Chapter Text
The thing is, when they say all a rust can do in the Empire is the dirty jobs—the butlers, the janitors, the hoofbeast shoe scrapers—that’s a bit of a misconception. When they say dirty, what they mean is the jobs no one else wants.
“Hey there,” you say politely, tilting your hat to the port authority. “Name’s McCree. Imperial investigator.”
The blueblood behind the counter looks you up and down, from your eyes to your poncho to the caste sign around your belt, and then back up again, trying to put several pieces of incompatible information into something they can process.
You decide to be helpful, and place your documents on the arborite in front of them. (Not entirely out of chivalry though, you’ve had a highblood think you were making a none-too-funny joke when you played around too long, and you’ve learned enough not to make that mistake a twenty-first time.) “Here’s the official request to open my investigation.”
They stare down at it, not opening past the first page. It’s got the cerulean mark of your superior officer, but it doesn’t matter if that’s a rank lower than them when the paperwork is definitely bureaucracy official.
You wait patiently, unhurried smile on your face. Finally they look up and say, “I wasn’t informed of an investigation.”
“‘Course not!” you reply jovially. “Wouldn’t be much of an investigation if anyone knew ahead of time. No offense or nothin’ friend, I’m sure you can keep a secret, we just can’t be sure who’s going let something slip to the rank and file.”
(Even though you’d love to keep going, you cut yourself off there. You’ve had your target become so irate by your prodding that they’ve decided to cull you on the spot, paperwork be damned, and you’re not going to make that mistake a thirty-eighth time.)
They look down at the documents, and back at you. “Why don’t we save some time. Our facilities are at maximum efficiency-”
“Oh no,” you chuckle. “I’m afraid there’s been a mixup. I ain’t no inspector. I’m here to investigate the disappearance of two of your decorruptors.”
The job part of dirty job is completely relative. If you’re on a battle cruiser, there’ll be a thousand openings for toilet scrubber; if you’re planet side, they need replacement foot soldiers perigeely. But, if you’re a lowblood who just so happens to find yourself assigned to a legislacerator tribulation center, suddenly the one thing no one wants to do is investigate dead-end cases.
Your name is MCCREE and you specialize in unglamorous inquiries that will never result in an arrest. You excel at cases that keep discreetly sliding to the bottom of the pile because the amount of effort to fly to a rim world, discover there’s no witness, crime scene, or evidence, and then fly back just so you can put a little red checkmark on the folder and dispose of it is way more effort than any self-respecting teal would ever not shirk off to a subordinate. But, if there’s one thing that sets you apart from all the other bronzes and burgundies shuffling about under the oppressive weight of grunt work, is that you’ve never not damn well tried. Sure you have no resources. No warrants, no authority, no clearance. Sure even if you were somehow to stumble upon an actual miracle that paints the perpetrator red-(or orange or yellow or green) handed, Symmetra would probably never take the time to do what essentially amounts to a slap on the wrist. But despite all that, you’ve always done your damn job. After all, it’s not like you have anything else to do.
Lowblood disappearances are the sort of thing that can’t entirely be swept under the rug. Highblood victims, no matter murders or more ambiguous matters, always end up drawing crowds to the courtblocks, the huge spectacles subjugglators delight in. A lowblood murder is almost always justified, and unless it’s both very public and committed by another lowblood, there’ll never be anyone to hang. But vanishing? Ironically enough, can’t be ignored. Nine times out of ten (by your guess. Like you’ve said, any statistics that would back you up are systematically incinerated) it’s a culling, and the perpetrator is just having a little fun with whatever’s left. But, there is the slightest chance a troll has defected, and that is the sort threat to the hegemony that at the very least the civil servants have to say they’ve looked into.
A knock at your. The port authority, who you’d come to know as Quartermaster, had blanched as they’d shown you to your temporary office, obviously disgruntled about giving a rust private corridors, even it was just an old broom closet. You’d set about work immediately, making a lamp out of a mop and a ration bar, and pushing crates together until you had a surface for files.
“Come in,” you call.
You look over your shoulder as he enters.
“I was told to come here.” The question he is asking is apparent enough: why? and who gave you the right?
“Hanzo,” you grin. “Pleasure to meet you. Name’s McCree, I’m investigating a pair of disappearances here on CC37A.”
Olives range from sprite-like things to downright hulking, their temperaments just as wide-ranged. It’s unfortunate: unpredictability never bodes well for a case. It’s not all bad though, since the troll that stands before you has obviously delicately honed the physiology the slurry has gifted him, whittled down until the only thing left is muscles on sinew in a form quite pleasing to the ganderbulb. Farm life has its benefits, obviously. But the long and the short of it is, if you’re going to be spending a lot of time together over the next few days, at least he ain’t bad to look at.
“Those occurred on parcel 11.99° 2.15°,” he sniffs. “I am stationed nowhere near that.”
And there’s that temperament you were talking about. One shade too close to middle-class and they’ll look down on whoever with that slimy air of self-gratification. Well. You’re never cowed that easy.
