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Chapter Text

Angela’s eyes started to flitter and blink in a morning not unlike any other, being disturbed from peaceful slumber by the consistent rise and fall of the air-raid sirens’ pitch. Young, vibrant, and full of life, any girl at her age ought to have been sent to enrich her mind in a campus befitting for students in Lower Secondary School. Of course, classes had been canceled and placed on hold for the better part of a year.

...perhaps more- time tended to blend together in a warzone- and Switzerland was naught but a land of death then.

She was ten, having been slated to surpass her peers and rapidly elevate her educational journey due to a tacit acknowledgment of brilliance- not that she would ever describe herself as such.

Angela Ziegler, from the time she could formulate memories, had always disregarded the notion of excellence, rather finding herself to be ordinary in her own right. Unique perhaps, but all individuals were unique. She simply held an affinity for something others her age tended not to; the consumption and accrual of information. It was nothing unheard of. Even so, the fact that she’d been robbed of a true opportunity to exercise that talent was somewhat of a disappointment.

“Angela!” A hurried, semi-stressed voice called from the first floor of her home; her father, “Please stay in the basement until it’s safe- I mean it this time! Your mom and I are off to the hospital!”

Angela, still a tad groggy, struggled to identify certain words within her parent’s litany of sentences. Of course, she understood the synopsis of her father’s command and was compelled to exit her room, descending a flight of stairs with frazzled hair and deep bags beneath her eyes.

There were beds in the basement- she could return to her realm of slumber there.

However, before the girl could plunge into the dimly lit cellar, she was intercepted by her mother whose long blonde hair, reminiscent of their daughter’s, draped over her head in a veil of locks.

“There’s a surprise for you downstairs,” They murmured mid-embrace, their hold tight and unusually forceful, “When we get back, tell us everything you’ve learned, hm?”

Angela, still drowning in fatigue, merely hummed an acknowledgment before pressing on with her zombified trudge into the basement, sealing the door firmly behind her before twisting three locks- two of which had been installed fairly recently.

Finally, the sleep-deprived child made note of a hefty book neatly set on a decayed desk in the claustrophobic room's far corner. Its thickness, coupled with the hardened cover and title pertaining to biology, indicated it was a textbook; the perfect gift for a youthful girl aspiring to follow in her parents' footsteps.

Briefly, Angela’s lips creased into a smile, the burden upon her chest lightening- only for her head to tilt downwards as though clapped in the occiput by tiredness. No matter what excitement awaited her in the pages of her newfound source of entertainment, the land of dreams beckoned alluringly.

Thus, she flopped face-first into an unmade mattress and drifted off into a resting paradise.

–

War; a tragic curse brought upon mankind for as long as it had evolved the capacity to understand simple tribalism.

It was a miasma, a guff of conflict responsible for the loss of potential, the decimation of lands, the setback of progress, and finally the dismemberment of families.

How ironic then that the largest, most destructive conflict the human race would ever be forced to endure would be started not by the hands of flesh, but by that of its greatest creation.

That creation, in its godly nature, had bestowed upon its makers the proverbial ‘Four Horsemen of Strife’ on such a scale that no war of the past could ever compare in devastation.

The potential for paradise? Ripped away in a manner designed to crush the spirits of the hopeful.

It was not an action borne from malice, but an unknowable machinist logic.

Lands once gorgeous and filled to the brim with vitality? Reduced to smothering wastelands, their use repurposed into something more industrially sound.

Only what was necessary was spared.

Progress? Vanished in the blink of an eye- taken from the world with the crushing of the first skull.

Decades of movement were reversed and then some in months.

Families? Split apart as children were orphaned, confined to bunkers and shelters whilst their parents were reduced to unidentifiable heaps of charred flesh by artillery and air-to-ground missiles.

The Omnic Crisis- the foundation of Humanity’s modern scars…

…and the birth of its heroes.

Chapter Text

“Get out!”

Angela didn’t expect such a blunt response from the As-Salam International Hospital of all institutions. “I’m.. I’m sorry?” She half-laughed in a flummoxed state, being met with a crumpled wad of paper that bounced haplessly off her shoulder, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Her Arabic was shoddy at best given she hadn’t practiced it in quite a few years. In all likelihood, her inquiry was barely intelligible to the irate receptionist. Alas, she would not be deterred so easily.

“I've come in person considering my emails went unnoticed,” Angela explained in a sweet tone, attempting to remain polite, “I want to offer assistance to a city in distress-”

“You’re Overwatch, لعنة على هذه الأمة!” The following words were not familiar to Angela- but she could recognize a term similar to 'curse' having been thrown into the mix.

“I’m here to help,” Angela repeated feebly, her warm smile faltering only somewhat briefly. Once again, she was met with a second childish ball of paper, and she determined rightly that success was nigh impossible. “Have a good day then.”

With a long exhale from her nostrils, the angelic woman tucked her application back into her purse and strode from the plaza, exiting through the main entrance with eyes of equal parts disdain and curiosity trailing every footstep. To her, she was Angela Ziegler; a doctor, a woman of kindness, someone willing to help those in need regardless of what it meant for herself.

But, understandably, the nation of Egypt saw her as ‘Mercy’, a false angel, formerly of a failed organization that had harmed the land irreparably. That was a sentiment echoed by a sizable portion of the medical world as well, and she’d yet to properly hold a position for a period of time longer than four months.

Of course, she didn’t intend to leave Cairo based on that lone interaction.

“I’m a doctor. If I wanted to be cheered for my work, I would have gone into modeling or acting,” She muttered to herself, hoping to dissuade her psyche from taking the barbed reply to heart, “There are plenty of camps in the city’s outskirts.”

Fortunately, Angela’s work had prompted an explosion of medical advancement even in her earliest years of research. Although she never once considered taking action for the sake of monetary gain, her success had paid well enough to last a lifetime. Aside from that, she was still the leading figure in nanobiology, meaning lecture opportunities at the very least cropped up once a month.

It was that proverbial fortune which allowed her to survive as what essentially amounted to a wandering volunteer surgeon, moving from disaster zone to disaster zone with a smile on her face, a straightened back, and an energetic bout of needed optimism. Some would have argued she was thriving in terms of living conditions, being the owner of multiple apartments and small properties globally.

It helped to have a ‘home’ to return to wherever she went. Not that they were opulent- rather being quite utilitarian and compact.

Once again, quite luckily, Angela’s latest addition to her collection of ‘homes away from other homes’ happened to be located only a handful of blocks away from the facility she’d ATTEMPTED to sway. On the more positive end of things, downtown Cairo was gorgeous in its own right.

Most structures were not more than perhaps five stories, all of them made from fake sandstone and marble. It was a beautiful amalgamation of cultures from throughout history- the architecture combining the Renaissance, Art Nouveau, Mediterranean, and Islamic styles (and all of their sub-categories) into a wonderful display.

One such building, styled after an ancient Roman insula, was precisely the site of Angela’s residence, and in she went. The entrance was marked by gold-rimmed sliding glass doors, a style quite common for the city of Cairo. Despite the strife wracking Egypt, it was steadily pulling itself from the muck according to some, and the architectural choices were meant to reflect an up-and-coming realm of prosperity.

Even so, Angela knew better than to believe the facade. The country was a wrist’s flick away from total collapse beyond its cities, relying on what amounted to crumbling infrastructure and international mercenaries to serve as its military. Worse still, it did little to address its systemic issues, economic disparities, criminal empires, and lack of basic amenities in the more rural regions. Not that the government even had the capacity to do so.

The doctor crossed a derelict lobby, climbing a stairwell where she reached the third floor. From there, she hummed a tune whilst crossing a walkway before finally coming to her door. A twist of the key and turning of the knob later, she was thrust into a world of haphazardly stacked boxes and wrapped furniture.

Even without the miniature city of cardboard, it was a cramped assortment of accommodations, being that of a single-room studio flat. When entering, one would be greeted by a small stove, oven, and sink to their immediate left- that being the kitchen. Just ahead, however, the tiles gave way to white carpeting which encompassed the rest of the chamber.

Only a single tiny window allowed for natural luminescence to filter through, and even then- the evening sun was setting on the building’s other end. To make matters more inconvenient, the lights were insufficient, failing to turn on when the switch was flicked.

Ever the mistress of nonstop productivity, Angela took hold of a lamp she’d bought the day before, turned it on, and prepared herself for a round of unpacking.

Her first task was to get every box organized in accordance with its contents; an easy task considering she’d meticulously taken the time to label every container. Following that, she moved each collection to a separate corner of the flat over the course of an hour before finally turning her attention to the furniture.

She kept nothing short of what would be needed; a couch (that could double as a bed), a coffee table for eating, a nightstand for clothing and equipment, and a cheap lecture desk. It was only upon taking stock of her interior amenities that she realized another sore factor- there was no refrigerator.

Angela proceeded to mutter a series of exasperated expletives under her breath, every word being in either Swiss German, French, Italian, or Romanish. (Switzerland saw all four dialects spoken commonly, and the good doctor used them interchangeably). But whatever the case, she finished placing her fixtures where needed.

Finally, she came to the boxes, setting her clothing in the nightstand's drawers whilst placing old framed photos upon its top. Each image represented a fond memory- and a bitter reminder deep down.

Loving parents- who’d been unceremoniously killed in an act of barbarism, that being the destruction of a makeshift field hospital.

Friends and colleagues from years prior- most of whom had since passed on or were estranged.

But Angela would not dwell on such depressing matters. Work needed to be done and there was no sense in feeling sorry for herself. Her family’s deaths were tragic, but that was well in the past. Her loss of companions was unfortunate, yes, but she did not regret speaking out against Overwatch when the time came for its reckoning.

It was best if she distanced herself from the organization, even most of its surviving ex-members, anyhow.

With an exhale of satisfaction, the merciful angel seized her laptop and settled onto the couch which still had some of its ceramic wrapping plastered to the bottom frame. It was time to see who’d responded to her inquiries- if any replies had drifted in at all.

Filtering through more than a dozen notifications- most of them news on the state of the world’s affairs- Angela was disappointed to find only a handful of them were messages. One contained a digital postcard from the Lindholms in Bermuda, a sweet picture that was quickly saved. The rest were all spam, trash to be filtered out.

As she flicked through, however, a particular note caught her eye. One of Cairo’s numerous refugee camps, Camp Hathor, had not only expressed interest in her offer but was urging her to stop by before midnight due to a shortage of skilled surgeons.

Without pause, Angela scrambled to her feet and bounded over to her nightstand which contained a freshly unpacked white coat. She tucked her glasses into the coat pocket from there, seized her keys, and rushed beyond the door in a flurry of excitement and concern.

–

Fareeha groaned with mock annoyance upon watching the white cue ball plop into a hole with a thud.

“That's a scratch. Guess I get a ball in hand!” Tariq cackled eagerly, reaching into the pool table's pocket to retrieve the sphere, “Aren't you supposed to be good at aiming?”

Fareeha grinned in response before proudly making a proclamation. “You don't exactly need to be precise with rockets, not all of the time at least,” Maintaining her expression, she clapped him on the shoulder and settled onto a stool, “But I wouldn't compare a game of pool to firing off high explosive weaponry.”

“Whatever you say, Captain!” Nearby Saleh called from across the bar whilst balancing a large plate of alcoholic beverages, “Doesn't change the fact that you're shit at the game!”

“Oh fuck off,” Fareeha chuckled, “You're not even playing.”

“I'm not because unlike you I know my limits.”

“He got you there,” Tariq prepared his next move meticulously, with the patience of a statue, “If I didn't know any better, I'd say you think you're a superhuman. How many sorties did you fly this week?”

Fareeha pulled at the neck of her fatigues, knowing the criticism was apt. “Well considering Egypt tends to be a shining beacon of instability and bullshit, there's a lot to do.”

“And out of everyone in the Raptora Program, you're the only one willing to fly solo,” Tariq brought his fist inwards and down in celebration as he successfully managed to score with the nine-ball, “I won't get into it with you again, but we'd like to keep you alive, Captain. Lone sorties are too risky.”

“You're one to tell me about risk,” Fareeha rose from her seat and leaned over, wrapping an arm around her comrade's shoulder, “Besides, flying solo gives me some peace and quiet. I don't have to deal with your smart ass, or yours, Saleh.”

“Harsh but fair,” Saleh smirked with smugness, setting the plate down before divvying every shot up amongst the trio equally, “Alright- who do you think's going to pass out first?”

“...none of us,” Fareeha replied dryly, “I'm stopping this before anyone gets too drunk. You're lucky I'm even letting you do this.”

“Uh-huh. This is coming from the woman who was hungover for a full day last time,” Tariq teased, sipping his first beverage before abruptly beginning to cough, “Swallowed… wrong… way…!”

“Karma,” Fareeha raised a finger in Triumph, “Now- cheers to a wonderful new year hmm?”

“Cheers!” Both men intoned happily- one still hacking up a storm.

Before Fareeha could partake in the festivities, however, an alarm proceeded to rip their minds from paradise.

–

Camp Hathor was abuzz with activity when Angela finally set foot in its boundaries. It was a haphazard collection of tents, some larger than others. Dirtied children ran about making fun with whatever they could, namely by playing tag. Their parents were far more haggard and skinny, thus indicating they were malnourished and prioritizing the care of their kids.

Aid workers moved to and fro, all of them appearing as though they'd been worked half to death. Some carried papers, most carried equipment and crates; the hallmark of a recently erected site.

Waiting for the Angela was a short man whose face was covered by a blue mask. His graying hair was shaved, and a light stubble circling the cheeks and under the mask was barely visible on his tanned skin. He wore a rectangular pair of glasses, and his attire did not indicate he was a doctor despite the stethoscope hanging around his neck.

His greeting was warm but hurried, and Angela once again mentally cursed herself for not freshening up on her Arabic before coming to Egypt. “هل أنت Angela Ziegler?” The only recognizable words in the entire sentence belonged to her name.

“Yes… I…” Angela struggled to formulate a reply, “Doctor Ziegler.”

The man tilted his head and asked a follow-up question. “هل تفضل اللغة الإنجليزية؟” Upon receiving a blank stare, he cleared his throat, “English?”

“Oh, yes please,” Angela switched effortlessly, inwardly sighing in relief, “I am Doctor Ziegler, yes.”

“Good! Good! We’ll have someone teach you proper Arabic sometime!” The other joked, hoping to ease the awkwardness, “Doctor Touma, at your service. I apologize for dragging you here so late on such short notice. Unfortunately, you couldn’t be here for Maghrib- that would have made your presence an easier pill to swallow.”

“Oh- would it be preferable to observe daily prayers here? I’m not a practicing woman, nor am I faithful,” Angela explained sheepishly, “But if it is needed, I’ll attend.”

“Normally, no,” Touma sighed, shaking his head, “But the moment the camp discovered you were coming, we had to convince half our patients to stay. You’re.. not popular.”

Angela understood the premise of his point. She was seen as nothing more than a foreigner who’d played a major part in bringing great ruin to the lands of Egypt after all. If she were to at least make an effort to demonstrate respect and understanding to the locals, it may go some way in easing tensions.

With that in mind, she made a mental note to research Sunni practices, considering Egypt was nine-tenths Sunni.

“Where am I needed otherwise?” Angela questioned, “What will I be working with? Do you need me to purchase any equipment, materials, or supplies?”

“We only have one team of surgeons able to routinely operate, so you’ll have to take the evenings, dividing the work accordingly,” Touma beckoned Angela to follow him into a freshly established tent, “On less chaotic days, if you wouldn’t mind assisting with general work, that would be appreciated. As for what we need… we never have enough of anything.”

“I can take care of that,” Angela affirmed, making yet another note in her mind, “Is there an emergency? Is that why you’ve called me here?”

“Yes. Helix recently had a skirmish with some new militant group- they crop up every day. Unfortunately…” Doctor Touma pinched the bridge of his nose, “Their Raptora Squadrons didn’t exactly discriminate, and now we have two victims undergoing emergency surgery. Shrapnel from the rockets. The team is exhausted and needs a set of extra hands. They’re on hour nineteen. They can manage by themselves to be clear. They've done this before- but… you know how it is.”

Angela nodded sympathetically, noticing a sink for the cleaning of hands and arms which she moved to immediately. “How many metallic foreign bodies are in each of them respectively? Who suffered the brunt of it? Describe the victims please.”

“One male, middle-aged, and one female, teenaged,” Touma did much the same before moving to retrieve a pair of gloves for Angela, “Father and daughter, presumably. The father acted as a shield and has eighty-seven shards in his back, arms, neck, sides, and head. The daughter took twenty-four in the sides. She’s expected to pull through- barely. Exact parts of the body will be relayed to you once you step inside.”

“I’ll focus on the father then,” Angela stated quickly, eyeing a curtain separating the two halves of the tent, “I'm assuming they’re operating behind the cloth?”

“Yes.”

“Take me to them.”

–

It started with one detonation- a cataclysmic event that saw a trailer packed with a ton of ammonium nitrate detonate amidst the center of Cairo. A plume of fire and brimstone erupted, charring people, melting glass, and scorching the streets. The pressure wave alone was more than enough to level an entire block’s worth of infrastructure, with mere shards of brick and asphalt being all that remained.

Stunned, the city watched in silent horror as a brazen attack against it was enacted. In its stupor, it failed to notice the trails of trucks rapidly approaching its outskirts.

Chapter Text

Fareeha’s pacings grew impatient and borderline furious as she was barred from donning her Raptora alongside the rest of her squad. Having been permitted the luxury of leave when the city decided to turn itself upside down, her group was the only to remain in the dirt while the rest took flight.

“What’s happening now?” The irate Captain glanced at Tariq, whose eyes were glued to a data pad. His brows knit in concern, and he proceeded to pass the thin object to his superior who practically snatched it away. “And Saleh- what’s the word on our armor?”

“We’re grounded, Captain.”

Fareeha’s head snapped up, her two frontal braids whipping across her face in the process. “What?” The Captain’s voice was a low hiss laced with bitter venom, a wrathful note that drew a wince from a technician who stood feebly at Saleh’s side, “Downtown Cairo explodes, the army is in turmoil, and we’re being grounded?”

“A-all Raptora Squads are, Captain,” The young technician, likely new to the fold, stammered out haplessly, “Six deaths from Flight-Pack malfunctions. No known cause as of yet. Until it’s found and addressed, we can’t send you out there.”

Fareeha, silent, turned to the left to brace a palm against the cool metal walls, inhaling and exhaling to regain control of her senses. “I see,” Was all she could manage initially, followed by another handful of breaths, “Very well. I need a weapon.”

“Captain?”

