Archive of Our Own

Foreword to the foreword (2021): I wrote this ages ago and then rewrote it continuously for years. I've added a few dates and other things for clarity. Also, as a fun game, see if you can make out when I wrote which parts.

Short Foreword (2018): This began as a three-panel comic I drew on the back of a pamphlet a couple years ago (2016). If not evidenced by the tone and this introduction, I'm more used to writing academic essays than creative fiction—the resulting stiltedness of prose I hope serves to heighten the comedy. I feel that I should acknowledge that a woman with a penis being compared directly to a weapon has unfortunate implications. However, the comedy inherent in the comparison between genitalia and weaponry combined with the frequently fetishistic obsession with said weaponry in media (especially given that the source material is a first-person shooter and the implications that come with that given the premise) serves as an excellent vehicle for highlighting its own absurdity. Also, it's like, really fucking funny. Revel in violence as sexuality and vice versa.

The narrow Junkertown street lay in utter disarray—vehicles lay overturned and burning, Talon grunts sheltered behind what questionable cover could be found. The already ramshackle settlement bore new scars from the ongoing firefight.

This was absolutely not how the mission was supposed to go, Moira thought as she covered in a recessed garage, mending a soldier's arm. The poor bastard had taken a glancing hit from a shrapnel weapon—barbaric, of course, but undeniably effective in the right hands. And in the right hands they were. Then again, how was it supposed to go? Sending a scientist and an assassin on an ostensibly diplomatic mission was a questionable idea at best. A bit like something out of a hack movie, really.

They had come with the intent to negotiate with the Outback's infamous Junkers—laughable, in retrospect, but the lawless remnants of the Australian outback were ideal for establishing a strong foothold for Talon, unobstructed by the hindrance of national governments. Proceedings had gone well up until the point they had entered the stronghold's front gates. Junkertown's distinctive architecture, a shantytown of buildings stacked upon one another, provided excellent vantage points for guileful and uncooperative Junkers. The gate slammed shut behind them, and everything went to hell. To their credit, the Talon operatives' discipline held even after being taken by surprise.

Currently, what was left of their detachment was locked in a stalemate with the occupying Junker forces. Moira grimaced; Two grunts had already been incapacitated in the initial ambush, and a third by the current roadblock, a man of behemoth proportions in a porcine mask with a matching tattoo on his belly. Moira was able to recognize him from Interpol notices—Mako Rutledge, otherwise known as Roadhog and half of the infamous international crime duo. Really, photographs did him no justice.

One can't say he isn't dedicated to the theme, certainly.

As part of Overwatch, she had worked alongside the giant Reinhardt, but even the Crusader couldn't match their assailant for sheer mass. She had brought Widowmaker as insurance against this kind of treachery, but unlike the cityscapes she most commonly worked in, nearly every vantage point was occupied by Junkers, forcing the assassin to take cover behind the flamed-out wreck of their personnel carrier. Had she foreseen the current debacle, she would have brought Reyes, but his volatility made him as much of a liability as he was an asset in dealings as delicate as these...negotiations. Moira clicked her tongue at the word. Frankly, there had been a great oversight in Talon's plans.

Glancing at the man in the street again, she pursed her lips. Even Reyes, durable though he was, would have a hard time matching him—he could heal himself through his enhancements, but this beast of a man shrugged off bullets like water, to say nothing of the supporting fire from his comrades. He was a marvel, really—under better circumstances, she'd love nothing more than to study such an incredible specimen—but one that could well end up killing everyone present if the situation continued as it had for the last three minutes. Her detachment only had finite ammunition, and no immediate route of escape.

Sweat beaded on Moira's brow as she thought of possible solutions. Her phase shift could possibly let her escape the immediate situation, but she had no vehicle and the barren landscape outside the gates provided no cover for an escape on foot. Furthermore, the assets she would lose in such an event were not insignificant. The soldier she had been tended to, now healed, slumped unconscious against the wall. Not in any condition for moving, clearly.

Moira's train of thought was halted there, as a booming voice—closer to a growl, really—filled the air.

