Vaguely, it feels as though he’s no longer in his own skin or even in the same reality he was just in mere moments ago.

You are a human.

Not a service bot.

Not an omnic.

He should not be surprised, but he is. Suddenly, he snaps back into his own body and Hanzo finds himself furiously reanalyzing all the information he knows, or thought he knew; the facts are quickly becoming lies.

The tinny echo in your voice could easily be attributed to the metallic (and lonely) nature of the kitchen. The disappearances are not for maintenance, but because you’re human and require rest. He is then reminded of those late nights when sleep escapes and taunts him like some mythical being and how you're always ready to prepare tea, and that you're already preparing breakfast for the early risers not even two hours later.

Even worse, he overlooked a ridiculously simple concept: omnics have no concept of taste, it is foolish. Their scant decades of existence on this Earth has not yet granted them the technological advancements necessary to distinguish taste, let along masterfully combine them into pleasing dishes that his stomach would not reject. For an Omnic to be a chef is not only ridiculous, it is laughable.

He wants to slap himself.

A disgrace.

The information clicks so cleanly that the implications behind it makes his head spin.

This was a terrible idea.

He should not have taken up the bet. For once in his life, he should have listened to his younger brother, of all people, and left this alone. His heart is not made of steel or stone, and he knows he has better manners than to take advantage of someone who works so hard for something so foolish as a crutch for his own inadequacies.

He glances at the service window, so far away, and back at you who is struggling to keep one of the glass doors open to carry in a large cardboard box.

For a moment, maybe to soothe his own conscience, Hanzo thinks of going down to assist you. It will invite trouble, accusations, and your ire. If these kitchens were as sacred as McCree makes it sound, then he should pretend he was never here.

‘Like a coward,’ his mind whispers.

Hanzo grimaces and makes the amateurish mistake of leaning his head back against the wall a touch too hard.

“Who’s there?”

It’s only due to years of practice and familiarity with those words from the mouths of numerous victims that does not react badly to the sudden spike in his heart rate, that he does not shrink into himself or otherwise even blink, only instinctively isolating his breathing to his throat and clearing his mind of unrelated thoughts.

“Hello?”

As if he’ll answer with a bit of goading, but the thought is endearing naïve.

Beneath your breath, but still ridiculously loud and tinny, you warn, “Jesse, I swear if that's you…”

Something in his stomach tightens and a chill settles into his chest, and he furrows his brow.

This is becoming risky. He has already gotten basic information regarding the door—there are more questions still (is the door protected by single-factor authentication or multi-layer? Multi-factor? Is it connected to Athena? Are there other security measures beyond the door?), but it doesn’t matter at the moment.

Hanzo waits, endures your slow searching gaze and various attempts to get him to speak until you’re turned around, away from the service window he plans to escape through. (The double doors leading into the kitchen from the outside are out of the question—they swing and there’s no guarantee his exit would not be heard or seen.) He moves carefully but swiftly along the wall toward his destination.

Maybe it was unfortunate timing. Maybe he’s lost his touch having been cooped up in this base without the urgency of needing stealth. Maybe you’re just that aware of your territory.

There are many ‘maybe’s, but it does not erase what happens next:

“Agent Hanzo!?”

Something heavy falls onto the ground, probably a package.

Hanzo curses to himself. Normal circumstances would have seen you dead, but these circumstances are far from normal—however, he does not intend to stick around long enough to find out what you will do. (Inside, he gives a brief goodbye to the pepperless-foods that he had the pleasure of eating during these past few months.)

The sound of metal clips the air from somewhere behind him as he drops to the ground and makes a straight shot for the window only two island counters and one static one away.

A sound behind him that sets off several alarms in his head makes him peek just underneath his arm and he’s surprised to see it: two wide steps and a lunge snaps up the distance between you both and you’re then in his space.

He finds himself moving without thinking, twisting onto the shiny metal surface that are now decorated with the imprints of his shoes to change direction, escaping a flash of silver that nearly clips him.

“My counter!”

To normal people, he would be an indecipherable blur at best. Only people accustomed to his speed, like Genji or Tracer, would be able to chase after him. It should be impossible for a chef who has never seen battle, who has not had to deal with anything faster than the flailing of a fish, who has been nurtured and protected in this self-made fortress.

He didn’t expect your head to whip around and follow.

He can see it now, a long silver ladle in your hand that strikes out at his foot. One flip puts him just outside your range, but it traps him against another counter and the spilled contents of a smashed box—oranges. He glances quickly to his side—the service window, his exit, is just a little distance away.

One strong leap and a jump is all it will take.

“The kitchen is off-limits, Agent Hanzo.”

Your voice is biting, a jarring contrast to the gentle and genuine concern you had shown up until this point. So, even a mouse will bare its fangs if cornered?

At this distance, he can finally get a very clear look at you and see the dark moons beneath your reddened eyes. There’s something slightly familiar about the gnarled look on your face, about the way you hold yourself despite your stance—squared into a straight line—that vaguely reminds him of the reflection that stands distorted in the head of the ladle you have pointed at his chest.

“Is that so?”

Livid may be the most appropriate word to describe you.

“Get out.”

Without waiting for him to comply or even an explanation, you shoot forward. He steps out of the way and then another when you twist and swing to follow.

One part of him that tells him to stay and test your strength. A more reasonable part tells him to take his leave peacefully now that he’s been seen. But there’s something, a pressure that bears down on his chest and up against his stomach that moves his feet, forcing him to watch and step out of your sloppy attacks.

Like an amateur, you broadcast your movements, your tight spirals are too wide and slow, the distance just slightly miscalculated and short of actually hitting him. Your steps are repetitive and predictable, hardly engaging, and too straightforward (likely the unfortunate nature of your art). But the intensity behind those strikes and the sharpness in which they're delivered keeps him on his guard, forces him to retain focus. There’s a snarl to your lips and a burning in your eyes that, in his encounters with a mirror, seems far too familiar.

Faintly, in the back of his mind, he remembers a story from his youth of a master of tea ceremonies against a samurai and wonders if this is how the story really should've played out.

The ladle enters his space. His reaction, wholly instinctual and for a moment screams ‘DANGER’, makes him smash it out of the way with the back of his hand. The momentum leads it out. You go with it, swoop the ladle down under and up at his chin. He ducks forward, right into your zone and grabs at your attacking arm.

Your retreat is far quicker than he would've given credit for.

But it was too hasty, unpracticed.

He could hear the popping of joints; the result of a rushed and undisciplined movement. You’re wincing, heaving, but still angry—there’s something about that look that makes him wonder faintly of its origins and its target.

Was that all?

As brief as it was, the display of power and skill of your level could not keep out even the weakest of the Overwatch members (and of those, there are very, very few he would dare consider such).

It’s a betrayal of his expectations most foul.

He had expected a challenge, not an insult. Insults thrown at him should always be returned in kind.

A smirk makes its way onto his face.

Very well. Bring it. He will show you the difference between you both in skill—politeness and gratitude be damned. You attacked first and refused reason, after all.

Hanzo waits for you to regain your footing and stance, waits for the ladle to come back up and steady itself. It's not as though you're a true threat; you’re just a che—

A flash of silver and the scratchy sting on his face shuts his thoughts up. What a sight he must make. He can’t help but touch his face where his skin meets beard, and pulls away with nothing but heat that drops into him like a fireball, igniting him.

That was a good lunge and a good retreat and a good strike. It was a good reminder.

“Get out.”

His smirk turns a touch carnivorous.

Yes, that was more like it.

Your expression morphs into one of more focused irritation. It’s far from a proper look for someone facing him. Those who know the expectations of the battlefield should at least compose themselves, not let themselves get saddled with worthless thoughts and rush through their movements like a fool.

Hanzo wants to crush that attitude. If he is truly your opponent, then you need to see him as one, not as a target or punching bag.

What carelessness.

What arrogance.

No. He takes a breath to calm himself. There’s no reason to get riled over a mere cook. But he can’t deny the strumming in his veins that call for the absolute annihilation of a mere amateur who dares thinks that they could ever match a master. He will show you where that arrogance will lead. This will be quick, this will be a challenge between his patience and his pride—you do not fit this equation. You are, after all, just a cook.

An unspoken signal—maybe you could see the insult on his face—brings you darting forth again, weapon raised and jabbing. There’s not much he has to do beside mind his space, mind your range, and keep a close eye on you.

All your following attacks are careless, easy to dodge. What happened to that one that managed to scratch his face? Was it because he was standing still or because you had a moment of clarity? As the strikes come, he finds himself slipping deeper and deeper into his thoughts and further and further away from the reality at hand.

Where are you looking, he wonders. What are you attacking? What do you see? What are you trying to strike? Because it sure as hell is not him and it annoys him just a bit.

The ladle's head enters his reach and thoughtlessly, he folds his fingers beneath the rim and he yanks it. You pitch forward with a yelp. He nearly raises his foot to slam in into your jaw, but a moment of clarity forces him to slam it back down. No, getting lost in one’s thoughts is deadly, even if his opponent is hardly a challenge.

Almost losing your weapon didn’t deter you and you continue going after him, desperation coloring your attacks. What are you doing? If this drags on, there’s no guarantee that he wouldn’t crush you just to satisfy his pride, just to show he is superior and that your hands are ill suited to wield utensils made for cooking as weapons.

This has gone on long enough.

Once more, Hanzo lets the ladle punctures his space. He folds at the wrist, just under the ladle's head, redirecting it. You attempt a counter-parry, but with a firm chop, the ladle clatters to the ground, muffled by the rubber beneath your feet. To your credit, you do not attempt to pick up your ‘weapon’, instead choosing to retreat in one large step back. Are you giving up?

One inhale. You’re dashing forward again, swoop low to retrieve the ladle, and swing upward—too obvious. He steps inside your reach, pivots behind you. Adrenaline moving his limbs, nabbing your dominant hand and slipping an arm around your neck in a loose, but firm hold. His feet lock against yours. One false move and you’ll be thrown. The fact that you do not even bother detangling yourself shows that you know this much.

Not as foolish as he thought.

But he has won.

“Chef, cease this.”

His own voice, stern and sharp, bounces straight off the walls and equipment. Interestingly enough, he can see your spine straighten and body jerk as though fighting to follow and resist his request.

In a show of benevolence, he releases his hold slowly and steps back neatly. You turn, still alert, ladle held up steadily. Calm. He has won. There is nothing for him to prove anymore. “I do not mean any harm. I only came for tea.”

Your mouth twists and your expression slackens, but there’s no give to your posture.

“Truly.”

You narrow your eyes, and he thinks he’ll have to defend himself further when nearly a minute passes before the head of the ladle and your shoulders dip. He remains perfectly still while you slowly slip into a more neutral stance, the tenseness in your shoulders dissipating just a bit. Now that you’re calmer, it’s easy to see that you do not look entirely well. There’s a tremble in your hands that he hadn’t noticed before. A result of too much adrenaline? Weariness? Or something else entirely?

“If that is all,” you murmur, not quite meeting his eyes, “please wait outside.” You gesture at the door with a small swing of the ladle.

He blinks and tries not to let his surprise show.

Is it that simple? Really?

“Will it be sencha today?”

“Ah, no. Moroccan mint.”

Naked surprise colors your face. For a moment, he thinks he sees the actual person behind the anger and the person behind the professional facade before it returns.

“I understand. With or without sweetener?”

“With.”

You nod and walk a short distance away, back never left exposed to him, and stop to face him once more. For a moment, he wonders what you’re doing before he realizes you’ve placed yourself between himself and the rest of the kitchen. It’s almost laughable—you do not have the skill to stop him even if you wanted to and you’ve just demonstrated that clearly. If he takes you out, there is nothing stopping him from accessing the Cellar door you’re protecting.

It’s almost disappointing. Almost enough to dampen his desire to uphold his part of the bargain with McCree. A treasure guarded by a weak guard cannot be so valuable.

He resists the urge to sigh. He’ll need to think about this later. The stack of boxes left forgotten and stray oranges on the ground catches his eye.

“Would you like some assistance with those packages?” he asks, gesturing with his chin.

Your face shifts from professional stoicism to shock to embarrassment to a poor attempt at maintaining your composure.

“Thank you for your offer, but I will manage. Please wait outside, I’ll have your tea shortly.”

“It would be no trouble. There are many boxes here.”

The makeshift weapon remains tight in your hands and determination begins to exude from your stance.

“I appreciate the offer, but this place is for chefs only. Please wait outside.”

A flicker of anger and irritation that he’s becoming far too acquainted with reignites inside his chest. Are all the members of Overwatch so unreasonable that they’d even jeopardize their own health? Reinhardt, you; who else on this base is so foolish?

“Do as you wish.”

At least he has gained information on the kitchen and the characteristics of the door; he’ll be better prepared for next time. (If the skill he saw tonight was the extent of your skill, he has nothing to fear. The cowboy’s warning were far too exaggerated.)

He’s keenly aware of your watchful gaze on his back as the door slowly swing to a close behind him. hen the swinging doors finally rest and he can hear you working, he lets out the long-suffering sigh he's been holding in up until now, deflating.

Well, that could have gone worse.

He loiters around the cafeteria, watching the sun crawl against the ground with static in his mind until the bell rings and a tray with a familiar teapot and teacup slides into view—deep down, as illogical as it may seem, he’s just a little disappointed that nothing accompanies his drink. It feels strange walking up to the window now that he knows what lies behind it. Like some type of magic or illusion has been ruined.

“Thank you for your patience.”

He nods, nearly forgetting that you cannot see it. “No, thank you.”

He doesn't know how he could have ever mistaken you for an omnic. Your voice is definitely nothing like Genji’s. It’s the illusion of the echo and the fact that you talk to a wall that must have confused him. And your hands—human hands—peer restly over the sill, tapping just as he’s about to pick up his tray. Do you often place your hands out in the open? Has he missed it all this time?

“Agent...Hanzo?”

“Yes, Chef?”

You take a shuddering breath before saying, “I...I apologize for the misunderstanding. I did not realize how important tea is to you. But the kitchens are off-limits to non-kitchen staff, so please understand.”

If he's playing the part of the fool, he may as well make it convincing. “It is inconvenient to wait on you for something like tea, Chef.”

The words draw a sharp inhale from you and tension to the air.

“These are rules, Agent Hanzo,” you say slowly, “I cannot allow that.”

“Rules set by whom?”

“The previous Head Chef.”

“If I am correct, this Head Chef is not here, and as such, you should make the rules.”

“I don't—I’m not—I…”

“Oh!”

Winston seems surprise to find anyone here at all, shifting awkwardly in the threshold between the hall and the room before he sheepishly pads his way in on his fists.

“Good morning, Hanzo. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Hanzo couldn’t say that he expected the same and nods curtly.

“Tea, huh? I guess everyone takes their breakfast different.” Hanzo has no time to correct him when the gorilla turns toward the service window. “Chef, what’s for breakfast today?”

Hanzo winces as you splutter, remembering that his antics likely led to a delay in your schedule. (Well, you refused his help and decided to challenge him despite your lack of prowess; it’s not entirely his fault alone.) He can’t imagine in the few scant minutes you’ve spent preparing his tea that you had managed to put away those boxes or even started on preparing breakfast.

“That’s, um, I didn’t—I’m very sorry, but…”

Hanzo couldn’t stand to remain, the awkwardness of the situation tugging at him and bids a hasty leave, yanking the tray out of the window. Perhaps too hasty or perhaps it’s karma, either way, he could not say it was not well deserved.

The teacup wobble precariously and falls off his tray, rolling against the window sill and smashes to the floor, the sound rippling and tearing through any other noise in the cafeteria. Winston’s mouth drops open, spectacles slipping down his face.

“Oh my.”

Heat creeps up Hanzo’s neck as he chances a glance at the service window. Your hands are frozen in mid-air. He watches as they come down slowly and your torso inches forward, a dull ‘thunk’ accompanying an abrupt stop; he definitely does not feel something squeezing the air out of his lungs when a weepy voice whispers, “...are you kidding me?”

Chapter 9>>

#my writing #hanzo shimada #reader #oh fucking hell this took forever #it just never quite turned out the way i wanted in my head #because the original wasn't supposed to be like this #man a lot has changed since the draft #come on me keep going you asshole #i forgot to say: i managed to fit the one line i've always wanted in this fic #'YOU'RE A PERSON'#THIS IS IMPORTANT TO ME #twtah #the way to a heart

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overwatchladieslover · 6 years

Text

Flightless Birds Chapter 3: Of Expectations And Regrets

Training was hard. That seemed like a pretty obvious fact, however, given your newly acquired abilities and endurance, you did not think that you would experience such exhaustion.

That is why you were laying in the middle of the training ground’s arena, covered in a thin sheet of sweat, lungs heaving painfully.

“Get up!” Commanded Doomfist, extending a hand.

You slowly raised your hand, aching all over.

“Please, don’t tell me we are going for another round.” You moaned, as he helped you up.

You got into position, and once again, he could not help but criticise your posture.

“Back straight, legs strong!” To test the strength of your legs, he kicked them, causing you to fall to the ground once again.

“Was that necessary?” You groaned, eying him with clear annoyance.

You painfully got to your feet again, your back popping. You coughed a fistful of dust, wiping some of it on your face.

“You must get better, natural talent will get you nowhere.”

“Our first encounter was much more to my advantage, if I recall correctly.” You winced.

“I had no idea a lab rat could pack such a punch! Quite an improvement, really.” He grinned, dusting off his shoulder.

“I wish I could go back to being a lab rat.” Standing, dusty and exhausted in the Arena.

Akande looked at the sun intently.

“We have some time before you must attend to your other trainings, let us take some time to talk.”

The both of you sat down in the middle of the arena, Doomfist fetched some cold drinks, as you stretched lazily, like a cat in the sun.

You gladly grabbed the can, putting it against your aching temples.

“You still do not feel at ease within your own body?” Asked Akande, sipping on his own drink eagerly.

You shook your head, twiddling your thumbs.

“Sometimes, you do not have a choice about what happens to you. It is life. But you can control what you do with it. As McCree once said, it doesn’t matter what cars you’re dealt in life, it’s how you play them.” You were surprised that Doomfist actually quoted the cowboy.

“I’ve heard it a thousand times, but I still cannot get used to it.” You looked at your wretched arm. He put his hand on your shoulder, comfortingly.

“Yet, you do not wear your silly bandages anymore.”

His smile was subtle and comforting. Before all of this happened, you would never have thought that Akande could be anything else than a wall-smashing demon. Yet, he was caring and comprehensive. He changed your whole perspective on the former Talon crew.

He left you to your thoughts, simply looking in the distance, sitting next to you.

After a dozen of minutes, he gently said.

“I believe you must meet with Widow in a few minutes.”

You thanked him, and waved as he promised to keep you a seat for lunch.

It felt good to be out in the sun, without your mask or your bandages, just enjoying the warm weather. You strolled to the shooting range, thinking that you could use some music.

Amélie was already there, cleaning her rifle. She raised her head as you entered.

“Salut, hope your training with Akande did not strain you too much.” Widow still had trouble expressing some emotions, yet she was trying, and recovering. She could sometimes be a tad awkward, but it made her so much more human.

“Bonjour Amélie. It was quite tiring, but not enough for me not to be able to shoot a gun.” Your French accent was… decent. You kept learning from her, and sometimes Angela, who knew quite a bit of French, even though she was more comfortable with German.

“Ah! When you’ll get acquainted with this bad boy, you will regret not chickening out.” She smirked, pointing to the shotgun laying on the table. You grabbed the gun, feeling its weight.

“Should have quite a kickback, eh? Let’s give it a try.”

She nodded, handing her earmuffs, while putting hers on. You got into position, as the bots appeared. She slightly corrected how your feet stood, before stepping aside.

You sucked in a breath, gripping the gun tightly, before shooting.

Nothing could have prepared you for its kickback. The gun flew from your grip, ending against the wall. You looked at your empty hands, then at the destroyed bot, with a quite confused expression.

The sight must have been hilarious, for Amélie broke into a fit of laughter, it was shy and not as loud as Lena’s extremely loud laughter. You chuckled, grabbing the gun, trying to see who made it.

No signs, no marks. Probably one of Torb’s creations, he did like to make you his guinea pig. He had that in common with Moira.

