CATCHALL/OVERFLOW FOR MEMES

[comingupexplody]

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gettin all transcendent up in hurr

[tekhartha]

There had been bets taken on how long they would last, Mako and Jamison- Roadhog and Junkrat, people murmured, but using those names now that they were officially part of Overwatch seemed wrong to Zenyatta. Regardless of how distant the pair seemed, regardless of the less than pleasant circumstances of their induction, they are now a team. First names, real names, should pass between them as easily as any other words.

Not that, he supposes, the conversations he's had with Jamie have been particularly easy, or even what he'd qualify as conversations. By turns rude, mocking and outright aggressive, Jamie has done an excellent job of shutting down every possible opening Zenyatta makes without crossing the line into violence- even if he's obviously itching to pull that particular trigger. And Zenyatta's been trying to make openings whenever he can. Zarya's distrust has melted over time, and even Torbjörn seems to look upon him with a certain respect these days, but Jamieson Fawkes is a singularly stubborn individual. Certainly, he can understand why. But...

It's late. They've spent the better part of three days chasing Blackwatch agents out of the area, and every one of them is exhausted; Zenyatta can feel his joints protesting, loose and overworked, his processors clogged with excess memory just waiting to be purged. Maybe that's why he finds his mind turning the events of the day over and over again in his mind like a precious stone, and it's Jamison and his manic grin that he finds winking back at him. He'd refused healing three times today alone. More than that, Zenyatta could have sworn that a few of those grenades were launched in his direction.

This time, against all logic, Zenyatta does not resist the pull of his instincts. He moves softly, stepless, to the room in which he knows he will find Junkrat, surrounded by traps and bombs and scrap, and knocks three times.

junkrat does not want to transcend pls go

[comingupexplody]

Junkrat is, indeed, currently sitting amongst a pile of parts, a half-assembled mine in front of him. He's currently attempting to solder some wiring--

-- and then someone knocks at his door, and he jumps half-out of his skin, throwing the chunk of mine across the room. Fortunately, he hasn't yet set it up to be live, so it bounces harmlessly against the floor, but just that is enough to earn a muffled scream of rage from him.

"I'm tryin' ta build bombs in here, ya drongo! Watch out who you interrupt after hours!" He picks himself up, stomping over to the door, his peg digging angry scuffs into the floor; he throws the door open with a bang, opens his mouth to say more--

... and then he stops, fiery eyes narrowing dangerously.

"What the fuck are you doin' here?! 'Cause I sure don't remember requestin' anymore scrap for the pile just yet!"

no no it's nice you'll like it

[tekhartha]

Not for the first time, Zenyatta finds himself grateful to be inorganic; had he the muscles to tic he'd probably have flinched at the first sign of that mine, even if hindsight makes it clear that it's nonfunctional. The last thing he needs right now is to give Jamison a reason to think him easily intimidated.

Because of course that's the route the Junker heads down first. That gargoyle posture makes it easy to forget how tall he is, over six foot of wiry, radiation-hardened muscle and guts. Even without explosives he'd more than make do if he took it upon himself to dismantle an omnic. His olfactory sensors detect gunpowder, grease and soot. A dangerous combination, considering.

But Zenyatta simply laces his fingers together, the picture of absolute complacency.

With anyone else, he might apologise for the intrusion. But there's about as much use in apologising to Junkrat as there is in asking Hanzo for the time of day. "I wanted to speak to you privately." His gaze settles on Jamison's scowl, even and undeterred. "About today. May I come in?"

NOPE.AVI

[comingupexplody]

Oh. Today. Eheheheheheh. His only regret is that he missed, honestly. He can't help but smirk a little at mention of his earlier attempts to rid the team of that piece of scrap forever.

But then the bot asks if it can come into his room, and he snaps right back into a scowl, taking a thumping step back to grab the edge of the door in his hand.

"Piss off!" He has every intention of slamming the door right in his face unless he gives him a reason not to.

[tekhartha]

Is there really anything he could conceivably say to convince Junkrat to keep this door open? Zenyatta doubts it very much, which is why he does the next logical thing instead: he grabs the door as well, right underneath his hand. As much as he's sure Junkrat would love the slam it shut on his fingers, he's going to have trouble overpowering the dangerous combination of titanium servos and sheer willpower.

