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Chapter Text

Many years ago, a witch in Eichenwalde was out gathering mushrooms when she crossed paths with a monk from a far-off land. The monk was terribly hunched over from a great weight on his back and the witch, being a woman of a charitable heart, approached to help him. As she drew closer, she saw the sack the monk had slung over his shoulder wasn’t very large at all. Curious, she addressed him.

“Monk,” she said, “What have you got in that sack there?”

“A terrible burden that I shall be glad to be rid of,” said the monk, continuing to walk.

The witch matched his pace easily. “May I see it?” she asked.

The monk looked her up and down. The witch didn’t exactly look like a witch, she was tall and fair, with white-gold hair and gray-blue eyes, so, supposing he might as well stop for a breath, he opened the sack to her. Inside the sack was a fine porcelain tea leaf pot, painted with chrysanthemums and blooming tree branches, and the pot itself was veined with gold. The top of the pot was corked, and the cork itself sealed around the rim of the porcelain with paper with fine calligraphy on it, though the witch could not exactly make out what it said.

“How lovely!” said the witch, “Why should anyone want to be rid of such a treasure?”

The monk gave a huff. “I’ve trapped an evil spirit in this pot,” he said, “And I go to throw it in the icy seas north of here.”

“An evil spirit?” said the witch. It is worth noting at this point that the witch did not believe him, simply because of the fact that whenever she had to travel with an object of high value, she would tell anyone who asked about it that it was terribly cursed and she was going to destroy it, and usually they believed her and she was able to avoid many a bandit by that means. She was a witch, this much was true, but hers was not a magic of demons trapped in jars sealed off with cork and paper, hers was a magic of healing, of green and growing things, and of ancient texts. For her, demons were minor nuisances who made milk soil and put blood in goose eggs and were easily warded off with a word or a good sweep of the besom. If the demon were any serious matter, she would feel it.

The monk nodded gravely. “I was very lucky, you see, this spirit is drawn to beautiful things, so this pot made a good trap. The first time I trapped it in the pot, it screamed and railed and shook so that the pot shattered. Undeterred, I repaired the pot and filled the cracks with gold so that it was even more beautiful. The demon could not resist, and thus I trapped it for good this time.”

“How did you get it to fall for the same trick twice?” asked the witch with a smile.

“I was also lucky in the fact that this demon is also a fool, and a vain one at that. But now I really must be going. I am not moving nearly as swiftly with a burden like this, and I must reach the northern sea.”

“I could take it to the northern sea for you,” the witch offered politely.

“Would you?” said the monk, and before the witch could sell her suggestion further with talk of how well she knew these lands and how hale and swift she was, the monk shoved the tea leaf pot into her arms and was already walking back whence he came. The witch was stunned for a few seconds, then glanced down at her pot, smiled, and shrugged. It wasn’t nearly as heavy in her hands as it had looked on the monk’s back.

 She felt a bit guilty about taking the treasure off his hands. Holy men were so quick to overreact over boggarts. She herself was not really one for riches, though. It was lovely to look at and would probably be worth a pretty penny to sell for food if her crops blighted or goat sickened. When the witch got home, she set the new gold-veined pot among her apothecary jars. Not in too obvious a spot, for the village would surely be suspicious as to how she got such a treasure, but in the open enough so that she could look up at it fondly as she worked at her cauldron.

The witch lived where the village ended and the wood began, though “witch,” as a title and address, was conditional. She was “witch” until bones needed setting, until boils needed lancing, until fevers needed breaking and until the miller’s wife was with child (again) and needed goose-grease ointment. In such circumstances, the witch was no longer “witch” and called “Miss Gramercy.” The witch herself preferred “Mercy.”

 Save for curing ails, Mercy kept to herself, and the village left her well enough alone. On some days when the children were feeling particularly bold, they would throw rotten vegetables at her when she walked through the village, but aside from that she was a necessary presence in their village that for the most part, the villagers liked to pretend didn’t exist. She didn’t mind this. She liked the privacy—more time for her books, more time for her experiments, more time for her tinctures and extracts, and, while she would never admit this to any of the villagers, more time for magic. Her books were her dearest treasures; texts on chemistry and mathematics and astronomy from Arabia and Greece and China, and several secret texts she kept in a locked box behind a panel in her wall that the village would surely burn her for possessing if they were ever found. To feed herself she kept a garden, and she had a goat and a goose, given to her in exchange for her services several years ago, but her only true companion was an ugly, one-eyed, foul-tempered-with-all-but-her black cat she called “Old Scratch.” 

For the next few weeks Mercy returned to her work and all but forgot about her exchange with the foreign monk, and the gold-veined tea leaf pot on her shelf was little more than a decoration. That is, until one day while Mercy was busying herself with a mortar and pestle, a sparrow flew into the house with Old Scratch in pursuit, and the cat, in leaping after the bird, knocked the tea leaf pot from its shelf. Mercy sat up with a start with the sound of porcelain shattering behind her and she whirled around. “Scratch, you old devil! What have you done…now…” she trailed off as black and red smoke with green lightning sparking through it billowed up from the broken remains of the pot. She covered her mouth with her hands and slowly stepped back as the smoke and lightning formed itself into a human figure wearing a terrifying mask. 

“So you have freed me,” the figure spoke, drawing itself to its full height, “So you have my servi—”

He was immediately met with a face full of broom bristles.

“Back!” she smacked him with the broom, “Back!” she smacked him again, “Back from whence thou came! With this besom, I banish thee hence!”

He caught the broom handle. “What are you doing?” he said flatly.

“Banishing…you…?” said Mercy.

“You expect to banish me with a cleaning utensil?” said the demon, “I, whose sword can stir up great whirlwinds with one swipe? I, whose steps can be as loud as thunder or silent as death? I, who–Gah!” Mercy had shoved forward with the broom handle and he caught a face full of broom bristles again, “Will you stop that?!” he snapped.

“It usually works with other demons,” Mercy said a bit sheepishly, drawing back but still holding the broom in front of herself, ready to strike him again.

“The other demons?” said evil spirit tilted his head. 

“Boggarts, you know,” said Mercy, “Usually no bigger than your hand. Mostly they just turn butter rancid and hide things from you.”

“I–do I look like I have any interest in your butter?!” said the demon, clearly insulted by this comparison.

“I–um…” Mercy fidgeted with her hair a bit, “I don’t know. You’re the first demon of your kind that I’ve seen,” said Mercy, walking around him, broom still at the ready, but moving to get a better look at him. She glanced down. “No cloven hooves or anything…”

“Ah yes, I heard those in these lands had interesting ideas of demons,” he said, “I can give myself cloven hooves if you wish. I can take all kinds of forms, but I like this one,” he removed the mask, “It is the most handsome, is it not?”

Mercy drew back a little, her grip tightening on her broom. He was handsome. with fine cheekbones and a strong jaw, though his eyes were bright red, between blood and fire. She leaned in a little.

“Try not to be too distracted by my good looks,” said the demon with a grin.

“…Do you make your eyebrows look like that on purpose or do they just look like that with whatever form you take?” said Mercy, squinting at his eyebrows.

“What’s wrong with my eyebrows?” he said, some hurt in his voice.

“Nothing!” Mercy drew back again, “Nothing at all!”

The demon put his mask back on sullenly.

Mercy exhaled. “What do you want of me?” she said, gripping her broom.

“It’s not what I want of you, it’s what you want of me,” said the demon, “As I was saying before you so rudely assaulted me with that broom, you freed me and thus, you have my service,” he gave a bow, “At the very least you have no ill-will from me, and are free to send me on my way with no repercussions.”

“Your service…” Mercy said skeptically, “Do you have a name?”

 “You may call me Genji,” said the demon.

“Genji,” Mercy repeated the name, “Very well, Genji.” 

“It sounds lovely on your tongue,” said Genji. Mercy wasn’t sure if he was complimenting her voice or praising the beauty of his own name, “What are you called?”

“I am called Mercy,” said Mercy, “Well… not really. They call me ‘Witch’ or ‘Miss Gramercy’ but I call myself Mercy.” 

“A witch!” Genji seemed pleased by this, “Finally someone interesting!”

“Interesting?”

“Usually most ask just me for fame, or riches, or slaying their enemies and send me on my way. Witches tend to be more… mutually beneficial partnerships,” Mercy could hear the smile in his voice beneath the mask. 

Mercy frowned. “And what is the price?”

“What do you mean, ‘What is the price?’” said Genji, “I said you have my service.”

“Your only true reward to me for freeing you from that pot is the fact that you haven’t possessed me or killed me or done something terrible yet,” said Mercy, “You’re a demon. If you’re offering a service, there is always a price.”

“Several moments ago you were beating me with a broom like I was some second-rate imp and now you speak as if you’re an expert on the nature of demons,” muttered Genji.

“That was practice, this is extending a bit more into theory,” said Mercy with a slight smile, “But there is a price, isn’t there?”  

“You witches are irritatingly clever about these things,” said Genji, “Yes. Fine. There’s a price, but nothing you need to pay now.”

Mercy folded her arms and gave him a sharp look, indicating to him that she would not tolerate being vague and threatening.

“Your first-born,” said Genji.

“Oh,” Mercy seemed to relax considerably at this, “All right then,” she said with the same cavalierness as if she was buying bread at the market. 

“What–Really?” said Genji.

“Yes,” said Mercy, who had no intention of even having a first-born to begin with.

“This is why I like you witches,” said Genji, “Not nearly as much dramatics as most humans. Very well then!” He clapped his hands together, “I am at your disposal, Witch Mercy. What do you desire? Secrets of the lands of the dead? Grant you a silver tongue with which to charm all men?”

“Hmm…no,” said Mercy.

“I’d offer you youth and beauty but I cannot offer what you already possess,” said Genji.

Mercy scoffed and smiled. 

“What can I offer you…hm…” Genji seemed thoughtful, “I could… turn into a dragon and you could ride me stark naked across the moonlit skies?”

Mercy’s nose wrinkled, “What…Why on earth would I want to do that?”

“Because it’s fun?” Genji shrugged. “I saw a woodcut of witches from this land and from what I could gather, they seemed to have a fondness for flying naked,” 

Mercy sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t want to fly naked,” she said, exasperated, she was quiet for a while before saying at last, “Protection.”

“Is that your desire?” said Genji.

“I have seen witches and innocent women alike burnt at the stake for little more than healing sicknesses or rebuffing a man’s advances. I consider my work important and would not like to die before I am satisfied. You say your sword is swift and mighty?”

“The swiftest and mightiest,” said Genji with no small amount of pride.

“And you can take the forms of many things?” said Mercy.

“All sorts of things,” said Genji.

“Then I would like your protection, against man and demon alike,” said Mercy.

“I could simply devour your enemies,” Genji offered. 

“I don’t have enemies–if I do, then they haven’t really done anything yet,” said Mercy, “Gods willing, I won’t ever need your protection, but it would be nice to have.”

“And so you have it,” said Genji with a bow, “I could also give you the means to escape your enemies–you could ride the wind as I do…”

“You do not have to give me what I intend to gain for myself,” said Mercy with a grin.

Genji chuckled. “Witches always were more interesting,” he said, lifting his mask.

Chapter Text

“You wished to see me, Bishop?” The witch hunter stood in the doorway, the sun shining through the red and yellow stained glass featuring St. Sebastian made the dark tile floor beneath his feet look like hot coals.

Bishop Petras turned on his heel and faced the witch hunter. “Gabriel,” the Bishop said with a slight smile, “You’re looking well. Spain must have agreed with you.”

“Food and sunlight, yes, the people…” Gabriel trailed off.

“Fear does terrible things to the mind and soul,” said Bishop Petras, looking back out the window.

“And that is why they bring me in,” said Gabriel, stepping alongside the bishop, “I take it this is not a visit to pleasantly catch up.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right. The people of Eichenwalde are afraid, Gabriel,” said Petras, “These woods… Usually such fears are easy to dismiss as shadows in the trees and mold in the bread but… it’s getting worse. People are reporting strange sights—strange lights in the sky—”

“Marsh fire. Shooting stars. Dry lightning,” said Gabriel flatly.

“Hideous creatures walking the woods—”

“Mange outbreak with the local wolves,” Gabriel said just as easily.

“Terrible nightmares affecting whole villages–”

“Mold in bread. You said this one already, Bishop.”

“Blisters forming at random on people—”

“Again, mange,” said Gabriel.

“Gabriel,” the Bishop spoke with only an ounce of the gravity that his office gave him, but it was enough to silence the witch hunter, “I know you are a skeptic, and in part, that is what makes you one of the very best at your work, but I also know you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t feel a dark presence as well. I need you to investigate this city and the surrounding villages. I fear a door has opened and now, in our midst, there is something dark, something evil, something of unimaginable power.”

—-

“Spit him out! Spit him out, now, Scratch!” Mercy was angrily shaking her cat upside-down until it finally coughed up a fat little brown sparrow, which hit the earthen floor of her cottage with a slight bounce. The cat shot off angrily out an open window as soon as she released it and Mercy quickly dropped to one knee next to the sparrow, “Are–are you all right?”

“You did that on purpose,” said Genji as smoke and green lightning formed around the small sparrow and he retook the form of a human.

“I did not!” snapped Mercy, “I just said you need a form to disguise yourself outside this cottage.”

“I thought you liked this form,” said Genji, frowning.

“I do, but–!” Mercy started but then she saw the smug grin on Genji’s face and her brow furrowed, “Oh come off it–You know everyone will be suspicious if a man no one’s ever seen before comes walking out of my cottage—especially one with glowing red eyes.”

“Just say I’m your lover,” said Genji with a shrug.

Mercy flushed and her mouth tightened, “You know that’s not what I mean!” she said, getting to her feet.

“Well I’m not going through this debate with you again,” said Genji, “You have a complaint for every form: Dragon is too obvious, crow is too ominous, you already have a cat, you don’t have the money for a horse—”

“What about a beetle?” said Mercy.

Genji’s eyes widened, then he quickly re-materialized his mask from red smoke and put it on, folding his arms, “No,” he said flatly.

“’No?’” said Mercy, “You brag about being able to take any form and you won’t take the form of a beetle?”

“The last time I took the form of a beetle, a monk trapped me in a tea leaf pot for months,” said Genji.

Mercy huffed. “I still think sparrow’s our best bet.”

“You’re just trying to feed me to your cat again,” muttered Genji.

“It’s agile, it’s unassuming…”

“Edible…” said Genji, shooting a glare at the window where Scratch was watching with his one sinister gold eye.

Mercy’s brow furrowed, “I promise Scratch won’t get his paws on you again,” she said with a slight smile, “Besides, I think you’re quite cute in that form”

Genji gave her a long look, and somehow she could tell his eyes were narrowing at her through the mask. “You’re lucky I’m very susceptible to flattery,” he said as smoke formed around him again.

“No wonder that monk tricked you twice,” Mercy murmured to herself.

“What was that?” said Genji as smoke enveloped him.

“Nothing,” said Mercy with a smile.

There were a few small sparks of green lightning and the smoke cleared to reveal not a sparrow, but a sparrowhawk, which, with a few quick wingbeats flew over and alighted on Mercy’s chair and preened himself. “I may have taken some liberties,” he said, ruffling his feathers slightly.

“That could work,” Mercy said thoughtfully. 

Genji shot a superior glance at Scratch through the window, and the cat let out a low growl before slipping away. Mercy opened the window and Genji swept out. She threw on her cloak, grabbed her basket of tinctures and stepped out the door. She locked her door with a pin and a whisper and went off down the village road, glancing over her shoulder to see the sparrowhawk gliding through the air behind her. She glanced up to see the sunlight shining through the trees. The witch’s village was in too dense forest to really serve as a farming village like the others, though most of the cottages kept their own gardens. They specialized mostly in raw lumber, though there were some woodworking artisans in some of the finer cottages. She watched with a slight smile as Genji, in sparrowhawk form, easily glided from tree to tree. The other villages tended to fear the woods, and with good reason, but she couldn’t help but feel a deep affection for them. She was smiling to herself when Genji suddenly dive-bombed a branch and caught an unfortunate squirrel scrambling along it. Genji easily tore it open with his talons and hooked beak. 

“Eugh,” her own hand mindlessly went to her neck as she saw Genji feed, and the sparrowhawk made eye contact with her. 

“Do you want some?” Genji spoke in her mind.

Her hand went to her ears and her eyes widened.

“Apologies. I should have asked. I figured if you’re so careful about being seen with me, you probably would not want to be seen talking to a hawk. I won’t open any doors you won’t permit, I promise. So…” the sparrowhawk then demonstratively ripped off a large piece of the squirrel’s flesh, “Do you want some?” 

Mercy shook her head and kept walking when something blunt suddenly hit her in the back of the shoulder. She turned on her heel to see a small figure dodge behind one of the last cottages of the villages, then glanced down to see a half-rotten beet on the ground.

“Oh for–” she glanced over her shoulder to see a red-purple stain on her cloak. It didn’t show up much with the cloak’s dark color, but she frowned, turned up her nose, and kept walking. It was then that she got hit by a carrot and turned on her heel again to see several children snickering and hiding behind the village gate.

“I can devour them for you,” Genji spoke in her mind.

“You’ll do no such thing, they’re children,” she snapped in her own mind.

“I don’t have to kill them, I can just take their legs. Maybe even just a hand—”

“No!” 

“What’s the point of having me around then? You’re my charge. It’ll affect my reputation if I let such slights against you go unanswered,” Genji was preening the squirrel blood out of his breast feathers. 

“I can handle it myself. I’ll give them some nightmares when I get home tonight. Nothing serious. Just enough to make them soil their bedclothes,” Mercy thought, walking briskly.

There was a pause on Genji’s end. She could still feel him present in her mind, yet it was a silent mulling of what she had said.

“You’ve a kind heart for children. Even when they’re little monsters. It’s a shame I’m taking your first-born,” Genji said.

Mercy snorted to herself and kept walking.

Mercy’s village was about a three-hour walk from the main city. It had to be a short walk since lumber was difficult to transport. About an hour in, Genji returned to human form and walked alongside her, since there was no one else on the road. He didn’t even bother wearing his mask this time. 

“I noticed something,” Genji said as they walked, “Your house is old.”

“And?”

“And the village doesn’t seem particularly fond of you,” said Genji, “How did you come to live here?”

Something tugged at Mercy’s mouth. “I was an orphan,” she said, “I don’t quite remember how I lost my parents–war or disease, or disease borne from war… but I was adopted by this old woman. She was Miss Gramercy before me. It wasn’t a very loving relationship—she needed someone to help her keep her house and garden, but as I got older she taught me some of her trade and soon I was her assistant in all things. She gave me the house when she died, though some of the villagers still have this theory that I’m actually her and she boiled my bones into a paste that she smeared all over herself to turn herself young and beautiful.”

“And did she?” said Genji, leaning close to her, “You do act like a crabby old woman sometimes…”

Mercy snickered and elbowed him, prompting a chuckle out of him.

“What of you?” she said, looking at Genji, “Do demons have parents, or are they shaped out of darkness and fire like clay? And how came you to the human world?”

Genji seemed genuinely thoughtful at this, “I don’t know,” he said quietly, “My brother told me a story of two vain princes, skilled with sword and bow, who set out in a boat but were caught in a storm. The wind and water threw them from their boat into the sea, where dragons rose up from the depths to devour them. The princes’ mother, however, prayed to the gods of the storm to grant them mercy, and the gods begrudgingly complied. They struck the sea with lightning, and thus my brother and I were saved…or…born–what have you– but at a terrible cost. The magic rendered us Yokai. We could never live among humans again, save through partnerships like this one,” he gestured at Mercy, “But that is just a story my brother told me. I do not remember very clearly myself,” he said with a shrug.

“Do you see your brother often?” asked Mercy.

“Every so often we’ll meet each other and spar in thunderstorms, the clash of our blades sparking with lightning and the force of our blows sounding thunder,” Genji said this casually, as if this battle was akin to sharing a cup of tea.

“You meet with your brother every few months… just to fight him,” Mercy said skeptically. 

“Siblings,” Genji said with a shrug. 

Mercy was quiet for a while at this. “Does it get lonely?” she asked.

“What do you mean ‘does it get lonely?’ I can ride the wind and take any form I please and—”

“You’re not answering the question,” said Mercy.

Genji rolled his eyes, then materialized his mask from red smoke and put it on. “It’s no more lonely than your work, I’m sure,” he said.

Mercy was silent for a while and they continued walking down the forest road. It was a while before Eichenwalde castle peeked out from past the tops of the trees.

“So much stone,” Genji murmured to himself, “Terribly grim, the castles you have here. Where I come from the castles are—”

“Shh,” Mercy suddenly stopped walking.

“Mm?” Genji stopped as well. They both heard hoofbeats approaching down the road.

“Hide yourself,” said Mercy.

“What?” said Genji and Mercy suddenly shoved him off the road into a nearby thicket, where there was a bit of smoke and a some green sparks that died down just as a figure thundered past on a great pale stallion. Mercy looked up at the rider as the horse swiftly shot past. The rider was dressed all in black, with a crossbow on his back and a matchlock pistol at his hip. Genji was well-hidden by the shrubbery, but the rider made eye contact with her as he passed. He had dark eyes, and some scars on his cheeks and nose. He regarded her only briefly before turning his attention back to his riding, and spurring his horse on down the forest road. Mercy’s lips thinned as Genji strutted out from the shrubbery in sparrowhawk form, grumpily ruffling his feathers.

“What was that all about?” said Genji.

Mercy shook her head. “I don’t know… just an odd feeling,” she said, before looking back at the castle ahead. “Come on, let’s get to town,” she said, walking forward.

Chapter Text

Holzeingag was a humble village, unassuming. There was a saw mill powered by the local river, and a handful of cottages with their own gardens and the odd goat and chicken here and there. The Witch Hunter watered his horse at the river and looked around. He heard the whispers at his back and glanced over to see several children peeking out from behind a garden fence. He gave them a wave and they quickly dipped behind the fence.

“The bishop sent you, didn’t he?” a voice came from behind him. He turned on his heel to see a woodcarver with an ax on his shoulder.

“He did,” said Gabriel, turning his attention to his horse, leading it to a nearby hitching post.

“Will you burn her here or in the town?” the woodcarver asked.

Gabriel paused, “Excuse me?”

“The witch. Will you burn her here, or in town?”

Gabriel frowned, “I first need proof that there is a witch before I take anyone in, and even then, again, if there is a Witch, she may repent.”

“She’s a witch,” said the woodcarver, “Half the village will testify that much.”

“Who’s a witch?” said Gabriel, “And I need you to understand this is a very serious accusation.”

“Miss Gramercy. She’d have us believe she’s a midwife and healer, but we’re no fools. We’ve had half a mind to chase her off to the wilds ourselves, but knowing her she’ll probably use the woods to hide and steal little children.”

“How many children in this village have gone missing?” said Gabriel.

“Well… none… yet,” said the woodcarver.

“Since she’s a midwife I’d wager she’s probably facilitated the addition of at least a handful of children to this village,” said Gabriel, flatly.

“Well yes, but—”

“Do you know of me, woodcarver?” asked Gabriel.

“You’re the Witch Hunter Gabriel. You swore your sword to the church after the war,” said the Woodcarver.

“The church is meant to offer people comfort and guidance,” said Gabriel, straightening his cloak, “In war, I’ve seen that fear kills men just as much as blades and just as much as suppuration. I am not here to burn a witch, I’m here to find out the truth of the situation and assuage people’s fears through that truth. If there is a witch, though, I assure you she will be brought to justice.”

“There’s a witch,” the Woodcarver said, stiffly.

“That belief gives you comfort, I see,” said Gabriel, “Your accusation has been noted. I will be continuing my investigation,” he said, giving his horse one last affectionate pat on the flank before walking away.

—-

The town of Adlersbrunn was capital of the region of Eichenwalde, though of course, most in the region just referred to it as “Town” or “The keep.” It was carved into a geological formation that was a bit too big to be a hill, but not quite big enough to be a mountain, with the town spiraling outward from Eichenwalde castle. Mercy and Genji reached the edge of the wood, where most of the trees around the city had been cleared away from the surrounding areas of the city for farmland. From his perch among one of the last of the great pines, Genji watched as the farmers around the city of Adlersbrunn worked their fields.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been among so many people,” his voice came as a murmur in Mercy’s mind. He then seemed to remember something, then swooped down from the tree branch and caught a corner of Mercy’s cloak in his talons and with several wingbeats was moving to pull her off the road.

“What?” said Mercy, following him into the cover of several bushes.

“Something important,” said Genji, “I’ll need your hair.”

“My hair?” Mercy’s nose wrinkled, “Why?”

“I just said: something important. I don’t need all of it. It grows back anyway,” said Genji.

Mercy still looked skeptical.

“If I’m protecting you, we’ll need at least a little trust,” said Genji. 

Mercy sighed. “Oh very well,” she said, taking a lock of her hair and holding it out to him. He reached forward and took it, tentatively running his thumb down the lock. “Soft,” the word escaped him.

“What?” she said said.

“Oh–nothing…You must take good care of it,” he said a bit mindlessly. Mercy cleared her throat and he seemed to catch himself. “That’s good,” he said, “Good for magic. Magic works better if you’re using something you care for.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “…Which you already knew because you’re…yes,” she smiled a bit and he forced a cough and straightened up, “Anyway–” With a quick flick of his fingers he cut about a hand’s length of the lock as easily as if he had been carrying a razor. Mercy now had a thick lock of hair at the front that only went down as far as her chin and feathered out a bit at the ends. It framed her face rather nicely, all things considered.

 Mercy watched as Genji held the cut hair in the sunlight, then twisted it, then brought the ends of it together in a loop. There was a brief flash, like when you accidentally catch the glare of the sun in glass, and then he was no longer holding a loop of hair, but rather what appeared to be a thin bracelet of twisted gold. He slipped it onto the wrist of his left hand and seemed satisfied. Mercy remembered what the monk had told her about the demon being drawn to beautiful things, and something tugged at her mouth.

“I suppose jewelry is important?” she said.

“For your protection? Yes,” said Genji, “I realize you probably don’t want me breathing down your neck or following you like a shadow. In case we end up separated more than we would like, this bracelet will let me know if you receive any bodily harm, as well as where you are. However, I can only track you if you are harmed, or if you will so."

“And what constitutes harm? I don’t need you running to my rescue if I stub my toe.”

“Mostly if it is done by another person, or by accident,” said Genji, “Though if you harm yourself severely enough say… cut off a finger while cooking, I suppose that would probably call me as well. However, you need not resort to such things. If I am not close by and you require my help, you need only take a lock of your hair and twist it around your finger three times, and I will come to your call.” 

“What if my hands are bound or hair is cut?” said Mercy.

“Well that’s where the ‘If you will it’ part applies,” said Genji, “I don’t know the full extent of your magical abilities, but willing me somewhere can take a great deal of concentration. The hair twisting is…sort of a shortcut,” he flicked at the newly cut hair now framing Mercy’s face with his finger, the gold bracelet on his wrist chiming against his steel gauntlets as he did so, “If you’ll forgive the pun.”

Mercy huffed and smiled. “You’re terrible,”she said.

“Demon,” Genji said with a shrug. He gave a glance back towards the edge of the trees, the farmland, and beyond that, the city. Smoke and lightning surrounded Genji as he retook his sparrowhawk form and took to the air. “I’ll go on ahead. The sky is too open here. It will look odd if you just have a sparrowhawk on your heels.”

Mercy smirked, “Is this and the bracelet really out of concern for me? Or do you just want to see the city?”

“It can be both,” Genji spoke in her mind as he swept out over the farmlands, “I’ve been trapped in a tea leaf pot for months. You can’t imagine how boring it gets.”

Mercy chuckled as she stepped back on the path and followed him toward Adlersbrunn. She could make his shape out easily against the open sky, where clouds were gathering.

—

Mercy saw the Sparrowhawk perched on one of the parapets of the city walls as she crossed the drawbridge into town and smiled a bit to herself.

“Maybe you should take the form of a pigeon,” she thought at him, “In your current state, a falconer might try and snatch you up for his mews.”

“Curse my handsomeness that even in bird form, this world will seek to capture me,”Genji’s voice sounded in her mind, “I suppose this is how it must be.” He paused. “Why have you even come here? Shopping?”

“Something like that. Visiting an old friend,” thought Mercy. She walked her usual path through the town with Genji flying overhead. He wasn’t following her very closely. He looked at the market, dipped around the castle towers, and regarded the town’s cathedral at a safe distance. He knew the ground of the cathedral was consecrated against his kind, and passing into the churchyard would feel like stepping on hot coals. He stared at the grim old church, before deciding to return to the witch. He found her walking among the larger, poorer houses that lined the interior of the city walls, until she reached an unusually tall wood and stone building with several frightening-looking metal rods as well as various weather vanes jutting up from the roof. He alighted on one of the weather vanes and looked down. 

“So who is this old friend?” asked Genji in her mind as she knocked on the door.

“Oh he’s brilliant,” Mercy’s voice had more affection in it than usual in his mind, “He’s probably one of the the only people in Eichenwalde who isn’t afraid of me. He’s centuries ahead of our time. It’s wonderful.” 

“Sounds like you’re quite fond of him,” Genji’s voice sounded in her mind.

“He’s like me, in a way,” she thought back.

“Witch Mercy, there is no one like you,” Genji said, his voice honey in her head. She smiled and tucked her hair back

She gave the door a clear and cheerful knock, and there was a great banging and clamor and sound of metal being clanged against metal from within, as well as one sound of glass breaking.

“Why does everyone insist on interrupting me when I’m working!?” a shout came from the other side of the door. 

“Charming,” came Genji’s voice.

“Oh hush,” muttered Mercy.

Genji glided to the roof of another building to get a better look, and the door to the precarious house swung open.

“Look here,” a spindly man in a pair of goggles and a white labcoat stood there, practically towering over Mercy but looking past her. “Now you can go and tell his lordship that he can take his order and shove it up his jewel-encrusted—” he glanced down and saw Mercy. “Gramercy!” he said in delight, throwing his arms high and wide and his face lighting up and splitting in a wide, manic grin. He whipped his arms around her and easily hoisted her off her feet and into a twirl. “Gramercy! Gramercy! Dearest Gramercy! It’s been far too long!” he exclaimed before setting her on the ground. 

“If he ends up fathering your first-born, I’m losing all respect for you,” Genji’s voice sounded in her mind. Mercy snorted hard from the mere thought of it.

“Come in! Come in!” said the spindly man, pulling her into door and slamming it shut behind her.

Genji caught sight of the sign on the door as it closed.

“What sort of a name is Junkenstein?” he spoke in her mind.

“It’s pronounced Yoonk-en-steen,” Mercy responded.

“What sort of a name is Yoonk-en-steen?”

“Oh Gramercy you really should just move to the city one of these days,” said Junkenstein as he and Mercy walked through his house, past his arrangements of various glass flasks and beakers and stills.

“I like being near the woods,” said Mercy, pausing in front of one of his prototype automatons. 

“Tch,” the doctor straightened his labcoat and began digging through a pile of automaton parts, “It’s not fair you leaving me all alone in this town. I’m surrounded by troglodytes. Parasites. Pitiful creatures with no vision, Gramercy. It gets terribly lonely without another soul of science. I’ve half a mind to make my own assistant…”

Mercy smirked, “Making life is difficult enough. Making a life willing to put up with you and your rants is…”

“Magic is more your forte than humor, Gramercy,” said Junkenstein.

“Good to see you’re finally calling it magic,” said Mercy.

“As it turns out, ‘Sparkly nonsense you refuse to explain to me because you’re obstinate’ is a bit of a mouthful,” said Junkenstein, “But mark me, I will pick apart those mysterious lights of yours one of these days.”

“Your spirit of inquiry never fails to disappoint, Jamison,” said Mercy with a smile.

“Naturally, my dear,” said Junkenstein, adjusting his goggles slightly, “And you couldn’t have come at a better time yourself.” he clapped his hands on both her shoulders. “Storm’s coming,” he said, a hushed, almost feral growl of joy in his voice.

“Storm’s coming?” Mercy repeated after him, a smile tugging at her lips. Junkenstein nodded eagerly.

“Storm’s coming…” Genji repeated quietly to himself from his perch outside the window of the house. He gave a wary glance to the clouds. “Let’s hope it’s only a normal storm,” he said before turning his attention back to the doctor and Mercy.

—

Gabriel felt the first few droplets of rain as he was examining some of the gardens and livestock of the village. He didn’t mind it. He simply pulled his coat a bit tighter around himself and resumed his work.

“Most of the animals are healthy…” he murmured, checking a goat’s eye before taking some notes in a leatherbound journal, “Calm,” he dictated to himself as he wrote, “No mysterious marks. Can’t say for sure if this feeling of foreboding is simply residual fatigue from Spain, or something…” He felt eyes on him and turned on his heel and saw it was not eyes on him, but a single eye, “…evil.” He slowly closed the book and turned toward the one-eyed black cat perched on a fence post. “You’re an ugly old devil, aren’t you?” he said quietly. The cat simply made a rumbling noise in its throat in turn and jumped down from the fence, trotting away.

 “It’s just a cat,” he said to himself, “It’s just an ugly old cat. It’s no more evil than any other—” He saw the cat making its way over to the cottage at the end of the village, the one, he knew, belonged to the Midwife Gramercy. The Witch hunter sighed wearily. “Of course it’s her cat. Of course it is. It can never be mold in the bread or children being wicked, cruel little fools. It can never be easy,” he muttered to himself as he walked over to the cottage.

Chapter Text

It took the Witch Hunter four tries to even reach the front door of the midwife’s cottage. Every time he stepped toward it something more important seemed to come up in in his mind. Make sure the village had a Dovecote–it did, a humble dovecote, but one where he would be able to send word back to Adlersbrunn and the Bishop quickly if the need arose. He shook his head and approached the cottage again, and again found himself walking away. Best to check the other villagers, question around for other unusual phenomena—no he had already done that several times now. He walked toward the cottage again, found himself turning on his heel—he should check the other village gardens for blighted crops—no. Now, this was getting ridiculous.

It took him another try and he could hardly even remember the reason why he walked away that time, and by then the rain was coming down in full force and it really was a miserable experience. “Go back to the city,” he felt a whisper, “Go back to your Bishop and tell him there’s nothing out of the ordinary…” He shook his head. It was a perfectly reasonable suggestion, however the fact still stood that he had not yet checked the midwife’s house, though for the life of him he could not understand why he seemed to keep putting it off. The rain was beginning to soak through his cloak when he remembered an old wive’s tale. He took his cloak off and turned it inside out, shuddering at the wet exterior of the cloth now heavy on his doublet, and he walked up to the front door of the house with ease.

The Witch Hunter pinned his edict from the Bishop on the wood next to the door of the midwife’s house, then his hand went to the door. He felt it instantly. A whisper of magic. Nothing terribly malicious. It was a good-natured, “Nothing to see here,” “Nothing of value in this old place,” “The rain is so cold… wouldn’t you rather be in your own home by a nice fire?” “Don’t waste your time here.” A spell, he figured, that would do well enough against nosy neighbors and children and burglars, but not against him. He was, after all, a professional. He drew a consecrated iron rod from the interior of his boot and touched it to the door. There was a fizzing, burning sound and the whispers left his mind. So the midwife knew some of the old arts, but nothing malevolent yet. A week in the stocks at the worst. He tried the door handle, found it locked, sighed, gave a glance to his edict from the bishop, and kicked the door open. He gave a sharp glance over his shoulder at the villagers who were watching, slowed by the spectacle of his actions as they themselves hurried out of the rain, though at one glance from him they hurried on their way. With that, the Witch Hunter stepped over the threshold.

It was a cozy little cottage, all things considered. It didn’t feel particularly evil, the witch hunter decided as he pulled off his cloak. There were herbs hanging in bunches from the ceiling, jars of dried frogs, orange peels, cloves, and various mushrooms and barks, not a far cry from the city apothecary. He found tansy, parsley, and pennyroyal, and he wondered how many girls of the village the midwife had saved from death in childbed and how quickly the village would tear her apart if they knew what these herbs were for. His mouth drew to a thin line. Still not technically witchcraft, and aside from that he was no herbalist, for all he knew the tansy could be to keep pests away.

He continued searching the cottage. He found books—foreign books by those who worshipped foreign gods, but the books themselves were on astronomy, chemistry, and arithmetic. She even had a copy of Aristotle’s Natural Philosophy. He picked it up and several feathers tumbled out. He huffed a little. So the midwife was a budding natural philosopher. He leafed through the book and found it ruined–no, not ruined, but annotated. She had apparently gone through the book several times, made her own additions, and had even been bold enough to cross out entire sections. He was slightly amused at the audacity of it, then several more leafs of paper fell out from the book and he picked them up. They were sketches of birds, birds in flight, variations between feathers on the same bird, the pattern left on the ground after being kissed by wingbeats, even some sketches the interior of one poor little bird that she had dissected. He glanced at the note “Bird bones lighter, but break as easily as squirrel bones–hollow (porous?) but dense? Discuss materials with Doctor J.”

Doctor J? There were a handful of doctors in Adlersbrunn and Eichenwalde, but none he could imagine having an interest in birds of all things, then his eyes widened a bit and he swore very quietly under his breath. He knew exactly which Doctor she was writing about.

—-

Mercy moved a bucket under the leaking roof. “If you wish to attract lightning, you should probably make sure this place isn’t so damp.”

“I suppose that’s the issue though,” said Junkenstein, coming down from the ladder, “The lightning keeps blowing holes in my roof.”

“You know, most who are struck by lightning don’t usually go chasing after it,” said Mercy with a slight smile as she handed Junkenstein several coils of metal.

“Clockwork can only take you so far,” said Junkenstein, “I want my creations to walk and talk without being wound up. We might even manage to get something beyond glorified Archytas birds for you.”

Mercy smiled.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your little projects, Gramercy,” said Junkenstein, giving her an affectionate tap on the nose with the finger of his prosthetic hand.

“His Lordship is still sponsoring your research, isn’t he, Doctor?” said Mercy as Junkenstein fiddled and fussed with tracts of various metals and chords of different material. 

“He sponsors my production, not my research,” said Junkenstein, with no lack of bitterness, “I used to try and outdo myself over and over for him, but really all he needs is the same model capable of doing a different task and that’s enough for him,” he looked at Mercy with a clear and honest pain in his eyes, “As I’ve said: No vision,” he straightened himself up with resolve, “However, as a man of progress, I will not be deterred!”

“Just don’t get yourself killed,” said Mercy.

“He’s going to get you both killed if you’re not careful,” Genji spoke in Mercy’s mind.

“And I take it you’re an expert?” Mercy responded.

“Well… I was born in a storm,” said Genji.

“If lightning can make my muscles convulse on contact, and can start fire on contact with wood, and flow through water as we’ve indicated in our other experiments… there must be even more properties to it that can only be found if we harness it. If it can be channeled there must be a way to contain it, hence,” he walked over to a shape draped in a white sheet and yanked it away then gestured proudly at a round metallic object, its exterior circumference dotted with metallic spheres with copper wrapped around their bases, “My latest creation!”

“It’s… beautiful, Jameson,” said Mercy, “And your goal is to… store lightning?”

Jameson nodded eagerly. “Help me with these wires,” he said.

Mercy heard the thunder overhead and bit the inside of her lip, then nodded. Together they set about hooking up Dr. Junkenstein’s latest creation to the wires that trailed down from the lightning rods on the roof.

“We harness this and we’re going to need some means of measuring it–of quantifying it—” Junkenstein was muttering to himself as they worked, “Now what do you think of ‘Junks’ as a unit of measurement? I’d use ‘steins’ but they’re already using it for beer...” he chuckled at his own joke.

Mercy’s eyes fell on Junkenstein’s metal arm as he worked. “Doctor–Your theory is metal conducts lightning, correct?”

“Well that’s why my container is made of metal, of course. My design is ingenious, luckily I had the foresight to include some dampeners—we’ll need to come up with a word better than ‘dampen’ considering its properties with water–insulate, perhaps? Like with heat?”

Mercy’s eyes flicked up to Genji in the window, then the lightning rods through the holes in the roof, “Perhaps we should experiment with what stops lightning as well…” she started, “You wouldn’t want to capture a creature with no means to harness it—”

“Well obviously. As I’ve said I’ve put such considerations into my creation. Now we’d need some means of scaling but of course we’ll need to harness it first and that—”

“Jameson…” Mercy said in warning. She looked at her hand, curled and uncurled her fingers, then looked up at Genji.

“For heaven’s sake, what?!”said Junkenstein just as lightning struck the rods on the roof. Junkenstein was still holding a wire and hooking it up to his creation when Mercy seized his mechanical arm away from the wire, muttering protective phrases in an old tongue. Still though, the hand was in close enough proximity for the current to jump to the prosthesis, and Mercy reached out a hand toward it and, still muttering under her breath, commanded it off of him before it could course through his body.

 When she spoke with the intent of magic, her voice didn’t seem to take on the same quality as normal speaking would. It seemed to reverberate through the air like she was speaking into a deep cave or a dark vase, ringing off of itself. As stated previously, hers was a magic that was geared more toward healing than of commanding the elements, still, she had read enough texts and the Gramercy before her had taught her enough of the elements where she could brave most storms. As the lightning coursed through her body and she willed it to her hands, she wondered if that was why she and the demon got on so long, with all his talk of being born in a storm.

 She stumbled back from Junkenstein and there were a brief few seconds of terrified eye contact between them as he watched the lightning arc between her two open hands before she hurried over to his creation and seized two of the spheres dotting its exterior and exhaled hard as she spoke and commanded the lightning out of her body. It flowed into Junkenstein’s creation, causing it to thrum and let off brief sparks of electricity between the spheres dotting the creation’s exterior.

“Well that…” Junkenstein cleared his throat and looked to his prosthetic, which now had some sparks flying between the metal fingers, “That could have gone more smoothly. Where would I be without you, Gramercy?”

 Mercy had braced a hand against one of his worktables, her other hand to her forehead. She had experimented with the extent of her magic plenty of times before, but usually not in such a volume.

 Junkenstein walked over to his creation and looked it over, “Seems stable. One of these days you’re going to have to describe to me in detail how you can do things like tha–”

Mercy slumped to the ground.

“Gramercy?” he hurried to her side. 

—-

Genji watched the proceedings with some interest from the window. When the lightning struck he nearly crashed through the window himself but found himself frozen in the spot, awed as he watched the witch command the lightning. It occurred to him then that he did not yet know the full extent of the witch’s powers. She had asked him for protection and seemed to consider the chief threat to her person to be other people, yet she could command lightning, so why so much fear? If anything she should be ruling them. He had nearly come to this conclusion when the Witch abruptly collapsed to the floor and he perked up in alarm. He had to find a way in. He could turn into a mouse and—His train of thought stopped as he watched her spindly doctor companion check the pulse at her wrist and seem relieved. It must have been a matter of how much energy it took to redirect lightning. Still, he decided he would find a way into the building himself, and was just in the midst of deciding on what shape to take next in order to do so when lightning suddenly struck again, and the sparrowhawk had disappeared from the window. 

It happened blindingly fast. For Genji there was only the flash of light and the rush of wind, and soon the city of Adlersbrunn little more than an anthill beneath him, and he found himself soaked by rain and clouds and wrapped in the chain of a kusarigama.

“Still favoring the form of beasts, I see, little brother,” he heard a voice that seemed to sound through the clouds like thunder itself.

The chain unwrapped itself from Genji’s body and Genji quickly retook a mostly human form, materialized his mask and put it on. He watched a figure emerge from the storm. The figure’s skin was the deep gray blue of storm clouds, and his eyes were white as lightning.

Genji stared at him for a few moments. “It’s been a while, Hanzo,” he said. 

