Satya seeks shelter on the compound rooftops as the sun bleeds orange over the ocean.
Stair after stair, she ascends the world with a sheaf of blueprints clutched in her hand. The white-gold of her dress folds and unfurls with each step, and when she pries open the door, she pulls a shuddering inhale through the spaces of her lungs, soaking in the soft sea breeze and the lingering warmth that sticks through tentative caresses and swathing summer air. She lets the distant crash of the waves anchor her to the metal beneath her sandals and the burning horizon press kisses to her eyelids.
This is one place Junkrat won't tread. Despite his affinity for rooftops and other high places during their missions together, he avoids the ones overlooking the outpost grounds. Zenyatta has designated them his personal meditation spots, and unless the circumstances require it, anywhere the omnic is, Junkrat decidedly isn't.
Satya hadn't ever imagined herself being thankful for his prejudices, but she is today.
"Are you here to see Zenyatta?" Genji sits at the edge of the rooftop, legs folded and visor set toward the cream glitter of the ocean beyond jagged crags of rock. The thin wisp of graphite fabric threading from the back of his helm flutters in the passing winds, and the rest of his white, beige, and silver armor gleams with a warm orange beneath the start of the sinking sunset. Twin swords grace the expanse of his back, granting a somewhat intimidating presence.
"No," she says. Her steps scuff across smooth metal as she draws closer to the roof's edge. "I wanted a place to think."
"Then you have come to the right place." Genji squares his shoulders, his backbone in an even line. "It is peaceful here. It is not the monastery, but it is sufficient. Here, you feel as though you are removed from the world. It is a comforting feeling."
Satya has to agree. There are few places in the compound where one can truly be alone, especially with Overwatch's most recent additions. While there is still ample space for the team's growth, there always seem to be others about, regardless of where she goes. The kitchen always seems to be occupied by one or two people, the workshop is home to Torbjörn and Junkrat, and the rec room is perpetually inhabited by either McCree, Reinhardt, or Tracer. With Morrison investing himself in revitalizing the old shooting range toward the back of the compound and with Ana flitting between Mercy and Mei among the infirmary and the barracks, she finds there is little room to be alone.
Since joining the junkers on their scrap run this morning, she has not had the opportunity to indulge in solitude. Shortly after exiting the hangar, Torbjörn had requested her assistance in supplementing part of the perimeter he had established in choice places about the outpost, and then Mei had found her just as she had settled in at the workshop to go over more designs for the team's future communicator. Mercy had caught her on her way to the kitchen for water, McCree at her side, and it was then that he'd decided to regale them both with his tale of a peculiar train ride across the United States.
To make things worse, her composure is still cracked and rattled from spending time with Junkrat and Roadhog. Necessary physical contact and satisfied smiles and sunkissed shoulders had proven to be entirely too much to bear. While a shard of her took pleasure in settling in Junkrat's lap and the encompassing warmth of his body, the rest of her was deeply unsettled at her own vulnerability. And she will make no mistake: it is vulnerability. She knows a flaw when she sees one. She is attuned to what can be perceived as imperfection and failure, and she will not allow something so insignificant to ruin her. Attraction does not have to impede upon her professional relationship, and she absolutely will not let it.
To say she is exhausted would be a severe understatement.
"My master has told me much of you," says Genji. He twists in her direction, the usual vibrant green of his visor dimmed to a soft, muted glow. "He spoke of your courage and sense of conviction. He says you are a strong individual."
For a moment, Satya does not know how to respond. Part of her is still back in Roadhog's sidecar, trapped in a half embrace with Junkrat's arm hooked about her waist; the rest is drifting between the cumulus clouds blotted beyond the sea. Her head feels stuffed with cotton and his voice is a buzzing drone among the rolling tide. She has to consciously tighten her fist to keep the blueprints from slipping away into the wind.
"I did not thank you for saving him when you were sent to rescue Mei. That was my mistake. It will be corrected." Genji folds his hands together and dips forward in a slight bow. "My gratitude is endless. It means a great deal that you were willing to sacrifice yourself in order to preserve his life. Not many are willing to do such a thing for us."
"Us?" The word takes her by surprise, and she repeats it out of bewilderment.
"Ah, perhaps that was a poor choice of word. I say us because I do not fit into the category of human. I am not human, but I am not omnic. I am part man and part machine. An abomination in the eyes of many." Slowly, Genji brings his hands back down to his thighs and turns toward the ocean once more. "That truth was a source of internal unrest for a long time. It took many years, but I was able to overcome it. Zenyatta helped me see that I am more than the sum of my components."
Satya soaks in the stillness of the compound. Everything appears to have been captured under the molten touch of the sinking sun from the westward side of the Rock. The metallic siding of the clustered structures is encased in gleaming shades of orange and gold, the fractured shadows below encroaching their way across the grounds in a gradual glide. With the blueprints in her hand, she lowers herself to the rooftop at Genji's side.
"He is a very wise individual," she says. "I have spoken with him on two separate occasions. His world view is unique. And enlightening."
"He is very wise," Genji agrees. "I would not be who I am today had I not found him in my travels. I admit that I was not open to his views. Not at first. Learning to look at yourself in a different way is a difficult process. Accepting yourself as you are is an even more difficult process."
Genji lifts his right hand, flexing and pulling as if to test the joints. A slot within his forearm shifts open; thin spindles of metal peer out from within. A set of sharp shuriken split from between, and he accepts them in silence. Fanning them among his fingers, they hold an orange sheen beneath the gaze of the sunset.
"Being human is harder than one would believe. Even for those who have not suffered my fate." He thumbs the shuriken apart, one by one, and then launches them across the grounds in a single shot. The clink of metal biting metal sings between rooftops and sundrenched walls. "Sometimes, I feel that life asks too much of us. There are times when I would have given anything to return to my former state. There are times when I would have preferred Angela had left me to die. But then there are times when I am here, overlooking the world, and I am at peace."
Satya watches as he shapes himself back into a meditative stance, back straight and palms resting upon his thighs. "Have you found balance?"
There is a brief pause while he considers the question. "No," he replies. "No, not completely. I am still on that path. But I am farther than where I was five years ago. I am farther than I was one year ago. And I am farther than I was yesterday."
"Progress is progress." Tracing her thumbs across the smooth surface of the rolled blueprints, Zenyatta's presence among the grassy outcroppings of the compound manifests in her mind's eye. The intricate pair of prayer orbs burns in billowing auras of aurum and amethyst in the planes of his palms, and their fierceness burns beneath her eyelids. "Zenyatta said that paths are for walking. Even if your progress is slow, it is still progress. That is what is important."
"Progress is progress," he agrees. "It is important, but sometimes it is difficult to remember."
With a gentle precision, Satya slides out the tie that binds her hair in its bun, slipping it around her wrist, and she allows heavy black waves to drape down her shoulders and across her back. The breeze unfurls through heavy locks and along her hairline, and she breathes in a sigh of relief.
"I would have you know I regret attacking your friend," he says.
