The wind was howling outside her tent, although the snows had not yet started. But she almost preferred the snow. It was soft and clean and could be manipulated into barriers and walls to shield her and her friends from the the storm. But here on the steppes, there was nothing but rock; bare and gray and cold rock, scrubby and scratchy plains grass, and that awful screaming wind. The temperatures had plummeted after the sun had dropped, and the only things keeping her and the rest of the team relatively comfortable were the scattered tents and the climate control fields that shimmered around them to keep the heat in; technology fighting against nature.
She wasn’t sure if the others were asleep…Or, well, Reinhardt was definitely asleep, and snoring so loud that he could be heard above the winds. Likely the others were trying to rest as well, with how late it had gotten. The only ones she knew were awake was herself and the junkers. And she knew because she could hear them in the tent next to hers, and they were fighting again. It was muffled, but she definitely heard Junkrat’s high-pitched voice snapping and snarling, and the much lower, rumbling tones of Roadhog for the few times he chose to answer. Rolling her eyes, she put on a pair of headphones and tried to block it out. The fighting continued, and she looked up a few times when there was a crashing and ripping noise, but decided it was best to remain in her own cozy tent, playing her music and looking over her notes.
“Caught a kinda fever, whenever you’re around,” she sang softly, a little off-key and under her breath, “Can’t fight the way that you mess with my temperature…Uh-oh, can’t believe it-”
There was a rattling ‘knock’ at her tent, the fabric denting and rustling, and a familiar “Oi, Mei?” at the door.
She closed her eyes briefly, sighing before removing her music and adjusting her pajamas, going to unzip the door enough to peek out. Sure enough, Junkrat stood just inside the faint glow of the climate field, hunched a little to fit inside, holding a tattered sleeping bag. He was dressed in nothing but a pair of smiley-face print pajama pants and shivered constantly as he gave her a look that was both miffed and perhaps a little pitiful, sniffling and wiping at his nose with one arm before announcing, “I’m sleeping with you tonight.”
“Excuse me?”
“Gonna share a tent, yeah?”
“It’s late, Jamison, go back to your own tent.”
“Uh…” He gestured behind himself; there in the dark, was the ripped up and thoroughly broken and stomped-looking remains of Junkrat’s tent, strips of fabric hanging from the broken poles at odd angles, and the climate field generator was nowhere to be found. “I can’t?”
She gave him a baffled look, palms up in an imploring manner. “What on earth happened?”
“…I dunno.”
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