Chapter Text

“’It’s been a while,’” Hanzo repeated flatly, “Is that all you have to say?”

“I’m… happy to see you?” Genji ventured.

“I see you’re still insisting on that frivolous and fragile form,” said Hanzo.

“Yes, well… Blue is not my color,” said Genji. He smirked beneath his mask, “It’s hardly even yours.”

Genji brought up his wakizashi just in time to deflect the sickle blade of Hanzo’s kusarigama before Hanzo retracted the chain.

“So you can still defend yourself,” said Hanzo, “I was worried. Rumor had it some monk trapped you in a teapot.”

Like many siblings, Hanzo and Genji happened to be very good at pissing each other off very quickly. Genji rushed forward and struck this time, only to find his blade tangled in the kusarigama’s chain. The sickle blade was going for his shoulder but Genji drew Ryū Ichimonji and stopped it before it made its mark. Hanzo bore his weight down on the sickle blade, but Genji knew better than to get into a battle of brute strength against his brother.

 Genji brought up his foot and kicked hard against Hanzo, more of an escape than an attack as it distracted Hanzo long enough to let Genji yank his wakizashi’s blade from the kusarigama’s chain and fly backwards, disappearing into the clouds. Hanzo snarled and rushed in after Genji, only to find himself coming out of the other side of the cloud empty handed.

“I’m not here to play games,” Hanzo spoke in warning, “I’m here to bring you home.”

“Home?” Genji’s voice rippled on the wind in such a way that it was difficult to tell its source, “Your home, perhaps, but not mine.”

“How long do you think you can continue cavorting with mortals?” said Hanzo, letting his kusarigama dissolve into lightning before reshaping it into an arc shape with a long upward sweeping motion of his hands. He grasped the arc of lightning and in a flash it took the form of a bow.

“If you ask me, you could do with a bit more cavorting yourself,” Genji’s voice echoed on the wind and Hanzo turned and fired an arrow of lightning and wind into a slightly more distant cloudbank, the force of the arrow cutting a circular wake through the clouds. 

Hanzo couldn’t tell through the clouds, but his shot had only barely missed Genji, who flinched back from the arrow’s wake, his breath short. His aim gets better every time, Genji thought with a slight bitter smile, he looked to the gold bracelet, which hung prettily on his wrist, unchanged. Still unharmed, he thought, I’m afraid you’ll have to be a bit patient with me, Witch Mercy, I’ll be back as soon as I can—

Another arrow barely whizzed past him, clearing his cloud cover off of him as it flew by.

“You forget who spends more time in the storm,” said Hanzo, nocking another arrow.

“And you forget who is swifter,” said Genji, holding his blade at the ready.

—

Most fainting spells don’t leave the mind with enough energy to dream. They fall over you in a sheet of darkness and swallow up time—but the case is not so when the cause of unconsciousness is magic. And so it was that Mercy dreamt of the death of her predecessor, of the old woman Gramercy.

It was a cool, bright day in autumn and the old woman took Mercy out to pick mushrooms. Mercy had told the old woman that she knew all the mushrooms for their work by heart and that the old woman should stay home and rest. “So you can poison me?” the old woman scolded her, “Dreadful, willful girl, we are going into the wood today and I’ll not have you idling and daydreaming out there on your own.” And with that the old woman took up her gnarled walking stick in her equally gnarled hand, whispered to the door of their cottage to keep away thieves and meddlers, and set out for the wood with Mercy in tow. It had been a terribly slow-going walk, and Mercy was doing most of the work since it hurt the old woman’s back to stoop for mushrooms, but they wandered deeper and deeper into the wood, far deeper than Mercy had ever gone before. The wicker of Mercy’s basket was creaking from their haul and the shadows of the trees had grown long.

 “We should be getting back,” Mercy remembered herself saying, but still the old woman went on. The light went gold and orange, and the shadows grew dark, and at one point they had to stop and sit on a rotting log when the old woman was seized by a coughing fit, but as soon as it passed the old woman walked on. It was then that Mercy realized the old woman had no intention of getting back to their cottage by nightfall. Dusk had fallen when they reached a karst cave at the base of one of the region’s mountains. Numerous stones were stacked on top of each other outside, and ragged witch’s ladders hung from the ceiling of the cave mouth.

“What is this place?” Mercy asked, but the old woman said nothing and hobbled in.

“You don’t honestly expect us to stay here for the night?” said Mercy, “We have no torches and you’ll catch your death of cold!” 

The old woman simply hacked in response and gestured with her right hand. A flame spun itself into existence a few inches above her palm. “Come,” said the old woman. Mercy’s eyes widened. It was not like the woman to use magic with so little thought. She followed.

They ventured deeper into the cave, past slimy-glittering stalactites and stalagmites and columns and calcite formations hanging like wrinkled sheets of stone, before they reached a small place a large hall of stone, hollowed out by floodwaters years ago. where a cave river still ran through cold and deep. Someone long ago had put in torch sconces and fat candles, and with a flick of her wrist, the old woman split the flame in her hand into many smaller flames, and with a gesture, lit the smaller flames light candles and torches.

“Magic’s stronger here,” said Mercy. She stepped forward and something crunched beneath her foot, she glanced down to see it was bone. Human bone. She had crushed the brittle collarbone of a skeleton. Mercy flinched and took a few steps back, then stepped gingerly around it. There were several other skeletons, but they all seemed to be of varying states of age. Some were all but dust with only a skull and a few bits of rib and femur left, some were small enough to be children, the pelvises suggested both men and women had been interred or died here. 

“Old magic,” said the old woman, “Very old.” She took a torch off of the sconce and walked over to a pale glittering wall of flowstone, on it, there was some sort of mural of a figure painted out in blood, and red and violet and yellow earth and charcoal, with two rough-hewn bits of citrine embedded into the stone for eyes. The painting itself looked to be half-melted away by the slight amounts of precipitation that had been shaping the flowstone for years, but in a way, it also looked to be distorted, like the air above a fire distorts the images behind it. Mercy squinted at the figure in the mural. The citrine eyes reminded her of the illustrations of dragons in the margins of illuminated texts, yet the figure seemed mostly human shaped. In any case it had been too faded and washed away by age and water to be sure what it really was.

 “Do you know why I took you under my wing, girl?” the old woman looked over her shoulder at Mercy and Mercy broke her sight away from the mural. 

“I was an orphan,” said Mercy, “You needed help keeping your home. You gave me a roof over my head and were wise and patient enough to teach me your skills and I would have died long ago if not for your charity,” Mercy still couldn’t edge all of the bitterness out of these words. Theirs was not a loving relationship. In Mercy’s lifetime the old woman frequently told Mercy that she could have just as easily left her to die in that burnt out village.

The old woman chuckled a little, “And here I thought you were clever,” she said.

“…Are you going to kill me?” said Mercy.

“Kill you? Silly girl, “ the old woman shook her head, “No. This place is where I die.”

“What–No!” said Mercy, “You can’t just… decide that!”

“My hands shake too much to work the doctor’s knife. My eyes have grown too weak to read the old texts. I feel the exhaustion in my heart and I feel my breath grow short. There is nothing you can do, girl. I will be dead soon. I could let my power rot and return to the earth with me, but you are a clever girl, cleverer than I was, and this world is a dangerous place for clever girls, so I give it to you. And here is the only place I can give it. And I must give it now while I still have the strength to pass it intact.”

Mercy looked at the bones scattered around the cave, and then back to the figure in the mural. “This power…” she said slowly, “It wasn’t yours originally either, was it?”

“I made it my own, and you will make it your own, in time,” said the old woman, “But yes,” she stooped and picked up a long knife of black glass from the hands of the newest-looking skeleton, “This is a magic ancient and powerful. At some point the chain was nearly broken, and much knowledge of its true potential was lost. Those who bore it were hunted like animals, and it was all they could do to pass it on. Clothes off, quickly now.”

Mercy disrobed and awkwardly folded up her dress and set it, along with her basket of herbs and mushrooms, near the chamber’s exit. It wasn’t the first ritual she had done skyclad, though it would be the last one she would do with the old woman.  The old woman closed her hand around the knife of black glass, and with a swift movement unusual for her age, slashed it out from her closed fingers. She opened her hand to Mercy and Mercy’s breath caught in her throat . The cut was bright orange and yellow, like embers, and her blood glittered like liquid flames.

"This is a wellspring of power, a lick of flame from the forge of creation,” said the old woman, “Heal and grant power to others as you wish. But know that no seed of man can flourish in a field of fire. You will bear no children.”

“I understand,” said Mercy.

 The old woman nodded and marked out four marks on Mercy’s forehead, two above each eyebrow. Mercy inhaled sharply as four flames hovered around her head, dizzying, fizzing, roaring flames, yet beautiful. Mercy raised a hand to them, but then the old woman caught her wrist and drew the knife of black glass across Mercy’s palm, a blade so sharp Mercy felt little more than the pressure of a hair on her palm, yet she watched as blood rushed easily from the wound. Black glass didn’t scar when it cut. The old woman had taught her that much. The old woman placed her own open, molten bleeding cut over Mercy’s hand, and Mercy drew a sharp intake of breath as she felt the fiery blood flow into her cut. The old woman released Mercy’s hand and Mercy looked at her own cut hand, now engulfed in flames but feeling no pain. Amidst the flames, the cut on Mercy’s palm closed. It was healing power unlike anything Mercy had ever seen before, and suddenly the flames were enveloping her whole body.

 Mercy was about to speak when the old woman’s hand suddenly shot forward, went tight and hard around Mercy’s neck and yanked her forward. The old woman’s grip was forcing Mercy’s mouth open for breath and Mercy was half choking from the suddenness of the action. Then the old woman’s grip loosened and instinctively Mercy gasped for air.

It was then that the old woman breathed fire down Mercy’s throat.

With that last breath her grip slipped from Mercy’s neck and she fell with a dull thud, and the flames faded off of Mercy. Mercy knelt near the old woman, touched at the her wrist, and waited. Silence. Death. Mercy bowed her head. Her hand went to her neck, slick and burning with the molten blood, and her hand came away with the blood still glowing on her palm. Mercy felt the fire burning in her chest, and she rose to her feet and walked over to her clothes and basket. She took a kerchief from the basket and wiped the molten blood from her neck and hand, then wrung it out into a small glass vial which she corked off and tucked into the basket. She didn’t know what she would do with it, but the old woman told her to waste not. Mercy silently put her clothes back on, then took a sprig of pennyroyal from her basket. She walked over to the old woman’s body and looked down at it, and it suddenly occurred to her how small the old woman truly was like this.

“You were a terrible old hag,” Mercy said, gently kneeling by the old woman’s side and positioning her body into a more dignified position, “But I am thankful, and I will not forget all you’ve taught me. And I will regain the knowledge lost of this gift.” She closed the pennyroyal sprig in the old woman’s hands before they stiffened with death, “This I promise you.”

Thunder suddenly cracked and Mercy’s eyes snapped open. She was in Doctor Junkenstein’s lab. He had apparently dragged her over to his musty settee and put a sheet on her. She moved to sit up then felt a rush of lightheadedness and grunted, bringing her hand to her forehead.

“Ah! You’re awake!” Junkenstein said, glancing up from his creation, “You had me worried there, Gramercy. Here.” He passed her a cup of hot ale posset and she sipped at it. 

“You cooked something?” said Mercy, watching as Junkenstein walked over to his cookfire and spooned out some posset for himself from his own iron pot.

“Well I figure capturing lightning is worth celebrating,” said Junkenstein. He raised his cup to her. “Zum wohl,” he said before sipping it himself.

Thunder cracked again outside and Mercy’s eyes quickly flicked to the window. 

“Where’d he go?” she said quietly, looking at the window.

“Where’d who go?” said Junkenstein. 

“The sparrowhawk,” she said without thinking.

Junkenstein arched an eyebrow at her and she cleared her throat and sipped at her posset again. 

“Storm’s been going wild for a while now,” said Junkenstein, “You’re welcome to stay for the night if it doesn’t let up.”

“Thank you, Jameson,” Mercy said, before taking another sip of her posset.

“Well…I wouldn’t have half my accomplishments if not for you,” said Junkenstein with a shrug, “Least I can do.” There was another crack of lightning and he shuddered, “Glad I took those wires down,” he said quietly, “Didn’t expect it to be this bad.”

“I heard once that storms were demons fighting,” Mercy said with a slight smile, looking up at the clouds, “That lightning was the clash of their blades and thunder was the sound of their blows.”

Junkenstein scoffed. “I thought you were a woman of science, Gramercy,” he said with a slight smirk.

—

“…A woman of science,” Gabriel muttered, tossing the last of Mercy’s texts aside. There was the whisper in the door, his own voice rang in his mind, She knows some of the old arts. She could have enchanted the place for you to see only what you wanted to see. The Witch Hunter’s brow furrowed and his shook his head. If he went after every woman who change a man’s mind with a whisper, nearly half the world would be gone. He had seen too many innocents burn in Spain. He wondered if he could ever be the one bearing the torch again. He glanced over at the old one-eyed cat, which was curled up sleeping in the corner. “I suppose you think this is all very funny, me making a fool of myself,” he said to the cat. The cat lifted its head, blinked its one yellow eye, then yawned and resumed its napping. 

Gabriel stood up and dusted himself off. “I’ll be leaving then,” he muttered and he gave a glance to the storm outside. It would be a miserable ride back to Adlersbrunn. He huffed and glanced over at the cat. “Almost wish I could be like you, all warm and curled up and–” he blinked a few times, gave a glance to the fireplace, then to the cat. The cat was not on the hearthstones. It was nowhere near the hearthstones. He frowned. That was usually where cats preferred to stay, with the embers of the cookfire warming the stones. He stepped over to the cat and felt an unusual amount of warmth in that lonely corner of the cottage. The cat lifted its head and narrowed its one eye at him. “Now… what’s making this corner so cozy?” Gabriel said mostly to himself. He glanced down to see the cat was bristling now, and he put a hand on the wall and felt an abnormal heat.

“Ffffft,” a hiss escaped the cat, arching its back.

“I just need to look,” said Gabriel, feeling along the wall and dropping down to one knee, “You can have your spot back in a—” The cat suddenly bit his hand as he felt at the wall and he drew his hand back, sharply, glancing at his black gloves. The cat had not only broken through the leather, it had broken through the skin. “Nasty old devil, aren’t you?” said Gabriel. The cat just hissed at him again.

Gabriel frowned, seized the cat by the scruff of its neck, held it at an arm’s length as it yowled and clawed and slashed at his arm walked over to the door of the cottage, and tossed the cat out into the rain. It landed with a slight bounce on the muddy path, regained its footing and sprinted for the door, but Gabriel closed it just before it raced back into the cottage to attack him. Gabriel could hear the cat yowling at the door as he turned on his heel and walked back to the corner where the cat had been sleeping.

 Gabriel felt along the wall for the source of the heat, knocked the wood and heard a hollow sound, then felt around for some kind of latch or something to grab ahold of. There was nothing. He sighed, braced his hands against the wall, and with a well-placed kick he knocked in the plaster of the wall, revealing a compartment with a small pile of grubby books in an odd glowing light. He looked for the source of the glow and reached into the compartment, dug around a big before pulling out a glass that was hot to the touch. This was the source of the heat. It was full of something bright, like melted down amber, or liquid fire. 

Definitely magical, he thought, Might not be hers, though. Could have belonged to the old woman who lived here before.

He pocketed the glass vial, then picked up a book. The symbol on the cover was not promising. Some kind of ancient sigil, not chemical or astronomical. Magical.

They could have belonged to the old woman before her, thought Gabriel again, a bit more desperately this time, They might not be hers….

He flipped the book open, then sighed. There was the text itself, ancient, but of course, of course, just as she had done with Plato’s ‘Natural Philosophy’ the Midwife Gramercy just had to annotate. He knew her writing. He needed to get to the village dovecote and send a bird back to Adlersbrunn. A witch was on the loose.

Chapter Text

Pharah tested the weight of the musket. In wartime, she would have been called a ‘dragoon,’ a skilled markswoman and rider, but in these times, she was only the brave young captain of Adlersbrunn city guard. 

“It feels like holding the future, doesn’t it?” said Pharah.

“You should hope you won’t have to use that bloody thing in the future,” said Torbjörn, “Still, you ask me, his Lordship should set that Junken-fellow to work on powder production… That’d be better than any of the clanking toys you see floating around the castle.”

“I shudder to think what might come of having that madman work with black powder,” said Pharah, looking down the sights of the musket. 

“You’ll still get better aiming with crossbows too,” Torbjörn added, “But I suppose everyone cares more about power than accuracy these days. I’m still trying to get it right so it doesn’t…buck so much but is still light enough to maneuver with.”

“It’s your best work yet, Torbjörn,” said Pharah, smiling.

“You say that every time,” said Torbjorn, “Here.” He hauled up a box of munitions, “You want to fire that thing you’re going to need thes–”

“Captain!” one of the city guards, damp from the rain burst into the room causing Pharah to lower the musket slightly. The guard buckled over, trying to catch his breath. “Message…” he gasped, holding a small slip of paper out to her, “From the dovecote.”

Pharah took the slip of paper and her eyes widened. “Witch Hunter Reyes,” she said, breaking the seal and opening the letter. Her eyes rapidly traced over the page, “Have copies already been sent to His Lordship and Bishop Petras?” she asked. The guard nodded nervously. Pharah picked up the box of munitions and put it into the guard’s hands, “I need you to take these to the cathedral and get them blessed.”

“Ma’am?” the guard looked down at the box of lead balls in question.

“When the Witch Hunter Gabriel tells you there is a great evil in your midst, you get your weapons consecrated, it’s as simple as that,” said Pharah, “Call up the rest of the guards and saddle my horse,” she said, picking her helm up off the table, “We make for the house of Junkenstein.”

“Yes ma’am,” said the guard, saluting.

Pharah put on her helm, shouldered her musket, and walked out the door onto the rainy ramparts of the castle. Thunder rumbled overhead. It was a miserable day for a witch hunt.

—-

One blow from Hanzo sent Genji flying backwards through several cloudbanks before he stopped himself. The lower half of Genji’s mask had been broken off, exposing the lower half of his face with his lip split and bleeding. He wiped some of the blood away.

“As much as I love catching up with you, brother, I’m afraid I have somewhere else to—” Genji snatched an arrow hurtling toward his face out of the air, gripping it about an inch in front of his eye, “…be…” he brought the arrow down and held his blade at the ready.

“Somewhere else to be?” Hanzo walked atop the clouds, frowning.

“I need to get back to my witch,” said Genji.

“Your witch?” Hanzo arched an eyebrow.

“Yes–well, not my witch. She’s not anyone’s witch by virtue of being a witch but—” Genji quickly dodged out of the way of another arrow.

“You’ve bound yourself to a mortal?!” said Hanzo, nocking another arrow.

“No one’s bound to anyone. She just freed me from a prison and she’s giving me her first born in exchange for some protection and—” Genji ducked down, another arrow whizzing over his head. 

“You are no mortal’s servant! You disgrace us both by playing at such!” said Hanzo.

“It’s not servitude, it’s partnership,” Genji evaded another arrow, “Just because you have a hunter pursuing you, that doesn’t mean your experience with mortals is universal.” Genji suddenly grinned, his own smile somehow even more devilish than the one on his mask. “Is that why you want to bring me home brother? Do you not feel safe without me?”

Hanzo visibly tensed.

“Need someone to protect you from the big bad hunter?” Genji realized as soon as he said it that he had probably taken his mocking a bit too far.

Hanzo snarled.

“…sore spot?” said Genji. Hanzo didn’t bother with an arrow next. In a flash of lightning he disappeared and Genji was looking around for him. There was another flash and Hanzo was right in front of him. “Ah,” said Genji as Hanzo delivered an axe kick that sent Genji hurtling towards the earth at breakneck speed. He transformed himself into smoke and lightning in his rapid descent, knowing that if he stayed in his (fairly) human form, he would surely break every bone in his body. He struck the ground, leaving a scorch mark on the cobblestones of Adlersbrunn marketplace, emptied by the rain. He dissolved himself into a vaguely shadowy form. His side ached from the impact and he moved, a wisp of smoke and green lightning out of the open and into an alley where he retook a mostly human form.

 “Ugh…” his head was aching and he gave a glance up to the clouds, which seemed to be dissipating. Hanzo was moving away, Probably to sulk, thought Genji. To Genji’s equal fortune and misfortune, Hanzo was, like Genji, very proud. The suggestion that Hanzo might need Genji was enough to keep Hanzo away so he could prove a point, at least for a while. He gave a glance to the gold bracelet on his wrist, which had a slightly brighter gleam to it, but not exactly a glow. The Witch was wondering where he was, not calling him. Independent. He liked that. He smiled a little but then drew back into the shadows of the alley as the stop in rain started bringing people back into the streets of Eichenwalde and he winced and his hand went to his side again. His hand touched at the skin exposed by his broken mask. This form was damaged, it would take too much energy to try and make it appear normal. He could heal faster in a smaller one. Quickly he enveloped himself in black smoke and green lightning and took the form of a silver-gray tomcat, then took off out of the alley, moving quickly to compensate for his smaller size.

—

“You keep looking at the window,” said Junkenstein, handing Mercy another mug of posset, “What was that you said earlier? About a sparrowhawk?”

“Oh it was just—” Mercy started but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“I’ve got it,” said Junkenstein, getting to his feet. Mercy nodded and sipped at her posset as he opened the door. Junkenstein opened the door a crack, force of habit from his own paranoia that someone might steal his inventions, and he narrowed his eyes at the captain of the city guard. “What does his Lordship want this time?” said Junkenstein, frowning.

“It’s not his Lordship, it’s the bishop,” said Pharah. Mercy glanced up from her mug. She knew she was still out of sight from the door but something, some bright and furious flicker inside her told her, Get out now.

“The Bishop?” Junkenstein arched an eyebrow, “The bishop’s never had an interest in any of my work.”

“He’s not interested in your work,” said Pharah, “We believe you have someone in your company we need to take in for questioning.”

 Mercy had already silently set her mug down and got up from the couch, fastening her cloak. The doctor had to have another exit in his house.

“Questioning!” said Junkenstein, “Whatever for?”

Pharah gave the door a push to look into his home but Junkenstein stopped it against his peg leg. “Now look here, Bishop or no I’m not here to be pushed about by his lordship’s enforcers. Tell me what this is about.” 

Mercy opened the shutters of one of Junkenstein’s windows as silently as she could. 

“We believe you have a witch in your company,” said Pharah.

Mercy slipped out the window and started running.

“A witch!” Junkenstein repeated incredulously, “Is this the bloody dark ages!? There’s no such thing! Gramercy tell them there’s no such—” Junkenstein turned on his heel to the couch where Mercy had previously been, but found it empty. “Oh…” he said softly.

“So Miss Gramercy was here?” said Pharah, folding her arms. Junkenstein’s eyes widened at the empty couch and he cleared his throat and turned back to Pharah.

“Who?” said Junkenstein.

“Don’t play games,” said Pharah.

“Look you’ll need to be very patient with me–all of my silly experiments haven’t left me quite right in the head you know,” Junkenstein said pitifully.

Pharah gave an exasperated sigh, but if there was one thing that was easy to believe, it was the addling of Junkenstein’s brain. “Was there a woman here?” she asked.

Junkenstein’s hand went over his chest, appalled, “Madam Captain, I am a man of science. I do not permit myself to be distracted by pleasures of the flesh and feminine wiles.”

“She wouldn’t necessarily be here as a lover,” said Pharah with an exasperated sigh.

“Who wouldn’t?” said Junkenstein.

“Gramercy,” Pharah said, brow furrowing.

“Who’s that?” said Junkenstein.

“The witch,” Pharah said through gritted teeth.

“No such thing as witches,” said Junkenstein with a shrug.

“A warrant from the Witch Hunter Reyes says otherwise.”

“Who’s the warrant for?” said Junkenstein.

“Gramercy,” said Pharah, clearly getting more angry.

“What for?” said Junkenstein.

“Witchcraft,” said Pharah, fuming at this point.

“No such thing as—” Junkenstein was cut off as Pharah suddenly seized him by the throat.

“Now look here you addle-minded geck, don’t think I don’t know stalling when I see it,” said Pharah.

“Understood,” Junkenstein choked under her grip.

“You’re going to answer this question. You’re going to give me a straightforward answer. You’re not going to stall or lie unless you want to end up as an accomplice to a witch yourself and you know not even his Lordship can protect you from such an association, are we clear?”

Junkenstein managed an earnest nod in her grip before she released him. “Now, was the witch Gramercy here?”

Junkenstein gave a glance to the other guards, then back to Pharah, then sighed and felt at his own neck. “I find your claims of her being a witch dubious, but yes,” said Junkenstein.

“Where did she go?” said Pharah.

Junkenstein smiled at this. “I’m afraid I have no idea,” he said.

This earned Junkenstein a punch in the face. The doctor sprawled back and Pharah shook out her fist. She looked to her contingent of guards. “Spread out and search the city. She can’t have gotten far.”

A gray tomcat watched as Adlersbrunn’s eccentric inventor dropped to the ground, and kept watching as the guards dispersed, spreading through the city.

—-

Junkenstein came to with a grunt to several impatient slaps on his cheek. “Nngh–That guard captain really packs a—” he found himself staring into the eyes of a man dressed all in black.

“What did you tell them?” said Genji, gripping the front of Junkenstein’s labcoat. The look on Genji’s face filled Junkenstein’s stomach with dread. If he wasn’t a man of science, he would think to himself that this figure leaning over him didn’t feel human, didn’t feel from this world at all. However, he was a man of science, and chalked all of these feelings of unease up to his recent brief unconsciousness.  Junkenstein summoned his best nerve and glared right back at Genji.

“Same thing I’m telling you: Nothing,” said Junkenstein.

“If you put her in danger—” Genji started sharply.

“I would never! She’s one of the only friends I’ve got in the whole of blasted Eichenwalde!” Junkenstein snapped. Genji scoffed and released him before standing up.

“I’m going to find her,” said Genji, turning to walk away from Junkenstein, who managed to scramble to an upright position in spite of his peg leg and seized Genji’s arm.

“Just hold on!” said Junkenstein.

“You won’t stall me like you did the guard captain,” said Genji, wrenching his arm away.

“I–You saw that?” said Junkenstein, “I didn’t see you…”

“I…ah… happened to be passing by,” said Genji.

 “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?” said Junkenstein.

“I am called Genji,” said Genji.

“And you’re asking about Gramercy because…?”

“I’m her d–” Genji caught himself and then said, “I’m her lover.”

“Pfft. The hell you are,” said Junkenstein.

“Excuse me?” said Genji.

“Look, Gramercy is quite dear to me, but her body clearly must have a severe hysteria and imbalance of the humors to be able to do the things it does,” said Junkenstein.

“Hysteria…?” Genji repeated a bit helplessly.

“I mean–lightning? Conducting lighting?” said Junkenstein, “She wouldn’t be having those issues if she had a lover. So either you’re a liar or a shit lover, and I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt with ‘liar.’”

“You believe her magical powers are due to… womanly issues?” Genji pressed his hands together in front of himself.

“You’ve got a better explanation?” said Junkenstein. 

“Magic,” said Genji.

Junkenstein rolled his eyes. “I’m surrounded by idiots,” he said with a sigh, “Gramercy’s got quite enough fools hounding her as is. I don’t need another bloody holy man—”

“I am not a holy man!” Genji snapped insulted. Junkenstein reared back with far more of a start than Genji expected, “…what?” said Genji.

“I–I–I–I—” Junkenstein was stuttering.

“What!?” said Genji.

“Eye–Eyes,” Junkenstein said.

Genji turned his head and caught his own reflection in the glass of the window. His eyes were bright red. He quickly turned away from Junkenstein and squeezed his eyes shut. He opened one eye and saw that he had managed to make it dark brown again before turning to Junkenstein. “You will forget you saw that,” said Genji.

Junkenstein brought up a finger to his cheek and Genji glanced at his reflection in the window once more and saw a massive ragged scar had manifested itself across his cheek. He turned away again and inhaled sharply, forcing the scar back down. He looked at Junkenstein. “Better?”

“Teeth,” said Junkenstein and Genji’s hand went to his mouth and he felt his own protruding fangs. 

“Kuso…” muttered Genji, before conjuring his mask out of the air.

“You’re going to have to explain to me how you can get your face to do that,” said Junkenstein.

“Magic,” Genji said, frowning.

“No such thing as—”

“I don’t have time for this,” said Genji, moving to put on the mask and walk out the door, “I need to find her–”

“Wait-wait–wait!” said Junkenstein.

“I’m not waiting!” said Genji.

“They’re after her for witchcraft–how do you think it’s going to look if she has a fellow dressed in all black wearing a devil mask hot on her heels!?”

“…You make a fair point,” said Genji. He swept an arm down in front of himself and his clothing shifted to shabby dark robes, an orange scarf, and a wide straw kasa.

“Face is still an issue,”said Junkenstein, “While I’m sure the redness of your eyes can probably be explained by an overly sanguine temperament, I doubt the rest of the town shares my scientific genius.”

“I’m still recovering my injuries, I can’t hide my eyes without revealing my fangs or…”

“Well the scar isn’t so bad is it?” said Junkenstein.

Genji frowned and looked off. 

“Awfully vain, aren’t you?” said Junkenstein who then quickly rummaged through a bin of automaton parts before pulling out a rejected jaw piece from one of his automatons. “Here. Cover up with this.”

The automaton’s jaw piece formed an oddly perfect mask over Genji’s nose and mouth, covering up enough so that he could focus on keeping his eyes the right color.

“Thank you,” said Genji.

“You’d better be a friend of Gramercy’s like you say you are,” said Junkenstein hurrying to the door, “Come on, let’s hope we find her before the guards do.”

—

To be honest, Mercy knew this day would come at some point. She wasn’t careful like Gramercy before her was. She had been too soft, too kind. She couldn’t turn away people who she knew couldn’t keep a secret like the Gramercy before her did. A part of her only wished that she had been at home when it happened–she would have had a chance to grab her books, maybe even her cat, the rotten old devil he was, and she knew she could lose pursuers quickly in the woods. They feared the woods, she didn’t. But this was a town walled by stone. She had to get out of the city, she knew that much. Junkenstein’s house itself was fairly close to the city walls, but nowhere near any of the gatehouses that would grant her exit out of the city. She would have to cut through diagonally to the northern exit of the city. 

Mercy sprinted hard and far away from Junkenstein’s house, pausing only to whisper to doors at random. It was the same spell she worked on her own door back at her cottage, but in reverse. The witch is hiding here, she would whisper at varying doors, search this house, she must be somewhere here. She whispered into winding alleys, This way, she went this way, and she even gave a few good whispers to the grates that led down into Adlersbrunn’s sewers and catacombs, Down here, she must be down here.

 She looked to the skies for a sparrowhawk but then glanced back down to the cobblestones ahead of her and scoffed. “’My sword is swift and mighty,’” she muttered bitterly under her breath, imitating Genji’s whispery yet resonant timbre, “So you have my protection—” she scoffed, “Fat lot of good that’s done me…” she skidded to a halt and pulled into an alley, her own loss of breath finally catching up with her. She closed her eyes and puffed some loose strands of hair from her face. Her brow furrowed, but then her eyes widened with realization. She quickly took a lock of hair and twisted it around her finger three times.

—

“Why would you say you’re her lover, anyway?” Junkenstein was panting hard just trying to keep up with Genji.

“I’m handsome, it seemed believable,” said Genji.

“Right,” said Junkenstein, unconvinced, glancing off, “How’d you meet her, anyway?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” said Genji, looking at the gold bangle on his wrist, which was glowing brightly. She was calling him. He just had to find her.

“Let me guess–you’re going to say magic again,” said Junkenstein.

“Of a sort, yes,” said Genji, “We have a deal. I’m supposed to protect her.”

“Well you’re doing a bang-up job of it so far, mate—” Junkenstein said when Genji suddenly disappeared in a puff of smoke and a few sparks of green. “Wh–” Junkenstein looked around, now alone in the street, “What the hell was that?”

—

“What the hell is this?!” Pharah stood at the main ramparts of Adlersbrunn’s outer wall. She gritted her teeth and pressed her knuckles to her forehead. The witch. She had to go after the witch, her guard was scattered across the city. It made no sense. Her men were disciplined. Her men knew this town. Her men had grown up in this town. And yet they still had not caught the witch. Worse still, they were splitting up all over the city. Even the most disciplined guard contingents found themselves scattering, walking in circles even. Something was wrong. Something felt off.

“Ma’am!” one of the guards shouted, “A horseman approaches!”

Pharah rushed across the rampart and looked down below to see a dark figure on a pale stallion.

“Open the gate!” shouted Pharah. The drawbridge was lowered and the horseman rode in as Pharah hurried down the stairs to the gatehouse.

“Keep that gate closed,” said the Witch Hunter, swinging off of his horse.

“Portcullis down!” Pharah barked at her troops, and they quickly moved to close the portcullis behind the Witch Hunter. Gabriel handed his horse’s reins off to another guard.

“What did you get out of Junkenstein?” said the Witch Hunter.

“Nothing,” said Pharah, “We know she was at his house, but apart from that, lost time. On top of that we–we aren’t covering the city as… as efficiently as I’d like.”

“Which I take is unusual,” said the Witch hunter, completely unsurprised by her statement and perfectly calm.

“We know this city, knowing my men we should have caught her by now,” said Pharah.

“Protective charms. Effortless spell, but enough to turn you around and buy her time,” said Gabriel, “Call your men back to the bailey, get your swiftest horses and the men with the steadiest hands and strongest wills. Get to the other exits of the city and tell them to keep to the walls while they do so. No shortcuts. We don’t know which buildings she’s charmed, so the walls are our best bet. You have chalk?”

“Yes…” Pharah said hesitantly.

“Get it. Get all of it,” said Gabriel, “I’ll show you and your men what to do.” 

—

Genji appeared in a puff of smoke in front of Mercy, who still had the lock of hair wrapped around her finger. Mercy gasped and flinched back and it took Genji a second to remember he wasn’t wearing his usual clothing.

“It’s me!” He said, tilting the brim of his kasa back slightly and letting his eyes turn red, “Don’t worry,” he let his eyes turn back to dark brown, “It’s me.” 

“…it worked,” she said incredulously.

“Of course it worked, why wouldn’t it work?” said Genji. Mercy rolled her eyes.

“Where have you been?” said Mercy, folding her arms.

Genji gestured up at the sky. “Family issues,” he said.

Mercy huffed. “We need to get out of here,” she paused and looked at him, “You…said you could turn into a dragon, right?”

Genji’s side ached painfully from the very thought of such a transformation in his current state. If he tried that now, he had no idea how long he could sustain it. They could find themselves tumbling out of the sky from hundreds of feet up. He opened his mouth.

“No…” Mercy vetoed her own idea, and Genji sighed with some relief, “They’re likely to have crossbows and arquebuses on the city ramparts.” She huffed, “I shouldn’t have sent that whisper into the sewers—that could have been our exit…” she shook her head and started walking briskly, “Come on. We move and maybe we can reach a culvert before—”

“Stop right there!” Mercy stopped walking and turned on her heel to see a guard down the way, pointing a crossbow at her. Young. Scared. Separated from his compatriots. Had to have found her by sheer dumb luck.

“I don’t want any trouble,” she said calmly.

“You’re… you’re going to stand right there and—” there was a flash and Genji was suddenly between them. The guard’s hand squeezed on the crossbow’s trigger out of surprise and the bolt flew towards Genji. There was a flash of green and silver as Ryū Ichimonji was drawn, and Genji stepped forward, the crossbow bolt splitting across his blade, and he sprinted forward and with that same swipe of the blade, cut through the crossbow like the wood was butter. Genji seized the guard by the throat and was about to complete the swipe of his sword when Mercy blurted out, “Don’t.”

Genji’s blade stopped short on the guard’s neck, and he looked over his shoulder at Mercy incredulously.

“Don’t kill him,” said Mercy.

Genji’s brow furrowed, but then he sighed and rolled his eyes before looking back at the guard, shaking in his grip. “Consider your good fortune today,” said Genji, and he knocked the guard out with the butt of the blade. He glanced over at Mercy, “You know he’s just going to get up and come after you with all the rest of them in a little bit,” he said.

“We don’t need to add bodies to this,” said Mercy, moving to drag the unconscious guard into an alley but finding him terribly heavy. Genji huffed. “Here,” he said picking up the guard easily.

“Thank you—” Mercy started to say but Genji chucked the unconscious guard into the alley like a hay bale. 

“’Gentle’ isn’t in your vocabulary, is it?” said Mercy as Genji started moving down the street.

“You have done no harm yet he raises a weapon against you. Those who would harm you do not deserve ‘gentle,’” said Genji, “We should leave before more come.”

Mercy nodded and they ran.

—

Pharah’s horse galloped behind the Witch Hunter’s stallion when the Witch hunter slowed his horse and dismounted, taking a piece of chalk from a bag on his belt. Pharah realized they had stopped near one of the grated drainage culverts in the wall. Standing ankle-deep in the filthy water draining out of Adlersbrunn, the Witch Hunter drew out his circular symbol, the same he had instructed the rest of her guards to draw over every possible exit of the city, over the arch of the culvert. 

“…You really believe that can stop a witch?”

“It’s not the witch I’m stopping, it’s the demon she’s drawing her power from.”

“Demon? You didn’t mention a demon in your letter…” said Pharah.

“I can handle both. Demons, I’ve found, tend to incite panics. I’m only telling you because I can trust you not to let fear destroy your wits…” he paused, “Am I right in having that trust?”

“Yes, sir,” said Pharah.

The witch Hunter gave her a nod and mounted his horse once more. “Take care of the rest of the culverts. I’ll head to the northern gate.”

“But I can—”

“You’ve a promising career and a good sense of honor,” said the Witch Hunter, “I will shoulder the risks alone.”

“But—” Pharah started again.

“Ma’am!” The sound of hoofbeats on cobblestones sounded and one of Pharah’s guards rode up to the two of them, carrying Pharah’s musket on her shoulders and a box under her arm. “I got here from the cathedral as quickly as I could,” she said, handing Pharah her musket and munitions, “They’ve been blessed, as per your instructions.” The guard looked at the Witch Hunter, “oh–sir–I–I um…”

“A consecrated musket?” said the Witch hunter, arching an eyebrow.

Pharah looked down the sights of the musket before shouldering it. “Yes,” she said.

Gabriel seemed thoughtful for a moment, “You,” he said to the guard, tossing her a piece of chalk, “Memorize this mark and draw it over every culvert on the wall. You,” he turned to Pharah, “Ride with me. I have a job for you.”

He kicked his horse into a gallop and Pharah rode after him, once they were a sufficient ways away from the other guard, Gabriel slowed and let Pharah pull up alongside him. He pulled something from the interior of his coat and held it out to her. “I need you to take this and travel the ramparts,” he said.

Pharah squinted at the object in his palm. “A rock… with a hole in it,” she said flatly, looking up at him.

“Adder stone. It lets you see magic for what it is. I’ve trained myself to not be dependent on it, but you don’t have the same experience.”

“Is it… magic?” said Pharah, wondering if the Witch Hunter was a warlock himself.

“It is to be used in service to one’s faith to defend oneself against magic…As Solomon did,” said Gabriel.

Pharah pursed her lips, then took the stone. She looked through the hole and saw something bright glowing through the witch hunter’s jacket, something like fire just over his heart. She brought the stone down.

“Evidence,” said Gabriel, patting his hand over the point where Pharah was looking, “You wish to help me you will be walking a gray and dangerous path. Dogs guard flocks of sheep from wolves, but all dogs were wolves once. If you are unwilling—”

“You can count on me,” said Pharah.

Gabriel nodded, “Stick to the ramparts, head north,” he said, before riding off.

—

“We’re moving too slowly,” Genji said, sprinting forward.

“Well excuse me for not being a bloody demon!” said Mercy struggling to keep up behind him, “If you’ve got a bright idea for moving us faster, I’d be happy to–oof!” Genji had doubled back with a quick step and suddenly Mercy found herself slung over his shoulder. “What are you—?” she started.

“You asked if I had an idea,” he said as he broke into a sprint so fast the city turned to a blur around her. His arm was tight around her waist and she reddened. If she was being completely honest with herself, she didn’t really mind the abrupt physical contact. There was that faint, smoky, stormy scent on him, and the air around him felt charged and warm, like storm air itself. All his bragging of swiftness and mightiness had ended up having the opposite effect on her, his need to re-affirm it whenever the opportunity presented itself had resulted in her taking him less seriously when he brought it up each time, and yet now, with the feeling of his arm around her waist and the fact that she could feel the way his back muscles tensed and un-tensed as he ran through his thin shabby robes–Oh get a grip, you silly, lonely fool, she thought to herself, her face burning red. She shook her head and attempted to get a bearing on her surroundings but was having difficulty with how fast Genji was running.

“You know where you’re going?” she said.

“You said ‘Culvert.’ That’s… a drainage gap in the wall, correct?” said Genji.

“Yes,” said Mercy, “You’re looking for a low arch with an iron grate in the wall–”

Genji skidded to a halt, “There!” he said, turning and running for the wall. “Not bad for a city I’ve never…” he he slowed to a halt and trailed off. 

“Genji?” Mercy glanced over her shoulder. He was just standing, facing blankly forward though she couldn’t get a good view of what he was looking at. “Genji–let me–put me—” she scrambled out of the grip of his arm and stumbled off of his shoulder to the ground. “Now what are you looking at…?” she turned and saw the low arch of the culvert, but saw that drawn over it was a circular symbol with a complex sigil of lines and circles within it. She looked at Genji, who was staring at the symbol, frozen. “Genji—” she waved a hand in front of his face.  No response. She glanced back at the sigil and her brow furrowed. She marched over, ripped off the bottom hem of her skirt, already soggy from the puddles of the rain, and scrubbed at the stone above the culvert, managing to smear the sigil into an unrecognizable white mass.

“There!” she said, turning back to Genji. But Genji remained blank and unresponsive. “Oh for–” she stomped back to him, took him by the shoulders and started shaking him. “Snap-out-of-it-you-said-you’d-protect-me-you-great-shameless-terrible-most-damnably-handsome-fool-of-a-braggart!” she said, shaking him as hard as she could.

It is worth noting at this point, that demons do not exactly see the same things humans see. While Mercy saw only a sigil in chalk, to Genji it appeared as a hole punched in reality itself—a gaping maw filled with stars that caught and mesmerized him, somehow giving the equivalent of tunnel-vision to all senses. He heard whispers from this starry void, drowning out the world around him. But then there was a small voice, distant.

“Genji!”

“Genji!”

Then it turned to a roaring. “Genji du dummkopf, wir haben keine Zeit dafür!” 

Genji suddenly came around with a sharp gasp as light flooded his world and instinctively gripped Mercy by the shoulders in front of him, his breath short, his red eyes staring into her blue ones. He looked past her and saw a white smudge above the culvert and exhaled hard.

“What was that?” she looked at the sigil, “Usually wards just turn you around…”

“A trap,” he said quietly, “Incomplete.. just… just enough to slow us down…” He huffed, “Still, if not for you…” his hand went up to touch the side of her face but there was a loud crack and suddenly a lead ball ricocheted off of the cobblestones next to them. Genji looked in the direction of the sound to see a woman atop the ramparts in dragoon armor, feverishly reloading a matchlock musket.

“…they really hate witches here, don’t they?” said Genji.

“Move!” said Mercy. 

Pharah was already repositioning herself to get a better view on them. She only had to look through the adder stone once to see the man next to the witch for what he really was, and when she saw it, all plans by the witch hunter be damned, she had to destroy it. 