You got ready to shoot again, but Widowmaker interrupted you.

“I think you should put your other foot forward, and use your other hand to pull the trigger. Your human arm cannot handle the recoil, but the other one should handle the knockback just fine.” You nodded, and did just as you were instructed.

You shot, and surprisingly, it felt much better, like your hand was supposed to belong there. After a few other shots, you found yourself being quite accurate. You even heard Widow hum appreciatively.

“Torbjorn’s newest baby, I suppose.” Amélie nodded, as the two of you were changing back to your usual outfits.

The sniper was sporting tight jeans, her blue shirt tucked in, her sleeves rolled up, revealing her tattoos. You eyed them with interest, they were as dark as they beautiful.

“You like them?” She asked, as she closed her locker.

“Yes, but I thought it was supposed to be ‘Araignée du soir, espoir’, not ‘cauchemar’”. Your accent slipped a bit on ‘araignée’, you were not exactly used to this word.

“You are right. I thought about changing it, but I have not gotten around to it yet.”

You nodded. It was time for lunch.

“I could accompany you to the tattoo parlour, I must admit I’ve always wanted one myself.”

“What do you want to get?” She asked curiously, as she texted someone.

“I don’t really know, probably something about resilience.” You scratched your temple, thinking about what you could get, and where.

“You do not have to actually get to a tattoo parlour. Sombra is quite the artist herself.” She mused.

She must’ve been, Widowmaker rarely praised anyone.

Just as promised, Akande saved you a seat. Around the table, Reaper was chatting with Jesse, who seemed barely awake, fixating the clock with a piercing gaze. Sombra just entered the room, waving at you and Amélie. You waved back, as you sat next to Genji, who discussing past skirmishes with Akande.

Amélie mentioned that she would get the two of you an acceptable lunch, so you just let her take care of it, as you listened to Genji’s rant about the fact that the only reason why Doomfist was able to get the upper hand, was the fact that their team lacked a healer at the time.

He laughed at that, as if the ninja told him a joke. Genji greeted you with a friendly pat on your back. Sombra sat down with a sigh.

“Bad wake up call?” You asked, as you thanked Amélie, whom was back with the food.

The hacker nodded, pointing an accusatory finger at the sniper.

“She woke me up for lunch. You do know I’m old enough to take care of myself.”

“Says the girl who spends her night on her computer, and who once missed a mission because she woke up at 6 PM instead of 6 AM.” Chuckled Amélie, grabbing a spoonful of gazpacho.

“That was /once/! Am I ever going to live it down?” The Mexican rolled her eyes, as she took a bite of her sandwich.

“Sombra, these are tapas, you’re not supposed to eat them like a sandwich.” Groaned Gabriel.

“Mija, I know, but they taste better like this in my opinion. Who made these? I wasn’t aware we had a Spanish on base.”

“I believe Angela made it. The recipes are an old friend’s.”

“Oooh, why hasn’t he rejoined?” Asked Sombra, as she stole a sip from your gazpacho.

“Fernando died a few years ago.” Said Gabriel, as he added some salt to his cold soup.

“Sorry to hear th-”

She was interrupted by Jesse, who got up on his chair.

“IT’S HIIIIIIGH NOOOON!” He yelled, making old man Torb spit out his soup.

“For fuck’s sake, Jesse!” Choked Gabriel, whom was drinking.

The cowboy and the cyborg ninja high-fived, as you and Sombra dissolved in a fit of laughter.

Angela looked at Jesse, shaking her head. She seemed quite used to it.

The door to the mess hall opened, revealing Moira, whom seemed even more tired than usual.

She walked up to Angela, she did not even spare a glance for anyone else in the whole room.

She whispered something in her ear, to which she nodded, seemingly thinking about something complex, before whispering something else.

Moira followed her gaze, landing on your table. You got back to your conversation with Sombra, which was really just making fun of the cowboy who was awful at using tech. You did not notice the geneticist looking at you, with a mixture of regret, but that did not escape Amélie eyes.

She feigned interest in Gabriel’s conversation, while keeping an eye on the scientist.

Without missing a beat, the sniper texted the group chat you shared with her and the hacker.

Spidey: Moira’s watching Y/N.

Sombra did not need to pull out her phone, she had already answered in a heartbeat.

Sombae: Noiice. Let’s see what makes her tick.

You had felt more than heard your phone buzzing against your thigh, but as you grabbed it to check your messages, Sombra jumped on your lap.

“Good idea! It’s been so long since we took a picture together!” Smiled the hacker, opening your camera app, literally bombarding the two of you with pictures.

She leaned and whispered into your ear.

“Play along, Dr Edge is watching.” She kissed your blushing cheek. You looked above your phone to see a quite surprised Moira. Her pale complexion gave away her flushed cheeks, and you could easily see her hands balled into fists.

Puzzled by her reaction, you decided to follow Sombra’s plan, wrapping an arm around the hacker’s waist, pulling her close, nuzzling in her neck. Your friend purred, flashing a bright smile and a devilish smirk at the scientist.

Moira stormed out of the room, to your trio’s hilarity.

“Man, I think she almost burst from all that rage!” Laughed Sombra, slapping her thigh.

“That was rich!” You chuckled, wiping a tear from your eye.

“I do wonder why she is so jealous and protective, though.” You added, resuming eating your tray.

Amélie rolled her eyes.

“She’s had feelings for you for quite a long time, don’t you know?”

“Yeah, hard to miss Y/N, you guys literally kissed on the rooftops.” Shrugged Sombra.

“But afterwards, she completely ignored me, treating me like complete garbage!” You spat, frustrated.

“Moira’s really weird to read, you never know what’s going on inside her head. Mustn’t be pretty.” Mused the Mexican, wiping her hands on her torn jeans.

You nodded, you wished that the Irish woman could be a tad more open.

“Sorry for pryin’, but I think that Angie could give some insight.” Said Jesse, lowering his hat in front of his eyes.

“Angela, of all people? They don’t really see eye to eye.” You scratched your chin, musing how Angela could possibly know what’s going inside Moira’s mind.

“They did work together a long time ‘go. Plus, they were talkin’ ‘bout somethin’, seemed like good ole Vodka Aunt needed advice from our local angel.”

For once, Jesse was right.

“Go and talk to Moira. I will let Gabe know that you might not be in time for your strategy lesson.” Amélie offered. You accepted, glad to know that the sniper had your back.

Angela was not hard to find, she was lounging in the common room, seemingly watching TV, even though it was obvious that her mind was set on something else. You sat on the ottoman in front of her, crossing your legs.

“Hello Y/N, how are you feeling today?” She smiled, regaining her composure.

“I am feeling fine, Angela, how about you? You seem preoccupied.”

“I’m great, I am extremely glad to see you up and about in the daylight. You have made some incredible progress in the last few weeks.”

You nodded grateful.

“You played no small part in my recovery, doctor. But I believe you are dodging my question.” You grinned, as Angela smiled sheepishly.

“Well, I must admit that Jack, Winston and I have had our hands full lately. But we will make a difference.” She stated confidently. It seemed that the doctor was holding back some information, but you refused to press on the matter, after all, calling the shots in the Recalled Overwatch was no easy task.

“So, what brings you here? It does not seem like you simply wanted to check on your favourite medic.” She sipped from her mug, knowingly.

“You are right, I do have some questions. Moira has been acting… weird, recently.” You looked away, gazing outside the window.

Angela nodded.

“Well, that is quite an oxymoron, Moira does tend to act oddly. I believe she is simply worried. I assume that the both of you were close.”

You raised your eyebrows, Doctor Ziegler was quite perceiving.

“Once again, you are right. We shared a moment on the roof, after I woke up from my… coma, I suppose. I thought that I meant something to her, that we had something special, but I’m not so sure anymore.”

The battle medic put a comforting hand on your thigh.

“Y/N, it’s okay. It is quite obvious that there is a mutual attraction between the two of you, however, what happened to you seemed to have shaken Moira. I won’t go as far to say that she feels guilty, but perhaps she regrets to have cause you such grief. Maybe you should address this issue directly with her.” Advised the ever so wise doctor.

You put your hand upon Angela’s, as a gesture of thanks.

“Thank you, Angie. That does sound wise. But you know what also sounds wise? Getting some sleep.” You chuckled, pointing at the angel’s tired eyes. She giggled in return, shaking her head.

“I will, I promise, perhaps once Jack stops pestering me about expanding.”

“Oooh, field trips coming soon?”

“Sooner than you think, I am afraid. I promise I will keep you updated.”

You stayed and watched television with Angela a little while longer, before heading to the labs.

Mei just had gotten back from Antarctica, a lot of valuable equipment remained there, to the climatologist, it had been quite a bore to work without her previous equipment.

She seemed to be on her way to lunch, however, lost in thought, she simply ran into you.

“Oh my! I’m so sorry!” She exclaimed, readjusting her glasses, before going slack-jawed.

“’Tis only fair, given the fair amount of times I have ran into you before. My apologies for last time, Mei-Ling. I was stupid.” You offered your hand.

She looked at your wretched hand, taking it into her own, in total disbelief.

“You’ve changed so much…” She hugged you tightly. You embraced her back, enjoying her warmth.

“I am so happy to see you again, I thought I’d never get to see the real you again. Don’t worry about last time, I understand.”

You stayed there for a moment, just hugging and catching up.

The door to Moira’s lab opened, as the scientist checked her mail.

She looked at you and Mei hugging tightly.

“Quite the collection, Y/N.” She said drily, before getting back to her lab.

“Well, someone’s more bitter than usual.” Noted Mei. “You should probably speak to her before she smashes something again.”

“She did what?” You asked, dumbfounded.

“She destroyed her computer, and I think she broke a few flasks, given the sounds I heard.”

“When?”

“About 20 minutes ago, I believe.” She checked her watch.

“Yep, I think I need to talk to her.” You sighed. A moody Moira was never a good sign.

“Call me if you need backup.” Said Mei confidently.

You could’ve objected that poor, small, squishy and cute Mei couldn’t harm a fly, but you remembered the fate of the men who tried to get to her in her lab, when the base was under attack, and realised that she was quite a threat.

“I will.” You stated solemnly, before heading to Moira’s lab.

Your badge did not work. You stared at it, confused. You had been transferred to rigorous training, but you were not aware that this affected your access to the lab. Your name had been taken off the door and the mailbox. It seemed like it had been straight out ripped.

Petty, Moira. Petty.

You knocked on the door, once, twice, waiting for an answer.

“I am working.” Came a muffled voice, on the other side.

“You’re always working! Let me in, we need to have a chat.”

“I am not interested in a mere chat.”

“We need to talk, now.” You commanded, quite amazed at how confident you sounded. Good one, try an’ keep it up. You thought to yourself.

The door opened, revealing an upset looking Moira. Her eyebrows were furrowed, and her lab coat bore various stains. A few were of blood. Behind her, you could see the remnants of her computer, and a few puddles of oddly coloured liquids.

“What a mess.” You bluntly stated. O’Deorain was usually so orderly, and was pretty much a clean freak.

That was so unlike her.

She nodded.

“You have come to talk. I am listening.” She took off her labcoat, resting on her metal table.

“Why are you acting so strange? That evening, on the roof. I thought perhaps it meant something to you.” You looked so hurt and confused, Moira was caught off guard.

“It means something to me.” She finally admitted, looking at the ground.

“Then why don’t you talk to me?” You were exasperated.

“You would not understand! You simply cannot.” She started pacing.

“I hurt you, deeper than a bullet could pierce. I wish it had not been so. Do not get me wrong, I certainly not regret saving you. I just could not bear the thought of losing you to these savages.”

She turned around, looking at you with a softness that almost did not belong on her face.

“What I said back then, I meant it. I still do.”

You took her hands, bringing her closer to you. She rested her forehead atop of yours.

“What we had, what we started back then, we can still have it.” You said calmly, enjoying how her hands felt in yours.

“I wish we could. I would want nothing more, dearest one.”

You looked at her with so much hurt in your eyes, but in her own heterochromatic eyes, there was such pain, that you were left speechless.

“Why?”

“I cannot explain, not yet. Forgive me.” She closed her eyes, it looked as if she were hurting all over.

“Moira, please…”

She held you, tight. You could feel that there was so much more going on, but you simply could not understand why Moira rejected you.

“One day, perhaps. I am truly sorry, mo grá.” On your forehead, she laid a most chaste kiss.

“I cannot wait forever, Moira.”

She flinched as if she had been shot.

“I know, and I shan’t ask you to do so. I’ve seen you with Sombra, there is some chemistry between the two of you. I hope she will make you happy, where I have miserably failed.” She whispered.

“There is nothing between Sombra and I, we are just friends.”

“No need to lie, I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Perhaps she can keep you safe better than I.”

Your phone rang. Speak of the devil, it was the hacker.

You didn’t have the time to answer or decline the call, she was already on the line.

“Y/N, meet me on the rooftops right now, it’s an emergency!” She seemed quite panicked, which was very unlike the usually confident Mexican.

“I’ll be over in an instant.”

“What’s going on?” Asked Moira, slightly concerned but much more annoyed at the hacker’s interruption.

“I intend to find out. I really need to go, but can we pick up this conversation later?” You hesitated an instant, before smooching her cheek and running to your meeting spot.

You did not even notice the scientist holding a surprised hand to her flushing cheek.

“Amiga, I think we’ve got a problem.” Said Sombra, pacing nervously on the roof, chewing on her bottom lip.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” You place a reassuring hand on her shoulder, trying to get her to stop pacing like a tiger in a cage.

“Seems like you’re going to be deployed, the reports don’t state where.”

“Angela did mention Jack wanting to expand our horizons. What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, you are being deployed, but with none of us!” The hacker seemed quite shaken.

“Sombra, that’s okay, I can handle my own without you or Widow around. We will keep in touch, plus, how long am I going to be away?” You sat on the edge, the hacker resuming her pacing.

“Two weeks. From what the reports say, it’s going to be you, D.va, Lùcio and Tracer. Seems like you guys are leaving for the Mojave Desert, in America.”

“Relax, that’s not that long, plus I can handle the heat.” You opened your arms, you knew that Sombra was pretty much a hugger, and constantly craved affection, since Amélie was rarely physically affectionate.

She dived in the hug, settling between your open legs, trying to calm down.

“I know I sound silly, I’m just worried you’d get in trouble.” She rested her chin on your shoulder.

You thought about what Moira said. You did get along pretty well with Sombra, she always had your back, and she understood your chronic pain and somehow knew how to calm them.

After all, she also took care of Gabe during his bad days.

You pet her hair, feeling the weird texture of the cybernetics on her head.

“My mother used to do this to calm me down, when I was a kid.” You remembered. It felt like another lifetime.

“Sometimes, I can’t remember what a normal life is like.” You stated, sighing.

The hacker tightened her grip.

“Feels like watching movies with Amé and I. Reading awful books that the others liked. Pretending they were decent.”

“Screw you, Som, Zola’s an amazing writer.”

She laughed at that.

“See? Not that hard. Weird is the new normal. You may quote me.” You swatted her on the shoulder.

“I wonder what I’d do without you guys to keep me grounded.”

The hacker seemed to be deep in thoughts.

“What’s on your mind, ‘Sombae’?”

“When we get back, I want to tell you something.” She sounded awfully serious.

“You can tell me anything, I’m here for you.” You took her hands in yours, gazing into her absurdly violet eyes.

“You know what? Fuck later, I’m going to tell you now.” She was quite conflicted, you could see it in her body language, she was restless.

You nodded, listening intently.

“My name. It’s, uh, I know it doesn’t sound like a big deal, but to me, it is. Amé, Gabe, Akande, they know it, I want you to know it.” She fidgeted with her fingers, breaking eye contact.

“Hey, Sombra, it’s okay, take your time.” That seemed to do the trick, she took a sharp breath.

“Olivia. Olivia Colomar. I was born in Mexico, but y’know, war hit us hard, let’s not even talk ‘bout the aftermath. I lost my family, thought I’d never have a family again ‘till… ‘till…” Som-Olivia, trailed off, likely lost in thoughts.

“Until?” You encouraged her.

“Until I found my place. At first, to me, Talon was just another tool. I somehow got attached to our merry band of misfits, but I only ever felt at home once we were able to run away from Talon.” Explained Olivia.

“I still don’t understand how you guys made it out alive.”

“Akande is a much better storyteller than I am, long story short: Amélie’s constant reconditioning almost broke her, when the Oasis Ministry found out about Moira’s ties with Talon and Widowmaker, who was pretty much public enemy number one after Mondatta’s assassination, our dearest scientist had to go into hiding.”

“I see, but how did the rest of you get out?”

“Moira was done breaking Amélie over and over again, she claimed that this was not furthering mankind’s evolution, it was mere enslavement. Talon didn’t take no for an answer. The council decided to execute Moira. Akande voice his opposition, and, to make it short, that’s why the skyscraper blew up. Gabe and Akande were able to make it out, and the only ones able to both provide for Amé’s health and our safety were the Overwatch agent.”

“From what I’ve heard, you had some… quarrels before.”

“To say the least, we were pretty much arch-enemies, to put it on a spectrum. We were not the only threat though, and both Angela and Tracer wanted to save Amélie and Gabriel. I guess Mercy still felt quite guilty. It didn’t happen instantly, at first, we just lent each other a helping hand from time to time.”

You nodded, still amazed at how they were able to forgive, or at least, go past such differences.

“Why has the former Talon team moved in, then?” You gestured to the Gibraltar complex.

“Well, you’ve witnessed it first-hand. Loads of people don’t want Overwatch back, it was bound to attract some… unwanted attention. Namely, attacks from various groups, such as Lùmerico, Vishkar, who’s still sore about losing Satya…”

“You’re still proud about the fact that you were the one to help her out, eh?” You grinned.

“It was no small feat, but honestly, Lùcio was quite helpful as well. Didn’t know this guy had it in him.”

“Precious small frog boy can be dangerous, y’know.” You both chuckled.

“Anyways, now, I finally feel at home. That’s part why I don’t exactly like the idea of you leaving. Not that I don’t trust the other Overwatch peeps, I’m just afraid that if harm comes your way, we won’t be able to reach you.”

“C’mon Olivia, what’s the worst that could happen to me? Dying?”

“Too soon, Y/N, too soon.” You both laughed, until your phone rang again.

It was Angela.

You answered, Sombra paying close attention.

“Hey Y/N, it’s Angela. Mind coming by my office, I have some news about your affectation.”

“Sure thing Angie, I’ll be here in a second.”

“You weren’t supposed to know until tomorrow morning, seems like you have friend in high places.” Whistled Sombra.

“It was great talking to you, Olivia, I appreciate your trust, and I feel the same way. Come by my place tonight, we can watch silly movies and overdose on candy, bring Amé, it’s going to be fun.”

“Woohoo!” Cheered Sombra, probably going over the world’s most awful movies you could binge watch. She smooched your cheeks, before dramatically throwing her translocator, vanishing with an elegant bow.

“How extra.” You chuckled to yourself, before jumping down the roof, scaring the hell out of the poor hacker.

“Y/N, first off, let me start by saying how proud I am of your recent progress. After some deliberations with Gabriel and Jack, we decided you are ready to go on your first mission.” Angela was beaming with pride. Her joy was contagious.

“Thank you Angie, appreciate it. Tell me all about it.” You leaned in, listening intently.

“You are going to the Mojave, California. Your mission will be to survey possible enemy activity, there is also a group living there, they may provide intel. They are an interesting bunch, I think Lena will be more than happy to fill you in during the flight. You will be paired with Hana, Lùcio and Lena.”

“That’s a small team.” You noted.

“It is, we think it would be better not to attract any unwanted attention from our enemies. It is unlikely that you will run in major trouble, but it was also unlikely that Gibraltar would be under attack. We are thinking about relocating our homebase. There are several suitable spots we would like you to evaluate.” Angela handed you a file full of pictures and criteria.

“Should you need any advice or further information, your communicators have been enhanced, and a crypted channel will be available 24/7 to our HQ. Do not worry, you are in good hands.” Offered Mercy, supportive as ever.

“Understood. When are we leaving?” You asked, getting up at the same time as Angela.

