#* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ euphuism. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤi am shouting at the empty and always running . | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vaqro-a · 1 year

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trigger warning for : attempted murder, death, supernatural elements, unreality, blood, grief. if you come across any other subject you would like to be tagged, dm me. you can read below the cut, or access the gdocs over here. this work is purely fictional and has no intention to mirror any real life events.

you open your eyes, and you are immediately blinded. you wince and turn away from the source of all that light, blinking the black spots away. once your vision is clear for good, you are able to take in your surroundings.

it is the desert.

the same desert you avoid thinking about in too much detail, the same one you remember from your childhood. bathed in sunlight, drowned in moonlight, or drenched in blood. somehow, in your nightmares, you always return to this same desert. that is not the unusual part; what draws your attention is the high noon sun. usually, when coming back to this crossroad, it is the moon that greets you, along with the stench of blood. however, as you sit up and reach for your hat, your hands are dry.

this ocean of arid ground and thistles, undulating in mirage-like waves of heat and covered by a cloudless blue sky is empty of all noise. even the wind doesn’t greet you by tousling your hair or your serape. no noises from animals. nothing in the infinite land beyond the horizon is visible until you turn west.

that's where you see him.

the figure in black, with his back to you. at first, it seems credible to think it’s him. el deadeye. at this point in your life, you have met him a total of twice, and in both of them, you were on the brink between life and —

pain erupts from your abdomen, easily breaking through skin and muscle, just where reinforced armor meets a simple dark gray shirt.your lungs immediately seize in shock, and your throat convulses.red spills from the new hole in your gut the same way it escapes through the corner of your mouth. you barely have a moment to stumble back, hands coming to cover the wound, your pistol meeting the ground. when you lift your eyes —

but just as he approaches, ready to call the name he gave you some twenty-five years ago, the mirage wanes — the figure changes. gone are the hat and the riding boots. in its place, gloves and leather, wide shoulders and long legs, and a rather distinct black wool beanie. you know this person better than the palm of your hand and almost as well as you know your own gun.

gabriel reyes.

you halt your steps, eyes wide. your mouth opens, but you hesitate to say his name; it's been six years since you did.

it feels wrong to name your dead

the man shuffles before turning, robbing you of the chance to say anything at all. "so you’ve made it." the same voice, the same californian accent that you spent nights trying to imitate [ isn't imitation a form of flattery? ], the same hands hidden in his pockets, the same perpetual frown that ate away at your anxieties when you first [ or second ] sold your soul to the devil. it freezes you, the way the mere presence of him reverberates through your body and drains you of any reaction.

you look like you’ve seen a ghost, ingrate.

at long last, your brain conjures something to say—not the smartest or even the most sane, but your lips are dry and you never had much of a filter anyways, so everything you have is: "is this heaven?" and at least it comes out even, no mutters or startles, unlike your heart, which gallops inside your chest.

that’s met with a snort and a smile, which became more and more rare as the days went by in those last few years before the end. the sight of it jars you; "if it were, we'd be eating my abuela's posole on her front porch." and you laugh, nervously at first, but not caring enough to mention that you wouldn’t be eating any posole made with chicken. not even grandma reyes’.

instead, you fiddle with your stetson, still in your hands. "what are you doing out here?"

gabriel shrugs with his whole body, eyes diverging to look around, "same as you, i'd figure.” before he curls his mouth in disdain. “what exactly are you doing here, pendejo?"

multimillion-dollar question. what are you doing here in the desert? the job is done; echo is with sombra by now, and the two are working out a way to send an incredibly expensive, omnic-like robot that was stolen from the military out to europe. what matters is that mina’s dream is still alive. you could have [ should have ] gone with them, but you took another path for your life; claiming to have unfinished business you needed to attend to, but in reality, you just wanted to watch the sunset [ or more ].

ana amari was supposed to be dead, killed by widowmaker — whom you have been privately hunting on his own behalf all these years. it was supposed to be a final act of kindness [ of vengeance ] for the woman who had been like a second mother to you. but it was just another lie to add to the ever-growing tally of lies overwatch told you.

she was alive; the two of you had just spent a night together. drinking, talking — as if time hasn’t passed, as if her death meant nothing, as if you were still some young man too easily impressed by the force of nature that she was [ and continues to be ]. ana attempted to have you consider, accept the call and go help the world. it is a nice road, the one she urges you to take, but is it the right one? you came to egypt with questions and it seems you are going to leave with no answers.

