#rockscanfly

Lúcio flexes his arm, hand balling into a fist. Hana giggles at his exaggerated smirk, hiding her mouth behind her hand. It’s a good likeness. “I think someone just left me an invitation,” Lúcio explains, without explaining much of anything. Especially how the prospect makes his blood thrum at the challenge.

When Doomfist and Reaper made their stunt-worthy exit from Unity Plaza that afternoon, Lúcio thought that could be the last he would see of them, unless 76 decided to extend an olive branch while the DJ was still in town. That was unlikely, from what Lúcio gauged of the stern, proud soldier.

Lúcio wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Girl, we talked about this when I last saw you in London – Vishkar, the amplifier.” Lúcio had waved over his shoulder when the call came in, as though to gesture at all the things he’d resigned to leave with Rio when he went on tour. “That’s all done. I’m helping people another way now.”

Lena steamrolled on with her encouraging, sunny smile. Shrugging, like she was asking him to ‘pop down to the shops for some milk, luv’. “You’d be in our backlines as support,” she had said, “If anyone catches this on video, you’d be well out of range.”

Out of range? “You expecting a fight? I thought you said this was just an escort. And why can’t you hire private security for this?”

She hummed in consideration. “No, it’s sensitive, we are the security. And I meant… more if you were worried about a media storm. You have some big names backing you. But fire fights, too, right!”

Okay, he hadn’t specifically mentioned guns, but it was good to know where Lena’s head was at.

Lúcio snorted under his breath and smiled, calm and confident. “I’m not worried about any media. After Rio, people know what I stand for.”

Lena’s shifty look was slightly bashful while she bit her lip. Was she embarrassed? “Well… perception is reality, is what they say. And we’re still sort of… persona non grata. People infer a lot by the company you keep.”

“Hey. Hey. I could never be ashamed of being seen with you. Ace pilot. Fighter for the people. Doesn’t even cheat on races. I don’t shun my friends like that.”

Lena had brightened, leaning into the camera with an excited smile. “So, you’ll come? Just this once, I promise. We could really use your help, if it doesn’t disrupt your schedule. And you can wear a disguise… all mysterious-like if it’s easier. Talk to your agent.”

“Oh I will definitely not be telling them about this.”

But three months later, Lúcio was still riding with Overwatch and his agent was still wondering why Lucio had such a large allotment of free time that was originally slated for charity work and promotions. Volunteering is how he thought of it, as Lena had apologised they couldn’t pay him for his time. Lúcio wasn’t in need of the money, and he thought of all their strange security details as work to help a friend short-handed.

His agent would have had his head if they knew how he was ‘wasting’ his time.

And sometimes, Lúcio did wonder what was really going on – why specialists and scientists as overqualified as former Overwatch personnel were protecting a film director from fears of anti-omnic violence through a Hollywood set. But it was no grief to volunteer his time and abilities to heal their minor hurts and speed up their ventures (“I knew you brought that thing with you!” Lena had crowed when Lúcio had turned up with his sonic amplifier slung over his shoulder). He genuinely enjoyed their company: Jesse had a dry, wicked sense of humour; Lena always made him smile; Winston was patient and pleased that someone was interested in his inventions; and when Hana showed up, Lúcio was starstruck. It was also the first real sign that he wasn’t the only favour Overwatch was calling in: they were recruiting fresh blood.

He’d tried playing ignorant before, and it hadn’t ended well for Rio.

Then Soldier 76 turned up with Ana at his side. Old soldiers. Lúcio could see it in the way they carried themselves, their direct and confronting manner, accustomed to authority and sharp, considered answers. A heavy, weary quiet preceded each room they entered like an augur of grief. The hysterical reaction to their appearance had been enough to humble Lúcio into a quiet corner to observe, until those two elders had turned to Overwatch’s newest recruits and asked, “And who is this?”

