#no22

[hizokucycles]

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[tank-head]

[dimigexwrites]

Whumptober, Day 22 - Jack Morrison

Prompt: They Made Me Do It (cursed, demon, obsession) Fandom: Overwatch Characters: Jack Morrison Rating: T Words: 636 Notes: This one stretches the prompt but it was an exercise in a scene without dialogue. Also, it's present tense . . that just kind of happened?

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The burn of whiskey gives Jack something to look forward to each night. He pours a second measure and sinks into his chair, wincing at his still tender ribs. Once upon a time, his armor would have made that a mere annoyance, injecting him with pain killers at just the right dose to keep him functioning. Now, he swallows a handful of something that might ibuprofen or might be something stronger.

Blowing out a breath, Jack picks up the burner datapad that he bought two hours ago. News feeds scroll across the screen, pulling at keywords he asked it to find. In another life, dozens of intelligence techs would have written programs to do what he wanted. Now, he fumbles through as best as he can. Jack has learned a lot in the past six year, but it isn’t enough. He’s always coming up empty handed.

Lifting the whiskey to his lips, Jack drains the glass and dabs at the sweat on his forehead. It’s too hot for October, even at night. There should be trees bursting into color, bonfires, and lazy football weekends. Like everything else, those are a thing of the past. Jack gave them up when he put on the mask, or maybe even when he put on the Strike Commander uniform for the first time. If he’d known, Jack would have done everything different. But, he didn’t so now he has to end things.

Jack drags out the notebook that he carries everywhere he goes. He doesn’t keep the datapads longer than a day at the most. If nothing else, Overwatch taught him how to avoid capture. His fingers walk over the familiar pages, noting the splotches from alcohol or coffee depending on the hour. His chaotic notes are in disarray, making no sense to anyone but him. He pauses on a page of a rough pencil sketch of the man who tried to kill him.

Reaper looks nothing like the man Jack remembers, but he supposes that’s fair enough. He doesn’t look like the golden boy of Overwatch anymore either. He hasn’t since the explosion. If Jack closes his eyes, he can physically feel the heat and fear coursing through him. He sees the smoke curling around Reaper as the building starts to crumble, hears the familiar cry of his name tangled in the assassin’s throat.

Jack wants answers to what happened. None of the news reports convinced him that Gabe died in the explosion, but he’s been damn near impossible to track since. Scraps of stories are pasted into the notebook, questions and threads running across the page looking for something in common that will lead him to Reaper. Overwatch might be gone, but Jack still has a job to do. He’s going to find out why Gabe betrayed them, then he’s going to kill him. Jack might be able to rest once the object of his obsession is destroyed. Might.

Familiar practice leads Jack to clean the stolen pulse rifle beside him, movement steadying his nerves. His hands stop trembling as he reassembles each part. He could do this in his sleep if he needed to. Exhaustion and alcohol have done their work, lulling Jack toward the exhaustion that passes for rest these days. He’s putting everything away when the datapad pings. Jack picks it up and skims the article.

Hakim is getting reckless with his operations in Cairo, revealing himself more and more over the past month. But, this one is different. Jack followed Reaper’s trail here. Nursing the rest of his drink, he considers the information at hand. Hakim changes things just when Reaper supposedly enters the country. It’s a coincidence that Jack can’t ignore. Knocking back the rest of his whiskey, he turns off the datapad. Tomorrow, one way or another, Jack will have an answer.

[toomuchponytail]

Whumptober #22

I’m not finished, just a little behind. This is a continuation of this prompt, number 42 (Thank you for enlightening me that I had the wrong prompt number, lol I’m a mess) where the hero has been drugged at a club and the antagonist has to help them. I got a little creative with the hallucinations, so be aware that here there be monsters.  

The hero makes it to the alley behind the club before his knees buckle, letting out a small scared sound between a groan and a whimper as he finds his body rapidly filling with cold numbness leaving heavy unresponsive limbs in it’s wake. The hero would have fallen in the gutter with the trash if the antagonist hadn’t been there to catch them, letting out a frustrated hiss of their own as they find themselves suddenly having to support the whole of the hero’s weight. 

“W-wasss hap’nin?” The hero slurs, their cold fingers gripping the antagonist's arm in terror as their body begins to rebel against them, their legs won’t move at all now, they fell like they are full of lead, their fingers are starting to loosen their hold even as they try desperately to tighten them, their head is spinning in time with the swirling colors, they think that they might be sick. 

“It’s okay,” the antagonist soothes, wrapping an arm around them for further support as they limp along, “You’re an idiot for not being able to tell your drink tasted weird, but I’m not going to leave you here.” 

“Mmhhh,” the hero groans, still trying to move on their own, but their thoughts are getting as swirled and distorted as their vision, for a moment they think that they see the wall behind them open up to swallow, the vast empty space makes them shudder and lean closer to the antagonist, squeezing their eyes shut in terror.

“Wait.” The antagonist freezes, noticing the way that the hero is trembling, “Are you hallucinating? Because you should not be doing that.”

“mmmhhmm,” the hero moans in affirmation, this time it take herculean effort to make any sound come out at all, and icy cold fear washes over them as they realize that they are going to be completely mute and helpless in a few moments. They watch as a dark figure takes shape at the end of the alley--something looming and evil with a pale rotten fish-belly face that is melting off of their skull in thick fat colored lumps around a smile that beams with madness. Hero closes their eyes, unable to do anything else as the antagonist pretty much carries them closer to it. The stench of the thing fills their being, like the worst garbage they’d ever smelled, like acrid rotting meat and body odor, hero feels their stomach turn, they whimper in fear but the sound is tiny--it’s the last one they are able to make for a while. 