"searching, i’d say," you whisper, rotating the hat in your grasp, "but i ain’t got no idea what i’m looking for anymore." you sigh as you pull your heart back over your head, “i don't even know who i am." outlaw, vigilante, gunslinger, journalist, entrepreneur, soldier, agent, or ghost? which one of them can best define you?

"how many times do i have to tell you this, cassidy?" gabe shakes his head, crossing the open path to you in quick and determined strides, saying, "it doesn’t matter the names people call you behind your back. it is the deed that makes the man." those dark brown eyes stare deep into yours for a moment before he continues on his way, headed east. you cannot look away.

it is always the same thing: he looks you in the eyes, and you are the one scared at what you find there, not the other way around. this is the same hard stare that had you agreeing to spend a lifetime of servitude instead of a lifetime in jail. but it doesn’t work this time.

"yeah, but my deeds just made things worse!" you call it — all bravado. grasping at straws, begging at the shell of a man you once held in the highest regard to give you a reason to stay, but there is nothing. [ the realization comes later, when there is only rubble and smoke ], and you are almost physically chasing the man just to have him look at you again. "i’m a fraud; i’m phony! ana believes in me," you used to believe in me too, "but these people, they need a hero."

gabriel turns just once, his snarl near animalesque in its voracity: "then be the goddamn hero! isn’t that what you always wanted?" the hero of the tale, the cowboy riding off into the sunset. but you shake your head, taking two steps forward before you stop. [ you cannot keep chasing ghosts, or you are going to become one yourself, charmer. ]

your vision blurs, but this time it is not the sun but tears. "you don't understand, i ain't even supposed to be here!" you rebut, arms wide as you try to force him to see the desert for what it is.

he meets your emotional whirlwind with the rock-steady calm he always did: "that’s right. you came all this way to find something that isn’t out here.” gabriel gives you a pointed glare, "don't you see? this isn't about you, it’s about them."

about overwatch. about their makeshift family, their friends, and their allies. about the truth of what happened. but most importantly: this is about the people who need help and you being one of the people who can help. no reward, no recognition, no trophies. the world needs all the help it can get right now, and his guilt can’t be in the way of it.

but it's not going to be easy. especially here, in this place of reckoning. you shudder, suddenly remembering that this is a dream.

this is the desert.

you are on the floor. you can feel the blood of your life gushing through your fingers, drowning the ground beneath you.like this, you cannot breathe. you realize you're going to die.on your back. in the desert. maybe you are already dead, and this has been nothing but a dream within a dream. you died when you were eleven years old. there is no man in black to put you on a path you cannot walk away from. but then you raise your eyes just enough to see a man in black with his back to you, spewing angry words into a microphone in his ear. he is carrying a shotgun. RPNT. repent. you manage to look him in the eyes and — ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤa white owl looks down on you from ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤits branch; its beak is bone-white, and ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤits eyes are almost sanguine; you have ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤnever seen an owl like this. the owl does ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤnot hoot or nor does it chirp, as if noticing ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤyour perplexity. the owl laughs, and ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤa shrill sound of metal grinding against ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤmetal and melting on hell's fires—and one word croaks through the blood in your throat. feeble, weak, disbelieving, "gabe?"

"but i can’t go back," you whisper, hiding your defeated gaze under your hat. gabriel continues on his way, farther and farther away from you. going back means admitting you failed the people you loved. going back means facing his death. it's half the reason you're chasing the spider, or why you want echo to be an active member: your own repentance.

the last thing you hear before you lose consciousness is that strident laughter again, and the shotgun aims at your forehead. RPNT. [ you cannot repent if you are dead. ]

"i don’t know if you’ve got a choice, mijo." that was a special one. a private thing, reserved for moments of doubt or the weary hours after a mission. a name that meant too much for either of them to accept freely and fully. but it was never denied.

your hand moves to your pistol, which quickly lights up. just one bullet. you shoot. the mask breaks.

gabriel looks over his shoulder one last time. how have you never noticed the tired lines and the deep shadows under his eyes? how entertained have you been by your own hollow tale of greatness?

death looks at you with his face bare before he dissolves in a cloud of black. your arm drops to your side, gun in hand. a real cowboy dies with his gun in hand or not at all. but you are not going to die. you have a lot to repent for.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ"no man can walk out on his own story."

#* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ euphuism. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤi am shouting at the empty and always running .#* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ continuum. ❫ ››› ㅤ time doesn’t erase the demons we don’t see .

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vaqro-a · 1 year

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[ finally a ] tag dump //

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ author. ❫ ››› ㅤ we are bees then﹐ our honey is language .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ promotion. ❫ ››› ㅤ come﹐ little bees﹐ the flowers have your breakfast ready .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ announcement. ❫ ››› ㅤ we must dissent from apathy﹐ we must dissent from the fear .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ prompt. ❫ ››› ㅤ doves and pigeons can also be trained to send messages .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ anonymous. ❫ ››› ㅤ who is this stranger﹐ who comes in the darkness ?

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ continuum. ❫ ››› ㅤ time doesn’t erase the demons we don’t see .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ euphuism. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤi am shouting at the empty and always running .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ episteme. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤyou strike a match on yourself to keep others warm .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ visuals. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤi ain't good﹐ i ain't bad﹐and i sure as hell ain't ugly .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ imagery. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤthe graveyard shift has a certain quality to it .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ thesis. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤnothing of me is original : i am the combined effort of everyone i've ever known .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ theory. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤthe revelation of a submerged self .

* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ behavior. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤpretend to be a cynic﹐ but i am really a dreamer .

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vaqro-a · 1 year

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it was his birthday, something NADIA [ @cartaxus ] never forgot every single year. though in years prior she never sent gifts out of the sheer fact that nadia was unsure if he would accept them or not. this year was different. it was time for her to reach out and give something. he needed to know she still cared despite all the years that kept them apart. theres a knock on his door to where he was staying at. the door swings open not long after and she's got a small smile on her face. " one, surprise! two, don't ask how i know where you're currently staying. three, happy birthday? i got you these. plus i think you're in need of some ... special treatment, old man. " its a bottle of some rather expensive whiskey and a new pair of boots. hopefully he liked them.

APRIL THE TWENTIETH.ㅤㅤthroughout the years,ㅤthis one date in the calendar has represented a myriad of feelings.ㅤㅤthe childhood elatio of gifts and favorite food.ㅤㅤthe numb emptiness of work.ㅤㅤa quiet joy of a good reunion with the people he loves.ㅤㅤthis year,ㅤespecially,ㅤfinds him somewhere in the liminal space of all those; squatting down in an old safehouse near the mexican borders,ㅤlicking his wounds.ㅤㅤhis ribs ache,ㅤhis left shoulder dislocated ㅤ — ㅤ thus impossibilitating him from using his prosthetic arm.ㅤㅤthe fact it is his birthday comes as an afterthought.ㅤㅤ

[ and how old is he ? ㅤ there are times the man himself forgets.ㅤㅤhis body hurts permanently,ㅤhis ears ring,ㅤhis mind is clouded with a thousand different lives he’s had to live.ㅤㅤhe is eleven,ㅤhe is sixteen,ㅤhe is eighteen,ㅤhe is twenty - one,ㅤhe is twenty - nine,ㅤhe is thirty - two … ㅤ he is both newborn and ancient.ㅤㅤdied several times between now and his brother’s death.ㅤㅤwoke up in the morning for each new sunrise ]

the door opens.ㅤㅤthe man has his gun aimed and ready to shoot in the interval of a blink.ㅤㅤher voice reaches his ears,ㅤthen her words.ㅤㅤthe gun lowers,ㅤand all he offers is a tired smile.ㅤㅤ“ i ain’t old no more than you are,ㅤprincesa. ” ㅤ slowly he stands,ㅤgun returning to holster as he throws his serape around his shoulders ㅤ — ㅤ to hide the space where his arm should be.ㅤㅤher presence,ㅤthough,ㅤlightens something in his heart.ㅤㅤit has been a while since he shared this date with someone who held his fondness.ㅤㅤ“ is that sierra norte ya holdin’ ? ㅤ now,ㅤdarlin’,ㅤain’t not need to spoil me so. ” ㅤㅤ the sugarice in his voice is as sweet as honey,ㅤmind already adapting to her presence.ㅤㅤhe notices the boots too,ㅤhis own sitting by the door ㅤ — ㅤ the leather muddied and scratched,ㅤin need of a good polish.ㅤㅤWHISKEY AND BOOTS.ㅤㅤpractical and fastidious,ㅤjust like the king herself.