Satya's brow furrows in puzzlement. "I'm sorry?"
"The bomber. The rat man." Genji cranes his neck in a quarter turn to regard her with a quiet solemnity. "I see now that it was a mistake to lash out in such a manner. I should be used to how the world views omnics with my current state, but it is different with Zenyatta. Not only is he my teacher and mentor, he is very dear to me as a friend." His fingers press into the metal of his armor by his knee, and he glances out toward the grounds with what appears to be guilt. "My anger overcame me on our arrival. We had recently passed through London to pay our respects, and it is no secret that England holds ill views on omnics."
"His actions were poorly thought out at the time," says Satya. "As are most actions are with him, now that I think of it. He antagonized both you and Zenyatta. It looked like he meant to do you harm. It was an unpleasant experience to witness, but I understand why you did what you did. It was not uncalled for. You were only defending what needed to be defended."
"No," says Genji. "He did not need to be defended. If the rat man had given him good reason, he would have taken action. Combat is a final resort. He would have defused the situation had I not stepped in."
"You did what you thought was necessary. There is no regret in that." Satya folds the blueprints in the crook of her arm and begins to trace the supple joints of her gauntlet. In the burrowed contours beneath her skull, the gasping ocean waves rocket up to meet her as she melds through the static blue of her portal. Junkrat clutches her waist with desperate ferocity and breathes incoherent syllables by her ear. "We do the unthinkable when danger threatens the things we care for. That is human, is it not?"
There is a pause of silence. Genji stares out beyond the facility walls and the rocky crags and the unfurling shadows that soak across the outpost's faded paths and blunt architecture. The sea swells across the horizon in an enthralling calm, flush with melding palettes of gold and red, and it crashes against the jagged beaches below the Rock in an even cadence.
"That is human," he admits at last.
Satya closes her eyes against the wind. Despite the lingering summer heat, everything has begun to cool in the evening's wake. It brings gooseflesh down her bare arm and along her calves, and she finds herself regretting her choice of clothing. While it would be prudent of her to return to the barracks, dread threads like shrapnel through her veins at the thought of meeting Junkrat, and so here she remains with Genji at her side.
"It would be appreciated if you would extend my apology," says Genji. His voice is a low murmur, nearly eclipsed by the distant tide. "I know he will refuse to engage in conversation with me, so I ask you in my stead. I understand the chance of the rat man accepting is low, but it will still be offered. It is in our team's best interest if everyone remains amicable." And then, after a moment, "In spite of our differences."
"Broaching the subject may be difficult," she says, remembering the potent purple bruise upon Junkrat's throat, "but I will try."
Genji grants her a slight nod in gratitude. "Thank you, Symmetra."
"Harmony will benefit our group. Think nothing of it." And yet she finds herself unsettled at the thought.
Satya steeps beneath the slow sunset in silence for several minutes until the rooftop door swings open. She peers over her shoulder to see Zenyatta's lithe form padding through the threshold, shabby yellow robes encompassing the architecture of his chest, his arms, his waist. The ample sleeves pull with the wind as the ring of prayer orbs glide around his neck, and although facial expressions are an impossibility, the slight tilt of his head implies surprise.
"Greetings, Symmetra," says Zenyatta. His synthesized voice is a soft, even melody, holding a tranquil note in its timbre. "I had not expected your presence this evening. Will you be joining our meditation session?"
"I'm afraid not." She brings the blueprints into her hands once more and rises to her feet. "I only needed a place away from the others. I thought here would serve well enough."
"I see." A faint smile lines the shapes of his words. "Perhaps next time, then. It would please me to show you other meditative techniques, should you want to learn. A guided meditation through self-awareness and breathing exercises is but only one path to take."
"I appreciate the tempting offer, but it will have to be another time. I need to start on a second draft for our team's communicator with the input from this afternoon. Having a working model in time for our next deployment is paramount." Satya glances to Genji, watching the thin cloth from his helm as it pirouettes among playful zephyrs. "Good night, Genji. Thank you for your company."
"Good night," he says, and offers a polite bow. "Thank you for yours."
On her way toward the rooftop door, she takes pause by Zenyatta. "And good night to you."
Zenyatta guides a single orb from his neck with a svelte finger. It emits a warm, calming gold around the elegant etchings of its body, suffusing the space around it with naked light. A distinct serenity enfolds her under its presence, reminiscent of the comfort of her bed or the pressure of her gauntlet or the molten amber of Junkrat's eyes. It circles her in a clockwise motion before returning to its master with a delicate flourish.
"Good night, Symmetra," says Zenyatta, and offers a mechanical wave of his hand. "I wish you luck in your endeavors. May peace be upon you."
"Thank you," she says. "You as well. Enjoy the rest of your evening."
The descent is faster than she would like, driven by autopilot as she tries to think of a place where she can continue her work with little to no chance of running into Junkrat. When she reaches the ground below, she glances upward toward the roof to see the thin glow of Zenyatta's prayer orbs encircling the space between him and his student. It is faint, but she thinks she can hear a series of soft, dulcet tones over the rolling waves of the ocean.
After a brief period of meandering about the outpost grounds in absent deliberation, she finally settles on one of the lush outcrops that overlook the sea. It is a broad stretch of space, tucked behind one of the metal faces of facility buildings; due to the cliff side and the architecture's space, the area is sequestered from the remainder of the compound and removed from plain sight. While it is definitely not the workshop with its comforts and amenities, she supposes she will have to make do with what is available, and so she tucks her dress beneath her legs and settles down over top the cool grass.
Beyond, the sun has sunk halfway across the horizon, the bright burn of an orange coin pressed into the darkening pastel sky. It is just before the cusp of twilight; stars have not yet begun to blot the world, and the moon has not carved through the brushed cream-soaked cumulus strokes overhead. The sea draws in and sinks back below in gradual breaths, and she focuses on the tranquility of her surroundings with a degree of relief.
She is safe here. She is alone. And she can decompress.
Tucking a stray lock behind her ear, Satya pulls a deep inhale and unrolls the blueprint set. There are seven pages in total, stapled at the top left-hand corner to prevent each individual sheet from straying off. Each holds either a design she's attempted, or collections of her teammates' various suggestions. The edges are curled and refuse to straighten, and so she snatches a few nearby pebbles to weigh down each corner.
Satya has no pencil, but she does not intend to edit any of the designs. Instead, she means to conjure a rudimentary model for her own use. This will let her see how it might fit over a user's ear, and it will allow her to see how she can better integrate Gibraltar's communication system within her own creations. While she enjoys the benefits of careful planning and structure that schematics provide, there can be no improvement unless there is a physical piece to test with.
Studying the dimensions of her initial prototype, Satya brings her hands together and poises them with her fingers pinched. She attempts to frame the design in her mind and how she might weave it into reality; wireframes spin together, connecting at the joints, slowly structuring the primary shape of the earpiece. There are segments she has to adjust in her mind's eye to match those on the page, but before she can make the final alterations to the design between her palms, the distant sound of approaching footsteps disrupts her concentration.