You smile, real polite-like, as you always do. “I wasn’t aware they were public knowledge.”
He stiffens. Got ‘em.
“Now,” you say smoothly. “If you’ll let me talk, I’ll get around to asking my questions, and then you can back to your own business. Was looking through the personnel manifest, found your full name was Hangzo Shmada.”
He clicks his tongue. “And?”
“No need to get testy now. Plenty of folks get their titles from their childhood name, me included,” you inform him plainly. “But that wasn’t what caught my eye. You see, it seems like one of the victim’s names was named Genjii Shmada. On a planet with a population of twelve thousand fifty-two, that’s a mighty big coincidence.”
His arms fold across each other, covering the impressive span of his chest. “It is a common caste name.”
“See now,” you say, swinging around a chair so you can saddle it, “right there was your chance to be honest. Had real plausible deniability up until then, but even if I hadn’t done my research ahead of time, it wouldn’t take me more than a few seconds at the registrar to fine out it is a common caste name, but it certainly ain’t for olive.”
His eyes go wide, and you can see his squawk blister bob. That’s the thing about imagined security, it only takes one little kick at the struts to send the whole thing toppling down. You don’t relish reminding him where you both are in the world though, even if he does need to be taken down a peg.
You soften your expression. “Don’t worry, I ain’t accusing you of anything. I just want you to talk to me, and tell me your connection to the Sparrow.”
He doesn’t speak, talk blaster a fine line, obviously struggling on whether his fear of retribution overrides his distaste for you.
Using a strutpod, you drag over a spare chair. “C’mon, have a seat. Want something? I got…” You look around the amenities Quartermaster provided you, then admit, “…water?”
Again, he sniffs. You could really learn to hate that sound. Then, finally, he says, “I will have some, if you warm it first.”
And that’s how you get the two of you to sit down, no desk or notepad between you—not that the desk would have fit with both your chairs anyway. He stalls for as long possible, swirling his chipped mug of hot water while he comments on the draft in the north wall.
“The sooner we talk, the sooner you can go,” you point out.
He sets the mug in his lap. “Genjii and I are brothers.”
“Brothers? Ain’t that a-” You stop yourself.
He narrows his eyes. “Go on. I know what you are going to ask, so just do so.”
“…Clown thing?”
He sighs, irritated knot at the corner of his nose. “Genjii and I had no lusus. We were taken in by the Church when we were wrigglers, and raised for purposes you can probably imagine. Our primary…benefactor…insisted we had the power of dragons inside us, but he was, obviously, insane. He grew to believe that Genjii was too weak for the dragon’s power, and had me cull him.”
“And you refused?” you ask.
“I did as I was told,” he tells you flatly. “It was not until after the deed was done that I realized how far Sojiro had fallen. He had even been mad enough to deny the Condescension’s will, which brought his doom. Imperial forces came, slaughtered his flock, and subsumed me into the bureaucracy.”
Sojiro, not a figure you recognize, but a rogue Church cell certainly explains the purple caste name.
You link your fingers together, elbows resting on your knees. “Considering I have reports that Sparrow didn’t go missing until about a wipe ago, I take it you didn’t actually kill him?”
“I thought I did.” His jaw is tight. “At least, I was under that impression until he was taken from where he was left and brought to Oasis.”
“The research station,” you mull. “They, what? Experimented on him?”
“More than that. To my understanding, he is now primarily cyborg.”
You whistle. Cyborgization, all for an olive. Of course, you have no way to verify that, but you’ll give the benefit of the doubt for now. “You said ‘to my understanding’. As in, you weren’t there for the operation. You haven’t had contact with him since you killed him, have you?”
He looks out your non-existent window. “He does not know I am here. I received a tip shortly after he transferred out of Oasis, and was able to secure a position on the same planet. Here, that is.” His thumb rubs circles on the polished mug handle. “I wished to see him again.”
“And how long have you been here without making contact?”
He does not deny the accusation. “Four sweeps.”
“I see.” Well, that’s a real spleenfowl of a situation. It’s a dead end if he’s telling the truth, and a likely second attempt if he isn’t. “Just want to clarify things. The folks over at Oasis went through an extensive operation on some wiggler they found during a zealot raid?”
“So I am lead to believe.” His voice is terse again, defensive.
“And whoever was running that raid went through the trouble of putting both of you, one who was half-dead, through customs instead of culling you along with the rest?”
“Yes.”
His eyes might very well have the power of dragons with how he’s searing you with them now. That’s all you’re getting today you know, so you stand up and offer your hand. “Well, thanks for your time Hanzo. That’s all I’ll be needing for now.”
After a offended hesitation, he shakes your hand. It’s brief, and he slinks to the exit. You return to your desk, only to realize the door still isn’t clicking closed, and you raise your head to see him paused halfway out. Before you can ask, he looks away from you and says, “please. Do what you must to find my brother.” And then he’s gone, for real this time.
