"Even after Aurora gave me the gift of true free will, I held onto my weapons," Ramattra says. "I was treated like a rabid animal and my kin were put down like they were before my very eyes. This is an experience that is, ironically, so human. But to an empirically limited number... that is an experience only Omnics hold."
Emre's surprised to feel a hand slide down the length of his thigh. Gently hooking his hand under Emre's knee, Ramattra raises his leg.
"There's no ports on my legs," Emre gets out, blushing.
Ramattra looks for another moment, then hums. He rests the limb back on the cold ground gently. "You do not share that experience, but we are so much more alike than you may realize."
I did it. A cassemre/emrecass/deadai fic. I'm honestly amazed at myself for coming up with it purely from their spawn room interaction.
Cole knew the light was where he would never stand. He was an outlaw, a criminal, even if Overwatch had recruited him. He belonged in Blackwatch, not Overwatch. His place was in the shadows, taking missions no one else would take, committing acts no one else would for the sake of the greater good.
Overwatch was where people like Emre Sarioglu belonged, with the spotlight shining on him with all its glory. His light was dazzling, so blinding that it drew all to him, Cole included. But Cole always made sure to remain on the sidelines, never getting too close for fear of corrupting that light.
He always watched from afar, wondering what it was like to stare into the twin pools of brown, to feel Sarioglu's uplifting presence, to breathe the same air as someone like him, but he never dared to hope for anything. He knew his place, he wasn't about to overstep his boundaries. So he kept his head low, averted his gaze from the blinding light that was Emre Sarioglu.
Then one day, he feels it. A soft gaze filled with curiosity resting on his back. The skin on the back of his neck prickles and he feels his shoulders tensing up. A quick glance in the direction of the gaze reveals Emre Sarioglu himself, holding a tray of cafeteria food and staring right at him. Cole speeds up his pace, tugging the brim of his hat lower and leaves the cafeteria, but the burning sensation in the tips of his ears follows him out.
The next time he feels that same gaze on him is at the shooting range. Peacekeeper sits comfortably in his hand, the weapon made just for him, and he fires a round of bullets. Every single one hits their mark, or at least they should have, but his last shot is off by an inch, and it coincides with when he felt those eyes on him.
Clicking his tongue, he holsters Peacekeeper and leaves the range, not even bothering to collect the spent shells. He can't bring himself to stay any longer, that gaze is too piercing, and so he continues to keep his head low around the bright light that is Emre Sarioglu, avoiding any eye contact with the help of his hat.
Something coils within him the next time he sees the boy scout of Overwatch. Jealousy, perhaps, that he was allowed to smile in front of cameras, speak in front of crowds who looked up at him with adoration, all the while Cole pulled off thankless job after thankless job. But that was his role, a silent shadow who put bullets into enemies Overwatch didn't want to think about.
Still, a small part of him hates how easy Sarioglu makes it look to stand in the spotlight, perfect and unblemished, free of stain and corruption. He can never be that, such an image is out of his reach, and he doubts anyone will ever look to him the same way crowds do to Sarioglu. They shouldn't. He makes for a really shitty role model. The boy scout, on the other hand makes for a great one, one who is easily marketable, a poster child even.
So he turns away every time Sarioglu so much as glances in his direction, refusing to look him in the eye. They belong in two different worlds, even if those twin pools of brown captivate him and set his heart racing every time he sees them. He's longing for something he can't have, something he shouldn't have, so he distances himself. It's easier to just run away from the problem than confront it, especially if it's a matter of the heart. It's even easier to laugh it off, so Cole chooses to hide behind a perfectly crafted facade of easygoing smiles and smooth talk. He almost forgets about the boy scout who can't stop haunting him, but fate seems to have it out for him because it keeps pulling them together.
He can't stop running into Sarioglu, whether it's at the cafeteria, the shooting range or in a random hallway. Then he gets assigned to a mission that takes place in the same location as Sarioglu's, and he has to tolerate an entire car ride with the boy scout. Sarioglu initiates a conversation and Cole finds himself withdrawing behind his facade, putting as much distance between his real self and the one who causes his stomach to flip.
