#almost fell into a VERY brackish puddle because i was so distracted

[daisychainsandbowties]

I am sorry if this is getting annoying, but honestly I can't let this AU go and I have more questions.

So, about Bea's dragon's name:

Would the name she gives her be "Jeanne d'arc"? Or did you mean it's just "Darc"? Because I'm having this funny image of Bea's dragon--like this all regal-looking Celestial--having not just 2 names, but also different nickname variations. Like she might be called Jeanne, and some people call her Darc, and then some Chinese OCS crew comes to visit and calls her by her royal Chinese name.

So later, Avernus (who at this point is still kind of like at odds with Bea's dragon because they're still both jealous of each other), asks, "wtf is your name!?" in a very annoyed tone.

She would be so haughty about her royal Chinese name to Avernus.

And what does she look like? Would she look like Tem? Like shiny black and blue? (Because that would be funny next to Avernus' white and gold because of that dress. Well, funny to me, not in-world because they haven't invented the internet yet.)

goodness no this is certainly not annoying!

oh, I do think that Beatrice would go for broke with her dragon’s name. & yes, it would be the full Jeanne d’arc, but using the earlier formulation of that surname as a nickname (because it is Beatrice) dropping the apostrophe so that, instead, you have Darc; and pronouncing it in her own accent to sound more like the English ‘dark’.

I think, considering this is Tem’s child, she would have the usual Celestial colouring, with very deep black scales, but because I think it’d be cool I’m also going to draw some sketchy biological relations between dragon wings and butterfly wings and say that Darc has patches of iridescence in her wings, where the light scatters it into these reflective patches of turquoise and green and red and blue, though indoors it simply appears to be greenish-blue, and the patterning is in sort of a spattering of patches at the very end of her wings (like Tem). they catch the light very prettily, but mostly she is dark, like her namesake, with face tendrils that also tend a bit more upwards in wavelength towards green from blue, and also iridescent.

and yes, the european ocs treat her like any other dragon - which is to say with friendly and casual love - wheras the Chinese members of the ocs remain quite formal and respectful with her, which frankly she enjoys, and she likes to be called by her Lung-Tien name sometimes. she is, indeed, haughty about it, and prone to becoming a little big-headed, which Beatrice finds amusing and Ava thinks is utterly adorable, but Avernus call them both ‘rotten fools’ for indulging her, when he is, after all, the most important dragon. 

and yes, Avernus who has 1 (one) name though of course it is the BEST name because it is his name, thinks this is absurd, and pretends to forget what to call Darc half the time, especially when she is annoying him and telling him how to hold himself on parade blah blah. 

Darc especially becomes insufferable when they are forced to land and camp in aerial corps holdings. she wants to impress upon everyone that female handlers are superior and that the ocs is an extremely prestigious organisation (though the corps aren’t really apprised of what the ocs do, much, at least not to common knowledge). 

omg yes they are The Dress dragons. but also they do look extremely striking together, which they almost always are. Darc is again quite smug about her comparative stealthiness at night, and Avernus insists they ought to go somewhere very cold and see how she blends in with the snow, thank you very much, and anyway he is not meant to go sneaking about because he is, again, the Most Important dragon. 

[haru-sen]

Angst!AU

First off, thanks to the anon ask that sparked me actually writing this out.  It’s been a rough week.  But this was fun.  Second, it’s a draft and details may change when I actually get around the writing the fic.  

The Jesse on Route 66 chapter takes place a little before this. 

“He’s four hundred meters out. The vehicle is heavily shielded. I have not detected an escort.”  Zee’s drone floated beside your hovercycle.  “But this is still ill-advised.”

You shrugged, idling on the low rooftop, taking cover in the shadow of a massive viewscreen advertising a new fantasy drama.  The actors were pretty, but the fight choreography looked too stilted.  If you were at home, you would probably be bullied into watching it.  If anyone still wanted to be in the same room as you.  

“You can request backup.”

“Don’t need it,” you said, mapping the trajectory of the armored car.  If it was just the one vehicle, Zee was enough.  You just had to get her through the physical barrier of hardened shielding.  She could penetrate the firewalls on her own.  And more importantly, Zee was the only one not mad at you right now.  

“They would come.”

You frowned.  It was really unlike Zee to harp on this shit.  “It’s not necessary.”  

“Neither is going after Cian Barrett on your own.”  

“I’m not on my own, I have you,” you said, not taking your eyes off the car.  In this moment, you could almost forget that she wasn’t Athena.  You could forget that Athena wasn't really Athena any more. You could forget that Blackwatch was nothing more than a memory of scandal. You could forget...so you did.  That part of your brain wasn’t necessary for this job.  

It was like slipping into your old armor.  It was like coming home.  The world faded away.  There was you, Zee’s drone, and Barrett’s car.  Everything else was secondary.  

There were no identifying marks on your bike or your armor. The form-fitting suit was all matte black and shielded for direct combat. The helm, styled after a motorcycle helmet, covered your features entirely.  Not your usual outfit, but your “Keres” identity had political links.  Best to be incognito for now.  

The sun was just beginning to dip, and the traffic was heavy. Zee would be able to jam the emergency transmissions, but there would be a lot of witnesses.  There would be calls to emergency services. You were running this operation in broad daylight, and you couldn’t summon the urge to care.  

“This is very reckless,” Zee said.  

“Yeah, but Hong Kong is our territory,” you said, gritting your teeth behind your helmet.  “Are you saying we can’t do this in our own backyard?”  

“...It’s the only reason I’m agreeing to it,” Zee said primly.  “But this is our backyard.  Try not to shit where we eat.”  

You chuckled, a little surprised by her use of profanity.  “It’s nothing you can’t handle.”  He was three hundred meters out.  The overlay on the inside of your helmet fed you more statistics.  The vehicle’s armoring class was higher than you expected, but it had side windows.  Windows were always a structural weak point.  You waited for Barrett’s car to reach the next intersection.

On cue, the light shifted to red, stopping the car in front of him. There was a slight reverberation as Zee tethered her drone to your bike.

You shifted gears, and then suddenly you were dropping forward, accelerating even as you fell.  