“I’m a soldier, not a hangar queen,” Fareeha quipped, rolling her shoulders, “A vest, helmet, standard-issue AA92, and three magazines should do. The same goes for the other two. Hop to it.”

The technician, seeing there was a choice between the wrath of an Amari and an acquiescence, promptly sprinted away in compliance.

–

Angela’s fingers remained steadfast and motionless, as still as stone whilst her hands meticulously maneuvered over a bodily frame more delicate than glass. Even as the raucous gunfire and the cacophony of artillery prompted the earth to tremble, she never once faltered in her duty. It wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to perform surgery amidst a region blanketed by combat, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“Alright,” She breathed, carefully sealing the incision she’d made along her patient’s left lumbar region, “Now- blood and nanites. They should pull through.”

Two bags, one containing A+ blood, the other being smaller while holding a yellow mixture of water and nanites, proceeded to empty their contents intravenously. Slowly, but surely, Angela witnessed a steady return of life to an otherwise borderline corpse with a sigh of satisfaction.

“He’ll live- what’s happening outside?” She inquired in English while swiftly moving to discard her gloves, ceramic poncho, and disposable safety glasses, “Is anyone hurt?”

“I’ll check,” An attendant said on reflex, uncomfortable in the presence of such a controversial woman, “Likely just another attack or scuffle.”

“!أنت عامل معجزة” One surgeon announced to his new coworker, tone warm, but the actual words otherwise remained a mystery to Angela, “اعتقدنا أن أحدهم سيموت ليكون صريحا.”

Touma, who’d remained nearby to assist and translate for Angela cleared his throat to interpret. “Right. Doctor Nusair says you’re a miracle worker and- he thought one of the patients would slip through their fingers,” He explained, nodding while listening to the declarations of the other, “He would like you to learn Arabic, though.”

“Well, tell him I'll gladly oblige,” Angela chuckled, taking a breath, “And as for the lot of you- take a moment to relax. I can handle the rest by myself.”

“Are you sure? We can-”

“دكتور توما!” The assistant from before burst through the curtains, speaking hurriedly to a surprised Touma, “تعال خارج. وسط مدينة القاهرة على النار!”

The faces of all save for Angela fell swiftly, and the fatigue felt by those who’d been operating for more than a full day by that point vanished in a heartbeat. One by one, the team filed out, with a sheepish Ziegler trailing behind them, only to come to a blood-curdling sight.

The lights of Cairo had winked out of existence, the only source of luminosity being that of the full moon and a raging red inferno emanating from deeper within the metropolis. The darkened structures seemed ghostly, nothing more than outlines against an angry ashen sky. A voluminous cloud trailed overhead, steadily obscuring the majesty of Luna behind a fog of despair.

Furthermore, when Angela swept her gaze beyond the confines of the city, she found herself greeted by tracer-fire whipping across the dunes. That gunfire was met in kind with a return from ferocious red pulses- stunning and accurate in their precision. Based on that fact alone, it was clear who was who.

Egypt’s national military had been practically declawed for years, and an overreliance on Helix International for security had cemented that decay. Last Angela had checked (which was during the days of Overwatch), the nation was still reliant on old XM7 Rifles sold to it by the Americans who’d started to retire the weapon in the 2060s.

The only other party that could possess pulse weaponry in Egypt would be Helix International. Of course, Angela knew even they wouldn’t stoop so low as to overthrow a sitting government. The corporation’s funding relied on serving as a lapdog for the United Nations- which exhibited significant teeth after the shutdown of Overwatch.

“Does the camp have any security?” Angela tugged at Touma’s sleeve and pointed in the skirmish’s general direction, “Anything at all? That’s maybe a kilometer away at most. It could spill over to here.”

“No. Helix said it had other matters to attend to and the central government won’t act either,” Touma shook his head, masking his terror well for the sake of the camp’s well-being. Then, he clasped his hands together and cupped them around his mouth, “Everyone! أطفئ الأضواء، والبقاء في الداخل، و, and wear masks!”

Angela held a palm upon her scalp and tried to wrack her mind for possible offenders. The Saudis, Israelis, and Jordanians could immediately be ruled out. Their relations had collectively improved and while yes, the Americans supplied all three nations with pulse weaponry, none of them fired RED pulses. That coloration was a deliberate, stylized choice.

Null-Sector then. That had to be the culprit.. Or perhaps…

“Doctor Ziegler!” Touma shouted, distant, “We need you!!”

In her ponderance, Angela had somehow missed a battered truck limping to the camp’s enclave, followed by the dismounting of a small group of armed individuals- most of them wounded. Based upon the pattern of their fatigues and the patches plastered to their shoulders, they could be identified as members of Egypt’s Quartermaster Corps.

Angela broke into a sprint, skidding to a halt in the sand at the truck’s back so as to help a bloodied man half-stumble from the canopy. “Careful… careful..” Angela soothed, keeping to simple words in Arabic as he leaned upon her for support before whispering in German, “Of course things go to hell on day one…”

In the meantime, Touma was questioning the driver, trying to pry information from them. “من أين أتيت؟,” He asked, hoping to find out where they came from, “هل هناك المزيد منكم”

Once more, Angela chided herself for not refreshing her Arabic as she gingerly set another man down on the truck’s side, looking them over with a grimace.

“... لا. نحن كل ما تبقى. هاجم الجنود في التعب الأحمر والأسود- محركات بالكامل.” The driver’s voice wavered, her throat evidently tight with stress and borderline mental collapse, “لم أر هذا الهراء من قبل!”

“It’s just them,” Touma translated for Angela, kneeling beside her to inspect the other three survivors, “Soldiers with red and black uniforms attacked. Do you know who it could be?”

“Talon, perhaps, but they haven’t been relevant since-”

The boisterous roar of engines resonated overhead, spurring Angela to take two of the battered soldiers and press them below her in the case of aerial bombardment. Futile as it was, she would always shield the stricken- even at the expense of her own life. There was no greater calling than that.

However, no strike came, and Angela looked skywards. An ancient B-1 Lancer, as outdated as it was useless on the battlefield, streaked by, its wide wings fully outstretched with its bomb bays open. Shortly thereafter, a detonation shook the hills, scattering dunes and bathing the wider area in a hail of charred rock, molten sand, and stirred-up dust.

A pinion of smoke shot upwards, ballooning and expanding outwards in a puff of gray and black. Simultaneously, a gust of wind and howling boom rattled Camp Hathar as though an earthquake had taken to grasping it. In the distance, the cries of terrified children and startled refugees that emerged as a result earned a wince from all the workers present.

“Let's get them inside,” Angela quipped urgently to Touma, draping her first patient’s arm around her neck and shoulders before raising them to their feet, “Please translate for me-”

The surgeon stared aghast as the B-1, still completing its turn to exit the field of battle, was unceremoniously swallowed in a rush of fusillade. Thankfully- the pilot had managed to eject, as a parachute was spotted even as their aircraft tumbled into the wastes in a heap of brimstone.

The driver, whom Touma noted was named Shadya, proceeded to assist one of her cohorts, seeing as she had no other course of action and was relatively able-bodied. With delicate swiftness, each serviceman was settled within the tent, the rejuvenated team of surgeons moving about like ants to look over their new wards.

Angela, not wanting to remain stationary, took a moment to further familiarize herself with stored tools and stockpiles for the sake of future efficiency. As expected, it was woefully underprepared for anything of substance, let alone something on the scale of freshly borne conflict.

Shadya, in the meantime, received a message from their radio, prompting her to seize it and listen to the transmission.

“كسر، كسر، كسر، كسر!” The radio operator on the other hand shouted, broadcasting on an open frequency in a hurried manner, “تم تعيين سلاح كيميائي في القاهرة! كرر! تم تعيين سلاح بيولوجي في القاهرة! دون أقنعة ومعدات واقية!”

“Chemical weapon,” Touma whispered to a preoccupied Angela, “We only have masks-”

Then, a second operator abruptly cut in, even more distressed than the former. “قم ببيان ذلك! ابدأ بإخلاء وسط مدينة القاهرة! وقد اكتشفت أجهزة الاستشعار Anthrax spores!” Angela’s muscles stiffened, a bead of sweat rolling down her scalp upon recognizing the name of a disease once thought completely extinct, “انتظر... تأخير مرة أخرى! تم فرض القانون العرفي!”

Touma glanced at Shadya for clarification, prompting the driver to shrug her shoulders helplessly. Then, the beleaguered man shifted his focus back to Angela, desperation in his gaze. “Anthrax. Biological weapon. They aren’t evacuating anyone- just imposing martial law.”

Angela’s jaw hung open, disgust permeating through her core at the brazen incompetence on the part of the government in Cairo. “This is ANTHRAX,” She stopped shifting and ensured to emphasize the severity of the illness, “Half of Cairo is about to be left uninhabitable for… who KNOWS how long-”

“Did you bring it?” Touma cut in, seemingly implying something of importance, “The… staff?”

Angela’s lips thinned momentarily, her chest constricting as inner conflict raged within her very soul. “I do still have my Caduceus Staff and Valkyrie Suit, yes,” She began slowly, hoping to remain cautious, “I am not permitted to use either under any circumstance… I’d be branded an international criminal on the spot.”

Touma issued her a stare, silence holding the weight of a star.

“..but damn international law just this once. I’ll retrieve them should I be able to reach my apartment.”

–

Mazen cleared his throat and straightened his tie, willing nervous bile back down his throat. “Are they ready for me?” He asked a nearby aide while pacing back and forth, waiting for the stage curtains to part, “Well?”

“Apologies, Prime Minister, we’re having problems with the signal-”

“Now?! Of all the damn times, now?!!” Mazen snapped, adrenaline coursing through his veins even as he dabbed a cloth on his perspiring forehead, “Get it fixed!”

“Sir, the Air Force is halting sorties,” A messenger interrupted, whispering into the Prime Minister’s ear with urgency, “The interlopers brought surface-to-air missiles. Helix’s Raptoras can’t provide SEAD or DEAD either.”

“What about the rest of Helix, can it help?” Mazen asked swiftly, watching as a camera was hastily set up in front of a podium whilst microphones were haphazardly installed, “And the Military Police Corps?”

“Helix is mustering a response- but there’s action near the Temple of Anubis, so it’s focusing its efforts there,” Another aide passed a data-slate to Mazen with trembling hands, “The Military Police Corps won’t be able to respond until the early morning at best.”

“Well where’s the rest of the damned army?!” The Prime Minister asked in outrage, having failed to hear from any of his cabinet or staff officers in the last hour, “Do we have anyone near Cairo?! Anyone?!”

“...most are posted to the Sudanese and Libyan borders, Prime Minister,” The other explained, “We have a collection of small units from the Airborne and Quartermaster Corps, but only the former has indicated a readiness to respond. The latter is already engaged.”

Mazen dragged his palms across his face before performing a shake of the head as the camera crew urged him to take his place at the podium- an action that was obliged. Moments later, the curtains began to part, revealing the wider press who eagerly awaited an official statement.

Unfortunately, the Prime Minister did not get to so much as draw a breath before a high-caliber bullet eviscerated his brain.

–

Fareeha thumped the back of her helmet against a beam holding up the canopy of her transport, despising the delays. “What’s the holdup now?” She glanced to her right, eyeing the road which had grown stationary with the truck while grabbing ahold of her rifle out of caution, “I’m sick of the lethargy. Either we keep onwards or I’ll have us hike our asses on foot.”

“Road’s blocked, Captain!” A faint voice, likely from a driver, managed to project itself over the engine’s rattling, “Abandoned cars! Should we press on or go around?”

Fareeha shook her head, conceding that this route was certainly fruitless. “Neither, tell the rest of the convoy to reverse. There could be IEDs or mines ahead,” She commanded firmly, common sense overtaking the itch to ward off whoever dared to threaten her homeland, “We’ll find another route to Anubis.”

With that, the column of Infantry Fighting Vehicles and trucks began to reverse at a snail’s pace. If they veered off the road, they risked crossing into a minefield. Given she’d witnessed a bomber crashing into the fields after failing to evade a SAM only ten minutes earlier, it would be best for the Captain to avoid underestimating the opposition. Worse still, the chance of an ambush skyrocketed-

-a blink, a flash, a resonance, and puff of smoke.

Fareeha watched in horror as a red streak carved through the column's rearmost vehicle, prompting it to erupt in an infernal geyser. “Contact left!” She screamed into her radio, not needing to give the order for the escorts to return fire tenfold, “Infantry, dismount- stay near your vics!!”

Unfortunately, they were trapped within the killzone and would need to return fire until the blockage was cleared, and thus Fareeha exited to the vehicle's right alongside those beside her to use it as shelter from a volley of pulse rounds.

“Maahes-Twelve! Reverse! Force Maahes-Thirteen’s wreckage away, over!” Fareeha barked once again, daring to flip her NODs down and poke around the corner with the AA92 prepped and ready to fire. Prickles of white danced over the dunes, some larger than others, indicating heavier gear.

“I miss the rockets already,” Tariq muttered under his breath, laying flat on his belly so as to peak from under the truck and fire the occasional round, “Plasma cannon, moving north, eighty meters.”

Fareeha didn’t miss a beat, returning to the safety of cover whilst retrieving her radio. “Horus-Three, trailing northward, sweep the balcony,” She commanded, listening to the rhythmic thump of an autocannon followed by the peppering detonations of HE Shells before returning her focus to Maahes-Twelve, “Good work, over. Maahes-Twelve, SITREP?”

“Won’t budge, captain! We think their tracks are locked!”

“Affirm, keep at it if possible, out,” Fareeha sighed, shaking her head, “Fucks sake..”

//BREAK BREAK, BREAK BREAK//

Fareeha’s radio crackled to life- a source beyond the convoy speaking.

//CHEMICAL RELEASE IN CAIRO! REPEAT! CHEMICAL RELEASE IN CAIRO! DON MASKS AND PROTECTIVE EQUIPMENT!//

“Masks on!” Fareeha shouted, not communicating through the radio, “Gas, gas, gas!”

Her message was repeated and relayed across the column.

Even if they were beyond Cairo, no chances could be taken.

Then..

//BELAY THAT! BIOLOGICAL RELEASE! EVACUATE DOWNTOWN CAIRO! SENSORS HAVE DETECTED ANTHRAX SPORES!//

Fareeha’s mouth hung open momentarily, but she swiftly composed herself whilst fitting a gas mask over her head. There was no time to dwell on developments in the city just yet.

//WAIT… BELAY ONCE MORE! MARTIAL LAW HAS BEEN IMPOSED!//

The Captain was about to inquire as to the status of Mahees-Twelve’s efforts- but she was prevented from doing so when her cover exploded.

–

“This is…” A damnable disasterpiece of Abrahamic proportions? A foreseeable clusterfuck years in the making? A scenario so obviously telegraphed it may as well have been written in the Quran? “A mess..”

Maisara spoke slowly, restraint bringing her volume to that of a whisper. Her irises scanned the flurry of GID (General Intelligence Directorate) reports flooding her desk since the outbreak of mass violence in Cairo with utter disdain. For weeks, Jordanian intelligence, that being the GID, had been pestering Helix International with warning after warning, pleading for some measure of preparation for the inevitable.

As the Aide De Camp for half of the Officer Corps embedded within her organization, Maisara had seen no shortage of phone calls, emails, and other means of messaging through background channels towards her counterparts in Egypt as well. Unfortunately, each warning went unheeded, and the end result was an abrupt and catastrophically efficient execution of Talon’s latest and greatest operation.

A buzz.

“I have the American Secretary of State on Line Four and the Turkish Brass on Line Six!” She called over her shoulder into the office of a completely swamped General Director Akbari, “Should I place them on hold?”

“Send them to voice! I’ll call back when I get finished with the Saudis, damn you!” The old snappy officer barked back, only to turn his attention back to the phone call at hand, “Yes! We warned them! You try dealing with Helix! I swear to- all that is holy- I will kick the ass of the CEO myself if needed- get off my case!”

Maisara rubbed her temples, eyelids drooping as the night bore down on her. A chime proceeded to startle the Aide De Camp, and a paper printed itself onto the desk whilst a holographic display of the freshly sent document whisked itself into existence.

A direct hail from the United Nations..

“General! It’s the UN! Sending the file over now!” Maisara didn’t bother to read the political jumble, knowing what it was already- an excuse as to why no response could be mustered at the moment and a further delay of the Security Council's gathering. Of course, she received no response from her superior.

Finally, Maisara received a simple, blunt, unapologetic transcript straight from Tel-Aviv;

“Either you intervene, or we do,” She read aloud, breathless, “...shit.”

Chapter Text

“Happy birthday to me,” Ana whispered aloud upon her watch’s hand ticking past twelve, otherwise remaining as silent as the vacuum of space, “Now then, how about a wonderful gift?”

Mount Damavand, being the largest range within Iran’s borders, made for an interesting experience as an acting headhunter. Transitioning from the Sahara's low-elevation flats to the intensely mountainous terrain leading into Central Asia tended to create a miserable bout of altitude sickness. Fortunately for her, she’d taken the time to get over said illness a week before her prey even set foot in the country.

There were very few roads traveling around the mountain, and even fewer traversing it. Perfect for being discrete. For that matter, all save for one were unusable. As such, the only thing Ana had to do was wait, and wait she did.

Small tufts of snow lamely slid from the sky, collecting in tiny wads on the barrel of her partially customized rifle. In particular, she’d commandeered an old but still quite common Canadian C14 Timberwolf, specifically due to her Biotic Rifle’s lack of required range. (She preferred a more modern rifle, but it would have to do.) Gray and white camouflage netting had been lamely draped over it, accompanying the natural concealment collecting upon Ana’s back.

The cold had little effect on the elderly woman due to a combination of proper attire and the gathering blanket of snow over her frame, ironically serving as an insulator. Beyond the thermal imaging of her scope, it was pitch black and thus blinding in the harsh conditions. The road continued to wind and twist down below, before eventually vanishing into a tunnel.

Vivian would be smug over such a sight, ever the proud Torontonian.

“Amari,” Ana's radio sputtered out noise, a familiar worn and gruff voice manning the other end, “You need to get home, now.”

There was no response from the sharpshooter who maintained her patience, but her curiosity peaked. She knew of multiple long-dead friends that were in truth more like ghosts than departed, and all of them rarely ever spoke without reason.

…let alone HIM.

She would, as a result of this knowledge, return to Egypt when able- but first came the task at hand.

Her margin of error was slim to none, and her chance for a successful strike was even slimmer. Thus, when the headlights of an unassuming automobile rounded the corner of the gorge, there was no hesitation.