"AHEM. ATTENTION, ASSHOLES. THE QUEEN'S OUT ON ERRANDS. TOLD ME TO TAKE CARE OF ANY VISITORS. USUALLY THAT MEANS KILLING YOU VIOLENTLY," he added.

Ah. Fucking hell.

"HOWEVER, IT'S BEEN A SLOW WEEK, AND I'M BORED."

Moira raised an eyebrow, still wary.

Bored. Wasn't expecting that. What does someone like him do for fun?

She suppressed a shiver as she imagined the more gruesome possibilities.

"SO, AFTER SOME DELIBERATION, I'VE SETTLED ON A DUEL. LIKE IN COWBOY MOVIES. ALWAYS WANTED TO DO ONE OF THOSE. WIN AND I DON'T KILL YOU IN THE MOST PAINFUL WAYS IMAGINABLE; LOSE, AND...I DO."

He rattled the chain at his side for emphasis. Some of the troopers shifted uncomfortably and looked at each other. Moira's brow furrowed. Who in their right mind—

As if in answer, Widowmaker slowly stood up from behind the vehicle she had been using as cover, walking calmly down the center of the street, stopping some fifty paces from her challenger. Moira observed the environment. The street was long, narrow, and relatively uncluttered—as close to ideal for such a duel as possible. At such a range, either combatant would have a hard time missing, so the speed of the draw would be critical. However, neither used what one would consider a classical dueling weapon by any means. Roadhog's gun was massive, nearly as long as she was tall and twice as wide, and Widowmaker bore her signature rifle at her side. Neither party made a move as Moira thought to herself. Tension filled the air, and there was an uncanny silence. Incidentally, the sun was just about directly overhead. Moira's lip curled in bitter amusement.

Roadhog and Widowmaker, still standing opposite each other, stood still, faces completely inscrutable, for several seconds. And then several more. Someone coughed.

Moira's mind raced, holding her chin. A drop of sweat fell from her brow into her eye.

Fuck. There's no way they don't know what to do, right? Right?

Neither of the two moved.

Then again, LaCroix doesn't get out much, does she? I can't speak for the big man there.

She let out a deep sigh, and crept out from behind her cover, clearing her throat.

"Ahem. Begging your pardon..."

Moira went into a low bow, perhaps more than necessary. Roadhog said nothing, but turned his head slightly.

"If I'm remembering rightly, these sorts of duels usually have a third party, an officiant, a referee, aye? I mean not to presume, of course, but simply in accordance with—"

"ACCEPTABLE."

Apparently, one can look relieved through a leather mask.

Good grief.

"Ah, very well—great thanks to you for the opportunity."

Moira walked along the side of the street to stand in between the duelists.

"Now, as a show of good faith and respect, would both parties now shake hands?"

God, talking like this is exhausting.

The two walked towards each other, which took a while because fifty paces is just enough distance to make it awkward, and shook hands. Moira crossed her arms. Of course, Roadhog's hands dwarfed Widowmaker's rather delicate ones—it was a sight, to be sure.

Moira felt a little lightheaded—the whole situation was wholly and entirely unreal. They both turned around to face each other.

"Ah, actually, you're supposed to..."

Moira began, raising her hand slightly. She cut herself off when, after some moments' deliberation, Widowmaker simply dropped her rifle. Moira's jaw slackened as it hit the ground.

What the hell?

Widowmaker was, of course, a highly competent and resourceful assassin; she was always calm, and never without a course of action. Surely there's a fine reason for this, Moira reassured herself, though rather unconvincingly.

The assassin's next move was, entirely to her horror, to unzip the front of her bodysuit (was there always a zipper there?), plant her feet in a wide stance, and cross her arms. Moira's eyes widened as she felt a sudden dizziness and barely managed to duck behind the overturned vehicle to her right before collapsing to her knees. A nearby soldier began to wail in despair, and murmurs spread amongst the onlooking Junkers.

Ah. We're all going to die.