Before the man can argue, he forces the door open just a little more and makes to edge around his body.

"I will, once we have spoken." Calm, but firm, as though he were speaking to a wild animal about to strike. What is it they say about rats and corners? "Five minutes. I need no more of your time than that- and while I am in here," he adds, tantalisingly, "I will respect that I am in your territory, and obey your rules. Within reason."

It's a very small trump card, but a trump card nonetheless, playing to Junkrat's ego. He may well let his guard down somewhat if assured that he's still in control.

[comingupexplody]

Junkrat freezes-- and he turns to look at the machine, standing bolt upright for once, all six foot five of him towering over Zenyatta, staring at him with a gaze that may as well be literal flame. Hatred, manic rage, something that may be fear cross that burning gaze of his, his breathing shaking.

For a beat, he's entirely silent, as though considering what he should even do. When he finally does speak, his tone is shockingly icy, a kind of anger that very, very few people have earned from him.

"Fine. But you take one step outta line, and you're as good as fucking dead, you got that?"

[tekhartha]

Oh, but he will have to tread as carefully as he would if he were traversing one of Junkrat's own personal deathtraps, and he will be made to feel every second of it. Yet Zenyatta has won his time, and he accepts the forfeit with a dignified nod that could, at the junker's height, almost be called a bow of sorts.

"My word is golden." Finally, he enters the room.

As he scans the small-scale chaos between four walls that constitutes the bunk, he decides not to choose between the bed and a tire for a seat. Instead pulls his feet up into a floating lotus position and rests his elbows on his knees, fingers bridged. His orbs cling tightly about his neck. No funny business, as 76 had once called it.

"You shot at me today." A plain, simple opening. Fact. "Have I offended you?"

[comingupexplody]

Junkrat stares at him for a beat-- and then he laughs, the sound cold and hard. It's not like his battlefield laughter of manic joy at all-- it's a cruel sound, wielded like a knife.

"You bet you have. What's a thing like you doin' pretending to be people, huh? Actin' like you're everybody's buddy, like you got a brain in there." Another cackle, the sound crackling in the air. "If you had a brain, you sure wouldn't be here talkin' ta me right now!"

[tekhartha]

That laugh is like a rain of gunfire. Zenyatta withstands it, a silent wall of indifference to it and the abuse that follows, blow after blow of it. Nothing in this little diatribe is something he has not heard before but, no matter what Junkrat might think, he is not made of stone. There will, he supposes, always be some tiny, frightened part of him still wincing away from every word, a raised human hand, a threat.

Now, though, he does not wince.

If I only had a brain. That was the Scarecrow, was it not? Zenyatta remembers the film, black and white.

"You may be right," he answers, "but I am here nonetheless, and I would like to settle my differences with everyone here. Continue. What is it about me that you object to?"

[comingupexplody]

"So, hold on, lemme get this straight. You came here t' ask me all the reasons I think you n' that other tin can oughta get thrown outta the team on your asses, yeah?" He laughs and laughs, a cracking, awful sound, firecrackers set off in the small, messy room. "An' you wanna try to help?! Oh, boy! Aw, mate, I almost feel sorry for ya! Almost."

Junkrat hauls a huge tire up to sit on it, flopping down with a thump.

"Pardon me if I have a seat here-- we gotta lot a' ground ta cover."

[tekhartha]

Put like that it does sound ridiculous, even borderline masochistic. But if they're going to get anywhere- if they're ever going to work together, amicably or not- Zenyatta knows he must have patience, and resilience.

There's something about the way Junkrat throws himself down down that's oddly feline: that long, slinky body, stretching and folding, territorial.

"Please, begin when you are ready." Zenyatta's voice is a soft, undemanding hum. "I will be right here."

[comingupexplody]

"Oh, I've been ready!" His eyes are pure flame, his grin more akin to bared fangs. "I barely know where ta start! Guess I'll start with the most important thing here: we can't trust ya! Not a one of ya! Far as we know, y'could wake up tomorrow, or switch on or whatever, an' decide hey, yanno what'd be swell? Blowin' up alla humanity again!"

He gestures wildly as he speaks, his entire frame thrown into each word, years of rage spilling forth through his body and words.