“Tomorrow night, come see me in the morning for a check-up, and meet Lena in the docking bay by noon, I reckon she’ll have much to say about your assignment.”

You shook hand, professionally, and as you were on your way to the exit, Angela called out.

“I also recommend asking Fareeha for advice on how to stand desert temperatures, you are never too prepared!”

After a night full of candies and awful movies, you were waiting for Lena in front of the Orca. She was running late, as usual. For somebody who could control time, she just could not be on time. You winced, rubbing your arm. Angela really liked to stick needles into people.

“Sorry,” Apologised the pilot, her hair sticking in different directions.

“Hit snooze one too many times?” You laughed, pointing at her… curious hairstyle, which resembled a punk guinea pig who’d do too much coke in one stand.

“You guessed it, luv. Hope I didn’t keep ya waiting for too long though. I was thinking about taking the old girl out for a warm-up trip, care to come along?”

“Sure, let’s go!”

The ride was smooth, and the company was great.

“So, there’s this group, they call themselves the ‘Slabbers’, they organised themselves in a city, called, you guessed it, Slab City. Independent thinkers, outcasts, call them what you will. They’re the ones who called the authorities about some unregistered military-like trucks in the area.”

“I suppose the police hasn’t done anything about it.”

“You must be a mind reader, Y/N. Whoever is in control, they must be powerful. The design of the trucks seems to be one of the Outlaws.”

“Isn’t that a biker gang? Jesse told me about them.”

“Damn, you know your stuff.” Lena switched to auto pilot and turned her seat around, so the two of you could chat better.

“But if they’re just a gang, how can they control the local authorities? It should be beyond them.” You laid back in your seat, crossing your ankles.

“Los Muertos, the Outlaws, the Syndicate… The time of independent gangs are over. They’re too useful to the politicians and the corporations.” Explained the pilot.

“How so?”

“Politicians can use fear to get elected, and corporations can tip them off to destroy their rival, or to make their products useful. Mexico, thanks to Los Muertos, several cities were cut off of electricity, and who came in to save the day?”

“Lùmerico.”

“Yep. Made them look good, and they made tons of money. This type of ‘system’ used to be particularly present in the BRICS, now they’re common.”

“The BRICS?”

“Brazil, Russia, India, China, South Africa. Emerging countries, they called ‘em. Now, they’re literally forces to be reckoned with.”

“So, our enemy is most likely to be the Outlaws. Perhaps we should ask Jesse to tag along?”

“While Jesse does have some intel, it’s better to keep him out of gang business, we don’t want Deadlock to try and get him back. Still haven’t forgiven him for choosing Blackwatch over prison.”

The ride back to the watchpoint was filled with chatter and music, as you debated what to put on the playlist with Lùcio, over the intercom.

As you landed, a Swedish man was waiting, his hands planted firmly on his hips.

“Hello, Torbjorn.”

“It’s Torbjörn.” Corrected the dwarf, puffing.

“May we help you, grumpy old man?”

“Actually, there is something I’d like to show Y/N before you go. Follow me.” Without further ado, he turned heels and headed for the workshop.

It was quite an impressive place, the forge was blazing, pieces of armour littered the Swede’s part of the workshop, while Satya and Fareeha’s were perfectly clean. The Architect seemed to be in the middle of trying to figure out a blueprint, but graced with a wave, while the Egyptian was busy welding something on her Raptora suit.

A mannequin was covered with a large piece of cloth, which Torbjorn ceremoniously tossed away, revealing your armour.

“So, what’d you think?”

You went slack-jawed. This could not be.

It was a fine piece of craftsmanship. The chest was protected with a sturdy-looking piece of armour, which resembled Jack Morrison’s, during the golden age of Overwatch, but with more sober colours. The pants seemed to be made out of leather, but as you touched them, it felt smooth as silk. You pulled on the texture, eliciting a proud huff from the dwarf.

“It is pretty indestructible. The chest piece was made by Fareeha, modelled after Jack’s. The trousers are Satya’s doing, hardlight. It won’t be scorching hot during the day, and will keep you warm at night.”

The coat topping the armour was stylish indeed. A long, sleeveless leather coat.

“We figured you didn’t want cloth to get in the way of your special arm. It should keep you safe. Genji told us you liked to double wield swords. There are holsters in the back. The swords used to be his, we decided to upgrade them a bit.” He pulled the coat over the mannequin’s head, gesturing you to follow him.

“There’s another holster in the back. For your shotgun, the one you tested yesterday with Blue.”

He grabbed the shotgun lying on the workbench. Like the rest of the outfit, it was red and black. It seemed a lot shorter.

“In order to make it more discreet and easier to carry, we decided to install two modes. This is the rest mode…” He pressed a button on the side of the gun, parts activated, and the shotgun was back to its former size.

“And this is the offensive mode.” He seemed quite proud of his work, as he handed you the gun.

You were simply speechless.

“What are you waiting for ? Try it on.” Encouraged Fareeha, who put down her tools, looking at you with a smug smile. Satya seemed quite interested as well, her hand resting on her hip.

Fully geared up, you marched to the hangar bay, greeted by your teammates’ whistles.

“Looking good, Y/N!” Cheered Hana, dressed in her pilot suit.

“Torb has outdone himself once more.” Nodded Lùcio, examining your outfit.

Lena blinked around you excitedly.

“Woah, you look so cool, luv! Anyways, now that the dream team is assembled, let’s go!” Said Lena cheerfully.

As you the aircraft left the base, you noticed a small group standing on the rooftops.

Widowmaker, Sombra, Reaper, Doomfist, Mei, Genji, Zenyatta and Mercy waved goodbye, but all you could focus on was someone standing on the balcony.

Moira. She offered a small wave of her hand. You waved back, wondering if she could actually see you.

You sat down, eager to complete your first mission.

#overwatch imagines #readerxmoira #moira o'deorain #flightless birds

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bellsybuilds · 6 years

Text

[Overwatch] Hold your tongue (T, Akande/Lucio, 1.7k)

The first of my fills for the writing prompts, wherein I again fail to respond to a prompt in under 1k words. I’ll just accept my handicap with grace.

Hold your tongue (Can also be read on AO3) for @slavewhotouchedastar

Doomfist | Akande Ogundimu / Lúcio Correia dos Santos (M)

Chapters 1 / 2 / 3 | Ceasefire Masterlist

Angst #21: “I wish I didn’t have these feelings, but I do.”

Lúcio shouldn’t say anything.

He shouldn’t.

His arms cross tightly over his chest and he huffs a breath when strong hands stroke down his arms in what might be an attempt of comfort.

Comfort. Here.

That’s a laugh.

He tries not to shy from the familiar touch of those calloused palms, stomach tightening, but fingers tip his chin up, and then Lúcio has to look on the face of his complication.

Not for the first time, its occurs to him that Akande is really handsome. And his eyes are gorgeous, even if he often stares a little too long and makes people uncomfortable. He’s not afraid to study people. Right now, the full intensity of that focus is narrowed on him in a careful frown, and he resists the urge to look away.

Lúcio adores the strength of his features, bold and broad unlike his own straighter face, and a form he conditioned for speed. Akande was built to brawl while Lúcio trained himself to evade the need for it altogether. Not today. No more running.

“Ìfẹ́-ọkàn mi….” Akande smooths a thumb over his lower lip and Lúcio almost turns his face towards that palm on instinct. “You are thinking very loudly.”

Don’t say anything.

Before him in their secreted Illios motel room, early morning slants across Akande’s face. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, drawing Lúcio to follow so the shorter man doesn’t have to crane his neck to meet his eye.

They are both dressed, the work of a few minutes though it took even less than that to get them off last night. Lúcio spent most of his time this morning looking for where Akande threw his gloves and eventually found them behind the television.

At his back, the news anchor reports concerns of local unrest in the wake of tensions in Egypt. Is Talon behind that, too?

The story eclipses to silence as Akande turns off the television, giving Lúcio his full attention.

“I’m just… worried. For you,” Lúcio murmurs, drinking in Akande’s open body language, the hands he props on his knee, head tilted to listen attentively.

The bark of laughter is expected.

“You, worry? For me?” Akande smiles, squinting at Lúcio as though he will see the truth behind the joke if only he looks close enough. Lúcio’s face burns, an emotion tightening in his chest he’s not willing to study too closely as Akande laughs again, shaking his head. “And what cause have I given you for this concern?”

People are not all good or all bad.

Lúcio knows what he’s read, like everyone else: Akande Ogundimu is brilliant, aggressively forward-thinking, and persuasive. It’s these qualities that make him dangerous, more than his stolen gauntlet, more than the body count that climbs with each appearance of his name in the news. More ruthless than his own violence is the carnage Lúcio has witnessed him inspire in others: hangars of armoured Talon agents, guns raised, baying like slavering hounds for Doomfist’s glorious vision of a better world.

But Lúcio can’t ignore the other things he’s learned: the schools Akande’s subsidiaries established in his home country, the scholarships and medical care reconnecting and sustaining families still scarred decades after the events of the Omnic Crisis. The dangerous men he has recruited to his side so he can keep a close eye, and put down the worst of them himself.

The math is simple: the lives Akande has saved far outnumber those lost in his wake. That they know of. And still….

Lúcio closes his eyes with a small sigh, biting his tongue.

“I know you believe in what you’re doing, man, through and through. But….” He shakes his head, arms falling to his sides. “I want to ask you not to anyway.”

Akande doesn’t hesitate. “Then ask.”

“Don’t,” Lúcio fires back at Akande’s amused smile. “Please don’t.”

Akande stills, his smile softening into a calculated line and it’s like watching a film of ice pass over his eyes the moment he understands they have finally come to this conversation, after these three long months.

The shift from Akande to Doomfist is disturbingly seamless. A ripple seems to pass beneath Akande’s skin, every feature relaxing at the surface, but Lúcio feels the man’s strength coiling at the ready, electrifying the air with tension. And as that electricity builds, the easy comfort of the shield they erected around themselves over all these months begins to slowly and irreversibly fracture.

Lúcio doesn’t know why the break seems to start in his chest.

What would his family or friends say if they knew how long he had let this go on? That he let it happen at all?

“Years of planning,” Akande says. His voice has smoothed with a disquietingly familiar charm that gives Lúcio the chills.

“Don’t do that.”

It makes his stomach roll to hear that voice used on him, and in the sanctum of… whatever this is. He shakes his head, feeling the illusion fracture further. He stops himself from pushing the heel of his hand against the sudden pang in his chest.

Akande continues, and Lúcio’s attention is drawn to the slow, intent gesture of his hand. “Every conflict, every war makes us stronger. With our work, humanity will bear more like you who rise up and lead us forward.”

Lúcio stares at the man in disbelief. Is he for real? What exactly is he trying to start?

“And how many will die? How many who never had the means or the chance to protect themselves?” Lúcio thrusts a hand at the window to the world Akande thinks himself fit to reshape, voice rising. “Your way, Akande– it raises those you favour, and the privileged even higher. Don’t use me as a poster child for your war mongering. It could have been anyone else in Rio, but it’s dumb luck that I’m the one who stole that technology first.”

“No,” Akande rises to his feet, voice hushed with an intense passion, eyes alight. “You survived because you were the strongest, Lúcio!”

Lúcio takes a step back, unafraid, but unwilling to let the other man close the distance. “We didn’t want to fight. People were disappearing. They were being beaten in the streets. Thrown into jail without charge or sufficient cause. A building exploded and they pretended it wasn’t their fault. That was your people.”

Akande shakes his head immediately. “Not mine.” His lip curls in an ugly scowl, voice hardening. “There is nothing more cowardly than a bomb.”

Oh, right. Akande doesn’t know that Lúcio has learned Vishkar sit at his table. Which just makes everything the two of them have been doing even worse.

He swallows thickly, taking another step back when Akande reaches for him. It physically pains Lúcio not to let him. When the hell did they get so far?

Lúcio tries to swallow some moisture down his throat, even that is difficult. His body is wound so tight, trembling. It forces his words out quiet and unsteady.

“People died, and they didn’t have to. I fight so nobody has to live through that again. We just want to live. How many in places like mine, do you think would survive a war? A real war?” He tilts his head, studying Akande’s face intently, but he’s not as good at this as Akande, and Akande’s expression is stone. “Why do you get to decide that for us?”

“A war is coming, Lúcio, with or without me. But with me, we can steer its machine.” With a blink, something softens in his expression. Akande sighs, straightening. His shoulders relax and Lúcio feels some of the tension leave his own body. “You can still leave. Do not make the quarrel between us today.”

Lúcio smiles wryly, shrugging and throwing his hands up. “It was always between us. But this only worked when we pretended otherwise, huh? Listen.” He leans his hands on his hips, and watches Akande’s expression light up further when Lúcio steps in, voice gentle. “Would be easier if I didn’t, but I care about you. I wish–” His heart hammers, but he forces the words out past tight lungs and his throat closing, he has to now or he never will, “I wish I didn’t have these feelings, but I do. And I gotta fight for those people who can’t fight for themselves. You know?”

Akande is quiet, dark eyes searching Lúcio’s face long enough for Lúcio to see that he understands. He understands and it’s not relief or joy that Lúcio sees in his face, but he never expected that.

He never expected this to go for more than one night, all those months ago in Numbani.

“You won’t get the answer you want from me,” Akande says, in a strange tone that Lúcio doesn’t understand. The man doesn’t even have the decency to make it sound like an apology.

Lúcio nods, gaze dropping to the floor, adjusting his stance. He anticipated that. He just hopes Akande can’t tell he’s shaking.

Glancing to the door at his back, the silence is heavy and brings the realisation crashing down that he only has seconds before those targets return to their backs and they’ll need to raise their weapons.

Against each other? Fuck.

“… Would you do it yourself?” Lúcio asks, unable to look Akande in the face, doesn’t even consider that Akande might not understand.

He feels a huff of air on his temple a moment before a hand turns his face, and then Akande is kissing him. Deeply. A tongue slides between his lips, a gentle hand cups the back of his head, and Lúcio’s whole body gives up the fight, bowing towards Akande as it releases the tension of the last five minutes. His heart is thundering in his chest, his eyes sting – no, fuck, he’s not going to lose it –

Akande pulls back before Lúcio is ready, a sharp, wet break of sound, and Lúcio whimpers despite himself, body leaning in to follow him.

Fuck.

Akande’s eyes are dark and pupils blown. He swallows audibly, glancing from Lúcio’s lips to meet his gaze. His hands fall away. “If I see you on the field. Go the other way.”

Metal scrapes on wood as Akande swipes his earpieces from the table and when the door swings shut behind his back, Lúcio’s ears ring in the silence.

And he can’t escape the feeling that there’s something else he should have said.

#writing prompts #doomcio #doomfist #akande ogundimu #lucio correia dos santos #overwatch #slavewhotouchedastar #requests #secret relationships #angst #serious conversations

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tarysande · 7 years

Note

If not already claimed, 32 or 37, please :)

(Someone else asked for 37, so how about some 32?)

Cal Ryder/Tiran Kandros, prompt: dancing

Kandros isn’t surprised when he walks into Vortex and sees Ryder leaning up against the bar, chatting---if it can be called chatting when the other person speaks in grunts and monosyllables---with the bartender.

The truth is, he knew Ryder would come to Vortex. She often does, when the Tempest docks. He’s the Director of Nexus Security and Ryder causes ripples---both good and bad---wherever she goes.

It’s his job to keep an eye on her.

Or so he tells himself.

Not without shame.

Tonight, Ryder’s wearing form-fitting trousers that cling to her human curves and the muscles of her thighs. She’s shrugged out of the coat she was wearing when they spoke earlier, down at militia headquarters; the sleeveless top she wears is thin and silken. She’s still got the scarf around her neck that exactly matches the color of his eyes. Her long hair is loose, tumbling in red-gold waves over her shoulders and down her back.

He’s never seen her with her hair down before.

He wants to run his talons through it. Wants to see if it’s as soft as it looks.

He shakes his head and turns back to the bar, studiously ignoring the dance floor behind him, even though he can make out the precise sound of her laughter through the cacophony of other noises. One drink. Then he’ll go.

“Hey, Kandros,” says Liam Kosta. “Almost didn’t recognize you without the whole armor kit. Good to know you understand the importance of letting loose once in a while. I keep trying to convince Ryder, but...” Kosta shrugs. “Well, she’s Ryder.”

Kandros turns slightly, resting on one elbow. “What do you mean by that?”

Kosta’s white grin flashes in the dark as he raises a bottle to his lips and takes a long pull. “Oh, come on. You don’t miss much. Surely you’ve noticed how much our one and only Pathfinder works.” He snorts. “She was going to spend the whole night working on APEX deployments before I rescued--ah.”

Kandros lifts his browplates.

“Right. Definitely tomorrow. I’ll help.”

“Please don’t,” Kandros says, and is surprised when he means it. He doesn’t like the thought of Ryder spending her off hours deliberating over the work he’s asked of her, but there’s no denying how effective the strike teams have become since she started working with them.

Kosta only laughs, as if a joke has been made.

“She appears to be enjoying herself now,” Kandros continues. The words give him permission to seek her out again. She’s dancing with an asari he doesn’t know.

“You kidding? She’d be thrilled if you went over and started talking shop. I’m supposed to---and these are her words---‘rescue her,’” Kosta glances at his omni. “Uh, two minutes ago.”

Kandros narrows his eyes. Perhaps she does look a little tired, at that. Perhaps it’s less that she’s dancing with the asari and more that the asari is clinging to her. He shrugs, as if his next words are lazy, as if they don’t make his heart beat a little harder in his chest. “I’ll go.”

He doesn’t wait for Kosta’s reply.

For the moment before she recognizes him, panic flits across Ryder’s face. Then her expression softens, turns genuine. “Kandros!” she says, turning away from the disappointed asari. He’s pretty sure that if humans had subharmonics, hers would be telegraphing relief. He glowers until the asari takes the hint and departs. “Dance?”

He blinks, which is evidently acceptance enough. Ryder’s hand closes around his wrist, and she tugs him away to a less-populated part of the dance floor. “Thank you,” she says, still swaying to the beat. “I’m gonna kick Kosta’s ass. Worst rescuer ever. You’re much better. Who’s gonna push things when the Security Director’s glaring murder?”

He opens his mouth to say something like you’re welcome or no problem but what comes out is, “No dancing, then?”

It’s her turn to blink, but instead of laughing it off or stepping away, she settles a hand on the curve of his waist.

Torture, basically. The best kind of torture.

To put his hand on her back, he has to touch her hair. It really is soft.

Spirits.

“Ryder,” he begins, after they’ve been swaying for a few moments, “I... I sincerely hope the work with APEX isn’t too much. I know how much is on you right now. If it is, I hope you’d tell me.”

She rolls her eyes, but steps a little closer. Her bare shoulders are flecked with freckles. He does not bury his face in her hair, and congratulates himself on his restraint. “Okay, I’m gonna kick Kosta’s ass twice, now.” Tilting her head back to meet his gaze, she says, “Can I ask you something?”

He nods.

“Why me?” She removes her hand from his waist long enough to wiggle her fingers in the air before putting it back again. “Pathfinder, sure. I get it. But you didn’t have to give me access to APEX.”

He swallows, wishing he’d finished his drink. “Honestly? You’ve got a gift. Knew it as soon as you hit the Nexus. So many reports of a human Pathfinder poking around.” He chuckles at her expression and taps the side of his head with the tip of a talon. “You’re a tactician. They’re in good hands.”

“Can I ask you something else?”

She’s so close now, he can feel the warmth of her. It’s far more intoxicating than alcohol. “Sure,” he says, trying not to sound like he’s choking.

“Are we going to do something about this?”

“This?”

Her laugh is soft. So soft he bends down to hear it. She tips her face up. Her mouth is so close. “Yeah,” she says. “This. Me. You. Maybe---maybe I’m crossing a line here, but if I’m half the tactician you seem to think I am, I’d have to be pretty blind to not see how often you drink at the bar when I’m here. And if you’re half the tactician I think you are, I’m pretty sure you’ve noticed how often I’m at militia HQ, even when there’s no business for me there.”