It isn't Genji, she realizes with startling clarity. It isn't Zenyatta, either. Neither of them have such an erratic pacing, and instead hold a smooth, even pattern to their steps. It isn't Mercy or Ana; the individual footsteps are too heavy to belong to someone with such a slight build. It isn't Reinhardt, it isn't Morrison, and it isn't McCree; the overall weight is too light for any of the men, especially Reinhardt, whose size is particularly staggering.
Her heartbeat begins to pound upon the screen of her ribs, and the once placated knotting mess by her belly spurs back to a gradual, twisting writhe. The geometry poised so carefully among her hands fractures into something irreparable; with her teeth sinking into the back of her mouth, she wrenches her fingers away and slams them upon the blueprints. The sheets crinkle under the weight of her crunched palms, bunching gridwork and white pencil smudges together in rumpled spirals, and she allows herself a frustrated exhale.
She hasn't the faintest idea why he's here, but she hopes he will somehow take the hint and leave.
Gathering herself, she makes another attempt to shape her design into being when Junkrat's steps halt a few feet behind her. She tries her best to shut out his presence, but her best is not quite good enough; despite channeling her focus into the wireframes that would create the communicator, her estimations and accuracy is not as it should be, and she cannot bring herself to conjure something that is so far from perfect.
"Is there something I can help you with?" Satya keeps the edge in her voice. He is intruding, encroaching upon her personal space, and unlike earlier, she has neither the capability nor the capacity for maintaining her composure.
"Been looking all over the damn base for you, y'know. You're bloody hard to find when you wanna be." A soft rustling sounds behind her ear, and then a plastic bag and its contents are settled over her head. "You was in such a rush to get to work, you went and left these behind. Reckon you might want 'em back."
Realization dawns on her. "The tea boxes," she says.
"If you don't want 'em, I'm sure I'll find some use." Junkrat lifts the bag away, and by the creased sound of crinkling, he withdraws one of the packages from inside.
Satya glances over her shoulder. To her surprise, Junkrat not only still has the shabby red tank top shimmied over his chest, but he has also managed to keep himself remarkably clean for the past several hours. His posture is straighter than usual, showcasing the impressive display of his sheer height, and he holds the Darjeeling box at an angle to catch the light. His thick brows are pinched together as he combs over the words on the side of the packaging, his jaws set and the muscle in his neck taut from tilting his head in appraisal.
"Roadie likes this sort of stuff," he remarks, giving the box a light shake. "Maybe he'd be interested."
"I think not." She twists halfway toward him and holds out an expectant palm. "Give them here."
"You sure?" Junkrat reaches out with his left hand and plops the single box into her awaiting grasp. "Didn't seem to care too much a while ago."
"I had more pressing things on my mind," says Satya. She sets the tea in the folds of her dress before extending her hand once more. "Come. The other. Preferably with the bag. It will give me less things to carry when I leave."
Junkrat peers down at her, a roguish mirth burning through the amber of his eyes. Gentle breezes thread through the wildness of his hair, sloping along his temples and up his widow's peak between unkempt shocks of blond. His stippled shoulders are burnished bronze beneath the horizon's winekissed expanse, hard muscle shaping toward a prominent collarbone and a rigid abdomen beneath the scraggly material of his shirt. The bag's thin ends are hooked around a single metal finger, and he lets it sway back and forth in a teasing manner, as if contemplating whether or not he should comply.
"Hmm." A low, thoughtful hum rumbles in the thick of his throat. "What's in it for me?"
Satya thins her mouth into a frown. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said—" Lips smudged into a grin, he flicks his wrist in a circular motion, and the bag follows suit into a spin through kinetic force, "—what's in it for me?"
"You cannot be serious." She regards him with a solemn stare. "Junkrat, it belongs to me. I paid for it. Now give it here."
"Right. Sure. That might be true. Still, I think I deserve a little finder's fee. Y'know, for the trouble of walking all over the bloody place looking for you." He cocks an eyebrow as he gazes down at her. "Why you all the way out here, anyway? Workshop's more suited for that sort of thing. Least I reckon so. Never seen you out here with all them little papers before."
I wanted to avoid you, she doesn't say, but she forces a swallow and says, "I wanted to be alone."
"Oh." Junkrat scratches at his scalp with his thumb. He lowers his prosthetic to his side, allowing the bag to dangle by his patchwork shorts. "Right. Well, you did a damn good job of it, that's for sure. Finally caught sight of you when you was a couple buildings past the hangar. Probably wouldn't've if I hadn't been on me way back."
She should have remained on the roofs with Genji and Zenyatta, she thinks; this could have been avoided had she not sought total solitude; but she keeps the thought encased below her heartstrings. And then something different surfaces among the strum of her pulse: had he been carrying the teas around since their return to the compound this afternoon?
Slowly, Junkrat approaches her side, loping forward in crooked steps. He slumps down in the grass at her left, peg stretched out in a rigid line while his left foot angles beneath the bend of the metal knee, the bag of chai nestled in his lap. He eyes the packaging that rests among the ivory-gold folds of her dress, and he gestures to it with a jerk of his thumb.
"I expect a drop of that," he says.
Satya feels herself bristle at his presence. "I do not think it will be to your liking."
"Why's that?" He reaches over to her lap to tilt the box in such a way so that he can read the side panels once more. "Real bitter or something?"
"It isn't at all like what we had this afternoon," she says. "It isn't particularly sweet, either. It has different tastes depending on the time of year, but spring's harvest is certainly not the sort of sweet you would like."
"Still, wouldn't mind giving it a go." Junkrat gives a noncommittal shrug. "You like it, so it's gotta be good, right?"
She plucks the box from the fabric over her legs and sets it far to her right where he can't touch it. "I don't understand your meaning."
"Well, you got proper taste," he says. "S'obvious, right. Got them nice clothes and all that. Always swipe the good stuff at dinner. Chose some good tea when we was out this morning. Not bad for sweets, neither. Cake was perfect." Junkrat pauses and succumbs to a jaw cracking yawn. His fingers clench into fists and punch toward the sky, and his body seizes up in a full, arching stretch. The already too short shirt shimmies upward, revealing the cut angles of his hips and the coarse trail of blond that dips below his belt.
As Junkrat gnashes his teeth and squints under the yawn's exertion, Satya knows she should be focused on the set of blueprints splayed on the grass in front of her. She knows she should be tracing the design through her mind and drawing together a wireframe so she can conjure a working model for testing. She knows she should be creating something she can use to better estimate adjustments for the communicator's prototype. And still, her eyes dart down to his waistline in spite of herself.
"'Sides," he says, taking his chin in hand and giving his neck a good crack, "reckon if it's anything like Nan's, should be all right. Weren't too bad, I thought. Don't mind something new every now and then. Didn't have much in Junkertown, right. Didn't have nothing like good teas or sweets, or any of them little biscuits Angel Wings makes or the ones that pommy girl's got. Picking's a bit thin there, y'know. So, this's pretty nice. Different. I like it."