Barrett’s car was a thick monstrosity, black and purple, custom-made by Vishkar: hard light kinetic shields, front and rear turrets, a Farraday cage overlay to prevent hacking.  All of that was geared to stop bombs, guns, or cyberattacks.  None of it would stop you.  

You leaned into the turn, holding yourself at 45 degrees off the ground, the bike still accelerating as you slipped into traffic. You pulled yourself upright so you could slide between stopped cars.  You took the innermost lane hovering on the border of oncoming traffic.  

Barrett’s stopped car was just ahead.  

“Cut it,” Zee said.

You released the controls, letting her take over as you drew the spike. Eight inches of hardened omnium, the point already starting to glow with heat. It was a simple tool, perfect for shorting out Farraday cages and breaking glass.  Feet jammed in the stirrups, you rested your left arm across your chest, the spike in your metal hand.  Powering up the prostheses and the tool took half a second. And as you passed Barrett’s car your arm snapped sideways, driving the metal into the glass with inhuman force.  

You pierced a thick line through layers of glass, polymer shielding, and then tore through the metal frame, breaking the continuous line of the circuits.  Now there would be a hole in the hard light armoring and the Farraday cage.  In seconds, the spike grew too hot to hold, so you let it go, swinging yourself off the bike.   You just had to carve the hole.  Zee would open the way.  

“I’m in,” Zee said, as the locks popped.

Grinning savagely behind your helmet, you yanked the door open, even as someone within emptied their gun at you.  You jerked back behind the door, getting a glimpse of an omnic bodyguard switching weapons.  

“Zee?”

“Working on it,” she snapped.  

If you’d been alone, you could have used an EMP, but if you’d been alone, you wouldn't be able to pull the data from his devices.  And that was more important than simply killing Barrett.  Not that you planned on sparing him.  Not after what Sakai had let slip. It had taken a lot of work, but in the end, you’d gotten what you needed from what was left of- You winced inwardly.  You didn’t need to think about that right now.  

You drew your gun, angled it, and fired into the car at where the bodyguard had been sitting.  You heard the shots connect, metal rending metal.

“Watch where you’re shooting,” Zee snapped.  

You were never in any danger of hitting her, but if your bullets made it out of the vehicle... You gritted your teeth.  A ricochet probably wouldn’t kill a civilian.  You swung around the door, gun raised.  

The omnic was a smoking wreck.  An armored woman lay bleeding on the ground.  

An older, dignified “gentleman” in a suit, Barrett was pressed against the partition, his own weapon raised at you.  But his hands shook violently. There was blood on his face and in his gray hair, but you didn’t see any serious wounds.  

“Where is she?” You snarled.  

“I don’t know whom you’re talking about!” Barrett shouted defiantly, words blending together in his thick brogue.  

“I think you do,” you sneered, taking aim at his knees.  

“Incoming!” Zee shouted as light flared in your peripheral vision.  

Three things happened at once.   The delivery van in a neighboring lane opened up, half a dozen armored Talon troopers pouring out. And then a sunburst struck the front of Barrett’s car.  You dove to the side, taking cover behind the rear bumper of the vehicle, and then a wave of force rolled you under the next car as an explosion rocked Barrett’s vehicle-though it didn’t come apart.  All around you, car windows shattered from the concussive blast.  

“Is that-?”  You winced, dragging yourself out from underneath a jeep.

“No, not one of ours,” Zee said sharply.  “You need to get out, now.”

“KA-BOOOOM!”  The voice was male, the accent distinctly Australian.  You blinked as you watched a heavily singed blonde man kick Barrett’s front tire. “Hahaha!  You’re blowing up! And this tire is blowing out!”

You staggered to your feet, ears ringing.  There were armored Talon troopers sprawled across the asphalt.  And twenty yards away, Cian Barrett was rabbiting down the crowded streets.  

“Fuck,” you snarled.  

“Move!” Zee shouted in your helmet more forcefully than you’d heard in a long time.  You ducked low, running past prone troopers.

“How did you miss them?” You hissed.

“-I don’t know,” Zee said, her voice distant in your hear. “Transmitting this back to base.”  

“I think they’ll see it on the news,” you huffed.  

There was a ping in your helmet as someone tried to call you.  You ignored it.  

“There’s no way they know about Sakai,” you growled.  Because the only people who knew what you’d done to Sakai and how you made her talk, well, they were on your side, even if they weren’t very happy with you right now.  

“This isn’t for you,” Zee said, even as a Talon trooper raised her gun at you.  “Drop!”

You dove forward, rolling through a brackish puddle, splashing foul liquid everywhere.  It was good thing you were wearing a helmet.  

“Come here.”  A chain shot over your head, a massive hook sinking into the woman’s armor, and suddenly she was airborne.  You turned your head, watching as a massive man in a gas mask yanked her to him.  

“What the hell?”

“Junker mercenaries,” Zee said.  “They’re here for Barrett too.  Avoid them.”  

“Lucky, you butthead! I know you can hear me!  I know this tech can withstand bigger explosions, even if Hong Kong can’t! What the hell is going on?” A very familiar, very angry voice shouted over the comms.  Someone had hacked your settings, not hard considering it was her hardware to begin with.

“Busy!” You shouted, trying to catch sight of Barrett.  In the distance you saw an older European man rounding a corner-

“Yeah, well so am I!  I have the fucking Minister of State Security on hold! Auntie has shorted out the power grid in a six block radius.  Oksana is trying to take out any peripheral electrical surveillance. What in the ten hells do you think you’re doing?”

You flinched.  “I was going after Barrett.  But I’m not the only one.”  You hesitated.  “We didn’t know about the backup.  Or the Aussies.”  You didn’t say whether or not you would have still made the move if you had known.  Better not to go there.  

There was a moment of distracted silence.  She was verifying your claim. “I see that...OK.  Look, you need to get out of there.  Those Australians can take the fall.  You don’t need to get caught up in it any more then you already are.”  

“Barrett has information I need,” you said tightly, vaulting over a low wall as you dodged down an alley, running parallel to the street you saw Barrett turn down.

There was a heavy sigh.  Because they all knew what you would do to get that information.  

“Give me some more time, Lucky.  We can find them too.  You don’t need to cut the answers out of every single Talon agent you dislike.”

