Chapter Text
Prior to the Rubout Brigade's skyrocketing to prominence and openly organized villainy's resultant plummeting to the verge of sunkissed extinction, any semblance of justice to be found amid a status quo of chaos running rampant and power lying with those most willing to abuse it came through the activities of privately self-managed and independently operating agencies scattered inconsistently throughout the realm. A majority of these groups were founded and run by normal girls seeking establishment of law enforcement for their own and each other's safety, more often than not with sincere intentions but less-than-ideal results, and come the rise of the Brigade, numerous early recruits were selected based on a history of service in this regard. Other flavors of pre-modern justice and "justice" meanwhile came in the wildly varying forms of more boldly and colorfully self-styled "(super)heroines", who tended to be more ruthless and reckless than their public-serving counterparts, lacking accountability to written codes of conduct and generally being more selfishly-motivated, whether for money, power, attention, the sheer thrill of their perilous endeavors or any combination thereof. On average, these types of "heroines" acted in practice as more benevolent varieties of those more generally known as mercenaries at best, as dangerously irresponsible public nuisances in the eyes of a great many and as glorified bullies, tyrannesses and/or outright murderous villainesses at worst. Once the Rubout Brigade came along, tellingly few so-called superheroines were invited to join, with a far greater number of their kind facing the opposite imperative: mandatorily lotioned sunbathing alongside their unacknowledged fellows in such beach bitchiness as would be met with zero tolerance henceforth. Of course, all that is history now; the aforementioned equipment, long-since confiscated and destroyed along with the rest of the realm's weapons of war in one of the more difficult early phases of bringing about the new order, not that the girls of the Overwatch contributed to the complications involved, soundly knowing that hill not to be worth tanning on. Yet, while many of its lesser associates have gone on to find fulfilling lives as disarmed civilians, the group's dedicated founders and veterans have instead found insurmountable difficulty in doing the same, so it feels like for them in their deep-seated need for specially validating recognition and addiction to exercising what power they once wielded. With all five having gone their separate ways and been living out their miserably ever afters for some time, it was Mercy who, in her boredom, had the fateful idea of calling up D.Va, her closest friend in more ways than one during their so-called glory days, to see whether she was alone in her failure to adapt to the mundane lifestyle forced upon them. Upon finding their discontent to be very much mutual, the two proceeded to seek out the others and ultimately arrange a full face-to-face reunion; a highly bittersweet one in yielding the discovery that none of them were faring particularly well at all in their current endeavors, or lack thereof. It was then and there that the former overladies of the Overwatch determined to recapture relevancy via the only venue yet legally available to "ordinary" citizens like themselves: the Rubout Brigade's public tryout program, notorious for its forfeit system to whose absolute terms all but the sole victor and thus survivor of each auditioning batch of babes are summerily subjected. The Brigade claims this perilous policy to be a matter of strict necessity without ill will to the losers "honorably" lotioned in accordance with it, the secretive knowledge imparted through the competitive training routines supposedly being too sensitive to let them go home with. It is widely viewed as an open secret, however, that recruitment of new lifeguards to the force is secondary as an intended function of the tryouts after population reduction, especially of haughtily hopeful hotshot hotties all-too-eagerly willing to throw their lives away in pursuit of their ambitions, invariably thinking they have what it takes to beat the odds… all while the Brigade's applicant-acceptance rate remains unflinchingly fixed. Despite having relatively little to lose and their repeatedly exchanged assurances that this is necessary and will be worth it so long as one of them wins and can continue meting out justice "on behalf of them all", the has-been heroines are in fact more terrified of suntan lotion than most women who sign up for such events as this involving it as the consolation prize, falling very much within the camp of preferring bodily obliteration to the indignity of preservation as blushing sex dolls for the masses to indulge in. Relatedly, preparations for the determination of who, if anyone, lives and who lotions have included penning of identical wills leaving all their possessions, fleshly remains included, to one another, such that it will all inevitably default to whoever takes the tryout with the expectation that she'll keep her late comrades' bodies far away from the public's ogling eyes and grope-happy hands. The group's final day together as friends before reconvening the following morning as deadly rivals with every lady for herself has been spent at a local seaside lodge which they've all pitched in to rent out for the purpose of enjoying each other's intimate company one last time, partying hard but not late into the night, lest they fail to be well-rested for tomorrow. Now standing together on the property's rear deck, the girls share their final moments of tenderness basking in the sun's waning warmth as they watch it set for the evening before likewise heading home. "Tracer!" Mercy sharply rebukes this bit of tasteless teasing. "Meh;" Mercy shrugs, "suntan lotion has its perks, alright… but then again, being alive has considerably more. Yet, it's like Tracer said: we've long-since made our choice in this matter, and now we've none but to follow through, for better or worse! Neither regretting it nor wondering how things could've gone differently is gonna accomplish anything, save for self-sabotaging your own chances of coming out on top; of coming out untanned." "Y'know, Mei," D.Va then resumes, leaning away from her own partner and toward the sole single lady of the group, "forgive me if I missed something in my own enjoyment of our party's highs, but as far as I can tell, you're the only one of us who didn't have a properly good time here today, and methinks there's still time for us to rectify that, if you'd like!"
Being ever-so-slightly more ethical than their typical competition in the card-carrying heroics business, the ladies of the Overwatch gang were targeted in neither sense, instead simply having their group dissolved under the new regime with the assurance that matters of justice were being taken into better, more capable hands than their own and suntan lotion as their promised reward for any unlicensed vigilantism going forward. At one point the most prolifically active, popular and populous organization of its nature in the whole of the realm's northwestern quadrant, the Overwatch's prospects had been on the downturn since well-before its compulsory disbandment, with several members leaving or being expelled and countless fans being soured on the brand over accusations of complicity with a major tyrannical regime situated in the opposite hemisphere of the known realm, which the Rubout Brigade has since taken definitive care of, and of molestation of recruits by team mainstays. Following all these setbacks prior to its end of operations, the Overwatch's core roster of leading ladies was down to a mere quintet, albeit consisting of five women just about as formidable as any, and all in their own diversely unique ways, at that, making for a respectably-composed team by any general standard. The lavender-bodied mutant aptly calling herself Widowmaker was the de facto alpha-fatale of the bunch and its most prolifically lethal by way of her sniper skills, the one known as Tracer made a name for herself with her super-speed, said to be granted by time-manipulating gadgetry, and wits to match, and Mei's endothermic blaster saw those she deemed death-deservingly cold-hearted made to fit that description in the most lethally literal of senses. Mechanically winged warrioress Mercy was the most habitually benevolent among the gang's leadership, performing a great deal of charitable services including medical aid lent to those in need but nevertheless showing none of her namesake to her enemies, and D.Va's loadout spoke for itself with its massive robotic centerpiece.
Being smarter than most victims of the so-called tryout trap, though not enough to know better than falling into it all the same, the Overwatch's alumnae, much as they'd like to believe themselves overqualified for the coveted lifeguard status, are all-too-well-aware that their skills are not what they used to be after such extended disuse, and likewise for their very capabilities without the equipment upon which they so heavily relied to establish and justify their image as "superheroines". Furthermore knowing that their rivals in the running will be no slouches per the competitive culture that's had ample time by now to develop and evolve around aspirations like their own, albeit with few staying invested in contributing to it for very long, they've tirelessly studied all available resources on the subject throughout their weeks of preparation, in-between sessions of heavy exercise to get themselves back into peak physical condition. Undertaking these activities as a group has made for a great, camaraderie-rekindling bonding experience for the ex-Overwatchers; one they've made sure to treasure in the knowledge that it'll be the last they ever share ahead of tanning time for all but the fittest of the five. In a perfect world… well, in a perfect world according to the lot in question here, the Overwatch itself would still be around, but in a marginally better one by their same sensibilities, each of them would feel confident enough to audition for the Rubout Brigade separately, with all making the cut being a possibility worth striving for. Suffice to say, they do not see it as such, focusing instead on the far more realistic prospect of none of them making it; of all their efforts being fatally futile, should they go about them individually. The quintet's decision to collectively sign up for a single tryout event, stacking its odds in favor of victory for one of them while precluding multiple-member attainment thereof, was not made lightly, but being reckoned as the approach statistically more likely to secure a place on the Rubout roster in the name of the Overwatch legacy, it was ultimately made all the same. After all, so they've noted in their research, each lineup of lifeguard candidates, traditionally competing by the dozen to which their own turn on the tryout circuit will be no exception, tends to include only a few truly viable contenders alongside several more commonplace bimbos with little idea what they're doing and serving as inevitable suntan fodder. Filling nearly half the available spots with specimens of the former united in their cause, so the girls doing so reason, bolsters the possibility of the remainder being occupied exclusively by the latter, and they're rather inclined to assuming such will be the case come the big day, because for them, the thought of competing against each other where only one can survive is already plenty daunting without any unknown factors complicating it.
"Well, ladies," Mercy proclaims with a bittersweet smile as the sky starts darkening, "it truly has been a pleasure reconnecting with you… and a pleasure knowing you, just as it was an honor serving with you."
"Yes, and a pleasure serving," D.Va reiterates, tightly clenching hands with her partner, "not to mention an honor reconnecting, and one knowing, too! Heh… however it goes down tomorrow, for whoever goes down, let's all agree: no hard feelings, right; still friends forever, eh?"
