He continued to be up in his face, hands being clenched and throsn this way and that. It was quite sinful of him, to expose himself so freely and so openly. To cast out all the pent up anger and regret from years and years of neglect and disagreement, all on one person. But here he was, pushing forward. Spitting out disgraceful tones and tainting the air with his irate attitude. They were only barely less than a foot apart. If Zenyatta had the ability to smell, he would have been able to easily catch Junkrat’s obnoxious stench of sweat.
But his robotic hand – it came up so fast! It pushed the omnic back a few feet. It reminded him of who he was, and what was going on. That his soul was growing discorded and that paranoia was picking him apart little by little. He couldn’t have felt it before. Couldn’t have seen it work from within. But now, as the madman pushed him back with a rather forceful shove, he could see it clearly. This sin, and his many others, was breaking him. Was turning the monk into a man he promised he never would be, over twenty years ago.
There is a mocking gulp in his speaker. It delves quickly into embarrassed static. It deepens his mood further, and causes him to grow rather recluse. His hands are loosened, and both palms are brought together in front of his chest. The white robes that used to belong to Mondatta, are still slightly too big for him. His master was nearly half a foot taller, and wore quite large robes to dignify himself. Not only did the bottoms collect dust on the floor, the hems of the fabric wore practically sliding off the back of his hands.
But his hands were down by his sides again when Junkrat mentioned death. Really? That’s the only method he could think of? Digits twitched in thought, and an aching scream came from inside. A battle between his morale and his logic. His paranoia wanted to take control, but his spirituality refused for it to do so. Head tilts in shock and irritation. It slowly turns, and his grey exterior glints with the lights above. His fingers curl, but are quickly hidden as the robes fall over them.
Killing them could get rid of the problem, yes. And it would be the easiest, most reliable way to get the job done. Body flattens and Zenyatta is standing tall. He is no where near the other’s height, despite his crouch, but his wires are stiffening with every second. Part of the omnic wants to agree with Junkrat. He does not want this secret getting out. If it does, it would ruin him. He would be forced out of the Shambali forever, and he would be absolutely and devastatingly alone. Now, as he stands here, looking at the other and processing his offer, he regrets ever being at Mondatta’s side when his hardware failed.
Ultimately, the spirituality from within wins. But it is more than apparent that Zenyatta gave it a thought. His slit gaze lingers too long. His fingers, though hidden, twiddle from underneath white and sparkly robes. It was not out of reach for him, but his soul, though wounded now and paralyzed for life, knew better. A huff, heavy and quick, escaped his speaker. Head shook and the omnic began to pace. Fist was clenched, and raised to his mouth.
“ — 𝙸 𝙳𝙾𝙽'𝚃 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙳𝙾, 𝚂𝙾 𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝚂 𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝙸𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙸𝙽𝚅𝙾𝙻𝚅𝙴𝙳.
𝚄𝙽𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙴𝙴𝙼 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙺, 𝙿𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙻𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚂. 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙸'𝚅𝙴…
𝙸 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙽𝙴𝙳 𝙴𝙽𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷, 𝙰𝙽𝚈𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙴 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙸𝚁𝙸𝚂 𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙶𝙻𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝙰𝚃 𝙼𝙴. “
For once, the junker doesn’t seem quick to pounce on any frustration of vulnerability the bot might show, allowing him to consider his offer with the best respect that he finds himself able to muster. He looks less tense with his personal space returned fully to him, but with that, his boredom appears to increase tenfold.
The digits of his prosthetic first twitch, and then drum, before each finger begins to tap itself against the thumb, from pointer to pinkie, and back again. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Repeat. His gaze drops briefly, as if to study the motions, before flickering back up to watch the monk as he awaits his reply, those orange irises locked onto every moment like a predator looking for the best way to tear into distressed prey.
Soon enough, he has his answer. The response he gets, while disappointing, is filed away in his thoughts as something that is not a direct no to his own ideas, and that shark-like smile returns, spread disconcertingly wide and stretching thin, sickly skin to it’s limits. It’s grotesque in how unnatural such an expression is, but upon Jamison’s features, it looks as though it belongs.
“--- fair enough,” he offers, sounding rather amused as he holds both hands up for the umpteenth time, gesture unnecessarily placating, considering the situation, “but when they decide that me threats ain’t enough t’ keep ‘em quiet, it’ll be too late, ‘nd ya will be wishin’ ya coulda snuffed ‘em out ‘fore it came t’ this. Much as ya hate killin’, some people jus’ won’t shut up ‘til they’re dead.”
His shrug is animated, like he couldn’t care less in the end --- and in a way, he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter to him if this omnic’s life is ruined by the spread of his secrets in the end, it’s just less fun when no killing is involved. No bloodstained hands. No screams or fights or action. Entirely boring. Entirely mundane. However, as long as he gets what he’s come here for, the plan will be a success.
All he has to do is keep him from talking long enough for what he wants to become attainable.
A thoughtful hum leaves him, drawn out as he pieces his thoughts together before they scatter on him. The junker leans forward again, and rests his elbow on the corresponding knee, his chin settled within his opened palm.
“I’ll keep ‘em quiet t’ th’ best ‘a me abilities, ‘nd I’ll keep me mouth shut, if ya give me somethin’ in return. An eye fer an eye, ‘ight? Then all this’ll be swept under th’ rug ‘nd ya won’t have t’ worry ‘bout me anymore. Can’t say th’ same fer any hackers, but me lips will be sealed.”
He omits what he wants from the deal so far, purposely, content as he straightens, shoulders lazily squared.
“Wha’ d’ya say?”
