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Chapter Text

Satya closes her eyes as the engines of the dropship begin to hum. The melodic droning builds as the ship leaves the ground, the feeling of weightlessness coming over her. She keeps her body still, poised in her seat, though her toes curl tightly in her boots. Though she is securely buckled, the muscles in her legs tense, as if trying to further grip onto the seat. She resets her mind to the engines.

Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm.

Each hum seems to rise, like notes on a musical scale, but only in bursts of four before the loop resets.

 Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm.

She squeezes her eyes shut tighter.

Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm.

She presses her lips together.

Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm.

She begins to hum alongside the engines, the sounds blending into one in her head. Her toes uncurl. Her legs relax. She is no longer weightless flying through the air.

Until an unwanted hand grabs her arm and startles her nearly out of her seatbelt.

“You seem uneasy, Satya,” Sanjay says slowly, standing in front of her steadily as if he were on solid ground. His hand doesn’t leave her arm, fingertips gripping the skin with the faintest of force. It’s the kind of touch that is too in between for her liking, a grip where she would prefer he either let go or commit to grabbing her harder. Her glare moves from his hand to his eyes, silently daring him to grip harder.

He lets go. She looks away.

“I understand Rio was… an unfortunate setback,” Sanjay continues, taking a seat next to her. He unbuckles her seatbelt, leans in close. “It’s shaken many of us; you are not alone.”

No one else on the ship aside from Sanjay was at Rio. Satya passes her gaze over her colleagues, mostly drafters who’ve never set foot out of the Vishkar headquarters. Not field agents like her. All of them are settled in for the flight, mostly looking bored and content as they entertain themselves with their devices or doze off for the long flight ahead. She avoids looking at Sanjay.

“Truly quite shaken, all of them,” she thinks to herself bitterly.

That night flashes through her mind. The deafening explosion wracking the silence of the night. The blinding flash of light and fire erupting from Calado’s. The screams of families waking up to their homes destroyed, their families lost under the rubble…

 “You can talk to me, Satya.”

His hand has returned to her form, this time on her leg. He leans in closer, bent over so he’s gazing up at her face, eyes desperately searching to connect with hers. He’s close enough to where she can smell him. Satya wrinkles her nose.

“There is nothing to talk about,” she finally replies. “Everything has been thoroughly discussed with our board and management and it will be handled according to company policy. It is no longer my responsibility.”

“You know what I mean…”

Satya ignores him, changing the subject.

“What I would rather talk about,” she says with a cool tone, “is why I am being sent on another international project when I was promised homeland work. We have plenty of other field architects, yet here I am accompanied by drafters that we’re expected to tutor.”

Sanjay sighs, leaning away. He doesn’t speak for a few tense seconds.

Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm.

“You’re one of our best, Satya,” he finally says. “I advocated for you, practically begged the rest of the board to keep you on a local project. At the end of the day, we need more field agents, more global reach with our architects, and who better to train them than ‘Symmetra’ herself.”

He chuckles at her nickname, one earned by classmates from her time at the academy. What once was a mocking jab at her work expectations has become a renowned and endearing codename. Still, she isn’t sure if she enjoys it.

“Of course,” she replies, “who am I to question management with sending the sketchers to what was once Australia for their first field mission?”

“This project will be over and done within no time, sketchers or not. Then, I’ll make sure you’re assigned to a local project.”

Sanjay leans in once again. Satya turns her face away, resisting the urge to plug her nose.

“I can promise you that,” he whispers, a sincere determination in his voice. She can feel his presence trying to coax her into facing him. The uncomfortable static between them becomes too much to bear.

“Your cologne is quite pungent,” she interrupts harshly, her voice louder than she had originally intended. “It does not suit you and it is poor hindsight to choose such a scent knowing you’d be on flight today.”

Sanjay pulls away, confused and taken aback at her comments. As he inspects his scent, Satya gets up quickly and moves to a new seat, settling in between two sleeping coworkers. Her eyes finally meet his, her amber gaze sharp and piercing. Sanjay lets out an exasperated sigh before breaking eye contact and sauntering off toward another part of the ship.

Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm.

Satya sinks into the seat, closes her eyes, and hums to herself. As she begins to doze off, flashes of light, yellows, oranges, reds, replay in her mind, looping like the engine melody. Soon enough, a thick gray smoke takes over. She squeezes her eyes tighter. The hum of the engines lull her to sleep.

{}{}{}{}{}

“SATYA!! SATYA, WAKE UP!!”

Satya feels someone gripping her arms once again, but this time with force. The harsh grip shakes her desperately. The voice calling out to her becomes more frantic. As she comes to, the engines are no longer making the humming she fell asleep to, screeching loudly as the ship’s interior lights flash aggressively.

WHIRR-WHIRR-WHIRR-WHIRR!

Around her, colleagues are thrown around the cabin, clambering for seatbelts, handlebars, rails, anything to hold onto. Some even grab parachutes, praying to themselves as the ship grows more turbulent. Sanjay is next to her, buckled securely into the seat as he adjusts her own straps. He pulls the straps too tight, pinching her skin in the process as she hisses, but she can’t be upset about that now as the entire ship hurtles toward the ground.

“WHERE ARE WE?” she yells over the commotion, hands pressed tightly to her ears. How desperately she misses the humming.

 “SOMEWHERE OVER THE AUSTRALIAN OUTBACK,” Sanjay yells back, pointing at a map on a flickering screen. “JUST HOLD ON, THESE SHIPS HAVE BUILT IN CRASH MANEUVERS!”

WHIRR-WHIRR-WHIRR-WHIRR!

Satya presses her hands so hard to her ears she can feel a vacuum forming. She tries to hum to herself, but the sounds leaving her mouth sound more like a distressed whine. Sanjay is no longer fiddling with her restraints, but his hands still hold onto her, his grip growing tighter with each passion moment. She’s sure he’s speaking to her, or trying to speak to her, but she won’t listen, she can’t listen.

WHIRR-WHIRR-WHIRR-WHIRR!

She squints her eyes open ever so slightly, taking in the sight of the team. Just as before, they all cry out for each other, for family, for any god that may be listening. Somehow their voices seem amplified within the suction of her ears. Back in Rio, during the explosion, she collected herself in mere seconds, prioritizing the safety of the favela. The things she built in an instant to help the residents are still fresh in her mind, every blueprint memorized to perfection. She thinks of all the things she or Sanjay could construct in this moment; more handles and railings, or solid restraints, shields to dampen the impending impact, a far too hopeful teleporter out of the ship, somewhere safe. But here, strapped to a seat and rushing full force toward the earth, she’s frozen, stuck in her mind as everything falls apart.

WHIRR-WHIRR-WHIRR-WHIRR!

She glances toward a window. The ground is now horrifically close. Sanjay grabs her wrist, yanking her hand off her ear.

WHIRR-WHIRR-WHIRR-WHIRR!

The engines scream with failure, electric static mixing with the crashing and grinding of metal. A window is broken somewhere as wind whips around her, thrashing her hair around and stinging at her cheeks. The cries are even louder now as screams of agony and injury melt into cries for help and forgiveness. Sanjay is yelling. Satya can’t hear him. He grabs her closer.

WHIRR-WHIRR-WHIRR-WHIRR!

“WHATEVER HAPPENS, WHEREVER WE END UP,” he shouts, moving her hair away from her face, “FIND ME!”

WHIRR-WHIRR-WHIRR-WHIRR!

Then, without explanation, he pulls her fingers apart and shoves a small USB drive into her hand. He forces her hand closed and pushes it to her chest before pulling away. The two of them curl up within their seats, preparing for impact.

{}{}{}{}{}

Satya hopes that when she opens her eyes, she’ll be back on the ship, waking up from her nap in peace. The scorching sun on her face is just the heat of her cheek pressed up against her arm. The dust caking her lips and coating her nostrils is just dried spittle she can easily wipe away. The throbbing ache in her head is just mild dehydration. When she opens her eyes, the ship will be landing smoothly and her team will be shuttled off to some Vishkar office or luxury hotel.

“A luxury hotel in Australia is the most outrageous and unlikely option out of those.”

She dares to open her eyes and despite her hoping, she’s met with exactly what she expected; an empty, barren wasteland for miles and miles in every direction.

With a pained and defeated sigh, Satya rises to her feet, brushing off the dirt clinging to her uniform. She scowls noticing the orange stain left behind on the white fabric. It’s the least of her problems at this moment, yet the stain sears into her mind, nagging at her. She rips her Vishkar jacket off and launches it into the dirt with a resonating yell. With the apparel discarded, a shout out of her system, she finally faces the wreckage of the dropship.

Even for a knowledgeable engineer like Satya, it’s evident that the ship is beyond repair. From where she stands, she can see the bulk of the ship further off in the distance, but debris still litters the land around her. A quick surveillance of the wreckage around her reveals no one else from her team. No bodies. No torn clothing or lost shoes. No footprints in the dirt.

Satya dejectedly reaches for her jacket, searching the pockets until she finds the USB drive Sanjay left her. She slips it onto the chain of her necklace and begins limping toward the skeletal remains of the ship. Though she knows she should yell out for her coworkers, let them know that she is here and alive, her voice remains silent. It feels as though a lock has been put on her throat. To make up for her silence, she tries to move some of the debris around every few yards, checking for anyone who may be trapped, or anyone who may be dead. But eventually a shooting pain starts to appear down the right side of her body, so she stops trying to move the rubble.

With her photon projector, she could quickly and effortlessly create a solution to all of this. A teleporter could take her straight to the ship so she wouldn’t have to put any weight on her injured leg. A crude but efficient pulley system or a simple lever could be crafted to easily move the debris and search through the remains of the ship. She could even try to craft a brace or splint to aid her arm as the pain starts to get worse.

Satya collapses as she finally makes it to the ship. A choked sob falls from her throat as once again she discovers no one. Not a single living person. Not a single dead body. No one. Still, she searches through her tears, ripping open the thrown about backpack and luggage leftover of the people she knew, trying to find something that makes sense. Broken laptops and tablets, changes of clothes, vapes, packs of cards. She searches the storage compartments of the ship she can access, only to find them ransacked and empty. There isn’t even so much as a broken photon glove. Nothing helps explain why she is the only one left in this disaster.

In frustration, she forcefully throws a briefcase belonging to one of the older drafters after having only found a book of sudoku and a handful of dirty magazines. The metal briefcase hits what was once the floor of the ship, sounding off with a clang, but then followed by a barely audible click. Satya calms her breathing and investigates the part of the floor the briefcase hit, opening up a latch to extra storage. She gasps seeing Vishkar photon projectors neatly packed away and safe in their hard-light containers.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” she says desperately to no one, disabling the hard-light case and taking hold of the tool she is so familiar with. As calm washes over her, she changes into a lighter set of clothes and crafts herself a quick leg brace. She glances at the burning orange sun, now beginning to sink lower in the sky, and does one final sweep of the crash site.

Tire tracks.