“It’s therapy,” you hissed, swearing as dirt and garbage erupted behind you.  A concussive blast nearly knocked you off balance.  “You’re always telling me I need more of that.”

“This bomb’s for you!” The Junker cackled, rapidly closing the distance.  

You swung around, raising your gun.  

The Junker blew past you, literally hoisted by his own petard.  He just waved, winking at you as he rocketed through the air.  

Behind him, three more Talon troopers surged forward.  

So many targets, but it wasn’t a hard decision.  

The visor of your helmet overlaid the shot trajectories, even as you raised your gun in your left hand. Three T-Zone hits, three corpses toppling.  The skill was unnatural as fuck, but you wouldn’t argue with the results.  

You turned back to see the Junker, with his goddamn peg-leg, meters ahead of you. He squinted at you for a moment.  

You surged forward.

“Oh good, I had no idea where he went!” The Junker chuckled as you passed him.  In that moment, he tossed something in front of you, even as you jerked to the side, narrowly missing a steel-jawed trap.

“Aww, c’mon,” he groaned.

You just shook your head and kept moving.  You were very tempted to shoot him, but if Talon was here for him and the big guy, then you might be better off letting him live.  The old you might have been more concerned about the chaos.  But Cian Barrett was getting away.  And that was unacceptable.  

“Zee, I’ve lost visual contact.  Do you-”

“He’s two blocks north,” another voice chimed in.  “You can cut though that alley up ahead and jump the fence.”  

You inhaled sharply.  After what you had done to Sakai, you didn’t think she’d speak to you for another year or two.  And maybe you deserved that. “Thanks,” you said after a moment.  

“Yes, well, be more careful,” she said quietly.  “I’m mad at you, but I’ll be even madder if you die before we can talk about it.”

Dying might easier.  But you were smart enough not to say that out loud. “I’ll be home tonight,” you said.  “If I can wing it.”  

“Kara misses you,” she said hesitantly, in a way that might mean someone other than Karalika missed you.  Which made you smile in spite of the situation. Karalika probably did miss you, but she’d be fine.  Everyone else spoiled her.    

“Yeah, and if you make a bigger mess of this, I’m going to feed her sweet bean paste till she shits all over your room!  Picture it! Bean shits everywhere!” Your “boss” shouted over the comms. “You’ll be mopping the goddamn ceilings for days!”  

If that happened, maybe you’d stay in Hong Kong a little longer.  You turned down the alley, still hearing the peg-legged Junker hopping along behind you.  The fence was three meters high but you leapt onto a closed dumpster, pushed off a support pole, and flung yourself over the chain links.  You dropped down with a heavy thud and picked back up.

“Zee, you have my ride ready?”

“In a minute,” she said, sounding distracted. It should not have come as a surprise, she was balancing a larger workload now.  

With the explosions nearby, the crowds were thinning. You scanned the street- And there he was! A few blocks up, Barret shoved a street vendor and tried to duck into a shop.

You moved quickly through the press, following him into the little electronics stand.  

Sweaty and disheveled, he slumped against a headphones display, panting.  He was not doing a very good job of hiding.  You glanced sharply at the shopkeeper who ducked into a back room.  

Raising your gun in your right hand, you seized him by the collar.  He flailed vainly against the metal.  

“Wait! No! My people will pay handsomely for safety!”

You held up him by the throat, watching him twitch and shake, fear in those pale gray eyes. Your helmet was opaque.  He would not see anything but his own distorted reflection. “Your money means nothing.  I want information.”

“I-I-” He stammered.

“Widowmaker,” you snapped.  “Where are they storing her?”  

He shook his head frantically.  “I don’t know!”

“Agent Sakai seemed to think you did,” you growled.  

“That was a month ago!  I don’t keep close tabs on all combat assets.”

“Bullshit! Where the hell is she?!” You squeezed tighter, rage making your arms shake.  

“I don’t have a fucking clue!” He shouted back.  “They keep the freaks with O’Deorain.  Widowmaker, Sigma, Reap-”

Glass smashed as a giant hook hurtled through the storefront.  You spun, holding up Barrett as your shield.  That thick chain wrapped around his waist.

Maniacal laughter sounded, far too close.  It made your blood run cold. The giant Junker was huge, and only wearing bits of armor, with lots of visible flesh.  The piggy tattoo on his bulging stomach said “Wild Hog Power.”  Barrett screamed as “Wild Hog Power” reeled him in.  

It really wouldn’t do for Barrett to be ransomed.  He was Moira’s financial advisor, and one more nail in her treacherous coffin.  You slapped your gun back into your left hand, letting your helm’s targeting software direct your shot.  

A neat red hole burst in Barrett’s skull.  Much neater than Sakai had been.  But Sakai had been personal.  

“Wild Hog Power” shook Barrett like a doll, the corpse flopped around, neck flopping at an extreme angle. “Wild Hog Power” was breathing hard, hunched over Barrett.  Bestial and berserking, this one was less human than most.  He looked up then, clocking you instantly.  He began spinning his chain.  

Your insides shriveled, an atavistic reaction.  This was a very dangerous place to be.  “Zee-”

“Go out back!”

You jumped the counter, narrowly dodging that damn hook.  More gunfire blew over your head, and you rapidly crawled out the back exit, finding your hoverbike waiting.  

“Thanks!” You hissed, even as you hopped aboard, staying low.  “Chances of extraction?”

“Not any time soon,” your boss huffed angrily.  “I’m busy doing damage control.  Looks like there was a lot of it- mostly property, but also quite a few civilians with shrapnel injuries. Hospitals will be overcrowded.  We’re offering additional support to the locals. You can lay low for now.”

“Understood,” you said.  Your safehouse not too far off.  Checking your mirrors, you saw the Junker pair standing together in your dust, watching you make your escape.  

**

You went radio silent.  You were sore, but you’d gotten off lighter than you deserved, given the amount of mayhem you’d helped instigate.

Your safehouse was well-stocked and decorated to someone else’s taste. It was filled with Pachimari paraphernalia, though there were all kinds of stuffed animals on the couch. Kittens, hamsters, even a piggy.  You shuddered slightly.  “Wild Hog Power” had taken Barrett mid-sentence, but you’d already known about Reaper. Sakai had spilled everything in end, both figuratively and literally.