It took Genji half a second to realize it wasn’t Mercy the dragoon was aiming at when she looked down the sights of the musket again. “Run!” he shouted to Mercy and they both started sprinting. They didn’t know where to. Another musket ball hurtled toward them and instinctively Genji drew his sword to deflect it.

It met the blade and let off a long shriek and a flurry of white sparks with its contact. Genji was used to most things bouncing off the blade, but this, this seemed to be attempting to bore or burn its way through. With a cry he thrust his blade off to the side, and sent the musket ball hurtling into the wall of a nearby building, where it fizzled, letting off a bright white steam. Genji gave a glance down to his sword and saw it had left an ugly scorch mark along it. His eyes widened.

“That… that thing’s consecrated…” he said.

“What?” said Mercy.

“They consecrated musket balls…” he said, utterly floored by the concept. He looked at Mercy. “Can they do that!?”

“Look out!” Mercy grabbed him by his robes and yanked him out of the way as the dragoon fired again, another musket ball denting the wall where Genji’s head had been. They raced away as Pharah was reloading, and took cover in an alleyway.

“Any ideas?” said Genji.

Mercy exhaled. “The north gate. At this point it’ll be heavily fortified but…it’s oak. It’s…flammable…” she looked at her hand and a small sphere of flame formed. It fizzled out and she sighed, “No—I’m not strong enough. Not yet.”

Genji’s eyes widened at the flame, then he perked up. “I can help. You might not like it, but I can help.”

“What?” said Mercy.

“Let me possess you,” said Genji.

Mercy’s brow furrowed at him.

“They want me dead, but you captured. If I’m in your body, we might have a better chance,” said Genji.

Mercy’s expression remained unchanged.

“I’ll give your body back, I promise!” said Genji, “I’ll take good care of it. I’ll just…give you a little….” he gestured, “Stimulus?”

Mercy’s mouth dropped open and her brow remained furrowed.

“All right, poor choice of words,” said Genji, “Look, I’ll share my power and boost yours. You’ll still be the one in control. You have my word.”

She glanced off, biting the inside of her lip. He gently brought a hand under her chin and her eyes flicked back to him. “I said I would protect you,” said Genji.

Mercy huffed, “It doesn’t seem like we have that many options right now.”

“You can trust me,” said Genji, tilting back the brim of his kasa so she could see his eyes.

Mercy sighed, then gave a reluctant nod. Genji bowed his head, touching his forehead to Mercy’s then dissolved into smoke. She closed her eyes and breathed him in. She opened her eyes and they were bright red.

The witch and demon took off in a sprint. 

—-

The witch hunter was a patient man, a perfectionist, in some senses. He reached the north gate, swung off his horse, tied his horse off, took out his chalk and set to work. He glanced up from his work only at the sound of musket shots in the distance. He carefully eyed the various boulevards the witch and her demon could emerge from, constructed the dimensions of his creation accordingly. He worked quickly though, such were the demands of his vocation, then stood back, looking with some satisfaction on the massive chalk symbol he had marked into the ground just before the northern gatehouse of Adlersbrunn. He heard another musket shot, very close this time, and glanced up.

A woman with pale hair was running and running hard. Her eyes met with Gabriel’s. Gabriel drew the consecrated iron rod out of his boot out of instinct, not out of fear. Her brow furrowed and flames formed in her left hand.

Now again, it is worth noting that demons, do not see the same things humans do. Genji was looking through Mercy’s eyes, and, like Mercy, saw, maybe a short glimpse of some markings on the ground, but was operating under the assumption that, if there were such a seal, it would only affect him as much as it affected Mercy, which is to say not at all.

Genji was wrong.

They both realized this as soon as they crossed over the border of the seal, that Genji was right in his previous observation that the other symbol marked above the culvert was incomplete. Neither of them realized they were stepping into a complete one.

There was a flash of light and the one figure split into two. Mercy was sent hurtling forward, still having the full momentum of Genji’s speed but none of the control. She fell and tumbled and bounced painfully across the cobblestones of the bailey, coming to a rolling stop with a groan. She managed to look back and made eye contact with Genji, still in the circle, his feet apparently somehow stuck to the ground. White lights, something between dust motes and fireflies, hovered in the air around him.

He never looked more scared than in that moment.

He reached out a hand to her and opened his mouth to say something, then disappeared in a column of blinding light. Mercy was forced to shield her eyes, but the Witch Hunter watched, standing very calmly as the light roared within the confines of the circle he had made. 

When the light died down, Genji was gone. Mercy’s hand went over her mouth and her breath fell away from her. She wasn’t sure if she was hyperventilating or sobbing. She heard the clink of iron chains yet it seemed muted by the shortness of her own breath.

The witch hunter dropped to one knee next to her.

“You’ve given us quite a chase, haven’t you, Gramercy?” he said, clapping iron manacles on her wrists.

Chapter Text

Genji’s eyes flicked open and he found himself in a dark chamber that carried a faint smell of briny, otherworldly fermentation. The walls were black and slicked wet, yet the texture could vary from gleaming like black glass to porous and rough as pumice. The light in the room was eerie and green, and, Genji looked up to see that the light was sourced from some bioluminescent fungus or algae on the walls, and about six or seven disembodied bright green eyeballs, all roughly apple-sized with black slitted pupils. The eyeballs hovered in the air above him and all of their pupils fixed on him as he stirred on the raised slab of black stone he had been laid upon.

 Genji felt a weight on his chest and saw something there that was bright green and amber-colored, and looked midway between a deep sea basket star and a Portuguese man o’ war, and it was now covering most of his bare chest. Any sensible mortal would be rightfully horrified by the slimy mass of fractal-branching tendrils and tentacles covering their torso, but Genji had seen this before and gave a short sigh of relief.

“You tore a hole in the veil with a roar almost loud enough to wake the slumbering dead,” a calm voice spoke in the darkness, “Almost.” 

The green eyes hovering around Genji all swiveled in one direction to face the corner of the room, the source of the voice.

“Master…” Genji said softly.

Zenyatta emerged from the shadows, his own face a mass of violet and green tentacles. “The banishing itself would have killed most lesser demons,” said Zenyatta, “But its disturbance of the veil was strong enough to get my attention, and I found you quickly,” he gestured at slimy eldritch organism currently fixed to Genji’s chest. “Your injuries will be healed soon, but you must tell me what happened–what force on the mortal plane is strong enough to send you here against your will?”

“A witch hunter…  A mortal trained in destroying anything from beyond his plane…” Genji suddenly tensed, “How long have I been here?”

“Time is meaningless,” said Zenyatta.

Genji rubbed his forehead, “I mean… how much time passed in the mortal plane?” he said, lifting up his arm and giving a glance to the gold bracelet around it. It was glowing itself. She was calling him. He remembered reading somewhere that the mortals had all sorts of terrible ways to treat witches and women they thought were witches. 

Zenyatta looked thoughtful, plucked one of the green hovering eyeballs out of the air, gave it a good shake, stared at it a second, and released it back into the air saying, “A mere moment.”

Genji sighed with relief.

“…By mortals standards about 16 hours,” said Zenyatta.

“16 hours!” Genji sat bolt upright then winced hard at his own injuries.

“You must be patient and allow my healing to work,” said Zenyatta.

“I don’t have time—my witch—Mercy—she—” he exhaled, “She’s in danger. I need to get back.” 

Zenyatta floated over and placed a reassuring hand on Genji’s shoulder and gently set him back down to a reclined position. “You will, but you cannot do so in your current state. I take it this is no ordinary mortal follower.”

“She’s not my follower,” said Genji, “She–she freed me. Well–then she started yelling and hitting me with a broom–we… had a bumpy start. But she’s…” something like a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, “Clever. Stubborn, yet adaptive. And there’s this warmth–this wellspring of power within her that… I’ve felt it and she knows it’s there but I don’t think she’s fully grasped it yet but… when she does…” Genji breathed out, “I can’t let the other humans destroy that. I can’t let them destroy her.”

“I thought you had an odd magic on you when you entered this plane… there was a smoke about you, an arcane charge I have not felt in…” Zenyatta trailed off. 

“Master?” said Genji.

Zenyatta gestured dismissively. “Did she enchant you?” he asked.

Genji shook his head. “I was possessing her–then… there was some kind of seal… it split us apart, and sent me here.”

“I see…” said Zenyatta.

“I gave her my word that I would protect her,” he glanced back at the cnidarian-looking creature currently healing him, “How much more time do you think it will take?”

“Hopefully not too long,” said Zenyatta, “Magic is stronger here. Rest. I will make preparations for our return to the mortal plane.”

“’Our?’” said Genji.

“Yes, ‘Our.’ We are going together.”

 “Master—you don’t have to—”

“You cannot do this alone, my student. If the humans have the means to banish you, then perhaps I should see for myself the extent of their advancement. The humans were doing some very interesting things with bronze last time I was on their plane. Tell me, how is their bronze work now?”

“Um…” Genji was not really sure how to answer that.

—

Mercy was hugging her knees in a cell of the castle. As soon as the Witch Hunter shackled her wrists, a part of her had a mad instinct to claw at his face and make a run for it, but then her eyes fell on the dragoon descending from the ramparts, loading her musket. Consecrated or not, shot was shot. The Witch Hunter didn’t make a big show of Mercy’s capture, simply shackled her hands and fettered her ankles, slung her over the back of his horse, trotting to Adlersbrunn castle. 

The hill of Adlersbrunn was honeycombed with catacombs, and Junkenstein had told her once that he theorized those catacombs dated back far earlier than the current Adlersbrunn castle itself, which was hundreds of years old. She could feel the hundreds of years of death here. She wondered how many had died simply forgotten in these cells. It was cold, and it was dark. She wrapped a lock of hair around her finger once, twice, then three times and waited, only for nothing to happen.

Either he has broken off our deal or he is dead, she thought to herself, staring at her own hair coiled around her finger. She sighed and brought her hands down, the chains of her shackles clinking in her lap. The wooden door at the end of the dungeon opened with a creak and the Witch hunter entered, carrying a torch. The sudden glare of the light of the fire left spots in her eyes and she looked away as he walked over and put the torch in a sconce, then pulled up a stool and sat down, the bars of her cell dividing them.

“Is this where the torture starts?” said Mercy, “The needles first, I take it? Just keep poking until you find my ‘witch mark?’ Then the thumbscrews for confession?”

“I don’t need to find a witch mark. I saw fire forming in your hand, I found a demonic book full of your writing back at your home, and the guard captain has seen the true form of your… companion. There’s more than enough evidence of witchcraft. So…” Gabriel shrugged, “I suppose that saves us the trouble of the pricking, searching for extra nipples, and dunking you in a pond.”

“Wonderful,” said Mercy, flatly.

“However this means you will most certainly be burned,” said Gabriel.

“Ah…” said Mercy.

They were both silent for a while as Mercy let this sink in. 

“Do I detect regret in your voice, Witch-Hunter?” said Mercy, her eyes finally adjusting to the light of the torch and turning to face him.

“I take no joy in my work,” said Gabriel.

“So why are you down here?” asked Mercy.

“I am here to ascertain the full extent of your maleficence.” He reached into the interior of his coat and pulled out his small glass vial of the fiery liquid he had found in her home. “What is this?” he asked.

“It’s nothing evil,” said Mercy, “It’s for healing–that’s the only use I’ve seen for it, anyway.”

“No harm will befall me if I carry it?”

“Do you mean in the magical sense that nothing can harm you while it is on your person? Or that the object itself is not harming you?” asked Mercy.

“The second,” said Gabriel.

“It will not harm you… not on its own, I assume.”

“Explain.”

“I’m still figuring out its full properties,” said Mercy, “But since having it in my house has not harmed me, I should think it won’t affect you.”

Gabriel frowned, “So what were you hoping to do with it?”

“I wasn’t sure what I would do with it. There was still much research to be done before I could figure out what to do with it. But of course with my other work there’s hardly been any time for it.”

“Your other work?” said Gabriel, “What do you do?”

“I heal. I observe. I research,” said Mercy, frankly.

“Without the jurisdiction of the church?” said Gabriel.

“I was not aware the jurisdiction of the church was needed for my studies,” said Mercy.

Gabriel leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his interlaced fingers. “Were you ever baptized, Gramercy?”

Mercy shrugged. “If I was, I was a baby at the time and thus do not remember.”

“There was a Gramercy before you, the old woman who raised you—is that correct?” 

“Yes.”

“Was she a godly woman?” asked Gabriel. 

Mercy was silent. Gabriel kept his eyes leveled at her.

“You don’t like to lie, do you?” said Gabriel.

“I imagine there’s very little point in lying at this point,” said Mercy.

“She taught you much of what you know, the Gramercy before you?” asked Gabriel.

“Someone had to take care of the village after she was gone,” said Mercy.

“Your research seems to go far beyond your little village,” Gabriel sat up and folded his arms.

“The world is far bigger than my little village,” said Mercy, sitting up slightly as well but being unable to fold her arms with her shackles on, “Does God forbid seeking to understand the mechanics of our world?”

“Only when such pursuits violate his teachings,” said Gabriel. He kept that steady gaze on her. “Do you fear hell?” he asked.

“Of course,” she answered this easily.

 Gabriel’s eyebrows raised. Usually that question tended to shake suspects more. “So do you confess that you are a witch?” he asked.

Mercy’s brow furrowed at him and she glanced off.

“Do you know why we go to the lengths we do for a confession?” said the Witch Hunter, standing up, “We still hold out hope that your immortal soul might be wrenched from the jaws of hell. It’s for just as much your sake as the souls of everyone in Eichenwalde. Do you confess you are a witch?”

“You’ve already said I’m going to be burned. A confession won’t make any difference.”

“This is for your sake,” said Gabriel.

Mercy’s brow furrowed. “I confess I’m a woman who seeks to understand this world and the worlds beyond it. I firmly believe such women and such pursuits have predated Witch hunters. Predated this church,” she suddenly turned and gripped the bars of her cell, the clink of her chains against the bars causing the Witch hunter to instinctively move back in his seat. Not a full flinch, but something close to it. “The world has always needed women like me. And… perhaps it has always feared women like me. But it wasn’t until your church came along and called what I do ‘witchcraft’ that that fear became license to imprison, to torture, to kill.” Something glinted in those blue-gray eyes of hers. “I fear Hell, Witch Hunter, but not your hell. Hell is a place on earth, and men make it for themselves.”

The witch hunter just stared at her, his brow furrowed.

“And I believe,” she leaned close, leaning one cheek on the bars, “That you’re coming to believe that yourself. Every witch you hunt. Every confession you drag out. Every woman you’ve watched burn…. You’re building your hell around yourself, brick by brick.”

Gabriel didn’t break eye contact with her as she said this, but his hand moved, smoothly and surely to his boot. The moment the last word ‘brick’ passed her lips he whipped out his consecrated rod and struck her left hand on the bars, causing her to cry out and flinch back, gripping her bruised and bleeding knuckles. He could have struck her face. but he chose not to. Her breath was short.

“You will burn,” said the Witch Hunter, “And you have my pity.” He took his torch and walked away from Mercy’s cell. He walked up the steps out of the dungeon and the wooden door closed behind him, leaving Mercy in the dark.

—

“But there must be something you can do!” Junkenstein was pacing behind Lord Reinhardt Wilhelm Von Adlersbrunn through the halls of the castle.

“This is in the hands of the church,” said the lord of the castle, “I have no interest in forcing people to choose between their lord and their bishop over the matter of one witch.”

“Gramercy is not a—!”

“She is a witch, Doctor,” said Lord Wilhelm, “And it is in your best interest to distance yourself from her.

Junkenstein’s hand balled into a fist at his side. “So you won’t have to distance yourself from me and I can keep making your… your… bloody toys!” Junkenstein gave a bitter glance to the automaton sweeping the hallway.

“I tolerate your eccentricities, Junkenstein, I even sponsor your labor in the design of new creations–that does not mean you have any leverage here,” Lord Wilhelm.

Junkenstein sighed. “At least let me see her.”

“I have just said it is in your best interest to—”

“She’s my friend,” Junkenstein said, “Grant a poor madman the chance to say goodbye, at least.”

Lord Wilhelm Von Adlersbrunn heaved a weary sigh.

—

Mercy flinched at the door opening to the dungeon again, then eased up a bit where she was sitting as she heard the reassuring ‘clunk’ of a peg leg. Junkenstein hurried down the steps into the dungeon, torch in hand. “Gramercy? Gramercy!” 

“I’m here,” she said, pulling up to the bars of her cell, the fingers of her left hand bruised and bleeding and swollen.

Junkenstein hurried up to the cell and set his torch in the sconce next to it, 

His eyes flicked to her fingers. “Oh Gramercy what did they do to you?”

“Believe me, Jameson, it could be a lot worse,” said Mercy, smiling a little.

“Tell me how to get you out of here,” said Junkenstein.

“Jameson…” Mercy said quietly.

Junkenstein gripped the bars of the cell, some mix between fury and desperation on his face, “If you can conduct bloody lightning you can get yourself out of a cell! Now what do I have to do?!”

“I don’t know…” she said, “Jameson—I won’t let you get yourself any more mixed up in this than you already are.”

“The hell you won’t,” said Junkenstein, “Please. Just… tell me there’s something I can do. Anything. Anything I can do to help you.”

Mercy looked thoughtful, then pointed to one of the empty glass phials on Junkenstein’s harness “Give me one of those.”

He took it off and handed it to her without hesitation. She uncorked it.

“Your penknife,” said Mercy. 

“Of course—” Junkenstein took it out of his pocket and handed it to her, “Are you going to pick the lock or—” Mercy ran the knife across her palm. “Gramercy–!” he said in shock but then his voice died in his throat as he watched her ball her hand into a fist above the open vial. Blood dripped from the bottom of her fist into the vial, but it didn’t look like blood.

It looked like liquid fire.

“The person who made me like this,” said Mercy, “Her blood stayed like this long after her death. I can’t let this magic die with me. If there’s anyone left who can figure out its properties,” she corked off the phial once it was full and held it out to him, “It’s you.”

Junkenstein took the phial and tucked it into his coat. “Gramercy, I promise you—”

The door to the dungeon opened and a guard called out. “Oi! Junkenstein! Your time is up! Leave the witch!”

 Junkenstein bowed his head and the grip of his prosthetic hand tightened on the bars of Mercy’s cell.

“Leave him be, two days and they’ll be burning the only cunny he could ever get at the stake.” Both the guards laughed and Junkenstein’s teeth gritted.

“It’s all right,” said Mercy, putting a hand over Junkenstein’s.

“It’s not,” said Junkenstein, his voice hushed, “But I’ll make it right.” He pushed away from the bars, and walked out of the dungeon. The guards still laughing. As the door closed behind him, she realized Junkenstein had left the torch in the sconce next to her cell. Whether that was his intention or his being distracted by the commentary of the guards she wasn’t sure, but it was nice no longer being in the dark.

The phial still felt warm in Junkenstein’s coat as he walked out of the castle. The wheels in his mind were already turning. The fury in his heart made his hands twitch at his side, eager to get to work, eager to build, eager to destroy. Years later the legends would paint him as a madman, puppet, and fool, but the truth was that Adlersbrunn had stirred in Junkenstein two of the strongest forces on earth: Loyalty and spite.

Chapter Text

The door to the house of Junkenstein creaked open as the doctor walked in, running his fingers through his hair. “Two days,” he said to himself, “Two days—” he thumped the heels of his hands on his forehead, “Come on, think, Jameson, think!” He withdrew the small vial of the fiery, glowing liquid (he really wasn’t sure if you could still call it ‘blood’) from his coat and stared at it. He tossed the vial up and down in his palm. “It would bloody help if you explained one little bit of the things you can do to me. ‘It’s magic,’ this and ‘It’s not humors’ that.” He caught the vial in his palm and eyed it, then pressed it against his brow. “Think,” he said to himself again. “The blood of a woman who can…” he gave a glance to his latest creation, his wheel of lightning, “…conduct… lightning…” he said slowly. He paced around the wheel, glancing between it and the vial. “Perhaps if…yes—no–yes—but–yes–” his pacing quickened, “But she was a living thing,” he shoved several leafs of paper around on his table before stopping and wagging his finger and nodding to himself, “I’ll need a living thing to properly conduct that power…or… something living things are made of…”

His eyes flicked from the lightning wheel to a chalkboard that he had covered with a sheet. he walked over and yanked the sheet off, revealing a chalk sketch of something similar to the Vitruvian man.

…if the Vitruvian man was 7 feet tall and had a pig face.

Junkenstein lovingly ran a hand down the sketch. “I never thought I would get a chance to create you,” he whispered with all the tenderness of a lover, before giving a glance to the vial in his hand, “But now it seems I have no choice but to try.” 

—-

Genji held a green glowing amulet in his hand, and his eyes flicked to the gold bracelet on his wrist. She had stopped calling him. Was she dead already? Or had she simply given up hope?

“You are sure about this?” said Zenyatta.

Genji looped the amulet over his head. “I’m sure,” he said.

“As you don that amulet, you cannot be banished back to this realm, however another attempt at banishing you like the one that brought you here could destroy you,” said Zenyatta.

“So I’ll just avoid chalk circles,” said Genji, smiling.

Zenyatta gave Genji one of his steady looks.

“What?” said Genji.

“Regardless of her magic, this is a lot to risk over one mortal,” said Zenyatta.

Genji thumped his chest, “I am Genji, Demon of the North Wind,” he said with that same smile, “‘Daring’ just happens to be my specialty.”

“This goes past ‘daring’ and well into ‘inadvisable’ while edging significantly into ‘foolish,’” said Zenyatta.

“Are we really so afraid of mortals?” said Genji.

The tentacles hanging from Zenyatta’s face flicked and gnarled with some irritation. “I do not fear mortals,” said Zenyatta, “I will long outlive this earth and the star it circles. You, however, were a mortal once, and it’s clear at this point that mortals have the means to harm you, perhaps even kill you. Part of the reason I am coming with you is to see this power for myself. I fear magic is waning from your world, and the mortals are burning it out.”

Genji considered Zenyatta’s words, twisting the gold bracelet on his wrist tentatively as they walked through Zenyatta’s slimy dark tower with several green eyes hovering behind them. Finally they reached a hall that smelled more strongly of brine and rot than the rest of the tower, which was really saying something and Zenyatta walked to the far end of it, where two statues of beings similar to himself hovered on either side of what looked like a spongy section of the wall lined with… Genji thought they looked like something between barnacles and lichen. Zenyatta held his hand up against this section of the wall and it gave a little under the pressure of his hand. He pushed forward and it stretched and thinned. He gently floated aside for genji and motioned at the spongy section of the wall. “Push through,” He said simply.

Genji braced his own hands against the membrane and pushed forward, finding the wall stretching and thinning. Not feeling like stone at all but spongy, then rubbery, then thinning out to slimy tissue.

They passed through the membrane and found themselves in a dark hall full of hooded robed figures all chanting with their faces bowed toward the ground. Genji stumbled through first, peeling a bit of the wretched-smelling caul-like material off of his shoulder, when he glanced at the crowd. They fell dead silent. They had not seen someone pass through that veil in centuries. Then Zenyatta passed through and a gasp rippled through the crowd. 

Genji looked at the crowd, clad in robes of purple and black, some donning bright green amulets that seemed like a crude tribute to the green eyes that floated about Zenyatta. It smelled of death in this place, both fresh and old death. The sweet iron scent of fresh blood and a deeper, more ancient death-smell, of rot and yellowed bones. Genji’s eyes flicked to the stained glass windows which featured jagged nightmarish images of creatures with many eyes, many teeth, and hundreds crooked, curling tentacles wreaking untold madness and misery upon sad and twisted human figures. Genji glanced over at Zenyatta, who seemed equally confused by the dozens of robed figures.

“Uh… Master?” Genji started.

“This seems… familiar…” Zenyatta said thoughtfully.

“It’s him…!” one robed figure stumbled forward from the crowd and turned to the rest of the macabre congregation. “He has returned to reshape the world in his image as prophesied!”

“As prophesied!” the crowd echoed back in a roar.

“All hail the Master! Zenya’taa! Dread Dreamer! Messiah of Madness! Voice of the Void!”

“Voice of the Void!” the crowd echoed again.

Zenyatta snapped his tentacle-like fingers. “Oh now I remember.”

“Remember what?” Genji said warily as the crowd of robed figures seemed to close in around them, hushed murmurs rippling through the crowd.

Zenyatta cleared his throat and addressed the crowd. “It is I,” he said simply. This sent the crowd into a frenzy. They started chanting and wailing, leaping and dancing, it was all Genji could do to simply stick close to Zenyatta and not be buffeted by the flailing limbs of the robed congregation.

“I…may have been worshipped as a god last time I came to this plane,” said Zenyatta.

“May have!?” said Genji, looking at the robed figures, some of which were bowing prostrate, some railing and leaping and dancing, and some rolling around on the floor speaking in tongues in some mad faith-driven ecstasy.

“They built a few ziggurats to me, a few human sacrifices here and there…I was young and impetuous. I didn’t expect the religion to last this long since—-“

“Master! Master!” a cultist broke from the crowd, fell to his knees before Zenyatta and gripped at the hem of Zenyatta’s robe. “Tell me thy bidding, Master! I am but a humble worm in the face of your incomprehensible greatn—“

“A blasphemer has touched the master!”  another cultist shrieked and arms surged forth from the crowd and gripped the offender, yanking him into a storm of bodies. Genji saw the glint of several daggers rise above the crowd and his own hand instinctively went to the blade at his hip but Zenyatta put a hand in front of Genji and Genji stayed his blade. Genji watched as the offending cultist was dragged through the roiling sea of bodies, little more than a ripple moving through the crowd until he reached the center and stopped. Then the knives, held aloft in the hands of the mob of worshippers were brought down again and again, the blades surfacing from the crowd wet and red.

“…since they tend to do this a lot,” said Zenyatta, finally finishing his thought and gesturing at the crowd of worshippers now reveling in the blood of the blasphemer sacrificed in the name of their Master. Somehow the sight of a man destroyed by a raving crowd made Genji think of Mercy again. His Witch. What horrible things were being done to her in the name of faith now?

“We need to get going,” said Genji.

“Master!” a cultist fell prostrate before Zenyatta, “We have waited for you for centuries! For millennia! We have made blood sacrifices to you in hopes of your return! Wherefore you take your leave of us so soon!?”

Zenyatta gave a wary glance to Genji. “I have pledged my help to a dear friend,” he said.

“Help?” one cultist piped up.

“What help?” said another.

“Does the master require our blades? Require our services?” another cultist emerged from the crowd, this one donning some circlet that seemed designed after the eerie green eyes that were always hovering about Zenyatta. She took a knee before Zenyatta and gestured at the crowd of cultists behind her. “We will fight and kill and die for you, O Abyssal One, name only whose blood we shall shed.”

Zenyatta gave a glance to Genji. “An army might be nice in liberating your witch,” he said.

“An army…” Genji repeated, and he looked at the cultists, “An army! Of course! Well–their training obviously seems lacking but in terms of a diversion—” he unthinkingly touched Zenyatta’s shoulder and a loud gasp rippled through the crowd.

“What?” said Genji, and his eyes trailed to his hand on Zenyatta’s shoulder, “…oh.” 

“Blasphemer!” A shriek came from the back and several cultists at the front raised their knives

“Kuso,” said Genji.

With a wave of his hand, Zenyatta opened up a swirling green portal. “Go. I’ll calm them down and meet with you later.”

Genji nodded and leapt through the portal.

—-

Mercy watched the smoldering embers of the torch Junkenstein had left beside her cell. Her mind fell to Genji again. It kept turning to him. To how afraid he looked as the light consumed him, the way his fingers trailed down that lock of her hair which now hung more irritatingly than flatteringly in her face, to his stupid cocky grins, to all his stupid bragging and how dearly and painfully she missed it. As mad as it sounded she missed his voice in her mind. 

“Witch Mercy, There is no one like you.”

She remembered breathing him in like smoke, feeling him inhabit her like lightning in her veins, giving her all of his strength but letting her keep all of her freedom. She shook her head. Lonely silly fool, she thought to herself. He was dead. Or damned. Or had abandoned her. Thinking of him now would only hurt more. 

She opened her palm and let a flame spin itself into existence there, tried to sustain it as long as she could, but then would feel it fizzle out.  Stupid. She was stupid. All this time she thought she was so clever and yet here se was, waiting to be burned like a fool. She bowed her forehead against her knees.

“You aren’t going to get anywhere holding back like that,” she heard a voice and flinched, looking around the dungeon, but there was only the smoldering torch.

“I’m going mad now,” she murmured to herself before curling into herself once more.

“Madness? Madness? Do you think I would let the last bearer of my flame succumb to madness? Pathetic.”

Mercy flinched and sat up again and her brow furrowed. No one else called it a flame. If the guards had seen her spinning fire into existence in her palm, perhaps they would call it a flame. Perhaps they were playing a trick on her, but then again, she had made a point of never speaking of the cave where Gramercy passed the flame down to her.

“If there is someone here,” Mercy said slowly, “Come into the light.”

There was no response.

“Mad,” Mercy said again with a sigh, “I’m going mad…” She sighed. There was no natural light coming into the dungeon, except by the door, which was closed. She had no way of knowing what time it was. She knew she would burn in two days. There was no bed in her cell. Not even a pile of hay. Just a chamber pot that was little more than a bucket in the corner. Mercy did her best to curl up on the stone floor, knowing no part of it would soften for her. She cushioned her head on her hands, her own shackles cold against her cheek. She slowed her breathing to try and bring the sleep faster.

Then a hand, blackened and smoldering with red-orange veins of embers shot up from the floor and clamped over her mouth, crackling and blistering against her skin. Several more hands shot up, two gripping her wrists as she moved to flinch away from the burning hand, several more wrapping themselves over her torso and legs, fingers sinking hot against her flesh. The hands were pulling her against the stone, which itself was gridded with ember-glow fissures, then there was a crack and a rush of sparks and she fell through the floor and into a burning place, the hands falling away from her and letting her drop. She landed with a thud on the ground and groaned. She got up and saw the flames all around her.

“Do you fear hell?” the Witch Hunter’s voice echoed in her mind, but she glanced down and saw her arm in one of the flames. She felt the warmth but not the burn. Her brow crinkled in some confusion. She turned her hand over, still in the flames and saw that it was the palm she had cut to give blood to Junkenstein. She watched as the line along her palm closed. Then something dark passed behind her hand and she glimpsed up and saw she was looking at a pair of legs, though there was definitely something off about them…notably the three clawed toes and the fact that the legs themselves were covered in scales. 

“Up,” said the same voice she had heard earlier. 

“What?” said Mercy.

“Get up,” the voice said more insistently and several of the same ember-hands from earlier rose out of the floor and the flames and hauled Mercy to her feet. Mercy’s breath caught in her throat as she found herself staring into a pair of fiery amber eyes. A woman. A dragon. Neither. Both. Ancient. Beautiful. Terrifying. Mercy remembered a painting in a cave on the night the old woman died. 

“Who are you? Where am i? What–what is this?” said Mercy.

“You know. Not out of prison. Divine intervention,” the woman replied calmly. 

“Divine–?” Mercy started confusedly.

“Did you take the words ‘forge of creation’ so lightly?” said the dragon woman, folding her arms. She snarled, exposing fangs and stepped around Mercy, still gripped by the several smoldering hands. One hand gave Mercy’s arm a squeeze. She huffed.

“Soft. Weak. Is this what my fire in the mortal realm has been reduced to?” she spoke, walking around Mercy. Mercy wasn’t sure if she was talking to her or to herself, “It was once borne by warrior kings, by magi with the blood of gods and demons in their veins, and now it has fizzled down to…” she stopped back in front of Mercy, “…you.” She sighed. “I suppose it can’t be helped. No one appreciates the old gods any more…”

“I-I don’t understand–The witch hunter had to have covered the outside of my prison with sigils–lined it with salt—You shouldn’t—”

The amber eyes of the dragon woman flared. “For your own good I suggest you never speak of me like I am some petty imp to be dispelled by apotropaic frippery again. I predate your witch hunter’s religion. I was born when this universe burst forth in flame and creation. I helped shape this world. No salt and no sigils can contain me.” She put two fingers to Mercy’s chest, “You have no idea of the boon that has been gifted you.” 

“I could tell you that much,” Mercy muttered a bit bitterly, glancing down.

The dragon woman brought her hand up to the level of Mercy’s eyes and snapped her fingers, causing Mercy to flinch back slightly, and a fire alighted on the tip of her finger. Dark marks appeared over each of Mercy’s eyebrows at the presence of the flame.

“So it still burns within you,” said the dragon woman. She closed her fingertips together and the flame shrank into nothingness and the dark marks disappeared from Mercy’s forehead, “…but you still can’t seem to call it forward.”

“Yes well, the person who gave me this power died immediately after so she didn’t exactly have the chance to tell me what to do with it,” said Mercy, frowning.

The dragon woman snickered a little. “Does fire think? Does fire need lessons on how to burn? Fire lives. Fire breathes. Fire consumes. Creates. Destroys. You didn’t need lessons to breathe. Fire has but two choices: burn or die. Which will you choose?”

The arms gripping mercy crumbled away into sparks and embers, and suddenly large chunks of the fiery realm seemed to be collapsing, like a long-burning log falling apart. 

“Wait–!” Mercy called out as the burning place collapsed around her. The dragon woman herself was consumed in flames, closing her eyes. “No, this doesn’t help! You have to tell me how to–Please! You can’t leave now! You can’t—” 

Mercy’s eyes snapped open and she found herself in the cold stone floor of her cell. She couldn’t be sure how long she had slept. She sat up in her cell. “Burn or die…” she said to herself, then shook her head. “That’s ridiculous–I’ll be dying by burning…” she said, letting a flame spin itself into existence above her palm. She frowned and closed her hand into a fist, snuffing the flame out. “Lessons to breathe– it’s the smoke that kills you first if you’re lucky…” She sighed in a huff.

Her breath left her in a plume of fire.

She slapped a hand over her own mouth and scrambled back against the wall of her cell, eyes wide in terror and awe.

Chapter Text

The Witch Hunter and the bishop walked the outer ramparts of Adlersbrunn’s wall, looking out over the rest of Eichenwalde. 

“So, the witch is caught and the demon banished,” said Bishop Petras, “I knew you were good, but to see the problem resolved so… quickly…” he trailed off, “I’m impressed.”

“She will burn at sunset on the morrow,” said the Witch Hunter.

“Not that I’m particularly eager to see such a grisly sight, but can I ask why the wait? She has plenty of witnesses against her. It’s best we be over and done with this grim business so we can move on,” said the Bishop, glancing back over his shoulder back at the city, “So everyone can move on.”

“You have deferred to my judgment in this matter,” said the Witch Hunter, “And the witch is caught. I believe she should be given a chance to repent before we throw her back to the mouth of hell,” said the Witch Hunter.

Something tugged at the corner of the bishop’s mouth and he placed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Know that I ask this with all due respect, but is this for her sake, or for yours?”

The Witch Hunter glanced down. “She will burn no matter what,” he said, stepping away from the bishop and leaning against a stone parapet, “She’s dangerous yes, but clever…well-meaning, in her own twisted way. I should like to think there is hope for her soul.”

The Bishop smiled, “You’ve a good heart, Gabriel. I dare say there’s more than enough hope for yours.”

Brick by brick, Gabriel heard the witch’s voice in his mind and his lips thinned for a moment before he turned to the Bishop. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said.

—

A green portal opened in a foggy sky several miles out of Adlersbrunn and a sparrowhawk came flying out at full speed. Genji beat his wings tirelessly over the pines and mountains of Eichenwalde, riding the wind as swiftly as he could to Adlersbrunn. He circled the castle, feeling his head ache and whirl from the various wards that had been placed around it. She would be in there, in the dungeons below–that was why all the wards were there. He turned hard away from the castle before tilting his wings and diving lower to glide at the level of the rooftops.

 He noticed an unusual amount of guards in the market square and swept into a turn before perching on the roof of a hunting lodge. He watched the movements of the guards, watching a line of them carry planks to the center of the square, where a handful of craftsmen seemed to be constructing some sort of platform.  At the center of this platform, several burlier guards seemed were moving what looked like a narrow tree trunk to an upright position. A stark image flashed in his mind of the woodcuts he had seen from this land, there were the images of witches entreating with demons, of course, the images of witches flying naked by moonlight, but then there was the image at the end of these tracts which served as a stark reminder of what mortals thought of magic and those born and practicing with it. As he watched the guards erect the bole he knew precisely what they were doing.

“A stake,” he thought, “This is where they mean to burn her.” 

His feathers bristled angrily. For a brief mad second he had a mind to take his true form and lay waste to the guards, the city, everything, but he caught himself and gave a glance down to his gold bracelet, now a narrow gold band around his leg. No. He had been reckless before–they both had been. Reckless, scared and desperate. He had to figure this out. There were Zenyatta’s cultists, sure, but they themselves were volatile–just as likely to destroy each other as any enemies. They needed another ally. They needed someone who knew the city. They needed someone Mercy would trust. An idea flashed in Genji’s mind and he quickly took to the air again, flying over the rooftops.

—

“Work faster, you buckets of bolts!” said Junkenstein as two zomnic assistants hammered away at a third zomnic frame. Once he had four zomnics he could streamline the process with an assembly line of sorts, but time was short and what would be his magnum opus still lay half-made on the slab. Junkenstein was short on raw materials for the creation, and he couldn’t very well go grave robbing with the city guard on high alert the way it was. He had done all he could for now—if quality couldn’t make it, quantity would have to suffice. “I said faster!” said the doctor, and the two zomnics hammered faster.

Genji watched the doctor and the two zomnics from the window, still in sparrowhawk form. Well… here goes nothing, he thought, turning into a gray tomcat and using his paw to pry open the window only a crack before turning into a rat and scrambling in. Junkenstein was too busy tinkering or barking orders at his mechanical assistants to notice as Genji climbed down a post and looked around the lab. He flinched and fled to a dark corner as something the two zomnics were were working on suddenly sat up and . It was a third zomnic, but this one didn’t seem to have a head.

“Fools—you’re not supposed to arm the coil yet,” Doctor Junkenstein stepped over from puzzling over something foul-smelling and covered with a sheet on a slab. Junkenstein slammed a half-done omnic head onto the flailing body and gave it a smack in the side of the newly-granted head with a wrench. It stopped flailing and sat up at attention. Junkenstein motioned to the other two zomnics hammering away, handed his own hammer to the zomnic, then resumed looking at his creation. “What can be replaced…” he glanced at his own arm, “What can be mechanized—” Junkenstein felt a presence behind him and whirled around on his heel, scalpel in hand ready to slash at whoever was fool enough to sneak in when a strong hand gripped his wrist.

“You!” said Junkenstein, looking at Genji’s Oni mask.

 With his free hand, Genji lifted his mask, not bothering to hide the red of his eyes. “I need your help,” said Genji.

“I’m afraid I’m a bit busy at the moment,” said Junkenstein, wrenching his wrist from Genji’s grip.

“With…what?” said Genji, looking at the group of zomnics now hammering away at another frame while Junkenstein himself gave a glance under the sheet at the form on the slap before stepping away and pacing around, rifling through automaton parts.

“Rescuing Gramercy, obviously!” said Junkenstein, “And maybe a bit of reckoning.”

“Reckoning?” said Genji.

“Just a bit. Don’t you worry about it,” said Junkenstein, turning his attention back to the slab.

“Wait—This is good! I’m rescuing Mercy too—”

“Because you did so well with getting her out of the city,” said Junkenstein with a roll of his eyes.

“We need to work together,” said Genji.

“You do realize what they’re saying in the city, right?” said Junkenstein.

Genji shook his head.

“Whole town’s up in a tizzy about a ‘demon’ accompanying the witch. I’ll give you one guess as to who that is,” said Junkenstein.

Genji was silent, feeling a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Now I don’t believe in demons, but I do believe that if not for you, she may have at least had a chance. If you hadn’t— I could have—they’re all superstitious and if I could have just—” Junkenstein huffed, running the thumb of his prosthetic hand over his metal knuckles before shaking his head and pointing a finger at Genji, “You’ve messed this up for her. You’re not messing this up for me.”  

“Do you really think you can do this alone?” said Genji.

“I’m not doing it alone,” said Junkenstein, gesturing back at the Zomnics.

“…you mean to take out the whole of the city guard with…those?” said Genji.

“It’s not about ‘taking out’ the city guard, it’s about creating enough of a distraction to get her out,” said Junkenstein.

“…A distraction…” Genji’s eyes widened, “A distraction! Of course–you’re a genius!”

“Obviously,” said Junkenstein, his attention fixed back on the sheet-covered pile on the slab.

“Let me help,” said Genji. 

Junkenstein glanced up, frowning. “You’ve helped quite enough already,” he said.

“While you’re distracting the guards–how do you plan on getting Mercy out?” said Genji.

Junkenstein opened his mouth and took a breath as if to speak, then paused, glanced down, and thought for several seconds before muttering a stubborn, “You can help.” 

Genji smiled. “So… what’s this?” said Genji, stepping alongside Junkenstein.

“Well… the city’s seen my bots. We need a good distraction we need something… bigger. Two things ought to distract from a witch-burning–A monster, or a miracle,” Junkenstein pulled back the sheet slightly and Genji was taken aback at the sight of a horrible green pig face, “I hope to make both.”

“You… you made this?” said Genji.

“Beautiful, isn’t he?” Junkenstein lovingly touched the side of the pig face, “He’s been a dream of mine for… a very long time. But it all fell off to the side with Lord Von Adlersbrunn’s commissions. With this,” Junkenstein drew a vial of what looked like liquid fire from the interior of his labcoat, “And that,” he gestured at the metal wheel he had stored lightning in with Mercy earlier, “I finally have the means to bring it to life—unfortunately I’m a bit short on raw materials,” he stuffed the fiery vial back into his labcoat, “You wouldn’t happen to have two or three corpses on hand, would you?”

“Two or three what—?” Genji started when a green portal opened behind them both and Junkenstein all but jumped a foot in the air.

“Student,” Zenyatta emerged from the portal, “My followers have—”

Junkenstein started screaming.

“They’ve—” Zenyatta attempted to say but was cut off by more screaming.

“I’ve—” Zenyatta started again but Junkenstein impressively managed to keep screaming before Genji caught Junkenstein in a headlock and slapped a hand over his mouth, effectively muffling him.

“I see you’ve made a friend,” said Zenyatta.

“Master, this is Junkenstein,” said Genji, as he attempted to contain a flailing, muffled Junkenstein as best he could, “He is a friend of my witch.” 

“A pleasure to meet you,” said Zenyatta.

Junkenstein’s eyes flicked to Genji and his muffled screaming under Genji’s hand fell quiet.

“Junkenstein—this is Zenyatta,” said Genji, “My teacher.” 

“Trmfr?” Junkenstein’s words were muffled under Genji’s hand. 

“…I’m going to let you go, can I trust you to remain calm when I do so?” said Genji.

Junkenstein nodded and Genji released him. 

“You…you’re…” Junkenstein stepped around Zenyatta, the green floating eyes which surrounded Zenyatta followed Junkenstein as he walked, “What–What are you, exactly?”

“If I began to explain myself and what I am to you, you would be driven to madness and rake your own face off with your fingernails while dashing your brains out against a wall,” said Zenyatta.

“…I see,” said Junkenstein, “So…you’re not… from here.”

“I am not,” said Zenyatta.

“And you’re…” Junkenstein gave a glance to Genji and then gave a weary sigh, “…magic?” Genji could tell just saying the word was gut-wrenching for Junkenstein.

“That is the simplest term for it,” said Zenyatta.

“Simplest?” said Junkenstein.