He doesn't quite understand what happens after that, but he somehow becomes a part of the 'original members of Overwatch'. He's asked to take a picture with the rest, and he chooses to stand on the other end of the photograph, as far away as possible from the man known as Emre Sarioglu. He reminds himself he isn't a true member of Overwatch; he's a member of Blackwatch — the darker side of the organisation that doesn't care for red tapes and bureaucracy. He rights injustices from the shadows so that the others can stand in the light, blameless and pure before the world. Sarioglu is one of those people.
He watches as Sarioglu gets accolade after accolade, basking in the praises of the world, and hates how easy he makes it look to be a good person. He watches as Sarioglu runs his fingers through his mohawk, grinning widely as he effortlessly wins people over with his charms, his looks, his charisma, and feels something uneasy stir within him.
What he doesn't know is that Emre Sarioglu feels the exact same way about him.
Emre has been fascinated by the black ops cowboy ever since the first time he had set eyes upon said cowboy. He sees the overflowing confidence in the young man's hard brown eyes, the arrogant smirk that dares the world to challenge him, and wonders how he can do it all with such ease when the world is so harsh.
The drawl in the cowboy's voice always lights something within Emre and puts him at ease, no matter the situation. The way Cassidy effortlessly takes down the enemy, smoothly pulling the trigger at the right times and hitting his targets makes Emre jealous. How can there be someone so perfect, blessed with a silver tongue and rugged handsomeness that draws people in?
Emre tries to reach out to the black ops cowboy, but he won't even meet his gaze. Cassidy becomes an elusive shadow, slipping away just before Emre can reach him, turning the chase into a dance. He can see something in the hard brown eyes, a look of longing, or a sparkle of hope before it quickly fades away, and that only sucks him in deeper. He finds himself thinking in between missions about the man called Cole Cassidy, the cowboy from Blackwatch whom Reyes personally recruited for his talents, and wonders what drives each pull of the trigger. He wants to know more about the former leader of the Deadlock Gang, about the quiet flame that burns within him, about what makes him look differently at the golden boy called Emre Sarioglu.
The world looks at Emre with awe and scrutiny, waiting with bated breath for him to screw up, for Overwatch to screw up. They sing praises about him, but behind every compliment is a hidden knife waiting for him to fall upon it. Only Cassidy ever turns away from him, retreating into the darkness every time Emre tries to meet his eyes. It's as if Cassidy is trying to run away from him, and Emre hates how it makes him feel. The spotlight washes him in golden light but he wants nothing more than to reach out to the shadows and grasp the cowboy who has him enthralled.
His heart soars when Cassidy is assigned to a classified mission in the same area as him. It's a chance to talk to him, and the cowboy can't run away anymore. Cassidy does participate in the conversation, but Emre can tell that the Cassidy he's speaking to is nothing more than a facade.
Why does Cassidy keep running away from him?
What did he do wrong?
Is it he himself who is the problem?
The next time they meet is for a photo-taking session upon Amari's request. It doesn't escape Emre's notice how Cassidy immediately slots himself into the position furthest from him, and Emre feels his heart plummet. They don't exchange a word, despite having just been on a harrowing mission together, and go their separate ways — one into the spotlight and the other into the darkness.
Then Blackwatch falls apart, followed by Overwatch itself.
Emre leaves to work for Global Security, and Cole disappears underground. They both vanish from the world, resurfacing only years later. Emre comes back as a Talon agent, and Cole an Overwatch agent. One still stands in the light, the other in the shadows, but their positions are reversed now.
Cole sucks in a sharp breath when he sees Emre standing amidst Talon soldiers, giving them orders, and wonders how someone like him could have fallen so low. He feels his chest tighten as he raises Peacekeeper, pointing its muzzle straight at the former boy scout of Overwatch.
"Sarioglu." The word clogs up his throat.
"Cassidy." Emre's voice is soft. "I don't want to hurt you. Please, get out of the way."
"You know I can't, golden boy."
Cole watches as Emre lifts his rifle, pointing it at him.
"Please." Emre pleads once again. Cole doesn't move.