Satya folds her fingers together, tracing at the insides of her knuckles and toward the chiseled crystal lining the palm of her gauntlet. Her heart conducts hasty rhythms behind her breastbone, and yet she somehow finds his company less anxiety-inducing than she had imagined. This morning's close proximity wove soft notes of delight among discomfort and unease, but without forced physical contact, she now feels more at ease. She is in control here, and she can decide how close or how far he is from her person; she decides whether he can touch her and whether she will allow it.
"What exactly did you have in Junkertown?" she asks, realizing that she knows next to nothing about his previous occupations. "Well, if it's that different, that is."
"Eh. Bush tucker, mostly. Nothing fancy. Nothing like here." Junkrat toys with the loops of the bag between his fingers, his forehead furrowed in thought. "Just whatever critters you can catch. If you're lucky. Everything's either bloody quick or'll bite you dead, so if you don't got the proper gear, you won't be getting no grub."
His teeth trace at his lower lip and worry at the corners. It seems as though he hadn't expected the question, and he's combing through his mind for the answers. It shouldn't be, but it's a strange sort of charming.
"Trading's another option, 'course," he says, "though you don't know what you're gonna get if you go 'bout doing that. Then it's whatever somebody happened to scrape up somewhere outside of town. Might be irradiated if you're not too careful. Make you sick. S'why it's best to grab your own. Started making traps when I was 'bout… dunno, fifteen? Just for the occasion. Hauled meself over to the good spots for better game." A grin edges at his mouth; gold glitters beneath the glare of the setting sun. "Had me some good barbecues then."
The image of him scorching potential food items to a crisp comes to mind, and she finds herself suppressing a smile at the thought. "Somehow, that does not surprise me."
"Yeah?" Junkrat rubs at the place where he'd struck his head earlier this morning, swirling his thumb over the lingering soreness. "I'll have you know I grill bloody good python. Smoked 'roo's not bad, either. Well, if you can catch 'em, that is. S'what I got traps for, though. Snap snap, here comes lunch. Or some bounty hunter."
"I was not aware you could cook." Satya turns her gaze back toward the blueprints. Her neck has begun to feel particularly hot beneath the thick layers of her hair, and so she gathers everything up in her fist to allow the breeze to kiss away the forming sweat. "Is there a reason you haven't participated with dinner?"
"'Cause there's a difference 'tween barbecuing and sautéing or whatever else proper chefs do," he says. "One's got fire and the rest don't. I do a bit better when fire's around."
"That does not surprise me, either." She purses her lips in thought. "What about flambé, then?"
Junkrat's forehead crinkles. "What about what now?"
"Flambé," she says. "It involves fire. Specifically liquor on fire. I assumed that would be up your alley, so to speak."
"Never heard of that. I'll admit, though, sounds like my kind of cooking. I'd be keen to try." He rubs his palms together, as if eager. "So, what, you just go and douse something in a bit of grog and light it up?"
"Well, there is a touch more to the process," she says, "but yes, I believe that is more or less the essential concept."
Junkrat devolves into a fit of giggles, and she doesn't think she's ever heard him quite so pleased.
"Perhaps you could have Torbjörn teach you, if you're interested," she suggests, combing her thick hair down her right shoulder. "He seems to know a great deal about the culinary arts, and I think you would be hard pressed to find a technique he does not know about."
"Too right. I seen him 'round the kitchen when he's doing all the prep work. Does a whole lot for his stature. Got a fiery sort of passion, don't he? Falls a bit short of me own, though, to be honest."
Satya side eyes him with a thin smile. "You're incorrigible. I hope you know that."
"Sure." He presses his tongue between his teeth in mischievous pleasure. "Don't hear you complaining 'bout it, though."
"Oh, stop. Even if I were complaining, I highly doubt you'd listen." She reaches over, loops her fingers through the bag's ends, and lifts it over to her lap. "You seem to hold your interests above those of everyone else."
"'Course. Not a bad way to go about it. If you don't go looking after your own skin, who is?" With a fluid motion, he hooks his wrist through the bag and snags it back. "Still, all I hear is you ain't complaining. Incorrigible, right. Eh. S'good enough for me."
She frowns at her captive purchase. "Do you mind?"
"Mind what?" The ends of Junkrat's mouth shape into a broad grin. It's proud, swaggering, self-satisfied, and it sews something hot down the curve of her spine. The warm amber of his eyes harbors a palpable sort of thrill, a stropped edge that poises ready to lance through her ribs and harpoon her to the ground where she sits. It isn't a comforting feeling, and yet it isn't unwanted, either.
"Do not act as if you're unaware," she says, and gives him a pointed stare to better emphasize her displeasure. "You know exactly what I am referring to."
"Yeah, nah, I don't think I do." Junkrat eases into a contented hum that wells up from the bottom of his diaphragm and kneads into a chuckle at the very end. He rolls his shoulders, nonchalant and amused, and the muscle grows taut beneath the thin straps of his ruddy shirt. "S'all a bit on the vague side of things, y'know? Think you oughta explain. Shed a little light for me." He jerks a metal thumb at her gauntlet. "That or otherwise."
Satya sighs, and resorts to cradling her forehead in the valley of her palm in order to placate herself. His response is frustrating, to be sure, but she recognizes it for what it is: it's merely another way to wrangle down beneath her skin and coax a rise out of her. It's just like everything else he's managed to do; it's his witty wordplay, his ridiculous jokes, his overconfident demeanor, the contented curves of his grins, the hug he'd given her, the way he'd stolen pieces of her cake (and then proceeded to drag his mouth down the fork); it's his way of carving a place in the world for himself through his own brand of humor, and she would be lying if she said she didn't find his methods of ribbing the least bit annoying.
Then again, she would also be lying if she said she found it unenjoyable, too.
"Junkrat. Please. Give it here." She flicks her hand toward the bag of tea resting in the crook of his legs. "I will have you know I was going to give that to Ana as thanks for the other night when she shared her own tea with me."
"What, and I don't get no thanks?" He sniffs, and lays his prosthetic over top of the bag to protect it from any retrieval attempts. "I coulda just kept 'em, y'know. Given 'em to Roadhog or something. He's fond of the warm stuff. But I didn't, right. Here I am being a proper gent and returning 'em to their rightful owner, and not a word of gratitude from her. Feel a bit slighted."
"Yes, you mean to return them, but for a 'finder's fee,'" she says. "Which, I might remind you, effectively negates any goodness done with the deed. Really, what do you expect me to pay you with? Tea leaves? Because I am most certainly not going to dip into my personal funds just because you feel the need to extort me."
"Extort? Oh, that hurts. Really does." He knocks over his heart with his fist. "Right in the ticker."
"It is the truth," she says, and turns back toward her blueprints. Eager to dismiss him, she splays her hands across the gridded surface and smooths out the pages, rearranging some of the pebbles to better weigh down the corners. "Perhaps you should rethink your monetary acquisition strategies if you believe something like that will work with me."