“Your world is ruled by laws of movement, of time, of objects in space,” said Zenyatta, motioning with his hand. The fiery vial suddenly emerged from the interior of Junkenstein’s coat and floated over to Zenyatta, who plucked it from the air and examined it, “Magic is a physical force that goes beyond your plane into others. By its nature of being existent and sourced from other planes, it is able to manipulate forces of your own plane in ways you would consider… highly unusual.”

Zenyatta tossed the vial back to Junkenstein and Junkenstein caught it. “It is very rare for humans to begin to understand magic,” said Zenyatta, “Much less wield it as they wield the other laws of their world such as chemistry or machinery.”

“…So Gramercy is magic,” said Junkenstein, turning the vial over in his hand.

“Yes!” said Genji.

“And you’re magic,” said Junkenstein pointing to Genji.

“You catch on quickly,” said Genji.

“And this city is about to burn one of the few people who actually knows how to use magic,” said Junkenstein.

“Yes–!” Genji was excited that Junkenstein seemed to finally be moving forward, then was suddenly reminded of the gravity of their situation and his face dropped. He turned to Zenyatta. “Your followers–” Genji started.

“There… has been an issue,” said Zenyatta.

“An issue?” said Genji, “But surely there can still be—”

“There is currently a bit of a… schism going on,” said Zenyatta.

“A what?” said Genji.

“It’s when a church splits into—”

“You’ve returned to your cult for only a few hours and it’s already split?” said Genji.

“Well you see I touched the shoulder of one of my followers without thinking and currently there’s a bit of debate over whether she is one of my chosen heralds or a blasphemer. And when I saw ‘a bit of debate’ I mean ‘A lot of stabbing.’“

“You’re their god! Just tell them to stop stabbing!” said Genji.

“’Stop stabbing,’” Zenyatta chuckled, “Oh my dear student,” Zenyatta patted Genji’s shoulder, “You’ll understand when you have your own blood cult some day.”

Genji’s shoulders slumped and he sighed deeply before taking a calming breath. “All right then,” he said, rubbing his brow, “So we don’t have an army of bloodthirsty cultists. That’s fine. We still have…” he glanced over at a group of now four zomnics hammering away at a fifth, “Those…things,” he said slowly.

“What about that?” said Zenyatta, pointing to the sheet-covered pile on the slab.

“That’s incomplete,” said Genji, “We’d need corpses for it.”

“…does it matter if they have stab wounds?” asked Zenyatta.

“…Not particularly,” said Junkenstein.

—-

Genji had arrived in the late afternoon and they continued working, planning, long into the evening. Junkenstein himself worked as if possessed. It was a simple enough matter for Zenyatta to open up another portal and retrieve the corpses of several cultists, and from there Junkenstein stripped them down, to raw materials. Guts, muscles, organs, skin. He was impressively methodical and organized about it. It was clear he had been conceptualizing this for quite some time.

They couldn’t simply storm the castle, because that would leave the problem of having to fight their way back out of such a fortress, that, and with the house of Junkenstein slowly filling itself with Zomnics, it was getting harder to work. Eventually Junkenstein got so furious he opened up a panel in the floor and instructed all Zomnics not currently working on other zomnics were to go down into the city catacombs.

“…You have a trap door into the city catacombs?” said Genji. 

Junkenstein was testing the musculature of a massive arm, bending it and turning the wrist back and forth. “Well it doesn’t exactly go anywhere,” he said, “Just a long tunnel and the end of it collapsed about two years ago and—” Junkenstein cut himself off, “Oi!” he shouted after the Zomnics already down in the catacomb, “Start clearing rocks away at the end of the tunnel and lay down some buttresses!” 

“They will need help, said Zenyatta, leaping down into the catacombs.

“We can reach the castle through the catacombs?” asked Genji.

“If only it were that easy,” said Junkenstein, resuming his work deconstructing and stitching together three human hearts into one massive one, “No, that section of the catacombs was walled off decades ago—but we can create several points of attack around the square through the catacombs.”

“The square?” said Genji, “So you’re saying—”

“The only way this plan works is if it’s in the square,” said Junkenstein, holding up the massive heart in the light of a lamp. 

“You mean when she’s about to be burned,” said Genji.

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Junkenstein, “My zomnics can attack the castle. Divert the guards, give you an opening. My monster–if he’s complete by then–will help you in the square–he ought to distract that witch hunter plenty. Do me a favor and hold that chest cavity open for me, will you?” said Junkenstein

Genji walked over to the massive stinking construction of corpses and, with more effort than he thought would have been necessary, opened the chest cavity of the beast. “What would compel you to make something so hideous?” the question escaped Genji but Junkenstein didn’t seem offended at all by it.

“Making life isn’t exactly pretty, mate,” said Junkenstein, stitching the heart into place within the monster, “But him?” he tied off the stitching and gave the heart an affectionate pat, “He’s bloody beautiful.”

“He’s certainly bloody…” said Genji as he helped Junkenstein close the chest cavity. Genji gave a glance over his shoulder to the trapdoor leading into the catacombs.

“It’s all mostly musculature and some… hardware from here,” said Junkenstein, “You want to help clear out the catacombs, that’s the most helpful you can be.”

Genji nodded and leapt down into the catacombs. He walked through the darkness to find it lit by the glowing green eyes that so frequently hovered about and accompanied Zenyatta. Zenyatta himself was holding his hands out, creating a portal that he moved against the stones, sending them gods-knew-where as Zomnics hurried to keep the whole thing from collapsing altogether around him.

“Junkenstein says the only way we can get her out is when she’s about to be burnt,” said Genji.

“I have foreseen so,” said Zenyatta.

Genji frowned. “Your portals—” he started.

“I tried,” said Zenyatta, “There is another magic which prevents me from opening them within the castle. What it is, exactly, I cannot say for sure. But it is old. Very old.” Zenyatta paused to think. “You do not fully understand the extent of your witch’s power, do you?”

“I saw her spin up a paltry fireball, and she seemed to be able to harness lightning…” said Genji, trailing off. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“If I told you everything, my student, you would—”

“Plunge my sword through my eye and skull in an attempt to un-see and un-think what has been revealed to me, you’ve mentioned,” said Genji. 

“That vial. The one you pulled from Junkenstein before giving it back. What is it?”

“I hope to find out myself,” said Zenyatta. It was difficult to tell with Zenyatta’s face being a mass of tentacles, but something in his voice made it sound almost like Zenyatta was smiling.

—

Pharah looked out over Adlersbrunn from one of the city gate towers with her matchlock rifle on her shoulder. The moon was waxing, just on the verge of being full, but not quite.

“You should get some rest, ma’am,” said a guard, “I can take your post.”

“In a moment,” said Pharah, turning the adder stone over in her fingers.

“So they’re really burning her tomorrow, then?” said the guard, leaning against a parapet.

“Seems that way,” said Pharah.

The guard looked out over the city. “Never seen a witch burning before…” they said softly.

“I saw one when I was little more than 15. They’re not pleasant,” said Pharah. She decided not to bring up the part where her own mother disappeared shortly after. Perhaps that was why the thought of seeing a witch burn seemed to turn her stomach so in spite of all she had seen.

“The guards say you saw the demon,” said the guard.

“I did,” said Pharah.

“Can I ask… what he was like?” asked the guard.

“Big, and terrible, and red, and terrible,” said Pharah, “Couldn’t bring myself to look at him for more than a few seconds before I was compelled to shoot.”

“You’re very brave, ma’am,” said the guard.

Pharah blinked a few times, “It’s only part of the job. I’m the captain. I must be brave so the rest of you can follow suit.”

“So you’re staying then?” something in the guard’s voice lit up.

“Wh–where would I go?” said Pharah.

“Well… some of the other guards thought after this you might take off to be a Witch Hunter yourself. The hunter Reyes seems fond of you.”

“He already has an apprentice,” said Pharah with a smile, “My place is here.”

The guard smiled as well.

“Go—tell the rest of the guard to take their posts for the night, you can take my post when you do so,” said Pharah.

“Yes ma’am,” said the guard hurrying off. Pharah was once again left alone on the tower. She gave a glance down to the adder stone in her hand, then brought it up to her eye. She looked out over the city, all seeming fairly normal, until her sight fell upon the castle. She brought the adder stone away from her eye to look at the castle, then brought the stone to her eye again to make sure she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. The castle was rippling, distorted as if by waves of heat.

—

Hours and hours of more work passed. Junkenstein was meticulous in piecing together the final parts of his creation, and the steady stream of zomnics to the catacombs below the city continued. It was nearly dawn when Junkenstein screwed the final two bolts in place in the creature’s neck.

“All right…” Junkenstein injected the fiery substance into the creature’s neck, “Throw the switch.”

Zenyatta brought down the switch and the monster on the slab convulsed with electricity.

“Hold!” said Junkenstein, and Zenyatta turned the switch back.

Junkenstein put his head against the creature’s chest. “Nothing,” he thumped the creature’s chest with a metal fist, “Lazy old brute. We need more power!”

“Your source of lightning appears to be at its limits,” said Zenyatta.

“Well… granted the initial plan was to use a storm for this, but with Gramercy–there was no time…” said Junkenstein, bitterly. He bowed his forehead against the creature’s chest with grief. “But we need to animate this flesh tonight or the materials will degrade too much to be viable. This…” he sighed and took the creature’s massive hand in his own, “This was my only chance.”

“A storm?” Genji repeated.

“Only a lightning storm could generate the power I need…” Junkenstein said mournfully. He looked at Zenyatta, “Throw the switch. One more time. Just… one more time…” he backed away from the slab.

Zenyatta hesitantly threw the switch once more and the creature started convulsing on the slab with the force of electricity.

“A storm…” Genji said quietly. He looked at his own hand. He remembered the story his brother told him of how they came to be Yōkai. Two princes thrown from a boat, with dragons rising up to devour them, and lightning striking the sea. He was born in a storm. He was a creature of water, wind, and lightning. A mad idea flashed in his mind and he started walking toward the metal wheel tha was throwing sparks down on the creature.. One of the green eyes floating about Zenyatta turned toward Genji and Zenyatta himself suddenly turned, noting the determined expression on Genji’s face.

“What are you—?” Zenyatta started.

Genji turned to smoke and lightning and rushed toward the metal wheel.

“Genji!” Zenyatta shouted after him.

There was a massive burst of green lightning from the wheel and both Zenyatta and Junkenstein were knocked back by the force of the blast. The dust settled and Junkenstein sat up, coughing. Zenyatta looked over at the metallic wheel and watched as black smoke emanated from it and with a few weak green sparks managed to reform itself into Genji on the floor.

 Genji coughed. “I… probably could have thought that through better. Is it…?” He heard a soft wheezing and then glanced up. Junkenstein was gripping the creature’s hand, his eyes wide with awe as the creature’s massive green fingers twitched. The creature’s chest was rising and falling

“He’s alive,” Junkenstein said softly, he dropped the hand and brought his own hand over his mouth, his breath short in his throat, hardly believing his own words. He looked at Genji, “He–He’s alive,” Junkenstein said again. A short laugh escaped him as he brought his goggles up to his forehead, this laugh seemed to sustain itself into giddy, half-panicked giggles. Genji was coughing and stumbling to his feet, “He’s alive!” Junkenstein said, grabbing Genji by the front of his tunic and hauling him up to his feet, “HE’S ALIVE!” he shouted, shaking Genji back and forth. The first lights of dawn hit the creature’s hideous face as Junkenstein threw himself over the beast’s massive belly in ecstasy as it continued wheezing, a grim and terrible sound.

“Oh,” Junkenstein said as the sky pinkened with morning light, “Oh what a beautiful day.” 

Chapter Text

The door opened to the dungeon once more and light poured in from the halls of the castle. Before, it would take Mercy several seconds for her eyes to readjust to the light, but with her dreams of late, she continued sitting, quite calmly in her cell as the witch hunter’s boots sounded against the stone of the floor.

“It’s today then, isn’t it?” said Mercy.

“Yes,” said the witch hunter.

A long silence passed between them.

“Are you afraid?” asked Gabriel.

“Yes,” said Mercy. There was a calm in her voice.

“Do you repent?” asked Gabriel.

There was a pause. “No,” she said.

“I don’t ask you to repent for my pride,” said Gabriel, “You repent for your own sake.”

“You ask me to renounce all I am, all I have discovered, all I pursue,” said Mercy, slowly standing up, “And you’re going to kill me anyway,” she looked over her shoulder at him, “I don’t regret what I’ve done. Who I’ve helped. Who I’ve harmed. The things I’ve seen. I don’t regret any of it. Can you say the same, witch hunter?”

Gabriel’s brow furrowed and he turned on his heel and began, “Sunset,” he said, “You’ll burn at sunset.”

—

A gray tomcat bounded across the cobblestones of Adlersbrunn, paused at a chalk circle and circumvented it, weaving between the legs of passerby until it reached an alley. It stared up at the stake in the center of the town square. As the cat hid in the shadows of the alley, a floating bright green eyeball, roughly the size of an apple with a slitted black pupil spun itself into existence next to him.

“Is that it?” Genji heard Zenyatta’s voice in his mind.

“Yes,” Genji spoke in his master’s mind.

The slitted pupil dilated at the sight of the chalk circle. “A powerful ward,” it said softly, “A corruption of the veil.”

“What do you intend to do about it?” questioned Genji.

“I am of the void,” Zenyatta replied, “Those who would thin the veil in my presence do so at their own peril. Get back to the lab.” With that, the eyeball disappeared in another whorl of green light. Genji gave a glance towards the back of the alley where several crates had been stacked on top of each other. He bound up the crates onto the roof of the building, took the form of a sparrow, and flew off for the House of Junkenstein.

—

“Right,” Junkenstein slapped wooden pointer against his chalkboard that had a crudely drawn out rough map of Adlersbrunn on it, “So we’re all clear on the plan, then?” His words were underscored by a low raspy wheezing. Genji gave an uneasy glance over his shoulder at Junkenstein’s monster, its massive belly swelling and falling with its labored breaths. Genji did his best to not think about the smell.

Genji stood up and examined the chalkboard and the two ‘x’s that were meant to symbolize himself and Zenyatta, and the ‘M’ meant to represent Mercy in the square. “What will the signal look like again?” said Genji.

“An excellent question,” said Junkenstein, stepping next to a Zombardier, “This handsome fellow comes equipped with an energy-based ballistic of my own design. As you can see he possesses a bright blue glow, courtesy of a combination of a compound of my own invention, as well as a bit of Gramercy’s magic. As such he’s capable of firing projectiles of a bright blue variety,” he patted the zomnic’s shoulder a few times and the jaw of the zombardier fell off with a clatter, “…theoretically,” said Junkenstein.

“Theoreti–You mean you haven’t tested it?” said Genji.

“You think I’ve had time to test any of these hunks of junk?!” said Junkenstein, “It’s about distracting and overwhelming. Not taking over the bloody town! When the time comes, this one will shoot a bright blue signal blast into the sky, and my creations and I will begin our assault on the castle. With the city guard redirected to the castle’s defense, you’ll swoop in, grab Gramercy, and get out.”

“And what about you?” said Genji.

“Well… squidface over here can make portals appear, right? Comes and goes as he pleases?” said Junkenstein.

“I can,” said Zenyatta.

“So I’m counting on you to get me and my monster out once Gramercy’s safe,” said Junkenstein.

“Very well,” said Zenyatta.

“Seems simple enough,” said Genji. He glanced over his shoulder at Junkenstein’s monster, “Uh–he… he understands the plan, right? He understands what you’ve been saying?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” said Junkenstein.

“…Because he’s only been alive for 12 hours,” said Genji.

“Psh. He’s got it. Mind like a steel trap, that one,” said Junkenstein. Genji watched as a fly landed on the open eye of the monster, groomed its forelegs, for several seconds, then buzzed off again. 

“…right,” said Genji.

“I won’t lie, I have my fears and doubts as well,” said Junkenstein, “But between us, we have a demon,” he gestured at Genji, “A monster,” he gestured at his monster, “…whatever the hell you are,” he gestured at Zenyatta, “And the greatest scientific mind of our era,” he put a hand over his own chest, “It will be dangerous, possibly deadly—but it’ll be something this city will never forget.” 

—

The next few hours were spent organizing their contingent of zomnics within the catacombs of the city, and Genji sharpening his sword, looking out the windows of the house of Junkenstein as the shadows over the city grew long. Genji and Zenyatta left quickly. Genji took the form of a sparrowhawk and perched on the roof of a large inn overlooking the market square. He gave a glance to the sun, beginning its descent to the horizon, and retook his form, materializing his mask in his hand and putting it on as Zenyatta appeared next to him in a whorl of green light.

“Nothing to say?” said Genji.

“Nothing that I have not already told you,” said Zenyatta.

“You said they could kill me,” said Genji, he paused, “Can they kill you?”

Zenyatta glanced over at him. “My kind can die,” he said, “Whether it can be by the hand of something as lowly as a human remains to be seen. Even then, death for my kind is… not as permanent as it is for you or humans.”

“I would not ask you to risk yourself,” said Genji, “This is my mess. Junkenstein is willing to help because my witch was his friend but you…”

“Have you really considered me so powerful that the possibility of my death had not even crossed your mind until this point?” said Zenyatta.

“If we fail, I do not want to lose two people important to me,” said Genji, looking to the sun as it dipped ever closer to the horizon. 

“I do fear the magic is waning from this world,” said Zenyatta, “But I have seen magic ebb and flow cyclically across eons, like the tides, or the breath of a great slumbering beast. She is human, and you were human once, therefore both of you have a greater bond to this plane than my own. This, here and now is a fight for both of your own existences. Like creatures in a tidepool you must brave the battering of waves, or face oblivion.” 

The crowd gathered well before the guards did, or maybe it was just shopkeepers in the market closing up and there was that last rush before sundown, but either way, a crowd had already gathered in the market square and none of them gave much thought to look up. Still, to be safe, Genji and Zenyatta stayed low. Then the guards came in, several on their horses, taking their places moving the crowd back from the platform which housed the stake, creating a perimeter. In the midst of this, several people came forward with bunches of hay and bundles of kindling and threw it on the pile. Genji rolled his knuckles tensely.

“Remember,” said Zenyatta, “Wait for the signal.”

Genji’s mouth drew to a thin line beneath his mask, but he nodded. He glanced at the sun, now half a thumbnail’s length from the horizon. Then there came the rumble of the cart and a swell of boos rose up from the crowd. The witch had arrived.

Genji’s breath caught in his throat as the cart rattled through Adlersbrunn’s square towards the stake. He saw her for the first time in days. She looked grim, exhausted, but seemed to be mostly unharmed. She wore an undyed prisoner’s tunic and her hair was down, wafting about her shoulders. Ahead of her cart, the Witch Hunter and the captain of the guard rode side by side. 

—

Mercy hugged her knees in the cart with a shudder,  the chains of her shackles clinking against each other. The prisoner’s tunic they had given her was thin, and the cold wind cut through it and sank deep into her bones. 

Well... she thought, giving a glance to the stake, You won’t be cold for very long. Mindlessly she wound a lock of her loose blonde hair around her finger before bringing her hand down. She couldn’t really make out what the crowd was saying–too many voices overlapping each other. Or maybe she was just tuning them out. A stray rock hit her in the shoulder and she flinched back before a guard rode up alongside the cart and gave a few warning words to the crowd.

Pharah rode next to the Witch Hunter and gave a wary glance to the witch in the cart behind them. She could feel the adder stone in her pocket, and her hand almost itched to draw it out and look around, but the last thing you would want to do with a crowd like this was use an object like that. Still, something turned in her stomach. She gave a glance over to the Witch hunter, whose brow was furrowed as he rode forward.

She bit the inside of her lip, then spoke, “Sir,” she said, “Something doesn’t feel right.”

“These things never do,” said the Witch Hunter.

“Could we not simply banish her?” said Pharah, “Leave her punishment to Providence?” They brought their horses to a stop and the cart came to a rattling stop as well in front of the stake.

“Exodus 22:18 and the Malleus Maleficarum state that if there is evil in our midst, to treat it with indifference is to enable its existence,” said the Witch Hunter. He looked to the sun, now a golden, fiery orange, and then looked to the guards. Silently, he motioned from the witch, to the stake.

—

Genji visibly bristled as the rock struck Mercy’s shoulder, and instinctively he jerked forward, one hand on his blade. Zenyatta stuck out a hand in front of him.

“Patience,” said Zenyatta, “We wait for the signal.”

Genji glanced back at the castle. No signal. He glanced at the horizon where the sun was only a few hairs’ widths from the horizon. One of the guards unceremoniously shoved Mercy out of the cart and she landed in a heap on the cobblestones.

That one dies first, thought Genji, looking at the guard.

Another guard hoisted Mercy up to her feet by her hair, she cried out as he yanked it.

No, that one, thought Genji, rolling his grip on his sword, That one dies first.

“Steady yourself,” Zenyatta said again as she was dragged up onto the platform and pushed against the stake.

–

With her back against the stake, one of the guards grabbed the chain that connected Mercy’s shackles and yanked her arms above her head and took a spike of iron and a mallet. One guard held the chain taut against the stake while another hammered the iron spike in, securing Mercy’s shackles against the stake as they wound another chain around her waist. Mercy glanced down at her bare feet against the wood of the pyre, and then up at the Witch Hunter, calmly stepping forward, torch in hand.

“You can still repent,” he said quietly, “Even now, you can still repent.”

She gave him a steady look. “Brick by brick, Witch Hunter,” was all she said.

The Witch Hunter turned on his heel back to the crowd. “People of Adlersbrunn,” he addressed the crowd, “The woman before you has been found guilty of witchcraft. It is by the powers vested in me by our Bishop that I confer her back to hell.”

—

The Witch Hunter continued his address and Genji gave a glance to the gold bracelet around his wrist. “Our minds—” he started, looking at Zenyatta.

“Too many eyes are on her,” said Zenyatta, “If she starts behaving oddly…”

Genji huffed out a sigh. “The signal should have come,” Genji said watching as the Witch Hunter continued speaking. 

“It will come,” said Zenyatta.

Genji looked back at the castle. “Will it though?”

—

“Come on, you big lug—” Junkenstein was shoving his whole weight up against the back of the monster who had easily shoved the iron drainage grate aside, but now seemed to be having a bit of difficulty actually getting through the hole. “Oi!” Junkenstein motioned to several zomnics, “Help me with this!” WIth the combined effort of himself and several robots, they managed to shove the monster out of the hole and Junkenstein scrambled up after him. A short walk from their drainage grate, the castle loomed in front of them, across a bridge. Junkenstein was no soldier, but he knew a tactical nightmare when he saw one. He looked to the lightning wheel he had strapped on his back from the lab. So long as it was intact, his zomnics should stay powered enough to continue their assault, repair each other, and so on and so forth. So long as it stayed intact. One of the guards stationed from the towers looked down at him. 

“Junkenstein?” one of the guards called down, “You don’t have counsel with his lordship.”

“Those sure as hell doesn’t look like his commissions,” said another guard, looking at the zomnics, “I knew he was losing his touch but… ugh, ugly things aren’t they?”

“What the hell is that thing next to you?!” another guard shouted.

For a moment Junkenstein hesitated. His heart was thumping in his chest. This is treason, he realized, I’m about to commit treason. I’m about to strike against a castle that’s stood for well over 200 years and hasn’t fallen with naught but a handful of ramshackle automatons and a collage of corpses And I’m doing this for a witch. They’ll know I’m doing this for Gramercy. I make this strike and I make an enemy of the Bishop. Of the Church. Of the Witch Hunter. He swallowed hard, feeling dread drop into the pit of his stomach.

 There are points in our lives where we realize that our passions are leading us down a road from which there is likely no return, where many enemies stand in our way, and from there we have to make a choice: we can catch ourselves, beg forgiveness, and do our best to slink back to the status quo, or we can say, “Fuck it. And fuck you,” and start running forward.

Junkenstein chose the latter. 

“Signal!” He barked at the zombardier at his side. The zomnic shot a bright blue blaze into the sky.

“Godspeed, demon,” said Junkenstein as the guards started firing on him and his zomnics.

—

Genji felt his own breath go shallow as the Witch hunter finished addressing the crowd. 

He gave a glance back at the castle.

“I’m going in,” he said, putting one foot on the edge of the building.

“The signal hasn’t—” Zenyatta started.

“I won’t watch her burn!” said Genji taking the form of a sparrowhawk and swooping down towards the square as the Witch Hunter finally touched his torch to the wood at the foot of the pyre. 

The witch and Witch hunter didn’t break eye contact as the flame took from the torch to the kindling. The smoke stung her eyes as the flames edged up toward her from the bottom of the pyre. Mercy closed her eyes. Fire doesn’t think, she remembered the words of the dragon woman, Fire lives. Fire breathes. Fire consumes. Creates. Destroys. Fire has but two choices. Burn or die. Burn or die. She felt it burgeoning within her. The light from the cave. The flames the old woman breathed down her throat. The forge of creation. She opened her eyes again and looked at the Witch Hunter, and he saw something in her face. She was surrounded by flames but there was no fear in her eyes. Pharah was right, the Witch Hunter realized, something was wrong. His hand went toward the pistol on his hip, maybe there was still time–but then he heard it. The shriek of a sparrowhawk. Mercy looked over his shoulder and her eyes widened, the Witch Hunter turned on his heel and everything happened at once. 

The approach was swift and hard as with any bird of prey. With a cry Genji retook the form of a man in mid-air and, still having the full momentum of his swoop, kicked Gabriel hard, knocking the witch hunter off of the platform and sending him tumbling across the cobblestones of the square and slamming into one of the market stalls, splintering the wood.

“Genji?!” said Mercy.

“The one and only,” said Genji with that selfsame cocky grin, unsheathing his sword and leaping over the flames to her.

“You’re alive. You–you came for me,” tears were brimming in Mercy’s eyes, but that could easily be from the smoke.

“Of course I did,” said Genji, “I told you I would—” A musketball whizzed past his head and he turned around. “Well, we can catch up later,” said Genji, deflecting a few musket shots with his sword, “I’m getting you out of here–Master! Give me some cover!”

“When this is all over we will have to have a serious discussion about your ability to stick to plans,” said Zenyatta, appearing in a vortex of green. A ripple of screams went through the crowd at his appearance. Even Mercy’s eyes widened.

“Genji what is—who is–?” she started.

“He’s a friend,” said Genji.

Zenyatta gestured upward and the chalk circle in in the square suddenly darkened and distorted and then collapsed altogether, cobblestones tumbling away into a green vortex that the people of Adlersbrunn were only barely able to outrun. A couple of unfortunate souls tumbled into the maelstrom of green light, their screens being drowned out by a dull roar. Several guards fixed their muskets on Zenyatta. Zenyatta gestured again, and the green vortex darkened. A mass of darkness as tall as the buildings rose out of the roiling pit and split apart into a mass of black tentacles, picking up screaming guards at random and tossing them aside like so many ragdolls, or even ripping them in two before they were even able to fix one shot on Zenyatta. 

“…good friend,” said Mercy. She suddenly coughed in the smoke.

“Don’t worry—I’ve got you,” said Genji. He struck at the chains with his sword, but there was a bright white flash and he flinched back and saw the chains completely untouched his strike. He struck again. Another white flash. The chains were still unscathed. “…They consecrated the chains, didn’t they?” said Genji.

“It’s–” Mercy coughed again, “It’s all right.”

“You are chained to a stake and surrounded by flames, it is not all right!” Genji snapped back at her before deflecting another musket shot with his sword.

“Do you trust me?” said Mercy.

“Yes…?” Genji’s answer was a gut reaction, but the fact that she was presenting him with such a question stretched out his answer with some confusion.

“Then stay close,” said Mercy.

Genji gave a single nod to her.

—

Pharah’s men were in a panic. It was all she could do to try and get them out of the way of the tentacles that roiled and seized them at random. She fired a few shots at the mass of tentacles before being forced to sprint out of the way of them. They smacked the earth behind her with so much force as to shatter the cobblestones and she dove behind a half-collapsed market stall, only to see the semi-unconscious form of someone familiar.

“Witch hunter!” Pharah shook Gabriel’s shoulder, “Witch Hunter, get up! Gabriel, please!”

Gabriel’s eyes blearily opened and he flinched at the pain in his side. Broken ribs. He knew the injury well. “Whuzz–” he looked around and saw the black mass of tentacles in the middle of the square, “Good god…” he said softly.

“What do we do?!” said Pharah.

“The witch–” Gabriel said, before coughing again, “Do you have a clear shot?”

Pharah saw the demon next to the witch by the stake. It was a tight shot, through flames, but she had made narrower ones. She loaded a consecrated musket ball into her musket. “Yes,” she said, lining up her sight with the barrel.

“Take it,” said Gabriel.

Pharah lit the priming of her musket, aimed, and fired.

The second she pulled the trigger however, the witch and the demon were consumed in a column of flame that shot up taller than even the highest tower of the castle. The musket ball hit the column and dissolved into little more than a white spark. Pharah glanced up to see the column of fire cut up straight into the clouds, creating a rippling effect outward.

“Oh god,” said Pharah.

—-

Instinctively Genji had whipped his arms around Mercy as the flames surrounded them both. There were a few seconds where he thought, hm, horrible burning death doesn’t feel as bad as I expected, but then he glanced at his own hand past Mercy to see it was completely unscathed from the flames, and Mercy was unharmed as well. Then the flames dissipated. They found themselves on the smoldering remains of the pyre and the platform, ashes fluttering down around them like snow. Mercy brought her hands down and looked at her wrists, the iron manacles clamped around them were molten and had completely lost their structure, but made no mark on her skin as they dripped off of her wrists, down onto the blackened heap beneath them.

“Your world smells worse than I remember,” a clipped and aristocratic voice spoke and Mercy looked away from Genji and over his shoulder to see a figure. The woman. The dragon. Neither. Both. She glanced over her shoulder at them and gave a sly little smile as she walked off of the smoldering pile of ashes, “I suppose I was overdue for a visit to this plane, however.”

“You,” said Mercy.

“Me,” said the woman with no lack of smugness, “Good to see you made the right choice.”

“What… Who is that?” said Genji.

“She’s a friend,” said Mercy, watching as the woman sent fiery fissures through the earth with only her footsteps.

There was the sound of a shot and the dragon woman suddenly turned her head, her yellow eyes making contact with Pharah’s as she brought up a massive wall of fire from the red hot cracks in the cobblestones, just as with the column of fire earlier, the musket ball was all but vaporized in the wall of heat.

“…Good friend,” said Genji.

“My dear,” the dragon woman said, looking at Pharah and spinning a blazing hot fireball into existence with only a graceful whirl of her wrist, “I think you’re a bit out of your depth here.” She tossed it. Pharah dodged to the side and covered her head as the fireball exploded into the building behind her.

“No!” The Witch Hunter shouted and brought up his own musket, only for a black tentacle to whip around his ankle and toss him across the square where he crashed through the window of a tavern.

Zenyatta glanced up from his writhing mass of black tentacles to the dragon woman. 

“Satya,” he spoke her name. The dragon woman looked up and smiled warmly. 

“Zenyatta. Of course you would be the only one who remembers,” said the dragon woman, stepping up to Zenyatta and extending her hand. Zenyatta took her hand and bowed his head to it. It would have been a motion to kiss her hand, had not the lower half of his face been a mass of tentacles. More like a tasteful touch. 

“I thought I felt your magic,” said Zenyatta, “It’s been too long, my friend.”

“Master–You know each other?” said Genji.

“Creation and the Void are defined by each other,” said Zenyatta.

“Neither can exist without the other,” said Satya. She looked to Mercy, “Go.”

“Get her to safety,” said Zenyatta, “I’ll see to it that Junkenstein makes it out as well.”

“Jameson–?” Mercy started.

“We’ll explain later,” Genji said to Mercy before looking to Zenyatta. “Are you sure?” said Genji.

Zenyatta and Satya exchanged knowing sidelong glances. Zenyatta gave a single nod to Genji and Satya’s mouth lifted up in that smug little smile of hers.

“All right,” said Genji. He glanced over to Mercy and took hold of her under her arms.

“Genji what are you doi–” Mercy started.

He tossed her straight up into the air. She suddenly remembered how hard Genji was able to throw that guard into that alley, and her ascent peaked as high as the roof of an inn before she started tumbling down.

“Genji!” she shrieked her arms flailing.

Genji leapt up, smoke and green lightning enveloping his form and she grunted as her body collided with his in mid air and yet her impact didn’t affect his ascent in the slightest. Her arms scrambled around the haze of black fog and she squinted her eyes shut amidst the green sparks. She suddenly felt the soft cloth of his black tunic turn to something cool and smooth beneath the bare skin of her arms, and her eyes opened. She glanced down to see the ground and Adlersbrunn rapidly falling away beneath her bare soot-blackened feet.

“What—?” She gave a glance to Genji, and realized her arms were wrapped around a great green serpent shooting ever skyward. 

“Genji!?” she shouted up. She noticed the serpent actually had legs. A lizard then? Seemed far too long to be a lizard.

“What do you think?!” Genji called over the roar of the wind.

“You’re… a flying snake?!” Mercy shouted back.

“Flying sn–Dragon! I’m a dragon!” He snapped back at her.

“I always thought dragons were… thicker,” said Mercy. She was able to touch her fingertips to each other around the circumference of the dragon’s body.

“Thicker!?” said Genji, indignantly, “I’ll have you know that—Hang on!” He suddenly dipped and Mercy shrieked as he dove and arched, musket balls whizzing past them, “Hold tight! I’m getting us out of this damned witch-burning city!” said Genji. He twisted in mid-air slightly, allowing her to scramble up his torso to a better, sitting up position, hugging his sides with her legs and stabilizing herself with her hands. Her prisoner’s shift didn’t give her much insulation from the cold down in the square, it was even colder up here.

“Flying,” she said to herself, her voice muted by the roar of wind as the square fell away and the figures in it turned small as ants, “We’re flying. Wait ‘til Jameson hears–” she cut herself off, “Wait!” she shouted, clawing her way forward so that she would be closer to his head, “Where’s Junkenstein!?”

“Near the castle!” Genji shouted back, flying as swiftly as he could towards the outer walls of Adlersbrunn.

“The castle?” said Mercy.  She gave a glance over her shoulders, her eyes streaming tears from the wind and her entire body freezing in the cold thin air.  She squinted, but she was able to make out explosions against the castle doors, and the smoke of muskets from the castle towers. “Genji—please tell me Jameson’s not off doing something stupid for my sake!” 

—

“All right,” said Junkenstein, hiding behind a cart turned on its side next to his monster as Zomnics exploded on the bridge to the castle, “In retrospect this was probably a very stupid idea.” 

A musketball shattered the wood of the cart’s wheel just over Junkenstein’s head. Junkenstein looked down at his bag and the ersatz-springing mechanism he had cobbled together for launching zombardier grenades at the castle. “Only a few bombs left,” he murmured, “Don’t suppose you’ve got any ideas? Because other than these all I’ve got is…” he glanced down at the contents of the cart the had overturned, he picked up a sickle despondently, “…farming implements.” The creature next to him grunted and glanced at the length of chain winding around his massive forearm.

“Ah yes, that,” said Junkenstein, frowning and turning the sickle over in his hand, “That was to secure you the slab in case you tried to kill me. Have I mentioned I’m very glad you haven’t tried to kill me yet?”

The creature suddenly seized the sickle from Junkenstein. “Well don’t start now!” said Junkenstein. There was a large clank, the screech of chains and the groan of wood. Junkenstein peeked over the overturned cart to see the gates of the castle opening.

“Oh we’re dead. We’re dead,” said Junkenstein, looking woefully at the column of smoke coming from the square, “Gramercy’s lost and we’re–What are you doing?”

The monster was calmly winding the chain from his arm around the handle of the sickle.

“You can make tools,” Junkenstein said with some wonder, “You’ve only been alive for what–16 hours? And you can make tools! Oh what a tragedy! That I should create man and that this creation should be smote from existence by–” There was another rumble and Junkenstein cut himself off. “What the hell was that?” he said, looking at the monster. There was suddenly a great roaring sound and Junkenstein looked in the direction of the sound to see a massive column of flame piercing the sky. “…well…you don’t see that every day,” said Junkenstein. Another musket ball whistled overhead and Junkenstein looked over the cart to see the gates of the castle wide open. Several horsed guards stood at the front and several guards with muskets were running ahead of them, doing their best to take down the ramshackle zomnics that marched on the castle.

“Save yourself, Creature!” Junkenstein shouted as he lobbed several grenades in the direction of the guards to break their formation, “You’re the boon to science! I’ll hold them–”

The creature suddenly tossed his sickle and it caught a mounted guard in the shoulder. “…off?” said Junkenstein. The guard screamed as blood spurted from his shoulder, but the scream was cut short as the monster yanked the chain and the guard was yanked from his horse and whipped forward like a fish on a line, until the creature caught the guard’s head in one massive fist. Junkenstein winced a little as the monster clenched his fist tight and the guard let out a short, quickly muted scream and flinched hard and went still with a grisly sound of popping and cracking. Blood seeped through the monster’s fingers as he dropped the body to the ground before him and stood, sickle and chain in hand as the rest of the guards looked on in horror at the crushed head of their compatriot on the cobblestones in front of him. Junkenstein looked at the dead body, back to his monster, back to the body, back to the monster again.

“Oh… you’re special, aren’t you?” said Junkenstein. He glanced at the body of the guard, “Oh hello—” he said, grabbing the guard’s powder horn.

“Fire!” Came the shout and the monster suddenly seized Junkenstein by the great electric wheel on his back and yanked him back behind the cart as musket balls riddled the ground where Junkenstein had been only moments before. The creature caught two musket balls in his thick arm in the process and watched with some curiosity as a nasty smelling pus flowed from the wounds.

“You… you saved me,” Junkenstein pressed his hands to the sides of his monster’s face, “You saved me!” He let out a high manic laugh and whipped his arms around the creature’s beefy neck in an embrace, “I made a creature with compassion! Take that, God!” He said shaking a fist up at the sky. Another zomnic exploded near him and he covered his face. He looked from the monster to the line of guards, then down to the powder horn in his hand. “How much time can you buy me?” he said to the monster, “I have a plan.”

—

“Hold on, I said hold on!” said Pharah, furiously taking off the leather strap of her musket and using it as a tourniquet around the stump of one guard’s leg. 

“Ma’am! More fires are spreading!” another guard called.

“Head to the wells! Get every able bodied citizen getting every bucket, cauldron and chamberpot to get these fires out!”

There was a scream as another guard was tossed across the air by the black mass of tentacles. His neck snapped against the cobblestones as he landed and Pharah winced at the sound before looking back down to her charge.

“Stay awake,” she said, tightening the tourniquet.

“My family…” the guard moaned.

“You’ll see them again,” said Pharah.

“You have to get them out—we can’t–the city’s lost—can’t lose them….you have to….” his voice faded into his throat.

“Stay awake! Dammit, I said stay awake!” Pharah slapped him hard across the face. She felt him go cold even with her strike. “No,” she shook his shoulder, “Come on!” She pounded a fist against the cobblestones and looked up at the square. She looked to the two figures wreaking havoc in their square–the woman of fire and the creature of darkness. The dragon woman made eye contact with her.  The look the woman gave her was patient. Take a shot at me, it said, Draw your sabre, do as you will to say you did your best, but ask yourself if it will make a difference. Pharah heard shouted but it seemed to be muted in her ears. All sound seemed to be muted while her eyes were locked in on the slitted pupils of the dragon woman, her men flying through the air silently, the roar and crackle of fire little more than a warm thrum. Finally there was a shout and she felt a hand on her shoulder. 

“Captain–Captain!” a guard spoke from horseback, “The castle is under attack!”

“It’s what?!” said Pharah.

—

Smoke. Gabriel smelled smoke. His eyes opened again, dim at the peripheries. He saw the twilit sky through a broken window, then coughed and rose to his feet. He was on the upper floor of a tavern, he gathered.

And the tavern was burning. Coughing, he brought his arms in front of himself and leapt back out the broken window, his cloak shielding his arms from the broken bits of glass as he slid down the shingles of the lower part of the tavern roof and dropped and rolled across the cobblestones, just in time to see the demon take the form of a great green serpent and take to the skies with the witch in tow.

“To the city walls!” The Witch hunter cried, “To the arquebuses—”

“Belay that! Fall back to the castle!” Pharah cut him off and shouted to the rest of the guard, “Grab the wounded and fall back!”

“What do you think you’re doing!?” Gabriel said, grabbing her arm.

 “I’m captain of the guard, and I’m saving who I can,” said Pharah, “I’m not letting my city burn over one stupid witch!” She wrenched her arm from his grip, put her thumb and forefinger in her mouth and let out a shrill whistle. One of her guards rode up, holding a horse’s reins alongside him. She swung up onto the horse. “Fall back!” she called again.

“The witch is getting away!” said Gabriel.

“Well then you’d better catch her, Witch Hunter,” said Pharah, spurring her horse, “Men!” she shouted, “To me! To the castle!” 

Gabriel was left standing there, half the market square ablaze, blood of the city guard running through the cobblestones as Pharah took her men and rode off. He seized the reins of one of the horses passing by.

“Sir—?” the guard atop the horse said.

“Dismount,” said Gabriel.

“But–but the captain–” the guard started.

“Dismount,” said Gabriel.

The guard swung off the horse and Gabriel climbed up onto it. He drew his pistol from his side and took a deep breath, then spurred the horse after the witch and the dragon.

—

“Genji–we can’t leave him—” Mercy was starting, watching the explosions on the bridge to the castle.

“My master will get him out, I promise you,” said Genji. He suddenly chuckled.

“What exactly is so funny?!” said Mercy.

“This whole thing was to rescue you, and yet you’re still fussing over us,” said Genji.

“You’re my friends!” said Mercy, “Witches don’t come by friends very often, you know. I just… whoah!” she suddenly had to duck down and squeeze tight around Genji’s middle as he sped up to fly past Adlersbrunn’s outer wall. “We made it…” she said, looking at swathes of farmland that buffered Adlersbrunn from Eichenwalde’s forests, “Genji—we made it!”

“Was there any doubt?” Genji said smugly.

“Yes, actually, a lot,” said Mercy. 

“Hmph,” the spines on Genji’s back bristled.

“But… that doesn’t matter,” she said, and she gave him a squeeze around his middle, pressing her cheek against his scales. “You saved me.”

“Well you’re my witch, aren’t you?” said Genji.

“Your witch?” Mercy repeated.

“I mean–I don’t mean it like… my witch…not any more than you would imply you own a country when you say ‘my country.’ It’s more like it’s a part of y–”

There was a loud cracking sound and Mercy saw something break upward, sparking just above Genji’s front left foreleg, a sudden shock rippled through Genji’s body and they started descending.

“What was that!?” said Mercy. Genji just let out a roar in pain and she flinched and tried to cover her ears as best she could, “Genji!?” she cried out again. Their descent had gone into a tumble now. Mercy squinted to see the wound above Genji’s foreleg. It was hissing white, burning. “No—” she looked down and saw the ground hurtling up to meet them, “No–no–no—!” Smoke formed around Genji’s body, and she had to cover her face at the flash of green sparks, and all at once he fell away from her, his mass dissolving into black fog until they were both hurtling toward the ground, Genji, in his masked human form and Mercy screaming and flailing as they fell, down, down. Flailing and scrambling her arms, she swam through the air over to him and grabbed his arm. “Genji!” She shouted. He didn’t respond. She couldn’t tell if he was conscious with the mask on. She saw white sparks and black smoke still spilling from his shoulder, streaming upward as they fell. “Genji, wake up!” she shouted at him over the roar of the wind, “Wake up!” He didn’t respond. She wrapped her arms around his waist. Is this how it ends? she thought, Dashed against the stones of the forest floor that I have lived in all my life? 

Then a voice spoke in her mind, calmly,  Fire has but two choices: Burn or die.

She buried her face in Genji’s non-burning, fizzing shoulder, and took a deep breath.