You showered first, setting aside your battered gear for repairs.  Then you changed into sweats. You considered external healing, but there was no need.  As long as you got a good meal, you’d be back in fighting shape after dinner.  

The kitchen was full of novelty appliances and decorated in an alarming shade of pink enamel: the fridge, stove, sink, cupboards, everything. You’d been here a week and you still weren’t used to it.  But it wasn’t all terrible, there was a bubble tea maker, and you fiddled with that – doing it from scratch wasn’t hard.  But the machine took a few minutes to set up. You started the rice cooker too.

You had filled the fridge yourself, with fresh groceries and a beautiful raspberry chocolate cake covered in ganache. You were still working on improving your recipe for fish head curry. The freezer was packed with dimsum.  Idly, you began heating up a pan of oil. Your body needed a lot of calories post-combat and cooking gave you some time to meditate.  

The Talon troopers had not stepped in to save Barrett from you.  Talon had not been waiting for you. They’d only come out when the Junkers were in range. So Talon had been expecting those Junkers.   Your helm had captured enough footage that you could research the men. Zee had forwarded a large file to you.  

The demolitionist was a man named Jameson Fawkes.  He was a caricature of all the shitty, fried, explosion-happy maniacs you’d met through the years.  Nwazue had been painstakingly responsible.  Hell, Vo had been a pain in the ass, but- You exhaled slowly.  Vo hadn’t been so bad.  Not really.  You stared at the fridge.  She would have loved that cake.  

“Wild Hog Power” was a man named Mako Rutledge.  There wasn’t a lot of information about him.  But you knew “incredibly dangerous” when you saw it.  Both men had accumulated massive bounties and were wanted in several countries. You’d be surprised if they made it out of Hong Kong alive.  

But that wasn’t your problem, you didn’t need to go borrowing more trouble. You had more than enough.  

Your problem was how to save Widowmaker, especially since she didn’t especially want to be saved.  

Your problem was that you knew exactly who was wearing that stupid skull mask and calling himself Reaper.  But you didn’t know why, and that was just as awful.  You had theories, of course, but even the best case scenario made you sick to your stomach.  

Your problems all stemmed from the past, the sort of unresolved bullshit that only worsened over time. Jesse had been trying to get in contact with you, but you’d been putting him off.  You still weren’t sure if you wanted to see him now, no matter what kind of intel he offered.  

But you would, eventually.  Not because he’d been your friend.  Not because you were ready to forgive him.  Not because you missed him. But because you needed every advantage you could get in this war.  

“Lucky, you need to see this.”  Zee’s cultured voice came on over the sound system.  A security monitor flicked on.  You stared incredulously as the two Junkers traipsed up the stairs and through the halls on the building, clearly looking for someone.  They were still several floors below you. You had no idea how they’d tracked you here.  

You could run.  You knew this city pretty well.  There might not be fighting.  There might be more collateral damage.  It was hard to say.  

You could fight.  The building was not unoccupied.  It would not survive. There would be more collateral damage.  

You could try diplomacy.  But you weren’t entirely sure if those men were capable of rational thought.  The Junkers were insane. Look what they had done to their own country.  You certainly didn’t want to invite them in but...

But the enemy of your enemy was useful to know.  

You went back upstairs to change clothes.  

**

It only took them a few minutes to reach your door.  But you were ready. You had changed into a simple black jumpsuit.  It was short sleeved and with a flattering cut, the fabric draped elegantly. You put on makeup, just enough to be a polished hostess.  You didn’t play a honeytrap any more.  Not if you could help it.  Your only jewelry was a thick white band around your left wrist.  It had a pearlescent glow against your dark metal arm.  You took a deep breath, checking the cameras and finding them loitering outside your door, Fawkes fiddling with a goddamn mine, Rutledge blocking the entire hall.

You opened the door, and stared coolly at Fawkes, wondering if he would really detonate the bomb right here.  He better not.  

“Eh?” Fawkes gaped at you, clearly shocked that you’d just opened the door.  

“What are you doing?” You sighed, one hand on your cheek.  You sounded more like an exasperated teacher than a security operative.  That was intentional.  

“Err...nuffink.” He shoved the mine behind his back like a child.  Up close, he was younger than you first thought, though life had not been kind to him. He was scorched and sooty, patches of hair missing, his clothing near rags.  It didn’t look like he cared.  

Behind him, Rutledge regarded you silently, possibly surprised that you had answered the door without attacking, possibly trying to identify you as the woman on the bike.  But with the mask in place it was too hard to tell.  

“You were-” Fawkes jabbed his finger at you accusingly.  

“Yes, I was there,” you said.

There was another awkward moment of silence as they tried to process your declaration.  Honesty was certainly the best policy, when it got you a tactical advantage.  

You regarded them politely.  “Well then, are you going to come in for dinner?”

There was another long stretch of silence as the men looked at each other trying to figure out if you were being sarcastic.  

Rutledge tilted his head back, and you realized he was sniffing the air.  

Fawkes blinked rapidly.  “I don’t like prawns.”

“Are you allergic?” You asked, stepping back to let them come in.  

He glanced back at Rutledge, panic on his face.  This was not how he pictured the encounter going.  You didn’t think most people he met invited him inside for a meal.  

“No,” Rutledge said. His voice was low and dangerous.  

“No, just don’t like’em,” Fawkes fidgeted, and then shoved the mine down his pants.  

You nodded.  “There are slippers if you want,” you gestured to the shoe rack by the door.  It was good manners to take off one’s shoes, though you weren’t going to press the matter with them. You walked back to kitchen, not looking to see if they used them.  You walked down the hall, half expecting a bullet or a hook in the back.  You fiddled with your bracelet, trying to keep your stance relaxed.  

There was a crashing noise, and you flinched, before looking over your shoulder, to see Fawkes trying to shove the broken shoe rack into some semblance of its previous shape.  Rutledge was holding up a very large pair of Pachimari slippers.  They would have fit Reinhardt. You had no idea if they would fit him, but your support staff stocked a broad range of sizes.  

