#was on the fence about widowmaker but like
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Breaking [My Heart]: Act VI Yielding
“There's nothing simple when it comes to you and I,
Always something in this everchanging life”
- Everchanging [Rise Against]
Winston has issued the recall towards rebuilding Overwatch. Angela - formerly known as “Mercy” - is captured by Talon, who are searching for any information that can stop the rise before it begins.
AO3 | FF.net | Works | Pandora Playlist
Trigger Warnings & General Statements
This is a dark torture story. As such, there's going to be bad things happening - for the sake of not spoiling, I will not tag what, exactly will be appearing at any time. While I don't think any of the scenes are terribly graphic in nature, I do want to stress that the scenes are present and aren't for everyone.
I did try to make the reactions and trauma realistic, following both real-world medicine / research and in-game universe canon (such as Angela's nanotechnology).
There will be multiple POVs per chapter - two sets for both Angela and Reaper as well as a fifth from an additional character.
Please, read at your own risk - and enjoy!
Here’s my chance for a new beginning
I saved the best for a better ending
And in the end I’ll make it up to you, you’ll see
You’ll get the very best of me
- One Day Too Late [Skillet]
He’d watched Baptiste go with some trepidation. What if he called Talon and told them where they were? Sure, they hadn’t been greeted by a strike team when he’d walked through the door, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be one sent now.
But the only choices had been to send Baptiste out for the necessary supplies or go himself - and he was hesitant to leave Angela without protection, especially with someone he didn’t trust. He barely trusted Sombra, because he knew that she had her own agenda. Each person she had used to get them here was just another person that could sell them out. There were too many moving pieces that left her vulnerable.
There were plenty of people - on both sides of the fence - that would love to get their hands on Angela as she was now.
With that in mind, he set about securing the apartment as best as possible. He pulled the curtains closed - and then, for good measure, pinned them into place with some needles pilfered from Baptiste’s bag. It wouldn’t help against infrared sights like Widowmaker had, but it couldn’t hurt. Gabriel wanted to move the bed away from the window, make shooting Angela even more of an impossibility, but it just wasn’t possible. Perhaps he and Baptiste would be able to manage it once she was more aware.
He pulled up a chair, placing it between Angela and the window so that - should there be a shot - he or Baptiste would, hopefully, take the bullet for her. Because of the angle it sat at, it was impossible to see into the next room when seated; he didn’t like that, either, but there was only so much he could do. After moving quickly through the rest of the small apartment, tugging the curtains closed as he had in the bedroom and hiding away various sharp objects, he returned into the bedroom and gently closed the door behind him.
He stalked around the bed to settle on the chair, pulling out one of his shotguns and laying it on the nightstand - as far from Angela as he could - for easier access. Then he had nothing left to do but wait. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, would come first: Baptiste’s return or Angela’s awakening.
---
Angela had fallen into an uneasy sleep about fifteen minutes ago, going from lazy stillness to nervous twitching. Gabriel had called out to her softly, but she hadn’t reacted to his voice or her name. He watched her as she shifted and breathed shakily, clearly having another of her terrible dreams. Angela was no stranger to bad dreams - he had woken her from, or had been woken by, those dreams once upon a time - so he wasn’t sure if waking her would be the right call.
She needed the rest - meager as it was - so Gabriel decided to leave her alone. If she started crying or screaming, he could wake her then.
Two knocks at the front door had him pushing to his feet. He was standing in the bedroom doorway, shotgun in hand, as the front door opened. He kept the gun at his side - it was probably Baptiste because what kind of strike team knocked? - as he tugged the bedroom door shut behind him. Indeed, it was Baptiste; the Haitian man raised his hands slightly as if to show he wasn’t a threat. Baptiste opened his mouth, but then seemed to think better of it; instead, he turned to go into the kitchen and put away whatever it was that he had bought.
Gabriel planned to watch him - as if he hadn’t left Baptiste unsupervised while he was out getting supplies - but he heard Angela make a small noise of fear. He turned away from the medic to reenter the bedroom.
“Angela?” Gabriel kept his voice soft; he wasn’t sure if she was still asleep or reacting to her new surroundings. Her body tensed at his voice; she was awake, then. Gabriel was grateful for the quiet return. Talking her down from the nightmares was more challenging when he probably was her nightmare.
“It’s alright, Angela,” he murmured as she opened her eyes and stopped pretending that she was sleeping. Warily, she scanned the room. “You’re safe.” Gabriel could see the doubt in her eyes and couldn’t blame her; what reason had he given her to trust him? None. He’d betrayed her at every turn - how could she believe that he was telling the truth now? Her eyes hardened as she stared at his right hand; he’d forgotten that he was holding a gun.
“It’s not - I’m not going to shoot you, Angela.” Gabriel knew Angela and her moods better than anyone, and not even he could determine what flashed across her face. He could, however, tell what it wasn’t: relief. In the short time he had left Talon base for that failed mission in Russia, she had lost her fire. He had watched the recording of her ‘execution’; he’d seen the relief at the threat of the gun and the sheer despair when it was a lie. It was what kept him from setting the gun anywhere within her reach. Gabriel wasn’t sure if she’d use it against him or herself - or both.
He’d gamble with his life, but he was done gambling with hers.
Instead, he holstered it. He watched her face carefully, but Angela was no longer looking at him. She was looking around, searching the walls for whatever it was that helped her mind escape and generally doing anything to keep her eyes from landing on his form. He could tell, though, by the rigid way she held herself and the tightness in her eyes, that Angela was very aware of him. She would react to any movement, no matter how small.
Baptiste knocked on the door frame, drawing Angela’s panicked attention as the medic paused just outside the room. He saw the recognition that changed to pain - betrayal - in her eyes as she took in the Haitian man, and then she was walled away again as she turned away to stare at the ceiling. Gabriel hadn’t realized Angela would know the man Sombra had sent. That new knowledge had him stalking across the room, forcing himself to ignore the way she flinched away and turn his back on her for a brief moment.
“She knows you?” He whispered furiously, angling himself again so that he could watch her. Now that she was free, unbound, he worried about what she might do to herself.
“We worked together once, about a year ago,” Baptiste replied, leaning against the door with his arms crossed as he kept his eyes fixed on him; Gabriel could understand his wariness. The Reaper was the biggest threat in the room. “Why?” The flippant tone made Gabriel want to throttle him.
“Why?” Was he an idiot? “Look at her,” he ordered, one hand flying up to point in Angela’s direction. The woman flinched away - she was watching them, even when she didn’t appear to be. Baptiste frowned as he took in the broken woman again; her whole body radiated tension as she pointedly stared at the ceiling. When she thought they weren’t looking, she was stealing glances from her peripherals. Angela was still tense, trembling intermittently from the intensity, fists balled tightly; Gabriel doubted she even realized she was clenching them.
“She doesn’t believe that any of this is real.” Every time she flinched and looked at him with those wounded eyes, he was reminded of it. He was the Reaper - Talon - and was not to be - could not be - trusted. Gabriel doubted she would believe it even if Cole Cassidy were to stroll in here right now and carry her away to whatever safe haven Overwatch had built. “She thinks you’re working with Talon.” It might be a misunderstanding, but right now, any misstep would further injure her. He was seething inside; she was hurt again after he had sworn she wouldn’t be.
Baptiste sighed, deflating. He hadn’t been able to see what Angela was like when she was coherent - or, at least, whatever passed for coherency for her these days.
“You need to get her help.” His cheerful attitude was gone, his face grave as he turned back to Gabriel. “Not this half-assed shit: real help.” Gabriel ground his teeth; what did this man think he was doing? It wasn’t like he had a lot of time - or many options.
“I’m working on it.” The response was tight. If he could, he would just take her in to see a doctor. Gabriel wasn’t sure when it would ever be safe enough for her to be seen in such a manner, now that Talon had gotten its hooks in her.
He wasn’t sure if she’d ever feel safe enough to leave whatever Watchpoint he’d end up delivering her to.
Baptiste turned away without speaking. Gabriel wasn’t sure what he was going for, but he wasn’t going to leave Angela alone to find out. Instead, Gabriel strode back around the bed to sit in the chair at her side and pretended that she didn’t try to scoot away from him once he settled. Pretended he hadn’t heard the low, pained noise she had made when the movement hurt something - probably her knee. Pretended that she wasn’t tearing his heart out with every look and flinch.
---
Gabriel wished that he could call Sombra; that would make contacting Overwatch so much easier.
Instead, he had to try and hunt them down the old fashioned way. That wasn’t - usually - a problem, but he usually didn’t have a half-dead doctor he was trying to hide. Normally he wasn’t on the run from Talon, either. If Overwatch had stayed at Watchpoint: Gibraltar, his life would have been easier - but then Talon’s task would have been, too. Now he was left trying to figure out what Watchpoint Winston might have chosen. He doubted they had moved too far, so he was pretty sure they were still somewhere in the European continent.
That was still a good number of Watchpoints to look into - and all of them were on a completely different continent from him. Gabriel had briefly entertained the thought that they might create a new base, one that no one - not the UN, not the various enemies of Overwatch - knew about, but he had tossed the idea aside. The creation of a new base would take up time and resources that they just didn’t have now, especially once he considered how active many former members - like Reinhardt and Tracer - were in the search for Angela.
There was the tip line that Tracer had spouted on behalf of the UN, but he was hesitant to use such a public method to reach out. There was no guarantee he would get someone he trusted to appear - and Gabriel wasn’t giving Angela to anyone he didn’t trust. Not even to Winston, though he knew Angela trusted the monkey and that she would be perfectly safe in his care. Gabriel didn’t trust it - never had and, at this point, never would - no matter how much Angela did.
It had been hard enough to leave Angela in Baptiste’s care. Sombra had assured him that Baptiste only had Angela’s best interests at heart - had, in fact, tried to warn Angela that Talon was coming for her, though she had left out the part where they knew each other - but that didn’t mean Gabriel trusted him. Still, perhaps Angela would recover better without Gabriel - the Reaper - looming over her bedside.
Hopefully, Angela would move past what appeared to be a betrayal by yet another person from her past. Hopefully, their shared history was positive enough to let her trust Baptiste in a way she no longer could trust Gabriel.
He hated that he had broken that trust.
He couldn’t change the past, though. He couldn’t take back the hateful things he did or said; all he could do now was try to make it better.
That was why he was prowling in the dark, forgotten areas of the city. Even the precious “City of Harmony” couldn’t avoid crime; it was part of human nature. Instead, they pretended those places didn’t exist because they didn’t fit in the picture-perfect world they had created. Oh, the Reaper was sure that authorities tried to flush out these hot spots, but they would keep popping up. Eventually, they would give up, instead settling for knowing where the crime would be instead of trying to smother it, just like every other city in the world.
Gabriel was hoping to find one of his contacts from his Blackwatch days. This contact was a shared one between many agents; Gabriel was sure that Cassidy had been one of the agents who used this particular man. If Cassidy was searching for Angela - and Gabriel knew he would be, even if he couldn’t be public about it - he’d have tapped any and all sources for help.
Even if it were a tool he’d thought he’d thrown away long ago when he had left Blackwatch.
Gabriel wouldn’t pass a message - no, that was too dangerous - but he might be able to get a location on the cowboy. All that would be left after that was contact and delivery; then Angela could, hopefully, be left in some semblance of peace.
Her eyes opened to blinding white lights. She became aware of her arms, straining at the shoulders from where she sagged against the chains that held her up; they shook with relief when she managed to brace her right leg on the slippery floor. Angela was dripping wet; they had just thrown the icy water over her, shocking her awake.
Angela had known she would be back here. An escape had been too good to be true; Gabriel was dead and the Reaper had tricked her in such a vile way. Fingers dug into her cheeks painfully, forcing her head backward until her neck ached.
“Didn’t I tell you, princess?” The Speaker was right in front of her, just out of sight due to the lights as he sneered. “We won’t let you go that easily.” He laughed, finding pleasure in her despair. Before he stopped, the strap with its many sharp edges cleaved into her back, tearing her back away one jagged gash at a time. Angela bit down on her lip, swallowing down a scream, as it all began again. She had to hold out and survive the pain and the overwhelming tide of despair.
Questions. Pain. Silence. Drowning. Screaming.
It felt like they had her for hours, the questions echoing and repeating around her as they hurt her. She hadn’t been able to keep back her sounds of pain, starting as whimpers and ending with throat-burning screams. It had to end soon, right? They always stopped, always gave her a short respite to recover and gather the ragged bits of herself back together.
Shaking. She was shaking, a different voice calling over the Speaker. Angela blinked in confusion; no one but the Speaker talked to her during these sessions. When her eyes opened again, the blinding light and chains were gone. She was no longer hanging from chains but lying on something soft.
Angela flinched back from the familiar man hovering over her, concerned as he looked down at her. Angela didn’t know how to handle such gentle emotions any longer - she didn’t believe in them enough to trust them after everything she had been through - so Angela turned her head slightly so she could stare at a wall instead.
It wasn’t the same white wall she had become accustomed to. It was a beige color, textured instead of smooth concrete.
“Dr. Ziegler?” Baptiste’s voice was hesitant as he removed his hand from her shoulder slowly; Angela hadn’t even realized he was touching her until the hand was removed - and wasn’t that foolish? He’d been shaking her, so of course he was touching her. She kept her eyes away from his form and instead swept them across the room, searching as she always did. Her friends had returned on the day of her ‘escape’ when the Reaper had been cleaning her body with painful gentleness.
Angela vaguely remembered Baptiste. They had worked together some time ago, and he had seemed like a good man. But that he was here, in this room with her, meant that he couldn’t be trusted. This was a trap, a trick to get her to let her guard down and betray her friends - her true friends, not this one-time ally from some far off place and time.
“Dr. Ziegler?” The man asked again. Angela glanced up towards him, body tensed and ready for the pain that had become expected. Her wary eyes met his concerned ones for a brief moment before glancing away again. Angela refused to speak because she knew that if she did, she might never stop. Instead, she looked around her new prison.
It was a bedroom, she realized finally. She couldn’t see much from her prone position, but there were doorways and a small table - nightstand - next to the bed she laid in. The softness was alien and almost unbearable after so many days - weeks? Months? - sleeping on cold concrete or suspended by chains.
“You may not remember me, doctor,” Baptiste’s voice was cheery, not at all deterred by her silence. Angela couldn’t tell if it was forced or real. “We worked together in Venezuela a year or so ago. My name is Baptiste.” He paused there, giving her time to respond if she so chose - which she did not. Once it was obvious she was planning to remain silent, Baptiste continued.
“You’ve been sleeping a while, Dr. Ziegler. I’m sure you’re hungry.” At the reminder, her stomach suddenly made itself very known. Yes, she was hungry - not that she would admit it aloud. “If you’ll just wait right here, I’ll get that fixed right up. Sound good?” As if she were in any position to leave this bed. After another long moment of silence, Baptiste nodded once and left the room.
Angela pressed her arms down against the mattress in an attempt to sit upright. Her body’s weakness and the pliable mattress made the attempt impossible. She wasn’t sure what she had expected; she had barely been capable of pushing herself off the hardened concrete to eat the last time they had fed her.
When she finally lay still again, she was panting and shaking from the exertion. She had jostled her knee, which was now throbbing and pulsing in reprimand for her movements. But, Angela had discovered that she wasn’t restrained - except, of course, by her weak body. Her trembling hands explored the bed, marveling at the soft cloth and smooth sheets, before sliding to her body.
There was some cloth covering her - a brief glance down showed some sort of green fabric. Angela marveled at that, too. It had been a long time since she had been clothed, since her naked body hadn’t been on display for everyone to see. Her fingers were playing with one of the buttons when Baptiste walked back in with a small tray. He placed the tray on a second table to her right, one that she hadn’t noticed when she was avoiding looking at him.
“Now, unless you want to wear your food, you’re going to have to be sitting up.” Angela frowned; she had already tried that, which meant he would have to touch her again. As he reached out, Angela tensed. When his hands grabbed her with a careful, practiced touch, she began shaking, forcing him to pause.
“It’s alright, doctor,” he soothed as he began lifting her despite her tension. “Just bear with me a little bit.” Angela stared past Baptiste towards the ceiling - and then the wall, once he had maneuvered her upright.
“There we go!” Baptiste released her slowly, as if she would fall over without his support. Angela was leaning heavily against the pillows that he had propped behind her, so she was in no danger of falling. Once he was satisfied, he settled in a chair pulled up close to her bedside and grabbed a bowl from the tray he had brought in.
“Now, I know, this isn’t exactly how you want to do this,” Baptiste said, scooping some broth up with a spoon and holding it up towards her face. “In a few days, you’ll be strong enough to do it yourself.” Angela didn’t want to eat, despite her hunger and weakness. Eating would prolong her existence and keep her in their clutches that much longer. But she knew what the consequences of not eating would be. Rough hands forcing her mouth open until her jaws creaked, food stuffed down her throat until she thought she would suffocate as she swallowed and swallowed to try and breathe.
No, she didn’t want that.
Resigned, she ate the broth he offered. The warmth soothed her throat - which she hadn’t even realized was sore - and pooled in her stomach comfortably. It tasted bitter, though; despite herself, she recoiled and glanced up at him in horror. What was in that liquid? Something to help calm her, to make her more pliable for their questions? He looked surprised, before realization crossed his face.
“You probably can taste the supplements I added,” Baptiste explained hurriedly. “It’s nothing bad; just some extra protein and vitamins to help you recover.” He muttered something about the taste under his breath, but it was low enough that she didn’t catch all of it. “Seriously, look,” Baptiste ate a spoonful of the broth himself, as if to prove its safety; Angela knew that one spoonful was nothing compared to an entire bowl, but what could she do?
Resigned, she went through the motions of eating as he fed her slowly - far slower than she was used to. Each time, the bitterness struck her and her anxiety spiked – but she couldn’t tell what the drug was doing to her. Perhaps he had been telling the truth, though Angela highly doubted it. Baptiste chattered brightly at her as she ate, but she wasn’t listening. Refused to listen, because Angela recognized it for the trap that it was.