Fire burst from her back.

—

The Witch hunter brought his pistol down and watched as the dragon dissolved into black smoke in his descent. “Revelation 12: 9–The great dragon was hurled down,” he said to himself, “That ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray. He was hurled to earth. And his—” Gabriel’s eyes widened as there was a sudden flash of yellow light. “What?” he squinted and then spurred his horse down the stairs from the ramparts, out past the city walls, watching the golden light gently drift down from the night and smoke-darkened sky. “His angels with him…” he murmured to himself, spurring the horse ever forward.

—

Genji’s shoulder was burning. His head was pounding, screaming. God he felt it burning into him. he felt it burning him away. He heard a voice, half-muted by the haze of pain. His eyes opened blearily.

“…Witch?” he managed to say, his face tightened in pain at the searing in his shoulder.

“Genji,” Mercy’s eyes were wide.

“…Are we dead?” he grunted.

“No,” she said.

“Then…how…?” he glanced down. The ground was still about a hundred feet beneath them, but they were slowly descending. He looked back at her. “…these are new,” he said, woozily bringing a hand up and pressing his thumb to one of the black marks just over her eyebrows. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the golden light on either side of her. They were wings. Massive, golden, burning wings. “…those… are also new,” he said quietly.

“Just—hang on, stay awake,” said Mercy. The great blazing wings beat a few times and they rose up in the air when another musket shot whistled past them.

“You need… to fly away… get out of here…” said Genji, “If you let me go—you could–”

“No,” Mercy said flatly.

“What?” said Genji.

“I’m getting that thing out of you. It’s burning a hole in you,” said Mercy.

“But..”

“I’m your witch, aren’t I? I’m your witch and you’re my demon,” said Mercy. She couldn’t read his expression with the oni mask on, but the look he gave her was steady. Her feet touched on the ground and they found themselves in a pumpkin patch several acres from Adlersbrunn’s walls. The wings were still crackling, burning off of Mercy’s back as she helped lower Genji down to a reclined position leaning against a particularly large pumpkin and looked at the burning white hole in his shoulder. “Try and hold still,” she said.

She dug her fingers into the wound.

Genji let out a roar in pain.

Her fingers found their way around something hard. It felt like an ordinary musket ball, but getting a grip on it was difficult. “Oh what I would give for an arrow spoon,” she muttered, her fingers uselessly sliding against the lead ball. 

“Nngh! Anytime, witch!” said Genji, flinching around with every movement of her fingers.

“I’m trying!” said Mercy, “Stop moving around so much and let me—!”

“Witch,” she heard a voice behind her and Genji let out a gravelly, groaning exhale as she pulled her fingers from his wound. She turned around, Genji’s blood dripping from her fingertips. 

The Witch Hunter was atop a clearly exhausted horse, its mouth foaming at the bit and sweat running down its sides. The witch hunter swung off his horse and stood, several feet away from her. He looked at her blazing wings, at the dark marks over her eyebrows, her pale prisoner’s shift wafting in the night breeze, the fire in her eyes. She looked like an angel, but he knew Lucifer had been an angel too.

“You told me once that Hell is a place on earth,” said the Witch Hunter, “That we build it for ourselves, brick by brick,” he motioned to Adlersbrunn, burning behind him, “You, who said you sought to understand the world—is this what you wanted? To see your world burn? Or have you built your own hell as well?”

Mercy gave a glance over her shoulder to Genji, grunting in pain and gripping his shoulder, then looked back at the burning city behind the Witch Hunter. Her mouth tightened and her bloodied hand tightened into a fist at her side. “It’s your world burning, too,” said Mercy.

“It will be rebuilt,” said the Witch hunter, lifting his pistol at her, “A place damned by your presence? There’s no rebuilding from that.”

“There will always be another witch,” said Mercy, “You know there will. Wherever people are afraid, and the church needs someone to blame, there will be a witch, and they will send you to kill her.” She looked over her shoulder at Genji, “I knew, one day, that would fall on me. I knew ever since the Gramercy before me died. I had sought to escape my own oblivion with his help.”

“And look what you have wrought in the process,” said Gabriel, he pulled back the hammer of his matchlock, “Farewell, Wit–”

Black smoke and lightning suddenly rushed around Mercy and Genji reformed in front of her, sword drawn as the pistol fired. Genji blocked the musketball with his sword, it sparked and hissed against the metal of his blade before, with a shift of his sword he sent it off to the side where it obliterated a pumpkin. The witch hunter drew another matchlock, lit and fired it. It shattered off half of Genji’s mask as he rushed forward in a streak of black smoke and green lightning. There was a green flash, a dense, wet sound and the ring of metal and Genji was standing behind the Witch hunter, breathing hard, his shoulder still burning with white light.

The witch hunter’s arms were still extended towards Mercy, a matchlock pistol in each hand, but his face… Mercy could only make out his features from the light of her own blazing wings. His eyes were wide open, stunned. A clean red line manifested across his neck, and the red ran down from it. A stiff, cold breeze blew through, shaking the leaves on the pumpkin vines, and the Witch hunter collapsed, his head rolling from his shoulders as he fell. And she saw Genji standing there, silhouetted against the burning city, breathing hard as he sheathed his sword.. He looked at her, half of his face exposed under the cracked mask. Then his one exposed eye rolled up into its socket and closed as he dropped to the ground.

“Genji!” Mercy sprinted toward him. He heard her voice as red and black filled his vision.

Chapter Text

Junkenstein was biting the inside of his lip bloody, racking his brain as he gingerly worked with what few tools he had on hand on the lightning wheel, applying the black powder here and there, careful, careful. The overturned wagon providing him cover was little more than splinters at this point. The creature let out an animalistic yell that served to both intimidate the guards currently trying to kill it, and indicate its impatience to Junkenstein.

“Will you hold on!?” said Junkenstein as the creature seized a musket from one of the guards and impaled him on his own bayonet before hurling him into the other guards who were furiously trying to reload their own muskets. Musket balls, cannon fire, and arquebuses picked off the zomnics that continued, relentless towards the door. The massive oaken doors of the castle were splintered behind the guards from the Zomnics’ assault, all it needed was one blast, and all Junkenstein needed was a few more seconds.

“Putting off my own dreams to make toys for that jewel encrusted oaf,” muttered Junkenstein, “And for what? To still only be seen as a fool and madman by this whole bloody town? To see my only friend burned as a heretic?” 

An angry growl came from the monster, who was at this point using one of the guards as a flail with one arm while firing off one one of their stolen muskets with the other.

“Oh come off it!” Junkenstein shouted at the creature, “Obviously you’re a friend too! You’re just 12 hours old, is all!” He turned his attention back to the wheel, only to have a musketball graze past his head, rendering his world red and white and burning and reeling for a few seconds from the streak of pain that now rendered the side of his head bloody. The creature gave out an animalistic yell and stabbed the guard holding the offending musket in the face with the hook of his sickle as Junkenstein sprawled, delirious over his lightning wheel. The creature let out a furious roar and now tore into the guards attacking it with more bloodlust than ever.

Junkenstein’s world went from white and red to red and black, and he could hear the cries of the guard, the whole world around him muted like it had been placed under a heavy cloth, or like his head was under water. He could hear the roars of his creation, but somewhere, in the distance, there was another sound, another roar, and the din of a crowd. He opened an eye blearily to see the world turned on its side, and then he saw movement, something green in the distance, in the square. Several droplets of blood where obscuring one of the lenses of hes goggles, and he groaned and pulled himself back up to an upright position with the lightning wheel in his lap. He looked and saw, in the distance, as some kind of giant green snake or salamander was flying upward from the smoke in the square. “What in the…?” he pushed his goggles off of his eyes and wiped some blood off his temple  and watched as the green ribbon of a creature turned itself in the air. He squinted and saw something on its back, a human figure, clinging to it, with pale gold hair whipping around wildly like a candle flame.

“Gramercy,” he knew it was her. He watched as the long green creature flew off towards the outer walls of the city, “Oh you mad, mad demon,” he murmured, knowing there was no way Genji could hear him, “You got her out.”

The creature twisted in the air as arquebuses started firing off from the city walls and even from the top of the castle.

“Not out,” said Junkenstein, looking down at the wheel in his lap, “Not yet.” 

A few last tweaks, a few deft applications of black powder, and Junkenstein drew a breath before hefting up the lightning wheel in his arms. The green creature was distracting them. Giving him an opening. He rose to his feet, staring at the castle.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” He shouted, unable to keep the strange combination of joy and panic from his voice as he slammed the lightning wheel onto the ground, “My latest creation!”

He yanked a chord and suddenly the wheel was hurtling away from him, electricity crackling off it as it careened through the mess of guards attacking his creature, past zomnics being picked off by muskets and arquebuses, and towards the door.

It was supposed to detonate against the door, key word, supposed to. It did not. Instead, when it reached the door, the wheel shot up, vertically up, against the splintered wood of the door, against the stone of the castle, up and up it went. And he could hear the confused cry of one guard on the battlements, “What the hell is–”

The wheel exploded in fire and lightning and Junkenstein whooped at the sight before reeling in a lightheaded haze.

“Back to the castle! Back!” one of the guards shouted, scattering away from Junkenstein’s creation. 

“Ha! Take that!” Junkenstein shouted after the guard before swaying and bracing himself against the overturned cart. The creature hurried over to him and stared at the bloodied side of Junkenstein’s head.

“Just a graze…” said Junkenstein, bringing his hand away bloody from the wound, “Though I think I’m going to have a very interesting hairline after this.” He swayed again and the monster easily steadied him with one massive hand on his shoulder.

“We did it,” said Junkenstein, “Gramercy’s out. We—”

There was a clank of metal, the groan of wood, and Junkenstein turned his head to down the hill to see the gate of the bailey opening up and several figures on horses coming through. The guard captain was atop her horse, along with a contingent of the rest of the city guard. He made eye contact with the guard captain, Pharah, and he noticed something terrifying pass over her face. An ‘Oh, of course you’re mixed up in this’ look. A ‘Well it seems you’ve finally given me more than a good enough excuse,’ look. A look that told him, with certainty, that he was going to die here.

“Oh sh–” Junkenstein started and then Pharah let out a cry and she and her riders charged toward them. There was no way out. He knew that. Running toward the castle certainly wasn’t an option, and if they headed back for the catacombs, there were no zomnics left to take the fire, and the remaining guards atop the ramparts would shoot them in the back, and now with the guard captain and their compatriots. Junkenstein gave a look to his creation and the monster looked back at him, gave a resigned grunt, and hoisted up his chained sickle at the ready.

“…so you understand then,” said Junkenstein. 

The creature gave an affirmative grunt. Musket balls whizzed past them.

“Oh I’m glad I could die here with you, my creation,” Junkenstein lamented,  as the guard captain and her ragged, bloody, and furious compatriots charged at them, “Here at the end of all thi–”

A massive green portal opened beneath them both and they fell through it.

Junkenstein found himself stretching and twisting and distorting and tumbling through a vivid psychadelic vortex of green and black and violet. He was screaming and screaming and screaming until he gave a glance to his side to see Zenyatta calmly sitting (or floating) next to him, alongside a figure who seemed to be woman shaped but was covered in scales. Oh, thought Junkenstein, Right. Squid-Face. The plan.

—

“No–No!” Mercy stumbled to her knees next to Genji and grabbed his shoulder, turning him over. He flinched beneath her touch, before one red eye flicked and saw her through the half shattered mask and he seemed to ease up slightly as she looked at the still blazing white wound in his shoulder. He groaned a little. She sighed with relief that he was still alive.

“Well… now that you’re not thrashing about as much–I can get it out–” Mercy started but there was suddenly a terrifyingly loud crack and instinctively she ducked over Genji to protect him as lightning struck the ground of the pumpkin patch only a few feet away from them. A light drizzle started as Mercy rose up from Genji and looked over her shoulder to see a blue-gray-skinned figure with lightning-white eyes.

“Brother–” the word escaped Genji in a wince as Hanzo stepped toward them.

“What have you done?” said Hanzo.

“I–He was only rescuing me–The witch hunter–” Mercy started before Hanzo picked her up by the neck and easily held her at arms length, her bare feet dangling beneath her as her blazing wings beat the air uselessly.

“No!” Genji moved to try and get up, but his shoulder blazed and he let out a roar of pain as his mask crumbled off of his face and red streaks started forming out from his eyes.

“This is what comes of meddling with humans, brother,” said Hanzo, “You disgrace your kind and court disaster by doing such. I’ve come to take you home.”

“We were humans once—Ngh!” Genji suddenly contorted on the ground, gripping his shoulder as the red spread from his temples and eyes and the corners of his mouth. He coughed up blood.

“Genji–!” Mercy was clawing at Hanzo’s hand around her neck, trying to pry her fingers beneath his as she kicked at him uselessly.

“We are far from that now,” said Hanzo.

“Let me go!” Mercy beat a fist against his forearm, “Let me help him!”

“You?” Said Hanzo, “What could you possibly—?”

Mercy meant to slap or claw for his face, but instead what happened next was a bright plume of flame burst out from her hand and hit Hanzo full on in the chest.  His grip broke away from her neck as the force of the blast sent him tumbling back and crashing into a pile of pumpkins. Mercy dropped to the ground and scrambled over to Genji, whose groans were turning into snarls and whose teeth were turning into fangs.

“That was a mistake,” Hanzo spoke behind her. Mercy turned and looked over her shoulder at Hanzo, who was peeling a stringy bit of pumpkin rind off of his white tunic. Genji let out a roar which turned into a cry and gripped his shoulder as his fingernails grew long and black. “Step away from him, before he kills you” said Hanzo. Mercy looked up from Genji to his brother. “He swore to protect you,” Hanzo’s brow furrowed, “I will not let him break such an oath.”

“I can help him–” Mercy said, only partially sure she could.

“Can you?” said Hanzo, “You, the human who got him into this mess to begin with?”

“The wound he has—It needs magic that predates the church,” Mercy said, “I was granted—”

“I saw the results of your magic. A city burns in your wake and a wretched monster made by clumsy and ignorant human hands walk the earth. Do you think I would let either fate befall my brother?”

“…A what?” said Mercy. Her face suddenly lit up. “Wait–So Jameson finally—”

“I think now would be prudent to remind you that while my brother is sworn not to harm you, I am not bound by such an oath,” with a sweeping motion of an arm he formed a bow of lightning and took aim at her. A sphere of fire curled in Mercy’s hand as she faced Hanzo, hearing Genji’s growls and snarls behind her.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Mercy, rising to her feet with wings blazing.

“I’m not the one you should be worried ab—” Hanzo started when a green portal suddenly opened next to him, “What–?” A massive corpse-green fist suddenly collided with his face, then another blast of fire from the portal sent him tumbling back. Mercy watched as Satya, Junkenstein and his monster, and Zenyatta burst out from the green portal. A bright flame was still in Satya’s hand, which she kept extended toward Hanzo.

“Jameson! You’re alive!” said Mercy.

“Well of course!” said Junkenstein, throwing his arms up at her, “Who do you think would come up with such an ingenious plan for your rescue–”

Genji let out a terrifying roar at this point, and Mercy couldn’t help but flinch back from him.

“Oh dear…” Zenyatta floated over, “This isn’t good.”

“He’s changing,” said Mercy as Genji contorted on the ground, green sparks running over his body.

“His body is taking its true form to buy itself time,” said Zenyatta, “Whatever is in that wound in his shoulder, you have to get it out and quickly.”

There was a crackle of electricity behind Zenyatta and he turned to see Hanzo.

“You…” Hanzo spoke, white electricity sparking off of his body, “My brother’s dear ‘teacher,’ don’t think you’re free of blame in this as well.”

“You think a bit too highly of your own abilities, demon,” said Satya, stepping between Zenyatta and Hanzo.

“I don’t fear forgotten gods,” said Hanzo, firing off an arrow of lightning and forcing Satya to bring up a massive wall of flames to stop it.

“…You need to go,” said Zenyatta, looking at Mercy.

“Here,” with a wave of her free arm, Satya opened another portal, this one fiery rather than green, next to Mercy and Genji, “There is a place where your magic is strong enough to save him.”

“Come with me,” said Mercy.

“Save your demon, Gramercy,” said Junkenstein, stepping alongside Zenyatta, “We can handle one more fight,” he elbowed his monster, “Can’t we?”

“Thank you,” said Mercy. She took Genji’s arm, a blurring shifting thing obscured by lightning and shadows, and heaved it over her shoulder. He was heavy and getting heavier, but with a grunt and her help he was hauled to his feet. With that, Mercy and Genji leapt through the portal. With a flick of her wrist, Satya closed the portal behind them.

“Be on your guard, mortal,” she said, looking over to Junkenstein as she brought down the wall of flames.

“Don’t you worry about me,” said Junkenstein, “There’s four of us, one of him, and I’ve handled more than my fair share of lightning. What’s the worst he could throw at us?”

With a cry Hanzo threw one arm up to the sky and two massive columns of lightning shot down from the clouds above, arcing and braiding around each other and shaping themselves into two roaring, crackling dragons. They roiled around him, snarling at the four of them.

“…I should probably stop saying things like that what with you lot all having magic, shouldn’t I?” said Junkenstein.

—

There were only a few seconds of Mercy and Genji traveling through what felt like a tunnel of vivid multicolored flames before the world seemed to open up to them again and they found themselves dropping onto a stone floor. Genji slipped from Mercy’s grasp in their tumble and landed on the ground with a grunt, his body now completely consumed by black smoke and green lightning. Mercy looked around, the fire of her wings and the sparks coming off Genji illuminating the space they were in. She knew this place. She raised her arms and with a breath and gesture, sent out numerous licks of flame from her wings, lighting torches in sconces and candles, further lighting up the cave chamber. She saw bones on the floor, and a mural on a wall of flowstone of a figure with citrine eyes glinting in the light of the flames. She turned her head to see a figure on the floor, clothes now rotted away, little more than yellowed bones at this point, but positioned in a way she could recognize it instantly. The old woman. This was the place where the old woman had passed the flame down to her and breathed fire down her throat.

“Magic’s stronger here,” Mercy said to herself, as she had said those years ago when the old woman had given her gift. She heard a growl behind her, turned on her heel to Genji, and her hand went over her mouth.

The black smoke was clearing away and, rather than the lean and muscular Genji she had known all this time lying there on the cave floor there was a hulking red beast etched by numerous scars. He had tripled in size, at least, a mass of sinewy muscles and brick-red skin. Massive white fangs thrust themselves out both from the top and bottom at the corners of his mouth, a thick mane of hair surged out from his head like black flames, two golden horns curved up from his hairline, and long claws raked the stone of the cave as he let out a groan of pain.

“Genji…” she said his name and his head jerked toward her, his eyes no longer red but a glowing yellow. He gripped his shoulder and scrambled back from her, backing up against a cave wall. She noticed his legs didn’t really position themselves like human legs anymore—still no cloven hooves, but his feet had elongated and sprung long claws themselves, and he stood on tiptoes with his shin bones shortened, not unlike a cat or a hound. She held her arms out in front of herself. “It’s me,” she said, “It’s me–You need to let me help you.”

He lifted his head at her and his yellow eyes studied her, one clawed hand still over the wound on his shoulder. He let out a half snarl half-huff and looked down, not meeting her eyes.

Mercy sighed and stepped forward, slowly so as not to startle him. “I figured a shape-shifter would be making himself more handsome to suit his own tastes… as far as true forms go,” she extended a hand toward the hand over his wound, “This isn’t so bad.”

Genji flinched his wound away from her and let out a roar inches from her face, the blast of his breath blowing her hair back and his roar filling her world and making her ears ring and leaving flicks of spittle all over her face and neck. He sustained the roar for several seconds until she suddenly found herself seizing two handfuls of the black hair streaming over his shoulders, giving them a yank to force his eyes to look into her own, and shouting “HEY!” right in his face. The fury of her motion cut his roar short and she glared at him right in those yellow eyes. “Genji,” she said, seething, “I have been sleeping on a cold stone floor in a nasty little cell for three nights, I have been interrogated for a gift which I have only ever used to help people, had my very existence condemned by the church, I’ve been beaten, nearly burned alive, choked out and nearly obliterated by your brother, and now,” she gave her two handfuls of his hair a slight yank for emphasis, “I am trying to keep you from dying. Can you please let me do that?”

Genji blinked his yellow eyes at her blankly, apparently used to most cowering away from this form, and he dropped his hand from over his wound. Mercy released his hair. “Thank you,” she said, dusting her hands off as best she could on her tunic. The wound was much larger now than before, still blazing white.

“This is going to hurt,” said Mercy. She did her best to make her hand as small as possible before slipping her fingers into the wound. Genji let out a roar which fell away into wincing, flinching whimpers. “It’s fine,” said Mercy, “This is fine. You’re doing fine–” she said as his blood surged from the wound, soaking her undyed shift. With his larger size though, the wound had stretched out. It was easier to get through and her hand touched upon something hard and still unusually cold within the wound. Her fingers found their way around the little metal ball, and with a grunt she yanked it out, sending a new surge of his blood onto herself as she did so. She dropped it to the ground before trying to put pressure on Genji’s bleeding wound, but only seeing his blood surge up between her thin fingers. Genji’s breath was ragged.

“I’ve got you,” she said, “I’ve got you—”

She had to stop the bleeding–with what, a poultice? She didn’t have time to run off and find the herbs. She glanced over to the yellowed bones of the old woman, where a knife of black glass still lay at her side. A lick of flame from the forge of creation, she thought, remembering the sight of the cut on her hand closing in the flames. She broke away from Genji and hurried over to the skeleton, picking up the knife at its side. He instinctively shrunk away from the sight of her with a knife. “Genji,” she said, walking back to him, “I… I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

Genji kept a steady yellow gaze on her, then grunted in surprise as she ran the knife of black glass along her palm, marking a line of light that made fiery blood run down her palm. She brought her palm to her lips and took a mouthful of her own blood, feeling it burning on her tongue and pursing her lips, before dropping the knife to her side, placing her bleeding hand over Genji’s wound. Genji winced at the heat on his wound with a sharp breath, then seemed to ease slightly as if the pain was receding, then Mercy placed her uncut hand on the side of his face. She wove her hand into his thick mane of black hair and gently pulled him forward to her level, then brought her lips to his. He startled slightly at the passage of her blood from her mouth to his, but didn’t break away. Her blazing wings shrank as she kept her mouth on his, pushing her blood past her lips. He swallowed as she pulled away, wiping her own blood from her lips with one fiery trickle running down from the corner of her mouth, still keeping her hand on his wound. He was still staring at her as she pulled her hand away. 

The wound had stopped bleeding. 

It suddenly lit up, the lines of white fire that had webbed out from it now yellow and Genji let out a ragged exhale that turned into a roar grunt as a bright yellow blaze issued from it for a few seconds before stopping altogether leaving only a large scar on his shoulder.  He was panting now and looked with some wonder at the scar.

“There,” said Mercy, just as surprised it had worked as he was, “You see? I told you, you could trust me…” The wings blazing from her back had been shrinking, and were now only two faint lights streaming out from her shoulder blades. She swayed and Genji’s hand flew out and gripped her shoulder to keep her from collapsing. “Thank you,” said Mercy, her own vision dimming at the peripheries, “We… we need to… get… get back to the others,” she was trying to summon her thoughts to outrun her exhaustion, but using her magic in such a way had made everything catch up with her–Nearly being burned, bringing Satya to this plane, tumbling out of the sky, the confrontation with Hanzo–She looked up at Genji’s face and saw the exhaustion from his own injuries overtaking him as well. “We can’t rest yet,” she said, as if that would somehow will life back into her own muscles and his, “We can’t…”

“Mm,” Genji gave an affirmative grunt, but then started slumping forward.

“Genji–” Mercy started, “Wait–Don’t–”

The massive red Oni collapsed on top of her. She wasn’t sure if it was his impact that made her finally surrender to unconsciousness, or the impact of the cave floor, but she fell into darkness then, and, seeing as there was no alternative, accepted it.

Chapter Text

“Right,” said Junkenstein, “Dragons. We’re dealing with dragons now.”

Satya shot him a look.

“I mean dragon-dragons,” said Junkenstein.

Satya seemed even more insulted by this. Junkenstein awkwardly cleared his throat.

“They’re no true dragons,” muttered Satya.

The twin dragons of lightning roiled around Hanzo as he stared down the four of them. With a cry he sent them surging toward them. Junkenstein slapped his hands over his ears, the crackling of lightning almost deafening.

“Any ideas!?” Junkenstein shouted at the two gods.

“I have Nothing,” said Zenyatta.

“Not helpful!” shouted Junkenstein.

“No,” Zenyatta said, extending his arms, “I have…Nothing.” Glowing, ghostlike tentacles suddenly spread off of his figure as a great gaping void opened behind him, the dragons all but disappearing into it. Junkenstein looked at his arms and found they were completely unscathed by the lightning.

“…well that’s helpful,” said Junkenstein before a blast of lightning suddenly hit him full on in the chest and sent him tumbling back across the pumpkin patch. 

“I will not be mocked by a morta–” Hanzo started before a sickle hook suddenly embedded itself into his shoulder, “What–”

The creature yanked on the chain of its sickle and Hanzo was hauled off his feet, flying forward, right into the creature’s fist. He reeled back from the blow, gripping his jaw.

“I will not be stopped by some abominat—” Hanzo started but Satya calmly extended a hand and blasted him with fire.

And kept blasting him with fire. 

The creature broke off and hurried over to Junkenstein while Satya continued blasting Hanzo with fire. She stopped for a few seconds and rolled her wrist.

“You… think you can…” Hanzo weakly spoke from the ground.

Satya blasted him with more fire, and kept blasting him with fire for several long seconds just to get her point across, then stood, arms folded, looming over the demon.

“Are you quite finished?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Hanzo was smoldering on the ground, groaning. He snarled and forced himself up to his hands and knees, electricity crackling off of him. Satya rolled her eyes and put her foot on his back, and with the slightest push downward sprawled him flat on his stomach with his face down in the dirt.

“…Forgotten god, indeed,” muttered Satya. She looked up over at Zenyatta, “Is the mortal still alive?”

“He lives,” said Zenyatta.

Junkenstein was being cradled in his monster’s arms, his prosthetic arm twitching and sparking uncontrollably. Junkenstein lifted his organic arm and gave a thumbs-up, his hand twitching as well.

“J-Jameson Junkenstein—” the muscles in the side of Junkenstein’s face spasmed, “Struck by lightning twice and lived to tell it! Ha!” 

“Please stay still,” said Zenyatta as a golden orb hovered over the mad scientist.

“Dawn will be breaking soon,” said Satya.

“You don’t understand what you’ve done, do you?” said Hanzo.

Satya simply narrowed her eyes at him.

“Our kind once existed at the margins, in fairy tales and bad dreams—You wanted–needed to be worshipped again, and in doing so you’ve doomed us all,” said Hanzo, “They’ll hunt us. They’ll hunt any worshippers you manage to convince. They can no longer heap all the blame onto the odd witch because they know you’re here now, they know all of us are here.”

 “So we’ll be ready,” said Satya.

“For your sake… I hope so,” said Hanzo. He dematerialized into smoke and sparks of lightning, and disappeared on the wind with the soft rumble of thunder. Satya stood in silence, watching the clouds overhead gradually clear.

“I doubt it’s safe for any of us this close to the city,” she murmured, “We should regroup with the others.”

“The mortal is not strong enough to go through one of our portals,” said Zenyatta.

“Ugh,” Satya rolled her eyes, “Well we should get out of the open, at least,” she said, looking to the forest, “The woods. Let’s move.”

The four of them trekked across the farmland surrounding Adlersbrunn, the city still smoking in the distance. The creature gave a glance over his shoulder at the headless body laying among the pumpkins. 

“Do you think they’re alright?” Junkenstein said wincing a little.

“I suppose that is up to the Witch,” said Zenyatta, floating after Satya.

The creature stopped at the sight of a pale shape hopping out from behind a stone in the middle of a nearby fallow field. An albino hare. The rabbit’s red eyes met the dull dying glow of the creature’s yellow eyes, and the creature and the rabbit considered each other for several seconds.

“Oi. Creature—” Junkenstein gave a pat to the creature’s chest, “We should stay with the others. We’re not gods, after all.”

The creature gave a grunt, broke its sight away from the rabbit, and looked down at the Doctor, then hurried after the gods of creation and the void.

—

As the company of four took their leave of the farmlands surrounding Adlersbrunn, the white rabbit bound across its fallow field and paused next to the headless body of the Witch Hunter. It sniffed around the body, tentatively, then both its ears pricked up as it rose to its haunches and a sphere of golden light spun itself into existence next to the rabbit.

“What have you found for me?” a voice issued from the sphere.

The rabbit gave a glance to the body, then back to sphere.

“A dead human? Thrilling. Ugh, and he stinks of iron. No, not what I’m looking for. Call me when you find something with magic worth–” The golden sphere suddenly brightened, “Wait…”

The sphere turned purple, enlarged, then a thin woman with short-cropped red hair and pointed ears suddenly burst forth from it in a plume of black smoke and dropped down to one knee next to the body in one smooth movement.

“Oh, I know this human,” she said, turning the body over to reveal a glowing, fiery liquid spilled all down the front of the body, glass shards embedded in his brigantine, “Oh my dear friend… What have you gotten yourself into this time?” she said with a slight smile as she drew her finger down the brigantine, bringing her finger away coated in that same fiery liquid, She touched her tongue to it, then smiled.

“The flame of creation…” she said with a slight smile, “So its bearers have not been extinguished from this world yet.” She gave a playful push to the headless body, “And you’ve lucked out, my friend. Now where did…? Ah!”

She stood up and took a smooth stride over to where his head had rolled and picked the head up. “Alas, poor Gabriel!” she said, pressing the severed head’s cheek to her own, “I knew him, Creggan,” she said to the white hare, “A fellow of infinite… well actually he was quite the killjoy.” She held the head at arm’s length, “But oh… so much potential…”

Supporting the bloody stump of his neck with one hand, she waved her free hand and the head disintegrated into a golden sphere. The body on the ground started spasming. She squinted at the golden sphere skeptically, “Now… to find a suitable substitute–” she cut herself off and looked at a roughly head-sized pumpkin at her heel. “Convenient,” she said with a smile, severing the pumpkin’s vine with a swipe of her fingernails and picking it up in one hand. She pressed the bright sphere against the pumpkin, and the pumpkin took on an unearthly glow. “Perfect!” she said, looking at the pumpkin. She gave a glance back to the rabbit, “A little plain though, wouldn’t you say?” she said, looking back at the pumpkin. She extended one of her long fingers and a bright purple flame alighted on her talon-like nails.

“Angry eyes,” she said, carving the pumpkin with her nail, “Accuracy is important after all but…. let’s give him a smile, shall we? He always could use one… there!” 

As soon as she drew the cruelly grinning mouth out, a horrific gravelly scream started issuing from the pumpkin until she slapped a hand over the pumpkin’s mouth.

“Now now, this has probably all come as a shock to you,” she said, watching the headless body flail and thrash about and rise to its hands and knees for several seconds only to collapse again, “But we’ll be sure to get you sorted out. Not here though.” She took her hand away from the pumpkin’s mouth and the bloodcurdling scream resumed, until she snapped her fingers, then the woman, the pumpkin, the rabbit, and the headless body all disappeared in plumes of smoke.

—

Exhaustion had settled deep into Pharah’s bones. Smoke still hung in the air in the gray pre-dawn light as Torbjörn hobbled up alongside her and held a wineskin to her. She took the wineskin and drunk deeply. Her skin felt hot and chapped from all the heat, from hours of putting out the fires around Adlersbrunn, and the wine warmed her within, yet dulled the pain somewhat.

“His lordship and the bishop are still alive,” said Torbjörn, “You did well.”

Pharah looked around the smoldering village. Her mouth tightened.

“You did do well,” Torbjörn said more insistently, “You were wise to break off from the Witch Hunter when you did. No telling how much worse the damages would be.”

“I wish I could believe that,” said Pharah, “…does anyone know what happened to him? Gabriel?”

Torbjörn shook his head. “Last anyone saw of him was him riding his horse after the witch and her dragon.” 

“What about the woman?” said Pharah.

“…The woman?” Torbjorn repeated.

“The woman and… not-woman,” said Pharah, “She appeared in the column of flame, she had these eyes…”

“The other demon the witch summoned?” said Torbjörn, “Disappeared along with that…. tentacled abomination.”

Pharah took another deep drink of the wineskin.

“Easy—” Torbjörn put a hand on her shoulder, “Much of the castle guard is dead. You’ll have a lot looking to you—”

“We weren’t prepared for this kind of attack,” Wine burned the back of Pharah’s throat as she broke her lips away from the wineskin to speak, “There was no way anyonecould be prepared for something like this—Bandits, rioting peasants, even foreign militias I can handle but this—! This–” Pharah pressed her forehead into her hand, “It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel right from the second we had the witch in chains!” 

Torbjörn didn’t know what to say to that so he simply patted her shoulder. Distant shouts of the shambling remains of the city guard putting out the last of the fires could be heard.

“Torbjörn,” Pharah said at last, after a long silence, “What am I going to do?”

“I think everyone’s asking themselves that,” said Torbjörn, “But… the fact that they think you know the answer more than they do… that probably means something, doesn’t it?”

Pharah said nothing but leaned her head on Torbjörn’s shoulder.

—

When Mercy awoke, Genji was still unconscious, though thankfully back to human shape.

Also naked.

And still on top of her.

She gasped and jerked to an upright sitting position, causing him to moan a bit as he slid down her torso and landed face-first in her lap. “Ach du—” she muttered, putting her hands on his shoulders, pulling her legs out from underneath him and managing to shove him off herself. She exhaled and still felt herself blushing furiously then shook her head. Get ahold of yourself you silly, lonely fool, she thought to herself before looking over to Genji and realizing in alarm that now he was unconscious face down on the cave floor.

“Oh—“ she moved forward and managed to turn him on his side. It was only then that she realized his face was different. The structure was the same—still the same fine cheekbones, still the same strong jaw, still the same eyebrows that somehow pronged out at the outer corners, but must have been a dozen scars, at least, on his face. Ragged claw marks, thin razor slashes, a notch on his eyebrow, a line down the side of his mouth. Her hand went over her own mouth and her eyes trailed down to see there were numerous scars of varying sizes all over his body. Her hand reached out and gently brushed some of the dirt from his face. The scars were old, she realized. The freshest one the closed wound on his shoulder. He grunted and stirred a bit and she quickly withdrew her hand. then coughed and opened his eyes blearily. Then his eyes snapped open in alarm.

“Witch—-“ he sat up, then winced hard, gripping his shoulder.

“Easy!” she said, helping him to an upright sitting position, “Don’t move so quickly. You could open your wound.”

He looked around the cave, then put his hands on her shoulders, “How long was I unconscious? Are you harmed?” he spoke with urgency.

“Just some bruising, I’m fine,” she said, putting her hand over his, “I… I passed out as well,” she heard the faint sounds of birds distorted down the cave walls, “It looks like it must have been the remains of the night,” she said.

He exhaled with some relief, then his eyes fell on his own arm and the scars that ran and crossed along it. He looked up at her face, then his own hand went to his own face, felt at his scars, and he broke away from her altogether.

“I’m sorry,” he said, have covering his face and looking away from her, “You shouldn’t have to see…” he inhaled deeply and some of his scars started disappearing.

“You don’t have to,” the words fell out of her and the scars stopped fading from his face.

“What?” he said.

“I mean… if you would prefer it that way, by all means, but… you don’t have to cover them up for my sake,” she paused, “Are they harder to shape-shift away?

“Well… yes,” said Genji, itching at his temple slightly, “Scars from consecrated weapons and scars from other demons tend to be more… stubborn.”

“Your brother?” Mercy ventured.

“A good number of them, yes,” said Genji. Mercy’s brow crinkled. “Not all at once!” he added quickly, “You’d probably have just as many if you were fighting for 600 years as well,” he paused, “You truly don’t mind them?”

Mercy smiled a little. “I asked for a bodyguard, not a handsome prince,” she said folding her arms. “Not that you’re not… I mean…”

“I can be both,” said Genji arching an eyebrow.

“I’d prefer you be yourself,” said Mercy.

“You saw the full extent of myself, and it was not pretty,” said Genji, with a slight grin. His face suddenly dropped. “I didn’t… harm you, did I?”

“No,” said Mercy, “You… roared… a lot. Very loud and lots of drooling. And you passed out on top of me, and that’s some of my bruising.”

Genji exhaled with relief again, “Ah…well… my apologies. Everything goes blurry in that form…” he said quietly, “I much prefer this one.” His hand went to the bandaging on his shoulder, “I can’t believe you managed to get the bullet out when I was like that. Any sensible mortal would flee.” His eyes widened with some realization, “Witch Mercy, you saved me,” he said.

“Well I’m not about to let you cheat out of our contract by dying—-” she started in jest but suddenly found herself in a tight embrace from him, “Ah…” she said. He smelled of blood, smoke, steel, and the air before a storm. Her own arms found their way around him and the words ‘You silly, lonely, fool,’ echoed in her mind again but they seemed more muffled this time by everything—The fact that she could never return to Aldersbrunn now, and the memory of fire at her feet and the Witch Hunter’s headless body among the pumpkins. She exhaled into the point where his neck met his shoulder, then felt something brush up against her skirt and caught herself.

“Um… Genji…” she spoke quietly.

“Mm?” Feeling his breath in her hair was almost enough to make her forget about it and keep holding him. Almost.

“Trousers,” said Mercy.

“What?”

“Trousers,” she said more insistently and gestured downward.

“Oh,” he broke out of the embrace and with a wave of his hand he quickly materialized pants onto himself, clearing his throat. He gave a glance to her undyed prisoner’s gown, “We should get you some proper clothes, as well,” he said waving his hand.

“Admittedly these rags leave me feeling terribly–” Mercy glanced down to see smoke forming around her torso and materializing into clothes (Well… what Genji believed passed as clothing, apparently), and blinked, “…exposed,” she said, examining her own cleavage.

“Do you like it?” said Genji, clearly very proud of his handiwork.

Mercy stood up and looked down at herself. “It’s… nice,” she said, “It seems to be missing…” she looked at the skirt, “…the sides…”

“That’s so you can run better,” said Genji.

“Of course it is,” said Mercy flatly.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Shadows formed themselves in the air in front of Genji and he shaped them with his fingers until they solidified, “According the woodcuts of your country, a proper witch should have a hat, right?”

“A proper witch,” said Mercy with a slight chuckle looking down at her outfit, “There’s nothing proper about being a witch.” She took the hat from him and smiled, putting it on, “I must admit… it’s growing on me,” she said, examining her long gloves, “Though I should probably get a bit more covered up before we regroup with–”

A fiery portal opened on the cave wall and Satya, Junkenstein, Zenyatta, and the creature stepped through.

“Jameson!” Mercy cried out and suddenly took up the mad doctor in a tight hug.

“Oh Gramercy it’s good to—Ouch. Ribs. Ow—” Junkenstein patted her shoulder as her arms loosened around him.

“You were helping them too?” said Mercy.

“Helping them? Who do you think hatched the plan?” said Junkenstein.

“The plan that would have failed miserably without my presence?” said Satya.

“Yeah… that plan…” said Junkenstein.

“But Adlersbrunn—All your work…” Mercy started.

“I’ve got all my work right here,” said Junkenstein, patting his creature’s arm, “What’s exile and a life of running from the church and the law when you’ve got good company, eh?”

“I see the Witch has healed the worst of your injuries,” Zenyatta said to Genji.

“Well of course!” Genji swung and arm around Mercy’s shoulders, “She’s my witch, isn’t she? Was there ever any doubt?”

“So much doubt…” said Zenyatta.

“…So what now?” said Mercy, looking to Satya.

Satya looked around the cave, and broke away from the group, looking at the various skeletons littered around.

“…Satya?” said Zenyatta, as Satya stopped in front of the faded mural of herself.

“Clearly there is much work to be done,” said Satya, quietly. A small smile tugged at her lips, “But I helped make this world. A religion should be child’s play.”

“Indeed,” said Zenyatta. Suddenly all of the green eyeballs surrounding him widened in alarm and swiveled to attention as he perked up. “Oh! I had all but forgotten!”

“…Your cult?” suggested Genji.

“It would be prudent to make sure they have not all stabbed each other to death,” said Zenyatta.

“Yes, it would,” said Genji.

“You are welcome to come along if you wish,” said Zenyatta, opening a massive green portal, “Though I would advise you don’t touch me until I figure out where exactly the cult stands on that.”

Mercy and Genji exchanged glances.

“At this point the further away from Adlersbrunn, the better,” said Mercy.

“Probably a better place to rest and plan than a cave,” said Junkenstein.

The creature gave a grunt in agreement. The four of them looked to Satya.

“A goddess of creation in a temple to the void?” said Satya, arching an eyebrow, “I don’t think I would be particularly welcomed. No… I must find my own path.” She stepped over to Zenyatta and gave him a kiss on the cheek… or what passed for a cheek with all the tentacles on his face, “I will be in touch though, should you ever need divine intervention,” she said with a smile to Mercy before disappearing in a portal of flame.

“All right. To the stabby cultists then,” said Junkenstein. With that, he and the creature leapt into the portal.

Mercy hooked her arm in Genji’s. “Shall we?” she said.

Genji smirked. “Well… it’s not you riding me naked while I’m a dragon across the night sky, but I suppose it will suffice.”

Mercy pushed her weight against him and they both snickered before leaping into the portal.

Chapter Text

The witch hunter awoke in a cavernous hall, with the soft sound of lapping water. He wasn’t sure if he could call it waking up. He felt no sensation of his eyelids sliding open, rather, his vision seemed to clarify itself as his consciousness sharpened. His body felt a constant push and pull of interior warmth against exterior cold. He could feel something like a flame flickering in his chest, blazing against a wet, sinking cold that soaked in from the outside. The strength not quite in his muscles yet, he gave a glance down to the soft material he was laying on. He seemed to be on a mattress of soft damp dead leaves, set upon a high dais of petrified wood. He moved to get up.

His body got up, his head did not.

“What—-“ the word fell out of him, soft and horrified. It didn’t sound like his own voice, but deeper, wetter, more raking. His body swiveled around to look at his head, but since a headless corpse had no eyes, all Gabriel could see was the bloody stump of his own neck looming down on him.

“No—No….” more words escaped him. He had to get his head back on. Simple enough. His body seemed to respond to his will, mostly. Head back on. Pick up the head and put it back on, he thought. His body lurched forward but only managed to knock him (the head) rolling toward the edge of the dais. “No—Catch me—Catch me!” he said as the body lurched again and clumsily knocked him off and sent him bouncing and rolling painfully along the floor.

“I realize this must be very jarring,” a voice, feminine, clear, and deep cut across the still air of the hall, “But you’ll only make things worse by panicking.”

“What is this—!?” Gabriel managed to say before a clumsy foot from his own body sent his head rolling across the floor again, only to be stopped under another foot.

“Is that any way to talk to your old friends, Gabriel?” A tall woman with short-cropped red hair  stooped into his view. She picked up his head and held him at eye level smiling at him.

“You…” Gabriel started.

“My dear Witch Hunter,” she said, tilting her head, “Gotten ourselves into quite the mess now, haven’t we?”

“What have you done to me?” he demanded.

“What have I done to you? I wasn’t the one who beheaded you, and it’s not my magic flowing through your veins binding you to this… form. I just…” she gestured, “Cleaned some things up. You’d probably be some horrible amalgam of man and gourd unable to even walk if it weren’t for my intercession.”

“Man and gourd…?” Gabriel said quietly as his body finally managed to make its way to the red hared woman and his hands flailed out.

His head was not his head.

