#overwatch

lurkingminx:

gjallarhornallewerk:

lurkingminx:

disteal:

coelasquid:

Concept: Neither Gabe or Jack wanted to be Strike Commander because they knew it would involve a lot of sitting under a public microscope and trying not to offend everyone in the world at once. When people talk about it driving a rift between them it wasn’t because Gabe was jealous, it was because Jack was getting crushed by the stress.

I really like this theory!

I think Gabe was smart enough to realize that a military team with a U.N. babysitter would be more of a poster child for eating your vegetables and being nice to your neighborhood police officer and 100% wanted nothing to do with it, but the whole original Strike Team understood that if they weren’t at the head of the spear they would be replaced by someone more malleable. 

Jacks pre-fall biop says he was a ‘act-first, think-later people-person’ with a knack for inspiring people. It made sense to have him lead the charge because he was likeable but also trustworthy. 

Of course anyone who’s had to be in charge of a team before would understand that you can’t keep a tight ship and be everyone’s friend as well and that probably really got to Jack. He suddenly had to weigh the responsibilities of Overwatch to the world and his teams moral compass (and his own). 

Gabriel having a more of a ‘get the job done, understand the costs, remember your priorities and plan around them’ mindset would have made him a great Strike Team leader (though maybe not the face of global peace).

With two very different jobs and goals that conflicted and distanced them it’s quite easy to see how it all fell down the well. 

 I want to explain why I think this is so good from a military perspective because this has been bugging me for ages. I haven’t seen any posts really taking an in depth look at Jack and Gabe’s military history (if someone has point me to it please). As a former US military member this aspect of the characters are important, at least to me. If you join at a young age, as Jack did and possibly Gabriel, the military shapes you as a person. 

With that in mind…

Gabriel is genius level smart, he’d have to be to outsmart God programs which I feel like are mini Skynets bent on fighting for their right to exist. (I mean from D.Va’s background we know there’s one still submerged in the ocean waters popping out every few years to reign destruction after rebuilding itself. Like how is that not completely terrifying! I’m not even sure they destroyed it yet.) 

So of course when Overwatch is made public he sees where this is going instantly. Heknows what he is good at and what he likes. For the past 5 or so years it took to end the Omnic Crisis he ran his team as he pleased, most likely with little to no red tape to get the job done. To end the war. 

Now Gabriel has to handle the notion that he and his super secret squirrel team will be wrapped up with red tape. This is a death sentence to black/special ops agents especially after getting a taste of freedom from a chain of command. Coupled with the fact his enemies/targets are no longer going to just be robots (I’m being general because discussion of the morality/ethics of killing sentient constructs is for another time), they are going to be after humans now because the world is trying to rebuild itself, to include organized crime. He can’t do what he is good at if he is in the spotlight. He probably can’t even do what he is good at with his original team now that the objectives have changed (morality/ethics discussion again). 

What could Gabriel do? Recommend Jack or even Ana for Strike Commander. Argues to the UN that he is better in the shadows as he has been for the past 5 or so years. Or do something that would tarnish himself in their eyes. This is a smart move career-wise and I feel like it’s one he used before.

Because…. (here comes the military perspective)

Gabriel is said to have been “ a senior officer in the US military”. This can mean a few things, since there are 3 ways in which he can be considered senior.

1.Jr. vs. Sr. ranks - Ranks have a “scale” where some are considered Jr. to others collectively such as 1st and 2nd Lt. with Capt. in a grey area. Because at the rank of Major you’re an O4 out of O6, after that you get into General status. So being around the ranks of Major, Lt. Colonel and Colonel he’d definitely be a senior officer. 

2.Time in Rank - Who ever has held a rank longer is senior to those who haven’t. This helps keep a pecking order when someone comes up in rank faster than usual. If Gabriel had maintained a rank for more time than his peers he would be senior.

3.Time in Service - The longer you are in the military the more seniority you get. This mainly backs up Time in Rank seniority but can on its own weigh heavily depending on the circumstance.

Now comes the questionable math and an equivocal timeline. I’ll be using this timeline that seems fairly decent. So take this all with a grain of salt, I’ll be adding a +/- 2 years for a warm and fuzzy.

The Crisis started with Gabriel was around 26-28, a year later he is in SEP, 4 years after that Overwatch is formed. Even using the high end in age, early 30s, there is no way he is a senior officer by the Jr. vs. Sr. ranks criteria. He just hasn’t had enough time to reach those ranks and time is the key factor since someone can’t be promoted unless they have maintained a lower rank for a minimum set of time and evaluations to pass. Unless there are mass casualties where most of the military is decimated…

Due to his genius he could have obtained a degree early (starting college course while in high school or some accelerated plan) and became an officer at around 18-20 giving him around 7-8 years to acquire some time in rank.

However, what I think is more likely is that Gabriel enlisted right out of high school or at 17 with permission. During his first enlistment he did classes and got his degree then did an enlisted to officer program that various military branches have set up. This would make him senior in time in rank and time in service, with the added caveat that he would be a Mustang, an officer that is prior enlisted, which gives him a lot of respect. 

Here is the tricky part, he can’t advance too quickly. In order to stay in a rank where he can be in command of a team rather than a group of teams he has to sabotage himself. I’ve personally since this before. Sergeants getting low scores in fitness tests or doing something stupid on purpose so they will get a bad review so they won’t get promoted. 

They do this because they love the rank they are at, the ability to act with their team still. If they got promoted too high they would shift into the realm of bureaucracy, of politics and rolls of red tape. They get chained to a desk and can’t go out into the field anymore and they are no longer part of the team they are an obstacle now.

