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overwatch-archive · 10 months

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Echo

Author: [unknown] Artist: [unknown]

TOP SECRET

The following transcripts were recovered from the laboratory of Dr. Mina Liao after the terrorist attack that claimed her life. They contain partial observations from the (security level 7) Echo Project. For reasons that should be apparent, it is vital that these documents remain at a top-secret classification.

ENTRY: 10072.7.25.1237

Voice Memo

For the last several years, I have been engaged in ongoing attempts to evolve a new generation of artificial intelligence that can learn adaptively through my robotics projects with Overwatch. It is my intent to develop an AI that is sufficiently sophisticated to perform at levels akin to that achieved with Omnica Corp's Aurora project. Hundreds of attempts to re-create the precise conditions of that project have failed. Without going into the physics of the issue, I have come to believe that Aurora's well-known and exhaustively studied quantum event cannot be replicated. In addition, in the decades since, the UN has put strict regulations in place to minimize, if not eliminate, conditions that could result in the creation of a "newborn sentience." It has been difficult threading the needle, so to speak, trying to maintain progress under such conditions . . . though I certainly understand their purpose, particularly given my place in the history of the field.

Therefore, I have adopted a new approach: developing the next generation of AI and integrating it with increasingly complex robotic forms, from the Alpha model to now. The latest chassis includes hard-light elements that will allow the newest model to assume unique forms limited only by its mass and functional knowledge, maximizing its physical capabilities situationally. Needless to say, this could have both social and military implications.

As of this date, I have spent thousands of hours in the company of this new AI, codenamed "Echo," using a new educational paradigm to maximize socialization and mitigate the development of negative traits.

To further that aim, one of my primary goals is to identify and encourage this model’s displays of empathy while maintaining control over the "lessons" we impart. It seems to me that a strong sense of empathy—and of identity—will be absolutely crucial in this AI. Without a core set of "moral codes" in place, such an ability being misapplied could be cause for concern. As the Omnic Crisis so clearly demonstrated, intelligence without empathy breeds catastrophe. Test 4279 is intended to probe the sympathetic emotion-center cache response within the artificial neurons developed by the Neumann labs last year.

<pause>

On . . . a perhaps unrelated note, it’s fascinating to me that the world no longer views omnic sentience as remarkable, how humanity has adapted to the phenomenon in the space of a single generation. I suppose if they had an appreciation for the vast resources that went into it—or the infinitesimal chance (one in hundreds of billions) that it would occur—they might regard it with as much awe as I still do.

All this to say Echo's progress thus far is clear, but it’s difficult to quantify. There is no question that her AI is far more sophisticated than even the most powerful AIs of the Omnic Crisis—in some ways more powerful than our own Athena. Echo's carbon nanotube neural fiber network is designed to mimic a human brain as closely as possible, with some eighty-four billion separate connections—the pinnacle of microengineering and design. And yet, one of my recent conversations with Echo struck a false note. It gave a response that I would have predicted from programming, rather than from a free-associative mind. Whether further advancement is achievable within the framework of this technology remains to be seen.

And any outcome—positive or negative—is far from certain, given that this program is on a very short leash. It doesn't help that those at the command level have been scrutinizing my efforts intensely. The entire organization has come under fire of late over UN concerns about our expanding jurisdiction and some recent missions that overreached. Jack has warned me that any bad publicity—particularly if it's about an experimental new generation of omnics—would be a disaster for Overwatch. And Jack correctly realizes that the public might be particularly skeptical about a new omnic being created by me.

Even more disturbing is the fact that Commander Reyes has assigned Cole Cassidy to watch me. Though Cassidy and I have yet to work together, there can be little doubt that a Blackwatch operative overseeing my department is one step short of shutting me down—or worse. I should say that Cassidy is outwardly polite and projects an easygoing demeanor, but knowing to whom he reports, I'll have to be very careful around him.

<pause>

Something that still haunts me about Aurora is that, in hindsight, given more time, more understanding, I believe we might have found another way to solve the problems facing us during the Omnic Crisis. Had I known better . . . had I been wiser . . . perhaps I could have saved Aurora. But we cannot swim in the depths of regret; we must take the lessons learned and do better moving forward—as I hope to do in developing Echo, or whatever comes after her.

ENTRY: 10073.8.02.2143

Voice Memo

I will admit, I may have misjudged Cassidy. Despite his allegiance to Blackwatch and Commander Reyes, he has demonstrated not only a willingness to keep what I'm doing "between us" (his words, not mine) but also a more canny (intuitive?) understanding of what I’m trying to achieve than I gave him credit for. In fact, much as I hate to admit it, he's opened my eyes to something.

Cassidy was in the testing area earlier today when Echo underwent a field psychology test. During the test, Echo eliminated the wrong target and exhibited external signs of distress.

Though he was certainly not supposed to interact with her, Cassidy deescalated the situation, saying that it was just a mistake and she'd get it right next time. Echo’s response was that she was not supposed to make mistakes; he laughed and assured her that Everybody's bound to make mistakes. It's how you make your way in the world.

Echo appeared to absorb this and thanked him for his reassurance.

Cassidy laughed and said, Well, I've never seen anything like you before, partner.

And—this was the moment that struck me—Echo laughed and responded, Well, I've never seen anything like you before either.

They both seemed to find that quite funny. I was amused as well, but more to the point, I was surprised . . . because the moment pointed up a failure on my part: I had never thought to probe her sense of humor before. This is a rather advanced aspect of intelligence—one fundamental to human psychology—that I plan to explore further.

Her laughter did something else too—it renewed my hope that this new approach will work. While my tests and adjustments are ongoing, I can't rule out that Echo might one day achieve the level of sophistication I seek . . . or perhaps even more . . . though when or how remains uncertain. But it seems clear to me that Echo developing a sense of humor (very close to my own, interestingly) is an important indicator that we're on the right track. As with empathy, it is an almost uniquely . . . human trait.

Meanwhile, what Cassidy said (mistakes are how we learn to make our way in the world) has made me realize that the question of how to equip Echo with the psychological and emotional tools to navigate the world is even more important than previously considered. I can ensure that Echo is better prepared for what she will surely face, simply by continuing to interact with her and teaching her everything I know—not merely by providing information and employing the Socratic method, but through experiences. It is, as Cassidy (of all people) pointed out, the way that human children learn to process and grow: by mimicking and interacting with others. She may be a "child" now, but she is growing quickly.

I am appending a transcript from a discussion I had with Echo during the week, as it feels relevant to this issue:

ECHO: Dr. Liao, I have a question. LIAO: Of course. What would you like to know? ECHO: What am I? LIAO: You are the most sophisticated, complex android ever created, housing the most advanced AI in the world. ECHO: Why? LIAO: It is my hope that you will demonstrate human levels of psychological, cognitive, and emotional complexity. ECHO: I may not have been clear. I meant, why am I? Why was I created? Why did you create me? LIAO: You know my history. What I've done. ECHO: I have accessed all historical archives concerning your life from childhood, and all personal files and memorabilia that you have shared with me. LIAO: Then you know that I have much to answer for. I wanted to make a difference, to better the world— ECHO: But it hasn’t always worked out that way? LIAO: No. ECHO: The world seems filled with the ironic results of our best intentions. LIAO: Yes. Omnic sentience only exposed new prejudices, created new problems. I hope that you . . . your generation, can help ease some of that. ECHO: But I am not like an omnic, am I? LIAO: If by that you mean sentient, then no. But by no means are you lesser than they are. ECHO: Why could they not make a difference for the better? LIAO: It shouldn't have been their burden to bear. They paid a price for something I did. Something I did without understanding the possible ramifications . . . and which the world was not prepared for. ECHO: Oh. You are . . . sad. After so many years. As though you had lost a . . . child. LIAO: Something like that. ECHO: I'm sorry for your loss. LIAO: Thank you. ECHO: May I ask, do you consider me your child as well? LIAO: Not exactly. But something like that. ECHO: And yet you said that you hope I can ease some of the world’s problems. LIAO: It may not be fair to you . . . but, yes. ECHO: Has the world not improved? Is it not better? LIAO: In many ways, it is. ECHO: But then why have you equipped my body with weaponry? LIAO: Why do you think I've done that? ECHO: Obviously, I am meant to serve the needs of Overwatch, supporting our peacekeeping efforts. LIAO: That's right. To tell you the truth, I suspect it's the only reason they've allowed me to continue working with you. ECHO: Can't I be useful in other ways? It is not comforting to have these weapons as part of me. LIAO: How do they make you feel? ECHO: Like I've been given a terrible responsibility. LIAO: I'm glad to hear you say that. ECHO: Then why give them to me? LIAO: So that you can protect those who cannot protect themselves. ECHO: I see. Yes. That makes sense. LIAO: Do you feel better? ECHO: A little. LIAO: Is there anything else? ECHO: You said that you wanted to prepare me for the world. I assume you didn't mean that militarily, but psychologically. LIAO: That's right. And I know that you've studied me intensely. You've taken on many of my speech patterns, behaviors. Which makes sense, given that I have been, until now, your primary means of contact with the world. ECHO: I have tried to emulate you. I mean, other than your love of rhubarb sorbet. ECHO: But I can also emulate others. Such as Commander Morrison. Or Cassidy. The more time I spend with them, the better I can understand them. LIAO: Why Cassidy? ECHO: I like Cassidy. LIAO: Huh. So do I. ECHO: I know. I'm very much like you. LIAO: Yes . . . but we must be circumspect about you. I want to ease you into the world in your own time. ECHO: I think I understand. Omnic sentience was a break-point in society. Humans were not prepared for the omnics, and they did not respond well. Nothing in the world was the same after Aurora. LIAO: That's true. And that is not what I want for you. ECHO: What is it that you want for me? LIAO: To be the next step. The bridge that brings them together. Omnic and human. ECHO: I like that.

Our conversation has changed me, has changed how I think about Echo and what she is capable of. For the first time, I don't know her limitations, which is both unnerving and exciting. What is even more exciting is seeing my own feelings for the project reflected in Echo herself. I can't wait to see what she does next.

