A/N: Yes I was inspired by a Steven Universe episode. No, I don't own either.
She made a mistake. They lost.
She stood, frozen in a dull purple haze, the speakers announcing her team's defeat. One hand gripped on her photon projector, the one limp at her hip. Perhaps she had misplaced a turret. Maybe her teleporter was too far away from the payload. Impossible, she thought as her dreaded control point blasted a sickening red. They were so close, barely five meters away, and yet…
What mattered was that the match was over, and the enemy team was kind enough not to blast her to pieces after it came to an end. With varying degrees of disappointment, her teammates shuffled back to the safety of their headquarters, feet heavy as lead and heads low. Very few commented on their despair. It was considered unsportsmanlike, even in times of war. Though Winston harrumphed into his chest and Tracer did her best to lift up the collective spirits ("Come on guys, it… it couldae been worse. Oi think."), people kept their lips sealed and opinions to themselves.
It was Junkrat who bumped into her, accidentally on purpose, smearing her cyan gown with soot and tar. His skin was blackened, toasted to a crisp, and soft wisps of fire faded on his spiked hair. Unsettling yellow eyes scrutinized her, and darkened as he shook his head.
"Ya know it's your fault we lost, roight?"
Symmetra, taken aback, opened her mouth to ask for clarification. She never received it. After another nudge to her shoulder, the pyrotechnician stomped through the dust and out of her line of sight.
"Fuckin' light benders… bet we 'ad the worst one there is."
His words stuck in her mind. They demanded a response, practically took her and shook it out of her. Yet her body stiffened, entangled by a chilling vice. Had he meant it? Surely he was a sore loser, ready to put the blame on anyone but himself. He was the type to mock and jeer his betters… and what he did to his lesser she didn't even want to consider.
Empty words from a man who had more metal in his body than common sense. She wanted to see them as such. A blind and petty jab at the expense of the first person he saw. Something to better his sleep, to make sure he would never ever blame himself. The loss was a combined effort, all things considered. His words meant precious little in the grand scheme.
And yet they kept her quiet, and later in the night, awake.
/***/
Was she always a poor light bender? She fabricated a small turret, a perfect white ball light in her hands. Sleek, elegant, beautifully designed. It's pointer followed her as an infant's eye to a mother. A force to be reckoned with, in numbers, though that day it failed her.
At least… she believed this was the case. Her teleporter was positioned well, and stayed intact for most of the match… didn't it? The shields were operational, protecting her allies, giving them those extra moments of life against the enemy tank… they worked well, did they not? She kept her enemies within range, never letting go of her grip. They dropped like flies with her persistence… or perhaps she barely grazed them, and it was a teammate's stray bullet which actually finished them off.
Her loss must have been caused by a faulty turret. That was it… wasn't it? Wasn't it?
Hard light fingers clenched against the orb and dematerialized it. Before it evaporated in a soft dust of cyan, it emitted a pathetic cry. Those damn turrets. Her teeth grit beneath stiff lips. Gods, she would need to rethink her blueprints. The design was outdated, the creation imprecise, they needed to have symmetry and elegance, yes, but they also needed to work. Was there nothing that… that Australian slimebag could have said to help her improve? She knew there was no logic behind getting frustrated, and yet each time she considered her shortcoming she could only picture his soot-covered visage.
"Bet we 'ad the worst one there is."
She wasn't the worst one, of this she was certain. High honors at school. Creations which astounded the world. The envy of her peers, the woman who was lauded as a goddess of architechture. Worst of the light benders were still held in high regard, able to create colossuses and bridges and buildings made to astonish. And she… she was among the best.
Then why did I fail?
Her life… the meaning of her life was dedicated to design and architecture. She succeeded in structuring where the others failed, or settled for crude replicas of what the world needed. Order in discord, harmony in chaos, building bridges between art-hating slums and beacons of artistry – this was all her doing. If not hers, her company's. She made hard light manipulation her life's work, denying herself the pleasures and burdens of camaraderie. Everything she had and dreamed of she put into her work.
Then why am I so bad at it?