It’s probably against a dozen regulations and protocols and rules, and the Nexus leadership’s still a shambles, and he’s worried about eight hundred different things up to and including the still-missing turian ark, but he’s been a good turian for so damned long and with Ryder pressed up against him, he just doesn’t care. For a change. It’ll all be there waiting for him tomorrow, same as always. “I’ve noticed.”

“And?”

He knows they have an audience, so he allows himself only the briefest press of brow to brow. Her eyes widen.

“And,” he says, “I think maybe the next time we come to Vortex, we should come together.”

“I’d like that,” she says, with a smile that seems almost-shy. The music changes to something upbeat, but they continue to sway, oblivious.

#ladyeglantine #cal ryder #tiran kandros #kandros #rydros #ryder/kandros #mass effect #mass effect andromeda #my fic #fanfiction #follower appreciation prompt

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amuerion · 7 years

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Super-Size SFW Meihem Headcanons Collection Incoming!

Hello to everyone out there! I saw that this tag could use some cheering up, so I decided to join in the fun and share a little meihem (and friends) headcanon collection of my own.

Right away, the post itself is massively long and several of these are quite detailed.

I have collected many of these for a while. I wanted to make a post that covered a lot and maybe would even be something to return to, instead of creating a bunch of smaller ones. You might even have seen a few smaller ones of these around already that I have shared on anon or my main blog. But I tried my best to split it into topic sections to make it easier to read and find your way around!

For compactness’ sake, you’ll find everything under the Read More link!

Basis: Overwatch Joined Forces AU

1. They Wish to Do WHAT Now?!

Mei can’t believe her ears and eyes, as her colleagues tell her that two junkers she met before want to offer them their help. How shall this no-good bully called Junkrat and his colossus of an accomplice Roadhog possibly be interested in striking back against Talon and other shady forces that dare to provoke another Omnic crisis?

Would the impending destruction not be a cause of celebration for the two junkers? Or even worse, could they fake their willingness and just mean to make it easier for Talon and cohorts to destroy what is left of Overwatch and its allies from the inside?! Mei certainly finds no good reason to believe them.

There is something Mei can agree on with a few others, though: It is better for the junkers to use their massive fire power against the threats for humanity, instead of continuing to be another threat to humanity themselves. And should they wish to play the game for the fate of the world on the side of Overwatch, they’d have to play by the rules of theirs and reconsider thrice, whether they want to try anything rash.

With great caution, Mei finally agrees on the teaming up and supports the majority of the vote in the crew. However, she is dedicated to keep her eye on the junkers, knowing that they’d have to get through her and all the others first, should they seriously dare to fool them.

2. S’long as the Payment’s Roight

But in all seriousness, Junkrat is willing to give it a shot. While his bodyguard Roadhog is validly skeptical - since their earlier tries to switch sides were anything but a success - and considers the chances of this working laughable, Junkrat objects since, at least to some degree, they and the Overwatch crew sit in the same boat.

For as long as he can think, Junkrat and all the others he got to know in the irradiated outback had been oppressed and let down by the government, forcing them into crime and battles of resistance for freedom and compensation for the injustice they suffered - with no hope of change in sight. The people of Overwatch dedicated their lives to the well-being of the world, for the citizens with the citizens all across the globe. But the more said citizens mistrusted them in their procedures and decisions, the more they were considered to be a threat instead of help, finally leading to their further existence as a hero association to be thought of as not desireable by the leading heads of the law. Thus, even when their origins and methods may be different, both the remaining heroes of Overwatch and the rebelling junkers continue to work illegally for what they consider important to them.

Joining Overwatch and finding a way to make his bombs damage the property of all the ones who rid the innocent of all that is rightfully theirs and find joy in making the masses suffer for their own irresponsibilities and lack of backbone? Getting another safety net of protection and a chance to distance himself further from earlier forced contacts and experiences with Talon members and Sombra, while giving Roadhog a break every now and then? And all of this with a solid payment? Gladly! And with that, Junkrat cemented his decision, while Roadhog thinks to himself that Rat will either have to learn the hard way, or he will be the one to stand corrected. Only time will tell.

Furthermore, Junkrat is quite thankful that the discussion about how to proceed with the Omnics is still up for an immense debate at the headquarters. He might does not see himself siding with the Omnic supporters anytime soon, but luckily the experiences of the crew are diverse, instead of a stream of yes-sayers without sound reasoning to back up their position. As diverse are their plans on what the next move should be and the factors of future threat are not thrown under the rug. Junkrat looks forward to see where all of this could go...and also to meet a certain scientist again that he is determined to prove wrong regarding the impression about himself.

3. Getting to Know and Love Mei

Junkrat gets to learn a whole lot more about Mei, during their work together for the same cause: She is a rather shy person at first that does not believe her own passions to be all that interesting to others. When she finds this worry to be unjustified after a long time of bonding and being encouraged to tell more about herself, she is hardly stoppable in conversation, though.

She genuinely loves learning, every chance to travel excites her and she likes to draw and report about her journeys to others (though she does not have much self-esteem when it comes to the presented results of these two interests). It is great to have someone in Mei that you can discuss sincere topics with, as much as you can goof around with her, once she feels comfortable.

Junkrat admires that it shows how much she cares for her profession with all her heart. He gladly listens to her about all the theories and experiences known to Mei. Even when he cannot grasp all of them in entirety, it is nice to just see her talk with such admiration, love and warmth showing in her face from all the joy. Mei is not afraid to take on challenging and difficult jobs all by herself. She is very thorough with all of it and always looks for a way to improve.

That Mei lost the entire work team and circle of closest friends in the tragedy of Ecopoint Antarctica is something Junkrat feels awfully sorry about, because he experienced first hand what it feels like when someone you treasure is pulled out of your life with brute force - but without warning. He is all the more impressed for the fact that this did not make Mei give up on everything there is. Instead, she still has such a positive outlook on life, tries to be of help to the ones that cannot help themselves, is convinced that everything happens for a reason and thinks of everyone else first, before she does something good for herself. He never quite got to know someone like Mei who decides to shed a tear for the otherwise forgotten and determined to carry the weight of the problems of others whenever they cry out for support.

Mei herself does not feel as big and impressive as described, however. She often wishes she was stronger and would not let her temper get the best of her. Her heavily empathic heart makes it easier for her to jump to quick conclusions due to her huge protective spirit and when her courage is pushed to its limits. Her honesty and getting so deeply involved with other people’s issues makes her also all the more attackable for the ones who wish her ill. In fact, she often fears that she turns out to be far too small to carry the beloved home she tries to save on her shoulders in the long run - perhaps her efforts will turn out to outlive her, or even not at all.

Junkrat cannot relate to these worries. To him, it is a whole different level of “being tall” to be strong enough to show yourself to the world as you truly wish to be seen, instead of hiding behind an alibi that seems most convenient to gain as much support and profit possible. On top of that, he considers it valuable that she likes to speak her mind truthfully and shows so much care for the people around her. That has become quite a rarity in these demanding times.

There is also no reason for him why she should wish to be taller in size whatsoever. In fact, Junkrat thinks that she is small in physique only makes her more huggable and a nicely compact bundle of sunshine. That and she does not have to worry about inconveniently limited door frames and prehistoric “How’s the weather up there?”-jokes like him all the time.

Overall, Junkrat considers Mei to be adorable and very pretty. He loves all the things about her that she cannot hide, like her gentle smile, her hands that are always warm, her silky hair to get lost in, her puffy cheeks and cuddly self. But the things that she actually tries to hide is what he loves just as much, like all the cute little noises of content, surprise, happiness and feeling flattered she makes, her laughter that ranges from adorable giggles all the way to a hysterical seagull over the most diverse things and how out of this world she can look in festive and elegant attire.

Mei is a bit embarassed about a lot of these things and prefers to show herself in a casually comfy style, instead. She often fears to overdo it when she is getting dressed up, especially when most of the magic is gone by the next morning. But Junkrat doesn’t care. He is certain that the morning Mei, with her hair all over the place like a sea urchin, in nothing but a nightdress and yeti slippers, warning him to roll over to avoid her bad-morning-fish-cutter-breath, as she turbulently searches for her glasses with mole vision, is just as gorgeous as the Mei that shimmers like an entire firework on her own in her festive dress on a way to a friend’s birthday party.

One time, Junkrat found out that Mei is very embracing and encouraging when it comes to the beauty in the diversity of people. She thinks that any person, no matter where they are from, no matter what they look like and no matter how much transformation they undergo to arrive at being the person they truly want to be, can be incredibly beautiful when they have a positively fruitful soul that impacts the world and shines through them for everyone else to notice. It was that conviction that finally lit the spark to cause a fire in Junkrat that seemed to be impossible to suffocate - that he himself did not want to suffocate.

4. Getting to Know and Love Junkrat

Also Mei slowly but surely expands her first impression of Junkrat by a lot of things she never would have believed to witness, before they continued to work together. She learns to team up with him, but who she learns to appreciate is Jamison Fawkes in his entirety.

She is amazed by how outgoing he is, how even nerve-demanding pressure can’t get him to back down, how immensely happy about the littlest things in life and how loyal he is - he may does not always know how to help right away, but his willingness to do so is indestructible.

The more people got used to Junkrat being a part of the team, the more Mei got to see how encouraging, supportive and honestly interested in others he could be: Junkrat loves to laugh and make others laugh. He comes up with the most horrible puns and hilarious stories in the blink of an eye, if he really wants to, and likes to bond with people, or “beautiful freaks” as he jokingly calls all the ones that catch his interest, over the things that keep them going in life a lot. He takes an immense interest in what moves them, since there is such a huge variety of personalities around the world and even huger stories behind it. It is exciting to him to understand why some of them became who they are now, mainly also because not many people made an effort to understand someone like him by all that life has thrown him into. Junkrat enjoys to have a good discussion with Mei about science, tell Lúcio what unfolds in front of his inner eye by listening to his music and wishes to learn how to make music himself, preferably how to play the guitar for personal reasons. Travelling trough video game history with all the gems that D. Va’s family has held on to for generations is something he always looks forward to and he is even willing to convince the moody top engineer Torbjörn to help him to create alternative, water-proof fin prosthetics in his workshop, so that Roadhog can teach him how to swim in the HQ pool and they can share another hobby that does his well-trusted companion good, especially. He brings all of them together and slowly becomes more protective and affectionate, the more he dares to consider these few rare people that get along with him family.

Despite all of these efforts, not many decide that Junkrat is a person that they want to stick around with. Over the course of his life in the outback, several fellow junkers did not appreciate his eccentric nature. During their shared hardships, not many appreciated him being overly enthusiastic about things he enjoys, nor that he tried to mix well and was chatty. He can be emotionally impulsive, has a very vivid face, likes to gesticulate and often wishes to reassure himself he understood everything. Together with the fact that it does not stop him from sometimes being clumsy, loud and dangerously honest and harsh while uttering his opinions - no matter if somebody asked for it or not - this is an overall package many did not wish to like, not even wish to tolerate. This pendulum of different behaviours and emotional outlooks on life make him pretty hard to read for the people around him - some are not even sure whether the entire of it is also the entirety of his character, or just a really good act. Since his life of crime forced him into several disguises and schemes of actions, the latter would not surprise them. Even Roadhog took years of shared travels to get used to Junkrat in his entirety, while still considering him a difficult and demanding personality sometimes. Thus, rejection and unintentional wounding of the ones that would be the last people he’d want to hurt hit him very hard.

Junkrat likes to take these slip-ups as a footboard for better times, however. He is often embarassed about having made grave mistakes yet again at first, but taking some time to see the reasons of why certain things didn’t go his way only make him persistent enough to search for a chance to improve as a whole. This kind of mentality shows in his growing as a person and his work, which is a thing that Mei admires a lot. Junkrat never consideres a case entirely hopeless and manages to create and recreate unexpectedly good machinery out of broken parts that anyone else would have given up on. He likes to give the things that everyone else throws over their shoulders a way of finding back to proper use.

It wasn’t easy for Junkrat to tell Mei about everything that he had gone through in the irradiated outback, but it felt good to finally let it all sink in with someone who really listens and cares for everyone involved. She was horrified about all that she got to hear and wished utterly that she’d have some way to help them. Junkrat appreciates the sympathy, but it all came down to their survival depending on themselves. Mei does not dare to state that she feels bad about what happened, now that she has been made fully aware, since what she feels out of empathy could not possibly be a tenth of the suffering someone goes through who has been right there to experience it first hand in her opinion. She can only try to imagine how it felt for Junkrat to see earlier allies and competition in the irradiated wasteland alike fighting for freedom and justice - including his parents - only to pay for it with slowly decaying bodies and sanity. There were people you wished to fight for, but couldn’t. Others were there, which you n e v e r wished to raise your weapon against, but still had to...and had he not have been lucky enough to stumble across Roadhog and get out of this mess, there’d been no way he’d be able to sit around and tell anyone about it nowadays. After several years of travels around the world, the experiences of those days range from saddening to downright disgusting, of which Roadhog still refuses to discuss many - even with him.

The fact that Junkrat never entirely lost all that he is to these struggles and learned to carry this weight and the ones lost to this battle in his memory, makes it all the more jaw-dropping for Mei. All of these horrors only made his love for life stronger and whatever it tried to steal from him is something he was sure to regain. In all honesty, Mei is uncertain what she would do, would she suddenly lose an arm, a leg, or even both. But these fears vanish into thin air, when she sees how Junkrat handles several daily things successfully, even when he takes the heavy prosthetics off. He does it in situations when he feels fully safe and uses what remained of his limbs to act out of habit. It makes her incredibly happy that they both were able to create such a safe space for him, which makes it seem like it never had been any different. Obviously, all of what he had to face broke him...but it didn’t break h i m. A conviction Mei found inspiration in...and the thought that Junkrat was far more than a team mate.

Junkrat is quite glad that Mei thinks about it that way sometimes, since it is often difficult for him to believe that himself. If there is something that frustrates him every now and then, it is how often others worry about his well-being. It is not like he does not appreciate the caring gestures and questions of the ones that learned to like him, but he simply is not used to the luxury that he does not have to keep his troubles all to himself. He is aware that everyone has a heavy cross of their own to carry, which is why he simply tries to swallow down his own troubles and not to be a bother with it. However, he is an incredibly terrible liar and especially for Mei it is easy to read from the changes in his facial expressions and voice that something is the matter. Junkrat wishes there were not so many causes of concern with his person for Mei, like his usually small appetite, phantom pain, sensitivities to certain types of weather, troubles from his long exposure to the radiation and how his destruction rage gets the better of him often. It is simply in Mei’s nature to be a people person and someone who easily worries, but he knows how much it gets to her that other’s around her are in dire need of support. Junkrat’s past liked to enforce the thought onto him that he is just another burden that others had to constantly take care of. Mei and everyone else however pushes that thought far away as possible, simply being convinced that Junkrat is worth protecting.

It is clear to Junkrat that he cannot be anything other but himself and that the desperate past times demanded desperate measures that cannot be undone. Still, certain situations make him wish that he could give Mei the full support and comfort experience she deserves. He enjoys being completely enwrapped in her love so much that he can’t help but believe that it must be severely lacking for her on his behalf. By all that he lost physically and in direct comparison to how she makes him feel, he cannot shake off the idea that an incomplete body equals to a not entirely fulfilling experience when they are close and sweet on each other. There are so many things in looks that he loves about her and that are so strikingly different from his own features that he wonders whether they are more a thing to put up with for her, rather than to fully enjoy.

Mei however could not care less. She sees no problem in the many bald spots on his head. It makes her give all the little places of his remaining hair a nice and equal amount of affectionate ruffling. Every single one. Also the heavy bags under his eyes don’t matter to her. She is too busy admiring the colour of his eyes above them. She is more than alright with him covered in smudges often, only to discover the freckles and sunspots underneath. Mei loves his overbite that gives her a warm, gentle smile ever so often and the beard stubbles she finds below that tickle her awake in the morning. She feels just as nicely caressed by what remained of the limbs on his right side as by his complete left one and should he ever feel insecure about it, it gives her all the more reasons to kiss his stubs, caress them back and to get a hold of them, as she lays down beside him to complete him as much as he completed her by being so inherently different.

5. All These Moments That No One Can Steal from Me

Mei and Junkrat love to collect memories of all their adventures. No matter if they stumble across legendary views, local oddities or other things worth remembering.

D . Va has been a huge help of gathering and presenting all of these in a newcomer invention of her home country: The Cosmonautilus-Cam. Not only is it able to take pictures and record smaller films that can be manipulated in progression speed, but also project the contents of some photos in 3D-models, make only certain aspects of the pictures move or even present it with certain sounds of the local landscapes you captured, which you can filter out individually by choice. Both of them are thankful for such a handy gift of hers.

Since Mei is always so dedicated to multi-tasking, there are several things during their travels that she was unable to pay attention to at first glance, but appreciates all the more in the long run.

Junkrat however is just happy to have a way of reliving these moments, that the course of time cannot take away from him. It saddens him that there are several somethings of his past, even somebodies, that he tries to remember at all costs, which can never be brought back into existence. And as quick-witted as he is coming up with plans and remembering countless details about the things that catch his interest, the more terrifying it becomes that sometimes he will just stop talking in mid-conversation, forgetting what he was trying to get at - or march off to get a small task done, but do anything else but what he came there for to begin with. Some people might consider these things to be a threat of your memory to slowly fail you in the long run - but Junkrat is determined to not let that become the usual state of things.

Mei tries her best to ease his worries, whenever this comes up: It may could be the case, that their memory will fail them one day, that names and circumstances become foggy... but there is no possible way that they could ever forget how the stories of their lives and especially the people in it, made them feel.

6. Experience Festivities

Mei loves to explore the value other people and cultures see in the things they celebrate, how much care goes into the decorations and that the world comes together to say thank you to the one and only home they have and anyone who makes it great.

Junkrat prefers to be an active part of the preparations, no matter if that means creating gifts for somebody, lending a hand at cooking, making his own fireworks, or helping out to set up meeting spots for the team.

At best, these things overlap with missions, like securing top secret data at a masquerade ball in Venice, before Talon gets it, or bringing support packages with food and other supplies to people whose cities suffered from Titan Omnic attacks around Thanksgiving. Of course Junkrat often insists on diguising himself in suiting attire to be able to help out, as in a jester for the former and a scarecrow for the latter.

Their love for sharing these experiences together even makes them put up with things they would not like doing alone. Mei sure doesn’t like the heat of summer. But there is no way she is missing out on a beach volleyball tournament, sand castle contests, a friendship bowl with thirty different flavours of ice cream, fire dancers and seeing the bioluminescent waves with Junkrat, as they send sky lanterns up with their best wishes up to the clouds.

Junkrat sure doesn’t like the cold of winter. But that becomes meaningless, once he gets to see the Christmas markets, drinks the best mulled wine, learns how to ice sculpt, enjoys the intensity of philharmonic orchestra year’s retrospect music or simply gets to share a large, warm parka with Mei, as they huddle together and he rests his head on hers, listening to her admire his firework programme for New Year’s celebrations in awe.

7. All in Good Fun?

After all this time, Mei still doesn’t know what to make of Junkrat’s teasing kind of humour. She is no big fan of him making fun of any way how others are, what hey like to do, or their slip-ups.

To her surprise, Junkrat explained to her that this was one of his many manners to befriend people that caught his interest: He is able to laugh at anything that makes somebody just the way they are - including himself.

But meanwhile Mei still doesn’t get it: Just why would you spend your time saying something rude to someone else, when you have so many nice things to say about them that you could get to, instead? Due to her own past of fighting back against bullies, she has made several negative experiences with that kind of behaviour and thus rather wishes to be supportive of people.

Junkrat explains it only happens in good fun with him and he does not mean to hurt the feelings of somebody he genuinely likes. Not to mention, if somebody he does that with doesn’t explicitly state they mind, why should Mei waste her time worrying and get upset over it in their name? At least that’s what he’s thinking. In fact, Junkrat has been bullied just like Mei all the time back in the outback and been the laughing stock of others for countless reasons. But instead of getting upset about it like her, he sees laughing right back at them as the best way to upset them, since that is a reaction that they do not wish to see stemming from it. It’s his personal way to cope with it and to prepare others to not let such things get to them.