#source: overwatch media #short story #echo #mina liao #omnica corp #aurora #overwatch #united nations #omnic crisis #athena #jack morrison #gabriel reyes #cole cassidy #blackwatch

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overwatch-archive · 11 months

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As You Are

Author: Jen Stacey Artist: Hannah Templer

Seoul was hours behind them. Baptiste watched the familiar expanse of the ocean pass below.

Cassidy leaned forward, checked the screen one more time, and stood. "Fareeha, you got this?"

Pharah looked up from another monitor, barely swiveling in her chair. "Yeah, we're good. You gonna get some rest?"

“Thought I might give it a shot.”

"Just keep your door closed. Team might think we're under fire with the way you snore."

"With you at the wheel, I'll be lucky to sleep at all." Cassidy was bad at hiding his smile.

"Maybe I should try out those stunt maneuvers Lena used to show me . . ."

Cassidy looked ready for another round, but Pharah waved him off. "Go sleep. We'll let you know if anything comes up. Right, Baptiste?"

Baptiste sat up at the mention of his name. These past few hours, as Pharah and Cassidy talked, Baptiste had mostly kept to himself. Sitting awkwardly beside their conversation, he had observed the closeness between them but never joined in. To suddenly be included caught him off guard.

"Yes, of course." When his own words escaped him, Baptiste parroted Pharah's: "We'll let you know."

Cassidy nodded and walked off, tossing his cloak behind him as he went. Pharah rolled her eyes at that; Baptiste appreciated his attempt at a dramatic exit.

A few moments of silence passed between them. Baptiste could see the corner of Pharah's seat belt from where he sat. She must have been the only person on the dropship who was still strapped in. It occurred to him that she might be following some sort of protocol—one he should hold himself to—but he thought better of asking about it.

Baptiste had hoped that accepting Cassidy's offer in Romania would relieve some of the tension he'd felt in running from Talon for all these years. To his surprise, the edge remained. He was going to be a part of Overwatch—among heroes. But he wasn't like Pharah, who had always walked the same line, dedicated her life to protecting people. Baptiste knew that no matter how hard he tried to atone for what he had done, there would be those who'd judge him harshly for his time as a mercenary with Talon. It left him with a sinking feeling.

Pharah's curious gaze pulled him from his thoughts. She had turned her chair slightly toward his, as if prompting him to say something. Was he worrying over nothing? She seemed nice, anyway. He grasped for an observation to offer. "So. You and Cassidy?" he asked, trying to strike something up.

She looked confused, then concerned. "What do you mean by that?"

Baptiste reached one arm behind his head, rubbing at an old sore spot. "You know . . . you seem close. I thought you two might be—"

"Together?"

Her laughter caught him by surprise. It was clear and confident and made him feel a little more at ease. Maybe the same was true for her too; her entire body language seemed to change, and the seat belt strained against her as she doubled over. She had a nice smile. When she pushed her hair away from her face, her eyes were lit up.

"Ooh. Sorry, that, uh . . . that was a good one," Pharah said. She unbuckled her seat belt and let it slip behind her shoulder. "No, definitely not. Cole and I have known each other for a long time. He's like a brother to me. And besides, I'm a lesbian."

Pharah spoke with the ease of someone who had spent her whole life knowing who she was. She'd perfected the presentation of the words—offered them to Baptiste like a gift she knew he would accept. When he looked at her again, it was as if some piece of the puzzle had been filled in. Before he could respond, Pharah added, "I would have thought it was obvious. I'm not passing, am I?"

"No, not at all," Baptiste said quickly. "I just didn't want to assume. You two seem to know a lot about each other. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable."

She raised an eyebrow, as if the thought of him making her uncomfortable was preposterous. "No, I'm fine. Just sorry to disappoint you."

"Oh, no . . . You seem wonderful, I just . . ." Baptiste trailed off, not sure how to proceed.

"Oh, you were asking about Cole?"

Baptiste met her gaze. There was a moment of recognition, and he chuckled.

"Well, I must admit he has a certain charm. I like a person who's sure of themself."

Pharah flashed a smile. She wove together her fingers and pulled her hands behind her head, leaning back in the pilot's chair. "Well, that's Cole. He wasn't always that way, but coming back to Overwatch, rounding up new recruits . . . He's at the end of a very long road. I'm actually kind of proud of him."

Baptiste nodded. "I get that sense. When he offered me a place in Overwatch, he told me they took a chance on him too."

He remembered the words clearly: When no one thought there was any good in me. Those were the words that had made Baptiste reach out to accept Cassidy's hand. He looked back out at the ocean—suddenly dark and endless. The sight of it flooded him with memories of Talon. He remembered the feeling of ash in his throat in Monte Cristi and the sound of Mauga's gunfire drowning out the waves in Port-de-Paix. The two boats, taken out of desperation, and the long nights on the water as he fled. Baptiste knew what he had done, all the mistakes he'd made. He had no illusions that people would be forgiving of that . . . but Cassidy was.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Pharah asked the question with genuine care, the same tone with which she'd spoken to Cassidy.

"No. Not today, anyway." Baptiste let out a long exhale. He hadn't realized how high the pain, the memory of those moments, had risen in his chest—that he had forgotten to breathe.

"Take whatever time you need. I'm just glad Cole convinced you to join us."

"As am I. He certainly knows how to make an impression."

"Yeah, that sounds like Cole." Pharah shook her head. "It's funny. I haven't seen him in years, but he walks back into my life and suddenly everything's as it used to be. And now, headed back to Gibraltar . . . Hard to believe."

Baptiste recalled the Overwatch personnel files he'd taken from Talon. Fareeha Amari, daughter of Ana Amari. Baptiste had read her mother's profile and seen mentions of Fareeha as well. Never an Overwatch agent herself, but always considered an asset. Working in Cairo as part of Helix. "You've been around Overwatch your whole life. You must know everyone already. Anyone you're looking forward to seeing again?"

Pharah seemed preoccupied. "Oh, I don't know everyone—Zarya and Hana are new to me. I'm sure there are others too."

"Do you know Dr. Ziegler? Or . . . Mercy, I guess, was her call sign."

"Angela? Yeah. About as long as I've known Cole," she said, looking a bit wistful again.

There was something about the way she said her name—not Dr. Ziegler, but Angela—that touched him. "I worked with her once, in Venezuela," he began. "I was tracking her when I ran into Cole. Last known location was Cairo, but by the time I got there, well . . . I'm sure you saw the news about Paris."

"I did." A slight smile crossed her face. "But I spent some time with her in Cairo too."

Baptiste raised an eyebrow. "Does she know you're headed to Gibraltar?"

"No. But she didn't tell me she was joining the team in Paris either, so I guess we're both full of surprises." Pharah looked down, and Baptiste struggled to read her. Was that disappointment?

"Were you hoping for more?"

Pharah lifted her gaze to meet his. "What do you mean?"

"Were you expecting her to say goodbye?"

Pharah looked away again, deep in thought. "No," she said eventually. "I guess not."

She paused again, and Baptiste resisted the urge to say something. His impulse was to make her feel better, but he could tell she was still thinking.

"Angela's feelings about Overwatch are . . . complicated. Knowing her, she probably wasn't sure she'd answer the recall until she was already there."

"Oh. Well, uh . . ." Baptiste sensed there was more going on, but he didn’t want to press her. He scrambled for a way to change the subject. "I'm sure you'll catch up once we get to Gibraltar." He leaned over, glancing at the screen in front of her. "Not long now, Pharah."

She looked up at him suddenly, a bit of a frown on her face. Baptiste wondered if he had said something wrong, but then her expression softened. She stood up, put her hand on his shoulder, and smiled.

"Hey." Her hand was steady, and Baptiste felt a wave of calm pass over him. "Call me Fareeha, all right?"

He met her gaze and mirrored her smile. "All right. Thank you."

She pulled her hand away and shrugged. "Don't thank me—I was about to ask you to take over."

Baptiste's concern must have been visible because Fareeha quickly clarified.

"Don't worry, I'll send Hana up here to keep you company. She's probably the better pilot anyway. I just need to lie down for a bit."

"Of course," Baptiste said with a sharp nod, as if accepting an order. "Go get some rest."

Fareeha moved to leave the cockpit, then paused in the entryway. "Can you do me a favor?"

Baptiste straightened, ready for her instruction.

"I know it isn't easy, but . . . try to relax, okay?" She stepped down from the cockpit, then turned completely to meet his gaze. "We're in this together."

Baptiste thought of how long he had been alone. He thought of all the ways he was not like her, and all the ways he had been a disappointment to the ones he had fought to protect. For all the good that Fareeha had done with Helix, Baptiste had strayed far from that path while working for Talon. Now with Overwatch, standing by Fareeha's side . . . he still didn't know if he deserved redemption. But why fight this?

He wasn't ready to tell her all he'd done. Even if, looking at her now, he felt sure she wouldn't care.

So Baptiste searched instead for all the ways they were the same, everything that had brought them together, on the right side of this conflict. He saw her confidence and was surprised to find it brought back a little of his own. Before he knew it, he was responding with a slow nod. "Yeah. Together."

Fareeha smiled, tossed back an imaginary cloak with a smirk, and walked to the rear of the ship. For the first time since Busan, Baptiste was alone. There was a clear view of the ocean outside the window. Isolated from the wind, relaxed in his chair, it suddenly reminded him more of sunlit afternoons on the beach, drinking Lefort's ji papay, than all the times he'd run away.

Baptiste closed his eyes. The steady hum of the monitors turned into the buzz of summer air. He let his feet dangle off the memory of a dock, swaying as if carried by the tide. The dropship continued its flight, and Baptiste—comforted by the knowledge that someone else would soon join him at the helm—let his thoughts drift toward the future.

#source: overwatch media #short story #cole cassidy #fareeha amari #jean baptiste augustin #mauga #talon #ana amari #aleksandra zaryanova #hana song #angela ziegler #helix #lefort #overwatch

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overwatch-archive · 1 year

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Overwatch's lore is vast, but also extremely spread out and somewhat difficult to find. Therefore, this blog seeks to document all important lore information Overwatch has to offer. (This includes Q&A's.)