"I mean, s'not like ya didn't kill off enough a' us the first time around, yeah? Some of us even had families left, god forbid!" He slams a hand down on the rough rubber, his heavy prosthetic, the sound dull and weighty. "Who's to say you're not gonna try an' finish the job?"

[tekhartha]

Mistrust. Old war wounds. Zenyatta has heard every one of his answers time and time again, yet repetition has done little to dull their force. Every move Junkrat makes drives his points in harder and deeper, as if they were nails to be hammered in, and he sits still and silent to accept them as he knows he must. It is a matter of respect. Those prosthetics speak for themselves.

Finally, after what feels like a century's worth of time, he senses a break in the flow, and he speaks.

"I am." His voice is soft, birdsong to Junkrat's roar. "I cannot change what has been. But I can change what will be, and I do not want you, nor anyone else, to suffer like that again."

It is not an apology- he was created long after the Crisis had ended- but there is some of the force of one within it nonetheless.

[comingupexplody]

"Waddaya think I am, some kinda sucker?" His stare is hard, pointed, the orange glow of molten metal. "What, y'think I'm just gonna roll over all oh, okay, well if you say so! No!"

Words don't change anything. Words don't bring anyone back, or return what's been lost. They can't repair bodies and minds. If it weren't for them, for the fucking government trying to please the omnics, he'd be-- he'd...

... well, he may be a lot less interesting, honestly.

"You're not gonna win my bloody trust or whatever it is you're tryin' ta do, it's not gonna work! I don't trust you and I don't wanna! 'Cause guess what happens then? I turn my back on you for ten seconds and boom! There go the rest of me limbs! Or maybe even somethin' really important!" Not that he's keen on the idea of losing his other limbs, mind. "So you can just take whatever you're hopin' ta do with all your fakey good will rubbish and blow it right up your arse, 'cause I'm not takin' it!"

[tekhartha]

The first assault had broken across Zenyatta like an earthquake beneath his feet; these aftershocks are far easier to endure. From beginning to end, he says nothing, refusing to let his head fall even for a second.

Then it's over, Junkrat seemingly having run out of steam for now. The storm clouds clear for a few precious moments, and in the quiet he makes a soft sound that might almost be a sigh to release the tension he's accumulated in the last few minutes. His shoulders drop, release- and then he straightens up again.

"That is fine." It takes less effort than he feared it might to get the words out; with one word he accepts Junkrat's aggression, and with the next he releases it as he would a wild animal. "I will respect your wishes and leave you to your own company from this point onward- on two conditions." Languidly, he raises one long, metal finger. "Firstly, I ask that you refrain from firing at me on missions. Secondly-"

He hesitates. Just for a second. He knows what he wants for his next term, but the odds of it being accepted...

Speak it.

"I would like to shake your hand. Just the once."

[comingupexplody]

Jamison's immediate response is just... to stare at him, disbelief clearly written across his features. Wild eyebrows shoot up, eyes wide, his head bobbing towards him--

-- and then he narrows his eyes, his lip pulling up into a sneer.

"What's your game, bot? What're you hopin' ta accomplish in here, huh? Tryin' ta make friendly with me or somethin'?"

[tekhartha]

"I do not have a game," Zenyatta answers smoothly. He'd expected some resistance from the moment he made his proposition. "I want to demonstrate my respect for you, and for your wishes."

Besides, he reasons silently, what harm could he really do to Junkrat? He's already missing one arm, as he's already so charmingly pointed out. He holds his hand out in hopeful expectation- hopeful, that is, that it won't be yanked clean out of his wrist joint for scrap metal.

[comingupexplody]

"Y'can demonstrate your respect for me by gettin' outta my space and maybe steppin' on one a' my mines!" Hostility begins to swell again, his posture bristling, heavy boot and peg pressed against the ground as though he may jump to his feet at any second, prepared to defend his space. His gaze is piercing, a laser pointed directly at Zenyatta as though it were trying to burn its way directly through his outer shell.

[tekhartha]

There it is again. That aggression. The last few minutes, it seems, have been little more than the eye of Junkrat's storm, and it has already passed over the both of them. Zenyatta gives a small, disappointed sigh, and rises to his feet again.