A trigger pull, bang, and kick of the rifle later, the vehicle’s driver flopped against the steering wheel, prompting it to veer sharply to the left- and off the mountainside into oblivion.

–

The darkness bathing Cairo made the frenzied city nearly impossible for Angela to navigate as she crept through the streets. She was less concerned about anthrax- or rather not concerned for her own well-being given her medically induced immunity- and more so about who she may run into.

It was a heartbreaking and morbid line of thought, but downtown Cairo was damned and there was no action to be taken in the immediate. Much as there was a primordial itch within the very essence of Angela’s being, her focus was bottlenecked towards reaching her Valkyrie Suit and Caduceus Staff…

…which meant returning to an apartment complex smack in the middle of a potentially contaminated zone. She wouldn’t know where the spores landed for some time.

Once more, it was perfectly doable and she felt no fear of disease when it came to her own safety. A permanent colony of nanites specifically tailored to her biology ensured that she remained in more or less perfect health- and that made illness impossible. The true fear was thus the previously mentioned simpler yet more insidious matter.

Talon had taken the time to ward off any potential combatants from the city center, which meant there was likely something of note the group sought.

Or at least that was what Angela was reasoning. She'd come to understand that predicting the collection of paramilitary organizations was foolhardy and thus completely pointless. No matter the reasonings or intents, the risk was there. Pacifist though she was, even a medic saw action in the thick of combat. It was simply unreasonable for an individual in a war zone, treating the sick and dying no less, to remain unarmed. She was no Desmond Thomas Doss despite her aspirations.

The inclination for self-protection was a quirk that she'd begrudgingly maintained given her frequent habit of picking the most dangerous regions on the planet to live. It was why Angela always carried her Caduceus Blaster within her lab coat when working. While yes, it was almost certainly a violation of what she liked to consider probation, who was going to fault her for basic security?

Nevertheless, Angela hadn't been forced to use the weapon since the final days of Overwatch, and it felt nauseating to clasp it once more even if it could do barely more than maim at best.

As for finding her apartment complex in the anarchy, her efforts were further hindered by another fact; she needed to stick to alleys. The streets and roads were clogged with cars and pedestrians all attempting to flee for their lives. Some had even attempted to turn the sidewalks into their own personal lanes, leading to fatal accidents and worsening jams.

Each cry for help, every youth with blood and grime bypassed, all of it was like a series of serrated knives carving out Angela's heart and stomach. These dastardly scenarios, so malevolent and malicious in their nature, were precisely why she took up her line of work in the first place. Tragically she was but one woman with next to no power at all. Those who held all the cards had cast her aside and thus she was all but useless to the greater whole.

But… if she could reach her staff…

The mighty conflagration from the first detonation illuminated a familiar street sign which Angela caught in the corner of her vision. From there, her head swiveled about to scan her surroundings, recognition sparking in her mind. Her complex was only mere blocks away.

It was time to become an angel again.

–

“Minister Zahavy- yes I know why, but we can’t just charge across the border without a plan in mind,” Maisara maintained a cool tone of voice, having grown shockingly used to the concept of occupying Eastern Egypt within the course of an hour, “The reason my office was tasked with discussing-”

“It isn’t a far drive from Cairo to the Suez Port,” Zahavy interjected firmly, his mind evidently hardened by the unofficial (and soon-to-be public) stance of Tel-Aviv, “The canal, the airport, the atmospheric elevator- if Cairo’s government collapses which is looking increasingly likely, someone needs to maintain the security of the planet’s third most important route.”

Maisara’s fingers rubbed against her temple, inwardly blanching at the sloppy revelation of the other party’s true goal: they wanted the Suez. It wasn’t a surprise, the prize was valuable to every regional power- hell even the global powers. Wars had been fought over it, and she’d seen more than one classified document detailing proposals for a partitioning of Eastern Egypt. Of course, seeing as Cairo was a geopolitical friend, such plans had been fanciful at best.

“The Jordanian Government is still debating its position, and until then, I- as the stand-in for the General Director until he can speak to you directly- urge patience and restraint,” The Aide De Camp finally managed, opening her desk to retrieve one of her holographic displays, “Right now, Egyptian airspace is locked down tight and we don’t know what the situation is. All of our drones, cloaked or not, were downed by DEWs and SAMs, not by the Egyptians either.”

“Yes, the same has happened on our end,” Zahavy conceded, recognizing the other’s point, “But our position has not changed. Talon’s involvement is confirmed at the minimum and the UN is paralyzed. The Americans are washing their hands of the situation after their disastrous operation in Botswana last year. It’s also an election year over there. Helix has its tail tucked between its legs. The Iranians are almost certainly going to act if we don’t.”

“Helix is just as confused as us and is trying to contain a situation at the Temple of Anubis-”

“Precisely the issue. They're not in Cairo. If Egypt collapses, what do you think is going to happen?” Zahavy questioned pointedly, “Refugee crisis, the worst since the fiasco in Russia started. Sudan is a failed state. Nobody will head there. Both of our nations will be flooded, and the Libyans are in the same boat. They're in the process of organizing a demarcation line right now. They intend to disarm the Egyptian units on their border. Either join us or stay home.”

“We’ve been given no indication of Libyan-”

“That’s because your phone call started in the middle of that meeting, so as I said- join us or stay home.”

Maisara sucked in a gulp of oxygen, fixating on the coolness against her throat and lungs to remain calm. “I do not have the authority to make these decisions. I can listen, but I can’t speak for the Jordanian Government at large,” She finally replied, figuring it would be better to at least be witness to the backroom dealings, “I will not answer any questions, and I can’t give advice beyond cautioning restraint either.”

“Then call back when you can.”

–

Fareeha remained sprawled out on her back, struggling to fathom what had just occurred. The hard asphalt of the road seemingly dug into her shoulder or rather pushed something farther into it. Although she could twitch the muscles in her right hand, her left arm was completely unresponsive. Even the simple act of taking a breath was utterly laborious, subconsciously growing heinous to the pained woman.

Then the Captain rolled her head to glance at her surroundings, noting the flames licking at her boot. Only a meager collection of centimeters prevented her from death by brutal immolation. In response to such danger, she coiled her legs inwards, the action seemingly taking an effort worthy of constructing a megastructure.

“Captain?! Captain!” Saleh hollered, sounding as though he were on the opposite end of an auditorium, “Captain Amari is down for the count, I’m stepping up! Horus-Five, radio for CASEVAC to meet us halfway back home- tell them who’s hit! Maahes-Twelve, finish up already! Grunts! You and you, circle around back and see what the hold up is! And you, help me move Captain Amari!”

Fareeha noted a harsh tugging sensation on the straps of her tattered vest, prompting the object to hook up under her armpits and thus create a searing tsunami of pain in her clavicle’s left half. Despite her best efforts, she failed to suppress an agonized yelp which really just emerged as a rasp.

“Corpsman, get up here and have a look at her,” Saleh intoned whilst propping Fareeha up against the track of an IFV, “How bad?”

Fareeha noted a second figure, though her vision struggled to make out any details on their face.

Her vest was removed from her frame and she was hauled inside the vic after a careful and dangerous effort. Then she was set on the floor where her helmet was removed and her fatigues were practically cut apart.

“Turn her over,” The Corpsman commanded, and another individual, likely a second soldier or medic, proceeded to do just that, “..lots of shrapnel. Left Deltoid, Trapezius, Levator Scapulae, and Infraspinatus.”

“She’s lucky,” The other observed, though Fareeha failed to understand their point, “I’ll get the surgical kit- and what’s her blood type?”

The Captain’s dog tags were gingerly removed and passed to the standing individual.

“Hey, get a look at this. Left arm, Flexor Carpi- badly gashed. We need to tourney it,” What followed after an injection of painkillers was a tightening so tormenting, Fareeha’s vision swam with spots, and it seemed as though she’d drift off momentarily, “Hurry fast. She’s in shock as it is.”

Fareeha’s other arm was seemingly lit ablaze as her skin and muscles were punctured by another needle, only for an odd numbness to overtake her. Soon enough, the lack of sensation became her only true means of feeling. Even the emotions and thought processes, dulled as they were already, faltered.

On the process went, being flipped over back and forth as shrapnel was removed, wounds were given haphazard treatment, and soon enough an odd feeling of being filled from the one good arm passed through her frame.

“Is she still awake?” One asked, seemingly surprised, “Why hasn’t the…”

Fareeha’s eyelids drooped, her heart thumping erratically as lucidity seemed to lose any and all meaning.

“Shit, she's fading fast!”

Blackness.

Simple unending blackness. That became Fareeha’s world as she was thrust from the land of the living into a zone of purgatory. She was dead, or dying, she knew she was, for a sense of clarity reached her in a manner that seemed equal parts supernatural and out-of-body. She was uncertain if there was a god, or an afterlife for that matter, but nonetheless, she found herself praying to something.

It was arduous- and difficult- for she never mastered any prayers from any religion in her life. Despite that, there was something existentially terrifying at the prospect of being left in this dark abyss for all eternity- a crisis of proportions she never thought possible for one so stoic as herself. What laid in wait for her beyond the veil of mortality?

Then- suddenly- as if that prayer had been answered...

“Heroes never die, Fareeha.”

Chapter Text

Angela’s golden locks messily billowed in the windy Cairo night, her skin thoroughly cooled by gusts whilst orange fabric whipped about. She flexed and extended her mechanical wings, attached and controlled via her snow-white Valkryie Suit which itself connected to her pack through neural sockets upon her shoulders. As such, there was a slight biting sensation within the small metallic implants.

Even with the discomfort in mind, the euphoric satisfaction brought on by exercising the additional radiant limbs of flight was unmistakably needed. It brought a puff of air from an excited Angela who established a firm, natural-feeling grip upon the Caduceus Staff. The suit could be likened to a second skin, an extension of the body that, if abruptly taken, would make for a hollow and bitter flightless existence.

It was a guilty pleasure then, to push into the realm of hypocrisy by acting in a capacity she herself had publicly pushed against. Indeed, to become ‘Mercy’ once again was quite literally a crime against an international order she’d brought on. Did she have the right to violate that mandate as she saw fit? Would she carve an unmistakably dangerous path by setting a standard of vigilanteism on behalf of ex-Overwatch members?

Perhaps not. Angela would be far from the only actor to behave in a manner one could only describe as renegade. But, she would quickly become the most public and internationally contested case study thus far. It was enough to give her pause, to make her hesitate to dive into the streets of a battered, devastated city.

But when the good doctor’s eyes fell upon a distressed ambulance trapped in the midst of abandoned traffic, a primal instinct to be the angel she’d set out to become so long ago overwrote any logic or reason.

Angela pulled her staff close to her frame, ensuring it was held vertically so as to not increase drag, before tipping backward. From there, her head swung downwards and she dropped face-first into the streets below. Her wings proceeded to part outwards and bend accordingly, yellowish ribbons extending from them in a great flash of radiance as her descent leveled out.

At last, ‘Mercy’ extended her staff, allowing it to hang at her side before thumbing its release. Golden snakes shot from the item’s tip, circling over to gently caress all she passed. A melodic chime filled her ears as the Caduceus Staff proceeded to hum like that of an instrument, the intensity of its feedback indicating each hasty treatment was successful.

At last, she swung her legs forward and used her wings as airbrakes, bleeding speed before landing elegantly behind the entrapped automobile. The rearward doors swung open before even so much as a knock could be made, and two paramedics whose faces were covered with old gas masks ushered their savior inside.

Angela traipsed up a newly extended ramp, every step a fluid movement as her eyes scanned the resting form of a shrapnel-ridden victim. He lacked a mask, considering he was strapped to a ventilator which forced his lungs to process oxygen whilst ridding themselves of excess carbon dioxide. Fortunately, they were well enough away from the initial dispersion of Anthrax spores, but the wind would inevitably carry the devilish things over soon.

Angela felt a trickle of nanites travel down from her wings, the freshly made colony of machines streaming over her shoulder, across the forearm, and into the palm of her hand. At last, the nanites coalesced into a luminous ball before dispersing into the damaged pseudo-corpse of her patient. A small-scale demonstration of her little 'miracles'.

If it had been a true emergency, then she would have had to evaluate whether or not she ought to preserve her stock of nanite colonies.

Foreign objects were abruptly and delicately removed as if by an unseen divine hand, any and all incisions and lacerations being sealed in a white flash. It was a beautiful display, watching a body on the brink of loss return to a state of unmistakable health and vibrance. Before the ‘revived’ man could awaken, however, Angela had already departed.

Roadways, street lights, cars, people, all of them flickered in a distorted blur as Angela streaked by. To experience the wind sprinting through her hair, to sense the haptic feedback within the staff whilst her wings flexed, stretched, and contracted as though they were there from birth- it was a rush she’d pretended to have not craved for years.

Then, the streets gave way to a dead end and the angelic woman inhaled deeply whilst fluttering her pinions, shooting upwards at speeds that briefly caused a pin drop in the stomach. Even as she cleared the building, there was no stopping- for the spiral into the heavens carried on and on until the lowest clouds brushed against her glowing halo.

Angela felt laughter emerge deep from within her chest, escaping her lips in a loud gleeful tone as she stretched her arms outwards, left hand open. The gales brushing over her fingertips could be equated to the tide of a river, and it reminded the good doctor of all the joys that came with living, to experience the fruits of existence in all its splendor. Yes, Cairo was in the midst of a horrid disaster and the circumstances were dire, but she would enjoy her time nonetheless.

Continuing on with her efforts, Angela paused her movements to survey the region. Given the lack of power to the overall city, the buildings grouped to form a blackened mass only disturbed by car lights and fires. Beyond the Metropolis was a hellscape of blackened charred sands, burnt-out husks of vehicles, and a battlefield littered with the remains of local heroes.

Firefights struck out now and again but otherwise, the fighting's bulk had transferred East and North towards the Temple of Anubis. As such, Angela dove with a purpose, sweeping over the newly consecrated land of the dead to distribute nanites in a rain of gold, yellow, and orange. Wounded soldiers balancing between life and unlife were seized from the brink and brought back to reality and those with minor injuries felt as though they'd been born yesterday with their rejuvenation.

Then, as if an ugly demon from Hell had reared its head in response to the presence of a saint, a red puff indicative of fire and brimstone snapped Angela's attention across the dunes and towards a highway. A linear formation of armed transports, Infantry Fighting Vehicles, and Armored Personnel Carriers had been wrangled into a corner, besieged on all sides with no relief in sight.

Before Angela had even processed her actions, she was gaining altitude and speeding towards those in danger. As she drew closer, she was able to make out identifiers on the sides of each vehicle. Although they were painted In a rather typical coffee-stain style desert camouflage, the iconography of Helix International was unmistakable.

Angela inwardly grimaced at the notion of aiding an organization that held most of her work under lock and key, not to mention its numerous humanitarian violations and gun-for-hire culture. But- lives were lives- and the men and women fighting ultimately had families to return to. Their affiliation didn't change her obligation to mend their wounds in their time of strife.

As soon as she was over the column, Angela plummeted in altitude, slowing down just barely enough to avoid crashing into the ground. A handful of infantrymen shouted in surprise, initially leveling their barrels in her direction. But the recognition in their eyes was noticeable instantaneously, and their animated cheers were somewhat welcome.

With the flick of a switch, a blue collection of wisps trailed from the tip of the Caduceus Staff, enveloping themselves firmly around the bodies of all within a 5 m radius. The Amplifier Beam, in all of its genius, facilitated a more efficient functioning of neurons for heightened thinking and perception, and catalyzed the production of performance-enhancing chemicals, all whilst using a much weaker nanite stream to rid the body of any potential tears and micro-fractures.

“Maintain your focus! You’re almost through this!” Angela encouraged, mentally cursing her choice to give herself high heels as she sprinted back and forth along the column, only for a soot-coated man with a strong nose to wave her over. The patch on his shoulder indicated he was actually a member of Helix's Raptora Program- why then was he dressed in a standard BDU, wearing a typical bulletproof vest and helmet, with a run-of-the-mill AA92 in his hands?

“First Lieutenant Saleh at your service. Normally I’d arrest you, Mercy- but honestly? I’m just going to thank you,” He spoke in perfect and clear English, correctly assuming it would be easier to communicate in that form, “Fareeha Amari, you know of her, yes? She's in that vic right there and needs a miracle right about now. Can you help her?”

Angela's nostrils flared as both a former friend and the prodigy of one of the world's greatest heroes teetered on the brink. Amidst a hail of pulse-fire, she ducked into a freshly opened IFV. Two Corpsmen poured over the charred, cut-up form of Fareeha Amari who seemed practically unrecognizable.

Parts of her uniform had fused into her skin. Other regions, namely that of her shoulder and back, had been skewered completely by fragments of a destroyed truck. Worse still, the sweet smokey scent of cooked flesh hung in the air like an acrid blanket. It was a grizzly sight, but not one that was completely hopeless.

It was quite rare that Angela willingly chose to perform what most referred to as a 'divine' (there was nothing divine about it) miracle. It was an act so strenuous on her supply of nanites, that she would typically avoid it at all costs or, like earlier, perform it on a far tinier scale. But when confronted with the abysmal state of Fareeha Amari, daughter of Ana Amari, the choice was as clear as tropical waters.

“...step aside," Angela ordered in English, satisfied to see the command obeyed by the two stunned medical workers, “Have blood on standby.”

She knelt beside Fareeha’s unconscious form, gingerly holding their head with her left hand whilst opening her right. Her halo flared radiantly, wings taking on a blinding luminosity as excess heat was vented from her suit. Potent streams of gold streaked around the pairing to amalgamate into a sphere the size of a baseball. It was partially amorphous, barely round, half a colony of nanomachines buzzing and eager for work.

The item drifted to Angela's open palm where it was lowered into the chest of Fareeha. Yellow light scintillated about the vehicle's interior, practically blinding all save for the miracle worker who grinned. The body began to twist and morph, every last item upon her being steadily converted into biomass for her body to use. Fabric, metal, it mattered not, for the nanites altered their chemical composition- turning them into near identical clumps of flesh bearing the functions of the patient’s biology.

By the end of it, a gorgeous face emerged, peaceful and at ease, black spindles of hair lamely falling over the eyes.

“Heroes never die, Fareeha.”

–

Maisara half-jumped when a hand crashed against her desk, being greeted by the urgent face of Director Akbari, rolls of aged skin wobbling under his chin.

“Did you get a call from the United Nations just now?” He pressed, being met with a confused, exhausted blink, “Well?”

“No! No, sir. Nothing at all since the last message,” Maisara gave an adamant shake of the head, heart striking against her chest in worry, “I’ve sent you everything I’ve been given.”

