Feh. Now this is a fine mess I've gotten myself into...' Torbjorn Lindholm mused internally. He wiggled around in a chair seated in front of a table and did the same with his wrists, trying to do the best he could to alleviate the discomfort from the cuffs keeping him restrained to his seat, while simultaenously trying not to pay attention to the harsh red Talon logo painted on the wall of the room he was imprisoned in.
It just happened out of nowhere. During the day? He was speaking at Stockholm University, serving as a special guest lecturer for aspiring engineers. And later that night, when he returned to his hotel room for a good night's sleep before heading back home in the morning? He was ambushed by a pair of Talon stealth troopers that forced their way into his room. He fought valiantly, but due to being well past his prime and caught without his trusty rivet gun, the assailants overpowered him, knocked him out cold, and hauled him off. And now, here he was: likely miles away from home, trapped in a Talon base with his future uncertain... and his family and friends none the wiser.
'They'll catch on sooner or later. Reinhardt, Brigitte, Angela, even that beeping bucket of bolts? They're not stupid. When I don't return home, they'll realize something is amiss and search for me. Talon can't keep me here for long...'
Torbjorn had no idea why Talon was holding him captive: did they need him as a hostage? Were they going to torture him for information? Whatever it was, it was bound to be unpleasant, and painful as well. The dwarf-like mechanic had to admit that he was a little afraid of what was to come, but he wasn't about to panic. He survived the Omnic Crisis and all it's horrors. He was a prominent figure in the fight against Talon once they rose to power. Whatever was coming, he could handle it. He was sure of it. So when the automatic door to his cell slid open, he tensed up, took a deep breath, and braced himself for whatever came his way...
"Torbjorn Lindholm," a feminine, familiar-sounding husky voice called out from the doorway. "Now there's a sight for sore eyes."
Torbjorn wrinkled his nose in disgust when the speaker walked into view: tall, thin, and gaunt with pale skin and fiery orange hair, dressed in black robes like an evil sorceress...
"Moira O'Deorain..." Torbjorn growled at the sneering scientist as she took her seat opposite of him, smug as can be. "I suppose I should be surprised, but honestly? You always did strike me as the type of scum who'd happily rub shoulders with Talon."
"Come now, Mr. Lindholm," Moira scolded with a sarcastic wagging finger, "Is that any way to greet a former colleague? And after all the trouble I went through to make sure this was a happy reunion..."
Torbjorn silently fumed, and glared daggers into the scientist's void of a soul. He never interacted with Moira much during her tenue with Blackwatch during Overwatch's heyday, but he never did like her. It wasn't just her sense of smug superiority or the way she callously talked down to others, but he always felt that there was something... off about her. When she looked at people, there was no joy or tenderness in those mis-matched eyes of hers. She always seemed to look at people with an odd detached curiosity, as if they were potential lab rats she could vivisect and torture without a care in the world. And now that he knew she was deep in bed with the world's most dangerous terrorist organization, that look of sociopathic fascination on her face scared him more than ever.
"Oh, stop beating around the bush you weasel-faced hag!" Torbjorn spat, to which Moira scoffed in amusement, "You had me abducted from my hotel for a reason, so let's hear it! Do you want to dissect me, or perform sick, twisted experiments perhaps? Let me guess, you've never had a dwarf test subject and you just can't wait to get me under the knife, HMM?!"
"As cantankerous as ever, I see." Moira observed with a light chuckle. "Well you need not worry: I am not here to hurt you. No, more than anything... I need your help. Or rather, we need your help." Moira gestured at the Talon symbol flag, and the gears in Torbjorn's head clicked together.
"Ah... I see where this is going: you and your gaggle of goons want me to help you develop gear for Talon, hmm? Have me crank out weapons and armor to help pave the way for Talon siezing control over the world?"
"You're close." Moira admitted as she reached to a small holographic projection disk attacked to her hip and placed it on the table. "Take a good look at this."
The projector turned on, and showed a ridiculously huge Omnic that had to be the size of a skyscraper and was as wide as an aircraft carrier. It's monstrous appearance looked vaguely familiar, and after a few seconds Torbjorn realized exactly what he was looking at.