"All the way to the very end, and then some!" Tracer agrees.
"Oui, voici notre amour;" Widowmaker concurs in her sensuously-spoken alternative language, as she so often does, "never shall I forget you girls nor the times we shared, should I win, and should another among us prove fate's favored femme fatale, I know that she'll remember me and the rest of her fallen fellows as we were, just as well! Mmmhmmm… that being said, though, let it be known that I'll hardly mind continuing to be enjoyed as I will be in the latter event, so long as the privilege is reserved for she who's earned it through besting me; no sense in letting this hot body go to waste: just don't go sharing it around like that of some common sun-slut, alright?"
"Just as long as the agreement can be mutual, love," Tracer replies, "you can rest assured that your body will be kept in good hands, should they be mine! Same goes for the rest of you just as well, of course, but… ah, Widowmaker, dearie; I can't help but wonder, and get all hot over imagining: just how would the bronzed radiance of a suntan translate onto your most curious of complexions? Finding out, I must say, feels just about as essential an incentive for winning right now as saving my own skin!"
"Quelle?" Widowmaker questions the offense evidently taken on her behalf. "Ma chérie is quite right, and if the thought of seeing me tanned helps motivate her, then all the more power to her; whatever gets one inspired, it's all fair in this game!"
"True, that," Tracer seconds the emotion while subtly sliding her hand further down her lavender lover's back, "and what a lovely war of wills it's standing poised to be!"
"Hrmmm…" Mercy grumbles, "fair enough, I suppose. It's just that, with how regrettable it is that things have to be this way for any of us to have a shot at a future worth living out, I'm none too keen on sexualizing such tragedy."
"Like it or not, Mercy," D.Va candidly points out, "sunbathing is a damn sexy way to go; the absolute sexiest, hence its, ehm… popularity, so to speak! There's no use in trying to deny its appeal, especially when it'll more likely than not be your fate within the next day's time, and you ought to know that if I'm the one you and the rest need to get lotioned up in favor of, I'll be taking good care of you as my sexy suntan angel; real good care, if you catch my drift!"
"Oooh, D.Va…!" a shocked Mercy blushes. "Well, if I really am the only one with any qualms here about such… erm, usage, then I guess there really is no point therein; having qualms, that is. Playing with your bodies, I must admit, would be pretty fun; just so long as we can all understand each other about the terms therefore!"
"Uh, girls," Mei nervously speaks up, "are we all really sure we want to go through with this? I mean, it's been so great seeing you all again, working out together and such; I've felt more alive in these past few weeks than I had in all my time trying to make it on my own under this crazy new regime. Can't we just, y'know, keep on living like this, so none of us have to tan?"
"No, Mei;" Tracer swiftly shuts down the thought, "no we can't! The tryout is literally tomorrow; it's far too late to back out now!"
"En effet," Widowmaker knowledgeably elaborates, "such a last-minute mass-dropout would throw the whole competition's balance out of whack; leave the judges with unfairly slim pickings to choose from. Knowing our lifeguard overladies, Mei, do you really think they'd take kindly to us bailing on what we signed up for at their so carefully-organized program's expense?"
"Well, no;" Mei meekly concedes, "no, I can't say I do. Look, I'm sorry; it was just a thought: one I suppose I should've raised a lot sooner…"
"Wouldn't've made a difference, Mei;" D.Va bluntly notes, "much as it might feel as though life like this is worth living if we can all be in it together, the thrill of our reconnection was always bound to be short-lived. Sooner than later, we would have gotten bored to wits' end all over again and ended up being just as miserable as ever in the long run, with even our very friendships souring for the stagnation! I, for one, would rather sunbathe than go on like that; better for badasses like us to get taken out in a fair contest and leave beautiful corpses than waste away in obscurity."
"En revanche," Widowmaker offers the counterpoint, "if the idea of us tanning for you truly distresses you so, you're free to throw the tryout; t'would certainly help the odds for the rest of us, albeit such that one and only one of our number could reap the ultimate benefit!"
"W-what?! No; of course not…" Mei stammers to assert herself, "I mean, I'm none too happy with things having to be this way, but given that they so evidently do, I'm not gonna throw my life away just to conserve a mere one of yours, nor do I plan on letting any reservations hold me back from giving it my all out there! I was just… checking to confirm that we're all okay with this, my assumption, to be clear, being that we in fact were, myself included; that's all!"
"Well, that's good to hear," Tracer encourages the stated stance while maintaining her doubts on its sincerity, "because I don't want tomorrow to go down as anything but a true, even-grounded test of all our skills; a fair contest, as D.Va puts it, wherein you deserve every bit as much of a chance as we all do, Mei!"
"Heh… that, I indeed do, thank you kindly for saying so!" Mei affirms with a dubious air of pride.
"Yes," Mercy weighs in, "and it's not just ourselves to whom we owe the best performances we can muster; the Rubout Brigade deserves such from all its candidates, so that the finest and fittest of the bunch may be hired with well and truly sound selection!"
"As to that," D.Va declares, "may the best girl win!"
"Que la meilleure fille gagne," Widowmaker likewise states, "which is to say: may the best girl win, vraiment!"
"And may she prosper through many a sexy serving of beach justice!" Tracer appends.
"Right… may she win, live long, prosper and all that good stuff, on behalf of us all." Mei nods in conclusion.
A short silence then follows, in which it seems for a moment that the heroines may be ready to part ways, leaving their final friendly conversation at this. By now, the sun is fully out of sight and the stars are beginning to show themselves, so the timing is certainly appropriate for calling it an evening.
"Huh; what are you talking about?" Mei questions. "I had an absolutely wonderful time with you girls today; a perfectly fine sendoff celebration to our friendship, wouldn't you all agree?"
"She's asking if you'd be down for us getting you off before we call it a night." Mercy flatly clarifies, rolling her eyes at the habitual shamelessness of her bestie with benefits and similarly all-too-predictable naiveté of her more casually-acquainted comrade.
"Oh; ooohhh…" Mei gasps, then groans, "so I see. Awfully generous of you to offer that, and at the rate we've been going today, I would say yes, if not for the whole matter of tomorrow; I can't imagine letting you girls exhaust me now would bode too well for my physical capability come morning, when it'll make or break me for good, not to mention the emotional ramifications of it being poised as my probable penultimate pleasuring…"
"Au contraire, mademoiselle," Widowmaker chimes in, speaking as seductively as always, "being relieved here and now can only affect you favorably as far as physicality goes; an easier night's sleep, and fewer distracting thoughts when keeping your head in the game will be mattering most… and that's on top of that which should honestly be its own reward! What's not to love?"
"Yeah, Mei:" Tracer adds, "the only way getting in an orgasm now could possibly hurt you'd be in terms of readiness for embracing your next, last one in the event of your loss! You aren't counting on that, are you; you wanna win just like all of us, don't you?"
"Oh, make no mistake:" Mei reasserts her intentions, far more decisively this time, "I'm in this for the win, alright, and if any of you do end up stealing it from me, it won't come easy, so don't go thinking me a pushover… or maybe go ahead and do; see if I care, seeing how your underestimation can only help my chances!"
"In that case, how about giving us a demonstration of your stamina in advance;" D.Va playfully and excitedly teases back, "care for that?"
"When you put it that way," Mei retorts, "perhaps I do! After all, if it'll improve my focus and such in the Rubout running, I might as well; what've I got to lose?"
With this, the pudgy pretty sets about removing her top, baring her supple bust and prompting D.Va, Tracer and Widowmaker to follow suit in short order as they all saunter lustfully towards her.
"Oh my; oh, oh dear…" Mercy murmurs as she watches her friends' sexual tensions abruptly escalate unto an explosive breaking point and is begrudgingly compelled to join in, "we're really doing this, then, aren't we? Speaking as the medical expert here for your information, Mei, this might in fact net you a loss of some enjoyment to be found in your execution should the lifeguards judging us deem it necessary, and the same goes for anyone else here keen on getting her cherry popped tonight… but even then, a mediocre suntan session should still be plenty pleasurably potent; enough to serve its purpose, and then some!"
What follows is an extended bout of rather angry sex, starting with Mei as the central focus of her gal pals' servicing efforts but rapidly devolving into a full-blown, all-ways five-way right there on the outdoor deck floor, by the end of which all girls involved have been satisfied to completion twice over since the party's onset, including she whose relevant count stood at zero going into its unplanned grand finale.
"Haaah, aaah, hah…" Mei pants as she lays there, sweat-glazed body glistening in the freshly emergent moonlight along with those of her variously sprawled partners, in the immediate aftermath, "ah, did you really need to take me a second time there? Just once would've sufficed for the benefits you were so ready to insist I'd get out of this, I'm pretty sure!"
"Oh, please:" D.Va, whose hands gave Mei her second pleasured polishing mere moments earlier, dismisses the complaint, "your body was asking for it, and you loved it, both times; that much was plain to tell all the while, your neglect to verbalize it amidst all your moaning be damned!"
"Hmph;" Mei pouts with indignant embarrassment as she springs upright and crawls about in search of her earlier-discarded swimsuit's either half in preparation to leave the sordid scene behind her, "well, we'll see how plain to tell your love of the experience is when you tan tomorrow!"
"If;" D.Va corrects while beginning to get her own bearings, "if I tan tomorrow… yes, if is good!"