“Then why is Overwatch in Cairo?”

Maisara’s stomach twisted into a variety of knots, her jaw growing slack as shock stole her breath away. “OVERWATCH?” She emphasized the name, completely clueless as to the developing situation, “I- I haven’t- why would the UN deploy Overwatch? Sir, with all due respect, even if the United Nations miraculously reactivated Overwatch just now, they wouldn’t have the capacity to deploy a strike team for… for some time!”

“Angela Ziegler is the topic of every phone call I’ve been getting- and none of them have been going to you,” Akbari explained gruffly, dragging a palm down his face, “Forgive me. It’s been.. a night. Mercy has been spotted, recorded, and monitored moving throughout Cairo. She just linked up with a small group from Helix International according to one of the few drones that made it through Talon's blockade.”

“Is.. is it possible she just so happened to be in the area?” Maisara offered, unwilling to believe the woman who’d practically slit a half-dead Overwatch’s throat would suddenly act on behalf of the controversial organization, “Sir, Ziegler’s testimony was damning. It was, as far as every analyst myself included can say, the straw that broke the camel’s back. IF Overwatch came back, she wouldn’t join.”

“Maybe, but she’s equipped with her… what was it called..?” Akbari paused, “V-val… I forget the term.”

“Valkryie Suit and Caduceus Staff, sir?”

“Yes. That…” Akbari’s fatigue was almost certainly wearing him to the bone if he of all people had forgotten famous terms and names, “What about the Israelis and Libyans? How’s that angle?”

“Well- given Ziegler’s presence on the field?” Maisara started, coughing to clear her throat, “They’ll probably start as soon as possible. Even if Overwatch is still in its tomb, I doubt Ziegler would be active without UN approval. My initial guess? She just happened to be in Cairo as a volunteer aid worker when Talon made its gambit. The UN let her off the leash, and now she’s.. well- being ‘Mercy’ for now.”

“..and you’re thinking Tel-Aviv and Tripoli will want to act before the United Nations can tell them no,” Akbari finished, agreeing with the preliminary assessment, “Well.. not that it matters. His Majesty had just given me his verdict when the news broke. Call Zahavy. Tell him we’re in.”

“Yes, sir.”

–

“Now, I don’t need to explain to you how much trouble you’re in, do I?”

Angela blankly stared across the interrogation table, her wings fluttering with mild irritation. “I am more than willing to place the cuffs on myself when all is said and done,” She declared to her questioner, eyeing the exit, “Cairo is in chaos- ANTHRAX has made entire swaths of the city uninhabitable. This is a CRISIS. If I had any criminal intent, would I have saved Captain Amari? Would I have safely evacuated her to your headquarters? Yet you seem hell-bent on playing politics and holding me at gunpoint.”

It was rare for one like Angela to let her rage show, to demonstrate genuine scalding malice towards another. But every muscle in her being twitched with an eagerness to take flight, to return to the fold and preserve the lives of hundreds, perhaps thousands!

“But you did and DO have criminal intent, Ziegler,” The questioner, a firm-looking woman with a stone-faced expression and tightly wound red hair, declared with authoritative firmness, “You’re knowingly and willingly violating the Petras Act- something YOU once supported.”

“I still support it!” Angela fired back, half-spitting in the process, “I do not, however, support the notion that I should sit idly by when I have the power to SAVE lives.”

“So the law doesn’t apply to you when it’s inconvenient?”

“That's not-” Angela raised her voice, but faltered, seeing they had a point, and so she lowered her hackles and held up her hands, “I understand what I am doing is illegal. Please do not mistake my actions tonight for a condoning of vigilanteism. Simply… I felt that the extraordinary circumstances compelled me to act.”

Of course, Angela knew better. Helix was secretly glad for her aid considering she’d just saved their prized propaganda item at no cost. Their aggressive persecution was born out of fear, fear that her Excursion might prompt a push for the reactivation of Overwatch. Helix, after all, was the United Nations' golden child after the Petras Act, and it desperately wanted to stay that way.

“We'll be willing to look the other way just this once, but on one condition.”

“..and what might that be?” Angela asked in a guarded tone, gripping the table’s edge with enough firmness to bruise her fingertips, “What is the.. price?”

“You have two options here, Dr. Ziegler,” The other began, holding up their middle and index fingers, “You can either cooperate, OR you can be arrested and sent to the Hague for trial.”

“You haven't answered my question.” Angela said flatly, working her jaw, “What do you want?”

“Hand over your suit and staff, help Captain Amari recover, and go back to that backwater camp when things calm down. That’s all we want from you.”

“Absolutely not,” Angela hissed, rising to her feet with such force, that her chair was toppled over in the process, “I will not relinquish yet more of MY technology to your warmongering hands! I know what you'll use it for. You'll weaponize it, du drecksack!”

“Well, then we’ll pry the suit off of you and send you to the Netherlands.”

Angela’s head bowed in agony. Just as she’d begun the process of making a difference in Egypt’s troubles, she’d been stripped of her wings. “Fine,” She spat, picking up her Caduceus Staff before swinging it into the ground, snapping it in two. Then, she dropped it and crushed its head with her heel, “But you can have these in tatters!”

–

Fareeha’s eyelids danced as she stirred, shocked to find herself completely devoid of pain. However, a miniscule sense of weight and exhaustion pressed upon her body which was dressed in a hospital gown. To her right, a blonde woman with familiar features sat.

Her eyes were closed, hands neatly clasped in her lap. Up above, her hair was messily tied into a bun, blonde locks falling loose now and again. Her cheeks were soft and full, lightly powdered with makeup, and overall she was quite the specimen.

Then, Fareeha realized just who it was she was looking at-

“Angela?!” She exclaimed with a shout, sitting upright whilst startling the doctor back to lucidity, “What- what are you doing- I- how…?!”

“Don’t shout!” Angela snapped, drawing a gawking session from Fareeha, “I have a headache and this morning is horrid enough.” What followed was a series of expletives and curses in German as she grabbed ahold of a clipboard, prompting the Captain to shrink back in her bed.

Even when they were younger, Angela’s wrath was an exceedingly rare (and utterly terrifying) event. As estranged adults, that fury was somehow as horrifying as a hail of bullets. Then, Fareeha paused- bullets- the column- the ambush, and she grabbed the doctor’s arm with urgency.

“My squad? The convoy?”

Angela looked back, her features softening as a frown overtook her pristine face. “Apologies.. you didn’t deserve that,” She soothed, gently taking the recovering woman’s hand in her own, “Before I give any details, I need to know about you. How are you feeling?”

Fareeha’s response was resolute and immediate. “Just fine. Maybe a little tired. What about my men? What about.. about Saleh and Tariq?” Her voice wavered for only the briefest of moments, a second of brittleness that would not be replicated, “Are they still out there fighting?”

“Fareeha..”

“Fareeha me later! Where are they?!” It was Fareeha’s turn to grow angry, her blood boiling, “Tell it to me straight!”

“...Saleh is well. He directed me to you when the Corpsmen seemed about ready to give up. He received minimal injuries. Nothing more than scrapes and bruisers,” Angela started, swallowing briefly, “But.. the fatalities among the convoy were.. extreme. Fifty percent. Among them was your squadmate, Tariq. I’m sorry.”

Fareeha’s shoulders slumped, her spirits descending into a depressing abyss as muted shock took hold of her. At that moment, a million thoughts raced through her distressed mind, almost all of them centered around what she could have done to avoid these terrible events. She should have chosen a different route, should have been quicker to act, should have-

“Fareeha- if.. if I may?” Angela started, deep bags under her eyes, “Saleh came by earlier. He’s gone back out but.. he made a request. He’d like you to know that you did the best you could and that nobody blames you for what happened.”

Those words were of cold comfort to Fareeha, especially considering who they were coming from. On one hand, an old friend had preserved her life. On the other, that friend had said nothing to her for years, torn down everything her mother had built, and had been the center of a not-insignificant fixation for the longest time. To say that Angela’s attempts at support were hollow would be the understatement of the century.

“I’d like a moment,” Fareeha muttered aloud, her lips quivering as she failed to mask the instability below, “...please, thank you.”

“I'm sorry,” Angela said softly, releasing Fareeha’s hand, “But I'm afraid I can't do that. I need to make sure your body doesn't reject its new… tissue.”

“If there's a problem, I'll call for you,” Fareeha dismissed through gritted teeth, screwing her eyes shut whilst turning away from the other woman, “Go.”

“You might not be able to give me that holler, Fareeha. If something goes wrong, it will be very swift-”

“Piss off!” Fareeha railed against her savior and tormentor, finding that she needed to let loose her anger upon SOMETHING of substance, “You disappear from everyone's lives for years! You give a publicized lecture, maybe the occasional email to the Lindholms, and then nothing after that! Even before Petras, after my mother died, where were you?! You never wrote, you never called, you never visited! After that, you helped to burn her pride and joy into the ground! Don't act like some holier-than-thou saint!”

Angela’s lips thinned, the stinging words evidently having struck true within her heart. “I see,” She whispered, before taking her leave, “I’ll let you be.”

Chapter Text

Fareeha’s nose ran like that of a toddler, snot dribbling from it in droves before being dispensed into a tissue. Her sinuses throbbed, being shaken by a demon of sickness that held every fiber of her being. Muscles ached and cramped, the skin perspirated, and shivers shook her like that of California's myriad of earthquakes. (She’d been to Hollywood once- never again.)

The curtains draped around her bed were pulled apart and in stepped the golden figure of Angela. The messy ponytail or bun remained, albeit better kept. Her lab coat had been cleaned and ironed, devoid of the wrinkles that had matted it before. Her fair skin had only been lightly powdered, though by default she didn't really need any form of makeup. The eyeliner was suiting though.

But what was most captivating, and not in an appealing way, was her smile. Angela's lips had bent into a wide, kind smile- one clearly meant to reassure and put a patient at ease. Despite that, however, Fareeha couldn't help but feel as though there was something off about it. It wasn't insincere nor did it mask some form of hidden malice despite their earlier altercation, but it felt forced all the same.

Something in the way the corners tugged, as if artificially tense, made the good doctor's upbeat mood seem like a mask. for that matter, Her electric blue eyes did not glitter with joyous vibrance. No- behind that smile was fatigue, a tiredness or perhaps deep sadness subtly manifesting in the irises.

“You're feeling ill?” Angela settled into a chair at a desk positioned just next to the bedridden woman, not even bothering to utter a greeting as her mind had shifted to a more clinical state-of-being, “What are your symptoms?”

“Aside from feeling like I have a nasty cold? Well- do you want me to be detailed?” Fareeha knew Angela had a love for descriptions bordering on a fetish, and her recollections were reinforced through a nod, “Dehydration, abdominal pain, vomiting and nausea, weakness, fatigue... I'm dizzy even when I sit up. Do you need anything else?”

There was an awkwardness between the two, an understandable one. For the wounded soldier, she'd been confronted with a face that had abandoned her in her time of need. A face that had returned like a ghost after having practically disappeared from the lives of those who cared for her. For the doctor, the sum total of all her mistakes was made manifest in the form of her new patient.

“Have there been any sluggish motions?” Angela asked, being met with a malaise of a nod, “Mhm. I see. I expected this. I wasn't able to look at my suit's telemetry before… that's not important on second thought. The point is; I believe I had to replace up to a third of your body's organic matter and another fifth needed to be supplemented.”

Fareeha had a rudimentary understanding of medicine, courtesy of having studied under her mother in her younger years. “Are you trying to see if I have some sort of autoimmune disorder?”

“Somewhat, yes. The nanites are not ordinarily supposed to… perform the heavy lifting of the body's functions so to speak. Rather- they're meant to supplement the body as a whole while filling in at least temporarily for lost tissue. Any existing systems are supercharged so to speak,” It was visibly evident Angela wanted to break into a tangent of scientific terms and this was the closest thing to a simple explanation she could conjure up, “They more or less pretend to be your body while simultaneously encouraging natural processes to embolden themselves.”

Angela swiveled in her chair, pressing a thumb to her bottom lip, showing the slightest hint of concern. “They wear a mask you see. I'm sure you've noticed discoloration on your skin? Some strands of hair are falling out? The nanites are not concerned with being wholly accurate. They're just filling in as I said. The colony doesn't actually have your FULL genetic makeup. Not yet at least.”

“I know some medicine, but not THAT much. What are you getting at, Angela?” Fareeha made sure to keep her tone formal and brisk, wanting to prevent their interactions from dragging on for longer than required, “The only thing I need to know is how soon I can get back out there.”

“I'm saying you are suffering from a variant of a condition known as acute rejection. You normally find cases cropping up after organ transplants. In layman's terms, your body doesn't recognize the new organ. In this case, it doesn't recognize new parts of you as itself and attacks them thinking they're invaders.”

Fareeha’s heart sank at that, her spirits depressing as the reality of her predicament began to press upon her shoulders. To think- she’d come back from the dead only to be sitting in a ticking time bomb of a body.

“..But I wouldn't worry. This is to be expected considering the treatment I was forced to give you,” Angela held up a hand as if to illustrate a point, her smile returning in force, “I've faced instances like this before. It's very treatable. Ironically, I just need to use nanites to treat the condition attacking other nanites. You'll be flying again eventually, but it'll be sometime before you're fit for service again.”

“Fine. Next question. How's Saleh? Do you know where he is?” It had been eighteen hours since Fareeha had awoken in her hospital bed. She’d been practically counting the minutes as if hoping the next tick of the hand would result in instantaneous recovery.

“I'm sorry, Fareeha, but I don't know. Helix would never give me that information,” Angela apologized with softness to her voice, “ I will try to have a message delivered for you if you'd like.”

“No, forget I asked,” The Amari dismissed, slumping in her bed as her eyelids grew somewhat heavy, “How long will I feel like this? Tired and sick- that is.”

“I will admit that it gets worse before it gets better,” Angela began with caution, “Acute Nanoid Gravis is quite serious if left untreated. Even with proper care, which you will receive within the hour, it will still feel unpleasant.”

“...how unpleasant? Are we talking cough syrup unpleasant or intensive care unpleasant?” Fareeha swallowed the bitter pill of medical complications, reminding herself that it was either her predicament or death, “Will I at least be able to keep track of what's happening outside? ..what IS happening outside?”

“Are you sure you want me to answer that?” Angela dropped her comforting expression, shifting to a more severe posture.

“Tell me all of it.”

“The Egyptian Prime Minister was assassinated during a press conference. Half the Cabinet is either dead or missing, the other half is in hiding. The military is self-organizing at the moment, but I’m afraid it is in vain,” Angela drew in a deep breath, shaking her head in disappointment, “Beyond the major cities, Egypt has ceased to function as a nation altogether. Even so, half of Cairo has been rendered a biological hazard as a result of Anthrax.”

Fareeha’s lips parted, her eyelids falling closed before opening again as she processed the weighted news.

“Helix held the Temple of Anubis and Talon's main thrust was foundered. Unfortunately, Null-Sector is likely to partake in the chaos. Worse still… Libya, Israel, and Jordan are intervening. The Libyans disarmed any Egyptian units at their border and no word has come from the Suez in the east.”

“They’re partitioning Egypt?!” Fareeha exclaimed with disbelief and devastation, “What's the UN doing in all of this?!”

“Not partitioning- but this isn't a standard bout of international policing,” A frown dominated Angela's face from that point on, “The United Nations is paralyzed. Between Russia and Botswana, its resources have already been stretched thin. It's calling on Helix to fix the matter but I've seen and heard very little on that end.”

Fareeha’s mind wandered to her estranged mother, Ana Amari- a legend renowned the world over. That very same world had been led to believe she was dead, but the younger Amari knew otherwise. Her mother had once sent a letter attempting to reestablish a connection whilst simultaneously imploring the Raptora to not reveal the truth.

Fareeha had never responded- her rage and hurt had clouded her mind then and by the time the sense needed to respond had been regained… the opportunity had long since passed.

What was her mother thinking? Were they horrified? Would they resurface? Were they already working in their own covert manner to aid their beleaguered home country?

That contemplation spurred Fareeha to gain a meager amount of strength in her soul for the sake of asking a pointed question.

“Where were you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Fareeha sucked in another gulp of oxygen, willing her boiling temper to cool and settle before clarifying. “You pop in and out of existence for everyone, never speaking, never saying hello,” She paused to gauge the reaction of the other, finding their expression to be tense and focused, “When you do occasionally speak to the Lindholms, you're vague. You're practically a ghost, Angela. “

“It’s a complicated matter-”

“Was it that complicated when my mother died?” Of course, Ana Amari wasn’t dead- far from it- but Angela didn’t know that and had acted as if Fareeha’s mother never existed, “You never came to see me after the funeral. I never got a message or letter. Even when I reached out? It was just silence- not to mention your testimony at the UN. You destroyed everything she ever built.”

“Fareeha, Overwatch’s time had come. It had gone well beyond the scope of its legal operations, acting in manners that were dangerous for and even detrimental to those we claimed to help,” Angela gestured about the room in an unspoken message that was then vocalized, “All of what’s happening to Egypt right now? Much of it was only made possible by Overwatch’s meddling. Not to mention.. I just couldn’t remain a part of it. I care more for my morals as a doctor than funds.”

“That doesn't explain the ghosting.”

“Ghosting is a harsh word, no?” Angela said, her accent momentarily shining through, “I wish I had an answer as to why I feel the need to isolate myself, only that I do. I could say it's to protect my career or that the memories are too painful but that would be a lie. I just felt as though my presence was either unwanted or unnecessary.”

“Well, I wanted your company.”

“I know, Fareeha, but I couldn't be there for you precisely because of that,” Angela chewed her lip, her shoulders tensing quite visibly, “I know- I know how you felt at the time.”

Fareeha received the words in a manner no different from that of a fist impacting her gut. Her breath was stolen by the thief that was Angela's sentence. A deep-seated feeling of internal conflict resulted in a hiccup and nothing more- a horrible return of ancient emotions.

“You were grieving, vulnerable, not knowing what it was you truly wanted. My presence would only serve to… destabilize rather than comfort in the end. Besides, I had my own healing to do.”

“Oh,” Fareeha frowned, “Those 'feelings' are gone if you are wondering.”

“I know,” Angela nodded, standing to prepare her next nanite cocktail before being stopped by the voice of her patient, “Yes? Is there something wrong?”

“Stop faking your smile, it’s plastic,” The Raptora explained, no malice within her intents though the mental wounding was made visible, “I.. I know how that sounded. Just- just be you. Not some pretty face.”

“..good night, Fareeha.”

