Chapter Text
There must be some sort statuale ordinance that ships constructed before 12069 are legally required to have at least one leaky gas valve per hallway that spurts out mysterious white steam into its neighboring exposed conduits. The one above your head rattles, spilling into the hall and joining its siblings in cacophony of background noise, a white hum that assaults your sound canals no matter where on the ship you go. You reach up and adjust Zarya’s collar.
“Do not look at anyone beside the Successor,” you remind her.
She spares you an irritated look. “I know. I heard you the first three dozen times.” Still, she lets you pull the cape into place.
The fur is soft and white underneath your hands; it reminds you of your lusus’s fur, the way it would stick to your palms even as you patted it down. Back when you were young and had everything to lose, you could spend all night sitting with them, combing through it, their purr thrumming into the corners of your apartment while you stared at the shelves of books set into the wall. What had you spent all your time doing back then? When you were an adolescent, it felt like all you did was think about the future, mulling it over and over again in your mind until you could see all possibilities, every sterile timeline stretched out before you. Try as you might, all you can remember from your grubhood is one long stream of rumination, sometimes dotted with reading or hacking or the writing you would take to with mania. You’d never seen the point of emerging from you shell. Introspection is a self-fulfilling malady.
That was before Aleksa, though. The last sweep you’d spent on Alternia was so startlingly different than the rest, you felt it deserved to be seen as a separate chapter in your life’s story. How much would be different if your lusus had never encouraged you to begin hosting those panels?
She shifts on her feet, looking from the door to you before again looking quickly away. In many ways her life of relative isolation has left her without a decent dictionary for social interaction, but occasionally that can be helpful. For instance, if she is to confront a potential enemy in the seat of his power, a stopgap between emotion and facial expression can make for a wonderful poker face.
“Don’t mess this up,” you say softly, trailing hands down the outer edges of the cape, absently wrapping it around her.
This time, her ganderbulbs stray from the sealed door of the throne room, landing on yours and reading more than they should. “I know,” she repeats. She won’t, you decode.
The door, sensitive to gravitas as all doors are, retracts to all four of its corners. There is a rush of steam. Of course. You’d be disappointed if there weren’t.
She allows herself a hesitation, the barest steadying breath, a brief close to her eyes. But then she marches inwards, you trailing behind as you go to face the court.
A hush falls over the illustrious pirate band as you make your entrance. They are mixed and wretched, most missing arms or eyes or both, patched together with wire and cybernetic light. They share this trait with the room itself, the wear of sweeps showing through lugs and spare parts fashioned where they shouldn’t be. The ship is disjointed and the crew is motley and the two of you appear at the far end of the hall like the red death itself.
Few have ever seen a seadweller before. None have seen royalty. You know it startled you how much taller she had become since you were adolescences, and you can see the guarded looks in their eyes as she wades through and ignores their collective flinch. Her russet cape swings out as she walks, and yours follows suit. They were your idea, chosen in a careful play that may prove to be absurd if it turns out you’re thinking too many moves ahead. It wouldn’t be the first time. The matching display ceases when you stop halfway through the room. Zarya continues onward.
Because at the end of her journey is the captain himself, Doomfist the Successor, the bronzeblood king in all his glory. The throne is simple, flattened metal, bent and repatched to match the rest of the ship. No doubt the styling is intentional.
Because if there is one thing Doomfist has in spades it is style. He leans into his chair, the villainous slouch accentuating the titular gauntlet along his right arm, horns threatening to rake against the loose cables dangling above his head. As Zarya stops amidst his subject, he gazes down at her with those bright, red-yellow eyes.
You cannot read his face. Mild indifference? Feigned curiosity hiding annoyance? If it is the later, things may already be too late. You have taken great care that his idea to treat with you is just that: his own. Sombra’s influence is subtle, memos misplaced here, whispers told there; the result is a gentle scalpel as compared to an indigo’s sledgehammer. You look for her now, and see her right where you expected: nestled amongst the pirates at the foot of the elevated throne. Inconspicuous of course, as her chucklevoodoos have blended her seamlessly into her chosen circle, but for a mastermind she is far too predictable. You could warn her about this intrinsic flaw in her thinking, that no one is ever as smart as she, but what Strategos would you be to reveal such a potentially useful bit of information? She catches your gaze and flashes a dashing smile.
The crowd is silent now. They do not know what to make of Zarya, standing amongst them. You watch the way they look up to Successor, how they seek their cues even though he has none to give. This is what you need of Zarya’s followers, this open reverence, and you feel a pang of jealousy on her behalf.
But no matter. That is not why you are here.
“Aspirant,” Doomfist drawls, scarcely moving as he elongates her name. “Barely a descriptor for one who has drawn so much attention.”
“Merely the larval state of your own name, Successor,” she says evenly. “It, like myself, is nothing more than what it is.”
The crowd murmurs. Good. Took you perigees to come up with that one. You’re quite proud of it actually.
Doomfist waves his hand. “I did not call you here to revel in our epithetical similarities. Tell me. Why should I not strike you down when your very presence in our system draws the Condescension’s ire?”
Mutters of agreement, but it is still a bluff none the less. He already has his own reasons, and if he didn’t, he would have destroyed your transport ship on sight.
But the message is clear. He wants the point and he wants it now.
Zarya keeps her ganderbulbs on him. “I could speak to you of your motivations, but I think you would tire of your own thoughts spun back at you, so instead I will tell you my own.”