Both their fingers curl around the trigger.
"Was a little jealous of you back in the day, you know. Always made everything look so easy." Cole swallows hard.
"That's funny. I felt the same way about you." Emre replies.
Cole can't help but laugh. Oh, the irony of it all.
"I don't buy that for a minute."
"Coming from the black ops cowboy? Yeah, right."
Neither say a word after that. They both simply stand there, weapons raised.
Do you ship Wuyang with anyone in particular? I really liked your hc's for him:]
>:) Means the propaganda is working!
NGL, I'm boring in the fact that I can see him being shipped in an interesting way with all of the of the "younger" Overwatch ensemble in one way or another if someone makes a good case for them. I'm talking with Lucio, Venture, D.Va, Juno, Kiriko, Mizuki, Illari, Hazard etc. so I'll point out some age gap ships people might be sleeping on:
Lifeweaver/Wuyang: Niran is an internationally wanted badass that has contributed priceless knowledge to the world of medical technology and botany. Wuyang knows he should be more weary about him because he could be as dangerous as the Viskar bounties say he is, but face-to-face he's super charming, a free spirit, and pretty to boot. He's very worldly and clever and the intrigue around him probably sucks Wuyang in because he's an inquisitive dude by nature. Niran swears he's an open book but Wuyang sees him as this rubix cube he wants to figure out and inspect every step of the way. Also, Healing water + Healing (light)plants = cool imagery.
Genji/Wuyang: Wuyang probably flips his shit because WAOW an actual Overwatch member that was there in the thick of it back in the day. And in meeting Genji in person, he learns that Genji's super down to earth, is an amazing martial artist and -- as Hanzo pointed out-- pretty understanding of Wuyang as a whole being the younger sibling brimming with whimsy and living under the shadow of a huge legacy. So it probably starts as one-sided admiration and a mentor/mentee kind of thing to pay it forward and Wuyang presses it to make it known that he's got a puppydog crush.
Junkerqueen/Wuyang (And lowkey Domina/Wuyang): I will be transparent when I way these two were initially purely because size diff makes me bark and also I know they would bully the fuck out of him if they had to be around each other for any significant amount of time in-lore. If Wuyang doesn't see Vishkar as the opportunistic mega-leech of a corporation we know it is, he probably addresses her respectfully and when Domina sees him in motion she compliments the fluidity of his motion, noting that he would have been an exemplary architech and offhandedly offering him to join their academy because he's talented. The compliments interspersed with her commanding demeanor gets Wuyang ready to eat out of her palms and the thing that would snap him out of it is witnessing Vaira doing/facilitating something that is unambiguously fucked up to helpless people.
Now, I'm biased and have a deep fondness for Lifeweaver so of course I'll draft how i think that interaction would go, but damn there's just something so scrumptious about ALL of the interactions and the way you laid them out💭
Charming open book meets an energetic easygoing young guy‚ who‚ specifically knows how to Scrutinize and is driven by the desire to Figure Him Out- rubiks cube is perfect‚ I'm gonna chew on that for sure💭
But then!! That mentor/mentee dynamic between Wuyang and Genji that could focus not just on their character parallels but their differences as well‚ hmmm💭
Genji isn’t just the way that he is because he came to it naturally, he had a teacher that could guide him into finding the sense of peace that he was always capable of, and the confidence that stems from that is definitely what makes him someone that Wuyang looks up to- so rather then focusing on the dynamic of what they see in each other, like Niran and him, I think the intrigue stems from their actions‚ and the opportunities that they'll be presented to Give and to Take
(and if that happens to include me self indulgently imagining Genji pinning Wuyang down during a sparring session and good-naturedly teasing him about how he lacks patience in his technique while Wuyang begins to flush, retorting that he was more than capable of going slow before abruptly cutting himself off at the accidental euphemism and beginning to blush more hotly when Genji still hasn’t gotten off of him and instead leans down to chuckle into the curve of his neck\
well
no one has to know💭)
Also, you do NOT have to lowkey Domina‚ she is LARGE‚ she is in CHARGE‚ and she will ask if anyone's going to awaken Wuyang's urge to wear a collar and not wait for an answer because my gosh is that man the biggest puppy to ever exist. I don't even think that she'd wait for Wuyang to answer, just drifting over to him with an air of purpose, tilting his head up while he stammers in confusion but still allowing himself to be guided by her touch, and she'll slip a simple and luxurious white leather collar around his neck. She'll raise one sleek eyebrow while he fiddles with the single jewel hanging from the center and ask him if he plans to take it off before she gives him permission to.