Her head pulsated as she stroked the fabric of her gown. Pinching cyan between two fingers, she crinkled her dress as her jaw tightened. It was her fault they lost. This was not the cause of her distress. Neither were the faulty turrets nor Jamison Fawkes' disgusting yellowed snarl. Knuckles went white with the force of her grip. She had sacrificed everything, everything to become who she was. Her ideals and principles went away with Vishkar's agenda. Family life was alien to her; she only knew of academia growing up. Growing up she learned that nothing in life was permanent, and that the pursuit of happiness was a dull and naïve ideal distracting minds from what mattered – order.
Nothing was permanent, except for hard light, but in her hands it was misshapen and crumbled. Fingers no longer flowed to the rhythm of her native songs. It had been so long since she came in contact with her culture. Her movements became stiff; her creations lackluster.
How could she have allowed that to happen?
Without hard light, there was nothing to her. Nothing at all.
It was then that she started to cry.
In her childhood neighborhood, many things made her cry. Loud noises and garish colors; the smells of spiced food and the rotting stench of men made her heave and tear up. Even as an adult the sensory overload would bring her into a mild state of panic, but at that moment the noises and colors and smells came from within. Accusations and pity bubbled within, and two fat tears dropped on her knees. She made a ghastly noise and buried her face in her hands, which burned from the salty teardrops.
Stop it, she told herself. Control yourself.
Problem was, she did. Controlling herself for a long time, she piled up her doubts and wants behind a brick wall. Over time the bricks chipped, the foundation cracked, but it took one final blow to set it rolling down. Years of repressed emotions crashed down in a tidal wave streaming down her cheeks. Gods only knew what she looked like. Gods knew what she sounded like.
Pathetic, pathetic…
"Satya!"
Lúcio's voice felt like a cool breeze on a hot August afternoon. Though she recognized it, she didn't look up. Nausea clenched her as though the slightest movement would make her sick. Her body prickles, shivers ran up and down her arms. She shook and recoiled as her grabbed her shoulders.
He used her name again – her real name.
"Satya, what's the matter? Hey… hey, look at me."
Holding her chin with an extended finger he attempted to pry it forward. Eyes shut tight and mouth hidden in her palm, she refused to let him see her. Her head shook hard. She wanted to tell him to go away, leave her alone, and never think of this again. The first syllable to roll out of her mouth was a sob. Another hand went over her mouth.
"Hey… hey, it's me. Come on, look at me. We can talk about it."
She could feel her face swell and her eyes itch. There was a reason she avoided crying. It irritated her, and not just in a way it could irritate a person's pride. Each fit took over her like an illness, and she would spent the following day recovering and healing from it, during which she would be mostly numb. Truth was, she wanted to stop. She wanted to look at Lúcio and tell him, firmly and surely, that she was alright. But she would be a liar in that case. And if the shattered voice wouldn't give her away, matted eyelashes and glassy bloodshot eyes would.
His hands moved from her shoulders, thank Gods. Yet she could still feel him near her, looking at her with those big chestnut eyes. She imagined them, wide and shining and full of empathy she didn't deserve. Not from him. Especially not from him.
"Do you.. need something? A hug? A tissue? If something hurts I can carry you to sick bay."
So considerate, she thought. She cried during her training too, but she did it alone unless somebody walked in to tell her to do it softly in her pillow. Her throat clenched, and her lips dried.
She opened her mouth which felt like it was full of cotton and glue. Swallowing hard, she moved her fingers from her chin. She promptly intertwined them, avoiding Lúcio's eyes. "Water," she said. She needed to repeat herself, but in a flash he was gone.
"Okay," he said, and his foot was already out the door. "Just relax, I'll be right there."
The following minute was colder, at least it felt chilled on her exposed skin. Goosebumps layered her skin. Her throat constricted. As she listened to Lúcio's footsteps soften as he ran down the hall, she would jolt at seemingly random intervals. Sobs, like hiccups, shot through her core. She needed to put a hand over her mouth to steady them. Her eyes finally went open, and they burned in contact with the air. Tears dried on their own upon her cheeks, and her nose felt stuffed all the way down to the root. It was not the thirst, the burn, nor the phlegm which annoyed her the most. It was numbness. Minutes of pain followed by a day of nothingness. She knew this song and dance, and hated every step.
