acidrat writings

damn silence // overwatch fanfic

There’s a certain kind of silence that settles when you’ve stopped runnin’ but haven’t started lookin’ for anything either I,for one, found that silence real damn unsettling. Not that I’ve ever been too fond of silence anyhow my momma always said I had a knack for bein’ loud. Said I filled rooms like a brass band at a funeral.

But this silence? This was different.

This was the kind that makes your ears ring ‘til you feel like you’re goin’ crazy. The kind that sits heavy on your chest like bad news you ain’t ready to open. Normally, I’d fill it with somethin’ a little laugher, maybe some half-baked banter or a scratchy old tune. But this moment wasn't normal. I sit in a musty old motel room. The walls are stained yellow from years of smoke cracked and peeling like skin left too long in the sun. years of mistreatment baked into every inch. It smells like tobacco and mold. There ain’t a tv. Not even a cheap painting to break up the decay. The sheets look surprisingly clean, which only makes ‘em feel more suspicious in a place like this. The bathroom’s a sorry sight. Grey tiles, chipped and uneven. grout caked with God-knows-what. The sink’s barely big enough to wash your hands, and the mirror above it? Permanently clouded. I’ve wiped it down a dozen times and still can’t see myself right.The toilet and shower are stained orange from too many years of use and too few years of care. I’ve been on edge ever since i got here. Paranoia’s been runnin’ hot checked every inch of the place twice over. Turned out my gear, tore through the mattress, even unscrewed the vent cover.

Nothin’ yet.

I’ve had my bouts with paranoia before, but nothin’ quite like this.I’ve been isolated for too long. Feels like I’ve gone half feral, like I’m waitin’ for somethin’ bad to crawl in through the floorboards. And it sure as hell don’t help that a fight seems to find me no matter where i go. This past week, I’ve felt like I’ve been caught with my pants down more times than I care to admit. Whether it’s some back-alley thug thinkin’ he can make a name off me, or a Talon agent lookin’ to tie up loose ends I’ve been jumpy. And worse, I’ve been tired.The kind of tired that sleep don’t fix. There’s a storm rollin’ in. Thunder grumbles low across the horizon like somethin’ angry’s tryin’ to wake up. I’m sittin’ at the edge of the bed. Cigar in my normal hand, lighter in the cybernetic one. This is the third I’ve had tonight. And although I can huff with the best of ‘em, lately all it does is wind the paranoia tighter. But still… the burn in my chest, the head rush from the nicotine. Something about it puts my mind a little at ease. Could do with a joint or two, if I’m bein’ honest. Funds’ve been tight. Tobacco’s cheaper. I flick the lighter. A small flame dances to life. I draw a long pull off the cigar and exhale slow, eyes closed, breath steady.

And then, Knock.

Damn near jumps me outta my boots. My hand goes straight to the revolver sittin’ next to me on the bed. I don’t speak just waitin’, hopin’ whoever it is decides they’ve got the wrong door. For a long moment, nothin’ just rain startin’ to tap against the window.Then.

The door flies off its hinges with a crack like thunder splinters fly, slammin’ against the far wall. Two men storm into the room tall, armed. The purple “Z” tattoos on their necks give ‘em away before they even open their mouths. The zavots. local gang I’ve been pesterin’ the last few towns I passed through. They're new blood only around a few years but lately they’ve been makin’ a name for themselves. got their greasy hands in all sorts of things trafficking, weapons, synth-chems.Big in the New Mexico and Arizona regions. And now they’re standin’ in my damn motel room, like they were expectin’ me. They step in like they own the place. One's got a sawed-off shotgun, the other a short blade and a twitchy hand.I stay seated. gun still resting in my lap

The shotgun guy ain’t got patience “don’t play cute. you've been sniffin’ around our runs interferin’ with shipments, torchin’ stash houses.” His eyes flick to my gun “that iron on your lap says you know exactly why we’re here.” “I’ve made a lotta enemies,” I say, finally standin’ slow, the creak of the old mattress loud in the silence “you’ll have to be more specific.” blade-boy lunges first rookie mistake.I grab his arm mid-swing, twisting it at an unnatural angle until the knife clatters to the floor. He lets out a grunt of pain, but I’m already slamming him into the wall hard. The worn-out cement cracks beneath his weight. I kick the knife across the room and turn my attention to the gunman just as he raises his weapon i'm faster. a low sweep sends his legs out from under him, and he crashes to the ground with a grunt. I’m on him in a flash, ripping the gun from his grip and shoving the barrel to his face. He stares up at me, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat. not in fear. in awe.

“Alright,” I say, squatting to his level, gun still in hand, “let’s have ourselves a conversation.”

I pressed the sawed off barrel to his head “try again.” He freezes. swallows hard.

“alright, alright synth-chems okay? we’ve been movin’ crates of the stuff through the backroads desert caches.”

“Warehouse,” he blurts “West of I-40. Old freight depot. we- we only hold 'em for a day or two before they’re moved.”

I grab the device and crush it in my cybernetic hand. Sparks pop out like fireflies. But it’s too late. They know I’m here. I stand up. the guy on the floor’s breathing fast now he knows he’s not getting out easy. blade-boy’s still out cold, face half buried in drywall dust. I sigh, exhaling the last of the cigar smoke through my nose. “Always gotta be the hard way,” I mutter. I holster the revolver, grab my coat, and start packing. yeah I ain’t too fond of silence and tonight? It’s about to get real damn loud.