They had tried to break her with pain and death, but they had failed. Now, they were trying to break her with kindness and gentle hands. Angela wouldn’t allow that to happen; she had been through far too much to fail now.
He was trying to befriend her, to get behind her walls to crack her open and reveal her secrets. Only one person had ever been capable of doing that - and he was dead, even though his body still roamed the Earth.
Angela was surprised he wasn’t here, looming in a corner or hovering over her, trying to convince her that he was still Gabriel and not the Reaper. He’d sat with her the last time she’d woken, but, unlike Baptiste, he had barely spoken to her. He’d just sat there, brooding while she pretended he didn’t exist. She had found Ana then, perched on the dresser that was barely in her line of sight. Angela had let Ana soothe her until she could fall into an uneasy sleep - which Baptiste had helpfully woken her from.
“Alright, all done.” Baptiste finally declared, setting the spoon and bowl back onto the tray. Angela’s hunger wasn’t satisfied, but that wasn’t unusual. Just like pain, hunger had become a constant companion to her these days. “Now.” Angela glanced towards him briefly - he was leaning forward slightly, looking a little uncomfortable. “Do you mind if I check your wounds and change your bandages?” She stiffened, eyes darting away to sweep the room again. No one was here - at least, not now. Perhaps they would arrive soon.
“You’ve got some bad cuts there, doctor.” Baptiste continued carefully, when it was clear she wasn’t going to speak - or give any kind of permission at all. At least he was keeping his hands to himself while he was trying to convince her. “I just want to make sure they don’t get infected.” Infection was the least of her worries; in fact, if she were lucky - which she didn’t seem to be - an infection would kill her. Baptiste sighed.
“Alright. It can wait a little while - but we have to check them soon.” Angela was surprised at the capitulation. She had expected him to press the matter - but that wasn’t how this worked, she realized. They wanted her comfortable, and forcing her into doing something wouldn’t meet that goal. That was why they’d brought in a familiar face to care for her, after all. They wanted her to let her guard down so that they could wean the information they wanted from her.
He offered her the water, which she drank just as mechanically as she had the broth. Then, he chattered at her again, apparently unable to stand the silence. Angela tuned him out to the best of her ability as she looked around the room again. Still no one - not her friends nor the Reaper. Angela supposed the latter was a small mercy.
---
After each meal, Baptiste asked for her permission to look at her wounds. Finally, after her fourth meal – oatmeal, this time – he had pressed the matter.
“I know it’s uncomfortable, Doctor,” Baptiste had said, carefully trying to pull the blanket away from her tight grip, “but your injuries need tending.” As a doctor, she knew that he was right. As a person, she didn’t care.
It had taken him the better part of fifteen minutes to persuade her to let him pull away the blanket. He didn’t attempt to reach for her dress, not yet; instead, he turned his attention to her legs. Aside from the squares of gauze taped carefully to her skin, Angela’s legs were bare.
Her eyes immediately fell on her knee, still a terrible purple-black and swollen even after – well, she didn’t actually know how long it had been since the Reaper had pulled her down from the chains. Baptiste noticed her attention and pulled out something.
“I’ve got a brace for that,” he offered, holding up the object. “I wasn’t sure if I should put it on, considering the other wounds.” The brace would wrap and hold her knee in place, but it would also press against the half-healed burns and gashes still present. If she weren’t the patient, Angela would have put the brace on; the knee would continue to be damaged for as long as it was left free and unsupported.
But, she was the patient – and she desperately wanted to die. Angela wouldn’t give him any advice towards her care, not even in this small thing that would only give her more comfort. If she broke her silence, she would be tempted again – and then they would have her. Instead, she ignored his unspoken question and let her gaze wander to the left, away from the man and his expectant gaze.
Angela heard him sigh and set the brace down. She ignored the careful fingers that pulled the tape from her skin. Ignored the cool spread of ointment and the gentle, painful press where he held the gauze in place as he secured it.
Once her legs were done, she tensed. Though Angela wanted to die – and, therefore, did not want medical attention – she especially didn’t want to be naked again. The dress was the only protection she had, besides her silence. It was flimsy and frail, but it was hers.
Still, he persisted until the dress was unbuttoned and her bandages were bared. Angela glanced down at herself briefly – her broken skin was hidden from her by layers of gauze – before her gaze found the wall again. As Baptiste cut the gauze away, her attention was drawn towards the door; it had been left open by the man when he’d brought in her meal. Low voices, barely loud enough for Angela to hear, trickled into the room.
“–ch longer—going to take?” Angela went cold. She had known that this was too good to be true. She had been trembling under Baptiste’s touch, but now she was shaking in pure fear. Until the day she died – which, hopefully, would be very soon – Angela would recognize the Speaker’s voice.
“You—a month,” the Reaper growled back quietly.
“Doctor?” Baptiste’s concerned voice drowned out whatever else the Reaper said to the Speaker. She couldn’t look away from the door, couldn’t stop straining to hear the words that would condemn her. She was panting heavily, eyes wide with terror as she cowered back from the door, even though it brought her closer to Baptiste.
“–ot gonna–” The Speaker said, but Baptiste spoke over them again.
“What is it?” He rose from his seat, the movement momentarily distracting Angela from the door and the monsters in the other room. Baptiste left everything as it was – gauze and tools laid about, her bandages partially cut away – as he grabbed a gun; she hadn’t noticed it since it had been propped up against the far side of the nightstand. Competent hands lifted the weapon as he stalked around the bed to investigate the other room.
Angela wasn’t fooled; he was in on this charade. He was just acting for her benefit, to cover up the fact that this was a trick. She doubted that she was expected to hear the voices; they had been quiet and Baptiste had been distracting her with the stress of a bandage change.
Her ears still strained to hear the words, but she couldn’t make any out. She could hear the voices of the Speaker and the Reaper, but their words were no longer intelligible between the roaring in her ears and their volume. Baptiste glanced into the other room cautiously before carefully exiting to ‘look’ more thoroughly.
Angela looked away again; she couldn’t hear the words and she didn’t want to watch him come back in with his lies. Angela’s eyes cut across the bed towards the right side of the room – where Baptiste had just been sitting – and paused, fixated on the sheets next to her leg.
He had left all of his supplies scattered around, including the bandage scissors he had been using to remove the gauze around her chest. Angela reached out for the tool with shaking fingers that steadied once she had it in hand. Relief chased away her terror, but she knew that she didn’t have a lot of time before Baptiste returned.
Angela barely hesitated – she would not go back to the Speaker, to his chains and the pain. She knew that she would have to cut deep; that if she didn’t, either her nanites or Baptiste would put her back together more quickly than she could bleed out. With a steadying breath, she pressed the sharp edge of the scissors against her left forearm near her elbow before dragging down towards her wrist.
It stung, but it was nothing compared to the pain she had experienced – and the pain she was trying to avoid.
Switching the blade to her left hand was more of a challenge; everything was suddenly more messy, now that her blood was flowing freely. She should have used her left hand first; it was her least dominant that was now slick with blood and shaking again.
“There’s nothing ou—Doctor!“ Baptiste stepped through the door as she was dragging a line through her right arm; he was across the room and yanking the scissors from her grip before she could get more than halfway down her right forearm. Swearing up a storm, he used one hand to clamp down on her left arm in an attempt to stop as much of the blood flow as possible, as his other scrambled to grab some of the loose gauze.
Angela tried to struggle out from under his grip; the blood that was absolutely everywhere helped in that regard, and she managed to free her arm for a short moment – then he was upon her again.
“Stay still,” Baptiste shouted, but she ignored the order and just squirmed more. Angela was surprised he didn’t call for help from the other room – or that someone didn’t rush in to try to help him. Angela knew there were at least two men out there; one was the Reaper, who could come in without ‘surprising’ her, because she’d seen him here before.
In response to her squirming and attempts to escape his grasp, Baptiste moved until he was over her on the bed, pinning her down with his body weight as he focused on her arms. The positioning made her nauseous with terror, her body going cold – but perhaps that was from the blood loss.
“No,” Angela whimpered plaintively as he began winding the gauze around her left forearm tightly – too tight, the medical professional in her noted but, right now, she doubted he cared. Angela twisted, trying to throw him off balance or drag herself out from underneath him. She was too weak for it to be more than a slight annoyance, and he ignored her struggles as he wrapped the gauze haphazardly around her arm.
As she knew all too well, it didn’t have to look pretty to get the job done.
Angela panted, terrified; though she knew it was pointless, she continued to try and escape – even as he tied off the bandage on her left arm. Already, she could see the faint pink tint staining the white gauze, but she knew that this was merely a stopgap; he had to slow her bleeding before he could properly stitch her back up.
She knew she wasn’t weak enough, hadn’t bled enough, to die – but she was too weak to stop him. Tears welled; Baptiste had won. She wouldn’t get another chance – she had been lucky to get this chance. Angela was going to go back to that room, the room she desperately wanted to avoid.
Her right arm went faster than the left, considering the gash was smaller than the other. He tied that off, too, before glancing around the room. Angela knew he was looking for his medical kit, which was just out of reach of the bed – on purpose, so that Angela couldn’t get her hands on anything like the bandage scissors he’d carelessly left on the bed.
That forced him to leave the bed, leaving her free to writhe away and try to rip the bandages off. She had nearly thrown herself off the left side of the bed when his hand clamped down on her right arm and dragged her back. The action also pulled her hand away from the bandages, though she had managed to loosen the knot he’d quickly tied.
As he turned back to his kit for a moment, her fingers lifted to yank at the knot again and began unwinding the bandages. She had nearly gotten all of them off when he clamped down on her again – this time, not to stop her actions, but to hold her still so he could inject her with something.
“I’m sorry, Doctor.” His voice was distant and fuzzy as he yanked her right hand away and began undoing all her work as quickly as possible. “You left me no choice.” Her head was swimming, and she couldn’t focus – what had he given her? Hopefully, he’d given her too much, considering her malnutrition, wounds, and blood loss; if he did, she’d never wake up.
Her eyes fluttered closed as he turned away once more, her arms securely wrapped in the protective gauze.
Gabriel froze when he walked into the bedroom, taking in the bloody tableau. The blankets were thrown on the floor carelessly, and sheets were stained with red. Small droplets of blood had splattered on the headboard as well as the carpet close to the bed. Angela’s arms, which had been bare when he left this morning, were now wrapped heavily with gauze.
A noise pulled Gabriel’s attention away from Angela to look over at the medic. He was setting down his weapon – an impressive looking assault rifle that had, apparently, been modified for healing, though he hadn’t used any of it in this room – against the nightstand. Then, he leaned back in the chair, looking exhausted; through the whole thing, Baptiste never took his eyes off of the doctor.
“What happened?” Gabriel demanded, snarling. He knew he should keep his voice down – or at least moderate it to be less vicious – for Angela’s sake, but it was hard when faced with this.
“She got my scissors,” Baptiste admitted, not a single trace of his typical humor. Gabriel turned his gaze back to Angela, horrified; she was breathing steadily and – for all appearances – seemed to be sleeping peacefully.
Angela didn’t sleep peacefully – not even when she was so exhausted that she forgot her nightmares in the morning. Gabriel knew that she always twitched and shifted, murmuring softly or crying out; the bedding would often be twisted when they woke, and it wasn’t from any fun nighttime activity.
No, her sleeping this way was unnatural, especially after her torture from the last month.
“How did you let that happen?” Gabriel growled, forcing himself to remain in the doorway. If he moved closer, he would probably rip out Baptiste’s throat – and he still needed the medic.
“I managed to convince – I think, or maybe she gave up? Anyways, – her to let me change her bandages. I did her legs and was just beginning to remove the gauze around her torso when she made this quiet noise.” Baptiste paused there, appearing to be at a loss for words; Gabriel forced himself to look at the medic, because to continue looking at the bandages was infuriating him. “It made my hair stand on end, man; I couldn’t help but look up.” He rubbed at his arms absently.
“She’s so amped, you know? Nervous. Always looking around, always noticing things even if she wasn’t looking.” Gabriel did know; she was hypervigilant. It wasn’t unexpected, considering everything she’d been through. “So, when I saw her staring at the door, looking so scared, I thought maybe she’d heard something I didn’t.” Baptiste gestured at his rifle.
“I went to investigate, make sure we weren’t under attack. I didn’t find anyone, so I came back to finish up with her.” Baptiste took a heavy breath. “I wasn’t gone for more than two minutes, I swear.” A lot could happen in two minutes, as both men were aware.
“I came back and she was cutting at one of her arms; I took the scissors away and tried to stop the bleeding.” Baptiste looked nauseous as he finally lifted his gaze from the doctor to look at the Reaper.
“She fought me hard; I’ve never seen anyone so desperate to die.” His voice was bleak, face ashen. “I had to pin her down to get the first set of gauze on.” Gabriel was unsurprised at Angela’s determination, even though it saddened him. He’d seen it in the armory weeks ago, when she’d gone for the gun. That determination – despair – had only increased since then.
“She nearly ripped the bandages off again before I sedated her,” Baptiste sighed. “I don’t know if the dosage was too much, considering everything. She’s been down for a few hours.” That explained the peaceful breathing, then.
“I told you,” Gabriel rumbled into the silence. “I told you she thought this was a trick. I warned you that she was suicidal.” He had trusted this man with her safety – and that trust had been betrayed. The Reaper wanted to paint the walls red with Baptiste’s blood, but he couldn’t.
Gabriel needed Baptiste’s medical experience, even though he’d nearly allowed Angela to die on his watch. Besides, if the Reaper decorated the room with Baptiste’s insides, Angela would be even more terrified than she already was.
“Get out,” Gabriel ordered, stepping further into the room so that Baptiste could comply. He needed a few hours without seeing the medic, a few hours to watch Angela breathe and assure himself that – despite yet another injury under his care – she was alive.
A few hours to berate himself for being so careless.
Baptiste scrambled to his feet, somehow managing to carry a tray laden with a bowl and his gun as he made for the door. Gabriel noticed that Baptiste kept as much distance as possible between the two of them as he moved.
“Call me if you need anything,” Baptiste told him quietly as he strode through the door. Gabriel stalked over to close it, barely keeping himself from slamming it. Then he made his way around the bed to take the seat Baptiste had vacated to watch Angela breathe.
---
“Hello?” Gabriel was surprised that Cassidy didn’t sound more defensive – but, then again, he’d probably scattered his contact information as widely as possible to try and find Angela. It was likely the cowboy had received several calls from unknown numbers in the past month.
“Is this Cole Cassidy?” Gabriel asked, though he already knew the answer. Over familiarity at this early stage would make the man far more defensive than Angela had time for. Gabriel’s eyes darted to the woman, who was still sleeping peacefully on the bloodstained sheets. He’d sent Baptiste out for new bedding - apparently, this apartment didn’t have any.
Gabriel hadn’t wanted to call Cassidy tonight – he had planned to call tomorrow when he was able to slip away from the apartment and have the conversation where Angela couldn’t possibly overhear. However, her suicide attempt required things to move even faster. Even though Gabriel wasn’t in the mood to be speaking to anyone at the moment, it was necessary for Angela’s safety – so he would force himself to remain civil for a phone conversation.
“Who’s askin’?” There was the defensive note; perhaps he hadn’t given his name out with his number. That would be a wise decision, considering the incredibly high bounty Cassidy still had on his head.
Gabriel couldn’t give him his name – either name – at this point, however. To tell him he was the Reaper would destroy any possibility of a somewhat peaceful delivery of Angela. To tell him he was Gabriel Reyes, his presumed-dead and traitorous ex-Commander, wouldn’t go over any better.
“I’m the person who’s rescued Dr. Ziegler,” he growled instead, voice quiet in deference to the sleeping blonde. Once they had hashed everything out – like where Cassidy could come to get her – he could give the cowboy his name. Cassidy inhaled sharply.
“You’ve got her?” He repeated, doubtful. “Lemme talk to her.” Gabriel looked at the doctor again. Even if she were conscious, he couldn’t have let her speak to Cassidy. She would scream about it being a trap, to stay away – and, while he didn’t believe for a second that Cassidy would listen to her warning, it would make things far more complicated than necessary.
“She’s sleeping right now,” Gabriel said instead. “I can send you a picture if you’d like.” He’d have to find a blanket that didn’t have bloodstains to cover up the mess, but he could make that happen.
“Right. B’cause those can’t be faked or anythin’,” Cassidy drawled, ever the cynic. Still, Gabriel could hear the faint note of hope in his voice; Gabriel doubted they’d had any good leads on finding Angela. If they had known Talon had her, there would have been a lot more violence reported in the news.
“Look,” Gabriel growled, his temper too frayed to properly deal with Cassidy’s caution. Still, he had to find the words to convince the cowboy that this wasn’t a prank or a trap. “Talon is chasing us. I don’t know how long we have until they find us.” That was the complete truth. He was already considering moving them out of Numbani; he had used his outfit and reputation to bully Cassidy’s number out of the criminals here, which would eventually find its way to Talon’s ears.
“You got her away from Talon?” Gabriel rolled his eyes; seriously, he could tone down the incredulity. “Is this 76?” Gabriel wasn’t surprised that Jack was out looking for Angela. She was important to him – to them both – despite everything that had happened in the past. He was surprised that Jack had contacted Overwatch, regardless of what name he had given them.
“No, this isn’t 76,” he admitted; lying about it would come out wherever they met, which would only lead to further hostilities.
“How’d ya get this number?” Incredulity melted into harsh suspicion, which was more along the lines of what Gabriel had expected. “Why’d ya call me instead of the tip line?” All fair questions.
“You spread the word underground that you’ve been looking for information on the doctor,” Gabriel told him; he’d barely had to mention the cowboy’s name to learn that. It was almost a joke among the gangsters – a notorious criminal with an enormous bounty was searching for the doctor? There’d been some talk about trapping the cowboy, luring him in so that they could get the prize; they’d even offered to split the money with him if he helped.