"Right, look, weren't expecting cash or nothing like that," says Junkrat. He sports a furrowed frown and nudges her elbow with his own. The metal clinks against the pristine white of her gauntlet. "Just was having a bit of fun with you is all. Nothing serious. Expected—hell, I dunno—maybe another run to the shop or something."
"Did you really?" She glances at him from the corner of her eye as she forms her hands together in preparation for another attempt at bringing the communicator into reality. "I find that hard to believe. You know, I am the one who paid for the drinks this morning. If we were to go back, either we pay individually, or it is your turn to pick up the tab."
Junkrat exhales noisily through his nose. "Oi, just what kinda bloke you take me for?"
"A mad one," she replies.
Satya draws in a deep breath, closes her eyes, and threads her fingers over one another. Whatever response he had been planning must have fallen to the seaside, as no further protests arise from his direction. With nothing but the ocean swelling by her eardrums, she focuses on the sketched imagery of the communicator's prototype and attempts to sculpt its crude wireframe upon the crystal in her left hand. She can feel the prickling stare of Junkrat's scrutiny, but she pushes it to the back of her mind, bites at her lower lip, and pulls.
A delicate shimmer graces the space overtop the blueprints. As sleek white and blue fills in the intricacies of the translucent wireframe, its weight presses small crinkles into the paper sheets. The slight depression among the grid cradles her first attempt at its early design. It isn't perfect, she notes—there are a few measurements that are just slightly out of place—but it isn't terrible for something so new. In addition to Mei's comments and the other members' input, it appears that adjustments will have to be made. Such is the process, she supposes.
Satya gathers it between her hands and begins to inspect its architecture, her thumbs tilting it to accommodate the slow withdrawal of the sun. The communicator's inner work is hollow, as she has not yet developed how all of the wiring will come together; she has decided to leave that to Winston and his genius with computers and similar circuitry until she is able to replicate it. This particular piece will serve only as outerwear for the intended device, although she may involve other alterations should Winston deem it necessary.
As she scrutinizes its curvature and the thinned plate to cover the ear, she becomes keenly aware of Junkrat as he ushers close. He's encroached on the outskirts of her vision, propped up on the metal of his prosthetic, leaning across the gap between them both. She can't discern any details without facing him directly, but she assumes he's enthused with her rudimentary design, and she doesn't know whether to feel proud or amused at the fact.
"Is there something you need?" she asks, flipping the communicator over between her palms.
Junkrat's presence edges closer. "That's what you been working on?"
"It is," says Satya. "Why do you ask?"
"Just was wondering." An orange finger hovers in her peripheral, and he prods one of the prototype's ends with a testing curiosity. "We supposed to wear it or something?"
"Well, yes. That is the idea. Whether it can actually be worn in this state is another issue altogether." She takes it in her left hand and holds it up for him to see. "I don't think it will fit anyone right now. This is simply a generic model for my use. I will need to take measurements in order to develop one for each of us."
"Measurements?" Junkrat places his thumb and forefinger over the communicator, his eyes imploring a wordless can I?, and when she lets go in reply, he cups it in the expanse of his metal palm and hunches downward in attempt to examine it further. His teeth tend to his lower lip as he pores over the glossy material and its minute complexities. "Looks fine to me. Got all the important stuff. What you need measurements for?"
"To ensure it fits," she says. "Its purpose is to stay fastened to its user. If its size is incorrect or if there need to be other adjustments, then it won't stay in place. It is a rather pointless device if it does not perform its function, is it not?"
"Suppose so. Makes sense. Not much use if it don't stay put." He peers down at it with rapt fascination, and the thought of him being impressed with her work strums notes of pride across her heartstrings. After several moments spent ogling the piece, he glances upward and cocks an eyebrow in her direction. "Right, so, what, you just gonna go 'bout the base grabbing everybody's ears for a quick measure then? Is that how that's gonna work?"
"Well, my primary goal was to create a prototype. Without something tangible to work with, it would make things more difficult to improve. After that, it was to eventually create a design that the entire team could agree on, or at least be comfortable with. Both have to come first before I can take varying sized models into account. As of right now, I have only a prototype. It is the first iteration of many to come—or so I assume, at least."
Satya reaches down to the pages in front of her and removes one of the pebbles. Her thumb flips between the sheets, revealing various sketches in differing styles, and there are two or three she recognizes at a glance.
"Mei has been helping with overall critique on the design," she says, tapping the corresponding suggestions with her polished nail. "Winston has made some notes, too. It looks like some of the others have as well, but I haven't had the chance to give them a thorough read just yet. With everyone's input, I should be able to work closer to a final product. I hope it will be a smooth transition, but everyone has different ideas on what would be an ideal earpiece, so I expect disagreements in the near future. Regardless, this should help us immensely. Being able to communicate as a unit is a necessity, especially with our ranks expanding as they are, and this will give us better leverage on our missions."
She eases the communicator out from Junkrat's inquisitive fingers with care. It is extraordinarily light in her grasp, just as hard-light should be, and while it certainly isn't her best work, not by a long shot, she supposes it will suffice for now. All it needs to do is serve as a frame of reference when making rectifications and adjustments. It may be tedious, but gathering specifications and continuous refinement are both necessary processes when developing for a specific user in mind. Such workflows are not unfamiliar, but it has been a long time since she has utilized them in a domestic setting.
Satya can sense him watching. It isn't uncalled for, considering the situation, but all she can think of is the way he'd looked at her in the hangar, and it clenches a familiar prickle down the length of her backbone. Her fingers pressed to her creation, she turns to meet his gaze, and it's then beneath the puzzled amber of his eyes that she realizes she never actually answered his question.
"I… I do apologize," she says, resisting the flush through her neck. "I get carried away sometimes."
"Eh, ain't no harm in it," says Junkrat. His shoulders bob in a shrug, the thin tank settling askew; such an open plane offers a far more noticeable view of the tan lines that were wrought from his harness, and a knot begins to work its way through her throat. "S'just like me and bombs, right. Get all into it. Real into it. Then next thing you know it's two days later and you can't remember the last time you had any grub. Roadie's always reminding me 'bout something or telling me to stuff it. Says I won't shut up otherwise." His fingers roll the plastic ends of the bag into delicate twists. "He's probably right."
"Well, I find your passion admirable." And then, as an afterthought, "If not extremely dangerous."
"Admirable, huh." He pauses, brows pinched together in uncertainty. "You're pulling me leg."
"I wouldn't pull your leg, Junkrat."
"You did, though," he says, raising one finger in protest. "When you dragged me out from that clunker. Talon knobs marching down the street, and you got me by the foot and yanked me right out."
"All right. I suppose I would pull your leg in the literal sense. But that is not what was meant here." Satya finds that it is too difficult to continue looking at him, and so she guides her eyes back toward the swelling ocean. Sunset has begun to paint darker rivers of color across the horizon, and the beginnings of twilight caress the rolling waters. "I find that while many people have various passions in life, few commit to them in such a way. I admit I certainly would not choose explosives as a passion, but the amount of time and effort you put into what you do is—" She bites back attractive with viciousness and supplies, "—commendable," instead.