 Gabrielknows that would happen to him if he took command of Overwatch. He wouldn’t be able to do what he is good at, where he thrives. He happily goes to Blackwatch, but it comes at a cost. Jack gets thrown under the bus and shoved into the spotlight then comes the fallout decades later.

@lurkingminx- I don’t know a damn thing about Overwatch, but I do know the military.  And from what you’re saying here, I’d have a few things to add in.  I fully agree on the various forms of seniority, although I’d bring in the Company/Field/General distinction.  I’d agree that Major (O-4) is the first officer rank that anyone would consider “senior”, although it’s more like Lieutenant Colonel (”light colonel”, styled “colonel”, if you’re curious) where it would be seriously considered that.  Also, to fill in some background, by FEDERAL LAW one can not become a Major without ten years in service, although there are some exceptions which bring the time in service requirement down to nine.

More importantly, the officer track is pretty damn soul-sucking.  An individual like you’re describing wouldn’t last on the officer track.  Especially coming from a Mustang background.  Hell, one of my best CO’s was an SSG in Ranger Batt, then went officer, and he considered it punishment to be sent to be a commander of a mechanized (re-flagged as light) infantry company.  Also, despite his impressive background, he was never considered a senior officer.  Other COs would tread lightly around him, but from an external standpoint, nope.  The officer track has too many administrative requirements and “broadening positions”.  What you’re forgetting is the SOCOM route.

I can’t speak to SEALs or Raiders, but I’m fairly familiar with the various Army routes, and oh man they’d be perfect for an ambitious, intelligent, physically fit hard charging motherfucker.

There’s two really good routes for this, considering an enlistment at 17 or 18 with and end target age of 31-33, with a consideration of “senior officer”, giving us 13 to 16 years to play with.  

The first, which I’d honestly consider slightly less likely, is Special Forces, Green Berets.  There’s a process, called the X-Ray pipeline, where someone can enlist directly to become a Green Beret.  It’s unusual for someone so young to get selected and make it through, but it’s possible, especially for intelligent, socially adept people- maybe I’m a little bitter, but most other career tracks are a little more mediocrity driven.  So at 19, he gets to his A-Team (yes, that’s a real military term, ODA), and stands out as an excellent soldier, team player, and small group leader.  So, he’s a huuuuge standout, kicking ass etc, and gets promoted to Staff Sergeant two years later at 22.  Now this can go a few different ways, although they end up at the same place.  Maybe he gets switched to a B-Team (ODB), which is a more administrative position, or he continues in an ODA, and makes his 7-in-7 (Sergeant First Class in under eight years).  So now he’s probably a Senior Team member, and looks around, and he’s in a mentoring position, maybe he’s had a taste of military administrative positions and doesn’t like it (They’re FUCKING SHIT- if you’re in the military and are good with computers, don’t let ANYONE FUCKING KNOW).  So anyway, somewhere along the line, he looks around and realizes that he has no desire to get stuck pushing papers, so drops a packet for Warrant Officer.  SF Warrant Officers are second in command of an ODA, but typically have more experience than the (commissioned) officer in command of the team, and have spent more time on a specific ODA than fucking anyone else, and in may ways are the heart of a team.  The absolute earliest he could do this, in theory, is immediately after he gets his E6, but it would be more likely that he gets it around 25-28, giving him another six to eight years to rack up various types of seniority and experience and reputation.  To be honest, this gives him some spare time to have attempted college, disliked it, gotten a little more mature, and then enlisted in the 18X pipeline. 

The second is the Ranger/Cool Army Guys pipeline. In this one, he enlists at 17-18, but all full of youthful ignorance and immortality, he signs an 11V contract, Airborne Ranger.  He gets through RASP less than a year later, deploys pretty quickly, and goes to Ranger School.  Of course he breezes through it, with a good head on his shoulders pushing through an incredibly physically punishing course.  Maybe he has another deployment or two, and he’s made his way up the ranks.  Let’s say he’s still fast tracking and makes his E6/SSG around 23-24.  At some point, a dude with a beard and long hair taps him on the shoulder and says “Hi, I’m from Delta Force/Assymetric Warfare Group/Some Other JSOC Group, and we’re inviting you to try out.”  Of course Gabe jumps at this chance, although he’s got a moment of regret leaving the Rangers that he’s lead and mentored and become closer to than his family.  In these roles, it’s fairly likely that he’s not actually an officer, but due to the relatively hush-hush nature of those assignments, it would be incredibly easy for a journalist to just call him a “Senior Officer”.  Consider Black Hawk Down and how the Delta Force Operators in that were treated by the other troops.

A third possibility would be Marine Gunner or Infantry Weapons Officer, but that takes 16 years to even become eligible for so it’s unlikely.

So these are ways that he could make it, keeping that kind of personality of taking care of the dudes to his left and right and under him, without being separated from the front line operations that he’d crave.  And frankly, from a combat arms background, make him even more impressive and respectable, without the bullshit excuses of holding himself back.

Yesss! Thank you, I was trying to figure out how to work in the special forces side of it all but the post was already so long….

I was also trying to keep it simple for nonmilitary people and because it’s about a fictional character in a video game in the future where robots have souls Gabe can suck up to regenerate and I can’t account for whatever changes a robot apocalypse might bring the US and its military.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

And you’re SO FUCKING RIGHT NEVER EXPOSE YOUR COMPUTER SKILLS EVER. 

I love everyone in this fandom and even those military guys not in the fandom but still contributing. Thanks for the insights, guys!

Satya had always imagined that love would feel so horrifically empty, but it does not feel that way at all.