She laughs gleefully to herself upon the discovery. A collection of tire tracks, maybe 2 or 3 vehicles, leading out to the horizon. She clutches the drive on her necklace, breathing deeply as she stares into the Australian outback.

“I will find you, Sanjay,” she whispers to herself as she takes her first steps out into the Wasteland.

Chapter Text

Satya walks

And walks.

And walks.

The Wasteland goes on forever, a sea of twisted, dead trees and dry brush. The tire tracks she’s following stretch off into the horizon without end. Above her, the sun sets, but not fast enough as the sweltering heat continues to envelope her. As far as she can see, there are no signs of human life in any direction. And still, she walks.

And walks.

And walks.

And walks.

Night falls and the only light is the soft blue glow that surrounds her, emitting from her Vishkar technology. Her prosthetic arm sparks every now and then, the once refined machinery damaged from the crash. She keeps her eyes on the ground ahead of her, insistently following the tracks. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t look behind her.

Eventually, the blue glow isn’t the only light surrounding her. As she keeps her eyes trained to the ground, a warm, orange light creeps in, illuminating the tracks even more. For the first time in hours, Satya looks up and in the near distance she sees a rundown shack of a building. The front of the building is plastered in distressed road signs and forgotten junk. A neon sign beckons with the words “OPEN 24 HOURS,” right under another sign that reads “The Bar at the End of the World.” The lights inside are on, and distantly Satya can hear music playing.

But the most important thing about the bar is the line of vehicles parked on the side.

Satya stands for a few moments in front of the building, staring at the doors anxiously. Her mind races imagining who or what could be inside. The naïve part of her fantasizes about opening those doors and instantly being met by Sanjay and the rest of the Vishkar team. They’ll gasp in shock or burst into tears and apologize profusely for abandoning her. The fearful part of her imagines them all in that bar, bound and gagged with guns pointed to their heads while their kidnappers enjoy drinks without a care.

The rational part of her knows the bar will be full of strangers, and likely none of them will be able to help her. Even more likely is that she’ll be met with hostility and violence. Before she left India, her and her coworkers sat through countless safety seminars about what awaited them in Australia, and of all the dangers present, the locals by far had the most dangerous reputation. She quickly changes a few settings on her photon projector, takes a deep breath, and enters the bar.

Inside, Satya is relieved to find the bar isn’t too full. A handful of men are spread throughout, tiredly nursing drink after drink, playing with their food, or speaking quietly amongst themselves. Her heartbeat thumps in her ears as she tries to glance around the room without making eye contact with anyone. Every man here is greatly larger than her, both in height and weight. Much like the outside appearance of the building, they’re all covered in mismatched pieces of metal and junk paired with worn leather and disheveled clothing. Threatening strength is all on display from bare arms and torsos, all paired with large weapons strapped to their bodies. Satya discreetly latches her photon projector to her side and walks slowly to the bar.

The bartender, an old man with an eye patch, scowls at her as she approaches.

“You seem lost, miss,” he grunts at her as he shovels some unidentifiable fried food onto a plate and haphazardly slides it down the counter. Satya glances at the man receiving the plate, tall, brawny, and heavily scarred. He hisses at her before sauntering away. She turns to face the bartender.

“I am,” she says. “I was traveling with a work team when our dropship crashed and—”

“I don’t listen to sob stories for free,” the bartender interrupts. “Now, ya gonna buy something or fuck off?”

Satya is speechless for a moment, but quickly collects herself.

“Is there a phone I could use?” she asks.

The bartender laughs in her face.

“Fuck off,” he growls, turning away from her.

Satya sighs and reaches for her wallet.

“Do you take credit?” she asks. “If not, I do have cash, if the Australian dollar is still accepted currency here.”

The bartender looks over his shoulder.

“Buck’s fine. What d’ya want?”

“Water.”

He pours her a glass of water and slides it to her, spilling it in the process. The water is off-color with specks floating through it. He throws a disfigured looking lemon slice and a single ice cube into it. She meets his gaze and he laughs at her again, his breath hot and putrid.

“Thank you,” Satya strains, grimacing at the water. She takes a hold of it but doesn’t dare drink. “Now, sir, if you will listen, I’ve just survived a serious crash, my entire work team is missing, and I need to locate them. If I could use a phone or be directed to a rideshare service, that would be greatly appreciated.”

As she finishes her story, the bartender just gawks at her, a confused and humorous look upon his face.

“You ain’t from this world, miss,” he chuckles. “Acting like phones and, heh, rideshares are a thing here… Did ya fall from the sky like that strange ball guy? The Queen’s champion?”

“What? No, I mean, yes, the airship I was on crashed, but I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Then neither do I, miss. How ‘bout ya drink yer water and get outta here. Ye don’t belong here.”

Once again, the bartender leaves her. Satya stares into the dirty glass of water. She plucks out the lemon slice and examines its strange, mutated state. The rind rises up in several hardened spikes. The inside fruit resembles more of a yellow tomato than that of a lemon. Tentatively, Satya holds the fruit up to her tongue and sure enough it tasted like a lemon, but slightly sweeter. She drops the fruit back into the glass and hangs her head.

“Well, well,” a deep voice says behind her. “What’s this lil’ princess doin’ all the way out ‘ere?”

Satya doesn’t turn around.

“Eh, an icy princess at that!”

Satya doesn’t say anything.

“’Ey, I’m bloody talkin’ to you!”

A large hand grabs her shoulder and whips her around, pushing her against the bar. The man looms over her, steely blue eyes forcing her gaze. A twisted smile warps across his face as he creeps in closer to her.

“That’s better. No one likes a girl that’s up herself…”

The man continues to talk. She keeps eye contact with him, pretending to listen as she blocks his voice out and slowly reaches for her photon projector. He keeps talking, almost distracting himself as his grip on her shoulder loosens just enough. Satya grabs the handle of her photon projector and swiftly throws it up between them, the blue laser crackling in his face.

“Wha—”

“This is a Vishkar trademarked photon projector,” Satya states calmly. “It’s a tool used for designing and building material objects. However, like any other tool, it can be devastatingly harmful when used incorrectly. Do not make me use my equipment incorrectly.”

“Y-you—”

“Let go of me and back away.”

“Yer fuckin’ psycho!”

The man stumbles away and slumps to a dark corner of the bar. Satya turns off her photon projector, but keeps a tight grip on it. She looks around to see no one has paid any mind to what just happened, even as she brandishes a weapon in front of everyone. Instead, she notices everyone watching the front doors as a loud voice from outside begins to overtake the music and conversation within the bar.

“Oy, fuck me dead,” the bartender grumbles behind her as the front doors burst open and two men stumble through.

A shrill, manic laugh fills the room, coming from a rail thin man that looked as if he were just shot out of a cannon. He’s shirtless, displaying how the entire upper half of his body is covered in dingy soot. His blonde hair is missing in patches with some of the intact locks singed and smoking. Like the other patrons of the bar, his outfit consists of a mess of junk and weaponry with grenades strapped to his chest and a detonator in a holster on his belt. Half of both his right arm and leg are replaced with crude looking prosthetics that clank loudly as he walks. He appears to ignore everyone around him showing their clear disdain for him as he chats with the other man in his company.

Behind the thin man follows an impossibly large one. He’s so tall he has to duck slightly to fit through the door. Alongside his great height, the man has huge muscular arms and a large potbelly decorated with a comical tattoo surrounding distended bellybutton. A pig-like gas mask covers his face, a white mohawk erupting from the top of it. He’s more clothed than the thin man, but still bears a lot of skin as his shoulders are covered in leather and armor and his overalls sag at his hips. He doesn’t speak and his movements are calmer compared to those of his companion. The two are an odd pair as Satya can’t tear her eyes off of them.

“No!” the bartender shouts. “Get out! Yer not welcome here, Rat! Neither is yer fuckin’ lackey!”

The two men stop in the middle of the aisle.

“What? Am I not allowed to get a frothy?” the jittery man asks, his voice with a sing-songy false innocence.

“Nah, ya cunt! Not after what ya did to my lemon trees! Now get out!”

“That was an accident! I was going for the red motorcycle of that bugger that was in here last week!”

“Fuck off!”

The bartender grabs out a shotgun from under the counter and points it toward the two men. Satya ducks down and hides behind a stool. The others in the bar join in, all grabbing out their own weapons and staring down the two men hungrily. The thin man’s face drops.

“Aw, can’t we just make up and be mates? It was just a couple trees…”

“Those were the last lemons in Australia, ya twot!”

The bartender fires the shotgun, the bullet missing the men and instead shooting a hole into the thin wall behind them. Chaos erupts as every person in the room begins to fight. At first, they all have a common enemy in the two men that just walked in, but very quickly every man turns on each other and is fighting just for the sake of flying. Drinks, food, and furniture fly through the room. Audible punches and kicks are thrown with accompanying yells to match the impact. Stray bullets fly through the air and knives slash looking for flesh. Satya watches it all from her hiding spot behind her stool, but as blood begins to flow, she decides she can’t take it anymore.

"Absolute buffoons engaging in such reckless behavior,” she thinks to herself as she fiddles with the settings on her photon projector. “I just need to disable them… No one needs to get hurt; no one needs to die…”

As soon as the tool is properly set up, she clambers up onto the counter. No one notices her as they mindlessly beat each other. She watches for a moment as the large man is throwing around other men as if they’re weightless store mannequins, while the thin man is laughing maniacally as he mixes abandoned drinks and sets fire to them before launching them throughout the room. Satya raises her arm and activates her photon projector, a blue light building quickly and bursting above her.

When the light bursts, tendrils of hard-light energy discharge through the room in bright tendrils. The tendrils wrap themselves around everyone, flashing for a few moments before another bright blue burst. Everyone collapses to the ground after the burst, with Satya left as the only one standing. Tired groans and grunts sound off as several men murmur about what just happened.

“Wild animals!” Satya shouts. “That is what you all are!”

Wearily, the drained men watch her as she continues to rant.

“This bar is the only sign of civilization I have found since being stranded in this dystopia,” she continues, “and it is embarrassing! Now as much as I do not want to associate with any of you, I need help. So, if anyone with a vehicle could please provide me assistance, I will be outside waiting.”

“Ah, piss off and get out of me bar,” the bartender whines as he hoists himself back up to his feet. He slaps the back of legs, causing her to stumble. She puts away her photon projector and shuffles off the counter, wincing at the pain in her leg. She limps out of the bar, stepping over several unconscious bodies on her way out.

Outside is significantly cooler than it was earlier as Satya waits under a flickering lamplight. She watches as slowly the patrons of the bar slink out the door and into their vehicles. One by one, trucks and motorcycles fly by her, disappearing into the night without her. Soon enough, all the vehicles are gone except for one: a motorcycle with a rickety sidecar.

And much to Satya’s dismay, the owners are the very men that started the barfight.

As the large man starts the motorcycle, the thin one slinks toward her, his wide eyes practically glowing in the night. Once he’s standing next to her, she realizes just how tall he is as he stands over a quarter meter above her, leaning against the pole. He’s extremely jittery, shaking all over like a dog hearing thunder. He waggles his bushy, unkempt eyebrows at her.

