Your Body Is a Weapon

by vargrimar

Junkrat joins the 'Overwatch: Recall' initiative. Symmetra is not pleased. Slow burn Junkrat/Symmetra with a struggle of chaos versus order. Alternatively, "In which Junkrat grows on Symmetra like an undesirable plant on the sidewalk and she copes with it in progressively worsening ways."

38. Chapter 38

It has been two days since Satya left her blueprints on the outcrop, and there has been no sign of them since.

There is little question as to what sort of fate has befallen them. She is certain that sometime between her hasty exit and three hours later when she had managed to gather up the courage to return to the spot by the ocean, Junkrat had scooped them up and taken them with him. As for where he took them, Satya hasn't the slightest idea, and it sluices her in an undercurrent of gripping panic. All of the feedback she had received as well as her first prototype are now missing; she has no secondary copies aside from the sparse set of notes she'd kept in a thin notepad in the workshop, and even so, they could not hope to grant her the appropriate details to construct a replica of any kind.

The workshop had been the first place she'd looked. It was the following morning after The Incident, ten o'clock, a time when she knew Junkrat would either be absent or asleep. After a close inspection, there had been nothing added or misplaced in her workspace—which, while a good thing under normal circumstances, was not the desired outcome in this respect. Junkrat's work area was still a sprawling mess, and although she held no desire to traverse its insanity, she had forced herself to step between hills of compiled parts and chemicals in search of her precious schematics.

To her displeasure, she had found naught but half constructed grenades, empty mine casings, spools of wire, vials of questionable compounds, and stacks of folded papers that had been ripped from a notebook. The pages were definitely not hers, she'd found, and were most likely from the little one he kept with him on the dropship while en route to missions. They had depicted various drawings and scribbles, most pertaining to his craft and new ideas he thought to entertain, but there were the occasional intricate sketchings of a new weapon design. A new prototype for a grenade launcher, perhaps? Impressive, to be sure, and a part of her wondered if he'd aspired to gather the parts for construction, but that thought was smothered with haste.

With the workshop a fruitless endeavor, she had resorted to searching other areas of the complex. This encompassed common areas, such as the recreation room, the mess hall, the kitchen, the washroom, the catwalks among the roofs, and the connecting passageways between the outpost's structures. When that yielded nothing of import, she had attempted more specialized places instead: the infirmary, Winston's personal laboratory, the hangar, and the surrounding spaces where she had seen them last.

Unfortunately, in spite of her best efforts, all attempts have proven unsuccessful thus far. Satya suspects she could spend a week scouring the entire compound from top to bottom only to achieve a similar result. To make matters worse, a mission deployment is in just two days. After a great number of meetings and discussions centered around Jack Morrison's indecision concerning his stay, his assumption of leadership, and Overwatch's illicit revival, one of the Talon marked locations had been chosen for further investigation. The group that will be sent will need a working model of communicator, and it is up to her to produce one.

Now, in the wake of her missing blueprints, she is left with an impending mission, a ticking clock, and an elusive madman who has conveniently not shown to any of the subsequent meetings following The Incident.

Satya rubs her hands over her face and exhales into her palms. She lies in bed, supine to the ceiling, exasperated beyond measure. Morning has already come and gone, and with the afternoon slipping by at an alarming rate, she finds her options have dwindled considerably. There are a small number of remaining places she could search for her blueprints, but there is a knotting mass beside her belly that tells her any further attempts will be just as fruitless. There is decidedly one person who will know what has become of them, and she neither has the courage nor the composure to face him in any setting since The Incident.

Perhaps it is odd, but she has resorted to referring to The Incident as The Incident simply because it serves as a way to cope. The Incident is the whole of that evening, encompassing the events leading from the moment she sat down until the moment she walked away. It is not The Incident because her blueprints are missing; it is The Incident because she had let her baser desires best her in a situation that never should have happened with a man she never should have met.

The pads of her fingers trace across her mouth. Kissing him—no, not him, his cheek—was a massive mistake. She had told herself she would not let something as ridiculous as attraction ruin a professional relationship, and yet here she is, steeping in the remnants of its shattered husk amongst her bedsheets. Even if she were to seek him out for her blueprints, The Incident would have to be addressed in some manner. It would have to be. She can't foresee any plausible scenarios where it would be swept under the rug and never spoken of again. His expressive shock at the outcrop implies he would start asking questions, and, if she's perfectly honest, she doesn't know if she would have the answers to any of them.

She doesn't even know why she allowed The Incident to happen to begin with. A series of poor choices had led to the poorest of choices; she could have stopped herself at any time, at any turn between the connected set of events that had culminated in The Incident, and she didn't. And not only did Satya not stop herself, she had taken pleasure in everything. She had enjoyed his presence, his jokes, his banter, his grins, his curiosity in her work, the tentative revelation of his real name—and yes, even The Incident itself.

Satya kneads at her temples in frustration. It is clear that her vulnerability is a far greater liability than she had anticipated, and she has no idea how to quash it. Her expertise is in hard-light manipulation and development; she specializes in creation and the architecture that comes with it. Her feelings have always been on the backburner, as it has never mattered how she felt. The men and women at Vishkar, while far more suitable as potential partners, were not viable choices. The academy had housed her future coworkers and colleagues, and the instructors developed ways in which to pit other students against one another in order to encourage competition and productivity; there was no such thing as getting to know one another at a personal level. Vishkar's employees themselves all stemmed from this rigorous environment, and while Sanjay was an exception, the opportunity to connect with her colleagues in such a way, no less a romantic way, was never an option.

This is not her element. It has never been. She is at a loss and with no precedent to follow. It is as if she had plummeted into the engulfing ocean waves that sunsoaked afternoon, wresting her path toward the water's rolling surface beside Mei's sinking cargo ship; it is as if her fingers strike the other side of the sea, grasping for purchase, and yet her nails claw against the blue skyburst beyond like a looking glass; she is still there, entrapped beneath cresting waves and thick seafoam, struggling for air with pressed lips and tired eyes.

Expelling a sigh, Satya swings her legs over the side of the mattress and slides out of bed. There is no use brooding here all afternoon, she thinks, not when there is still work to be done. She cannot let this affect her in such a way. Even if she is infatuated with Junkrat for whatever ridiculous reason, letting herself succumb to all of the questioning and introspection and self-analysis that seem to have been a complementary part of the revelation package is a pointless course of action. While she would certainly like to know why her subconscious mind is intent on sabotaging her work through unfounded attraction to an utter walking disaster of a man, it is best to let it roll off her back so she can focus her attention on more pressing matters. Namely, the retrieval of her blueprints.

And unfortunately, therein lies the root of the matter. Junkrat would be the only person in the outpost with any knowledge of her blueprints' whereabouts, and the thought of facing him wrings her stomach in tumultuous knots. She has done her best to avoid his presence the past two days, and to her relief, she has seen neither hide nor hair of him anywhere among the watchpoint's buildings or surrounding grounds. A part of her suspects he has been taking the exact same approach to the aftermath of The Incident, however, and she doesn't know whether to feel slighted or angry at the thought.

Neither, she reminds herself, smoothing over her bedsheets. She feels neither, neither, and that is how it should be. Slighted would imply she had expected him to react favorably; anger would imply his avoidance is no less correct than her own. Both emotions supply avenues of thought she would rather not explore, and so she quashes them down with a set jaw and her nails embedded in the lifelines of her palm.

As she turns away from her bed, her eyes catch the bright crimson of Junkrat's empty grenade shells sitting on her nightstand. Stark white paint graces their faces with eager grins, and she is reminded of the smile welded onto the front of Roadhog's sidecar. The pressure of Junkrat at her back and his arm tucked around her waist seeps into the memories of her nerves, the sheer warmth of him a churning fire, and the pain stemming from her nails against her palm escalates.

Shoving out the image of tan-struck shoulders and the wildfire of his hair, Satya smooths out her blouse and exits her space in the barracks with purpose guiding her steps. There is no greater importance than retrieving her schematics, she tells herself. That is all that matters. She is not going to find Junkrat because she wants to see him or because she wants to discuss The Incident or for any other potential reason; this is work, this is business, this is her personal project, this is something imperative to the team; and if she is unable to recover the blueprints so she can draft a first model, it will be to everyone's detriment.

The workshop would be the most ideal place to start, and so she decides to make that her first stop. The corridors leading there are thankfully bare; her composure is a fragile thing, straining to keep itself afloat, and she does not think she could endure any further intensive bouts of social interaction. On such a hot and lazy afternoon as this one, she supposes everyone has retreated to their rooms or has sought succor in the recreation room or the kitchen for cooled drinks. Whatever the case is, she is grateful for it.