Considering Gabriel needed Cassidy to remain a free man, he’d declined.
“An’ ya didn’ call the tip line? I ain’t got the money for the reward they’re offerin’.” The reward was pretty substantial – nowhere near the amount of Cassidy’s bounty, but still a significant amount nonetheless.
“I don’t want the money,” Gabriel growled, “I just want her safe.” Even if she trusted him – wasn’t broken in a way he couldn’t fix – Angela couldn’t stay with him. Talon was coming, and he was just one man. Gabriel couldn’t protect her in the way she needed if she remained. He’d kill her enemies from the shadows before they reached her, instead.
“She trusts you,” he added. Gabriel paused, and then, “I trust you.”
“You tru—who is this?” Cassidy thundered. Gabriel didn’t think the cowboy believed he had Angela; without being allowed to speak and Cassidy not accepting a photograph, it would be hard to convince the cynical cowboy.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Gabriel was stalling; the Reaper was disgusted with his cowardice. Just say it and get it over with.
“Try me,” the cowboy’s voice was hard.
“You know me by two different names,” Gabriel started, because he’d have to give both names before the conversation was over. The first name would be the one that proved his honesty. The second name would, hopefully, keep him from being shot on sight. “I’m Gabriel Reyes.” Cassidy made a disbelieving noise.
“Reyes is dead.” The words were a snarl, almost as if he were trying to convince himself. “And if he weren’t, I’d kill him myself.” Well. Cassidy hadn’t hung up yet, at least.
“You call her Ange,” he said quietly. “She stayed with you for two nights straight when you lost your arm.” She had cried, too – but he was pretty sure the cowboy didn’t know that fact; the Angela from that time hadn’t been one for showing ‘weak’ emotions in public. Gabriel searched his memory for something that wouldn’t have been – relatively – widely known throughout the two organizations.
Gabriel didn’t like to think of his time with the organizations he destroyed - didn’t like to remember the happiness he had tossed aside - so it took him a moment to find something to tell Cassidy.
“One mission in Finland, you and I stayed up too late and drank too much tequila, which allowed our mark - Korhonen or Koskinen or some kind of nen, I don’t remember - to get away.” It had been stupid – they had been stupid – but it was something only they knew; Gabriel hadn’t even told Angela the real reason why he’d been delayed in coming home. Cassidy inhaled sharply, but Gabriel ignored it and continued. “Took three days to find him again, but we found him and brought him in.”
“Th’hell you doin’ with Ange, Reyes?” Despite the anger, Gabriel was relieved; Cassidy believed him. “You shouldn’ even be alive, not after what you’ve done.” He couldn’t blame Cassidy for his ire – Gabriel deserved it and far more.
“I told you: I rescued her.” Gabriel tactfully left out the part where he had been the one to kidnap her in the first place. That could come out later – when he wasn’t around to get shot, even if he deserved it. “She needs help that I can’t give her; they worked her over, and it isn’t pretty.” Angela shifted a little, drawing his attention. The sedative must be wearing off, finally. Hopefully, she would stay asleep until he finished this call – and there wasn’t a screaming nightmare to deal with.
“They—she—shit!“ Gabriel didn’t believe that Cassidy thought Angela had been safe this whole time. Cassidy knew, better than most, what she had probably faced during her captivity. Still, the abstract was always more comfortable to handle than the reality; Gabriel had learned that the hard way – and the lesson had cost Angela far too much.
“Angela will be better off in your – in Overwatch’s – care. I need to get her to you, now.” Gabriel explained quietly once the silence had dragged just a little too long. “I know you’re pissed at me, but don’t take it out on her.” The silence dragged on again as Cassidy wrestled with himself; Gabriel hoped he wouldn’t take too long, else Angela would awaken and he’d have to deal with her instead of the cowboy.
“Damn you, Reyes,” Cassidy snarled after a moment. “Fine. I’ll get a ride; where’s the drop?” Gabriel gave him coordinates of an empty field a few miles outside of Numbani. It was utterly devoid of cover, which would hopefully prove that he – at least – wasn’t trying to trap the cowboy. “Tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow,” Gabriel confirmed gravely as Angela began to murmur softly. Tomorrow, he would say goodbye again, this time for good. Tomorrow, he would never see her again – not even from a distance, because he doubted she would ever leave whatever base Cassidy took her to.
“You said ya had two names, Reyes. What’s th’second one?” Gabriel tensed; he knew it had to come out – if Cassidy came to a field and the Reaper had Angela, they’d shoot first and ask questions later. He didn’t want to risk her taking another bullet for him.
“The Reaper.” Gabriel disconnected before he could hear Cassidy’s response.
Angela jolted into sudden wakefulness when a hand closed on her shoulder. Wild-eyed, she turned to find the mask of the Reaper.
“Easy, cariño. You’re alright.” Angela shivered and looked away; she knew that he meant the words to be comforting – that was the goal here, after all – but all it did was make her sad. He was pretending to be the man she had loved – still loved, if she was honest with herself. It was cruel, especially when she so badly wanted it to be true. Angela knew it was foolish, that hope which had flickered to life when he had pulled her down from the chains and carried her from that room of pain.
But she had heard him with the Speaker. She had heard his betrayal, knew that it had all been a lie.
It was that knowledge that gave her the strength to remain silent, to not engage with this shadow of a man. After a long moment, the Reaper sighed and released her shoulder. Despite herself, Angela glanced his way to see that he had leaned back in the chair to give her some space.
“I’ve found Cassidy.” Angela froze, choking on a breath as her entire body seized with panic. No, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Talon wasn’t supposed to find any of them; she was supposed to protect them and keep them safe. It was all that was left, all she was good for – and even in that, she had failed.
If they brought one of them here – she couldn’t even consider it. It would absolutely destroy her. Angela was barely holding it together now, after they had killed the parts of her that were strong – that were Dr. Ziegler, Mercy. Angela wouldn’t survive if they brought someone else in to torture in her stead.
“Breathe, Angela.” Suddenly, the Reaper was in her face, fingers – not claws, she realized – gripping her shoulders as he tried to pull her back down. “No one is going to hurt him, cariño; everything is alright. Breathe.” Angela managed to suck in an unsteady breath, and he nodded encouragingly. “Yes, just like that.” Her body was still so tense that it hurt, but at least she wasn’t going to pass out. After a few breaths, the Reaper released her and leaned back again.
“I won’t hurt him. No one will hurt him.” The Reaper repeated. “I’m taking you to him so that he can get you the help you need.” Angela would have scoffed, but she maintained her silence by biting her lip.
‘Help.’ As if he hadn’t been the one to put her in this position, to condemn her to be battered and broken. As if this ‘rescue’ was real. She had heard him. He didn’t want to get her help – he wanted to get her broken. They would capture Cassidy by using her as bait. They would put him before her, and then it would be his pain or her words.
Would he understand if she – somehow – kept her silence? Would he forgive her?
Would she forgive herself?
“I know I’ve given you no reason to trust me, Angela.” The Reaper leaned forward again, and she tried to shift to put some distance between his familiar body and her own. “But please, mi corazón, please try to believe me.” Angela had never heard Gabriel beg before; that the first time would be now, when he was the Reaper and her enemy, was disconcerting.
“Just hold on for one more day,” his mask dropped to regard her bandaged arms meaningfully before rising again. “If not for me or yourself, then for the others. You know what your death would do to them.” Angela shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut. “You know they want you to live.” Of course her friends wanted her to live – but they hadn’t found her. She had been abandoned in that prison – this prison – and no one had saved her.
Cool fingers touched her hand cautiously, but she remained still and kept her eyes closed. Angela waited for the touch to turn into a painful grip, to dig in and to hurt. But they just curled around her fingers, holding her hand in what Angela thought might be an attempt at comfort.
It was so familiar that it hurt.
Despite the pain, despite the knowledge that it was wrong, Angela couldn’t force herself to pull away. She was too stubborn, though, to let her fingers tighten around his own. Instead, her hand remained limp in his grasp as she turned her gaze towards the ceiling and away from the Reaper’s mask to try to hide her conflicting emotions.
Then, he ruined it.
“I’m sorry, Angela.” She stiffened and would have pulled away, but his hands – both of them, now – trapped her own in a firm grip. Were she stronger, she probably could have wrenched away, but she had wasted all her strength earlier with Baptiste.
“You were the one I was never supposed to hurt, who I had sworn to protect.” His voice was solemn, as if confessing – but it wasn’t a confession when the monster before her hadn’t been the one to make those oaths. It was a lie, tailored carefully to maximize the pain when they stopped pretending again.
He seemed earnest, though; Angela hadn’t realized what a good actor he was. Had Gabriel acted like this when they had been together all those years ago, or was this a new skill that the Reaper had picked up along the way? Angela prayed it was the latter, because the former was far too painful to consider.
“I ruined everything. I know you hate me.” Angela glanced over to find his head bowed over their clasped hands. “I know you can never trust me and that nothing I can do or say will be enough to make up for what I’ve done.” He took in a harsh breath, made louder by the mask he wore.
“I don’t expect you to ever forgive me, but for everything I’ve done: I’m sorry.” The Reaper released her hand then, pulling away to rest against the back of the chair and give her space once more.
A small, hopeful – traitorous – part of her heart wanted to reach out and reclaim his hand with her own, to believe his apology was real and that he was Gabriel.
Fortunately, her time in that freezing room of chains and blood had hardened her, even this weak self that was merely Angela. It was what allowed her to look away again and lay her hand back down on the stained sheets. It was what gave her the strength to remain silent and to keep herself from crying – though what, exactly, she would be crying over eluded her.
---
She opened her eyes to find she was in a new place - again. The last thing she remembered was the Reaper lifting her off the bloody sheets so Baptiste could strip the bed. She had let her eyes drift to the open door - something she usually couldn’t see from the bed; Jack had been there, leaning against the doorframe to watch her with heavy eyes.
She had fallen asleep as he whispered warnings of betrayal and heartbreak. He had urged her to be strong because this would take everything she had - and then some.
Angela glanced around her new surroundings, trying to be surreptitious but sure she was failing. It appeared she was in a car again; if it was the same one that the Reaper had stuffed her in the first time, she wasn’t sure. He sat to her left, behind the wheel as he had the last time. Her dress was no longer green; at some point, probably when they had changed the sheets, they had put a blue dress on her.
It took her a moment to realize that the vehicle wasn’t moving. They were idling with a large expanse of grass before them. Angela wasn’t sure if they were on the side of a road or not, since she wasn’t craning her neck to look behind or to the left.
“It’s almost over, Angela,” the Reaper murmured once she had stilled in her seat. Angela stiffened at the reminder that she would have a companion in her captivity in less than an hour. Maybe more than one - despite all his knowledge, she didn’t think Cole knew how to pilot any form of aircraft.
“After today, you’ll never see me – or Talon – again.” He promised her, once the silence between them became heavy and strained. “You’ll be safe.” She didn’t believe him, of course; Angela knew she was destined to die in a Talon interrogation cell. She kept her eyes fixed on the grass outside, searching for the troops that she knew were waiting out there somewhere.
“Look,” the Reaper rumbled sometime later, one clawed hand lifting and drawing her attention away. Unable to help herself, she looked in the direction he indicated. “There they are.” Her eyes found a dark spot on the horizon: an air carrier, heading their way.
Angela wished there was something - anything - she could do to stop what was to come. She didn’t have the strength to protect them, and that crushed her just as badly as the blows across Cole’s body would.
“Shh, cariño,” the Reaper soothed. Angela immediately bit off the small, pitiful sounds she had been making, but it was impossible to stop her tears. She turned her head away, attempting to hide her face from his sight as she grieved.
It wasn’t long before the roar of the carrier filled the air. Angela couldn’t help but watch in horror, tears streaking her cheeks, as it drew closer. The car rocking drew her attention away; she hadn’t heard him open the door, but now the Reaper was stalking around the front of the vehicle to open her door.
“It’s time, Angela.” The words were practically a shout so he could be heard over the carrier. She trembled as he leaned in to unbuckle her; then, she was up in his arms and pressed against his chest once more. Her left leg - knee still shattered, as far as she could tell - only complained slightly. Angela looked at it, curious; it appeared there were at least two, maybe three, braces around the knee - it forced her leg to remain straight, even without any support from below.
As he turned them, the carrier touched down. He kept them next to the vehicle until the cargo doors opened. The turbines continued to roar - Angela would have been surprised if they had stopped them, considering that this was a trap - as a familiar figure began making his way cautiously towards them. Behind him on the ramp loomed two other people - a familiar large man and a less familiar woman.
When the Reaper started walking, Angela began shaking enough that her teeth chattered; this was bad, this was bad, this was bad. Any minute now, Talon forces would appear and throw the cowboy to the ground. His hat would tumble off and be left, forgotten, in the grass as he was dragged into hell with her.
The Reaper tightened his grip on her, his mask tilting down to consider her briefly, but if he said anything, it was lost to the roar of the carrier.
Instead, she got to watch in horror as Cole Cassidy – he was real this time, right? – drew closer. One hand was resting defensively on Peacekeeper, his sharp eyes darting around as he searched for the trap they both knew existed. She wanted to scream at him to run, but she knew her disused voice would never reach him over the roaring.
The space between them narrowed until, suddenly, they were only five feet apart.
Cole drummed his fingers impatiently against his seat. He never thought he’d be sitting in an Overwatch carrier again, but he never thought Angela would be kidnapped – tortured – either. Across from him sat Reinhardt, who was leaning forward against his giant hammer with his head bowed. His enormous armor nearly hid the smaller woman at his side – Brigitte, Torbjörn’s daughter.
Lena was piloting the air carrier. She had managed to pick up the three of them and was now flying them to Numbani, but they were cutting it rather close. It was only the four of them; if this turned out to be a trap, the odds were heavily out of their favor.
Cynical as he was, Cole expected one. Reyes and Angela had history; that much was true. Reyes had sworn to protect Angela - they all had, in their own ways - but Cole knew that personal honor meant very little to his previous Commander. Besides, it had been five years; that was a long time, and Reyes had been staining his hands with Overwatch blood in that time.
No, this was a trap and Angela was the bait. It was too perfect: she was being ‘rescued’ by the Reaper - who just happened to be Gabriel Reyes of all people? The rush for a next-day meeting, for fear of being ‘caught’? No. There was no way in hell that this was anything but a trap.
“We’re on the final approach,” Lena called back. “Scanners are only picking up two people – that’s got to be them.” Cole knew there were ways to hide from scanners, so that information wasn’t as comforting as he’d like.
“Alrigh’ then. Let’s put ‘er down an’ get Ange back.” Cole was impatient to get this done – one way or another. He turned towards the two across from him. “You two need t’ stay back on th’ cargo ramp. Watch my back and come down swingin’ if things go sideways.”
“I do not like this.” Reinhardt boomed as the carrier began to descend. “We should go with you; it is too dangerous.” Cole understood where the warrior was coming from; his job was always to protect those around him, and this was no different. Still, that didn’t change the fact that a show of force would probably end badly.
“Trust me on this one,” Jessie replied, shaking his head. “We don’ wanna risk Ange.” He doubted that Reyes had lied about Angela’s health. Cole didn’t want Angela in any more danger than necessary. It was undoubtedly a trap, so having backup was more necessary than a show of force. Besides, if Reyes really was trying to protect Angela, like he had in the past, it would be far too dangerous for them to antagonize him with a heavy presence.
“Then I should go!” Reinhardt insisted, one hand raising to slap his chest plate loudly. “My armor will protect me - and the doctor - if it is a trap; you would be killed!” That was a valid point – past the cargo ramp, he doubted that there would be no cover. Still, Cole shook his head again.
“He called me. It’s gotta be me.” This was either a convoluted trap to capture him, or it was a genuine request for help. Knowing Reyes as he did, Cole knew that he had to walk off that ramp alone. The carrier landed with a gentle jolt; as soon as it was steady, both men were on their feet with Brigitte not far behind. Reinhardt towered over Cole in a way that would be intimidating if Cole didn’t know the German man.
“You’ve gotta wait on the ramp; stay put unless things turn sour.” Reinhardt’s shoulders slumped as he sighed. Cole took that to be agreement, so he gestured towards the cargo hold. “If things do go bad, jus’ make sure y’get Ange. She’s the priority.” He allowed Reinhardt to precede him down the ramp, his giant blue shield erupting to life from his arm.
Cole paused behind the warrior to allow his eyes to adjust. Once he could see clearly, he quickly found the Reaper standing in front of a car about two hundred feet away. In his arms was a bundle of blue cloth that had Angela’s head at the top. She looked thin and fragile – words he had never used to describe her except for that period directly after the fall. Cole met Angela’s terrified eyes briefly; based on her stark terror, she believed this was a trick.
Cole forced himself to look away, fingers tightening on Peacekeeper as he searched for the trap. Cautiously, Cole pushed past Reinhardt’s barrier, as he and the Reaper approached each other. Even when they were within grabbing distance, Cole kept his hand tight on his weapon. From this point forward, he would be at his most vulnerable; once he took Angela into his arms, he’d find it hard to defend himself - or his precious cargo. While Reinhardt and Brigitte were nearby, it was still a long distance for them to travel.
“It’s just me,” the Reaper shouted over the turbines, voice gravely as he closed the final few steps between them. This close, Cole could see her hollow cheeks and how hard she was trembling; it hurt his heart to see how damaged Angela – normally their pillar of strength – was. They had thought she was safe, and they had been wrong.
“We both know I ain’t trustin’ you,” the cowboy returned gruffly. If it weren’t for Angela, he’d have shot the Reaper when he’d stepped off the ramp. He released his gun reluctantly so he could reach out for the doctor. Carefully, with a gentleness that proved that this was Reyes, the hooded figure lowered her into Cole’s arms.
“Watch her knee,” Reyes rasped, as if Cole couldn’t see the straps and splints wrapped around it. The woman was lighter than she should be and shaking so hard Cole thought she might just come apart.
“I gotcha, darlin’,” he assured her, though his eyes stayed firmly on Reyes.