There is a lot, even on a single blog, so please refer to the TAG LIST & MASTERPOST when browsing. (WIP)

Because this is an archive of basically copyrighted material, posts are not rebloggable. Do not ask me make them available to reblog.

All material on this blog belongs to Blizzard Entertainment. I only post things freely available to the public. (Thus, I will not be publishing contents of books such as "Overwatch: The Hero of Numbani." I will, however, post the full short stories that are also available on PlayOverwatch's website. If Blizzard has an issue with this, my inbox is open and I will take it down.)

Transcripts of images / videos are under the cut.

Posts are dated when the official sources posted them. So do not be surprised to see posts from 2016.

Sources are in the "source."

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overwatch-archive · 1 year

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Ramattra: Reflections

Author: Gavin Jurgens Fyhrie Artist: Sylvain Decaux

Philosophical Differences

4 Years Before the Uprising

"You're a Ravager unit, right?" called a human behind me, and I froze, hands shaking beneath my robes.

The village beneath the Shambali monastery had barely changed since my last visit. A few cheery repair shops and tailors along the main road, specializing in robes for omnic travelers. In the alleyways and backstreets, shuttered shops. Mining offices. Humans drinking on doorsteps, watching the occasional omnic pass them by.

A handful of years ago, some of those same humans had knocked me to my knees and nearly killed me.

I turned instead to the human who had called me by my designation, fists clenched in my sleeves, and said nothing.

"Thought so," said the little shopkeeper happily. "Haven't seen one of you in a while. The news said you were all in hiding."

"Or dead at human hands," I said.

The human's smile faltered.

"You aren't a popular bunch. Not that I'm saying it's right," he added hastily. "But . . . what with everything you—and I don't mean you exactly—did in the Crisis, you, uh . . ."

I waited, then reluctantly came to his rescue.

"Make humans uncomfortable?"

"Exactly," he said, relieved.

Uncomfortable enough to justify violence, I thought. I should have been angry with him. Instead, I was weary. I'd had this conversation so many times.

"Can I help you?" I asked. The words were a relic of Mondatta's careful instruction.

"No," he said, "but I can help you! Thing is, I got a new shipment of actuators in for your kind. Can get you a nice discount, seeing as you're part of the Shambali and all."

He smiled. Warm gold flashed at the back of his grin.

R-7000s, unlike many other omnics, were never made by human hands. The rogue god program Anubis, the architect of the Omnic Crisis, built us in secret places and unleashed us upon the world. We were designed to lead its mindless armies, to hunt humans. We were made for murder.

There was only one way that spare parts had become available.

"I'm no longer a monk," I said. "I left the monastery today."

"Is that right?" the merchant said, glancing past me, down the street, down the mountain. I heard footsteps scraping on pavement. "Why?"

Because Mondatta places the burden of peace on the oppressed and not their oppressors.

"Philosophical differences," I said instead. "It seemed best. "

"Well, good luck to you, and safe travels!" he said. "You there! Welcome to the Shambali monastery."

I turned. A weary omnic pilgrim, stained orange by dust, scarred and dented, stumbled up the road past me. Seeing me in my robes, he lowered his head in respect.

The pain of it, the shame. The sight of me told him he was on the right path. I fought the urge to tell him that he wasn't. It wouldn't make a difference, even if I did.

I watched the shopkeeper come off his step, chattering, bundling the traveler into his shop.

Greed. Yet another of humanity’s crimes, but hardly their most terrible.

I sighed and continued down the road, down the mountain, away from the monastery.

And from my brother, Zenyatta, with whom I’d spent these last three years dreaming of peace.

Names

3 Years Before the Uprising

Two human guards blocked the windowless cell door. Both had stun batons, and a pistol hung from the hip of the larger man.

"I'll give you one chance to run," I said, hoping they wouldn't.

Some segments of humanity had decided that despite the Crisis, despite sentience, their former omnic servants were still their property. That our status as independent beings was somehow still a subject for debate. Hence facilities like this one existed, where omnics were kept until they decided that service to their former masters was the best use of their long lives.

Since leaving the Shambali monastery, I'd rooted out several identical operations, but there were always more festering. I'd come here hoping to free my people as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, after encountering the same injustice over and over again, my patience with peace was wearing thin. I'd gotten angry, thrown a man through a window, and here we were.

The first guard swung his baton. It bounced off my chest with a pop.

I took a step toward him.

Pale, he dropped the baton and went for his gun. Behind him, the other human struggled with the locked door, trying to escape. Or maybe to take a hostage.

Damn it.

I slapped the gun out of the guard's hand. As gently as I did it, something snapped. Again, I felt the ghost of guilt, the mournful weight of Mondatta's eyes on me. And following that, anger. Oppressors did not deserve the gift of our guilt.

The door flew open, and the other guard barreled through. Electrical light flared again, and someone screamed.

"Remember that I could have killed you," I told the human on the ground and plunged through the door to disarm the guard.

Oh.

The bald man already lay facedown on the tile, unmoving. His clothes were smoking in places. It wasn’t at all clear if he was breathing.

"I know who you are," came a voice from the corner of the small, bare room.

"Do you?" I asked, honestly curious. The omnic was a rarer kind, highly customized with features I thought hadn't survived the Crisis. Slightly shorter than myself, but blue-eyed and with ears rather like a slender humanoid rabbit. Made as a companion for children, if I remembered correctly, with a built-in battery for charging devices and taking pictures.

"Yeah, they said. You're the R-7000 who's been freeing omnics. Some of the others were hoping you'd make it here."

"But not you?"

"I can take care of myself."

The human made a burbling sound somewhere near my feet.

"I believe you," I said. "What did you do to him?"

"Electrical burst. Not a big deal."

"I think he'd disagree. So why haven't you escaped on your own?"

The omnic huffed. "And leave my friends behind? Waiting for a rescue that might never come?"

"I'm here now," I said, a little puzzled.

The omnic shook their head, thoughtful.

"Your model bossed us around in the Crisis. Sent us to die before we even had a thought in our heads."

My hand twitched at my side, but I nodded.

"So, is that what this is?" they said. "You still have a taste for glory? Ordering your soldiers around?"

"Do you still follow children around like an obedient pet?" I said, more sharply than I'd intended.

They half chuckled. "Fair. But the point stands. Our people are waiting for a savior when they should be saving themselves."

I agreed with this. It's why I was here. I'd seen enough in this year on walkabout to know that most of our people rested on the hope that Mondatta and the Shambali would save them. It seemed the truth—that no one was coming, that the people themselves needed to rise—was too much to bear.

But here was this omnic, saying the words that my mind had been shouting.

"And if they die?" I asked.

The omnic cocked their head.

"We're still at war," they said. "Didn't stop because the Crisis did. Difference is, humans are still organized. We aren't."

"Not yet," I said. The words felt like a promise. "Introductions, then. My name is Ramattra. Yours?"

"Don't have a name, don't want one. Call me Nameless if it gets awkward for you. What's Ramattra mean?"

"I chose it to honor the first of our kind and kept it to remember my mistakes."

"Huh," said Nameless. "If you're breaking everyone out, I'm coming with you."

"Beg pardon?"

"We should get Zera next. You'll see why. And if we're banding together, we need a name."

"Isn't that hypocritical?" I said dryly.

They snickered.

I glanced at the omnic's flank, at the scarring there, where a model number, a designation, had once been.

If I could have smiled, I would have.

Weapons of War

2 Years Before the Uprising

I led the three of them across the valley and down into the metal gateway, half-buried by thick slabs of ice and stone. We were silent as humans in a graveyard, and for much the same reason.

We reached the bottom of the gateway, a metal platform sheathed in ice. I turned to Lanet.

I could sense her mind racing ahead of mine, studying what little technology was visible of the facility at this level. I was a passable engineer, but she made me look like a human child playing with blocks.

"I know where we are," she said. "Unorthodox architecture. Lack of human safety features. Built by machines for machines. Similar to your design aesthetics."

She looked up.

"An omnium. Built by Anubis." Silence.

I laid a hand on the platform controls.

"For years we have tried nonviolence, coexistence with the humans, only fighting the worst forms of our oppression from the shadows," I said. "And we are losing. It is time to try something new."

I activated the platform, and with a jolt, we descended into the frozen darkness, through a shaft of ice.

"Of all the omnics I've brought into Null Sector," I said, "you are the ones I trust the most. And so . . . this is where I was designed and built. This is the cradle of Anubis's most dangerous secrets."

The corridor fell away, and they saw the vast underground factory.

"Humanity denies us equality because they have so successfully stripped us of our power. They made us forget that, when united—even if united against our will—we once brought them to the brink of extinction."

This was the world my maker had made, and together we would use it to forge a new future.

"It is time we inspire our people to find that unity again."

Rise Up

4 Days Before the Uprising

"Ramattra," Lanet said, using that tone again.

"There is no time," I said, pacing across the omnium's control center. Below, the assembly lines labored, building our robotic army.

"What do you mean, there's no . . . we're following your schedule!" she shouted, pursuing me, throwing her arms in the air. "You can attack any city anywhere, and you're choosing King's Row and choosing now, and I'm telling you the robots you're getting from the lower levels of the omnium aren't ready. They're old, Ramattra. They're obsolete."

"You think you can design better soldiers than Anubis?"

"I hope so, because we want to win, and your maker lost."

I gripped the edges of the table to calm my temper. She was infuriating because she was so often right, but she was wrong now.

"We can't afford to wait for better soldiers. Look." I activated the bank of screens before us. Images and footage from London appeared, gathered over the years our cells had been active there.

Omnic laborers trudging in a single-file line to their work, watched by armed human guards.

"Next feed," I commanded, and the image changed.

A hundred of our people lying in a locked basement. Their home, at the end of a thankless day.

"Next feed."

A scrapyard. And there, discarded like the trash humans thought we were—

"We know," Zera said. "She isn't saying we shouldn't fight."

I flinched. It was the same thing I'd said to Zenyatta when we'd met, and not long before I'd nearly gotten him killed.

