Chapter Text
Futuristic India was just about what the Demoman had expected it to be. That being said, he had never even been to India to his knowledge and his first assumption of the region was that the clothing had to have been worth his head several times over, and the body-to-body contact had to have been unbearable for most tourists. Fortunately for the latter it seemed DeGroot and Lena were getting by rather well, wading through the crowds. The Brit's natural celebrity tenure had clearly gotten them through the brunt of most commuting groups far easier than he had anticipated. For better or worse.
By worse, that meant the Demoman had to deal with the baggage that came with being the celebrity side-piece; taking photos with eager fans, answering questions about his relationship with Tracer and the occassional question about his eye. The Demoman's lack of depth perception was no help in taking photos and the usual angry response he threw about Lena was about as 'trite and true Scot' as he could possibly be.
He should've stayed with the Doctor. At least she was a pleasant individual to talk to. Tavish and Lena...didn't get along. Polar opposites from one another to the bone. Lena courteous and friendly with anyone offering their attention to her, while Tavish grunts and curses away anyone who tried to get in his face. All he wanted was to be done with this place, get his sword and get back home before mum began her 'worrying' phase. Or worse; what if the team began to notice his disappearance? What if Blutarch's forces began to knock at the Viaduct and - god forbid - take their prized briefcase full of juicy intelligence?
He'd be fired!
With an exhale, Tavish put his hands above his head to try and hide himself from both Lena and the oncoming gawkers. Vishkar's HQ according to Athena shouldn't have been too far off from now. Business district should be a straight shot to their headquarters. He could take care of himself. Lena could take care of herself.
"S'not like I need help from some fancy-prancy Londonite-tart." The Demoman muttered beneath his breath as he marched onwards. "I'm a right, true EXPLORER of all things. The last thing that could ever happen to a fella like me is gettin' LOST. I am ALWAYS on Point. ALWAYS on the ball. ALWAY--"
In the midst of his slightly intoxicated rant, he seemed to have ignored the sudden rush of commotion that began to surround him. Bustling streets turned to scrambling yells. Disorder of the finest caliber. On the left of the Demoman a grand explosion had managed to go off, destroying the large windows from the inside of the unidentified building. Civilians rushing out with things in hand, unorthodox in their fear-fueled stampede. More shots, drowning the screaming out in favor of even grander explosions. Minutes would go to a full hour, and by the time Tavish had finally stopped to see what the hell was going on, the back of his head had began to grow comfortable along the opposite edge ...of a shotgun barrel.
--
Jesse McCree slept on the job. He has been sleeping for a good two hours. Satya knew this because she had been observing him in the intermissions of her current study. Usually she would shoo any slouching mercenary off the job and hurry herself to hire the next high-quality schmo to do a simple security routine, but with the strange developments of the past month Sayta was forced to let McCree continue to sleep on the job. It wasn't everyday Vishkar was tasked with uncovering the innerworkings of a talking sword. Nor was it an everyday occurence to see test after test on the unnamed sword emerge 'inconclusive.'
No DNA samples tracing to a history of owners. Nothing unique about the metalworking and binding. Nothing explainable about the strange kinectic energy it seemed to radiate. The scabbard was normal. The wear on the blade was present but the blade still remained razor sharp. Sadly, Satya couldn't find a single explanation as to how the hell this thing was capable of speaking.
Or how to get it to shut up.
Regardless, she had a job to do and she was no less determined to get the job done as she was yesterday. Descending down the flight of stairs into the containment room where the Eyelander and McCree rested, Satya bringing a hard-light crafted monitor to her display to see had anything changed with the sword. Right as she began her standard maintenance procedure, the screen of the monitor flashed red, a warning displayed across the screen that stated:
"ROBBERY IN PROGRESS WITHIN THE BUSINESS DISTRICT, PROCEEDING WITH LOCKDOWN."
The monitor unsuable during the lockdown session. A practice Vishkar had made mandatory across all of their HQ products to prevent their secrets from leaking -- the usual process tripled in security protocols due to the recent LumeriCo leaks. Satya was, for lack of a better word, stuck in a containment room with a sword and a gun-man who managed to sleep through an alarm system.
How long was this going to last?
--
Danger called, and Tracer saves. Saves as many as she could, guiding them out of the explosion radius. Athena chiming into her communicator about the situation.
"Target(s?) unidentified. Casualty number unidentified. The first explosion managed to occur roughly twenty minutes ago.".