"That's... the colossal Omnic that's been assailing South Korea the past few years! What's it called, Grishin, Gwishin..."
"Gwishin would be correct." Moira replied with a nod. "It is not, however, the same Omnic that Korea's M.E.K.A team has been fighting. In truth, it's a completely different specimen that we found lying dormant off the coast of Bikini Atoll in a state of disrepair."
"God above, there's two of those accursed monsters..." Torbjorn muttered to himself, absolutely horrified by the ramifications.
"We haven't a clue as to how it came to be. An educated guess would be that it is another product of the East China Sea Omnium, and that it fought with the Korean Omnic and lost for reasons unknown to us." Moira mused, before shaking her head dismissively. "But that's hardly important. What is important is the fact that we are now in possession of a very valuable asset. An asset of immense size that, if the Korean Omnic is any indication, can level cities, kill soldiers by the thousands, survive catastrophic damage, and adapt to any strategy employed against it."
Torbjorn grit his teeth, and narrowed his one good eye. He had seen pictures and reports of the destruction created by that monstrous Omnic in South Korea: flooded cities with buildings reduced to rubble, hundreds of corpses eerily floating and bobbing above the water... it was bad enough that an independant Omnic was wreaking that kind of havoc, but one controlled by Talon? The damage on a world-wide scale would be catastrophic.
"However, the Omnic has been heavily damaged and won't be seeing action in the field anytime soon. For the last few months, a team of engineers from our Research and Development department have been working tirelessly to get the beast working again, but thanks to it's immense size and complex inner workings, it has been a most tedious process... and that? Is where you come in, Mr. Lindholm."
"Oh ho, I know where this is going..." Torbjorn sassed, which got a wolfish grin out of Moira.
"You are to take the helm and lead the effort in getting this beast up and running." Moira ordered. "Your feats as an engineer are legendary, and you know Omnics better than anyone."
"Figured as much." Torbjorn grumbled, "Well, I hate to disappoint you Moira, but I'm not lifting a finger to help. Go find somebody else to help work on your killer Omnic."
"How queer." Moira mused, crooking an eyebrow at Torbjorn's defiance. "It isn't like you to pass up the opportunity to tinker with destructive machinery."
"Not when innocent lives are at risk, you psychopath!" Torbjorn growled.
"Funny, I could have sworn that such a thing was your forte."
Torbjorn's defiance made way for shock, with Moira's words acting as a metaphorical sucker punch to the gut.
"Wha- No. NO! Don't you DARE lecture me about... about..."
"How your work on early Omnics led to millions of deaths in the Omnic Crisis?" Moira asked, her comment cutting deeper than any knife could. "There is no need. The results of your handiwork speak for themself."
Torbjorn glanced down into his lap and let out a heavy, regretful sigh. He was about to hear a familiar spiel thrown his way for what felt like the hundredth time, but it was going to hurt below the belt just like every other time. He just knew it.
"You were an outspoken critic of Omnic intelligence, but did you actually take any meaningful action to prevent Omnic progression from advancing? No: you stood on your podium bellowing and hollering but shut up and fell in line when the Ironclad Guild was contracted for Omnic development. Under your tenure you worked on Bastion units, war machines in the purest sense. With gatling guns to tear people to shreds and a tank configuration to reduce buildings into rubble, countless lives were lost to these beasts. You also helped develop the Titan Omnics, and never once thought that those towering robots would ever be repurposed into weapons that could effortlessly flatten buildings and demolish entire city blocks by themselves."
Torbjorn opened his mouth to object, but the grumpy loudmouth had nothing he could really say in his defense. It was true, all of it. He never went beyond loudly criticizing the development of Omnics, and the ramifications went beyond the Omnic Crisis: even now people were still being killed by Omnics that went berserk for any number of reasons.
"Even ignoring the weapons you helped design, your inaction has led to far more blood on your hands than what came from the Omnic Crisis. Null Sector's attack on London, the second Omnic Crisis in Russia, your friend Sven's rampage in Boklovo... had you truly put your foot down on your anti-Omnic stance, these disasters would have never transpired."
Torbjorn remained silent, and breathed harshly through his nostrils.