They go completely limp in the antagonist’s grasp, their head lolling uselessly to the side, still awake, still aware, even as the drugs make the world into a private horror movie that they are completely helpless in, at some point the antagonist holding them up is replaced by their dead father, staring at them unblinkingly with empty sunken eyes--hero would scream if they’d been able to use their voice, but they can’t--they can’t do anything as their body and mind become a silent prison. 

Oblivious to the hero’s drug induced torture the antagonist presses on, their car is parked in the street, they’ll just get hero over to their lab and take a blood sample, they should be able to find something to counteract the drug, the hallucinations did make them nervous--the drug they’d thought it was before didn’t give hallucinations, they were just beginning to worry about the possibility of a drug cocktail when a voice came from behind them. 

“Where do you think you’re going with my little friend?” It was the crime boss--no longer acting even a little bit impaired, the antagonist’s heart jumped when they realized they’d been cornered, the human walls of muscle that had been following their boss around now appeared in the alley, blocking their escape. 

“He’s had a little too much to drink bud,” the antagonist snarled, “Know anything about that?” 

“And you’re the sidekick?” The crime boss cocked one eye brow, ignoring their question. 

The antagonist sputtered, “I most certainly AM not!” they spat, then added in a mocking velvet tone,“But I can kick you wherever you’d like darling, stomach, throat, and sure, side too.” 

“Get hero,” the crime boss commands flippantly to his guys, taking a cigarette out of a gold case in their pocket, “kill the other one.” 

The antagonist didn’t need to be told twice, taking a quick moment to lean hero up against the wall, a spike of concern hitting them when they catch a glimpse of hero’s wide unfocused and terrified eyes, their gasping hitching breaths, one problem at a time, they reminded themselves, turning to face their attackers. 

Of course the antagonist has the advantage, the crime boss had been expecting a hero, and they were not that, decidedly not that, as the first lackey found out when the antagonist’s fist connected with their jaw, the tiny concealed hypodermic needles in their watch presenting themselves just as they were supposed to, lackey #1 was out like a light before they’d even hit the floor. The antagonist twisted the watch face, changing to another minuscule dose of something nasty--this one was going to give the lackey a headache, but that’s what they get for drugging hero. 

The fight was over before it had even really started, before the crime boss had finished his cigarette, he puffed looking nervous as the antagonist strode forward, not even bothering to adjust their watch face, the antagonist took the cigarette right out of their mouth and tossed it into the alley, a scowl on their face. The crime boss shrunk back against the door as they got closer, holding their hands up to protect their face. The antagonist took this opportunity to punch them, just the once, just to lay them out in the street and while they laid there groaning to lean over and remove the ring from their short fat finger. 

“Get out of my city!” The antagonist seethed down at them.

Then there was clapping, the antagonist looked up startled to see sidekick standing next to hero, starting a slow clap with smirk on their face, “Nice to see hero has finally turned over to our side.” 

“Well since you wren’t here I naturally had to improvise” the antagonist taunted.

Sidekick’s eyes lost their teasing light when they looked at the state hero was in, the antagonist joined them after a moment to pocket the crime boss’s ring, “Can you help me with him please?” sidekick asks, more than a little worried at the unhealthy looking sheen that the hero’s skin has taken on, the dull glassy eyes, their pupils blown open as the drug keeps their word distorted and full of fear, “You’re like a pharmacist or something, right?” 

The antagonist ignores them, leaning over hero, they look them over for several minutes, pausing to take the rapid hummingbird pulse, before they turn to sidekick again, their voice was firm, tight with worry, “We need to get them to my lab now.” 

“W-what is it?” Sidekick asked as the tendrils of foreboding curled darkly around their stomach. 

“I don’t know,” the antagonist admitted slowly,  “But I think it’s killing them.” 

[scribbles97]

Whumptober - Hallucination

The blow to his head had been hard and most definitely had left a lump, all four of his big brothers were going to kill him when he got home. 

That was assuming he got out of the old tunnel before it buried him alive. 

Then again, they’d probably find a way into the afterlife just so they could all kill him again. 

As Alan’s vision doubled again, he reached out to support himself on the wall of the tunnel, hand coming into contact with something smoother than he had expected. Regardless, he held on, hoping it would stay steady as he shuffled himself forward. Something nudged under his arm before a weight across his back worried him for a moment, but it wasn’t heavy, instead supporting him and pulling him along. He knew he should open his eyes to see who was helping him, but god, his head hurt too much to try. 

Everytime he stumbled, the support under his arm pulled him back up, steadying him before moving forward again. Everytime he felt like he was too exhausted to go any further, the support urged him on. Everytime he opened his mouth to ask who was there, something cautioned him against it. 

At long last the support eased him down, releasing him onto the floor up against something hard and lumpy. Alan grunted in protest, finally forcing himself to look up.

“Fuse?” He frowned, screwing his eyes shut before looking again, the hulking figure already a vanishing shadow in the darkness of the night. 

Blinking hard, he shook his head, not sure he believed his own eyes. Concussions messed with your head, that much he did know, maybe it was just a hallucination?

Straining to see in the darkness, he took a small breath, maybe that was the best thing to put it down to, his brothers might kill him otherwise. 

[godandfamous]

https://www.godandfamo.us/shop/repeatbartape

[glastocycles]

#Repost @fixedchicago with @get_repost ・・・ Blue 🌊🌊🌊🌊 . . #fixedchicago #No22#lilwing #deluxecycles #godandfamous #paincave #trackbike #Ti #fixedgear #ahttb #sttb #kill #goodvibes #vibes #goodness #blue #masterbeater https://www.instagram.com/p/Bn5dJBVnvoO/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1kvz8wn2jmh5t

[problemsofartists]

Having that crazy inspiration and the will to draw but the drawings turn out looking like shit for some reason