The switch that immediately flips in his brain as her words echo in his mind has his knees turning weak, guaranteed, and those same words are what have him mindlessly shaking his head before he thinks too hard about it. She'll nod her approval, and say, "Good boy."
Wuyang strikes me as a dude with an obnoxiously huge dick but he just... doesn't realize? Like his self esteem is in the shitter generally and he doesn't really fool around around like that. He's probably only ever had like one partner and even then he's still in the grey area about whether he actually lost his virginity because the attempts were catastrophic.
Probably up until someone outright tells him, he just assumes he's average: about what shows up with the most common kinds of porn he ends up watching. And even then, he assumes they're just trying to be nice and making him feel good about himself.
That being said, he's probably not super skilled when it comes to fucking, say nothing of the likelihood of blowing his load super early. He'll pre through his pants if someone flirts with him in a super obvious way like touching his chest or thigh, and probably has outright cum from just kissing or just barely being palmed through his pants. Wuyang has a hairpin trigger on that hammer, but has a few in the chamber before he has to legit stop.
Makes him ripe for Big Penis Humiliation, because lbr this man is also a huge sub. Good service top stock, but will probably be fine with bottoming if grabbed by the hips with any kind of intent by his partner lmao. He'll follow directions perfectly when ordered, but if allowed to freestyle, he will rut away like something in heat and it's probably not a great time for whoever is on the business end of that unless they take charge.
Very cute and enthusiastic but he has no idea what the fuck he's doing with his dick and mouth unless someone has him calibrated to do exactly as they like.
So what is the temperature over here when it comes to t4t doom/mauga? Because they've been in my mind rent free after Mauga mentioned fighting akande to a draw. Like brother, I know what you are.
He keeps challenging Akande because that's the only time he comes down off his pedestal. To dance over the canvas mats. Unmarred marble becomes warm and pliant flesh humming over brutal chrome when in-hand and under fist. As mortal as Mauga is. He's touchable when they exchange blows. A man that not only understands the poetry of brutality but has wired himself to be a pitch perfect instrument to sing it.
And so when he bleeds, Mauga understands the next couplet. The sickening creak of fiberglass ribs complete the next stanza. The roar of blood in his ears acts as their metronome. Eventually the song changes key- it always does- on a verse that begins with the cautious murmur of "Malosi". A guttural call that Mauga answers with a nasty little grin and the intentional press of a thigh right where the boss man needs him.
[X] asked for werewolf!Emre, and this is my attempt to answer that, except it grew plot so i'll need time to cook a bit longer to actually get to the werewolf part o7
~
"So, you're my handler."
Okay, maybe your eye twitches a bit there. There's something about his tone that settles and sets off something on just this side of too warm under your skin, too- too fluttery that you're trying to ignore.
"I'm not," you say finally, eyes steadfastly on the passing scenery of thick woods as you're both being driven to a remote Talon safehouse. Official documentation purports that the relocation of the asset- the soldier- under your care was a necessity for the recalibration of mission priorities and experimental observation.
"I'm your assigned field supervisor- someone meant to take preliminary notes on your behaviors and someone to share space with so that you aren't risking compromise if left to your own devices for the duration of this assignment."
He hums in interest, and stays quiet for a beat.
In that moment of silence, it doesn't feel as if you've convinced him.
"It sounds like a handler to me."
You sigh.
With the heavy redaction of the experiment in questions notes left in your care, the thick stack of files left much to the imagination, page after page of blacked out text as illuminating as the moonless night that you were being driven through. Only the occasional word or nondescript phrase making it through for your eyes to see.