Lúcio presented the glass. She could hardly wait to drink. Grabbing it with both hands she tilted it and drank, ravenous. Shaking hands tilted the glass too sharply, and cool liquid pooled in droplets on her lap. The sensation made her feel like tearing off her dress, but thirst prevailed. Coughing after a sip went through the wrong pipe, she handed over the empty glass to Lúcio, half expecting him to leave. Instead, he stood by, the glass cupped in his hands.
"Can… can I sit next to you?"
"I'm fine."
"I know. I just really want to sit next to you."
There was no proper way to respond to that. She didn't want him to be close to her, not when she was vulnerable. Word of her meltdown might spread, her teammates would talk, Junkrat would never let hear the end of it. On the other hand, ushering him out after he helped her would be beyond rude… at least this was what her etiquette lessons brought her to believe. It was a trick question, perhaps a bit manipulative. She nodded and he sat beside her, eyes settled on hers.
"So, how do you feel?"
She wiped her moist eyes with the back of her hand. "Hydrated. Thank you."
His smile wasn't genuine. If she bothered to look at the nuances, she would find it sad. She did not recognize sadness, however. She recognized pity. Her brow corrugated.
"What happened, Satya? You can tell me anything." He settled deeper in the mattress, like a child about to be told a story. She found his curiosity tasteless.
"That's… none of your business."
He blinked; his head did a double take at the bluntness. "Fair enough." His shoulders lifted and fell. "But I don't think you were crying for nothing."
"Thank you for your concern." Her voice was low, monotonous. "I'm fine."
"Everyone's fine after they cry, but when they go to bed they toss and turn all night. And the next match is tomorrow, so I need you well rested."
"Why?" Her eyes were daggers at the mention of a match. "Afraid I may err just like I have today? You want me to miraculously feel better so I wouldn't embarrass the team?"
"So it's the match," he said. "That's what upset you." He tilted his head, lips pursed. "It's… not like you to cry over things like that."
Sniffing once, she put a hand between her face and his. "Stop what you're doing. I know you're analyzing me and I don't appreciate it."
"I'm not!" He chuckled, somewhat incredulous. "I just want to help you."
"You've helped enough." She told this as a harsh brush-off, even though it was true in her mind. "Now. It's late. You should get some sleep." Her mouth became dry as a bone again. Though tempted to ask him for another glass of water, she settled on keeping quiet instead. He, on the other hand, spoke for the both of them.
"Satya, it's fine. I know things have been… awkward between us, but I'm tryna bridge that gap. If you wanna talk to me about your problems, that's fine. If you wanna talk about music and art and what we're having for lunch tomorrow, that's fine. We're all friends here."
She scoffed. "We are most certainly not."
"Everyone gets along so well. Maybe it's because of the constant shooting. Die in front of somebody thirty times, you want that person to like you enough not to remind you of how bad you are."
"Not everyone has your reasoning." She ticked a thumb behind her back. "Junkrat had no trouble telling me how badly I fought today."
His eyes flared wide. "Is that why you were crying?" His cheeks puffed up as his eyes rolled to the ceiling in something that wasn't anger, per se, but damn close to it. "God… damn it, that guy thinks he's hot sh… sorry." Symmetra waved away his curse, but froze again as he wiped away a wet trail off her face with his thumb. "Satya, he's not worth your tears. Nobody is."
"I'm not crying because of him." She seemed almost insulted at the idea. "I just… I just feel like I could have improved my performance."
"It wasn't your fault we lost."
"Losing is a collective shortcoming."
"Okay, it wasn't completely your fault we lost." He put a hand on his chest. "I was there too, y'know. I fumbled, I went the wrong way, I followed around a wounded Roadhog and skated right into an exploding Mech… and believe me, I wasn't the only one making dumb mistakes."
Satya considered his words and shrugged. "I suppose. Didn't the enemy get caught in her own blast?" She probably shouldn't have laughed about it. Yet she did, a single half-hearted heh. What dampened her mood was the fact that they still lost to a team with such unfocused battlers.
Her expression hardened and sunk at the same time. Her almond eyes fell onto her knees, wetted by tears and water. "I'm… I have failed to live up to my potential. And I cost the team the victory. You have every right to resent me."