Here it is. If this goes poorly, if you have miscalculated, it will be the end for both of you before you even get to see any alternatives. All branching paths will be cut short, stains upon the throne room floor.
The audience leans in, holds its breath. Zarya acts, an arm to throw aside her cloak, sending it free from her body. And, in one fluid motion, she gets upon her knee in front of the throne.
Every gamblignant ascends to frenzy, barely held below screeching by Successor’s demand of, “silence.” Their reaction is only natural. No doubt they were expecting some sort of duel or challenge to Doomfist’s authority, some snag on his pride and what that might allow. But this? This is the last thing any sane troll should do. These may be outcasts; deserters, fugitives that the empire has lost, but despite their distance from the rest of society, they are still children of Alternia. They know you do not show weakness. You do not chance a budding rebellion by allowing your leader to embarrass herself. For most, it is unthinkable. After all, what lunatic would bare their throat to a room full of barkbeasts and expect it not to be ripped out?
(On a completely unrelated note, you watch your kismesis knell on the floor and feel your bloodpusher try to kill you.)
Zarya has her head bowed. “The Condesce is your enemy as well as mine, but you have something I lack,” she begins. “You have evaded her for sweeps, in itself a victory I can only dream. I seek an alliance, one to our benefit.”
Doomfist chuckles, and your acid tract flips. He rises, and his own half-cape falls over his gauntlet, catching briefly on a spire of broken chair as he descends.
“I have never heard of an Empress who needed friends to claim Her throne,” Doomfist muses.
“I am not like Her,” Zarya says. She continues to stare at the ground. “This is first on a hopefully long road of proving it.”
Doomfist stops, his face mirthful, but there is something glinting behind that sunset hue. “Well, you certainly have already a talent for accumulating…” he glances behind him. “…Friends.”
No one else in the room has noticed it, but his lookstubs are have landed firmly on Sombra. The realization that he knows jolts you, and your expression mirrors the only other person in the room who’s noticed it: Sombra herself. Her face pales, which shouldn’t be possible behind all the face paint.
(You wonder, briefly, how he knew she was there. Perhaps, like you, he’s learned the tricks to Sombra’s trade.)
The stakes have increased considerably; now if he isn’t as endeared by you as you hoped, you won’t be the only one thrown out the airlock. Or more likely culled on the spot. He turns back to Zarya.
“You still haven’t answer my first question, Aleksa Zaryan,” he says. “You have told me why you wish to join us” He turns to his followers. “After all, who wouldn’t ?”
A cheer goes up, mixed with jeers at the bent Heiress. Again, you marvel at how easily he turns the crowd, how much Zarya could learn from him.
“So Aspirant,” he calls to her. “What is your offer? What have you to give?”
“A future.” And she finally looks up.
You watch Doomfist, the subtle changes as bronze orbs meet tyrian. He is listening.
She has caught the ear of every troll here. “You, Doomfist the Successor, are not a satisfied man. You have your ship, your kingdom, but what of it when the universe spins on such frail thread?” Dissent scuffs the airwaves but Doomfist pays it no mind. She goes on. “The Condesce has made trolls weak with her culling, as much as she has tried to convince us the opposite. The conflict she has manufactured is too sterile, our population smothered as wigglers before they can even look at the moons. We should test ourselves against each other, not these faceless civilizations that only go to fuel Her vanity. On this, we agree.”
“And what assurance would I have that you would not simply become another dictator if I were to assist you now?” Doomfist asks.
“Assurance? None.” Now. Now you have run out of foresight. From now on it is only her. You speak the Sufferer’s name under your breath. “Only my example now, should it prove in good faith.” She pauses. “Promises that are made with belief behind them can never truly be wrong. I know you have promised your people that the world you make shall be better. I only speak the same truth.”
You wince, not wishing to antagonize him now. This is no time for politics, for pressure points to be pushed, but your beloved idiot doesn’t seem to realize that. She should appeal to his greed not his pride-
“If you wish to see universe changed, I will be your only shot.”
The pack grows restless. Its leader looks down. She is stepping so far from the script-
“Live in your carved out hollow if you like. I think it is timed I ascended to the stars.”
And yet-
Doomfist laughs. The Successor throws back his head and laughs, full throated and hearty, the condescension he had radiated gone in place of a charming and charismatic leader. The trolls around you start to shuffle, unsure of what’s so funny, but they know that when the captain laughs, you laugh.
He is grinning. “You may be a child, but your fool tongue may save you yet.” He reaches down and takes her hand. When he pulls her to her feet, he lifts her arm above their heads. “Let it be known that this moment shall be written in history. An alliance struck, and an Heir acknowledged.” His attention is to the crowd, and you are sure he has found you and Sombra both. “This is the key that will burn the old world to the ground.”
What world you’re not sure you want to know. You are too busy sighing in relief and trying not to show it, at least putting on a show for the trolls closest to you as they begin to acknowledge your existence. You see Sombra, her shoulders slouching in relief. You can practically hear the phew from here.
And Zarya? Well, you watch as Doomfist holds her arm above the heads of the clamoring crowd, the throngs of undue acceptance alighting her face with plastered joy. But, for just a moment, she spares the barest glance back to you, and you see the shocked girl beneath.
You think this may be the last time you see that girl. You do not know why you think this, but as much as you know the failure that comes down the road for all of you, you feel that in this victory something small and personal has been lost.