“There’s a list in one of her pockets,” Reyes shouted with a vague hand gesture towards Angela. “Everything that’s happened to her is written there.” Cole nodded once in acknowledgment. Though he wanted to look down at the small woman in his arms, reassure her that everything would be alright, he kept his eyes on the Reaper.
“If I see you again, I’ll put a bullet in you.” It was another promise, one that he would be more than happy to keep. If he were able, he’d shoot him now and be done with it - but he had his hands full.
“I deserve it,” Reyes agreed with a shrug, “but not for the reasons you think.” Cole felt Angela stiffen; clearly, there was something there. Hopefully, it was on the list Reyes mentioned. He’d hate to have to ask Angela about it after everything she’d been through.
Reyes stepped backward, clearly done with their interaction. Cole took a step back too – and paused when one final question popped into his head.
“Why’d you save her?” He shouted. Reyes stopped, head tilting as he considered Cole and his question.
“Why did she save me?” Reyes called back. With that, Reyes turned his back entirely and walked away, confident that Cole would prioritize Angela over shooting him. It was hard to reconcile the image of the Reaper with the man Cole had once known. But it was obvious some part of Reyes was still alive; after all, the Reaper would never have allowed Cole – or any of the other remnants of Overwatch behind him – to leave unscathed.
Still, Cole refused to turn his back to the clearing, even though it made his return trip much harder. However, before he had made it halfway back, Reinhardt had stomped forward to cover his retreat with his shield. Around that time, Reyes reached his vehicle; instead of climbing inside, he had turned to watch as Cole carried Angela away.
The entire time Angela was a silent, shaking mass in his arms.
“Thought I told you t’ wait on th’ ramp,” he grumbled as he turned his back on the clearing, trusting Reinhardt to protect them. Cole could feel Reyes’ eyes on his back as they moved further and further away. He didn’t look back at the monster from his past; the angel in his arms held all of his attention.
“You are both too important to lose,” Reinhardt retorted. Cole shook his head before closing the remaining distance to the carrier.
“Everythin’ alright, then?” Lena called from the pilot’s chair. Already she was flipping the switches that would get them into the air, even with the carrier door still closing.
“We’ve got her,” Cole answered; he couldn’t say it was alright because the trembling woman in his arms clearly wasn’t. But, they had her back – and that was something, wasn’t it? They could call in people, and then she would be better.
They could fix this. They would fix this. She deserved no less.
---
“This is normal?” Lena’s voice rose, practically to a shout.
“Keep your voice down,” Cole growled with a meaningful glance towards Angela; Lena looked away guiltily, gnawing on one lip nervously. He knew he shouldn’t snap because it really didn’t matter how loudly they spoke. Angela had become unresponsive shortly after they had flown away from the clearing in Numbani. Even now, hours later in Watchpoint: Warsaw, she was still staring vacantly.
“Yes, this,” he gestured towards Angela, “is normal.” Cole hadn’t needed Reyes’ list to tell him that this could happen. While he hadn’t dirtied his hands with torture – ‘interrogation’ – he’d seen the aftermath. “‘s a defense mechanism; she can’ be hurt if she ain’ here.” Considering what Angela had been through, he wasn’t surprised that she was protecting herself in the only way she had left.
“But, she’s with us,” Lena protested, voice markedly quieter than previously. “We’re not gonna hurt her.” Cole shook his head, smiling mirthlessly. He wished he could have the same optimistic outlook, but life had been far kinder to Lena than it had been to him - or Angela.
“You and I,” his hand shifted, pointing at first her then himself, “we know that. But Ange?” He looked over at the broken doctor sadly. “She doesn’ know it. Doesn’ believe it.” Cole sighed, one hand raking through his hair in absent frustration before fixing his hat. “It’ll be a long while before she recovers.” If she recovered, but Cole wasn’t willing to voice that aloud.
Cole had read the list that Reyes had scrawled out, which detailed all the atrocities that Angela had been subjected to. Some were rather obvious - her malnutrition showed in her hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, the shattered knee in the various braces. Others were easy to see, if one knew where to look - the suicide attempt in the bandages on her arms, the scar at her lip proving her stubborn defiance. The worst, however, were the invisible wounds.
Reyes had written a small paragraph instead of a bulleted list at the very bottom of the note.
“I was the one who kidnapped her from Cairo and put her in chains. I’m the one that captured her after she managed to escape, and put scars into her arms and her heart when I put her back. I was the one that gave the order to escalate her torture, that made her into this.
Angela knows who I am and how I have betrayed her.
I don’t know if there is anything left of her to save after what’s been done to her - what I’ve done to her - but I know that you’ll protect her like I should have.
-R”
It had taken everything in him to keep from crumpling the letter or tearing it into pieces; despite his absolute rage at what was revealed, Cole knew that the doctor - who still hadn’t arrived - would need the information within it. He hadn’t told anyone else of its existence; they didn’t need to know the particulars of what she had gone through - hell, he didn’t need to know it either.
But he had read it anyway.
“Hey, Cassidy?” Lena’s voice was soft, almost tremulous. He glanced towards the younger woman, who was wringing her hands and fidgeting; even now, she was unable to keep still. “She’s gonna be alright, isn’t she? We weren’t, you know, too late?” Cassidy didn’t know how to answer that question. He could be honest or he could be optimistic, but he couldn’t be both.
Cole was saved from answering by Angela as she shifted and gasped softly. Before Lena could do anything, Cole’s hand flew out and clamped down hard on her wrist. That she jerked against his grasp told him he had been right to grab her; Lena turned to look at him, mouth opening either in protest or in question, and he shook his head sharply.
Once he was sure Lena wasn’t going to leap out of her seat, Cole released her and fully turned his attention to the blonde. He wasn’t sure if Angela had been looking around or not - his gaze had been on Lena during those first moments instead of Angela - but now she was staring at the two of them. Usually, he couldn’t read her emotions or thoughts on her face, but Angela’s terror was obvious even to him.
“You’re safe, Ange,” Cole assured her after the silence between them had grown too long. He could practically feel Lena’s explosive energy next to him, but somehow the British woman managed to keep her seat. Angela’s wary eyes darted from him to Lena and back again.
“Is - Is this -” Angela’s voice was hesitant and rough from abuse. “Are you - real?” Her voice broke then; the pure desolation made his heart ache for her.
“We’re real, darlin’,” Cole assured her. In the silence, he nudged Lena’s leg with one booted foot.
“Wha- oh, yeah! It’s all real, love.” Lena’s voice was chipper and bright, with barely a note of hesitation to betray her worry. “You’re with Overwatch.” Angela flinched then; Cole gritted his teeth as he forced himself not to imagine what had conditioned such a reaction in her - and found it impossible, considering the note he’d read. Lena glanced towards Cole, clearly unsure of how to act in the face of Angela’s fear.
“Ange.” Cole leaned forward a little, bridging that small gap between them. He was gratified to see she didn’t react negatively to the movement; instead, she looked up towards his intense face with the barest hint of hope. “If you don’ wanna be with Overwatch,” he forced himself to ignore her wince, “you jus’ say the word an’ it’s done.” Lena made a small sound of protest, but he spoke before she could say anything.
“I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go, darlin’. Whatever you want.” Cole knew that Overwatch was, probably, the safest place for Angela to be while she recovered - if she could recover. He knew that any decision she made now would be impaired by her trauma. Still, he would fight everyone - Winston, Lena, the UN - to take her wherever it was she’d feel safe.
Angela’s eyes darted around; Cole wasn’t sure if she was looking for something in particular or if this was curiosity. He watched as her hands fisted and twisted her blankets, waiting for her to say something - anything.
“I -” She pressed back into the pillow, glancing to the side and worrying at her scarred lip. “I don’t want to go back.” Her voice, barely audible, was small and sad. Cole wasn’t sure if she was referring to Overwatch or Talon, but, in the long run, it didn’t really matter to him; whatever happened next, Cole would make sure that Angela was safe and happy.
“You won’t.” Lena piped up before Cole could assure the doctor. Obviously, she had interpreted Angela’s statement to be about Talon, but Cole wasn’t completely convinced. “We won’t let them take you, Dr. Ziegler, I promise. We’ll keep you safe.”
Angela’s face crumpled then; she turned her head away quickly, but not before Cole saw the tears there. Were they from relief, at being safe from her tormentors? Or was it from grief, at the reminder that they should have kept her safe - and hadn’t?
Slowly, cautiously, Cole reached out to touch one of her clenched hands. Angela jumped, recoiling from his hand as if it burned. Her head turned, wild eyes wide and bright, as she stared down at his fingers as if she’d never seen them before - like she hadn’t put him back together countless times. He pulled back slightly, giving her space while remaining close enough for her to reach out if she wanted.
“We - I - failed you, Angela,” Cole said, voice low. “It won’t happen again. I swear it.” He could see the hope and despair - the disbelief and desperation - that was roiling within her as she continued to stare at his hand.
After what felt like an eternity, Angela’s hand rose. Trembling, she reached out towards him - before flinching back and away again. Cole didn’t move, didn’t react in any way; Lena gasped, a small sound that seemed to roar in the small space.
Angela reached out again, but this time she didn’t recoil. He remained unmoving as she touched his fingers tentatively, afraid that anything would scare her off again. When her hand curled around his in a weak grasp, head bowed as she trembled and shook, he allowed himself to gently tighten his fingers around hers.
Maybe there was hope for her, after all.
You led me here,
Then I watched you disappear.
You left this emptiness inside
And I can't turn back time
- Never Be the Same [Red]
Act One | Act Two | Act Three | Act Four | Act Five | Act Six
This is, unfortunately, the end of Breaking [My Heart]. I do intend to continue this story in a second installment, but I haven't quite got it put together yet. I know what I want it to look like (mostly), but apparently writing requires you to actually write, annoyingly enough.
Writing has become a challenge (again, ugh) due to real life getting in the way (again). I've been stressing about the business I own (US Tax preparation) while working as a manger at my mothers' trampoline park. Long hours have left me with little time to do pretty much anything that isn't eating or sleeping, and when I do try to write I just can't seem to get the words out. I hate that I have my unfinished work (Forged) that I just can't seem to close plus the recovery arc for Breaking [My Heart]. They're mostly outlined but, like I said earlier, writing requires writing and I can't seem to get the scenes out of my head and onto paper.
I do have a few pieces that are written for my one-shot sets, The Healer, which I'll post sporadically (and, which will, hopefully bridge the gap until I can properly write again). I appreciate all of you that read my work and leave comments; truly, every time I see the notification I get super excited and I love that you feel strongly enough about my writing to tell me about it. I hope that I continue to produce work that you can enjoy!
Feel free to reach out to me here. Until next time, stay happy and healthy!
#overwatch#fanfiction#angela ziegler#gabriel reyes#mercykill#fanfic#mercy#reaper#cole cassidy#cassidy#lena oxton#lena#tracer#tw torture#tw violence#tw dark thoughts#tw dark themes#tw suicidal thoughts#tw suicide attempt#tw hallucinations#whump#breaking my heart series
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How Cyro joined Talon pt. 2
Cyro, Sombra, and Widow walked around the city of Rome, of course, with Cyro and Reno leading the way to the pound, proudly whistling a tune with her arms slung over her shoulders holding her head with Sombra and Widow trailing along.
“Sombra...” Widow growled.
Sombra looked up from her computer, “Yeah?”
Widow sighed as if it wasn’t obvious what she was going to ask, “You haven’t clarified why we’ve been following a child through the city yet...” She grimaced, Widow was known to take little to no care for these things, but something irked a nerve when she was with Sombra.
“Look I get it, but Cyro is no child, she’s a genius! She’s got connections all over the city, and her bounty hunter job is actually pretty solid,” Sombra pulled up a screen, out of earshot of Cyro, and started showing some of the details she found.
“Kid's smart, she makes it look like a wild attack other than murder. She collects detail and items, all across town, she’s got too many people scared of her.”
Widow raised an eyebrow, clearly not amused by Sombra’s amusement about the news.
“Alright, alright, check this.” She swiped through a few screens, “She was hard to find, and coming from me that’s saying something. Doesn’t stay in the same place for too long, and doesn’t keep the same phone number, let alone have much of an internet presence.”
“So how’d you find her?”
“Pfft, Nobodies that good at hiding from me plus, she isn’t that hard to recognize.” Sombra pointed to Cyro about her small stature.
“Sombra, do you know what Akande would do if we-”
“We’re here,” Cyro called out, the three of them standing in front of the pound’s fence.
The pound was small but the fact it needed any form of protection scared away most people around, alongside the loud barking from the dogs inside.
“You two wait here, this will be quick” Cyro climbed the fence, followed by Reno as he sprinted up and over the fence.
“I’m coming with you.” Widow said.
“There’s not that much security, there’s no need.”
“I’m coming to keep an eye on you.” Widow clarified, clearing the fence after.
“The more hands to help I guess, Sombra, keep a lookout here.” Cyro nodded at Sombra who nodded back in response.
Cyro led the way, her and Widow crouching over onto cover for the nearest wall for cover, they were in the back entrance, guarded with a dog and officer.
Cyro’s eyes blinked grey, “I’ve got the dog, you handle the guard.”
Widow looked confused, “How do you-”
Cyro pointed to her eyes, “Animal tamer, remember?”
Widowmaker rolled her eyes and moved over to the next cover, once she was good, she inched closer to the guard, out of sight, and once she was close enough, she used her grabbling hook and tightened it around the guard's neck, knocking him out.
Widow signaled Cyro over who jogged forward. “Nice work.” She complimented as she took the guard's keys and worked on finding which one to opened the door.
“So ‘Widowmaker’ I thought you were blue?” Cyro asked, trying to make conversation.
Widow took a mirror out of her pocket and checked over her white skin, “Makeup.” She answered plainly.
“Oh... I-I mean, yeah, that makes sense.”
Cyro continued fiddling with the keys, "So you and Sombra-"
"No." Widow shut it down before she got to finish.
"Ah, so you're free then?" Cyro flirtatiously growled Widow scoffed, not paying mind to the teen's advances.
Cyro unlocked the door and stuffed the keys into her pocket.
They walked inside with Cyro now having the guard's dog with her, checking the cameras which Sombra had already taken care of.
“You check upfront for any more guards, I'll grab the rest of the dogs,” Cyro told Widow, who walked away without a word.
-
After dealing with the last guard, Widow turned her head, Cyro had the entire pound under her control, which is shown by her grey eyes, each dog standing freakishly still.
“How do you expect us to walk into town like that?” Widow asked.
Cyro split the dogs into groups of three, lining them up like a military. “There, got a guy who can hold them for a bit, I’ll control them over to him in groups. Strays here aren’t new.”
Widow sighed, “Fine.”
Cyro sent the dogs off, it was odd to Widow how Cyro had so much power doing so little, but Sombra did say she was good.
-
Cyro and Widow walked out meeting Sombra who was waiting outside.
“Where are the dogs?” Sombra asked, sitting up from the wall.
Cyro pointed at her glowing grey eyes, “Taking them to a guy right now in sets, he’ll hold them for me.” She answered.
“Wait, you’re controlling all of those dogs at once,” Sombra asked with complete interest.
“It’s a harder job, but yeah.” Cyro stop to scan the area and Widow turned to see Sombra nearly squealing.
“What?”
“She’s controlling a shit ton of animals at once!”
“That’s only impressive to you because you can’t multitask.” Widow explained.
“You try having every person on file 24/7. If that’s all we can head back to the apartment.”
Cyro snapped her fingers in realization, “Ah yes! We have one more place to stop if I’m training these dogs, I need my equipment!”
Widow sighed, “And where is that?”
“My truck, of course, the guy who drives me, Pako, is holding it for me, you all don’t mind do you?”
Sombra perked up, “No... but how many guys do have to do you favors?” She asked.
Cyro laughed, “Let’s just say nobody here is actually scary compared to me. Let's hurry while it’s still daylight outside.”
-
Cyro walked up to Pako, a big muscular guy almost ten times her size. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, “Kept up our end of the deal, I need you to take me somewhere.”
Pako sat up from the black van he was leaning on, “You know what kid, I’ll think I’d outta hold on to this money for now...” He towered over her, his large shadow covering her entire body.
She shrugged, “Fine.” She walked away towards the back of the alley, once she was near the end, she quickly drew her knife and threw it at him, fitting itself into his leg.
He quivered in pain, wincing over himself holding his leg, just stopping himself from screaming in pain. He leaned over the closest wall and almost back up from Cyro as she approached, “Kid! Argh.... don’t go doing anything rash now, I was just about to give you the car!”
Cyro opened the back of the van, waking up the sleeping tiger in the back, “Sasha, I got you some food.” She said it so quietly, the guy felt a shiver down his spine. Cyro walked over and took her knife back out from the guy’s legs
“We can talk this out, I-I got money, you like money don’t you?! I got a place you all can stay! Some food, I got food! Cyro!”
She took the van and drove a bit down the road, the guy's screams becoming nothing but soft sounds of music as she drove down a few blocks to where Widowmaker and Sombra were waiting.
“You weren’t kidding! You actually have a truck!” Sombra nearly bounced in excitement.
“My very own brand.” Cyro added, rubbing the red decal on the side of the truck, “Reminds me, I need to get out these rugs, give me a second.” Cyro climbed into the back of the truck and shut the doors.
Widow turned to Sombra with a skeptical look on her face, all Sombra could do was shrug.
Cyro came out of the truck, wearing a velvet leather suit, the end of it hanging lower behind her, sporting a commander hat with a gold heart emblem on it, the outfit wasn’t too fancy, but was rather flashy for combat wear. She pulled out her knife from earlier, the name “Cyro” lazily carved into the side of being shown, and glided her finger across it, cleaning it from the blood it gained earlier and sliding it into its respected place at her side.
“Where’d you get the blood?” Widow asks.
“Pako came up short, so I cut my loose ends.”
“And the truck?”
Cyro rolled her eyes, “Ay, bella, do you always ask so many questions?”
