It’s been a long day. 

The sun is beginning to set above the horizon and you thank the heavens for small mercies. The heat dissipates from the air as fast as the scorching sun rays fade. You see a scraggy outcrop of rocks ahead in the distance: perfect place for a break. With a bit of encouragement, you urge your battered motorbike onward. 

By the time you reach the rocks, the air is cool and downright delicious. With a flick of your foot, the stand pops out and you’re letting your bike lean and rest. A quick circling reassures you that you’re alone and you finally relax, stretching out the stiff joints from sitting and riding all day. 

You unpack and settle down. A bit of foraging yields just enough twisted branches and bone-dry sticks for a nice small fire. You double-check the crate you’ve got strapped onto the back of your motorcycle: nice and tight, not going anywhere. Visions of gold dance in your head as you think about the profit these babies are gonna’ bring you. Junkers will pay coin for booze, but rumor has it the Queen herself would paid handsomely for specialty liquor imported (stolen) from the outside. 

Usually, you’d never risk building a fire but you’re feeling confident. There’s something about tonight that feels different: the air is (marginally) crisper and the stars feel brighter. Despite being a ragtag outsider, you’ve always enjoyed Junkertown. The Junkers made for vivacious, if not interesting company. And the thought of refreshing your rations and supplies definitely put an extra pep in your step. 

You rustle through your pack and produce a battered tin pot and a depressingly light sack. Normally, this would warrant a “tsk” but tonight, you’ll feast. Within minutes, you’ve got a nice little gruel going. Some precise rigging and you’ve got a few lizards to roast as an entree. 

You stare out into the distance, listening to the gentle snap and crackle of the fire, the sweet corn meal gruel bubbling away softly. Life is good.

Before your muscles could truly relax, you feel the skin on the back of your neck tingle. Before your mind could even register, you’ve got your shot gun in your hands, pumped and ready to shoot at the intruder. 

“Evenin’?” Came a nervous giggle. 

You blink, “Do I... do I know you?”

A tall man stands before you, looking a bit worst for wear. Despite the impressive amount of bombs and ammo strapped to his chest, he’s bruised and cut up all over. His left eye bulged out in a black and blue mess. 

Despite all this, the man puffs his chest out and looks insulted, “Do you... Do you know me? How do you NOT know me?”

You scowl, “Because I’ve never met you before?”

“Darl’,” he says, rather condescendingly, “I am a man whose reputation proceeds him. I am THE-”

You stand up aggressively, “I don’t care WHO you are or who you THINK you are. What do you want?”

He scowls back, “How the FUCK do you NOT know who I am?”

You feel a sharp pang of fear in your chest; this man isn’t fucking around. The bandoliers on his chest glint dangerously in the fire light. 

You raise the gun but take a step back, “Alright... who are you then?”

The man looks like he’s been waiting for this question his entire life. He throws his arms out in a grand, theatrical gesture and declares, “I am the INFAMOUS JUNKRAT!” 

“...who?” You raise a brow. 

He drops his arms to his side and balls his fist, “Oh come on! I didn’t get fuckin’ kicked outta’ Junkertown for nothin’!”

You struggle to keep the chuckle down, “You got kicked out of Junkertown?”

“Oh? You think that’s funny do you?” He snarls. 

“Well.... yeah, you got kicked out of the most lax city on earth,” you laugh, incredulously. “You can literally do almost anything there.”

“Lax?” He sputters, “LAX?! I couldn’t get a bomb in edgewise anywhere with ol’ Queenie up my arse about it!” 

You lower your gun, giving him your most disarming smile, “She’s got a point there... Junkrat? You said?”

“The one and only,” he grins back, matching your charm with his. 

You take the time to look at him: underneath the soot and dirt, and despite the nasty shiner he’s sporting, he’s not bad to look at. Even though he’s a few meters from you, you can smell the smoke on him, that burnt charred smell... of... lizards?

You jump, “SHIT!”

He starts back, shocked, then realizes why you freaked out. 

You toss the gun aside and rescue the lizards from the fire and throw them on your pack to save them from completely scorching. 

You stand back up, dusting your hands, “Alright. So. We can stand around all day and you can be insulted with me not knowing who you are...” 

He crosses his arms, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, “Or?”

“We can sit down and enjoy some charred lizard and corn gruel,” you gesture openly. 

The tall man slouches a bit and smiles sheepishly, “Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

You plop down onto the dirt and offer him a blackened lizard on a stick.

He takes it and plops down by you, “Thanks, mate.”

You watch him tackle the meat with ferocity, “You always do this? Stumble into people’s camps and get insulted when they don’t know who you are?”

He pauses mid-bite, “Only when I’m particularly hungry.”

You give him a friendly kick, “You could’ve just fucking asked!”  

He laughs and goes back to ripping another mouthful off the lizard. You observe him and his injuries: all the mottled bruises, the nicks and scratches all over his body. They’re fresh. 

“Got yourself in a fight recently?” You ask casually, but quietly your ears are perked. A knot of regret begins forming in the lower pits of your stomach: what kind of trouble could this one potentially bring?

He makes an awkward gasping noise, trying to talk and swallow lizard at the same time, “Sure did. Showed those drongos what for!”

You smile, eyes casually flitting around and behind his hunched figure, “What was the fight about?”

“Oh the usual,” he straightens up and takes a deep breath, “‘Oh Junkrat you can’t mod the mech with that!’ or ‘Junkrat you can’t throw that at the Queen!’”

You blink, “You’re a mech fighter?”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, “As if I’d be any of those hot-headed ego maniacs!”

You scoff back and raise a brow, leaning towards the fire to grab the bubbling corn gruel off the embers, “Alright, then what is it that you do, Junkrat?”

“I’m a mech mechanic,” he puffs out his chest and crosses his arms. “I’m trying to work me way up through the ranks right now.”

“There’s ranks?” You give a bemused smile. 

“Oh sure,” he nods emphatically, “You start off as a complete bottom of the bucket mechanic, doing stupid shit like polishing the weapons then you work your way up before they trust you enough to start unscrewing shit and putting shit back together.”

“And where are you right now?” You blow on the corn gruel and tuck in. 

Junkrat looks particularly proud of himself, hooking his two grenade straps with his thumbs, “I craft the explosives.” 

“Impressive,” you rummage through your coat’s inner pockets, before finally finding your flask.

He flicks his eyes up, interested, “Now, what do you have there, mate?”

You pause, meeting his eyes. You didn’t want to admit it. But the way he said it was slow, and low, like he was asking a dangerous question. And it made you...feel. 

You clear your throat and unscrew the flask’s top, continuing to give your best disarming smile, “I never told you what I do for a living, did I?”

“You certainly didn’t,” he finished his lizard and tossed it behind him with a laugh. “So, who do I owe the pleasure of meeting this evenin’?”

“Well,” you gently shake the flask, gauging how much is left, “My name is *Y/N* and I am you local, friendly booze supplier to Junkertown.” 

“Oh my,” he grins, leaning forward, “So I can thank many a wild nights and shitty mornings to you, huh love?”

You find yourself chuckling, almost missing the fact that he just slipped a pet name into that interaction.

“Partially,” you take a sip, “Lord knows Junkertown must use more than just me considering how much you Junkers drink like it’s your lifeblood.”

He holds a hand out. It’s a familiar gesture for you, a bonding ritual really with any stranger you’ve met. And honestly, it’s just good manners out here. You pass the flask to him, your fingers grazing his during the hand-off and you find yourself lingering a bit longer than you wanted.

You clear your throat again but he doesn’t seem to notice. He takes an appreciative sip and smacks his lips, a confused expression forming. 

Taking advantage of the situation, you lean in and whisper conspiratorially, “Not what you expect?”

“It’s... light, and uhm, what’s the word,” he’s scrunching his face in thought. “Delectable? No... delicate! It’s delicate tasting.”

Keeping the hushed tone, you grin, “Between you and me, I hate the way most liquor tastes. This is just my own personal brew.”

“I’ve... I’ve never tasted anything like this,” he’s taking another swig, trying to parse out the flavors and notes. 

“Yeah, you get bored on the road, you start mixing and blending your own brews,” you jerk a thumb towards your bike. 

“You travel alone or is this a group venture?” he gestures generally. 

“I work alone,” you shrug, turning your gaze towards the fire. You feel yourself drifting a bit. 

“Do you like it?” 

“I do,” you murmur.

“Wasn’t a very enthusiastic ‘I do,’“ he elbows you in the ribs gently and you’re suddenly pulled back, very aware of how close he is to you. 

You blink for a moment and put on another amiable grin, “Haha, I do, I really do! It’s quite fun and it’s a decent adventure most of the times.”

“And the other times?” He asks, softly, in that same dangerous, low tone from before.

“It’s... quiet. You’re by yourself a lot on the road. So it’s... quiet,” you reply, a bit more morose than you intended. 

“Well then,” he stretches his arms above his head, “Good thing I inconvenienced you and stumbled onto your camp, huh?”

You laugh, “Yeah, I didn’t think I’d have any dinner guests but this was a nice change of pace.”

He smiles then his frame shifts a bit awkwardly and his voice lowers, “Uhm, truth be told *Y/N* I wasn’t feelin’ too great when I did run into you. But this was fun. I needed it.”

“I think I needed this too.”

He takes a deeper swig from the flask before handing it back to you, “I’ll confess, I’m on my second strike with the Queen. One more mess-up and I’m not allowed back into Junkertown.”

“Ah,” your eyes flick once again to his bruises and cuts, “She can be a real hardass, huh?”

“And then some,” he scoffs mirthlessly, “But thanks, I mean it.”

“Of course,” you don’t really know what to do so you give him a gentle pat on his knee.

He flinches at first but relaxes under your touch. 

He clears his throat, a clear flush growing on his cheeks under all that dirt and grime, “So, uhm, *Y/N*?”

“Yes, Junkrat?” You smile. And it’s your real smile. You don’t feel the need to put up disarming pretenses. 

“Call me Jamie,” he grins sheepishly, “My real name’s Jamison but no one calls me that.” 

“Alright,” you nod, “Yes, Jamie?”

“Were you just going to camp out here until tomorrow then head into Junkertown?”

“Yeah, that is the plan. Why?”

“Well, uhm, not that I’m shittin’ on your choice of accommodations but there are better places than outside at night in the Outback. It gets freezin’ cold,” he says seriously. 

You hold back a snort and solemnly nod back, “Ah yes, I hadn’t considered that. In all my years of camping and trekking through here, the freezing cold!” 

“So, I have a proposition for you,” Jamie opens his palms outwards like a salesman getting ready for his pitch. 

“Alright, I’m listening.”

“You should come into Junkertown tonight. Stay at my place, and come tomorrow morning you’ll be right there in town, ready to do business,” he says with a final, dramatic flourish of his fingers. 

“You’ll be alright with that? A stranger crashing at your place?” You raise a brow, still smiling ear to ear.

“Least I could do to pay you back for dinner and drinks,” he stands up and dusts himself off, before offering a hand to hoist you up. 

You take it, bringing yourself up to your feet, “Oh, my pleasure, really.”

He starts kicking sand into the fire and turns to you with a glint in his eyes, “Oh, I should warn you there’s only one bed back at my place.”

A shiver runs from the nape of your neck down your spine, “Well. You did say it gets freezin’ cold out here. We should make the most use of it.”

He stops, your matched boldness surprising him. He laughs a bit and says, “After a long work day tomorrow, will you have dinner with me again?”

You push back a stack of papers and sigh, turning a weary eye to the clock on the wall. Fuck… you had another 3 hours before the experiment was done running… Why on earth did you agree to do this? 

Dr. Ziegler was just so… persuasive and nice… But now, here you are, babysitting a plate of cells on a Friday night. Alone. In lab.

You were honored Angela trusted you to run and troubleshoot the new protocol. A little too honored. Without thinking much, you enthusiastically and eagerly agreed to take on the project. 

Unfortunately, a little lack of foresight on your part (the proper reagents for the protocol were no where to be seen… did one of the lab techs shift things around again?) pushed the experimental time from 5 hours to 8. 

You plop down onto the table, wrapping your arms around you head, letting out a throaty, frustrated sigh. 

You hear a footstep and fall out of your chair. If that was Dr. Ziegler, you were done. The last thing you needed was to appear ungrateful for the project.

You flounder a bit to get upright, “Dr. Ziegler!!! I am so sorry! The protocol will be-”

“S’alright, it’s just me,” a man stands above you, offering a gleaming metal hand for support. 

Your cheeks flush intensely. It’s Jamison Fawkes. Also known as the notorious Junkrat. He was recruited right around the same time as you. The infamous international criminal turned Overwatch’s top demolition and extraction expert. A few months here tamed his appearance a bit (Commander Morrison insisted work appropriate attire when on Overwatch’s main campus), but the wild look in his eyes are as wicked as ever. He stood before you sporting the dark gray Overwatch training shirt and dark blue training joggers, with the pants leg hiked above the knee of his prosthetic leg. He looked like he had just left campus’ gym.

You clear your throat and take his hand, “Wow, that… that was embarrassing.”

He laughs, pulling you up, “No worries, darl’. I won’t tell no one.” 

You grin, “Uhm, can I help you with anything?”

He gestured broadly at the lab lights, “I was headin’ out for the night when I saw the lights. Thought someone left ‘em on so I came in to turn ‘em off.” 

You give a small laugh, “Nope, just little ol’ me here. Watching some cells.”

“On a Friday night?” He cocks a brow, still smiling wryly.

God, those canines… 

You blink and stammer, “Y-yeah. I did a dumb and forgot to check our reagent stock. Had to make some more from scratch so that pushed the whole procedure back.” 

He nods, “Shame. Say, you were hired the same time as me, right? You’re that scientist I saw during orientation.” 