“That was quite the show, Sheila,” he says giddily. “Fancy gadget ya got there, sparked me interest. Anyway, a little birdie told me you need a ride!”

Satya sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Just to the nearest city,” she sighs, losing hope of finding her team by the second.

“Nearest city is a two day drive,” he says, “gotta be more to why yer here in the first place.”

Satya doesn’t answer him. Instead she watches the large man on the motorcycle. He sits patiently, watching the two of them from afar.

“Let’s discuss that later,” she says, looking up at the man before her. “I am exhausted, I am starving, and I just want to get as far away from this bar as possible.”

“Haha, I gotcha! It’s a good thing me and Roadie got the best ride this side of the rad zone! Follow me!”

Satya follows him across the parking lot to the rusty bike as it sputters loudly, spilling black plumes of smoke out behind it. The thin man doesn’t stop talking the entire short walk.

“I should probably introduce myself,” he rambles on. “My name is Junkrat, internationally recognized freedom fighter and bombardier! I’m sure you’ve heard of me. And this fella is me pal, Roadhog, but I usually call him Roadie. We share 50/50 of the spoils! He drives a hard bargain, I tell ya…”

Roadhog waves silently as they approach the bike. Junkrat leans against the bike with a goofy smile on his face.

“What’s yer name, Sheila?”

Satya freezes for a moment, looking down at the two men in front of her. Junkrat and Roadhog. There’s something familiar about them, but she can’t quite place what it is. If what Junkrat said was true about being ‘internationally recognized,’ then it’s possible that she’s caught a glimpse of a news report at some time. And now they want her name.

She cannot give them her name.

“Oh, uh, it’s,” she fumbles for a moment, then remembers. “Symmetra. Call me Symmetra.”

“Sym-met-tra!” Junkrat sings choppily. “Symmetra… Ah, like symmetry! I remember learning that in primary. Wish my name was as pretty as yours.”

"Yes, fine, thank you,” Satya stammers, “now can we please go? I’m sure you have a house or home, or even a camp somewhere?”

“Right-O, we do! Now, Roadie doesn’t let me drive and there’s no room on the bike, so the sidecar is me own, but it’s quite roomie, so we’ll fit in just fine! Now, after you, milady!”

Satya glares at the sidecar.

“You want me to sit down first?” she asks incredulously.

“Yeah! Ladies first, right?”

“I think, size wise, you might want to reevaluate that decision, ah, Junkrat…”

The two stare at each other for a few awkward seconds, a dumbfounded look on Junkrat’s face. Finally, it clicks.

“Oh! Of course, my apologies!”

The skinny man scrambles into the sidecar and leans back, patting the metal to welcome her in.

“I don’t bite!”

Reluctantly, Satya climbs into the sidecar with him, sitting awkwardly on his lap. He’s boney and made of sharp edges, his skin radiating warmth. He keeps his arms on the side of the sidecar. Satya wraps her hands around her knees. For once in the short time that she’s known him, he’s silent as Roadhog backs out of the parking lot and drives frighteningly fast into the night.

Chapter Text

Satya fights the urge to sleep as the motorcycle tears through the night. She keeps her posture rigid on Junkrat’s lap, denying her body’s urge to relax. Her hands have moved from her knees up to her hair, holding it tightly so it won’t whip around in the wind. Though her grip is almost too tight as she can feel some of the strands ripping from the root. There’s no seatbelt to hold either her or Junkrat so every bump in the road is felt with shock and unease as their bodies jostle against each other.

Yet, she remains still, and he remains eerily quiet.

“Rat’s usually not this quiet,” Roadhog interrupts, the first time she’s heard the big man speak. His voice is low and muffled through the mask, with the hint of a wheeze at the back of his throat. Satya tears her eyes from the road for the first time since they took off.

“Stuffed,” Junkrat mumbles over the wind, stretching underneath her. She remains still. “Not everyday you get electrocuted in ya favorite dive.”

“It’s not electric,” Satya chimes in. “It’s hard-light technology. The brightness of the burst can trigger light sensitivity in most everyone, causing fatigue and drowsiness.”

 Junkrat sits up straighter behind her, leaning over her to peer at her face.

“Hard-light? I’ve never heard of that before!”

“It’s property of the Vishkar Corporation, my employers. It’s highly sought after by many competitors and… vigilantes. Not to mention it is extremely difficult to use correctly.”

“Aah, I see…” he drawls on, a curiosity in his voice. “Wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more of that hard-light techie. What do you say, Symmetry?”

“Symmetra,” she corrects him. “And no, it is confidential technology. You can watch me create with it, but I cannot educate you on its design and operations.”

“I bet I could figure it out one way or another! Can’t be too hard!”

Satya audibly laughs before biting it back. The last thing she wants is to be thrown out of a motorcycle going over 160 kph for mocking the idiot whose lap she’s sitting on. She changes the subject.

“How long until we stop?” she asks. “I’m tired.”

“Ten minutes,” Roadhog answers, pressing down on the throttle, driving even faster. The increase in speed breaks Satya’s stillness and sends her flying back into Junkrat’s chest. He flinches at the impact and she stiffens, unmoving against the rushing wind. The world goes silent around her, the wind a distant beating sound in her ears. The wheels of the bike drone alongside the wind.

Znnh-znnh-znnh.

Znnh-znnh-znnh.

It’s not like the gentle hum of the engines of the dropship. The sound of the bike is more metallic, resonating more like a heavy machine with the uncertain clank or crunch every so often. It’s a dangerous sound, but not like the sound of the ship falling apart; it’s more a powerfully dangerous sound. There is reliability in the machine she’s riding.

Znnh-znnh-znnh.

Znnh-znnh-znnh.

A cold grasp on her arm takes her out of her thoughts. The cold metal of prosthetic fingers clench at the bare skin of her arm.

The wind has stopped.

“We’re here, Sheila!” Junkrat yells, his voice back to it’s typical loud volume. “Out ya go!”

His other hand makes its way under her arm as he hoists her off her lap. Her limbs feel limp, like she’s a ragdoll in his arms, as she climbs out of the sidecar. She stumbles slightly as her tired feet hit the ground, but Junkrat’s hands once again find her arms, steadying her. Once she’s upright and stable, she steps away from him, keeping her eyes on the ground. Roadhog stomps past them.

“Five minutes before I lock the door,” he grumbles.

Satya tears her gaze from the dirt to the shack sitting before her.

"Another sad excuse for a building,” she thinks to herself.

Where the bar was at least a sturdy, recognizable structure, the Junkers’ shack is barely an acceptable lean-to. It has four walls, a door, and a roof, but every inch of its surface is severely worn. Bullet holes decorate the front wall with rust eating away at the metal sheets patchworked with rotting wood. Broken glass litters the ground in front of the door, the shattered bulbs flickering above as Roadhog starts the generator. Junkrat steps past Satya, opening the door for her.

“Welcome to our humble abode!” he chimes. “Well, one of them. Roadie has several hideouts throughout Australia. Comes in handy when we’re on the go.”

“Quaint,” she replies, stepping into the shack. It’s almost worse on the inside. Roadhog locks the door behind her.

The shack is impossibly small, housing only a stained mattress on a bent and drooping metal frame, a turned over milk crate with an in-progress board game sitting atop it, and a pile of deflated pillows shoved into the corner. The room is dim, illuminated by a singular, dying lightbulb and a purple glowing bug zapper. The walls are patched up with a variety of scrap metal and wood, the occasional road sign or painted plank adding a pop of color. Hanging on one of the walls are two weathered posters depicting familiar faces. Satya squints, looking closer at the posters, quickly realizing what they are:

Two “Wanted” posters depicting crude drawings of two men that she’s currently keeping company.

And under their portraits is an advertised 25 million dollar reward.

Each.

“You like those? Picked those up after a stunt in Mexico,” Junkrat explains. “Not sure they quite captured our likeness tho… They went a tad too literal on the ‘Hog’ in Roadhog.”

Satya turns away to the rest of the tiny room. Roadhog is already passed out on the sinking mattress, snoring audibly through his mask. A strange yellow canister is hooked up to his mask as he breathes heavily. Satya sighs to herself and turns her attention to the pile of pillows.

“May I?” she asks Junkrat as she halfheartedly gestures toward the pillows.

“Oh, uh, yes… I mean, of course!” Junkrat stammers, seeming slightly flustered as he glances around the room, looking for somewhere else to sleep. Satya sits down on the concrete ground, sorting through the pillows.

“Here,” she says, tossing two pillows to Junkrat, keeping two for herself. Before Junkrat can say ‘thank you,’ she settles down onto the musty pillows, turning to face the wall. She hears the tall man shuffling behind her, knocking over the board game pieces and cursing quietly to himself. It takes several minutes before he’s still and quiet, leaving only the buzzing of the bug trap.

Until he speaks again.

“Goodnight, Roadie! Don’t let the dingoes bite!” Junkrat says with a tired sigh. Roadhog doesn’t respond. “And goodnight, Sym-met-tra!”

A few moments of quiet like an anxiously held breath.

“Goodnight,” Satya says quietly, gazing at Sanjay’s USB drive between her fingers.

{}{}{}{}{}

In the morning, Satya awakes before the two men, greeted by a chorus of snores or grunts. Roadhog is still exactly where he was the night before, sleeping deeply on the too small mattress. In contrast, Junkrat is sprawled out on the ground, his limbs spreading every which way as he jerks and flops at random. Quietly, she tiptoes out of the room and into the morning sun.

Outside the air is surprisingly refreshing as she takes several deep, shaky breaths. She observes the distant land surrounding her, the dry, dusty dirt blowing in the soft breeze, the withered sharp brush holding on for dear life, each plant with only a handful of green leaves. Even the early morning sun is harsh, blazing through a cloudless sky. She turns her attention to the motorcycle, now able to take in its gaudy décor in the daylight.

She makes her way to the bike and begins to kick the tire of the sidecar.

She slams her foot into the balding rubber of the tire.

She crashes her knee into the already twisted metal spokes.

She throws her entire body weight into the damn sidecar, over and over and over and over.

Thick tears begin to stream down her cheeks as a suffocating lump forms in her throat, her breaths and cries coming out chokes and pathetic. She continues to assault the bike, feeling it shake and shudder under her measly weight but taking no damage. She opens her mouth to yell, to scream, but nothing comes out. Just a sad, wimpy gasp. She loses herself in her meltdown, ignoring the pain of metal and hard rubber on her skin.

The ache in her hand and wrist doesn’t stop her from bashing at the sidecar.

The cracking sound of her prosthetic doesn’t stop her from tearing at the fabric of the seat.

The bleeding down her leg doesn’t stop her from thrashing at the tire.

The grasp of two giant hands around her waist lifting her from the ground doesn’t stop her from flailing and crying out, lost to her mind.