They both agree to disagree on the coping, but Mei tries her best to go easier on him when it comes to this. In return, Junkrat tries his best to tone it down around Mei, since she takes such things to heart easily - and to avoid her death stares should he take it too far, according to her. Junkrat is even willing to pinch her side with a winking smile, reminding her he is just kidding when she seems intimidated.

With some others it works just fine, though: Reinhardt and Torbjörn make fun of each other on a daily basis and are thick as thieves. Roadhog accepted it, because he is convinced that you can’t change people, unless they decide to do that themselves. D. Va does it in her streams all the time and Lúcio is usually too in synch with all layers of the universe to care.

Nevertheless, he appreciates all of them and is the first to take a stand, should somebody seriously have a go at them with the sincere intention of wounding them and gaining satisfaction from breaking them emotionally. He finds his common ground with Mei in the conviction that this is an absolute no-go. You can pull Junkrat through the mud til you drop, he is used to it, but if you dare to insult one of the people he considers precious, you’re as good as done for.

8. Deary Me, Those Puns...

If there is something that Mei and Junkrat love to do, while everyone else groans “Oh snap, here we go...”, it is hosting puntests. It begins suddenly. Without warning. One of them starts making a pun that is almost physically painful...while the other tries to outdo it with one that is even worse.

But none of the two wishes to admit defeat and risk having to pay up for dinner, wear an embarrassing costume or invite the whole gang to Domino Day - even when nobody asked for it. So the puntest continues...All. Day. Long.

Thus, Junkrat and Mei are off to dedicate themselves to “sinister intrigues”...such as ordering a large orcmount of pizza with Lúcio, encouraging Torbjörn to give it his all for the allionce in Hearthstone, surprising Roadhog with a visit, while he repairs his bike, without an appoinkment of course, assuring that they know the crocodial by heart, should they get into trouble near the Nile and wishing Zarya nothing but the best and a Happy Bearsday and many reasons to celebread her new year of life after dinner...and those are not even the worst ones...

9. From the Best and Worst of Movies

No matter how tight her schedule is, Mei insists on catching up on at least some of her favourite shows. Intrigued by what she gets so invested in, Junkrat joins her and gets to see several of Mei’s favourite movies and series, mainly “Call the Law” - starring Olivia Rai.

While they both came to just enjoy the entertainment, they have to admit that choosing some of the most awful and obscure movies to watch has become funnier for them - most awful as in: So hilariously bad that it is already rad.

Especially with action movies, Junkrat is unstoppable when it comes to calling out the “amateur” villains on their fool-proof plans that hold no water, as Mei develops a blazing passion for passive-aggressively commenting on as forced as half-hearted character interactions and plot devices.

That is why mostly every Friday night follows a A-B-Week plan: Week A Fridays are all for the golden Must Sees for two...Week B Fridays however end up in the certainty that everybody can come up with a better script, muting the audio and impromptu voice acting and sound-effecting an entire movie with anyone who feels dangerous enough to join and create voice killers from laughter like “Assisted Living with Killer Moths Abridged”.

10. Mei’s Top Secret Hobby

Speaking of Olivia Rai: Mei considers her a role-model since her early student years. She is forever inspired by her self-confident, considerate person that always invents herself anew when it comes to style and life-dedication.

Naturally, she watched all the movies, interviews, uses philosophical and inspiring quotes by her whenever appropriate, read all the books and listens to the songs Olivia has sung for either movies she acted in or album projects of her own.

She adores the strength and harmony of these songs so much, that she not only uses them for a boost of courage to tackle new things, but also to sing them aloud while cleaning the lab and making other demanding chores easier.

But the entire performance recreated by heart and at the top of her lungs suddenly stops, as she finds out in embarassment that Junkrat had watched her carefully with a smirk on his face for way too long...at least that is what Mei thinks. As he teases her about how you just have to nerd it out sometimes, Mei flatout denies her pleasure in filling Olivia’s shoes, while nobody’s looking.

What Mei knows is that she does not want the truth to be spilled and spread...who knows how people will react when they see her do exactly this? What she doesn’t know however is that Junkrat has the songs stuck in his head and really wants others to see how much love goes into it...and that’s all Mei’s fault.

11. No, Your Self-Sacrifice Is Not Appreciated

It is for certain that Junkrat and Mei wrangle every now and then, as well. If there is something that Mei cannot stand, it is Junkrat’s self-destructive behaviour in combat. Affronting their enemies is anything but easy. In fact, often a lot more things go wrong on missions, than Overwatch recruits prefer. But for Mei this looks like no legit excuse whatsoever for Junkrat to pull stunts without warning by putting himself into life-threatening danger on his own against an army of opponents - even if that means he gains time and advantages for his team.

Junkrat can’t wrap his head around her anger. To him it seems only logical to risk getting seriously injured, or even abandon a limb for the sake of saving someone else. He found a way to bring these back. He found his way to cope with the pain. He will do so again, if necessary. They are replacable. But anyone else on the team is irreplacable. And the lack of their presence and well-being is a thing that nobody wants to cope with. For Junkrat a logical conclusion.

It is when he describes himself as “the smallest loss” with a chuckle, that all red flags rise in Mei’s head and she begins to scream in disagreement. Their shared time and work made her object, while her empathic nature makes her feel all the suffering and sources of where this thinking of his comes from...and how others tried to enforce that way of thinking on her, too, in the past...and how it turns her stomach upside down to know someone she cares for is not alright...

Meanwhile, Junkrat has to cope with witnessing the impossible made possible: That someone wants to hold him close and actually cries for him. It is hard to believe that this is really happening, when you went through years of the same, diabolical, triumphant chant for years: You don’t amount to anything. It will never change, no matter how hard you try. Because half the world will never notice and the rest will never care.

12. You’re Making a Big Deal of Something That Ain’t Real

Something that Junkrat cannot stand about Mei is that she has this inexplicable need to make problems out of things that are anything but problems.

Throughout her past, Mei indeed did not have a lot of friends. Many considered her dream unsuited for her and impossible to accomplish. Her parents enforced the highest expectations to her with the wish for nothing but success - preferably in the fields they considered convenient. As long as one can’t throne, one automatically won’t do.

She had hardly any time for something that did not include improving her skills and broading her horizon, making her a target for bullying, since many misinterpreted her strict, distant, shy and determined attitude as a way to show that she stands above everyone else. In reality, she struggled with an act of balance of not being a disappointment and somehow finding an emergency exit to not become a person she doesn’t want to be.

It is only when she packed her things and ran for the study metropolis near Lijiang Tower as a young adult to live an independent life and accomplish her dream to become a climatologist, that she found like-minded people that accepted her just the way she is...until the tragedy at Ecopoint Antarctica took every single one of them away from her. For Mei, it was life’s way to tell her: No. You are indeed not supposed to have this. As if the spit in the face by fate wasn’t enough, she had no other choice but to answer questions to the pushy media she did not want to answer and bring the message to the remaining loved ones, insisting towards children stuck in crying cramps that she indeed was not lying and their parent would never return.

In the reassembling of Overwatch she sees her final chance to regain what her past tried to take away from her, which is why she must not mess it up at all costs. The reason why she fears passive-aggressive attacks towards herself hidden in sarcasm or teasing jokes is because she was exposed to exactly that for years. When she cannot work for a day because her body is unable to be a strong as her mind, she tears up, feeling like she lets everyone she knows and had known down when that is unacceptable. And when getting to know new people, every single smalltalk feels like walking through a minefield of fearing to make one decisive mistake to come off as a person to avoid - even when she does not want to happen - and overanalysing and debating for hours and hours what others have said and possibly really could have meant.

Junkrat’s mind is blown by the fact that the person that says “Hey! Chill Out!” is the one who most likely should follow her own advice. It has made quite a bunch of situations which were meant to be fun nothing but demanding and overly complicated. And Mei knows that. She is aware that her extreme fear of messing it up will only provoke said fear to become real - and that she should finally abandon it all because in the end, nobody can stop themselves from making mistakes for as long as they live. But no matter how often people love to see her, thank her for being such an immense help for the team or considering her inspiring and someone they do not wish to enjoy themselves without, she still cannot fully bring herself to accept that she won’t lose again.

As often as it caused a hundred times of “Sorry!”, headaches, grinding teeth and tears, Junkrat is incredibly understanding and patient with Mei. He is fully aware that everybody gets their wounds from somewhere else, which can take a brutal amount of time to heal, while scars of it will always remain. Truthfully, it is not the case that she does this to him or their friends when she behaves like this that mainly upsets him. It’s the fact that she is doing that to herself.

13. Friendly Reminder to Take Care of Yourself

Some could argue that Junkrat takes his work a bit too seriously sometimes. Especially when the preparation for a mission demands the progress on a new type of bomb, he will make sure that the result is nothing but perfect - even if that means he has to work on it for nine hours til the morning light and do nothing else.

Mei often finds him grumpy from lack of anything refreshing. He leans over his working table, like he did before she went to sleep, as he told her he was “Almost done. Almost.” back then.

That is why Mei decided to help along. She messages him with a little alarm and note every hour of his working phases over the communicator, so that he remembers to take a couple of minutes to have a bite, a sip, or rest his eyes. It is a lot easier done when you notice someone is genuinely concerned about you. That leaves almost nothing for her to worry about.

14. Can You Stop Writing a Dissertation in Bed, but Actually Recover like Anyone Else?!?

A big reason to worry for Junkrat is any time Mei falls ill, though. It happens to her very rarely, but once it does, it as long and tedious as can be. He is aware how many things Mei tries to shoulder every single day - there is no way that she should take on all of that in pain.

But best of luck trying to tell that to a woman who showed up to oral exams with a fever nobody knew of. Since she has been raised under the pressure to perform for as long as she can think, Mei simply decides to soldier on. As long as she can stand and think somewhat alright, she’ll work. There are people who have it far worse than her, aren’t there? And if that ain’t enough, they also partially depend on her helping them to improve their lives. She can’t let them down!

It is that stubbornness of being good to others while being anything but good to yourself that upsets Junkrat every time it comes to this. He wishes he wouldn’t have to force Mei to opt out from everything for her recovery. She shrugs it off, used to her own hardships being sugarcoated and nothing worth of note. He fears for her, used to things that usually are not worth of note in the cities turning out to be the demise in the wasteland with no help in reach.

15. The Mission to Heal the World and Animal Friends

Over the course of time, Junkrat has become an incredible help to Mei with acquiring valuable data from their missions.

His exploring of the exploded Omnium back in Australia has made him pretty much fearless of any dangerous undertaking of climbing, digging and bombing his way to the goods. There are a lot of samples of minerals and other natural supplies that Mei would not have gotten to analyze, if it hadn’t been for Junkrat’s way of less overthinking and more doing.

The two of them also make a grand effort to sustain, if not even restore, habitable areas for the wildlife all over the world. That’s where their love for animals doesn’t stop, though.

Junkrat even went that far as to save a Talon watchdog that had suffered horrible disrespect and cruelty from its earlier owner and tormenter. Nowadays, the little curly coated retriever has been named Tucka, undergoes a re-education as a rescue dog for Overwatch and proved to be a reliable and endearing friend to the junker.

16. Teamwork Bombs

As much as he hates to admit it, Mei indeed was invaluable for the improvement of Junkrat’s craft. So far, Junkrat’s explosives had mainly been a personal obsession and his inventory for defense and destruction to get what he wanted. It was Mei’s climate-manipulating science and dedication to world-renewing approaches that made some of Junkrat’s bombs of use for safety, though.

Their biggest collective success so far is the Frost Grenade, a bomb that is supposed to spread rapidly-cooling particles by chemical reactions in overheating, collapsing machinery. This invention was especially created with the intention to prevent the explosions of further omniums, or the immobilizing of war omnic units on a larger scale.

Mei wishes to take it even further and currently researches other ways of neutralizing pollutants in the air and sea, by letting friendly, chemical constructs react by collision at the rapid speed of explosions. Prototypes are already in blue-print stage and discussion with the help of Winston.

17. Good Nights Are Made for Good Cups of Tea

The two of them have made it their little ritual to share a “g’night tea” together every now and then, before they go to bed. It is the perfect way to unwind and discuss the highlights of the day, thoughts on the future and stories from days gone by.

Often Mei and Junkrat also experiment to find new favourites to drink, which sometimes are also gifts from friends and working partners. Whether that be a little gesture of kindness Symmetra brought with her, a recommendation Mercy has gotten from Genji, formulas of good taste that have been passed through generations of Reinhardt’s family, or something that Tracer and Emily brought along from the historical parts of King’s Row.

18. It Helps Them Sleep

Indeed, both of them enjoy each other’s company at night. Mei has to push herself to her limits with work usually, in order to want nothing but sleep for the next hundred years. If that is not the case, she has immense trouble with falling asleep, since everything sends the fear of her time in cryostasis and all that she associates with it up her spine - alone, laying on her back in dead silence...

She feels a lot more secure with Junkrat by her side, huddling up to someone, who enjoys each other’s warmth, moves his fingers through her hair and reassures her with kisses and soft nudges that he is still around.

For once, she is glad that he hardly ever is completely quiet, either ready to follow another train of thought with her aloud, after some lighter sleep, or letting out a quiet, content whistle beneath his overbite, sleeping like a log.

He himself is glad that Mei helps him just as much. Holding her close, he does not think too often about twisting and turning around, but to actually get some rest - even if that means risking to be ambushed by the nightmares that his conscience likes to throw him into, once he’s at its mercy. However, he is relieved to sense Mei’s shoulder beneath his left hand, half-awake, realizing that he’ll manage, like he always does.

19. Nicknames for Mei

Certainly, “Snowflake” has become a common term for Junkrat to use refering to Mei, since he considers her to be a fully unique person.

But Mei is just as curious why at the very early days of their shared times Junkrat also added “Snowplum” to the list. He has to confess that it comes from the idea that Mei tries to hide all of her beauty behind an frosty barrier of self-defense, but that she cannot stop it from shining through. Only someone who is able to push away all the snow without ripping the plum blossom underneath apart in the process will be able to see what a lively and caring treasure lies underneath the armour of acting reserved and strict. It is like a test to see who deserves to see her fully in bloom. That Mei was touched by the comparison that has emotional and familiar value to her was an understatement.

20. Nicknames for Junkrat

Mei has pondered and thought for a while what nicknames she could use for Junkrat. She definitely is not satisfied with the first one, which he was not supposed to get from her, but insisted on keeping. It happened on a day off when Junkrat had way too much fun teasing her again. When Mei’s patience finally reached its end, she tried to get back at him with calling him a name he certainly would not enjoy.

As the term “Cookieface” was uttered from her puffy cheeks, which Junkrat likes to call “The Pufferfish of Discontent (TM)” and such a huffy facial expression with a serious nod of “Hmpf! That will show him!” Junkrat was baffled...and just lost it.

He broke into laughter, hearing from Mei that this was seriously supposed to be rude and make fun of his freckles and sunspots. As much as she wants him to forget about it and is embarassed about the whole incident, Junkrat holds the nickname close to his heart, mainly for the mental image of running from the cops as they yell at the tops of their lungs: “Get a hold of the communal terror that is COOKIEFACE!”. He spent almost fifteen minutes down on the lab floor, gasping for air and laughing til he cried.

So...what should she finally decide to call him? Over the course of many adventures, Mei finally felt confident to put into words what Junkrat had become for her. She found someone who made her enjoy the smallest things in life and being herself so much more. He is always there for her, even when he’s sometimes out of sight, or she takes his efforts for granted. It is when she feels like all goes black and she struggles to find the way to carry on that she remembers that he will remain by her side and help her to figure out anything she needs to keep going. Someone who encourages her in all she wishes to achieve when she is right, but who is also unafraid to make her adjust the course when she is wrong. They are so different from each other sometimes so far away from the other one by the duties of work. Although they cannot always stick together, the light they gave each other’s hearts is something they will always carry inside of them to make them shine and grow to be the best they can be. It helps to move through the wildest chaos with ease and create something far greater out of it.

Junkrat saw many faces on his adventures that blurred into an unrecognizeable blob, while the name they gave him sounded crystal clear in the back of his head - especially when everything goes down the drain. “Lab accident”...”cancer of society”...”gutter filth”...those are only a few of the classics that were added to the collection. The stream of all these voices finally disappears, blasts off screaming into a silencing, white light forever, as the word “Starlight” drops from Mei’s lips in a soft embrace and a grateful whisper.

#meihem #junkmei #meirat #headcanon #headcanons #overwatch

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sorceresslost · 7 years

Photo

Two Months Earlier…

“That should do it…”

She tossed the chalk aside, the utensil snapping in half as it impacted against the floor. The noise didn’t register, her gaze affixed to the crude casting circle that had been scribbled on the wooden boards. It was a simple circle, it was a simple spell, but nevertheless her nerves were on edge. Bright hazel eyes widened as they scanned every last detail of the circle, double and triple checking for errors, adamant on making sure it was perfect. Sweaty palms met as her heart skipped a beat and a subtle, satisfied smirk tugged at her lips. Then it vanished, and she snapped to her left, flipping through the last couple pages of the pair of massive books propped up at her knees, running a finger through line after line, desperately clinging to the faded parchment. She glanced back and forth from the pages of one book, to the circle on the floor, to the diagrams on the other.

They were a perfect match.

Slowly, shaking hands were raised and left hovering just inches above the tiny circle. Nothing seemed to be amiss, and yet the familiar sensation insisted on nagging at the back of her mind, desperate for attention. She shoved it away, shaking her head until the feeling retreated. Focus.

She took one last breath, closed her eyes, and began.

The incantation left her tongue slowly, the girl making sure she didn’t butcher the pronunciation. The phrase was ancient, words from a long dead dialect. She’d read them dozens of times, but speaking them still felt foreign. The syllables stumbled out of her, clumsily making their way into the world. The last of the incantation left her lips, and the first hints of magic began to take shape. The unmistakable scent of ozone cut through the musk of parchment, teasing her nose as the power of the spell sprang forth. Tiny arcs of arcane energy leapt from the casting circle to her fingertips and back again, sending a numbing sensation through her palms and up her wrist. Dust that had built up on books left unmoved for years was kicked up by the magical energy, making the air rough and unpleasant.

The spell intensified, the energy nipping at her fingers beginning to sting. The small breeze picked up into a more aggressive gust, sending the pages of the open tomes at her side and her loose hanging hair into a frenzy. She knelt over the circle and leaned in close, gaze locked on the now glowing runes. The ebb and flow of the energy shifted under her hands, spiked, and began to exponentially grow as she struggled to keep the arcane power focused. Energy poured forth from her fingertips, and she could feel it begin to take on a life of its own, slipping away from her command and doing as it pleased. She grimaced, the muscles in her hands fatiguing as she battled to keep the building pressure of magic contained just beneath her grasp.

With a shrill pop the energy within the circle overpowered her. The tendrils of energy leapt forth from the circle and scalded her exposed palms. The energy escaped, unguided, and discharged right in the girl’s face. The resulting shockwave toppled the young woman over and tossed her backwards almost four feet into the dense cherrywood bookshelf behind her. The old shelf creaked in protest from the assault, nearly toppling backwards before righting itself. Its contents were knocked free from the impact and came tumbling down in a heavy hailstorm of literature, leaving the girl in a heap of body, books, and bruised ego. She slumped over and her head hit the marble floor, punctuating the fall with a crippling crunch. She yelled out in pain, the cry echoing through the massive library. She regretted it instantly, biting her tongue to silence herself, ignoring the new sensation of pain and the taste of blood. She’d barely even begun to recover when the buzz of teleportation shook the air around her.

“Sera?!”

The voice was distorted and inhuman, coming from the center of the chamber, it’s owner unseen. Arcs of lightning crackled sharply in mid-air, the space around the anomaly twisting and deforming violently before a large glowing portal sprang open. The spell filled the room with flickering aquamarine light that seared the woman’s eyes, causing her to squint. The magical gateway rippled, and an old man, adorned in thick ornate robes of royal blue and shimmering champagne stepped out. He blinked for a moment, shook his head, and took a second to gain his bearings before looking around, the portal quickly sealing behind him, leaving the the Archive eerily silent.

“Sera! Where are you? Are you okay?”