It was rounder, smoother, warm to the touch. The redheaded woman managed to push past his clumsily grabbing arms and set his not-head on his neck stump, where it stuck with a sick wet “shluck” sound and swiveled as he took in more of his surroundings. The whole hall seemed to be made of the same petrified wood as his dais, and there was a throne at the head of it, flanked on either side by an intricately carved fresco of the Green Man with water pouring out of both of their gaping open mouths. Well there was the source of the sound of lapping water, at least. Gabriel’s hands went up to feel at his not-head again.

“Mirror,” he said.

“Come,” the red-headed woman hooked her arm in his and lead him over to one of the fountain frescoes, which, it turned out, were pouring out into two unsettlingly still dark pools on either side of the throne. She motioned to look into the pools of water, and he got down on one knee to look at his own reflection.

His head was not his head.

His head was a pumpkin. A pumpkin carved with cruel eyes and a wide, sharp and mocking grin.

“I did the best with what I had on hand,” said the redheaded woman and Gabriel suddenly sprang up and picked her up by the front of her loose linen tunic.

“What have you done to me!?”  He roared.

“You’ve already asked that, and I’ve already said,” the woman remained perfectly calm with her feet about two inches off the ground, “You were beheaded in a field, but somehow you perished with the flame of creation on your person. This would bind your life to your corpse, so I made sure your corpse was actually…. viable.”

“Beheaded in a….” the memories came rushing back to Gabriel. The witch at the stake. The column of fire in the square. The green vortex and the nightmarish mass of black tentacles that emerged from it. The blazing-winged figure and the green dragon tumbling from the sky. The witch, still with those blazing wings, staring him down, and the bite of the demon’s steel, cold and sharp and deep.

“The witch and her demon…” Gabriel said softly.

“A true witch?” the woman suddenly snickered and Gabriel shot her a glare, “Forgive me, but I was wondering when you’d stop burning hapless hags for brewing pennyroyal tea and actually go toe to toe against a right and proper sorcerer. Now if you don’t mind—-“ she swatted his hands off of her tunic and landed neatly on the floor, “I’m willing to ignore that slight because I know humans to be unfathomably stupid when they’re emotional. You would do well to remember that I am not your enemy, and that you would be very, very foolish to make me an enemy.”

“Why keep me alive?” said Gabriel, looking at his hands.

“I’m not the one keeping you alive,” said the woman, walking away from him and alighting a golden sphere on the tips of her long fingernails, “You are enthralled to whomever is bearing the flame of creation.”

“The witch,” said Gabriel.

“Until she dies or releases you, you cannot die, Gabriel,” said the woman, “And if your supposed ‘mistress’ is not even aware you’re alive… I’d consider that very useful, wouldn’t you?”

“So I need to kill her,” said Gabriel.

“Not a very creative type, are you?” said the woman, “You can’t die, Gabriel. Think of what you could do with that.”

“This existence is cursed. I will not suffer any second more of it than I must,” said Gabriel, “Do not think I will have any more dealings with you, either. Our…”

“Partnership?” the woman suggested.

“Our briefly mutual interests were long ago, and when I was younger and more desperate.”

“Yet they served you very well, as far as I recall,” said the woman.

“Just get me out of here and I will find my own way,” said Gabriel, now angrily pacing around the hall, looking for an exit.

The redheaded woman sighed in exasperation. “You continue to be a killjoy,” she muttered, then stepped up next to him and put a calm hand on his shoulder, “You’re alone in this world now, Gabriel. You’ve seen your reflection. You’ve seen what you’ve become. If you truly intend on destroying this witch, do you think you can do it walking the earth as a man?”

The pumpkin head swiveled toward her, those glowing yellow eyes boring into her.

“What do you get out of this?” asked Gabriel.

“Same as always—-I don’t like competition,” she said, smiling, “And if there’s someone bearing the flame of creation walking the earth… well, I find that very interesting.”

“This isn’t a game, Moira,” Gabriel snarled.

“That’s what people say when they don’t know how to play,” said Moira, “I look forward to working with you again, Gabriel.”
“Hmph,” Gabriel glanced off, “‘Working with me again.’ All you ever did was give me a rock.”

“And what a useful rock it was,” said Moira with a smile, “Now tell me, where is my adder stone now?”

———

On the ramparts of the city walls, Pharah tossed the rock with a hole in it up and down in her palm restlessly, looking out over the tops of the pines and having half a mind to see how far she could throw it. It didn’t feel exactly right to hang onto it, but somehow she felt like leaving it or throwing it away would be worse.  Four days had passed since the Witch and her demon had made their escape and while the slightly burning sulfurous smell still hung in the air, most of the town was forced to return to its work. In spite of all the horror and reality seemingly uprooting itself in the span of the few days of the Witch’s capture and escape, there were still fields to till, still forge fires in the smithing district to keep, still guard rounds that needed posting, and a whole lot of rebuilding that had to be done. Several days of searching the surrounding areas of Adlersbrunn for the Witch Hunter had only yielded a bloody spot in a pumpkin patch. There was no body. Pharah wondered if seeing the body would improve the situation by at least giving the townspeople some closure over the Witch Hunter’s fate, or if it would stamp out whatever last few embers of hope remained.

Pharah had her hands full just keeping the townspeople calm—-nerves were frayed, an anger and a fear hung in the air. The sense of helplessness was collective and inescapable, and it stung her all the more deeply since she was guard captain—-it was her job to keep the city feeling safe, and she couldn’t do that. Half of her guardsmen were pushed far past the point of exhaustion with their numbers depleted by the attacks on the town, and her fatigue had ebbed only a little as time passed on from the whole incident. Lord Von Adlersbrunn was hardly being a help at all—-with the involvement of Junkenstein, a craftsman under his own commission, the people’s faith in Von Adlersbrunn’s judgment had all but dried up and he could hardly take counsel with his circle of the town’s nobles and clergy without everyone shouting over him. A great many people left the town, heading west for warmer weather and hopefully fewer witches and demons—away from the shadows of the Black Forest, but for many, there was no where else they could go.

“You are the guard captain, correct?” a weathered voice spoke and Pharah caught the adder stone and quickly pocketed it.

“Can I hel—-Your grace!” Pharah turned her head and then quickly bowed it as Bishop Petras walked toward her, “I—Yes. I am the Captain. I am at your disposal, your Grace—”

“You need not worry with such formalities,” said the Bishop.

Pharah cleared her throat and raised her head. “To what do I owe this audience?”

“I take it you already know of Sir Gabriel?” said the Bishop.

“I was the first one they reported to,” said Pharah, “I’ve sent out one last search party in case there was anything more, but with my guard stretched out as thin as it is…”

“Of course,” said the bishop, softly, “He spoke rather highly of you in his reports to me.”

“I abandoned him,” Pharah said, looking down, “I couldn’t—-“

“I know,” said the Bishop, “There was no abandonment—-you are a guard captain before you are a Witch Hunter. I understand that much.” He looked out over the surrounding farmland and forest past Adlersbrunn’s walls, “We set out to destroy evil and alleviate everyone’s fears, and yet we feel more helpless and surrounded by evil than ever thought possible.”

“So what do we do about it?” said Pharah.

“I’m afraid protocol demands that I go to the Vatican to report this incident and pray I don’t get laughed out as a madman and pray the people here won’t think God abandoned them in my absence,” said the Bishop, “As far as your path… this city will always have need of a guard captain, but I feel it is worth asking ourselves if we will ever truly feel safe knowing what’s out there now.”

“Your Grace?” Pharah said his title in question.

“There were very few people in Sir Gabriel’s line of work that I felt I could trust….I feel whatever path you choose, though, I can trust you. Take care, Guard Captain,” said the Bishop, walking off. Pharah watched the bishop disappear down the stairs to the city gate where a party of several guardsmen awaited him along with his own horse. Pharah watched as the Bishop and his contingent rode off away from the city, then pulled the Adder stone back out from the interior of her doublet.

“What’s out there…” she said quietly closing her fingers around the stone.

The prison cells within the castle were all but unguarded with how stretched thin the city guard was now. She grabbed a torch and walked by the one guard posted, heading down several stone steps into the dark. She wasn’t sure what she hoped to find in here—all she knew was that in the span of 2 nights in this prison, the Witch had gone from paltry fireballs to massive columns of demon-summoning flame. Holding up her torch aloft, she looked into the now-empty Witch’s cell—-Small, depressing, with naught but a pile of hay for a bed and a bucket for a chamberpot. She looked down at the floor—there were a few drops of blood next to the iron bars of the cell, but nothing else. No sigils drawn out or anything. Pharah felt the weight of the adder stone in her pocket, then slowly pulled it out and held it to her eye and gasped softly. Through the little hole in the stone, all sorts of burning symbols and writing in a language Pharah could not understand glittered like embers on the walls, ceiling, and floor of the cell. The script didn’t look like it was written out in a human hand, but rather it burned itself into being. Unthinkingly, Pharah pulled open the door to the cell and stepped in for a closer look. As she drew closer, she squinted at the script and wondered if her senses or her belief in the adder stone were betraying her, or if the cuneiform-like symbols on the wall really were reforming themselves into words. She brought the adder stone down from her eye, but the writing was still there. The Witch Hunter used the stone to train himself to see what others could not, Pharah thought to herself, Could I do the same?

Seek me if you have the sight, they read. Seek who? The Witch? The Witch seemed hardly eager to have anyone follow her out of Adlersbrunn, riding off on a dragon and everything. Pharah remembered a steady gaze of two amber-colored eyes with slitted pupils. Not the Witch. The Woman. The Dragon. Neither and both. Pharah’s head fogged briefly—-a mess of panic-distorted memories rushing around her yet coming to a head a the same time, but in all that mess the image of those eyes burned into her mind and kept her fixed in place. The rush of memories seemed to fade itself out to a thrumming, hissing whisper.

What’s out there? her own voice whispered in her head.

Seek me if you have the sight, the writing on the wall answered.

Pharah extended a hand toward the writings on the wall and felt a heat coming off of them, still the extension of her hand pressed steadily onward, she wasn’t sure if she would even notice if it burned her—-

“Y’know, you shouldn’t just go walking into cells,” a deep but warm voice spoke behind her and snapped her out of her haze.

“What—What?” her head jerked up and she turned on her heel to see a tall man with shoulder-length brown hair in a black hat, arms folded and leaning one shoulder against the cell bars.

“I said ‘You shouldn’t just go walking into cells’—‘specially with your guard spread thin as it is. Some miscreant could waltz in and then just up and shut the bars on you, then wouldn’t you feel a damn fool?”

“I—I’m guard captain. I’m investigating,” said Pharah, turning her attention back to the writing, but finding it wasn’t there anymore.

“So I heard—-the guard captain part, not the investigatin’ part,” said the man.

Pharah narrowed her eyes at the man. “Who are you?” she said, stepping out of the cell to look at him in the torchlight.

“You heard tell of the Witch Hunter’s apprentice, haven’t you?”

“Gabriel said he had an apprentice, yes,” said Pharah.

“…Just the apprentice part? No… ‘failed apprentice’ or ‘disgraced apprentice’ or ‘excommunicated apprentice?’”

“You’re excommunicated!?” Pharah took a step back, realized she was stepping back into the cell, then sidestepped and grabbed her torch from its sconce.

“Only officially,” said the man with a shrug, “In terms of purity of soul and intention, why, I would rank myself among the most—-“

Pharah held out the torch warningly to maintain a distance between the two of them.

“…pious,” the man finished, looking at the crackling torch.

“I think you should leave,” Pharah said, furrowing her brows.

“Look, I’m investigatin’, same as you,” said the man, “Let’s start over.” He extended a hand, “Name’s Jehoshaphat Maccrea of Helsing. Folk who find that a bit of a mouthful call me ‘Jesse.’”

Pharah remained holding the torch between them rather than extending her hand.

“I know what happened to Gabriel,” said Jesse.

Pharah looked down.

“Well, I mean I heard. Doesn’t seem like anyone can say for sure what happened to him, but we can all agree it was nothin’ pleasant. Now, we didn’t part on the best of terms, and I’ve been hunting a quarry of my own, but I owe it to him to see closure on all of this.”

Pharah broke her sight away from the cold stones of the floor to look at him.

“You’ve seen some shit too, huh?”

Pharah pursed her lips. “Depends. Would you call a terrible red demon ‘Some shit?’ Would you call a dragon woman in a column of fire ‘some shit?’ Would you call a horrible purple creature with–with—with a face that looks like a mass of slugs ‘some shit?’”

“I’d categorize it under a ‘helluva lot of shit,’ rather than ‘some shit,’” said Jesse, “It was a lot for me to take in at first, too. But you get better at it. And you—man, steady as a rock. Lot better than me when I was starting out, too–”

“Wait—Starting out—No. I’m not ‘starting out’ on anything—” Pharah started.

“I mean–you don’t have to,” said Jesse, “But I know there’s two kinds of people who come out of a mess like this: There are those that stick their heads in the sand and pray for their lives to go back to normal, and there are those who know it’s never going to be normal again, and choose not to be helpless.”

“I’m not choosing to be helpless, my city needs me!” snapped Pharah.

“…So you still feel helpless,” said Jesse.

“Just because I—!” Pharah started but then caught herself and fumed, “What are you suggesting, exactly?”

“Not suggesting, offering,” said Jesse, “I think you want to see whatever evil that attacked your town brought to justice. You want closure. You want to see your people safe. I think the best way you can do that is by coming with me and hunting these demons down.”

“So I should just drop everything and tag along with an excommunicated witch hunter,” said Pharah flatly.

“Just ‘hunter’ is fine. Turns out there’s a whole lot more scary things than witches in this world,” said Jesse.

Pharah maintained a steady glare.

“You want me to be more honest?” said Jesse.

“Usually the preference is that people be as honest as they can with each other,” said Pharah, frowning.

McCree snorted. “Trust me, Miss Guard Captain, people do not prefer that,” he said with a smirk before catching himself, “I mean–” he stopped and cleared his throat, “To be frank,” he said, pressing his hands together in front of himself, “I know if I go up against any of these things alone, I will die. If you go up against any of these things alone, you will die. You knew when to call it so that the whole town didn’t go down in flames. These things we’re going to fight? This isn’t a battle you rush into. You gotta play the long game and you gotta learn. I need someone who knows when to call it. All you need is someone to show you how to flick holy water, and you’re gonna get that down real quick from the looks of you.”

“You don’t want a student, you need a partner,” said Pharah, looking off.

Jesse made a finger gun at her in confirmation. “Or.. y’know you could organize guard timetables for the rest of your life and pray this magic shit does’t drop itself on your head again. Your choice,” he said with a shrug.

Pharah quietly set the torch back on its sconce.

“I’ll give you a night to think about it–I’m staying at the least-burned Inn in town and leaving at dawn. Meet me at the city gates if you’re in,” he said, turning on his heel and heading out of the castle prison.

Pharah frowned as he walked off, but she felt her fingers nervously running across the adder stone in her hand.

What’s out there? it seemed to ask in her mind, What’s out there?

—

For Mercy, seven days among the cultists passed in the blink of an eye. Rather, it was 2 days spent more or less sleeping the whole time, making up for the exhaustion of prison and near-execution and near-death and using far more magic than she had ever used in her entire life. After 2 days of sleeping, the third day was spent eating—The cultists’ food was salty, yet comforting, favoring snails and mushrooms. The fourth day was spent getting over the sickness of eating so much so fast on the third day, which proved a severe shock to her system. The fifth and six days were spent more or less getting acclimated to Zenyatta’s temple, which, she learned, was a fortress carved into the stone of a mountain with a hidden entrance. They had to earn their keep, to an extent. It turned out the stab-happiness of the cultist made her work as a healer invaluable. She was able to get clothes as well, purple robes, like the other cultists, which were surprisingly comfortable, and the temple to Zenyatta was a very safe fortress in and of itself—dark, certainly, but safe. 

Genji had told her that the cultists were very dangerous and quote ‘stabby’ but Zenyatta had assured them all that the schism had finally ended, and furthermore the cultists all struck her as very polite. Certainly very…. fixated on Genji’s master, but perfectly polite. It was surreal for her, not having children throw rotten vegetables at her, not feeling a glare at the back of her head, having people make eye contact with her and speak with her eagerly and interestedly in her studies and observations, being able to read and practice her magic as if it were as perfectly normal as hanging laundry on a line. She was accepted as perfectly normal among the blood cultists, and made a point of enjoying herself so long as she had the chance to. 

Still, Genji was… protective.

“You don’t have to be here, you know,” she said, as she stood waist-deep in the temple baths.

“You didn’t see these cultists before,” said Genji, sitting cross-legged with his back to her, “They’ll tear you apart as soon as look at you. Don’t have your firstborn with any of them, they’ll probably eat it.”

“Don’t have my what?” said Mercy running a sea-salt smelling soap bar along her skin and attempting to scrub the smoky smell from her skin.

“Your firstborn?” said Genji, “You know—our contract?”

“Ooohhh that firstborn. No, certainly not going to have it with any of them,” said Mercy.

“Good to know you have standards,” said Genji, folding his arms.

“Mm-hmm,” Mercy said mindlessly, dipping her head beneath the water and running her own fingernails along her scalp as the soap foamed off her skin and floated on the surface of the water.

“So you’re keeping watch?” she said, looking over her shoulder.

“Clearly,” said Genji.

“And it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that I’m naked?”

“I’m a demon,” said Genji with an eye roll, “You could be naked every waking moment of every day and it would hardly make a difference to me.”

That earned him a splash of water at his back.

“Hey!” he turned around to snap at her, caught sight of her sweeping her wet hair off the back of her neck and then quickly turned around again, his face burning, “I mean I don’t see things through human eyes. Magic colors my vision. Shifts what I see—you remember what happened with that sigil back when the city guards were chasing you.” 

“Ah, so what does the great demon Genji see when he looks at me?” said Mercy, wringing out her hair.

“A light—or maybe a flame?” Genji said, leaning back and relaxing a little where he sat, his back still to her, “Something like one of those…Flame, probably, but a little one… Small, yes, but bright and flickering and steady.  At once illuminating and causing night-blindness with its own radiance.”

Mercy had stopped scrubbing this point and drew a string of wet hair back from her face, staring at Genji in silence. 

“Also magnificent breasts. But that goes without—” that last comment earned Genji another, harder splash which left him completely drenched.

“All right. That, is a slight I cannot permit, Witch,” said Genji, getting to his feet and turning around.

Mercy splashed him again.

“Do you want to start this?” he said, taking off his mask and revealing his scarred face, “I told you, I was born—”

“’In storm and lightning and water,’” Mercy said, mocking his whispery gravitas, “Yes you like bragging about that very often.”

“It’s not bragging if you can back it up,” said Genji, putting his hands on his hips.

“So back it up, Genji, Demon of the North Wind,” said Mercy, flicking droplets of water against his face.

“You back it up, Witch Mercy, Bearer of the Flame of Creation,” 

Mercy calmly took ahold of the front of his black tunic.

“…you wouldn’t,” said Genji.

“Witch,” said Mercy with a smirk, before yanking him into the bath with her. 

Chapter Text

The doors to the temple library were heavy, and Mercy had to throw a significant amount of her weight against them just to get them open, her soft-soled monk’s slippers sliding slightly across the floor. The door opened with a rumble and opened into an only-marginally-better-lit-than-the rest of the temple library. It was cool and musty-smelling, lit by a great glowing green chandelier of black glass tendrils winding around each other like a tangled mass of kelp on a beach. Mercy’s breath went short in her throat as she ran her fingers along the cold spines of a few of the thousands of books lining the walls. “Incredible,” she said, picking a book off the shelf, “There must be centuries worth of–”

“Dreck,” she heard a familar voice and then a clatter of a book on the floor and followed its source. She walked between imposingly tall shelves.

“Hogwash,” the voice came again and another clatter.

“Keep this,” no clatter.

“Bunkum,” another clatter.

“Codswallop,” another clatter.

“Pointless smut–actually hold on to that,” no clatter.

“Esoteric frippery,” another clatter.

Mercy reached the source of the commotion to see Junkenstein surrounded by dozens of littered books strewn about the black stone floor, and the Monster standing behind him, holding an impressive pile of precariously stacked volumes in his massive hands. Junkenstein was glaring at the bookshelf, tapping his chin with his prosthetic hand thoughtfully.

“Making yourself right at home, I see,” said Mercy, smiling.

“Would that it were, but a place of a god is no place for a man of science, Gramercy,” said Junkenstein, picking up a book and leafing through it before setting it on the pile in his monsters’ arms, “We stand at an interesting point. We cannot return to Adlersbrunn, obviously. But how long can we stay here? And… your demon’s brother said something that’s stuck with me–He spoke like… like we set things into motion back in Adlersbrunn. Things that are going to have consequences far larger than we could ever dream of controlling.”

“We’re very far from Adlersbrunn,” said Mercy, “If the church sends more hunters after us, there’s not much of a trail for them to track with Zenyatta’s portals.”

“This goes well beyond the church, now, Gramercy, all it takes is one glance at the company we keep to know that,” said Junkenstein, looking back at his monster, “Speaking of which, how fares your demon?”

“He’s glad to be near his master, but this place puts him on edge like you,” said Mercy with a shrug, “But it’s mostly for my sake.”

“He is quite taken with you,” said Junkenstein, pulling another book off the shelf and leafing through it.

“He would have me believe he is taken with me,” said Mercy, putting her hands on her hips, “But he’s a demon.”

“Ah and you would have him believe you’re taken with him,” Junkenstein clapped the book shut and tossed it over his shoulder, “But you are a witch. It’s a dangerous game of cat and… other cat you two play,” he scoffed, “Come now, Gramercy, you think I don’t know you? You’re not putting up those haughty witch walls around yourself now, are you? The two of you have been through the fire together! Literally! There was a column of fire that burned a hole in the sky! We were there!”

“Jamison…” Mercy pushed some of her hair back.

“You’re always telling me to have a bit more faith,” said Junkenstein with a shrug as he and his creation gingerly stepped around the mess of books at their feet and walked down the narrow stacks.

“’If you can’t trust your demons, who can you trust?’” Mercy suggested wryly.

“In a sense, yes,” said Junkenstein as he and his creation set their pile of books with a thunderous clatter down on a stone table, “Our old home is well behind us, and we’re on the brink of an entirely new world—one we understand very little of, by the way—We need friends. We need allies.” He gave an affectionate pat to his creation’s stomach, “And you’re in even deeper with all this magical whatnot than I am.” 

“Good to see you’re actually calling it ‘Magic,’” said Mercy, smiling.

“Blame Squidface,” said Junkenstein, flipping open a book, and taking a seat, “It’s just one more thing for me to figure out isn’t it? That’s all science is, really.”

Mercy watched as Junkenstein’s eyes traced over the page.

“How long do you intend to stay?” said Mercy.

“Still figuring that out,” said Junkenstein, “Not too long, obviously. Though if your demon has any ideas on where to head next, you should check with him.”

“Are we to be traveling companions?” said Mercy with a smile.

“As if you’d last a second without me,” said Junkenstein with a grin. The creature gave a grunt behind him. “Us,” he corrected himself, “Last a second without us.”

“Oh, my heroes,” Mercy said with a smile, before walking off and leaving Junkenstein and his creation to their books.

Mercy lingered in the library a while longer, though Junkenstein’s words stuck with her. She knew she was no worshipper of Zenyatta, and part of the reason she was letting herself stay here was because it was the first place where she wasn’t feared or hated for being a witch–she was tolerated, but did she belong? No. She wondered if she would even know what it felt like to belong somewhere–if she would ever recognize the feeling. The question had previously depressed her, but now it trailed and tugged like a fishline to Genji. She remembered the words that fell out of her as they descended from the sky in what felt somehow both distantly long ago.

“I’m your witch, aren’t I? I’m your witch and you’re my demon.“

 In all the panic of that moment she had clung to that thought like a ship’s mast in a storm. 

She thumbed through a few tomes mindlessly. Pre-Babel scrolls in languages-before-language that she had no hope of translating since they sounded like everything and nothing, complicated histories of the cult with names of a pantheon that made her happy Zenyatta’s name was as easy to pronounce as it was. As she set a book back on the shelf, she heard a soft whisper. She was used to hearing a lot of whispers and tuning them out, but this whisper gave her pause. It sounded like the old woman. The Gramercy before her–but the words were indistinct, and they weren’t berating or scolding, but wondrous and soft. Mercy followed the source of the voice, but there wasn’t a source, she knew that much… nothing like the commotion Junkenstein had been creating with all his book-throwing. Still her feet walked and her chin lifted, listening, through she was half-sure the voice as only in her mind. As she walked some words formed themselves.

“–some point the chain was nearly broken, and much knowledge of its true potential was lost–”

The words cut out altogether.

Mercy stopped walking and found herself in those same narrow cathedral-like stacks. She looked around, not really sure what she was looking for. She was far at the back of the library. She puzzled at the spines of books on either side of her, then shrugged and moved to walk out from the rows of shelves when there was a clatter of a book hitting the floor behind her so sudden it gave her a start. A grubby looking steel-and-leather book was on the floor–no title, save for the word ‘Vitae’ written on it. She picked it up, dusted it off, and carried it with her out of the library. She would read it later, she decided. For now, she did have to find Genji and discuss their plans for the future. Once again with considerable effort, she was able to open the doors to the library, and with her vitae book under one arm, walked through the temple’s dark corridors.

She noticed, as she walked, a significant more amount of bustle by cultists going through the halls. Of course, usually it took only the slightest statements by Zenyatta to work them up into a tizzy. Still, she could feel Genji’s presence in her mind as she set out to find him–not actively talking to her, or seeking her out (though she could twist the hair lock around her finger for that) but the memory of his promise a presence in and of itself, like the whisper she would leave on her door when she left her cottage.That presence in her mind seemed to burn brighter as she pushed some heavy doors out to a covered walkway overlooking the temple courtyard. Down below, Genji was sparring with three cultists with staves.

 She smirked. Genji conjured all of his clothing from the selfsame smoke he used to shift his form–technically he could give himself a shirt, and it wouldn’t make him any sweatier like it would a human, but he did not. The scar from the Witch Hunter’s consecrated bullet still marred his shoulder like a raw pink star. Her eyes trailed to his shoulders as he fought, gripping a staff and spinning it around, deflecting blows from the monks’ own staves. She had seen him easily use his strength to disorient and subdue opponents, but here he fought more like a man than a powerful yokai… or was at least attempting to fight like a man. His leaps were graceful, his blocks of enemy blows either solid and unyielding, or gracefully redirecting the force of the blow. His scars spread and contracted across his skin as he moved, his red eyes sparking with a furious focus.

She was so involved in watching the acrobatics of his form and the dance of muscles on his back that she was caught quite off-guard when a cultist carrying large rolls of paper nearly ran headlong into her, but managed to catch themselves on impact, stumble with their armload slightly, then hurry on. 

“Just what is going on with them today anyway?” Mercy murmured, before turning her attention back to Genji. 

“There is to be a celebration,” a deep and tranquil voice spoke next to her and she nearly jumped right out of her skin from the surprise.

“How did you just… sneak up on me like that?!” Mercy managed to blurt out, gripping her chest with her heart thumping hard against her ribcage.

Zenyatta gestured down, and Mercy remembered that he didn’t really walk anywhere, but rather floated with his legs crossed in a lotus position.

“…ah,” Mercy brushed her hair back, moving to watch Genji again before catching herself, “Wait—A celebration? Of what?”

“Have you not heard?!” exclaimed one cultist, hurrying by carrying armfuls of something slimy and brackish-smelling that Mercy didn’t want to look too closely at.

“The Master Zenyatta in all his Generosity and love for our worthless pointless forms has declared that he shall stay in this plane for 200 years!” said another, hurrying by and carrying lanterns of black iron.

Mercy blinked several times and looked to Zenyatta.

“I don’t see what they’re so worked up about either, honestly,” said Zenyatta, “I’m only staying to see how the pattern of magical flux in this plane pans out. And…humans live, what, 15,000 years, don’t they?”

There was a pause. “They do not,” said Mercy.

Zenyatta looked thoughtful for a moment. “Oh!” he said, “That was this plane’s sea sponges! I get you all so mixed up sometimes,” He gave a slight chuckle and the mass of tentacles forming the lower half of his face twitched and tickled each other, “But as they say,” he added, catching himself, “There is to be a celebration, tonight, possibly an orgy–they were unclear on the second part.”

“…good to know,” said Mercy.

“I know you are not a devotee, but as a companion and partner of my student, you are invited nonetheless.”

Mercy smiled. “Master Zenyatta, you and your followers have been so hospitable. I don’t know how to begin to thank you.”

“I am thankful to you as well, Witch Mercy,” Zenyatta addressed her in the same manner Genji did–treating ‘Witch’ as what seemed almost like an honorific, “You freed my apprentice from a prison and gave him more focus and direction than I have ever seen him have.” 

Mercy blushed a little, “Really?”

“I will admit, I previously saw you as a distraction he was overly invested in, but since you saved him, I see now that yours is a remarkable partnership. While I have felt the magic waning in your plane, I see now that it can flourish in the most unexpected places, shining brilliantly even in adversity.”

“Oh…” Mercy glanced down, but then found her eyes on Genji, still sparring, still scarred and sweaty down in the courtyard and found that that sight did not help her loss for words, “I—Thank you,” she managed, managing to tear her eyes away to look at Zenyatta.

“I know you intend to leave,” said Zenyatta, looking down at Genji, “He is bound to wander as well—but know that you will always find support and safety here. As much safety as this plane can allow.”

Mercy smiled, “If you ever require my help—” she started but Zenyatta put a hand on her shoulder.

“You cannot even begin to comprehend my dealings, but I shall keep your offer in mind, Bearer of the Flame of Creation,” he spoke warmly before floating off. 

Mercy turned her attention back down to the courtyard but found that the clack of staff on staff and the thud of blows landing and the shuffle of feet across stone had stopped. The other cultists were talking, some quietly nursing bruises, but Genji still stood out there, looking up at her. In that moment she knew. She knew he knew that she had been watching all that time. Her eyes widened and her mouth drew to a thin line as she hurried off to the interior corridors of the temple. 

She knew she meant to speak with him about where they would go from the temple, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it for the rest of the day. His presence in her mind was half an itch now, one she knew she could relieve just by going to talk to him, but her self control told her to treat it as was befitting itches: Leave it alone, and hopefully it would go away. The rest of the day was spent back at the library, with the Vitae book and Junkenstein’s skeptical side-glance upon her. He knew she meant to talk to Genji. He knew she didn’t talk to Genji. He knew her too well and she hated him for it and he was her best friend for it. The preparations for the celebration left her afternoon largely vacant–no bickering cultists meant no gashes or stab wounds to worry about. She let herself fall into an abyss of books, the hours wheeling away until a growling stomach and a setting sun finally managed to drag her from her reading.

 She had all but forgotten of the celebrations and was briefly jarred by the merry atmosphere in the temple refectory and the decorations dangling from the ceiling as the cultists all sat on their mats around a great carpet of countless plates of food. Mercy managed to find a seat and was able to sate her hunger on snails and samphire. A carafe of a bitter herbaceous spirit was being passed around, and Mercy filled her little clay cup with that as well and knocked it back. It was a celebration, after all, wasn’t it? She wasn’t quite sure when the music had started–maybe around the time the cultists were getting up from their mats and moving out to the very temple courtyard where Genji had been sparring earlier, but in that square of stone, Mercy saw a great bonfire with crackling green flames. And then there was the music. It bounced off the cold stones and seemed to thrum from her ears to her ribcage. There was a rain-like shake of some grain-filled gourd, two-stringed fiddle, flute, and some long loud wooden instrument that rumbled and croaked, and then the drums kicked in.

The cultists pulled each other into whirling dances, gripping each other’s wrists, hooking each others arms. There was a feverishness about the way they touched each other, like tidal pool creatures bracing for the impact of a wave. And then the music picked up and they were leaping, some lifting others over their heads and twirling them as their necks craned back in ecstasy. Mercy found herself almost hypnotized. The bodies, once previously shuffling around hidden by voluminous black robes were casting off their outer mantles, rendering themselves lithe silhouettes against the green glow of the fire. Even Junkenstein had managed to be pulled into the revelry, his creation tossing him in the air and catching him as Junkenstein swan dove and swept and danced as much as he could manage with a peg leg.

“Glad you could make it, Witch,” a voice familiar and casual, yet honeyed with charm managed to slip over the din of music and the thud of bare feet on stone. Mercy turned her head to see Genji. “I was worried you’d spend all night in that library,” Genji said with a smile.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” said Mercy, shifting where she sat a little.

“Ah yes, I gathered as much by your running away as soon as I made eye contact with you,” said Genji with that half-smile of his.

Mercy reddened and glanced off and Genji snickered before catching himself. “Apologies—What was it you wanted to speak of?”

“Leaving the temple—We don’t worship Zenyatta like they do and it’s bound to get us into trouble at some point.” 

“I am the one bound to your service,” said Genji, “Where do you desire to go?”

MeMercy thought for a few moments. “You know… I suppose Zenyatta’s portals leave our options far more open than I’ve been thinking–truth be told my world has been so limited by the wood and my old village and Adlersbrunn… it’s hard grasping the idea that I can be somewhere else–even here,” she looked at the dancing cultists. Genji watched her wistful expression, the reflection of the green flames shining in her gray-blue eyes, making them glitter like an unearthly sea. “It’s almost dreamlike….” her voice softened a little, “It wasn’t like the old woman and I could join in on harvest festivals… I’ve never been able to get this close to people dancing before—or even see people dance like this.” 

“Beg pardon?” said Genji, his eyebrows raising.

“Oh–it’s nothing, it’s not important–” Mercy started.

“You’re telling me you’ve never danced!?”

“I’ve danced!” Mercy snapped, “Just… in rituals, you know.” 

Genji promptly stood up and held a hand out to her.

“Genji–” Mercy started, nervously running a hand through her hair, “I–we still need to figure out where to go from here.”

“As your demon, I must say that your wellbeing is paramount, and as such it is imperative that we dance.”

“You’re ridiculous,” said Mercy, smiling.

“I managed to get trapped in the same tea leaf pot twice. I’m well aware I’m ridiculous. But this is important,” said Genji, still holding his hand out.

Mercy took his hand and he pulled her into the whirling storm of bodies leaping and dancing around the bonfire. She started out awkwardly bobbing to the music, but Genji took her hands in his and twirled her around, lifted her as if she were light as a feather. She noticed he wasn’t wearing the mask nearly as often these days, nor was he bothering to hide his scars as much. He made her feel light on her feet, redirecting her weight around him easily. She easily lost herself in the dance, just as much if not moreso than her abyss of books. The satisfaction of flow, the feeling of “Yes, this is what I ought to be doing” that was so ingrained in the pursuit that the feeling and the pursuit were one and the same. She only regained her senses with the brief flush of adrenaline brought on by Genji sweeping her out of the path of a cultist who was railing and dancing like a maenad. 

“Are you just avoiding helping me pick where to go next?” said Mercy.

“We can multitask,” said Genji, picking her up in a twirling lift that forced a spill of giggles from her, “As you said, with Zenyatta’s portals greatly expand our horizons–Perhaps somewhere with white beaches and warm seas? I don’t know how well you can swim…perhaps a port city, somewhere treasures are being traded daily…”

“Perhaps we should find Satya,” said Mercy.

“There’s a plan,” said Genji.

“I don’t know if there’s anything more she can teach me about the flame, but it wouldn’t hurt to try–even if we have no idea where to start.”

 “She has her own path, as well,” said Genji, “Even there is nothing more you can learn, the things I’ve seen you do are breathtaking, Witch.”

Mercy smiled and glanced down, “I was terrified and had so little idea of what I was doing,” she said quietly, “Have you thought about it since then? That night in the cave?”

“Of course,” he said easily. His answer caught her off-guard, “I’ve been puzzling over it, trying to remember more of it, but I was delirious from my true form and my injuries so…” he trailed off, “I remember you,” he said quietly, “You were holding something sharp and black and then you…” he trailed off, took his hands about her waist and pulled her close–the movement wasn’t a sudden jerking of her against him, but a steady pull, in-step with the music. He took her hand and looked at it, studying it for a scar.

“It’s fine,” said Mercy, letting her hand break from his grip and putting it against the side of his face. His eyes on her softened at her touch.

“Still not sure how you did it,” murmured Genji, leaning in, studying her face.

Magic,” Mercy smiled, bringing her other arm around his shoulders.

“I never would have guessed,” said Genji closing the distance between them. Mercy tilted her head to him, her hand on the side of his face guiding him towards her, the bonfire crackling green behind her. Genji drew a breath, taking in the scent of that herbaceous spirit that had been handed around at dinner, moved to drink in more of the scent.

“West,” Mercy suddenly said. The word threw Genji off.

“Pardon?” Genji snapped out of the haze.

“We should search for Satya in the lands west of Adlersbrunn. They probably expect us to flee east—deeper into the forest, they won’t be looking for us in the west.” 

“Clever,” said Genji, bringing a hand up under her chin, “See? I told you we could multitask.”

“The task you had in mind seemed to demand most of your attention, demon,” said Mercy.

“It had your attention too, if memory serves,” said Genji as her fingers wove into his hair. Their lips had only barely brushed against each other when they broke apart at the sound of fabric ripping and the music now ratcheting up to a thunderous din. 

“What was–?” Mercy looked over to the source of the sound and saw the bare back of one of the cultists, who was now in a writhing mass of bodies. More fabric ripping. Tatters of cultist monk robes flew up like large violet autumn leaves. Mercy’s jaw dropped. While she was no stranger to skyclad rituals, the suddenness and intensity with which the cultists set upon each other was jarring. With all Genji’s talk of cultists stabbing each other there were a few panicked seconds where she expected the frenzy to be violent, but it wasn’t, well, literally violent.

“Ah. So there was an orgy,” said Genji, as Mercy slapped both her hands over her eyes as more tatters of cultist robes fluttered out from the mass of writhing bodies, some falling into the blazing green fire, “Really wish Master was more clear on these sorts of things.”

“Genji!” Mercy’s face was burning, her hands still covering her eyes. She split her fingers apart only briefly to peek through, saw a mass of limbs in what seemed almost reminiscent of the mass of tentacles forming Zenyatta’s face and wondered, briefly if this too was a form of worship of Zenyatta for them. Then she saw that one of the cultists had even further escalated the situation with a summoning circle, then clamped her fingers tight again.

“Yes, I know, we’re leaving, don’t worry,” said Genji, taking her up into his arms.

“Tell me when it’s safe to look–woah!” Mercy cut herself off as Genji leapt, with her in his arms, up to the temple walkway that bordered the courtyard. Genji walked into the interior of the temple and set Mercy down on the stone floor. “It’s sa–” Genji caught himself, “Wait–”

“Wait–? Wait for–?”

Genji lightly kissed the knuckles of Mercy’s hands covering her eyes.

“…ah.” she said.

Chapter Text

“Seek me if you have the sight.”

“Meet me at the city gates if you’re in.”

“What’s out there?”

The inscription on the cell, the words of the self-proclaimed hunter, and Pharah’s own hunger for answers rang in her head all night, round and round, swapping off with each heartbeat in her ear. Thankfully the continuous exhaustion from trying to cobble Adlersbrunn together kept her from tossing and turning, but she remembered the witch hunter Gabriel in her dreams.

You wish to help me you will be walking a gray and dangerous path. Dogs guard flocks of sheep from wolves, but all dogs were wolves once.

If there is evil in our midst, to treat it with indifference is to enable its existence.

Pharah woke in the dark pre-dawn hours with a sour hunger in her bones. She looked around her bare room, then looked to her window. The moon was shining brightly that night, but the smoke staining the glass rendered it brownish yellow. Pharah wondered if the scent of smoke–not the smoke of a blacksmith forge, but the searing, sometimes sulfurous smoke of magic—would ever leave Adlersbrunn. 

Still so much work to do… It would be very easy, she thought, To let him leave. To keep working on rebuilding the town here. To hope vagabonds like him are enough to keep whatever’s lurking out in the shadows at bay.

She furrowed her brow and looked to the adder stone she kept on her bedside table. No. She wouldn’t leave it like this. And she certainly wasn’t going to leave this situation in the hands of an excommunicated rogue. She rose to her feet, cleaned herself in her washbasin, put on her cleanest, strongest armor, and scrawled out a missive for her fellow guards, establishing the new chain of command in her absence. She sealed the missive with wax and set it on her table in the chamber of the captain of the guards. She wrote another, shorter, more sentimental letter for Torbjörn as well, and left that one on the desk of the castle’s man-at-arms. She packed a few days of supplies for herself and her horse, then mounted a bay rouncey and rode for the city gates.

True to his word, Jehoshaphat Maccrea of Helsing was waiting by the city gates in the mists of the following dawn. She didn’t like the smirk he gave her.

“I like you,” he said as they rode out of Adlersbrunn, leaving the stone of the city walls behind them and heading out into the surrounding farmland.

“And how did you decide that?” said Pharah.

“I like to think everyone’s got that hunger, that curiosity–it’d be too easy to lie down and let death take you otherwise, but few really follow it through to the end,” said Jesse.

“Would you still like me if I had chosen to stay behind?”

“Well I’d respect you, gotta respect anyone who protects their own, but it wouldn’t really matter if I liked you, would it? I’d be long gone.”

Pharah frowned a little, “I suppose so,” she said, looking off.

“I think it makes things more pleasant to like one’s traveling companion, don’t you?”

“I don’t have to like you,” said Pharah.

“It’d make things nicer if you did,” said Jesse with an easy smile.

“I wouldn’t be riding with an excommunicated scoundrel unless it meant making sure what happened to my city never happens again,” said Pharah.

“Scoundrel?” Jesse repeated.

“Yes, scoundrel. It sort of comes with the whole ‘excommunicated’ thing,” said Pharah.

“That is exactly the kind of black and white thinking that’s gonna get you killed out there,” said Jesse.

“I thought you said you’d probably die if you didn’t have me backing you up?” said Pharah.

“I probably would,” Jesse conceded. 

“That’s morbid,” said Pharah as they rode past a pumpkin patch. She wondered if it was the one they found the blood in.

“Didn’t you say you wanted me to be as honest as I can with you?” said Jesse.

Pharah furrowed her brow and readjusted herself in her saddle.

“This is why I don’t have to like you,” said Pharah, looking straight forward as they rode.

“That’s why I like you,” said Jesse with a smirk. She didn’t like that smirk.

—–

Mercy woke the morning after the banquet in a haze of half-sleep. The moans coming from the courtyard of the monastery from the cultists’ revelries lasted into the gray light of dawn. She did her best to try and push what was going on to the back of her consciousness, to treat it like the night birds of the woods or the wind blowing through the trees, but she knew the forests of Adlersbrunn were far behind her now. 

She rose up to a seated position in bed and looked out her window. A part of her was regretting leaving such a remote sanctuary as this, especially with so much still to learn from its library, but at the same time, the previous night had confirmed her feelings that she didn’t really have a place here. The monastery had the feel of a swirling vortex, like the dark portals Zenyatta could summon–and the flame of creation within her thrashed against that void like a wild bird caged. She washed and dressed herself, then proceeded to the library of the monastery for one last look through for anything that might help her better understand the Flame of Creation–a long shot, in a temple to the void, but a shot worth making all the same.

Her perusing though the shelves of the library was half-distracted by her own plans for the journey. She knew she and Genji had agreed to go west, and the Monastery sat on some grim black sea cliffs that.. treacherous as they were, would at least provide a decent amount of visual reference of the area for them to make significant headway in their journey–easier than wandering through the woods, at least. She decided would swing by the refectory for some supplies for their journey when she next met up with Genji. She wondered if he would want human food of if he would prefer to take the form of a sparrowhawk and just swoop up whatever unfortunate creature he could for convenience’s sake. He was certainly strong enough to help carry some supplies–no, no, he was her protector, not her porter. She would carry her pack for herself.