Widow crossed her arms, “Only to people I don’t trust.”
“Okay then, I’ll make it up to you, trust me to go get us some good food?”
Widowmaker shrugged while making her way to the car, “As long as we’re heading back to the apartment, I don’t care what you do.”
-
They entered the empty apartment, turning on the lights while heading inside.
“Told you guys, I’d get us something good!” Cyro chirped.
“You didn’t even pay.” Widow replied.
“I forgot my wallet, but our darling Sombra did for us, and I have to say you did a marvelous job with the apartment too, very well done.”
Widowmaker scoffed, “Forgot your- You tipped the waitress!”
“I had enough to thank her for her hard work... and giving me some eye candy to have during the stay.”
Widow rolled her eyes as Cyro winked back at her.
“If that’s all, then I’ll be heading off to bed, I’ll see you two in the morning.”
With that Cyro walked off into a random room she decided would be hers for their stay.
The two adults got settled for bed, setting up their stuff in separate rooms, just as Sombra got done with her equipment Widow walked in.
“Her file.” She stated plainly.
“Why won’t you just leave the kid alone?” Sombra asked.
“She’s hardly a kid, what’s she doing out in the streets anyway? I need her file, Sombra.”
Sombra opened up a computer and began typing, “I wish you were more fun...” She mumbled.
When Widow heard her phone ring, she began to walk out, “Amélie?”
Widowmaker’s attention fastened to the use of her name, “What?”
Sombra caught herself, looking down and thinking, “It’s nothing, sorry, goodnight.”
Widow eyed Sombra, eventually stop caring about what it was she was going to say, “Goodnight.”
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Also really funny thing, but when I was still on the fence about buying & officially getting into overwatch (era of me joking about Cree McCree even though I only read his wiki page & that was about the extent of my knowledge of ovw), I mostly only saw overwatch fanart & didn't know who was who, & my friends rbed a lot of black widowmaker fanart so that's literally what I thought her ethnicity was & when I finally saw fanart of canon Widow I was like "who the fuck is this"
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Random Questions Meme Thing
I was tagged by @nikabriefs (thank you!!)
I tag @dekudynamight @sorrowsofsatan @dbzebra @fluffyandanxious and @degenerate-otaku (and anyone else who wants to do this!)
Nicknames: online? Crimson, I guess. I don’t really have any irl, outside of my family’s nicknames for me. I prefer to be called by my full first name by everyone else
Height: 4’11 lol
Hogwarts house: gross, is this really still a thing?? I think the quizzes I took years ago said Hufflepuff but eh
Last thing I googled: “leading by a hind foot horse” looking for the Warwick Schiller video so I can desensitize my mare. She was extremely lucky she didn’t kill herself when she tore down the fence, got tangled in it, and panicked, so to make sure nothing like that ever happens again, I need to teach her to stand quietly when she’s trapped until I can help her. Once she’s fully healed, of course. She cut her leg up pretty good
Song stuck in my head: Widowmaker by Night Argent and Wet Noose by Ghost Atlas
Amount of sleep: last night? About six hours, I think
Lucky number: 6
Dream job: owning my own business. I’m working toward it lol
Wearing: t-shirt and jammie pants
Favourite song: Unify by Erra. It’s also my comfort song, and I listen to it anytime I’m feeling low or struggling. Never fails to make me feel lighter and less alone
Favourite instrument: guitar. I play a little too
Favourite author: Joe Hill (I’ll stick with my fave novel author here cuz I’ve got way too many fave fanfic authors to choose from lol)
Something random: I have a couple of baby goats named Goku and Raditz. Goku had some minor head trauma when he was just a few days old and is a little off, hence his name 😂😂 Raditz is his twin
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The Meaning of My Life
I've been through a lot of rough periods in my life, and endured a lot of drama, trauma, and tragedy, but the last three years were doozies. I had a heart attack that should have killed me, usually called The Widowmaker by hospital insiders, and had a stent inserted. Then had to have a triple bypass the next year. And the year after that had to have neurosurgery for a skull birth defect that meant I was leaking brain fluid into my internal ear cavities so that I went deaf.
I'm still recovering today, and there is a mooted surgery for replacing both my knees, now, but I'm considered too high risk at present for them to do that, so I hobble around with a stick, and even use a walker on occasion.
I never thought my life would be like this. I was an athlete in my teens, ran my own theatre group in my late twenties, worked in film and television for over a decade, and have been an artist since I could first hold a pencil. I had dreams and ambitions like anyone else, and I obtained some of them. So to come to this phase of my life, where everything seems to have loaded in at once, has been difficult to deal with.
I have an adult disabled son, who was run over by a van on his way home from school in his teens. I was his carer, until now. Now my husband is my carer, and I find that a difficult situation, too, given that I have been so independent for most of my life. It's very hard to have to back off and admit there are things you can't do any more.
Throughout my life, my individuality posed many problems with family and friends. I am a bit larger than life, a galaxy goddess with a figure to match and a voice that will resound laughs belted through the cinema so that those hiding their giggles behind their hands will look askance at me. I've never really fit in anywhere, which has made it difficult to feel I belong anywhere, except the Universe, of course.
Let me tell you how bad this has been for me. My mother, who I had an up and down relationship with all my life, made sure I was not told that she was dying of brain cancer, and after she died my relatives did not tell me straight away that she had died. I actually found out she had been in hospital but was never told it was serious and was told she didn't want to see me, so when Mother's Day rolled around I went online to find out where she might be so I could send her some potted orchids for the day, only to discover her obituary, three months after her death.
The relatives who supported her in those modes, well, they disappeared from my life long ago, now... And I always found that really hard to deal with, because they were supposed to be my family, and I was brought up with such ideas as 'blood is thicker than water' and all that other soppy stuff that is supposed to mean that your family will stick by you even if they don't agree with your modes and concepts. Well, that never happened for me, and my gut churned for decades.
Probably did me a lot of good, that, because I was thrown back into myself to deal with things, and had to do a lot of soul searching to examine my truths and test the mettle of me. But it was still mighty hard to feel so rejected and ostracised.
So let me tell you of the gift that was given to me in these last years, through all these final travails. Because, while I had dealt with autoimmune disorders for decades, and even fenced off the threat of my own son's life hanging in the balance, so knew a bit about the possibilities of death, it's a whole new ball game when you realise that you actually could have died, possibly should have died, and that every moment is fragile and ephemeral from now on.
You lose that ability to look forward to anything, because there are no guarantees of just how long you have to live. So you have to learn to make the most of every moment you are alive. You have to appreciate those moments, even when you are doing nothing but being able to breathe and be thankful you are still alive.
Plus, the wonderful gift is that all those people who dumped me in my past, I could finally let go of. There really is no better qualifier than a dose of death to help you realise just how much time, energy, and precious life force you waste on those ingrates who could never take the measure of you so shook you off because you couldn't be slotted. What a waste of life time I gave to them all those years, hoping they might see the light and come back to me! What a waste of my resources to give over so much thought and heartache to people who never gave me the same!
Finally, I was thrown back on my most pure beliefs about life, my spirit, my place in the Universe, and even in Life itself, because that was really all I had left...(apart from my devoted husband and adult disabled son, who really can't run away from me... oh, and my beautiful pets who love me even in my darkest moments). And so, when you have nothing left but yourself to measure your worth with, you really get to the bottom line of you. And you begin to understand just how much you have tried to fit yourself to other people's realities all your life, just so you had a slot to fit into (even if you were still a square peg in a round hole).
In the end, you give up on all those silly sayings and notions that others instilled in you just so you could feel you had a place in their world - those controlling manipulations that make you behave differently to the way your soul wants to sing - and you finally begin to fly... well, as well as one can when one uses a walking stick, but you could say my soul flies today.
Because now I can enjoy my life just the way I like it. I can appreciate life just the way I want to. I don't have to impress anyone, or even clean my house if I don't want to... and I give my heart and soul only to that which appreciates my efforts.
That is the gift. To be able to be the true you is the greatest gift of all. To be able to live your life without worrying about what others think, or whether they will ever accept you is the greatest fortune anyone can ever have.
Of course, I still have occasional run ins with the two remaining relatives living in my house - my husband and son... but they are no more than peer competition, and valid game plays. We let off steam with each other, but love remains... and that is what any relationship should be between those who really care.
I may not have long to live, now... or maybe there is a longer road ahead of me than I can imagine, because heck, you can live a very long life one moment at a time. But whatever happens, I am me, and I am thoroughly enjoying listening to and engaging the world around me...which is far, far more than just human beings, and much greater for the many forms of creation that engage my life with their singing and company, and even their elemental touches in every day.
Blessings!
- Oli Zing
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Hey team Talon! I have seperate questions for all of you. Moira: is it true that you are an anime fan and if so which is your favorite one? Sombra: What would you see yourself doing if you never joined los meurtos? Reaper: where the hell are you pulling those shotguns from? And why do you discard them? Widowmaker: i know you probably get this asked a lot but, what was your opinion of fans shipping you with tracer? Before emily was revealed? Doomfist: have any ideas for new recruits?
Moira: last time I got this question I said Bleach, but now I'd say AkiraSombra: still super oldMoira: when a modern anime starts being good I will acknowledge such.Sombra: honestly? I have no idea, I joined up so young and it was basically the only option with how shit Dorado was post-crisis. if they weren’t around I might of ended up working for Lumréico, bleh or I’d of never had the chance to develop my leet skillzReaper: Classified Talon technology...Sombra: they’re like nanite structures that dissipate with his wraith form, if they don’t get energy fed into them by Reaps they disintegrate. they’re stored in the canisters on his belt until he summons them.Reaper: Why?Sombra: because I’m meWidowmaker: Somewhat amusing, I kind of enjoy some of the ‘fics’ people write it’s nice to see how the consensus is I’d have her wrapped around my fingers... in more ways than one.Sombra: You’d all be really interested in seeing Who’s writing the stuffWidowmaker: Why are you butting into everyone else’s questions?Sombra: why do I need a reason?
Doomfist: We recruit hundreds of grunts a month, in terms of agents, we have a portfolio, Hanzo Shimada was on it before he joined Winston’s clubhouse, Same with McCree. Ashe we’re on the fence about, I’d like to see Efi ply her talents for us. I could list more but. well we need to keep some secrets.everyone looks to sombraSombra: hey I got nothing, Akande kinda did it all
#talon#overwatch#widowmaker#sombra#doomfist#reaper#moira o'deorain#gabriel reyes#ask team talon#lonelyroad25
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💛 femfeb day 12 | my femfeb masterpost
🧡 xposted → ao3 | dw | pf.io
💖 Ashe/Widowmaker | 1.9k | Mature
🧡 Branding, Torture, Kidnapping, Tied-up, Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sexual Slavery, Non-Consensual Touching
💛 Ashe finds Widowmaker trespassing on her land and punishes her accordingly
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Ashe asked, though the question was rhetorical.
She had her semi-automatic propped up over one shoulder, hand on the grip and fingers clear of the trigger. She came sauntering up to the hog-tied beauty face down in the dirt. Her underlings had done a fine job capturing the intruder, roping her up, and bringing her in for their boss to see.
Ashe nudged the woman at her feet with the toe of her boot, pushing her over to get a better look at just who it was. The high-tech sniper rifle and blue hued skin were dead giveaways, but it could be someone playing dress-up sent to mislead her. The murderous glare that greeted her told Ashe otherwise. This here was the real deal, the Widowmaker herself.
Ashe tsk’d gently and moved to crouch down. “So, this is how Talon does business?” She asked, unimpressed. “I extend an olive branch and they send a sniper to take me out?”
She reached for Widowmaker’s pretty face. Widowmaker, of course, tried to jerk away but she was all roped up. She wasn’t going anywhere. She could spit and curse though, so that’s exactly what she did. Well, Ashe assumed she was being cursed at. She didn’t know what ‘si tu me touche je te couperai les doigts’ meant, but it probably wasn’t anything nice. Ashe ignored that to cup Widowmaker’s jaw and run a thumb along the blood leaking from a cut on her bottom lip.
It was a shame, really. Ashe had been getting on so well with all the other rival gangs here in the states. Business was booming, so to speak. Sometimes literally where her dynamite was involved. She was even making friends south of the boarder in Mexico. She thought branching out internationally would be a good idea.
Who better to get in bed with than the nefarious Talon organization themselves? So far as she could tell they did business just about everywhere in the world, and it would be nice to have friends in high places. Apparently, they weren’t too keen on being friends with her, though. That was just fine. She would have taken no for an answer, they didn’t have to send someone to kill her.
“Well, you’re new around here so you don’t know it, but we got a few rules around these parts,” Ashe said, letting Widowmaker twist away from her touch. “Keep your word, don’t work with the law, respect each other’s territory and always punish betrayal.”
Widowmaker stared hatefully up at her from her position on the ground. She was damn pretty. Too pretty to kill. They couldn’t cut her loose, though. Even without her weapons she was still dangerous. Ashe would just have to keep her around. She could think of a few uses for her.
“So far as I know, you ain’t with the law so we’re good there. That’s lucky for you, because otherwise I would have had to shoot you dead.” Ashe stood up from where she had been crouching down in the dirt.
A few steps away there was a cast aluminum chiminea sitting near the wood and wire fence that circled parts of the Deadlock Gang’s property. Ashe stepped up to it and pulled back the lattice cage cover to reveal a fire box full of half charred wooden logs.
“As for keeping your word, well.” Ashe shrugged, “I guess technically you haven’t made any promises to me that need keeping, so your word is intact.”
She made quick work of adding paper for kindling. When she was done, she lit an entire book of matches and tossed it inside. A fire roared to life, flames licking upwards and smoke rising from the top of the chiminea’s stack.
Ashe glanced back to see Widowmaker watching warily. She wasn’t moving now but must have been a moment ago because her wrists had gone red from trying to twist free of the rope she was bound up in.
“Concerning betrayal, Talon and Deadlock ain’t friendly enough that I’ve been betrayed here. Although, my feelings are a little hurt that I been nothing but nice to you and you been nothing but murderous in return.”
Ashe moseyed on over to the fence nearby where a handful of branding irons sat leaning against the wooden post. She traded her gun for an iron, resting her weapon against the fence as she took up the long cast iron rod. When she lifted it, she took note of the symbol on the end. It was a simplified version of a skull with wings, just similar enough to evoke Deadlock imagery but without all the details that would get lost when being seared into someone’s skin. That one wasn’t right.
“Now, as for respecting my territory, we’ve got a bit of a problem.” Ashe set the first brand down and went for another. T for thief. That wasn’t the one she wanted either. She set it back. “I can’t let just anybody walk around my land and among my people like they own the place. Least of all someone sent to kill me.”
Apparently unconcerned with whether her getaway attempts were witnessed or not, Widowmaker began to struggle in earnest. She twisted, jerking her shoulders back and forth, writhing in the dusty New Mexico dirt. She was back to cursing viciously in French, impressively managing to make such a romantic language sound so dangerous.
Ashe just smirked and plucked up another brand. Ah, this was the one she wanted. Two diamonds intersecting and laid one on top of one the other to create a third diamond in the middle.
The symbol was meant to abstractly represent handcuffs or chain links and it evoked the message of law and justice. Anyone marked with double diamonds earned the affectionate nickname of *diamond dog*, though dogs were usually treated much nicer. Diamond dogs were offenders who had broken gang rules, untrustworthy and despicable.
Ashe thrust the business end of the branding iron into the fire, burying it deep in the depths of the orange flame. It would take a few minutes to get good and hot. She turned her attention back to Widowmaker, walking back over to crouch down in front of her again.
“Harm me and I’ll-“
“Yeah,” Ashe interrupted. “Save the threats sweetheart. This is happening whether you want it to or not. I can’t let disrespect like this slide. Not from Talon, not from you, not from anybody. So you can keep your mouth shut and I’ll mark you good and quick or you can keep running it and get two marks for the price of one.”
Widowmaker’s hateful stare returned. She glared hard at Ashe but kept her mouth shut.
“Good choice,” Ashe flashed her a winning smile.
She dug around in her waistcoat pockets until she found her knife. It was a pretty little thing, with an Italian wood handle and shiny brass bolsters. Windowmaker flinched back when it was unfolded, the clean blade shining in the sunlight.
“Let’s just get some of this fabric out the way,” Ashe mused. “Best hold still now, you don’t want me to slip.”
She brought the sharp edge of the blade to the purple and black clothing stretched tight over Widowmaker’s hip. She trailed the tip of the knife down, following the black lines. When she made a quick nick in the cloth, it was like a dam broke open. The fabric was so taut it went ripping of its own accord, tearing up the length of Widowmaker’s thigh.
Ashe got a good view of pale blue skin, smooth and light like plumbagoes in spring. She couldn’t resist touching. She switched her knife to her other hand and smoothed her fingers up and down Widowmaker’s lush thigh.
“Just about here should do it,” Ashe said.
She stopped to rub her thumb at the curve of her hip. She felt the muscles under her hand tense. The iron was probably good and hot by now, but for luck Ashe thought it ought to stay in a little longer. She slid her hand towards the swell of Widowmaker’s ass, fingers disappearing under the torn fabric.
Widowmaker was either too dignified to squirm or still heeding Ashe’s warning that she ‘best hold still.’ She said and did nothing as Ashe discovered her distinct lack of undergarments. Her wandering fingers slid towards the split in Widowmaker’s soft ass cheeks and then down, deep between her legs. This earned her a low, vicious noise in warning like a growl from an angry animal.
“Easy, sweetheart,” Ashe laughed, easing back. “After you’re marked, sex’ll be just about the only thing you’re good for so you might as well get used to wandering hands.”
Diamond dogs couldn’t be trusted to do much of anything, but they were fun to touch and tease and play with. A warm body was a warm body, and a wet tongue was a wet tongue. Ashe didn’t mind taking a diamond dog to bed. Widowmaker was good with a sniper rifle and all but what did that mouth do? Before the end of the day, she would find out.