The girl’s heart raced, and she looked past the old man and towards what remained of the circle she had scrawled into the wooden planks sitting on the floor with wide eyes, holding her breath without realizing as she examined the results of her efforts. The shattered pieces of the vase in the circle’s center still lay there unchanged.

She’d failed.

Sera’s arms went weak, her shoulders feeling heavy, and with a sharp slump they surrendered themselves to gravity. Her back hunched over and her legs curled up and retreated, and she sank back into the pile of books and shame she was buried in. Her lower lip trembled, the familiar sensation of singed cheeks and the burning of bile twisting her gut dwarfing what little physical pain was left. She couldn’t even look the man in the eye, feeling his gaze on her but too ashamed to meet it. A strained chuckle left her lips despite her best efforts to keep it caged in her throat. “Hey Davil…”

The old man’s eyes widened as hurried footsteps made their way towards her. “Child! Are you alright?”

She gave him a nod as he looked over the small disaster in front of him. A sea of books littered the usually ornate and orderly library, his student twisted and covered in priceless historical artifacts containing hundreds of years of irreplaceable knowledge. Sera stole a quick gaze at her mentor before shying away. His face was worn, permanently chiseled from years of being shouldered with a burden most men could barely fathom. He stared blankly at the young girl for a moment, before the deep wrinkles in his forehead became even more pronounced as his brow arched. Small beady blue eyes shimmered deep in their sockets as they examined the scene, filled with a subtle soothing serenity that Sera had often attempted, but was still a few decades away from being able to properly emulate. To her surprise, he smiled. “I had mentioned that the analog chamber needed some rearranging, but you seem to have gotten the wrong idea at what I was getting at.” He chuckled softly at his own joke, but Sera wasn’t amused, talons still clawing at her gut. His gaze continued to survey the scene until it landed on the makeshift casting circle scribbled on the planks, now partially buried under a smattering of displaced parchment.

His smile faded as he bent over, pushing the papers aside and examined the small circle. The board was singed from the failed spell, some of the details lost, but it’s purpose was still simple enough to figure out. He stared down at Sera, and Sera stared back, no longer able to avoid his gaze. He gave her a another warm smile, doing his best to hide his pity. He didn’t hide it well enough. “Oh child… what did you expect would happen?”

“I dunno…”

The old scholar nodded, letting out a deep sigh as he approached his pupil. The heels of his boots and his large gnarled oak staff reverberating through the Archive in a slow rhythmic triplet. He met her side and rested a worn, calloused hand on her shoulder. His touch was warm and gentle. Familiar, but firm. Sera instantly felt her muscles relax, and her breathing slow, despite her best efforts. The old man slowly made his way down to meet her, wincing a bit as he forced his tired body onto one knee. The wrinkles on his face shifted as he flashed her a slow disarming smile. “You did your best.”

A grimace spread across Sera’s face, her gut twisting even harder as her cheeks burned. She was used to hearing that. It never helped much.

The old man gave her shoulder an extra soft squeeze before getting back on his feet, running a hand through his long beard as he took in the mess around them.

“Let’s get this placed cleaned up, shall we?”

With a swift tap of his staff against the marble flooring, the books covering Sera were encased in a cool blue aura and sprang to life, zipping around the air in a precise arcane ballet. The fluttering of thick parchment filled the air as tomes flew open and torn pages nestled back into place, mending themselves before the restored volumes slammed shut and flew back into their shelves one after another with impeccable precision. The remnants of the ancient vase she had knocked over leapt up from the center of the singed circle and back onto the pedestal it had rested on, fully formed. He had accomplished in an instant what she’d failed to do after nearly three hours of of slow, studious effort.

The burning in her gut returned.

With a satisfied nod, he looked back down at the young woman. “C’mon then, let’s get back to work. There’s something else I need from you today.”

The young scholar wasn’t done sulking. “Are you sure? Cuz I was thinking of just retreating to my room and perhaps never coming out again.”

He gave her a playful wink. “I’m afraid not, but I have something a bit different in mind you might find interesting.” The old man started to pace, and Sera leaned against a nearby shelf and got comfortable. Pacing meant a long-winded explanation was coming. “An old friend of mine, Lyatt Golenshard, is due to return from a trip to the Continent today, and has brought with him some fascinating new scrolls on mana storage coming out of Garrlorn. They’ve been working on binding mana pools to common quartz, without having to first reconstruct the stone into Tellosite. Apparently they’ve succeeded.”

Sera raised an eyebrow. “That’s impossible.”

“That’s what I said too,” the old man nodded, fighting back a chuckle. “But the research was funded by the Garrlornian government. There’s little reason to doubt its authenticity.”

“This is fascinating, amazing even.” Sera shot the man a smug grin. “No idea what this has to do with me, though.”

“Patience, child, I’m getting to that.” Davil turned, making his way towards the stairs, motioning for Sera to follow. “Lyatt didn’t go to Garrlorn for these scrolls, he happened upon them by good fortune.” The old man groaned. “The man always did have a wandering ear. Looks like it did something besides get him in trouble for a change.” He shuffled his way through the large room, leading his pupil through the maze of shelves towards the staircase leading to the main floor. “As such he needs to make his report to Yarma immediately upon his return concerning the actual reason for his visit. Something about trade routes and bulk import on fishing. If I were to be honest, I lost focus on the conversation during that part.” They both shared a laugh as Davil made it to the end of the steps and held out a hand for Sera as she reached the bottom. An old habit from her childhood he’d held on to all these years. She did her best to contain an eye roll and took his hand as he continued. “He said he can bring the scrolls by in a few days after he’s done reporting to Yarma, but it’s not soon enough. I don’t want to lose even a second of examining these scrolls. If the Garrlornians are actually on to something, and mana can be stored in elements more common than Tellosite, it would mean even the the most meager on the Continent could harness the true potential of sorcery. No one is in a better position to capitalize on this than Ondaria. It would be a huge boon for our economy.”

Davil began to pick up the pace, and Sera followed suit. The pair left the empty analog portion of the Archive behind, and into the main chamber, filled with dozens of reading stations, a massive interconnected series of personal chambers where books by the thousand had been magically transcribed, able to be recalled and searched instantly with a quick application of sorcery. The chamber was buzzing with students of sorcery going through all different manners of research. Davil quickly moved past the main desk, heading towards the massive doors that sealed off his private chamber. With a quick flick of his wrist the runes engraved on the cherrywood lit up and the door was pushed to the side, Davil motioning for the young scholar inwards. Sera’s brow furrowed and her heart quickened as she quickly scurried inside. It wasn’t often anyone was invited back here, let alone her. She did her best to feign calm. “If this is such a big deal, wouldn’t Yarma want the scrolls taken to her directly? This sounds far more up her alley than fish.”

“Sharp as a tack as always, child.” Davil made his way behind his desk, but didn’t sit, instead continuing to pace. “While the research is likely not a fake, that doesn’t mean it isn’t false. We’ve been trying to imbue regular objects with mana pools for decades now, with little success. The fact that such a honestly…” He paused, eyes wandering towards the ceiling as he grasped for the right words before simply shrugging and giving up. “An unremarkable country, with little knowledge of sorcery could crack this formula while Ondaria’s best sorcerers have been stumped is almost as preposterous as it is embarrassing. Obviously we’d want to examine the research before bothering Yarma with such a staggering claim.”

“This Lyatt guy can’t just take a look for us? Is he really that busy?”

Davil sighed. “If only. The research is too complex for Lyatt to make sense of himself. He’s a merchant you see, not a scholar. As such, the scrolls make as much sense to him as his discussion on trade routes would make to us. Neither of us wanted to bother Yarma with this until I,” Davil paused and smiled at the young woman. “Until we, had a chance to look it over.”

Sera’s heart nearly leapt out her chest. To be front and center for what could be a turning point in the history of not only Ondaria, but for the study of sorcery in its entirety? Her entire body buzzed with energy, her mind alight with the possibilities. A giddy smile spread across her face. “Sounds like we have a long night ahead of us, then.”

“The first of many, I’m sure.” The old man stopped pacing, planting his weight as he turned to face his pupil, exhaling sharply before speaking again. “There is one other thing I’ll need more from you though…”

Her heartbeat doubled for an entirely different reason. “Oh?”

“I need to you to to the dockyard and meet Lyatt, and bring back the scrolls themselves.”

A lump formed in Sera’s throat. “You want me to go out there?”

“Child…”

“You know what’ll happen.”

“Sera, you can’t spend your entire life hidden away in here. ”

“I go out… occasionally.”

“Hunting for books and late night snack runs hardly count as a social life.”

The young scholar scoffed. “Who needs a social life when you have A Treatise on Meteorological Conjuring? Seriously have you read that book? It’s fascinating.”

“I co-authored it.”

“Oh did you now?”

The old man crossed his arms and gave his pupil a playful grin. “Flattery won’t save you this time, Child. Nineteen years is long enough cooped up in an old library. You have your whole life ahead of you. It’s about time you began embracing it.”

“Right. And how long have you been ‘cooped up in here’ again exactly?”

He gave the young scholar a stern gaze.

“Ugh fine, you win! I’m going, I’m going!” Sera scowled and shuffled her way towards the back of the room. “Don’t expect me to stay and make small talk though, I’m grabbing these scrolls and ditching.” She made her way past the old man’s desk and towards the rear of the chamber, stepping onto an ornate platform raised a few inches off the floor. “Ready when you are.”

She stood still, back straight, arms down at her side, took a deep breath, held it, and waited. Waited for the inevitable burning sensation of sorcery to tear inch by inch at her entire body, like pins and needles with more bite. Waited for the nausea that came with being pulled from one location to another in an instant. Waited for Davil start the spell to activate the portal to the dockyard.

He didn’t.

She gasped and inhaled sharply, no longer able to hold her breath. “What’s the holdup? I just wanna get this over with…”

“I feel you’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that Leagan is a rather small dockyard. It doesn’t have a dedicated terminal. I can get you close, but you’ll have to walk the remainder of the way.”

Sera suddenly felt ill. “How long of a walk?”

“Not long. Fifteen minutes if you hurry.”

Sera’s excitement over these scrolls was quickly waning. “Can’t you just teleport me right there?”

“Teleportation without line of sight is dangerous. That’s why we created these warp terminals in the first place, to help anchor the spells to a specific location and prevent… accidents.”

The girl grumbled. “Goddess… fine. But you owe me. Any other bad news?”

“There’s… one more thing.”

“What?”

Davil made sure not to make eye contact with his pupil. “I’m afraid I can’t you teleport back once you have the scrolls. You’re going to have to walk the entire way back.”

This time her heart threatened to stop completely. “…what?”

“These documents are too important to risk.” David kept his gaze firmly on his desk. “If we thought we could risk them, I would have had Lyatt teleport them to me the moment he informed me. We waited until he got back for a personal hand off.”

Sera’s fists clenched and trembled at her side, the pit in her gut returning with renewed vigor as it opened and seemingly swallowed all her insides as the realization dawned on her. “This isn’t about that though, is it? This is about me. About forcing me to go out there!”

“No, it’s not. These scrolls are from Garrlorn. They aren’t enchanted like the ones upstairs. They’re just normal parchment.” He paused for a moment. “Though I will admit it’s a convenient side effect.”

Her brow somehow creased even further. “This isn’t like going to the coast, Davil, around here, people know me! You don’t know what it’s like for me out there!”

“Child…”

“The way they look at me, the things they say…”

“Child…”

“Goddess drown me, Davil just open the damn portal, please!”

“Sera!”

Davil’s staff slammed into the ground with a magically enhanced thud that cracked the marble floor and reverberated throughout the small room, silencing the young woman’s protests, though fire danced barely contained behind her eyes.

The elder scholar quickly composed himself, his features relaxing as he slowly loosed a breath. “Sera… child. This is serious. Barring some insane happenstance, odds are you are going to be the new Head Scholar of the Tellosian Archive when I’m gone. And I’m getting up there in the years, that could be sooner than either of us would like.

“Davil!”

“Death is a fact, not a phantom, and my bringing it up doesn’t make it any more or less so. As the Head Scholar, I’m required to interact with many of the top Vassal Families, bureaucrats, and even Yarma herself. Not only here in the Archive, but out and about when and as they are in need my council.”

“But—”

“Interacting with the people of Ondaria is going to be part of your future. The sooner you can get over this discomfort of yours and hold your head up high out there, the better off you, and Ondaria itself, will be. This isn’t a problem that will just magically go away if you ignore it.”

Sera winced at the phrase.

The older scholar realized his slip too late. “Poor choice of words, but the point still stands. You need to overcome this, child.”

Davil approached the young woman seething on the platform, still doing her best to block out his words. Gently, he let one hand come to rest on her trembling shoulders, while the other slipped below her chin to force eye contact with him. “And when you do, your critics will have to think twice before opening their mouths. They’ll have to leave their prejudices at the door and interact with you, the person, and not their predispositions. And when that day comes, they’ll see your for who you are: the brilliant young woman that I’ve had the pleasure of teaching all these years.”

Her shuddering stopped. The fire in her gut extinguished by onrush of childish pride. Sera couldn’t suppress the small smile that crept on her face as her eyes darted around the floor.

Satisfied, Davil returned to his desk and, at last, took a seat. “Now please, do this old man a favor and get us those scrolls. I don’t know how much longer I can sit here and ponder the shame of our people being outpaced by a bunch of Continent-dwelling simpletons.”

The smile disappeared. Sera’s mind racing. She didn’t want to let her teacher down, but the thought of going out there…

“Are you sure you can’t just try an unaided teleport spell?”

_______

Stupid old man. Making me walk all the way to get his stupid scrolls…

A clenched fist and grinding teeth punctuated Sera’s aggravation as she stomped out of the portal, her body still buzzing with conflicting stimuli as the excess mana that brought her here wore off. The terminal itself was tiny, a simple semi-circular stone structure barren of any amenities, with only a single warping platform, barely larger than Davil’s personal chamber. A far cry from the sprawling zoo of the Tellos Central Station she was familiar with near the Archive.

The buzz of another portal springing open snapped her back to reality and ended her sightseeing. She hurried to the exit before the stranger made their way through, wincing a bit at the bright midday sun pouring through the feeble doorway as she forced them open and made her exit into the bustling Ondarian town square.

Immediately her senses were overwhelmed by the chaos before her; a cacophony of screams, songs, and, shouting. Children ran through the streets in play, chased by their parents worried they’d lose them in the crowd. Plays and puppet shows peppered the sidewalks as artisans put forth their best performances in the hopes of a generous coin. Merchants of all kinds bellowed to anyone and everyone within earshot, attempting to woo them with their wares. Fish of varying species and a plethora of preparation methods filled her nose with delectable aromas and tempted her stomach, the air alive with the mouth-watering sizzle of fried foods aplenty.

It was absolutely terrifying.

Sera’s anger towards the old man retreated to the back of her mind, replaced with a staggering fear of being out here with them. She immediately pulled the sash she’d fashioned around her neck tighter, hugged her cloak more fiercely, and hesitated, wavering in the doorway as she observed the madness below her. On shaky legs and against her better judgement, Sera slowly descended the stone stairwell leading away from the safe haven and into the company of the masses.

The buzzing of society blossomed into an unbearable roar as she merged into the crowd. The air became even hotter and stickier with bodies all around her, pushing and shoving and yelling. The explosion of a conjuration spell in a stall only feet away from her nearly stopped her heart, and she let out a shriek that was immediately lost in the madness around her. She hurried eastwards, pushing past a rambunctious crowd expressing their distaste at a play being performed. A nearby vendor happy to supply produce to be pelted at the talent onstage.

“Miss! Miss!”

She ignored the calls of the various vendors, them apt to heckle anyone who fell within earshot. A plate of fish was abruptly shoved into her face by a particularly determined salesman, forcing her to stop lest she collide with it. A glare laced with venom met the poor man, but he continued his pitch unhindered.

“I know you can’t say no to a helping of freshly grilled salmon from a handsome mug like this, eh? Only seven silvers!”

She froze, the admittedly handsome merchant planting himself in her path, waving the prepared dish in front of her with a smirk, letting the perfectly seasoned seafood’s scent tease her senses. She shrank away, her head snapping around, looking anywhere but at the aggressive vendor. She barely noticed a fork snap forward and shove a sampling of salmon down her throat.

“How can you resist that flavor?”

Despite herself she barely could. The salts and spices sent her tastebuds into a frenzy and instantly dissipated her disdain. The perfectly prepared meat melted in her mouth, and a soft satisfied grunt left her lips. The merchant eyed the scholar as she savored the taste, a hungry predator reeling in his prey, confident he was a about to make a sale. “So, how much c—”

The question died in the merchant’s throat, and he paused for a moment, doing a double take and examining his prospective customer a bit more closely. Sera’s jaw hung in mid chew, a very different feeling now gnawing at her stomach. He put a finger to chin as he raised an eyebrow. “This is an odd question but… do I know you from somewhere, miss?”

She swallowed harshly and nearly choked as her whole body shuddered, and she pulled at her sash again, tightening it till it hurt. Her head shook violently as her gaze met the ground, and and she bolted, nearly knocking the dish out of the vendor’s hands as she pushed on past him and blended back into the crowd. The maneuver earned her a string of curses from the vendor as he quickly fell out of earshot. Sera ignored him and pressed onwards, heart pounding as she broke into a light jog. She dodged and weaved her way through the thick crowd, resorting to simply barreling through people when they left her no other options.

After a seeming eternity of battling the masses, the crowd finally began to thin, Sera making it past the bustling busy bazaar and towards the outskirts of town. The auditory chaos of the square had faded, replaced with the occasional squawking from the gulls circling overhead and diving down looking for food, as well as the mirthful laughter of fishermen heading out for another day of work. The tall skyscrapers gave way to more humble homes. The air around her cool and with the scent of salt water. Sera took a deep breath of the familiar scent and relaxed a bit, slowing from a jog back to a more casual pace. Feeling began to return to her fingers as she loosened her death grip on her cloak, letting her limbs fall back to her side and into a natural rhythm, the tension slowly slipping away as her gut began to untwist.

The sounds of men at work and the scent of salt mixed with sweat began to subtly tickle at Sera’s senses as she approached Leagan, one of the many dockyards that littered Ondaria’s coast. The dense packing of rural homes began to thin, giving way to daunting array of docks hosting all manners of ships making berth. From humble fishing skiffs, to massive vessels that towered over the passersby, the scholar’s vision was dominated by a cornucopia of sea faring vessels. The creaking percussion of masts and the gentle fluttering of sails swaying to and fro in the summer breeze was punctuated by the hearty cheers and jeers of sailors diligently tending to the decks, either preparing for today’s voyage, or giving the ship a once over after returning home.

If this was a small dockyard, Sera shuddered at the prospect of a large one.

The burning sensation in her feet began to fade as Sera collapsed into a old wooden bench, loosing an obnoxious sigh as she sank into its callous embrace. The salt-worn wood creaked in protest as she shifted her weight to get comfortable, and she felt the flimsy beams sag a bit beneath her lithe figure. A forty minute walk wasn’t exactly what one would call overwhelming, but Sera was hardly an athlete, the most physical activity she’d get most days was climbing a ladder to reach a misplaced book, then going up a flight of stairs to put it where it belonged.

Sera’s gaze meandered as she took a bit longer than she’d have like to admit to catch her breath, before settling on the clock tower looming over the center of the city. Even from this distance, the massive spire was clearly visible, a fact that wasn’t an accident. She still had ten minutes before Lyatt’s ship was scheduled to dock. A strained groan sputtered out her lips and she reclined a bit further, settling in for the wait, letting her hands slide across the old wood as she stretched her shoulders and rested her arms atop the backstop. The rough texture of the aging furniture against her fingertips was interrupted with a sharp searing pain in her index finger, and she cursed loudly at the newly acquired splinter. The choice of language caught the attention of a nearby family, a mother and two children playing in the shipyard. The mother gave Sera a harsh glare, pulling her children close as she looked down at them, then back up at her, chastising the scholar with her eyes. Defeated, Sera simply gave her a wordless shrug with a small smirk in apology. The woman rolled her eyes but otherwise seemed to accept that, and let her children go back to their play.