 She was distractedly looking at the illustration in some text of what was supposedly erotic Enochian poetry but just looked like a mass of wings and eyes and circles when Junkenstein suddenly stumbled, swaying as he brought himself to his full height.

Oh that’s right, she thought, with a brief beat of ‘Oh gods, what’s going to happen,’ He was at the banquet too.

“Hoo!” Junkenstein stretched his arms above his head, “What a night!”

Mercy bit the inside of her lip and smiled a little as he walked over. A bit relieved that this was another instance in which she could trust Junkenstein to be Junkenstein.

“You enjoyed the banquet?” said Mercy, glancing up.

“Well that was… anthropologically fascinating. Not a religious man myself but… I understand the appeal.”

Mercy just grinned. “How did they take to your creation?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Oh they like him. I got so much data on his…” Junkenstein cleared his throat, “Social capabilities.”

“Really?” said Mercy.

“Well they aren’t picky about tentacles, so I imagine there’s not a whole lot they are picky about,” said Junkenstein, “And if he has the approval of old Squidface, they’re all over him.”

“Well that’s good,” said Mercy, “I do worry about him… I suppose I worry about all of us having a place in this world…”

“I had to shovel some of them off of him this morning,” said Junkenstein, “Tragically he rolled over on one but, y’know with all the stabbing they do, they don’t get all that upset about that sort of stuff.”

“You still want to leave with us?” said Mercy.

“I told you, you wouldn’t last a second without us,” said Junkenstein, smiling, “Just… don’t mind me if I’m walking funny for the next few days. Well.. funnier than usual.” Junkenstein paused, “You and the demon took off soon as the meal was over, didn’t you?” 

“Well after all the excitement back in Adlersbrunn, I didn’t really have the energy for all that revelry,” said Mercy.

“Right, and you certainly weren’t sneaking off for some moments of privacy with the demon you keep insisting to me that you can’t trust.” 

“He was just making sure I made it back safely to my chambers,” said Mercy, folding her arms.

“Suuuuuure,” said Junkenstein with a wink.

“He was!” said Mercy.

“Nothing happened, I mean–I was covering my face and he kissed my knuckles but that was it. We went to bed—or I went to bed and he… I don’t know. He just flies off at night sometimes. Maybe he turned into a wolf and ate some rabbits or something.”

“You’re joking,” said Junkenstein.

“Look, my cat broke a tea leaf pot, we worked out a deal, he held up his end of the deal, and I spat some blood into his mouth so he wouldn’t die, that doesn’t mean we’re soulmates–” 

“Conveniently leaving out the dramatic rescue (with help from yours truly, of course), riding him in dragon form out of the city—”

“Sprouting wings…” Mercy admitted.

“Sprouting wings!” Junkenstein pointed an accusing finger at her, “Not to mention all the dancing by the light of the cultist fires—”

“What is your point, Jamison?” 

“You’re in deep, Gramercy. I know you. You make a point of not getting in deep with anyone, and as your friend I think I have a responsibility to let you know when you are a lot more emotionally involved with someone than you’re telling yourself you are—especially when, as you said, we may have broken something, we may be kicking off something big that none of us has any control over. And I think we should all be on the same page if we’re going to be traveling together—”

He was cut off by the sound of the door opening, not with the usual grunting of whoever was pushing it open. Both Mercy and Junkenstein looked up to see Zenyatta at the doorway of the library. He hadn’t even pushed on the door, but it had opened for him. Perhaps the stone of this monastery obeyed him just as loyally as any of the cultists.

“Witch,” Zenyatta spoke to Mercy, the tentacles of his face slowly shifting with thought, “A word?”

Mercy looked at Junkenstein.

“Don’t let me hold you up,” said Junkenstein with a shrug, “I’ll keep making the preparations.”

Mercy nodded and walked out of the library.

—–

“So you and Genji are departing?” said Zenyatta as they walked on the cliffs outside the monastery, the white waves and green brackish water crashing on the black rocks below.

“With your permission, of course,” said Mercy, “Genji is my protector, but he was your student before that. I would hate to undermine that. And it is nice to have a place to stay where I’m not too worried of being burned at the stake. But seeing as I am not a cultist myself I don’t want to impose too much on your hospitality.”

“You have my permission–” said Zenyatta, “There are few places you or Genji could travel in this plane that I wouldn’t know where you were.”

 A long pause passed between them.

“Was there something in particular you wished to discuss?”

“Earlier this morning I asked Genji a few questions about the nature of your relationship—what his plans for the future were. He stated that, as payment for his protection, you would give him your first-born.”

“…That was our deal, yes,” said Mercy, pausing to pick some samphire from a cleft in one of the black rocks.

“And are you aware that I have known the Goddess Satya for longer than mankind has walked the earth? And you can assume, thusly, that I was there when we both gathered our first worshippers?”

“I… I can assume that, yes,” said Mercy.

“And as such I am aware of both the abilities and the physical limitations of those who bear Satya’s flame of creation,” said Zenyatta. His voice deepened and suddenly seemed to surge around her like water , “No seed of man can flourish in a field of fire.”

Another long pause passed before Mercy drew herself to her full height.

“Have you told Genji?” she asked calmly.

“That you cannot give him a first-born? No. No, I haven’t,” said Zenyatta, looking out to the ocean, “I am his teacher, but I find some of the hardest lessons are the ones he must learn on his own. I suggest you break the news to him. Do it on your own terms while you still can.”

“I will,” said Mercy.

“Will you?” Zenyatta’s tentacles tensed.

“The only reason I lied in the first place was because–well, I suppose since he was a demon, I assumed he wouldn’t keep his word, so there was no more harm in me not keeping mine. But he saved my life, he protected me, true to his word. So I will tell him,” she bit the inside of her lip, “When the time’s right.”

“Do you fear his wrath?” said Zenyatta.

“I don’t know,” said Mercy, “He’s always going on about how dangerous he is, and his swift and mighty sword but…” Mercy huffed, “I think I fear hurting him, more–but—that’s silly, isn’t it? I mean, isn’t it more horrible of him to want a newborn baby? He’s probably going to–to-eat it or something, isn’t he?”

“He wouldn’t eat it,” said Zenyatta.

“You know why he wants one?” said Mercy.

“I do,” said Zenyatta.

 “You must tell me what for!” said Mercy.

“That is for him to tell you,” said Zenyatta, “Just as this is for you to tell him.”

“For an all-knowing god, that isn’t very helpful,” said Mercy, folding her arms.

“As is the case with most gods, ‘All-knowing’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘helpful,’” said Zenyatta.

Mercy heard a screech and turned her head to see a handsome silvery skua diving amongst the waves. It wheeled in the white foam, then seemed to catch sight of them and swoop toward them with a cry. The skua swept in overhead, turned in a somersault, and then shape-shifted into a scarred man in black and purple cultist robes, landing lightly on his feet.

“I was wondering where you two were!” said Genji, stretching his arms above his head. “I’ve missed the brisk sea air of your monastery, Master, it saddens me to leave it. But the world calls me–does it not call you, Witch?”

“There is a lot to learn out there,” said Mercy.

“If you have a journey, you have a journey,” said Zenyatta, putting a hand on his shoulder, “You will always have a place here.”

“Thank you, Master,” said Genji, before smiling and looking at Mercy, “And what of you, Witch? Are you ready to leave as well?”

Mercy tucked her hair back and found she was gripping the samphire she had plucked with white knuckles, “I–yes–yes I am,” she said, looking up at Genji.

—-

“Remind me again, the point of this,” said Gabriel as he and Moira stood in an ornate septagonal chamber. The chamber had six mirrors, one on each wall, with the exception of the wall containing the door they had just walked through to enter.

“You now walk a line between two worlds, Gabriel,” said Moira, walking to the mirror closest to them, “If we are to free you from the witch’s magic, we will need the help of others who walk that same line.”

Gabriel would have frowned if his pumpkin head was capable of any other expression.

“We’re bringing more demons into this?” said Gabriel, “More damned?”

“If the flame of creation is ignited and spreading in the mortal world, then war is coming. A war between the seen and unseen. We will need allies,” said Moira.

“I was already fighting that war,” said Gabriel.

“You were a child digging a line in a sand to catch the waves washing in amongst his ankles. The tide is coming in now,” said Moira, putting a hand to the glass, “I doubt your god is on your side now, so you will have to make do with me.”

The glass seemed to shift and melt under her touch, their reflections dissolving into darkness and mist. Moira held out her other hand to him and he took it, and they both took a few brisk steps through. There was a sound like the last bits of water in a tub rushing down the drain, and then a brief dipping sensation, like reaching the bottom of the stairs, expecting floor, and finding there was another stair, and then they found themselves on a stone threshold in a high-ceilinged stone room. There was a guard slumped against the wall, dressed in a fine uniform of black velvet and partially leaning on his halberd like a drunkard on a lamppost. He shook himself up to attention as Gabriel’s boots thudded clumsily on the stone floor and he flinched hard at the sight of Moira.

“Oh merde–” he drew a horn from the interior of his cloak and blew it in a stumbling fanfare. Four other guards suddenly charged into the room, halberds at the ready and looked genuinely stunned at the appearance of Moira and Gabriel. He had a corpse-like scent hanging about him that Gabriel thought should bother him more than it did. He noticed his sense of smell was a lot stronger now than it had been when he was alive. He didn’t like it. He couldn’t shut out senses to sleep–he wasn’t even sure if he could sleep anymore.

“Announce my arrival to your comtesse and have her gather her court,” said Moira.

“Th-The comtesse is indisposed—” the guard stammered.

“Do you know why she had this mirror in her chateau?” said Moira, stepping forward.

“Y-yes, Madame, but–”

“But? But what?”

There was a brief tense silence in the room.

“But… the last time you were here was, according to the records, 114 years ago,” said another guard.

“And?” said Moira, “Was there an expiration date set on the terms of her recognition of my sovereignty?” 

“N-no, Madame–”

“Then have her gather her court,” said Moira.

“You heard our honored guest,” said another voice, smoky and smirking. There was a purple flash and guards parted to reveal a woman in an armored doublet and a black hood. She seemed to be fussing with the last buckles of her doublet, and a few stray strands of dark hair hung out from under her hood, as if she had just been roused from bed. Human. Gabriel could smell it on her, warm, and distinct from the rest of the guards. He could smell a faint stench of death on her too, but it clung to her skin like a lover. He could smell magic on her, too, but not like the Witch, more like the metallic smell that issued off of his own adder stone after he had it for years.

“Who are you?” said Moira.

“I serve the comtesse. Come with me,” said the woman, walking out of the room. Moira and Gabriel followed after, 

“You would think the comtesse would keep her estate in better condition,” murmured Moira, “Guards in disarray… food lying around…”

All of the guards escorting them toward the throne room suddenly stopped. The woman glanced over her shoulder at Moira and Gabriel.

“What?” said Moira.

One of the guards leaned close to the hooded woman, “What would you have us do, Spymaster?”

The spymaster shrugged, “She is visiting royalty. Let her have her words. They reflect more on her than on me. Just continue escorting our guests to the throne room.”

“Spymaster?” Moira repeated, incredulously, “Since when would the comtesse keep a human spymaster?!”

“We’re very progressive here,” said the spymaster, a smile in her voice.

There was a brief second where Moira’s eyes flashed yellow, cruel and dead like ghost lights, and a few white streaks suddenly threaded through her hair, but she seemed to regain her composure and her eyes and hair returned to normal.

“Hard to keep the glamour up when you’re mad, huh?” said the spymaster, as they continued down the halls. 

“I know saplings older than you, little insect,” Moira scowled.

“Invite them to court, then,” said the Spymaster, pushing open two massive doors into a throne room. 

The comtesse sat on a throne in the center of the room, a guard at either side of her. Her skin was deathly white, her lips were red and wet, her eyes were yellow as an owl’s, and her black hair was tied back in a loose and low ponytail in a red velvet ribbon. She wore a loose white shirt, the frilled collar of it plunging to her sternum, and high-waisted black trousers. She leaned her head against the knuckles of her hand, looking like all patience was already exhausted by the time court was called.

“Queen Máire. It has been some time,” said the comtesse, not making any movement to rise from her seat as the spymaster took her place at her side.

“Comtesse Amélie,” Moira bowed.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Amélie.

“Would that I could have called in happier times, comtesse,” Moira started.

“Only had 114 years,” the spymaster whispered into the comtesse’s ear and the comtesse snickered.

Moira briefly bristled but continued, ignoring the slight. “I’m sure by now you have already heard of the events at Adlersbrunn,” she said. 

“Yes,” said the Comtesse, “My spymaster is very good at keeping me abreast of the news of the world.”

“Then you know that that news shall spread. It spreads faster in shadows but soon, more mortal ears will hear of it, and more weapons will be drawn against us,” Moira gestured at Gabriel, “I have with me the first casualty of the war to come–bound by magic in servitude to a human, denied the dignity of death.” 

“So the pumpkin’s not a fashion choice?” said the spymaster, leaning against the throne.

“This is a perversion of what magic is supposed to be!” said Moira, gesturing at Gabriel, “This is pain and suffering, wrought by human hands!”

Thanks, thought Gabriel, who would have rolled his eyes if his pumpkin head allowed it.

“And it was wrought by the flame of creation,” said Moira, “Something never meant for a human to wield!”

The comtesse sat up in her seat slightly, apparently more interested now. “The flame of creation hasn’t been snuffed out?”

“It nearly was, but apparently it has been passed down, from human witch to human witch,” said Moira, “I can see through the eyes of crow and hare and hound, but you, comtesse, have far more eyes on wings. If the flame of creation is spreading through the world, then that means this world will re-make itself. It means that war is coming. And I would ask for your allegiance in the war that is to come. Lend me your eyes. Join your strength with mine, and we may survive it.”

The comtesse kept a steady, yellow-eyed look at Moira and Gabriel, and then sat up in her seat slightly. She put a hand on the shoulder of her spymaster and they shared a few whispers. The spymaster shook her head and the comtesse seemed thoughtful for a few seconds, then whispered something more to the spymaster. The spymaster gave a shrugging concession and the comtesse seemed satisfied before turning her attention back to Moira and Gabriel.

“I do not deny that a war is coming, my Queen,” said the comtesse, sitting up in her seat in a bit more stately fashion, “However, my kind can endure through war, and it has endured by not drawing attention to itself. We will clean up the bodies, we will keep ourselves fed, perhaps even grow our ranks in the bloodshed that is to come, but only a few of my kind can even walk in daylight-and we have come to far more…” she glanced at her spymaster, “Symbiotic relations with the humans in our land rather than isolating ourselves. War may be coming, but I will not seek it. Not until it is fully necessary.”

“But our allegiance–” Moira started.

“Was one of non-aggression,” said the Comtesse, “I remember the terms well. But my duty is to my people, first and foremost. Surely your majesty understands that?”

“Of course,” said Moira through gritted teeth.

“Is there any other way I may be of service to you, your majesty?” asked the comtesse.

“No,” Moira’s voice was sharp and brittle.

“You are welcome to stay in the château for as long as–” 

“I have my own estate,” said Moira, drawing herself up to her full height, “I thank you for your time.”

“I understand. Guards, see to it that her majesty finds her way back to the mirrorgate,” said the comtesse, “It’s been an honor, Queen Máire.”

“Lady Amélie,” Moira said with a bow before turning on her heel and walking out with Gabriel and the guards.

Gabriel didn’t say anything as they were guided back to the room with the mirror in it. And he found it prudent not to mention the streaks of white that where threading through Moira’s hair with fury as they walked. They stepped back through the mirror with little ceremony and after another stomach-turning trip through darkness, found themselves back in the septagonal room of Moira’s own underground queendom.

“Well…” said Gabriel folding his arms, “That was a wash.”

“It wasn’t,” said Moira, looking back in the mirror and inhaling to bring her hair back to its previous red shade.

“Please tell me we aren’t going to try the other five mirrors,” said Gabriel.

“No, not yet. I believe it should be very easy to convince the Comtesse to see our view of things,” said the Moira.

“She sounded pretty sure of herself back there,” said Gabriel.

“There’s more than one way to make your point,” said Moira, alighting a violet sphere of black magic in one hand.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” said Gabriel.

“I said I would help break the magic binding you, Gabriel,” said Moira, “I didn’t say you would like it.”

Chapter Text

The chambers of Comtesse Amélie were ornate–the rest of the château had an imposing grace about it, but there was an odd sort of warmth about the room, lit by candles as dawn bled pink against the horizon out the window. Amélie knew she would have to rest soon, but it did give her unbeating heart a thrill to see just how far she could push things to spend time with her spymaster before descending down to the château’s cellars to rest.

The comtesse had no reflection, but still she brushed her hair, seated in front of a mirror, watching the hairbrush in the reflection over and sweep down with each stroke.

“Do you think we were too harsh?” asked Amélie.

“She waltzes in with no warning after dead silence for 114 years and expects you to lend swords to her aid just because some idiot got stuck with a pumpkin head?” said her spymaster, looking down the sights of her crossbow, “If the fairies are as about hospitality and customs as they say they are, I think she’d treat you with a little more respect.”

“Or did you push me the other way because she called you ‘food?’” asked Amélie, smirking.

“Well in her defense, I am delicious,” said the spymaster, plopping down into the comtesse’s lap. 

“You’re ridiculous,” said Amélie, waving the hairbrush in her face in a mock-scolding manner.

“But no, I had better reasons than that,” said the spymaster, staying Amélie’s scolding hand with her own.

“If you fear war against the humans, I could always turn you,” said Amélie, “It wouldn’t even hurt…”

“I appreciate the offer,” said the spymaster, “But not yet. I can’t give up daylight just yet. And I don’t think plunging into all-out war is going to be good for anyone.”

“On that we agree,” said Amélie, looking at the window, wondering how few minutes she had left.

“You know we built something good here,” said the spymaster, taking the hairbrush and turning it over in her hand to see the filigree on the back, “And the fairies are always going on about the encroaching destructive force of man–and I’m pretty sure that’s because they refuse to adapt. And that whole perversion of magic thing–I mean, isn’t the whole point of magic that it does things that don’t usually happen? Things that aren’t supposed to happen?”

“The flame of creation alight in the world does concern me,” said Amélie.

“I could track it down for you,” said the Spymaster with a shrug, setting the hairbrush down on the vanity, “I can track pretty much anything, you know. I think that would show Her Royal Pain-in-the-Ass.”

“I know, my love–” Amélie pressed her fingertips to her forehead with a headache of the encroaching dawn, “But the last place it was seen was burned to the ground–”

“Not completely burned,” said the spymaster.

“Sombra,” Amélie closed her eyes and furrowed her brow. She should have been heading down to the cellar now. She knew that–she also liked keeping Sombra in her lap a bit longer.

“Scared about your poor delicate human pet?” said Sombra, folding her arms.

“You’re not my–” Amélie huffed, “You like getting a rise out of me.”

“I do,” Sombra grinned.

“But if there is a change in the wind as the queen said, we must be cautious,” said Amélie, “You can investigate, but use a gentle touch–if you do find the flame, don’t engage with it, just report back to me.”

“Fine…” Sombra said with a sigh, “Now, someone’s got a dirt-filled coffin with her name on it.” she playfully tapped the tip of the comtesse’s nose and Amélie rolled her eyes.

“Perhaps I’ll stay a few days in it this time… join you in the daylight…” said the comtesse.

“If that’s what my comtesse desires,” said Sombra, slipping from her lap and helping her to her feet, “I can keep things tied down while you build up your strength.”

“Mm,” Amélie leaned some weight against Sombra as they moved out of the room and down a winding staircase down to the cellar, and from the cellar to a vault with two guards posted outside of it, standing at alert and pushing the heavy oaken doors open for them and followed them inside. A baroque coffin sat on a large stone altar that looked far older than everything else in the vault, and judging by the Merovingian-era carvings decorating it, probably was far older. Whether it had been brought to this place when the Château was built, or the chateau was built around it, Sombra never thought to ask. She wondered, sometimes, if her comtesse was the only comtesse the Château ever had, if anyone had bore the title before her, or if she had always ruled and simply took that particular title when it came into fashion. The guards lifted the lid off of the coffin, and the comtesse set her pale hand against the dark loamy earth within. She bent and breathed in the scent of it before climbing up into the coffin with as much grace as she would mount a horse with. She sat in the dirt-filled coffin and ran a hand along its side.

“You could join me,” she said to Sombra.

“Yeah but then I’d have to get up to pee, and I’d have to climb all over you, and then get the lid up–it would just be a mess,” said Sombra with a sly grin, “Plus, I did say I would keep things tied down while you rested.”

“Don’t get too old while I’m sleeping,” the comtesse quipped.

“Maybe don’t sleep too long,” said Sombra, arching an eyebrow. She took the comtesse’s hand and kissed it, “Until next you wake, my lady.”

“My love,” the comtesse took the spymaster’s chin in her hand and pushed up slightly so that Sombra was looking at her, she kissed her on the corner of her mouth, “My heart,” there was no warmth of breath against Sombra’s face, but the words seemed to lace themselves around her and sink into her skin as the comtesse pulled away and the two guards lifted up the coffin lid to set it back down.

“Sweet dreams,” said Sombra as Amélie laid down and closed her eyes as the coffin lid closed over her. The final dragging thud of the coffin lid finding its place elicited a short huff from Sombra. She folded her arms, looking pensive for a few brief moments, staring at the coffin, before sharply lifting her head and looking at the guards. “What are you staring at? You know the drill. To your posts. Nothing harms the comtesse while she sleeps.”

“Yes spymaster,” the guards said in unison as Sombra walked out of the vault. She caught a few hours of sleep for herself on the comtesse’s bed in her chambers. She sometimes envied the farmers and their clockwork sleeps in the valleys out past the chateau’s lake–she couldn’t remember the last time she slept all night and was awake all day, but then again, she didn’t particularly care to remember life before the comtesse. It was about midday when the guards roused her from her sleep as per her orders, she donned the doublet and armor of her office, and left the château on a little black mare to survey the comtesse’s lands and see if the queen’s prophecies of fire and doom rang true.

—–

“They really overdo it, don’t they?” said Mercy, watching as a cultist walked by with a large sack of feed.

“What do you mean?” said Genji, stroking one of the horse’s muzzles.

“All this!” said Mercy, gesturing at the covered wagon, “I didn’t see any stables around the monastery, where did they even get horses?”

“Master just pulls stuff like that out of portals sometimes–” said Genji, shrugging, “He can pull out pretty much anything that’s fallen into the void.”

“Horses,” Mercy repeated flatly as a cultist took her bag from her hands and tossed it in the back of the wagon, “He can just… pull horses out of the void.”

“He is a god,” said Genji.

Mercy’s lips drew to a thin line. “Of course,” she said with an eye roll.

“I thought it prudent,” said Zenyatta, “It would eliminate a lot of variables–provide some rudimentary shelter when you are between villages, give you a chance to read that.” He pointed to the Vitae book under Mercy’s arm.

“Oh–I was just–” Mercy held the book up, “You can–”

“The point of a library is lending books. Not letting them rot on shelves. You have a way of breathing life into things, Gramercy, I believe that book is a good fit for you,” said Zenyatta.

Mercy looked down sheepishly, “I don’t know how to begin thanking you for your kindness…” she said softly.

“Simply pay that selfsame respect to your traveling companions,” said Zenyatta with a bow of his head.

Yes. Very subtle. He might as well have lit up the words ‘Tell Genji You’re Magically Sterile’ in pink and green flames above his head, thought Mercy.

“I will do my best,” said Mercy.

“Fare ye well, stabby cultists!” said Junkenstein, waving toward the monastery, “Perhaps one day we shall return! Isn’t that right, my creation?” he looked back at his monster to see several cultists crowding around him and smearing protective runes in ashes and water over his massive green belly. “Oi-oi! Oi! Say your goodbyes and be done with it! We’ve had quite enough of rituals and whatnot!”

The monster gave a “hrmm” and a reassuring pat on the head of one of the cultists as they stepped back from him with one stern look from Zenyatta.

“Take this,” said a cultist, pushing a mass of black cloth into the monster’s arms, “The outside world is full of heretics. Many of them will not recognize your magnificence as a golem blessed by Zenya’taa. You should conceal your form.”

The monster let the cloth unfurl and saw it was a large black cloak, which he fastened around his shoulders. The cultist had to stand on their tiptoes to secure the cloak with a brooch of uncut amethyst before slipping away back behind Zenyatta. The monster gave them a nod of approval and the cultist beamed beneath the shadows of their hood.

“Right then!” said Junkenstein, putting his hand on his hips, “Who shall take up the first leg of our journey?”

Mercy and Genji smiled nervously, but neither raised a hand or stepped forward.

“…neither of you know how to drive a cart, do you?” said Junkenstein, running a hand down his face.

“I can fly–” Genji started.

“I lived in the woods–!” Mercy started.

“I mean I can try, it should be fairly intuitive–” Genji started.

“Fine! Fine! I’m driving. But don’t think you two won’t be getting lessons!” said Junkenstein, clambering up onto the cart. The wood of the wagon creaked as the monster lumbered up into it, and Genji nimbly hopped up and held a hand out to help Mercy up into it.

“Everyone settled?” said Junkenstein over his shoulder.

Mercy, Genji, and the monster gave a nod. Junkenstein gave the reins a short flick and the horses started moving forward.

“Farewell, Master!” called Genji, waving out the back the wagon, “One day we will return with great tales of adventure and bloodshed!”

“If you ever get lonely, remember that the void will swallow up you and everything you’ve ever known and loved!” Zenyatta called back.

“Thanks!” Genji called back as Mercy awkwardly waved next to him.

With that, the creaking wagon was moving out down a narrow rocky path on the high sea cliffs away from the monastery. It rumbled and shuddered with the roughness of the path, but it was well made, it would do well for their journey. And the first leg of the journey was a long one, west across the windswept seaside highlands surrounding the monastery. Junkenstein quickly deduced west from the position of the sun, and it would be pretty easy to maintain that direction along the coastline. At least in theory. Mercy looked back at the monastery shrinking in the distance with no small amount of bittersweetness in her heart. She wondered if anyone would ever treat her as kindly as Zenyatta and the cultists there had. She wondered if she would be outrunning being burnt at the stake everywhere but there for the rest of her life.

“This is exciting!” said Genji, crossing his legs on the floor of the wagon, “I can’t remember the last time I traveled like this! I’m so used to taking the form of birds!”

Mercy snickered, “It’s just a wagon”

“You forget, I have been both demon and prince,” said Genji, folding his arms, “Now as we flee the prying eyes of those from Adlersbrunn who would hunt us, we must come up with new identities for ourselves! We are traveling in disguise! I will be… Genji.”

“Creative,” said Mercy.

“A dashing mercenary in the service of two traveling apothecaries and their…” Genji gestured at the monster, “Um… manservant.”

The monster made a noise that wasn’t too far from “ugh.”

“Apothecaries works…” said Mercy, looking over at Junkenstein, “As far as cover stories goes.”

“I’m fine with apothecaries,” said Junkenstein, only half-paying attention between them and driving the wagon, “But I’m not touching any piss! Well,” he caught himself, “Yes, I’ll synthesize the urea and ammonia from it, but I won’t be happy about it!”

“Well Genji had the advantage of no one knowing his name to begin with,” said Mercy, “But we should come up with other names as well.”

“…Fawkes,” said Junkenstein.

“Fawkes?” said Mercy.

“Y’know, it’s sneaky, like a fox,” said Junkenstein, “You’ll need a name too, Creation.”

The monster perked up.

“Something… dignified….What about Aldous Marion Shelley-Von Kuttner the third?”

The creature’s shoulders slumped.

“No?” said Junkenstein, “We’ll keep working on it.”

“What about you?” said Genji, looking at Mercy. 

Mercy stared out of the back of the wagon for a while, resting her hand in her chin. “Angela,” she said after a few seconds.

“Angela?” repeated Genji.

“Angela?” repeated Junkenstein.

“I don’t know… I always… I always had the name in my head,” said Mercy, “It’s…one of the only memories of my parents I have. But I don’t even know if it was my name or my mother’s name… maybe it was too early to even name me when they…” she trailed off and shook her head.

Genji reached forward and touched her forearm, and Mercy looked up at him.

“It’s….” she glanced off again, “It’s just a name I know I’ll respond to,” she said with a shrug.

“It’s a good name,” said Genji, “…and ironic as you probably think this sounds, it suits you.”

Mercy just scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“I mean it,” said Genji.

“And if you can’t trust your demons, who can you trust?” said Mercy, wryly.

“Exactly,” said Genji.

“So our cover story is set,” said Mercy.

“And look!” Genji pointed at his face.

“…What?” said Mercy, after a beat.

“Normal colored eyes,” said Genji, pointing at his, indeed brown, eyes. Genji pulled his lips back from his teeth, “No fangs,” he said, through gritted teeth.

“…And all it took was actually letting your scars show?” said Junkenstein, looking over his shoulder at Genji.

“I–yes…” said Genji, running two fingertips along a scar on his cheek, “But–it fits, doesn’t it? I am a dashing mercenary now.” 

“The look suits you, Genji,” said Mercy, smiling.

“Well, as long as you like it, Witch,” said Genji leaning in, slightly.

Junkenstein and the monster exchanged weary looks as Mercy giggled a little nervously and glanced off, blushing.

“It is exciting though, isn’t it?” said Genji, “The smell of salt and horses on the wind, the fact that we have no idea what lies ahead of us in the future, the past we have to escape…” He took a deep breath in, “No more hobbling about between village and town, Witch! We’re on an adventure, now!”

About an hour later Genji was lying flat on his back on the floor of the wagon, groaning and staring at the canvas that arched over them.

“How do you stand it?!” he said with a whine.

“How can you be alive for 600 years and get bored this easily?” said Mercy.

“Would we go faster if I turned into a third horse?” said Genji.

“Wagon isn’t rigged for three horses,” said Junkenstein.

“Uggggghhhhhhh,” Genji groaned.

—–

Pharah was sore. A few days of riding would do that to you. The sun as their guide, they were still stuck on the meandering path through Adlersbrunn’s forest. Jesse seemed to know where he was going, more than he was willing to let on. Theirs was a slow pace of stopping for nearly every passerby to try and ask for information. Every story was different, many stories were hearsay three times over, and on several occasions Pharah found herself correcting different would-be informants. The first few nights they slept in barns and the lofts of lumber mills, but now they were deep in the thick of the forest, they still had the path, but the next inn wasn’t for a few too many miles.

“We’ll make camp here,” said Jesse, swinging off his horse. 

“It’s barely twilight, there’s another hour of riding to be had,” said Pharah.

“Factor in finding firewood to keep the wolves off our backs?” Jesse suggested.

Pharah sighed and swung off her horse. With the last lumber mill behind them, the river running through Adlersbrunn had forked off into numerous winding creeks, still digging deep fissures into the soft forest earth. Any lumber heading west would have to do so by wagons on the path. Pharah watered and brushed down the horses. while McCree built some quick lean-tos and gathered firewood. By the time the sky had darkened, they had a surprisingly comfortable camp with a blazing fire. McCree apparently carried an obscene amount of smoke-dried venison in his saddlebags. The already gamey meat was rendered even tougher by his preservation, and the gnawing and chewing Pharah had to do just to keep the meat from chafing her throat kept conversation to a minimum. It slowed their eating enough so that they filled up fairly quickly while consuming little of their rations. When they had their fill, McCree lit a pipe and took a few puffs, offered it to her, and she declined.

“You’re used to this, aren’t you?” said Pharah, hugging her knees and looking at the fire, “You can set a camp quickly not just because it’s practical, but in case anyone refuses you shelter.”

“You’d be surprised how little it takes for most ‘kind and decent’ folk to turn their back on you,” said Jesse.

Pharah hugged her knees a little tighter and kept her eyes on the fire. “Why were you excommunicated?” she asked.

“I will tell you one day, you have my word on that,” said Jesse, “But I don’t think that day is here, yet.”

“I should like to know if you’re a witch or a heretic or just a bastard,” said Pharah.

“Well, thankfully, I’m none of those things. Maybe a little bit of the third thing, but my mother was a godly woman. She did her best.”

“What then?” said Pharah.

“There’s a time and place for these things,” said Jesse, puffing on his pipe.

“The time is now so I can trust you,” said Pharah, “Is it political? I–I’m willing to understand if it’s political.” 

“The fact that a church can be political means it’s probably further from being a church than it should be,” said Jesse, “Well–obviously your faith influences your politics, but I’m talking about the interior workings of indulgences and bishops and–never mind. Never mind all that. Anyway, never had the time to nail shit up on church doors myself.”

“So a little bit of a heretic then,” said Pharah.

“Are you willing to accept ‘little bit of a heretic’ for now?” said Jesse, a puff of smoke coming from the corner of his mouth, “I do want to tell you but… today is not that day for the story.” 

“Just… tell me: was it Reyes who ordered you excommunicated?” said Pharah.

“Does that matter?” Jesse tilted his head.

“Reyes is the only reason why I have any inclination to trust you,” said Pharah, “You had to be a good enough person at one point for him to take you under his wing. And…” she fished the adder stone out of her pocket, “He walks–walked… a gray path. Dogs protect sheep from wolves—”

“But all dogs were wolves once,” Jesse’s voice overlapped with hers.

Pharah stared at him, and in that flickering firelight she could swear she saw a flash of Reyes in Jehoshaphat Maccrea’s countenance. Determined, wearied by what he had seen, fearless and yet deeply sad.

“You’re wondering if just being in my presence will put you in the same place I am now,” said Jesse, “You want to keep doing Reyes’ work, but not if it means becoming an excommunicated piece of trash.”

“I don’t think you’re a piece of–” Pharah started but McCree’s eyes flicked up to her, looking sharp and almost brandy-colored in the firelight.

“I get it, you know,” said Jesse, poking at the campfire and sending up a brief burst of sparks, “You want to be able to return to the people you’re protecting and still be the person they know. Still be the person they love.”

Pharah was silent.

“I think we’ve all known enough soldiers in our lives to know that that’s not possible,” said Jesse.

Pharah looked up from the flames to Jesse. “You saw it in Reyes, too.”

“I saw it in Reyes. I see it in you. You wouldn’t be out here if you were the same person before you saw… whatever that witch did,” said Jesse. He pulled the pipe from the corner of his mouth and puffed out one last breath of smoke. “For as much as the word of an excommunicated scoundrel is worth–I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to keep you from falling into my position. You could be the next Reyes–Not me. Not anymore.”

“But how much is that word worth, Jesse?” a voice lilted through the canopy of trees overhead. Pharah’s hand went to her musket, the horses nickered anxiously, and Jesse drew his own matchlock pistol and slowly rose to his feet.

“Knew I should have strung up some garlic around camp before we settled down,” he muttered, his eyes flicking around the trees. 

“Oh you know garlic can’t stop me,” the voice responded with a snicker.

There was a rustle of leaves and a figure dropped down behind him and he pivoted on his heel, pistol at the ready, only to find himself facing down a loaded and tensed crossbow, the point of its bolt poking against his chest. His eyes flicked up from the crossbow to its owner, a woman in a black hood and armored doublet, grinning a grin that still barbed his heart when he thought about it too long.

“Sombra,” said Jesse, his eyes narrowing.

“Been a while,” said Sombra.

“You know her?!” said Pharah.

“It’s a long story–” Jesse started.

“And it’s one for ‘another day, ain’t it, Jesse?’” said Sombra, mockingly imitating Jesse’s timbre.

Pharah was already scrambling for the powder horn of her musket but Sombra drew a smaller matchlock pistol from her hip and had it pointed at Pharah before she could load the musket balls. Pharah was forced to freeze where she was.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” said Sombra, “You two are going to tell me everything you know about the flame of creation and the town that burned down. Sound good?”

Chapter Text

A crowd had gathered in a tavern, but there was little overlap of voices from the interior. No laughter, no clanging of glasses and steins and cups. No music, but it was packed to the walls, and even a few who opted to smoke their pipes out in the night air hung close to the windows and doors to listen to the speaker rail. On any other night she would probably be ignored and shooed away to let the tavern customers enjoy their food and drink after a long hard day’s work, but this was not that night.

“The fire surged up from the platform in a blinding column that pierced the very skies!” the old woman wailed, “I saw a man’s eyeballs boil and burst in their sockets with the sheer heat coming off of it!”

One woman sitting at the bar gagged and set down her cup at the mere thought of it, and the other tavern patrons kept listening, transfixed.

“I was lucky enough to escape with only these,” The woman pulled her sleeve up from her arm, revealing splashes of weeping blisters and pink and puckered flesh, burn scars all over her skin. Her shoulders bunched up, “But just when the worst of the fires died down, horrible shapes of darkness shot up from the earth, as well! Inky black limbs! Like great serpents! Tore men clear in twain! I lost my dear husband,” she continued, letting the sleeve slip back over her arm, “Our home, which we lived in for nigh on 40 years together… was burned to ash. I have nothing now. Only a warning on my lips, for all of you: There is evil in this world. There is evil and it will come for you and everything you love. Witches. Monsters. The dead, wrenched back up from the earth to walk as great abominations–They’re coming. Will you let your town be like Adlersbrunn? Will you watch it burn?”

“The comtesse will protect us,” one voice piped up and the old woman furrowed her brow, peering through the crowd to see a blonde boy in a blue hooded cloak, not even old enough to grow a beard.

“Your comtesse?” said the old woman, pushing through the crowd to his table. She put her hands on the table before him, her yellowed fingernails scraping across the wood, “Your comtesse will protect you?”

“She’s done it before,” the boy managed, not making eye contact, “The elders say–”

“Your comtesse is just as much a monster as the rest of them,” said the old woman, “The only reason she protects you because she sees you as livestock,” the old woman looked around the tavern, “A peaceful land, a quiet people… I suppose it’s easy to ignore what she is when she gives you that. You send your rapists and your murderers to her chateau, never worry about them again, and it seems a perfectly good arrangement. What would happen if her hunger deepens, I wonder? Maybe she’ll ask for the thieves. For the poachers. Maybe she’ll ask for those who speak up against her. How easy will it be for your neighbors to ignore it when it’s your neck beneath her throat?”

The boy in the blue hood swallowed hard and took a gulp of his cider, giving a glance to the group he had come in with. That hesitation on his end now transformed to that same enthrallment as everyone else in the tavern. Almost everyone else.

Gabriel watched as the old woman went on about horrible black tentacles and walls of flame and scanned the room. The glamour Moira had set on him itched–well, itched wasn’t the right word. He could see and hear everything clearly, but still had the sensation of having his head submerged in something thicker than air. He had to keep his distance from the crowd. Gabriel looked like a normal man, but if a careless hand brushed against his head they would feel not the cloth of his hood but the smooth outer rind of pumpkin. He wondered if people could smell the pumpkin on him. Gabriel’s eyes flicked away from the old woman to a figure dressed in black and scarlet in the corner of the tavern, his eyes obscured by the wide brim of his cavalier hat. He had chosen a similar position as Gabriel, albeit in a mirrored position–back to the wall, close to the exit, easy to keep an eye on the entire room. There were points when Gabriel could feel the man’s eyes on him, though he didn’t get a chance to see the man’s eyes himself.

“I’m not asking for money, good people,” said the old woman, “I’m not even asking for a place to stay the night. I’m only asking… that you do not let the tragedy at Adlersbrunn repeat itself. Protect yourselves. Don’t even give them the chance to make the first move, if your situation permits it.”

A murmur rolled through the tavern. Some, like the boy in the blue hood, were speaking quiet hesitating words to their fellow patrons–things had been good, hadn’t they? Things had been good for a while now. But the word ‘Livestock’ had struck a nerve with nearly everyone in the tavern. Adlersbrunn was far enough away so that the horror story was just that–but seeds of doubt had been planted, that much was clear.

The man in black and scarlet got up and Gabriel followed him with his eyes as he passed through the door.

Gabriel got up himself and stepped close to the door.

“Blessings on you all–god knows you’ll need them,” said the old woman as Gabriel passed through the door and she followed him out. They put some distance between themselves and the tavern in silence, the old woman hobbling grumpily at his side before they reached a copse that provided them significant coverage.

“If you weren’t a queen, I’d say you should join an acting troupe,” said Gabriel.

“My people invented theater. Play-acting sprung up almost as early as language,” the old woman said, with the shakiness of age completely removed from her voice as she straightened herself up from her previously hunched position. She frowned and muttered, “Stinks of metal around here. The sooner we get back, the better.”

“I don’t like this,” said Gabriel, as Moira cast off her glamour, the wrinkles on her face disappearing to reveal her true sharp and narrow features.

“I didn’t say you would like this,” said Moira, snapping her fingers and taking the glamour off of his own head, his pumpkin head casting an eerie orange light on their copse.

“You want to start a war,” said Gabriel.

“I want to find your witch. You say your first job as a witch hunter is to find out the truth of things, isn’t it?” said Moira, shaking her frazzled gray hair into a sleek red cropped cut, “Should these people not know the truth?”

“I’d say there’s a decent amount of distance between ‘knowing the truth’ and ‘being incited to panic,’” said Gabriel.

“You said yourself the comtesse was damned.”

“And you said she walks a line between two worlds.”

“Very soon none of us are going to have the luxury of walking that line. She can’t just play house with her little human pet. I have to make her see that–” Moira suddenly cut herself off, “We’re not alone.”

“The man in scarlet–” Gabriel started.

“I saw him too,” said Moira, looking around the copse. With a flick of her wrist she ignited a small sphere of yellow light over her hand, lighting up the copse. Gabriel walked around the copse as well, looking for a cavalier hat poking out from behind the trees. He found could see better in the dark with the new form the witch and Moira had cursed him with. There was a rustle of leaves overhead and Gabriel looked up to see the man in black and scarlet perched on a tree limb just above him. Now looking up at him, Gabriel could make out more of his features: dark skinned and handsome in his fine clothes, but shrewd and cold in his expression. Gabriel could hardly blame him. They had just been slandering his employer for most of the night, anyway. Gabriel could finally see his eyes now, as well–yellow. Glowing. Not human. No trace of fear even at Gabriel’s own true and horrible pumpkin-headed appearance. As soon as they looked at each other, the man hiding in the tree suddenly dissolved into red mist and there was the sound of fluttering wings and a screech as a massive bat–its wingspan as large as Gabriel’s own arm span—took off out of the copse.

“Eyes on wings,” said Moira, watching as the bat flew off as fast as it could.

“I take it we probably shouldn’t let him get back to the comtesse,” said Gabriel.

“No,” said Moira, the glowing yellow sphere in her hand turning purple, “No, we shouldn’t.”

She said something then. Something in a tongue-before-tongues that made Gabriel’s pumpkin head buzz, and the purple sphere hovering over her hand stretched and distorted and suddenly exploded into hundreds of crows, screeching and sweeping upward after the bat.

“Tear him apart,” Moira said softly, as the crows chased after the bat, their dark wings blotting out the stars.

—–

Jesse’s campfire crackled in the tense silence as he gauged the situation. The spymaster kept her two crossbows on both of them, her eyes flicking away from Jesse only briefly to make sure Pharah wasn’t moving toward her musket. The horses they had since blanketed and tethered watched the proceedings with dark glassy eyes, occasionally nickering nervously.

“Always a pleasure, Sombra,” said Jesse, still keeping his hands up.

“Afraid I’m here on business,” said Sombra, “Now. The Flame of creation. What do you know about it?”

“The flame of who, now?” said Jesse.

“Don’t play dumb,” said Sombra, poking the crossbow bolt more firmly against his chest, “The thing that burned down Adlersbrunn. The magic.”

“He wouldn’t know anything about it,” Pharah piped up.

“I’ve got this,” said Jesse.