In her youth, it tapped into her veins and bled her like roots. It twisted all of the emotion out of her with a slow, aching viciousness she hadn’t known could exist. She tripped over people she could not have and loved them too much and it was as if she were blazing through an entire lifetime’s worth of firewood until she was desperately trying to catch fire to curled ashes with mere splinters of flint and tinder, her fingers too bruised to strike the spark.

The emptiness in her hurt. And by all rights, it shouldn’t have, because it was not real.

It was not tangible. It was not visible. It was not corporeal in any form. It was a figment, a concept; it was an unfortunate composition of snapping synapses and misfiring neurons and a dearth of dopamine. Something so lacking should not feel like a palm pressed into her ribs, bearing down with a crushing weight that might suffocate her should she pause long enough to dare an inhale, and yet it did.

Vishkar helped in its own way, but it only gave her the ability to make something out of that terrible nothing. And even then, even with all of Vishkar’s perfect rhetoric and visionary brilliance, she could not truly make something out of nothing. Light exists even in the darkest of places, albeit in particles and scintillae—and despite the emptiness and the ache and all the things she wished she could have said, done, accomplished, the light existed in her still, still, albeit in particles and scintillae, and she wielded them with an open palm.

From broken universes between her lungs, she spun them together. She bathed in her own dying starlight and created a cosmos for the world because if fate did not see fit to assuage the tumult shrapneled through her bloodstream, then she would give until it did. The world did not need more places like Hyderabad, like Rio; the world did not need places that would leech at its children until they starved. She would see the wrongs of the world made right, even if it meant sacrifice—slash and burn what is dead and dying, as that is the price for regrowth.

Sacrifice did not make her feel any less empty.

Sacrifice did not stopper the guilt for each thing slashed and burned.

Then came the precipice: choose the path she had always walked with a future already in place, or choose something new that would guarantee nothing and no one.

Being a creature of habit and constant routine did not make the decision easier, but Satya chose, and she chose with intuition. She cast aside complacency and a choking safety net in favor of something she believed might truly make the world a better place. If Vishkar would dare to raze the world in their misguided sense of order, then she would choose to be the regrowth. She would choose to build in the ashes. She would choose to rekindle what was lost regardless of the state of her flint and tinder.

It was not Overwatch itself that was the trigger. It was neither the people nor the relationships nor the work. It might have been an amalgam of them all, in truth, but it was independence most of all.

Two months in, that tender pain stemming from beneath her breastbone began to dwindle. Six months in, it dwindled a little more. A year passed, and it felt like the phantom pains that would plague what was left of her arm: aching and unbearable and overwhelming some nights, while  others the barest of lingering stings. Each day brought its own set of challenges, and each day she would face them with conviction despite the traveling shrapnel; she grew stronger because the environment encouraged it, bolstered it, fostered it, fed it, not demanded it.

Perhaps that was the foundation. (If the foundation is askew, the building will never be structurally sound.) Healing oneself is a painstaking process, and she did not take it lightly.

He… helped. In his own way.

He was not like Vishkar. Things like corporate ladders and bureaucratic policies did not apply to him; he tore them down and set them ablaze and reveled in the freedom that no one could tell him what to do because hewas the one who decided his own fate, not some posh entourage of suited bigwigs whose only available lens was colored green.

(Not that he didn’t see green, but he saw a great many other colors, too.)

And it was a thing of strangeness, of unfamiliarity, because she had been integrated with others of her ilk for so very long that any deviation seemed like a loud, cacophonous crash. His specialty was indeed loud, cacophonous crashes, but it was also wordplay and laughter and little details no one else would think to see, and that was enough to muffle the din. He builtthings as much as he destroyed them; he breathed life into gimmicks and gizmos and gadgets made not from hard-light, not from miraculous technology bestowed upon him by a benevolent corporate giant, but from assorted pieces of disassembled and decimated things.

If you really think about it, everything’s just scrap in the end, he’d said with a grin, the red of a grenade shell poised between his thumb and forefinger. No point in letting it all go to waste. Why not build what you want? If you’ve got heaps of pieces all over the place, might as well make something of ‘em, yeah?

And so she made something of them. Slowly, gradually, she harnessed the particles and scintillae and spun their curtains inward until her foundation was flawless and her supports were adamantium and all that remained was the inevitable design that she’d thought herself so capable of creating—and it was then, she thinks, that she really began to notice.

The pressure exacting over her heart was no longer present. That insistent palm splayed over her ribs and digging between the slats did not exist. There was no consuming sensation of being made smaller, of compacting, of being pushed in, of collapsing on the vacancy within. In fact, it felt as if her heart were full, brimming, replete; it felt like it might spill out of her and run down her chin with the sheer amount of volume contained in such a small and scarred thing.

Love (for herself, for her friends, for him) was not—is not—an emptiness. It might be just as intangible, just as invisible, just as incorporeal, but it doesn’t hurt like that wretched, wrenching thing that had swallowed her heart and left her spent and aching all those years ago.

Satya sketches a line down his cheekbone. He snores beside her, stilled, dreaming.

Love is not horrific. It is not a bed of curled ash or a terrible nothing. Love is not empty.

It is real.

A modern-day, post-uni domestic AU (albeit with shinier, techier prosthetics) where Jamison and Satya have known each other for about five or six years since meeting at university.

Jamison is a mechanic at the shop across the city, and Satya works for a prestigious company. They are good friends and mesh surprisingly well. A year or two into their friendship proper, Satya had encouraged him to seek a diagnosis for ADHD after learning about his struggles in class, which had resulted in him realizing a whole lot about himself. He’d thanked her by offering her samples of his cooking, and that led to the monthly evening where they’d both show off meals from home.