They didn't die, however—as Moira let out a groan—but rather, freed from the constraints of her bodysuit, the assassin's enormous cock hung freely, exposed to the elements. Roadhog's expression was inscrutable under his mask, and for a few brief seconds, Moira held her breath. That is, of course, until the big man simply nodded and followed suit. At this sight, Moira choked on her own spittle, breaking the silence with furious coughing.

Oh. Of course. I'm surrounded by crazy people. Of-fucking-course this would happen.

Wiping the tears from her eyes as she struggled to regain her composure, Moira scrutinized the situation with eagle eyes, furrowing her brow. Both "combatants'" prodigious members swayed slightly in a stiff breeze as the midday sun beat down upon them.

Naturally, she first evaluated her ally's condition—it was a wonder that something so large could fit unnoticed in a skintight bodysuit, really. Clearly, she had underestimated the Widowmaker's skills.

A mistake many a soul claimed, she thought.

Although partially obscured by the rear view, Moira could make out its remarkably well-formed appearance, aided by the highlight of sunlight reflected off a sheen of sweat. Evidently, a skintight bodysuit breathes rather poorly in a hot desert environment (something to look into at a later date, Moira noted). Much like the rifle she bore, the assassin's monster smurf weenie had a particular air of dignity to it—clearly lethal, yet bearing such grace she felt tears well in her eyes. The blue skin was smooth to the utmost, marked only by slightly protruding veins, which cast striking shadows under the noontime sun. As she had once heard in Japan, a penis that curves right is said to belong to one destined for greatness. An interesting adage, if not for its veracity then for its anthropologic origins. For her money, however, she found Widowmaker's profound symmetry aesthetically rather more appealing. LaCroix's penis was, to put it modestly, the picture of phallic refinement.

Widowmaker's adversary, in contrast, bore no such qualities. To Moira's relief, Roadhog's penis, monstrous though it may have been, was not nearly so porcine as she had briefly feared.

He's inhumanly large, not inhuman, she reminded herself.

That said, few other words could aptly describe the degree to which the man was endowed. If Widowmaker's penis could be described through analogy to her weapon, the same was certainly true for Roadhog, if not more so. Where Widowmaker's rifle was adaptable and terrifying in its grace—a marvel of engineering, his own weapon was clearly designed to do exactly one thing, and well.

Still, Moira mused, stroking her chin sagely, does it really make a difference how a tool kills?

She examined the flesh of his shaft—remarkably supple in its appearance, which she supposed was rather impressive, given the environment. It reminded her of nothing more than some ancient stone monument, hewn from the depths of the earth with great strokes. Yet for all the brutality of its form, truthfully its own beauty lay yet therein.

Like two pillars they stood, like in dignity yet proudly apart.

It was already insufferably hot out, but somehow in that moment the heat grew even more unbearable. Two iron wills stood in opposition as the tension in the air drew to a climax. Moira felt it manifest as a particular itch on the back of her neck, the kind one scratches absentmindedly only to realize that maddeningly, it persists under the skin and throughout the body like some ungodly worm. Just then, Moira felt aware of every pore on her body, as she clenched her teeth and sweat palms became slick with sweat. In her periphery, she was vaguely aware of her underlings—like all present, they were as much rapt by the immense gravity of the situation as she—though as the weight of all the heavens above pressed upon her and her consciousness spread such that she felt aware of nothing and everything, it mattered scarce.

And then, almost as soon as it had begun, the moment ended. After such a tense period of evaluation, Roadhog and Widowmaker had evidently come to some silent accord (the secrets of which Moira would never know, she concluded). But a few seconds had passed, though it seemed near a lifetime for those present. Indeed, Moira could have sworn she felt some of her very life slip out then, as her limbs slackened all at once. Meanwhile, the two duelists had once more made themselves decent, shaken hands, and exchanged a few quiet words lost to the din of discussion revitalized anew by the spectacle.

Moira managed to draw just enough strength into her legs to stand as Roadhog and Widowmaker turned to walk toward their overturned vehicle, absently brushing dust from her coat in an effort to look composed.

"YOU SAID YOU NEEDED TO TALK TO THE QUEEN, RIGHT?"