You shake your head. This one’s going to be a tangle.
The stalk ruptures in your fingers as you hold it to the wind, seeds spreading and cast as far the breeze will take them. CC37A’s barometric pressure is unnaturally heightened, winds increased to allow for maximum pollination across the planet. The nutrition stalks stand hardy, but it threatens to take your hat every few minutes.
Although the last known location of your missing persons was back at their own bunker, less than a wipe before their disappearance they both answered a distress call down to this parcel. When you asked, Quartermaster seemed to think it was nothing out of the ordinary, but you aren’t so sure. An apparent false alarm, and the first responders go missing within days? Still, unless you’re going to charge them with corruption, no one’s going to have a better explanation.
You sigh, and begin to pace a radius out from the marker you’ve set yourself. As you walk, you admit this case is turning into a real headache. Your key witness is also your key suspect, and though you’ve had a few more chats with him, you’ve gleaned little more than the fact that he makes positively irritating company.
Shaking your head, you tell yourself to slow down with that train of thought. You’re only here for a few days after all, not enough for anything to happen.
When you’re twelve clicks away from where you started, you give up and walk back. You’ve found that the growth here looks newer, not quite the azure of the surrounding stalks, but an immature powder blue. They’re still in neat rows: drones would have been on the scene as soon as it was deemed clear, and within a perigee, there will be no evidence at all.
This place gives you a bad feeling, a tickle at the back of your chug column. Something is wrong here, anomalous, like setting one foot in this circle of plants set your decorruptors mad. You wish could just turn back the clock and see what they saw, know what is wrong with this whole picture.
But feelings, (for any caste lower than cerulean) aren’t admissible in court, and it’s clear this is another dead end. You gather up your few belongings and head back to the spaceport, ceaseless wind tugging at your poncho all the while.
“Are you aware of a troll by the name of Captain Pharah?” you ask him.
This time, your desk is between the two of you, all of the evidence gathered during your stay here spread out onto the splinter-inducing crates.
“I have not, no.” He has another mug, though this time you’ve made him some tea. “Should I?”
“She was Mercy’s matesprit. Not just for bucket season either, but by all accounts they seemed genuinely fond of each other.” You pass a photo to Hanzo. “She, Mercy, and Sparrow all transferred out of Oasis together. Then, a few weeks after the other two went missing, she requests another transfer, out on the frontlines.”
“Is she your next suspect?” he asks, passing it back.
“Well, no actually. Officially she’s dead.” You meet Hanzo’s raised brows with a shrug. “Gamblignant attack, few days after leaving Cici. According to records, there were no survivors.”
“I see.” He’s staring hard at the photo now with that deep, brooding gaze, as though Pharah might spontaneously pop out of it and give him some answers. You sympathize. You’ve definitely wished the same on some of the rougher cases.
“Are you sure you don’t know anything about her?” you press. “Anything at all could help.”
“I have told you what I know. If you do not care for it, I will not repeat myself.” And damn if that doesn’t make your blood boil. You have to remember the promise you made to yourself in order to keep your cool.
You exhale, lower your eyes, and begin scraping up your files. “In that case, I think you should be going. My transit’s in an hour and they’ll leave without me whether I’m in a shootout or the ablution block. And they’ve done both: had to pay a pretty hefty bribe to make it back on time and avoid a punctuality culling.”
Hanzo’s eyes widen. “You are leaving? But what about-”
“The case?” You wave the folder. “That’s all that there is. I’ve followed every lead to the best of my ability, and compiled a list of details for my superiors. If they think it’s suspicious enough, they’ll send a real investigator down here to deal with it.”
For the first time, something besides haughty discomfort crosses Hanzo’s face. You suspect you would have seen it too if you’d caught a glimpse of him the first time he’d lingered at your door. Your frown softens.
“I’m sorry pal. It’s probably better this way. If one of the teals in your jurisdiction was sent to deal with it, they’d probably only grab what they needed for a trail and then be done with it.” And of course, you both know who’d end up swinging.
Hanzo, unsurprisingly, is not comforted by this. “Your uselessness is surprising, even with how little I expected. May you ship burn on exit.”
“Well, I guess we’re two peas in a pod, ‘cause you ain’t exactly been helpful either. Now, thanks for your company and all, but get the hell out of here before one of us says something a little too heated.”
He glares—disappointment, antipathy, and a little of something spicier all rolled into one smoldering gaze. But then he takes your advice, and vanishes without a word. For the best, probably. It’s all just for the best, isn’t it?
Symmetra takes your report wordlessly; filing away the digital versions while the physical one disappears into the incinerator before your very eyes. Her cold indifference makes you long for even the barest hint that someone might genuinely dislike you.
You slip out, scent of burned paper stiff in your nose. Who knows. Maybe someday some junior legislacerator would sort through the other thousands of unfinished reports and stumble upon this one, running off to CC37A to continue the hunt. Even in your imagination’s eye, hundreds of sweeps in the future, the planet remains unchanged.