They had returned to lay Numbani on the table and ask for help: a supposed ceasefire to a war Lúcio didn’t even realise was raging. A chill ran down his spine when he heard the name ‘Doomfist’, and he had said ‘yes’.  

It was fair time he learned what was really going on.

And of all Overwatch’s roster, Lúcio didn’t expect to be the one receiving a personal follow-up invitation. Or was it a challenge?

Hana takes the tiny container again and holds it up to the light, frowning. "So, you gonna call them?”

Lúcio shrugs, tracking the arcing glints of light off the clear glass as Hana turns it over under the pale bulbs of their hideaway. “Might drop in.”

“You can do that?”

“Who’s gonna stop me?”

It’s Hana’s turn to look skeptical, amusingly so. She thrusts both arms out to enframe the command room of agents before them, new and unfamiliar, and none the wiser for their scheming. Hana and Lúcio are both new to this strange organisation. It’s easy to bond over their youth and mutual celebrity when it’s earned them skepticism from these seasoned soldiers, scientists and… whatever McCree is.

Overwatch has co-opted this stationery re-supply store as their command centre in Numbani’s office precinct. For children who grew up hearing the legend of Overwatch and its agents, it’s sobering when they meet the shadows of its remains within abandoned buildings, reclaimed bases and crowded hotel rooms. The whole experience has been insightful: for all their humour and abilities, these people scramble to organise, and argue like every other group Lúcio has ever worked with. They’re just ordinary people.

They have more resources than Lúcio ever did when he and his crew led Rio against Vishkar, but his crew was tight. They were truly unified in common purpose.

Lena and her friends feel like they’re working from contract to contract – scattered, directionless, and united on hope for a mission nobody will speak aloud. Unstable grounds for trust or unity.

He swipes the container back from Hana, flipping it like a coin. “They’d just slow me down.”

Anyway, Lúcio is finding it hard to keep a low profile with his face plastered on banners through the whole city. At least he’d have an explanation for being seen in the streets. He reminds himself he’s only here as a favour to Lena, with his next concert not for another two days.

Hana leans in, crowding close against his shoulder. Sharing a desk in the back corner of the largely empty space, they are only half-listening with everyone else to Winston’s explanation of the storeroom of peanut butter unearthed that morning.

“Want back up?” Hana offers quietly, hopeful, angling for a cure to her boredom, but Lúcio smiles, shaking his head.

“I got this.”

///

Once he’s back in his hotel room, it’s a simple process to contact the world’s most accomplished hacker: a scrambled email to one of three watched inboxes, and then sitting back to wait. The only challenge is in earning their acknowledgement.

The video call comes less than ten minutes after Lúcio hits ‘send’.

Sombra’s face lights the heads-up display of Lúcio’s phone with her mischievous smile. Lúcio counts himself extremely lucky he gets a response each time he has reached out, that he is one of the few people in the world who knows the face behind the name. He has used her trust sparingly.

Sombra’s sing-song greeting makes him smile. “Ay, Lucito-oo-oo! La lucecita de mi noche!”

“Hola, Sombrita.” Lúcio winks, bringing up the high resolution scan and analysis of the tracker he had found tacked to his boot.

“Vishkar? Atlas? Who are we stealing from to–” Sombra’s gaze turns to the incoming image on her side. “Ooh.”

Lúcio watches her face carefully. “You lose something?”

Expression morphing to one of cooing appreciation, Sombra’s mouth purses in pleasure. “Mm, the detail on this: ‘exquisite’ as my friend would say.”

She laughs like it’s a shared private joke. Lúcio can’t help returning the smile, shaking his head. Sombra could never refrain from praising her own work, and he enjoys that about her. She is accomplished and deservedly proud of it.

On again, off again acquaintances, Lúcio hopes today that Sombra is on his side.

“A big guy from a bad place stuck this on me earlier today. What do you know about that?”

Sombra’s mouth pulls in a shrug, head tilted in consideration. “He’s not that bad.”

