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Omen has always been drowning in a constant onslaught of everyone’s emotions. At least, that’s as far as he can remember.
There isn’t really much to go off of. Barraging waves of a never-ending seashore painfully swarming his fleeting thoughts, trying to dismiss them would be like walking in knee-high quicksand. Happiness rattling about like child’s laughter, sadness pouring like afternoon rain and disgust leaving a sour taste in what could be considered his mouth (if he even had one). They’re dizzying, chaotic and awfully loud. Only in a battlefield do they ironically get as organised as multiple people’s feelings can get. They settle into a mindset filled with drive, either it be determination or simply fear.
And that’s when Omen excels. His thoughts ease with only one goal in mind; accomplish the mission. No distractions. The cacophony of voices quiets into a deep dread that pulls him along, because the uneasier he feels the closer his target is. The more terrified his prey, the calmer it’s hunter. Even one voice screaming for mercy is a balm to a shattered soul like Omens, one single thread of emotion pulling all his opaque parts together to make him (nearly) whole.
Maybe that’s how he can sense people’s emotions. Through his broken, untethered state, he is not tangible like any other living being. As much as he mentally feels, physically, he is unable to. He shifts and moves like shadow through the open air, mending and twisting the inky black to do his bidding. He is not a solid being, so he seeks the stability of other creatures. Or perhaps as he leaks his consciousness, others just simply leak emotion. Or possibly, he lacks his own feelings so he siphons from the ones that possess such menial abilities.
Much to his own dismay, he just isn’t human. In daylight, he might seem like a man in a tattered cloak, covered in darkness, but in the cover of darkness only glowing claw marks for eyes signal his unsettling presence. Like a beast stalking under the safe haven of the cover of a wild underbrush, ready to pounce in the blink of an eye. And that’s what’s terrifying. The sense of being watched. The sense of danger, where no matter how far you run or how well you hide, someone knows where you are at all times, sometimes without you even knowing.
That is one characteristic he has in common with another Valorant agent, codenamed Cypher. Both excel in watching enemies and patiently waiting for the right moment to strike. While Omen relishes in the hunt, Cypher simply sees it all as a lowly task, something equal to cleaning duty in the barracks. Of course, when he aims his Operator at the unknowing target, his arms seem heavy with guilt - the same weight as the gun in his tainted hands. But just as Omen starts feeling the oncoming dam of emotions after a job well done, the latter shrugs off the bodycount like his pristine beige coat. He likes working with him, the usual calm atmosphere rarely spikes with fear.
Ah, all this thinking just for a simple comment his acquaintance Raze made on their latest mission. Others really can not feel what he can? No wonder he’s one of the only people that almost never join social interactions with agents that don’t require his attendance - like mission briefings. Not only is everyone chatting impossibly loudly, like all the younger and newer additions to the team, but they’re all feeling something wildly different from the rest. Brimstone feels proud, Sage feels overwhelmed, Reyna feels mildly disgusted, Viper always feels offended, Killjoy feels embarrassed, Raze feels love, Skye feels, Yoru feels, Phoenix, Jett and Neon and Fade and-
And yet Cypher is only watching from the farthest corner of the room and his emotions are the loudest. His face is covered by a mask shielding his anonymity and yet his heart bleeds on his sleeves it’s terrible. It’s hard enough feeling what everyone else goes through, but near that man? He actually feels. When Raze or Phoenix feel happy, his chests warms like sitting in front of a cozy fireplace. When Cypher feels happy, he smiles with him. When Jett or Sova feel sad, his body feels a freezing breeze glaze over him. When Cypher feels sad, he cries with him. It’s involuntary. It’s unbearable. Yet he keeps seeking the others company, because it makes him feel human (again).
But now he isn’t looking for him, and yet it’s like he’s already somehow tethered to the Moroccan Menace. They’re like magnets really. Always somehow ending up on the opposite sides of the same couch in the “living room”, keeping to their activities in blissful silence. Only the clanking of Omen’s knitting needles or Cypher’s keyboard clacking can be heard on occasion. Rarely, they engage in conversation. Most of the time, it’s information that the hacker found on the spectres past. Sometimes, it is the sentinel’s ramblings of his own past, for when he needs someone to confide in. Omen likes to listen.
He was on his way to the communal kitchen to steal (he actually borrows and later restocks, but he’d never admit that) some of the expensive tea Cypher keeps complaining about being taken to Brimstone on every briefing when he hears a lilting melody coming from one of the rooms beyond his destination. He would not normally care, Raze often puts her, or Sova’s, favourite music on blast at any time of day, but what intrigued him was the audible traction of a violin bow on old string. What confused him was that he had already went through every room in the compound at least a dozen times and he had never seen a musical instrument lying about in any of them.
He steps closer curiously, careful not to make sound, afraid he’d scare the player away from their midnight activity. Normally he’d not care about interrupting, music can be stopped and simply turned back on later, but it being played live -in real time? He can feel emotion behind every little tone that is echoing in rhythm. The nostalgia in half-note chords, the happiness in staccatos, the anger in a fortissimo, the regret in whole notes played in pianissimo, and the never-ending, pure and suffocating sadness in the last note ever so gently held by no more than one pull, barely touching the strings. Omen feels it all from a simple melody as he finally releases the breath be’s been holding for Sol knows how long.
He feels incredibly bad for intruding on such a private moment, on his way to leave and forget all about it in the morning, but there’s no escape from the uttered “Well, how did you like it?”, that escapes Cypher. Clacking of the wooden instrument on a table signals the absolute end of the performance. After much consideration, Omen steps forward from the shadows and bows his head.
