Archive of Our Own ^beta

Two and a half pairs of eyes hum as he picks at crumbling mortar on the wall behind him, red brick bleeding sand grey. The toe of his too-small boot noses at a crumpled leaflet in a rain-beaten gutter, scuffing itself on cobblestone. Aglets on his laces are a bit mangled. The scanner nearest to the fountain in the plaza whirs, deliberates in the face of a pale looking twenty-something and zips out of reach when it sees the kid's arm jolt up to their eyes from the flash. The cyclops taunts, yes, but it's clever enough to know its own fragility. You can take one of 'em out of the sky with little more than a well-timed slap.

The leaflet beneath him's nothing but pulp-mush, now, his careful glances down to the pile revealing nothing of the contents. You can normally tell affiliation from the paper quality.
The second scanner flaps and shakes where it hovers, probably giving a perfunctory and redundant report back to Overwatch. Dust mites shine as they're shaken off the thing. Calhoun's probably due for a report, soon. 10-4, nothing to report, over. Never standing by, if he can help it- there'll never be a lack of guys eager for a block raid, be it bloodthirst or boredom. Awfully quiet today, though, barely a half dozen civs had wandered to the ration lines. Might be early, though, that'd explain it. Determining the hour would mean tuning into the anathema drone of the Breencast. He'll wait till another metrocop wanders out of the doors to take over his loitering. Might ask the time, make polite conversation.

Third scanner does its perimeter laps. Ninety-degrees at the corner, there, seems to delight in the sharp tally-mark of a turn. Striking pen on paper, or lighting a match. His sister's voice crooned as the lamp flicked off again, light the candle, Barn!
The scanner hums at another right angle. Proud.
The power had gone out, big ol' storm, and it lasted long enough for them to play one poker and half a go fish.
The ink from the pen he'd chew always ended up on his uniform sleeve, later. Can you believe he used to keep a diary?
The power had returned when his sister'd slammed a hand with glittery lilac enamel onto the haphazard stack of the deck. Most of the cards were bent, chewed or upside-down. The fridge's hum had come back in an instant, the ambient electric promise of security in those amenities. Leftovers, and cordoned, dibs'd Easter chocolates. Shin bruises. Hitting the books, hitting the hay, the fourth scanner's chirrup.
Cornea afterimage trills, and it's fourth of July fireworks, hoisting her onto the back of the truck. He'd put an itchy blanket down, god knows the tray was cold. The colours were the draw, 'course, but with those big ones it didn't even matter that they were just white flashes that left huge splotches in-

Takes a couple blinks to recover. Wasn't even aimed at him- civ shuffles past him with a 'sorry, Officer' and offers frantic glances.

Fifth scanner, odd little thing, bashes its brains into the brick wall. Had been doing so, rhythmic thu-dunk, about two shifts now. Alyx'd shown him a few off-the-grid scanners on his last visit. Barney was a bit sympathetic to their aimless floating. Alyx saw purpose in their scrap past decor, though- Barney knew D0g's faceplate and first couple of versions were half a scanner and a dream. Lethargic blinks plague his vision. He misses his notebook, would write: reminder!!! trade-in for upped anti-fatigue dose. Silly thought. He doesn't have nearly enough credits for that.

New boots click heel-toe across stone to relieve him. Baton is hastily tucked into the newcomer's belt and the thing sighs, hand-shoos and whistles. Takes Calhoun a second to straighten up and wipe white mortar powder from absent hands onto liverie. Nothing like the sound of vocoder rasp in the morning: the sigh is a static grumble, the shoo is a rustle of dense fabric, and the whistle, piercing, practiced annoyance that it is, transmits over a local frequency, as all else. A choir of groans hums through his headset. Overwatch says something about family perks. His sister's partner had bought her a PlayStation 2, right before it all. Birthday gift. Barney would've just bought flowers. Was planning to, if he remembers right.

Something recursive swallows him whole. An elevator drops to the ground with him. Another thu-dunk against another few bricks and he's down and out. For a moment, it's quiet. Then, another metrocop boot is curious about something wet and ambiguous in a gutter. Another question of affiliation and quality. He's jolted with a well-timed slap.