Before all that, there was business to attend to. The brand was definitely ready now. Loathe as she was to pull away, Ashe stood up straight and headed on over to the chiminea. She pulled the iron from the fire and the end was glowing red, hot as hell.
When she turned to Widowmaker, she was pleasantly surprised to see that there was no fear just simmering anger. Good. Squealing, crying, and begging for mercy was just so pathetic and undignified. If Ashe was being honest, she was somewhat charmed by Widowmaker’s disdain.
Teasing would just be tacky, and there was no point in letting the iron rod get cold, so Ashe wasted no time. She walked the short few steps back over to where Widowmaker was laying down in the dirt. She took hold of the Iron rod with both hands and held it with purpose, bringing it to heel less than a foot from the unclothed expanse of blue skin.
“Take a breath, honey,” Ashe suggested.
“Do it if you’re going to,” Widowmaker snarled.
Ashe reacted on instinct to the antagonization. She shoved the red-hot brand forward, pushing it hard against Widowmaker’s upper thigh. She anticipated the startled response, the instinct to pull away from pain. She kept the brand pressed tight against the soft blue skin, in the same exact spot, and watched as wisps or grey smoke rose from place where flesh met iron.
Widowmaker managed not to scream, but just barely. The strangled noise she made gave away how much pain she was in. The sizzling sound was sickening and the smell of burnt flesh overwhelming. Ashe pulled back after a few seconds, pleased to see a clean mark there. It looked a little odd, violent red and charred brown on a canvas of blue, but the diamonds were there.
“Oh, good dog,” Ashe said, pleased.
Widowmaker writhed, breathing gone awry.
She would get Widowmaker all cleaned up, find her a nice collar, and keep her around awhile. If for no other reason than to let Talon know that entering into Deadlock territory meant they weren’t coming back.
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The Vault
I wrote this for @sailorsunspot a long time ago and literally forgot I had it sitting here because I’m fantastic. She asked for Sombra getting ‘intel’ on Talon members, with any hints of Sombra/Widowmaker I wanted to toss in. This is what I came up with!
Sometimes you stole people’s personal lives because you had nothing else to do.
Talon could be exciting, from to time, when they were breaking into a Russian stronghold, or trying to steal priceless artifacts, or attending a gala, but by and large, Sombra found them all rather mirthless and a bit overserious. Doomfist was always starting off on some philosophical discussion. McCree had one foot out the door. Widowmaker was sipping wine and listening to opera.
Moira, well...Moira made even Sombra’s skin crawl, the howls of animals coming from her lab, and the howls of things that Sombra weren’t sure were animals at all.
So she had to entertain herself in other ways.
Today was one of those long, lolling days between missions, where everyone was caught up with their own sort of sharpening of skills, or personal projects, and Sombra was forced to find ways of entertaining herself.
There were downsides to being the best at something, at effortlessly handling your skills, and one of those downsides was that Sombra felt little need to practice in any sort of structured way and she had, temporarily, tabled the effort to move more like Tracer through time. The side effects seemed to be a little more than she was willing to deal with, and Moira got too much of a smile on her face when she told Sombra that she’d have to dissect Tracer’s body to discover how to break her out of time.
There was dedication, and there was being creepy, and so Sombra had decided to place that notebook in the back of her shelf.
It was rainy outside, something she had never been used to growing up but seemed to happen constantly here, giving her yet another reason to sigh heavily.
But there were the vaults downstairs.
Vault was a bit of a dramatic name for them. In truth, they were nothing more than personal storage for each member of Talon, but if Reaper could think of the most dramatic way to phrase something, that was generally the choice he made.
It wasn’t that she thought there was anything too interesting in the vaults. Sombra could find out nearly anything she wanted about anyone, the internet held a wide repository of information--half the time she didn’t need to break into anywhere, people offered sensitive information up with very little hesitation if they thought they could get a like or some sympathy--but there was something intellectually pleasing and tactile about physically going through someone’s things, and it was a pleasure she rarely indulged in.
And pleasures were best saved for a rainy day.
She puttered down the stairs toward the basement, a grey stone sort of thing that lacked the polish of the rest of the Talon headquarters, which were conspicuously modern against the surrounding landscape, though those who lived nearby were too polite or too frightened to say anything.
The vaults were little more than thick linked fences woven with plastic to offer some level of privacy where Talon members stored the things that didn’t fit in their small individual barracks, each one sealed with their call sign and serial number under the electronic lock.
Sombra loved electronic locks. So much less mess than the physical kind.
Sombra was not sure what drew her to Widowmaker’s vault instead of any of the others. If you had asked her, she might have given any number of excuses, or well-conceived reasons. But the truth of the matter was, there was something about Widowmaker that fascinated her, that drew her in, and so it was for this reason that she stopped in front of the vault.
She took a blank electronic card and a small computer from her pocket, breaking through the lock easily and swinging wide the door. If they didn’t want her in here, they should do a better job. The locks to their bedrooms were much harder to crack, and so, really, anything someone kept down here they must be content with Sombra finding.
Widowmaker had organized the vault neatly, boxes piled up from when she moved in, when Sombra had watched her scrawl on each of them, as Widowmaker glared at her over her shoulder and then written contents in quick, messy French.
“French isn’t a secret code, stupid,” She chuckled in Spanish, “Have you ever heard of Google translate?”
Sombra was not a stupid woman, by any measure, and she had eyes everywhere, and so it had not escaped her notice that Widowmaker had some level of romantic entanglement with Tracer. She had assumed it was an amusement, the same as her digitally picking locks in the downstairs storeroom, but what she could not have imagined was her glorious luck in finding a box full of soppy momentos from Tracer.
Sombra laughed heartily as she took an item out of the box, a poorly-stuffed spider made of patches and what looked like old socks for the legs, with glittering buttons for eyes and a small mouth with a stitched smile and unevenly embroidered lips. Tracer had obviously made it by hand, and she could see the puckers and runs where the fabric hadn’t gone quite right, or she had taken out the stitching and put it back in.
She placed the ugly and awkward spider on her shoulder and continued digging through the box. Tracer really was pathetic. There were little cards, one with otters holding hands, inscribed with ‘You OTTER know I love you,’ some with hearts and glitter flowers, some more of Tracer’s offhandedly terrible artwork on others. There were room keys from hotels in London, Paris, Montreal, Seattle, and a host of other places, the purchaser easily identified by the quality of hotel.
She sat down and began to read the notes and letters, chuckling to herself all the while about Tracer’s attempts at poetry and love letters, all written with the intense earnestness that poured off of Tracer, that Sombra had always found more than a little stupid and cloying.
And then there was the story where she’d written herself as a vampire, and that was a whole other game.
Sombra heard the door squeak, heard the clicking of heels down the stairs, and her face lit up at the idea of having a playmate.
Widowmaker could be all French drama, from time to time, but this was too good for even her not to laugh.
Sombra hid around the corner of the basement, holding the spider in her hands and grinning widely.
Widowmaker went to turn the corner, and the spider was suddenly in her face, glittering eyes bright even under the dullness of the lights.
“Oi! Amelie!” Sombra’s imitation of Tracer’s accent was somehow even more graceless than the accent itself, chopping in all the wrong places, as she bounced the spider in time to her speech, “Fancy meeting you here! I was just saying to me best mate, wait is mate Australian? Me best mate--”
Widowmaker frowned heavily and lunged at her. “These are MY possessions.”
But Sombra was too quick, darting back into the vault and setting the spider down neatly, picking up one of the cards, reading dramatically.
“Amelie, my dearest, I FINK of you constantly as I’m flying up in the clouds, and every one reminds me of you, somehow,” she cackled as she continued, “when the sun dips down in the sky and the purple of twilight comes out, I think of you, and my heart shines like one of the stars that’s just coming out,” she looked over at Widowmaker, “man, you had this girl HOOKED, no wonder she almost got killed trying to fuck around with you, too bad she wised up before you could, you know” she indicated a gun to her head.
Widowmaker frowned intensely at her, but said nothing, and suddenly Sombra felt as if the game of it was dropping away, as if she had done something wrong, and that feeling was unfamiliar and it sat on her like itchy wool as she brushed it away with a smile.
Sombra chuckled. “You can’t really be serious about this.”
“It is none of your concern.” She snatched it from Sombra’s hands, and turned away from her, fuming.
But Sombra saw just the slightest bit of hurt in her eyes, and she felt a slight pang there, though she could not explain why.
“Hey, I was only jok--”
But Widowmaker had already left the room and begun to ascend the stairs, heels clicking and echoing off the walls, and Sombra stifled a desire to follow.
There were things to discover in the vaults after all.
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[52] Glitch in the System - The Beat Goes On (Pt. 2)
Sorry for the delay. E legitimately forgot what day it was because it’s snowmageddon and yesterday she got a very substantial and painful tattoo. Here’s Part 1 if you missed it!
We’ll also be streaming tonight around 7pm EST if you’re bored and want to hear us eat popcorn. We also take fic requests in real time so hit us up!
The dog park happens.
“Hey hey!” Lúcio announced as Sombra and Widowmaker emerged from their room, Sombra rubbing the sleep from her eyes in pyjamas, Widowmaker already dressed for the day and as alert as ever. “You lot like pancakes?”
“Yes,” Sombra replied immediately, leaving Widow’s side in a mad dash for the kitchen.
“You made us breakfast?” Widowmaker said, looking suspicious.
“Well yeah,” Lúcio laughed, peering out from the kitchen. He was wearing a dark green apron with his signature frog logo on it, and the scent of warm cinnamon wafted behind him. “That’s what a good host does.”
“Oh,” Widow replied, and Sombra could see her struggling to reconcile his unprompted kindness. The hesitation was obvious enough that Lúcio began to look a bit nervous until Widow unfurrowed her brows and looked up. “Pancakes are fine.” Then, to herself. “Why is it always pancakes?”
“Breakfast is ready, then!” he said, smile resuming its usual spot across his face. “Maple or hot fudge?”
“Hot fudge?” Sombra asked incredulously. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah, right?” he grinned, handing Sombra a plate. “I was a maple boy myself until Hana turned me onto the idea of hot fudge over banana pancakes. Wanna give it a shot?”
“Sí absolutamente,” Sombra said without missing a beat, taking the banana he offered her next.
“I am not that adventurous,” Widow said as Lúcio passed her a plate. “I will be fine with maple.”
“Nothing wrong with the old standby,” he nodded. “Y’all sit, I’ll bring out the accoutrements.” He added a French accent to the last word, vanishing before Widow could judge him appropriately for it.
Breakfast was an easy affair - pancakes, some fresh local fruits, and a mix of tea and coffee offerings. Conversation was even easier - a feat Sombra missed from her time in Dorado - and they idled for a bit after finishing until Danu made it readily apparent that she needed to be let out.
“Anyone want to go on a walk?” Lúcio asked. Danu was the first to reply, with an exuberant bark and a wagging tail, and Sombra nodded as well.
“I could use some sun,” she said, glancing outside. It looked beautiful, if warm, and she missed the reliable muggy heat of home.
“I will finalize the plans for our departure?” Widowmaker suggested, raising an eyebrow.
“Good plan, araña,” Sombra agreed. Lúcio snapped a leash onto Danu’s dollar and they were off.
It was late enough that the sun was shining, and early enough that the full weight of the oppressive midday Brazilian heat had yet to settle on the mountainside community. Danu walked nicely on her leash, sticking close to Lúcio’s side as they strolled down the smooth walkway that looped around the neighborhood. She didn’t tug at the leash once, and Sombra marveled yet again at how well Lúcio had managed to train her despite his impressively full calendar. The guy was booked solid for the next month - they’d just managed to catch him in time. She’d checked before asking to stay with him, of course.
“Where we headed?” Sombra asked, hands at her sides as they strolled along the walking path beside the road.
“Dog park down the way,” he said as a hovercar ambled by them. “Danu loves it so long as Bella isn’t there.”
“Bella?” Sombra asked, looking around. The neighborhood was a far cry from the favelas she knew Lúcio had grown up in, but a general feeling of camaraderie seemed to exist even within these spaced out structures. Folks outside tending their gardens or walking their dogs waved and called out to him by name, and he had a smile and personal greeting for each person they passed.
“One of the local dogs. Young boxer. Good pup, but a little rambunctious for Danu.” He chuckled and patted her head. “She might be big, but she’s a giant baby.”
“Poor girl.”
“Eh, she puts up with a lot,” he grinned. They turned a corner into what appeared to be a community park, and a few minutes later reached a large fenced in plot of land with several dogs playing as their accompanying humans chatted along the sides.
Lúcio unsnapped Danu’s leash and, after looking back for his nod of approval, she dashed off to join the others by the agility course and robotic fetch machines. One of the smaller dogs was yapping angrily at a robot as it held a ball out of reach, slowly winding back in preparation to pitch it into the distance. As the bot’s arm snapped and the ball flew, Danu trampled the small, eager pup and nabbed the ball before it even hit the ground.
“Oops,” Sombra said, grinning as she and Lúcio found a bench to sit on. “And you said she was a baby.”
“Even babies can be bullies,” he replied, amused. “She’s a gentle giant though.”
“Tell that to the terrier she just stepped on.”
Lúcio chuckled to himself as a large wolfhound raced by them, barking at another dog escaping with its toy. “That’s Breno,” he said as the hound passed. “He’s got a good spirit, even though he usually ends up being the punching bag of the park. Something about his size just makes him a target for attention it seems.”
“And Danielle thought Danu was a horse,” Sombra said, watching Breno lope hopefully over to the dachshund worrying his stuffed banana.
“His human’s over there,” Lúcio said, pointing as a diminutive woman sitting at a table eating a sandwich. “The irony thickens.”
“This is neat. I’ve never been to a dog park,” Sombra mused, leaning forward on her hands. “Weird, considering how much traveling I’ve done.”
“You don’t have a dog, do you?”
“Nope, just a very personable cat.”
“No occasion to visit the local dog parks then, I’d wager.” The conversation stalled slightly, and they turned their attention to the variety of happy canines and their companions. “Where have you traveled, anyway?” Lúcio asked casually after a few moments, following her eyes as she watched the dogs run.
“Just, you know,” she shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable and acutely aware that her open-ended comment had left her open to questions. “Around.” She’d let their easy camaraderie put her off guard, and she wasn’t ready with a compelling lie. A part of her, she noticed with a slow rising horror, didn’t even feel like trying.
“For any reason?” he pressed, and she noticed he was pointedly not making eye contact.
“Fun, I guess,” she replied slowly, racking her brain to come up with something believable. Traveling artist? Too flowery. Mobile consultant? Too dry. International IT? Ew.
“Fun?” Lúcio looked over at her with a curious expression on his face as she spoke, and she felt warning bells go off in her head. Familiar, gut-wrenching warning bells.
“And work,” she continued awkwardly, settling on a nondescript mixture of her vague train of thought. “I benefit from continuous business trips.”
Lúcio raised an eyebrow at her, draping an arm over the back of the bench. She saw him cast a glance around before he leaned slightly closer with a slow-dawning smirk on his face.
“Business trips, huh?” he said conspiratorially. “Is that just what you named them or are they called that in your dossiers from Talon, too?”
She sat up straight, an icy fear crawling up her spine like a spider. “What do you mean?” she asked, feeling any effort at denying the claim slipping through her teeth.
“Oh come on, Sombra,” he rolled his eyes. “I’ve known for a while.”
“How?” she asked in such a manner that Lúcio’s smile faltered ever so slightly.
“You weren’t exactly discreet,” he said, shrugging off his concern. “Hyper-cybridized former Los Muertos hacker involved in the LumériCo break-in? An uncanny knowledge of technology and networking? Mysteriously always surrounded by bright purple hard light screens with no CPU in sight?”
“Oops,” Sombra replied, remembering their several video chats wherein she took almost no precautions against what Lúcio had seen, only what he might find should he attempt to tap her connection. Programming error, she sighed to herself.
“I mean, I’ve read the Overwatch briefs.” He shrugged, seeming far too lackadaisical for a guy who just casually accused her of being involved in international terrorism.
“How -” she asked, her curiosity momentarily surpassing her worry. “How did you get classified briefings?”
“Hana,” he replied, offering her a rueful half smile. “She likes to make fun of how much they resemble StarCraft strategies. They might be full of propaganda and hyperbole, but some details stick out.”
“Like the brainwashed blue assassin?”
“Yeah, like that.”
Sombra’s brain raced, not an uncommon occurrence in itself, but this time it was tinged with an unfamiliar panic. Lúcio was a friend - a valued friend as it turned out, and no one in their right mind would keep her around once they knew who she really was.
Would she have to kill him? Somehow, the idea of sending Widowmaker after Lúcio made her more sick than her decision to remove Miguel as a security threat, even though - all things considered - Lúcio was a far greater concern than the low-status errand boy she once knew as a child.
In all honesty, she didn’t think she could do it, no matter what the consequences. Not now. She had a friend, and the importance of that had settled into her bones.
“I don’t have a great answer to this,” she said morosely, her weak response more palatable than the growing silence between them. Danu barked in the distance, the dog oblivious to what was happening a few feet away. “I did what I had to.”
“You had to work for Talon?” he asked, hands in his pockets as he looked off where Danu was jumping around happily. His tone was mildly accusatory, and while she bristled against it, she also had trouble finding fault in his distaste. She wasn’t a big fan of it herself.
“I didn’t have to,” she shrugged, upset at the turn the conversation had made. “And I only kind of work for them. It’s more an arrangement of convenience.”
“But Danielle…” he said. “She works for them.”
Sombra’s expression turned bitter. “She was created by them; she had no choice.”
“She’s still a murderer.”
“So am I.”
“But she likes to kill.”
“Well I love her anyway.”
Lúcio stopped and looked at her finally, smiling softly. “You what?”
“Shut up.”
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
Sombra looked over at Lúcio to see his typical impish grin in place replacing the uncertainty that had lived there moments before. Offering a smaller one in return, she smacked him on the shoulder. “Jerk.”
“You know I only drop the truth.”