"Well, your stuff's not bad, either," he says. "Teleporters and little gizmos. That thing there." He gestures to the communicator in her hands with a jerk of his head. "Commendable, I'd say. I know I'd be dead without 'em."
"We both would," she says, and her heart hurts at the thought of Vishkar never finding her amongst the Hyderabad slums.
"Right. So, about them ear measurements." Junkrat pulls the box of chai out from the bag and begins to turn it about, smoothing his good fingers over the edges and corners before giving it a twist to trace the adjacent ridges. "You got some plan for it then? 'Cause if you're gonna just round everybody up, probably should let you know Hog don't much like his ears being messed with. Gets all snarly about it. Real snarly."
"To be honest, I haven't quite given the ear measuring process much thought." Satya brushes the pads of her fingers over top of the communicator's surface. It is not the same as her gauntlet, but it is something to concentrate her focus, and she does so with purpose. "I suppose gathering measurements from person to person would be the best approach. Streamlining it would require everyone being in the same room so we could take them in bulk, but I have a feeling that would be too disruptive to everyone's routines."
"So, one by one. Right then." He spins the box in his metal hand before capturing it with his left. "I'd wait 'til Roadie's conked out for that, if I was you. Or maybe let him do it. Dunno how good that'd be. He just don't like no one getting close to his breather. Reckon ears'd be far enough, but I'd rather keep the rest of me fingers if it means all the same to you." Junkrat glances to her, a thin smile at the corner of his mouth. "You'd probably be keen on keeping yours as well."
"Well, we'll think of something, I'm sure," she says, and places the prototype down upon the flattened blueprints. "I will need to collect everyone's measurements to ensure a proper fit. He won't be able to skirt by with that as an excuse. Perhaps he can hold the calipers to his ear if he is that uncomfortable."
"Might work. Worth a shot, at least." Junkrat lifts his prosthetic from the tea box and flicks his thumb at the shell of his right ear. "I won't make no fuss, though."
Satya resists a smile. "Even if now were a good time, I don't have anything to measure you with."
"I'll bet you a box of tea that you can conjure up a little something just for the occasion."
"You do realize I could just refuse and win said box of tea, correct?" Satya reaches over and snatches it out of his hand before he can react, and then places it over with its companion at her right hip. "Or I could rightfully reclaim my purchase and continue with my evening."
Junkrat seems less than amused. "That ain't fair."
"Of course it is. They were mine to begin with." With a flick of her wrists, she weaves a simplistic wireframe between her hands and summons a short, thin measuring stick upon her lap. Although it will not be as accurate as a pair of calipers for either projection or length, she supposes it will suffice for such generic sizing. "Now, are you going to behave so I can take measurements, or will I have to track you down with Mercy later?"
"You say that like I ain't behaving already," he says, following her hand's gesture to look out toward the ocean.
"I find holding my things hostage under the threat of a finder's fee is not exactly behaving." With the metal of her gauntlet, she taps his lower back with the ruler. "Sit straight."
"I wasn't being serious, y'know," says Junkrat. He complies, however, and pulls out of his curled hunch and into a far healthier posture; his shoulders squared, backbone rigid, abdomen tight and flat. His scraggly shirt is still awry, and she struggles with the urge to tug it back down so it would frame his chest in appropriate symmetry.
"Regardless," she says, touching her index finger beneath his chin, "I would hardly count extortion as good behavior, even if it is concerning tea. I can only hope you won't continue misbehaving when Winston and the others decide on a direction for our next mission."
"Oh, you ain't seen misbehaving, love." He flashes a wide grin, the rich aurum of a golden molar winking at her by the corner of his mouth. "Extortion and barbecue are only two of my many, many talents."
Satya's face grows hot, and she pauses as she brings the ruler by his ear. "Something tells me I would be better off not knowing the rest."
"Was meaning bombs, of course," he says, tilting his head toward her to give an appraising look. "Though a bit of fire's not so bad, either."
"And trap making, apparently." Pressing her lips together, she guides him back with a thumb and forefinger against his prominent chin, and she holds him there for a good two seconds before releasing to tend to his measurements. "I have not seen you use anything like that here. With your assortment of, well, talents, I'd assumed you would utilize everything to the best of your ability."
"Oh, I got a couple lying about," he says. "Mostly by the bed."
"The bed?" Satya frowns in bewilderment as she mentally marks the centimeters: a little under five-point-five. The overall length from top to lobe is significantly less than what she'd imagined; he has rather small ears for someone of his size. "Sorry, perhaps I misunderstood—you put traps by your bed?"
"S'just habit, right," he says with a shrug. "I'll be honest, though, near got me in a spot of trouble once or twice. The dwarf just 'bout had his leg off one morning. Woke me and Roadie and probably all the rest shouting up a storm. He's got a lot of bluster for being so short, y'know. Told him he shoulda took the long way 'round if he didn't want to shave off an extra foot. Didn't take too kindly to that. Haven't heard no more complaints, though. Reckon he thought risking some centimeters weren't worth it since he's got so little of 'em as it is."
"So I didn't misunderstand. You do put traps by your bed." Satya presses the edge of the ruler back against his scalp to estimate the projection. As she corrects his head's direction toward the ocean once more with her thumb, it becomes apparent just how much his ears stick out from the rest of him. Perhaps it is because his hair is so unkempt and wild that it has concealed their position, but she has never noticed such a small detail before—and if she's honest, it's quite endearing.
"Yeah, but traps's not so bad, really," he says. "Sure, they're all snapping and you're like to lose a leg, but you shoulda seen what Roadie wanted to rig up. He's got guns, right, and he had half a mind to put a tripwire in that'd trigger one of 'em going off right in some poor sap's face. I weren't against it, but the big shieldy bloke had a word or two 'bout the idea and then it got lobbed right out the window."
Satya adjusts the ruler, relocating it upward to the top of his ear. "And you thought that was a good idea?"
"Well, yeah, before all this, it woulda been. Had to do all sorts of stuff like that, y'know. Junkers ain't such a friendly lot. Neither's bounty hunters. Best be safe and have a few traps about than dead in your swag. So, yeah, s'not a bad idea." He grins and turns toward her again. "'Sides, little snappy things ain't nothing compared to some of the big explodey traps I'd made in the bush. Land mines, more or less. Covered up real good. Always a lovely little wakeup call. Kaboom—got me up and kicking, and with one less tosser looking to swipe my haul."
"You do realize you need to stay still in order for me to do this, correct?" She pushes him back by the nose, the pad of her index finger beside the little birth mark by its end, and she gives him a firm tap. "Now be still."
"Right, right, sorry," he says. "Keep forgetting."
"How can you forget?" she asks, taking note of the length between his scalp at the top end of his ear. "I'm in the process of measuring you now."