#cartaxus #cartaxus : NADIA.#nadia tbt.#* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ euphuism. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤi am shouting at the empty and always running .#* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ continuum. ❫ ››› ㅤ time doesn’t erase the demons we don’t see .

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vaqro-a · 1 year

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he eases himself onto the carrier seat,ㅤmaking as few noises as possible ;ㅤthe reality is :ㅤthe cowboy isn't as young anymore,ㅤand just doesn't recover from injuries as quickly as he once did.ㅤㅤHE'S NEARING FORTY,ㅤbut he's been battling for longer than some of his fellow passengers aboard this plane have been alive.ㅤㅤit's the kind of sobering sensation he despises — yet can't seem to shake.ㅤㅤhis experience means that his team relies on him to make judgments,ㅤAND HE CAN'T AFFORD TO MAKE A MISTAKE AT A CROSSROADS.ㅤㅤit's about trusting his instincts and what he's learnt.

[ㅤit's looking up and knowing he won't see gabriel's back to him,ㅤknowing he isn't there to yell instructions and lay a hand on his shoulder.ㅤㅤit's knowing that when he glances up,ㅤreaper's gun would be staring back at him.ㅤ]

no matter how gentle fareeha is,ㅤthe orca takes flight and rattles his old bones.ㅤㅤhe transfers his weight on the supple leather,ㅤextending his long legs forward and crossing them at the ankle.ㅤㅤmaybe he can sleep some from bangladesh to gibraltar – a peaceful voyage back to base would be just his luck.

[ㅤALL THINGS CONSIDERED FIO WAS A SMOOTH FLIER,ㅤdespite the trash they pulled on her — the mission in rialto springing to mind.ㅤㅤsee you on the other side,ㅤcowboy.ㅤㅤon her way out,ㅤshe would salute him.ㅤㅤhe wonders what happened to her in the end.ㅤㅤsee you later,ㅤcowgirl.ㅤㅤsomeday,ㅤsomewhere.ㅤ]

HANA SONG [ @motife ] : " cassidy ! can i … wear your hat ? "

he must have fallen asleep,ㅤhis body overruling his rushing mind,ㅤfor the cowboy doesn't notice when hana speaks up,ㅤnot even aware she approached him at all [or perhaps he is learning to let his guard down again.ㅤㅤsleep with both eyes closed].ㅤㅤ“ㅤhm?ㅤ” ㅤ he lifts his hand,ㅤhis brain digesting the sounds into meaning.

"ㅤmy hat,ㅤchica ?ㅤ" ㅤ his hand goes to it,ㅤstill in place atop his head.ㅤㅤhis eye roam to her form.ㅤㅤms.ㅤㅤsong is a skinny little thing,ㅤall wiry muscle.ㅤㅤshe is more than capable of holding her own in the field,ㅤwith or without her mecha,ㅤbut his heart skips and speeds up at the thought that she is not even twenty yet.ㅤㅤYOUNG,ㅤBOISTEROUS,ㅤFEARLESS.

is this what gabriel felt all those years ago?

he smiles,ㅤgazing softly as he removes the stetson from its place and turns it on his hand.ㅤㅤit needs a nice cloth and oil to rub off the grime,ㅤand it is chipped off in a few places; his other hand ruffles his own hair to detangle it,ㅤthe sweaty mess of curls too long under warm leather.ㅤㅤ"ㅤall yours,ㅤpardner.ㅤㅤmight be a tad big tho’ㅤ"

#motife #motife : hana #* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ euphuism. ❫ㅤ ››› ㅤi am shouting at the empty and always running .#* ⊹ 。*´ ❪ continuum. ❫ ››› ㅤ time doesn’t erase the demons we don’t see .

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