“Bloody hell! She’s fucking possessed!” Roadhog cries, holding the writhing woman in the air, just away from his face as her hands claw for whatever is around her. “Fuckin’ up my bike for no reason!”

Satya screams as the lump in her throat finally dislodges itself.

“Christ!” Roadhog shouts, dropping Satya and stepping back.

Satya hits the ground hard, knocking the wind out of her. She’s finally still, sobbing silently and wheezing, desperately trying to get air. Her body shakes gently as she stares into the electric blue sky, feeling like a beached jellyfish: limp, mindless, lost.

“Fuck, you killed her, Roadie,” Junkrat breathes in genuine fear and disbelief. She hears his uneven gait start to approach her, before stopping, then running away. “Fucking fuck, mate… She ain’t done nothin’ to us!”

“She’s not dead, you idiot.”

“Yes, she is! Just look at her! Twitchin’ like them birds on a stick at Budd’s!”

“She doesn’t look like a deep fried chick to me.”

“But she could be if the wrong people get ahold of her body!”

Satya bolts upright, panting for air, her eyes suddenly dry. She turns her head to face the two men, seeing Junkrat’s face of absolute horror. Without a word, she looks away, looking down at her hands. Her real arm is already forming deep bruises, her wrist twitching slightly, while her prosthetic is more cracked than before, blue light shining through. Her gaze travels down her body. The brace on her right leg is all but ruined, the pain from the day before coming back full force. She gasps at her ripped leggings and the gashes lining her left leg, bright red blood seeping into what was left of the fabric. She looks over at the bike, seeing the sharp, shining spikes of the hubcap stained red. She turns back to the Junkers.

“D-do you have a shower?” she asks tentatively.

Junkrat bursts out into hysterical, maniacal laughter.

“She’s not dead, Roadie!” he exclaims, dancing and hopping around. Roadhog just grumbles to himself and disappears back into the shack.

“Junkrat,” Satya says, her voice steadier. She can feel every grain of dirt sticking to her skin, sticky with sweat, tears, and blood. “Is there a shower nearby?”

Junkrat stops his dancing.

“Um, well, no,” he says with a sheepish smile. “But there is a hose! ‘Round the back.”

“Okay, good. That will have to work.”

She sighs heavily, watching him closely. His rapidly changing emotions and reactions confuse her deeply. He stands next to her, suddenly so casual as if her weren’t just mourning what he believed to be her accidental death. Idly, he sways and jitters, never seeming to stand still. A silly smile is painted across her face as his eyes dart around at whatever catches his attention next. Her mind races trying to understand his behavior, trying to solve it like a puzzle, except the most important pieces have gone missing. Though she can’t decide if it’s the middle of the puzzle that’s missing or the outermost borders, and what it means for either of those to be absent.

But what confuses her the most is how he says nothing about her… discomposure.

“How could you embarrass yourself like this? Get up. Get up. Get up!” the voice in her head screams. “Behavior like this would get you demoted from your position.”

“Can you please help me up?” she asks shyly, trying to squish the voice in her head. She sits frozen in place, her skin crawling at the accumulation of foreign textures upon it.

“Ye, of course!” He stumbles to her side, helping her up as gently as he can, much like an untrained puppy with a new squeaky toy. “Hose is back that way; it usually works, but ya never know if you’ll get a trickle or a hurricane! We’ve got a first aid kit in the house, just shout when ya need it!”

He begins to head back toward the shack until Satya stops him.

“Junkrat?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Can we just…” she takes a deep breath. “Can we forget that happened?”

“Forget what happened?”

“The, um, that… scene. I didn’t mean—”

“What scene? Far as I know, nothing happened.”

“Junkrat, you—”

“Ah, ah, ah!”

He smiles mischievously, wiggling his eyebrows up and down. He holds a finger to his lips and giggles. Satya stops, finally realizing he is playing into her request. She smiles meekly and slinks toward the back of the shack.

{}{}{}{}{}

The room is uncomfortably quiet as Satya patches up her leg. No one speaks, no one mentions the previous episode of the morning. They keep to themselves, their fidgety activities, sneaking quick glances around the room every so often.

Chunk! Chunk!

Satya balances herself on the milk crate, chopping away at a roll of bandages with a dull pair of scissors.

Squeak! Squeak!

Roadhog sits on the mattress, squeezing a plush Pachimari in shockingly good condition.

Tink! Tink!

Junkrat lies on the floor, an array of tools and scrap surrounding him as he fashions colorful round grenades.

The room stays like this for a while until Satya eventually finishes wrapping her bandages. She boots up her photon projector, quickly creating little fasteners to keep them in place, and a new brace for her other leg. She also runs a diagnostic on her prosthetic, providing small temporary fixes to the limb where she can. Junkrat’s attention is pulled away from his grenades as she does this, watching the sleek machine work effortlessly with her arm to create things out of thin air. The energy of the room quickly moves from discomfort to anticipation.

Finally, Junkrat interrupts the quiet, a skill he’s quite proficient in.

“Why are ya here, anywhere?” he asks, looking away as Satya turns her head toward him.

“Well, I rode here with you two last night—” she starts, but he cuts her off with a giggle.

“No, no, silly, why are ya in Australia!”

“Oh, uh, my apologies,” Satya stammers. “I’m here with the Vishkar Corporation, my employers. We have—had—a neighborhood shelter project planned near one of the remaining settlements. But… something must’ve hit out dropship and we crashed. I passed out in the crash and woke up to find everyone, my entire team, missing. I need to find them…”

A few beats.

“But I honestly don’t even know where to start,” she admits. She reaches for her necklace, feeling the drive through the fabric of her tunic.

“Well, Roadie and I know this Outback like the back of our hands,” Junkrat says, wiggling his fingers as if to make a point. “We already kinda agreed to help ya to the nearest city last night, but I think we could work out a deal here…”

“What do you mean?” Satya sits up straighter, glaring at the man sprawled on the floor.

“Say me and Roadie get ya to that city, but instead of leavin’ ya to the locals, we… help ya find yer missing team?”

“What?” Satya and Roadhog say simultaneously, both bewildered by Junkrat’s proposition.

“I’m not done! We help ya find yer people… and in exchange ya give us some of that sunlight technology of yours.”

“Hard-light,” she corrects him quickly, coldly. “And no, I am not authorized to release any of our technology. And even if I was, I wouldn’t just hand it over to the likes of you!”

“Then we can just throw ya out in the Wastes if that’s what ya prefer! Let the vultures pick at ya! No drama for me, anyway!”

Satya gets up abruptly from the milkcrate, knocking it down behind her, and storms to a corner in the tiny room. She squeezes her eyes shut, runs her hand over her face in frustration. Looking up, she’s greeted by the Junkrat’s face captured in the “Wanted” poster. His stupid smile mocks her. His wild eyes sear into her mind. The large reward printed under his face seems to rise from the page. Twenty five million dollars for him, and another for Roadhog.

“What would you do with our technology?” Satya asks over her shoulder, forcing a genuine tone into her voice.

“Well, ya can create just about anything, right?”

“That is correct.”

Junkrat cackles, scurrying up to his feet. He slinks up behind her, towering over her small frame. She keeps her eyes to the wall.

“What wouldn’t I do?” he asks quietly, barely containing the laughter building at the back of his throat. “I just need to know a bit more about it, but I have a feelin’ that light of yours could get me and Roadie in and out of a lot of tough situations… What do ya think, Symmetra?”

Satya sighs and turns to face him. She looks up, glares into his eyes with a lethal gaze.

“I will show you what hard-light is capable of,” she says, “as long as you help me find my team.”

“And when we find them?” he asks with a devious smile.

“I will provide you the technology you want.”

“Atta, girl!”

He laughs and backs away, playfully beating at Roadhog’s arm as he sings and dances about technology and riches. Satya watches the two men with contempt, her hand gripping tighter at her photon projector. Her stomach sits in her throat, her heartbeat deafening between her ears.

“You help me find my people, help me find Sanjay,” she conceives, twisting the plan in her head, “and I turn you two in to the global authorities. Fifty million dollars… The difference that could make back…”

Scenes from Rio flood her mind again. The crowded, bursting favela. The explosion. The screams. The more recent memories begin to mesh with older, more familiar ones. Memories of claustrophobic alleyways with barely passable houses stacked onto each other. Foul stenches mixing with loud noises and bright colors. A community that could be clean and orderly. A place that could someday be considered an actual home.

The word pops into her head, as it always does when she’s on these missions. It brings her shame and conflict. It blinds her with rage. She keeps it in her head, never dares to utter it. Uttering it would only give it validity, make it real, make it true to who she was. Who she is. But deep down she knows it’s true as she thinks of it often.

“Think of what fifty million dollars would do for… the slum.”

Chapter Text

For hours after their agreement, the reward money sits in her mind like a heavy weight. As they fly through the Outback on the bike, she rotates the number in her head, imagining all the ways she could use it. She breaks it into smaller amounts, divides it between all the possible projects she could lead. Behind her eyelids, she begins to build cities.

The roads come first with fresh pavement covering the uneven, broken blocks of concrete. Decorative, yet durable tiles make the sidewalks and alleyways, adding appeal to the asphalt of the roads. Rising up from the sidewalks, she builds apartments, all clean lines and solid structure. Squares and rectangles are common for modern-contemporary buildings, but Satya has always added a personal touch to her designs.

“Flow.”

The apartments look as though they are one with the wind and the water, walls, windows, and balconies waving harmoniously to create functional art. At first she imagines clean whites, soft blues, and shining golds painting the exterior, but then her mind shifts to brighter, broader colors. She thinks of Suravasa. Usually, she is not the kind to enjoy a barrage of the entire color spectrum, but the colors of Suravasa comfort her, melding beautiful bright vivids with subtle earth tones. Shocking pinks, warm yellows, and electric blues splash over the apartments. She smiles to herself.

Finally, she thinks of a park. A wide, open space with lush grass and winding paths providing a reprieve from the high density neighborhoods. A white gazebo marks a clearing where people can sit for hours, talking with their neighbors, playing chess and other board games, or reading for hours on in. An open field invites kids to play cricket, football, or wrestle in the afternoon sun. A canal surrounds the park, connecting to a serene pond with an impressive fountain. She imagines herself sitting by the water, dipping her fingers in and swirling them around.

She imagines a dragonfly landing on her wrist.

She imagines a moment of stillness.

“Oy, Symmetra! Ya listenin’?”

A sharp voice frightens the dragonfly. The gentle rippling of the water splashes violently.

“What was that?” she asks, opening her eyes only to immediately squint in the blinding sunlight. She turns her head to the shrill man behind her.

“I’m tellin’ ya about me and Roadie’s best scores and ya ain’t even listenin’! How else are we supposed to getta know each other?” Junkrat cries, throwing his arms in the air, exasperated.

“I didn’t know we were ‘getting to know each other,’” she responds, placing her hand on her forehead in a desperate attempt to shield her eyes.