It didn't matter. Reading between the lines meant coming to the conclusion that this had to be a bit of forced r&r.
Maybe you had been a bit enthusiastic to tackle the work put in front of you since you'd been acquired by Talon yourself. With what they were doing for you in return, the protection that they were providing, how could you not? The implication that you needed to rest from that was disorienting, but it certainly wasn't the worst order you've ever received.
And the soldier on his side of the car, if nothing else, seemed to be a jovial and respectful sort so far. There was a sense of quiet weariness that you had initially perceived, though the man wore it well.
Your eyes cut to the side, glancing at his profile. He was... handsome. You could admit that much to yourself, he wouldn't have to know.
The cut of his jaw, the fit of his uniform, the curve of his smile- even now, a small one was resting on his face and it was starting to grow the longer you watched, a crinkling appearing around his eyes from whatever apparent mirth he was experiencing while he leaned his head against his fist to peer out of the windows, looking into his own expanse of darkness.
Except.
The little bit of glow provided by the cars interior lighting illuminated his eyes within the glass, the shine of their reflection training directly onto you.
You jerk your head back, caught, and stay silent when he chuckles lowly.
"You're allowed to look at me, you know? I won't bite."
It's that lingering tilt to his words, the lilting of his accent that makes the promise seem more intimate than it is, you decide. It isn't unexpected that your established sense of professionalism over the next month could break down, worn into something more comfortable as you familiarize yourselves with each other over the course of the coming month of being stationed together. But it did not have to start now.
He doesn't push for more when you do not respond.
~
You murmur a quiet thanks to the omnic that had driven you as you move to exit the vehicle, holding only the small stack of folders and a backpack when you check to make sure that you have everything.
It is unnerving when they do not respond. You adjust the strap that you're carrying pretending not to notice the way that the soldier had watched the short interaction.
When the car drives away, leaving the two of you alone in the darkness, you find yourself looking up to the stars beside him, eyes tracing the constellations that you can see, searching for the ones that you cannot name.
The wind is picking up now, the rustling of the trees sends a sense of unease to the back of your mind.
"I wish," the man starts wistfully, "that we could see the moon more clearly."
Strangely, you don't hesitate to assure him as you turn towards the dark cabin at your backs, "It's only the new moon. You'll see it soon enough."
"Huh. That is what it's called?"
~
Neither of you bother with lighting, feeling your ways to the only two bedrooms available and pausing at the doors to regard one another.
"I'm still not your handler."
That wasn't the goodnight that you had meant to say.
"Oh?" If he is bothered by the topic being brought up again, hours later and moments before you are both prepared to drop into your respective beds to rest, he does not show it, his tone prompting.
"If I was, we would be assigned together in a more specific capacity. But, you aren't mine, so I'm not. Your handler. I'm not your handler."
You aren't sure why you thought that bringing this up now was a good idea.
"I'll be sure to consider your point, then."
You can hear the smile in his voice that you cannot see.
Emre. The endless pool of angst potential that you are.
"There's the man of the hour!" You cheer, raising your glass. The rest of the table follows suit, warmly welcoming Emre with shouts and slaps to the back, but he only has eyes for you.
"It wouldn't have been possible without all of you. We should be drinking to all of us." He picks up his glass of whisky and raises it, never once breaking eye contact with you. "To all of us!"
"To all of us!"
"Find a way to meet me at our usual table." He murmurs, placing a hand on your shoulder. "I have something for you."
"Oh?" You grin, knocking back the remaining liquid in your glass. "See you there in a bit, then. Can't wait."
The liquid burns as it slides down your throat, and you close your eyes, exhaling. Your finger traces over the marks in the wood that you know by heart, every notch a memory coloured by sunshine and rainbows. It hadn't been easy, working in Overwatch, but you had definitely made friends, memories, and more.
That was all in the past. The present is a completely different picture. Your friends are scattered across the globe, Overwatch has fallen from grace, reformed, and you're sitting in the bar not to drink with the man you love. You're here to kill him.
Opening your eyes, you look at the bartender who is the only person left in the bar aside from you. "You should leave if you value your life."