They laughed, but Sombra could feel the looming elephant in the room threaten to smother them again. She decided to beat it to the punch. “Listen, I know I’ve done some questionable - ok, shitty things, and that maybe my methods aren’t always the most...ethical. I enjoy manipulating those in power, because I can, and because I’m tired of watching the world be run by a handful of corrupt individuals with egoes to feed. But I swear on my mother’s grave,” she insisted, holding up a hand, “I am doing it for a greater good. I just…” she sighed. “Might not know exactly what that is yet. Not completely.”
Lúcio put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly. “We never do, do we? I didn’t know stealing my sound barrier would work; I just knew something had to be done, because things were bad and that was the only truth I knew for certain. Chances were just as good the Vishkar would have leveled the favela and everyone in it as punishment for my actions. There’s precedent for that, after all.”
“You’d certainly have made a convenient scapegoat,” Sombra agreed.
“Sure would have. As luck had it, the people had my back and were willing to put their bodies on the line for their freedom. Without that?” he shrugged. “I would have just been another corpse thrown against the cold metal shell of the Vishkar machine.”
“Survival’s a hell of a motivator, isn’t she?”
“Sure is.” He scratched the back of his head. “Listen, we all make choices for a reason, and I might not agree with all of yours, but I am the last person going to tell you that you shouldn’t have made them. Besides,” he chuckled. “I like having a friend to talk about this stuff with.”
“Yeah,” Sombra said, feeling uncharacteristically chagrined. “It’s been a while since I had a friend.”
“Me too, man,” Lúcio nodded in agreement.
Sombra scoffed. “You’re a fuckin’ liar. You’re man of the hour here - everyone knows you and loves you.” A part of her couldn’t help but feel hurt whenever she thought of how easily her role in LumériCo’s downfall was dismissed as an act of terrorism by those outside her country. At least Brazil loved Lúcio for what he did.
To her surprise, Lúcio’s response was laughter. “Yeah, I get how you might think that. Everyone does.” He whistled for Danu and the tall animal stopped worrying the stick she had pinned to the ground, ears perked up as he called her over. “I don’t want to sound like some ungrateful guy with too much fame, but sometimes it can get a bit lonely in the spotlight.” He shrugged, snapping Danu’s leash back onto her red collar as she loped to his side. “Folks forget where the music came from. I still got scars from where I dragged myself up out of the dirt, and I could have been killed stealing that Vishkar tech.” He looked at Sombra, his expression intent, and a little bit sad. “Sometimes you gotta break some rules to do what’s right, but the folks buying and promoting my music don’t always want to hear that, you dig?”
Sombra looked away and smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “I dig.” She let her mind wander back to her time in Dorado, after she’d left Los Muertos and vanished into anonymity. “Some fucking old American soldier comes in and says Los Muertos is a criminal gang to be purged, and then Overwatch labels me a terrorist for trying to take down a greedy corporate monster bleeding my people dry. But who stopped them in the end?” Her subsequent laugh grew bitter. “Those same criminals and terrorists.”
Lúcio laughed softly. “The Vishkar gave me a similar label.”
“Guess the only difference between us were sweet beats,” Sombra replied, smiling.
“Well I mean you also do work for a terrorist organization.” Sombra glared at him, but it didn’t hold up against his wide smile. “What?”
“Okay, that’s fair.”
“Hey,” Lúcio said, sobering a bit. “Listen, I understand why you do what you do, and why you’ve done what you’ve done. I might not entirely get all your methods,” he smirked, “but I certainly understand your motivations.”
“Thank you,” she replied, swallowing. She felt an uneasy relief wash over her. “I suppose it goes without saying that if you tell anyone I’ll have to kill you?” She meant it as a joke, but considering recent events, it was difficult to commit entirely to the bit.
Luckily, Lúcio took it in stride. “Are you kidding me?” He shook his head. “You know way too many of my personal secrets at this point. I ain’t telling no one who you are.”
Standing up from the bench, he offered Sombra his hand. “I got your back, ok? You’re just going to have to trust me on that.”
Sombra looked up at the face smiling knowingly down at her. It was unlike her to take people at their word; against her very nature to engage in the roulette game of trust. She’d survived by accepting no compromise on the matter, protecting her anonymity with a ruthless cunning that left no room for exploitation.
Except that she’d let Widowmaker in - a genetically engineered assassin with limited emotional savvy who all things considered should have turned her in a dozen times. She’d let Gabriel in, too, if to a lesser extent, and the man could have ruined her life with the stroke of a pen if so inclined.
So what was one more open door if the person on the other side was willing to keep it safe?
Taking his hand, she let him pull her up into a hug. It felt nice, being close to someone that wasn’t Widow.
“All right,” she said, stepping back. Danu barked at them, and she interpreted it as approval, and the words came out easier than she ever would have thought. “I trust you.”
*Read from the beginning or check out our intro post! All stories tagged under #glitchfic. Table of contents located here.
#spiderbyte#sombramaker#widowsombra#sombra x widowmaker#widowmaker x sombra#sombra#olivia colomar#widowmaker#amélie lacroix#amelie lacroix#lucio correia dos santos#lucio#overwatch#overwatch fanfic#overwatch fandom#overwatch fic#glitch in the system#glitchfic
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As part of my effort to get into Overwatch, I listened to the Know the Lore: Overwatch podcast and I really like the universe Blizzard has created. But it’s a shame it’s all somewhat useless since the matches you play are often very lore-unfriendly and crazy. Fun, sure, but they never feel like “real” battles in the Overwatch universe. I wish you could reenact actual battles, like the assassination of Mondatta and the attempt at stealing the Doomfist gauntlet by Widowmaker and Reaper. That way, the lore might actually feel like it serves a purpose, other than providing backstories for the heroes.
Ahhh what am I blabbering about? Let’s go play a match with six Walrus-Roadhogs and David Bowie Moira.
PS: I’m experimenting with different backgrounds this week. If you look closely, you might notice these backgrounds HAVE LINES. That’s a pretty huge deal to me and I’m still on the fence about it. It gives the comic a more unified look, but I also liked the paint-y look of the previous backgrounds. If you wanna let me know what you think, please do! You can reach me on Twitter at @WoodenPlankST or @AbelHagen!
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Old Soldiers, Chapter 23: how did you know, before I did?
Yep, still working on Old Soldiers. It's really difficult to switch gears between the Oilliphéist and Venom/Fear of Spiders universes, it really is, but it's happening.
This chapter is worksafe. [AO3 link]
[All dialogue in «angle quotes» is translated from the Spanish. Amélie's thoughts are translated from the French.]
Amélie awoke, early. She often woke before Lena, regardless of where they were, but she didn't mind that. Usually, when it happened ahead of the alarm, she'd doze, and wait, so they could rise together. But sometimes, it there was time, she'd slip out, sneak over to the kitchen, make coffee and tea and get out cheeses and creams and preserves and the morning's good bread, delivered, and the scents would reach over, across, to their bedroom, and awaken her partner, and she'd stumble out, eyes still half-closed, usually remembering to put on a shirt, following the delicious smell of breakfast, and she'd say, "y'know what this needs? Bangers!" and she'd grab the sausages she'd bought a day or two before out of the refrigerator and get to work, and everything would be wonderful.
This was neither of those sorts of day.
The spider plucked at her web. What is it? she thought. It is... something. What?
She didn't really care all that very much about this mission. Morrison had been someone her husband knew, the person to whom Gabriel Reyes reported. They'd met, no doubt, at some function or other. But his time for shaking the world had passed, taking care of him - justice, of a sort, their way - was important to Lena, and so, she was willing to put Talon behind it. And finding herself thinking about that, she let her mind trace that strand further, further down, lower, into thinner, lesser strands - but strands nonetheless.
And she was very surprised to discover that for some reason she did not know, some reason she didn't understand, something had changed.
Jack Morrison, left to his own devices, was going to do something very bad indeed. And it had to be stopped, before anyone else even knew it could happen.
"How did you know?" she whispered, shifting up, and looking at her wife, sprawled across the bed, arms akimbo, hair even moreso. "How did you know before I did?"
Lena stirred just as the alarm rang the chimes of Big Ben. She blinked, groggily, looked up at her wife, and smiled. "G'morffin'," she managed, flopping over onto Amélie's legs.
The assassin smiled back at her partner, but there was a firmness to it. "Get up," she said, firmly, sliding out from underneath. "Something has happened. I must find out what. Suddenly, I think, this mission may be... important."
-----
Amélie pulled her helmet off, frustrated, frowning. Nothing, she thought. Nothing of interest, at least. No new news items, at least, nothing that affected this situation. No outbreaks of violence, of disease, no disappearances, no interesting thefts, not even any strange new conspiracy rumours reaching high enough to matter, not even to her...
Perhaps Sombra has had more luck, she thought, climbing out of her lotus position and off the bed. Or perhaps we can make it not matter. She pulled on the rest of her field kit, and walked into the safehouse's living room, where Sombra sat, intently, poking at virtual keyboards and screens, Lena and Angela keeping each other company, occasionally watching.
"Anything?"
"Nothing, araña - sorry." Sombra turned around, facing the spider. "If he's done something, it's too quiet even to make my ears. And I don't miss much."
"Gabe's almost here, though. I was about to talk to my old friend again, too. See what he thought about our little video."
"Good," Amélie nodded. "I'll make some coffee. Anyone else?"
Lena waved her off, holding up her mug of tea. Angela smiled, though, and said, "I would. I always liked your coffee."
"Sadly, this is not the best version," the assassin smiled back, fondly, "...but I will do what I can with what I have."
I've missed her more than I realised, she thought, as she walked into the kitchen, glancing over the cluster of information monitors Sombra had set up for her, but seeing nothing new. She pulled the pitcher of water and coarse coffee grounds from the small refrigerator, pulled out a filter, and drained the cold brew into a second pitcher, giving it a taste.
Much better, she thought, pouring two glasses half-full, adding milk, some sugar, and ice, and tasted. Yes. The beans are good. It is just a shame the water is so hard. Still, it will do.
She walked out in time to hear Sombra speaking in increasingly agitated Spanish with her friend in Los Muertos.
«What do you mean, he left?» she said, confused.
«He left! This morning! We'd watched your video and were trying to figure out how to get rid of him without getting ourselves all killed by whatever the hell that was, and he walked in and says he has an outside job, needs to take a couple of weeks to work on it.»
«Well... did he say anything about where he was going?»
«We weren't about to ask, we were just glad he was gone. We're gonna pick up and relocate before he comes back. You're gonna tell your friends in Talon about that, right?»
«Of course I am - and you're welcome.» She thought for a moment. I think he's telling the truth, but we'll have to check... «Did he say anything about where he was going?»
«No - just that he had to get training for some special mission. He wouldn't tell us what, or when, or where - he just made some joke about the animal at the heart of the animal? Which I kind of think probably worked better in English.»
Lena largely kept up, listening as the Spanish went by, and looked confused for just a moment before her eyes went wide, and she whispered, "No!" She looked up at Amélie, who looked confused by the metaphor.
"The animal - the beast. The beast at the heart of the beast," she whispered, as Sombra joked with her friend, trying to weasel out possible training locations without actually sounding like she wanted the data. "I think that means us, and I think... I think the beast means Winston."
Angela's eyes went wide as Amélie tested the idea and nodded, eyes half-closed to slits. It fits, she thought. "It is possible. We must send a warning."
"Embassy security's pretty good. I'm pretty sure he's safe as long as he stays in Geneva," Lena said, nodding, as Sombra told them to shut up, can't they tell she's talking to her friends? And the junior assassin waved everyone into the kitchen.
"I knew we should've just capped him from th' start," she said, closing the kitchen door behind her. "Could've avoided all this."
"I did not take this seriously enough," her wife acknowledged, adding another cube of ice to her coffee, and motioning to Angela if she wanted another herself.
The doctor frowned, not at the ice, but at the entire situation. "I do not speak Spanish, and did not catch enough of your English - what is going on?"
"Jack's bugged out, luv. He's headed off somewhere - don't know where, Sombra's workin' on that - t'get ready for some mission, and I think that mission is Winston."
"Winston?!" the doctor exclaimed. "Why? That makes no sense."
"'The beast at the heart of the beast' is what he told Los Muertos, yah? Given what we know about his obsessions, I'm pretty sure we're the beast. Which means the beast at the heart of it is Widowmaker..."
"Let him try," she sneered.
Venom giggled, briefly, before getting serious again, "...or Winston, if y'want the 'joke' t'make any sense, right?"
Angela sipped at her coffee - quite good, still - and thought. "Ana thinks," the temporary Talon field medic said, "...that she knows 'everyone' you are. Given what she said in person, we can assume that means Talon. She also said that I'm involved. Which means she thinks I am involved with Talon..."
"Not wrong, now. Ironic, innit?"
"Quiet, I'm thinking..." she said, not wanting to think about that too closely, "...and if Ana thinks that, then... what? She thinks I am your... contact? Your superior?"
"...her creator, perhaps? Perhaps also mine." Amélie sipped her coffee, still thinking, as the other two women looked at her, surprised, and she shrugged. "That ludicrous set of documents from the investigation - if Overwatch and Blackwatch actually believed the official story about my 'abduction' and 'conditioning' to be who I am..."
"You're thinkin' that all came from her?" asked Lena, half a smile on her face.
"No. But if she went to Jack, after sending that letter to Fareeha..."
"...it could've come from him," Venom nodded. "Yeh. He signed off on both reports..."
"And he's latched onto Winston, because, because..." The doctor stood up very straight, very tall. "Because of your accelerator! Of course! It couldn't just be me, because I am a medical doctor, not a physicist - it would have to be Winston!"
"It almost makes sense," the Widowmaker said, "in an oddly... detached-from-reality sort of way."
"We need to get Gabe in on this," Lena said, shaking her head. "He knew Jack best, before. And that Los Muertos fighter, Delgado. She might know something. She said he talks in his sleep."
"It means bringing her in on this side of the fence," Angela frowned. "Please do not do that."
"He can talk t'her, we can talk t'him. He should still be an hour out of customs, we should try t'raise him. I'll do it."
The door opened, and Sombra walked in, her expression a combination of bemusement and outright disbelief. "You guys aren't going to believe what I think is going on."
"Yeah?" Venom grinned, happy to have an even better reason to kill Jack Morrison. "Wait'll you hear our version. But g'wan, luv - you first."
-----
"How...?"
Ana Amari looked around the pocket valley not too far outside Jalpan De Serra, a hidden spot deep in the nature reserve. Under a canopy of forest, a small, single-storey house sat in good order. But the interesting parts were around it - the cleared, low-level training camp hidden from overhead view, boxed off in most directions by steep slopes and cliffs.
"Pretty sure it was originally cleared during the war," Morrison replied. "Local resistance against the Omnics. Deep cover. Well hidden. People stay away - bad memories, I guess." He chuckled, a little. "I try to encourage that."
He pointed with his rifle over towards a particularly green patch. "Latrines used to be over there, I think. Found a bunch of old tent stakes, too. Probably didn't want anything too permanent, so they'd just tent up and go."
"Either that, or it was a campground," she smirked. "So this is where you go to hide."
"Hide, or think, or train, Ana. Different things, but it's a good place for all three." He gestured towards the house. "C'mon inside. It's comfortable - I've got a combination of solar and geothermal, and there's an uplink towards the top of the cliff. I figure we'll want to get to San Jose a week before Winston arrives, and until then, we should just lay low, and plan."
I don't like it, Ana thought. It is too steep, and the cliffs are too close. "A hidey-hole is also a trap, Jack. You know that."
"Nobody else in the world knows I know about this place, Ana. Not anymore. If there's any safe place in the Western hemisphere..." He opened the door, and threw his knapsack onto the couch against the far wall of the small living room. "...this is it."
#talon!tracer#talon!mercy#widowtracer#tracemaker#tracermaker#old soldiers#lena venom oxton#venom#amélie lacroix#widowmaker#angela ziegler#mercy#sombra#jack morrison#ana amari
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Rojo
Inspired by @angesiren‘s post here
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“Even with this, you manage to be an oddity.”
Sombra ignores Lacroix’s comment, her voice as smooth and cold as her lucerne skin. She knows those eerie golden eyes of her are glaring at the back of her head. Lacroix understands very well the emotion that lies locked in Sombra’s heart, it’s just she can no longer care or relate to it. Sombra knows this and tries to ignore the otherwise pointed rudeness in the sniper’s observation.
The sensation in her chest, what once began as a gentle tickle now burns her lungs as she shakes, coughing and covering her mouth with a closed fist. The less attention she brings to her ailment, the better for her. She’s been a shadow for so long - it’s only fitting she disappears like one as well: quietly, unknowingly.
She chokes and finally, the offending object lodges itself out of her throat and into her hand. Sombra blinks slowly, clearing her throat to alleviate the stinging pain and lingering ache before her fingers spread open to reveal a delicate red petal resting upon her palm.
Letting a finger trace the soft edges of the petal, she, once again, since she’s developed her illness, admires the man’s choice in flowers. She saw many of them grow in Coahuila and near the border of Mexico when she lived much further north than Castillo. They used to be nothing more than plants - things she’d never give a second glance to. Now, she stops to admire them anytime she happens to see them sprouting, whether it be in a walled-off garden or next to a rotting wooden fence on an off-beaten trail. She knows it must be morbid to find beauty in the symbol of her demise but she finds it comforting. When she can’t touch what she so desperately wants to touch, the flowers are the next best thing. When she plucks one to gingerly trail across her lips, she imagines that the soft touch might be what a kiss - shared, not taken - might feel like. When she plucks a few more to take home with her - to keep in a small vase, she imagines that it’s like taking a piece of him home with her, the flowers watching over her as she sleeps.
Sombra is aware that her rationale is an exhausting stretch but it doesn’t stop her from living vehemently through her imagination. Why should it bother her? The same stretches very well having been the reason she’s in this predicament in the first place.
A sharp clack of Lacroix’s heeled boots break her from her thoughts as the sniper grabs her wrist. Beautiful features twist into a sneer as she stares at the petal in her hand.