“If only I had my goggles,” she thinks, squeezing her eyes shut. There’s no relief. “I could make a pair, but not right now…”

She sighs in frustration and bows her head down.

“Well, I figured since we’re partners now, ya should know a bit more about us! But anyway—hey, are ya alright?”

She’s caught off guard by his question. He leans over her shoulder.

“Uh, yes. I am fine.”

“ERR!” he makes a sound like a buzzer. “Yer a terrible liar!”

Before she can respond, she feels his hands on her, shoving her arms away from her face. He pulls her hair back with one hand and with the other slips something onto her head. Sticky rubber touches her sun-kissed cheeks. He lets go of her hair, tightening the elastic band hugging her head.

“There ya go,” he hums. “Sun ain’t nice out here!”

Satya sits up and touches the goggles on her face. She flips up a lid covering one of the eyes and can suddenly see the world again, only several shades darker. She starts to take them off. Junkrat stops her.

“What’re ya doin! I’m tryin’ to help ya!”

“Why?”

“Because we’re partners now, Symmetra! Tit for tit!”

“What?”

“It’s a phrase! Like, uh, ‘an eye for a tooth,’ y’know the deal!”

“No, I—”

“Tit for tat,” Roadhog clarifies with a groan. “Though he’s not even using it right.”

Satya sits quietly as the two bicker back and forth about idioms and metaphors. Roadhog remains calm and well-spoken while Junkrat is borderline hysterical over his vocabulary. Satya decides it goes on long enough and interrupts the men.

“I’ve never understood figurative phrasing, so I don’t think it matters,” she says. “If you’re trying to say you’re helping me because I am helping you, then I understand.”

The Junkers are silent, taking in her words.

“That makes sense,” Roadhog agrees, speeding up the bike.

Junkrat says nothing.

Satya keeps the goggles on.

{}{}{}{}{}

As they’ve traveled, more signs of life and civilization have started appearing. Petrol stations, small camps of RVs and vans, the occasional house, or at least a building that could pass as one. In addition to the settlements and structures, various vehicles have joined them on the road. This prompted several spontaneous drag races and vicious mocking between the Junkers and other people of the Wasteland. Satya just held on tightly to the rim of the sidecar the entire time.

Midway through the day, the three travelers stop at a petrol station. Roadhog complains about a broken part on the bike, wandering off to the small auto shop. Junkrat begrudgingly refuels the bike, pulling fidgeting with an object from his pocket while he waits. He hums to himself, adding in little pops and trills every so often. Satya stands nearby with her arms wrapped around herself, observing the space around them.

The small population surrounding the station isn’t the most desirable of crowds. Like the bar, people are openly, heavily armed. Many of them are missing limbs, eyes, teeth, with scars and burns littering their body. Most of them are solitary, grumbling to themselves as they fuel their vehicles or smoke outside of the station, but a few of them are huddled in small groups, grunting and snickering to themselves.

The gas pump clicks. Junkrat sings something unintelligible. Satya wipes the sweat off her forehead.

“Is there water or refreshment in the station?” she asks, lifting the goggles from her eyes to try to squint through the dirty windows, only seeing auto parts.

Junkrat laughs.

“Nothin’ clean or cold,” he says. He continues playing with the fidget, light clicks and pops sounding from the object. “We’d be lucky if we could score a stubby!”

“A stubby?”

“A beer, though most booze out here is straight piss with bubbles.”

Satya makes a face and turns away from the station.

“Is your friend almost finished? I would like to reach the city before nightfall.”

Junkrat laughs again. Satya pushes down bubbling frustration.

“We told ya it’s a two day drive, hello! I thought ya architect types were supposed to be good at maths!”

“Whatever,” Satya grumbles under her breath. She takes the goggles off, throws them at Junkrat, and walks off. “I’m going to find something to drink.”

“Woah, woah, woah!” Junkrat shouts, scrambling after her. He grabs her shoulder, but she quickly shrugs away with a snide remark. “Nah, ya don’t get it, ya can’t go in there alone!”

“Why not?”

“Well, I mean, look at ya!”

He gestures her up and down, his eyes wide and concerned. Satya doesn’t understand, examining her outfit, or at least what’s left of it. Her leggings are missing a pant leg, the fabric torn at the thigh and replaced with the thick bandage covering her injury. Her fabric of the other leg is protected under her brace, though orange dust sticks to the fabric. Her tunic is disheveled and dirty, stained with the same Outback dirt. A few small tears line the lower hem. She looks away, discomfort overcoming her body at the state of her appearance.

“I look just as disastrous as anyone else out here!”

“Nuh uh, yer all Miss Fancy Pants! Ya go in there alone and every Bruce will be on ya like a shark sniffin’ blood. They do not take kindly to outsiders.”

Satya crossed her arms and glared at the skittish man in front her. He holds out his goggles toward her.

“I’ll escort ye in,” Junkrat says with a crooked smirk.

“Let me make this very clear,” Satya starts lowly, “I do not need your protection. We have an agreement, but we do not owe each other anything outside of that. I am perfectly capable on my own.”

Junkrat’s smile falters and he scrunches his nose.

“I’m not doubtin’ ya,” he says, his voice as serious as her, “but I’m also not just gonna let ya waltz in there to yer death over something shite to drink. You dying because ya think ya can reason with a Wastie ain’t part of the fucking deal.”

He’s towering over her, leaning in close to her face. Too close. Their noses are mere millimeters from touching. The smell of heat, smoke, and gasoline burns Satya’s senses. She can’t break her eyes away from his, staring deeply into his squinted amber eyes. His hand grabs her wrists as he returns his goggles to her.

“Ya won’t survive out here without me and Roadie,” he breathes against her face.

Satya steps back.

“Fine,” she says stubbornly, sliding the goggles back onto her head, but keeping her eyes uncovered. “Lead the way.”

The two enter the station, garnering a collection of odds looks. Satya surveys store, seeing only auto parts, tools, and junk. She tails after Junkrat through the aisles until they come across a section full of booze. Boxes of cans and bottles stack up to the ceiling, not a refrigerator in sight. Together they rummage through the beverages.

“This is all just swill,” Satya complains, lightly shaking an unlabeled bottle and watching the mushy contents inside swirl around. She cautiously sifts through a few more boxes, finding damaged cans and leaking bottles. She holds one up to her nose, sniffs at the putrid liquid inside, before putting it down and turning away from the stock. “None of this is hydrating.”

“I found some sodas!” Junkrat cries happily, his arms full of cans. On top of the cans he’s delicately balancing glass bottles as they rest on his shoulders. A few of them he holds under his chin. Satya scoffs, but finds herself reaching for the bottles, relieving Junkrat of his balancing act. She reads the labels of the bottles, finding obscure flavors with syrups made purely of dyes and sugars. Surprisingly, she finds that they are all alcohol free. “No water though, but Roadie still has a canteen or two. He’s always good about that kinda stuff!”

“I suppose it’ll have to do,” she sighs, meandering toward the checkout.

As she approaches the clerk, she freezes in the middle of the aisle. Junkrat slams into her, dropping all of the cans in the process. Soda explodes at their feet, flooding the aisle.

“Oh, what the hell?” Junkrat shouts, but Satya begins backing up against him.

“Junkrat…” she says quietly and he catches on, his eyes going to the clerk.

Behind the counter, the clerk smiles menacingly. She’s a middle aged woman with frizzy hair and a scrap of metal serving as an eye patch. Several other Junkers surround her, all brandishing weapons and chuckling. In one hand, the clerk holds a large, serrated machete, and in the other she’s a “Wanted” poster.  Junkrat’s “Wanted” poster.

“Would ya look at what the hog dragged in,” she drawls, crumpling up the poster. She jumps over the counter and saunters toward Satya and Junkrat. “Got ya friend in the back. He didn’t even put up a fight! Big bloke he is, I was sure I’d lose a goon or two. But nah! He just went right with them! I am having one hell of a day!”

Satya feels one of Junkrat’s arms wrap around her, but she’s too frightened to say anything.

“Ya know what someone could do with fifty million?” the clerk continues. The entourage of men trail behind her, some of them flanking the aisles next to them. Small giggles and grunts build the tension behind the clerk’s voice. “Well, it’s more than enough to get out of this shithole!”

She kicks one of the cans Junkrat dropped, sending it flying past the them. Junkrat takes a step back, dragging Satya with him.

“Junkrat,” she murmurs, fumbling the bottles in her arms, desperately reaching for her photon projector.

“Shh, I’ve got an idea,” he whispers back, pulling her closer to him. His mouth is right in her ear. “When I say ‘go’ those bottles yer holding become weapons, got it?”

“What?”

“Shh, just trust me Symmetra!”

The two continue backing away slowly as the clerk continues creeping toward them, but soon enough, they find themselves backed up against the boxes of drinks, forcing them to stop.

“But I’m not just interested in the reward money,” the clerk is close now as she holds out her machete just above Satya’s head. “I know ya’ve got treasure hidden somewhere. Most folks believe ya’ve split it up, hiding it throughout the Wasteland, maybe even throughout the world. So, I can’t turn ya in just yet because yer gonna tell me where all yer wealth is.”

“That’s gonna take a while, y’see I left me map back in Junkertown!” Junkrat responds, almost enthusiastically. The point of the machete is right between his eyes. He grips Satya tighter. “Unfortunately, the Queen and I are havin’ a bit of a rough patch, so I ain’t exactly welcome there—”

“Shut the fuck up! Now, ya got options. Ya can either come quietly like yer pig friend, or things can get bloody.” The clerk steps back slightly, moving her machete to Satya’s face. “I could start with yer girlfriend’s pretty little face. She ain’t from around here, I can tell…”

“She ain’t got nothin’ to do with any of this! Let her go, and I’ll come quietly.”

“Ha! Yeah, so she can go collect it all and run off with it, eh?”

“I swear I don’t know anything about whatever this treasure may be,” Satya confesses, growing more anxious by the minute waiting for Junkrat’s signal.

The clerk looks Satya up and down, further cluing into her status as an outsider. She lowers the moves the machete away from her face, back to Junkrat. With a silent hand gesture, the men around her step back, giving the three space, but they keep their weapons ready.

“Alright…” the clerk says, “I guess she can go, but my men are keepin’ and eye on ya!”

The clerk steps back, her eyes trained on Junkrat. Satya peels herself from his grip, the bottles still grasped tightly in her arms. Slowly, she slinks away from the conflict, her mind racing, waiting for Junkrat to say something.

“Go. Go. Go.”

Finally, he speaks.

“GO!” Junkrat shouts.

Without second thought, Satya whips around to the clerk and smashes a bottle into the back of her head, fizzy soda spraying everywhere. The clerk cries out, stumbling and grabbing the back of her head. Junkrat slips out of sight. Quickly, Satya continues to rip the bottles from her arm, throwing them all around her aimlessly. Soda and glass fly throughout the store as bottles hit walls, shelves, and people. Knives and bullets join the chaos as a fight erupts. As she runs out of bottles, she breaks for the exit, activating her photon projector as she runs. Behind her everyone is shouting. She hears a shelf topple over, all of its contents flying across the floor. Screws spin under her feet and just as she’s about to make it outside, she topples over.