As she strides by the infirmary, she peers in the cracked door and affords the room within a passing glance. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Mercy's slim form among the parallel beds, draped in a long lab coat. She seems to be tending to one of the team, although Satya can't see any discerning features of the patient due to the powdered blue swath of a privacy curtain. She supposes it isn't unusual for Mercy to be conducting physicals or other examinations, especially less than forty-eight hours before a mission deployment, and so she dismisses the thought.

When she reaches the workshop entrance, muscle memory guides her fingertips and she keys in the six-digit code for entry. The metal door shifts open with a familiar huff, and she makes her way in with almost tentative steps. A single sweep of the premises indicates that there is no Junkrat, not among his piles and piles of parts and components, but both Reinhardt and Torbjörn inhabit the left-hand side of the room. Reinhardt is tending to his armor upon its supporting stand, working a bunched cloth upon its surface in even circles, and Torbjörn has perched himself in his chair with a set of crinkled schematics in his lap.

Her heart leaps at the sight, but when she draws closer, it becomes clear that they are very much not her own.

"Oh, you are far too sour, Torby. I think it is a good idea." Reinhardt sits on one knee, clad in a plain tee tucked into a pair of tan trousers. His brickhouse build strains at the black material of his shirt, and every swirled stroke works the wrought muscle through his arm and shoulder. "There is no reason we should not investigate them. What could we hope to lose by visiting? They were marked for a reason. They must hold something important. I do not understand such dishonorable people, but surely they would not mark so many places if they meant nothing."

Torbjörn snorts. His metalworking and weaponsmithing claw lies disengaged on the workshop table behind him, a suitable humanlike replacement screwed over the remainder of his metal arm. His great blond beard covers his barrel chest, and he runs a thumb through it in thought.

"Except that is exactly the kind of thing they would do," he says, kicking out his boot for emphasis. "You remember the old days, don't you? Remember Lacroix? Codger like you should 'less your memory's going, too. Sabotage is like breathing to the likes of 'em. They might've expected Jesse and rigged up something just for him to find. I wouldn't put it past 'em. Think about it: what if these points of interest all lead to some sort of trap?"

"Trap? Ha. Then we will destroy it. Even if they do all lead to a trap, that gives us the chance to thin their numbers. A poor decision on their part, and a benefit for us." Reinhardt pauses to dip the cloth in a small canister by his haunches before continuing his polishing ritual. "Perhaps it is my imagination, but they seem to have grown so large. Amélie Lacroix was a tragedy, yes, but this appears to be so much more. I have not seen such involvement. Something is not right."

"I'm with you on that," says Torbjörn. "There is something else at work here. Ever since Gerard was murdered, we were never able to keep an eye on 'em like we should've been. Going off and rooting about where they shouldn't. Trying to get a hold of Doomfist and that omnic monk kicking the bucket are just the start. I can feel it."

"Then it is good we have found Jack," says Reinhardt. "Our purpose will benefit greatly from his guidance."

"Oh, don't go fooling yourself now, you great git," says Torbjörn. "You heard him at the little get togethers we've had. Angela was able to bring him here for discussion, and it's been nothing but constant discussion ever since. Petty legalities, the Petras Act, Talon—he doesn't even know if he's going to stay. Instead he's giving us a good old test run to see if the gears still churn like they used to. And even if he does stay, he has his own agenda now. I'll admit, he's got a point at what might've happened in Switzerland, but that's… that's going down a rabbit hole. And he wants to go run his own reconnaissance?" Torbjörn scratches at his balding scalp with thick fingers, brow pinched. "Just makes me think there's definitely more here than what we bargained for."

"I am afraid you are right, my friend." Reinhardt lowers his arm, cloth bunched in a giant fist, and he leans his elbow over his knee. His strong jaws sidle back and forth, his blind eye a pale milk under the workshop lights, his white main gleaming warm platinum. "There is something amiss here, and it is present through everything. It's clear now that Jack's death was not an accident. Neither was Gabriel's. Something happened that day, and whatever it was, it sealed Overwatch's fate and buried it with their graves. I know he means to seek out the truth, but I fear it may be beyond him. Beyond us."

"Even if we manage to thwart Talon from retrieving another Doomfist, what's going to happen next? What is their end goal here?" Torbjörn thumbs through the schematics in his lap, his nose wrinkled in distaste. "These acts of terrorism must serve some greater purpose. They aren't random. Can't be. Getting a hold of Doomfist would give them a massive advantage, and assassinating that omnic was cold and calculated. I don't like omnics, but I don't want another war. If there were any blasted omnic out there worth preserving, it would have been that one, and they went and made it into scrap."

"It is a shame. A terrible, terrible shame. Mondatta was our best chance at peace." Reinhardt heaves a sigh, his massive shoulders curling inward as he puts his strength into hoisting himself onto his feet. "And now we have no individual to bridge the gap between ourselves and omnics. I have heard that London grows forever worse, and there is trouble in Russia, too. Ana has told me tensions are roiling. It won't be long before something terrible comes to pass."

"And then it's just us. Us, and the scraps of some old organization that couldn't even outlive its purpose." Torbjörn shakes his head before glancing upward from his set of blueprints. When he realizes he and Reinhardt are not alone, he clears his throat and swats at his friend. "Well, well! Symmetra, where have you been? It's been strange not having you in here the past couple of days. Too busy with your little light weaving to stop by and say hello?"

"It is far more than light weaving, you know. There are other complexities involved." Satya approaches with tentative steps, hands laced. "And I would have you know that I've stopped by once or twice."

"Ha. You and the beanpole. Both of you grabbing a bunch and then slinking off. You know the workshop is for working, right? That's what it's here for. No idea why you'd rather hole up somewhere else. This place isn't nearly as equipped as it should be, anyway."

"Junkrat was here?" Satya tries to temper back the interest in her voice, but it bleeds through in spite of her best efforts.

"Well, of course he was," says Torbjörn. "He's not anymore, though, as you can see."

Reinhardt drapes the polishing cloth over his shoulder. "He left some time ago. I don't know where he went, but I believe he came in here looking for pencils. It was about two hours ago, if I remember correctly. Are you looking for him?"

"He stole something of mine," says Satya. "I aim to retrieve it."

"Stole?" Torbjörn seems amused. "What exactly did the rat steal from you? Surely not one of your tiny turrets."

"He happened to steal a set of blueprints that are of the utmost importance," she says, providing Torbjörn with a pointed stare. "They depict the prototype designs of a communicator that I have been developing with Mei's help. Without them, we will not have a working model in time for deployment."

"How strange," says Reinhardt. "Why would he stoop to stealing something of that nature? It seems to me he has plenty of his own designs, and none of them are quite so… well, mundane, if I might be blunt."

"I really don't know," she says, and it baffles her, because she truly doesn't. "What I do know is that he has made himself scarce ever since, and I do not know where he is. I need to get my schematics back so I can complete a selection of models in time."

"It didn't seem like he meant to return anytime soon. At least not from the other things he'd gathered. Perhaps he has established a workstation somewhere else?" Reinhardt shrugs, folding his arms together across the girth of his chest. "That is only assumption, however."

"How much longer do the two of you plan to be in the workshop?" she asks.

"Oh, for a while yet. I've got some more bases to build. Couple new model turrets I've been meaning to try." Torbjörn gives his good hand a flippant wave. "I don't know. A few hours at the least."

"I will be taking my leave once I have performed the Crusader's proper maintenance," says Reinhardt. "Perhaps another hour or so. I need to finish its polish, and then go through some routine checks to make sure it is up and running as it should."

Satya nods affirmatively. "Might I ask you to direct Junkrat to me should you see him?"

"Sure. Consider it done. We'll keep an eye out for you." Torbjörn chuckles as he gestures to Reinhardt. "Well, he'll keep an eye out. I'll keep two."

"Shush, little man," says Reinhardt, taking the polishing cloth and swabbing it over Torbjörn's head. "I doubt an extra eye will help you see anything from down there."

Torbjörn sputters under the rag. "Get that thing off of me, you lummox!"

Reinhardt bears a mighty grin as he pulls it away. "Then perhaps you should not bite more than you can chew, ja?"

"Get me a hammer and I'll show you chewing," says Torbjörn, running his hand through his thinned hair overtop of his head. When he pulls it away, he presses his fingers together and pulls them apart in disgust at the lingering polish stuck between them. "Ugh. Did you have to use that rag?"