“Ah, yeah, that’d be me,” you roll your sleeves up, giving your eyes an excuse to break contact from his intense stare.

“What did you say you did again?”

“Immuno-engineering,” you smile. “I take our body’s defense system and I tweak it. Make it better. Or at least, I try to make it better.”

He leans against the lab bench, crossing his arms, “Yeah, I overhear the Doc talking about it in the hall. Something about regeneration?”

“Kind of,” you walk to your desk and bring over your holograph tablet to him, “Dr. Ziegler is interested in tissue regeneration and repair as a whole. My focus on immuno-engineering lets me tackle a branch of her work. You see, your body already has cells dedicated to clearing up damaged tissue and secreting proteins for repair. Dr. Ziegler’s current nano-technology for healing and wound repair is extremely efficient but not optimized for all immune models so certain candidates are more suitable for.. for…”

“What’s wrong?” He looks at you with concern. 

He looks… really, really good in that tight training shirt.. 

You turn the tablet off, feeling your cheeks burn red hot, “I’m sorry. I kind of get a bit carried away with all this stuff. I.. I couldn’t tell if I was boring you or not.” 

“Nah, I like it,” he smiles. “Most scientists kinda’ wave me off. Given me background and whatnot. It’s nice to see what else is going on in our labs.”

“Do you want me to continue explaining?” You try your hardest not to beam. 

“Please,” he winks, turning the tablet back on.

Jesus Christ, you’re going to melt.

“Alright, so Dr. Ziegler’s current nano-technology’s biggest caveat is the fact that there must be a constant administration/stream into the body to maintain the sustained damage repair. It relies on this,” you tap the diagram on the tablet, “The nano-tech flows through the body and it is the tech itself that confers and facilitates the damage repair. But remove the stream and the body is vulnerable again. Dr. Ziegler is having me test out ways to keep the nano-technology active by re-programming white blood cells to actually build their own protein nano-tech copies.” 

He nods thoughtfully, taking it in. 

“I’m incubating some cells right now that I transformed with DNA fragments that encode for the protein version of her nano-tech. Something like 15 different versions? And once the cells grow out, we’ll actually subject the different cell lines to a bunch of stress tests and see which protein version works best.” 

“That’s a lot of work,” he whistles. 

“Yup, but it’s exciting!” You enthuse. 

“You mentioned earlier somethin’ about incompatible immune systems?” 

You can smell the body wash on his skin, fresh from his shower after working out. But even with the fragrant scent, you can make out a distinct sweet and smoky undertone literally baked into him, from all those years of handling explosives.

You blink, “Hmm? Oh yeah! Dr. Ziegler’s technology only works with the ‘usual’ immune system. If you happened to be immunocompromised, the nano-tech is not balanced. It’s dangerous in fact. You see, the nano-tech repairs the wound but as it is spent and exhausted in the repair mechanism, the debris needs to be cleared by your macrophages or else you develop pockets of debris in your system. These pockets build up to the point where they’ll irritate and stimulate the immune system into attacking these pockets and causing systematic inflammation over essentially… nothing. A ‘normal’ immune system can keep up with the debris build up and clears it up as the wound repairs, so there’s no pocket formation.”

“Why do ya’ keep using air quotes around ‘usual’ and ‘normal’?” He gives a quizzical look.

You laugh, “It’s kind of a joke with immunologists that there’s no such thing as a normal immune system, only the average immune system. Everyone’s defense has got something wrong with it. I have horrible, horrible allergies.” 

“Allergies are part of the immune system, huh?” 

“Oh yeah, allergies are just your white blood cells seeing this new strange material in your body and overreacting. Even though pollen can’t kill you.”

“I learn something new each day,” he smiles. 

Your breath hitches. He’s fucking cute. 

“Pleasure’s all mine,” you return the smile. 

He looks at the clock on the wall, “How much longer do you have before you’re done?”

You check the timer on the lab bench, “2 hours and 34 minutes… I’d leave lab for dinner or a break but this part of the protocol is… finicky.” 

“It can’t wait?” He frowns. 

“Getting these damn macrophages to accept the DNA fragments has been a nightmare,” you sigh, “I put them in a live/dead laser counter rig in the incubator so when the cells start dying too much-” you tap the tablet and a sloping curved graph appears “- I can be sure to drop in some more viability extenders to offset it.” 

“Huh, who knew they were that sensitive,” he scratches his head. 

“Oh tell me about it,” you roll your eyes, “We’ve been using this viral-coat as the DNA delivery mechanism but it stresses them out like crazy. We’ve been getting maybe 5-10% live cells post-transformation.” 

He blinks and clears his throat, “I have a confession to make.” 

You feel your heart skip a beat. Oh shit. He’s bored. Fuck. You’ve been making a fool of yourself this entire time. 

“I… I have literally no idea what you’ve been talking about, mate,” he admits sheepishly.

Kill me now, you think.

You give a nervous laugh, “I’m so sorry. You should’ve stopped me.”

“Actually,” he doesn’t meet your eye, “I.. I wanted to keep talking to ya’, and uh, figured if I asked ya’ about your work, you’d entertain me.”

Whatever blood you had in your body rushes directly to your face, “What?”

“I was worried if I just strolled in here, you’d be too busy to bother talking to me,” he says

“Oh no, no, I’d always make time for you, Jamison,” the words leave your lips before you really knew what you were saying.

He laughs, more confidently, “Honestly, I was hoping I’d catch ya’ a few hours ago. No clue you were working late, so I just decided to hit the training bots for a while.”

Your voice rises, “You were waiting… for me?”

Jamison leans in, seemingly feeding off your bashfulness, “Darling, I’ve been wanting to ask ya’ out to dinner since orientation.”

“Oh my god, you’re going to make me self-implode,” you raise the tablet to hide your most-certainly tomato-red face. 

He laughs, nearly cackling, “You’re fucking adorable, you know that?” 

You lower the tablet a bit, taking a deep breath, “Jamison, please.”

You feel his hand on your waist, pulling you towards him and you gasp. You swear you could feel actual electrical shocks in the air and his hands radiate an inhuman amount of warmth. 

“*Your name*,” he says gently, a leisureliness in his voice as his mouth sounds out your name, “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

“Y-yes!” You answer, hardly able to believe it.

“Good,” he smiles.

“Erm, Jamison,” you shift in his embrace. 

“Yes?” His eyes bore into yours. 

You feel nothing but warmth. You grin, “I, uhm, I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a while too.” 

“Oh really?” He pulls you in closer, his body barely apart from yours. 

You break eye contact to grin sheepishly to the side, “You’re really, really hot.” 

“Glad we’re on the same page,” a wicked gleam returns to his eyes. 

His face is getting closer to yours. His eyes are closed. You frown and suddenly every nerve fires at once. HE’S ABOUT TO. KISS. YOU. You feel your breath catch as his lips barely touch yours. 

He smells so fucking good. He feels amazing against you. He’s-

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

“Fuck’s that?” He pulls back. 

You bring both of your palms to your eyes and groan, “It’s the fucking live/dead sensor.”

Cock-blocked. By cells. White blood cells. Nature’s defense system. 

“Gimme a sec,” you pull on a pair of gloves and march into the incubator room. 

You silence the alarm and remove the plate of cells from the incubator and place it into the sterile bench. A few drops of viability extender onto the suspect cells and back in they went. Jamison watches from the door way with a bit amusement.

You pull the gloves off, “Sorry about, that.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he smirks a bit. “Now, where were we?”

His hand reaches up your neck and cradles your face, bringing it closer to his. He bites his lips as he traces your lips with his calloused thumb. 

Your voice is as soft as a psalm, “You were about to kiss me.”

“Right, I was,” he smiles and leans in. 

You close your eyes but swear you could see fireworks. Even with your eyes closed your senses are overwhelmed. The feel of his mouth molding and shaping yours, kiss after kiss. His hands moving from cradling your neck to skimming the edges of your body until he finds your waist to pull you closer. The feel of his entire body pressed against yours. The feeling of-

CHIRP! CHIRP! CHIRP!

The both of you pause, lips still locked, bodies still taut against each other.

CHIRP! CHIRP! CHIRP!

“Issda’ important?” He slurs the question, barely removing his lips from yours. 

You murmur, “It’s just my phone.”

The both of you lock eyes and simultaneously declare to each other, “It can wait.” 

There’s a devilish pleased look in his eyes as he sinks his teeth into your neck in a not-so gentle nip. You involuntarily gasp with pleasure. He returns his attention to your lips and kisses you deeply. You shrug your lab coat off and his hands stroke the length of your sides until they rested playfully above your hips. 

“How much longer, darl’?” His voice is breathy and low. 

You look at the timer, “2 hours and 10 minutes.” 

He mutters, pulling you closer in again, “I want you, now.” 

Your skin prickles at the statement. You laugh, “I know, I’m sorry.” 

He leans against the lab bench, pulling you forward so you’re fully leaning on him, “Honestly, I thought I’d be losing ya’ to another Overwatch agent. Never knew it’d be a buncha’ cells instead.”

You laugh. 

“*Your name*?” Dr. Ziegler’s voice asked.

You freeze, daring not to turn your head so your eyes could confirm what your ears just heard. But you do turn, and Dr. Ziegler is standing there, looking bemused. 

“You uh, you weren’t responding to your texts, so I was worried about you working late,” she smiled, “I thought I’d drop by and check on you before I left for the night.” 

“Protocol’s running smoothly, Dr. Ziegler,” you force the brightest smile, “Just about two more hours for the incubation cycle.” 

Dr. Ziegler nods, still smiling, “Mr. Fawkes.”

“Doc,” he nods back in greeting. “It’s a… it’s a nice Friday night.”

“I’ll say,” she’s smiling so widely right now. “Hey, *your name*, I can take over the protocol for you if you want to go.”

You remove yourself from Jamison’s embrace and walk to her, “No, no! Dr. Ziegler, I’m so sorry-”

She leans in and whispers softly, “You’re not in trouble, *your name.* He’s been asking about you for a while.” 

“Wha…what?” You gape.

Angela gives a knowing grin, “Go. It’s just two hours and I have some shows I throw on while I watch.”

“But, your Friday night, Doctor,” you stammer. 

“Oh please, the night’s still young,” she laughs. 

“You heard the, doctor,” Jamison approaches the two of you.

“And doctor’s orders are very serious,” Angela feigns a stern look. 

“Extremely serious,” Jamison nods solemnly. 

You pause, “Wait… were you two in cahoots this entire time?”

Angela laughs while Jamison looks off, “Jamison’s been bothering me for your schedule for a while. I told him you’d be out at 5pm today but you know how science goes. 5pm turns into 7pm. Now, go! Don’t make me actually order you out of lab.” 

You give a laugh of disbelief, “Really?”

She clasps your hands, “Really. Besides, happy scientist, happy cells. Happy cells, good data.” 

Jamison hands you your bag, with all your things roughly packed, “You heard her. No worries, Doc. I’ll be sure to make 'em, extra happy.” 

Angela smiles and waves as Jamison rushes you out of lab.

The both of you stroll down the long hall, Jamison’s hand grasping yours tightly. 

“I’m kind of shocked that just happened,” you gently slap your cheek. 

“Nah, Angela’s a real mate,” Jamison giggled. “Practically imploded herself when I told her I had a crush on you.” 

“That’s amazing,” you laugh. “Now, what do you want for dinner?”

The two of you round the corner and start walking towards the main entrance, when he pull you back. You barely have time to question it when he leads you to the dormitory wing. 

He strokes the place he nipped you on the neck early, “I want you.”

You shiver, “Oh really?”

The look in his eyes is downright… dangerous. You feel every single nerve alight with fire. You can feel him through the softness of the jogger’s fabric. His hands scramble to bring his ID card to the scanning lock. The door finally clicks open and he guides you in, kicking the door shut.

You nod, pulling his face to yours. In the dim light, there is no shame. In a flurry of kisses and sighs, you’re on his bed and he’s on top of you. Skin on skin. 

You cup his face and bring him close to you for another kiss. He’s kissing you greedily, like a man drinking water on a hot, hot day. 

When you finally part, you squeeze him playfully with your legs, “I thought we were going to get dinner tonight.”

His lips trace your jawline as he positions himself better above you. In the dim light you can make out his expression: his eyes half-lidded as he looks down at you. So utterly perfect, so utterly his. 

You’re leaning against the counter, loading your shotgun. You worked too hard to keep this bar up and running, but every single Founder’s Day, some idiot threatens to fuck it up… well, idiots… Alright, if you had to be frank: all of Junkertown getting drunk in one location wasn’t great for any business… 

But to digress, you pay your share like every does in this town, slightly less than everyone else (the Queen was partial to your cocktails and seemed to have a soft spot for you.) You would’ve thought being the only bar in all of Junkertown would make the locals value the place more, but you’re replacing furniture on the weekly. 

The rules were clearly on the wall: 

1. You pay before you get your drink. 

2. Settle fights outside.

3. No fucking in the bathroom. 

4. If someone’s wanted, owner gets first shot. 

“Where do you want the extra bottles?” Your barback calls from the stock room. 

“Uh… Damn it,” you mutter, you lost count of the shells you had loaded, “If it’s the liquor just leave it back there, bring the beer out here.”

“Alrightie, boss,” with a grunt heaves the crates to the front and starts stacking them, a few meters in front of you.  

He wipes the sweat from his brow and watches you fiddle with the gun, “Expecting that much trouble tonight?”

“Better over-prepared than under,” you slide the pump back and the gun loads noisily in response. 

“True… should I sweep the rubbish out?”

“Hmm… sure, her Highness might grace us with her presence tonight,” you set the gun aside on the counter and turn to the liquor shelf behind you. “Huh… we’re running low on gin. Did we get the new shipment?”