"Aaaaah… magnifique!" Widowmaker meanwhile shudders as she recovers from her own climax, the last of the orgy to hit and evidently the most exquisitely elongated felt between its participants if the sheer immodesty of her lingering reaction is anything to go by. "Oui, I've got to hand it to you, mon amour: that may very well have been the best you've ever done me; a feat made more impressive still for coming in the form of impromptu seconds!"
"Aw, don't mention it, love;" Tracer smirks in response, "it hardly warrants such recognition when I'll be topping it soon enough! Of course, you'll be much too tanned to thank me once we wrap up with that session, so on second thought, you might as well do it in advance now, while you still can!"
"Hmmm… being lotioned by you, I imagine, would be second-best of my possible outcomes in tomorrow's running; hardly a bad deal, sauf ma mort," Widowmaker replies in turn, hands gliding sensuously down the length of her own naked body as she sits up and straightens it out, "but methinks I'll be shooting higher still: for my ideal result… and as you know well, what I shoot for, I seldom miss!"
"Touché," Tracer counters, "but you should know equally well that I'm liable to make for an exceptionally difficult target to hit, and with any luck, I'll be the one doing the widow-making out there; of myself, that is!"
"What's this about lotioning each other, now;" Mercy asks, intruding upon the competing lovers' exchange with apparent concern at what she's overhearing, "won't there be as many lifeguards on-site as there will be losers, ready to handle all that business once the results come in?"
"One fewer lifeguards than losers, actually." Tracer nonchalantly informs her while signaling for Widowmaker to assist in refastening her bikini top.
"Plus précisément, until the verdict is reached on identifying a winner;" the lethal lavender lady clarifies to the blonde as she complies, "then, what you suppose becomes the case… just in time for all forfeits to be collected in gloriously efficient simultaneous fashion!"
"Wait, so…" Mercy goes on frantically as she quickly puts two and two together, "the winner lotions one of the losers?!"
"Pourquoi, bien sûr;" Widowmaker confirms while turning her back to her newly reclothed partner, "it wouldn't be much of a lifeguard's initiation without a live-lotion exercise of her new duties to seal the deal, now, would it?"
"Yep; usually she gets to choose her own first victim among her bested rivals," Tracer elaborates, clearly amused by her more modest and morally reserved colleague's visible shock as she returns the favor with her mutant mistress' own top, "but tradition is for the runner-up to be the go-to pick!"
"Well, in that case, I guess that shouldn't be a problem if I win;" Mercy then mutters, primarily to herself in out-loud reasoning, "I can just opt to rub out some random bimbo, then."
Biting her lip all the while, she is plainly perturbed less by what this stipulation will mean in the event of her victory and more by what it will entail otherwise, should she end up selected for lotioning by one of her friends, as well as by their level of unabashed willingness to do so to each other. Mercy was always the most sincerely benevolent and least perverse major member of the Overwatch; often to a fault in the company she kept, with this situation proving to be her ultimate such awkward fix.
"Yeah, well, it'd be a problem for me:" D.Va butts in, suddenly sliding up, garments fully reattached, to her still-nude main squeeze, "you winning and not choosing me for your virgin Rubout kill, that is; I mean, if I have to tan, your hands would be my first choice to do the honors, on which you passing up in favor of letting me sunbathe by a stranger's would in and of itself be a far worse insult than any indignity suntan lotion could ever hope to inflict upon me in its own right! As for my own victory, suffice to say that there'll be no problem for me there at all; not with the perfect suntan angel to consummate it with!"
"Oooooh…" Mercy squirms, "if that's the way it's gonna be, then maybe I'm the one with the problem in trying to keep up a pretense of ethics about this whole crazy business… but I see how it is now, so fine: I'll take care of finalizing your loss if I take the win, alright, but only on account of honoring your wishes; I won't enjoy it… or at least, I'll take no pride in enjoying it."
"Aaawww… shame you find it so hard to appreciate the true beauty of sunbathing," D.Va replies, "but all the more props, then, if you really are ready to go along with it anyway for the sake of giving me one last good time! Plus, hopefully, you won't even have to worry about following through with that promise; well, hopefully for me, at any rate."
"D.Va," Mercy says with an exhausted sigh, "I love you, and I'll always love you, no matter what happens tomorrow, but you can be a real bitch sometimes, and it saddens me that you're opting to let our relationship be left off on such a sour note; it truly does…"
"Sorry, not sorry, hot stuff;" D.Va snarks back, "if you wanted to keep things on sweet terms, then you really should've given more consideration to exactly what you were signing up for with our whole little reunion!"
"Furthermore, Mercy," Mei chimes in as she crawls toward the couple, "you might've done well to be more careful in choosing your relations to begin with, because frankly, D.Va's always been the bitchiest babe of our bunch; one who ought to know that she'll have not one, but two of her so-called friends gunning for her as their first choice of inaugural suntan client tomorrow!"
"Meh;" D.Va shrugs, "I honestly wouldn't mind being rubbed out by you any more or less than by anyone else besides my own preferred partner… which I genuinely do mean as a compliment for you, Mercy! Nevertheless, the only distinction that'll really matter by the end of the day is who wins and who loses; who lives, and who lotions! A suntan is a suntan, after all; dead is dead…"
"Yeah; that, it most certainly is… Oooh, eeek!" Mercy bitterly concludes before realizing that she is now the only member of the group yet to redress herself and hastily seeking to rectify this.
The five femme fatales subsequently depart the site in swift succession, each heading home in hopes of the soundest night's sleep possible in the circumstances ahead of the big day and seeing especially fit to hurry in this regard upon checking their devices and seeing just how much later than planned their party's encore and aftermath went on for. Ultimately, all the girls manage to reach the comfort of their beds by the numbered hour whose next appearance on the clock marks the scheduled start of tryout judgment, yet none achieve the level of rest they'd like to as their dreams are predictably haunted by visions of a sunkissed fate, representing an imminent reality for all but one of them, and that's if they don't end up being outclassed by the rest of their competition. Upon arriving at the training site within minutes of each other in those leading up to commencement of the big event, the former friends exchange few-to-no words, supportive, taunting, sentimental or otherwise. Getting such formalities and closure out of the way, after all, was what yesterday's festivities were for; now is the time for putting on their game faces and maintaining optimally focused composure from here on out until the winner is decided and it's game over for the rest of them. The same goes with the other pending contestants, whom the ex-Overwatchers assume are all strangers to one another just as well as to them, and scarcely any time to chat is allowed for any exceptions as shortly and surely enough, the rather antiquated oversized clock on prominent display high-up within the gated area loudly tolls for the hour of reckoning, whereupon the evident presiding leaders among the program's staff take center-stage, their colleagues meanwhile standing guard at all exits.
"Alright, ladies, listen up:" Lifeguard Eighteen sternly announces, instantly grabbing the attention of all hopefuls as the brutal blonde's reputation precedes her, with several looking surprised or even dismayed to see her here, "I want everybody lined up, longways where we can see you all, and I don't wanna hear any stupid questions, much less complaints, for the duration of this examination! Trust me when I say that I know what I'm doing with every call I make here, and that it's in your best interest to follow the same; no ifs, ands or buts, any of which you can and will be docked for."
"All that said," co-hostess Shantae adds in her usual, contrastingly sweet manner of speaking, "the Rubout Brigade would like to unconditionally thank all of you, right off the bat, for your interest in helping its cause, which all of us involved here will be doing today, one way or another. We're very nice and efficient like that!"
"Yes… but of course," Eighteen resumes coldly, "some ways of helping are more desirable than others, particularly for those with long-term ambitions, and I should only hope that all of you girls are strongly committed in your preference to doing so in the most active and demanding, yet rewarding, of senses; that honor, however, will be reserved for only one among you: she who demonstrates herself as the finest specimen of fitness and discipline over the next few hours."
"Yep: we've got one lifeguard opening for the woman worthiest thereof," Shantae goes on, "and eleven full-body, full-bottle suntan lotion massages for the rest of you, to be lovingly and luxuriously applied to sexy completion by our forfeit-collection team, myself and my partner here included, along with our voluptuous victor; very nice and efficient, indeed!"
Eighteen and Shantae have been frequent collaborators in their duties for quite some time now, but their partnership remains something of a secret despite the very high general profile of both lifeguards, who've never dispensed justice in front of a large public audience and reports of whose team-ups by their few untanned witnesses have been widely dismissed based on the pair's reputedly polar-opposite personalities as among the cruelest and kindest masseuses on the force, respectively. There is a present sense of awkwardness, mostly for Eighteen, in the oddest of comeuppance-consummating couples being seen as they are now by all the other girls in attendance; an unprecedented number in that regard. Yet, they trust their fellow lifeguards not to go spreading gossip to the uninitiated populace, while knowing that the sampling of the latter here seeking admittance to the former won't be doing so for a hard fact; one that they themselves will partake in solidifying.