"Of course! It humbles you, Torby. It will do your bald spot well. I think I can see myself in it." Reinhardt pivots on his heel to regard Satya. He entertains a deep laugh in his husky voice, and he offers a satisfied smile. "Don't worry, Symmetra. If we see Junkrat, you will the very first to know. I wish you luck in finding your blueprints. I advise you to take caution, however. Rats can be very skittish creatures. They may bite if threatened."

Satya shoves the thought of Junkrat biting anything with his pointed canines and golden teeth promptly out of her mind with unrivaled haste. "Somehow, I do not believe that will be a problem."

"Well, do be on the lookout for bombs at the very least," says Reinhardt. "He has quite the explosive hobby, doesn't he?"

She resists the urge to cradle her forehead against her palm. "He has influenced you."

"What can I say?" Reinhardt shrugs. "The boy has a good sense of humor. I appreciate his jokes very much."

"Try appreciating your armor just as much," says Torbjörn. "Maybe I won't have to repair the whole damn thing this time around."

"You make it sound like it is in pieces by the time the combat is over. That is hardly the case. I take good care of my armor."

"It certainly is the case," argues Torbjörn. "There are at least three separate repairs I have to make after each mission. Don't you remember how damaged it was after Dorado? Both arms were beyond function, and it was a wonder the legs were still working. Seven fractures in the hull, Reinhardt. Seven. And that isn't including the damage in both gauntlets and down by the power core."

"I promise you, that is not the usual outcome," says Reinhardt, bristling at the accusation. "There happened to be three vehicles and two gatling guns. There were also other firearms, but I lost count of those after a while. I do take good care of my armor, Dorado's incident aside."

Satya kneads circles above her eyes. "I think I will take my leave. I appreciate the gesture from the both of you. Be sure to let me know if Junkrat stops by."

Torbjörn takes a swat at Reinhardt before rolling up the set of blueprints in his lap. "You have my word, Symmetra."

"Our word," corrects Reinhardt.

"Yes, yes, our word," says Torbjörn, managing an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

Although she is not quite convinced, Satya nods in appreciation. With renewed purpose, she turns back toward the workshop door, but before she presses the side key to slide it open, she takes pause. Reinhardt has returned to polishing the Crusader, and Torbjörn has wheeled himself over to the back tables in preparation for constructing what she assumes to be another turret. The two disproportionate men regard her with good natured smiles as she pivots back to them.

"You know, I heard you speaking of Overwatch." Satya traces the joints of her left hand, and she hopes her voice does not sound as unsure as it seems. "Do you truly think we are in over our heads?"

Reinhardt's fingers dig into the cloth as he works up the armor's midsection. "It is possible," he admits. "There is a lot happening in the world. There may be more than what we can handle. It is just the few of us against so many. But as time has proven, the world cannot defend itself. Innocents are vulnerable. There are uncharitable people in search of something that might level the world and there are growing tensions between us and omnics. Someone must step in."

"And it looks like we're that someone." Torbjörn twists around to lean an arm across the back of his chair. "Even if we weren't together here, we would be elsewhere doing the exact same thing, but alone instead. That comes with more risk. I wager it's probably best to work together in this. Might be able to do some good, at the very least. If we can put a stop to whatever Talon is up to and put a damper on omnic tensions, then I'd say we're treading water."

"That is a fair assumption," she says. "I hope the information McCree obtained will prove useful. If we manage to find the Doomfist, or whatever else they might be looking for, it would at least slow their plans."

"That might be the best we can hope for." Torbjörn drums his fingers along the chair's backing, and he gives her a definitive nod. "Looks like we'll have to see."

Satya leaves the workshop with significantly less direction than she had when she'd arrived. While both Overwatch veterans insisted he had been by to gather pieces of his inventory for whatever reason, there is no telling where he had scrambled off to afterward. She supposes she could try the hangar as a second stop, but the possibility of Roadhog being present deters her from the thought. Satya has managed to muster just enough to endure an encounter with Junkrat, not Junkrat and his massive masked bodyguard.

The mess hall—and the kitchen by proxy—seem like good candidates as well, but a part of her is quite certain she will not find him in either place. Junkrat, while seeming to enjoy the company of others, appears to be drawn to his own sort of solitude. He dwells at the workshop well into the dark hours of morning absorbed in crafting explosives, and if he is not there, then he makes himself at home with scattered remnants of his stock on Gibraltar's outcrops with the sea down below. Whatever time is not spent doing either of those things, she assumes he retreats to the barracks for what little sleep he can manage, or, as she had experienced after Dorado, he pokes around for various sweets in the middle of the night.

His usual habits aside, if Junkrat is purposefully isolating himself like she suspects, then it is unlikely that he would attend such high traffic areas for long periods of time. She does not pretend to know how often he socializes with the rest of the team, but she does know that if he is antsy and awaiting orders, he resorts to building. Wherever he is, it must account for both solitude and a place to work, and as far as she is aware, there are only a handful of areas among the outpost grounds that could offer such accommodations: the hangar, the workshop, the secluded spaces between the compound structures and the stony crags of the Rock, and what she can assume to be his space located in the other half of the barracks. The workshop has already proven a vain attempt, and when she had taken one of her ritual walks outside earlier this morning, the only person she had seen was Morrison, who had been making rounds to check the outpost's perimeter.

That leaves both the hangar and the junkers' niche in the barracks. And if she's honest, she doesn't know if she can bring herself to visit either one.

Satya approaches the infirmary, prickles of anxiety knitting through the column of her spine. The Incident has wrest itself to the forefront of her mind once more, just as it has for the past two days, and her fists clinch at the intrusion. All she can think of is the burnished plateaus of his shoulders, the ruddy tank askew, the taut muscle down his belly, the tousled fire of his hair, the gold glint of his teeth as he entertains yet another teasing smile. The stipples meshed over his cheekbones and across the bridge of his sharp nose are far too vivid, too close, too real, burning beneath the heat of her stare, and if she closes her eyes, she can feel the warmth of his cheek against her mouth.

She should have left as soon as he found her, she thinks. She should have gathered her things, ignored him, him and his excuses and the tea boxes, and she should have sought the safety and comfort of her room. There, he wouldn't have been able to bother her, and none of this would have happened. The Incident could have been entirely circumvented with one executive decision, and she hadn't had the foresight to make it. Furious is only one emotion amid the amalgam.

Cupping her mouth with her left palm, the etched crystal of her gauntlet presses to her lips. It is warm from body heat and the technology integrated through the machinery, and it shouldn't remind her so much of Junkrat. The gripping compulsion to repeat The Incident is something she has avoided to acknowledge to the utmost extent, and now that she is being coerced into finding him to retrieve her schematics, it is rousing up beneath her skin and plucking at faint possibilities toward the back of her skull.

No, she corrects. Not possibilities. They will never be possibilities. She will not let them.

Just before the infirmary entrance, the sound of Mercy's voice piques her interest. Taking pause, Satya glances through the crack in the door, but there is nothing but a view of empty beds and drawn privacy curtains toward the rightmost wall. She must be toward the back of the room, she thinks, at least from the strength of her voice, or perhaps more toward the center.

"There, I believe that should do it for today," says Mercy. "My apologies that it took so long to complete. The session was a bit extended, but I suppose the long term benefits will outweigh a little extra time spent here, don't you think?"

"Yeah. Reckon so." The timbre of Junkrat's voice harpoons panic through her sternum. It is low, quiet, and somehow despondent.

"Everything seems to be coming along just fine, though," she says. "You appear to be responding quite well. Vitals are strong, symptoms have lessened. I think with continued treatment, the footprint of your exposure may be reduced to the point of nonexistence. That may take a while, however. Undoing such damage is an intensive process. Still, this will do wonders for your quality of life in the future. It might not seem like it now, but the effects of—"

"Oi, can I go now?"

There is a moment or two of silence. Satya resists the temptation to move closer toward the door, and instead remains planted where she stands by the outer wall of the infirmary. While she had expected Mercy to be tending to someone before deployment, she most certainly had not been expecting that someone to be Junkrat. And to further dismantle expectations, she had not anticipated overhearing something quite so serious.

Satya presses herself against the cool metal of the wall and tries to concentrate on willing her heart back down her throat where it belongs.

"Yes," Mercy says at last. It is whispered with a soft sigh; not one of exasperation, but of acquiescence. "Yes, you may leave. I apologize for keeping you. I get caught up sometimes. Shall we meet again next week? Same time? Well, pending no other missions, of course, and should our schedules align."

"Yeah. Sure. Might as well." There is the distinct sound of shifting, as if he were sliding off of one of the ivory-clad beds, and then she can hear the click of his prosthetic hitting the smoothness of the floor. "Thanks, Doc. 'Preciate it."