“The crates in the back are all we got this morning. I haven’t checked yet,” he deposits a third crate of beer in the front. 

“Hmm,” you muse to yourself, walking back into the dusty storeroom. You crack open the crates with a crowbar and peer inside. 

Shit.

“Dusty!” You call to your barback. “We got fucking skimped.”

“Jesus fuck… I’m sorry, boss, I shoulda’ checked before leaving.”

You click your tongue, “Mhm, like I taught you.”

“How much we missing?” He frowns. 

“There should’ve been 3 bottles of gin, 3 of vodka, and 2 whiskey.”

He comes into the back room and peers at the crate over your shoulder, “Fuckin’ chump skimped us of three whole fucking bottles.”

“This is just the first crate too… let’s crack open the rest and see what else we’re missing,” you sigh. 

After ten disappointing minutes, anger and annoyance rising with each crate opened, you stand back and take stock. 

“Nine… ten.. twelve…” Dusty counts.

“Eleven,” you correct him.

“Oh sorry, eleven… twelve… thirteen! We’re missing thirteen bottles!” He gapes. 

“Alrightie, let’s pay Mick a visit,” you cross your arms.

“We have to goddamn drive all the way back out again?” He groans.  

“Oh yeah, and we have Mick to thank for that,” you narrow your eyes. 

Mick had been a reliable and decent source for a while, but he is a Junker after all. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After packing shop and hopping onto your motorcycle, the two of you make the 30 minute drive all the way out of Junkertown and to the outskirts: Port’s Edge. It’s a raucous gathering of tents, shacks, stalls, carts, and run-down cars full of marvelous wares for sale. You could get almost everything you wanted from the outside world here, for the right price that is… 

You don’t even bother taking your helmet off. You grab your shot-gun and stroll up to the most brightly dressed junker in the lot. He sports eccentric garb of mismatched cultures and an impressively large mustache for such a small face.

He sees you coming and spreads his arms, “Ahh!!! *your name*!!! Looking amazing as ever-”

“Can it, Micks,” you growl, “I’m here for the thirteen bottles of booze you skimped on me.”

He rubs his hands together apologetically, “Ah, please, *your name*, you must be mistaken. I would never do that to such a loyal customer!”

Your barback points at him, “No, you’re mistaken if you think we’d pay you that much fucking money UPFRONT just to lose out on thirteen bottles.” 

“Oooohhhh! Those bottles! Ah yes,” he backs into his stall, “How about I give you two crates and we call it even?”

“Not good, enough, Micks,” you grab him by the shirt collar, “You think you could try and cheat us and not face any repercussions?”

The colorful man wilts, “Look, look. I’m sorry. I… It’s just..”

“Spit it out!” You demand.

Mick sits down on a nearby crate, looking considerably tired and worn, “This morning… we got hit. Me and boys lost about five  crates in the fight and the thieves made off with four more crates. And I know you hate me for it, *your name* but I have other customers who’d shoot m’face off before giving me the chance to talk like you did.” 

Your tone softens a bit as you take a seat next to him, “Hardly can call them thieves if they’re just taking back their cargo, Mick.”

Mick shakes his head, “No, no! Wasn’t them! It was two Junkers that got us. The uh… what’s their names? The ones the Queen doesn’t let in no more!”

“Junkrat and Roadhog?” Your barback raises a brow. 

“Yeah! Them! Fucking broke Thomas’s wrist, they did,” Mick gestures to the sour looking Junker a few stalls down, nursing a very swollen, poorly bandaged wrist. 

“Ugh,” you rub your temples, “What a fine fucking mess we’re in.”

“I’m sorry… I hoped you’d be too busy to notice,” Micks said with a sheepish grin, “I can give you six bottles and once a new shipment comes in, I’ll deliver the remaining seven and toss in two free bottles for your trouble.” 

“Thanks, Mick,” you smile, patting your gun, “I’m glad I didn’t have to use this.”

“I’m glad you didn’t either,” he laughs, “I remember the last time you shot someone with it. Fellow can’t chew anymore.”

You and Mick laugh heartily, while Dusty manages a nervous laugh. 

You place a hand on the man’s shoulder, “You gonna’ be alright, Mick? What are you going to do with that much stock loss?” 

Mick knits his brows together and rubs his mustache thoughtfully, “Honestly, if you can let me crash at your bar in a week and hide out until the next shipment… I’ll be fine.”

“Of course, old friend, of course,” you give him a firm handshake and a strong pat on the back. 

“Alright, now, what do I owe ye?” He rubs his hands together and begins sifting through the crates. 

After a few more jokes and a bit more haggling, you and Dusty load a crate onto the motorcycle, strapping it down tightly. 

“You sure you’re gonna be safe out here? It’s Founder’s Day,” you get on the motorcycle.

Mick smiles widely, “Ah! I’ll be fine. I have just enough stock to placate the less reasonable customers for their celebratin’ needs.” 

“Alright, Mick, if anything happens, you know where to find me,” you smile and rev the bike. 

As you pull away, Mick becomes but a colorful dot in the distance.

“You’re getting soft,” Dusty says. 

“Mick’s an old friend,” you shrug. 

“And an old cheat. He’s skimped us before, a bottle here a bottle there… blamin’ it on the old age.”

“Maybe he’s lying, maybe he’s not. I can’t blame him for pulling that on us though. Mick’s right, we’re downright fucking reasonable compared to some blokes around here.”

“Too reasonable,” he huffs. “Bastard nearly conned us outta’ thirteen bottles.”

“And if he doesn’t deliver the nine he promised by shipment, we’ll go back and blow his kneecaps off. Don’t worry about it, Dusty,” you say simply. 

“I know how important this place is to you *your name*,” he leans a bit closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. “And you’ve been really good to me and my family. I just want to make sure nothing threatens that, ya know?” 

“Loyalty’s appreciated, Dusty, but don’t let loyalty overtake goals. If I shot Mick’s face off, we wouldn’t have a supplier anymore.”

“Yeah… but still.”

“Noted,” you chuckle. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 After unloading the new crate you take a deep breath and ready yourself. Dusty unlocks the front door and stands back behind the counter with you, toying with his dagger. Any minute now. 

The entire city is quiet, unusually quiet. Everyone is busy at the scrap yard, betting their meager savings or battling it out for glory. Every now and then a rumbling roar punctuates the silence. 

“You think the Queen’s battling this year?” Dusty balances the blade’s handle on his finger tip. 

“No one’s challenged her, so I think not,” you reply, wiping the counter down. 

“I wish I was King,” he sighs wistfully. 

“Oh yeah?” You smile. “Got the hots for her like every other person in Junkertown?”

He pulls a face but sounds a tad too indignant to be convincing, “No! I mean… I wish I was King. Period. Of Junkertown.”

You begin setting out glasses on the counter, “And pray tell what would you do as King?”

“Expand our territories!! Why stay in the Outback? There’s all of Australia to take back!” 

“Where would you get the resources? The army to fund all this?”

Dusty twirls his knife, looking smug and confident, “See that’s the best part. Why lay siege on an all-out war? When we can hit ‘em with gorilla warfare!”

“Guerilla,” you correct him.

“That’s what I said,” he protests.

You don’t have time to argue as the door bursts open. A large junker, a brute of a man, battered, bruise, looking worst for wear but triumphant and holding a fat, fat stack of cash staggers in. A chattering crowd follows him. 

“I’m buying drinks for everyone!!! Round’s on me!!” He slams the stack on the counter.

Dusty hops to action, grabbing more glasses as you chuckle, “Beer? Liquor?”

“Pour me a glass of gin, will ya’ sweetheart? And get drinks for my friends as well.”

You tap the stack of cash with a raised brow and a knowing smile, “All of it?”

“All of it,” he nods, flashing you a bloody grin, much to the cheering of his friends. You smile and take the stack, tossing it to Dusty. He immediately heads for the safe in the backroom to stow it away. 

You pour the shots generously and motion for Dusty to bring you another bottle. Soon, the bar is full of junkers. Celebrating their betting victories, celebrating Founder’s day, commiserating over their losses, plain getting plastered to forget their losses… 

“Keepin’ up, Dusty?” You ask, watching the frazzled young man lift up another crate of beer. 

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he flashes you a big grin. 

You watch him duck and weave through the crowd to deliver the crate to the rowdy party in the corner. You pour yourself a drink and pour an extra glass. You watch as the young man exchanges some words with the junkers. One of them motions to you and Dusty mumbles something, clearly stumbling over his words. The crowd roars with laughter. 

He comes back, looking a bit sour. You hand him a glass and his expression brightens. 

“What’s this for?” He takes a sniff. 

“You worked hard. It’s also Founder’s Day. Have a little bit of fun,” you lift your glass towards him. 

He’s dumbfounded for a moment, then smiles and clinks your glass with his,”Cheers!” 

You sip the drink, savoring it. Dusty shoots it. 

He pauses, waiting for a burn that’ll never come, “Huh… that was smooth as fuck.”

“Mhm,” you show him the bottle. 

“Fuck, we’re drinking this?” He’s admiring the label. 

“It’s Founder’s Day,” you smile, swirling the drink gently. 

He refills his glass and takes a tentative sip, mimicking you.

“Good, huh?” You ask. 

“That’s dangerous, right there,” he shoots the rest of the glass, “I could drink that entire bottle and not know how much booze is in there.”

A junker stumbles to the counter, “Ay *your name*, make me one of them drinks?”

“Gotta’ be more specific, Madge,” you smile, grabbing your shaker. 

“What’s the one? That real classic,” she slurs, “The uh…Spanish soundin’ one?”

You laugh, “An ‘Adios Motherfucker’?”

“Yeah, that’s the one! Knew I could always count on you, love for knowing your shit!” She smiles and slaps a couple coins onto the counter. 

You swipe them into your back pocket and proceed to making the drink. Lucky for you, Adios Motherfuckers are just a lot of booze and a wee bit more of colored booze for that signature bright blue. 

You hand the happy customer their drink and lean back. The group in the corner called out for another bottle of gin. Seamlessly, you drop the shaker into the sink and swiftly grab two bottles of gin from the wall and make your way over. 

The battered junker smiled, welcoming you with open arms, “*Your name*, darling, I only asked for one bottle.”

You shrug and give your best customer-service smile, “It’s not often I get to entertain Junkertown’s mech champion. The extra bottle is on the house.”

He grabs your hand in a strong grip, “I appreciate it, mate. Anything ya’ need, let me and my gang know.”

You smile, a genuine one, “Thank you, will do.”

“And, uh, that barback of yours?” 

“Dusty?”

“Good kid, got a bit of a thing for you.”

You chuckle, “Ah, so that’s what that comment was earlier.”

“Got real huffy when I asked if you’s was single,” he laughs and his friends follow suit. 

You laugh with the crowd and excuse yourself back to behind the counter. The bottle you cracked open for yourself and Dusty is a third of the way empty.

“Christ, slow down or else I’ll have to tuck you into bed in an hour, Dusty,” you caution him, topping off off your own glass. 

He’s swaying slightly, steadying himself by gripping onto the counter, “You know, I can think of better things for you to do, than tuck me in bed.”

You pause, raising a brow, then laugh, “You’re fucking drunk.”

“And you, are fucking hot,” he declares. 

“I’m flattered,” you pat him on the shoulder, “But no.” 

“Look, I know I’m a lot younger… and I work for you,” he’s working up his courage right now… it’s… commendable? 

You give him a grin through gritted teeth, “No, Dusty. You don’t want any of this.” 

“But, I do,” he grabs you by the waist, and is beginning to lean dangerously closer.

Someone bursts into the bar and you hear glasses shattering. Thankful for the distraction, you straighten up, shaking him from you, “No, you really don’t.” 

You turn towards the direction of the noise and feel your heart stop. It can’t be. 

You grab the shot gun and leap over the bar counter. You reload it with a sharp pump, “Long time, no see you flamin’ piece of shit.”

“*Your name*! I’ve missed you too, darl’,” he strolls right up to the counter with a big grin on his face.

The entire bar has come to a screeching halt. Those sober enough to look surprised are indeed gaping and those too drunk to be surprised are taking a moment to collect themselves.

“It’s… it’s Junkrat,” someone gasps. 

The crowd murmurs a bit and you can hear knives being drawn and guns being loaded. 

You point the shot-gun barrel right into his face, “Oh yeah, and read the rules on the wall, everyone. Owner gets first shot.” 

The crowd pauses, waiting for you. 

“Oh come, darl’, I didn’t think you’d be that angry,” he gives you a sheepish grin. 

“Wha-what is he talkin’ about?” Dusty pushes past the crowd to your side. 

Junkrat scowls, “And who the fuck are you?”

“I’m their barback,” he says defensively. You’re rolling your eyes. 

“Ya’ look like a drunk to me,” Junkrat scoffs. 

“I’m their support! Their second hand!” Dusty scowls. 

You pull a face, indicative of the growing annoyance inside you. 

“…anyway, like I was sayin’, didn’t think you’d be this angry, love,” Junkrat laughs. 

You fire the shotgun right next to his good-leg making him jump and yelp, “Oh, I’m pass angry, Jamison. I’m fucking homicidal.” 

“Jami-who?” Dusty mutters. 

“*Your name*, look, I wanna’ respect what you have going on here, but…” a big Junker gets up, brandishing a large knife, “You fired the first shot, mate.”

“Ah, fuck,” you mutter, realizing what you did. 

Junkrat frowns, “They wha-”

Thick meaty hands wrap around Junkrat’s neck and he’s flying right into the bar’s wall. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” You shout. 

Chaos erupts. Junkers are beating the living hell out of each other with whatever they could find: chairs, bottles, glasses, tables… You don’t have enough time to be angry at the complete and utter destruction the entire fight is wrecking on your establishment. You need to find Jamison. 