The competition proper then begins, kicking off to a deceptively slow and simple start as its participants are called upon, one-by-one in their lined-up order, to introduce and share some tidbits of interest about themselves for their first task. Shantae assures them that there's no rush nor need to feel pressure, but Eighteen's attentive clipboard note-jotting throughout the process as well as the general nature of the contest they all signed up for tells the girls otherwise as many are caught off-guard by the reminder that their evaluation will be based not just on their physical performance, but also on their verbal presentation; on their style. The Brigade's lifeguards, after all, are well-known for having a way with words when it comes to confronting guilty gals with their crimes and taunting them in mid-massage, and needless to say, its leadership is keen on upholding that standard of sharp-wittedness with its consideration of new talents for the Rubout roster. As a number of girls stammer and stumble in making their first impressions, their fates are effectively sealed right off the bat, which they seem to understand by the time they finish their speeches and hear those of their more competent peers. Once the roll-call reaches the lineup's rightmost five, which just so happens to consist entirely of the Overwatch's former headliners, and they get the chance to boast of their own feats, though, even the best-composed of the preceding speakers start getting the feeling that they might as well roll out and lay down on their towels right now for their inability to compare with the veteran heroines' staggering credentials, several growing disheartened to the point of their defeatism becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy in their overestimation of how much prior accomplishments are worth in the eyes of those passing judgment here. Said judges, meanwhile, silently take mental and written note of the quintet's qualifications while reserving any definitive opinions for once they can be seen in action, a distinguished past being of little value if one can't live up to it in the present.
The testing is taken up a notch, if only just a notch, in moving on into its second phase, which some might easily think of as the first "real" phase, and be sorely mistaken with their underestimation of preliminary self-presentation's importance in doing so. Directed to an array of wall-mounted computer terminals, heavily dated in their specifications but adequate for the singular purpose they've been installed to serve, the hopefuls are subjected to an academic exam on all manner of knowledge and sensibilities relevant to the job they covet; a written-answer exam: no multiple choices to be found, such conveniences being a luxury characteristic of tests designed to be passed by most takers, and this being no such test. Topics covered include fact-checks on the chemical properties of suntan lotion and how to safely apply it to another without incurring its effects on oneself, as well as on internal conduct policies with which supplementary punitive measures are permissible for which severities of offense, the Brigade being very particular about what treatments it considers humane and not; a nuance which is lost on many on account of all its prescribed sentences uniformly resulting in death. Most crucial in point value, however, are the questions regarding one's discretionary enforcement of the law in a number of hypothesized scenarios representing ethical dilemmas; ironically, these are likely also the easiest category of prompt, with the correct answer in almost every case being to lotion all described execution candidates. Responding honestly per their own moral sensibilities, most girls would be far more likely to lose points here for excessive mercy than for the converse of ruthlessness, and the former pitfall affects many of the currently competing batch, but tellingly none of its five frontrunners. In-between each computer setup are separating wall protrusions just large enough to prevent any accidental glimpses of answers being typed up on neighboring terminals and just small enough for deliberate such cheating to be temptingly feasible; a likewise very deliberate design choice serving as its own unspoken test of integrity as evaluated via hidden cameras installed within and above each setup, whose surveillance footage will be reviewed in concurrence with the tryout's later stages so as to identify any cheaters in time for them to be disqualified from final consideration.
The contestants are given precisely one hour to input their answers, after which all their forms therefore are locked and submitted immediately; during this time, they are all made to stand up at their unshaded stations while doing so, bare feet enduring the heat of the raw sand: another unspoken test, this one a stamina and resilience check ahead of the examination's primary physical component. Much shuffling of agonized lower extremities is quick to ensue and persists throughout the test-taking session, and while the most steadfast-footed are quietly awarded bonus points, the others' signs of weakness are tolerated… within reason, whose limits one girl learns the hard way.
"Uuugh… uh, lifeguards," the dainty young blonde in question turns away from her terminal to ask not even twenty minutes into the allotted hour, frantically stomping her feet all the while, "any chance you could spare a chair, or maybe a towel? This sand is scorching my soles!"
"A chair? Hah, nope," Shantae swiftly replies, "but as of now, a towel in your near future's looking all but certain; just not for your feet's sake!"
"Wait… what?" the naive nymph questions worriedly.
"With that whiny little outburst on top of a sorely lackluster first impression," Eighteen clarifies, "it's plain you aren't lifeguard material, so while we can't call this a disqualification, per se, you can consider your chances of winning nonexistent at this point… not that they were much better at any point prior, mind you, with your all-too-evidently weak constitution."
"What?! No…" the cutie yelps back, "I'm… I'm sorry; it won't happen again, lifeguards: I'll just get right back to this test, now…"
"Oh, there's no need to be sorry, babe;" Shantae speaks ostensible comfort, "just about every batch of hopefuls brings at least one no-hoper to the table, but she ultimately has nothing more to be ashamed of than the rest of her fellow rejects, and certainly nothing more to need worrying about come time to hand out the consolation prizes! Were I you, though, I'd probably be opting to bow out right about now and save myself any further embarrassment, not to mention futile exertion. We have a shaded area right over that way where you can relax in waiting for your rubdown; can even offer you some last refreshments, if you'd care for any!"
At this, the doomed girl squirms nervously in place for a few moments before grumbling as she steps forward, head hung low in resignation to her fate.
"Full disclosure, now:" Eighteen tells the blonde as she walks by, "my partner's assessment of your worry-worthy prospects as no worse than the other losers' might not be entirely accurate; not with this lifeguard on duty. For your information as well as everyone else's, I fully intend to personally perform the forfeit-collection of the applicant who places dead-last, taking my usual approach to the means of doing so, and barring any hard disqualifications, that would be you, should you quit now."
"Ah, quite true; my mistake, sorry!" Shantae acknowledges. "Stay in the running, though, and you might just edge out a rival or two to take dead-eleventh, or dead-tenth!"
"Yes," Eighteen affirms, "but you'll still most definitely be dead when all's said and done for whatever you choose to do now."
"Oooh, whatever;" the cutie begrudgingly mutters as she promptly turns right back around to resume her test, "let's be real here: all us normal girls here are dead meat anyway with those Overwatch bitches stacking the tryout! There ought to be a rule against that; so unfair, hmph!"
To this, neither Shantae nor Eighteen offers any comment, though the latter rolls her eyes in annoyance at the pouting pretty's decision to stay in the game just to avoid sunbathing by her hand as opposed to another's; with what exhausting hardship awaits, she probably would've been better off retiring to the shade, especially with the likelihood of at least one cheater being discovered and overriding her for the dishonorable distinction sooner than it comes time for the rejects to receive their Rubout rewards.
Once typing time is up and all the girls' submissions, ready or not, are processed, the program kicks things up several further notches with its progression into physical examination, firstly in the foremost-obvious field of agility and raw speed as gauged through a number of timed trials across turf, then across sand, then with hurdles, and so forth. The party is then lead to a dedicated obstacle course just outside the main training compound, where things get more complicated still. Activities testing the participants' general, brute strength, that of their assorted muscle groups, and their endurance thresholds for fatigue and even straight-up pain all follow in timely succession, with a variety of generic exercise drills serving as punctuation between each major challenge, taking the place of any would-be breaks in the action. No fewer than three girls drop out of the contest during this most demanding of its phases, the second actually passing out from sheer exhaustion and having to be carried off to the losers' lotion-lobby and the third being the same blonde nearly retired earlier on over her whining amid the intellectual evaluation, who is now content to bow out and accept the inevitable knowing that she isn't the first to be doing so and will be spared Eighteen's cruel caress in favor of a more loving one. The Overwatch's alumnae, meanwhile and on the other hand, largely dominate the fitness field, with all five earning marks drastically surpassing their peers' just about across the board, driving it further home to the rest of their competition that the latter really are no competition at all for them while finally starting to sell the judges on the same through their demonstrated ability to walk the walk… and run the run, jump the jump and all that other good stuff.
Rounding out the general physical assessment is its most crucial and particular component, to the point of perhaps warranting consideration as its own independent stage of testing altogether: stealth. Lining up in front of a short track, textured differently from the others around the facility with a high-tech appearance, with a featureless animatronic dummy standing with back turned at the far end, the nine remaining hopefuls - or five hopefuls and four dead girls walking, at any rate - are instructed to sneak up on the "naughty girl" in question and grab her by the chest. The installation's built-in motion sensors, it's explained, will accurately gauge their detectability in doing so, effective suppression of which, of course, being an essential skill for any decent lifeguard; the only kind of lifeguard intended to exist as certified by the Rubout Brigade's lofty standards. Approaching the approach one-by-one, each girl is given three attempts, to be judged based on the best thereof; each trial generally takes well-under a minute, yet in spite of both this and the stealth test's minimal exertion requirements in comparison to the preceding exercises, it is more difficult than any of them in terms of the delicacy it demands, for which raw strength is no substitute. The first two contestants in line, being visibly more muscled women than most, both learn this the hard way as every attempt between them triggers the dummy to turn around and light up red with an obnoxiously blaring sound to signify that the target has been prematurely alerted, earning either of them an immediate dismissal from the running as they're instructed to head back to the central structure and await lotioning with the other losers, and promised proper punishment should they try to go anywhere else in vain hopes of escaping their forfeits; the Brigade knows where they live, after all. The next pair of participants fares considerably better, with the first, a conspicuously multicolor-haired and mismatched-eyed (pink and brown in both respects) diva, triggering the alarm on her first go, much to the mounting dread of those still waiting for their turns as they begin wondering just how difficult it is not to do so, only to successfully reach the dummy on her either subsequent attempt, causing it to light up with a satisfyingly hot-pink glow when taken by the breasts. The following girl, a swarthy lady with strikingly red eyes and green hair, also manages to succeed in her task, all three times; as she starts looking rather smug in the wake of doing so, the presiding lifeguards take the chance to note that the evaluation mechanism in play here is no mere matter of a simple pass/fail, in fact providing a more complex score based on a variety of factors that would take too long to explain in full, and that while adequate, her performance still leaves a fair bit to be desired.