There was a distinct rhythm as Fawke’s leg clicked against the wood.  But it sounded like he was wearing a single slipper.  Maybe one of those furniture leg felts would work on the peg-leg.  You had not considered that.  He followed you from the foyer into the kitchen.  You went to the freezer and pulled out the rest of the dimsum.  You could steam the dumplings, sticky rice packets, and bao, and maybe you’d have enough for Rutledge.  

“Whatcha making then?” Fawkes asked, looking around the kitchen in wonder. He sniffed the air a few times, his eyes bright.  He had terrible posture, shoulders hunched as he eyed the stove with distrust.  

“Fishhead curry and dimsum.”  The curry was still simmering.  “Would you like something to drink?”  Coffee in the jittery demolitionist would be unwise.  Alcohol might be worse. You checked the bubble tea machine.  “I have milk tea with boba.”  

“I would kill for some!”  He nodded vigorously, rubbing his hands together.

“Sugar?” You asked, your metal fingers twitching as you poured.  

“Half!” He did not have an indoor voice.

The machine dispensed bubbles, tea, and sweetener according to his order.  You offered him a cup with a metal straw.  

Squealing, he took the drink from you and then Rutledge reappeared.  Without a word, he snatched the cup out of Fawkes’ hands, popped off the lid, and sniffed.  Then he looked at you.

You poured yourself a cup and took a drink.  Using poison had definitely occurred to you, but with Rutledge’s clearly altered biology, there were too many variables. The tea was a little too sweet, but the tapioca bubbles were the perfect texture.  

“Come on, pig face!  If it ain’t poisoned, give it here!”  Fawkes grabbed for the cup. Rutledge let him take it back, apparently not bothered by the name calling.  

“Would you like some?”  You asked, taking another drink.  You had beer, but you purposefully did not want them drunk.  You didn’t need them rowdier.  

“Full sweetened,” Rutledge said after a moment.

You nodded and made him a cup as well.   You gestured to the round table.  “Please, have a seat.”   The chairs would probably hold.  Your boss got a kick out of making equipment way more durable than it needed to be, just for fun.  

Fawkes straddled a chair, slurping his drink and watching you intently like a feral animal.  

Rutledge carefully sat down, adjusting his mask so he could drink.  

“Fancy pad,” Fawkes said, clearing his throat while he looked around.  

“A friend’s place, I’m only visiting,” you said, not exactly lying.  You stirred the curry.  It was fragrant with spice and coconut milk, but needed to thicken a little more.  You checked the steamer, finding the shrimp dumplings and the soup dumplings to be ready.  You placed the metal steamer tray on a mat on the table and gestured to the cupboard.  “Bowls and plates are up there. Chopsticks and silverware are in that drawer.”  You returned to the stove.  The oil was hot enough for the deep fried taro pouches.   You tossed them into the oil, watching them sizzle.

“Ooooh,” Fawkes was suddenly over your shoulder.  “Wozzat?”

“Fried taro, with ground pork filling.” You paused, glancing over at Rutledge.  He was eyeing the steamer tray of dumplings.  He had not gotten up for plates or silverware. “The yellow and kind of translucent ones have shrimp,” you told Fawkes, gesturing at the food on the table.  “But the round white ones are pork.”  

“Eww,” Fawkes scowled at you.  “I don’t like prawns. Buggy little bastards taste like shite and are filled with-”

“You don’t have to eat them,” you said firmly.  “But where I grew up, there wasn’t food to waste.”  

Fawkes squinted at you.  “But here you are in this fancy city pad-”

You flipped the fried taro with cooking chopsticks.

“-Stealing work from honest Junkers, and acting like-”

You had to maneuver around him to get a plate for the taro. He was getting worked up.  You glanced briefly at your left wrist, wondering if you had made a mistake.  

“Get out of the way,” Rutledge barked.  “Can’t you see that she’s busy?”

You raised a brow, a little surprised by that reaction.  

Fawkes was too.  He blinked inquisitively at his partner.

“Be useful: set the table,” Rutledge said gruffly.    

Fawkes snapped to attention then, skittering over to the cupboard to grab plates and utensils.  You turned back to the roiling oil and began fishing golden brown taro cakes out of the pot.  You filled the plate, and set it down on the table. They were steaming hot and would burn your mouth. Rutledge sat there stoically, watching your every move.  He had not touched the food.  In the corner of your eye,  you saw Fawkes gracelessly slapping a handful of silverware onto a stack of plates.  

You set the rice cooker on the table and checked the steamer trays.  The sticky rice and bao were done.  And the fish head curry was a deep orange color, with pieces of okra, taro, and eggplant cooked soft in the sauce.  You would have liked to simmer the sauce a little longer, but you couldn’t help the timing.  You turned around to see Fawkes seated with two forks and a bowl.  It looked like you had two spoons, a bowl, and a plate, and Rutledge had two plates and pair of chopsticks.  

You brought the pot of curry to the table, and then went back to retrieve more utensils and rice bowls. You set them in the middle of the table, and started scooping rice. You passed the bowls around, noting that still none of the food had been touched.  Paranoia or manners?

Fawkes straddled his chair, surveying the table greedily.  

But Rutledge looked at you expectantly.  

“I am not religious,” you said, unsure if he wanted you to bless the meal. “But I do not offer the courtesy of my kitchen to my enemies.”  

He nodded.  “I am Roadhog.  That’s Junkrat.”  

Professional names then.  “I am known as Keres.”  

“Hooley dooley, Carrie, you got some fancy grub,” Fawkes, who was Junkrat, reached forward and grabbed a taro dumpling with his hands.  “Hot! Hot! Hot!”  He bounced it in his hand while you served yourself some curry.  Junkrat seemed like a more fitting name.  

Roadhog used his hands as well, carefully snatching dumplings and other appetizers, but setting them down on his plate. He wasn’t eating directly from the communal dishes, and you appreciated the courtesy.  

You raised a brow as Junkrat grabbed his own share of curry and began squirting Sriracha into it.  

“You might taste it first,” you said, because you had been liberal with the spices and the peppers.  

“I eat gunpowder for breakfast, Carrie!”  He jabbed his fork at you, eyes blazing.  “Don’t need no drongo telling me how to eat a fish head!”