"Certainly. You know, I think your abdominal injury those weeks ago has done you a great favor. Somehow, I don't think you would have agreed to a physical had you not suffered it. It is my job to ensure everyone is healthy, but I cannot exactly administer treatment to the unwilling."

"Yeah, well, never really had the chance for seeing a proper doc, y'know. Got some that call themselves docs, but they ain't got all them papers or pretty coats. Rugged types, right. None of this stuff here. All them gadgets. And not like that stick you got, neither."

"I will have you know that it is far more than just a stick," says Mercy, entertaining a light laugh. "It is the product of years' and years' worth of medical advancement compacted into the shape of a stick."

"Still a stick," he says. Perhaps it is her imagination, but he sounds less downcast than a minute ago.

"Well, you aren't wrong, I suppose," says Mercy. "But I believe integrated biotic technology makes it a less primitive stick than most."

The urge to gather herself and retreat brims beneath her skin, but Satya stoppers it with a definitive clench of her fist. While she cannot face him here—and she can't, not here and not now and not with Mercy present—it is imperative that she know where he intends to go. The thought of following him knots in writhing distress by her belly, but her blueprints trump her own personal comfort. She is sure Winston has been expecting something from her since yesterday, and she has nothing to show for all of the effort she has put forth into the project.

There is no choice but to confront Junkrat and recover what he took, and with The Incident constantly lingering on the outskirts of her awareness, dread saws in deep between her heartstrings.

"Oh! Here, do you need any assistance?"

"Nah, I'm fine." A strained grunt shortly follows the sound of scuffling. "Just a bit wonky is all. I can walk."

"Do be careful on your way back, Junkrat," says Mercy. "I suggest you lie down for a while, if you can. Getting rest will help, and goodness knows you haven't been getting much of it from the look of you. Listen, if you start to feel particularly nauseous or experience any signs of fever, please let me know. You have been responding well, but reactions are always a possibility."

"I know, I know. No worries. I'll pop back down if I get sick and chunder."

The scuffs of footsteps spur from within, and with alarm shredding like shrapnel through her veins, Satya spins about to backtrack the way she'd come. Just to the side is a sizable alcove situated between the corridor and the jutting walls that construct the front portion of the makeshift infirmary. There is just enough space for her to slip in without being seen, and without another thought, she folds herself inside.

"Please take care of yourself," says Mercy. Satya can catch a glimpse from her vantage point; Mercy's pale lab coat cloaks her lithe frame, and her thick hair has been tied into a messy tail. "And I do mean that, you know. It isn't something I'm rattling off just because it's my job. Self-care is very important. I do not expect or require everyone to be in peak physical condition, but I strive to have this team in a good state of health. I can only do so much; the rest must be done by you. And that is starting with sleep."

Junkrat limps out into the corridor beside her. His ripped shorts hug at his hips, the smiling patches staring at her from where he stands, his back and shoulders pleasantly bare. She cannot see his face from the angle he's assumed, although she can see the rigid muscle by his shoulder blades and the glinting hard-light blade sheathed at the back of his belt.

"Look, s'not like I don't try or nothing," he says, metal hand cupping at the back of his neck. "Tried all sorts of things. Sleep just don't happen. S'always been like that. Since I can remember, anyway. Didn't really have the time for it before. Probably what did it. Not everybody's got swanky places like this to conk out, y'know."

"Swanky?" Mercy smiles in amusement. "I don't quite think this would be classified as such, although I'm sure whoever engineered this facility would be pleased to know you think that."

"Beats most places I've been," says Junkrat. His posture holds better than usual, she notes, even though he still assumes a slight hunch. The urge to tap at his lower back to coax him straight comes to mind, and she holds in a shallow breath to stave it off.

"Fair enough. Before you leave, are you absolutely sure you don't have any copies of your medical history?" Mercy gives him an appraising look. There is concern in her stare, and it is reminiscent of a mother chiding her son. "It would help a great deal, you know. Having a set of comprehensive documentation would prevent me from building it from scratch, and it would let me know whether you would be at risk for anything important."

"Never bothered with stuff like that. No point, really. Didn't need it. I mean, if you saw one of the docs in Junkertown, that's when you got something wrong with you that either you can't fix or that can't fix itself. Things'd be bad if you went to one of them. Probably… I dunno. All the internal junk." Junkrat shrugs, knocking beneath his ribs with his metal hand. "Something like that."

"Well, what about your arm and leg?" asks Mercy. "Surely those were seen to by some sort of professional?"

"Nah. Did the leg meself." He kicks at the floor for emphasis. "Arm was done by some sheila and her old man a long while back. No docs involved. Well, not really. She were some sort of doc, I think. S'a bit fuzzy. Don't think she did that sort of thing, though. Amputating. More of a turn your head and cough kinda deal."

The color has drained from Mercy's face. She holds her knuckles to her mouth, and she stares down at the ungainly peg leg he uses for a supplement. "I… I apologize. I think I might have misheard. You did your leg yourself?"

"Yeah, I did. You heard right." He bunches the tattered camouflage in his hand and lifts it just enough. "Weren't much of it to lop off, honestly. Mine did the most of the work for me. Just had the knee and a bit below left, all busted and in shreds, and knew that had to go, so it did." A rumpled noise of distaste couples a shiver. "Cauterizing ain't no treat. Dunno how you lot do it."

"With copious amounts of anesthesia," says Mercy, shaking her head.

As Junkrat offers a casual wave goodbye and a "see you, Doc," it occurs to Satya that he must have been coming to visit the infirmary for quite a while. From how Mercy had mentioned his previous injury, she suspects it has been since she the night she'd found him lying in bed with an IV strapped to his arm. She has no doubt that Mercy would have been very thorough with his recovery, especially considering the amount of effort she had put into scrubbing him clean, and she must have unearthed more concerning Junkrat's health than he had been willing to divulge. With her care and dedication, it doesn't come as a surprise that she has convinced him to return to tend to whatever problem has revealed itself.

Pressing the palm of her gauntlet against her mouth, Satya watches Junkrat as he lopes further down the opposite end of the corridor. Mercy has returned to the infirmary, the door shut tight, and the opportunity to follow has arisen. Her limbs hold a heaviness to them, thick and laden with encasing stone, and although she knows the task at hand is to retrieve her schematics, she finds that she cannot move.

Junkrat pauses halfway down the corridor. It is sudden, abrupt, as if he had just remembered something important, and he appears to glance over at one of the nearby walls. He stands there for a moment, silent and still, before coiling down to his haunches. His hands climb through his hair; his back arcs forward and he seems to tremble as his fingers clench through shocks of unkempt blond.

"Fucking hell."

It echoes down the vacant hall, soft and rigid with frustrated intensity. Similar curses follow, but they dwindle in volume and soon become whispered chains ushering forth between golden molars. Slowly, Junkrat combs his good hand down the back of his head and digs it along his trapezius plane. His prosthetic lowers, curling the orange metal into a fist. He punches it to the floor and uses it as leverage to lift himself back to his feet. He wobbles for a moment or two, but his equilibrium appears to realign, and he then continues his path back toward the barracks as if he had never stopped.

When he is fully out of sight, Satya emerges from the alcove with tentative steps. The weight in her legs has lessened, but it still holds a presence through her calves and around her ankles. Her pulse is a steady throb in her neck at the thought of pursuing him. There is no question of what she needs to do, and yet she cannot bring herself to do it. She lets her nails sink into her palm.

Is she really going to allow such ridiculous and petty feelings to interfere with her work?

The most frustrating part is not that The Incident happened, or that the desire for situations like The Incident have begun to burn beneath her fingertips, or even that she suspects Junkrat will bring up The Incident in some manner which will force her to explain herself. No, the most frustrating part is that The Incident in itself seems to be consuming, and it has begun to dominate all aspects of her thought processes. This vulnerability—she knew it, she knew it right from the start, she knew—is affecting her in ways it never should, and as she has discovered through her inexplicable attraction to a bomb loving madman, her coping methods are woefully inept.

This encounter needs to be on her terms, she knows, but she does not even fully know what her terms are. She needs the advantage here, just as she would in any diplomatic situation; she needs her blueprints, she needs him to hand them over without argument or smug commentary, and she needs to effectively quash any mention of The Incident or avoid its mention altogether, and yet there is nothing that could give her the upper hand. There is only The Incident, her blueprints, and his assumed reluctance. Not a level playing field by any means.

