Wash is back on his feet the second the tables turn, eyes on the closest targets - the Daxamites - as Widowmaker's shots hit them and they stagger-
And the rage hits him like a goddamn tidal wave, burning in his chest and rising in his throat like bile. He has live ammo - it would be the work of a few seconds to switch to live rounds, put a shot through the torn transuits, angle it to rip through the Daxamites' heads, and that problem would be fucking solved-
'And now I get to spill your blood, and make you spill each other's-'
This isn't him.
He knows his own rage intimately - he let it fuel him and consume him for the better part of a fucking year before it nearly destroyed him, to the point where a lack of anything to fight and an unexpected act of mercy were the only way to put out the flames. He burns cold, a fury fueled by calculation and determination and a complete lack of self-preservation. This berserker rage came from somewhere else.
He feels it burn acid in his throat and swallows it back anyway. This is not the time.
Instead, he glances around to see the two people nearest to him but still out of range of his powers - York and Reaper - the urge to kill rises again and he forces it down - they cannot afford infighting on a battlefield - and opens a private comm channel. "I'll shut down the Daxamites' powers - you two subdue them." He barely waits to finish the sentence before he's off, sprinting towards the Daxamites, fake blood dripping from his armor. He drops into a slide just before he reaches them, setting off his power nuke and striking at their ankles as he goes. Best case scenario, he knocks them flat or at least off-balance and his momentum gets him out of the way; worst case scenario, he's within arm's length of two artificially enraged Daxamites and in for a world of hurt.
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And the rage hits him like a goddamn tidal wave, burning in his chest and rising in his throat like bile. He has live ammo - it would be the work of a few seconds to switch to live rounds, put a shot through the torn transuits, angle it to rip through the Daxamites' heads, and that problem would be fucking solved-
'And now I get to spill your blood, and make you spill each other's-'
This isn't him.
He knows his own rage intimately - he let it fuel him and consume him for the better part of a fucking year before it nearly destroyed him, to the point where a lack of anything to fight and an unexpected act of mercy were the only way to put out the flames. He burns cold, a fury fueled by calculation and determination and a complete lack of self-preservation. This berserker rage came from somewhere else.
He feels it burn acid in his throat and swallows it back anyway. This is not the time.
Instead, he glances around to see the two people nearest to him but still out of range of his powers - York and Reaper - the urge to kill rises again and he forces it down - they cannot afford infighting on a battlefield - and opens a private comm channel. "I'll shut down the Daxamites' powers - you two subdue them." He barely waits to finish the sentence before he's off, sprinting towards the Daxamites, fake blood dripping from his armor. He drops into a slide just before he reaches them, setting off his power nuke and striking at their ankles as he goes. Best case scenario, he knocks them flat or at least off-balance and his momentum gets him out of the way; worst case scenario, he's within arm's length of two artificially enraged Daxamites and in for a world of hurt.