You expertly duck, weave, and dodge your way through the crowd. Knowing him he’d be… there!

Junkrat is being throttled by a much larger Junker in the corner. You run up and slam the butt of the gun into the junker’s throat and he drops down, wheezing for air. Quickly, you toss a tablecloth on Junkrat and steer him away from the chaos into the bathroom.  Everyone is just drunk enough that they’re throwing fists indiscriminately and grabbing the closest bodies they could find without really knowing if its Junkrat or not.

You slam the bathroom door shut and slide the lock in place.

“Alright, we have maybe five minutes tops? You need to get moving, what were you THINKING coming back here? And during Founder’s fucking day!” You admonish him while checking his wounds. “Do you get a fucking kick out of ruining my fucking-”

He grabs you by the waist and kisses you. You melt. You missed this, you missed him. 

Your brain clicks back to reality and you shove him off, “I’m still fucking mad.”

His voice is soft and sincere, he reaches back out and pulls you in again, “I know… I know, I’m sorry, darl.”

You’ve cried too much these last few months to cry now, you could only glare at him bitterly, “Without a FUCKING WORD. You left WITHOUT A FUCKING WORD.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he lifts your hand up and kisses it tenderly. 

“I hope it was fucking worth it,” you try your hardest to keep glaring at him.

His grin lights up a bit, “Ah, yes it was. I’m going to fucking ruin her.”

You shake your head, “I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

“Oh yeah, I do!” He giggles.

You roll your eyes but smile, pulling him in and meeting his lips with yours. He gives a small laugh and lifts you up and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, your lips never leaving his as the kiss grows sloppier, more passionate. 

“Where THE FUCK IS HE?!!” A voice shouts outside. 

You know you should stop. He needs to go before it gets too dangerous. But the feeling on his body on yours is delicious. And as angry, heartbroken, defeated he left you… you crave the taste of him. 

He stops for a moment and looks at you, flush and breathless from the kiss, “If we keep going at it, love, we’re going to end up fucking, again.” 

“Not the first time we’ve fucked while surrounded by eminent danger,” you kiss him on the forehead, sighing, “but you’re right, let’s get going…”

“Mmm, I remember the dingoes,” he laughs into your neck, gently nipping at it.

“Mhm, let’s go, babe,” you shudder, but untangle yourself from him and take a deep breath. 

“I like it when you tell me what to do,” he bites his lips.

“Oh, fuck off,” you grin.

You crack the door open a bit, and thankfully the scene is still in full blown chaos.

 “Alright…. now!”

You crack the door open and the two of you zip from the bathroom over to the supply room. You lock the door and turn to Jamison. 

“Alright, punch me,” you say.

“Oh, darl’, it wouldn’t be right,” he grimaces. 

“Yeah, neither would me being the last one to see Junkrat and ‘letting him slip.’ Now do it. Come on, I’ve taken plenty worst from you.”

“Yeah you have,” he snorts with laughter.

“Oh real mature, fucking punch me, cunt,” you’re stifling the laugh. 

“Alright,” he winds up and slams a solid fist into your left eye socket. 

You stagger back, unable to comprehend the amount of pain, out of breath for some odd reason. He’s by your side, swearing and cradling you in his arms.

“Ah, fuck, I knew this was a shit, idea. I am so sorry, love.” 

“It’s… it’s fine. Fuck. You can really throw a punch.”

“Learned from the best,” he smiles, tapping his gold canine. 

“Should’ve never taught you,” you roll your good eye. 

“Look… I promise that after this nonsense is done, I’ll be here, I’ll be with you,” he takes your hands in his. 

You frown, “Jamison, babe…”

“No, no I swear, I swear. After this all done, and the Queen gets what’s coming for her.. it’ll just be you and me, darl.”

“Don’t make promises, Jamie,” you find yourself holding back tears, “Just… just stay alive.” 

“Of course,” he smiles, kissing you on the forehead. “The plan’s foolproof!”

You grip him by the bandolier straps, “Please, Jamie.”

His tone softens, “I… I care about you more than anythin’ in the world, *your name*.”

You feel a bit bitter but you kiss him softly, “The window’s unlocked, just hop out and… I don’t know, toss a few smoke bombs in here or something?”

He kisses you one last time, deeply, breathing in your scent. When you finally part, he looks at you in the eye, “When all of this is over, I’ll come back for ya.’” 

“Good bye, Jamie,” you let his hand go.

You watch him clamber onto of the crates and wriggle out of the window. 

“Fire in the hole!” You hear him call with a laugh. 

A bomb rolls through the window and goes off with a sharp bang. You throw the stock room’s door open dramatically and muster as much anger in your voice as possible, “He’s outside!!! The fucker slipped out!!”

The crowd swarms outside and within seconds, the bar is strangely quiet. 

You walk behind the counter and grab the liquor bottle, downing the rest of it in a few greedy gulps. 

“You look like shit,” Dusty stumbles to the counter.

You laugh, “Hah, speak for yourself.” 

“Did he… did Junkrat do that?” 

You put on your best scowl, “Yeah, but I’ve taken worst. How about you?”

“I might or might not have thrown a punch at the champ.”

“For hitting on me?” You tease him.

He blushes, “No! Well… I’m sorry about earlier. It was… inappropriate.”

“It’s fine, Dusty. I’ve made stupid mistakes while drunk too,” you look around the absolutely decimated bar, “Buying and opening a bar in Junkertown for one.” 

“It’s not stupid,” he retorts, “I.. I do like you.”

You sigh, “You’re a good kid, Dusty. Don’t go chasin’ after me. I’m just me.” 

Dusty looks up, lowering his voice, “It’s him isn’t it.”

“Hmm?”

“I can tell when you had your gun pointed at him. How much he hurt you…How much you love him.”

You don’t say anything. 

“Your secret’s safe with me, *your name*,” he gives you the saddest smile. “As long as he makes you happy… that’s enough for me.” 

You lean downwards and pick up two bottles of beer and uncap them. You place one in front of him. 

“Happy Founder’s Day, Dusty.”

You adjust the satchel on your back, it’s dismally light. Nothing but a spare set of clothes and your bedroll lie in it. You’re munching on your last apple. 

“Green Orchard,” you read the sign. It’s a quaint name for a quaint village. And things tend to go wrong in the quaintest of villages. The quaintest villages also tend to have the biggest bigots. 

You take a deep breath and toss the apple core into some bushes, nothing you haven’t heard before. 

You stroll into the village, putting on your best, unintimidating smile. You need this job: you had to sell your horse three villages back, and now you didn’t even have two coins to rub together. 

You walk up to the closest villager with the biggest grin you could muster, “Greetings, good sir! Could you let me know where the elder of the village is?”

The man gives you a lazy look-over before scoffing, “What’s it to ya’?”

Gripping the strap of your satchel tightly, you continue smiling, “I heard about a demon plaguing your village and I can hel-”

“Ah, come to steal us blind I see,” the man stops chopping wood and crosses his arms. “I’ve heard about you demon ‘unters, running with the devils and conjuring up evil. Then squeezing every last bit o’ copper to ‘save’ ‘em.”

You drop the smile and grimace. Yeesh, it was this bad, huh?

The man continues, jabbing a finger into your chest accusingly, “Mighty suspicious how a demon appears and wreaks ‘avoc on our crops and our livestock and a demon ‘unter just so ‘appens to come gallivanting through!”

Some villagers begin to gather about, listening, whispering, pointing at you and your mark. 

You bow your head, “I assure you, no demon hunter would summon a reckless, uncontrollable evil just to make some coin off poor, decent folk.” 

“That’s not what the pastor says, and he has the word of God to protect him!” The man continues. The small crowd murmurs in hushed agreement. 

You roll your eyes. Of course. The Church recently had begun to branch into their own brand of demon hunting… and there’s no better way to stomp the competition than to do a little mud-slinging. 

“I’m not from here, I’ve never stepped in this village before,” you continue speaking in earnest.

“Even worst, a foreigner!” Someone in the crowd remarks loudly. 

You chew your lip, at this rate, you’d be sleeping hungry again tonight. You tap the mark on your neck, “Good folk of Green Orchard, I am here to rid you of your demon and I want nothing in return. Your coin is safe and should stay in your hard working hands.” 

The crowd’s tone shifts favorably. The wood chopper narrows his eyes, “Suspicious, a demon ‘unter not demandin’ coin for work?”

You smile through gritted teeth, can’t win, can I?

“Just point me in the direction of the pastor and the demon will be gone within a week,” you gesture broadly. 

There’s a slight pause before an old woman speaks up, “You can find him there. Ask for Pastor Edmund.” 

You thank the old woman and begin marching in the direction she pointed at. In tough crowds like these, where a shred of fear could turn fifty-some odd villagers against you, it was better to work for free or just leave. Rumors of demon-hunter lynchings and burnings were rampant. The Queen had grown intolerant of the Old Faith recently and demon-hunters were definitely old news. 

Hopefully, one of the villagers heard your generous offer, was struck by compassion and would offer you a bit of food and a roof to sleep under tonight. 

You approach the center-most building in the village. Built of stone and thick birch roofing, it was easily the nicest building in the village. You knock on the door and an elderly woman answers the door, “Yes?”

“My name is *your name.* I’m a demon hunter and I was hoping I could speak to Pastor Edmund to learn more about the demon that’s been terrorizing your village.”

Her eyes widen and she opens the door, “Yes, yes, please, do come in. Let me fetch him, I’ll be just a moment.” 

You nod and stand at the threshold. Really nice place. Split oak flooring, polished nice and smooth. A white stone altar with effigies of the Father and Mother. Effigies painted in the brightest pigments the church could afford. Aside from their foreboding, quiet expressions, they looked vivid and lifelike. And judging with the smell of fresh wood, this place had been built in the last few months. 

From the side hall, a solemn man appears, the old woman walking in behind in tow. 

“Ah, demon hunter,” he greets you, hands clasped. 

“Pastor,” you give a small bow.

“Sister Therese tells me you are here about the village demon?”

“Yes, I heard about it back in White Vale.”

“Ah White Vale, our sister village. And pray tell what were you doing there?”

You didn’t like his tone, but you shrug and keep a neutral voice, “I was trying to find work. Frost sprites and imps usually begin waking up this time of the year and I know they give folk a hard time.”

“Ah, work. A demon hunter helping potato farmers with an imp nest? Seems beneath you,” he’s walking circles around you, examining every inch of you.

You clench your fists but smile, “No work is beneath me sir. I live to serve everyone. Kings and potato farmers alike.”

“You live to serve yourself. Coin comes first for demon hunters,” he corrects. 

“…ah well, I’d do it for free if food and shelter didn’t cost money, sir,” you answer, flatly.

“One of the kitchen boys tells me you’ll be ridding us of this demon for free?”

Wow, news travels fast here doesn’t it. You nod, “Yes, sir.” 

“Why?”

“One of the villagers seemed very upset with me and my Order. I thought I’d volunteer this job as an act of faith-”

“Hah! What does a demon hunter know of faith?” Pastor Edmund scoffs. “Though, the Lord and Mother works in mysterious ways… perhaps you were sent here by their will and their will redirected you from your kind’s wicked greed.”

You want to punch him. Pastors and preachers were usually a walk in the park but this one is a real peace of work.

“Uhm, yes, that,” you pull out a notebook and your last bit of charcoal , “Now, can you tell me about the demon?”

Sister Therese pipes up, “It was horrible! We had just come from the Holy City to Green Orchard, to start a congregation here… but as we began building, terrible things would happen.”

“Such as?” You thumb to a blank page.

Pastor Edmund sneered, “Vile, unholy acts. The demon burned disgusting messages into the church’s sacred ground. It left mutilated corpses all about.”

“Villagers had been killed?” You stop writing in shock. Was this a higher-demon?

“Oh, thankfully no, just livestock. The demon would steal sheep and slaughter them! Splaying them out in depraved, ritualistic manners! All on sacred land!” Sister Therese wrung her hands. 

You sigh in relief. Nope just a lesser-demon. You continue, “Alright… when did this happen?”

“Animal slaughter is no slight matter,” Pastor Edmund admonishes you, “This demon is taunting us. Slaying the very animal of God on God’s doorstep.” 

You almost burst a vein trying not to roll your eyes, “My apologies, pastor. Continue, sister, please.”

“It all happened 4 months ago. We came to the village and the church was half built, and that’s when all of this horror began to occur.”

“Is there a pattern? Does the demon like to come on any particular days?”

“Sundays! It always comes on the holy seventh day. It is a most particularly fiendish spirit.”  

“And I’m assuming it likes to come at night?”

“Hah! And you call yourself a demon hunter,” Pastor Edmund shakes his head, “This one is crafty. It’s come in the middle of the night and in the middle of the day. Disguising itself in the flesh of others, mimicking villagers and screaming unholy blasphemy during prayer!”

“… it can shape-shift?” You raise a brow. Demons don’t shape shift.

Edmund looks like he could burst a vein, “No you fool! It possesses people!!! It possesses villagers!!”

You stop writing altogether, “Has anyone figured out if it has a favorite herd to pick on? Or what attracts it?”

Sister Therese shakes her head, “No my dear, it just seems to have a penchant for harassing the villagers and creating trouble for the church.”

Well. Not to side with evil here…but I can see why.

“Do you still have any of the burnt wood or messages the demon left behind?”

“Of course not! We burnt them immediately. Harbingers of bad luck and evil, they are,” the pastor crosses his arms.

Of course you did. 

“In that case, I’ll be looking around the church to see if I can pick up its tracks. Thank you for all your help,” you snap the notebook shut and give a small bow to them both. 

“Tread carefully demon hunter,” Pastor Edmund states, rather threateningly. 