"So let me make our terms clear, Mr. Lindholm. You will help troubleshoot the colossal Omnic for us. We expect you to work tirelessly and efficiently, and by the end of each week we expect you to make a signifigant amount of progress towards it's operation. Should you drag your feet, intentionally sabotage the project, or rebel against us in any way, punishment shall be delivered swiftly and without mercy."
"Then punish me, why don't you?" Torbjorn huffed defiantly, in spite of the humiliation he just endured. "Torture me all you want, but I'm not doing it! I've got enough blood on my hands as it is!"
"Oh believe me, nothing would bring me greater joy than teaching you a lesson in pain," Moira hissed, her affable facade melting away before the surly Swede's eye, "But I was outvoted by the rest of Talon's council of leaders. Despite my medical expertise, they ruled that torturing you ran the risk of killing or otherwise irrepairably injuring you in the process, thus defeating the point of enlisting your help. So torture, sadly, is off the table... but I do have other ways of making you cooperate. Something far worse than mere physical pain..."
"Short jokes? Feh, yours might honestly sting worse than Reinhardt's..."
"I will light a torch to your name, your very legacy, and burn it all to ash." Moira explained, an ugly smirk on her face. "Talon holds far more influence over the mainstream media than you realize. With a snap of my fingers, hitpieces, news articles, and documentaries will flood the airwaves, and each and every one of them will go in detail over your role in the Omnic Crisis, and how your inaction and inventions led to the loss of so many innocent lives. No longer will you be Torbjorn Lindholm, Overwatch founding father and legendary engineer. You will be remembered by the public as a merchant of death, a man who is drowning in the blood of millions... and your awards? Commemorations? All shall be stripped away, and you will be left destitute."
Torbjorn had no words. He simply stared on the rambling witch, his face betraying no hint of any emotion whatsoever.
"Now should you cooperate with us? We will release you without a fight, and your good name shall be left intact. In fact, you can feel free to fight the Omnic as you see fit, it matters little to us. All we wish is to see that monster in action, to have it ravage humanity, and in turn inspire them to grow stronger as they fight back. A never-ending cycle of violence that will further mankind's evolution!" Moira made a clutching motion with her gnarled, twisted hand and brandished it triumphantly into the air before calming down.
"Now what shall it be, Mr. Lindholm? Will you cooperate without so much as a fuss? Or will you dig your heels in, and force us to take extreme measures?"
Torbjorn sat in silence, mulling over Moira's options... and laughed. He laughed harshly, mirthfully, and mockingly at the scientist's woefully ineffective threat.
"BWAHAHAHAHAHA! Are-Are you serious?!" Torbjorn sputtered, his good eye tearing up from laughter, "That's the best you can do?! Say bad things about me on the news and the internet?! I've had the wrong idea about Talon all along: you're not dangerous! You're PATHETIC!"
Torbjorn slapped his prosthetic hand against the arm of the chair it was cuffed to and resumed his mirthful fit of laughter. "You think people don't know that?! For the last thirty years or so, I've had that thrown in my face time and time again! People who lost their loved ones to the Omnics, people whose homes have been destroyed, people who simply want to push me around and take cheap shots! You try to tar and feather me, and nothing will change! NOTHING!"
For once, Moira looked genuinely taken aback. Her heterochromic eyes widened in surprise, and she went from smugly looming over Torbjorn to sitting up straight and leaning away while defensively holding her arm to her chest. It was clear that this was far from the reaction she was expecting, and Torbjorn was all too aware of it. He pressed the attack, and pointed with his good hand towards the stunned scientist.
"Feh... you know something?" he asked, having calmed down from his laughing fit. "You're just like every other stinking, smug little engineer I've worked with: high as a kite off the smell of your own farts, convinced that you're god's greatest gift to mankind! People like you don't give a damn about helping the world or bettering your fellow man, you want people to bow down at your feet and worship the ground you walk on! And every single person like you? Heh, you're so in love with yourself that you can't stand it when people talk bad about you! To you, insults and a tarnished legacy hurt so much because you're such a fragile little loser!"
Moira clenched her gnarled hand into a fist, her clawlike fingernails digging into exposed bits of handflesh and drawing blood.