He frowns. Not that bad? Doomfist? The Scourge’s successor?  “What makes you say that?”

“He pays me.”

Lúcio blinks, mouth falling open. Sombra… and Doomfist? His brain feels like it has split down the middle. He leans in to his monitor. “You’re working with Talon? ¿Lula, en qué pensabas? ¿No sabes quién es? ¿Sabes las cosas que hizo?”

That went against everything she was supposed to stand for! She was supposed to be independent like him! Sombra was supposed to fight for the people, not… work with the people who would destroy them!

Sombra’s playful smile sharpens like the glint of a blade, a reminder that him she will cut him loose and scour all evidence of their bond without a second thought. He clenches his jaw under the intensity of her warning gaze that bores into him through the display.

“Name me 'squid’ again, Lucero,” she dares, cool and tempered. “You called me. You want answers, you mind your mouth.”

He rankles at the butcher of his name, biting down on the aggravation lest Sombra feed on his reaction.

She points off-screen presumably where Lúcio’s tracker displays on her side. “His name is ‘Doomfist’, you already know. He ordered a set of these; a lot of interesting people passing through Numbani these days.” She straightened in her chair, turning idly on its axle to provide her full attention. “I heard your talks were interrupted.”

“Yeah.” Lúcio deflates with a scowl, still stung with disappointment. He thought there were good odds Sombra would have intel on his mark, but not that she would be working with him, consciously and voluntarily.

“Well, if you’re interested, I think it’s worth hearing what he had to say. If I turn it back on, that tracker works both ways, you know.”

He didn’t even have to ask. Sombra may be one of the greatest founts of knowledge on the planet, but Lúcio wonders if she realises her own weaknesses? She could never resist a chance to close the social gap, bring the mighty low. If she was not stepping to protect Doomfist, then the man had not earned her complete loyalty yet.

Lúcio tries not to smile, cringing instead and affecting self-doubt.

“You mean– me? Talk to… him?”

Sombra shrugs. “Why not you?”

He can’t help showing her offer for what it was. “Sounds like a trap.”

“If you’re part of Overwatch, maybe. Or you could use your independent status to do something useful.” She raises her hand and, in a few blips of lavender, the heads up display blinks. A new window pops up with a street map of Numbani. In the heart of the residential district across the city, a red icon blinks, strong and steady.

Using his independent status.

“Like you?”

Sombra shakes her head, dismissing it immediately. “I don’t make house calls.”

Lúcio studies the red blink of the icon, considering his options.

“Is he alone?” he finally asks.

“He is.” Sombra leans in, the glint in her eye turning coy. “Don’t overstay your welcome.”

Lúcio smiles at the overt suggestion in her tone. “Still looking out for me? Watch your own back, Hermanita.”

She clicks her tongue, giving him a sharp wink. “Still older than you.”

The call disconnects.

///

-Present day-

Lúcio’s arrival is heralded by the strange sound of his skates, an electro-mechanical whir that always made Akande wonder how the DJ could achieve stealth if he even tried.

Today, stealth is not the priority.

“Coming in over the wing, open the doors.”

Lúcio maneuvers through the narrow gap of the rear cargo bay doors without breaking his stride, swinging down from the roof and and inside through one fluid motion. Akande’s palm slams the controls, and the door begins to seal behind him.

Before the door is entirely shut, Lúcio is already descending the ship’s stair, not sparing Akande a second glance. It stings, but there are greater concerns on Akande’s mind, too.

“Where is she?” Lúcio demands, catching sight of Sombra’s prone form in the same breath. He bolts across the short bay and drops to his knees, swinging the pack off his back. “Ay, Sombra! ¿Soy yo, Lúcio, puedes escucharme?” The caricature of Muiraquitã on his pack immediately begins to soothe with a familiar healing song as the audio medic digs in his bag for supplies, and glances back to Akande hovering uncertainly by the stairs. “Get over here, I need your help.”