She scrambles for her photon projector and right as two men are about to jump at her, a shield bubbles around her. The men are thrown back on impact, crumpling as they hit the ground. The rest of the station is a disaster as the clerk and her men tear apart the store looking for Junkrat. The eccentric Junker has seemingly disappeared into thin air.

And then she hears it.

Loud, hysterical laughter followed by an explosion.

The pile of boxes and beverages explodes outward in a cloud of smoke, the contents spraying throughout the store. Several people, including the clerk are thrown back by the explosion. Satya flinches in her shield as glass and metal rain down on the hard-light barrier. When the debris clears, she continues to watch as Junkrat wreaks havoc. A grenade launcher now in hand, he continues yelling and laughing as his homemade grenades pop off around the store. Several men still standing try to rush at him, but the Junker is practically flying across the tops of shelves, untouchable. In no time, the other men downed, knocked across the floor by the bombs.

The station is a mess of men scattered throughout. Some of them are unconscious, groaning and mumbling in pain. Others are still trying to target Junkrat, struggling to stay on their feet. Some men are a bloody mess of displaced flesh and bone. The clerk rises painfully to her feet, heaving as she frantically looks for Junkrat, but a low booming sound grabs the attention of everyone in the store.

Just behind a closed metal door by the cash register, muffled booms and crashes sound out. Junkrat giggles quietly to himself from his place atop a shelf. Satya watches the door in horror, afraid of what may be behind it. The clerk’s eyes go wide as she limps toward it.

“That fuckin’ pig,” she spats.

The door bursts open, flying off the hinges and across the room as Roadhog stomps out. Scrap, junk, nuts, and bolts shoot out of his modified shotgun at a frightening speed. The force of the blasts sends everything in the shrapnel path flying. As he stomps through the store, even more damage is done as no one can overpower him. Just under the loud clanking and burst of the gun, Satya can hear his deep, guttural laugh, just as crazed as Junkrat’s.

“Now that’s how you make an entrance!” Junkrat squeals, hopping down from the shelf lightly kicking at the injured men moaning on the ground. “Ha-ha-ha-HAAAA!”

Roadhog’s gun runs out of ammunition and the station falls quiet. Satya disables her shield, but remains sitting on the floor, in shock at the scene that just unfolded.

“They weren’t like this in the bar fight at all,” she thinks.

As she sits in disbelief, the two men in her company are laughing and exchanging a complicated and flashy handshake with dance moves and scatting vocalizations mixed in. Before Satya can gauge what exactly they’re doing, Junkrat runs over and pulls her to her feet, including her in their funny ritual.

“Another win for Junkrat!” Junkrat shouts.

“And Roadhog,” Roadhog grumbles happily.

“Aaaaaaaand…!” Junkrat points to Satya, expecting her to join in on the chant. Satya rips her hand from his.

“No,” she says firmly.

“Ah, anotha time then,” the man mumbles disheartedly, but quickly recollects his cheery demeanor. He starts rummaging through the mess of parts at his feet. Roadhog picks up the cash register with a single hand, shaking it furiously. “Now, let’s see what we can find in this place, eh, Roadie?”

“STOP!” a strained voice shouts. All three turn their attention to the clerk, doubled over with a loose grip on her machete. “YER MY PRISONERS, YA FUCKIN’ CUNTS! THAT’S MY REWARD MONEY!”

Junkrat and Roadhog burst out laughing.

“Lady, I think ya need to let that go,” Junkrat says with false, humorous pity. “Now, we’ll just be on our way! Do you have any rope, by chance?”

“ROPE!? WHAT DO YOU NEED ROPE FOR!?”

“Oh, just to tie ya up for a bit to stop ya from sendin’ anyone after us!”

“WHY YOU—”

Satya steps between them, already fabricating something with her photon projector. Before the clerk can react, Satya is weaving hard-light around the woman’s wrists, working quickly, deftly. With a few clicks on her projector, the light solidifies and the clerk’s hands are bound securely. Satya turns to the Junkers, the two in awe of her quick work on handcuffing the enemy.

“May we leave now?” she asks but doesn’t wait for an answer as she strolls out the door.

The Junkers follow behind her, Junkrat stammering over his words as he tries to communicate his admiration of her technology, his skill, but Satya ignores him. She keeps her eyes on the ground as her pace picks up. She storms ahead, the bike feeling further away than it was previously.

“Can’t a single day go by without bloodshed?” she stews.

“Ah, shit... Symmetra, hold on!”

““Mindless fighting, injuring, and killing.”

“Symmetra! Wait!”

“Imbeciles. Idiots. Buffoons. Oafs.”

“We can’t go anywhere, Symmetra! Stop!”

“There is no hope out here. What was Vishkar thinking setting up a community and an office here?”

“SYMMETRA! STOP!”

Satya stops, torn out of her mind. She finally looks up from the ground as the Junkers run up behind her. They’re at the gas pump where the bike was parked. The bike is still there, but resting at her feet in pieces, completely scrapped with the tires missing.

Chapter Text

“Looks like the work of Wreckers,” Roadhog grumbles, examining what’s left of the bike. He rummages through the pile, throwing several dismembered pieces in frustration. “Must’ve jumped it when we were inside… Fuck, we’re not getting anywhere with this.”

“Bloody Wreckers,” Junkrat hisses, pacing about. “Think they’re so much better than Junkers! Can’t even do clean work taking apart a bike!”

“Clean work?” Satya makes a face, stifling a scoff. She looks Junkrat up and down, making note of the “clean work” of his grenade launcher, his peg leg, his arm. She averts her attention to her own prosthetic, it’s ergonomic and pure design evident even with the recent damage. She smirks to herself.

The station isn’t what it was when they arrived. After the brawl in the store, most of the drifters are either dead, unconscious, or ran from the conflict. An eerie quiet haunts the station, a light wind breezing past them, shaking loose signs and blowing dirt around. Distantly, the clerk’s muffled yells can still be heard from inside the shop, but she doesn’t join them outside. Roadhog and Junkrat continue to brainstorm the next move.

“Might be some cars left out back,” Junkrat suggests, pointing in that direction. “Time to refresh the old hot-wirin’ skills!”

“Nah, some goons took off with them when they had me back there,” Roadhog answers with a stiff laugh. “Maybe they’ll be back for their boss lady, but I’ll doubt it.”

“Not even a bicycle back there?”

Roadhog just slaps the back of his head.

“Alright…” Junkrat hums, rubbing where Roadhog smacked him, chuckling to himself. He goes quiet, mostly as he mumbles incoherently to himself, eyes darting around the deserted gas station and the expansive landscape. Satya watches as he’s deep in thought, furrowing bushy eyebrows with an expression she’s seen on her fellow Vishkar engineers. Her eyes trail over his, noting how they glow a warm amber in the sunlight. She follows his gaze. He’s locked onto her photon projector. His eyes snap up to hers.

“No,” Satya snaps before he can speak. Her hand hovers over the tool, shielding it from his gaze. “My technology is not permitted for—"

“C’mon, at least hear me out, Sheila,” he interrupts her calmly, a strange smoothness to his voice. He straightens himself out, stands at his full, lanky height. He blocks the sun, shade engulfing her. “You wanna find yer team, dontcha?”

Satya doesn’t break eye contact. Her hand grasps her photon projector. She unlatches it. Junkrat smiles wide.

“I can’t make a new motorcycle,” Satya says, powering up her tool. “There is only so much a handheld model can do. I could try to recreate the parts that were stolen, but as I am unfamiliar with them, I will need you two to provide some sort of description. A blueprint would be preferable, but I doubt that is accessible in our situation.”

She kneels over the bike, sorting through the jagged, poorly painted parts. She can vaguely understand what is missing and what they may need, but the motorcycle is a mechanical mystery to her. It’s clear that most of the pieces that would make the bike functional are missing, only the seats remaining. Even then, whoever scrapped the bike went the extra mile to take the leather from the seats as well.

“Well, we’re definitely missing the gas tank,” Junkrat chimes in, squatting next to her. He leans in close enough for her to feel his heat. “We could start there, but I don’t really know how to describe it.”

“Then I can’t build it,” she says plainly, picking up a random spike that had decorated a wheel cover, examining it dully.

“But that gun can do anything! You told me! You made that shiny glowy thingie on your leg!”

He gestures to her brace, the hard-light dancing and reflecting along the flexible surface. Satya drapes her arm over the leg, shifting away slightly.

“I knew how to make the brace. I don’t know how to make a gas tank for a motorcycle.”

Their voices are rising now as their faces scrunch up in frustration, inching closer with each angry word.

“Then… think of a gas tank!”

“I’m an architect, not a mechanic! You think of a gas tank!”

“Well! It’s… It’s a tank that holds gas!”

“Oh, wonderful! Tell me more!”

“For cars they’re usually rectangular and—”

“This is a motorcycle!”

“Let me finish! And they can be vaguely tear dropped shaped on most motorcycles!”

“YOU ARE A MORON!”

Satya screams right in his face, so close their noses briefly touch. She shoves him away, knocking him off his feet and throwing herself back in the process. Squeezing her eyes shut, she clamps her hands over her ears. The back of her throats burns as she desperately wants to yell and scream, but she stifles the urge, opting for low, strained groans and growls. She rocks back on forth on her heels.

“Crikey, not again,” Junkrat breathes next to her. She feels him move close to her. She braces, waiting for Roadhog’s large hands to clasp around her like they did that morning. The unwanted touch doesn’t come.

Instead, she just hears Junkrat’s voice, surprisingly quiet and calm.

“I bet this is all pretty hard,” he says, voice just above her own whining. “This Wasteland ain’t kind, not even to those raised in it, but I can’t pretend I know how yer feelin’.”

Satya feels her throat relax, the whining stops.

“I know how to build a lot of things, too,” he continues. “Not like you, though. I don’t really have plans or blueprints. I just see it in me head and make it with me hands. Roadie’s good at fixin’ things like the bike, but he doesn’t really make things like you and I…”

Satya eases her hands from her ears.

“If ya can’t fix the bike, maybe we can start with something ya know how to build.”

Satya takes a deep breath, opens her eyes. He’s sitting right in front of her.

“I can’t build anything that would fix this,” she whispers hoarsely, though she doesn’t know if she’s talking about the motorcycle or everything that has happened in the last few days.

“Then we don’t have to build anything at all,” he whispers back, a small smile on his lips. “Totally commando!”

“I don’t think that’s what that means,” Satya chuckles lightly.

“It’s not,” Roadhog sighs.

“Ya ready for some walking?” Junkrat asks, gazing directly enter her eyes.

“Are you sure? We can try the motorcycle again,” Satya sighs, looking away.

“Nah, that bike’s history. Plenty of other bikes out there to nab later.” He gets up, his peg leg creaking and his regular knee popping. He stretches, then holds out his real hand for Satya. “What d’ya say? Let’s get going!”