“No, you clearly don’t,” said Pharah, slowly rising to her feet.

“Did I say you could get up?” said Sombra, she looked back at Jesse, “Who is this?”

“A friend,” said Jesse.

“And we all know things turn out so well for anyone who comes close to you,” said Sombra, flatly.

“I came on my own—” said Pharah, “I mean, yes, he invited me, but I’m here because of what you’re talking about. I was there when it happened. I was captain of the guard. He just showed up a day later.”

Sombra arched an eyebrow. “Captain of the guard? Seriously?” she glanced back at Jesse, “How much smoke did you blow up her ass to get her to come along with you?”

“She saw some shit,” said Jesse, “She wants to protect her town. I told her she might have a shot at tracking down the monsters that wrecked her town with me. Which is true.”

“Trouble is drawn to you,” Sombra conceded. She lowered her crossbow from where it was pointed at Pharah, but didn’t lower it from Jesse.

“I’ll tell you everything about what I saw there—” said Pharah.

“You don’t have to do that—” started Jesse.

“If you stop pointing those weapons at us,” said Pharah.

Sombra looked thoughtful for a few moments before lowering her other crossbow from Jesse.

“You’re lucky she’s here,” Sombra said, strapping one of the crossbows over her shoulder.

“Are you a hunter, like him?” said Pharah.

Sombra snickered. “I was,” she said.

Pharah gave a glance over to Jesse.

“We can trust her,” said Jesse, stiffly, “Trust her to be an asshole, at least.”

“We could discuss this in a far nicer place,” said Sombra, “You’re in the Comtesse’s lands–”

“Of course we are–” muttered Jesse.

“And there’s a lovely inn a ways north of here,” said Sombra, thoughtfully, “The owner owes me some favors—”

“Who doesn’t owe you favors?” Jesse snapped.

“You never were good at pricing your own skills, were you?” said Sombra with a sympathetic head-tilt before turning to Pharah. “Wouldn’t you like a feather bed? Something befitting of the office of guard captain and vagabond babysitter?”

Pharah gave another glance to Jesse in case he was sending her any “Please don’t agree to what she says or we will both die” signals but upon looking at him he just looked sullen.

Pharah looked back at the spymaster, “All I want is a way to stop that flame magic that destroyed my town,” she said, firmly, “Can your comtesse help with that?”

“Well that’s more complicated,” said Sombra, “But my comtesse has many years of experience in facilitating  the… intricacies of two different worlds. If at least one of us hears the whole story, I’m sure we can help you in some way.”

“Show me your neck,” said Jesse. 

“What?” said Pharah.

“Oh come on,” said Sombra.

“Neck,” said Jesse, his brow furrowed, “Or we’re not going anywhere.”

Sombra rolled her eyes and tossed back her hood, revealing a head of chin-length dark hair swept back from her face. She made an exaggerated gesture at her neck which was free of any marks, before bringing her hood back up.

“What was all that about?” said Pharah, glancing at Jesse.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Jesse.

“I’m going to worry about it,” said Pharah.

“Probably the smart thing to do,” said Jesse.

The horses suddenly snorted and restlessly thudded their hooves against the ground.

“What’s gotten into them?” said Pharah, moving to stand up.

“Hey! Nice and slow,” said Sombra.

Pharah kept her hands up and her eyes on Sombra as she stepped over to the horses to try and comfort them, but her own bay rouncey let out a frightened squeal.

“Jesse! Help me with them!” said Pharah, trying to avoid having her foot stepped on while trying to take the reins. 

“Do you hear that?” said Jesse, tilting his head slightly. 

“Yeah,” said Sombra, looking up as well.

Pharah was still distracted by the horses and wasn’t really sure what to listen for, but eventually the sound was inescapable. A dull roar of the calls and quorks of crows. Pharah glanced up to see a dark shape sweep across the gaps in the forest canopy, the only markers of its visibility were its wide wingspan blotting out the stars and the yellow eyes at its front, glowing like stars themselves. 

“Friend of yours?” said Jesse, looking to Sombra.

 “Shit…” Sombra said under her breath. They all covered their ears as the mass of crows swept overhead with a deafening swarm of caws. She noted their direction and frowned.

“Better go rescue your buddy,” said Jesse.

“Her buddy?” said Pharah.

“’I can see through the eyes of crow and hare and hound,’” Sombra repeated the words of the queen to herself.

“What did you just say?” said Jesse but Sombra ignored him and suddenly shoved past Pharah to the panicked horses. 

“They’re coming from the north,” Sombra put a hand to the bay rouncey’s neck and whispered in its ear, “Calm.”

The rouncey stopped beating the earth with his hooves and looked at her. “Good boy,” she said.

“How did you just–” Pharah started but Sombra was already casting off its blanket and hopping up astride it. “That’s my horse!” Pharah protested but found herself looking down the stock of Sombra’s crossbow again.

“It’s nothing personal,” said Sombra, turning the horse around.

“They’re flying. You won’t catch up to them on horseback,” said Jesse.

“I’m not going to where they are, I’m going to where they came from,” said Sombra. She undid the tether and heeled its sides with a ‘Hyah!’ 

“Are you kidding me?!” Pharah called after them as Sombra took off into the dark.

“Come on,” said Jesse, undoing the other tether and climbing up onto his own courser, “Won’t go as fast but there’s room for two.”

Pharah huffed, picked up her musket from next to her bedroll and shouldered it before climbing up onto the horse behind Jesse. 

“Do you have any idea where she’s going?”

“Nowhere good if a vampire was flying away from it,” said Jesse, urging the courser forward to keep Sombra in sight.

Pharah was quiet for a few seconds, her arms awkwardly around Jesse’s waist as they rode and she weighed his words.

“A what?” she said.

—–

The sun had set, but the wagon rumbled on and the monster snored, using the cloak one of the cultists had given him as a blanket. The road they rolled down had finally started to crawl inland from the coastal cliffs, and they passed through rolling green hills in their journey west. Mercy was frowning over the runes in the Vitae book and taking notes on them and their possible translations on little leafs of paper she had ferreted out from the library. Her charcoal pencil occasionally scratched out of place when they hit a bump in the road but she would smudge out the mistake with her thumb and do her best to scrawl it out correctly. Junkenstein kept driving their cart, his knee bouncing with his own manic stream of thoughts, and Genji’s own moans of boredom had quieted some time ago.

Mercy kept her voice low as she mouthed out the incantation on the page, holding the book in one hand and keeping her other hand at the level of her head, spreading her fingers.

Little flames no bigger than candlelights bloomed on her fingertips. She turned her wrist slowly, steadily, watching as the light of the flames streaked like gold ribbons, overlapping with each other into a wobbly gold ring of light and flames. She then traced out a rune within that ring of yellow-gold flame with her fingertip, and she flinched her hand back as the ring flipped and swiveled and spun into a fist-sized sphere of light, hovering, apparently of its own accord, over her hand.

“Oh hello, there,” she murmured, leaning in a little. She could hear whispers from the flame, just like the book had been whispering to her, then it fizzled out and disappeared.

“Hm,” Mercy furrowed her brow and looked back at the book. She felt Genji’s eyes upon her, and she glanced up to see him not moaning about his boredom on the floor of the wagon, but instead lying on his stomach, chin resting in one hand, watching her with fascination. He seemed to catch himself as soon as she made eye contact and cleared his throat and pushed himself up to a cross-legged sitting position.

“I was—I was just—um—You’re very good at that,” said Genji.

“Not really,” said Mercy, “If I could get the little flame to stay for more than a few seconds, then maybe I’d be good at it.”

“What sort of spell was that?” Genji tilted his head.

“Well from what I can translate—and I really hope I’m translating it correctly—it’s supposed to manifest healing power from my body—“

“From the flame of creation,” said Genji.

“Gramercy, we’ve barely had the wagon a day—can we not burn it down?” said Junkenstein.

“It’s a flame of creation, Jamison, I don’t think it’s going to burn down anything if I don’t want it to,” said Mercy, before turning her attention back to Genji and her book, “At least I hope not. Anyway, I just don’t think it’s very practical to keep slashing my palms open when I need to heal someone.”

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” asked Genji, “Not the palm-slashing, of course that hurts—I mean the flame itself.”

“No,” said Mercy, “I can feel it…. moving within me sort of? I think everything that happened at Adlersbrunn woke it up. But it’s not distinct, it’s not like… gas. It’s more like it’s stitched into me… like my heartbeat, or when my arm’s asleep…” She pursed her lips thoughtfully, “Well, you’re 600 years old—you’ve never heard of it?”

“My master largely helped me explore the extents of my own abilities—shape-changing and calling the storm forth from my body. He helped my mind cope with the sudden… awareness of everything. If he ever taught me anything about what you have… I may not have been paying attention,” said Genji, scratching at his temple.

Mercy huffed.

“But that was well before I met you! Or was really aware that you had an ancient fire magic from the dawn of time,” said Genji.

“Well I didn’t even know what it all entailed, really,” said Mercy, “All I knew was spinning up paltry little fireballs and–and…” she caught herself and her stomach tensed.

“Witch?” Genji tilted his head, “What is it?”

“Genji, there’s something I have to tell you,” said Mercy. She glanced up to see Jamison looking at the two of them over his shoulder, made eye contact with him, and Junkenstein quickly turned around and started humming loudly to himself in the universal language of ‘Don’t mind me I’m not listening (except I probably am).’

Mercy just inhaled and closed her eyes.

Genji? she spoke in his mind.

He was at the outer doors of her consciousness in an instant. Feels like forever since we’ve spoken like this. I’ve missed it. His voice in her head was warm, flickering around, oddly vulnerable-feeling.

I suppose it was just force of habit after Adlersbrunn, thought Mercy, Not that we had much of a chance to get into the habit of it to begin with.

It’s all gone by very quickly, hasn’t it? We’ve only known each other a short time, but we’ve helped make a big monster, dragged a goddess back into this plane… made you leave your house… Oh gods, I’ve ruined your life.

You didn’t ruin my life, Genji. They threw rotten vegetables at me back in that village. They treated Jamison like a madman and a toymaker. They probably would have killed me eventually, if the crops failed or anything else inconvenienced them and they needed an excuse. And Jamison probably would have gone mad if he was stuck making the same things over and over for the rest of his life. I feel like… I actually have a chance to make my place in this world instead of shuffling along, keeping my head down and surviving. I’m glad you’re in my life. I’m glad I made that contract with you. Which is why–This is why I need to tell you—

The wagon suddenly shuddered to a stop and Mercy had to flail to keep from rocking onto her side with the sudden stop.

“Jamison?” Mercy broke out of her and Genji’s dark shared space and opened her eyes, “What’s going on?”

“There’s a giant flock of crows chasing a big, winged… thing,” said Junkenstein.

Chapter Text

The maelstrom of crow calls filled the air, making it feel tense and buzzing. Mercy and Genji clambered to the front of the wagon and followed Junkenstein’s line of sight up to the sky, watching the crows sweep after their target.

“Mm?” the wagon creaked and shifted as the Monster woke from his slumber at the sound of the storm of crows and looked out the back. 

“A winged thing?” Mercy looked back at Junkenstein, she squinted and turned her eyes up at the creature flying away from the crows, “It’s a fledermaus.”

“More like a flederhund than a fledermaus, wouldn’t you say?” said Junkenstein.

“We have to help him!” said Mercy, a sphere of fire spinning into existence on her palm. Genji caught her wrist.

“Maybe we shouldn’t get involved,” said Genji, not taking his eyes off of the crows.

“Shouldn’t get–” Mercy blustered, “What are you talking about? Aren’t you always going on about being the demon of the north wind with a swift and mighty sword and probably 47 other epithets I’m forgetting?”

“Well yes but–” Genji stammered, “I mean, maybe the fleder-thing is in the wrong here.”

“He’s outnumbered hundreds to one!” said Mercy.

“And maybe whatever prompted those crows to go after him, we don’t want to mess with,” said Genji, watching as the massive bat swept a hard left to try and build more distance between himself and the murder of crows.

Mercy’s brow crinkled in confusion. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Me? Nothing–nothing, I just–you know, I’m bound by duty to protect you–and I mean he smells of death anyway so…”

“I know it feels like Adlersbrunn is well and far behind us, but we did just narrowly avoid you getting burned, Gramercy,” Junkenstein added.

Genji gestured at Junkenstein in a ‘see?’ gesture.

 “So shooting off fireballs into the sky might not be the best course of action. Only one of us can fly and conveniently it’s in forms no one can recognize,” said Junkenstein.

Both Mercy and Junkenstein looked at Genji.

“Really?” said Genji.

“Really,” said Mercy.

“But–” Genji started.

“Genji!” Mercy barked his name, exasperated, “He needs our help!” 

“It was hundreds to one on us back in Adlersbrunn, too,” said Junkenstein.

Genji huffed. “You know being nice only ends up biting you in the ass,” he muttered, turning into a sparrowhawk and taking off out of the wagon. He used the smaller form of the sparrowhawk to build up speed and upward momentum, before turning into a massive tan and silver eagle and beating his wings hard until he reached the same height as the massive bat. He tore through the swarm of crows with beak and talon, scattering a good number of them and even managing to slash and rip the necks and breasts of a few. But then the crows turned their attention on him and were bombarding him. He heard a higher pitched screech and with a few beats of leathery wings, suddenly the bat he had set out to rescue was biting into the crows himself, though more crows were lashing and pecking at his wings.

“Fly away! I’m rescuing you, you idiot!” snapped Genji, tearing a crow’s throat out while beating several off of the bat with his wings.

“You can talk?!” said the bat.

“You can talk?!” Genji answered back.

 A crow went for his eyes but was suddenly blasted back by a fireball from below.

“Witch!” Genji called down in frustration.

“You can’t expect me to do nothing!” Mercy called back up 

“Oh for–” Genji took the form of a man and slashed back at the crows with his sword to try and build some more distance between them, then found himself falling–only to have his free arm seized by the clawed feet of the bat. He slashed off a few more crows but soon found both of them were flanked on all sides by pecking beaks and claws and beating wings.

“We need to drop down!” Genji shouted up at the bat.

“And how am I supposed to trust you?!” returned the bat, ripping out another crow’s throat with his teeth.

“I don’t see many other options, do you?!” Genji shouted above the cawing crows.

The bat huffed and stopped beating his wings and both of them dropped like a stone, Genji sheathing his sword as they did so. The fall brought them only a brief respite from the crows, as Genji looked past the bat’s wide wings to see the crows were diving down toward them, spiraling into a roiling spearhead of claws and beaks.

Genji heard the clank of a chain, then glanced off to his right to see a sickle hurtling towards him. “Gah!” he shifted his shoulder and the sickle barely shot past him into the vortex of crows. 

“Grab it!” he could hear Mercy shouting below, “Grab the chain!”

One arm still gripping the bat’s clawed feet, Genji flailed out a hand and grabbed the chain as gravity made it slacken, then suddenly it pulled taut again and for a brief second Genji thought his arm would be ripped from his socket before he suddenly made impact on the soft, lumpy belly of Junkenstein’s monster with an “OOF.”

“Nice…catch,” said Genji, looking up into the dead-eyed pig face of the monster.

“Hrm,” the monster gave him a nod.

“It’s not over yet,” said the Junkenstein, as Genji looked up to see the crows still dive-bombing towards them. Genji drew his sword but Mercy stepped in front of them. 

“Witch–” Genji started.

“Stay low,” said Mercy, flexing her fingers and letting fire curl up in both of her palms.

“Madame?” the bat still seemed to be getting over his previous disorientation of being yanked from the sky.

The crows shot down toward them but with an angry grunt and an upward swing of her arms, Mercy blazed a curving wall of flames into existence, arcing over the 5 of them. The crows had built up too much speed to stop themselves from pummeling into the wall of flame and Genji covered up his nose and mouth as the stench of burning feathers filled the air. Mercy kept up the shield of flames as long as she could before it crackled and fell apart into embers drifting to the ground. Genji was up and at her side in an instant, sword still at the ready, but by then the crows were scattering away. Except one loud caw still sounded close.

“Hrm?” The monster lifted up his sickle to see one unfortunate crow beating its wings and quorking wetly despite having a sickle hooked through its torso.

“Oh you got one, creation! Good show!” said Junkenstein, slapping the monster on the back.

The crow just cawed and beat its wings before dissolving into purple fog and dissipating. The monster gave a concerned ‘Hrm’ as it watched the purple fog get blown off in the wind.

“…pretty sure I don’t like the looks of that,” said Junkenstein, putting his hands on his hips, “Well, at least we’ve driven them all off.”

“Or they’ve seen all they need to see,” said the bat, looking over the bleeding scratches on his wing.

“Oh–Your wing! Let me–..” Mercy started, reaching toward his wing.

“Easily remedied, madame,” said the bat, red mist enveloping his body as he grew up to his full height, the mist clearing away to reveal a handsome man dressed in black and scarlet with a cavalier hat–looking no less dashing despite the slashes the crows had made on his clothing. He removed his cavalier hat, gave her a sweeping bow and took her still-outstretched hand and kissed her knuckles before drawing himself back up to his full height again. Mercy flinched a little at the yellowness of his eyes. “Jean-Baptiste Augustin, at your service. Friends call me Baptiste. I thank you, devin-guérisseuse.” He set his hat back on hishead.

“Dev–what?” Mercy said a little helplessly, withdrawing her hand.

“Cunning woman,” said Baptiste, “Not very common for a mortal to know arts such as yours.”

“…I suppose it’s too late to try and pass myself off as an apothecary, isn’t it?” said Mercy, glancing off. 

“I could pretend, if you wish,” said Baptiste with a fanged smile, “And you could pretend I did not just turn from bat to man. It would be a very fun game, I’m sure.” 

Mercy let out a nervous chuckle, tucking her hair back, and Genji gave her a sidelong glance.

“Don’t think anyone has time for that, the way those crows were on you,” said Junkenstein, looking up at the sky.

“Why were you pursued?” said Genji, “How long do you think we have until more are sent after you?”

“I have an urgent message for my comtesse,” said Baptiste, “The queen whom she previously thought was an ally plots against her. That very queen seeks to turn the humans of this land on their comtesse.”

“And your comtesse,” said Genji, his sword lowered but not sheathed, “Is she a demon like you?”

“Demon? Non, we are not demons. Though humans may not make that distinction,” said Baptiste.

“You change shapes like a demon,” muttered Genji.

“Only a few shapes, I’m afraid. Man, bat, wolf, or smoke. Nothing else.”

“Vampir,” said Junkenstein, frowning. He folded his arms, “And just when I thought things couldn’t get any less scientific.”

“Your friend can spin fire from nothing and you doubt the existence of my kind?” said Baptiste.

“I thought ‘your kind’ was just rabies and dropsy,” said Junkenstein with a shrug, 

“We’re getting off-track,” said Mercy, speaking up, “What queen?”

“Máire des Fées, though these days I believe she calls herself ‘Moira.’” 

“Des fées–of the fairies?” Junkenstein repeated.

“Yes,” said Baptiste.

“Fairies–as in the little tinkly winged things who tie knots in little girls’ hair and turn milk sour? Those things? A vampire was being chased by fairies?!”

“They can do far worse than that,” said Baptiste, “And their Queen is the most powerful of their kind who still walks this earth. She came to my comtesse convinced that a war between man and magic is coming now that the…” Baptiste trailed off, his yellow eyes slowly shifting to Mercy.

“Now that the what, man? Now that the what?” said Junkenstein. 

“…Now that the Flame of Creation walks the earth,” said Baptiste.

Mercy knew Junkenstein and Genji didn’t mean to immediately look at her as soon as the words ‘Flame of Creation’ were uttered, but look at her they did, and that was all the confirmation Baptiste needed.

“Devin-guérisseuse–” He started.

“I’m not–” Mercy started.

“She’s not–” Genji started at the same time.

“We have no idea what that flame thingy you’re talking about is—” Junkenstein’s voice overlapped with theirs.

The monster just gave a weary sigh behind them and pinched the bridge of his pig nose with his massive thumb and forefinger. 

“…so you are the flame,” said Baptiste folding his arms. He scratched under the brim of his cavalier hat, “I must admit, when the spymaster sent me out, to gather information, I had not expected to find both a conspiracy and the flame in one night. Un malheur n'arrive jamais seul…”

“I really don’t want to cause any trouble,” said Mercy.

“You burned down a town,” said Baptiste flatly.

“They tried to burn me first!” said Mercy, “And then I just… sort of… pulled an ancient dragon goddess into this plane and that set everything on fire. I really was just trying to get out of there.” 

“Additional damages are also due to our um,” Junkenstein cleared his throat, “Rescue operation.”

“And it wasn’t completely burned,” said Genji, “Granted, large parts of it fell into the void as well but—I’m probably not helping, am I?” 

“Whatever war people think I want to start, I don’t,” said Mercy, “I do want to find out more about this power. Get more control of it so something like Adlersbrunn doesn’t happen again. But people hating magic and being afraid of it is what got me into all this to begin with. I don’t want to make that worse.”

Baptiste gauged her expression with those unnerving yellow eyes for a few moments before saying, “I believe you, devin-guérisseuse,” with a slight bob of his head.

“You do?” said Mercy.

“You did not have to save me from those crows, and yet you did,” said Baptiste, “Even if it meant bringing the eyes and wrath of Máire des Fées upon yourself.”

“I…. uh… didn’t know it would do the second part,” said Mercy.

“Then your actions are true to your words and character,” said Baptiste with that same sharp grin, “You’re not evil. You just have a habit of making messes.”

Genji snickered next to her and Mercy elbowed him.

“Furthermore, I believe my comtesse would be pleased to know that the flame of creation has no intention of setting off a war,” said Baptiste.

“But if this… evil… sparkly crow queen knows about Gramercy now…” said Junkenstein.

“Yes, it would not do for us to stay in one place for too long,” said Baptiste, “But my comtesse can protect you.”

“I can protect you,” muttered Genji, before putting a hand on Mercy’s shoulder.

We know nothing about this man, except that he turns into a bat, his voice spoke in Mercy’s mind. Mercy looked over at him.

And wolf, and smoke, Mercy responded, I know it seems foolish to accept a vampire’s invitation, but this is what Hanzo was talking about back when he attacked us outside Adlersbrunn–he kept saying we started something. Maybe this is a chance to stop it before it spins out of control. I think we could use more allies than enemies right now.

Genji’s eyes scanned her face, his thick eyebrows furrowed, before he gave the smallest conceding nod.  I trust your judgment, Witch.

Considering our track record, you should probably do so with one hand on your sword.

I always do.

Mercy smiled at this.

“You have both been very quiet and intensely staring at each other for a few seconds,” said Baptiste, looking between Mercy and Genji, “Is there something–”

“We would love to meet your comtesse,” said Mercy, “Junkenstein? What say you?”

“Well so long as they don’t suck our blood we should be all right,” said Junkenstein, “My arse is getting sore from riding, anyway.” The monster gave an assenting nod as well.

“I promise you, your trust is not misplaced,” said Baptiste, “I’m afraid I shall have to ride with you though, if I am to keep my word about not feeding, I do not have the strength for flight yet.” 

“More the merrier,” said Junkenstein, climbing back to his seat and taking up the horses’ reins, “You’re up front and navigating, though.”

“With pleasure, though once the sun rises, I’m afraid I’ll have to find some cover,” said Baptiste, climbing up alongside Junkenstein as Genji, Mercy, and the monster, took their places in the back of the wagon.

What was that Junkenstein said about sucking blood? Genji spoke in Mercy’s mind as Junkenstein urged the horses forward.

—-

Reyes hated how used to all this he was getting. The world seemed to be falling into a dream logic. Jumping from the village back to Moira’s chambers seemed perfectly reasonable in light of everything that was happening. Just kill the witch and it should all be over, he thought.

“What do you think of them?” said Moira as Reyes turned one of the two blunderbusses over in his hand, “My folk aren’t usually ones for metal, but fire? Fire, we know.”

Reyes held one of the blunderbusses in both hands to brace for the kickback. 

“You won’t need to do that,” said Moira, putting a hand on his forearm, “One hand. They’ll be most effective with the arm extended.”

Reyes gave her a skeptical look, then held the blunderbuss at arm’s length. “Firing off a gun like this should shatter my whole forearm,” he muttered.

“Don’t you trust me?” said Moira.

“No,” he said flatly.

“It’s not like your human weapons,” said Moira, pacing around him, “You used human weapons against a demon, how well did that go?”

If Reyes could have rolled his eyes with his pumpkin head, he would have. “Fairly well, considering they were consecrated.”

Moira stepped close to him, and rapped her knuckles against the rind of his pumpkin head with each word she spoke next. “Not. Well. Enough. Hunter.”

Reyes scoffed and stepped away from her before holding the blunderbuss at arm’s length. “Fine,” he muttered, “Can’t be any worse than everything that’s been done to me.” He fired the blunderbuss and found it only shook his arm as much as a matchlock pistol, perhaps even less. It spackled the wall with smoking embers. “Huh…” he pulled the blunderbuss back and examined it, the barrel still cool to the touch, “How did you manage to–” he looked up at Moira but found her head was tilted toward the ceiling and she was shaking, slightly. “Moira–?” he started but Moira let out an unearthly wail, her hair going shock white as she clapped her hands over her eyes and collapsed to the ground in convulsions.

“MY EYES! MY EYES!” she wailed.

Reyes reached out a hand toward her to try and steady her in her fits, but she arched her spine up from the floor with another wail and the sheer volume of it made him flinch back. She continued rolling and moaning on the floor for a few seconds before forcing herself to regain her breath, deep and shuddering, with undertones of moans.

“Moira…?” Reyes said, taking a knee next to her.

She hoisted herself up to her hands and knees so fast Reyes flinched back again, and she practically stumbled over to the dark pool at the end of her cavernous hall. 

“Show me who took out my eyes,” she whispered, forming a ball of black and violet smoke in her hands, “Show me–”

She blew the smoke from her hands against the water, and the dark, glassy surface of the water shuddered and rippled before it showed the image of a woman with white-gold hair, glaring defiantly upward before she made a sweeping motion with her arms and the image was consumed by flame and rippled out of existence.

“…the witch,” said Reyes.

Moira made a flicking motion with her hand and the image in the pool rippled back to the witch, Moira scanned the faces surrounding her: the demon, the doctor, the monster and… “The comtesse’s spy,” said Moira, shaking her head, “No, this isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.” She made another flicking motion and the image in the water shifted to show Sombra on horseback, racing through the woods.

“We likely won’t have time to let human nature take its course,” said Moira, watching as the lights of the distant village grew brighter for Sombra. She sighed, “It is not my preference to see to matters personally,” she said, stepping away from the pool and back toward her room with the mirrors, “But I will see them done.”

Chapter Text

“It’s not only the blood of humans, really,” Baptiste explained as the wagon rumbled through rolling hills dotted with haystacks turned silver by moonlight, “Many think it’s only the blood of humans, but since we take the form of beasts, the blood of beasts sustains us as well. Pigs and cows, mostly.”

“And the people don’t hate you?” Mercy tilted her head, mesmerized, “They’re not afraid of you?”

“I like to believe we have settled into a comfortable mutual state of… how does the phrase go—Not poking the bear. To further put people at ease, the comtesse has established herself as a protector of the humans dwelling on her land.”

“A protector,” Mercy echoed.

“Undead beget undead,” Baptiste went on, “Many of my compatriots are not as charming as me, but she keeps them in line. Keeps them from infecting too many of the populace. Those of weaker wills are very… attuned to her.”

“Like an ant queen!” said Junkenstein from the front of the wagon.

“That is a very base comparison,” muttered Baptiste, “An ant queen will expand her nest as much as she can. My comtesse understands there must be balance. A lot of them she keeps dormant indefinitely if they cannot control their thirst. Sustained by pig’s blood every few months or so.”

“How many?” said Junkenstein.

“Oh she stopped counting centuries ago,” said Baptiste, easily, “We keep meaning to run a census on the catacombs but…”

“How long have you been….?” Mercy started.

Baptiste muttered under his breath and counted on his fingers for a few seconds before saying, “I believe it will be 115 years next spring,” said Baptiste, “I actually served back when—” he caught himself and cleared his throat, “I have been honored to serve the Comtesse as long as I have.”

“What were you going to say there?” said Genji.

“Nothing,” said Baptiste.

Genji’s eyes narrowed at Baptiste, “You know we’re allowing for a lot of trust just letting you lead us into your comtesse’s lands.”

“And I am allowing for a lot of trust telling you this much,” said Baptiste, “Some stories are not mine to tell.”

“And your comtesse is fine with you freely sharing all this information about how nice she is and how she has a big army that she can wake up at any time?” said Genji, sullenly running an oilcloth over his sword.

“The spymaster is in control of how much information is allowed to spread through the land. The people don’t need to know there are thousands of our kin lying sleeping below Chateau Guillard.  But you? I do not know the full extent of any your powers, so I believe a small hint of what the comtesse is capable of is in order. Now, we too, can establish a mutual state of not-bear-poking.”

“We could probably muck things up for your spymaster blabbing about this,” said Junkenstein.

“Ah yes. But you are foreigners, and, frankly, freaks no one can possibly believe. And most humans will probably try to kill you on sight if they see your… corpulent friend back there,” he gestured back at the monster.

“Don’t listen to him,” said Junkenstein looking back at the monster, “You’re beautiful.”

The monster gave an indifferent grunt.

“But, devin-guérisseuse, you know there is no reason for us to be unfriendly with each other,” said Baptiste.

“Not currently,” said Mercy with a smile.

Genji seemed to be focusing very hard on his sword and oilcloth.

“But this spymaster you mentioned—” Mercy started.

“Ah, a brilliant woman. The most loyal lieutenant of the comtesse, her ambassadress and her master of whispers,” said Baptiste, “We would not have the peace we have now without her.”

“She must have served with the comtesse for hundreds of years!” said Mercy, her face lighting up.

“Six,” said Baptiste.

“Six hundred?” said Mercy.

“Six years,” said Baptiste.

——-

Sombra dismounted from her (well, technically Pharah’s) rouncey and shook out her legs. She had come to a stop in a small village with a still brightly lit inn. She could ask for further information on where the crows had come from here, she decided, but she knew it had to be close by. She knew it was the queen’s doing, and she knew the queen had all sorts of spies and magic up her sleeves, but as far as she knew, the queen hated humans. She was stepping toward the inn when suddenly the door swung open and a man stumbled backward out of it, tripping over the threshold, being sidestepped by Sombra, and falling in a puddle of horse piss.

“She was right! You know she’s right!” the man spat at one of the tavern keepers in the doorway.

“Go home, Henri,” said the tavern keeper.

“So we’re just going to all go home and tuck ourselves into our beds and wait for that bitch to rip our throats out? She killed my brother--”

“You don’t know that,” said the Tavern keeper.

“No, but what I do know is, he teaches his bitch of a wife a lesson, the slut runs crying to the comtesse, next thing we know, he’s gone and no one’s saying anything!”

“If he’s your brother, I’d wager he drowned in a puddle of his own vomit,” said Sombra, briskly stepping past him.

“You--” the drunkard stumbled up from his puddle, swaying, “You’re one of hers, aren’t you?” 

“I’m just getting a drink--” said Sombra, moving to step inside of the tavern but she felt a heavy hand clamp on her shoulder.

“I can smell the death on y--” the drunkard kept going before receiving a sharp elbow to the solarplexus, then a hard uppercut to the jaw that sent him reeling back flat into the puddle of horse piss once more. He groaned from where he was splayed out in the puddle.

“...I already hit him,” said the tavern keeper.

“Not hard enough,” said Sombra, stepping in to the tavern. There was a hum of concerned murmuring conversations, but as soon as Sombra stepped in to the tavern that hum fell quiet and she felt every eye in the room turn to her. There was maybe a second and a half of every patron of that tavern sizing her up before resuming their conversations--if Sombra didn’t know any better, those conversations were even more hushed now. As a spymaster, she tended to pride herself on slipping in and out of most places unnoticed, but the air had shifted in here. This was not the murmured din of a tavern she would find on any other night in her comtesse’s lands.  Something was wrong. Something was afoot. Fear was in the air, invisible and taut like spider threads. Sombra took a seat at the tavern’s bar, one close to the corner where she could still keep an eye on the rest of the room.

“Someone die?” said Sombra as the tavern keeper poured a sour red wine in a cup for her.

“One of the survivors from Adlersbrunn showed up earlier tonight,” said the tavern keeper, “She had some... warnings. It’s put everyone on edge.”

“Adlersbrunn?” Sombra repeated.

“The town that burned down?” said the tavern keeper, “All those stories--from what I heard, a witch turned into a dragon or some such nonsense, but the way this old woman was going on it was like every horrible thing was happening at once over there.”

“Dementia,” Sombra said pityingly, “These strange times take their toll on the elderly--”

“No, I’ve heard my share of rambles and slurring,” said the tavern keeper, “She was sharp. The way she spoke made you just...” the tavern keeper trailed off, staring into space, then seemed to catch himself. “Sorry,” he said with a slight head shake.

“Did you happen to see where this old woman went?” asked Sombra, sipping her wine. 

“Had my hands full getting Henri out of here,” said the tavern keeper, “But it wasn’t even an hour ago--doubt an old woman like her will be going far, this time of night.”

“Hm,” Sombra ran a fingertip around the rim of her cup, “See any crows?”

“Crows?” said the tavern keeper.

“Big flock of them, didn’t see any?” said Sombra.

“Like I said, just getting people to settle down after that old woman’s story was hard enough, if there were any, I didn’t see them.”

“Must have been quite a story. I’d like to hear it---” said Sombra, getting up and finishing her wine.

“Will the comtesse want to hear it too?” said the tavern keeper and Sombra paused mid-sip and her eyes flicked to him.

“You can tell you’re with her,” the tavern keeper kept his voice low, “The way you knocked out Henri--”

“Just a humble servant,” said Sombra with a shrug, setting her wine cup down.

“What will she do? The comtesse?” the tavern keeper asked very quietly.

“What she’s been doing,” said Sombra with a smile, sliding a gold coin across the bar, “Protect her lands.” Sombra adjusted her cloak around herself while stepping out of the tavern and into the night.

----

“You said ‘Vampire,’” said Pharah, looking at Jesse as they rode through the dark forest.

“I did, “ said Jesse.

“There are vampires now? Living-dead, bloodsucking demons? Those vampires?”

“Yes,” said Jesse.

Pharah made a stammering noise for a few seconds, but if there was anything the events back at Adlersbrunn had given her other than a grudge and endless nightmares, it was an ability to accept that certain things she had previously been comfortable to wave off as children’s stories were far more real and far less comfortable. She had been broken in to a new and horrible reality, and she could not stick her head back under the sand any time soon.

“Was she--” Pharah started.

“No,” said Jesse.

“...that’s why you had her show you her neck,” said Pharah.

“Yes,” said Jesse.

“So you’re not going to talk about how you know each other,” said Pharah.

“Ancient history,” said Jesse.

“Jesse,” Pharah said his name in warning.

“We used to work together. Now she works for the comtesse. All you need to know,” said Jesse.

“No it’s not,” said Pharah, “You invited me along because you said if you had to face all these things alone, you would probably die--What good is my help if you’re going to just keep me in the dark?! You won’t even tell me why you’re excommunicated, you--Ah!”

Jesse had suddenly drawn back hard on the reigns, bringing their courser to a sharp rearing stop. Jesse was able to stay in the saddle, but the rearing horse had sent Pharah to the ground with a grunt.

“Oh dear, dear, are you all right?” said the old woman.

Pharah shook her head and rubbed a sore bruised spot on her side, only to look up and see an old woman on the forest road, her hand over her heart in shock.

“Saints preserve us,” she said with a huff, “I thought you would have run me over!”

“Apologies, ma’am,” said Jesse, gently trotting the courser around her, “We’re in a hurry. Come on, Pharah--”

“Just a moment,” said Pharah, feeling at the interior of her pocket and realizing her adder stone had tumbled out when she fell. She looked around desperately, almost sure she had lost it and with it lost the only physical object the Witch Hunter Gabriel had ever given her, when her eyes flicked down on it. Despite being in a dark forest at night, the adder stone stood out like it was in the afterglow of a sunset. 

I’ve trained myself not to be dependent on it, but you don’t have that experience, the words echoed in Pharah’s head as she snatched the stone up.

Seek me if you have the sight, the words burned in her mind. Was the adder stone bleeding into her vision just by being carried? Unconsciously, Pharah brought it to her eye.

“What are you doing?” said Jesse.

“Just making sure of--” Pharah didn’t bother bringing down the adder stone from her eye as she turned around to look at him, but she caught the old woman in the periphery of its vision.

The old woman wasn’t an old woman. 

With a buck of her shoulder, Pharah swung her rifle into her grip and pointed it at the not-old-woman and the not-old-woman flinched back.

“Woah woah woah!” said Jesse, swinging off the horse and stepping between them, “What did you see?”

“She’s a shape-changer! Like the demon! Get away from her!” said Pharah, backing up.

Jesse took several steps back from the woman as his hand went to the matchlock pistol at his hip.

“They really are yours, aren’t they, Gabriel?” the old woman said with a smile.

“Gabriel?” Pharah could only dumbly repeat the name as the old woman cast off her mantle and her silhouette narrowed and stretched, the wrinkles fading from her face.

“What are you doing so far from Adlersbrunn, Pharah?” a voice spoke behind her and both she and Jesse whirled on their heels to see Gabriel Reyes standing behind them.

“Wh-what?” Pharah’s voice left her breathlessly, tears brimming in her eyes as she lowered her musket.

“You should be back protecting the town,” Gabriel stepped toward her.

“I had to find the witch,” said Pharah, “You couldn’t do it--you had--you were...How are you...?”

“Pharah,” Jesse said in warning, “If the old woman isn’t an old woman..”

“Oh how I love watching them try to figure things out,” said the not-old-woman.

Pharah brought the adder stone over her eye, looked at Gabriel, then dropped it with a flinch, clapping her hand over her own mouth and muffling a scream into it, staggering back from him before Jesse stopped her with a hand on her shoulder to keep her from backing into the not-old-woman.

“Pharah, you don’t understand,” Gabriel started, “It’s still me--” 

“No--!” She brought her rifle up, shaking but without the adder stone all that stood in front of her was Gabriel, she could feel her hands shaking on the stock and barrel. 

“Well clearly the subtle approach is a wash,” said the not-old-woman, snapping her fingers and letting the glamour drift off Gabriel, revealing his pumpkin head and two blunderbusses with their ember-like glow at his hips. “Shall we do it my way now?”

Gabriel gave an exhausted sigh and raised one of the blunderbusses at his side.

Pharah gasped and raised her own musket in response, only to be shoved out of the way of the fire by Jesse, firing his own matchlock pistol. Pharah let out a wordless cry as both guns went off and Jesse was sent tumbling back by the force of the blast from Gabriel’s blunderbuss, the entire front of his coat red. Jesse’s shot caught Gabriel in the gut, but he only staggered back from the impact, his hand over his gut with the expectancy of agony, to find only negligible pain. Gabriel brought his hand away from the wound in his stomach, looking at what was once his blood, but now looked like liquid fire dripped between his fingers before he felt the wound in his stomach stitch itself together with sparking embers drifting up. “Moira--”he gave a sharp glance over to the not-old-woman.

“Like I told you,” said the not-old-woman, “No death until the Witch releases you.”

“Jesse!” Pharah was at Jesse’s side, turning him over onto his back. He groaned under her touch and she let out a half-sobbing exhale with relief that he was still alive, “Jesse--” she moved to put pressure over the wounds on his chest, “Stay awake.” Jesse just groaned, turning on his side away from her and curling into a ball.

“You should get away from him,” said Gabriel.

“You should get away!” Pharah snapped, hoisting up the musket in his direction with one arm.

“You always did like the ones with fight, didn’t you Gabriel?” said Moira, tilting her head.

“I--I don’t know what you are--” Pharah was stammering.

“You have to believe me--It is me. It’s Gabriel--” Gabriel started.

“Gabriel is dead!” Pharah snapped firing off a musket ball. This one seared blazing white when it caught him in the hip. He looked down at the musket ball, burning and fizzing in his side. Consecrated, yet it didn’t burn him away. Was he not damned?

“Even with blessed lead, your musket has no power here,” said Moira, stepping next to Gabriel, plucking the fizzing white ball from his side and watching as it instantly turned back into an unremarkable ball of lead as she did so.

“You need to get out, Pharah,” said Gabriel, “Go back to Adlersbrunn.”

“I’m not leaving him!” said Pharah, bending over Jesse, “I won’t let you kill him!”

“Well you can’t say you didn’t make your offer--” said Moira with a shrug.

“He’s not going to die,” said Gabriel.

Pharah just hoisted up her musket again, moving to aim it at Moira this time.

“Jesse never told you why he was excommunicated, did he?” said Gabriel.

Pharah brought the sights of her musket down from her eyes and looked down at Jesse, “What...?”

Jesse was still curled in a ball, but twitching now, his low moan of pain giving way to something deeper and shuddering in the pit of his throat.

“You need to leave,” Jesse’s voice didn’t quite sound like his voice any more, deeper, growling.

“Jesse?” Pharah’s voice drifted away from her and she flinched back as Jesse suddenly spasmed hard.

“It was the only way I could protect him, after what happened...” said Gabriel as Jesse’s spasm now unfolded his body, making him arch his back up off the ground, his fingers clawing into the soft earth as he moaned and then suddenly his back arched again, but there was a horrible crack to it now and Pharah flinched back from him, wondering if his own spasms had killed him but still he moaned but it rumbled too much to be a moan, still his chest rose and fell, then crack-shluck, his arms and legs were stretching, bones shifting and contorting beneath his skin.

  Crack. Shluck. Crack. Crack. Shluck. Crack. 

His ribs were unfolding like you or I might uncurl a fist, making those sickening sounds all the while. Pharah was scrambling back from him, her desire to save him now overridden by the fear and revulsion of what was before her. Coarse dark fur surged over his body as his expanding bones and sinewy muscles finally ripped out from the confines of his clothing. He let out a bellow of pain, the very sound of it contorting as his nose and mouth and jaw suddenly jutted out from his face, strings of drool hanging glistening between two rows of sharpening white teeth as his bellow turned to a roar, turned to a howl. Pharah’s breath shuddered with half-sobs.

Jesse pushed himself up, towering off the ground, standing over her, his chest no longer bloody and drool dripping down from his great maw. She wasn’t even sure how big he was, he just seemed to consume all her world in coarse fur and dripping fangs and those eyes. Those big yellow eyes. He regarded her with those yellow eyes and a snarl as she stumbled up to her feet, gripping her musket in front of her. That low growl stayed in Jesse’s (could she really still call him Jesse?) throat as he leaned toward her, when suddenly there was another blast of Gabriel’s blunderbuss at their feet and the beast flinched back.

“Not her,” said Gabriel, holding a still-smoking blunderbuss. He fired it again at the beast’s feet, making it flinch back again.

The creature’s yellow eyes darted between Pharah, Moira, and Gabriel, then it snarled and took off into the woods.

“Jesse!” Pharah moved to sprint after him but suddenly stopped, frozen, arm still stretched toward him. She tried to will her feet to move but they wouldn’t, she couldn’t lower her arm, her mouth was still open, she could not close it. Purple and yellow light clouded around her like ink diluting in water as Moira stepped around her.

“Even a beastly form like that and you still move to help him,” Moira strolled around Pharah with a tilt of her head, “Is this loyalty or hypocrisy?”

“Don’t hurt her,” said Gabriel.

“Still no trust on your end?” said Moira, brushing her fingers along Pharah’s jawline, her face still frozen, though her eyes flicking around in their sockets. Moira smiled. “Not to worry, Gabriel. I won’t hurt her. She’s meant to protect humans, isn’t she?”

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