"And because you're so damned self-absorbed, you project like mad and expect everyone to have the same fears and insecurities! Well take a good look at me, O'Deorain! I'm short, I'm fat, I'm uglier than a toad somebody ran over, I'm indirectly responsible for millions of deaths! I'm already a walking, talking punching bag as far as the public is concerned, so what's a bit more negative attention?!"
Moira's lips curled into a horrifically hideous scowl, and color was slowly seeping into her ghostly face.
"By all means, go ahead and air my dirty laundry to the public eye. But don't forget that while you hide all evidence of your misdeeds and associate with Talon in the shadows, I'll be scrapping evil Omnics, fighting Talon, and making the world a better place, negative attention and all! So why don't you take your "terms" and shove them where the sun doesn't shine?!"
Now completely beet red in the face with her hands soaked in blood, an enraged Moira lost all semblance of self-control and dignity: with a frustrated growl, she reached forward and extended a series of thin purple tendrils towards Torbjorn. They latched onto the little fellow, and began painfully draining the life out of him. While they glowed and pulsated vibrantly, Torb's skin grew grey, veiny, and lifeless. The pain was unbearable: he felt like his very soul was on fire and wanted to scream, but all he could manage was weak gasping and pained grunting. For a second he really thought he was going to die... until a black, clawed hand wrapped itself around Moira's arm and restrained it, causing those voracious tendrils to release Torbjorn from their grasp.
Now barely clinging to life thanks to Moira's attack, Torbjorn was convinced that Death himself had come to take him away. And it was easy to see why he reached that conclusion: a mysterious man had entered the cell, and wore a monstrous skull mask, dressed in a hooded outfit that was as black as the midnight sky, and spoke with a horrific voice that sounded less like a human being and more like a demon that crawled out of the deepest pit of hell.
"Reaper..." Moira growled at the masked terrorist, who shook his head disdainfully at her.
"We agreed against torturing him exactly for this reason. He's trying to provoke you into killing him."
"I am not killing him!" Moira snarled defiantly at her comrade, pulling her arm out of his grip. "I am merely showing him that his insolence will not be tolerated here and-"
"You sure about that? I doubt he'd still be breathing if I didn't intervene."
Moira went red in the face and glanced down at the floor, her rage now giving way to shame as she truly understood the gravity of her actions.
"Forgive me, I allowed him to get under my skin and reacted foolishly. It shan't happen again, I promise you."
Moira then extended her right arm forward, and sprayed a thick golden mist at Torbjorn. The excruciating pain and weakness he had been suffering slowly subsided, and the color returned to his skin by the time Moira lowered her arm.
"No need to apologize." Reaper growled while Torbjorn's senses began to clear up, "But we need to take a different approach. Shaming is a good method, but not when your mark has no shame to speak of..."
Now that the pain had fully come to pass, Torbjorn was now able to parse what all was going on. The Reaper... after Overwatch was disbanded, he had heard reports of a skull-masked wraith assisting Talon with costly terrorist attacks as well as hunting and killing former Overwatch agents. Each and every target of his was left a lifeless husk... was that going to be his fate at the end of all this? Even if it was, he couldn't, wouldn't show any fear. He wasn't going to let some coward behind a mask scare him.
"Torbjorn Lindholm..." Reaper mused as he folded his arms, and took Moira's place in front of the table. Instead of sitting however, he opted to stand and menacingly tower over the dwarf, likely to add to the intimidation factor. Torbjorn wasn't impressed in the slightest.
"Oh, you know my name! Good for you." Torbjorn sneered dismissively.
"For someone as obnoxious as you, I'm surprised by how many loved ones you have." Reaper droned with a noticeable snarl in his tone, "You have a beautiful wife who you've had nine children with. Reinhardt Wilhelm and Angela Ziegler are among your closest friends. And that Bastion unit living with you... you treat him well, despite your hatred for Omnics..."
"I happen to be endearingly obnoxious." Torbjorn huffed proudly.
"How does it feel, knowing that they're scared out of their minds, and have no idea where you disappeared to?"
Torbjorn grit his teeth, but otherwise didn't lose his tough, smug demeanor. "Feh! Well they'll find me eventually, and when they do? My daughter, Reinhardt, Bastion, Angela?! They'll put the lot of you in your place!"