“How can you love someone you don’t even know?” She drops Sombra’s wrist with a small push, as if disgusted by touching her at all. “Idiote. You kill yourself over a lie.”
Lapis eyes watch as the petal flutters to the floor and she already feels a few more climbing their way out of her esophagus. Beyond being unsure as to the reason for Widowmaker’s cruel, one sided conversation, she knows that what she feels isn’t a lie.
“I know enough. But he doesn’t know me,” Sombra finally speaks softly. Her voice, once unique and proud, full of character and desire for victory, now muted by months of violent coughing fits. She says every word carefully, lest she wants to further irritate her ravaged throat - bloody, raw, and testament to the effects this cursed love has on her. “That’s how this sort of thing happens, no?”
Over years of chance meetings with the man, it’s more than likely a collective three minutes where they’ve shared nothing more than an accidental glance. It isn’t until she does what she does best - discover - that she finds a person who so very much reminds her of herself. Is it a bit narcissistic? Perhaps. But years of being alone and extremely goal oriented don’t exactly leave room for healthy expectations of love. She feels close to him, in a way she has not felt toward any other human being in her entire life.
What would he say, she thinks, if she introduced herself? What would he think, she wonders, if she tells him all that they have in common, from getting in with a gang at a young age to being recruited by organizations with military subsects because of their skills, to losing and gaining families and friends in such a short amount of time? How would he react, she imagines, if he realizes they’ve both had augmentation done, although very differently.
What would you do if I told you we’ve suffered in so many similar ways? Me amarías? Me salvarás de esta dolencia?
Widowmaker’s scoff brings her back to reality once again. “Foolish. What you feel isn’t love.”
There’s an angry heat in her chest that isn’t from the petals slowly suffocating her. She should yell - defend her feelings from this invasive woman she begrudgingly calls a friend. But she’s tired. The dark circles she hides underneath dark makeup attests to that fact. While she can no longer offer a cheeky grin, giggle, or witty retort, she can still make comments.
“At least I can feel,” is all she replies, looking out over the cliffside of their current base and sighs, shoulder slumping with her exhaustion.
The small hiss of air between teeth is all she needs to hear to know that she’s made the spider angry. It’s that cute thing they do to show affection, like friends do.
Sombra begins to wonder if she was ever capable of having true friends.
“What does it matter?” comes Lacroix’s voice. “Do you truly believe that O’Deorain will leave you as you are once she finds out?”
No. Sombra knows this. “I may be going through something stupid right now but I’m not an idiot. I won’t become a tool.” She turns to head back to her temporary quarters to rest before she heads for Castillo in the morning. Before she brushes past Widowmaker, she stops next to her. “I won’t let them turn me into you. I won’t ever be controlled.” Cobalt eyes look up to meet glaring chartreuse. “Hay libresa en la muerte y como la sombra, seré libre. Remember that, if nothing else.” She brings one hand up in gesture. “Cuídate, anraña.”
If Widowmaker had something to say in reply, she does not hear. She does not stop to see if the woman cared about her warning.
The quick swish of the metal door sliding open relieves her hot frame with a quick burst of cool air until she steps inside, closing the door behind her and overriding the locking unit as she does every single night she’s forced to spend within one of Talon’s bases. Her room is empty, with blank grey metal walls that enclose her and have her feel even more imprisoned than she does at the moment with her situation.
What she said to Lacroix is true. She’ll die with her freedom intact, even if she’s never truly been free. Her freedom has always been an illusion; she would say she’s been forced to run so many times but really, she’s always been on the run: from the past, the present, and up until recently, the future. Even in love, she is not truly free, bound to the weight that comes with the knowledge of her impending doom. The face of the man who unknowingly holds the keys to the chains holding her prisoner flashes into her mind but she can’t hate him, no matter how much she tries. This one sided love is the purest thing she’s felt and she doesn’t want to dirty that with hatred. She can only blame herself for her state - her own curious nature and the lonely nature of a shadow. She doesn’t bother to strip from her gear as she lies down on her bed, sheets cold and stiff.
Her eyes quickly land on the small vase on the metal stand next to her bed. The few red blanket flowers that she’s plucked and brought back are beginning to wither and crinkle along the edges of the petals, their once brilliant red shade now an ugly, rotting brown.
She does that thing where she stretches reality and wonders if this is some sort of sick symbolism of the relationship between her and her unknowing love - a relationship that never was and would never be. Still, the flowers remind her of him and that gives her a sense of comfort when painkillers and other drugs won’t. Sombra takes a single, crumbling flower and holds it to her as she hiccups, trying to get some sleep.
After a restless night, she lifts her head to a sheet littered with red petals. In the wee hours of the night, she’s accepted her death. And she knows what she needs to do. Sombra returns to Castillo, leaving on one of Talon’s ships, with only her small vase in hand.
She doesn’t bother dressing in her gear anymore. If she’s going to die, she’ll do it comfortably. Her hair, once meticulously maintained, grows out and hides the cybernetic implants outlining her head. Every morning, she sweeps the floor, coughing all the while, and wondering if it’s a lost cause, as with every cough, more petals fall from her lips and pool at her feet.
Sombra has to hand it to Widowmaker; so far, Moira, Akande, nor Reyes, or any other Talon goons have come calling for her or trying to take her by force to have her endure the surgery that would both save and end her life. Maybe she was a friend after all. Or maybe she just didn’t have the ability to care one way or another.
The day Sombra finally coughs up her first, intact blanket flower, she stares in both horror and awe. The flower is more beautiful than any she’s ever plucked from the wild; the deep red of its petals and center reminds her of the worn serape that hangs from his broad shoulders. The red of her misguided passion.
A tinge of fear simmers along the sides of her face but she knows it’s a sign. She doesn’t have much time left and it’s time for her plan to take action. In the evening, Sombra finishes her work, removing a flash drive from her main computer as she erases everything - all her work - years of sleuthing - years of sleepless nights - years of inching closer to finding who controlled everything. All of it remained in her small flash drive and she’d see that it got into the hands of someone she could trust.
Her bathroom mirror is dirtied and small but it’s enough as she brushes her outgrown hair and applies a bit of makeup. The familiar and unbearable tingles her chest as she quickly grips the sides of the sink, tossing her head forward as she coughs, deeply and harshly. Another flower slips from her lungs and lands in the sink while she catches her breath, tears pricking her eyes. This one is lovely too, she thinks, as she can’t help but sift it through her strands of hair and use the symbol of her death to feel beautiful one last time.
Sombra makes her way to Calaveras, both for a drink and to ask a favor of the old bartender who’s seen far too much of her face for one lifetime. She sits in her usual spot at the end of the bar, ordering a shot of tequila. The burn of the alcohol down her throat is miniscule compared to the sensation in her chest and she wonders if drinking is such a good idea.
It doesn’t feel so bad, to have a one last drink alone, she thinks. Just before she can stand and begin asking her favor of the old bartender, she spots dusty red and torn edges. The light clink of metal and heavy thud against wood alerts her and she can’t tell if the funny feeling in her torso is from her disease or the thought that he might be here.
But he is. He stands at the entrance, tipping his hat toward the bartender before he takes a spot at the opposite end of the bar, gesturing for a drink. She can’t help but watch him, heart twisting this way and that. Her fingers feel slick with a nervous sweat and the weight she feels in her lungs is both devastating and wonderful as she takes in the dip of his old hat.
He drinks slowly, and her eyes trace the hard lines of his thick neck, following the movement of his adam’s apple as he swallows. She can’t believe her luck. She gets to see him one last time. She can’t help but imagine that maybe this was meant to be and maybe his soul is as bound to her as she is to him.
The small sigh of relief that leaves his lips as he wipes his mouth once he finishes his drink brings her out of her stupor, finally realizing that he’s looking at her. Warm brown eyes regard her cautiously but curiously. She looks away, letting her hair hide her own eyes from him. She wants to look at him but she can’t stand the thought of knowing that eventually he’ll look away.
What she doesn’t expect is the thud of leather boots heading toward her. She dares to turn, finding the subject of her affections standing at a respectful distance but close enough to imply his interest.
“Evenin’, señorita,” he says with a tip of his hat. “Mind if I sit?”
It takes her a moment; she wants to admire everything about him. His rugged features - his eyes, almost as tired as hers. Dark brown hair with touches of pepper grey lining at his scruffy but charming beard. Taut, sunkissed skin with muscles bulging where they could. His broadness - she wonders if he’s as warm as he looks .She wants him to drape over her and keep her warm from the chill of death that she already feels nipping at her toes.
His accent is charming and his attempt at Spanish isn’t too bad but with his American, southern accent, it sounds even sweeter. Maybe she should be cringing, but she wants to hear it over and over again.
“Buenas noches, caballero,” she answers, voice still soft but she manages a smile - a true smile. She hasn’t done that in a long time. “Not at all.”
The rusty metal of the barstool creaks underneath his weight as he takes a seat next to her and leans one arm against the bar, facing her. “Gracias.”
She could listen to him speak Spanish all day. She wants to hear him talk. About anything. About everything. She wants his voice to be the last thing she hears. Sombra’s head feels dizzy from the warm buzz of alcohol and the happiness she’s experiencing. She’s in disbelief and she wonders if she’s having some sort of alcohol induced dream. Either way, she won’t complain - this is a lovely dream.
“Might I have your name?” he asks.
Her lips move, quirking into a grin and it feels so good to do that again. “Me llamo Sombra.” She doesn’t care who knows - who can overhear. This is her moment and she will live for one last time. “Y tu, caballero?”
“The name’s Jesse.” She knows that. She knows his full name but she never realized how beautiful it’d sound coming from his own lips. “I’m wondering if I can buy you a drink tonight, Miss Sombra?”
Another smile graces her face. “I’d like that, Jesse.”
His name could fall from her lips a thousand times and she’d never get tired of it.
- - - -
She knows that it’s not enough - the ache in her chest is only relieved slightly because her mind is in such euphoria that she’s managed to convince herself to indulge in this fantasy - just a bit longer, just a bit longer, she thinks.
Sombra’s fingers thread through his hair before she wraps her arms around the broad shoulders she’s dreamed of. Only in her most far off daydreams did she hope to ever hold him this close. His scent, his touch, his weight, his sounds, his warmth - it’s not at all what she hoped it’d be. It’s better.
But even as they rock and move together, smothering their noises of joint pleasure with fevered kisses, Sombra knows it’s not enough. He won’t save her from her death and as they approach their finale, she hangs onto him, clutching for life against his body. She calls his name with abandon, intent on somehow carrying this experience with her to the next life.
They finish together and her trembling from the aftermath turns into shaking. She’s told herself she’s accepted her death but now that she’s had this small taste of him, she wants more. So much more. She’s scared and doesn’t want to let go. The pain in her chest is now from keeping herself from leaking tears that will ruin this precious moment.
“Darlin’.” He sounds concerned. “You’re shakin’ like a leaf...what’s wrong?”
Sombra’s voice is stuck in her throat, trying to keep from letting out those whimpers of fear.
“Did I...hurt you?”
Oh no. She shakes her head strongly. No. He gave her everything he could tonight. It was more than she could ask for. “I’m,” she chokes and turns her head to cough, hoping there won’t be any flowers or petals. “No, you’ve made me very happy...I’m just...tengo frio.”
Not entirely a lie. But she can’t complain about her lie when he moves to lie beneath her and grabs his serape from off the floor. He places her on his chest and drapes his garment over her small frame before he tucks a bit of hair behind her ear.
“I messed up that pretty flower of yours, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
She laughs and allows a small sob to hide among the breathy chuckle. “It’s okay...there’s more where that came from.” She shrugs closer to him, hand tracing over his chest. “Just...keep me warm?”
“With pleasure.” He lets one thick arm settle around her and presses her body closer to his. She relishes in the warmth and wishes she could stay like this forever.
Don’t let me go.
“G’night, Sombra.”
Please don’t ever let me go.
“Buenas noches...Jesse.”
Sombra doesn’t sleep and the ache in her chest lets her know that it’s time. The night is silent as she slips from his warmth, beginning to embrace the cold that steadily creeps around her. She thanks him, kissing his temple gently. She wants to stay but he shouldn’t have to see what’s going to happen next. Her fate may be sealed but he’s made her feel more free than she has in years.
“Te amo.” It’s a whisper but it holds more emotion than any scream she’s ever bellowed in her life.
She lets her eyes rove over his form one last time, taking in the red of his serape - the red of his cheeks and flush of skin. It’s time, her mind repeats. Leave. It’ll only be harder the longer you stay. She agrees. She tiptoes to the door and quietly leaves the room, becoming a shadow one final time as she disappears.
- - -
He wakes alone the next morning, missing the warmth of his lady companion from the bar. He’s disappointed but he supposes that’s the nature of these type of nights.
There was a sadness in those blue eyes of hers that compelled him to move and sit next to her. She was happy in the aftermath of their union but he could tell she was still sad about something. He wanted to ask, wanted to see if there was anything he could do. But she was gone.
As he moved to redress, he wondered who that woman was. Sombra. It was a bit of an odd name but it was a good name that rolled off his tongue. He thinks he might not mind seeing her again and asking if he might buy her another drink in the future... if he can find her. Just as he reaches for his hat, he finds the flower that’d been in her hair resting against what looks like a flash drive. Underneath are two small pieces of paper. Curious, he grabs them, sitting down against the bed to read the notes. One seems like a list of instructions which leave him confused until he reads the other.
To Jesse McCree...My name was Sombra. I spent my life being a shadow but I refuse to remain in one. Don’t let them forget that they’re always being watched. I am finally free but don’t let me be forgotten.
Gracias por todo.
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👽 how much freedom does a kidnapped s/o have at the talon base? With all of them if thats okay ;w;
Reaper: You get the solitary treatment. He wants you locked down, either to his room or your own. He doesn’t want anyone else looking at you, getting tempted by you. Hell, it’ll make things a lot less complicated for him if nobody knows you exist. So, he keeps it that way. You’ll get everything you need through him.
Doomfist: He puts great attention into keeping track of you. He deliberately designs your confinements with exploits, waiting to see if you can escape. The more you manage to, the more impressed he becomes. The more of the base you’ll be allowed to roam, and the harder he’ll make it the next time.
Sombra: You’re allowed anywhere on base, no supervision required! She’s too busy to keep tabs on you all the time anyways. And don’t even think about trying to sneak over the fence, or else the collar around your neck will start counting down a warning. To what, she won’t tell you.
Widowmaker: Go ahead, run free. Why should she care? It’s not like they’re putting her to any good use here; you might as well give her something to do. Though she never expressly said you’re not allowed to leave, it became apparent after the 3rd retrieval that she didn’t intend to let you walk out.
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VT here. I'm glad I was able to interpret your intentions for the character correctly for the most part. I really like your works in general, so I'm always up for reading and analyzing your stories, regardless of Hanzo's presence in it. That being said, holy shit I can just imagine how much of a pain in the ass he would be as a Servant. Mana transfer would be a nightmare. Hm, now I wanna know what classes the other heroes would be.
PFFFT!! I didn’t even think of mana transfers. Buhhh…that’d be awkward if he had to. Though, if a master has decent enough circuits, they should be able to transfer it automatically without needing to resort to…intimate contact. But it’s more fun to think that they have to do physical transfers. Hanzo would make a terrible time out of it.
I actually made a post about it very, very long ago.
Though, I do change my mind about Mercy. Forget the Caster class, she’s a fucking Ruler. I’m on the fence about Genji, though. I figured Assassin would suit him best, but like the idea of the class advantage he’d have against Hanzo if he were a Saber. Kind of like Karna and Arjuna.
Winston is a Berserker, hands down, no question about it. Reaper can be an Avenger or an Assassin, either works just fine.
Jesse is an Archer as well. Fits well with Billy the Kid.
Orisa can be a Rider.
Reinhardt is a Lancer with affinity for Saber and maybe the Rider class. I dunno, he looks like he’d be good as a Rider. I mean, he could be a Shielder class, too, but I’m not sure how much I want to include Fate:GO specific stuff here. Ah, well, he can be a Shielder if he wants.
If we can go with Fate\Go, then I also nominate Moira for Alter-Ego class. I mean, she works well as a Caster, too, but if Mercy gets to be Ruler, I want Moira as an Alter-Ego because it’s just fitting.
Sombra is an Assassin, Torbjörn is a Berserker, Widowmaker is an Archer with affinity for Assassin, I don’t know about the rest…it’s hard. I want to think of something for Soldier, but I can’t see him as anything other than an Archer or some strange Avenger class.
OTL. Sorry for the ramble and that I’m so embarrassing I’m just really into Fate (especially Grand Order and Extra) and it’s been a while since I had anyone to talk to about this.
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Quickie headcanons for which characters most likely to intensionally try to get you pregnant? Not talkin' just dudes. Lotta career-oriented women in overwatch so it feels like they might use your captive body as a boon if they were either on the fence about kids or always wanted some.
Symmetra might want kids way down the line and decide to steal your precious baby gravy.
Male or female, Mercy will find a way to have her baby, since she’s immortal I have a head canon she can’t reproduce and if she had a female S/O she’d experiment on her and use her as a surrogate.
Jesse wants a bunch of kids and doesn’t intend to get his s/o knocked up, but doesn’t ever use protection or pull out either.
Reaper wants a child, someone he can care for and feel for again and he takes his time picking the perfect woman to bare that child as it’s going to be painful for her.
Hanzo might try to make a Shimada heir to pass his powers onto, he thinks it’s his responsibility since he assumes Genji is out of order in that department. If he doesn’t get a son, he’s honestly the type to keep trying until he does and ends up with 4 little girls and finally a young son.
People I honestly think would not fuck with kids or more kids: Ana, Pharrah, Junkrat, Lucio, DVA, Genji, Sombra, Widowmaker, Soldier 76, Reinhardt (He worries he’s too old, but wouldn’t mind, he just doesn’t get his hopes up), Tracer, Zarya (Babies are bad for your calcium).
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