You chuckled.  “All right.”  You sipped your tea watching keenly as Junkrat shoveled a spoonful into his mouth, grinning triumphantly at you.  It took a few seconds, but as he swallowed, his face began to redden, his cheek twitching.  Sriracha really wasn’t that hot.  But the peppers you’d used were pretty potent.

Roadhog spooned half the curry onto his plate, splitting the fish head and taking the larger portion of that as well.  

They were two different kinds of dangerous.  Junkrat needed to be balanced – too much stimuli and he flew into a manic episode.  Too little and he stirred up trouble to keep himself from being bored. Roadhog was a pressure cooker, holding it in until he hit critical mass.  Keeping them both calm took different strategies.  

Doing so was less difficult than it sounded. You were used to dealing with dangerous difficult people.  After all, back in Zurich you’d been so good with-

You stopped, mid-bite.  Yes, that’s exactly what the Junkers reminded you of.  Your goddamn Blackwatch hardcases.  Fuck.  The wheels of memory ground out another realization: Hell, when you’d first joined up, your manners were only marginally better than Junkrat’s.  That was such a long time ago...

The blonde man was still chattering about how the fish curry wasn’t that hot, while he piled more rice into his bowl and shoveled it down his throat.  Then he loudly drained his cup, still protesting that he had no trouble with spices.

Roadhog noticed your hesitation and slowed his eating.  

You took a drink and went back to your curry.  It could have used a little more tamarind.  The coconut milk mellowed the sharpness a little more than you expected.  

“Well, as long as you find it acceptable,” you told Junkrat when he finished his rant about his tolerance for spicy food.  “I’m still working on the recipe, so I understand if you think it’s lacking.”

He blinked.  “Oh, no.  ‘S good.”  He slurped down another bite and gave you a thumbs up.  

“I’m glad,” you said.  

“Meant to say, that’s some arm you got there,” Junkrat chirped, knocking on your metal limb with his own prostheses. “How’d you lose it? Shark?  Salty? Hamster?” He mimed biting motions with his hands.  

“Terrorist attack,” you said, taking another bite of curry, though in that moment you only tasted ash.  

“Bomb?” Junkrat asked.

“Yeah,” you said, though it had not been that straight forward.  

“Who?” He asked eagerly.

“Talon.” You took a sip of your tea, the sweetness bracing you.  

“Oh yeah, they’re absolute drongos,” Junkrat cackled.  “Keep inviting us around, like we want to join their stupid club with their dumb scrap metal lackeys.”  

“So they’re trying to recruit you?” You asked.

“Mebbe,” Junkrat gave you a sly look.  “Mebbe they’re after me treasure.”

You laughed a little too hard at that.  

“You don’t believe me?” He puffed up then, smacking his bare chest. “Me and Pig Face are rich! We could eat like this every day if we wanted to!”  Madness flared in those eyes.

Under the table, you rested your bracelet against your knee.  

“Shut up, idiot,” Roadhog grumbled.  

“She’s laughing-” Junkrat’s head snapped to the side, reminding you of a mongoose about to strike.  

“You told a joke,” Roadhog’s voice was dangerously low. “Sometimes people laugh at your jokes.”

Junkrat crossed his arms, looking sullen.  

Children with their delicate egos.  You gave a wry smile.  “I thought it was a pirate reference.”  You tapped your knee.  

“Oh,” Junkrat looked at you sideways.  “Of course it was!”  He laughed a little too loudly.  “I really had you two going! This is a dinner party, Roadhog!  You gotta be personable. And I am nothing if not a courteous house guest!”  

Even with the mask on, even if you’d never seen his face, you could feel Roadhog’s exasperation loud and clear.    

“They were really invested in grabbing you today,” you said.  “But there are a lot of cells in Talon,” you said.  They pulled off heists and robberies, though it was usually for things other than money: tech, hostages, an unsavory means to an end... “I can’t claim to know what their intentions are.”

“Of course they want us to work for them! You saw us out there! Regular professionals! We were on a roll!” He grinned at Roadhog, jabbing him with a bony elbow.  “Eh? Eh?”

“Stop that,” Roadhog growled, picking up his plate to drink down the curry sauce.  

“But you did steal our kill though.  He was worth more alive,” Junkrat said, narrowing his eyes at you.  

“Sorry, personal business,” you said with a shrug. “I lost more than an arm to those bastards.”  And given what you had learned from their dossiers, you probably could have left Barrett with them, confident that he wouldn't survive the experience.  They had no love of “suits.”  But you hadn’t known that back in that little electronics shop.  

“Yeah, I get it,” Junkrat heaved a dramatic sigh.  “There are some things money can’t buy.”  He grinned at Roadhog.  “But if that’s the case, you should still try the proper application of high powered explosives!”  

You laughed softly, in spite of the situation.  He was a crude, vicious, and dangerous child.  Maybe he reminded you a little of Vo, of Fitzpatrick, of Távio, and others. Maybe you were just getting old. “I know it’s effective, but I don’t have your talent in that field. Never picked up the knack for anything beyond the basics.”

“I could show you a trick or two,” Junkrat flashed you what had to be his idea of charming smile.  Somewhere between a leer and the awkward smile of a student portrait, he showed far too many teeth.  And he waggled his eyebrows at you.  

You were far too old for this shit.  But you put on hand over your mouth, trying to smother your snickers.  

Junkrat grinned at Roadhog, nudging him with his elbow.  “Suppose she fancies me?  She did invite us in for this real intimate dinner. Ladies don’t just roll out that hospitality for anyone.”  

Roadhog just shook his head.  

“Unless she’s interested in you,” Junkrat murmured a low shocked voice. “Hooley dooley, mate! You don’t think-”

“No, you don’t think,” Roadhog said setting his plate down.  “This is business.”  

Junkrat blinked.  “But dinner-”

“Friendly business,” you said.  “A simple “getting to know you” sort of event.  Though let me emphasize, I don’t share food with my enemies.”    

“Not government,” Roadhog said, utensils set at straight on his plate, indicating he was done.  “Not Talon.”  He looked around. “Corporate security? PMC?”