"How does it feel, knowing that Ingrid is sobbing into Brigitte's arms, not sure what to do? How does it feel knowing that Angela and Reinhardt are trying to keep your children occupied with fun and games, while a feeling of dread permeates the house?" Reaper droned on, completely ignoring Torbjorn's remark. An act which put the man on edge.
"Wh-What do you think you're prattling on about?!" Torbjorn barked, a feeling of unease creeping across his back.
"Your family is so busy occupied with fretting over your well-being, that they're unaware of the danger they're in due to your unwillingness to cooperate."
Moira grinned smugly while Torbjorn's eye widened in shock. He was starting to put the context clues together, and the wind was considerably knocked out of his sales. He grew clammy and sweaty, and his heart hammered and pounded in his chest as he realized the implications of Reaper's behavior.
"And poor Ingrid doesn't realize how big of a health hazard turning her back to a window is..."
"Y-You wouldn't...!" Was all Torbjorn could gasp, his chest feeling uncomfortably tight and suffocating.
Reaper reached for an earpiece under his hood. "Widowmaker, take the sh-"
"STOP!" Torbjorn cried out, banging his head on the table and pounding his fists on the chair arms in despair, "STOP IT, STOP IT! For god's sake, I'll cooperate! Please... please don't kill my Ingrid... pl-please..."
All dignity thrown out the window, Torbjorn didn't even try to fight back the tears streaming down his left cheek as Reaper paused, and fiddled with the earpiece one last time. "Stand down, but hold your position until I say otherwise."
"Thank god... oh thank god..." was all Torbjorn could say, sighing with relief as the feeling of terror was dispelled. Moira laughed softly, evilly at his moment of weakness, but he didn't give a damn. Ingrid was safe, and that was all that mattered.
"Bravo, Reaper. It seems that you finally got through to him." Moira congratulated the hooded horror.
"Love... it's the greatest weakness of them all. Threaten somebody special to the person you're coercing, and they'll dance to your tune every time, without fail." Reaper turned back to Torbjorn, and slowly leered down at him while pointing a threatening finger. "I'll show you mercy this one time, and after that? Each and every slip up will result in the Lindholm family growing a lot smaller."
"Understood..." Torbjorn sighed, completely and utterly defeated.
"Good. Tomorrow, we'll fly out to the Bikini Atoll site and put you right to work. Remember that your family and friends' safety depends on your willingness to cooperate. If you value their lives, then you better work diligently and professionally."
"I will, I promise. You'll get your machine of destruction..."
Reaper ignored Torbjorn and turned back to his partner in crime. "Moira, come. We're reporting back to the council."
"Oh, they should be quite pleased with our report." Moira purred. She and Reaper took their leave, but before she shut the door, Moira turned back to Torbjorn and mockingly bowed to him. Even after she left, Torbjorn's eyes never left the surface of the table he was sitting in front of. There was no joy or life in the forlorn engineer's heart, no enthusiasm or energy bubbling up in the pit of his stomach. Just pure, regretful despair, at the lives that would be lost to yet another war machine of his...
I am proud to introduce a new thing coming to this account: Overwatch prompts I'm porting from my Archive of our Own account! I've found a few really good tumblrs such as Overprompt with cool writing prompts that I'll be writing about as a series of writing exercises with this being the first. Don't expect a smooth schedule of uploads, but know that you'll be seeing these pop up here and there because I love writing about the characters so much.
Anyway, this prompt? To quote Overprompt: Talon has kidnapped Torbjorn. Moira attempts to get him to cooperate with Talon and troubleshoot a superweapon by lecturing him about his role in the Omnic Crisis, and threatening to announce that role in the deaths of millions of humans to the world. When that fails, Reaper makes a much more direct threat against his family.
I honestly loved working on this one because I freaking love Moira and Torbjorn: Moira because she's equal parts sexy and sassy, and Torb because he's such a lovable little grump. But in all honesty, his voice lines and comics actually paint him as a complex individual and while he's usually ignored or the butt of the jokes among the fandom (probably because he isn't a ruggedly handsome yakuza that fangirls will write about reenacting Brokeback Mountain with McCree), I liked being able to play with his feelings of guilt in the Omnic Crisis, willingness to do good in spite of that, and his love for his family.