Satya begins to follow in his footsteps, trepidation lining her veins, but when she goes to pass the infirmary door, Mercy's observations on Junkrat's progress makes her halt mid-step. She bites at the inside of her mouth, dwelling on exposure. During The Incident, she is certain she remembers Junkrat mentioning the risk of bartered foods being irradiated. Although she is not completely familiar with the intricacies of Australia's past, it is no secret that the country was war ravaged in the aftermath of the Omnic Crisis. After reparations and reconstruction, the omnium that had been located in the central Outback had suffered a meltdown and subsequently drenched the extensive hinterlands in a state of nuclear fallout. If that region is from where he hails, it would not be surprising if he had undergone some sort of radiation exposure during his time spent there.

It is none of her business, she knows, it would never be, and yet she opens the infirmary door and steps inside.

Mercy sits over toward the left side of the room, a sleek black desk tucked into the closest corner. The overhead lights sluice the area in harsh fluorescents, tinged too white and too bright and nearly blue, and it casts the pallor of her skin far too pale. Her rich blond hair is blanched and snowy, the cool color of her eyes soaked in silver. With one leg crossed and her thin glasses pressed close up the bridge of her nose, she takes to scribbling over a moderate packet of paperwork—Junkrat's rather lacking medical records, Satya assumes.

It takes a moment or two before Mercy looks up from her writing. As Satya meets her gaze, her mouth shapes an oh, as if she had expected Junkrat to come loping back instead of another visitor. Donning an amicable smile, she leaves the pen across the stack of papers and rises from her seat.

"Symmetra, how lovely of you to drop by. What brings you here? Not getting sick, I hope?" She fixes the rolled sleeves of her coat before stepping away from the desk. "I know it's summer, but illness does not exactly take seasons into account. Were you looking to have a wellness exam before we head out?"

"No, I am not, but I appreciate the offer," says Satya. "I am actually looking for Junkrat."

"Really?" Her steps slow as she approaches, and her countenance takes upon an inquisitive air. "Well, luckily for you, you just missed him. He left only a few minutes ago. I believe he went to have a nap, or at least that's what I suggested he do. Whether he actually decides to listen to me is another matter altogether."

"He does seem to have unfortunate sleeping patterns. I have seen him awake at strange hours more often than not," says Satya. That isn't exactly what she'd sanctioned her mouth to reply with; the desire to skirt around her purpose for being here has trumped logic and reason.

"I believe that says a bit more about your sleeping patterns than his," says Mercy, stifling a chuckle behind her palm.

"I see. Perhaps it does." In the spaces beneath her eyelids, the kitchen steeps in the darkness of midnight drenched morning, Junkrat cloaked in a swath of forest green. "Although, I will say I wake before noon with far more consistency than him."

"Yes, I suppose that's true. His appearances at breakfast are few and far between these days. And he was doing so well, too. Still, I should think some sleep is better than no sleep at all. Of course, the body's circadian rhythms will be thrown out of balance, regardless of either option, but there would be less sleep debt involved with the former."

"That is true," she admits.

Mercy regards Satya with searching eyes. She folds her arms, her palms cradling at her elbows, and she tilts her head to the side in thought. "So, is there a particular reason you are inquiring after Junkrat? You know, I remember your suggestion to keep my observations to myself quite clearly. I will respect that, of course. However, as a doctor, it is my duty to ask if you need my expertise."

Satya does not know how to interpret that. She remembers when she had made the aforementioned suggestion: it was after Ilios, after Junkrat had saved her life, after he'd scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the white cobble square; it was after she'd slept on the return trip aboard the ORCA with his shoulder beneath her cheek; it was after Mercy had restored her leg to its former strength and sat at her bedside with a clipboard in hand.

Her throat has a desiccated feel. When she swallows, the sensation of warm sandpaper rubbing against damp skin comes to mind. Now that she can reflect upon it, it becomes more and more apparent that her attraction to Junkrat has gone on for far longer than she has been willing to admit. When on earth had it started?

"Symmetra?"

"I overheard something concerning a few minutes ago," she manages at last.

An asphyxiating sort of guilt smothers her at the admission. And it shouldn't, she knows—she would act in the same manner for any other member of the team; she would; truly—but it still clamps along the corridor of her throat and taps its fingers beneath the curves of her jaws. What sort of person lurks around doctors' quarters to eavesdrop on patient conversations? is the burning question, something she's sure is running through Mercy's head, and the only answer that comes back in an echoing chorus against adrenaline-webbed nerves is me.

Mercy drums her fingers against the knob of her elbow. She does not appear to be fazed. "You do realize it would be highly unethical for me to share such confidential information with you. Patients are patients, and everyone is entitled to their privacy. Regardless of whether the setting is in a hospital or here in Gibraltar, disclosing medical records with an unauthorized party is illegal."

"It was my understanding that he did not have any." Satya's palm feels damp, and she realizes too late that that was not something she should have said.

"Well, as correct as that is, my point still stands." The ends of Mercy's mouth shape into a thin smile. "I wouldn't worry. He is young, and he is under my care. I was not recruited into Overwatch at such a young age for my hair, you know."

"I did notice the other day that some of his has started to grow back," says Satya.

"It is, yes. Very astute. By the time we are through, I believe most of it should be. I can't say that for certain, though. Age and male pattern baldness may rear its ugly head in twenty more years. Or perhaps fifteen." She shrugs with a cock of her head. "Give or take five years. Depends on the genes, really. Some are more fortunate—or unfortunate—than others."

"Then what I overheard was not so concerning." Satya kneads her fingers together, and the familiar heat of discomfort climbs up the back of her neck. None of this was her business, she thinks, none of it; she never should have listened to begin with. "I… I do apologize for intruding. It really was not my place. It was just—"

"There is no need to apologize. I understand the compulsion." Mercy slides off her glasses and begins to clean them with the lapel of her lab coat. "You can put your trust in me, and you have my word that there is nothing to worry about. The current situation aside and disregarding any ramifications unprofessional amputations might have caused, he is in fact a very healthy individual. I ran a full physical, which he was quite unhappy about, and without disclosing any details, he did extremely well."

The thought of Junkrat being forced onto a table to have his vitals taken with a displeased frown presents a rather amusing image. "That does not surprise me," she says.

Mercy pushes her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose. "It is to be expected, I suppose. He does seem to be in remarkable physical condition. He has mentioned pieces of what he has endured in the remote parts of Australia, and it only makes sense that he should be so fit. Survival of the fittest, after all. He might not have Reinhardt's physique, but I'm sure he could hold a candle to it if he tried."

Satya has trouble parsing her meaning. Is this supposed to be Mercy's way of sanctioning whatever sort of absurd attraction Satya has developed without shaping it into a personal observation? The thought is ridiculous, but she swears Mercy is somehow implying he is handsome from a medical standpoint rather than a personal one, and she has no idea how to react.

"Now, with all of that out of the way," says Mercy, "perhaps it is best you go after him and catch him before he falls asleep. I don't know what time he retired last night, but I remember seeing him at nine o'clock a good while after dinner, and then again at six-thirty when I woke, so it is possible exhaustion has caught up to him." She pauses, pursing her lips pensively. "If I might ask, why exactly are you searching for him?"

"He happened to steal a set of important blueprints," says Satya. "And a prototype of mine as well. I don't know why he saw it fit that he should take them, but he did, and now I need them back. They are what will help develop a communicator for our team to use. I mean to have a working model before our group is deployed. He happens to be preventing that."

"I see. Well, that is certainly poor behavior from him. Not that his behavior is particularly stellar to begin with. From my experiences so far, he is nearly as stubborn as Jack."

"I think you would be correct," says Satya. "His obstinacy and recklessness have resulted in injury several times."

Mercy indulges in a light laugh. "That is Jack to a T. I find Reinhardt and Jesse exhibit similar traits, too, although that may just be their natural bluster."

"I believe all of them have natural bluster," says Satya.

"Well, you aren't wrong. Perhaps that is simply men, though. I think Ana would have a better idea. She worked with all of them for many years, much more closely than I did, and I'm sure she has seen incredible amounts of bluster." Mercy offers an encouraging smile. "All right, I think that is enough for now. You said those blueprints were extremely important, correct? Dawdling here will not help matters and prolonging the inevitable won't do you any favors. And I don't know if Junkrat intends to follow my advice, but I doubt he would go back to sleep if disturbed in his current state, so perhaps it is best you take your leave."

"I was not dawdling," replies Satya, her tone somewhat stiffer than she had anticipated. "I was merely concerned about whether his condition would yield detrimental effects to his performance during our upcoming deployment. I have to rely on him, after all. All of us do."

Mercy folds her hands across her belly, her countenance shaped with skepticism and the side of her mouth pinched in a smirk. "Well, as the resident physician of this facility, allow me to reassure you that his condition will hold no such impact. Junkrat is robust and healthy, and with a regimen of continued treatment, he will only improve. The only detriment he should worry about right now is his lack of sleep, as that is how the body rejuvenates, but that is another beast altogether. It is also one I cannot help with unless he wishes to be administered heavy sedatives, and judging from his dislike of pharmaceuticals, I doubt he would be willing."