You step outside and pause to think. Demons in this region of the country are rarely interested enough to interact with humans, let alone go through the trouble and time of possessing them. Unless this was a higher-order demon? But it can’t be…those had an aura so powerful, it would be like picking up stink on a dog rolled in dung. It was definitely a prankster: slaughtering lambs in a house of god, specifically appearing on the Holy day of the week… it wanted the villagers’ attention and it got it. So what now? What could it want?

Before you could continue the thought, a small voice interrupts you.

“Uhm, excuse me,” a small boy approaches you. “Are you the demon hunter?”

You give a wide grin, “Yes, I am!”

“And… and are you going to kill the demon?”

“Yes I am! That’s my job,” you nod reassuringly. 

“Could you also cure my brother? The demon possessed him last week and now he won’t wake up.”

You frown, “Can I meet your brother?”

The young one bobs his head yes and immediately grabs your hand. Your led through the village to a small house at the edge. It’s practically a hovel. The child throws open the door and with much gusto, declares, “Mom! Dad! I found a demon hunter!! They can treat Vincent and kill the demon!!” 

An exhausted looking man walks forward and apologetically bows his head, “Oh meister hunter, I’m so sorry. My son is a bit too forward with strangers.”

“Don’t worry about it. He said that his brother is ill? From a demon possession?”

The man’s wife comes forward and takes the child in her arms, “Yes. But we have no money to pay you, meister. We had to sell our last goat to pay Vincent’s physician bills.” 

Your expression softens, “I won’t take coin from you, even if you had it.” 

“What can we do for you, then?” The man clasps your hand. 

“Can you tell me what happened to Vincent? I’m trying to track the Demon.”

The man leans back in his chair, “Twas’ the oddest thing, good meister. We all had breakfast as usual and went to church for Sunday prayers. When all of the sudden, in the middle of the congregation, Vincent stood up. Pastor Edmund scolded the child for interrupting prayer and suddenly Vincent spoke but it wasn’t him.”

“A different voice?”

“Yes, and such a wicked voice it was, high pitched like a screaming woman’s but also deep and low like a bellowing man all at once,” the man shudders, “It spoke through Vincent, naming all these vices and sins of the villagers. Things I couldn’t even believe were true!”

“Such as?”

The woman covered the little boy’s ears with her hands and whispered, “Saying things like the ealdorman’s daughter is a fornicator, the smithee’ is mixing cheap metals into his wares so they’d break faster, the pastor steals from the benefit box to buy himself whores!”

“Those people’s faces went so ashen and white, you would’ve thought there was truth in the accusations!” The man says, “Then poor Vincent collapses on the floor and hadn’t woken up since.”

The woman shoos the little boy away, “Church hasn’t done anything to help us. The villagers outcast us, thinking we’re cursed, touched by evil. Some won’t even sell us food or goods.”

“I’m sorry,” you mean it. 

“Please, help us meister hunter,” the man squeezes your hand in his. “We know you deserve coin for your work, but we can only offer you some gruel and our roof.”

Oh, thank god. You give the first genuine smile all day, “That is all I need.” 

The family insists you stay for supper and let you eat off the best bowl they own. The gruel is watery and tastes a little bit like hay, but warms you up and invigorates you. The couple insist you eat your fill and apologizes over and over for its insubstantial nature. You reassure them of their kindness and eat with gusto. 

“What’s that mark on your face?” The boy asks. 

The couple look horrified at their child’s boldness. You laugh, “When you complete your schooling as a hunter, you pick a specialty to apprentice under. I chose demon-hunting and so, I was marked under that order.”

“Oh, so it lets you know who your friends are!”

“A little bit,” you grin. You turn to the parents, “May I examine Vincent?”

“Of course, right this way,” the wife leads you to the corner of the shack, a tattered blanket is hung across for makeshift privacy. 

The boy lies still, breathing shallowly. His temperature feels normal, albeit he’s sweaty to the touch. You touch his neck, pressing your finger gently into his flesh, his heart is beating just fine. Steady and strong. 

Hmm…

You open his mouth and take a deep breath. 

“M-meister?”

Suspicion confirmed. 

“Your son is alive and well, he’ll wake back up any day now. The demon somehow got your son to eat the Dormis sallow herb and then used it’s own magic to throw its voice into his body, making it look like he was speaking through it.”

“Oh!! So our son isn’t possessed?” The woman begins to tear up.

“Not at all.”

“And he’ll wake up? Just like that?”

“He will have a horrible headache when he does, but give him water and gruel as you would any sick person and he’ll be back to good health in a few days,” you smile. 

“Oh, thank the gods, thank the gods,” the man begins to cry. “Not even the church physician could tell us that.”

“Dormis sallow is rare and only grows in the thickest of marshes and must be harvested under a full moon for full potency,” you remark. “The church doesn’t believe in the Old Ways, I feel some knowledge has been lost to them because of this… And this demon isn’t as powerful as it’s led people to believe, but it does want you to believe it. It’s gone through great lengths and theatrics to achieve all this.” 

“But why our son?” The woman asks. 

“Only the demon knows that,” you shrug. “I’ll be back! Thank you so much for the meal, I am fully invigorated and energized to find this demon.” 

You leave the happy family to enjoy the good news in peace. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

For the most part, the other villagers leave you be, save for the occasional glare. But you had work to do. Green Orchard was had some swampy lands south of it, past the grazing grounds of the sheep. The boy’s breath had the distinct sweet, tangy sour of the herb. You had heard stories of the Dark Forest Crones kidnapping children by magicking the herb to look like gingerbread and iced buns… but this child was allowed to stay. Plenty of opportunity for the demon to snatch the kid if it wanted to eat him. Maybe it was…bored? 

You walk around the village’s perimeters, palms open, feeling the aura in the air. Nothing unusual. It had to be a lesser demon; you could barely detect any dark energy, even in the church where the demon was most bold. Not much of the demon’s motivation was clear save for being mischievous and disruptive. 

It didn’t leave any trails behind save for the distinctive smell. Even though the Pastor had the church scrubbed and removed anything it touched, the church smelt of it strongest. Unctuous like torched hair and flesh, smoky and acrid like burnt sugar, and a touch coppery and sharp like blood. 

Pinpointing a clear direction where scent comes from is difficult. The smell is diffuse throughout the entire village and slightly stronger in certain patches but with no clear trail to follow.

Hmm… time to set a trap and be done with it. You couldn’t expect the poor family to keep feeding you forever. Best to clean this up and move on. 

You eventually settle on a collapsed house not too far from the church. It stood in the corner of the village, overlooking the field where the villagers grazed their live stock.The house’s roof rotted and caved in a long time ago but part of the main ceiling beam was still intact, perfect for stringing a trap up there. You take the silver circle bracelet off your wrist and strike it against the floor. It rings thrice before expanding into a giant hoop, large enough for a big man to stand in comfortably. You expertly suspend the hoop into the air with some crafty knot-work. 

Now to camp out and wait for it. 

You build a nice fire in the crumbling remains of the house’s hearth. And just in time, the sun sets and everything is quiet, save for the crackling of the fire and the gentle baa-ing of the sheep. 

You sit against one of the house’s remaining walls and take a deep breath. Need to attract the demon. You hold your open palms upwards towards the sky and imagine disrobing. First your clothes, then your skin, then your earthly body. All of it melts in your mind. 

You open your eyes and grin. A visible aura of energy seeps from your hands, floating into the air the way aurora borealis lights ebb and flow across the night sky. You walk around the house, gently shaking your hands as you walk, “sprinkling” some of your essence here and there. 

You come to the spot beneath the ring and clap your hands together. The aura changes and drips straight downward into golden drops, soaking the dingy floor. You close your eyes and imagine walls closing inward, coming closer and closer until your chest feels tight. You can’t breathe. You can’t scream. You gasp and open your eyes, shivering. Closing off your energy was never something you were good at. 

“Alright there, love?” A voice asks. 

You start backwards, hands immediately reach for the daggers on your belt, “Reveal yourself.”

The voice laughs and the shadows of the fire grows higher and higher, “If the young meister so wishes it…”

Wind rushes throughout the ruined house, making you stagger back. The shadows climb and writhe across the walls. It congeals into a dark spot on the wall adjacent to you. A clawed hand reaches out first, then bit by bit a blood red demon climbs through. He dusts himself off and grins, flashing the sharpest fangs you’ve ever seen. He has two glowing amber orbs for eyes. Ebony horns protrude from his forehead and judging by their length… he was at least 200 years old. 

He bows with a flourish, “Junkrat, at your service.” 

You draw the daggers but relax your stance, “Are you the demon that’s been causing all the mischief here in Green Orchard?”

“Oh yes, that’d be me,” he giggles, flashing you a toothy smile. His right arm and right leg are ephemeral, like its made of black smoke. On his back, he sports a spiked black iron wheel of some sort. It floats behind him, following him as he walks. 

You narrow your eyes in confusion then recognize the handiwork, “Is… is that the Circle of Mathias?” 

“This?” He taps the wheel. “Ah yeah, marvelous handiwork. You gotta’ hand it to Mathias for knowing his stuff.” 

“That’s a circle of binding. How are you still walking?” You demand. 

“Ah well, I needed a small favor from Mathias, but you know, I can’t exactly stroll up to the man and ask him to bind me. So I had to raise hell, so to say, attract his attention and get him to bind me.”

You tighten your grip on the dagger, “Did you kill Mathias?!”

Lord and Mother help you if he did… Mathias the Unbroken was one of the most famous, if not the most famous, demon hunters of your age. People say as a younger hunter, he single-handedly took on a Fallen and wounded it before it took his eye and fled.

“Oh, heavens no,” he laughs, “But I did have to uh, sacrifice a bit o’ meself, so he’d think he got me.” He flexes his right arm. 

“You willingly let yourself be bound?” You raise a brow, walking slowly towards him.

“You see my dear, much like you, I have a hard time dampening my aura. So a little help was necessarily,” he flourishes dramatically. 

You halt. He was right. You could smell him completely, fully now, but barely felt any aura, any energy from him. You couldn’t stop yourself from gasping. The Circle of Mathias is famous for bringing down the most violent and stubborn of demons. But he, he was standing, walking with it on his back. And he did it purposefully to cover his tracks… 

“What do you want?” You take another step closer. “All demons want something.”

“All well, you see, that’s where you come in,” he walks towards you, his feet leaving singed marks as he walked, “I want you, *your name*.” 

“Wha… what?”

“Took me fucking ages to track you down, love,” he taps your nose with his flesh hand. 

You tremble as a warmth ripples through you where he touched. It was… it was pleasant.

“So you burnt down buildings and ruined people’s livestock just to attract the attention of a demon-hunter?” You shake the sensation from your head. “What? Couldn’t just have sent me a letter?”

“Eh, this is more fun,” he laughs. 

“What do you want from me?” You pull back. Just a few steps more.

“I have a proposition for you, a deal of sorts,” he steps towards you. 

“Yeah?”

“I want you to join me, and help me kill the Queen.”

You knit your brows together, “The Queen. As in the Queen of Justinia. The Queen, as in, the ruler of the five kingdoms, INCLUDING THE ONE WE’RE IN RIGHT NOW. Then Queen as in the RED QUEEN? Destroyer of the Fallen, Vanquisher of her enemies, and Rightful Ruler of men?” 

“… yeah, that one!” He smiles.

“You’re crazy if you think I’d agree to that and crazier if you think I’d make a deal with a demon.”

“Ah, well, that’s where you’re slightly, slightly wrong,” he’s dangerously close to you now. He looms over you with a shit-eating grin. Right where you want him.

You snap your fingers and step back. The silver ring snaps free of the cordage and falls perfectly around him. 

“Another binding circle?” He scoffs. “Darling, you can’t bind me. Not even Mathias could.” 

You cross your arms and mimic his tone, “Ah, well, darling, this is where you’re slightly wrong.”

He frowns. 

You smile, “It’s a transmutation circle.”

“No, wait! I-” He runs himself into the ring’s invisible wall. “*Your name* give me a chance to expl-” 

The ground in the circle glows bright and white-hot light shoots outward into the sky with a noise like a canon firing. You’re knocked back by the sheer force and you lie blinking over and over until your eyes readjust and you can see again. 

“Ugh… should’ve been more careful,” you stumble over to the circle. The circle ring had shrunk back to bracelet size with a brand-new red gem embedded in it. 

You slip it on and fall back onto the ground, exhausted. Your eyelids feel heavy and sleep begins to wash over you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

“Up on your feet, charlatan!!!” A voice commands. 

“Huh, wha-what?” You mumble as several hands grab you and pull you upright. 

Freezing cold water hits you, shocking you awake. 

“There, that sacred water should dampen its powers…” Pastor Edmund nods approvingly. 

“P-pastor? What’s going on?” You gasp. 

He glares at you venomously and you realize he’s very much not alone. Practically the entire village is there, all carrying torches, some carrying rope. 

Fuck. 

“What did I do?” 

“What did YOU DO?? You have the AUDACITY to summon a demon here!! And you ASK what you did??!!” Pastor Edmund shouts. 

“I ‘eard it!! I ‘eard all of it!!” The wood-chopper from earlier steps forward. “The demon said it was here for you, it was lookin’ for you.”

If you could roll your eyeballs into the back of your head, you would, “I didn’t summon it. The demon said-”

“Ahah! Talking to demons now, are ye? See, they admit it! They’ve been talkin’ to evil spirits!” The wood-chopper points at you. The crowd mumurs in agreement.

“Pastor, just have your church’s hunters look around. The demon is gone. I trapped it and it won’t do anymore harm,” you give your most professional tone. 

“Lies again,” Edmund hisses. “I had my hunters check and the demon hasn’t gone at all! In fact… it’s evil presence is still here. In YOU!”

“What?” You look at your bracelet. “Ah, fuck.” 