Said desire predictably proceeds to find fulfillment in the efforts of the Overwatch gang, much to the disheartened chagrin of their two remaining ostensible rivals as they're reminded yet again that they hardly stand a chance and will be no better off than those they've outlasted at the end of the day. Lending credence to her belief that traces of the time-bendingly high-velocity energies with which she once routinely imbued herself yet linger, Tracer boldly opts to sacrifice dedicated stealth for pure speed in dashing at the dummy as fast as humanly possible and then some, and actually manages to get away with it twice consecutively by virtue of her extraordinary sheer fleet-footedness, only to take a more conventionally sneaky approach for her third trial, with identical results; very impressive, indeed. Widowmaker, in sharp contrast, moves toward the target at the slowest general pace among all the contestants', and with a show-offishly sensual sway, at that; one that would look damningly haughty on her during an exercise calling for absolute focus upon the very serious task it presents, if not for her impeccable grace maintained all the while, and seemingly without any strenuous effort to speak of as she goes all but undetected by the sensors, to the judges' amazement. Such are the benefits of Widowmaker's mutations, undergone with predatory stealth very much in mind, which render her movement near-weightless and her breathing nigh-untraceable; the very beating of the purple pretty's coldest of hearts, virtually indistinguishable from a bronzed hottie's total lack thereof. With these perks, being among the Overwatch members' only special abilities not taken away with the seizure of their signature equipment, having been innately embedded into her physiology for years, Widowmaker admittedly suspects she might lose some points for relying on them in lieu of skill here; a thought that occurs to her right as she's grabbing the dummy for the third time, moments too late for her to prove her sneak-savviness the old-fashioned way. She doesn't sweat the missed opportunity too much, though, deeming it safe to assume, if nothing else, that she won't be labelled a cheater over this. Mei's display is less impressive as she makes the only red-lit fumble between any of her competing friends on her second attempt, which fittingly enough is also the middlemost for the collective of all five veteran heroines, before succeeding on her third, as with her first, and stepping aside with hopes initially kept high based on the assurance that only her best of three will be counted; it would honestly make more sense, she thinks, to score based on an average, but the judges spoke clearly, and they wouldn't lie about something like that… would they? As Mei nervously contemplates this question upon whose answer her life may now depend, D.Va and Mercy's trials meanwhile go off without a hitch via the conventional tactics intended to be used.
"Well, ladies," Eighteen announces as Mercy's hands take their final leave of the dummy's rubbery faux-flesh, "that concludes the physical fitness portion of your examination. I'm tempted right now to say that the hard part is over, and many another lifeguard might even go ahead and do so, but considering what you all so plainly want weighed against the reality of what you'll be getting instead, I've a good mind not to be congratulating anyone just yet."
"Yeah, and you'd probably have likewise not to go prematurely patting yourselves on the back, either," Shantae teasingly yet ominously adds, "seeing as you'll be enjoying plenty of that soon enough, along with equal measures of front-patting; from head to toe, if you catch my drift!"
"That is, of course, with one exception," Eighteen goes on, "determining which still requires one more test of your abilities to be conducted, so stay on your toes, unless you're keen on being suntan lotioned thereupon along with everywhere else short of your pretty little heads, as my partner so playfully puts it!"
"Besides, trust me:" Shantae continues, "you won't want to miss out on this anyway; as I'm sure you'll all find yourselves agreeing, we've saved the best for last as far as today's tryout program goes… barring the forfeit-collection… in which case the same still holds true! Regardless, come right this way, now; we've got quite the surprise waiting for you back at our main base…"
Upon returning to the site they first reported to, the contestants are, sure enough, quite surprised by what awaits them there, having been set up by the rest of the facility's staff in their absence in Brigade-typically efficient fashion. Lined up across the length of the gated field are a dozen towels on which sit identically-posed, bikini-clad figures that could easily be mistaken for living women, were their appearances not the splitting images of some of recent history's most recognizably infamous villainesses; girls long-since given their deadly dues in accordance with the merciless new law of the land. Beside each setup stands an unlabelled grey bottle, similar to but distinct from and plainer than many a lifeguard's weapon of choice, and lies a clipboarded stack of papers.
"Oh my;" Mercy gasps as she and the others approach the scene and she recognizes a number of the late lawbreakers depicted, "are those… the genuine articles?"
"Heh… they certainly look their parts well enough, don't they?" Shantae giggles back. "If you can tell who these are supposed to be, though, then you should also be able to recall just as well that their genuine articles are all lotioned to tanned perfection; do these bodies look lotioned, let alone tanned, to you?"
"Right; I mean, of course not… sorry." Mercy apologizes, now feeling dumb for asking.
"Admittedly," Eighteen notes, segueing into general explanation of the challenge now at hand, "that discrepancy between these most impeccably-crafted of dummies and their formerly more lively counterparts is about to be rectified; for seven of the twelve, anyway. For your final tryout task, you ladies are going to be seeing to that, as to which: take your picks and seat yourselves beside them; it's first-come, first-serve, now!"
"I call dibs on Tron Bonne;" the green-haired girl swiftly declares as she's the first to step forward per this instruction, "watch me do your proud, Lifeguard Eighteen!"
"Looking to impress me through homage paid my own handiwork, are we, now?" Eighteen observes. "In that case, I'd hope for your sake that you know what you're doing, because suffice to say, trying to pay tribute to a lifeguard of my caliber is likely to prove a double-capped bottle in any but the most astutely disciplined of hands!"
"Relatedly, and this goes for all of you:" Shantae advises as the others follow in more carefully browsing the selection of dummies available, "best not rush into the application sooner than you're well and truly prepared to provide precisely what we're looking for out of your performance here, as we'll be filling you in on shortly. I mean, you can if you really want to; just don't go complaining when yours ends up among the next batch of authentic bodies hitting the towels for it! This is the section of your evaluation worth the most points, after all."
Examining their prospective pseudo-prey up-close, the hopefuls are astounded by their uncanny lifelikeness, and in many regards oddly creeped out by the same despite being all too used to actual corpses on display as an everyday sight, and a generally very attractive one, at that. It is not the face-value qualities of the inanimate bodies themselves that creates this sense of unnerving so much as it is their sheer degree of resemblance to ones of actual flesh and blood coupled with the knowledge of their artificiality; a sort of surreal paradox, so it seems. Nevertheless, all the girls are quick to choose their practice "partners" without complaint and settle down next to them in preparation for the imminently intimate session set to decide who lives and who lotions, each determined to do anything and everything it takes to emerge with the former distinction along with that of the lifeguarding license she covets.
Demonstrating an apparent partiality to unusual complexions such as her own, or perhaps a desire to feel as though hers is less-so compared to that of her quarry, Widowmaker goes straight for the strikingly green-skinned facsimile of once-mighty alien tyranness Lord Dominator, not even bothering to peruse the rest of the rogues gallery. D.Va, likely inspired by the viral trending of the real deal's fully-filmed finale within the past few months, sets her sights and hands on the likeness of duly disgraced diabolical diva Junko Enoshima, the most recently-created of the bunch. Mei's chosen dummy is that modeled after zap-happy alpha-witch Larxene, who she imagines could've met an even more fittingly exquisite end than her actual comeuppance in the dreaded hot seat amid the covering of her coven last year had her own freeze gun anything to say about it back in the day, while Mercy, following the lengthiest consideration among the group, opts to simulate the sunbathing of younger enchantress and Larxene's fellow hot seat victim Gwen; a lesser specimen of wickedness among those represented here, to be sure, but one whose fate was no less absolutely warranted per the Rubout standard of justice. Tracer pairs herself with a replica of petulantly pampered princess turned punished pool-partygoer Peach, which she reasons is the least unsettling doll of its kind present, seeing as its subject never offered the realm much of substance beyond a pretty face and hot body, both of which are recreated all but perfectly here. The dusky, red-eyed gal meanwhile takes the Tron Bonne mannequin as promised with little mind paid to Eighteen's warning, and last and in all likelihood least, the pink/brown-haired/eyed babe goes with the neighboring dummy depicting clandestine crime-queenpin Sylvia, best-known as the woman whose elusiveness nearly stumped founding Rubout Team Alpha member Bayonetta, only for her to be done in by her own shortsighted self-surrender. It's rather curious that such an individual who's come to be routinely invoked within underground circles as supposed proof that the Brigade can be beaten would be used by the regime as a symbol of its conquests alongside the figures of other, more soundly-vanquished villainesses; quite possibly an effort to undermine her countercultural mythologization. As soon as all seven participants yet standing have found their seats, the five unused dolls and their adjacent accessories are picked up and carried back into storage by event staff, all members of whom reemerge in short order thereafter, each with a fresh towel slung over one shoulder and a familiar bronze bottle brandished in the opposite hand, rapidly coming to collectively encircle the contestants.