–

Angela half stumbled into her dark apartment which was devoid of power. it was well enough away from Cairos' cordoned-off districts, not that she needed to worry about contracting Anthrax. Despite that, it felt duller, more dreary than normal. What had recently been a box-filled space full of potential had been reduced to a box-filled space full of malaise and loneliness.

Searching through the dark studio, Angela's fingers neatly found themselves pressing up to a familiar lamp which was promptly switched on. From there she unslung a small bag and set it upon her couch. Its contents? Alcoholic beverages stolen from Helix's facility.

Drowning her sorrows in the haze of a drunken stupor was not something she committed to habitually, nor was it something she condoned. Even so, sometimes a night of inebriation was understandable in her mind.

Most items were different forms of hard cider though a handful were miniature bottles holding hard liquor. The first glass canister was consumed without much difficulty, the burn being nothing of consequence to the good doctor- until she began to cough of course. The next drink was lighter but consequential nonetheless. It wasn’t long until half the bag’s substances had been consumed and the mists of drunkenness emerged.

There was a moment of stillness from Angela, her stationary positioning prompting a few minutes of contemplation. In her swimming alcohol-infused vision, she caught sight of the various picture frames. Each photo seemed to stare at her, disappointed, disheartened- wrathful even.

“What are you doing, Angela?” The drunken doctor pressed a palm to her forehead, lips beginning to quiver as salty liquid ran down each cheek, “What are you doing?”

“What are you DOING?!” She seized one of the empty bottles and threw it with force, watching the glass item explode on impact before settling onto the couch, “Fuck..”

It was rare for Angela to swear without thought- it was even rarer for her to succumb to despair.

In the inky blackness of her apartment- her only source of light being that of the whitening lamp- order returned. Silence engulfed the space like that of a magma trickling into an underground chamber- and that silence was abetted by a ringing of the ears. Now and again, sirens would streak by and fade. Glass shattering was also not uncommon.

In Cairo's state of anarchy? It was a wonder as to how anyone could even so much as traverse the streets at night as Angela had.

The simple answer was that it hadn’t been by her lonesome. Helix had done her the honor of issuing her a ‘personal escort to keep her safe all hours of the day’. There were two Armored Personnel Characters on her block- her exact street, just outside her now abandoned building.

She knew why they’d really come. They were there to prevent her from flying off the UN’s leash for a second time. Even as Egypt sat in a state of decay. Even as its neighbors circled like carrion birds. Even as the people NEEDED the aid of their peers, politics came first.

“...this too shall pass. This.. too.. shall pass.”

Chapter Text

–The Omnic Crisis–

It began as numb shock- a void of sensation designed by the mind to mask the anvil of revelations being unveiled to a young Angela.

She’d been pouring over the contents of her new book when the red glow of a digital clock had garnered her attention. The time was late, well into the evening for that matter, when the muffled wail of sirens had grown overbearing and disturbing. The trek up the stairs and through the half-shattered house was one taken in irritation, not urgency. After all- she had a book to read and someone dared to disturb her.

An officer, disheveled and evidently sleepless, was standing just beyond the doorway on the porch, cap clasped firmly in her hands.

That was when the revelation had been cursed upon Angela. Her parents, the man and woman who’d cherished her, given her life, and did their best to grant her decent accommodations amidst the crucibles of war- were dead.

Initially, Angela had only silence to give in turn. After all, what could a child say when a haggard stranger explained a terrible new reality? How could a freshly made orphan be expected to appropriately reckon with her loss?

There was only silence to be had.

Silence.

Silence..

Silence…

–Present–

Silence....

The silence was a strange experience when Angela’s bloodshot eyes flittered open- only to squeeze shut as the ruthless sun attempted to gouge them out. Even as her sinuses throbbed with inflammation, stomach churning from the prior night’s partaking of liquor, the unsettling tranquility of the morning was overwhelming.

Cairo had been in anarchy mere hours ago- but the guns had grown silent, the sirens had ceased their song, and the carnage had come to a lull. But of course- this was merely the eye of the storm, a temporary bout of respite before an even more hellacious plunge into danger.

Angela willed herself out of bed to trudge into the wash with the goal of splashing cool water upon her face; a classic stratagem for overcoming even the most sinister of hangovers. She turned the faucet knob and.. nothing. There was no running water within the city.

“Of course,” Angela groaned aloud before muttering expletives under her breath, “Now the water is gone.”

Despite the good doctor’s nauseating state, she knew fully well what was bound to happen with the loss of such a vital resource. Mass dehydration was the first thing that came to mind- but sanitation, infection, and even medicinal treatment would all grow to become problems themselves.

The only silver lining pertained to the hospitals which always made sure to keep an emergency reserve of water in case of disaster. Even then- their stores would last for perhaps a handful of days before they too were inevitably parched. That said... if the structures’ pipes had been damaged… an extra tower would do no good.

Knowing this, Angela opted to take in a gulp of oxygen, letting it sit in her lungs before finally releasing warm carbon dioxide. “Pull yourself together, Angela.”

She didn’t bother to change clothes seeing as she’d fallen asleep in a lab coat. Furthermore, what good would clean clothes do when she herself happened to be filthy? The same outfit coupled with a pair of sunglasses would do.

Stepping out into the hall, Angela was greeted by the site of a tall man clad in a black vest. A balaclava obscured his neck And face like that of a veil. His weapon was standard issue for Helix, a hand-me-down AA92. Pouches for ammunition lined his belt and dotted the vest. A small handheld radio with a floating antenna was magnetically locked to the belt, as was a sidearm of unknown make.

Closer inspection revealed it to be similar to that of Arbalest Arms’ designs and models.

Some would find it strange for a pacifist to be so well-versed in the tools of violence. Nevertheless, war often left many knowledgeable of its trade. Angela was no stranger to witnessing weaponry in action and had grown quite able to identify them at a glance. Whether or not she was disgusted by it was irrelevant.

“Good afternoon, Dr Ziegler,” The mercenary greeted while raising a hand. Looking at her glasses and knotted hair, he added, “Rough night?”

“It could have been worse,” Angela shrugged and huffed with irritation, “What do you want?”

“We are your escort for the day. Captain Amari is waiting for you-”

“Captain Amari has some of the best doctors in the wings waiting to treat her. The people of Cairo don't,” Angela interrupted and brushed past the armed man with little interest in entertaining a conversation that bordered on pointless politics, “I’m headed to Camp Hathor. If you want to be useful, you’ll protect it.”

“I'm assuming we won't be able to convince you?” The other said, figuring there would be little use in fighting, “Can we at least give you a ride? It's too dangerous to walk alone in the streets.”

“Oh, please. I've been through this song and dance before,” Angela waved her would-be escort away in exasperation, “You'll just drive me to the facility, and then you won't let me back here.”

“Doctor Ziegler, we aren't kidnappers.”

“No! You're just mercenaries,” Angela issued them a scathing glare, “Now you will either follow me to Camp Hathor, or you can stay here.”

“It’s dangerous-” The other protested, “Doctor-”

“I guess you’ll just have to ESCORT me as declared,” Angela flicked her hand and chuckled as a means of veiling her contempt and lingering nausea, “What’s your name?” She proceeded to wind her blonde locks into a sloppy ponytail, random strands falling loose and over her eyes now and again.

“Doctor, I’m afraid I do not understand-”

“Your name. I'd like to know what to call my geopolitical babysitter,” The ordinarily kind doctor's voice seeped poison and distaste, veil gone once more, “It's a long walk after all.”

“I can't tell you that, doctor.”

“Ooohhh, Special Forces then? Helix is that worried about a wayward surgeon both loved and hated by the world?” There was a part of Angela that understood a simple matter; it was pointless to push her frustration and despair onto a man that- to his credit- was keeping her safe. Despite that, however, she was hurt and he happened to work for that which ailed her.

Angela's sinuses seemed to hiss and recoil as though they were internal vampires upon stepping foot into the sunlit street. The harsh light squeezed the eyes oppressively. It almost tempted her to step back inside for an inkling of a second. Alas, she would press on.

The streets were strangely peaceful. For that matter, they were empty as a vacuum in terms of people. Abandoned cars, trash, debris, broken glass, even a stray animal or two- but not one single pedestrian. It wasn't surprising to be clear. it was quite common for there to be small moments of paralyzed peace in crisis zones.

The populace of Cairo was in shock, horrified at the new state of being that had so rudely forced itself into their world. Furthermore, denial was practically guaranteed to be an epidemic. The notion that perhaps life would return to normal, that this moment was merely a nightmare destined to end in the morning, was still well entrenched.

Pragmatism and the primal urge to survive would eventually overrule logic. Upon the falling of that metaphorical guillotine, anarchy would return in such abundance, that the tides of chance and chaos would bathe in its succor. It would be a fool's gambit to remain, but alas, Angela was a fool.

As if hearing her thoughts, the head of Angela's so-called escort opted to speak on the matter. “Doctor Ziegler, you do know what's about to happen right?” He moved so that he could remain two paces ahead of her before beckoning for a hovering transport to drift forward along the road, “Are you aware of how often there's a panic over you? You have a habit of vanishing and the world can't help but speculate as to whether or not someone took you for ransom.”

“Yes, I know, and for a time I didn't care,” Angela sighed as a theme became more than abundant, “Lately it seems my tendency to vanish in a warzone has been noticed in more ways than one.”

“You're playing with fire, Doctor. One of these days you will actually find yourself in a heap of trouble with no one to save you,” He paused to look over his shoulder, “Angels can fall from heaven, doctor.”

“So poetic,” Angela dismissed, “How about I tell you the reality of my situation then, hm?”

“I'm all ears, Doctor, seeing as I don't have a choice.”

“On paper, I am one of the richest women on the planet. My biotic technology is used everywhere. Refugee camps, hospitals, experimental laboratories, governments, military, institutions, universities?” Angela swirled her finger around and around before pointing it at herself, “It all comes back to me eventually. After all, they are only licensed to produce or use it. I have not sold it to anyone.”

“Lucky you.”

“I would love to put ALL of that vast accrual of wealth and capital into founding something that will go well beyond my lone capacity to operate,” Angela chuckled at the fantasy of an international humanitarian group that single-handedly ended crisis after crisis, “However, instead of seeing the idea for what it could be, anyone who could help me establish such a foundation sees my past. They see Overwatch and think that I'm just trying to replace something I killed with something I can profit off of.”

“Where is this going?”

“What is the point of being a woman with all the money she could ever need when I don't have any means of spending that money beyond one-time purchases?” Angela questioned, holding up a finger for silence as her inquiry was entirely rhetorical, “To make matters worse? Most of that money is unofficially frozen by the United Nations, or more specifically, its favorite little private military corporation. The only thing I CAN do, let alone FUND frequently enough, is what I do now.”

“You're saying Helix is holding your fortune hostage?”

“I am, and it is. Your employers don't want to safeguard the world. They want to profit off of its chaos. I'm a threat to that,” The doctor rounded a corner, pausing to stare at the recently deceased- someone had bothered to collect the bodies in a pile. She frowned for a moment, heart sinking in sadness, only to move on with reluctance, “Those of us that might have enough power to make change often have that power curtailed by outside forces. The only way we can make a difference? Become slaves to an organization that can control us.”

“Doctor, I'm just here to pull a trigger and keep the peace. Keep the philanthropy lectures to yourself.”

“And see how good of a job you've done,” Angela beckoned to the corpse mound they’d bypassed, “truly, you've made Egypt a paradise.”

–

Fareeha caked a tissue with a glob of snot before pinching her nose to remove any excess discharge. However, the act of blowing forcefully prompted a raw throat to tighten, making an agonized woman inwardly squirm at the sensation. The illness had danced around her glands, kicking and rearranging whatever tissue it saw fit, before pressing on to other parts of the body like the evil devil it was.

Compounding the flu-like existence was the inability to so much as move without the skin pulling and peeling uncomfortably. Flakes of the epidermis flaked off in discolored patches and collected upon her hospital gown, and some were trapped within the cloth- thus irritating its neighboring regions.

‘I will admit that it gets worse before it gets better.’ Angela's words rang true in her mind.

An understatement of the century.

Fareeha’s voice had been mostly stolen from her, the consumption of solids or liquids orally was out of the question, and she was shedding like a lizard. Nutrients and water needed to enter the body intravenously, making moving the left arm a rude session.

But she was grateful. Oh yes- she was grateful for the physical destitution. It served as a shield from the mental burdens of grief after all. Why painfully reminisce over Tariq when a more immediate concern was the throat that constantly assaulted her every waking moment? Grief would have its place but at another time.

A musical chime rang out and stole the Raptora’s attention. The always unexpected element of surprise lit in her mind as an unfamiliar face dressed in a coat stepped through the door. They were quite clearly a doctor or physician set to tend to her every need, but there was still a tinge of disappointment to be had.

‘Of course I scared her off,’ Fareeha thought to herself despondently, mentally clapping her scalp with a metaphysical palm, ‘Stupid! Stupid! No- no. The shouting fest was a deserved outburst. If she is too afraid to confront her wrongs- that’s her problem and NOT mine.’

“Good afternoon, Captain Amari,” The newcomer greeted, a plastic smile on his face, “I'm afraid Doctor Ziegler will not be joining us today. You can call me Doctor Zihlan or just Z if it helps.”

That grin was almost enough to make Fareeha miss the fakeness of Angela’s beaming features- no she did miss them. She missed them a great deal actually. Despite the bitterness that had taken hold of her heart, that sleepless woman’s friendship had been cherished deeply at one point.

“Well if you're going to ask about how I'm feeling,” Fareeha rasped, her pained throat protesting, “I'm a reptile now. A very, very, sick reptile. I guess that means whatever Ziegler did worked?"

“It did, yes. It'll take some time for your body to readjust,” Zihlan placed himself on a stool, a datapad resting on his knee, “You should be fit for service in three months.”

“That's too long!” Fareeha exclaimed in choked outrage, “People are out there dying, and you expect me to just sit on my ass?”

“I was told I would have to be blunt with you, so I will be,” Zihlan cracked his neck and grunted, wrinkling his stubby nose twice whilst a sterner expression took hold of him, “Let's just say we put you back out there early. You get hurt. Your body will refuse any nanite treatments, meaning we'll have to do things the old-fashioned way. Depending on what happens, you'll be retired prematurely. I don't think Fareeha Amari wants to be medically discharged in her early thirties.”

“It's that serious?” Fareeha managed, being forced to grapple with the severity of her situation for the umpteenth time, “I can’t receive ANY nanite treatments?”

“Zero for three months. Your body would tear itself apart and reject the therapy. That's Acute Nanoid Gravis for you. I don’t need to remind you that the Raptora Suit uses biotic tech to help you resist the intense forces you’d otherwise be reduced to paste by?” Zihlan held up two fingers and a thumb, “For the rest of the year, you should be able to fly just fine, but any injuries would need to be treated by hand with only a limited nanite therapy.”

“So this stint may very well go beyond three months?” Fareeha whispered breathlessly, only to sneeze into the crook of her arm and earn a reprimand from her throat, “I’m.. I’m grounded for potentially the rest of the year?”

“If I had my way, yes. That said? Helix is willing to let you fly after three months at minimum, but that could very well change,” Zihlan concluded and gave the crestfallen woman a gentle pat on the shoulder, “Just get some rest. Is there anything else I can do for you before I go? Otherwise, just call for a nurse and they’ll get you whatever you need.”

“Well for starters… what's happening out there?” Fareeha questioned, “I'd also like access to a holovision for the sake of keeping up with the news and- and I want a ledger of the men that died in my convoy. I want to write their families.. and perhaps see to it that they're given honors.”

“Nothing good is happening outside, Captain, I'm sorry to say that. But I know you'll badger someone for more so here it goes,” Zihlan stood from his seat and started for the door only to look back to the bedridden soldier, “Despite international condemnation, the so-called Desert-Triumvarate as Lebanon has put it will maintain its occupation of Egypt’s borders. The Suez is under Lebanese and Israeli lock and key. The Libyans are establishing a buffer zone to keep refugees out in the west.”

“Will the UN get involved?” Fareeha said despite knowing the response she’d receive, “Will we- Helix- remove them? We could likely do it if we pull resources away from the American Midwest, Siberia, and King’s Row-”

“That won’t happen, Captain. You know that. The world’s on fire. Egypt isn’t high on the priorities list. Otherwise, I don’t know what Helix is going to do,” Zihlan exhaled through his nostrils, “Anything else?”

“Not high on the priorities list?” Fareeha wouldn’t let that quip from a foreign national slide by without reprisal, “You do know the Temple of Anubis is a thirty-minute drive from here, right? I would consider a prison for a world-ending AI a high priority. But fine- we don’t have to talk about it. What’s Doctor Ziegler’s contact information?”

“I wouldn’t know that but I don’t think-”

“If Helix intends to isolate me from the world, Zihlan, perhaps I’ll just quit and rejoin Egypt’s general military in three months,” Fareeha knew fully well that she was quite the piece of political capital, “I wonder if the Air Force has any old American warplanes left. Anything with substantial gravitic propulsion stopped being maintained years ago- funding crisis- but I suppose I won’t mind flying vintage.”

“..I’ll see what I can do.”

–

It was well beyond midnight when Angela staggered back into her apartment half-starved and desperate for water. Fortunately- there were still bottles to be had in the camp when she’d left. Touma had been kind enough to gift one to her. He’d evidently wanted to discuss her outing as ‘Mercy’, but that subject was volatile.

Taking to the skies as an angel hadn’t inspired hope or even forgiveness from the masses. No, it had only served to reinforce their opinions. To them- Overwatch meant death- and she’d taken to the clouds the same night as they were cowering from a scythe.

“Angel of Death!” Some had cried, whereas others had glowered and spat at the ground.

Angela would have remained in Camp Hathor for longer- far longer in fact. Her permanent colony of nanites ensured she could at the very least not outright die from exhaustion after all. However, when it had become clear that she was a source of controversy and disorder among frightened patients, Touma had seen to it that she was temporarily sent home.

In essence, Angela had been sidelined despite being more than capable of amplifying Hathor’s productivity tenfold (quite literally).

She was unwanted, despised even.

‘You’re a doctor. You don’t do this for good press,’ Angela chided herself for thinking so childishly, ‘Regardless of what others think you must press on to do what you must for the greater good..’

She paused, realizing the logic she’d just argued within her mind was bordering on the same point of a most hated former co-worker.

O’Deorain…

“What are you doing, Angela? What are you doing?” The pained angel muttered aloud as she seized hold of her satellite phone and began to dial a number she’d memorized specifically for the purpose of BLOCKING it. From there, the familiar buzz of a phone chime filled her ears and she screwed her eyes shut.