(They both love spicy food. Satya tries to make him sob with hot curry. It never works.)

After being friends for so long, they become so comfortable enough with each other that when something bad happens, they simply… confide. Wholly. No questions asked. After so many late nights composed of last minute essays and projects during university where emotions ran embarrassingly high, it’s almost second nature. Jamison makes all the affronted faces he should coupled with riled up commentary, and Satya employs all of the harsh frowns and disapproving quips at the appropriate moments. They’re proper professionals.

So when Satya returns from a date that goes sour and when a complicated ex of Jamison’s reappears to stir up unnecessary drama, it isn’t even a question of what needs to be done—it’s a question of when.

He texts her: you up for bollywood night??

She replies: Absolutely.

And so the two of them go to her flat and watch cheesy Indian films with plenty of popcorn. Jamison makes pancakes (“Pikelets, actually—oh, you’re gonna love ‘em!”), because why the hell not? They’re venting, right? That’s what tonight is for.

And it feels… natural. He picks at the pancakes on the plate in his lap and mops each bite in syrup, and he offers his fork to her with a waggle of his bushy eyebrows. Amused, Satya indulges. She finds that she adores how they taste (he must add both cinnamon and vanilla, she thinks; they’re delectably sweet) and she steals more than just another bite, much to his pleasure. He cranes an arm across the couch behind her, watching the television screen with an enthused countenance, and she leans against his side, full and content.

And—it dawns on her, belatedly, that he has acted more like a significant other to her than any of her prior relationships had. His silly grins and jokes and puns are a delight, and he drops anything for her without a second thought. He listens to her complaints and he offers advice (no matter how ridiculous) if she asks for it. His company is something of a comfort, and she can’t remember the last time she’d felt this calm in someone else’s presence.

As the couple on screen begins to sing in the midst of an intricate dance, she accepts another bite of pancake and says, “You are good to me.”

He pauses, and it’s clear he’s confused because his jaw does this thing where it slants just slightly while he’s thinking. “Do you not want me to be? I could scream and call you names, if you want. I know quite a few.”

“I’m certain you do, but that won’t be necessary,” she says. Gently, she rests her head against his shoulder. “It is just an observation. That’s all.”

“Observation?” He pops another slice of pancake into his mouth. “Uh, should I be worried? I know tonight’s been rough, but that sounds a little too serious.”

“Perhaps it is.” She finds herself resisting the urge to hold his hand. “I think rough night may be an understatement. It has been more of a rough year.”

“Too right.” He offers a grin. “Might not be much, but this makes it better, yeah?”

She returns it. “A little.”

The night wears on, and it isn’t long before the two of them fall asleep on the couch watching queued films. Satya wakes curled up against him; he has his arm around her and he’s snoring against the cushion, blond hair mussed, peaceful and perfect. Her heart is traitorous and stupid and does a little skip, and all she can think is oh no because she knows exactly what that means.

She also knows she must wake him because it’s past midnight and he has work in the morning, but when she tries to move he just—he makes this soft, murmured noise of protest, and brings her closer into the heat of his body. And perhaps it’s selfish of her (it is, she knows it is), but he feels so good and warm that she doesn’t want to move.

A while longer, she tells herself, nestling against his collarbone. Just a while longer.

Eventually, she gathers both the courage and the willpower to jostle him awake. The way he mumbles her name when he shakes off shackles of sleep should not sound so intimate, and yet it does.

“I was having a good dream, too,” he says, peeling himself away.

“What about?” The drum of her heart is deafening.

He bites his lip, the corner of his mouth in a sheepish smile. “Being happy, I guess.”

Jamison gets jealous once he realizes he’s caught feelings.

He lies awake in his bed at night, staring at the ceiling in a constant state of wracking indecision. His thoughts are a tumult of I need to tell herandI can’t stand her being with anyone elseandwhat if she doesn’t think of me like that?andwhat if she thinks us being mates is only ‘cause of how I feel?

And then, alarmed: oh, fuck me—what if I tell her and she doesn’t feel comfortable anymore? What if she wants space for a while ‘cause she finds it creepy?

It’s constant, endless, and he suffers in his insomnia. This leads to him working out in the dead of night because his brain is on overdrive and he can’t stop thinking about all the what ifs: what if she feels the same, what if she doesn’t, what if, what if, what if. Every bloody possible scenario plays out in his head—the good, the bad, and the impossible—and he both loves and hates it because he gets to kiss her and see her smile but he also gets the cold shoulder and bristling glares. He barely gets any sleep; headaches dominate his mornings and he practically has an IV for coffee.

When she taps him on the shoulder one day, he about jumps out of his skin.

Satya frowns in concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, why?” he replies, although it sounds much more like a mashed together yeahyeah’mfinewhy with the sheer force in which it leaves his mouth—and while he supposes he should be conscious of volume (because they’re on a street corner outside his favorite tea shop and people are staring), he has precious little control over any of him right now.

“Are you sure? You are shaking considerably more than usual,” she says, and the way she looks at him implies she is not convinced. He doesn’t blame her; he wouldn’t be convinced, either.

“No, really, I’m fine,” he says, and it’s mashed together again: noreally’mfine. “It’s fine. Promise! Everything’s fine.”

Everything is not fine.

Jamison ends up trying to forget about it by throwing himself into his hobbies and his job. Nothing cheers him up like tinkering and working with chemical compounds always draws his attention, but not even that works. He’s bloody hopeless, and no matter how many dates he goes on, he can’t keep his mind away.