"Alright, hotshots:" Eighteen then addresses them, "your last test is to rub down these mockups… obviously. More specifically, though, it's to lotion them up as if they were the authentic articles of the bitches they represent, acting out the entirety of the beach justice experience from confrontation to consummation, to be judged based on a very high standard of professionalism, so don't go thinking you'll get the job just by haphazardly rubbing to your hearts' content here! Indeed, for as fun as it may look to the uninitiated, suntan lotion application is hard work, of which proper fulfillment demands a very particular touch… no pun intended."
"Note now, if you would, the tools we've so thoughtfully provided you:" Shantae proceeds to point out what most of the competitors have already begun inspecting for themselves, "first and foremost, you've got your blank oil, concocted to texturally feel and handle identically to true suntan lotion without the defining special effects thereof; very similar to the kind of prop lotion I'm sure you've all seen in use in many a major motion picture. For your clients here as we've so painstakingly built them with all the right chemically reactive materials, though, you'll find the stuff to work just like the real deal! Second, and just about as importantly, come to think of it, there's the dummies' dossiers, which should tell you everything you need to know about their fleshly counterparts: who they were, where they came from, what they did to deserve exactly what they got, and exactly how they got it in the play-by-play Rubout recap!"
"Our panel's grading of your performances here will be highly subjective, yet not to be questioned," Eighteen stresses, "and based on a variety of factors; as a general rule, faithfully and competently recreating the original executions as described will earn you a certain amount of points, but only so many, and likewise with improvising and putting your own personal spin on the scenario. As for finding the optimal balance to strike for ideal results… well, that's your problem."
"As to that," Shantae resumes in conclusion, "we strongly advise you to do your reading and think out your plan of attack before setting to work here. A good lifeguard, after all, doesn't keep her prey waiting on her to figure out her next move or snappy line once the lotioning's come underway; that's terribly rude! Just try not to spend too much time overanalyzing, because the clock's ticking: one hour until judgment is passed upon your handiwork, and thus on your persons, starting… now!"
With this, the mystical masseuse produces a stopwatch from sun-knows-where and activates it, initiating a rather loud ticking noise which persists throughout the next hour, no doubt intended as a constant reminder to the ladies in the running of their task's time-sensitivity in this, the climactic phase of their evaluation. Thankfully, it scarcely gets grating, being drowned out as the predominant sound of the venue soon enough as the fastest-acting of the girls get to work within minutes. Upon the "blank oil"'s first contact with their synthetic skin, the dolls emit gasping vocalizations as their faces shift accordingly from expressionless default positions, startling their lotionesses to the amusement of the surrounding professionals; the wonders of ever-evolving animatronic technology, so they explain, and so it evidently must be as the dummies continue producing further presumably pre-recorded moans, grunts and sighs throughout the session, all while making faces to match as well as vibrating, convulsing and eventually darkening to varying shades of golden brown in scarily accurate simulation of the quintessential sunbathing process. This interactivity, naturally, is intended to encourage immersion for trainees, and though this particular batch thereof are by and large more put off than turned on by the realism, immerse themselves in their assumed roles as the portrayed pretties' executionesses they do all the same, their very lives indeed depending on their commitment thereto.
Tracer lays out Peach's likeness for a classic backrub, deviating considerably from the seated positioning of the princess proper's penance, and applies pseudo-product starting at the feet before working her way upwards from there; a very rare approach, and all the bolder of one to go with here for it. All the while, she gleefully taunts the dummy over the mortal finality of what being suntan lotioned entails, unlike the numerous lesser perils in which the historical Peach so frivolously let herself be routinely entangled for the express purpose of letting others risk their lives to rescue her per her idea of a thrilling diversion. "No one's coming to save you this time, you smug little tart;" she proclaims among other similar statements, "this is it: the end of the line for you, and what a fittingly sexy end it'll be! Moreover and contrary to what my pedigree might lead you to expect, I've no intention of letting you off with a quickie finish!"
Mercy trusts that she won't be penalized for failing to replicate the exact format of the real Gwen's final ride in the hot seat given the lack of an available chair, lethally charmed or otherwise, as she readily settles on sitting the ersatz enchantress upright, legs widespread, as the next-best thing, it being her natural inclination to tend toward faithful recreation of the original rubout as described in the dossier, at least as far as the physical setup goes. "Make no mistake here, Gwen:" she speaks soothingly amid a great deal of chest-focused groping from behind in articulation of her more-or-less actual feelings on the suntan lotion death penalty as it applies to lower-end evildoers; kinds to whom she wouldn't have personally prescribed such a drastic sentence were she in charge, "you're a naughty girl, and naughty girls need to be punished… permanently, so says the Rubout code of justice! That being said, I take no pleasure in the prospect of ending a life such as yours, so young and full of positive potential; in another reality, perhaps you could've been redeemed yet… but alas, we're living in a time and place where second chances are a thing of the past, for better or worse! Plus, as much as I hate having to snuff you in principle, the means my employers have provided me for doing so are quite a different story, wouldn't you agree? I mean, if you have to go, it might as well be with a blissful bang; the only form of my namesake with any place in this day and age!"
As an out-and-outright monster by any sane standard for her serial torture-killings, Junko Enoshima is far and away the most evil woman depicted across the dummy lineup, a fact that D.Va takes ample advantage of as a sound excuse to go all-out with her facsimile's molestation as she subjects it to all the spanking, strangling and tickling endured by the villainess herself and then some. The sadistically spunky heroine has seen Junko's snuff film multiple times over and gotten quite a fair bit of enjoyment out of it, so to speak, so minimal preparatory reading is required for her to recall its play-by-play and reenact it fairly closely, with the major exception of keeping the fiendish fashionista's splitting image laid out face-up for most of the ordeal so she can revel in the progression of its facial contortions. "Yeah, you like that, don't ya', you crazy cunt?" D.Va mocks Junko's imagined pleas, demonstrating grandiose dramatic enthusiasm in stark contrast to the inanimacy of her "victim". "No? Well, too bad; this is what you get for being, pardon my French, pure fucking evil, and you're still getting off lightly compared to your victims, so quit whining and take it like a big girl!"
Speaking of French, Widowmaker plays up her linguistic quirk for all it's worth in having her way with the Dominator doll, and very much making it her own as she seems to pay the least mind to historical accuracy among all the contestants under the implicit impression that it's inherently more impressive, and thus imperative for her, to improvise. "C'est l'heure du bronzage, bombasse maléfique extraterrestre!" she opens with the first of many sensuously foreign phrases to be directed at the late "Lord". Starting with the areas of lesser sensitivity and caressing the vibrantly green faux-flesh slowly and gently at first, Widowmaker steadily escalates her efforts' intensity over the course of the "execution", which she manages to draw out for the near-entirety of the hour she's given, by the end of which she's violently groping away at the dummy's chest, alternating rapidly between breasts, with one hand while viciously fingering its tenderest of cavities with the other, triggering the fluid-discharging climax with less than five minutes left on the clock as the last of the group to complete her assignment. None of the usual punishment-accentuation measures see any concerted involvement, but few would question the exquisite effectiveness of such protracted polishing, were it put into practice upon proper prey.
Mei initially lays Larxene's likeness out face-down as she starts with the back and lower extremities, getting the tickling taken care of early on before sitting the mannequin of the magical mistress upright before too long and taking a similar approach to Mercy's from there on out. She neglects to remove the panty up front; a would-be rookie mistake, but very deliberate and acceptable in this specific case as an accurate homage to the real Larxene's infamously brutal lotioning as recounted in her dossier. "I bet your cherry's feeling ripely ready for perma-popping right about now," Mei leans heavily into this angle with her verbal teasing throughout the session as her oiled hands explore every facet of the doll but its yet-concealed naughtiest of bits, "but sorry, not sorry: I can't let a woman as wicked as you get off that easy; gotta make you earn that orgasm! Heh… who ever said suntan lotion had to be more humane than my freeze-happy old methods? It's certainly more attractive, though; can't argue with that, and your body will be much better-preserved this way, so it really is a win-win!"
Despite this, the process itself is ultimately not much more prolonged than the average, with the sunbathing-signifying squirt being triggered via manual genital stimulation as usual, several minutes ahead of Widowmaker's wrap-up. Mei reasons this is probably necessary, the dummies used here, for all their state-of-the-art bells and whistles, surely not being built to be finished off any other way, at least within the space of an hour… right?
As for the two spares still ostensibly in the competition, the skill gap between them and the five serious contenders from the Overwatch is every bit as apparent during the final exercise as throughout the rest of the tryout. Suffice to say, Lifeguard Eighteen is hardly done proud by the swarthy girl's haphazardly halfhearted attempt at paying tribute to one of her finest kills, and equally underwhelming is the job done on Sylvia's facsimile by the heterochromatic cutie; evidently a good friend of the green-haired one as indicated by the casual banter they exchange while working on their quarries side-by-side; most damningly unprofessional. By this stage in the game, both girls appear to understand that neither of them stand a chance and that they're going to get suntan lotioned for whatever they do now, and so see no sense in overexerting themselves for optimal performance's futile sake as opposed to having some fun with it and generally enjoying themselves while they still can. For the resultant lack of restraint, the primarily pink-topped pretty ends up prematurely popping her dummy just past the half-hour mark with large swathes of its surface remaining unaddressed, while her partner follows suit moments thereafter.
"…And that's a wrap on any chances you two might've had;" Eighteen remarks contemptuously at this development, "consider your fates as good as sealed, ladies."