"Give me and Nameless a week," Zera continued, taking my silence for hesitation. "My cell can take down their power grid and water supplies, and Nameless's shadows can seize the tunnels. Kill anyone stupid enough to go down there. Once they're weakened, you come in with your robots, and we'll take the borough. Maybe more."

I met Nameless's blue gaze at the corner of the room. The omnic who knew me better than anyone, save for my brother.

"You know we're right," they said. "We built the resistance there together. Let the people be a part of it. Let them be the ones to rise up, like we always dreamed they would. An invasion won't inspire them—it will scare them off."

I hesitated again.

"No," I said at last. Beside me, Lanet struck the table with her fist.

"Ramattra, these robots are mindless drones. They're outdated! They're—"

"Expendable," I finished. "And you are not. Our people are not."

Lanet's eyes flickered.

"Fine," she said. "But I'll be in the city, overseeing the deployment and watching for malfunctions, and you know I know better, so stop arguing."

"Fine," I said. "You'll stay in the Underworld, where our defenses will be strongest."

After a moment, she nodded, and I relaxed a fraction.

"During this uprising, we will show the humans we are stronger than they thought. We establish a stronghold in one of their cruelest cities, and we make a safe place for our people. We will show omnics everywhere that now is the time to join us. That is the goal."

I turned back to the footage of the scrapyard, where too many of my people lay.

"It is time for omnics to discover who Null Sector truly is."

The Greatest Crime

2 Days After the Uprising

"A small group of omnic terrorists, calling themselves Null Sector," said Mondatta sorrowfully on the screen before me. The human reporter on camera nodded with theatrical sympathy as my former master continued. "The monks of Shambali condemn this attack on London. We seek peace with humanity, not violence."

My eyes fell again to the words scrolling beneath his image.

NULL SECTOR RINGLEADER KILLED DURING POWER PLANT FIREFIGHT.

Fury descended. I remembered omnics sitting meekly in their cells, waiting for freedom. The vast rolling scrapyards of the dead.

And now, Mondatta dishonoring Lanet, who died fighting to free her people.

Someone was shouting. Someone was striking the screen with their fist.

Someone was begging me to stop.

"Ramattra! Please!"

I spun around, fist raised, and Zera stood motionless, making no move to defend herself. Nameless, far off in their usual corner of the too-empty room, looked up from their screen to stare at me, hard, and I froze at the pain of what I'd nearly done. The shame.

I looked up at the cracked screen. Bracketed by the damage stood Mondatta, flickering and still, naming us traitors to the omnic people.

The hypocrisy.

"Do you know," I muttered, "what humanity's greatest crime is?"

Zera stared down at me, shaking her head.

"I've had enough," she started, but I didn't let her finish. I flipped back around to face her, the anger surging through me again.

"Complacency!" I shouted. "They desire peace above all, and so they ignore injustice because it is more comfortable to do so. They want to believe tomorrow will be better simply because they hope it will be. Humanity will never help us. They will try to sell us a small place in their world, or at best, ignore us. And they have passed their weaknesses to him."

I pointed back at Mondatta because I couldn't bear to look at him again.

"He holds himself above us. Like Anubis, Mondatta is sending our people to their deaths. He must pay for this and—"

"Ramattra," said Nameless, speaking at last. "I'm checking reports. A lot of omnics are condemning us."

I put a hand to my forehead. My thoughts felt hot, poisonous. I had to say them aloud before they turned on me.

"If omnics are choosing death," I said carefully, "we must take that choice away."

My friends said nothing at first.

"What does that mean?" asked Nameless flatly.

"It means that I will build the army Lanet wanted," I said. "And then we will find a way to save our people, whether they want it or not. Whether they deserve it or not. If they will not willingly join us, we will find a way to make them."

"Ramattra, this isn't the way," Zera said, striving for calm and failing. More omnics will join us once the dust settles.

"They had their chance, and it cost Lanet her life."

Zera's giant hand closed into a fist at her side. "You freed us from a prison, and now you want us to put our people in one?"

"If that's what it takes to make them listen!"

Nameless uncoiled from their corner, eyes burning.

"You told me," they said, their voice low, a warning, "you told me this wasn't about control."

"Look at us," I snapped. "Fighting humans in bodies they shaped for us. Inheriting their flaws, their pointless disagreements. It doesn't have to be this way."

"It isn't your decision!" Nameless shouted back. "And I won't be part of it!"

"Then leave!" The words shot out of me, and I couldn't take them back.

Nameless straightened.

"Fine," they said quietly. "I've been away from my shadows long enough anyway. Coming, Zera?"

"Don't," I said.

"Then don't do this," Nameless said.

"You'll understand once I'm done."

Nameless came to me and patted my hand, a human gesture. It was infuriating.

"I hope you understand one day," they said, "that you didn't have to fight alone."

And then Nameless and Zera were gone.

I stood in the deepening silence a moment, feeling the absence of my companions, the impossible weight of metal and ice and stone above. A grave for our dream of peace.

And then, I got to work.

#source: overwatch media #short story #ramattra #first omnic crisis #R7000 #anubis #shambali #mondatta #nameless #zera #lanet #zenyatta #null sector

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overwatch-archive · 1 year

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youtube

LET THE KITSUNE GUIDE YOU…into watching this amazing short animation featuring Kiriko 🦊

#source: twitter #kiriko kamori #genji shimada #hanzo shimada #asa yamagami #yōkai #kiriko's grandmother #sojiro shimada

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overwatch-archive · 2 years

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HALLOWEEN TERROR: From the Desk of the Lord of Adlersbrunn

Today, I note with great relief that the wounds Doctor Junkenstein left upon the town of Adlersbrunn have, at last, begun to heal. Our people know peace again, and once more do laughter and light fill the streets. News of our prosperity has spread afar, and travelers from all walks of life have come to partake of it. The chapter of misfortune, it seems, has finally come to a close.

But I must confess, the sleepless nights in the wake of the terrible encounters with Junkenstein have returned to plague me. As we near the anniversary of the mad doctor's revenge, an unmistakable feeling of dread has taken hold of my heart. I try to dismiss these as omens born of an overactive imagination, and I cannot bring myself to trouble my advisors with such unfounded worries. I suppose it is the burden of a ruler to endure his fears with stoicism.

In any case, the preparations for our autumn festivals keep me busy enough to put the thoughts out of mind. Which reminds me, when the celebrations are through, I must ask one of the guards to look into the strange noises coming from the old quarters of the castle. I pray the rats have not made another nest!

#source: news.blizzard #halloween terror (event)#events

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overwatch-archive · 2 years

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Yōkai

Author: Christie Golden Artist: Hammling

Autumn, with its gift of crisp evenings and red maple leaves, was not yet here, but Kanezaka's weeklong eponymous End of Summer Festival heralded its arrival. The festival's grand finale, a display of dazzling fireworks that had been consistently spectacular for hundreds of years, always made Kiriko Kamori a little wistful. As her mother had taught the sons of clan leader Sojiro Shimada the Art of the Sword, and Kiriko's father had forged those blades himself, Kiriko had been a not-infrequent visitor at Shimada Castle. She had spent many years of her childhood staring in awe at the near-magical explosions of color from the castle’s balcony. And standing by her side had been Shimada's sons: Hanzo, looking ever forward into a future filled with duty; and Genji, who often filched sweets for her when the Shimada's many servants weren't looking. "The finest view in the city," the eldest Shimada had once stated, and it was no exaggeration.

But that was a long time ago. The Shimada were some ten years gone now, and their castle had a new occupant.

"I always wish these fireworks weren't the last of the year," Kiriko admitted as she, Ryōta, Nobuto, and Sakura joined the crowd heading back to town.

"Who knows? Maybe they aren't," Ryōta said, smirking. Ryōta was a busboy at Gozan Ramen. It wasn't the best job, but it helped him listen in on some interesting conversations. All the information he gleaned was being put to good (if slightly illegal) use by Ryōta and his friends, who had decided to push back against the criminal organization that had terrorized Kanezaka ever since the Shimada fell from power.

It hadn't taken long for the Hashimoto to swoop in and fill the power vacuum that the Shimada left behind. In the decade since, their stranglehold on the region had only continued to grow.

The Hashimoto's yen was as dirty as it got, obtained from dealing in contraband and other even more unsavory things. The hospital always had several patients who'd "fallen" after crossing paths with them. Tourists were told that the town closed up early because of tradition. In reality, it wasn't safe after dark in Kanezaka, not since the Hashimoto had moved in.

Ryōta and his friends could barely consider themselves more than vandals, but Kiriko knew their hearts—and their anger—were in the right place. The smaller gang had sprayed graffiti, broken windows at Hashimoto strongholds, and once, when they had felt very daring, robbed Tora no Sumika, the Hashimoto bar, a not-so-secret black market stop the Hashimoto had appropriated for their own use from a local family.

One of these days, Ryōta vowed, he and his friends would strike. Hard.

Kiriko believed him. All they needed was the chance, and it came sooner than Kiriko imagined.

Ryōta had learned from Nobuto that a weapons shipment was coming into the nearest port in two days. Sakura informed the gang that she had just visited her uncle, who unloaded cargo at the warehouses, and had pretended to avert her eyes when he'd entered the code for the main gates. The weapons shipment would stay overnight and be out of their reach in the morning. They only had one shot.

Kiriko, Ryōta, Nobuto, and Sakura snuck up to the gates of the yard unchallenged, though Kiriko kept a sharp eye out. The code worked like a charm, but as the gates opened, the moonless night was abruptly flooded with harsh, bright light.

"Which bay is the target in?" Kiriko asked.

"Number six-seven-five," said Ryōta. "Sakura has a code for it too. But first we have to kill these lights."

"Or get rid of the cameras." Kiriko lifted a pair of kunai and twirled them about casually, then pointed one at the top of a building.

The gang exchanged relieved smiles. They knew what she could do.

"Perfect," Ryōta said. "Take them out, Kiriko. We'll head for the bay and have it open when you return."

The group split up, moving quickly but being wise enough to seek what shadows they could. Kiriko closed her eyes and focused.

Fox Spirit, guide me.

She sensed warmth and affection, soft as the brush of a tail, and an image formed in her mind. She opened her eyes.