One night, his new date is clearly interested in escalating things in the physical department, but he is absolutely not feeling it. His brain is preoccupied with other things, things he really does not want to admit to himself, and so he makes some lame excuse because he just knows if he tries to continue this it’s going to turn out terribly for both him and said date, and surely it’s better to spare them a disappointing time, right?

That’s what he tells himself as he brushes them off and heads home, heart twisting, wondering if she’s happy.

Is it really that horrible of him to hope she won’t give the person she’s seeing a fair chance? She deserves the world and he wants nothing more than to see her happy, but god it hurts so much to see her with someone else, even if it is only holding hands, and it’s unfair because—

Becausehe wants to do that. He wants that privilege. He wants to be able to lace his fingers through hers and walk with her downtown and take her to one of her favorite shops. And it’s bloody stupid because she’s all he can think about now: her cheekbones, her nose, her chin, her mouth, all of her little beauty marks, her wide hips, her dynamite legs, and even her perfectly manicured nails. While it’s true he frequently thought about her before, it’s nowhere near how it is now, and now it’s—

God, it’s fucking constant. Always. She latches onto every thought like she’s lint from the dryer and he’s a static struck mess.

Satya’s jealousy is much more subtle, and she deals with it far better. It burns, of course, as jealousy always does, but she mashes it down and focuses on work and goes to her Bharatanatyam practices and tries to ignore the people he shows up with because if she doesn’t it will hurt.

The yoga class she attends with him twice a week is equal parts excitement and dread because she gets to see him and talk with him (and admire how he’s built) but she also gets to hear about what he’s up to, and that inevitably includes his love life because that’s how they are, that’s their friendship; it’s candidness and comfort and long nights spent idly watching Netflix and chatting about their lives because neither of them can bloody sleep.

But when they’re getting tea after the session, she just grins and bears it, and it might be terrible of her but she secretly takes pleasure in the fact that he isn’t actively pursuing commitments with anyone—not that she relishes the thought of him hooking up with randoms (because she wants him to want her for that).

(Addendum: no, she doesn’t want him to want her for meaningless hookups because that would never be enough and she knows it. She wants him to want her for more, and that somehow—hurts? She isn’t his type. That hurts, too.)

Satya goes on dates with others to keep herself busy, but they never quite feel right. Learning new people is so exhausting and going to new places is a chore, especially when she can’t always look at the menu beforehand, and so more often than not she finds herself feeling sour when she leaves her flat. Not to mention the awkward breaking-the-ice phase always lasts so bloody long; everyone makes boring smalltalk and sometimes the restaurants are too crowded and noisy (so much clamor; so many colors and bodies and things) and she can’t hear what is happening. Unfortunately for her, lipreading does not tend to go well.

She checks her messages on dating apps because trying to communicate via text is sometimes better than it is in person, but it doesn’t stop her from getting frustrated and drained because she would much rather go to a quiet place with him or have a cup of boba on a rooftop overlooking the cityscape. She leaves most invitations and cheesy pickup lines on read; they require so much more of her than she is willing to relinquish.

Oh, but when he texts her? She must stop herself from replying immediately like she hasn’t been waiting for a message from him since this morning. Patience, patience—she has other things to do. She can’t let herself revolve around him. She can’t. It’s unhealthy. He’s a friend.

But when he asks if she wants to have takeaway at his because he’s on his way home and he’s half starved, she sends, “That sounds perfect,” and jumps to get ready.

(She can’t be in love with him, but she can love him. She tells herself there’s a distinction, and she tries her best to believe it. She loves him. She is not in love with him. You can love friends.)

(She is in love.)

Satya reassures him when his mechanic job goes south. The shop is closing, he says; some big place on the other side of the city is running them out. She knows he’s upset because he’s worked there for years, for his entire time throughout uni and well afterward. She knows he has friends there and the owners might as well be family. She knows it hurts.

She texts: Why don’t you try applying to positions in your field? You are an intelligent person. I think you would make a brilliant engineer.

He replies: idk, it’s been a while since uni and if you don’t get in right away it’s a bitch to get ur foot in the door

And then: only got 1 foot anyway lol

She texts: Then you clearly have a leg up on the competition don’t you? All of them have two.

He replies: you just made me laugh in mako’s ear!! oh he’s none too pleased

And then: preciate it tho x

Later that week, after a great deal of wheedling, they end up going to a pub with the rest of their mutual friends. It starts out as a really bad night. Jamison doesn’t have any jobs lined up despite his desperate search, and Satya is dealing with intense burnout from work. Emotions are a little raw.

In the midst of her second drink, Satya asks him if he’s doing okay. His gaze darts to the bar countertop and he seems to crumple in on himself. He holds his head in his hands tells her no, he’s not; he’s between a rock and a hard place and he doesn’t even know if he’s going to be able to afford rent this upcoming month.

Jamison scrubs his cheeks with his hands and then downs a shot. He makes a scrunched face at the taste, but he looks back at her and manages a carefree smile. He says he’ll be fine. He will. It’s just not been a very good week is all. Ups and downs, you know. Right, so, what about her? What’s she been up to?

And so she vents about the management in her company and how she dislikes how they’re handling things. She talks about her misgivings concerning their approach to their client base and how she’s starting to think there may be some sort of dodgy dealings under the table, but she cannot prove anything. It frustrates her because she likes to think they’re helping the community, but she has a sneaking suspicion that isn’t the case, and she can’t do anything about it.

But at the end, she turns the conversation back to him, and says, “I can give you money for rent,” because she can. She wants to help. She will. She won’t take no for an answer.