"Eh. Me head's a bit addled, I guess." He scratches through thick bunches of blond with his good hand. "Don't mind it, though. Remember all the important stuff. Mostly. S'what matters."
Satya withdraws the ruler, perplexed. "Important things like our team building exercise's ongoing score, but not what you're participating in right now? That doesn't make any sense."
Junkrat bites at his lower lip. He has moved his good leg out from beneath his metal knee, and his shoe shakes back and forth to the roll of the waves on the rocky beaches below. His eyes are focused on the bristling grass by his legs, his forehead creased in thought. The machinery of his right hand is tapping along his thigh in a series of rhythms she's sure she's heard him produce before, but she has no other frame of reference in which to place them. The sunset sinks into his skin, blotting healthy color beneath his cheekbones and at the tips of his ears.
While she had been in close proximity with him earlier on this morning, it had been restricted. She had not had the opportunity to truly see his face without twisting about or causing herself undue discomfort. She sits beside him now, at her own choice and with exits at her disposal, and more little intricacies of him catch her attention: the sharpness of his jaws and nose, the prominence of the muscle in his neck down to his clavicle, the small marks by his mouth, the flecked spots beneath his eyes, the delicate wisps of insomnia smudged just beneath.
Despite her thrumming heartbeat, Satya finds herself more at ease than she has been the past several weeks, and she doesn't know why.
"Junkrat?" Concerned at his lack of response, she places the ruler among the folds of her dress and lifts her left hand to touch at his shoulder. "Are you all right? If that was not something I should have mentioned—"
"Jamison."
"I… I'm sorry, what?" Satya pauses, her thoughts effectively derailed from their appropriate course. It takes her a moment to parse the word, and even when she does, there is no context in which it would make sense as an interjection. "I… I don't understand. What are you talking about?"
"My name."
Junkrat stares out toward the ocean, his posture reverted to something coiled and hunched. His shoulders are tight, wound, and brought together, as if anxious. His teeth worry at his lower lip, and there is a degree of tension that ropes through his neck. His mechanical hand continues to drum on his thigh, orange metal fingers padding muffled rhythms overtop his patched shorts.
"It's Jamison," he mutters, timbre low and somehow guarded. "Not the junker one, right. Not some nickname. Or moniker. Whatever you wanna call it. Not the professional bit. Real one's Jamison Fawkes. Jamison's fine. Had some call me Fawkes before. Was a long time ago, though. Real long time ago."
There is a chunk of time composed of several seconds where her mind has trouble connecting the dots. A mashed and jagged amalgam forces its way to the forefront of her thoughts, of Ana smirking at his preferred moniker, of the fabric shop's clerk mentioning her last name in passing, of her stating professionalism to separate work and one's personal life, of his flushed ears in the oil-tanged air of the hangar, and it screws a hot puncture between her ribs.
It is several more seconds before she finds her voice stuck down in the confines of her throat and manages to pry it loose.
"A very dignified name," she says at last. "Not one I had expected."
His prosthetic climbs up the back of his neck and rubs by his hairline. "Yeah. I know."
"I do think it's lovely," she adds.
The corner of his mouth crinkles in a half smile. "Now you're really pulling me leg."
"I really am not. I thought we decided this already." Satya offers what she hopes to be a reassuring pat on the arm, metal fingers ghosting at the tattoo that coats his bicep. "Jamison Fawkes is quite a lovely name. It has charm."
And it suits him, she thinks, if in a very odd way. Perhaps it was not what she had anticipated, but it is true design that such a chaos-clung man would have such a regal sounding name eclipsed by a ratty pseudonym. It mirrors him in the strangest sense; there is something else that lurks beneath the soot and grime of the battlefield.
"Right. Well, least one of us thinks so. Dunno what Mum and Da was thinking when they chose it, to be honest. Seems stupid." Junkrat's hands migrate to the plastic bag that had been folded beneath his knee. He winds it between his fingers with a degree of unease, the soft rumpling over the crash of the sea, his thick eyebrows pinched and furrowed. "Never liked it, really. What sort of name is Jamison, anyway? Too… I dunno. Too proper. Don't rightly fit the likes of me. Me and my character, right? But just thought, y'know, if they wanted to name me that so bloody bad, might as well keep it. Honor 'em. Don't like it much, but it'd probably make 'em happy. Least I think so. Or maybe it wouldn't."
Satya swallows the knot coagulating in her throat and presses her nails into her palm. With a deep breath, she straightens herself and extends her right hand, as if in greeting. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jamison Fawkes."
Junkrat regards her outstretched fingers with hesitance. A canine is settled into the flesh of his lip, the burning amber of his eyes saturated in the palette bled from the sinking sun. A moment or two passes, heartbeats lining the column of her neck as a too tight blouse collar, and then he shifts himself at an angle and meets her with his prosthetic. The warm metal cups her hand, his thumb settling onto the back of her palm. Protruding screws stick from the lower knuckles and at the thumb joints, and despite its crudeness and sheer size, in this moment, it feels almost human.
"Pleasure's all mine, Miss Vaswani," says Junkrat, cracking a hearty grin.
"Satya Vaswani," she supplies. The drum of her heart is deafening.
"All right. Satya Vaswani." There is a slight squeeze around her palm, and he works his jaws in thought. "Well, now there's something fitting if I ever heard it."
Slowly, she draws her hand away. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Means just what it sounds like." As an afterthought, he balls up the plastic bag and offers it to her amongst metal fingers. "Least your name fits you. Real prim. Not in a bad way or nothing. Got its own little… I dunno. Got a flow to it, right. Everything together. Just sounds nice. Sounds like a name should. Not like mine."
"Jamison Fawkes is an appropriate name. I think you may be looking at it from the wrong angle. It has its own unique sound. It fits the man, I believe. He is equally unique." She accepts the bag from him, and after a moment of unbunching it, she places both boxes of tea inside and stashes it to her right.
When she meets his gaze again, he stares back, a latent intensity lacing through the sharpness of his features.
"You been calling me all sorts of things lately," he says. "First was stuff like simpleton. Reckless. Then stuff like fearless. Still reckless, but admirable. Now I'm unique." He cocks his head, the blond of his hair wrought into pale wine beneath the encroaching twilight. "Can't make up your mind, now, can you?"
"No. I suppose not." Her voice is quiet and even, just as she needs it to be, and yet her heart is a shivering envelope tucked among the ladder of her ribs. "But it is possible to be all of those things. Jamison Fawkes seems to be a man of many talents. I don't see why he should be limited to just one descriptor." And then, after a brief moment of reflection, "Perhaps simpleton should be retracted as one of them."
"Well, that's awful generous of you, innit? Seeing as how you wasn't too accepting of our little arrangement. Bonding, right. Or being mates." His gaze plies her apart spears her where she sits. "Bit of a jump from simpleton to admirable, I'd say."