So expect more to come in the future! I've actually got a Mei-focused prompt that I hope I can get up before November starts~
"Right up here, big guy! C'mon, quick! Before they get you!"
It was hard to hear his friend's voice over the sound of taunting war cries, laser-fire, and the pounding of his own heart. But thanks to his keen gorilla senses, Winston could isolate his friend's calls from across the dark, neon-lit city streets. They came from the top of what looked like the balcony of a restaurant, where he could see a woman's gloved hand wave him over from the upper doorway. Gritting his teeth and giving a determined huff, Winston broke out into a brisk run on all fours and leaped into the air by using a parked car as a springboard. While the bespectacled ape wasn't able to achieve the ridiculous height that he'd get from using his jump pack, he was still able to grab onto the edge of the restaurant's balcony, and just barely managed to pull himself up and away from a hail of laser gunfire.
"Lena! Lena, I'm here!" Winston huffed after using a tactical combat roll to safely enter the restaraunt's empty top floor, where his scrawny, spiky haired sister-in-arms Lena "Tracer" Oxton was pressing her back against a wall and breathing heavily.
"Oh thank God you made it out of there alive, Winston!" Tracer huffed as she nervously eyeballed the staircase leading to the ground floor, "Those savages have been kicking our behinds like crazy!"
"You're not kidding. The way they ganged up on Peter, ambushed Carlito, and sniped Timothy?! They're downright merciless!" Winston anguished, gesturing wildly while his eyes widened in panic.
"After going toe to toe with these guys? Give me Talon or the Deadlock Gang any day of the week! Or heck, Null Sector for that matter!" Tracer groaned as she glared down at the unweildly laser rifle she was clutching in her hands. "Oh, how I hate this stupid gun! I'm not meant to use weapons like this!"
Winston grabbed a similar gun that he had slung to his back and gave a sympathetic sigh. Indeed: this firearm was something he was incredibly unfamiliar with and nowhere near as comfortable to use as his trusty Tesla Cannon. But this was no time to complain: Winston could hear multiple sets of footsteps entering the downstairs room and it was only a matter of time before they had company. They needed a plan, and fast.
"Alright Lena, soon we'll have hostiles coming up those stairs, and we're outnumbered seven to two. But if we play our cards right, I think we can tip the odds in our favor..."
"So what's the plan, big guy?"
Winston looked out the doorway leading to the balcony and pointed. "We go for a pincer manuever: I stay here and hold them off! Meanwhile, you jump off the balcony, rush back inside from the ground entrance, and surprise them from behind! With any luck we'll both come out unscathed and with less hostiles to worry about."
Tracer furrowed her brow, held her gun closer, and nodded in understanding. "Got it."
"Alright then. See you on the other side, Lena."
The friends parted ways: Winston headed for the stairs while Tracer made a break for the window. The gorilla made it halfway down the steps before he was ambushed by a quartet of attackers who blocked the foot of the stairs and aimed up at him.
"Take this, monkey man!"
"I'm not a monkey..." Winston growled as he readied his gun and took aim. "I'm a SCIENTIST!" A primal roar erupting from his chest, Winston fired a flurry of noisy laser shots at his opponents. He could feel a grin spread across his grey lips as a pair of noisy alarms confirmed that he nailed two of his targets... only for it to be wiped clean off when his vest's weakpoint was shot and a similar alarm sounded.
"Yeah, got him!" The shooter, a black boy who couldn't have been any older than nine cheered as he high fived the blonde kid next to him.
"NO! Agh..." Winston grumbled as he fell onto the floor in defeat. As his attackers celebrated, he looked up at the sky and reached upwards before clenching his hand into a defiant fist. 'Lena, it's all up to you...'
"AW, RUBBISH!" Tracer hollered from outside the building as another vest alarm sounded off.
'Or not...' Winston thought with a sigh as Tracer's vest siren was soon drowned out by an even noiser alarm that rang across the combat zone through overhead speakers.
"THE RED TEAM HAS BEEN COMPLETELY ELIMINATED! THE BLUE TEAM WINS!"
All across the battlefield, the darkness was dispelled as the neon lights went off and were were replaced with more natural lighting, which made it more apparent that the ruined streets were little more than an elaborate laser tag arena. While Winston got back up on his feet and removed his laser tag vest, the children he was playing with began giddily celebrating amongst one another.