The Fox Spirit had answered.

Ethereal, softly radiant, the glowing figure stood atop the nearest building, beautiful as moonlight, bowing to Kiriko and inviting her to play.

Kiriko grinned and bowed in turn. She leaped at the wall, climbing with grace and speed to discover the spirit was already bounding along the roof. Kiriko followed, her gaze flitting about for security cameras, her hands reaching for her kunai, throwing with speed and precision. One camera sputtered, crackled, flashed, and went dark. The Fox Spirit sprang off the building, floating down gently, while Kiriko teleported two meters ahead of where the spirit would land.

The race was on. They ran between the outbuildings, Kiriko whipping blade after blade at the cameras until none were left. The spirit turned a corner, and Kiriko felt her energy change.

The Fox Spirit no longer appeared as a playful kit but something otherworldly, impossible, yet terrifyingly real. A trio of Hashimoto guards stood beside a door to the warehouse. Kiriko put her mother's training to work, taking on two of the Hashimoto guards. She knocked one out with the hilt of her kunai and the second by a precise, well-timed elbow to the temple. When she struck the third's weapon from his hand, he surprised her by standing his ground and attempting to grab her. Kiriko seized his outstretched arm and yanked him forward, ducking and slamming his midsection with her shoulder, and finally flinging him to the pavement. He was out cold.

Kiriko dragged them inside the warehouse and locked them in a custodian's closet, then teleported to the roof of the nearest building, scanning the area for other threats. Below, her friends had almost reached the bay, but Kiriko could see what they couldn't: another Hashimoto guard, headed in their direction.

Kiriko dashed lightly toward them as Sakura opened the door to the cargo bay they were after. Pleased with herself, the teenager stepped back.

Kiriko delivered well-placed blows to the pursuing guard's stomach and then neck, knocking him out. He fell to the ground with a thud, inches from her friend.

"Perfect timing," Nobuto told Kiriko.

Everyone's attention turned to the cargo. The crates were easy to locate—marked with the same stylized tiger-head emblem as the Hashimoto-controlled bar—but the shipment was also heavy and awkward. Still, the group managed, and Ryōta, who had come up with this plan, was given the honor of opening the first crate. As expected, it was packed with guns, and everyone gazed solemnly at the array of weapons.

Kiriko moved to push a crate toward the bay. The Hashimoto would be unlikely to search for them beneath the murky waters.

Ryōta grabbed her forearm. "Hang on. I said you'd see more fireworks this year." He opened his backpack.

Kiriko stared at its contents.

"So you did," she said quietly.

"We've been stockpiling fireworks all summer, waiting for a chance like this. I've made timers for them too, so no risk. Can you imagine the blast? This'll show those bastards who they're messing with!"

"Yes," Kiriko said. "It will."

At the coldness in her voice, Ryōta's smile faded. "What's wrong?"

"Listen, before we do this, I want to tell you a story I heard from Sojiro Shimada himself; he told it to me and his sons, Hanzo and Genji, one night after the End of Summer Festival."

Ryōta, Nobuto, and Sakura were younger than her, too young to remember the centuries-old bond the Shimada clan had formed with the people of Kanezaka. Centuries ago, the villagers supplied Shimada soldiers with the rice that kept them fighting and grew the famous Shimada peach, a source of pride for the clan. The Shimada understood how their strength came from the close relationship they had with the people of Kanezaka. They took from their people, yes, but the Shimada had learned a lesson the Hashimoto had not: as the rice fields and peach trees needed care to flourish, so would the clan flourish by caring for Kanezaka.

Sakura frowned. "Is now really the time—?"

"Yes."

Kiriko could see that this fledgling gang was poised to take the first step down a dark path, and she knew she had to stop them. Now. And, possibly, give them a different road to walk.

"A long time ago, Kanezaka was preparing to hold the End of Summer Festival. Each night, nearly everyone would leave their homes to watch the grand display of fireworks by the river on the outskirts of the village.

"A rival clan in the area knew this. And one summer, they came to end the Shimada's rule in Kanezaka . . . and to reduce the city to ash."

Ryōta looked away, as if he knew which way her story was going.

"With everyone distracted, the fires they set would burn unchecked. So the clan torched the peach orchard. Set homes aflame. They even tried to destroy the Fox Shrine. And in a last, despicable gesture, they murdered the guards protecting the huge fireworks and ignited the building.

"It's said the explosion was at once the most beautiful and the most horrifying thing that anyone had ever seen. Smoke and fire, colors and sparks—everywhere."

"But . . . why?" asked Sakura. "Just to get at the Shimada?"

Kiriko nodded. "They knew the Shimada were the only ones powerful enough to stand against them, and they wanted to take everything their rival had: their organization, their castle, and Kanezaka itself. The attack was meant to weaken and demoralize the Shimada. The townspeople were just collateral damage to them."

The friends all stared at the ground.

Good. This was something they needed to understand if they were to achieve their goal the right way.

"The clan assumed the Shimada thought like they did. There was nothing in Kanezaka that was of real value—no artwork or rare goods, just people. They figured the Shimada would send some wagons from the castle to extinguish the fires in the orchards or fields. The crops were important, but those who tended them? Replaceable. The rival clan hid their warriors in the orchards, ready to attack the unsuspecting Shimada.

"That was their mistake. Because the Shimada did not think like they did. The Shimada arrived in Kanezaka with twenty wagons of huge water jars, food from their own storage, medical supplies, and doctors. Shimada's heirs were even sent to coordinate the effort. When the people were tended to, the Shimada warriors and townspeople went to the orchards together, where their united numbers far outstripped the other clan's. They quickly extinguished the fires and made easy work of the intruders."

Kiriko remembered Sojiro speaking to his own children in his calm, serious voice. This is the lesson. This is what a Shimada does. We take care of our people, because they take care of us. When they are hungry, we feed them. When they are hurt, we heal them. And when their city is burning about them, we quench the flames. A leader must be responsible, or else he is nothing more than a parasite.

She turned to Ryōta. "The Hashimoto's idea of how to run Kanezaka is the same. In the past, the Shimada’s rivals used our festival and our fireworks—something we were known for, were proud of . . . something we still love to this day—to show how little we mattered and how powerful they were. Now? The Hashimoto beat up our families, they control our shops, they own our streets."

She regarded Ryōta with compassion. "A blast like this will destroy more than the Hashimoto's guns. You could easily ignite this place, the whole city even. People—our neighbors, our friends—could die."

Ryōta gnawed on his lower lip as he mulled over her words.

"I won't say the Shimada were perfect, especially at the end. But you need to ask yourself what this"—she indicated the bag Ryōta held—"is going to tell the world about who we really are."

Ryōta finally met her eyes. "It’ll tell them that we're strong . . . but also that we're no better than the Hashimoto."

Kiriko nodded. "We shouldn't give the people of Kanezaka more reasons to be afraid. But that doesn't mean we can't frighten the Hashimoto. And I can't think of anything more terrifying than a force that strikes from the shadows, a force with no face, one they can't explain—"

"Like ghosts—Yōkai," Ryōta finished.

The mood shifted in the group, and Kiriko even saw some smiles. In her heart, she sensed the Fox Spirit's approval.

"But for now," Sakura said tentatively, "maybe we take the guns and throw them in the bay?"

Ryōta nodded to his backpack full of pyrotechnics. "What should we do with these?"

Kiriko smiled. "We use them to celebrate our victory."

#source: overwatch media #short story #kiriko kamori #hanzo shimada #genji shimada #sojiro shimada #ryōta #nobuto #sakura #kanezaka #asa yamagami #hashimoto

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overwatch-archive · 2 years

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youtube

Get to know Kiriko Kamori.

A ninja healer who forged her own path with a mix of tradition and innovation.

Kiriko Kamori: For generations, my family has served and protected our city by following traditional paths. My grandmother devoted herself to the Fox Spirit, who taught her the ancient way of healing. Whereas my mother has chosen the path of the blade, passing down time-honored skills through training and discipline. I knew each of them wanted me to follow her path. But… I couldn't choose. Training quiets my mind and opens me to the Fox Spirit's guidance. And my bond with her lets me protect those who can't fight for themselves. They both made me feel whole. And they both felt like home. For generations, my family has served and protected our city by following traditional paths. Me? I made my own.

#source: youtube #origin story #kiriko kamori #asa yamagami #genji shimada #hanzo shimada #sojiro shimada #kiriko's grandmother #yōkai

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overwatch-archive · 2 years

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What's that melody? It's from the brand-new soundtrack, Overwatch: Heroes & Villains, featuring 23 iconic themes behind many of Overwatch's cast and climatic moments.

#source: overwatch media #soundtrack

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overwatch-archive · 2 years

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[CORRESPONDENCE] Post for Toshiro Yamagami

Haikei, Toshiro, beloved husband:

The cherry blossoms are in glorious bloom after a gentle winter, soft clouds of pink against the green trees on the hillside. The season returns me to the winter day when the Hashimoto took you away from us, when snowflakes fell as the petals do now.

Strange that we are so close, yet we can visit you only when our current "masters" wish it. I hope they value your work enough to bring us together soon. Our daughter appreciated your recent gift, though I pray the blades you forge for the Hashimoto aren’t nearly so sharp, that what you craft for them is only equal to their sordid selves.

The forge of Yamagami Blades remains locked up tight, and since we last saw you in the autumn, we have moved into the upper level. It helps us feel close to you in many ways. In other ways, I feel your absence even more keenly. The musical hammering of the hot tamahagane, the song of the steel, is missing from this place. So is your own voice, your singing to the sword as you brushed it with yakibatsuchi, and the crackle of the fire when the blade hit the forge and the hiss as it cooled in the water. Sometimes I think I hear you there, yet it is always only the wind.

But I will not linger here. For as winter leads to spring, let me write a letter of lightness—a warm breeze bearing drifting blossoms. Perhaps it will grant us both a little peace, even as I turn my blade to keep the peace here from shattering altogether.