“Sort of,” you said.  

Junkrat scowled.  “We don’t work for suits.”

“I represent the Peaceful Life Society,” you said.  

Junkrat snorted.  “That’s a silly name.”

“I’m still not sure if it was meant to be ironic,” you said, sipping your tea.  “But yes, it is.”

“Triad business?” Roadhog crossed his arms.

“It could be,” you said.  “We can talk business.  We can talk about cake.  There is no pressure. I’m not here to try to strong arm you.”

“You wanna hire us, Carrie?” Junkrat asked.  

“I have work, if you’re interested.  I have cake, if you aren’t.”

“But we can only pick one?” Junkrat frowned.  

“No. We can just start with dessert,” you said and got up.  You brought the cake out of the fridge.  And when you turned around, Junkrat was hovering over your shoulder, flitting back and forth, staring at the cake.

“Look at that, Roadhog.  Just look at that beauty.  Just covered in chocolate, a goddamn mudslide of chocolate. It’s gonna be too sweet,” he moaned.  “It looks pretty, but they overdid it-”

“It’s dark chocolate,” you said, a little indignantly.

“And all that coating is gonna be gummy pasty sugar shit-”

“It’s not fondant,” you scowled, genuinely offended by the thought.  

“It can’t be as good as it looks, there’s no fucking way!” He wailed, clearly more interested in being dramatic than listening to a word you said.  

You glanced over at Roadhog feeling a growing respect for his levels of patience.  “Would you like a slice?”

He nodded.  

You almost asked if he wanted Junkrat’s slice, but decided to be the mature adult here.  You set the cake on the counter and cut two large slices for you and Roadhog, and one small one for Dramarat.  Against your better judgment, you made coffee to go with it, possibly making it half-caf because your guests were so excitable.  

“Let’s go in there.  I don’t feel like clearing the table right now.” You handed each man their own plate and fork, and poured yourself some black coffee.  You took a seat in a single chair, while the Junkers took the couch.

Junkrat poked at the plushies, giggling to himself as he tossed the pig at Roadhog, nearly missing the other man’s plate.  

“Watch it!” Roadhog snapped.  

You set your drink down on the glass coffee table and took a bite of the cake.  There was a generous spread of tart raspberry liquer filling between each layer of chocolate cake.  Smooth chocolate ganache replaced the frosting, with fresh raspberries adorning the top of the cake.  It was rich with just the right amount of sweetness.  Gabriel would have-

You did not finish that thought. It would have sat badly with your curry.  Instead, you set the plate down and took a deep swig of coffee.   When you looked up, Roadhog was delicately eating his slice while Junkrat was still staring forlornly at his own piece.  

“How is it really?” Junkrat tried to whisper, but he was about as good at it as Reinhardt.

“Find out for yourself.  Idiot.”  

“I’m not like you.  I can’t just eat anything. I’m a connoisseur!”  

Roadhog just shook his head in disgust.  

Junkrat begrudgingly took a bite, grimacing the entire time.  Uncertainly pinched his already pointy features.  He chewed, slowly relaxing as he tasted the cake.  The transformation was nearly instantaneous.  He went from pissing and moaning to an open mouthed quiet awe.  He stared reverently at his slice and then shoved the rest into his mouth.  

You sipped your coffee.  

“Hooley dooley that’s good shit,” he murmured, mouth full of crumbs. “Can I have more?  Before pig face eats it all?!”

You still couldn’t see much of Roadhog’s face, but you could feel the heat of the glare directed at Junkrat.  

“You both can have the rest.  I’m pretty full,” you said, picking up your plate.  There was three quarters of a cake left.  Maybe they could take it to go.  

“Are you sure?”  Junkrat squinted at you.  And then hopped up, bouncing into the kitchen with glee.  

...Oh, maybe you should not have given him that much sugar.  

But then Roadhog was on his feet, lumbering into the kitchen with heavy steps.

“Hey, back off! This is mine!  Carrie said I could have it!”  

“Fifty-fifty,” Roadhog said, pushing Junkrat out of the way.  He lifted the knife and made a sharp cut.  

“That looks more like sixty-forty!”

“Get your eyes checked,” Roadhog said, taking a slightly bigger piece.  

“Come on, don’t be such a pig!” Junkrat jumped, trying to snatch the cake out of Roadhog’s hands.

“We can always get more cake,” you said.  

“...Really?” Junkrat perked up.  

“Yeah, I don’t mind going for more dessert,” you said, even though the bakery was closed. If they pushed, you could get ice cream or something.  

“Oh,” Junkrat grabbed the remaining portion.  “I guess that’s OK then.” The importance of the distraction was to get them to disengage.  You did not want them coming to blows in the apartment safehouse.  Both men returned to the living room, Roadhog taking the far corner of the couch.  Junkrat sat closer to you, eating happily while he poked at the plushies with chocolate-smeared fingers.  

“Didn’t figure you for the stuffed animals type,” Junkrat said, turning over a pirate Pachimari in his lap.  He bounced it a few times, then looked around rapidly, then tried to act casual slinging it to the side.

“I didn’t decorate,” you said with a shrug.  “But they are really cute.”  

“I guess they are,” Junkrat jammed his hands into his pockets. “If you like that kind of thing.”  

Roadhog coughed.

“I mean, I don’t,” Junkrat sputtered.  “I’m a man of sophistication and means.  I just know that they don’t make the pirate one back home.  They were limited edition,” Junkrat said, staring longingly at the pile of plush.

You sighed.  This location was going to be metaphorically burned after this encounter.  You could make some good will offerings.  “My friend won’t mind if you take some.” You paused. “If you had someone back home whom you thought might like one.”

“Oh.” Junkrat perked up. “Really?  Because I think Little...James might like one.  Just some neighborhood kid,” he added quickly.

Roadhog just sat very still.  

“And his little sister...Jamie might want one too,” Junkrat grinned.  

“Go for it,” you said sincerely. “Think of them as...party favors.”  You glanced at Roadhog who  just sat there eating his cake.  

“Carrie, you throw the best dinner parties!” Junkrat squeezed an armful of plush, some of them squeaked. “If more people did it like you, dinner parties wouldn’t be so goddamn boring!”