Jamison seems rather flustered and his ears grow charmingly pink. He mumbles something about how she shouldn’t go out of her way to help him because—Christ, he can’t just hit her up for money like that, he’s got class—well, sort of. He’s not perfect.

But she says, “Let me help you. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

(Oh, that little fact shouldn’t hurt.)

He sputters at her: yes, yes, of course they’re friends! He just—he feels terrible about taking cash like that because he can’t pay her back. He can’t even help her in return! He switches topics to maybe finding a cheaper place to live, he doesn’t mind scrimping for a while, not like he hasn’t done it before, but she stops him short.

“Have you thought about a roommate?”

He blinks. “Well, yeah, but it’s a little short notice, innit? Bit weird just barging in on someone you don’t know. Mako’s got his family to worry about, so can’t stay there. Already asked.”

She bites her lip. “I was referring to me.”

(It’s going to hurt with the people he might bring home, she knows, but he’s in a tough spot and she can’t bring herself to ignore it. She doesn’t like it when he hurts.)

Jamison’s brilliant amber eyes grow very wide. His left hand toys with the shot glass. “Are you—are you serious?”

“Very,” she says, and hopes she hasn’t offended him with the offer.

“At yours, yeah?” His face lights up. No worries needed, it seems.

“Of course,” she says. “I have a spare room that has been home to nothing storage boxes for a while now. You would be more than welcome.” (He has always been welcome.)

“D’you mean it?” he asks.

“I do,” she says.

A moment passes where he stares at her, quiet and still, the ambient lights above casting a warm glow through his unruly shocks of blond and across the sharp lineaments of his face and the freckles and birthmarks that scatter him over. He catches her gaze and holds it there, and it’s as if he’s looking at a star.

Without warning, he swivels on the barstool and crushes her in a hug. “Oh, you’re a real lifesaver!”

He’s so warm. Satya nestles into the crook of his neck and shoulder, inhaling the savory spice of his cologne. She lets her hands lace around the broad plane of his back and mesh into the fabric of his shirt.

And then, as if reality had sunken in at last, Jamison wrenches back, panicked. “Oh, I need to pack! Need to ask Mako for his ute, too, ‘cause my car ain’t gonna carry all that, ‘specially not the bloody mattress. Gotta grab boxes and a hell of a lot of tape, and—”

He pauses again—his thoughts must have routed in yet another direction—and he looks to her, brow furrowed, jaw set.

“I’m gonna pay you, all right? I will. Can’t do cash right now, bit stiff at present, but I can work! I’ll tidy up, do little improvement projects, fix stuff, you name it! Let no one say Jamison Fawkes won’t carry his weight.” His grin is contagious.

“I must admit I’m a little wary about improvement projects,” she says, an eyebrow raised.

He huffs a theatrical gasp in mock-hurt. “Oi, I know my way around a spanner. I helped fix up Mako’s place when he moved in! Hard yakka, but worth it in the end. Better than hiring some dipstick who don’t know any better.”

She stifles a laugh. “And you do?”

“Too right I do! Tell you what: first week, I’ll have that leaky faucet in the kitchen fixed. That’ll be my rent ‘til I can get you some dinero.”

“There is a leaky faucet?” This is news to her.

“Uh, yes?” He taps the empty shot glass against his chin in thought. “Or was it the toilet? Can’t remember. Ah, well. I’ll fix something. Promise! Gotta prove me worth somehow, eh?”

“You don’t need to prove your worth,” she says, and her heart aches at the thought. “You are worth plenty already.”

“Sweet of you to say, darl,” he says with a simper. His ears are still pink. “Next week’s looking up already, innit?”

Satya certainly hopes so, because she wholeheartedly agrees.

Moving day is hectic. Satya drives to his flat to help with boxes only to find Jamison and Mako halfway finished loading up the truck. He greets her drenched in sweat while Mako raises a giant hand in salutation.

Jamison somehow has both more things and less things than she had imagined:

A full-size mattress, a rubbish bag’s worth of clothes, a coffee maker (she isn’t surprised), three tool boxes, a handful of dishes (mugs included), a few holiday decorations (from his mum when she was alive, he explains), miscellaneous free weights (tenners, fifteens, and a single twenty), a kettlebell, his half-finished projects, and an extra (very old, he says) prosthetic arm. There are also various art supplies (pens, pencils, faded notebooks, an entire collection of erasers), the strips of gauze and other covers for his amputated limbs, a couple bottles of nail polish (“Takes half the time, y’know! Only got one of each!”), a pair of very expensive headphones, and a shabby laptop with one of his signature smiley stickers on its lid. A signed cricket bat (“Gotta support the lads back home!”) is one of the last items to stow away save for lingering things in his fridge and pantry.

When she asks about the scant furniture, he shakes his head and gives the dilapidated sofa and recliner set a dismissive wave. “Nah. We’ll chuck it. You got better stuff, anyway.”

The first night of Jamison in her flat is… perfect? It’s bizarre.

Mako stays for Chinese takeaway (“I really owe you one, mate”) before leaving, and then it’s just the two of them, exhausted and sore, Jamison flopped on the floor while she lies on the couch.

“Oi.” He rolls onto his back and gives her foot a nudge with his prosthetic leg. “Just wanted to let you know, I really appreciate this. I know it’s sudden and all, but…” He gives his broad shoulders a shrug. “Means a lot.”

She nudges his leg back. “Think nothing of it.”