The bartender frowns at you.
"A demon is coming. He destroys everything in his path, innocent or not."
"What about you?"
"Me? I'm a demon hunter." You slide the glass back over to him. "I'm here to do my job."
"Promise me something, babe."
"Hmm?" You snuggle deeper into his arms, breathing in the comforting smell of his cologne. If you close your eyes, it's easier to pretend that the eye sitting in the middle of your lover's chest doesn't exist, that the both of you are back in Gibraltar, sneaking into each other's rooms in the dead of night, stealing kisses underneath the moonlight.
"If I ever lose control, kill me."
You freeze, eyes still shut.
"Em —"
"I mean it, kuzum." His thumb brushes over your cheek. "I don't want to hurt you, I wouldn't be able to forgive myself for that. So before that happens, before I lose myself, end me. I know I can trust you to do it."
"You can't just ask your other half to kill you."
"My other half is the only person whom I have complete faith in to do the job."
Tears spring forth, unbidden. They fall, glistening on his bare chest, and you feel him hold you tighter.
"I'm sorry for asking this of you, aşkım." He whispers. "I hope you will never need to do it, but I have to prepare for that scenario."
"You bastard!" You sob, hitting him with your fist. "How dare you!"
He silently takes it, never letting go, not even when you finally fall asleep against him, tears drying on your face. He watches you, commits to memory the soft sound of your breaths, the way your chest rises and falls, the warmth of your body, and reluctantly untangles himself from the mess of limbs.
You stir, softly pleading for him to stay, but he continues putting one foot in front of the other and walks out the door.
That was the last time you saw him.
An explosion rocks a nearby building, creating flames that reach for the sky as a black silhouette hovers above the destruction, signalling the bar's impending doom.
"Last chance if you want to live, bartender. It would be a shame if you died here and never got to serve the best mixes this town has ever tasted." You unholster your pistols, turning to face the door. The scuffing of shoes against the wooden floor lets you know that the bartender has finally taken your advice, and you can't help but smile.
"You better thank me for this, Emre. I just removed the death of one innocent from your conscience."
The doors splinter into pieces as a grenade detonates, revealing the demon you're hunting. You stand firm, raising the pistol in your dominant hand and point it at the figure who has just entered the bar.
"If you just stand still, my job would be a whole lot easier."
Pitch black eyes turn to look at you.
"All hostiles must be eliminated."
"Yeah, Em. I agree." Your hand shakes but you tighten your grip on your pistol. "All hostiles must be eliminated."
Sidestepping a shot from his pistol, you return fire, getting a few shots in but most of them miss. The bullets tear up the walls, leaving behind wood chips and holes. More gunshots ring in your ears, sparks flashing from the bullets that land too close for comfort as you try to get into his blind spot.
Every squeeze of the trigger hurts, every bullet you fire is aimed slightly off the mark, almost as if you're trying not to hit him. Your heart is pounding in your chest, your breath catching every time one of your bullets almost hit him. It's your lover you're shooting at, after all. Even if it's not truly him, the figure still looks like him, and it's making your job extremely difficult. A small part of you silently pleads for him to wake up, to regain control so that you don't have to fulfill your promise to him, but the rational side of you knows it's futile. He has been lost to the entity within, and it's your duty to stop the monster before you.
On the other hand, he's having no such problems. His face is blank, his movements mechanical. He's simply shooting to kill in the most efficient way possible, every bullet is meant to end your life. There's no life in his eyes, no flicker of recognition, and your heart sinks.
You duck behind a table, a bullet whizzing past your ear as you turn it over, using it as a temporary shield to catch your breath. You can hear the sound of footsteps getting closer, the mechanical whirl of his cybernetic arm, and inhale deeply. Your hands can't stop shaking, the bullets rattle as you reload, and you're amazed that you've managed to reload at all. The click of the magazine sliding into place is too loud amidst the silence afforded by the pause in your fight, and you nearly let out a whimper. The footsteps come to a stop as you hold the pistol close to your chest, your eyes squeezed shut.
"You're a really good shot."
"Thank you." You can feel your cheeks growing hot with embarrassment.
