#war m

he didn’t wait for a draft. he enlisted, as soon as he could, began his training immediately. he shot for general, from the first step he took in the recruitment office, answered their questions with answers that made their stiff lips twitch up in almost a smile, walked the halls with his back ramrod straight and lifted his weapon with precision that came from training for hundreds of hours before even enlisting. he did exactly what he was told, and he did it well.

if not for the injury, he would have been able to rise in combat. if not for the injury, he would have been so much more.

but he was injured. not severe enough to discharge him, but enough he was placed on desk-duty. executions. threshcutioner vantas, work that stalled his career and saved no dignity in his personal life, though on paper it was the most humane position he could be given.

he stalled. he was empty. his dream, his ambition, the only one he had, was gone. where before he was climbing ranks from digging trenches to leading small battalions, taking over entire coastlines or cities, now he had to bow to the whims of a cultist clown, who referred to his career as a stint in the military. he wanted to kill them all, but he couldn’t.

he couldn’t even hope to rise.

stalled in a system only keeping him alive out of nostalgic appreciation of his abilities, he was left to thinking much more than before. left to wondering. he heard the snickered insults the other trolls, those still in active duty, would whisper, just loud enough for him to hear, what a useless blue. he should do the empire a favor and end it.

he became bitter. he became resentful. he felt heat under his skin and bile in his throat, and had to clench his teeth to keep his no-longer useful shouting at bay, to stop from slamming them to the wall and snarling I gave sweeps of my life doing more than you’ll do in yours! I’ll fucking kill you! 

he hated them. hated the system. hated how every clerk at his work, every single troll he interacted with, was either being killed before him or acting like doing their motherfucking duties was a public service and they were unpaid stewards of the common good. I gave my fucking life to this godsawful planet, look me in the eyes!

rage burned hot in his stomach, a heavy coal that made him stomp and bare his teeth at anyone who looked at him twice, made him vengeful. how dare they, tossing him aside, letting him rot? how dare they deny him the reparative operations to let him return to work. tell him they’re for generals. you can’t just ignore me.

the empire is a many-limbed beast, with organs on the outside and a wide open throat, and he knows the paths to take to reach it. he knows what he can do. the rebels, the small, weak group of trolls about his age daring to try and instate a tyrian of their personal choice, to create some facsimile of democracy, take him in with open arms. we can’t give you the operation. we don’t know how. but you can tell us what to do, and when the empire is ours, you’ll be the general.

he was conscripted before he even pupated, picked for being large and obedient, placed into fast-lane schoolfeeds to give him more time to train. with no mental abilities beyond a knack for mathematics, he had to work twice as hard, or, at least, he told himself that. better to be even stronger, he thought. strength and stamina would win, eventually, over will and cleverness.

he earned his face quickly, a new mark for every broken nose, a new shape for every dislocated jaw. when he could defend himself, he earned them even faster.

the war was brutal; it was war. he wished he could forget it, but the fact that his fleet was full of voodoo users prevented it, beyond the church doctrine forbidding it. he prayed forgiveness for wanting to forget. he prayed to forget anyway, hoping that as some small boon he might be given the ease to sleep without dayterrors and visions of his friends as they passed.

knowing they would go to an endless carnival didn’t help when he remembered them beg him not to let them die. the users sharing his sleeping block would force him to dream with them, even when he didn’t otherwise.

he never intended to take the throne; never angled for anything, after he was put in reserve, but to stay there, and keep patching the walls, and keep following the scripture as it was laid out to him. never intended to do much more than hope he either died young or lived long enough to forget.

there’s a saying among clowns, plans for anything are plans for tragedy; it’s melancholy, and he never ascribed to it, but it was true. the highblood took an interest in him; something about reminding them of themself when they were his age, and called him their usurper before he even managed to meet them, before his faulty prosthetic would let him finish kneeling.

what? he tried not to sound as angry as he was. I-I don’t, I don’t think I can, my highblood.

they laughed, a wicked laugh that made his pan feel molten-wet. I didn’t ask you, equius. I was informing you. I’ve read the signs in the stars. you’re taking my seat. they laughed again, when he fainted, and he woke up with it ringing in his ears.

his legs hurt, though only one of them could. tragedy and comedy work together; he imagined them both laughing at him, at his rage and pain and tears, and tried to stop believing, but couldn’t. he was theirs, they were his. praying for the will of the gods to stop favoring you was ridiculous, anyway.

ofc that’s not orisa’s fault, orisa is a good bean, and most omnics we know are good people. but remember that regular people in the overwatch world don’t know about god programs.

I like that someone else wants to assure my chupipi that they don't have to be one thing all the time to be loved.