Sera let her eyes linger, watching the family for a bit go back to play. The kids were both very young, a boy no older than nine, and his younger sister seemingly even younger. Their mom was completely disheveled, hair and makeup neglected and heavy bags seemingly carved permanently into her face. Both the kids were full of energy, talking the poor woman’s ear off about how excited they were to see Dad, and they skipped and frolicked around the dockyard, chasing each other, giggling, occasionally levitating the occasional stick and stone and casting them off the dock itself and watching them fall, earning a bit of chastising from their mother for themselves.

Sera couldn’t help but feel a bit of melancholy at the display.

A dull rumbling began to build, piercing the calm of the dockyard. The kids stopped in their tracks, retreating back to their mom with excitement in their eyes, tugging at her dress and buzzing with joy. Sera glanced back at the clocktower as she got to her feet. “Looks like someone is punctual.”

Sera’s gaze dropped downward. The rumbling increased, escalating from a minor hum to a powerful roar, deafening at this distance, Sera just barely able to hear the shrill cries of the children over a powerful droning bass that rattled her bones. The cries turned to cheers as the ship sprang upwards into view, and scattering the remaining gulls perched around the immediate area. Its appearance was almost identical to your typical wooden fishing skip, with one jarring exception: the powerful crystalline Tellosite Cells giving the craft propulsion, as it slowly shifted into place in the dock.

The noise from the ship was deafening, her teeth rattling in her skull as the low bass of the engines battered her body, realizing too late the error of sitting so close to the dock itself, suddenly realizing too late why the bench looked so unattended.

Sera quickly retreated from her ill-chosen seat and moved to the back of the crowd, doing her best not to attract attention. The arrival of the ship began to draw people out of their homes, the small crowd that had already been assembled upon Sera’s arrival steadily growing the longer she had waited, friends and family ready to welcome the returned ambassadors, merchants, and traders from their long journey to the Continent. Her nerves were already on edge as it was, and more people showing up wasn’t doing them any favors. Skittish hands pulled her cloak tightly around her, and she hid in its thick folds as more and more people began to gather. As she looked around, she thought she had spied a small cloaked figure staring at her, but when she looked back again there was no one. She chuckled nervously at her heightened nerves and refocused on the ship before them settling into dock.

The gate of the skip dropped and a cheer rang out through the crowd as the passengers began to disembark. Unlike the regular fishing ships, visits to the Continent often lasted weeks at a time. The length was apparent just looking at the men’s faces as they stumbled off the boat, faces full of fatigue, but hearty smiles gracing their lips as they were assaulted by friends and family happy to see them return. One particularly man with a large gut and a scruffy beard let out a guffaw as he was tackled by the two young kids from earlier, his wife getting up on her tiptoes to deliver him a kiss on the cheek before propping up his kids on each shoulder and they took off. Sera smiled, but struggled to stave off another pang in her gut.

The traffic out of the boat began to slow, some twenty odd exhausted sailors having stumbled out in single file now mingling with the gathered crowd. The occasional straggler wandered off the ship every now and then, but for the most part the traffic ceased. Sera’s limbs went numb, the fish she’d unwittingly sampled threatening to come back up again. She had no idea what Lyatt looked like, outside of a simple description given to her by Davil. No one exiting the ship seemed to fit the profile. She felt her breathing increase and her gut constrict at the thought of having to wrestle through the crowd and start asking people where to find him, putting herself in front of dozens of people. What if she was wrong and this wasn’t the right ship, and she makes a fool out of herself looking for a stranger none of them had ever heard of? What if she’s misheard Davil and she had gone to the wrong dock, and Lyatt was already up and gone?

What if someone recognized her?

Just as panic was threatening to overwhelm her, another three stragglers made their way off the boat. The first two men’s faces quickly lit up, and they rushed to join the thinning crowd. The other remained on the boat momentarily, surveying the scene. He was an odd sight for an Ondarian: Bulky, sturdy, a wall of muscle with a grizzled edge. A far cry from the usual fishermen, sorcerers, and bureaucrats that made up the majority of Ondaira’s citizens. A smaller but equally imposing man joined him on the deck, and they talked for a moment, perched casually over the deck, before the newcomer began pacing, examining the ship. Sera assumed this must be the captain, for who else would show such care for an admittedly menial vessel? The larger man gave the probably-captain a friendly slap on the back before departing off the boat towards the few stragglers left in the crowd. His thick overcoat bustled with belt buckles and bulging pockets that rustled with each heavy step of his frame. What most caught Sera’s eye though, was the large sack full of scrolls he had slung over his shoulder. Sera gulped, the massive beard and square jaw lined up with Davil’s description, but he made no mention of his imposing stature. The scholar sighed, made her way around the crowd of friends and family, and tried her luck.

“… Lyatt Golenshard?”

She slowly approached the man as he made his way off the boat, and gave him a curt nod. Surprisingly, his sprang to life with a wide smile. “Hey there! You must be Sera, eh?” His voice was raspy, and even with a few words a thick, unrefined accent was immediately noticeable. “Davil told me to expect a young lass, didn’t mention she’d be such a looker!”

The merchant’s comment took Sera aback, his blunt demeanor stunning the scholar. She realized why the man looked so out of place, he wasn’t native to Ondaria. She blinked a few times before a stray finger pointed at his cargo. “Are those the scrolls?”

The merchant snorted. “Right then, straight to business, eh? I can respect that.”

Sera blushed. “Sorry… I’m just…” Her gaze pinwheeled towards the ground. “Uncomfortable… out here.”

Lyatt’s eyes wandered a bit as well, though they lingered on her sash for a few seconds. His expression turned a bit more dour. “Understandable, all things considered. I won’t keep you then.” He shrugged the sack full of scrolls off his shoulder. “These are all of em. Hopefully there’s something in there worth both our troubles.” He dropped the bag, letting it collapse against the concrete in a clattering heap. For supposedly irreplaceable info, he sure wasn’t treating them as such.

Sera held her tongue though, and instead grabbed the scrolls before anything else happened to them. Her legs nearly buckled hoisting the sack over her shoulder. “Heavier than I was expecting. Larger too.”

“Yep, they’re good ol’ fashioned parchment n’ wood. Gotta keep ‘em big so they can fit all them notes on ‘em. Can’t just recall stuff with a bit o’ magic. Big size, big weight.” The merchant shrugged. “Dunno how them poor saps on the Continent get by.”

Sera grunted as she shifted the weight to a more comfortable position. “With sculpted biceps, apparently.”

That got a good laugh out of Lyatt, a hearty chuckle radiating across the dockyard. The tension in Sera’s gut began to relax a bit. He knew, obviously, but he didn’t seem to care.

The laughter died down but a wide grin was still plastered over the sailor’s face. “Well, I did my duty for the old man. I best be gettin goin’ miss.” He took a moment to scan the dockyard and a smug smirk pulled at his lips. “Looks like none o’ my mates hung around for me though, the bastards.” He shook his head, still grinning. “You two have fun pokin’ around with those. I’m gonna go give my report to Yarma, then I’m dragging those desertin’ punks down to the pub and gettin’ some real ale. Shit in Garrlorn is even worse than their scrolls.”

Sera just nodded, her experience with ale of any quality basically nonexistent.

“Give the old man my best. And let him know he owes me for this. Dunno what yet, but I’ll be sure to make it unpleasant.”

This time is was Sera’s turn to laugh. “Will do.”

He turned his back and made his way off towards Yarma’s palace, digging his hand out of his pocket and giving the scholar another quick wave as he left. A harsh exhale sputtered out of Sera’s lungs. Her muscles relaxed, her heartbeat slowed, and her nerves finally began to calm. She glanced at the bag slung over her shoulder. She did it. No major issues.

The scholar adjusted her grip on the scrolls and looked around. The dockyard was almost empty now, the crowd mostly dispersed with loved ones in tow. The hum of the crowd replaced with the constant wash of the waves below and the occasional squawking of gulls overhead. Sera grinned, feeling a bit a fool for being so worried. She’d have to apologize to Davil for being so hard on the poor guy.

Uneven footsteps clattered against the pavement as Sera slowly made her way back to the Archive. Her legs were still a bit sore from the trip down, and none too pleased about the second round of physical exertion coming their way. Her calves made their grievances known as each stride burned just a little bit more than she’d like, the subtle shots of discomfort in time with the more precise pain of the bag of scrolls weighing down on her shoulder with each heavy step. Another few paces and the bag rolled off her shoulder and she stumbled, stopping mid-stride in an attempt to correct herself. Though her steps had halted, a few more unexpected footsteps reverberated across the now empty dockyard. Her heart leapt into her throat and she spun, almost losing her balance as the weight of the scrolls threatened to keep her in motion. Wide eyes darted around the dock, looking for the source of the phantom sound, but Sera was, apparently, alone. She did her best to calm her nerves, turning to head back to the Archive when she felt it again. A chill running up her spine, the unshakable feeling someone was watching her. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake it off as mere mindgames this time. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and scanned the surrounding area as best she could without being too obvious. No one seemed to be around, until she spotted him again. She nearly gagged on the saltwater air. The same man as before, poised just off the main road at an intersection with an alleyway, his cloak letting him blend into the shadows of the more shaded offroads. His face was still hidden but Sera could feel the glare growing in intensity. There could be no doubt now he was focusing on her. No one else was around. Her gaze snapped away, meeting the ground as her heart continued to thunder. The scrolls starting slipping from her grip and she grasped frantically to keep them from falling. Even turned away she could still feel the stranger’s gaze burning into her back. With a quick heel turn the scholar made haste, scurrying away as quickly as she could without blatantly up and running.

She made her way back to where she’d started in half the time, the sight of the small Warp Terminal giving her a second of pause, wondering if she should chance attempting a portal of her own back to the Archive. Fear got the better of her though, and she instead continued the journey home on foot, once again cursing under her breath at Davil’s expense.

Back into the crowd she dove, though it had thinned out significantly in the hour and change she’d spent since leaving. The midday bustle was dying down, and despite her earlier disposition she now lamented the more open space, no longer being able to disappear in a pulsating pool of people.

She wasn’t sure if she was being followed, too afraid to look back. The sensation of being watched was gone, but it was hard to pinpoint such a thing in a crowd. She simply pushed forward in an awkward stumbling gait, past the vendors still vying for her attention, pushing through the stragglers still haggling for the best deals, barreling through the games of children now starting to take over the more open streets. She was running now, full stop. Her mind on fire with the terrifying possibilities of what for all she knew could be only a few steps behind her.

After twenty minutes of running, Sera was exhausted, limbs in agony from both exertion and carrying such cumbersome cargo. She did her best to calm her mind and force herself to rest, slowing from a sprint to an unsteady stagger as the scholar began to catch her breath and her bearings.

Sera recognized a few landmarks, realizing she was closer to the Archive than she’d thought, and immediately pulled her hood more tightly over her face, the large sack of odd scrolls earning her confused stares from random passersby. She did her best not to be overly obvious as she glanced around the crowded street. The figure from the docks was gone. Likewise, the feeling of being watched had vanished, leaving her another face in a dwindling crowd. She nearly chuckled under her breath, the ridiculousness of the situation now only dawning on her.

Maybe she really did need to get out more.

The Archive was in sight now, what was merely peeking over the surrounding buildings in the distance before now just a short sprint away. She pushed her way past the few people remaining in the streets and rushed towards the front steps, eager to give Davil a verbal thrashing.

She froze.

“Figured you’d be heading here eventually…”

Sitting a few steps up on stairs leading up to the Archive, reclining casually, was the cloaked pursuer, his presence imposing as he looked down on her from atop the Archive’s steps, despite his relaxed posture. Sera’s nerves yielded slightly to an encroaching curiosity. Not to how he managed to beat her here, there were dozens of Terminals that led to the Archive, but of the man’s voice. It sounded vaguely familiar, and her mind sifted frantically through memories in an attempt to place it.

Ignorant or indifferent to her plight, the figure continued down the stairs. A repressed ire in his voice began to grow, building more steam as it was finally allowed to be released. “You’re her, aren’t you?”

His words filled the air around them, carrying beyond the step of the library and spilling into the square. Loud enough that the people still in the streets forgot their other tasks and stared. Loud enough that they began to recognize her too. A dozen other glares joined the hooded stranger’s, the newcomers too stunned to do anything but gawk. Their faces were full of pity, of sadness. And a few with a thinly veiled layer of disgust.

The stranger made his way to the end of the stairs, letting each heavy step linger. As his foot met the final step, he reached up and casually cast off his hood.

“You’re Seraphina.”

The young scholar stumbled at her name, legs threatening to give out on her. The now unhooded stranger, the handsome merchant from earlier, locked eyes with her, his warm salesman enthusiasm replaced with a cold grimace that threatened to cut through her. His expression lit up at her discomfort, and a subtle smirk nipped at his lips as the scholar struggled to compose herself.

“Let me see it.”

Sera’s blood ran cold. She knew what he meant. Her eyes widened and her head shook violently, and her hands reacted on their own, reaching for her neck.

“Let me see it!”

His arm sprang forward, crackling with mana. The people around froze, all of them sensing the presence of a combat spell being cast. Sera choked, the air around her becoming cold and dry as the spell stole energy to manifest. The magic tightened like a vice around her makeshift scarf, and the force of the spell pulled her off balance. With a grunt, the man snapped his hand into a fist and pulled, tearing the scarf from her neck and sending Sera hurtling towards the ground. The loose garment followed the path of his arm before fluttering away in the breeze as he let the spell dissipate, its purpose served.

The scream the scholar let out was blood curdling, drawing the attention of the few people still trying to mind their own business. She collapsed into a heap, wrapping her hands around her neck. The scrolls forgotten as they scattered across the ground.

It was too late though. They’d seen it.

A thick collar cast in obsidian sat heavy around her throat. The entire outer band of was inset with a series of runes made of raw Tellosite. Fastened to the front was a large blue jewel, brilliantly shimmering and reflecting the light, calling the attention of the crowd right to it, despite her attempts to keep it hidden. The flourish was a way to make it more fashionable, her father had said. More acceptable.

As if it could even be acceptable.

The merchant’s eyes narrowed as they settled on the glimmering glass. “You are her.”

Sera’s heart thundered, the force of the beats combined with the glares of the crowd gathering and gawking threatening to make her vomit. One hand shuddered at her neck, fruitlessly attempted conceal the collar, while the other hurried to force the scattered scrolls back into the dropped sack before further damage came to them. The merchant’s heavy footsteps made their way towards her as he closed the remaining gap, bringing the circle of the crowd around them tighter, the pressure threatening to swallow her.

“Tell me why…”

Sera kept her eyes down, still gathering the scrolls. Her voice was weak and wavered. “Why…?”

“Tell me why! Why would someone without Yarma’s blessing still end up in one of her most respected positions?” The man was pacing now, his face contorted as his voice strained. “It’s already a monumental task to familiarize yourself with the intricacies of sorcery, but for someone like you, to study a subject you’ve never known. That you never can know…”

For the second time today Sera felt small. Her “condition” making her a joke.

“My whole life I studied! Poured through every book I could, my father working to the bone to give me every advantage his meager business could afford! For five grueling years I gave everything I was into studying all there was about sorcery. Do you know why?”

Sera was silent. Frozen in mid grasp for one of the final scrolls. Her body shivered as she fought back mounting tears. Desperately hoping the murmurs around her about intervening would turn to action.

Her aggressor grew tired waiting for a reply. “So I could be Davil’s apprentice. Your job. Maybe give something back to my Dad after everything he gave up for me. Get him off that damned street corner and let him enjoy his final years comfortably. Give him the life he worked so hard to give me. And what do they do?”

“They steal it from me. With a flick of your father’s pen what I worked for was ripped away from me! Just to be given to some broken little girl!”

There were hushed mumblings among the crowd. Arguments of agreement and insult followed by calls for silence if they got too heated. Sera locked eyes with the man for the first time, wincing but unable to prevent the tears from leaking down her face.

“So I ask you again: Why? What do you have that I don’t? Anything other than a prestigious name? Anything?!”

Her vision blurred. Tears staining the scrolls she was leaning over. “I’m not…”

“You’re not?”

Sera dropped the scroll she was holding, slowly stumbling to her feet, a hush falling over the gathered crowd. A quick flick of her wrist wiped the tears off her face as her brow furrowed. “I’m not…”

She dug deep, recalling the teachings of countless books she’d read in her years serving in the Archive, a job she simultaneously loved and loathed. She calmed her mind and focused, inhaling sharply, remembering what little personal instruction she’d received as a child before her condition was apparent. Her mind reached out and grasped at the mana coursing through her, feeling its subtle ebb and flow as it cycled through her body in syncopation with her pulse, as much a part of her as her blood; the gift of Yarma herself. She concentrated on its presence, dull as it had been made to her. The obsidian band around her neck sprang to life, the runes humming and burning a bright blue as they struggled to harness and dissipate the mana she was attempting to summon. The Tellosite sizzled and burned at her neck as she overtaxed the object’s enchantment, summoning more and more energy, and forcing it to spring forth. Her body was electric with sorcery as the scent of ozone filled the chilled air. At last she raised her gaze to her aggressor.

“I'm… not… broken!!”

Her voice was full of venom, a guttural growl sounded alien even to her, sparked from a deeply seated rage that she had foolishly uncaged. Energy surged through her body, each frantic beat of her heart pumping more and more power through her, and suddenly she was afraid. Her fingers dug into her palms as pain and rage and terror embroiled and fused into a maelstrom of indescribable emotion, and seemed to take on a life of their own. She took a step forward towards the stranger, screaming and aiming every last ounce of uncontrollable energy directly towards him. A torrent of white hot flames engulfed her palms and tore through the air with an unholy screech. The wave of arcane fire impacted the cloaked man with an unpredicted concussive force. A sickening crack that reverberated through the entire square, his cloak immediately consumed by the flames and he himself was blown off his feet, dodging the bulk of the fire, but tumbling backward like a child’s discarded doll. His eyes went wide, darting around the crowd, looking for help. No one moved, too stunned at the display before them.

Sera’s confidence surged, and she went to press her advantage, gathering up more energy for another blast. The crowd around her snapped back to life and began to panic. The air suddenly full of terrified screams and disparate cries. It was only then that she noticed, the putrid scent of scalding flesh and fabric greeting her nose. Then the pain registered. She looked down.

Her forearm was on engulfed in flames.

“No! Dammit, no! Not again! Please!”

The flames ignored her, shooting up her arm, engulfing more of her body. Smaller fires sprung up on her legs and chest, burning through her clothing. The collar on her neck glowed a fierce blue as the Tellosite desperately attempted to absorb and dissipate the surge of magic her body could no longer control.

It failed.

Her legs gave way and she collapsed, writhing in agony, her screams and the sick bubbling of her own cooking flesh filling the air around the crowd. The people were panicked.

“What do we do?!”

“Someone needs to help her!”

“I thought that thing around her neck prevented things like this…”

“Yarma have mercy!”

“Someone get the Head Scholar!”

A few members of the crowd stopped gawking and finally reacted, attempting to counter her magic. Three sorcerers in student robes stepped forward, enduring the heat and casting spells of their own to dissipate the overwhelming energy pouring out of her. The flames calmed but didn’t subside. Sera tried to block out the pain, desperately willing herself to concentrate, to calm down and snuff out the sporadic sorcery, but the pain was agonizing. Thoughts left her mind as quickly as the entered. Focus was impossible. Nothing existed except the searing sensation of nerve endings literally burning away. Combined with the ensuing frustration, the reaction only grew more fierce. Her left calf was entirely ablaze now, the fire creeping up her thigh. The world began to blur, and her head felt heavy. Her cries subsided into muffled whimpers as her battered body began to succumb to encroaching exhaustion. The sounds of the crowed freaking out began to seem far away. So far away…

“Sera! Hey, Sera!”

The voice seemed far away, sounding distorted, but familiar. A blurred silhouette of a man just barely recognizable kneeling over her called in and out of focus. “… Orren?”

He let out something between a chuckle and a cry. “Yeah… yeah it’s me.”

Her eyes found his face, saw his smile. She tried to reach out to him, but all her limbs were heavy, numb beyond feeling. Her eyelids drooped, her body lulling her to sleep. “I know…”

Orren gasped and gently shook at her shoulder “Sera? Sera! Hey wake up! Stay awake, you hear me!” His arms flailed at his side, struggling at what to do. He looked away for a moment, his mouth moving but the words were too distorted for her to hear. Sera noticed tears streaming down his cheeks, face painted with distress. It was her fault. She made him cry. The wave of guilt that washed over her hurt more than the burns.