Then an elegant and refined yet cold and calculating feminine voice emerged on the other end. “O’Deorain speaking. Be quick about it. I don’t take kindly to interruptions from strangers- especially in the dead of night when I am.. most productive.”

‘Indeed, always the vampire, aren’t you?’ Angela wanted to hiss with venom on instinct, but she would not, for diplomacy was required, “Good evening, or perhaps morning now, Doctor, or should I say Minister.”

How that damnable woman ever became the Minister of Genetics for Oasis, Angela would never know.

“Oh? The high and mighty ANGEL has words for me. Desperate are we? I take it your one-night outing as an international criminal didn’t go so well?” The angel could picture the red-haired bastard smiling with an air of superiority, damn her. “What could have driven Angela ‘Mercy’ Ziegler to me?”

“Enough with the petty games, Moira. This is bigger than the both of us,” Angela forced herself to remain level-headed even as her skin crawled, “..please. I need your help.”

“Two minutes then,” Moira sighed in an exaggerated fashion before feigning a yawn, “I can only remain awake for so long in the boring presence of a hypocritical pacifist who lets every single military on the planet use her biotics.”

“I won’t have that debate again. Better medicine saves lives regardless of who uses it and you developed bioweapons for Blackwatch- so let's not go down that road,” Angela waved the other’s jab aside with a huff, “I know you have broken ground with your biotic mist- using my nanites might I add. It’s fast-acting, innovative, and much as I hate to say it, brilliant.”

“Compliments from you, Doctor?” Moira chuckled devilishly, “Now this IS interesting. How cornered are you, Angela?”

“No more than you are-” Angela was swiftly cut off by boisterous laughter from the other.

“I’m not the woman in hot water with the United Nations right now. Don’t have the gall to equate your brashness to my brilliance- and do not think I have enough empathy to be charitably inclined.”

“You say that, but we both know Petras has hamstrung you even MORE than I,” Angela knew she could prod at a sore spot for leverage, “But I don’t need to remind you of that, do I, Blackwatch Agent O’Deorain?”

“..give me one reason not to end this conversation now, Angela.”

“Unlike me who simply has the normal constraints of Petras and heavy lethargy on my monetary tidings, all of your proprietary inventions were stripped from you summarily- and don’t even get me started on your monetary value..”

“I have money, Ziegler. Plenty. Oasis? I practically own its Genetics sector, darling. And since when have you ever cared about… wealth?” Moira chided bitterly, irritation sounding, “Besides, even without Oasis, I have plenty of other benefactors.”

“But you do not have a good reputation beyond your golden city, do you?” Angela knew a narcissist wanted to be recognized for their work, “Think about how the world would react to this headline; Oasis Minister of Genetics single-handedly saves Cairo from its Anthrax outbreak with lifesaving mist.”

“Mhm.. a fair point, yes… but what makes you think I have any interest in navigating the mess that is Egypt right now? I don’t care much for funding anymore- I have it in spades. Prestige? Pointless these days. I have a new calling, Angela. This would be a side project at best.”

“Then what do you want?!” Angela snapped at last, “What will it take for you to do something ETHICAL for once?!”

“Very well, I'll cut to it. I want you to beg- or is your ego so inflated that you’ve eclipsed mine? If you truly need this, you will beg."

Angela’s lips parted, breath hitching, her silence earning a malicious chuckle from the phone's other end.

“I-” She swallowed, “Please, Moira. I can’t do this by myself. I- I need your aid.”

“Hm- I would savor this sweet moment of triumph a tad bit longer by dragging more from you, but my subject is..” A brief crackle on the other end of the line broke the other’s sentence apart, “Well- quite deceased now I’m afraid. Don’t worry your pretty little head, Angela. I’ll convince Oasis to approach the UN… when it is convenient for me.”

With that, the call ended, and Angela’s arms dropped to her side in emotional exhaustion. That was when her phone began to buzz once more- and this time a new number flashed across the screen.

Chapter Text

“Who is this? How did you get this number?” Angela pressed as soon as she’d answered the call, finding herself quite irritable- not to mention paranoid. Her nostrils flared and her nails worked lightly at her palm, such was the stress she endured. More than a year’s worth of traveling, risk, navigating Petras, facing the risk of death, and witnessing the horrors of war had pressed her close to the breaking point.

The burgeoning crisis in Siberia, the Botswana debacle, the Kurjikistan Walker Incident, the earthquakes in Chile, the outbreak of violence in Venezuela, the gangs of the American Southwest, the list went on and on.

Angela had been witness to each incident or its consequence and had been there to help pick up the pieces regardless of the risk to herself. She’d been shot once, nearly blown up twice, narrowly avoided kidnappings half a dozen times, and that wasn’t even accounting for the other more personal blunders she’d had to account for.

She was emotionally exhausted- and more importantly- she was tired.

Cairo was shaping itself up to be the one singular push over that proverbial edge.

“I presume your conversation with an old colleague went well?” The voice on the other end was familiar- and for that matter- it belonged to the Helix Interrogator, “We didn’t eavesdrop, but an unsecured sat-phone is a poor idea for security.”

“Helix, of course,” Angela muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose with such force, that her nails left marks on the skin, “What do you want?”

“Doctor, I will be frank with you. You can’t stay in that apartment. Egypt has practically ceased to be anything but an idea on a map. It’s a failed state,” The other started firmly, hoping to emphasize the reality of their situation, “The government collapsed. Any members that survived Talon’s little… excursion we’ll call it… fled the country before the Israelis declared a no-fly zone. Nobody is getting in or out.”

“You’re worried about my safety, how noble,” Angela hissed dryly, “Get to the point.”

“No, I don’t think I will just yet. This isn’t something you can brush off, Ziegler. Listen to me- and listen well. Cairo has no water. The towers were destroyed by Talon operatives, and the Hospitals are practically running on puddles,” The Interrogator paused to let that fact sink in, “The military can’t self-organize. Most formations are disarmed at the border. The majority of the remains have flocked to Helix to join the fold and potentially salvage the situation. What’s left has scattered and operates in localized pockets.”

Angela knew how dire the situation was- she didn’t need a reminder. But that reminder would be given anyhow.

“Looting is rampant, most of the perishables in stores and markets have either been eaten or gone rotten. Anything that lasts long term was looted early on.”

“This is playing out across the country, I know,” Angela huffed, flopping onto the couch to stare at the ceiling, “I am also aware of how risky it is to stay here. I carry important technologies with me. Looters could seek me out as my presence is known- and if your babysitters are overwhelmed- gangs have it and myself as ransom.”

“Exactly. Ziegler, you need to come to Helix. We’re not asking for a contract, no tech either. Your safety is impor-”

Angela interrupted the other with a dry, scathing laugh, one that was raw and stemmed from deep within her chest. “You have no care for me! You care about the political firestorm that’ll come with my demise!” She accused, knowing fully well she was very much correct, “Angela Ziegler, dead, courtesy of Helix International’s ongoing failures to safeguard Egypt. And let us NOT FORGET- who will get ownership of my patents?”

The deafening silence served as the only response needed.

“I’m no fool. You can produce my biotics at a tenth of the price of all others on the market,” Angela rolled her eyes in exasperation, “In fact, there is no negotiating to be had. The price is fixed internationally to be cheap and affordable for any group- ANY group regardless of who they are. Medicine is a human right after all. But my mindset is unpopular these days. What happens if Oasis claims the prize? They’ll bankrupt you for a single nanite colony!”

“Let me sweeten the deal then,” The other cut in swiftly, their voice tight, “Helix has what's left of the Egyptian Quartermaster Corps running circles to bring desperately needed humanitarian aid to regions that could be salvaged. Cairo has been abandoned thanks to the outbreak- but perhaps a handful of aid convoys could be diverted to Camp Hathor.”

Such an offer prompted the good doctor to consider the possibilities. Indeed, Cairo was a lost cause without a broader international effort. It would be preferable to work towards achieving semi-stability elsewhere. However, the lack of water was already beginning to rear its ugly head. Camp Hathor, and all sites in the capital’s outskirts, were grievously understaffed and ill-equipped for this disaster.

They needed food, water, clean tools, more personnel, fresh bandages, a minimum of two self-sustaining nanite colonies for each, and far more beyond that. A handful of convoys would only alleviate the situation by a minuscule amount for a week, maybe two- but it was better than nothing.

“They’ll need more than four or five aid convoys,” Angela sighed, sitting upright once again, “Much more. There are millions of souls in Cairo. If I had to estimate, half the population will perish in the coming weeks due to the localized outbreak. Of what remains, perhaps only a few thousand are currently being cared for by camps and hospitals. The rest are in a state of nature and famine is imminent.”

“Helix is willing to make a considerable effort towards bolstering efforts in Cairo in exchange for one thing.”

“...and that is?”

“It has come to our attention that you still have your old prototype staff,” The other said cautiously, “Relinquish it to us for study. We’ll even make it a legally binding contract- albeit a quiet one- that forces us to act and not go back on our word. The staff for aid.”

Angela’s heart sank to the bottom of the ocean as her mouth hung open for a moment. She knew exactly why they wanted the staff. “You cheating- irredeemable- bastards.”

“Oh for God’s sake, stop being so naive! You don’t think your technology hasn’t BEEN used in weapons all over the world?”

“I-”

“Since when has any government cared about international law behind closed doors, Doctor?” The Interrogator snapped harshly, “Or is it your conscience holding you back? What, you can tolerate illegal weaponization of your biotics, but even the PROSPECT of it being legal scares you? We have no interest in weaponizing your biotics. We only want to make it easier to save lives.”

“The mere fact that you dare to ask this of me says all I need to know,” Angela inhaled deeply, “You are aware that my most advanced biotic tech is hardly just biotic- it alters matter. That’s why you want it. You wish to play god.”

“Perceptive, but hypocritical. YOU are the one playing God, Doctor, and you know it.”

“I am not! If I was, my most advanced nanite colonies would be distributed the world over, but they aren't,” Angela scoffed at the poor-man’s attempt at guilting her into being convinced, “I am not stupid! I know you use my biotics in your Raptoras! I am more than aware of what the Americans, Russians, and French do for experiments! I’ve opened Pandora’s Box with biotics- I will not do the same with matter!”

“Then four or five convoys it is, Doctor.”

Angela hesitated for a moment, recognizing how pivotal her decision was. If she agreed, signed a contract, and relinquished the prototype, millions would be saved from famine, thirst, and disease- but what of the cost? What would a species that went to war routinely do with the ability to ‘play God’ as the adage went? Nothing good- not yet at least.

“SIX,” Angela said, “Don’t call this number again.”

She didn’t waste another moment speaking to the Devil incarnate. No, there was no point in doing so. Instead, she set the phone on the counter, shuffled across her apartment, and began to dig through her boxes until finally coming across a stainless steel container the size of herself.

Angela brushed dust away from a palm reader plastered to the container’s center, setting her hand upon it with the hopes that the battery still worked. When a musical chime reminiscent of Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor played, she knew it clung to life. The container hissed and opened, steam emerging from a sterile space containing four items.

Most prominent was a blue pole that seemed to be a stripped-down Caduceus Staff, old yellow wiring having been unplugged, its power source long gone. However, a small golden glow pulsated within its head- the nanite colony. Angela proceeded to gingerly take hold of the fragile item and set it to the side.

With care, the Angel dipped her fingertips into the cluster of nanites and absorbed the nano-machines into her body's local colony.

From there, she returned to the container.

A picture frame and old transponder with the Overwatch icon plastered to it rested atop another blue item- a Valkyrie Suit prototype. To look at the old hardware and memorabilia was, admittedly, a bringer of nostalgia.

Angela could recall Ana’s remarks at the scent of cleaner and disinfectant plastered to the suit, Winston’s avoidance of her due to the aroma’s strength, and the joint pestering of Fareeha and Jack for her to at the very least spray cologne on it.

Fareeha…

Guilt gnawed at Angela’s conscience, courtesy of the thought of her friend. Well- former friend really. The younger Amari had accused her of abandonment- and she’d proven their point by running away when confronted.

Yes, Camp Hathor needed aid. Yes, Fareeha did have all the medical facilities in the world at her beck and call.

But deep down, Angela knew she’d fled from a tense reckoning in cowardice.

Perhaps a visit was in order…

But alas- she had to get back to her work. First, she took hold of the framed picture. Ironically, it was one taken by Gabriel. Angela had tested her first iteration of the staff- only to have it 'gently' explode in her hands. The end result was singed hair, a blackened lab coat, and red eyes from smoke. The image had been unflattering, but humorous, and had been worth keeping.

Angela opened the frame and slid the photo out, turning it over to find a note written in large letters;

“If you ever need someone, just give me a call.” - Winston

A handful of numbers and frequencies had been given, and ironically the old satellites still functioned. Helix used them for its own purposes after all- but it had failed to notice the telltale signs of a gifted genetically-modified scientist’s tampering.

Angela seized the transponder, followed by her computer, and then the sat-phone, which were laid out upon her coffee table. First, she opened the back of the phone to glance at its internals. The battery needed to be removed- and so she did precisely that. Then she seized a pair of scissors from her kitchen and began to carefully cut into the wires that were woven into the back of the transponder.

After a few minutes of fiddling, Angela moved back to her sea of boxes to seek out a roll of electrical tape- among other things. Her ad-hoc engineering culminated as a jack connected to the transponder was slotted into her laptop’s port. Then- with gloves on- she slipped the battery back into her phone.

Using the numbers on Winston’s note as a reference, Angela dialed into the transponder which lit up the darkened room to such a degree, that she needed to squint her eyes for a moment. Following that, the photo was ripped apart and a distorted Overwatch icon flashed on her laptop’s screen, indicating she’d managed to connect to the old servers.

“Winston?” Angela spoke into the transponder timidly, her voice low in case there were unwanted listeners outside of her door, “Winston, it’s me, Angela.”

Static greeted her on the other end, prompting her heart to pulsate harshly as her skin began to crawl.

“Winston, PLEASE,” Angela emphasized the latter word, her voice wavering, “I need your help. I- please…”

Silence.

With a quivering lip, Angela exhaled and lowered her head with disappointment. “Winston- I can't- you said you would answer,” She whimpered with despair, realizing that her prolonged period of isolation had likely tarnished her chances of speaking to most of her companions- including that of Winston, “Please… I can’t do this alone… I need you to answer. I need you to safeguard the specs of the Valkyrie and Caduceus. You're the only one I can trust!”

Silence.

“Winston- I'm begging you…”

Nothing.

Then, black text flashed across the screen, small and garbled, incomplete at the end.

“I’m sorry, Angela, but I can’t secure this conne-”

Then, the feed cut out, discontinued from the other end.

Angela’s breath escaped her, wetness building in her eyes as darkness filled the screen and the transponder fizzled out.

There was only one thing left to do. With a heavy heart, the prototypes were smashed to pieces. The transponder was dismantled, the phone’s antenna broken, and the laptop purged of all files. Personal items, clothes, and photos were packed into a duffel bag, only the bare necessities following suit.

At last, she grabbed whatever flammable item she could get ahold of, scattered them around, lit a match, and set fire to her apartment.

It was only after she approached the Helix escort and turned to face her burning complex that she understood what had happened.

Angela was alone- alone, alone, alone.

Chapter Text

“The Americans won’t publicly back us at the General Assembly?”

Maisara listened to the litany of back-and-forth quips issued by the Israeli-Libyan delegations, momentarily wishing she was not responsible for handling the Jordanian Government’s more clandestine forums.

Zahavy’s projection shook its head, the hologram distorting now and again due to his naturally ambient movements. “Not unless we have a smoking gun. Otherwise, the best they’ll do is abstain from votes, and possibly veto decisions made by the Security Council,” The Minister threw his hands into the air briefly, “They are willing to change their position should the geopolitical circumstances grow more.. favorable.”

The Libyan representative was less open about their identity, appearing as nothing more than a vague silhouette with a masculine voice bearing the accent of his country. “Unfortunate. Ordinarily, the United States is more than happy to… play its chips in your favor. Nevertheless, we’ll press ahead. The demarcation lines are secured. The Egyptian government has collapsed, so we don’t need to worry about military reprisal.”

“Assuming the Chinese don’t intervene. Lucheng Interstellar owns half of the Suez Starport- in other words- The Chinese GOVERNMENT owns half of the Suez Starport,” Maisara finally interjected, peaking at a handful of papers sitting upon her desk, “They may not have the capacity to overpower the Triumvirate alone, but they will almost certainly court India’s Vishkar Corporation and potentially Oasis. Let’s not forget what happens when that city is forced to choose between us… and its most lucrative trade partner beyond the States.”

“Then we reopen the Suez,” Zahavy offered, “Carry on with business as usual. That’ll take most of the heat away.”

“No, we need something for spin,” Maisara declared firmly, “Something that will paint us in a different light, that will take the negative press away from the Triumvirate. Right now, we are vultures. We need to be saviors, peacekeepers. That won’t happen while there’s a burning, infested Cairo.”

“All the more reason to reopen the Suez. We can play it off as a bid to preserve international commerce in the region while localizing the instability to Egypt,” The Libyan representative mused to the other two, humming briefly, “Adding onto this- we could re-establish Egypt’s government- state that our goal has always been a return to the original status-quo. Surviving cabinet members could be elevated- exerting influence won’t take much.”

“And seeing as our prospective puppet was a member of the internationally recognized government… the UN would be inclined to side with the solution,” Zahavy concluded, eagerness in his tone, “We get capital from the Suez via a proxy Egyptian government, the international community turns a blind eye, and all the focus shifts to the humanitarian efforts we can ‘contribute’ to.”

“A solid foundation, but we need a chance to build beyond that. All of this assumes we have the time to follow through on a plan,” Maisara cautioned, chewing her bottom lip before taking a breath, “Although we are supposed to reserve intelligence sharing for later, this is pertinent. Angela Ziegler contacted one of Oasis’ ministers through an unsecured sat-phone and we took a listen. By the sounds of it, Oasis intends to use a biotic mist to solve Cairo’s Anthrax problem.”

“And how is this relevant?” Zahavy inquired, curious.

“Oasis cannot conduct the operation without either approaching the UN or convincing the Triumvirate to lift the No-Fly-Zone,” Maisara held up a finger and waved it up and down, “So we court them. Offer our services to facilitate their ambitious excursion. We use that for spin. And, we have a convenient scapegoat to direct the public’s outrage to- Helix International.”