Satya notices a particularly heavy breath leave the spaces of her lungs. "It appears I can't comment on his sleeping habits," she says, "but it is good to know he will be all right. I don't know what sort of thing we can expect when we reach our destination, wherever it is, but that leaves one less vulnerability in the grand scheme of things."

"Ah. A chain is only as good as its weakest link, correct? That is the saying?"

"Yes, I believe it is," says Satya.

"With that analogy in mind—medically speaking, at least—there is no worry," says Mercy. "I find his mercenary status more concerning than his health, to be perfectly honest, although that doesn't say much. This arrangement seems to be working out far better than expected. His expertise with explosives has proven to be very useful despite his madness, and not only has he been trustworthy so far, he takes pride in his work. While it bears repeating that he and his large friend have been hired at Winston's behest, I don't quite see that as weakness. Perhaps it could be construed as one, but I don't think so."

"You don't view hired mercenaries as a weakness?" Satya reflects on her own status for a moment, and then adds, "Well, those who are here solely for monetary gain."

"There are billions of people in the world, Symmetra. All of them have opposing thoughts, feelings, and beliefs." She laces her fingers together. The smoothness of her features hold a degree of harshness, and it is a sobering expression. "Organizations such as this one bring them together for the greater good. We are here because we want to put a stop to what may bring about another war. We are here because we care about what happens to the world, even if it is only a little. I think, regardless of the monetary gain or criminal absolution involved, if one joins such a group, then perhaps there is a little more to them than meets the eye."

Mercy pivots on her foot, lab coat swirling at her thighs, and she makes her way back toward her desk. The stillness of the infirmary suddenly seems suffocating; the pale white sheets and silver tools and crisp ivory counters lining the walls encroach with a heavy presence. It shouldn't, but it reminds her of the night she wandered the halls to find Junkrat sprawled in slumber among the white swathed mattresses.

"Well, as much as I would like to avoid it, I have some rather empty medical records to fill and you have a set of blueprints to recover. I believe the both of us have dawdled on long enough." Folding the ends of her lab coat beneath her, she lowers herself to her chair and gives the stack of paperwork a disapproving sigh. "I wish you luck," she says, flashing Satya a passing glance. "When you see Junkrat, do tell him to take a nap for me, would you? I know he won't listen, but if it's more than just me, maybe he might start to consider it."

"I will try," she replies, and the thought coils something foreign behind her lungs.

When Satya leaves the infirmary, she finds herself in a suspended state somewhere between relief and apprehension. The halls swim by along the outskirts of her vision, a blurred silver in her peripheral, and despite her outward composure, there is a mounting sensation of dread picking among her bones. While Satya is aware she should have pursued Junkrat after he'd exited the infirmary, as she's sure she could have had her schematics back by now had she decided to follow, there is a sliver of her that is glad she hadn't. Mercy had provided respite, even if it had been brief.

Still, no matter how much Satya would rather disregard the truth of her words, Mercy had been correct in her observation: it was ultimately idle time spent avoiding the task at hand.

The Incident runs fresh in her mind once again, and there is no way to banish it.

The way to the other half of the barracks is not too far from the first. There are a few additional corners she has to round, as both sections mirror one another in the compound's architecture, but the distance is minimal. Satya finds that the entryway is a similar open space with a small enclosure meant for a common room, and then the area beyond is funneled in through mazelike walls with sizable alcoves situated as individual rooms. Everything appears to be quite vacant, much to her relief, and as she traverses the knitted spaces, she discovers that most of the men keep their sleeping quarters relatively neat. Reinhardt's in particular, she notes, with old tattered posters of bygone artists and celebrities tacked upon the walls and the bed tucked in with a precision that would rival her own. The only exception, she finds, is McCree, who either has not settled in just yet or has far messier habits than she would care to entertain.

It is a strange sort of irony, she thinks, to realize that the junkers have taken residence in one of the very backmost areas with little contact from the other members—just where hers would be if one were looking at the mirrored wings. Her heart has begun to throb beneath adrenaline's duress, and as she approaches the first of the two rooms, her footsteps become trod over by Roadhog's heavy gait.

With a massive arm pressing up against the ceiling, Roadhog plods out of the room he had chosen to her right, the entryway just enough to allow his bulk through. Although the rest of the facility boasts doors and architecture that would better accommodate him, the barracks' seems to be pushing it. His mask is fastened over his face as per usual, his pale camouflage trousers tucked beneath his belly, and as he gives her a long look behind blank black eyes, he pulls in a deep inhale and cocks his head to the side, as if questioning her presence.

"I am here to see Junkrat," she says, keeping her voice firm and even. "He has something of mine and I wish to have it back. Is he here?"

A few moments tick by. Roadhog's breathing is a husky cadence over the quiet of the barracks. He seems to be paring her apart beneath the obscurity of his mask, and the thought forces a skip in her heartbeat. He glances over his shoulder further down the corridor, the white knot of his hair brushing the top of his room's threshold, and he jerks a thick thumb in the direction toward Junkrat before ducking back inside.

Tentatively, Satya steps forward. Five strides put her beside Roadhog's space, where she affords a hasty glance within. It is a larger room than most, she notes, bare and void of any personal items aside from what looks to be a folded set of clothes as well as his large harness and an array of firearms tucked away into a corner. Roadhog has situated himself over top of the mattress, a giant hand spread over his stomach, bare feet hanging off of its end. The bed looks to be reinforced, oddly enough; she has a suspicion that Reinhardt had played some part in its state. She captures glints of what look to be miniature safes shoved beneath the bedframe, but she can't be sure.

Ten strides put her past Roadhog, and it's then that she catches sight of the traps. Toward the room further down at the left, just before the corridor snags a hard turn and continues along the back wall to where she assumes Torbjörn's room is located, there are a slew of large bear traps splayed open over the cool metal floor. Their jaws are jagged and sharp, teeth crowing to the ceiling, and the sheer size is enough to send an apprehensive shiver down the column of her backbone. Three of them are poised out where passersby might have their feet unceremoniously crunched, and as she draws closer with attentive, careful steps, two more come into view, tucked just inside the alcove of Junkrat's room.

If she's brutally honest, it's much less unsightly than she had imagined.

Junkrat's bed is pressed against the back right-hand corner, perpendicular to the door, the head of the mattress flush with both walls. There are tin boxes scattered about the floor between the waiting maws of bear traps; she assumes each to contain some flavor of personal belonging or extra compounds he has not yet bothered to stash in the workshop. Crumpled papers litter the space down along the bedframe, some balled up with acute precision and others simply squashed and tossed as if they held content of little importance. His grenade launcher lies across the chest at the foot of his bed, coupled with a cluster of grinning shells by its smile-etched mouth, and there appears to be a slew of various detonators lying by its handle. His single boot rests on the floor nearby.

As she takes a step beyond the threshold, she notes that the rest of the room is rather bare. There are no adornments to the walls like Reinhardt's quarters or McCree's, and the wardrobe stowed toward the left side of the room appears to have been untouched. The desk nearby has a small lamp and rumpled sets of what look to be new designs of Junkrat's making; they are poised upon the faded, weathered sheets that hail from his notebook, and despite their dog-eared edges and lack of pristine gridwork to usher uniformity and order to any designs, the faint details she can discern from her vantage point suggest he has poured a great amount of time into their creation.

If he cared to tidy up a little, the area might not be so bad.

Junkrat is too busy scribbling in his bed to notice her presence. He is hunched over, pillow brought into his lap to substitute a desk, and he seems to be absorbed in drawing something on one of the worn pages in his notebook. The splintered pencil she remembers from her moments next to him aboard the ORCA sets tight in his good hand, thumb and forefinger pinched together to keep it steady. Nose wrinkled and tongue set between his teeth, Junkrat scratches something out with a fierce vigor and mutters something under his breath; a choice array of curses, she assumes.

There is no sign of her schematics here, at least not that she can see, and Satya starts to wonder if he had truly taken them. Perhaps they had been swept out to sea before she had gathered the nerve to return, and her prototype is now resting somewhere on the jagged beach down below the Rock.

Sucking a frustrated breath between his teeth, Junkrat drops his pencil on the page and combs his hand through his widow's peak and sinks his fingers through his charcoal tipped hair. He slumps back against the stark wall, pillow tucked in the fold of his left leg—his peg is missing, perhaps stowed somewhere she cannot see. The rich green blanket she'd seen him with curled about his body is bunched toward the bottom of the bed, rucked up in a pile along with the plain white sheet and what looks to be a thin quilt that had been employed for summer's use. His brow draws tight with palpable tension; his metal hand taps an erratic rhythm on the notebook's edge, his broad shoulders slacked and his ribs rising with a deep inhale.