Gingerly, Satya takes it, his one metal finger tapping lightly against the fiberglass of her prosthetic.

{}{}{}{}{}

As the three of them trudge on through the Outback, Satya finds the walk isn’t as grueling as her journey the day before. For starters, there is an actual road to follow. It’s broken and cracked, littered with large potholes, but it’s better than following tracks in the dirt. Sun-bleached road signs and old electrical poles line the street, giving her some idea that they know where they’re going. Some of the signs display crude graffiti, advertising supposed settlements and towns, but nothing seems to point toward actual civilization.

For the first hour or so, she’s silent as she walks. Her brain feels heavy in her head, bloated with self-deprecation as it toils on her outbursts. Though her anger is replaced with exhaustion and her thoughts aren’t as loud as before. They emerge more muffled and dampened, quiet mumblings of disappointment sounding just under the dull throbbing of a headache. She doesn’t get lost in them, doesn’t find herself blinded by her own rage or embarrassment. She lets them exist. She moves on.

She keeps walking.

Like her, Roadhog is quiet as he walks. He’s already established himself as a man of few words, but even his movements are surprisingly quiet and nimble. Like a switch, he seems to change from loud, violent, and raucous to quiet, calm, and reserved, morphing his intimidating presence as situations change. The only noise constant from him is his heavy, wheezy breathing exacerbated by moments when he attaches the yellow gas canister to his mask. The two of them walk together without peeping a word.

Between them is Junkrat.

Junkrat, who seems as if he a radio with an undying battery tuned into a 24/7 music station.

Junkrat, who’s mouth can make noises and sound effects that even the most talented foley artist would be envious of.

Junkrat, who seems physically incapable of shutting up.

While the other two walk in silence, Junkrat skips along between them, singing, humming, popping, trilling, and making just about any noise the human mouth is capable of. He doesn’t know a single song fully through as he makes up new lyrics and verses or combines two or more songs into one. Every time he finishes a song, he goes through a quick, rambling story that he claims is related to the music but comes out as almost nonsense. Those stories are littered with strange sounds and him constantly interrupting himself or laughing at his own jokes before he can even tell them. Roadhog gives him an affirming nod or an acknowledging grunt every so often.

Satya doesn’t outwardly react to him, but she finds herself paying closer attention to his stories as time goes on. Slowly, she starts picking out little details about the erratic man.

So far, she’s learned that Junkrat is 27 years old, born and raised in Australia, and an only child. He grew up with just his mom, but was quickly off on his own as a young teenager. He lost his leg helping her trespass and scavenge in a junkyard for parts to sell. He said losing his arm was his own fault, but he doesn’t expand on any details beyond that. He gushes his adoration for the “Junker Queen” and how one day he’ll rule beside her as her king consort, so long as she forgives him for infiltrating her personal vault.

He moves on from personal stuff quickly, brushing that subject away as he moves onto his “favorite” stories about heists, bounties, violence, and infamy. Though to him, being globally infamous is essentially the same as being a squeaky clean Hollywood celebrity. His stories are difficult to follow, and often vague and glossed over with excessive humor. It’s hard to tell exactly what’s true, or if any of his retellings come from sentimental emotion or the need to get a quick laugh from whoever is listening, but when he does speak of his and Roadhog’s heists, he is noticeably more detailed and caring with his recount. Roadhog even starts to add small, one word additions to these stories.

“Did you always want to be a criminal?” Satya finds herself asking, interrupting an improvised vocal guitar solo from some grunge song she’s never heard. Junkrat laughs.

“Who wouldn’t want to be a criminal?” Junkrat exclaims. “Dashing and dangerous rogues living a life on the run? I was practically born for it!”

Satya furrows her brow, glancing over him quickly.

“I wouldn’t,” she says very matter-of-factly. “It’s all just mindless chaos.”

“Chaos, sure, but that’s what makes it fun!” Junkrat continues. “You also get the riches, the fame, the women—”

“Women?” Satya asks with surprise.

As Junkrat enthusiastically yells, “YEAH!” Roadhog speaks flatly with a simple, “no.”

“Yes, Roadie! Don’t forget my Queen!” Junkrat snaps at him.

“’Your Queen’ banned you from Junkertown,” Roadie states plainly.

“We’re just having a bit of a rough patch,” Junkrat grumbles, “but but but besides that, the mindless chaos is really what makes everything so worth it! The rushing adrenaline, daring stunts you just barely get through! Oooohh, it just gets me riled up thinking about it all!”

“I can’t say the same,” Satya says, rolling her eyes. “I can’t possibly see how it’s worth it. Your ‘fame’ gets you arrested, whatever money you may have cannot be spent, and everything you make just gets blown to bits.”

“It’s just fun, Symmy! Please tell me ya at least know what fun is, or else ya may break me heart…”

“I can have fun!” Satya scoffs.

Junkrat doesn’t answer, his lips pressed together in a goofy grin as he snickers through his nose. His eyes start to water slightly the more he suppresses his laughter. His eyes trail up her body, lingering on her brace, her arm, and lastly, her eyes. They linger a little too long. His smile softens. Satya feels locked into the look.

“Then show me,” he says finally. “What does Symmetra do for fun…”

“I quite enjoy reading—”

“ERR!” Junkrat imitates a loud buzzer. “Reading isn’t fun!”

“Perhaps if someone had taught you to read in the first place, it might be,” Satya quips back.

Junkrat’s face falls in complete, utter shock and dismay. Roadhog chokes slightly under his mask, caught off guard by Satya’s diss, before he roars in laughter. Junkrat’s face turns redder by the second as he stammers, scrambling to find a response. Satya smiles to herself and keeps talking.

“I read a lot about global architecture,” she continues. “I have several subscriptions to different magazines, ranging from engineering perspectives to home decorating. Though I find historical books to be more engaging, even if I don’t particularly like the design decisions made in the past.”

She pauses for a moment, a faraway look passing across her face. Sharp, worried angles shift into expression Junkrat hasn’t seen from her yet. Her eyebrows knit together and a nostalgic look clouds her eyes. For a moment, her cold front melts and her anxieties morph into something soft. Something almost loving.

“I have a soft spot for art deco,” she says, her voice just above a whisper. “Though, you would never know it with my own personal designs.”

Junkrat is no longer affected by the diss as he listens quietly, intently.

Satya continues talking.

It’s rare for Satya to be the center of attention. Often she finds herself blurring into the background of everyone else around her, assuming the role of a secondary character within her own life. Usually she’s thankful for the invisibility as she can easily avoid unwanted and uncomfortable contact. She’s never been a people person, but she would be lying if she claimed she never craved someone that would actually, truly listen to her. However, as she rambles to the men in her presence, that craving is mute as joy bubbles up within her with each word.

Satya doesn’t talk nearly as much as Junkrat, and her stories are more concise with succinct points. She doesn’t dare share anything too personal, leaving out details of her family, her friends, her home, and most importantly, her real name. She’s 30 years old, born and raised in India, though she doesn’t say exactly where, and she’s extremely prideful of her work. With the same passion Junkrat has when talking about heists and explosions, Satya shares ad nauseum about architecture, design, and nature. She shares the cities she longs to work in, the projects she wants to headlines, and the neighborhoods she could only dream of building. While Satya is lost in her musings, Junkrat listens closely, hanging onto every word without interruption.

As Satya starts to quiet, nearing the end of her sharing, the sun begins to set. A golden glow shines on them, the exhausting heat of the day finally starting to cool down. Satya feels tiredness overcome her body as she realizes how long and how far they walked. The landscape is relatively the same as when they started walking: barren, dotted with litter and decaying abandoned structures. Road signs still provide no actual direction, but the road stretches on.

Next to her, Junkrat yawns, stretching his impossibly long body. He mumbles something incoherent. The lilt in his voice expects a response and Satya turns her head to him, her face at level with his chest She can’t help as her eyes graze his bare torso, tracing along defined muscular lines, moles speckled across the skin, and a line of light blonde hair leading to the waistband of his low pants. She looks away, heat rising to her cheeks.

“I’m just tired,” she thinks slowly to herself, her mind static. “Today was unpleasant, exhausting, and embarrassing. I just need to sleep and tomorrow my mind will be right.”

“Symm?” Junkrat’s says tired.

“What?” she asks.

“Are ya gonna answer my question?” he asks.

“What was it again?”

“Did you always want to be an architect?”

His voice is quiet as he reciprocates her question from earlier. He sounds just as curious as she was, but there is a kindness to his tone. Unlike Satya, there isn’t a hint of judgment or an air of elitism. Junkrat genuinely just wants to know.

Satya stares off at the setting sun. She thinks for a moment.

“I don’t know,” she responds, unsure whether or not she’s lying.

And if she is, she's unsure if that lie is to Junkrat or to herself.

Chapter Text

As the sun dips below the horizon and the sky grows dark, the group of three finds themselves still walking. Conversation has died and exhaustion has taken over, yet their bodies move robotically, grazing and tripping over uneven asphalt, debris, and litter. Earlier there were cars zooming past them, shouting profanities and throwing trash, but now the road is empty. Most of the streetlights are broken, with the few still functional buzzing and flickering dimly. Lights can be seen all around in the distance, dots of life here and there, but nothing close enough to make out. But straight ahead of them, further off, is the miniscule, foggy glow of a city.

A city they could be at by tomorrow evening at the latest if they still had the bike.

“There’s New Junk City,” Junkrat sighs sleepily, pointing at the speck on the horizon. “Always a beauty to see it so far away, like a beacon… I’d say we’re makin’ good time, dontcha agree?”

Roadhog wheezes. Satya is silent.

“It used to be a regular old factory for any ol’ Bruce to work at,” Junkrat continues. “Biggest employer out here… Then Omnica bought it, and the surrounding area, turned it into an omnium and ran off all the humans. Replaced them all with those chrome domes and tin cans.”

“Buckets of bolts don’t need to eat, don’t need to sleep,” Roadhog growls. “Don’t need to live.”

“All that matters is that it’s ours now,” Junkrat gripes. “Back right where it belongs, not an omnic in sight.”

“At least not any roaming free,” Roadhog hisses. “The ones still around know their place.”

Venom floods their voices when they speak about omnics. Their previously tired and relaxed dispositions bristle and they tense as if ready to fight. Roadhog stands much straighter now, his hands gripping tight into fists, releasing, then gripping once again. Junkrat emits a quiet, angry giggle, his fingers moving furiously, thumb tapping each finger one way and then back and then one way and then back again. Satya shifts her gaze between the men as they pulse with agitation.

She finds her own body on alert as her hands, with minds of their own, find her hair and frantically begin to braid and unbraid and braid and unbraid and braid and unbraid a long, coal black lock.

“Well, you know what they say now,” Junkrat chuckles.

“What?” Satya finds her voice betraying her.

“If you can make it in New Junk City, you can make it anywhere,” Junkrat says, repeating a phrase attached to many big, famous cities. Satya furrows her brow, trying to make sense of the phrase.