The night is finished with one of his favorite action films. He uses her shower (“Much better!”) before sprawling out on the couch with her in a set of too-small ratty pajamas, prosthetic leg removed, sleep circling like vultures beneath his eyes. Satya dozes across from him, her legs tucked just over his hip for comfort. The film’s plot and dialogue blur into indiscernible noise; the warmth of him is too good, too addicting, and it seeps into her skin. It’s selfish of her, but she wants nothing more than to bottle this moment and all its palpable contentment so that she might drink it in whenever she pleases.

A shift of movement under her legs captures her attention. Satya opens one eye to see him grinning at her from the other side of the couch, his eyes half shuttered in fatigue. He gives her a dainty wave, and she can almost hear his cheeky salutation: g’day.

This is good for her. It is.

Satya returns the wave, unable to resist a smile.

“Satya, please, lemme—”

“Shh,” she says, the black grip of her prosthetic finger against his lip. “You must be conscious of volume.”

“I—I know, I just—c’mon, please, I’m—”

“Close?”

He nods, his hips stuttering upward in a desperate attempt.

“What will you do for me?”

“I’ll—” Jamison swallows and scrunches his eyes shut. Sweat sticks to his temples. “I’ll repay the favor. I will. Double.” Biting at the smile by the corner of his mouth, he gives his middle and index fingers an indicative pump. “Promise.”

“How very generous.” Her hand slicks up the length of his cock, thumb trailing just up the underside to swirl soft circles where he’s most sensitive. “And if I refuse?”

Neurons snap at the very thought. “I could—hah, I could—dunno, maybe—”

But Satya kisses him, softly, fully, drinking his disjointed words with a gentle kind of hunger. She smells like jasmine and tastes like the chocolate biscuits he’d left her and he absolutely cannot stand the slow attention she’s lavishing him with, one casual stroke at a time. If he could find the courage to curl an arm around her, perhaps he could pull her into his lap so he might tease her in return, but he remains as still as he can, prosthetic hand coiled into leather upholstery—the conference room is the last place he’d expected a wristie.

“I won’t refuse. I wanted to see your reaction.”

Jamison struggles for composure. “Why?”

“I like the way your mind works,” she says, and treats him to a tightening upstroke. “I wanted to see if you would come up with an alternative.”

“Oh.” His thoughts scatter, bewildered. She likes his mind? Is that a compliment? “Didn’t really—hah—didn’t give me a proper chance, you know. S’not fair.”

“I’m well aware.” The sharp gold-hazel of her eyes captures his attention. “There will be plenty of time for alternatives later. That is, unless you would rather adhere to your first suggestion?”

With a pleading moan locked behind his teeth, Jamison thrusts up into her hand again. She feels so fucking good; she drives him up a wall with varying speeds and how she likes to squeeze him just at where he’s thickest before teasing the wet bead of white down his tip, sending his sparking nerves aflame. His fingers itch to steal her like she’s some cherished painting worth millions but he sucks in a ragged breath and opens his eyes and looks at her because he must commit this to memory, he must: she sits across from him, one leg crooked behind his, an amused smile cresting her countenance, the crisp angles of her uniform a stark contrast to the patches on his unbuckled trousers.

“You name it,” he says, far huskier than he’d intended, “I’ll adhere to it.”

“Very well. I look forward to it, then.” It’s hot, breathless, spoken by his ear. The sheer promise in each syllable makes him want to shout.

Satya sharpens her speed and increases her grip, and then before he can manage a gasp, she leans forward and down and slicks the head of his cock between her lips and oh fuck, she feels fantastic—her tongue draws a thick line and she begins to suck and her hand pumps him with haste, a constant, tightening throb that arcs through him in laving fire—god, he can’t take it any longer, he can’t, please, please—

He shudders as a bolt of pleasure lances through him, sweet and aching and entirely perfect, and he tries to ride it out with desperate little rolls of his hips. She works him through each trembling shock and pulse; her hand mimics his thrusts and the welcoming heat of her mouth swallows every drop.

Utterly unwound, Jamison lets his left hand splay across her shoulder. The pristine fabric of her uniform dimples beneath his palm as he watches her draw away, her tongue tending to one corner of her mouth. He knows he ought to say something, but his mind is pleasantly blank.

“Acceptable?”

He nods, dazed.

“Good.” She sidles closer, prosthetic fingers combing back a stray jet lock from her bun. “The others will be here soon. I will leave repayment to your discretion. You did say double, correct?”

“Double,” he says, testing the word. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Double.”

A moment ticks by where she seems to study him. “Will this be a continuously transactional arrangement?”

Jamison frowns. “Meaning?”

“A favor for a favor for a favor, ad infinitum.”

“Ad infinit—” He feels somehow tongue-tied, like he’s a little too drunk. “Uh, maybe? If that’s what you want. You won’t hear no complaints from me. Honestly, I’m just—”

She kisses him once more, damp fingers lined along his jaw; it drops the words right back down his throat. He finds himself leaning in, eager, ecstatic, his heartbeat a harrowing thunder ensconced beside his lungs. He slides his palm around her waist and to the small of her back, and then she’s situated between his thighs, her breath a soft flutter against his lips.

“Double it is, then,” she says.

“Double,” he agrees. “Ad infinitum?”

Satya’s aplomb fractures with a snicker. “If that is what you want. Ad infinitum.”

The glittering city of Oasis shifts into view over the plane’s right wing, sunset’s sharpness slicing over top sleek spires.

Jamison peers outside in gripping wonderment. His nose presses against the window as he drinks in the landscape below: the sweeping desert soaked in watercolor pinks and reds, spines of rolling dunes sculpted out of old thumbprints brushed upon the earth, cragged mountaintops jutting up from prism-cut sands, the scattered winding snakebacks of highways, the violet mirrored face of the lake—all eclipsed by the pristine architecture that is the city proper.