“How do you confess to this most unholy of crimes? Summoning evil and in doing do, spitting in the very face of the Lord and the Mother?”

You look at the tense crowd, at your bracelet, and the pastor and weigh your options. You look at your captors, “Nothing I say will result in me not getting hanged, huh?”

 They’re silent, looking at you with a mixture of horror and disgust. 

“I’m innocent. I did not summon any demons or consort with any evil,” you gesture emphatically. 

“The so-called demon-hunter refuses to confess and repent their sin! We must cleanse them of evil!” Pastor Edmund declares. 

The crowd roars with approval. 

He continues, “Only holy fire can cleanse us of such evil. We must burn the demon in the hunter and only then can we be free of their evil!!”

You’d cover your face with your palms if you weren’t restrained. The Pastor stirs the fear in the crowd and soon you find yourself bound in shackles in the village square. Villagers bring firewood and toss it into the growing pile that would soon be your pyre. 

You take a deep breath and look around. You can’t run, there’s 4 big men standing guard around you. The shackles around your ankle also limits you to hopping. They had taken your daggers from you so no magic-channeling. The “holy” water they threw on you was really an aura-dampening potion. Your chest feels tight and heavy, summoning energy now, especially after transmutating the demon, felt like trying to draw breath with a bear sitting on you. 

The pile grows larger and larger by the minute and the anxiety in your gut grows worst and worst. 

Free me. 

What? You blink. 

Free me. I can help.

You look down at the bracelet, feeling the gem grow hot. 

Quick, before you die and I’m trapped in this form forever. 

Should’ve thought about that being blabbin’ about wanting to find me. We’re in this mess because of you.

…really? now?

YES. REALLY. NOW. You glare at your wrist.

Ugh. Free me, *your name* and I’ll help you escape with your life. Unharmed. 

Promise? 

Know of any demon who’d break a deal?

“Up on your feet!” A guard hauls you upwards. 

You dig your heels into the dirt. You shout out loud, “Yes!! Deal!! I take the deal!!” 

“What are you raving on about now?” Pastor Edmund. 

“Come on, come on, come on. Oh gods, oh gods,” you begin to thrash as another man punches you in the gut, knocking the air out of you.

“Praying to the Old Gods won’t help you now, demon!!” The pastor shouts. 

The gem had gone cold. All calm and composure left you and you begin kicking wildly, thrashing, screaming. But too many hands are on you and restrain you. You’re tied and bound to a stake. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” tears stream down your face. Not like this. Not to fire. 

The pastor raises an earthen ware jug into the air to the cheering of the crowd, and douses the pyre, walking up and around the stacked wood until he reaches you. He spits at you, and you’re soaked in the strong alcohol and it stings your eyes, blurring your vision. 

The scene blurs into puddles of color, dotted by blinding pinpoints of torch light. 

“You fucking liar!!!” You scream, spitting the stinging alcohol out. 

Emotions flood you. You worked too goddamn fucking hard to make it here. You were nothing. An abandoned infant, another mouth your parents couldn’t feed. You were the unwanted from the orphanages and even the Order of Hunters barely wanted you. A weakling. But you applied yourself and worked your fingers to the bone. Eating, sleeping, and drinking Hunting allowed you to ascend to the highest order of hunters: the demon-hunters. And all of this ruined. Because of the poisonous fear in the heart of men. 

“Burn in hell where you belong demon,” the pastor condemns you with a single glare.

He touches a torch to the fire and the brittle wood instantly ignites. You can’t breathe. The fire climbs, creeping towards you with alarmingly speed. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the crescendo of fear swells in your chest. The crowd screams. 

“As I was saying, this is where you’re slightly, slightly wrong,” a familiar voice chuckles. “I’m not a demon.”

You look, vision still blurred by the alcohol in your eyes. The “demon” is leaning against the stake, standing perfectly in the growing flames. Mathias’s circle stands around you and the flames stand back. 

He snaps his fingers and your vision clears instantly, you can breathe and you feel your aura flowing again. With a quick swipe of his claws, you’re free. He offers you a hand to steady you and leads you off the burning pyre. The flames lick at you but they’re as soft as a baby’s touch and warm as a stove is on a cold winter’s day. The tiny, tiny bits of his aura you read from before was like a rivulet, the aura he emanates right now is a waterfall.

“Th-the demon!! It returns!!!” Pastor Edmund shrieks. “Hunters! Prepare!!” 

White and red robed hunters rush forward and hurl handfuls of salt.

“As I was saying…” he dusts the herbal sand off himself, “I’m not a demon.” 

He turns to you with a knowing smile, “I’m a Fallen.” 

“Fuck,” you mumble. 

“Alright, who wants to take on a Fallen, first?” He taunts them. “Come on, you’ll be a legend if you can even touch me.”

“What do you want you vile spirit?!!” Pastor Edmund raises a first full of salt. 

“I’m here for this one,” he pats you on the head. “Let me take one little human and I’ll spare your village.” 

“Take ‘em!!” The pastor entreats. “And begone!!” 

The Fallen chuckles and walks past the guard to the trembling pastor. He’s so tall. He leans forward and bends his knee until he’s level with the man. In a tone like a father admonishing his naughty child, he speaks, “That demon-hunter is what stands between me and your village being incinerated with every man, woman, and child burnt to cinders. I came here with the intention of luring them here and it worked. You nearly ruined it by being so inhospitable to ‘em. Then I’d be having this conversation with another old fart in another rinky-dink village.”

Pastor Edmund shakes, “You have what you want now leave!! Leave us be, evil spirit!”

The Fallen stands back up and laughs, turning to the crowd, “And you’re all just going to let this happen? I just told you this one’s innocent and you’re just gonna’ let me take ‘em.”

The crowd shuffles uncomfortably, no one speaks. 

“I’ve walked with the Old Gods and let me tell you old man, they’re still alive and they’ve not forgotten,” he hisses and every single flame, fire in the village flares. People gasp, dropping their torches to the muddy ground. 

“Just leave them, you have what you want,” you plead. 

“Oh no, they should pay,” he grows, his amber eyes darkening to blood red. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the little boy, eyes wide in horror. His parents stand behind him, hugging each other. 

“I’ll make a deal with you,” you stand between him and the crowd. 

“Oh?” 

“Don’t hurt them, and I’ll join you. I’ll join your cause.”

“….Can’t I hurt them just a little?”

“No!” You shout firmly. 

He crosses his arms huffily, but smiles widely, “Deal.” 

He extends his hand. You give one final brave smile to the young boy and grasp the Fallen’s hand. 

Light floods your vision, your throat closes up, and your ears pop. You drop to the ground, gasping for air, looking around. He had transported you both to a mountaintop somewhere. 

“Y-you couldn’t fucking.. do that earlier?” You wheeze for air.

“Ah, I had a point to make,” he shrugs. 

You punch him as hard as you can (it does nothing), “You fucking SCARED ME! I thought I was going to die!” 

“Yeah… Sorry about that,” he rubs your back soothingly. 

You involuntarily shudder, the warmth seeps into your weary bones. 

“Nice, ‘innit?” He smiles. 

“You’re a Fallen? You’ve been letting me make a fool of myself this entire time,” you shove him (it doesn’t move him). 

“Yeah, well. If I told you I was a Fallen right at the start you’d be running in the opposite direction and we wouldn’t be able to have this conversation right now, would we?” He gestures broadly at the scenery. The sun is rising. 

You catch your breath and turn to him, “Why me?” 

“Do you believe in prophecies, *your name*?”

“I believe in having enough coin for three meals a day,” you scoff.

“Humor me, love,” his tone surprisingly softens. 

“Fine… I believe in prophecies the way most people believe in the Old Gods. I respect them, but I don’t know how true they are.”

“Fine, fair enough. Well, I believe in prophecies and Yavalla the Green told me that the Queen will not fall until a Fallen and a Hunter ‘join blood and rank.’ ” 

“You… you spoke to Yavalla? Mother Earth?” You gape.

“Well, yeah,” he nods nonchalantly. 

You feel slightly more at ease. If Yavalla the Green, Mother of Earth and Creator of Man and Life itself would grant him audience and read his fate… surely there was something worth trusting in this Fallen?

“And… you want the Queen to fall, for revenge?”

She did earn the title Destroyer of the Fallen for a reason.

“For the greater good. Her intolerance is choking the earth. She’s killing the Old Ones off, bit by bit.”

“Huh, a Fallen that cares about the greater good.”

He rolls his eyes, “I’m a selfish cunt almost all the time, but I’m not stupid. With the Queen around, the lands will rot and the poison of her reign will spread until no one is safe. She’s already persecuting followers of the Old Faith.” 

You grimace, “Yeesh. Alright, fine, fine. But what does the prophecy even mean? ‘Join blood?’” 

He smiles, “Oh easy, we fuck.” 

You blink, “What.” 

“Yeah, I mean we could do it the boring way and cut our palms and shake but I asked and Yavalla said that fucking would definitely count too.”

Somehow you imagined the Elder Goddess answering that question as more of a “I guessss???” than a definite yes. 

“I… I vote for the palm cutting,” you state. 

“Oh come on, if we make out of this alive! You get to be *Your Name*, Demon-Hunter Queenslayer, Fallen-fucker!” 

“I’ll stick to the humble title of Demon-Hunter for now,” you say, sitting down. 

“Fine, fine, I apologize. I’m probably too forward,” he snaps his finger and your dagger appears in his palm. “It’s just…”

“Just?” You take the dagger. 

“Not many demon-hunters are as good looking as you,” he mused. 

“Thanks?” You find yourself chuckling. 

He draws a claw across his flesh palm and black blood oozes in the cut. You draw your dagger across your palm and red blood seeps out. 

“Deal?” He leans in. 

“Deal,” you clasp his hand. 

A strange heat spreads from his palm to yours. It travels up your arm and through your body. You feel so light and so warm. 

“How do you do that?” You ask, still holding his hand firmly.

“Do what?” He brings your hand up in his and kisses it, so softly, so gently. 

You feel it again. A ripple of warmth spreads across you. 

“That,” you’re floating. The labor of just physically existing is lifted. 

“Eh, let’s call it a bit of magic, a lot of charm, and a dash of flirting,” he gives you one wicked smile. 

Fuck. It’s working. You clear your throat and turn your head to the side, “Yeah, well nice try.” 

“I think it’s working.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“You’re still holding me hand, love.”

“…yeah well, it’s fucking cold, and you’re warm,” you retort. 

He laughs, “You asked me earlier, why you. The prophecy doesn’t specify which demon hunter. Yavalla told me I’d just know when I meet ‘em.”

“How’d you know I was the one?” You look at him. 

He darkens a few shades of red, “I… I uh, m’ chest felt funny. Like I wanted to puke.”

You laugh, heartily, genuinely, “Wonderful.” 

“And, and I just wanted to help you. It was an odd feeling,” he continues, “Like I knew you already, let we’ve met before.” 

“Huh,” you muse, not meeting his eye, feeling a heat spread across your chest. 

His stare is too intense. You already feel your heartbeat rising and one more look into those golden eyes… you’d lose it. 

“I’m not bad, you know,” he says.

You raise your brow and look at him. He looks… embarrassed, bashful even as he stumbles over his words.

“I know what they teach you, in the order, about demons and Fallens and whatnot. But I swear I’m more reasonable than that. And if there’s any habits you don’t like, I can cha-”

You can’t take it anymore. You take his face with both of your hands and kiss him soundly. By the gods, it feels amazing. Like sinking into a hot bath after a snow storm, like being cocooned in the coziest blanket, like melting into sheer, utter bliss.

He kisses you back greedily, pulling you closer and tighter into his embrace. When you two finally part, you’re panting breathless, lying in each other’s arms.

You look at him, “Fuck…That, that was a pretty good kiss.” 

“You live for a couple centuries, you pick some things up,” he kisses your forehead.

“Teach me some of them?” You murmur, running your thumb across his jaw. 

He shudders beneath your touch, “Only if you promise to listen.”

“You stay where you are and don’t you move or else I’ll blow your fucking knee caps off,” you aim your pump-action shotgun, steady and true at the intruder’s left leg. 

A tall, thin figure stands at the gate, hunching slightly. The porch lantern’s light didn’t reach out that far, but you could swear there was a soft glow coming from their head. 

No one came out here with good intentions. Especially in the dead of the night. No one but desperate Junkers that the Junkertown medics won’t touch or dying Junkers with nothing to lose. Occasionally, a mutated dingo. 

The figure emits a nervous giggle, “Darl’, I have a whole lotta’ explosives on me so unless you want a matching peg-leg, you shouldn’t shoot me either.”

You scowl. You knew that laugh. Lowering your gun and taking the gas lantern off its hook, you step forward, gravel and sand crunching underfoot, “Well I’ll be damned, if it isn’t the infamous Junkrat himself at my door.”

He spits out a mouthful of blood and gives you the brightest grin, “The one and only.” 

The gentle glow turned out to be the singed, smoldering embers of his hair. The modified bandolier he’s so famous for sporting lacks several of his bombs; in fact, he’s missing that notorious grenade of his too. The lantern’s light reveals a host of injuries: a blackened swollen eye, bloodied nose, bloody spittle dribbling from the corners of his mouth... he’s clutching his side and there’s blood, there’s so much more blood. 

“...Does the Queen know you’re here?” You grimace, turning his chin with your thumb, perusing the damage in the low light, 

“Fuck, I hope not,” he staggers, leaning against your gate. “Then again, I kinda’ left an obvious trail to follow.” 

You pause. The Queen and her goons know better than to come around here. But Junkrat had recently gone and gotten an international bounty placed on his head. You don’t need this mess right now. You turn away. 

Junkrat takes in a sharp breath, “Look, please, *your name*!”

