#thescienceofstardust

Kiriko kicked herself for having gotten involved without any backup. She had thought she could take them--there were only three of them. She took out two before they even knew she was there, but the third one had come prepared with a sticky bomb.

She hadn't known the Hashimoto grunt even knew where she was. He must have followed the trajectory of her kunai and thrown blindly. He got lucky, but luck was enough. Kiriko couldn't even register what the thing he threw was before it was exploding glue everywhere.

She tried to teleport, but she couldn't move freely enough to do the gesture required. She struggled against the glue using all her strength, but it was useless.

"I knew you Yokai would show up eventually," said the Hashimoto. "I figured this would do the trick. I was right." The muzzle of the Hashimoto's gun tipped her chin up and she was forced to look at him. She glared. He wasn't anything special. She could take him if she could just move.

"How many of those have you got?" said Kiriko. She didn't really think it would work, but she had to try to talk her way out of it. "I could buy them off of you."

"No way," he said. "I was sitting here hoping you'd show up. You're my ticket to the top. Well..." He cocked his gun. "Your body, anyway."

                            “ working under the name of SCIENCE does not dictate MORALITY , but rather the notion of the UNFATHOMABLE despite the COST . “

some  things  stuck  out  harder  than  most  in  their  intrepid little  gorge,  where  the  main  color  scheme  was  that  of  rocks  and  dry  air.  ashe  was  found of  much  of  the  ramshackle  country  standard  in  which  most  of  them existed,  though  the  clubhouse  was  so  impeccably  clean  it  stood  out  like  a  beacon  in  the  middle  of  the  small  town  the  deadlock  gang called  home.  that  was  the  only  thing,  though,  that  really  every  stood  out  (apart  from  ashe’s  shock  of  white  hair).  things  were  ever  the  same  and  orderly.  she  ran  a  tight ship  and  that  meant  that  nothing  could  catch  them  by  surprise,  basically  ever.

                                        except,  well...  her. 

ashe finds  the  woman  in  their  diner  to  be,  frankly,  alarming.  impossibly  tall  with  a  shock  of  hair  brighter  than  any  sunset  she’d  seen.  she  definitely  sticks  out  here,  and  with  the  way  those  eyes  look-  she  could  only  bring  trouble and  mischief.  as  a  rule,  ashe  didn’t  like  to  accept  help  from  strangers,  even  if  the  help  meant  she  could  get  rid  of  the  fever  and  infection  that  had  been  nagging  her  for  nearly  a  week. 

              “ 𝐢𝐬  𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞  𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠  𝐢  𝐜𝐚𝐧  𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩  𝐲𝐚  𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡,  𝐨𝐫  𝐚𝐫𝐞  𝐲𝐚  𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞  𝐭𝐨  𝐨𝐨𝐠𝐥𝐞? ”

                      Despite his age, the astrophysicist begins to find himself subjected to an astonishing degree of harshness during his so-called training sessions– the excuse being that his classification would demand additional resiliency on his part, or so they had told him. His latest session had included an impromptu round of hand-to-hand combat with the Widowmaker, to 'see what he knows'-- only to find out he knew very little, when a particularly aggressive palm strike is delivered to his temple.

Thankfully, he’s alert and conscious, which was good, considering how disoriented he’d become– but he doesn’t quite respond to anyone as his chaperoning Enforcer swiftly escorts him from the training hall to abandon him in Moira’s custody. Not until he’s absolutely alone with the doctor, perched atop her examination table with the upper half of his jumpsuit unzipped and haphazardly tied around his narrow waist to allow her access to the bumps and scrapes of his latest thrashing. Aside from a little trauma to his eye socket and split lip, the worst of his injuries are only his sprained knuckles for a change, thanks to the session ending prematurely.

                         “-- I am doing my best to adapt to this.” SIGMA murmurs in a quiet, apologetic tone– however, with the acrid stench of sterility suffocating him while she looms above, he won't meet her gaze.

@thescienceofstardust

Shoulders hitching up, head ducking down; Cole pushes out an exhale mild and slow. It sends the mottled skin on his face into a ripple; a stinging wave of yellow-edged blues morphing into over-swollen purples.

"I've had worse." Mullishly said, but honest - not exactly a dismissal. Wary eyes flit past that purplish thread of vein crawling down her arm to her heterochromics. He smiles, grim-humored. Iron flavors his mouth.

Widowmaker had been taking leave. Not after every mission, but often enough that she knew it was starting to get suspicious, so she started leaving without permission. Sombra especially was a nosy little degenerate, and she didn't need Talon involved. What Widowmaker decided to do with her free time was no one's business but her own.

Besides, the "what" could get her into huge trouble. If Talon thought her programming was starting to fail, if she were reverting, they would take her off duty. She honestly didn't care about the possibility of the brainwashing process being repeated--how could it hurt her now when she was already such a monstrous thing? What she cared about was losing her opportunities to kill. Killing was the only thing that gave her life meaning.

At least, it was supposed to be the only thing. Recently, something had changed. Maybe her programming was starting to fail, not that she would ever let Talon know. Something else had started to make her feel almost, not quite, alive.

That girl. Tracer. She started as an obstacle; she became an amusement. Widowmaker liked to watch her. If anyone found out, it was merely to gain information on one of Talon's most prolific enemies. In actually, Widowmaker was quietly contemplating how the girl made her feel.

She kept Widowmaker's interest. Few things could do that. That, most of all, was why this fascination had to be kept a secret: Talon could take her away.

She was returning from one of these illicit trips to indulge her secret vice. She came in through the window of her room. A long-buried memory surfaced, faint, but familiar. A teenaged Amélie sneaking out at night to see people she liked who her conservative family did not approve of. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. The more things change, the more they stay the same.