"Be proud of what you can do, be confident. I doubt anyone here can beat you in a firefight, thanks to that aim of yours."
"I'm not that good." You shake your head, looking down at your feet.
He laughs. "You just can't see it. You should be more confident every time you pull that trigger, it'll be easier to save lives that way."
"Save lives, huh." You say out loud. "You always thought of others before yourself, always saw good in the world no matter the situation. Nothing could ever stop you from wanting to help others, and that was what made me fall for you in the first place. It was never about your looks."
Steeling yourself, you take a deep breath before kicking the table you're hiding behind at him. His bullets shred it to pieces but you've already made your move. Even under the control of a god AI, he still has the same openings. He still leans too much on his right side.
You quickly fire a bullet at his right thigh, not waiting to see if you've hit your mark before pushing off a nearby pillar to close the gap, landing a clean shot in the middle of the eye on his chest as his right leg gives way. The screen cracks, fizzles, and you hear static. Emre collapses to his knees with garbled noises of pain, and his eyes flicker from black to crimson red.
"Em —"
"Do…it…!"
"I can't —"
"No…you…must…"
With a trembling hand, you rest the muzzle of your gun over his heart, your finger on the trigger. Looking up, you find yourself staring into soft crimson eyes filled with sorrow and regret. His lips are curved into a small smile as he reaches up to place his hand on yours.
Unspoken words are exchanged with a single glance and you desperately shake your head, trying to pull away but his grip is firm.
"Please, Em. We can find another way." Your resolve crumbles with every second you hesitate.
"No we — " His eyes turn black, then red, then black. "Hurry!"
ERROR. SYSTEM REBOOT. HOST IS RESISTING.
"I…can't…hold it…much…longer…" Emre gasps, his voice a mixture of electronic and human. You see the black and orange taking over, spreading outwards from the eye on his chest, and feel his grip on your hand tighten, almost crushing it.
"Em." You breathe, feeling your heart rate quicken. Your palms start to sweat, your weapon nearly slipping out of your grasp. "Emre!"
"N-now!" You can see the panic in his eyes, hear the fear in his voice even as it fades into static.
Tears blur your vision as you pull the trigger with all your might.
Bang.
The sound echoes in the bullet-ridden bar, followed by the soft clatter of a pistol. You feel the grip on your hand loosen, then let go as the iron smell of blood fills the air.
"You did good, canımın içi." The words float away with his last breath as he falls to the floor, never to rise again.
You did good.
The tears drip onto the floor, seeping into the wood. You collapse to your knees, holding him close to your chest. Burying your face in his hair, you inhale what remains of his scent, feeling the warmth leave his body.
"How dare you leave me again!" You sob, clutching at him. "You need to stop doing this to me!"
He doesn't answer. He can't. Silence falls, punctuated by the occasional wet hitch of your own breathing.
"We wanted to do so much the last time we were here." You whisper. "You said you wanted to bring me to visit your parents in Istanbul again, this time to introduce me as your significant other. I said I wanted to show you my childhood home, the places where I played, my favourite spots to sneak in naps. But life decided otherwise, and here we are."
Do you remember? When we were starry-eyed, innocent, looking at the world with wonder? When we would laugh and drink the night away, puke in nearby bushes, and then stumble back to HQ, pretending as if we weren't drunk? Where did those people we once were go? When did we lose what we had?
When did we stop getting lost in each other's eyes? Stopped kissing like it was the last time we'd see each other? Stopped feeling like time stood still, a moment stretched into eternity?
You press a final kiss to his cold forehead, feeling the tears dry on your face. The streaks freeze on your skin, chilling you to the bone every time a breeze blows.
"You're free now." You brush aside his bloodstained hair, gaze flicking down to the black screen where a red eye once glowed, ever seeing, ever controlling. Cracks have spread out from where your bullet punctured, creating a spiderweb of lines.