"Dude, we beat them! We beat Winston AND Tracer!"
"Yeah, we kicked their BUTTS!"
"Ooh! Ooh! If we beat those guys, it means we're better fighters than them! Does this mean we can join Overwatch?!"
"If we join Overwatch, I'm going to marry Tracer!"
Winston laughed jovially, unable to resist the contagious feelings of excitement from these kids. He and Tracer had been engaged in laser tag battles with kids all day long as a huge charity fundraiser the pair had put together: Laserfest. For just five dollars kids were free to spend the entire day playing laser tag with these two, and in turn the funds would go to under-funded children's hospitals throughout the United States of America, with plans to go international in the future. Sure, it may not have been as thrilling or larger-than-life as saving people from terrorists or hostile Omnics, but as long as he was making people happy and still making the world a better place, there were no complaints on his end.
"Alright kids, face front! Your pal Tracer has an announcement to make!" Tracer called out as she entered the "building" with the rest of the kids they were just playing with in tow. Having always been appealing to kids in particular, Tracer needed next to no extra effort on her end to get the children's attention: they faced her and fell silent almost immediately.
"I just wanted to give you lot a big whopping "congratulations" for that game just now. We didn't even stand a chance against you! You should be proud of being the first laser tag team to beat me and Winston today!"
The children began cheering and excitedly telling again.
"Again! Again! I wanna play again!"
"Come on guys, let's do a rematch!"
"Mr. Winston, Ms. Tracer, can we please play one more time?"
"Hey Tracer, my dad thinks you're hot!"
"Aw, real sorry luvs, but that's it for today!" Tracer's announcement was met with a cacophony of disappointed groaning while she removed the laser tag vest that bulged awkwardly against her Chronal Accelerator. She pointed at a huge digital clock display on a wall in the main battleground, which read 7:00 PM: the time that LaserFest would officially end.
"Oh my, it's seven already?!" Winston was completely taken aback: when he was a young ape his father figure Dr. Harold Winston taught him the proverb about how time flies when you're having fun... but he could have sworn that only a few minutes ago the clock read 4:53...
"Hey hey, don't go all "doom and gloom" on me now!" Tracer consoled the children, one of which had full-on dissolved into teary-eyed hysterics, "LaserFest is hardly gonna be a one-time thing, you'll get to hang out with us plenty more times in the future! Besides..." a knowing grin spread across her face, "You lot are forgetting about the pizza afterparty we had planned for you!"
Right on cue, an Omnic delivery boy walked into the battlefield carrying a stack of pizza boxes that were stacked to the point of nearly touching the ceiling. "Delivery for one Lena Oxton!"
Immediately, the tone of the children changed on a dime.
"YEAH! You guys are AWESOME!"
"Pizza! Pizza! PIZZA!"
"Don't eat all the cheese pizza, guys! I want some!"
Cutest of all, the crying child ran up and wrapped his arms around Tracer's waist in a hug. "Thanks Ms. Tracer."
"Aw, you're welcome, little guy!" Tracer cooed as she ruffled the little tyke's hair before turning to the rest of the crowd. "Alright you lot, let's go! There's pizza to be eaten, fizzy drinks to be sipped! Come on!"
She and Winston led the way to the party room, eager to tear into some tasty, tasty pizza. It had been way too long since Winston had this kind of fun, and he knew he'd savor every individual second of it: while he loved putting the hurt on bad guys, he couldn't say that it beat out good old-fashioned wholesome fun like this. He couldn't wait until he got back to HQ and shared today's events with his subordinates...
Current Residence: Houston, Texas
deviantWEAR sizing preference: Dunno
Print preference: Dunno
Favourite genre of music: Video Game Soundtracks
Favourite style of art: Dunno. I like many.
Operating System: Don't care.
MP3 player of choice: Whatever works is fine with me.
Shell of choice: A nice turtle shell is fine with me.
Wallpaper of choice: See second and third answers
Skin of choice: My skin...?
Favourite cartoon character: Zuko, Wreck-it Ralph
Personal Quote: Stay calm, stay fresh, and most of all, stay safe!