“What should I do?” Akande kneels beside him, reaching again to apply pressure on Sombra’s wound.

Sweat beads on Lúcio’s hairline, he must have pushed hard to get here so quickly. His eyes are intent on Sombra’s wound while he lifts Akande’s hand to take in the damage. “Shut up and follow my lead.”

Sombra does not respond to the motion of Akande nor Lúcio crowding around her, to the pressure of Lúcio pressing Akande’s hands back with fresh bandages, or the jerk of her body when Lúcio cuts her jacket open to check for further wounds.

“¿Sombrita?” Lúcio calls sharply, firmly patting her cheek when she still doesn’t stir. Sombra’s head lolls to the side and Lúcio curses, pulling from his bag what Akande recognises as a scanner and one of the battery packs for his sonic amplifier. It sloshes with a rich gold liquid. “Okay, wound’s clear but her color is bad,” Lúcio says, drawing Akande’s attention back to his stern expression searching Sombra’s face, so keenly focused in his work. “We’re going to close this up, and then I need your help administering a transfusion; she needs blood.”

Akande nods without hesitation. “I am a universal donor.”

“I know,” Lúcio mutters, attention focused on calibrating another tool Akande does not recognise, something that looks like a thick, elaborate pen ending in a round, tapered point. Plugging its cabled extension into his battery pack of golden liquid, it lights up with an ethereal humm. Lúcio pulls Akande’s hand away and holds the edges of Sombra’s wound apart. Golden mist threads from the hand-held device into the red cavity of her flesh, and Akande watches the wound knit back together before his eyes.

He has seen many miracles in his lifetime: from his own augmentations to the jewel of Numbani rising against the African sun, but witnessing the technology of the world-renowned Doctor Ziegler never ceases to inspire awe in him. It has a finesse that his own scientists haven’t yet achieved. Those patents, those raw tools… are worth a lot of money.

The battery back is barely tapped when the pen eclipses with a soft, high note, signaling its work complete, and Lúcio turns up the volume on the song from his pack, diving back inside. Akande offers his arm, holding the bag open with his free hand as Lúcio searches, pulling out the administration set and a pack of alcohol swabs.

“When this is done, you’re gonna explain what the hell happened here,” Lúcio growls, powering up the equipment and watching its readings before reaching for Sombra’s bared inner arm. The administration set includes a scanner that reveals the line of her veins in glowing blue tracks beneath the skin. Sombra doesn’t react when the needle sinks in and Lúcio reaches for Akande’s arm next. “I need you to stand as I give her fluids. Let gravity do its work, yeah?”

Lúcio’s assertive beside manner is reassuring and directs his focus. Akande obeys without a second thought, without even questioning if kneeling from his angle with his height provides enough downward flow or if maybe Lúcio just wants Akande to step back and give him some space.

“Hold this.”

Akande dutifully takes the clear bag of fluids and watches the intravenous line sink into his agent’s other arm. It occurs to him this is the first time he’s seen Lúcio perform his role of an audio medic. Lúcio is focused, methodical and gratefully calm under pressure.

That he was on the verge of tears not half an hour ago, feels like some other world’s reality.

“You’re good at this,” Akande murmurs.

“Had a lot of practice because of people like you,” Lúcio says, taping down the IV line to keep it steady and from falling out. Again, he doesn’t bother glancing Akande’s way.

“Don’t pity Sombra. She’s capable and proud of who she is.”

Finally Lúcio looks at him. His glare is venomous and tempers the warmth spreading in Akande’s chest. “She’s bleeding out on your floor, is what she is, Akande.”

Why is it that it only feels like Lúcio says his name when he’s unhappy? Akande scowls and nods back to Sombra. He needs to redirect their focus.

“How do you know her?”

“We have similar interests.” Lúcio snorts a laugh under his breath, studying the readings from another scanner he runs the length of Sombra’s body. “Or, I thought we did. Then she started working with you.”