Your eyes widen and you turn back so sharply he almost fell back. You hiss, more venomously than you realize, “How. the. fuck. do you know my real name?”

 He gulps, “Mako.”

A “tch!” leaves your lips before you could stop it.

The young Junker lurches forward, grabbing your shoulder with his free hand, “I didn’t know who else to ask. He told me about you before passing out, now won’t wake up or nothin’. Please. He’s all I got.” 

Mako Rutledge. That was a name you didn’t hear for a long time. That was a name you had hated, cursed, and spat. A name and a person you didn’t know you could forgive. His rebellion took everything from you. Your parents stood by his side and for what? An irradiated wasteland. You didn’t get to bury them. Their ashes mixed with the rubble of the Omnium and now, their crushed bones are the foundation of Junkertown. Vile fiends and murderous thieves pass over their pulverized remains everyday. Pissing, puking, shitting, fucking, and god knows what else over their remains...Over the countless remains and ashes of dozens of good people. 

But he survived. Why did he survive?

With a frustrated groan, you open the gate and stoop under Junkrat’s frame, taking his weight onto your right shoulder. 

“No, we gotta’ get to Roadie,” Junkrat cocks his head back, towards Mako’s farm. 

“No. We need to stop your bleeding first,” you push the door open with your foot.

“I’m fine,” he coughs, spraying you with his bloody spit. 

“Yeah, sure,” you lay him on your bed. You strike a match and light the gas lamp by your bedside. The gentle flickering flame make the shadows dance ominously in your shack. Thick bundles of dried herbs hung above the bed, their fragrance soothing you, focusing you. 

You pluck a broad leaf off the closest bundle and press it to the Junker’s lips.

“Chew,” you command. 

He hesitates for a brief moment but opens his mouth and takes it, making a small noise of surprise at its tastiness. 

“Move your hand, I need to see the wound,” you bring the light closer to his side. He obliges, slowly, wincing. The cut runs along his sides, but thankfully the knife seems to have glanced off the ribs. Superficial damage.  

“Some little shit had a knife, I didn’t see it.”

“And if you had seen it, you would’ve be more careful?” You raise a brow, rummaging through your med kit. 

“...well.. yeah,” he murmurs, still having enough energy to muster indignation. 

“You can spit the leaf out once it loses its flavor,” you bring the light closer, double checking a bottle’s label.

He spits it out right next to you. You make a face.

“What?”

Resisting the urge to hurt him more, you uncork the bottle with your teeth and soak the gauze, rubbing the pungent alcohol all over your hands as well. You lean in, “Ready yourself, this is going to burn.”

“Trust me, I’ve been through- FUCK!” He howls as you lay the gauze into his bloodied side.

“Shut UP before you get us killed,” you hiss. 

“Give a man a better warning next time!” He hisses back. 

“Oh trust me, the next part is going to be worst. Got any black powder?”

“Plenty, check me belt, should be a small pouch there... why?”

You wipe the gauze over the wound, removing as much of the caked on blood as you can. The air sours with the smell of coppery blood and pungent alcohol.

“We’re going to seal the wound. I don’t have a good needle or any thread to patch that up,” you rifle through his belt’s pockets, finding the pouch easily. You sprinkle the fine powder on the cleaned wound. 

Junkrat’s good eye widened in horrified realization, “Fuck... fuck. Fucking hell. No wonder no one comes out here.”

You strike a match and pause, a look of utmost frustration on your face, “Want a stick to bite on?”

“No, just-just gimme’ that,” he takes the bottle from you and takes a deep, deep swig. “Do it.”

You gently touch the flame to the black dust and it crackles, lights up, pops! Junkrat screams, his hand grabbing your forearm, his frame buckling on the bed. You wait for his thrashing to subside before grabbing fresh (well, relatively fresh) gauze to bandage the wound. 

He’s panting, swearing in between each breath. The wound looks good, the fire cauterized the cut and you could see no fresh blood seeping out.  You pluck a few more leaves from the hanging bundles and chew them into a thick paste. He sighs with relief as you spread the mixture onto his wound and a bit on his black eye.

“You’re a fucking demon that’s what you are,” he pants, taking another drink. 

You take the bottle back, “And you’re drinking all the disinfectant I have. You’re welcome by the way.” 

You soak a rag with the alcohol and begin dabbing his face. A gentle pinch of his nose bridge (he protests with a scowl) confirms it’s not broken. Thank heavens for small miracles. 

“Fuck. Mako, we need to get to Mako,” he tries bolting upright but winces at the pain, falling back down. 

“No, you need to lie down and I’ll go to see Mako... his, his farm is still in the same place, yeah?” 

“Her lackeys might be there, waitin’ for him or me,” Junkrat protests. 

“I can shoot, but I can’t babysit an injured idiot and shoot at the same time,” you adjust his pillow for him. You go to your crafting table and rummage the drawers for more ammo. 

“What’ll you do if they outnumber you?” He calls after you. 

“I can handle it. I have a few tricks up my sleeve,” you slip some homemade smoke bombs into your right pocket.

You refill your kit, throwing in another bottle of “disinfectant” and a bundle of herbs. You grab some pale pink blossoms off the potted plant on your windowsill and return to Junkrat’s side. 

“Chew and spit?” He stares at them in your palm.

“Eh, you can eat these,” you shrug. “Should help you sleep.” 

He leans over and you expect him to take the flowers in his hand. Instead he just pulls your palm in closer and laps them up with a quick lick of his tongue. You shiver a bit and feel the heat rising in your cheeks. You could swear his grin turned just a little wicked. 

Without missing a beat, you wipe your palm on your pants, “I’ll go check on... on Mako. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

The flowers are already working and he nods groggily.

Just as you turn to go, you hear him call out, “Wait... wait...”

“Hmm?” 

“Take this,” he taps his bandolier. “There’s still a couple live ones.”

You step back towards him, “Which ones?”

“These...” his good eye flutters, trying to keep open. He chuckles, “It might be the flowers...or the drink, or both, but you’re a real looker when you’re not mad at me.”

You pause briefly before unclipping the bombs and dropping them into your satchel’s side pockets. You give him the gentlest of slaps, “It’s the head injury talking. Sleep.”

You can’t tell if its the drowsiness but he leans against your hand, nuzzling into it. You lay him down gently. He’s kind of cute. When he’s not talking. 

Stocked and ready to go, you lock the door and get on your motorcycle. It’s time to pay Uncle Mako a visit. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

You stop a good hundred meters out from the edge of Rutledge’s farm. Sure enough, a bunch of the Queen’s goons were in front of the front porch, speaking in hushed voices. You chew your lips pensively. They all sport the Queen’s mark: a black armband with a crowned skull. 

“Everything’s cleared?” The center-most man asked. 

“Yeah, we checked the perimeter and everything. All of the traps are deactivated.”

“What about the porch?”

The group coughs and shuffles about. 

“...I’ll go check the porch,” a twiggy fellow approaches the porch, slowly, carefully. 

You pause, sliding a hand down into your bag. Licking your finger, you test the air. No breeze, perfect. Now, just to get closer. You creep along the abandoned shed, coming closer to the group. 

“Any minute now, Crusher,” the man in the center said. 

The tiny, wiry fellow, apparently called Crusher gave an indignant whine. You hear a click. He scampers back to the group, “Done, that was the last one.” 

You almost chuckle out loud. No that wasn’t. 

“Alright, move in, we’re gonna’ be 25 million dollars richer tonight boys,” the leader calls. He hauls his weapon upward and blasts a grenade into the door. 

Wrong move. The wooden exterior shatters to reveal a steel plate door behind. 

“Fuck’s sake, they’ll know we’re here now! Alright, bring out the big stuff.” 

A very strong-looking woman hoists a crude rocket launcher onto her shoulder. You take a deep breath, no time to waste now, so you sneak closer and closer until you are meters behind them. You strike the bomb along the dry wood of the shed, friction igniting the match-like wick tip. With a grunt you chuck it square in the middle of the group. 

“What the fuck is that?” The leader stomps towards the little thing. It’s leaking spurts of gray smoke.

Come on, come on. 

“Spread out! Someone’s here...” The leader stomps on the bomb’s wick, trying to put it out. 

Oh, bad idea, friend. The moment his boot came into contact with the bomb, it exploded into a giant plume of gray-blue smoke. The scent of burnt pine needles filled the air. Taking advantage of the situation, you dart past the group, striking another smoke bomb and dropping it in the thick of it for good measure. You step onto the porch and your finger tips scramble for the secret latch. 

“They’re on the porch! I heard foot steps!!” A voice shouts amidst coughs. 

Oh god, not like this. Come on, come on. The door slides open and a heavy hand pulls you inside. You tumble inside and spring to your feet, one of Junkrat’s bombs in your hands. 

“Long time no see *your name*,” Mako stands before you. 

“Uncle,” you nod. This. This is awkward. “How’d you know it was me?”

“There’s only a couple people who know how to make an herbal smoke bomb like that.”

“Yeah, and most of them are dead,” you couldn’t resist commenting. 

Mako’s quiet for a moment, “...yeah, how’s Jamison?”

“Jami-who?”

“Junkrat. His name’s Jamison. Jamison Fawkes.”

“...He’s... he’s one of the Fawkes’ kids?”

“The only one that survived. Doesn’t remember anything. Took me years to track him down and turns out he got himself into royal shit.” 

“Well, fuck,” you pace about a bit, “He’s uh, he’s fine. He lost a fair amount of blood but got that patched up, and he’s pretty bruised, but nothing’s broken.”

“Ah, good, good to hear,” Mako limps back. 

“What about you?” You observe his gait. 

“I’m fine,” Mako takes a seat and sighs. 

You cross your arms, and peer at him through the mask. You barely remember what he looks like without it. You were so little back then.

“You’re staring,” he remarks. 

“Yeah. Jamison... Jamison told me you’re hurt.” 

“It was that nonsense,” he gestures towards the kitchen table. “How many of them outside?”

You move towards the table, “Five. I dropped two bombs, that should be more than enough.” 

“Good,” he grunts. 

You examine the crude little darts on the table, “Barbaro sap?”

He nods. 

“Must be concentrated if a couple are enough to knock you out, Uncle,” you chuckle and immediately bit your tongue. It was so natural, so easy to talk to him. 

“Jamison overreacts. I’m fine.” 

“You can say that. Fucker staggered all the way to my place, bleeding as he went.”

Mako shakes his head.

You walk back and do a quick walk-around, “You sure you’re alright?”

“I have the worst headache on earth...probably the darts, but I’m fine.” 

He’s telling the truth. For the most part, “And the limp?”

“Hip’s killing me. I’m getting old.”

You flip open the satchel and produce a couple herb bundles, “For the pain.”

He grunts, motioning towards the kitchen. You place the bundles there, and find yourself leaning against the table. Pausing. Fists balled up.  

He sighs, “Just say it.”

You march back to him, holding back the hot angry tears that threaten to spill, “You had no fucking right to tell Junkrat about me. You’ve been dead to me ever since that day. How dare you tell anyone about me? About us?”

Mako nods, speaking softly, “I owe it to the Fawkes to make sure he wasn’t going to die. I told him to go to you.”

“I almost did it, you know?” You’re shaking. “I almost turned him away. Almost let him die at my door step” 

Mako’s quiet, before speaking firmly, “You’re too good to do that.”

You collapse to the ground, crying, “This isn’t fucking fair. Every time I put the past behind me, it fucking comes back. You come back.” 

Your tears soak the dirty, dusty floors and the sobs come out in heaves. You cry for what feels like an embarrassingly long time. Mako is quiet the entire time. Finally the sobs subside into exhausted sniffs. You’re taking deeper breaths.

“... We have probably 20 minutes before they wake up,” he gets up and opens the door. 

You mentally kick yourself for being so vulnerable in front of him and pick yourself up off the ground. 

Outside, Mako is... or rather, Roadhog, is gathering the limp bodies and piling them together. 

“Are you going to kill them?” You ask. 

“Nope, tie ‘em up and leave 'em at the gate.”

You nod, “Let the Queen kill them herself. Nice.”

“Thank you,” he grunts. 

The two of you set to quiet work. With rough cord, you secure each goon’s hands behind their back, bind their ankles together, and Mako dumps them into his motorcycle’s sidecar. 

You give him one final look, too tired to be angry. 

“Here,” he hands you a grenade launcher, “It’s Junkrat’s.” 

“I’ll... I’ll return Junkrat when he gets better. I’ll see you...Roadhog,” the name is unfamiliar in your mouth.   

He nods and you turn away. Time to get back.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You return to your shack. The sky begins to pale and brighten, foretelling the sun’s arrival. As achy and weary as you are, you can’t afford to slip up. You check the perimeter of the shack and the stone fence. No tracks, good. You push through the gates and do a quick walk-around of the shack. Only your tracks and Junkrat’s tracks where you dragged him. Very good. 

 You push the door, still locked. Sighing, leaning into the frame, you unlock the door and stagger in. The junker is still knocked out, you hear his gentle snoring. You practically collapse into the chair by the bed, letting the weapons and bag tumble to the ground with a clack and a thump. 

“Oh, Jamison,” you sigh, gently turning his head with both of your hands. 

He’s not bad to look at when he’s sleeping. His wild expression calmed and soothed by the medicinal flowers. The swelling around his black eye had gone down significantly, not bad for a night’s rest.  

“No one messes with the Queen around here, you know that,” you murmur, gently feeling the bones in his face. Your thumb pads trace the edges of his jaw, looking for bumps. Your fingers move to his eye socket: gently, gently tracing around the black eye. The herbal paste had dried and chipped off in his sleep. He’s lucky, nothing’s broken. 

He blinks and shuffles beneath your touch. You retract your hands quickly. 

“Good morning,” you clear your throat.

“‘Ow’s Roadie?”