To this confirmation of what they already know, the pair offer no response, instead simply turning to exchange bittersweet looks before entering a mutually passionate embrace which quickly escalates, with the couple shamelessly stripping well-in advance of their requirement to do so.
"Aaaw… getting in one last make-out sesh before tanning time, I see;" Shantae affectionately observes, "how sweet! Just try not to get too carried away there; you wouldn't want to spend all your sexual stamina ahead of your forfeit-collections, now, would you?"
At this reminder, the two display awkwardly cringing expressions as they reluctantly pull back from one another, and right as they were just about ready to fully lose themselves therein, too.
Come the end of the allotted hour as loudly signified by the ringing of Shantae's device, all seven training dummies lie limply sprawled in variously contorted poses across their towels, radiantly bronzed "skin" glistening, blushing faces staring somehow more blankly still than their default static expressions with mouths hanging wide-open and pussies similarly agape, most having reached this finalized state some time ago by now. The corresponding majority of the contestants have likewise been sitting around after finishing the assigned task with time to spare, twiddling their thumbs in anxious waiting for ultimate judgment.
"Time;" Eighteen rather redundantly declares on cue, "everybody, hands off the merchandise and all eyes up on us!"
"It bears repeating, now," Shantae echoes her earlier courtesy, "that all of you have the Rubout Brigade's thanks for your contribution here today; for your sacrifice, generally speaking… with one exception, which it's now time to decide on!"
"I can now safely say that the hard part of this event as we've planned it is over," Eighteen gives the dubious assurance, "and so strongly urge that none of you create any needless additional difficulty for yourselves, your overladies and your fellow sunbathers-to-be amid what's to come next."
"Yep;" Shantae affirms the point, "there's really no good reason why the consolation prize-application shouldn't be a nice and enjoyable experience for everyone here; well, almost everyone, anyways…"
"As to that," Eighteen continues, "line back on up now; all twelve of you! It's time to face the music, and I've no more interest than you in drawing out the suspense here for any longer than necessary!"
Subsequently, the whole of the candidate roster, those eliminated earlier on included, does as told in much the same fashion as for the initial roll-call several hours ago, those facing an obvious verdict being effectively deterred from trying anything by the presiding pair's thinly-veiled threat along with the staggering concentration of lifeguards present. Once the lineup is fully reassembled, Eighteen silently signals said staff to dispose of the exhausted dummies and set the stage for what real-deal rubdowns are imminent, which they proceed to do while their superiors waste no further time in announcing the tryout's results.
"Now, we're gonna count you all down by ranking, and up by score," Shantae prefaces, "starting with the cheating bitch in dead-last! As for the rest of you between there and dead-second, feel free to share any last words when you're called, but otherwise, stay put until our winner is revealed, and be sure to give her a nice, big round of applause like good sports before we set about collecting your forfeits!"
"Yes," Eighteen goes on, "and with a final score of zero points for our system's inability to record a negative with the deduction of infinity for her prying eyes and plagiarizing fingertips factored in, our biggest loser is Miss Emerald! What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?"
"W-what?!" the thusly identified green-haired girl shrieks. "But… that's impossible; I stayed in for the whole time, unlike some girls here! How could I come in dead-last… let alone with zero points?"
"Did I not speak clearly enough;" Eighteen sternly retorts, "need I repeat myself? I really, really don't like having to repeat myself, you know."
"I can do that for you, babe," Shantae chimes in, "and keep it down to just the key words, too: cheating bitch, prying eyes, plagiarizing fingertips! Don't play dumb, now, Emerald; we've got it all on camera, and did you really think we wouldn't notice you copying a peer's exam answers word-for-word? The least you could've done was put your own spin on the same substance… not that it would've saved you from suntanning at the end of the day, mind you."
"Grrr… fine, you got me!" Emerald bitterly confesses. "Whatever; like you say, it doesn't make any difference in the grand scheme of things when I was never gonna leave here untanned, let alone with a lifeguarding license, anyway, now, does it?"
"Not in the grand scheme of things, no," Eighteen tells the condemned, "but for your outgoing experience? Plenty: the difference between the honorable sunbathing the other losers are looking at here and a properly no-holds-barred execution befitting of a certifiable criminal, which is what you are, as applied by yours truly!"
"Applied by… you?! Eeek!" Emerald yelps despairingly, wincing at the thought of what she's now in for.
"Heh… maybe you'll end up doing Eighteen proud today after all;" Shantae mocks, "as a worthy addition to her trophy case of wasted wenches, that is! I could see you looking quite cute on display alongside Tron Bonne herself, actually…"
The next several placements come as little surprise as they're called out in predictable order based on the dropout sequence, with Emerald remaining alone in her dishonorable distinction and the mediocre applicants edging her out by default having no more or less to fear than each other for all they'll ever know.
"…And coming in at a distant sixth," Shantae proclaims with all her usual giddiness as the process of elimination passes its halfway point, "we have Miss Politan… or do you prefer 'Neo' for formal purposes?"
"'Neo' will do just fine for any occasion, ma'am," Emerald's partner meekly answers, "not that I suppose it much matters now…"
"Ha-ha, nope;" Shantae gigglingly agrees, "a sunbather by any name is just as sexy! Well, almost any name, at least… but I digress, and the point will be holding especially true for you, as it does for all my own clients!"
"Wait, you mean… you're gonna do me yourself, Lifeguard Shantae?" Neo asks, her excitement plainly piqued by the prospect, Shantae being known as a highly loving lotioness who tends to treat her victims exceptionally well and a go-to lifeguard for girls seeking assistance with voluntary sunbathing wherever she's on patrol.
"Yes, Neo:" Shantae confirms with exaggerated nodding, "I'm gonna suntan lotion you; I'm gonna suntan lotion you up real good, from head to toe!"
"Oooh…" Neo squirms, "well, I guess if I have to go, which I so clearly do, you're my first choice of executioness among those in attendance here… but, might I ask why I'm your first choice of client, out of all the girls in need of tans here? I mean, getting rubbed out by you is such a luxury; an honor I'd think you'd reserve for the highest-scoring loser available, in no lower than third… and I'm sixth, right?"
"Awww… how adorable;" Shantae smirks back, assuming a subtly more sinister demeanor, "you think it an honor that I'm lotioning you… but far from it, Miss Politan, you, I, my partner and yours are all going to have a very hard talk, indeed, over your tanning towels, and don't expect either of us to let your enjoyment of the session come to outweigh its indignity any sooner than you tell us exactly what we need to hear, like good girls for once in your wretched lives!"
"What… what are you talking about, lifeguard?" Neo nervously questions, her fretfulness betraying that she, in fact, knows precisely what her imminent masseuse is talking about.
"It's like I already told your girlfriend, babe:" Shantae replies, "don't play dumb; you'll only succeed in embarrassing yourself even more and spoiling what can still be your last good time if you'd just cut the crap and come clean!"
"But… I haven't done anything wrong!" Neo insists. "I'm not a cheater like Emerald; you said it yourself: I ranked sixth fair and square, didn't I?"
"Neo, please…" Emerald interjects to implore, "just stop. They're obviously on to us, and you're not gonna convince them otherwise; nothing we can do now except fess up and hope the fickle sexiness of suntan lotion sees us off to oblivion on a high note."
"Silence, sun-sluts;" Eighteen then snaps, "that's enough from both of you, between whom the cheater has the right idea… but yours is a matter to be sorted out come forfeit time, preceding which we still have five more contestants, all of them superior to you in skills, looks and morals alike, waiting to learn their fate!"
In this moment, tension rises to an exquisite head for the ex-Overwatchers as the narrowing of possible victors down to their party elicits mixed feelings; on one hand, this is exactly what they all wanted going into this: the means to their heroic legacy's desired continuation is secured, and those about to be lotioned can relax and rest easy in that regard. On the other hand, the fact that all five of them beat out all other candidates here suggests that they may very well have been better off signing up for separate tryout events, such that more than one of the quintet could have survived that way, and the thought that signing up for the rest to be consigned to sunbathing might have been unnecessary is truly disheartening.
"Yes, we're all dying to know who's… well, dying," D.Va comments out of turn, severely doubting the judges' earlier-stated lack of interest in letting suspense build and finding it distasteful of them not to just reveal the winner immediately when everyone else will be getting the same consolation prize, "so please, lifeguards: do get on with it now, if you wouldn't mind!"
"Very well, then;" Shantae happily obliges without further ado, "in fifth place, we have none other than you, Miss Va!"
"Huuuaaah… oooh!" D.Va gasps in horror, than with arousal as just like that, all her hopes and worries are rendered permanently moot; her fate is sealed, knowing which she readily accepts it, eager to make the best of it. "I, uh… don't suppose that placement would have anything to do with my neglect to keep my mouth shut just now, would it?" she then asks.
"Hah; that would be awfully karmic if it ended up making the difference that did you in," Shantae scoffs at the idea, "but no: you can actually thank your smug, reckless personality for that… which is pretty damn karmic in its own right, and all the more reason to be glad we're ridding the realm of said bitchiness!"
"Hmph; whatever!" D.Va pouts back. "To be perfectly honest, I'd rather take fifth than, say, second, anyway; better that I not be teased with coming so close, and yet so far…"
"You do have to admit," Mercy remarks, amused by her hotshot girlfriend's demeanor in the face of defeat which is about as well as she could've reasonably asked her to take it, "it is a fair criticism; that, I should know better than just about anyone… no offense, babe!"