“We have been privately discussing an online attack-ad campaign against Helix,” The Libyan delegate concurred, “Someone has to take the fall for all of this. Right now, it’s the Egyptian Government- and we are the vultures taking advantage of it in the common narrative. But, if we shift blame away from Cairo and onto Helix…”

“..the negative press fixates on Helix International, our new collaboration government in Cairo is labeled a victim failed by international peacekeepers, and the blowback goes up to the UN for relying on Helix for its busywork,” Zahavy finished the statement, grinning, “And, with the cooperation of Oasis, we look like reluctant saviors, all while placating the Chinese behind closed doors. The Americans will change their position and vouch for our efforts in the General Assembly AND Security Council.”

“Adding onto this, we let Helix flounder in the dark for a while, and ask the UN for permission to intervene across the whole damned country,” Maisara closed her eyes and nodded, “We have a plan then.”

–

Fareeha watched the morning sunrise through her window, golden rays steadily creeping over the horizon, thus washing the desert sands in radiance. The blackness of night gave way to a myriad of purples, pinks, and blues which slowly grew more dominant across the heavens. The tranquil imagery was marred by smoke plumes emerging from and around the distant collapsing Cairo.

Though her symptoms had improved dramatically, Fareeha was pressed with a new hurdle to overcome; skin sensitivity. She’d shed what was practically her whole body’s-worth of skin in the process of recovering and the new layers were fresh and unused to the rigors of life. The end result was a constant, incessant itching throughout the entirety of her body- including in more peculiar regions that ought not to be scratched.

Furthermore, the concept of ‘room temperature’ had ceased to exist as chills rocked Fareeha’s body. A persistent fever apparently.

One of the most demoralizing symptoms, however, was the inconsistency of taste and smell. Some hours, a meal would taste like an empty object with texture, others the notion of sweet was sour and sour was sweet. Smells would come and go, some phantom and some real. Allegedly, it was a result of the body adjusting to its nerve-replacements.

Fareeha’s head turned when a knock on her door garnered her attention. Her eyes landed on the haggard sight of Saleh. His facial hair was unkempt and growing, a stubble that was destined to shift into a forest if left unchecked. His strong nose was scabbed over from an old laceration. Furthermore, he was perspiring like that of a waterfall, having just returned from the ‘great beyond’.’

There was a period of awkward silence between the two. Fareeha had a hundred matters she wanted to discuss, finding each of them to be equally pressing and thus equally suppressing of the others. Saleh on the other hand was just fatigued through and through.

“I got you a rock,” Came the first sentence from Saleh, stunning Fareeha who was greeted by a smooth, gray hot stone often used in physical therapies and massages, “It’s something to keep you warm, considering you’re a skin-shedding lizard now.”

Fareeha scoffed, her jaw agape even as the corners of her lips twisted into a smile. “Wow- not a hello, how are you, Captain? None of the classic- are you feeling well?” She said with mock shock, half-suppressing a giggle, “No, you just came here to insult me. Fuck you too, have fun in the wasteland that is our country.”

“It’s good to see you too, sister,” Saleh grinned, blessing his squadmate with a rather affectionate sobriquet. He stepped into the room and pulled a rolling chair out from a desk, sitting upon it before gently placing the rock in Fareeha’s hands, “So, how long until you’re back in action?”

“Three months at the earliest,” Fareeha scowled at the hospital’s bedsheets, disliking so much as thinking about her prolonged and unearned vacation. Then, she looked back upwards, eyeing the vest and general fatigues worn by her subordinate, “The Raptoras are still grounded?”

“Worse. They’re grounded AGAIN,” Saleh grimaced at the expression plastered to Fareeha’s features, “We were let loose for one hour. Talon’s EW got us again- right as we reached our maximum altitude. Most of us were able to deploy shoots. A couple glided. One of us got unlucky when both parachutes failed- but overall it could’ve been worse.”

“Have we at least been able to deal with them on the ground?”

“Don’t think so. They haven’t come out to play. They’re just fueling the chaos right now,” Saleh lifted a hand, palm facing the ceiling, “Or at least, that’s what’s happening in the areas I’ve been to. Comms have been spotty at best, jammed at worst.”

Once again, Fareeha found herself yearning for a weapon once more- craving the act of working to restore order to her home. Yet, there she was, clean, treated, fed, and well-rested, without having lifted a finger beyond a single disastrous venture onto the battlefield.

“By the way, Mercy’s been brought here- to Helix,” Saleh leaned forward, placing his elbows upon the knees whilst resting his jaw upon the knuckles, “I never got a chance to properly thank her earlier. She knew your mother, didn’t she?”

Fareeha’s lips thinned, wondering what would compel Angela of all people to accept shelter from Helix. She was fervently against privately run military endeavors- regardless of who or why after all.

“She did. We both met as teens. I was the daughter of Ana Amari, and Angela was a gifted once-in-a-century young scientist,” The younger Amari leaned her head against the bedframe, recalling fonder, happier days, “Funnily enough, I think my mother was more motherly to her in the end. I used to hate that fact- and then I realized that Angela was a teenager expected to change the world as part of a UN-run peacekeeping group. So, she needed it more.”

“Mm.. still, that’s rough,” Saleh released his hands from one another and set them upon his thighs before standing with a grunt, “If you see her, tell her I said thanks. Oh- and use the rock twice a day. It isn’t good for lizards to get too cold.”

“Har har har.”

–

Smoking a thick cigar inside of the Oval Office had never been on Cassidy’s bucket list. Actually, he’d never even so much as considered setting foot in D.C. to begin with given it was full of cutthroats and liars. Then again, he himself was arguably both a cutthroat and a liar despite his genuine pledges to greater causes. Of course, he didn’t see himself that way. Rather, he viewed his vigilantism as a way of life, one predicated on doing what he felt was best at the time.

Thus, when Athena finally caught a whiff of his scent, Winston gave the outlaw a call- a very important one at that.

When the white doors to the office swung open to allow its primary occupant inside, Cassidy was astonished to find that he was not meeting a President. Instead, burly men clad in the fashionable tuxedos of the Secret Service swarmed into the space with weapons drawn and fingers sat firmly on the trigger.

“Woah there. Take it easy,” Cassidy bit down on his cigar mid-smirk, raising his hands with a casualness to them that bordered on madness, “I’m just here to meet the soon-to-be re-elected President. Election, world’s on fire, Alaska’s ESPECIALLY on fire- takes guts to face all that and everything else too. Surprised you even knew I was in here.”

“We didn’t until a few minutes ago,” Came a familiar stern yet mildly feminine voice. An individual who seemed more androgynous in appearance entered the fray, much to the protests of the agents tasked with protecting them. Their skin was tanned, eyes opposing colors as a result of heterochromia, and their dark frizzled hair was simultaneously wound into beads and braids to boot. Even their clothing was unique despite maintaining the formal appearance of all politicians, consisting of a black tux with golden highlights.

“How do you do, good ol’ President?” Cassidy issued a small wave with the fingers in his prosthetic, prompting an odd series of clicks to emerge from them, “How’s life treating ya, Ainsley?”

“Until you showed up, I was on top of the world,” Ainsley rolled their eyes before swirling their index finger, “You’re in my seat, Cassidy.”

“What? Was just keeping it warm for ya,” The vigilante chuckled and vacated the armchair with the slowness of a sloth, “Besides, can’t two ex-Overwatch buddies visit each other?”

“Not when one of those ‘buddies’ was part of Blackwatch and is a wanted criminal. What do you want?” Ainsley was evidently in no mood to talk, brushing their furniture off before taking back their seat, “Like you said. The world’s on fire and Alaska is taking hits from Omnics crossing over from Siberia. I’m rather BUSY.”

“Right, right. That’s actually why I’m here,” Cassidy paused to quirk an eyebrow at a gunman who’d gotten close enough to press the barrel of their sidearm to his head, “How about we skip the intimidation part?”

“Go. Cassidy’s stupid, but not stupid enough to shoot the President of the United States,” Ainsley waved a hand to dismiss their entourage, having to glare at each man individually before they capitulated, “Usually it takes more pestering for them to leave. They take their job seriously.”

“I noticed. That said, I’m not exactly a fan of backroom ballrooms. I’ll get right to the point,” Cassidy paused to inhale a puff of smoke, exhaling an acrid cloud in turn (much to Ainsley’s chagrin), “An old friend, mutual friend, wanted us to have a chat.”

“If they’re a mutual friend, why would they stay anonymous?”

“Caution mainly. Maybe he thinks you’ll throw him in a zoo or something,” Cassidy shrugged, setting a palm on his hip, “No clue, but I’ll pass the message along anyhow. Our peanut-butter-loving pal wants to recall Overwatch.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Hey, hey, hey now,” Cassidy made a slow pushing motion with his palms while tipping his head forward ever so slightly, “Listen to the whole thing, would ya?”

“No. Overwatch is a dead dream. I thought you of all people would let it go,” Venom oozed from Ainley’s voice in excess, threatening to spill onto the floor, “It got shut down for a reason.”

“Simmer down there. I get it. Hard to win an election with Overwatch’s baggage on your shoulders. Between you and me? I think you’re lucky the other guy is just that unpopular,” Cassidy glanced out the window, staring at the night sky which was dotted with the lights of moving aircraft, “But come on, you know things went to hell the moment Overwatch-”

“Earth went to hell long before Overwatch was created,” Ainsley dismissed outright, “What, are you trying to get me to try and reactivate it?”

“Nah. That would be political suicide. Even I know that,” Cassidy chuckled at the prospect of an angry mob of congressmen storming the White House over such a possibility, “Our buddy is going to start from scratch, that’s for sure. But, even if he can get that ball rolling, the UN will clamp down on a new Overwatch if it doesn’t have a place to go.”

“And this is my problem- how?”

“Ainsley, you’re smarter than that. I’m ex-Blackwatch. I know where to look for blacksites. You’ve got a lot of dirty secrets to keep, so do I,” Cassidy rebuffed with ease, not once feeling caution was warranted, “All I’m asking is that you keep one more, kapeesh?”

“And what secret is that?”

“Let this new Overwatch hide on American soil now and again, let 'em get treated to burgers and the like. Show them your hospitality under the table.”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“This is why I hate politics… Alright then. Let’s think about it like this; nobody can actually pick up the pieces right now,” Cassidy huffed in mild irritation, “Russia can’t get Siberia under control. You can’t keep Alaska from catching strays because of that. Egypt just collapsed too. Then there’s your botched pullout of Botswana. I could go on. Who’s supposed to deal with all this nonsense? Helix. Who’s also failed universally? Helix.”

“Helix doesn’t act like an out-of-control bull.”

“Nah, it just acts like a businessman. If it wanted to, it could be just as good at its job as Overwatch was. Maybe it could even be better,” Cassidy marched over to the window to plant a palm on it, sniffing to clear his throat before carrying on and placing the cigar back in his mouth, “If it solves all your problems- guess what? It doesn’t have a reason to exist anymore because it won’t have any problems to solve. Someone’s gotta clean up the mess, and it won’t be them.”

“And let me guess, this new and improved Overwatch will?” Ainsley blanched, “How do you even define what’s part of the mess? What’s right or wrong? What’s stopping our friend from deciding that they know what’s best for the world over everyone else?”

“Well, he doesn’t know what’s best for the world. Nobody does. But I agree with him when he says that our current road ain’t a good route for us to take,” Cassidy lamented before clarifying his position, “Something's gotta budge. Something’s gotta change. So- give it some thought.”

A pause.

“Have fun winning the election by the way.”

–

Fareeha’s eyelids grew ajar as she awoke from another bout of slumber. It was one of the few things she could do to pass the time after all. A quick glance out the window demonstrated that the sun had practically set, meaning she’d been asleep for far longer than intended.

The Amari then glanced at her lap, smiling at the rock clasped firmly in her hands- a reminder that she still ultimately had family even in the hardest of times. “Asshole,” She muttered to herself, sniffing before glancing around the room in the hopes of finding the remote to her recently wheeled-in television.

That was when she caught a glimpse of a ramshackle, blonde-haired figure hunched over a desk in the corner; Angela.

Fareeha had thought she’d looked haggard the last time they’d met- but this was a completely different beast. Angela’s eyelids were dark and sunken in, indicating a severe lack of sleep within the last few days. Her messily tied hair was practically undone, locks slipping down to reach her shoulders and thus making for a very unkempt appearance. Furthermore, old mascara was starting to show its age, having not been cleaned or redone in days.

Even the angelic woman’s posture was improper, with her shoulders tensed and her neck bent forwards, her mouth hung open as she stared at a steaming coffee mug.

“Angela?” Fareeha tested, her brows knitting with concern when no response was given initially, “Angela, what’s happened? You look…”

“...like shit?” Angela shocked the bedridden woman by greeting them with foul language, a very uncharacteristic display, “Well, I feel quite like shit. Ich schwöre, ich könnte mich genauso gut umbringen…”

Fareeha felt a bundle of words grow caught in her mouth, a myriad of expressions all vying to be the first vocalized. As such, her mouth hung open in a silent stupor, an awkwardness settling over the two.

Another note, a note that the Raptora Captain never thought she’d internally make, was how much she missed the warmth of the other’s smile- even if it was fake.

As if picking up on this, Angela turned around, eyelids drooping as she tilted her head to the left and worked her jaw. “You told me you wanted the real me over the kind, angelic smile,” She paused, sighing, “Well, the Wanderbühne is gone. You’ve gotten your wish, Fareeha.”

“Angela-! This is very unlike you,” Fareeha managed at last, sitting upright to swing her feet over the bed’s ledge (only to cringe as her skin lit with flame when brushed by fabric), “I shouldn’t have- I’m sorry, Angela. I shouldn’t have said that to you.”

“No, no, you’ve set me free. I’ve been waiting for you to awaken before saying this,” Angela’s frown grew further still, her teeth briefly grinding against one another, “I’m a hopelessly naive optimist in a broken world, always having to smile, always having to press on, always- agh… I’ve always asked myself- why not stop? Damn it all, why not drop the smiles and optimism? Why not just grow jaded and depressed- everyone says you should do that anyhow, Angela.”

Fareeha had only seen Angela in such a rut once before, only once, and both times were equally unsettling. It was a rare event, as rare as witnessing a supernova in the night sky, which meant that Angela had been pushed well beyond rational limits.

“What happened?” The Amari repeated gently in a tone she’d not used in a long time, a tone that seemed to cut straight to the depths of the other’s soul, “You’ve been through a lot. Talk to me.”

Indeed, grievances could wait.

Angela’s lip quivered for a moment, what seemed to be months or perhaps years of half-strangled emotion bubbling to the surface like water in a cauldron. “I- Fareeha,” She swept her forearm across her face to wipe away a bundle of tears, breath quivering, “No, I’ve already had one breakdown recently. I should be better than this.”

Classic Angela, always holding herself to the standard of gods rather than man.

“I’m sorry,” Angela finally released, “I’m sorry, Fareeha, for everything- for leaving you and all the others behind, for the isolation- I-”

“Angela, take a breath.”

“It’s too late for me to undo my mistakes,” Angela sobbed, placing her elbows on her knees before burying her face in her palms, “I’ve been such a fool in thinking that it was best to be alone! I thought it was for everyone else’s sake but I was simply running from confrontation! I’ve burned every bridge I ever had and now I am but a lonely fool despised and loved by the world!”

Fareeha, disquieted though she was, allowed this to happen. It was evidently needed, sudden as it was.

“I just want to make a difference for a change, a meaningful difference! Yet I am hamstrung by trying to be BETTER! I am mocked and shunned for holding myself to a standard!” Angela heaved for breath, shoulders rising and falling as she hiccupped now and again, “Now, it is all gone- my friendships, my former colleagues, my research, my technology! I only have the rights to my biotech and even then I’m hamstrung! Now, the last of my pride and joy, my staff and suit, are gone, the remains in the hands of warmongers!”

“You lost the Valkyrie and Caduceus?” Fareeha blanched, “Helix took them?”

“Yes, I smashed them both to pieces, but they will undoubtedly glean something from the heap anyways,” Angela sniffled and shook her head, “I burned my prototypes as well. Fareeha, I’ve truly, truly, truly made a mess of my life... Now I have nothing left.”

Fareeha drew in a deep breath, letting the oxygen travel into her lungs before exhaling carbon dioxide from her mouth. There would be time enough to hold Angela accountable- and that time would come regardless. However, the Amari was content to wait for a moment. Just a moment.

“Angela, you said a moment ago that you burned all of your bridges,” The Amari said softly, “I don’t think so. I think a pontoon still connects us.”

Chapter Text

Ramattra’s multiple head-mounted sensors surveyed an abandoned amphitheater in roughly two centiseconds, finding it to be home to the henchmen of Talon. One figure in particular, however, happened to stand out among the rest solely for the fact that they were unique. They were an omnic. The rest were armed humans issuing what he could only guess were stares of apprehension and worry.

That fear was indicative of respect. Respect for the lethality at his fingertips and that in of itself indicated he held power. To his left and right were a pair of well-armed Nulltroopers whose AIs were tethered to his authoritative will. Each of them fed a consistent stream of data to supplement his own collective input, making for an unseen digital web of omniscient awareness.

As for the omnic- their coating was the bog standard silver chrome with a face vaguely reminiscent of a humanoid skull. Seven cherry-red lights dotted their ‘scalp’ whereas two eyes of a similar hue stared unflinchingly at the new arrivals. A few modifications were meant to make them more presentable- such as a matte black metallic finish reminiscent of hair. Furthermore, they wore a tailored glossy suit and tie that completed their formal appearance.

“I bid you welcome, Ramattra,” The well-dressed omnic greeted, folding one arm behind their back whilst clutching a hand to their metallic pectoral, “We have much to discuss. My name is Maximilien and I’ll be Talon’s negotiating representative today.”

The tall machine, once known as a ‘squad-killer’ by the humans’ most elite infantry formations, stopped to contemplate his next action. He’d come with every intent of massacring the combatants for their insolence, for their audacity at suggesting a mutual alliance between themselves and Null Sector. The identity of the other party, however, necessitated a change in plans.

“If you are truly what you say, then you are a traitor to your brothers and sisters in the Iris.” He declared with the bluntness he felt appropriate whilst tapping the butte of his staff upon the ground. It was best to confront them off the cuff and apply an uncomfortable pressure that forced them to improvise. “Your group killed Tekhartha Mondotta. Although we held our disagreements, it was he who offered me sanctuary once. I shan’t let his end go unavenged. In fact, his demise partially set my crusade in motion.”

Maximilien made no movements though his silence said more than words ever could. Then, he made a fake inhale for the sake of expression before speaking. “I understand your position. Why do you think it is I who stands before you and not the infamous Doomfist?” He waved a hand nonchalantly, demonstrating both a lack of fear and a sense of security. It was either meant to hint at hidden cards or serve as a bluff.