A relived sigh escaped the Speedster, managing her briefing with the AI well while she shuffled civilians out of the blast radius.
"Can't be Talon, yeah? The last thing those guys would want is a full frontal war with Vishkar. Not even the UN can compete with their tech. These have to be either...radicals, or two idiots."
"Let's hope it is the latter.". Athena added. "Would you like to see if Tavish is safe?"
Tracer huffed. Not like SHE would personally care for the well being of a bone-headed scot who would just walk away from her when she's taking the lead to Vishkar Developments HQ... curse her heroic nature.
"Fine. Patch me in, Athena.". Tracer conceded with a click of her tongue. "You better not be dead, you one-eyed maniac."
--
No Grenade Launcher, no Sticky Launcher, no Sword -- just an explosive Caber, Tavish's trusty pocket Scrumpy and about a years' worth of fistfighting knowledge thanks some improv training with Misha. Tavish was clearly outgunned and outbulked by the masked assailant with the shotgun pressed to his skull. What a day to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Tavish bit the tip of his thumb in thought. Let's say if he WERE about to be killed: would he not be respawned at the Viaduct back in Teufort? Initially his first thought was 'NO' but at the same time, he wouldn't really know if he wouldn't try. What's stopping him from trying? ...That thought quickly went away once he realised that if he were to die right here and now...that would be it. No life. No home. No Teufort. A risk he couldn't take right now.
Thankfully that's only one in the grand playbook of risks that Tavish enjoyed taking. The Demoman swivled on his feet to face himself in front of the gunman. A portly, masked man brandishing a hook to compliment that strange shotgun in his opposite hand. With the mask in mind the Demoman wasn't going to get a read at all in his facial expressions. No faking out, the Demoman had to think quick...
He raised his hands and faced the bloated gunman eye to eyes. Taking a deep breath before speaking up for himself.
"....thassa...thassa mighty fine uh...explosion y'got there, mate."
The gunman's head tilted. A congested growl emitting from the mask before actually saying something.
"Yeah."
Demoman raised his brow. Not much of a talker. Maybe he just likes being talked up?
"...Yanno, 'm a...'m just gonna go an' get to me mum, yeah?"
"No."
Tavish nearly jumped out of his wee booties. Right. The ASKING strategy is a no-go. What will the Demoman's next plea bargain be?
He spat on the ground, sloshing the excess saliva through his gums and teeth before uttering something else that's just as equally stupid as asking to leave.
"Y'mind if I...have this here last drink? Before I go, I mean?". Reaching into the band of his trousers he brandished the bottle of Scrumpy to reveal to the gunman. With no response at first, he attempted to raise the hook in one hand with the full intent to strike the Demoman down...Tavish closed his eye shut. This was it. This was the end, and he wasn't even going to get a chance to have the last taste of his favorite drink.
Unbeknowst to him, a third party had approached Tavish and swiped the bottle clean from his hands. He popped his eye open to get a look at who was the wily bastard with the audacity to take a swipe at his drink.
Wily bastard was definitely the right terminolgy to think of, he surmised. This man surely did appear to be a wily bastard, with his grease-smattered shirtless torso and unkempt bottom attire. Waddling about with a rusted peg-leg and good lord this man has a Grenade Launcher.
"OOH. Scrumpy! Hard pick to get these days since the war, eh? Reckon this fella must be a collector...right. Toss 'em off, Roadhog. We can make a killin' with this here liquid gold!"
The gunman, 'Roadhog' sighed out. Lowering his gun and stepping away from Tavish at the request of this scraggly fellow. It was one thing to hold the Demoman at full gunpoint with the prospect of his life being taken away, without a respawn at that. It was a completely different thing to blatantly rob a man from his hard-earned scrumpy SHORTLY before killing him. He's not even dead yet! These brats...these /novices/ with such reckless disregard of a TRUE veteran housewrecker...
Tavish was more angry than he was relieved that his life was spared. Some criminals THESE were. He'd show these two cretins just what he was capable of. If it means breaking the damned bottle and ruining the spoils for both of the party, well, Tavish was a fair trader before he started being a fair fighter.
"YOU...OILY...NO GOOD!!"
The scraggly man with the bottle of freshly stolen Scrumpy in his hand whipped around with the Grenade Launcher pointed in retaliation. Between himself, Roadhog and the Demoman, the three would be blinded by the point-blank Caber slammed into Roadhog's gut.