“Make it? What do you—"

“Survive,” Roadhog grunts. “If you can survive in New Junk City, you can survive anywhere.”

Satya doesn’t respond as she fixates on the phrase. If even the most barren outskirts of the Wasteland have brought danger, chaos, and injury, she can’t imagine what a populated city could hold. In this moment, she is too weary to panic, but too wired to let go as muddled thoughts and emotions fester within her. Her head hurts. Her body hurts. Her heart hurts.

She longs for home.

“Home.” The word echoes in her brain. “I want to go home.”

Hazy and distorted images form in her mind, desperately trying to form into something real, but she can’t find the energy to bring any of them into sharp focus. She thinks of the Vishkar headquarters, buildings tall and regal, made of hard-light and glass. Clouds pass across them, reflecting off windows, becoming part of the structure. The image shifts. Clouds morph into clothes hanging from lines strewn across an alley. The ground is covered with gray garbage, but above is a sea of color. The sea waves with the wind. Sky shines through the breaks in the tide, the cuts in the cloth.

But the colors mix too much and the sea turns dirty. Rusted gray, soiled green, dusty brown. The sea solidifies, janky structures rise from the lost colors, all metal and scrap. Hard lines and sharp angles are held together by an array of mismatch fasteners. Just as the metal jungle begins to grow clear, it jumps away, fading into the darkness of her mind. Nothing is left but an orange glow around it, slipping away dimmer and dimmer. She thinks for a moment that she hears something coming from the fading city, but the noise is gone just as fast as the image.

“Where even is home?”

“Symm?” Junkrat’s voice returns. He’s still tense, tightly wound, but the anger has lessened. “Ya there?”

“Of course,” she answers. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

“On this disheveled highway walking right alongside you,” she thinks plainly.

“You disappeared for a moment,” Junkrat says, the ever present giggle in the back of his throat. “Yer not scared, are ya?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Hmm…” It’s a suspicious hum, a knowing hum. Satya can feel his sleepy eyes rolling over her. She stares straight ahead. “Alright then.”

{}{}{}{}{}

Before long, Satya finds herself laying on a torn sleeping bag in another, albeit slightly larger, dilapidated shack. The Junkers are already fast asleep, deep in slumber and snoring raucously while Satya stares at the ceiling above her. Her eyes trace along the holes and cracks where the night sky peeks through, pinpricks of starlight faintly visible beyond the scrap metal. She stays like this for what feels like hours, dozing off at times only to wake back up and continue gazing, until eventually her gazing is interrupted by a faint, green blinking light.

Cautiously, she sits up, searching for the source of the new light. Shoved up against a wall is an object covered in a thin, tattered tarp. The light continues pulsing as Satya tiptoes over to the tarp, peering under the tarp.

A computer.

With quiet excitement, Satya pulls off the tarp, revealing the hunk of machinery. The computer is ancient, made up of bulky components from a variety of now desolate tech companies. The formerly aesthetic plastic shells of the parts are splintered and broken, covered in dust and smudges of some unknown greasy substance. Hardware peeks through the broken plastic, revealing the inside of the computer to be just as patchworked as the outside. Motherboards, processors, fans, and wires inhabit the computer precariously as an occasional spark zaps from the technology. Satya pays no mind to the hazard of its construction as she turns her attention to the screen.

The green glow comes from the ugliest screensaver Satya could imagine: a blocky 3D render of acid green slime oozing down the screen. But the blinking comes from a handful of icons on the side of the screen. Satya clicks on the notification and a password screen blocks her access.

“Shit,” she thinks to herself, running her eyes across the keyboard and over to the two sleeping men. “Now which one of you would’ve created the password...”

She doesn’t try to type anything in, afraid of too many wrong entries locking her out, so instead she decides to search the shack for a hint of any kind.

First, she checks the scribbled sticky notes stuck to the computer. She scans across them, finding To-Do lists, dates of heists, multiple reminders not to unplug the computer, and a bunch of other random and nonsense notes. None of them seem like worthwhile passwords, but a few stick out to her, so she tries them.

The first sticky note says “bomb-a-deer,” a play on bombardier with a goofy drawing of a cartoon deer taped to a bomb. She types that in, trying both with and without the hyphen. Incorrect.

The next sticky note is a short list of Junkrat’s and Roadhog’s names mashed together. “Roadrat,” “Junkhog,” “Rathog,” and “Hograt” are the only ones not scratched out. Satya squints at the scribbled out options, faintly seeing pieces of what their real names could be, but not enough to know their identities. She takes mental notes of the decipherable letters: J, A, S, F, K, and M, K, R, T, L. She types in the four nicknames. All incorrect.

She lets out a tense breath after the six first tries when no warning threatens her with lockout. Her eyes flick to the last sticky note.

“DON’T FORGET PASSWORD, J! REMEMBER THE ALF!”

“The ALF? The Australian…” Satya wracks her brain, trying to fill in the acronym as she further searches the desk. Each drawer is like a mystery box full of random papers, garbage, pens and pencils, and metal parts and pieces. Satya rifles through the mess as quietly as possible, searching the papers for anything useful, only to quickly realize that most of the papers are discarded drawings, “Top Ten Favorite” lists, and crude plans and blueprints. Eventually, she abandons the drawers and looks to the rest of the room.

This safehouse is more decorated than the previous one, more posters, pictures, and several clearly stolen items displayed like trophies. But nothing related to the acronym ALF. Until her eyes land on a framed photo hanging just above Roadhog’s bed where he snores just under it.

The picture depicts a small group of people Roadhog the only one Satya recognizes. Roadhog, significantly younger, though still a large, masked man, stands with his arm in the air, hand gestured as if he were at a rock show with his pointer and pinkie fingers up. Next to him stands a smaller, older man with a large beard with his arm around a haggard looking women. They’re all dressed like ragtag soldiers, rough around the edges but more put together than the current population of the Wasteland. Though the most interesting detail is the fourth person standing on the other side of Roadhog.

She’s tall and muscular, leaning into Roadhog with familiarity.  Her free hand is against her chest, throwing up the same gesture as him. His big hand is around her, holding her upper arm. Her other hand grips the leg of a child dangling off her shoulder. That’s where the tone of the photo changes as the space where the woman’s face and the child sitting on her shoulder is burned out, the edges of the hole blackened and singed.

There’s a piece of tape stuck to the frame.

The top line reads, “Billy and Linda & Mako the Mighty, Jackie, and—” and the bottom line reads, “—tralian Liberation Front

The last name as well as the beginning of the next phrase is ripped off, but Satya returns to the computer. She has all that she needs.

“Remember the ALF, the Australian Liberation Front. That’s too obvious, maybe it’s the nickname…”

Satya types in “makothemighty” and is instantly granted access to the computer.

She ignores all the pop-ups and notifications, not interested in prying into their business. She doesn’t need to know anything else about the Junkers and their schemes and heists. Instead, she unlatches the flash drive from around her neck, unplugging one of Junkrat’s own drives, and inserting it into the USB port. For a moment, she holds her breath, but eventually a window pops up accepting the drive. Satya can’t help but laugh in excitement.

As Satya investigates the drive, her excitement deflates as she just finds the typical field work basics: blueprints for new buildings and basic living technology, Vishkar business communication logs, mission statements. She groans clicking through endless documents that she’s already seen countless times with her clearance, until a new folder catches her eye. A folder with her name on it.

Immediately, she clicks on it, the folder opening up to a shocking collection of documents, photos, project reports, and more. Satya sits in discomfort as she clicks through each file, discovering an entire profile of herself from birth all the way up to her departure for the Australia project. School report cards, medical records, familial criminal records, even CCTV footage of her throughout her life and travels, all of it documented in this one folder hidden on this drive. The most recent document is a transcription from upper Vishkar board members discussing her placement. She reads through it, but just as she’s about to learn why she wasn’t given a project in India, the transcription is blacked out with REDACTED marking the missing dialogue. She exits out of the folder, too scared to find what else the Vishkar has collected on her. She looks for other folders with employee’s names attached to them.

There is only one other folder for a former Vishkar employee.

Niran PruksaManee, her old university roommate.

Curiously, she clicks on it, only to discover the exact same story. Every aspect of Niran’s life is present in disgusting detail, but unlike Satya’s, it doesn’t end with his final project. The folder is just as up to date as her own, but this time following all of his recent vigilante, criminal activity, including possible sightings, discoveries of his “bio-light” technology throughout the world, and documents from multiple global justice systems negotiating bounties.

Satya exits that folder as well.

Aimlessly, she scrolls through the rest of the drive, countless folders and documents, but nothing seemingly significant.  Until she comes across the last folder, with nothing but “VT” for a name and the icon zipped up with a little lock. She clicks on it. A window pops up

YOU DO NOT HAVE ACCESS TO THIS FOLDER. CONTACT AN ADMINISTRATOR FOR REMOTE PASSWORD ACCES.

Satya sighs and ejects the drive, returning it to the necklace. She got lucky with the password for the computer, but she knows she can’t unlock that folder without Sanjay.

“Why me?” is all she can think to herself as she plays with the flash drive. “What was his purpose giving me the drive?”

She pauses.

“Unless he knew I would find him…”

She pauses again, trying and failing to make sense of everything that has happened.

“Did he know I would be the only one left after the crash?”

Her chest tightens. Her breath quickens. Her throat is tight.

“Was this all planned?”

She shoves the drive back under her shirt. She checks the men, breathing a little easier seeing they’re still sleeping. Just as quietly as she turned the computer on, she returns it the way she found it, plugging Junkrat’s flash drive back in, locking the computer with the screensaver on, and gingerly placing the tarp over the machine. She tiptoes back to her sleeping bag and shuffles into it, curling up on her side. Her mind races thinking of Sanjay, the folders of her and Niran, the locked folder. She runs through every possible variable in her life and employment that has lead to this outcome, remaking choices in her head an theorizing a different now. But one thing she is certain of, whether it be exhaustion, conspiracy, or desperation, is that the crash was no accident, and when she finds Sanjay, there will be order once again.

When she finds Sanjay.

If she finds Sanjay.

Junkrat makes a noise in his sleep and Satya’s eyes shift to his lean back facing her. He snoozes fitfully, just as jittery as if he were awake. Just as she was spying between the cracks in the ceiling, Satya finds herself eyeing along his bare skin. She connects his freckles and moles, eyes along tan lines and the peeling skin burned from the son, and trails along his defined muscles that surround that bumpy notches of his spine. And when she’s made her way across the landscape of his backside, she starts the journey over again, and again, and again.

Until her eyes start to feel heavy.

And just as her eyes begin to close and her body starts to fall to sleep, she watches as he shifts in his sleep, tossing and turning until he’s facing her. His eyes are squinted just as hers are. He yawns, groans, and murmurs something, though she doesn’t hear it. Then just as she drifts off into the abyss of deep sleep, she feels his hand slip onto her waist like a life preserver.

That night she dreams of peace and order.