"Hey, there will be more battles. You win some, you lose some."
He seemed so nonchalant about it that she almost believed him.
Almost.
With a long, deep sigh she recalled her doubts. The defeat, brought on by personal failure. Relinquishing her morality for a corporation. Making a world a better place by razing the innocent and burning little girls' faces. A nagging, scathing voice in her head, sounding like a miniature Junkrat, screamed into her ear about her shortcomings. A failed match was one thing. One day, there may not be respawn. A war may break out, and she may end up costing her teammates their lives. Instead of a tally mark on a scoreboard she will collect obituaries, and if her buildings crumble as her hard light falters… oh, Gods…
She put her head in her hands. She knew Lúcio set the empty glass aside and held her shoulders. "It's okay," he said. "Breathe."
"If I can't perfect hard light, what do I leave behind? Statues fell, civilizations more organized than anything I envisioned. I made no connections in this world, not one." She spoke and the words shot out like a torrent, a waterfall from her lips. With every word she felt lighter. Not better, not for a second, but every truth lifted the weight of her sadness.
"Every time my creation fails I feel like I fail." She swallowed hard. "I lose myself. I keep imagining a world where I dedicate my life to my craft and live it alone in a city built by my own hands and…" Her palms, both human and hard light, came up to her face. This time she observed them, finding nothing brilliant within them apart from skin.
"I don't… feel happy. I'm not supposed to, it doesn't matter how I feel. If I fail I'll break all contact with the world."
"That's not true."
"Who wants an architech who can't make a simple turret?!"
"You're having a bad day. It happens to the best of us. Breathe."
She did not reply to him. She wouldn't, or couldn't. Either way he gripped her hands and pulled them to enough force to make her face him. His eyes, while warm and amiable, still demanded her to look into them. "Hold on. Meditate."
"What are you doing?"
His fingers meshed with hers. Ridge with ridge, bone with bone, palm against cold palm. Her hard light appendage was limp within his hand, but her organic human half clenched harder into the membrane between his fingers. They almost twitched in agony as he removed his hand to reach into his trouser pocket. Out of it he pulled out two white earbuds and held them up at her eye level. Saying nothing, he merely looked at her stiff expression, silently requesting permission to touch her. Her head bobbed once. One earbud nestled in her ear, and he covered it with her lock of silken hair. The other bud he placed in his left ear, closing his eyes to focus on noise that wasn't there until he increased the volume.
"What are you…" A soft melody played in her ear, chirping to a beat. "What is this?"
"Synesthesia. Just close your eyes. You have meditated before, haven't you?"
"Lúcio…"
"If you're uncomfortable, we can just stop."
She was. She wasn't. She had no idea, no clue what he was going to do. "No," she said. "No, it's… it's fine."
His eyes lit up, glinting in the dim light. "Alright. Close your eyes and focus on the music."
"Relax. Hold my hand. I learned this from an Omnic monk. Just follow my voice and go where I tell you. Again. Do you trust me? Are you comfortable?"
"Yes."
"Your eyes closed?"
"What difference does it make?"
"It helps with the immersion. Come on, Satya, this can be fun."
Exhaling through her nostrils, she obliged. Obliged, humored him, there was no difference. She shut her eyes and the burning sensation returned to her corneas, making her briefly relive her shaking, sobbing state. "I'm ready."
"Breathe. Breathe. Follow the music. Where is it taking you?"
"I thought I was going where you tell me."
"First I have to make sure you're on the right track. Focus on the music. I mean, really focus on it, yeah? The beat. The instruments. What do you see?"
There was a pause, during which he couldn't help but to crack open an eye and look at her deeply focused expression. Long eyelashes seemed even more prominent then, drying over her shut eyes. Her lips were shining, her skin glowed. He would never allow himself to say a person looked pretty when they cried. But God, he was dangerously close to thinking it. He shut his eyes as her eyebrows lifted. Her face burned into his mind.
"I see… blue."
"Blue skies? Blue beaches?"
"Just blue. Hard light. Shades of blue and soft lilac. It's very… calming."