Moira nodded, still thoroughly shaken by the whole situation.

"YOU'D, UH, HAVE BETTER LUCK E-MAILING HER, BUT I'LL PUT IN A GOOD WORD FOR YOU."

Roadhog muttered something and fumbled with his pockets for a moment, producing a scrap of paper and a comically undersized pen. After struggling with the pen for some seconds, he handed the paper to Moira.

"Ah. Ahem." She cleared her throat. "Thank you."

It was all she could do to stutter out these few words of thanks.

"NO PROBLEM."

Unfurling the note, she cocked her eyebrow - despite his apparent difficulty with the pen, Roadhog had remarkably elegant handwriting. The paper had an e-mail address written on it: "xXm0mzfucker69Xx@..." Her eyes widened in surprise. Good Lord. And she thought using Tmail made her feel old.

Widowmaker returned to Moira's side, briefly exchanging another silent glance with Roadhog. Moira shrugged. The communion of those possessed of warrior souls, or something, she supposed.

"Well, if that's all, I suppose we'll be on our way," Moira said, nodding her head at the gate, then pausing and frowning as she remembered the vehicle they had entered in was currently a wreck in the middle of the road.

Walking was out of the question, of course, and calling a replacement could take hours, if not days—it was difficult enough getting the original to Australia undetected by international authorities—and time was ever a commodity. At the same time, she hardly wanted to overstay her welcome any further.

"AH. SHIT, UH, SORRY ABOUT THAT."

Her thoughts were interrupted as Roadhog paused to look sheepishly at the wreck behind him.

"HEY, LOOK, IF YOU'D LIKE I CAN LOAN YOU ONE OF OURS."

The big man's sudden change of character was uncanny—even Widowmaker managed to raise an eyebrow. Still, Moira wasn't one to look a gift horse (hog?) in the mouth.

"Ah. Well, thank you again, that's very generous of you, Mr. Rutledge..." she trailed off.

"ROADHOG. JUST ROADHOG IS FINE."

"Well, very well, Mr. Roadhog—"

"DON'T MAKE IT WEIRD."

"—You have my thanks."

The two shook hands, awkwardly, and went about the necessary arrangements. Fortuitously, the Junkers had an old off-road vehicle just big enough to fit Moira's detachment laying about. She couldn't make out a model, so much of the original vehicle had been replaced, but it was at least old enough to vote, by her reckoning. At any rate, Moira much preferred "somewhat weathered" to "on fire."

The ride out of Junkertown went well enough, all things considered. Granted, the air conditioner barely worked and smelled strangely of fish, and the driver had peculiar taste in music. "Post-hardcore prog-death jazz,"* he had called it. Actually, it was kind of catchy. Moira mulled over what to do with the mission's data logs. She opened the window a bit, yawning, and—oops—dropped the tapes through the gap. How clumsy of her. Why they were stored in physical format, she had no idea.

The group met up with Sombra in a small town around a hundred kilometers northeast. She sat on a barstool in a small building lit by a couple flickering fluorescent bulbs, chewing bubblegum. The building's air conditioning provided an unceasing ambience.

"Hey. How'd the mission go?"

"Surprisingly well. Mostly surprisingly."

Moira moved her mouth into the facsimile of a smile.

"Don't do that. It's creepy."

Moira rolled her eyes.

"Oh, and the data logs were lost during the mission, so don't ask about those."

Sombra paused for a bit, then looked up. Pop.

"You know your suits store mission data anyway, right? I've got the whole thing right here."

She blew a bubble and tapped her wrist device as Moira stared at her, pinching her brow. Pop. Her lips glistened under the cold lighting as the bubble burst.

"So, like, you wanna make out or something? The jet's not gonna be here for another couple hours."

Moira kept staring. Pop.

"Fuck it."

And then they made out.

"C'est plu' sexy," said Widowmaker drily from the other side of the room.

*Rereading this in 2021, I'm pretty sure this was referring to the band Pan.Thy.Monium (either that or Carbonized). Check 'em out, or leave whatever band you thought of.