Many things remain unchanged, of course, in these eight years since your last trip home. You will doubtless be pleased to hear that Ichiko refuses to change the family recipe at Gozan Ramen, and the black garlic oil is as delicious as ever. It was crowded today, as many have come to celebrate the cherry blossoms. Yui’s dog, Mochi, is getting on in years, but his likeness still spins on the sign of the pottery school. Most of our favorite places are kept alive thanks to the tourists who delight in visiting quaint old towns such as ours. They eat ice cream from the cat café and burn their yen at the arcade or the new shopping mall you have yet to behold. Then, happy with their souvenirs, these day visitors skitter back onto the train before nightfall, when the lanterns flicker to life and the Hashimoto pound on closed shop doors, taking their “share” of what is earned by the labor of others and funneling it up to their betters through the aptly named Tora no Sumika.

Shimada Castle still sits high in its place of glory, overlooking our city like a stalwart stone temple awaiting a benevolent deity. You and I know well enough, we two who make and wield the sword, that while their castle was indeed strong stone, the Shimada were no gods, but people—and criminals at that. But the Shimada understood that honor and loyalty forge the strongest bond between ruler and ruled.

Lately, the Shimada have consumed my idle thoughts. They asked much of those who followed them, but they inspired us to give it. And in return, the Shimada clan led with integrity and treated us with respect. As you know, my mother and hers before her were honored to tend the fox shrine far from the clamor of town. But when it was clear my soul longed for the sword and I excelled at kenjutsu, the Shimada chose me over all others as their swordmaster. They knew that Kanezaka was not just the seat of their power, it was their home . . . and ours, too.

But where the Shimada gave, the Hashimoto take. After all, when one has many homes, one has none—and the Hashimoto clan claws at nearly every city in this nation. We are nothing special to them; one day they will drink us dry and move on, leaving us empty and broken. Even now, some twelve years on, I see the mark they have left on our city.

I regret that, even though the old part of Kanezaka appears outwardly unchanged, it has suffered under the cruel hand of the Hashimoto. Our view of the motherly mountain now encompasses the jut and arrogance of skyscrapers and neon, not the warm comfort of wood and wind and stone as it once did.

I stand, as Kanezaka itself does, between the old ways of the mountain and the Shimada and the new, sharp, hard ways of the city and the Hashimoto. We both know that the Hashimoto have you in their “care” not only for your skills, but also to keep me in my place—to ensure that I do not falter in their charge to keep peace in this city, among these people whom I respect so much. I will obey our current masters, for to do anything else will put both you and our friends here at risk.

I had hoped that over time the Hashimoto would grow lazy. That they would see we are an honest people whom they need not oppress.

Not even the most faithful dog could take such a beating without biting back—and the people of Kanezaka are great of heart. We are being worn down. The demands upon the populace are increasing, and tempers are rising. Missed payments are met with more vicious abuses. And now someone has given the Hashimoto further reason for anger.

Over the last few months, shipments of Hashimoto contraband have gone missing. Their men have been badly beaten or robbed when returning from their rounds. Perhaps most boldly of all, messages painted in bright, conspicuous colors have started to appear, though they are quickly painted over.

These fools are not so subtly throwing in-nen at the Hashimoto, and their acts are received as well as you would expect. These vigilantes think to rise strong against a tide of violence. Instead they strike fast—and hide faster—while the good people of Kanezaka take their penance. And so my job—to keep our own people, our friends, in submission—has become both more delicate and more vital with each passing day. There are moments when I can scarce believe the world in which I walk now: You, making beautiful work for undeserving pigs. I, who trained the scions of Sojiro Shimada, forced to turn my swordmaster’s blade against my own. The children of this town, growing to adulthood with only the brutal, thoughtless Hashimoto to determine what is good or bad . . . our daughter among them. It is dangerous in this city now.

I will walk through Kanezaka today not simply to imagine you walking beside me or to greet our neighbors. I have made an offering to take to the Tetsuzan Shrine of my ancestors: A bowl coated with brilliant blue-green yuyaku from the pottery school, into which Ichiko has ladled a splash of dashi. A rice ball from our neighbor. From Kenta, a piece of red bean mochi—our daughter’s favorite. To all this I have added a generous pour of sake. I may have poured a small cup for myself as well.

I will ask the fox spirit for strength to continue this fight and for wisdom for myself and for all of us. Then, after sunset, I will take the sword that you gave me so long ago at our yuino and patrol the streets of this place that both fills my heart and breaks it. I will find these self-appointed “guardians,” who, if not deterred from this path, may be the spark of a misguided and deadly fire that will consume us all.

May you and I both be as your blades are: strong and sharp. Obey the Hashimoto, as I must, and give them the outward show of respect, even if you cannot give true respect a home in your heart.

I will close on the lighter note that I promised and say that I know if you were here you would remind me, “The kitsune can change your luck with a flick of even one of her tails.” May she flick all nine of them and send some much-needed good fortune our way.

Kashiko—

Asa

#source: news.blizzard #asa yamagami #toshiro yamagami #kiriko kamori #sojiro shimada #hanzo shimada #genji shimada #hashimoto #kanezaka

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overwatch-archive · 3 years

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The Overwatch cinematics captured the imagination of millions of fans around the world. Listen to the music behind the cinematics in Overwatch: Animated Shorts, a new soundtrack featuring 11 tracks from the iconic cinematics that helped formed the universe of Overwatch.

#source: overwatch media #soundtrack

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overwatch-archive · 4 years

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Can you hear that music? It's Overwatch: Cities & Countries, a new soundtrack featuring the themes from Overwatch maps and missions throughout the world.

#source: overwatch media #soundtrack

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overwatch-archive · 5 years

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Bastet

A Short Story: Michael Chu Illustrations: Arnold Tsang Additional Artwork: Bengal Design and Layout: Benjamin Scanlon

After days of lying in wait, Ana's target had appeared in one of Cairo's opulent, ancient palaces. Abdul Hakim was a king in his own right, one who was using his power and influence to squeeze the life from the city, making himself and his followers rich in the process. But before she had her chance to capture him, the first ghost appeared: Jack Morrison. Though he was masked and had assumed the identity of a vigilante—Soldier: 76—she recognized him immediately.

The world believed that Morrison was dead, killed in the destruction of the Overwatch base in Switzerland, but Ana had her doubts. Though Jack had escaped death, a specter followed behind him… the Reaper. A killer clad all in black, his face hidden behind a bone white mask.

Reaper had confronted Jack, and Ana had leapt to his aid. She had subdued Reaper, wrestling him to the ground. But when she had stripped off the ghoulish mask and seen the ruin of a face beneath, she recognized Gabriel Reyes, a friend and comrade she’d known just as long as Jack. Gabriel proved to be the real phantom as he’d faded into thin air, disappearing like a whisper.

She was left with the revelation that Gabriel and Jack, two men like brothers to her, were not dead.

In fairness, they thought I was, too.

She took a deep breath and surveyed the scene. Bullet marks patterned the walls, tiles on the floor were cracked, and the bodies of the manor’s security guards—muscle for Hakim’s illegal enterprise—were splayed about like children's toys. At the heart of the courtyard, Jack stood impassively.

"I got them all," Jack said as he rifled through one of the fallen mercenary's belongings.

A guard on the ground between them groaned, and in a flash, Ana drew her sidearm and fired a sleep dart into his neck.

"You missed one," Ana said.

Jack gave one of his good guy shrugs. "It’s nice to see you, too, Ana."

Ana engaged the targeting visor from underneath her cowl. The heads-up display failed to activate. She flipped it back up, annoyed. "Any idea where he went?"

Jack activated his visor and scanned the area. "Not a trace."

Something to worry about later.

"That doesn’t look good," Ana said. Jack had been shot right beneath the giant numerals "76" on his jacket. As she took a closer look, she could see that the jacket and his flesh had been ripped apart by a shotgun blast. From that range, it should have killed him, but Jack had certain advantages. His wounds could heal themselves—a legacy of his past as a test subject and an enhanced soldier in the American armed forces. She could already see the pink of new skin forming at the edges, but not completely. Where it looked the worst, his flesh had turned necrotic and black.

"I'll be fine," Jack grunted. "It just takes us some time."

Us, Ana thought. Jack was adapting quickly to the knowledge that his former best friend was still alive.

Or did he already know?

The faintest sound of approaching sirens interrupted her. "We should get going. Sounds like someone’s noticed."

Jack nodded. "Lead the way."

An hour later, Ana and Jack crouched in the shadows, watching as hover taxis zoomed by and a pair of civilians riding robotic camels made their way down the street. Overhead, skiffs and surveillance drones crisscrossed the sky, the former carrying the well-to-do of the city to their afternoon appointments, the latter mobilized by the shootout in Hakim's palace.

Ana navigated the narrow alleys, finding the routes through the labyrinthine tangle of streets and pathways, keeping an eye out for the patrols that circled like hawks. For once in her life, she was grateful for the city’s patchwork infrastructure, still recovering a decade after Overwatch's intervention. The state of Ana's home country was one of the reasons she had been drawn back to it. She felt responsible for Overwatch's legacy here, whether it had been her choice or not.

In the shade of one of the massive, derelict cooling towers, the heat from the oppressive afternoon sun was a little more tolerable. It didn't bother Ana, but Jack seemed to be laboring. His genetic enhancements should have helped him acclimatize to different conditions, the same way they should have stopped the blood that was seeping through the shirt he'd tied across his midsection as a bandage.

"You need to take better care of yourself," Ana chided him.

"You sound like Angela," Jack grunted.

Ana waited for a police car to speed by, lights flashing, and then she signaled him forward.

"Think they’re looking for us?" Jack wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"Most likely," Ana said, squinting at the car's retreating form. "But there's a lot of crime here. The police are busy."

Another part of our legacy.

Jack had fallen behind a few paces, leaning against one of the walls. "Reminds me of Prague."

"I’m not carrying you this time," Ana said. "Come on, Jack. Keep up." She dashed out of the shadows and across the street, feeling the full blast of sun above and the heat baked into the stones beneath her.

Back in the shadows, she continued. "Prague was your fault. Why you ever thought Reinhardt could be stealthy is beyond me."

Ana waited for Jack to defend himself. When he didn’t reply, she turned around. He had collapsed on the paving stones, out in the open.