"Good… actually, that's very good. Blue, yeah, I can work with that." He shuffled in his seat, a smug grin over his face. "Imagine this. In that blue, a young man admires the scenery. He sees the sky in that light. He sees the stars and freedom, endless opportunity. He sees it as something to meld and create something beautiful. Something for his friends and family, that the whole hood can enjoy. He makes music. Good music. He likes it, at least."
"It's not an upward climb. It's more like a roller-coaster, and sometimes more like a merry-go-round. He loves the freedom he has with music. But as long as real life's involved, that freedom is a luxury. He has brothers and a sis. He lives in this tiny little shack in a favela. His dad works two jobs to buy him a mixdeck. Now, he's not even messing around at all. He works around the house all day, and then in dad's restaurant. He washes dishes alongside him and by the time he can make music, his hands are frozen raw. It's hard but it's a passion. The blue in the sky never felt so bright. His hood was never as happy. He throws parties in the middle of the street, he found his calling. His dad doesn't understand but he supports him, up until the day he… he…"
He stopped, and it was Satya's turn to peek. His chin was tight to keep it from wobbling, his nostrils wide as he inhaled. His exhale carried a weight she couldn't fathom.
"Times get harder after that. Kid has to find a second job, drop out. He wants to make music so he sacrifices sleep. When the bills rack up and his house starts getting final notices he tries to compose to keep his mind busy. It sounds wrong. It's not what he envisioned, not what he is capable of. What does the blue look like now?"
"Dark. Not… not grey. Not a color, just dark."
"The doubts start to pile up. Little questions become big questions. They're suddenly swarming. Kid goes on an audition. The winner gets cash, and cash pays the bills. All his friends are there. His brothers skip class to cheer for him, but they find him in an alley having a panic attack. They look at him and he thinks he failed them. He thinks he needs to let it go and focus on something else, something that pays. And his heart breaks because he thinks this is where his passion ends."
"But it isn't. His friends talk to him. His brothers help him relax, tell him he has nothing to fear. They're fine. They will always be there. Kid goes out to audition and loses, but gets scouted by the owner of an underground nightclub. He still has doubts, yes, but he knows he'll never face them alone. The blue is blue again. Do you see it?"
Satya swallowed hard, a painting of a wide cloudless sky reaching over her head. The music in her ear made her heart slow down and her breathing steady. Somewhere under the sky a man with faded dreadlocs and sunshine in his eyes drew his fingers across a mixing board in front of an ecstatic crowd. "I see him," she said. "I'm proud of him."
She knew he smiled at that.
"What do you see beyond that?"
Satya paused for a second, taking a deep breath. "I see… I see a little girl in a poor neighborhood. None of her neighbors can afford toys but she has them. She makes them herself. They help her feel better when everything feels too chaotic. For a while, everything is going well. She leaves the toys behind when they take her away because of her ability."
"She disliked her neighborhood. She didn't want to go back. She studied, she worked hard, shielded herself from any distractions. The fact she… used to be a low caste didn't help. Castes matter not with light benders. At least, not on paper."
"She's losing herself." Her hand clenched his. "She's afraid. The world is alarming and she wants to stabilize it. She hates killing but it happens. She hates noise but she's surrounded by it. It's too much. The blue is becoming chaotic… red." Her breathing was fast, her heartbeat drumming in her chest. "I don't… I don't feel well. I never liked talking about my past."
"You don't have to if you don't wanna."
"She dedicated her life to hard light. If she can't manipulate it, what is left of her?"
"She can."
"But what if one day she fails? What if one day it ends? Her work and sacrifice would be for nothing."
"No it won't be."
"You can deflect everything I say, it won't make it any less true. I failed today. As far as I'm concerned, it's already falling apart and she's all alone and powerless to stop it."
"But it's not. And she's not alone. No one is alone."
And for a second, she saw a brilliant flash of blue.
"I'm here."
It was unclear who embraced whom. Her arms gripped him tight, savoring the first hug in twenty years. His hand crept up the back of her head, the music still playing in his earbuds. They fell in the blue again, together this time, and remained there as they looked upon their lives.
Breathe. They took a moment for themselves, calm and collected, together as they overcame a sea of doubts washing across them.
It was okay. She was okay. They were okay.
I'm here.
I'm here.
I'm here.