It’s… beautiful, really.

He has traveled the world several times over (his purpose equals parts criminal heists and righteous war), but it feels somehow strange, he thinks, coming here after all this time. It was something he’d dreamt about a long, long time ago, something he never would have thought to pursue, not with his background, not with his record, not with any of what he was (because Junkers are for Junkertown and Junkertown alone), and yet here he is, miraculously, flying in on the deepening palette of a Sunday evening with five days’ worth of events ahead of him.

Thanks to her, of course.

All of this is.

The interior of the plane is plush, dim, private, and courtesy of her, too. Once she slugged that dodgy corporation in the gut, other agencies were far too eager to snatch her up. While he might not be keen on any of them, she definitely earns her crust, and he must admit (albeit reluctantly) that their accommodations are first rate. Hijacking aircrafts for plunder and getaways is a thing of the past now.

With a bottle of butterflies lodged under his lungs, Jamison peels himself away from the view and turns his attention down to his left hand. Grinning, he flexes his ring finger where a broad circlet of hard-light rests (orange and blue, melded like glass, as apt as one could ever be), and watches the sun’s last rays as they refract small spectrums of color between his knuckles.

It’s beautiful, too. More so than the city, if he’s honest.

“We are almost there. Are you nervous?”

At his left, Satya shifts idly in her seat. The brilliant sapphire of one of her cherished sarees waterfalls over her legs in delicate drapes. She eyes him from behind the pages of an architectural magazine, one that features her on its cover. The mischievous curve of her smile behind a stray lock of jet hair implies she’s been watching him fidget.

“Nah, not nervous,” he says. “Just rapt, is all. Really rapt. Got so much bursting about, half of me feels like taking a dive out the window.”

“Out the window? I certainly hope not. You won’t meet anyone at all if you decide to flatten yourself into a pancake.” She lays her magazine in her lap and angles her fingers into a design he can’t quite name. A hexagonal flash of blue signals the materialization of a small squared item in the flat of her prosthetic palm. “Here, priye. For the landing.”

He accepts it without a second thought and begins to run the pads of his fingers over its edges. “So, it all starts tomorrow, eh?”

“It does, yes, but by late afternoon. We will have the morning to have breakfast and explore the city. If you’re still interested, that is.”

“Oh, I’m more than interested. Can’t even imagine what this place’s got.” He affords another curious glance out the window. “Posh, from the looks of it. You’ve been here before, yeah?”

“A few times in my youth. Its architectural achievements were used as a learning experience for us at the Academy. Of course, pieces of the city have changed since then, but it was still an enjoyable trip nonetheless. I am especially fond of how they structured their highways. Traffic systems are such a nuisance when it comes to city planning, you know.”

He wouldn’t know, actually, as roads were merely a suggestion rather than a rule for the vast majority of his life, but he nods in tacit agreement anyway because if anyone were to know anything about traffic systems (or nuisances), it would be Satya.

The plane begins to rattle as it curves into a downward turn. Everything shakes: the notebook in his lap, the luggage stashed overhead, the cerulean crystal of her earrings. It plants a curl of trepidation in the thick of his throat, but he clamps his prosthetic fingers into the armrest and trails his thumb over the hard-light square and swallows it down.

As the tight twist of vertigo sets in, his focus strays to his left hand once more. The gleaming circlet catches his eye; it reminds him of impossible dreams, of diamond clusters and chips of shimmering glass, a world of color captured in a recherché shard of shaped reality. He lets the prisms dance, but the shiver bolting through his body does not go unnoticed.

Beside him, Satya reaches over to smooth her hand over his own. The square molds into his lifelines with her fingers folded upon his knuckles: I’m here.

Another glance out the window. Distant buildings zip past as well as the grand tower looming at the city’s apex. The lake below glistens in soft lilac hues, parted by the occasional boat coasting through calm waters. Everything beyond the windowpane looks so serene, and yet there is a latent twirl of tension coiling inside of him, crawling up his windpipe on prickling pins.

“There is no need to be nervous,” she says, her voice hewn into a soft, reassuring timbre. “Your talents are estimable, and far beyond what anyone here could ever hope for. Any of the Ministries would be lucky to have you. In fact, I think I’d like to see them squabble.”

“Yeah?” He grins and gives his ring finger an indicative flex. “Jamison Vaswani-Fawkes, Minister of Engineering. Has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

She snickers, prosthetic hand brought by her chin. A circlet of her own graces one metal finger.

He swears her smile could put the works of the greatest architects to shame.

“A certain ring, indeed.”

sssn-neptune-vasilias:

dogtit:

imagine: tracers first ever solo mission post uprising. she’s nervous as hell. jack gruffly says that he’ll provide instructions just THIS ONCE–

“um…..can i…..commander, can i make a request”
“yes, agent, what is it”
“can uh…..can commander reyes talk me through this instead?”

and ana and gabe are like in the same room. gabes smile is huge and he starts running for the mic as jack sputters, “but i, he, what do you mean?” 

“i-its nothin personal commander its just when things get tense you get tend to yell and shout and commander reyes is just really nice and i’d prefer it if–”

and reyes dropkicks jack in the ribs and takes the mic. jack wheezes about cracked ribs and ana puts her face in her hands. gabe puts all his focus on the screen. “reyes here. lets do this, oxtonfree. step one,” 

and after the mission tracer just jumps on him to give him a big hug and gabe noogies her into oblivion shouting “BRING IT IN KIDDO” and let me have this, okay,,

This still leaves me so weak