“It was… a lot.” the wraith started with. Cypher’s left lense lowered a slight amount in a questioning gesture, his hand on his hip waiting for him to continue. “Well done.” he added to satisfy the spy. He just chuckled a bit, sincere, and it made Omen’s chest feel coated by honey.
“Thank you qamar. I have found it in an abandoned shopping stall on our last mission and thought I could try to play it. It’s…” he trails off for a second, flooding Omen with longing, pain, guilt in mere seconds when he continues with a smile and a soft hope. “It’s similar to a rebec, my wife used to play one. She owned a replica of a historical one, she took brilliant care of it. She tried to teach me, but I didn’t have much of a feel for music. I was more of a, umm, how do I put it… al’ama… logical kind. Simple and straightforward.”
“But you played now, and it was,,, satisfactory.” he stated with a questioning lilt.
“Ah, sadiq, that was all… mechanical. It had no natural crescendos nor such things. I did not seamlessly transition to different dynamics. Not when I can’t feel the strings, or control how much weigh I put on them properly.” he sighs heavily and sits on one of the many chairs that the room provides.
“What… do you mean by that? That you can’t feel?” the phantom stalked closer and took a seat next to the other, but swivelled it so they’re sitting facing each other.
Cypher seemed to consider something deeply, is his rare silence and closed lenses were an obvious enough tell. If not, his emotions were a swirling mess. After a minute or two, he finally seems to come to a conclusion and Omen can feel an overwhelming sense of /trust/, which he can not understand in the slightest. It makes him feel… scrambled yet complete. Like all the puzzle pieces are there, but not in correct places.
“I- well when- when my family…” he pauses and waits for Omen to nod in understanding. He knows that part of his past already. “I didn’t arrive on time. What I didn’t say though, was the amount of that time that could have been used to save them. Frederick, it was mere seconds. I could have-“ he stops the other’s panicked explanation to throw in a “What has happened, happened. Don’t dwell on what can’t be changed anymore” and Cypher then continues more relaxed with a “I… I tried to dig them out of the wreckage. I got severe burns and had to have surgery. Most of my limbs are… amputated and now prosthetics.”
“I can’t… feel. I miss being able to. The grass beneath my feet, the cup beneath my fingers. I don’t mind these, don’t get me wrong, they are mechanically an upgrade I just…” he almost decompresses with his last breath.
“Why would you tell me… of all people?” Omen asks perplexed.
Cypher grabs his hands -that slightly phase through his- so his palms are facing down. “We have talked about many things in privacy and not a whisper of them has left your mouth, not a letter has been written by your hands.” He turns his hands around, so his palms are facing up. “And by what you have told me, I thought we might… share the same experience.”
And at that moment Omen feels present. Truly present. With all his being, mind, body and soul. Simply bound to this plane by Cypher’s cold yet welcoming touch. He feels whole. He feels complete and he feels understood, even though he doesn’t understand himself yet. He feels like he will understand, with Cypher’s intellect and care. He feels like his life is in the palms of the others hand, which is partially true. He feels free even when he’s bound to the plane of the living.
“I… thank you. May I…” silence follows before a wheeze of a breath is taken, “ask something of you?” Omen asks, gently squeezing his hands in the embrace.
Cypher tilts his head and shuffles a bit closer. “Mmm jamil? What is it?” His finger pads thrum on his knuckles, reminding him of the tripwires he uses.
“Is that why you wear a mask? Do you have… burn scars… there… also?” he hopes he’s not being too intrusive. Cypher probably wouldn’t mind either way, since he is the definition of an intruder.
“Partially.” he nods as if to confirm and end the question, yet he knows an explanation will surely follow. As always, he likes to explain. “I do have scars, which would be easily identifiable. My identity would be in danger.”
Omen’s fingers itch. He would like to rip open every little secret the riddler hides from daring eyes. It makes him feel special. A good kind of special. One where he feels normal. “Can I… take it off? Or do you worry-”
“Wait just a moment…” he doesn’t even let him finish his show of hesitation and takes his mask carefully but swiftly off. The mask consists of a metal goggle-like material around the eyes and thick fabric covering the other parts of the head. The lining seems to be soft foam. “There we go”
His (what can be considered) eyes shift from Cypher’s receding hands to his face. His dark skin framed by a newly grown beard, his short black curly hair falling into his blue eyes slightly. No, those are not eyes, in a common kind of sense. He’s peering at him with the same lenses that people consider being a part of his mask. He has heavy scarring on the left side of the face, his eyebrow and part of his beard missing a few hairs. He feels like he’s looking at the Sun, or the equivalent of one in human form. He’d never close his eyes though, even if they’d burn through.
He inhales sharply and quickly lets the air out. He then tries slower, begging any deities that were to exist to give him bravery. If he had a heart, it would have already failed all it’s functions. “I want to try something, please don’t… I’m sorry if I ruin… I don’t want to-“
“Get on with it fatin, I don’t bite. I sting.” he chuckles and audibly rolls his eyes, which whirr at the exaggerated movement.
Omen feels embarrassed from the fragile moment and growls while covering his face in his hand. With a bit of momentary courage, he rubs his forehead on Cypher’s, since this is the closest equivalent of a kiss that they could get close to with his fluid anatomy.
Cypher cackles, surprised. He does not blush, but his smile is the softest he has ever seen from the man. “That was adorable. I won’t tell anyone. I just with I could feel it more.”
Omen wishes he could feel less, because he might burst like one of Raze’s failed experiments.