“He’s fine. You were quite dramatic. You were far more hurt than he was.”

“But the? But he...he wouldn’t wake up, even when I punched the bastard square in the face.”

That explains the headache. 

“Yeah, tends to happen when you get shot with one of these,” you shuffle in your bag and produce a crude dart, “Careful with the tip.”

He chuckles, “Phrasing.”

You roll your eyes but allow yourself a smile, “I have something for you.”

“Hmm?”

You lift up the grenade launcher. It’s a bit worst for wear, but nothing a bit of love and affection can’t fix. 

He gives a dramatic gasp, feigning a tear wipe, “I could kiss you.” 

“You definitely could,” you nod, exaggerated solemness in your voice. 

His breath hitches for a moment, smiling at you, “Wow, you really are a looker.” 

You smile, far too much for your own liking, “How are you feeling?”

“Slept like a baby,” he grins, “I don’t know what the fuck you smeared on me but m’side feels much better.” 

“Good,” you’re smiling like an idiot. Is it because of the sleep-deprivation? It’s certainly not because Jamison, er, Junkrat is looking at you. You tell yourself it’s because of the sleep-deprivation. 

“Sorry, by the way,” he clears his throat. “I know you and Roadie have bad blood and whatnot.”

“It’s fine...” your voice softens. “Your real name is Jamison?”

He scratches his head, “Yeah, only thing I really remember from when I was younger.”

You feel something catch in your throat, something like sadness. Something like nostalgia. You lean in and take his lips in yours. You could feel him hesitate, stunned, before melting into the kiss and kissing you back, greedily. He tastes sour and fresh, like the herbs you gave him to chew. 

When you finally pull back, he has the toothiest grin on his face, “Now, what did I do to deserve that?”

“I owed you for that,” you point at his side, giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“Oh well, darl’,” he pulls you in closer, onto the bed with him. “If we’re talking about what you owe me... I’m going to need something for the disinfecting, that nose pinch, and something for leaving my poor injured self all alone last night.” 

You’re laughing fully, genuinely, the first time in a long time, “I’m sure we can think of something. And while we’re at it, you owe me for patching you up.”

He runs a rough thumb pad across your cheek, “Right, right. Does Roadie need me back soon?”

“I said I’d bring you back as soon as you get better,” you nuzzle up close to him, letting him drape his arm around you.

“Well, let’s take our time gettin’ better then, shall we?” He peppers your neck with kisses. 

You stare at the long line of people stretching out the door. The forecasters said it was going be hot, hot day and it seemed like the entire city wanted cold drinks.

“Can I get a medium taro milk tea?” The customer half-shouts. The buzz of conversation filled the air in the tiny shop.

“Of course,” you chirp happily, scribbling the order on the “medium” plastic cup. “Dairy or non-dairy creamer? What level of sweetness?”

Get a degree they said, you’ll get a better job they said. 

“Uh…. non-dairy please, and normal sweetness, oh and with mini-boba,” the customer produced their credit card. 

You hand off the annotated plastic cup to the tearista closest to you and close the transaction. 

 It had been almost 5 months since you graduated and one month since you gave up on the job search in your field. 

The milk tea job you worked as an undergraduate took you back and gave you a managerial position to boot because of your experience, but it still felt like returning to square one. You didn’t like being here. Graduating was supposed to be the finisher, the closing statement in the old chapter of your life. But student loan deferment only lasted 6 months and you couldn’t bear asking your family to foot the bill… so milk-tea it was. It’s not so bad. Just lonely. All the tea-ristas share classes and everyone got to commiserate about midterms and projects and finals. You… you’re still living in the same crowded flat trying to make it in a big city… 

“Uhm… *your name*…” one of the tearistas touched your arm, bringing you back to reality. 

You notice the sudden quiet; there’s only the gentle whir of the air conditioning unit. The line had vanished. The seated customers all had wide eyes and terrified expressions. 

It takes you a moment to realize the tall man standing before you. He stares at the drinks menu, quietly murmuring to himself. His grenade launcher rests on his shoulder, glistening in the bright sunlight. 

“Let’s see here….” he pause, rubbing a sooty thumb across his chin in deep thought. 

His enormous companion grunts. You could see the big man roll his eyes beneath the weathered mask. 

“I know, Roadie, I know, sheesh… let a man think about it will ya’?” The tall man tuts. 

You gulp. The infamous Junkrat and Roadhog stood before you. You’ve heard stories on the news of their misdeeds: murder, arson, grand theft and grand larceny...

Someone must’ve tried to make a run to the back room because before you could blink, a heavy chain whipped by you. You turn to see a panicked employee hooked back. He slams forward into counter, inches from you with a small scream, then slumped to the ground in a gasping heap, clutching at his stomach. 

Junkrat turns to face you and your staff with a toothy smile, “Ah yeah, wouldn’t try doing that if I were you, mate.” 

Roadhog shook his head and rewound his chain, huffing.  

“Alright, alright, shut up, I’ll order. You sure you don’t want nothin’?” 

Despite the mask, you could feel the glare. The older junker has his arms crossed and taps his foot impatiently. 

“Fine, but you’re missing out. This place’s got like 4.5 stars on those review sites or whatever,” Junkrat turns to you, grin on his face. 

You could feel your legs wobbling but you force a smile and cheery voice, “Welcome! What can I get you?”

“Large original milk tea, half-sweet with extra boba, darl,” he grins. 

“We use a dairy creamer in all our teas, unless non-dairy creamer is requested. What would you prefer?” 

“Whatever tastes better.”

You smile cheerily, feeling faint, “I recommend the dairy creamer, richer flavor and whatnot.”

You write the drink order out extra carefully, taking time to strike all the t’s. You place the cup on the counter and turn to your crew, pleading look in your eyes, “We have a large original milk tea, half-sweet with extra boba!” 

The tearistas look at each other and no one dare move. 

Junkrat chuckles and pats his grenade launcher, “Time is money, loves, and I hate to get apprehended before I get to drink my milk tea.” 

You looked around the shop, feeling your breathing shallow. Your team gave a small whimpering noise, and something inside you ticked. 

You turn to Junkrat and gave a small bow. You put on your best customer-is-always-right voice, “Many apologies, sir! The team is unused to performing under pressure. Your order will be out right away!” 

He cocks a quizzical brow, but lowers his weapon. 

You grab the cup, stepping over your wheezing coworker. It was like muscle memory. Grab the shaker, measure out 5 parts black tea base, 1 part dairy-creamer base, 1 part sweetener syrup. For a half sweet, adjust to 6 parts, and 1 part dairy-creamer, and 1 part sweetener syrup. Shake the tea with ice, vigorously, just like making a martini. Strain and ladle boba into the cup. Top with ice. Pour the shaken tea. Lid on and present with straw.

“Order ready! Large original, half sweet with extra boba.” 

He steps forward, tearing the straw from the wrapper with his teeth. He stabs it into the cup and takes a massive sip. Junkrat throws his head back, “Fuck that’s good!” 

You manage a weak smile. Red and blue lights streak across your vision and you hear a voice, filtered over the megaphone. 

“JUNKRAT AND ROADHOG, THIS IS THE POLICE! WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED!”

Roadhog groans, muttering to himself. Something about a stupid rat. 

Unfazed, the junker leans towards you, over the counter, “This has honestly got to be the best milk tea I’ve had in a while.”

“WE KNOW YOU HAVE HOSTAGES, WE WANT TO NEGOTIATE. WE ARE PREPARED TO PAY ANY AMOUNT.”

Without taking eyes off you, Junkrat cocks his head towards the door, “Ay, Roadie, mind telling the cops we’ll be off soon? We…” -his eyes roam over you- “..we got what we wanted.” 

The giant man walks out the door and you hear a deafening shatter. People begin screaming and you could swear Roadhog single-handedly just hooked and smashed a police car into the street lamp. 

You give a nervous smile and laugh, “Y-yeah! We make our own dairy creamer mix and soak the boba in a honey syrup. Makes… makes it tastier that way.” 

“The half-sweet is just right. Not many places get it right,” he keeps looking at you. His eyes bore into you and you feel naked, exposed.  

“I get that,” you keep grinning nervously, feeling your cheeks flush, “sometimes it’s too sweet to be half-sweet. Sometimes it’s like…watered down milk tea.”

 He leans in closer, and you find yourself not pulling away. You’re close enough you can see the soot and ash baked into his skin. You can see the singed edges of his hair, see the glowing edges where it’s actively burning. He smells smoky with an unctuousness of burnt rubber and much to your surprise, he’s sweet the way gasoline smells sweet. 

“Come with me.”

You blinked, “Wha?”

“Come with me,” he extends his hand to you. 

Courage surged through you, “If… If I come with you, will you promise not to hurt anyone else here?”

“Course, darl,” there’s a gentleness in his voice. He’s coaxing you. You know it. He patiently sips his drink, waiting for an answer.

You give one final brave, smile to your staff, helping up the tearista on the floor, “Uhm… uh, be good everyone. Pleasure working with you all.”

You unclip your name badge and grasp his hand. Electricity surges through you, you feel free. He helps you up and over the counter and next you know you’re walking into the scorching outside. Sweat immediately beads on your forehead.

You throw your hands in the air, “Stop! STOP! He’s letting everyone go!!” 

Roadhog pauses mid-punch. The  police officers straighten up from behind their cars. One shouts through the megaphone, “STOP OR WE’LL SHOOT! JUST DROP THE WEAPON AND LET THE HOSTAGE COME FORWARD.”

You halt right at the doorway, frozen in fear at the number of guns pointed at you… or rather in your direction.

Junkrat emerges next to you and practically snorts, “Can’t do that mate, also something tells me you won’t shoot, not with this lovely civilian next to me.” 

The officer points at him, confidence in his voice, “That’s where you’re wrong. We have trained snipers! Now… let the civilian walk forward…” 

Roadhog drops the poor sap he’s been punching and turns. Unusual, the police officers don’t usually break out the snipers this early, but then again there was that massive 25 million dollar bounty placed on their heads a few continents back.

Junkrat runs a hand through what hair he has left and chuckles, “Nah, nah Roadie, I got this.”

The cop is looking at you, motioning for you to come forward. You’re rooted in place. Not from pain, not from danger. But fear of losing your chance. He’s your chance. This is it. This is the only time in your life you’ll be able to escape. To leave. 

You turn to Junkrat. Eyewitnesses that day would swear to the media that the poor hostage had a look of utmost desperation and horror in their eyes. But Junkrat knew otherwise.

“Right,” he softly murmurs. He steps forward, closing the distance between you. 

“STOP RIGHT THERE OR ELSE WE’LL SHOOT!” 

Before you knew it, the junker loomed over you and his hand closed around your throat. Keeping a firm, but gentle grip. In his right hand, he produced a terrifying looking explosive, “How about you stop, or else we’ll blow this poor thing up to bits.”

The officer stopped for a moment, an unmistakable breaking in his voice, “The sniper is trained to hit marks within an inch. GIVE UP! We have you surrounded.” 

Roadhog shakes his head. 25 million dollar bounties could make people do crazy things but come on. These guys are supposed to be professionals. Where were these guys getting trained? Hostage 101, do not escalate the situation. But then again, Rat was being unusually calm. 

Junkrat pulls you closer, you can feel the heat emanating off his skin, “Willing to bet an innocent bystander’s life on that?”

The officer pauses for a bit.

“Tell you what, mate,” Junkrat drops the explosive at your feet (eliciting a gasp from the officers), “We’ll be going now, and this precious sweetheart is coming with us. Call it uh… shit, what is it called again, Roadie?”

Roadhog grunts.

“Ah! Right! Insurance… call it insurance!” He produces a remote trigger from his pocket and wiggles it at the policeman, red button gleaming tauntingly. “Let me and Roadie go, give us, ehhh let’s say and 3 hour head start and no harm will come to hostage.” 

The officer grits his teeth, his hand shoots for the radio at his hip. 

In a moment of inspiration you start crying. Years of customer service taught you how to fake a smile and a chipper attitude. It’ll help you now. You struggle against the junker’s grip, pleading, “I don’t want to die!! Just give him what he wants!! For the love of god! Listen to him!!!” 

Junkrat grinned, trying to stifle a giggle, “Ya’ heard ‘em. Now, move before I paint the road red with both our guts.” 

You keep at it, laying the desperation on thick, “Please!!! My coworker’s in the shop and he’s injured! Let them go or else he’ll die!!” 

The junker shrugs, “Ya heard ‘em mate… clock’s tickin’.”

The officer furrows his brow before finally speaking into the microphone, “Stand down. I repeat stand down.” 

“Alright, plug your ears darl’ this is gonna be loud,” Junkrat stoops down and scoops you up in one fluid motion.

You watch the officer’s face contort in a scream and then nothing but bright white. A deafening bang destroys your ears, and you’re sailing. The scream in your throat doesn’t even make it out, but you grip onto him tighter, digging your nails in. 

He rolls as he lands, protecting you in his embrace. You’re a bit smoky, but unscathed. Your ears are still ringing and the vertigo from the sudden launch is making your vision spin.

A rough hand hoists the both of you up and you feel motion again. This time you’re being propelled forward. 

“Damn shame you didn’t get to try that milk tea, Roadie,” Junkrat positions you more comfortably in the sidecar, gently moving an arm or a leg there. 

The older junker grunts, “Don’t like it.”

You whizz through the city, past your old college, your old haunts… this, this was it. There’s no going back. 

The sound of sirens wailing pulls you out of the haze. The younger junker, the infamous Junkrat, pulls out his grenade launcher and began loading a fresh clip of bombs. 

The grenades launch forward with a ga-thunk! and the cars swerve to avoid them, losing speed in the process. 

“Had enough of Junkrat and Roadhog, yet??”