"I will oblige your first condition, if not the second- if you shake my hand." For such a soft voice it truly is impressive, how hard he can make it sound. Not angry, or aggressive- just determined. He will not be moved on this, even if he is already gliding across the floor to where Junkrat sits. It also, conveniently, brings him closer to the door. "Just the once."

here we go. gay chicken begins now.

[comingupexplody]

Junkrat is on his feet-- well, foot-- all at once, spine straightened so that he can, again, tower over the machine, fists clenched at his sides.

"You're really set on that, arencha? You're really, truly determined ta make me play nice with ya, even if it's just for a second!" He rolls his eyes so severely that his entire body gets in on the act, leaning back dramatically. "Fuck me."

"... heh!"

And then he straightens back out, a mocking grin on his face.

"Oh, wait, y'probably can't even do that!"

you have picked the wrong opponent junkrat

[tekhartha]

Startling though the accusation may seem, Zenyatta cannot help but wonder if it isn't a perfectly logical leap. All that's changed is that he's now asserting not only his dominance but his masculinity in the broadest way he possibly can: with height, and with a passionless leer.

He pauses. This is where he could give up, or give in, continue to take Junkrat's seemingly bottomless supply of hatred in martyred silence- but given the good that approach has done so far there seems no point in dragging it out.

Before he can have his trust, Zenyatta realises, he must first earn his respect.

The omnic pauses. The tilt of his head, like a sparrow mocking a hungry cat, comes far more naturally to him than he thought it would.

"You sound very sure of that, Jamieson." His voice is silk-smooth, without the faintest hitch; his gaze remains trained on Junkrat, unfaltering. "There is very little a human can do that I cannot."

[comingupexplody]

Junkrat stops short, not having expected such a reaction-- and then he bursts into a cackling laugh, his head thrown back, sharp teeth bared.

"Ooooh, listen ta you! You sayin' they build you things so you can fuck? Seriously?" He looms over Zenyatta, his gaze cruel, skimming over the machine's slim frame alnost accusingly-- searching for evidence.

[tekhartha]

The laugh doesn't rattle him this time. Instead, Zenyatta raises his chin a little to meet Junkrat's gaze as if inviting it to examine his shoulders, chest, waist- though he knows even before it flickers lower where it will linger the longest.

"Among other things. There exists a wide variety of models." Of upgrades, shapes, sizes. This body did not always belong to him, but in the time since his epiphany, before devoting himself to the Shambali, he had taken the time to know it: he is not a virgin, for whatever such an empty concept could possibly mean.

Now, though, he improvising, following where their conversation leads without any true purpose. Winging it. If Junkrat is a creature of impulse, he will be one, too.

And for a fraction of a second the lines of Jieba on his brow pulse just as fearlessly as Junkrat's laugh. "Are you asking for a demonstration?"

[comingupexplody]

Jamison's eyebrows shoot up-- and he laughs again, a crescendo, slapping his knee comically.

"Holy dooly, I've gotta be dreamin'! There's no way a fuckin' toaster oven just showed up in my room, after I tried to kill it, and is tryin' ta fuck me!" His laughter is mad, manic, it swells to fill the room entirely, crackling and breaking against the walls. He has no idea how serious the bot is... but he breaks into a wicked grin, fangs and fire, his posture shifting to push his narrow hips forward.

"Awright, then! Let's see what you've got! Hey, if nothin' else, maybe it'll be a step up from them blow-up dolls with all the holes in 'em!"

Not that he has much use for those anyway.

[tekhartha]

Zenyatta has to admit that, for once, the feeling is entirely mutual; of all the hundreds of possible outcomes he'd dreamed up, this was not one of them. It hardly seems to be his own body that swells forward with the slow, gliding movement of the tide against the shore; the hand that reaches out for Junkrat's cheek, softened into a cup, seems to belong to someone else.

But he does not withdraw it.

"Very well. If you should change your mind, however," he says, evenly, without so much as a trace of his concern, "you need only say the word."

His palm finds Junkrat's jaw, smudged with grease and gunpowder; automatically he shifts his thumb to that sneering mouth in a light, curious stroke. Kisses are beyond him, of course, but this he can do. The junker's body language is all vulgar implication, but if they are going to do this they will do it at a pace that suits him as well.