When he opens his eyes and catches her stare, he jolts backward in shock. The shabby notebook takes an impromptu leap off the bed, and the pencil shortly follows, rolling to tap against the square body of one of the nearby tins. His left hand twitches as if it were entertaining one of the detonators at the foot of his bed, and Satya is suddenly very glad that Reinhardt had managed to talk them both out of setting up things like tripwire traps.

"Hello," she says. Her even tone does much to conceal the unbearable hammering behind her breastbone, and she hopes it is not as loud as it seems.

"G'day," says Junkrat. He clears his throat and thumps at his heart with a fist. "Was wondering when you'd be about. Took you long enough. 'Bout bloody time."

"So you were expecting me, then. I see I was correct in my conclusion." She folds her arms, regarding him with a firm gaze. "Wait a moment. That is your reaction? You stole something incredibly important to my work, to the entire team's wellbeing and success, and all you can say is 'about bloody time'?"

"Well, I'm not wrong," he says. "Coulda dropped by hell of a lot sooner if they're that important. 'Sides, I didn't nick 'em or nothing. Just snatched for safekeeping. Reckon you'd be cross as a frog in a sock if they got lost or ended up in the bloody ocean, so I grabbed 'em for you."

"You are truly remarking on my absence?" Satya makes a scoffing noise in her throat. "You made a point to avoid the entire team for two days. Hardly anyone has seen you. We have had four meetings pertaining to this organization's future during that time, and you have missed every single one."

"Oi, look, not everybody likes hearing Scarface yabber on and on about politics, y'know," he says, scrunching his nose in distaste. "Got better things to do than sit and listen to that natter. Got bombs to build and some new designs needing proper work. I ain't gonna stick around and wait on some high and mighty executive decision that don't even involve me. S'just a waste. Hate waiting enough as it is. No point. Why bother when I could just hole up somewhere and work on me stock?"

"Because these meetings will affect you in some way, regardless of whether you think they are important or not," she says. "They will decide the course of our immediate future and where we will focus our efforts as it pertains to Talon's activities as well as Doomfist. Why wouldn't you want to attend something so important?"

Junkrat takes his chin in his palm and cracks his neck. "'Cause it's a bleeding waste. I ain't making no decisions here. M'not some exec or fancy suit. Just me. I get told to blow something up and I do it. Simple as that."

"I should hope for your sake that none of our future mission dossiers outline a need for diplomacy," says Satya.

"Dunno why. That'd be your job, right, not mine. I'm the one man demolition crew. I blast walls and any bastards that get in the way. You're the one who's got all the charm and diplomacy."

"Charm?" The word takes her by surprise, and she doesn't know why.

"Well. Yeah. Don't see why not." His left hand scratches at his hairline behind his ear, and she swears a faint tinge of color tips at his ears. "S'what your job was before here, right? Talking to bunches of big time suits, smooth talking 'em into deals?"

"In some situations, yes," she says, watching as his fingers tense into the pillow in his lap. "In others, no. I juggled a few roles while I was at Vishkar. Architechs do more than simply design and build. Oftentimes I would serve as an envoy in Vishkar's stead to entertain potential prospects."

"Right, yeah, so it's just as I said. Charm and diplomacy." Junkrat rolls his shoulders, and his eyes glance to the notebook and pencil upon the floor. He seems to be fighting the urge to retrieve his things, whether as a polite courtesy to her or for some other reason, she can't be certain.

"Well, absences and meetings aside, it would be appreciated if you could return my blueprints and the prototype I'd built," says Satya. "Winston mentioned that a group of us will be deployed to one of the locations marked by Talon in two days, and I wish to have a functioning model by then. It will give us a greater advantage and we will have to worry less about the others should we need to split up."

"Yeah. Sure." He shudders back a jaw cracking yawn. "Give me a tick."

Rubbing at his eye with the heel of his left palm, Junkrat pushes the pillow aside and slides his leg toward the edge of the bed. His grubby patchwork trousers have been discarded, she finds, and he instead wears a thin pair of dark red undershorts. He slides off the bed with little trouble, and then uses the mattress as a guide to lower himself down to the floor. Lanky leg poised askew and the stump of his thigh tucked beneath him at an angle, he dips down by his bed and begins to rummage through whatever is underneath.

She shouldn't, she really shouldn't, but she watches him with interest. The muscles in his back strain and grow taut with his movements, his shoulder blades rising in plateaus as he lowers himself further against the floor to get a better look beneath the mattress. The pale line of where his harness once was traces over his spine, and she closes her eyes before she can look at the curved dip down his back that leads to the waistband of his undershorts.

The Incident has resurfaced in full force, and she regrets everything.

"Ah, there we go. Hiding all the way back there. Don't remember stuffing 'em quite so far back. Musta shifted." Junkrat drags himself out from the bed and arcs into a proper sit. He holds the rolled sheaf in one hand; the sleek prototype is clutched in the metal of his other. With a grin, he wiggles them at her, as if pleased. "See? All accounted for. Nicked, she says. What use would I get out of 'em?"

With a great deal of care, she crosses the threshold and enters Junkrat's room. "To sell, perhaps," she suggests. "Since you seem to like stockpiling things of monetary value."

"Nah, I ain't in the market for them sorts of things. Too specialized. Not my kind of job. Not like them things'd be useful to anybody else 'cept your own lot. They all got glowy hand tricks to go with it. Not like anybody else does. Oi, oi, watch the traps!" He nudges the blueprint roll in the direction of her feet. "They'll get real snappy if you're not looking."

Satya twists halfway to glance at another two steps away that she hadn't noticed. "And why do you keep these in here again?"

"Habit," he says, offering a shrug. "Just feels right, I guess. S'like I'm in the nuddy without 'em."

She pauses mid-step. "In the what?"

"Nuddy. Stripped. Naked. Birthday suit. Whatever you feel like calling no clothes." He holds out her prototype with his metal hand, eyebrows arched in what she perceives as amusement.

"A rather… odd comparison," Satya remarks. She reaches out and accepts the communicator between her palms, giving it a once over before placing it in her trouser pocket. It is neither dirty nor damaged, and she supposes she should be thankful with his explosive tendencies.

"Eh, just seems better with 'em around is all. Dunno why. Used to it, probably. Always had something lying about." Junkrat peers down at the roll of schematics, and he runs the pad of his thumb back and forth along the surface, as if pensive. "Things got real bad for a while, right. Didn't have no choice but to have all sorts, including the snappy ones. 'Specially the snappy ones. Always reliable. Packing 'em up just feels weird. Like here we go, right, on the move, gotta scrap the bush telly and scrounge up all your gear." Junkrat shrugs. "Traps just feels like home, y'know? Well. Close to home as you can get."

"I understand the sentiment, I suppose. I feel similarly about the gauntlet Vishkar granted me." Absently, she traces the back of her left palm. "It feels somehow wrong to be without it."

"That's different," says Junkrat.

"And exactly how is it different?"

He gives the construct upon her left arm a nod. "Well, that's your job right there, innit? S'what gets you everything. You make all them things with it. Pop 'em in outta nowhere. Packs a bit more punch than some snappy little traps, I'd say."

Satya peers down at the glinting white metal as she considers his words. "Perhaps it is different."

"I reckon so. Don't make no real difference to me if all the traps's gone. Just a feeling, right. Can live with a feeling. Ignore 'em after a while. Feelings'll piss off if it's been long enough." After grappling a hold of his notebook and pencil and tossing them amidst the bundle of blankets, Junkrat hoists himself upward with a grunt and hops back onto his bed. It squeaks in protest beneath his wiry weight. He dangles his good leg off the edge as he flicks his wrist, shaking the schematics at her in a come hither manner. "That thing, though. That thing's something else. Reckon it's a game changer."

Closing her left hand into a fist, Satya stares at him with ironlike severity. "I hope you aren't getting any ideas."

"Ideas?" Junkrat's brow furrows, glancing at her arm. "What, about that?"

"Yes," she says, "about this. And if you are getting any ideas, I highly suggest you disregard them. I have had enough of you stealing, misplacing, and scattering my belongings. I will not hesitate to retrieve them in a more forceful manner if necessary should the need arise." With a short breath, she straightens her posture and approaches the edge of the bed, just close enough to be within reach and yet far enough so that she cannot feel the addicting heat from his body or the soft smell of his skin. Biting at the inside of her mouth, she extends her right hand, palm outstretched. "Now, if you would, please return what is mine so I can get back to work."