“I know…”

The words slipped out of the scholar’s lips were barely a whisper. Orren leaned in closer, resting a hand on her shoulder. “What? You know what?”

“I know I’m broken… I know…”

The reaction was automatic. The heat scalded his exposed skin and bit at his thick clothes but he didn’t stop. He scooped Sera off the ground and pulled her close into an embrace. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re fine. Everything’s going to be fine, okay? Davil is here now. Just calm down. You’re going to be fine.”

Hearing his voice, seeing the blurred outline of his face, feeling his touch, he seemed to glow. The light intensified, and then they were both glowing. The flames consuming her body were suddenly enveloped by a aquamarine aura that burned even brighter than the fire itself, before snuffing them out entirely. Her whimpering subsided a bit, her shuddering slowed. In an instant the pain began to subside. Strength began to return to her, feeling pouring back into her limbs. Even the subtle burns on Orren’s arms began to clear. Both their eyes glanced up at Davil, alight with energy, staff raised high, his feeble body imbued with renewed vigor, appearing regal standing atop the Archive steps above them all, channeling Yarma’s Gift, pulsing with unfathomable arcane power privy to a only a select few. The glow faded and he nearly collapsed leaning on his staff, exhausted. He’d just finished casting a complex healing spell Sera had only read about in ancient texts ten times the age of Davil himself.

The stunned crowd erupted into a frenzy, praising their Head Scholar for knowing exactly what to do and having the ability to pull it off. Orren scooped up the battered scholar, holding her delicately in his arms as he slowly made his way to his feet. She was still weak, fluttering in and out of consciousness. The flames had been extinguished, but her body was still damaged from the uncontrolled magic. Her flesh that had been burned was still twisted and deformed. More intense sorcery from specialized mages would be necessary for her to fully recover. Davil made his way back into the Archive, and Orren hurried his way away from the crowd towards the side entrance to the building.

“Come on. We should probably get out of here while they’re still distracted.“

“The scrolls… don’t forget the scrolls.”

Orren looked around. “Scolls? What scrolls?”

Sera forced her eyes open, ignoring the hellish appearance of her scalded arm, trying to focus her still blurry vision and locate the bag and its scattered contents, but they were gone. The only thing remaining in the road the charred remains of an old worn sack, spilling out half burnt dowels and a pile of glowing embers on the pavement.

“Never mind…”

____________

He knew she hated flowers.

Orren cast a glance the bouquet he was nursing in the crook of his arm as the coins in his hand were hastily snatched by the florist. The man fingered through the coins with a discerning eye, before dismissing his customer with a quick bat of the wrist.

Orren chuckled under his breath, giving the vendor a slight nod as he walked out of the shop. He cast a glance at the prize sitting in his arms. He was an idiot. Sera was hurt yes, but this wasn’t back home, where an injury needed a multi-week hospital stay and dozens of complex medical treatments. Something that warranted a material token of empathy. This was Ondaria, the sorcery capital of the world. A couple hours with a decent medical mage and any ailment short of death was pretty much taken care of, and Orren was willing to bet Yarma had her best sorcerers working on that last one.

And yet for some indiscernible reason he still felt compelled by tradition to get her flowers. And the most extravagant bouquet at at.

She’d throw them back in his face, no doubt about it. Probably followed by some verbal thrashing about how ‘she doesn’t need some girly flowers’. If not that, at least throw a poor joke his way. Sera didn’t like that kind of attention. She didn’t like being pitied.

Too often she seemed confuse ‘caring’ with ‘pity’.

The cool ocean breeze picked up, caressing Orren’s skin as he hurriedly made his way towards the D’Vaylen Manor, the street now quiet save for the soft buzzing of streetlights that held back the encroaching nightfall. He had first stopped by the Archive, but apparently Sera had been taken home after the… incident, earlier today.

The thought made Orren’s stomach churn a bit, and his steps quickened.

The D’Vaylen home was massive. Such that it really had no business being referred to as a home at all. The estate was dizzying in scope, initially erected when Ondaria was still part of the Continent. The architecture was laden with flamboyant symbols of status, superfluous artistic details only possible during an age when buildings were painstakingly hand crafted. The garish over-designed sensibilities a harsh contrast to the surrounding modern geometric style that was created via sorcery today. A half dozen buildings the size of more modest homes were peppered around the main manor itself, which towered above the others, like it was trying to reach out and grasp Sol itself. A sprawling lawn littered with similarly ornate decorations stretched as far as the eye could see, kept in bounds by an imposing fence of stone and steel bars, which itself was encased inside a standard security enchantment, further preventing unauthorized entry. Orren approached the barrier and kept up his stride uninhibited, the force field letting him pass with little more than a slight tingle, the spell matching him to a short list of permissible guests. His progress was halted a precious few seconds as the automated gate slowly crept open, the dull mechanical droning piercing the otherwise quiet night. He shimmied his way through as soon as the gap was wide enough, careful of the bouquet.

A sharp crackle filled the air and a hologram of an elderly man in formal dress flickered into existence in front of him. The image hovered a few inches off the ground, and kept pace with him through the courtyard. It would have been jarring if he hadn’t seen it dozens of times before. The image waved and smiled warmly. “Hello again, Master Orren. Good to see you well.”

The man’s voice was unnatural, the inflection not quite right, emphasis occasionally placed on odd syllables. Construct enchantments still didn’t have perfect speech patterns. Nevertheless, Orren matched his smile. “Hey Jarrel.”

“Here to see the young Mistress, I presume?”

He nodded.

“Very well. I’ll open the main doors for you. She’s in her chamber.” Jarrel’s gaze lingered on the bouquet. “Are you worried about her, Master Orren?”

Orren felt his face flush, though he supposed there was little reason to be bashful in front of a glorified enchantment. He gave Jarrel a subtle nod. “Little bit, yeah. Gave me a scare earlier. Is she doing all right?”

“The young mistress has recovered fully. No complications.” He paused for a moment. “She didn’t leave her room for dinner though.”

Considering who dinner would be with, Orren wasn’t surprised. “Thanks. And Jarrel?”

“Yes, Master Orren?”

“Don’t call me ‘master’.”

“As you wish, Master Orren.”

The hologram bowed curtly and flickered out. Orren could have sworn the construct had a smirk on his face at the end there. He rolled his eyes and made his way into the main building.

The walk to Sera’s room took longer than it should have. Orren knew the way, of course, he’d been to her family’s estate more times than he could count over the years, but despite the frequent visits, he couldn’t help but get lost in the amount of things the family had managed to cram into the place. The D’Vaylen Manor was a cornucopia of sensory overload, packed to the brim with all manners of trinkets and trophies, a monument to inflated ego. The D’Vaylen house proudly proclaimed its status as a High Vassal Family to Yarma, and indulged in all the power and wealth that came with it. Weapons, armor, and other artifacts from famous Ondarian battles long past that were won thanks to familial battlemages were prominently displayed on pedestals so extravagant they threatened to distract from the item they were presenting. Tomes penned by the bloodline’s sorcerers that changed the way mana was used forever had somehow been “coerced” from the Archive and put on display here instead. Dizzyingly detailed oil paintings of the Head of House going back the better part of a century framed the hallways. Orren recognized most of them, though the earliest ones as barely more than disparate images from his childhood. The sprawling sequence of stuff lead to the main hall, itself having more extravagant paintings of the current family, nearly a dozen in all, commissioned every couple of years. They were displayed on high at the far wall, so everyone entering the estate could behold the glory of the D’Vaylen bloodline captured in unreal artistic splendor.

Orren noticed Sera was absent from the newer ones.

He made his way towards the arcing staircase at the back of the room. The plush carpet beneath his feet almost made him feel guilty for bastardizing it with his simple shoes. The room itself was eerily empty. The manor was packed full of things but utterly devoid of people. No one greeted him. Orren wasn’t surprised. The D’Vaylens weren’t known for their social skills. No doubt Sera’s parents were hard at work, their noses buried in holotomes, deep in the middle of some barely comprehensible research Yarma was demanding. Mr. D’Vaylen himself might not even be home at all, off in a meeting with the Conclave.

His son Elix, on the other hand, was still young, only Sera’s senior by two years. He took after his family in talent , but was also a bit of a party animal, and the night was still just as young as he was. No doubt he’d be sneaking his way through this room later tonight in a drunken stupor.

And Sera herself?

Well, Sera had a lot on her mind right now to be sure.

The thought finally hit about an hour too late as he stood at the door of her chamber, knuckle in mid-knock. Did he give her enough time to herself? Would she even want his company after earlier today?

Oh well. Too late now.

Two knocks. Then a pause.

Two more knocks.

“Go away! We’re done talking!”

Orren winced. Apparently Sera’s father was as tactful as usual. “Actually, I was just wondering if we were ever gonna get around to getting that lunch we talked about…”

There was a sudden flurry of sound from inside the room. The door flew open. “Orren!”

Her cheeks were red, eyes bloodshot from tears as she buried her face in his chest. The sudden affection took him by surprise, and he was slow to return the embrace.

Sera seemed to suddenly remember herself and pulled away, cheeks even deeper red for a different reason. “So uhh… what’s up?” Her gaze settled on his arm. “Are those flowers?”

It was Orren’s turn to blush. “You know me. Total sap.”

She opened her mouth, and Orren braced himself for the playful chastising. Instead, she merely shook her head, ginning, and waved him inside. “Come on you big dolt, I think I got a vase in here we can use…” Her smile faded.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s stupid.”

He pointed at the flowers and shrugged. “So am I, apparently. It’s not so bad.”

She tried not to laugh at the lame joke. She failed. “Just get in here.”

“So what’s going on?”

She pointed to the empty vase sitting on a dresser. “It’s just dumb. I actually broke a vase at the Archive today. Tried to fix it.”

Orren slipped the flowers in while giving her a shrug. “That doesn’t seem so dumb.”

“With magic.”

“Ahh…” That was a little more dumb.

“I was cleaning up the shelves on the third floor and I found some books on casting circles.”

“I’m not familiar.”

“I wasn’t either. Apparently they’re used to help focus mana for certain effects. They fell out of use because drawing them gets complicated fast the more complex the spell, and Tellosite Cells basically made them obsolete.” She let out a sigh. “Still, they make magic easier. I thought… I’d hoped…”

Orren nodded. Nothing else had to be said.

The scholar let out another heavy sigh as she collapsed onto her mattress. “I’m just a failure.”

“No you’re not.”

“Oh come on Orren let’s not kid ourselves.” She pulled at the collar. “This is all the proof we need of that.”

“That wasn’t anything you did.”

“Like that even matters? No one else seems to remember that, and even if they do they don’t seem to care.” She groaned. “You should have seen it earlier. Dad ripping into me for losing it in public again, about how ‘the reputation of our bloodline is at stake’ and ‘you’re putting us all in jeopardy’. And of course Davil had to be the pillar of selflessness and play defense the whole time, trying to take all the blame since it was his idea to send me on an errand in the first place, trying his best to hide the disappointment, never once looking at me the whole time. Both of them talking about me like I wasn’t even there. Like I’m a Yarma-drowned child. And without any magic I may as fucking well be. A child at best, a pitiful freak at worst…”

Orren tried to get close. “Hey… calm down, okay?”

“Why? So I don’t burst into flames again? No one trusts me! Hell, I don’t trust me! Even you know to treat me differently!”

Orren backed off. Her words like a punch to the gut.

The flustered scholar seemed to notice, and her anger faded. “Goddess… I’m sorry. It’s just… why does it have to be like this?

“I dunno. I wish I did.” He let out a sigh of his own, eyes meeting the floor. “I’m not trying to treat you differently, I’m just trying to protect you.”

“Yeah but I don’t want to have to be protected, you know? I wanna be an adult. I wanna be healthy.” She let her body relax, and she sank into the plush mattress. “I don’t wanna be afraid anymore…”

Orren moved to meet her, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’ll get through this.”

“Yeah…” For a moment her face took on a different expression. Steeled with a sudden surge of purpose before quickly fading back to a more neutral look, her gaze becoming aimless.

She rolled over on the mattress, away from him. “You should probably go. I appreciate you coming by, I really do.” She rolled her eyes a bit as her gaze meandered back towards the vase. “And I guess the flowers are nice too, but between the medical mages, the fighting, and the whole bursting into flames again bit, I’m just beat.”

Orren nodded, doing his best to mask his disappointment. “I understand.”

He got up, making his way to the door, Sera slowly crawling out of the plush mattress’ grasp and walking him to the door.

“Hey Orren?”

He turned. “Yeah?”

“Sorry we didn’t get that bite.”

He grinned. “Considering the circumstances, I think I can let you off the hook.”

That got a smile out of her. It was small, but he’d take it. “Goodnight, Sera.”

“Later.”

Slow footsteps carried him back into the hallway. He hesitated, turning around, letting his gaze linger on her for a moment, until she waved at him again and closed the door. With a sigh Orren made his way out of the empty D’Vaylen Manor, nodding wordlessly at Jarell’s usual pre-programmed farewell as he passed back through the courtyard. It was only when the gate closed behind him that Orren let the grin that had been itching to creep onto his face finally get the best of him, and he let out a soft chuckle.

He only had to wait three hours, perching against the fence and letting himself get lost in the mess of stars twinkling overhead, doing his best to piece them together into constellations while ignoring the chilly evening air nipping at his exposed skin. He was in the middle of stretching his stiff back when the sound of shuffling of boots against cobblestone cut through the evening stillness. He perked up, casting a glance over at the main gate as a large backpack was tossed over, hitting the ground with a harsh thud. The gate began to rattle, joined a moment later with a series of unflattering grunts. A slip, a curse, then a less than graceful vault, and a young woman made her way to the other side of the fence, barely sticking the landing as she nearly tripped on her own bag. Orren let her sling the bag back over her shoulder before he called out.

“So what are we doing?”

Sera’s whole body jumped and she stifled a scream, a shrill peep still escaping her lips. “Orren?! How did y—“

“C’mon Sera, I’ve known you your entire life.” He made his way over to her as his grin reached both ears, reaching out and giving her forehead a playful knock. “You think I can’t recognize when the gears are turning up here and you’re planning something?”

She grumbled a curse, waving him on after her as she started down the street. “Come on then! Let’s get outta here before someone sees us.”

For a while they traveled in silence, Sera slinking in the shadows with Orren wandering behind in a more straightforward manner, unable to keep the amusement off his face at the scholar’s overcaution. People out and about after dusk was hardly a sight to rouse suspicion, her attempt at subterfuge only drawing more attention to herself.

He did his best to give Sera the time she needed to open up, but his impatience finally got the better of him. “So… what are we doing again?”

She let out a huff and led him into an alleyway, double checking for a tail before responding. “I’m leaving, Orren.”

“I gathered as much.”

She began to pace, a trait she picked up from Davil. “I dunno what else to do. My family thinks I’m a liability, Davil thinks I’m a child, and I can’t help but think that neither of them are entirely wrong.” Her fist slammed into the wall to punctuate her statement. “I can’t keep doing this! This has to stop!”

She stood up straight, the energy in her eyes back again, and she looked him straight on for the first time that night. “I’m gonna find a cure.”

Orren raised and eyebrow without meaning to. “Is that even possible?”

“It has to be. A spell, a surgery, hell even just some way to control all this mana without relying on this stupid thing.” She pointed at the collar as her expression soured.

“Where will you go?”

Her confidence stuttered. “I dunno. Ondaria is the epicenter of magical study, but it’s too risky to move around here. Someone will eventually recognize me and drag me back to my family. I’ll be back to square one.” She shrugged. “Plus I’ve combed through a lot of the Archive the last ten years I’ve been there. Not once have I come across anything even slightly useful.”

Sera poked out from the shadows to make sure no one was following them before making her way out of the alley, again motioning for Orren to follow. “So I guess I’m going to the Continent.”

Orren raised an eyebrow purposely this time. “The Continent? The mana use there is hardly what we’d call sorcery.”

Her head drooped, and she subtly started nursing the hand she just hit the wall with. “You’ve seen the way people react to me, Orren. I don’t think it’s that there isn’t a cure. I just don’t think anyone here cares to look. Mana comes from Yarma. From the Gods. If you w aren’t able to control mana, what does that say about you…?”

The question needed to be asked. “What if it happens again?”

“What?”

Orren fidgeted, the words uncomfortable. “What happened today. If you… lose control again. If you’re out on the Continent, there won’t be sorcerers all around you. You could get hurt… or worse.”

“The people on the Continent might not all be sorcerers, but they aren’t completely helpless. You should know that better than me Orren, your people can’t use mana at all.”

He sighed. “That’s exactly why I’m worried. Where I come from, burns like what you had earlier take months to heal, if they even heal at all.”

She wavered for a moment before shaking her head. “I’ll just have to be careful then.”

Orren’s gut twisted, he had a bad feeling about this. “Sera…”

“Please, stop. The last thing I need right now is more coddling. I need results. And results aren’t here. Just excuses. So I’m gonna go find them.”

She turned sharply on her heel, glaring at the man with a raised finger. “You can’t tell anyone about this. You hear me? I don’t want you to get in trouble for my sake. When everyone realizes I’m gone, just play dumb and be worried like everyone else.”

“Well you definitely don’t have to worry about me telling anyone.”

“Thank you.”

Orren flashed her a grin. “Cuz I’m coming with you.”

“Umm… no thank you? You’re the Arterean ambassador’s son. People will notice if you disappear.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, and you’re the Assistant Scholar of the Tellosian Archive and the daughter of the Head Family. You think nobody’s gonna notice you being gone?”

“Ondaria is already trying to forget me. The few people outside my family who realize I’m gone will be relieved if nothing else.”

“Well I would miss you…”

That seemed to stop the scholar dead in her tracks. Even in the near black Orren could see her cheeks flush. “I mean… I know you would but… I can’t just… you can’t…”

“Let’s be honest for a second: Have you ever been able to talk me out of something after I’ve made my mind up?

Despite her best efforts a smile crept on her face. “No, I suppose not. Doesn’t mean I can’t try, though.”

“Well lemme know when you’re done. I’ll just tune out for a bit.”

She continued to protest for a few more minutes, Orren keeping his word and not acknowledging a syllable of it, trying to pick up where he left off with the constellations.

“Okay fine I’m done! Goddess you’re impossible…”

“Good.” He closed the small gap between them. “If there’s a way to do this, I’m gonna help.” With a swift step forward he snatched the heavy satchel out of the scholar’s grasp and slung it over his shoulder. “So let’s get started.”

She sighed. “Guess that means I’m gonna have to grab two horses from the stable.”

The bag nearly slipped out of his hand. “You’re gonna steal a horse?!”

She turned and gave him a harsh shush. “Don’t get all saintly on me. Besides, they’re Dad’s horses, so it’s not even technically stealing.”

Orren was pretty sure it technically was.

“You don’t have to do this, you know. I can take care of myself.”

“No you can’t.”

“Gee. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Oh excuse me, Ms. Bursts-into-Flames, I’m just calling it as I see it.”

He wasn’t sure if she’d take kindly to the jab, but Sera seemed amused, laughing at the line. Her voice came out a bit shaky. “Hey Orren?”

“Yeah?”

She hesitated for a moment, before taking his hand in hers. “Thanks.”

Orren’s heart fluttered, the touch taking him by surprise. Her soft fingertips tickled the inside of his palm before wrapping around his hand in a soft, trembling grip. The warmth of her touch shot up his arm and seemed to numb his entire body. He reacted almost subconsciously, grasping at her hand a bit tighter, appreciating each little subtle sensation of her fingers twitching as she returned his grip in kind. He slowed down to better keep pace with her shorter strides, erasing the little distance remaining between them. Her cheek caressed his shoulder, and she missed a step as she committed fully to the embrace, letting her weight lean into his forearm. Orren’s heart thundered in his chest. A warm smile burst onto his flushed face, and he let out an involuntary sigh of contentment.

Then, a familiar, hushed gasp.

She pulled her hand away.

They continued onwards in silence.

#writing #fiction #fantasy writing #Sorceress Lost

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