"Likewise, Miss Mercy," Eighteen resumes, "we trust that you'll find fourth a fair ranking for yourself, just as well, and if not… well, then, too bad, because that's your final score; emphasis on 'final'!"
"Oh dear…" Mercy sighs and grimaces, "mind if I ask for my parting peace of mind's sake where I came up short?"
"By any general standard," Eighteen explains, "you did just fine in all areas of assessment and seem an upstanding woman overall; it's just that most of your friends did better still: enough-so for their superior fitness and aptitude to outweigh any more pronounced character flaws… save for those of your main squeeze there, of course."
"So I see…" Mercy concludes, eyes fluttering shut as she blushes with resignation before springing back open in annoyance as she hears D.Va snickering at her. The two strained lovers then exchange glares before suddenly pulling up against one another for one last quickie make-out session before that of their shared sunbathing.
"Third place goes to you, Mei!" Shantae bluntly announces the next, penultimate casualty shortly thereafter.
"Heh… third, you say? Nice;" Mei sportingly acknowledges, "I was really worried I might end up seriously embarrassing myself out here: making a mockery of the badass heroine I once was, disgracing the Overwatch's proud name and all. Good to know I managed to give a solid performance after all… but alas, not solid enough to save my skin from a suntan! Ah, well…"
"Yours was a very solid performance, indeed;" Eighteen affirms, "by all means, you should feel proud of an effort well-made, and enjoy your tanning all the more for it: you've earned the luxurious privilege of doing so without shame!"
This, naturally, leaves as the finalists just Tracer and Widowmaker; the Overwatch's most steady-going couple, who'll now be consummating their relationship once and for all with a sexy suntan lotion application session for whoever the verdict favors between them. In the moments leading up to that of ultimate truth, the two give each other deviously loving looks and reach out to hold hands, both feeling as contentedly ready as they'll ever be to face the music either way.
"Our runner-up is Widowmaker." Eighteen succinctly states.
"Aaah… c'est la vie!" Widowmaker then promptly exclaims, gesturing in exaggeratedly dramatic fashion with forearm over forehead; an immodest signification of surrender to that whose finalization will soon see her expressing more immodestly still. "Seems I've made my last widow, then… pourtant, mon amour, you'll now be making one of yourself in collecting my forfeit, and hopefully of many more beautiful women to come in making sexy sunbathers out of their naughty partners as a lotion-licensed lifeguard!"
"I… I won?!" Tracer questions, heartbeats skipping in tentative elation as she awaits confirmation of her cause therefore.
"Correct:" Eighteen matter-of-factly answers, "you're our winner, Miss Tracer."
"Yep," Shantae more enthusiastically proclaims, "and so let's all give the Rubout Brigade's newest lifeguard a great big round of applause, and wish her luck in her new duties and other endeavors to come!"
At this, all lifeguards in attendance readily begin clapping for their new colleague, along with Widowmaker doing so as energetically than any of them and Mei and Mercy following suit as well, being the good sports they are.
"I repeat:" Eighteen speaks up to stress the point upon seeing that far from all of the other former hopefuls in the contestant lineup are doing the same, "let's all give it up for Tracer; all of us. That's an order, now!"
D.Va, Emerald, Neo and the rest of the losers thus begrudgingly join in on applauding their superior.
"Aaaw… thanks, everybody;" Tracer revels in her victory with ostensible modesty underlined by what she reckons is a well-earned bit of smugness, "that was a good game, alright, and you girls sure gave me a worthy run for my money! Shame we can't play again…"
"So, Lifeguard Tracer," Shantae asks as the clapping dies down, "which of these bested beauties would you like to take as your first official suntan client? Eighteen and I have already called dibs on Emerald and Neo for professional purposes that you'll come to understand soon enough; otherwise, you're free to choose!"
"Why, I choose Widowmaker here, of course!" Tracer swiftly asserts her preference, reaching aside to pull in her paramour-turned-prey by the far shoulder.
"Yes… of course, indeed!" Shantae nods back. "Apologies for even asking; one of the sillier requirements of tryout protocol, that."
"As for the remainder of you rejects," Eighteen goes on instructing, "off to your tanning towels you go, and no pouting, now, lest the lovely ladies comprising our forfeit-collection team be given cause to start laying on the rough treatment as they'll be tending to you shortly! These are all loving, compassionate lifeguards, willing to reward cooperation, who'll be servicing you, so this can very much be a good, fun time if you'll let it, as is now the only best interest you have left to concern yourselves with!"
"You heard the woman, Widowmaker, dearie;" Tracer tells her soon-to-be-sunkissed sweetheart as she takes her by the hand toward her final destination, "time for failed fatales to get all nice and comfy on their beach blankets, permanently, and as for a good time, you have my word that giving you one and then some for your suntan sendoff is my top priority here… provided you're prepared to take your tanning like a good girl, that is: like a big girl!"
"Mais bien sûr, maîtresse;" Widowmaker calmly complies as she lets herself be lead along gracefully, "let it never be said that I faced my fate in anything but the stride of the proper championne I came up so marginally-yet-mortally short of being!"
By the time all eleven forfeits demanded by the terms of the competition are collected to climactic completion, the namesake of their consummation's mechanism is well-underway with its daily descent unto the western horizon, its light beginning to wane. The bronzed bodies on freshly glistening display as they lie strewn about the area, though, are left looking no less radiantly ravished for the late hour of their sunbathing. After completing her initiation in finishing with Widowmaker following a lengthily exquisite session, Tracer takes it upon herself to lay all four of her fallen friends out side-by-side and away from the rest of the rubbed-out rabble in the most dignified way she can think to do so, the other lifeguards staffing the event - including Mei, Mercy and D.Va's executionesses and save for its two leading ladies - meanwhile getting ready to head home. This was just another day on the job for them, after all, and likely a less eventful one than most, at that, when each had to wait around for most of its duration with but a single, simple kill as her payoff. Tracer, however, can't recall a prior day of her life that's felt as meaningfully monumental as this, that of her debut on the old-fashioned superheroine scene included.
"Goodbye, girls;" she whispers, tears welling up behind her tinted visor as she stands there looking down bittersweetly at the gorgeously lotion-glazed corpses of her former comrades, "so sorry it had to be this way for any of us to have the chance to recapture greatness: a chance I'll not be wasting, now that I've seized it! Yes… I promise to be the best damn lifeguard I can be, for all of us; for the Overwatch: of that, you have my solemn word, and so please… rest easy, now… Eeek!"
"Oh, don't worry:" Shantae gives her assurance, unfazed by Tracer's startled reaction as she lays a hand upon the recruit's bare shoulder, "they'll rest easy, alright, for whatever happens going forward, their worldly struggles being a thing of the past now; the sexiness of suntan lotion has seen to that, and just as well, the Rubout Brigade will be making sure their bodies are taken real good care of, and put to equally good use!"
"Errr… about that:" Tracer nervously raises issue, "I'd rather they not be put to such, um… use, as far as hands-on public access goes, and they felt much the same way; to that, you'll find our written wills can attest! Maybe just show them off at exhibition once, and then let me keep them… please? …Aaah!"
"Your concern is noted, and understandable in theory," Eighteen coldly informs her, placing a hand directly opposite her partner's, "but you'd be wise not to dwell on such trivial matters as the dignity of dead women when their worries and responsibilities are all behind them… in sharp contrast to yours."
"Yeah:" Shantae seconds, "you've still got a lot to prove before you get to enjoy such job security as, say, ours, so best not let yourself be distracted over the little things when your own life is still very much riding on your ability to do as we instruct you, starting tomorrow! In other words: welcome to the bottom of the Rubout totem pole, babe; from here, you can only go up… or out."
"Hrmmm… right;" Tracer sighs at this sobering reminder that the time for indulgently celebrating her victory is over, "let's say I do prove myself a keeper, though: can I have my friends' bodies for keeps then?"
"Perhaps something of that nature could be arranged, depending on how well you do in your initial assignments;" Eighteen vaguely proposes, "no promises that others' hands will be kept off these goods in the meantime, though!"
"Very well, then;" Tracer acknowledges, none too happy with these terms but knowing that they could easily be worse, and better than to push her luck through talking back to a superior, let alone Eighteen, at this time, "as for working toward such an arrangement… I suppose I should report back in for my hit-list tomorrow: same time, same place, right?"
"Actually," Shantae replies, "we might be able to save you a bit of trouble in that regard; just a little bit, though."
"Yes," Eighteen elaborates, "we have a rather particularly naughty hottie - emphasis on 'hot' - in mind for your first proper target, and can give you all the information you'll need to track her down and rub her out right here and now; for that convenience, you can thank her accomplices over there for squealing sooner than they squirted, and more importantly, the two of us for making them do so!"
As her partner speaks, Shantae silently points back at the bodies of Emerald and Neo laying in the distance.
"Really, now?" Tracer questions with intrigue. "Well, I guess that explains your reasons for reserving that pair for yourselves earlier. Alright, then: who is this girl whose so-called hotness demands such emphasis, and where should I go looking to give her a taste of that which no mere words can do justice; of the sexiness that is suntan lotion?"