Junkrat appraises her with what appears to be nonplus. His metal fingers make gentle scratching motions across the thick of his thigh, the flat of his left foot against the floor and coaxing the rest of his leg into keeping a constant, anxious tic. The yellowed light from the desk lamp drenches him in a pale gold and casts soft shadows in the hollow by his collarbone and along his jaws. From the arch of his hunched sit and her tight stature, it becomes more apparent that there are indeed threads of growth from the patched spots toward the back of his scalp.

Mercy's commentary bleeds to the forefront of her thoughts, primarily concerning his state of physical fitness, and there is an inward part of her that succumbs to a shiver. She had invited herself into his personal space, his room, barging in to find him mostly naked—not that she has not seen him mostly naked, or completely naked; gods, what is wrong with her—and here she is, demanding the items he'd somehow shown enough care to stow for her in the aftermath of The Incident.

It was a mistake to come here, she thinks.

"Well, all that really weren't what I was meaning," says Junkrat. A canine worries at his lower lip. Her closer proximity grants a better view of his how tired he seems; the smudges beneath his eyes seem to have been wrought with his thumb tipped in black and arced in weary crescents. "Just, y'know, reckon that thing's important. Never seen you without it. And I ain't interested in nabbing it, if that's what you're on about. I got it good here. Plenty good. Good money, good jobs, good little hideout. Not gonna jeopardize this by nicking some flashy techno kit. Not my kinda haul, anyhow." He gazes up at her, a smile edging at the very corner of his mouth, and he holds out the schematics for her to take. "'Sides, I'd rather avoid a—a what'd you call it?—forceful manner. Well, 'less that's your kinda thing."

Satya snatches them from his grasp. "I will have you know that was not meant in an indecent way."

"Sure. I believe you." His amused tone belies the claim.

"It truly wasn't," she insists.

"I know, I know. Delicate sensibilities and all, right. I get it." Junkrat grins, seeming pleased with himself. It's insufferable. "No worries."

"Contrary to previous incidents, I am not completely deaf to sarcasm. I know when I am being mocked."

"Weren't doing nothing of the sort."

"I find that difficult to believe."

"Oi, not my fault if you don't take me honest word for it." He traces his index finger over his heart. "Nothing but truth here, love."

"You're—you're incorrigible," says Satya.

By the time she realizes her error, it is already too late.

Junkrat stares up at her, the self-satisfied smile faded from his face. His leg has paused in its movements, his metal hand stilled upon his thigh. A fierceness lurks in the vivid amber of his eyes, hot and sharp and piercing, and it shoves down between her bones and anchors her to where she stands. The air becomes laden with something thick and suffocating, curling close about the column of her neck, and Satya's stomach starts to curdle.

Slowly, Junkrat brings callused fingers to his right cheek, lingering over the phantom of her kiss. His adam's apple bobs and his throat looks to be caught with something particularly constricting because when he opens his mouth, there is nothing that comes forth. It's just a faint pool of air, hot debris from the bellows of his lungs, and he clenches his jaws in a hard swallow. The way he looks at her summons the warm sea breeze, the encroaching sunset, the cream of the ocean as it swells against the beach below the Rock; it summons him at her back, arms clenched around her waist, his breath upon her neck; it summons his pulse beneath her ear as she rockets skyward in his arms; it summons the familiar twist down beside her heart and harpoons a twinge between the chambers.

No.

No.

No.

Satya cannot allow herself to make the same mistake over and over again. She has already defied herself more times than she would care to admit, and here she is once again, close and alone with him in a position where she has found herself compromised. And not only that, it is two days after The Incident, an event that had made her swear that she would adhere to her newly established limitations and boundaries—only to disregard them again, heedless, drawn into casual conversation and entertained by suntouched shoulders and wiry muscle and the lines of lean hips.

She cannot correct Junkrat. That is clear enough. But she can remove herself from him. She can. She has to. She has no choice. The remnants of this thing must be salvaged and forged into something useful, something away from the mutated chimera of what it has already become, something like what she has with Reinhardt or Mercy or Tracer or anyone, anyone else—

"Satya." Junkrat's hand lowers from his cheek, his fingers half curled.

The way he says her name is odd and it wedges a halt in her thoughts. It's his accent, she thinks. There should be a lighter, more fluid sound at the center, just as her mother had once done, but the accent makes it harsh and presses a hard emphasis on the T. A part of her desires to correct him, to let him know that he should let his tongue relax and allow it to come between his teeth when he says it, but the words stay hooked back in the bottom of her throat.

"Junkrat."

It comes out as a threadbare thing, thin and weak and boneless, and she realizes that she should not have told him her name. This has become too personal, too close, too strange, and it isn't something she can compartmentalize; it will not fit in its own space, it won't; it's bleeding over into all of the other aspects of her life, seeping and welling and consuming, and she can think of no way to stop it.

"Thank you for taking care of my things," she says, ushered in before he can mention anything he shouldn't. "I realize I was harsh when I arrived, but I promise you it is sincerely appreciated. I should not have been so careless the other day."

Careless. This has never been like her. The word leaves so much unsaid, rife with tension stuffed between the lines, and the shrapnel he's left through her veins inches forever closer with each throb of her heart.

"S'my pleasure," says Junkrat. The timbre of his voice has a rich lowness to it that clinches down her vertebrae in a spiraling shiver. "Just—y'know, teamwork and all that. You got my back, I got yours. S'how it's been, right. Mates and all."

"Of course." A shard of her is stricken. It shouldn't be. It shouldn't.

The blueprints securely in hand, she pivots on her foot and starts to make her way out of Junkrat's room. She weaves through the traps, taking care to give them a wide berth, and when she reaches the threshold, a clamping wave of relief kneads at her shoulders.

"Symmetra?"

Her moniker pins a sharpness in her lungs. She glances over her shoulder, caging a breath within to prevent the pain from spreading. "Yes?"

Junkrat stares at her from his bed, his leg once again resumed in a rhythmic tap. "Lemme know when I should pop by the doc's place for a quick measure," he says. His thumb flicks the shell of his left ear. "Y'know. For fitting."

"It will be tomorrow, I assume. I need to make up for lost time." The white metal of her hand tightens into a fist, crushing against the watery crystal at her palm. "But I will let you know."

He leans over and grabs a hold of his notebook and snapped pencil from the swath of bunched blankets shoved at the foot of his bed. The nub between his thumb and forefinger, he waves it at her in farewell. "Cheers. See you around, then. Maybe in the grub hall."

"Perhaps. We will have to see how much of this I can complete." She lets herself breathe, and it is a cold ache in the hollow of her chest. "You know, Mercy asked me to tell you to sleep. I believe she prescribed a nap."

Junkrat has already placed the pillow in his lap and opened up his notebook, presumably to where he'd left off. He does not bother to look up at her; his concentration is upon the page, his left hand sketching something along its weathered surface. "I might have a short rest here in a while," he says. "If the rest of me finally shuts up, that is."

You don't look well, she doesn't say.

I'd like you to get better, she doesn't say.

"At least give it a try," she says instead.

Junkrat pauses his scribbling. He brings the back of his good hand to where she'd kissed his cheek, rubbing with the hills of his knuckles, and he glances up at her with something she cannot understand. "Reckon I'll give it a go after I get this squared away. Right at the end here. Least I think so. Couple more things, then should be ready to go. I'll have a lie down then."

"Good." Satya nods in approval. "Have a pleasant afternoon, Junkrat." And then, after a moment of weakness, "Sleep well."

The retreat from the junkers' niche is as equally liberating as it is suffocating. The weight in her pocket and the sheaf in her grasp mark what she had come here to do, as they signify her success, her triumph; she can work again and focus herself into producing something useful for the pending mission. In spite of that, they also are palpable reminders that The Incident happened. They are smothered memories given flesh; they are somehow worse than the pieces of him that have managed to climb underneath her skin and flourish in her mind's eye.

Satya's grip crinkles the schematics in the center of the roll as she traverses the outpost halls. She knows she will only smooth them out again later, but she cannot stop herself. The need for contact brims hotly beneath her skin, and she wants nothing more than to drain the knotted tension coiled up by her belly. It is uncomfortable, twisting, and she wishes a knife could carve it out, but the one she'd created flashes behind her eyes at the back of Junkrat's belt and she bites at her mouth with viciousness.

She knows that kissing his cheek two days ago could not have been a worse decision. There is no doubt. The Incident was a mistake, and one she does not intend to repeat.

And yet all she can think about is pulling him down by the straps of his harness and kissing him until shocked and breathless.