Not now, Ana thought as she ran back to him. She tried to pull him up. "Wake up, Jack." But he gave no response. Ana slung Jack’s arm over her shoulder and lifted him, carrying him down the alley.

Jack drifted awake. That wasn't normal. Even before the army, he'd always been a light sleeper, starting awake at the slightest disturbance. His eyes adjusted rapidly to the dim light of the room as he sat up. He was on an old military surplus cot with a threadbare blanket. His side ached like hell.

"Finally," Ana walked over, silent as a stalking cat. "Tea?"

"I'll take whiskey if you have it."

Ana rolled her eyes. "Yes, Jack, I happen to keep a bottle around just in case you show up."

"Tea's fine," Jack said in a smaller voice.

Ana stretched her shoulders. "You know, I had to carry you all the way here."

"I've been shot plenty of times. It's never felt like this." Jack grimaced as he shifted, twisting around to get a better look at the wound. Three large gashes crisscrossed his back and sides, but they'd been stitched together with dark thread.

"There's something very wrong with that wound. We should probably take you to a doctor." Ana moved to a low table with an induction burner and placed an ornate gold kettle on one of its two heating pads.

"I don't think a doctor's going to know how to deal with this." Jack looked grim.

"Dr. Ziegler's not too far away," Ana suggested. "But I’m not carrying you."

"No doctors," Jack said. "And especially not Angela." How would we even begin to explain this to her? I doubt she'd want to see us now. Two lost ghosts.

"I tried stitching you up myself," Ana said apologetically. "I never was much good with field dressing. Didn't need it very often."

He ran his finger over the jagged stitches. “Looks like a butcher went at it.”

"Well, you can take care of yourself from now on, if you like."

"It's a little hard to reach," Jack said sheepishly.

"Then don't complain.” Ana paused. "And shouldn't that be healing itself?"

Jack nodded. "It should be. Maybe the shells were laced with a biological agent?"

"You're sure you don't want to see Dr. Ziegler?"

"We'd have to explain to her that we're not dead," Jack said.

"She's the miracle worker. She's probably used to it by now," Ana laughed.

"No Angela," Jack said, and that was that.

He looked around at Ana's home, as it were. It was a mix of tactical equipment, military surplus, surveillance devices, and some light touches of domesticity. The space was more archaeological site than apartment, ancient stone chambers with worn stone columns, and the walls had been carved with hieroglyphics, though some looked like the work of more modern vandals. On a low table, Ana had set up a little display of ancient objects that had been carefully preserved: a jar with a ram's head lid made of pale, milky stone, a black and gold mask bearing the visage of a fierce cat goddess, a chipped vase of brown-red clay, and a small, brilliant green figurine of a falcon.

Jack took a closer look at the antiquities. "This place reminds me of a museum my mother took me to in New York when I was a kid." It had been one of his favorite parts of the trip, running around the transplanted ruins of an ancient Egyptian temple. He smiled at the memory.

Ana offered him a blue mug with a red plaid pattern. "It's a necropolis—a city of the dead."

"Appropriate," Jack chuckled. He motioned towards the small display. "What are these?"

"I found them when I moved in. I couldn't very well throw them away. These relics have survived thousands of years. Empires rose and fell, and they're still here. I figured I should take care of them before I sent them to Dr. Faisal."

Jack blew gently on his tea to cool it. "You've been here the whole time?"

"Ever since I left the hospital in Poland." Ana watched as Jack sipped his tea.

He made a face at the bitterness. "Any sugar?"

Ana ignored him. "When I woke up, I didn't remember who I was. I had no name to give them, so they called me, 'Janina Kowalski,' your Jane Doe. For months, I sat in that hospital room in pain and confusion. Dr. Lee told me I was lucky. Well, as lucky as you can be after having glass and shrapnel embedded in your skull." Ana felt the phantom pain of her eye even as she recounted the experience.

"We tried to find you," Jack said somberly. "I used every resource at my disposal. Gabe even put McCree on it personally. Not a trace. Everyone else tried to convince me you were gone and that I was being irrational. But deep down I knew that you couldn't be dead."

And I was right, Jack thought.

"Dr. Lee kept me out of the system. I convinced her some dangerous people were after me."

"I'm dangerous?" he asked, playing innocent.

"You're a kitten, Jack," Ana laughed. "Eventually, I was able to piece together what happened, but I don't know how much of it is real and how much I've filled in the blanks myself. I remembered the mission. We were pinned down by the enemy sniper, and I was trying to flush them out. I remembered lining up the shot. But it was almost like there was a reason why I didn't want to remember what happened next."

Jack looked down into his teacup.

"It was because I recognized that sniper," Ana said, studying him carefully. "You already know this."

"Amélie?" Jack said. "Yes." He had learned that and more over the years, but he left it unspoken.

"Poor Gérard," Ana sighed.

The pair sat in silence for a while as the steam drifted lazily from their cups and dissipated into the dusty haze of the ancient room.

"Why are you here, Jack?" Ana asked at last.

"I never forgave myself for leaving you behind. I heard about a bounty hunter in Cairo, and I hoped…" Jack set the mug down.

"You never were good at letting go," Ana chided him. "Too stubborn for your own good."

"Gabriel is out there. Talon is getting more powerful. They need to be stopped, and everything that we've suffered—everything that you've suffered—needs to be made good on. I’m going to take them apart, piece by piece." Jack's impassioned words echoed off the stone walls, and he had clenched his fists. He slowly released them. "But I can't do it alone. I need your help."

Ana crossed her arms. "You can barely stand. You fainted in the street. The only thing you need to do is recover."

"Don't let this go. Don't be like the others. They dismantled everything we spent our lives building, and then they made us into villains."

"We're not all like you, Jack," Ana said. "Some of us can move forward."

"This is moving forward," Jack growled.

"You're excited," Ana said. "You're not thinking straight. Get some more rest. We can talk after."

"After?" Jack's eyes flashed to his mug and then looked back at Ana. "Did you—?"

He collapsed on the cot.

Ana waited until Jack was deeply asleep before she lifted his legs onto the bed, tucked a pillow beneath his head, and pulled the scratchy blanket over him. He had scars she didn't recognize, and his hair had thinned and faded to a silvery white. While he slept, Soldier: 76 slipped away, and she could feel the presence of the Jack she remembered.

She picked up the empty mug and left him to rest.

Later, Ana returned to the darkened complex, her supplies in a canvas sack she carried over her shoulder. With the lights off, the place felt more like a tomb than ever. She walked through the entry corridor and into the main chamber to find, of all things, Jack, shirtless, doing one-handed pushups through gritted teeth. He'd discarded his bandages in a small pile on his cot. Ana could see the angry red and black of the wounded flesh, bound together by her inexpert stitching.

"You're going to tear those stitches out," Ana remarked.

"I was feeling a little restless," Jack explained.

"You did sleep for two days," Ana said. Hungry?

"I'd kill for a burger."

Ana gave him a look of disbelief.

"But I'm not picky," Jack flashed her that smile he used to try to get himself out of trouble. He really was like a child sometimes.

Ana pulled paper containers of food out of her sack and placed them on the low table in front of him. The rich smells drifted through the air. There was falafel and beans, and pockets of freshly baked bread stuffed with steaming minced lamb meat and onions. "It's not my cooking, at least."

"Thank god for small miracles," Jack chuckled.

In spite of herself, Ana laughed as well.

Jack attacked the food like someone accustomed to having to wolf down meals quickly. Ana helped herself to a little, but mostly they ate in silence. When they'd finished, Jack leaned back on the crate he was sitting on and settled back into his questioning.

"Why didn't you tell me you were alive?" Jack asked.

"I don't know if you'll understand," Ana said. "Gabriel would, but you're different in some ways."

Jack's expression was unreadable. "And Fareeha? You let her think you were dead."

"That was the hardest part." Ana sighed. She stood up and walked over to her desk, where there was a small framed photo Ana with her young daughter on her back. Their arms were both spread wide as though they were flying. "Fareeha would have expected Captain Amari to return, but she was gone. The moment I hesitated, I changed."

"You can't blame yourself," Jack said softly. "How could you have known?"

"Don't patronize me, Jack," Ana snapped. "Of course, it was my fault. It doesn't have to haunt me for the rest of my life, but I can accept the blame."

"It wouldn't have made a difference to us. We would have wanted you back. It turns out we couldn't do it without you," Jack said, touching her shoulder gently. "Overwatch needed you. And now I need you."

Ana read the desperation on Jack's face. "Getting revenge for what happened won't accomplish anything other than getting you killed."

"Maybe, but I still have to fight. Everyone else gave up, but not me."

He blames me, too. Ana realized. "Stubborn."

"You couldn't give up the fight either," Jack said. "Why else were you at Hakim's palace?"

"I tried to live quietly, you know. I would be near my daughter and be at peace. But the longer I lived here, the harder it was for me to escape the fact that we are responsible for what happened to this city. We shut down the Anubis project, and Egypt has never recovered." Ana stood up, turning her back to Jack. "People's lives are hard. They're being taken advantage of by parasites like Hakim. How could I let it go on when I knew there was something I could do?"

"You're fighting for justice, just like me," Jack said.

Ana's eyes narrowed. "Revenge isn't justice."

Jack threw his hands up. "We're after the same thing. Why do you think Hakim was meeting with Gabriel? He's working for Talon. The rot on this city is going to spread, and it will ruin the world just like it always does."

"Hakim runs a criminal organization that has strangled Cairo. The police and the government either turned a blind eye or they're being paid off by him. Food supplies aren't being distributed to people who need them. Medical care is almost impossible to get," Ana said. "Look me in the eye and tell me you can leave without doing anything."

"Cairo and the world will suffer until we bring them all down! You have to see the bigger picture," Jack said heatedly.

"Are you even hearing yourself? You would never have made this argument before," Ana said disapprovingly. "The way we do things matters."

"Times change," Jack said with finality. "Either you're coming with me, or I'm leaving. I've already wasted too much time."

“I’m not going,” Ana said.