Satya slides the ruler between her fingers, tracing its hard-light edges with slow, delicate precision. "That was my error," she admits. "I should not have called you that. Our introduction was somewhat… rocky, to say the least. I held a great deal of resentment for what happened to my workspace at the time, and my frustration got the best of me. We have had our disagreements, but I will admit, our professional relationship is far better than what it was. I believe your idea for a team building exercise has been a success so far."
"See, I got good ideas," says Junkrat. "Not all of 'em's like blowing bloody walls in."
"A decent amount still are," she says, a smile edging its way in.
"Yeah. Not arguing that." He glances out toward the suffusing dusk, the sun's final sliver steeping below the ocean waves. "Reckon a couple of missing walls ain't a bad thing, though. What's the saying? Close a door and a window opens? Something like that. Way I look at it's like this, right: why bother with either? Say to hell with 'em both and blow it all sky high. Can't rightly see your options if you got walls in the way."
"Well, I suppose that's one way to look at it. I believe it defeats the purpose of the metaphor, however." Ruler in hand, she gestures for him to correct his posture once more. "Here, look straight ahead. I have one more measurement to take, and then you are free to slouch all you wish."
Junkrat arches into a lazy stretch. The muscles in his back coil together and his shoulders bunch as he reaches back behind his head. His too short tank clambers further up his belly, and she is left focusing on the hard lines of his hips and the sculpture of his abdomen. His golden teeth are bared in a shuddering yawn, and when he unspools down into an appropriate position, he thumbs away wetness from the corner of his eye.
"Tired?" Satya raises the ruler beside his ear with her left hand, this time for a calculated width. The muscle in his jaw tenses under her touch, and her gaze is once again brought toward the skewed placement of his shirt.
"Yeah," he replies. "Not like that's new or nothing. Couldn't sleep last night. Head's too awake. Got all sorts of things bursting about."
"I did not sleep particularly well last night, either." Ignoring the ruler, she brings a finger toward the crooked portion of his top. The brilliant blue polish of her nail contrasts with the faded red, cast a much paler hue with the cloak of coming twilight, and as she tucks the end of her finger at the wide neckline and tugs downward, she grazes soft lines over the gripping warmth of his skin.
There is no question: a shiver climbs through him. It starts at the base of his spine and rolls up through his back and by his neck. The knot of his adam's apple works down in a swallow, and the rest of him strings taut in a statuesque pose under the pressure of her touch. Perhaps it is her imagination, but his breathing seems to have hastened, and although her own pulse is a symphony within, a part of her swears she can hear his heartbeat.
"Jamison." She doesn't know when she'd lowered her left hand. The ruler sits in the grass by her palm, and she can't remember the exact number of centimeters she'd measured.
Junkrat remains transfixed by the world ahead. He stares at the navy-crested waves, the presence of pinprick stars, the rolling seafoam, the cumulus-blotted expanse of open sky. His hands have fixed themselves over his thighs, clenched into the camouflaged patterns of his shorts, and despite the rhythmic kneading of his left hand, his body stands remarkably still.
"Satya." Her name is a low murmur, washed upon the jagged shore and devoured by the rising tide.
It's as if she is watching herself from miles away. It's as if she is not on the lush outcrop, but instead suspended somewhere above the ocean, caught in a freefall toward the dark waters below. Her hands are clasped together in shaking symbols to open the pathway she so urgently needs, and yet nothing comes. Geometry fractures under her fingertips; her heart is lodged in her throat and adrenaline flushes in her veins and smoke pours through her lungs. He is a quaking mess behind her, his arms ensconced tight beneath her ribs, his nose buried against her neck, his mouth breathing disjointed syllables in the shapes of desperation and hope. She glances upward, out toward the Rock, glints of ivory and gold captured by faded smudges of red and green, and then the path below yawns open in a maw of awaiting static.
With a thunderous drum in the film of her ears, Satya places her thumb and forefinger at Junkrat's chin. He does not move; his eyes are focused toward the swelling sea, as if he could see the distant form of himself curled around her in their plummeting drop. Warmth sinks through her fingerprints and webs through her nerves, and the color swathed beneath scattered freckles catches her eye.
Earlier this morning, she had told herself that she could not be in such close contact. She had told herself that she could not spend time with him in a nonprofessional setting, and that she could not be alone with him. In spite of all of her inward lectures and internal scolding and renewed vigor to retake control of something that has spiraled so beyond her reach, she has effectively disregarded all boundaries she had established for herself, and with great purpose.
Satya leans close. The smell of the sea combs through her lungs, and so does the mellow coolness wrought from sprawling fields. A faint musk of perspiration and exertion smooths overtop, but it does little to bite back the scent of his skin. Tight warmth nestles deep behind her breastbone, and there is little else in the world beside it. The thoughts of her schematics, her creations—turrets and teleporters and communicators—all fall to the wayside; they drop to the open ocean and are left to their own devices beneath twilit waters.
Throughout her professional career, she has always addressed and corrected her mistakes. Doing so initiates a learning process, and it ensures that she will not make the same mistake again. It is ingrained within her every fiber, as failure has never been an option, and the desire to correct herself has always overwhelmed everything else.
And yet, he is somehow exempt from this. It does not apply. He is immune to all of the rules she had created, the rules Vishkar had created; he is not constrained by frivolous things like bureaucratic policies and mission statements; he is not cowed by hallowed ideals such as world order.
Jamison Fawkes is an agent of chaos. He is locked in the cyclical paths of creation and ruin, and it is now that she realizes he is a continuous mistake that she cannot hope to correct.
Gripping his chin with increasing pressure, she stares at him with lingering fierceness drudged up in adrenaline's aftermath. His teeth sink into his lower lip beneath her eyes, working, gnawing, testing, as if the tic could somehow pour in and flood the silence wedged between them both, but it doesn't.
"You're incorrigible," she says.
It's half breathed, a wispy accusation forced out of her lungs, and she presses it against his cheek with a kiss.
The warmth is too brief, too close, and impossibly deep. It sprouts roots and spiderwebs beneath her skin, down her neck, across her shoulders, roping through her vertebrae in cinching fingers. She does not remember when she stopped breathing, but a distinct pang buries at her sides with pinching needles, and so she withdraws, composure kept, and pulls in a smooth inhale through her nose.
Junkrat raises his left hand to his face. The pads of his fingers ghost where her lips had touched. His mouth opens, but if there is any sound, she can't hear it. The hammering in her chest eclipses all other senses, and all she knows is that she needs to leave.
With nothing but schematics lining her mind's eye, Satya hooks her fingers around the bag with her purchase and rises to her feet. The urge to run rockets through her limbs, but she reins it back and quashes it into a brisk walk. Her sandals sift between cool blades of grass, the warm sea breeze carves at her back and through her thick waves of hair, and dusk preys on the last gasps of sunset.
It occurs to her far too late that her blueprints still remain on the outcropping, but there can be no turning back.
The crystal in her gauntlet's palm cups in waterfalls of curses in varying languages.
She does not like Junkrat. No, she doesn't, because that would be far too simple.
Satya Vaswani does not like Junkrat—
She is infatuated.