“Thank you,” you said. “I try.”  

“But I don’t know about working for your Triad buddies.  We’re free agents!  We don’t like being tied down!”  Junkrat looked up from the plushes, expression grim.

“I understand,” you said.  “If you’re fighting Talon though, I’d like to collaborate some time. Or  at least not get blown up or shredded by the two of you in combat.  I’d extend the same courtesy, of course.”  

“Carrie, you’re a nice lady who owes us some more cake.  I would never-” Junkrat pressed his hands to his chest.  “Never ever ever.”  

“That’s a relief,” you said.  You hadn’t expected them to onboard today.  This was just first contact.  You could cultivate the ties over time.  

“Truce,” Roadhog said.  The cake was gone, but there was no trace of it on his fingers, lap, or mask.  

“Truce,” you said with a smile.  

**

Junkrat had stuffed his bag full of toys, though you didn’t miss the piggy tucked on Roadhog’s hip, almost completely hidden by the chain.  Junkrat was snoring now, draped across Roadhog’s back.  He

“If you’re interested,” you said, offering him your card.  “We can talk about it over cake.”  

Roadhog grunted, accepting it.  Those massive hands delicately placing it in a pocket.  He paused, looking down at the bracelet your left wrist. He snorted.  

“Hardlight projector?”

“Yes,” you said.

He nodded.  “Military grade?”

“Of course.”  Because you could be friendly and well-armed. Always hope for peace, but prepare for killing the shit out of your enemies.

Roadhog stared at it for another few seconds, clearly contemplating the other way this encounter could have gone.  “Thank you for the meal,” he said, ducking to go through the door.  

“I had fun,” you told him.  “We should do it again some time.”

**

You sat on the roof, admiring the brilliance of the skyline.  A shuttle would pick you up soon.  A local cleaning service would take care of the facilities.  The Junkers had come and gone with minimal damage. Cian Barrett was dead. Zee had access to his files.  Not a bad day’s work.  

Zee’s drone hovered by your shoulder.  “You still have a way with delinquents,” she said.  

“Takes one to know one.” You fiddled with the bracelet.  It wasn’t your best weapon, but you could use it well in close quarters.  “You can take the girl out of the bar-”

“That is such a crass statement with racist overtones,” Zee said, her tone frosty.  

“Sorry, you’re right.  I don’t need to be repeating that shit,” you said.  You tilted your head back.  You’d spent a couple months in Phuket before you had found Sakai.  You’d picked up some of the lingo, the ways to blend in.  You’d need to shed those habits sooner rather than later.  “How are things back home?” You asked.

“Settling.”

“That could mean any number of things.”  

“You know Feng was never mad about what you did.  She was worried about you.  She still is.”

“I know.”  You toyed with the a large bulldog plush that had somehow been left behind by the Junkers.  If Oksana didn’t want it, maybe Karalika would. “But Oksana...”

“She needed time to come to terms with what she saw you do.  She’ll get past it.  She adores you too much. This was an eye-opening experience about our line of work. Her father has always sheltered her.”

“Her father-” You scowled.

“Will get over himself when she calms down.  He exaggerates all faults. Honestly, all of you are so overwrought and emotional.  Presenting the On Sing Serial Drama: tune in next week for more shocking events and emotional fallout in a real time comedy of errors,” she said in biting tones. “Foolish children. These things take time.  You have to account for that, Lucky. Stop being so impatient.”  

You smiled wryly.  “Thanks, Auntie.  You really do know best.”

“I know, and while you are acknowledging my wisdom and experience, let’s talk about what’s going on with you.  You really need to talk to another professional about what’s going on in your life,” she told you primly.  “Don’t give me the “oh, who’s going to understand the psychological effects of brainwashing, and faked deaths, international conspiracies” speech.  That’s cult of exceptionalism foolishness. Conspiracies aren’t what’s sending you to therapy, it’s your manner of handling the stress. Psychologists understand complications, betrayals, PTSD.  That is what you are asking for help with, untangling your feelings and yourself.  This isn’t about politics or tech.  Your situation may be unique, but your reactions?  Textbook.”

You winced.  “You broke me down faster than I did Sakai.”

“Yes, well unlike you, I’m not playing around, or trying to draw out the suffering,” she said.  “And unlike the others, I don’t care what you did to her.  She earned it.  But I do care what it implies about your mental state, and how it affects the rest of the family.”

“I went too far,” you agreed after a moment.  “I’m not sorry.  Not yet.  But I know I went too far.”   Maybe not far enough to join Talon as a double agent, commit atrocities to win their trust, and then finally exact your brutal revenge.  And that was the best case scenario in a certain Reaper’s case.  

“Make sure you tell that to everyone else.  Ask for their help in keeping you honest.  It will go a long way in earning you some grace.”  

“Yes, Auntie,” you said with a heavy sigh.  You stared out over the city. The night was warm.  “I still have one question.  How did they locate me so quickly?”  You gave the drone a sharp side eye.  

“You need allies.  They have survival skills,” she said, telling you everything you needed to know.

“With friends like you, I definitely need more allies to watch my back,” you scowled, though you couldn’t muster any real ferocity.  

“I had full faith in you,” she said solemnly.  “And total control of the discretely placed turrets.”  

You just shook your head.  “Auntie-”

“You cannot slaughter your way through this, Lucky.  Not if you want to protect the others.  Do you think Oksana is ready for this war? Are you willing to risk it?”  She didn’t give you a chance to respond.  She already knew your answer. “No, you need to be smart and use diplomatic methods too.”

“You’re not wrong, but I think I just used up all my diplomacy,” you said dryly.  

“You should probably work get it back soon,” she said.  “Jesse McCree has just arrived in Shanghai.  He has...information. And he’s insisting that he tells it to you in person.”

****

Yes, you should know all the ally characters referenced, except Karalika.  I’m fine spoiling in the comments if you want to guess. 

My week was stressful.  10-11 hour shifts, a sick cat, cat had teeth extracted Friday and is high out of his mind (or had a stroke? I don’t know.)  I’ve had force feed him a feed a few times this weekend.  He keeps falling off things and walking into walls. He’s not using the litter box.  I am super tired.