Akande refrains from pointing out Lúcio’s own hypocrisy. Working together. Sleeping together. Which was worse?

“Thank you for coming,” Akande says.

Lúcio’s retort is instant. “I didn’t do it for you.”

Akande bites the inside of his cheek, stifling a sigh. What else can he do? “Will she be all right?”

Lúcio shrugs with a shake of his head, setting the scanner down by Sombra’s side, now monitoring her vital signs. It beeps with the slow rhythm of her heart rate. “Now we wait.” From his kneeling position, he cranes his neck to meet Akande’s eye far, far above him. “Good thing you’re so big. She might need a large transfusion.”

“Take what you need.”

“Count on it.” Lúcio’s jaw clenches, eyes returning to his patient while he cushions her head with his folded up jacket. And Akande believes in the moment that his former lover would gladly take the excuse to bleed him dry.

‘Former’… so soon, so soon. So bitter, Lúcio.

Clank.

Akande’s eyes leap to the ceiling of the airship. “What was that?” He lowers on his haunches, instinctively sinking into a battle ready stance.

It sounded like something hit them. Or landed.

Lúcio is already climbing to his feet, watching Sombra as though she will flatline without his attention for a bare moment. His eyes raise to Akande as he backs up towards the main ramp and his bloodied hands lift in appeal. “It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay, don’t move.”

Akande’s hackles raise at the sense of imminent threat prickling the hairs on his neck. A low growl escapes his throat at the attempt to mollify him, and the arm infusing Sombra with life-giving blood clenches to a fist, his other hand holding the clear bag of fluids against the needle firm in his arm. “What have you done?”

He watches Lúcio reach back and slap the control releasing the main ramp. The warm sea breeze rushes in, thick and humid.

“Not everything’s up to me, okay?”

He hears the easing whine of jetpacks before the figure drops from the sky like a comet of azure, wings arched, shoulders broad and proud. The surrounding pillars tremble with the force of their landing, one knee planted in the ground. They are gilded head to toe in thick armour that gleams, piercing in its polish under the early morning sun.

Akande scowls at the sharp, dark eyes that find him under the helm of their golden beak. He shifts minutely to place himself between this new threat and his fallen agent.

“Helix International,” he grinds his jaw, shaking his head. He would recognise that flight suit anywhere. “Lúcio. You do have friends in all places, don’t you?”

Lúcio does not reply and Akande does not look his way as the newcomer rises to their feet and climbs the ramp, slinging a short cannon in their arms.

“Akande Ogundimu,” the woman declares in that same tone Akande has heard from countless authorities who failed to pen him in over the years. But her scowl is fierce, her eyes hard as diamonds, and if Akande was not hooked up to a needle, he would relish the challenge of that cannon being leveled at his chest. “I am Captain Amari of Helix International Security. By the authority of the United Nations, you are under arrest for violating the terms of your sentence. You’re coming with me.”

—————————–

past that it forgets it’s supposedly a ghost/horror/creepy story and thinks it’s a love story. (which at the end the show tries to say that love stories and ghost stories are the same thing, which does not work for me.) and i kind of hate to say that, bc jamie and dani are super cute and its nice to see them work through their various crap and become a couple and get married - sorry, form a civil union bc apparently it was too much work to shift around the timeline so that they could get married - and also hannah and owen are amazing together and their story broke my heart and i’m so fucking mad that hannah died the way she did.

like, there’s good things to the story but ... it’s weird that it does better with 2/3 love stories for the “present day” characters, than with being creepy, unsettling, or scary. the writing is. well. not great, and it spends an entire episode telling us what happened - in black and white, because how else would we recognize the distant past? - via narrator when if they’d just skipped the narration the story could have almost spoke for itself. like! i’m not against the idea of narrators! sometimes stuff has to be told! but you don’t have to repeat ‘the ghost slept. the ghost woke up. the ghost walked the same path again’ over twenty times in an episode to get a point across of things repeating.