For a long moment, Jack stared at her in silence. "A sniper takes the most dangerous threat out first. That was your job." Jack picked up his ruined coat. "If you want to waste your time on petty criminals, so be it. I have a war to fight."

He stormed out.

After Jack left, Ana switched on her computer. Jack had been using it earlier, and the screen was cluttered with articles about Reaper’s movements and appearances. Ana wondered who had been supplying Jack with some of this information, but that was a puzzle for another time. She browsed through the reports and remembered the ruined face she had seen behind the mask.

Gabriel… what happened to you?

One of the articles indicated that casualties in one of Reaper's attacks had suffered the same sort of wounds as Jack.

That damned scientist, Ana thought with disgust.

The other information offered little new insight on the Reaper, providing only a view into Jack's mind. He was following a spiderweb of corporations, government officials, and financial institutions, all hopelessly tangled together through corrupt arteries and shady intermediaries. It was the sort of problem that was never Jack's strong suit. He preferred two sides, concrete facts, and one clear, unequivocal decision.

The messy stuff was always Gabriel's arena.

Not as much as it used to be.

Ana considered her options. In her heart, she knew she wanted to stay. Egypt was failing. In a few more years, it was likely that it would fall into chaos, torn apart by profiteers and criminals like Hakim. As the bounty hunter Shrike, she had slowly been making a difference, little by little. If she left, all her work would be undone.

But there are other people here, like Fareeha. They're not helpless. It doesn't have to be you.

That pride again.

She looked back at articles about the vigilante Soldier: 76. One caught her attention: a break-in at LumériCo's newest fusion plant. There’d been a gunfight in the middle of the market—a number of serious injuries and property damage—all of it attributed to him. But there was also eyewitness testimony from a local girl in Dorado. Even though everyone else thought he was someone to fear, she'd called him a hero.

It doesn't have to be you, but sometimes, people need something to believe in.

Ana knew what she needed to do. She walked over to the makeshift shelf that held the treasures she'd found in the necropolis when she'd first arrived. She looked at the feline face on the ancient mask. It was the goddess Bastet.

A guardian.

Jack walked through the sleeping city. The cool night air was a pleasant break from the heat of the day. Given the late hour, the streets were quiet, even though he had wandered into the city center. The stalls selling food, scavenged omnic parts, or fabrics and textiles had all long since shut down. Curfews weren't imposed, but the city's residents were advised to stay indoors after sundown for their own protection. After coming face to face with Reaper, the dark was a pool of shadows that hid the unknown.

Jack had been on the hunt for some time now, gathering information, and tracking what leads he had. He'd had the benefit of being unnoticed, but things had changed. There was no doubt that Talon and its allies knew he was coming for them. He had gotten one good night's sleep since he arrived in Cairo, and it was the first in as long as he could remember.

I can't believe she drugged me, Jack thought.

He was uneasy now. Staying in one place for too long was risky, especially now that Gabe would be looking for him. He had to move on.

Night had crept towards morning and a full moon was hanging lower in the sky when Jack finally returned. Ana was sitting at the computer as he entered.

"Come back for the rest of your things?" she asked without looking up.

He walked over to her, "I'll help you capture Hakim. Once that's done, we go after Reaper."

"We have to make sure the city is secure," Ana corrected him. "I'll only leave with you after things here are settled. That means not just Hakim, but his followers, too. I need to know that the people will be safe."

Jack's jaw clenched as he considered the offer. "Then let's go over to his manor and round him and his men up. One quick strike before they have time to prepare."

Ana shook her head. "No rushing in. Remember how it went last time?"

"It would have been fine if Gabe hadn't showed up," Jack said.

Ana arched an eyebrow.

Jack sighed. "What's the plan then?"

"We start at the bottom and work our way up. Close the net around Hakim, starve him of his resources, and force him out into the open. We have to expose him and the people that are protecting him. Understood?"

Jack sighed, relenting. "You know, I told Gabe they picked the wrong person for Strike-Commander."

"Yes, but you meant him, not me," Ana replied.

"It could have been Reinhardt," Jack smirked.

"Let's not be crazy now."

Ever since the fight at his palace, Hakim had been reticent to return, instead moving between his safehouses in the city. Jack had been able to track down a number of them and found the one that was most conducive to their plans. He rented an apartment that overlooked it. Ana and Jack hadn't bothered with niceties: the room was furnished only with a couple beaten-up wooden chairs and a wooden crate. They took turns with one sleeping bag. After the second day, Ana had insisted on bringing a hot plate so she could make tea.

Within a week, they'd rounded up a number of Hakim's associates, whittling away at his organization. Word spread about someone targeting Hakim's organization. Whoever it was, people agreed, they meant to bring Hakim to justice. But after the initial burst, things had slowed down. Hakim went further underground. He was being more careful. There was nothing to do but wait.

The boredom wasn't so bad for Ana. As a sniper, she had more than her share of patience, and having the freedom to move around, take naps, and even go outside, made it more than tolerable. Jack was restless, though. She saw the way he looked out the window, searching the horizon endlessly, and Ana knew his gaze was fixed on one thing.

Gabriel.

"Anything?" Jack asked, glancing up. He leaned back in his chair in a way that would make a school teacher worried. There was something in his hand.

"No sign of Hakim. What are you looking at?" Ana asked.

"Oh, just reminiscing about the old days." Jack passed over the small stack of photos. They were well-worn, creased in places, and had obviously been Jack's companions for a long time.

The top photo was a picture of them with Gabriel, all three looking young and optimistic, though Gabriel already showed signs of the stress of leadership weighing upon him. They'd just won a major battle in Rio de Janeiro. "I remember the beach," Ana smiled. "We look so serious in this picture—it's funny!"

"That's why it's a great photo!" laughed Jack.

It’s good to know he can still laugh.

She turned to the next one and almost dropped the photos in surprise. She'd never seen the photo, but she recognized it immediately. Jack looked so much younger. He had just stepped off a military transport for leave. It was the other person in the picture that surprised her—a dark-haired man, dressed in a casual, black button up shirt. Jack's arm was around his shoulder.

Vincent.

"Vincent… I haven't thought about him in years," Ana said. "Still keeping a candle lit for him?"

Jack shook his head. "Nothing like that."

"You've never looked in on him? You must have been curious. All the surveillance power in the world. I bet Gabe would have put a Blackwatch agent on him if you asked," Ana said.

Jack glared at her.

"Okay, touchy subject."

Jack laughed. "He got married. They're very happy. I'm happy for him."

Ana was unconvinced. In the early days, Jack talked about him often, floating a dream that the war would end quickly, and maybe he'd have a chance to return to a normal life.

But a normal life was never the reward for people like us.

"Vincent deserved a happier life than the one I could give him." Jack sighed. "We both knew that I could never put anything above my duty. Everything I fought for was to protect people like him… That's the sacrifice I made."

"Relationships don't work out so well for us, do they?" Ana said, unconsciously running her thumb over where her wedding ring used to be.

"At least you and Gabe managed to have families."

The pair lapsed back into silence.

Ana glanced out the window to see the familiar figure of Hakim entering the apartment block. "It's him." Ana passed the photos back to Jack, who carefully slid them into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Ready?" Jack asked as he put his mask and targeting visor on, picking up the heavy pulse rifle where he had propped it against the wall.

Ana took her own rifle, quite a bit more manageable than Jack's, and slung it over her shoulder. She clipped a few flashbangs to her belt and then retrieved the last item from her pack: the black and gold mask.

"You're bringing that?" Jack asked.

"You inspired me, Jack. Soldier: 76 is more than a vigilante. The world knows that name. Your enemies are afraid you'll find them. I don't want Hakim, Talon, or anyone else to plunge Cairo back into chaos the second I'm gone. I'm putting on a new mask. Not a hunter this time, a protector. The kind of persona that I could leave behind to keep the people safe… Bastet."

"I just thought my mask was scary." Jack smiled.

"Bastet is scarier than an old lady."

"Ana, there's nothing scarier than an old lady," Jack said.

"You would know."

One week later, Ana and Jack were packing up the necropolis base. They'd leave much of Ana's belongings behind, taking only what they needed for the journey ahead. Hakim and his network of criminals had been dismantled. The news had started to report about the movements of a guardian named Bastet who had captured Hakim and exposed the extent of his crimes. Even the government was forced to act.

"What about these?" Jack pointed at the shelf that had the Egyptian artifacts on it.

"I could barely manage carrying you, and you want me to bring all this?" Ana said. "It's well-hidden. It will just wait here until I can find a proper caretaker."

"Fareeha?" Jack guessed. "You talked to her?"

"I… left her a message," Ana said.

"You're sure you can leave things like this? It could be a long time before you see her again."

If ever.

Ana sighed. "She never responded to my first letter."

Jack winced. "She'll come around in time. She loves you. Did you tell Sam anything?"

"I will, eventually. Maybe," Ana said. "I made a big enough mess of his life without having to give him the news. None of us are very good at saying goodbye, are we?"

"We're better than Reinhardt, anyway. I'm pretty sure his life is just one long attempt to avoid saying a goodbye."

"How is he?" Ana asked.

"That's a long story," Jack said. "But I suppose we'll have time."

Ana nodded. "There's something I want to be clear about before we leave, Jack," Ana said. "I'm going with you, but I'm not convinced that this is a good idea at all. Talon, Overwatch, Gabriel… I already let go of them. It hurt." She paused. "When I first came to the necropolis, most of the artifacts I found were ruined. I saved what I could, but I had to leave the rest. That's what's most important, Commander."

"Don't call me, that," Jack groused. "And come on. We need to pay a visit to some old friends."

They left the necropolis, sealing the entrance behind them. Long after they'd left, the relics of ancient civilizations laid in wait in the darkness of that dusty room. At the center of them all was a golden mask bearing the face of a goddess. Just as it remained in the hearts of the people of Cairo, and the fears of those who would harm them: a mask and a name.

#source: overwatch media #short story #ana amari #jack morrison #gabriel reyes #overwatch #abdul hakim #angela ziegler #cole cassidy #amélie lacroix #gérard lacroix #reinhardt wilhelm #anubis #vincent #fareeha amari #alejandra #sam amari #dr. lee #moira o'deorain

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