"I hate you for making me do this, for trusting me to do this. You're a bullshit boyfriend, you hear me?" You trace the cracks, wincing slightly when your finger pad catches on a sharp edge. Blood blooms, tiny drops falling onto the broken screen. "But I can't stop loving you. I have and will always love you, which is why I want the best for you, nothing less. I'll visit your parents for you, tell them who I am to you, tell them of how much you did for me. I'll visit my hometown, go to all the places I said I wanted to take you to so that you can see them through my eyes. Then…"
Then what?
"Then I think I'll return to Overwatch. Raise a glass in your name, remember the man you were before the AI took over, remember all the good you did, and carry your dream for you. I think…I think you'd be proud of me for that." You pick your pistol up and holster it.
"Goodbye, Emre. See you soon. This time I'm the one walking out the door, but at least I said goodbye first."
You smile sadly before turning to face the rising sun, and walk forward, putting one foot in front of the other.
It's strange, navigating the haze of your own thoughts when you're put into the field.
The battle is loud- weapons, shouting, destruction.
But your attention, your ability to focus, is only yours again when the blood is prominent. When the damage is too much, and the harm is your responsibility to fix.
A Talon field medic with a mind that isn't your own, and a purpose that has been drilled into your head.
A man rushes to pass you, tall, hair greying at his temples, and bleeding profusely from a gash in his arm.
You scramble to stop him, stepping into his path.
There is an eye on his chest, a searching thing that had darted back and forth until it had zeroed in on you.
You ignore it.
The man's eyes are a coalescence of off-putting shades of black. Briefly, you wonder how well he is able to see, if he is able to process you at all, even as his head turns to regard you.
"Get out of my̷ w̸̪̃ạ̴̊y̶̤̋."
He says it lowly, something slipping into his words that warp his voice, a double edged sound that makes the hair on the back of your neck raise- but your focus is your own again, for a short period of time. It's easier to stand your ground when his weeping wound keeps drawing your attention.
"You let me heal you, I let you go."
"It will ḃ̴̺e̸̱̿ healed̸."
He begins to shake his head, moving to go around you, pausing when you match him step for step, undeterred.
"Before or after you make it worse?"
It is a short and silent stand off as you continue to regard one another. And then.
Something in his posture shifts, a quality that you cannot put a name to when he blinks at you again, eyes clearing to reveal a shade of red that you had not expected when he squints at you curiously. Whatever it is, it has him smoothly shifting the large rifle in his hold to his other hand in order to relent and finally present his arm to you.
You are eager to help, hands darting out to assess the damage, twisting his arm only enough to better gage the extent. Surprisingly, he lets you manipulate the appendage without complaint.
"A knife wound, yes?"
Your fingers hover, swiping through the air above it, and the blood is quick to follow.
He jolts slightly then, fingers twitching while he answers a quick affirmative, leaning closer to see what you're doing as your fingers begin to dance through the air.
"There was a grapple for my rifle, and a utility knife trying to cut more of me in the meantime."
You hum distractedly to show that you're listening while his skin begins to knit itself back together.
However, that was all he apparently had to say on the matter, your fingers finally touching down to trace the scar that was left behind, prodding at the surrounding skin to check your effectiveness; when he speaks again, changing topics.
"Your touch is quite cold."
You look up at his curious tone, startled at the proximity of his face, of his eyes, as they look into your own.
"Or, perhaps, you're just quite warm," you say in rebuttal.
He huffs a short laugh, finally leaning his head back, and, notably, waiting for your touch to slide from his arm before turning the rest of his body a respectable distance away as well.
"That is true, şifacıcik."
You tilt your head curiously, and his amusement lingers as he stays to regard you, looking away only to reposition his rifle, preparing to jump back into the fray.
He rotates his shoulder, testing the the movement of his arm, and shakes his head with a smile when he seems satisfied with what he finds.
"Thank you for your insistence."
You smile briefly back, nodding as you prepare to watch him go.
"Of course, soldier. I wanted to do my job."
He lingers, for only moments more.
"...Emre, my name is Emre."
It is a quiet admission that you cannot understand the weight of, but you accept the information readily.
Your voice softens.
"Of course, Emre. I wanted to heal you."
He finally turns away, the black creeping in, the haze settling, as you go your separate ways.