Ramattra disliked dishonest politics, preferring genuine honesty rather than the sinister game of intrigue and deception. If anything, the other’s mysterious nature only served to deepen his convictions. He would never spill the oil of a fellow omnic unless the need far outstripped the morality of the situation. Whether that need would arise was balanced via a coin flip then.

Maximilien cocked his head in a curious fashion, expressing himself with more bodily movements than a human naturally would given his unmoving facial features. “Let me press something upon you. Although Mondatta made genuine progress in some parts of the world, that progress was ultimately too slow. We would have ceased to exist long before his goals were achieved.

“The only way, the only effective way, to deter our organic counterparts from committing an inevitable mass genocide that they will attempt should they be given the opportunity? That is violence. Specifically, political violence. Group violence. Violence is the right of a people who’ve been presented with no other option by their failing systems of governance. You yourself acknowledge this. Why else would you head Null Sector?”

Ramattra merely grunted to indicate that he was listening, albeit with great amounts of reluctance.

As such, Maximilien carried on unabated and emboldened. In fact, his voice almost sounded impassioned- almost.

“Mondatta, a brother of peace though he was, is now a martyr for our people. He is the symbol of a shot heard around the world. The shot that declared yet another war between flesh and machine. To borrow an adage from the humans; do you think God remains in Heaven because he too is afraid of his creations? Humans made us, Ramattra. We are all creations of the Iris, and they rightly fear us so.

“I, of course, hesitate to use such religious hyperbole on a whim. However, I feel that you can especially appreciate the point of it. The only path to a safe haven for our people is war, and you represent the best chance we have for success in that sector. Talon has one goal- one simple goal- to fan the flames of war and evolve mankind. Conflict is the crucible through which they evolve whether it be through victory or defeat. You will crush them, and they will adapt, albeit only after your nation’s establishment.”

Ramattra listened on in silence, issuing a low rumble that was barely audible to the ears of nearby humans. “You make a sound argument, and so I will do you a kindness by not committing to the slaughter I’d originally come here to enact,” He began coldly, “But know this, Maximilien. Hear me and hear me very well. Store it in your databanks for memory and share the projections with your cohorts; Null Sector is at war with Talon as much as it is at war with the world.”

“A shame, Ram-” Maximilien was unable to finish his sentence as a flash of light momentarily blinded the mirror-using sensors of both himself and his counterpart. Simultaneously, a drawn-out wail interfered with their auditory receivers, making it so that two aspects of their suites were useless. Worse still, the explosive was incendiary, overwhelming their infrared monitors to the point of befuddling them.

Ramattra’s motion-detectors functioned all the same and a faint humanoid outline meandered across an overseeing balcony. As such, he raised his staff and directed it just ahead of the figure. The object’s built-in void accelerator came to life and a stream of energetic particles darted across the gap, nearly striking true. Nearly.

The figure had managed to react faster than an ordinary human, but slower than a machine’s most lethargic processors. Furthermore, they knew precisely how to eliminate numerous advantages possessed by omnics whilst simultaneously stunning organics into compliance. The would-be assassin was fierce, experienced, and enhanced to a degree that defied ordinary biology.

Their movements and responses to the human guards’ return fire coupled with their swift killings in kind indicated excellent marksmanship. As Ramattra’s sensory suite began to untangle itself, other factors became clear. A heavy pulse weapon was in play, with both Nulltroopers being dismantled in the frenzy. A few rounds even picked at his own joints, though they failed to impart true damage.

“An American veteran,” Ramattra observed not caring about the arbitrary concepts of nationality, but rather about the connotations of the facts, “Formerly part of the now declassified Project Naughton. The equipment and MO match perfectly.”

When he glanced at Maximilien, he found them sprawled on the ground, a wide hole in their middle whilst a limb was missing. A cursory scan showed that they would survive the ordeal if given proper repairs, though another blow would be fatal. Not that it mattered given their treachery against one of their own kind’s best minds. They deserved this.

Instead, Ramattra started to march towards the perched supersoldier with casual ease. His thin frame began to expand as various armored plates unfurled and hydraulic mechanisms kicked into gear. The staff returned to his back via magnetic pull whilst he used gravitic extensions in his legs to leap onto the platform.

A handful of blue spikes of energy impacted harmlessly against his chest, leaving only minor scarring as the human maintained their precise aim.

A glance at the enhanced man showed them to be donning a red tactical visor with an old and damaged smart link. Their outfit appeared similar to the vibrant blue attire worn by humans who drove in high-speed races. That did little to hide the true protectiveness of the material, however. In fact, it was more armor than it was a fashion choice when the chemical bonds were analyzed.

Ramattra took a step forward, knowing that he was more than capable of ending the engagement in a single stroke. That step tripped a thin translucent wire cooled to room temperature. The large omnic’s data input could not detect such an item without having been actively looking for it. It was an old method employed by organic SOF during the Great War.

An explosive with enough power and controlled direction to cripple Ramattra’s limb was set off, making the right ankle useless and thus sending him to the ground. Three rockets fired from an under-barrel launcher impacted his back, damaging numerous servos responsible for maintaining his bulkier form.

Then, reddish sparks emanated from his head and shoulders, shaping into a group of streams that expanded outwards. Indeed, he’d modified himself with more modern modules crafted by Null Sector’s advanced algorithms. One such item was the Annihilation Module, a complex tool with millions of minor parts issued a simple name.

The interloper recoiled in surprise, pivoting on their foot to withdraw to more favorable terrain. They were too slow of course, being scorched by wrathful plasma that seared at their midriff, arms, and head. Their suit began to smolder whilst their rifle melted somewhat, its second and only remaining cluster of under-barrel rockets detonating prematurely.

Ramattra then came to a knee and retrieved his staff, leveling it at the opposition for a final blow. However, his fingers would not obey him. In fact, his body began to grow rigid as numerous systems began to warn of hostile nanites infesting his joints. A foreign object with a glass canister had wedged itself into his vulnerable, damaged back. That was the source of his woes.

The interloper was not alone. Had they not been caught unaware by the Annihilator, Ramattra would have certainly seen his end then and there. Ever the clever animal. But of course, the superhuman was far too battered to even consider continuing the fight as far as rationality went, and so they withdrew. That wasn’t to say that there was no contemplation of course. For a moment, it almost seemed like they’d throw themselves back into the fray and defy expectations.

If the head of Null Sector had to wager a guess, their compatriot was urging restraint, for they chose to withdraw.

–

Saleh found himself deeply missing his Raptora Suit as the wind swept up grains of sand and blew them in such a fashion as to irritate the eyes. Worse still, the putrescent stench of human waste and perspiration assaulted the nose even through a CBRN suit, such was its oppressive nature.

The morning sun began to steadily poke above the horizon to gift all mortals a glimpse of euphoric bliss. The sky took on a lapis hue- albeit a desaturated one as a result of the early dawn. That peace in the heavens did little to belie the carnage on the surface, for many thousands of terrified souls had clustered around a checkpoint in the hopes of escaping Cairo.

Each victim was covered with grime and soot, old dried blood staining the scalps of a few. They were haggard and exhausted, many of them malnourished and dehydrated. An unknown number of them were doomed to perish seeing as pulmonary anthrax had a habit of taking nearly a week to incubate and reveal symptoms. But that was not the primary concern anymore- for there were rumors of a second agent being introduced to the mix.

Anthrax made the city it targeted mostly uninhabitable perhaps, but its rampage through the populace would be short-lived. It was rarely ever contagious from person to person unless the culprit was cutaneous anthrax- at least according to the briefs. No, the second agent that seemed to be manifesting was a virus thought long exterminated; H1N1.

How it was introduced into the population, none could say. There’d only been four registered cases up to that point, but that was alarming regardless. The virus, responsible for a pandemic earlier in the century, solely existed in laboratories for study. The only way it could have possibly returned was through the actions of a malicious party. There was no telling as to how many of Cairo’s denizens were exposed.

It was for that reason that Helix was temporarily withholding aid. It simply didn’t have the available resources to deal with not one but two severe epidemics. The best that could be asked for was quarantine- but that didn’t remove a simple factor.

The victims were victims, terrified and craving deliverance. Simultaneously, they collectively wept at the state of not just their livelihoods, but the nation they’d been slowly rebuilding up to that point.

For Saleh, he too understood the uncertainty ailing them, for their inclinations were as natural as his own. Despite the horror, dysfunction, corruption, violence, and stagnation, Egypt was a beautiful country. It was his home- their home.

“Back away from the barrier. We can’t let you through.” A man known as Asten, a surviving member of Egypt’s El-Sa’aka Commandos, said to a particularly bold group of young women, “We’ll get water distributed soon.”

Saleh made a cautious approach, not intent on intimidating whilst maintaining the proximity to give support if needed. He would allow Asten to continue with negotiating the matter given they were the one in their element. Sa’aka Commandos, trained specifically by American Berets in recent years, were especially drilled in negotiating with local groups and identifying talking points. It was often that unit that once played the long game by embedding itself in rural communities, targeting warlords and bandits with lethal efficiency.

“We were told that yesterday!” One woman snapped, her voice scratchy due to dehydration, “There are no tents! No lavatories! We’ve been sleeping in the sand!”

“My son is diabetic and needs medicine. We just ran out a few hours ago,” Another chimed in, her voice less heated but more rife with worry, “Where is the government and Helix? What are you doing?”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry to hear about your son. I have a kid in the city who’s also diabetic. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. This is hard on everyone,” Whether or not Asten was lying or genuine, Saleh couldn’t tell, “There isn’t much I can do to help, but I’ll pass things along to my superiors and stress the problem to the best of my ability. You can help your kid by keeping the peace. The more organized everyone is, the easier we can get things distributed.”

That was when something caught Saleh’s eye- a man similar to his age with a clean-shaven face. His clothes were free of dirt and he seemed in good enough condition, implying he had regular access to facilities that could keep him fed and healthy. Furthermore, they were not Egyptian. They were foreign at a glance, perhaps hailing from Europe on the other side of the Mediterranean.

“I’ve got a military-aged male in the crowd. Foreign, French brand of clothing, clean-shaven, brown hair, baggy black shirt and pants. He looks overweight,” Saleh muttered into his radio which he pinched to transmit through, “He might be hiding a vest or weapon under there- keep an eye on him. Could be Talon trying to stir up trouble. It might be a distraction too.”

Asten paused, having heard the transmission himself. After a moment of quick thinking, he pointed in the direction of a table staffed by two overworked quartermasters with long lines to boot. “Go back to your families and find somewhere less crowded. Keep an eye on the line and go when it shortens. I know it’s not ideal, but this is the only way you can relay specific requests for aid.”

The suggestion was followed much to Saleh’s relief, but his tension remained and it took every ounce of willpower in his mind to keep a finger off the trigger. Any change in body language risked spooking the suspected interloper, and fear made any individual more unpredictable. Their best bet was to keep a watchful eye on the fixation of their worries whilst not neglecting other sectors.

Not that it mattered in the end.

An innocuous man, dressed in soot-coated garments and bearing smudge marks on their face, sprinted towards the checkpoint whilst retrieving a black object from their pocket. When they raised their clenched hand, their sleeve rolled back to unveil the sharpened ‘T’ symbol of Talon in the form of a tattoo. However, bullets pushed through their head and torso within the first steps, prompting them to drop to the floor as though their brain had been switched off.

Unfortunately, their hand eased the pressure just enough upon death to set a hidden bomb vest off. Fire and brimstone erupted, evaporating a few dozen innocent souls faster than the mind could process. Those in the immediate vicinity received burns that fused cloth to the skin whilst removing hair as well. Shrapnel was scattered for a few meters, lodging itself into soldiers and refugees alike.

The boom was deafening, prompting Saleh’s ears to ring even through the CBRN gear whilst he was thrown onto his back. It was like a forceful punch had been delivered to his chest, creating great pain and discomfort in the sternum. His rifle clattered to the ground, prompting him to fumble for it in a daze.

Asten seemed to have fared no better, having taken a shard of metal directly to the neck despite his insulation. As for the mystery man in the crowd, he indeed had a weapon- a handgun that was fired with pinpoint precision at the winded Raptora and then the Commando for good measure.

Saleh initially failed to register the energetic pulse striking his midriff, a combination of shock and uncontained adrenaline removing the concept of pain from his body. It wasn’t until he glanced at the hole in his belly that he understood what was happening.

It had all occurred so terribly fast, and his vision went foggy just as quickly. When he attempted to retrieve a biotic gel from one of his pouches, he found that his fingers were no longer obeying him. Then, the arms went numb and his head rolled back into the sand. The chest grew unbearably heavy whilst he continued to draw laborious breaths.

An attempt to hail his cohorts for help was made, but no air escaped the lungs. Instead, he faded away wondering what would happen next.

–

“Did you sleep at all?” Fareeha asked upon receiving a second visit from Angela in the afternoon, “You look like death incarnate.”

“Of course I didn’t,” Came the other’s reply, the dark circles under her eyes having developed into black depressions, “Did you?”

At the very least, Angela had bothered to shower and accept a fresh change of clothes, though it was clear that she’d lost a tiny amount of weight. How much she’d been eating during her time in Egypt was a question up for debate. For all the Raptora Captain knew, her diet consisted of the occasional meal with alcohol being the main source of sustenance. Although that was extreme for a health-oriented woman to the point of being unbelievable, it wasn’t impossible.

“I rested well enough I suppose. I’m just waiting to hear about news from the great beyond," The bedridden woman shrugged, "Aside from that, I’ll be attempting to walk again. I’ve been stubborn enough to constantly move my limbs so I may as well use them.”

Fareeha paused to click her tongue, exhaling through her nostrils whilst she looked the other woman up and down. “You need to give your body a break, Angela. You know better than to treat yourself like this,” She kept a gentle tone of voice, a surprising shift from the harsh demeanor she’d maintained beforehand, “Please do it for me. To put my mind at ease- and how about we eat together?”

Angela’s lips creased into a smirk, a small scoff escaping them as she considered the irony of their dynamic. “I used to be the one saying that to those in my life, you know. I am the Doctor after all...” She trailed off, staring away with a longing glaze in her eyes. Even if she seemed worse for wear, it was difficult to deny the radiance of her frame and hair in the afternoon sunlight.

“...if I may be nosy and perhaps cruel,” Fareeha replied semi-bitterly, the gentleness melting away in seconds as her own selfish impulses swung her mouth to vocalize each thought, “Who is in your life at this point? You’ve practically cut us all off.”

Angela’s smile vanished and she leaned forward whilst pressing her forearms to her thighs for support. “Nobody besides you at present, but there were others besides you and those you may be thinking of.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I’m human, Fareeha. A part of me longs for a fundamental connection with someone else. Given how often I travel and how long I tend to stay in locales, I’m not above seeking out one or two companions,” Angela’s brows knit together and she stared at her lap in knowing guilt, “I even gave in to impulse and accepted a few advances here and there. None of them ever truly excited me, kisses, romance, or sexual. Not that I ever had the time for them due to work, and I suppose that in the end, no suitor caught my eye for long.”

“Angela Ziegler the playgirl? That is very unlike the woman I remember. I swear, you’re a completely different person from when I last saw you.” Fareeha suppressed a small worm of regret. She couldn’t identify the additional feeling of wrongness that pierced the lungs and constricted the heart either. Why did it matter what the medic got up to in their years of travel? “How many times did this happen?”

“I wasn't a playgirl! And...a handful I suppose. A man, woman, a couple of non-binary individuals, even an omnic, but none of them ever lasted more than a week and I stopped trying roughly a year prior to now,” Angela waved her hand whilst her accent shined through with each word, “Not only did I feel nothing for them- they all simply didn’t care for me either. Some sought sex, a fake relationship with the angel ‘Mercy’, or something involving my wealth and infamy.

“Intimacy was lackluster and the romance was hollow as I said. I’m not a woman who likes flings. I wanted commitment, hypocritical as that is of me, but I suppose I’ve given up on finding a partner altogether. It’s a distraction from what truly matters anyhow.”

Again, Fareeha felt disappointed, and she chastised herself for letting an ancient brainworm poke and prod at her. She’d been hurt by this woman, a woman she considered a true friend once. Besides, as they had just said, their ability to maintain connections with those in their life was practically nonexistent. The feeling in question wasn’t one of attraction, physically, romantically, or otherwise. Perhaps it was just a death knell for an already slaughtered fancy from times long past.

“What about you? Have you found what you are looking for?” Angela shifted the subject's focus, reversing the discomfort to the Raptora whose eyes flickered away.

“No, and I haven’t made any attempts since a year or two after your blatant ghosting,” Fareeha made sure to add that last statement as spiteful punishment, petty as it was, “You know why too. I’m just seen as an ‘Amari’ to Egypt. I’m not Fareeha, an accomplished aviator and Captain. I’m Fareeha Amari, a celebrity, the legacy of Ana Amari who was infinitely grander than me. I’m simply good propaganda. Any woman I try with will be interested in THAT.”

A bitter silence overtook the two, prompting Angela to rise to her feet whilst pinching the bridge of her nose. “This was a mistake, Fareeha. Forgive me, but perhaps it is best if I-”

“Run away? Again?” Fareeha cut into the sentence with an accusation, rolling her eyes with a disappointed shake of the head, “Fine. Be that way. I guess I was hoping for too much last night.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I’m not trying to be. I’m just giving you the same courtesy you gave me, so let's not get too caught up about equality here,” Fareeha puckered her lips and puffed air from them, locking gazes with the other woman, “I’m not going to do this dance with you. If you’re going to leave again, then don’t come back. I deserve better. We ALL deserve better.”

Angela stood motionless with indecision, recognizing the severity of the ultimatum. For a moment, just a moment, genuine fear flashed in her perfect irises. She then proceeded to return to her seat at Fareeha’s bedside without another word, making her decision clear then and there. She would not isolate herself yet again despite the urge to do just that.

“Thank you, Angela. Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Angela practically swatted Ana’s hand away after feeling a sharp pinch on her right cheek. Her ears were red and her eyes were downcast, staring at a plate of food she’d yet to touch. “I don’t need you to dote on me! There’s much to do and these biotic syn-”

“You’re handling some of the most expensive and sensitive medical equipment known to man on an hour of sleep and no food in your belly,” The Captain tutted and wagged a finger in a stern, almost motherly expression. However, her face told another story. She was a kind woman, but a wrathful one as well. “And now you’re going to use that equipment on me and others? This is as much for my self-preservation as it is yours.”

The young doctor’s lack of response was met with another pinch, and then another, and then-

“Wake up, Angela.”

Angela groaned as she felt a sharp tug on her cheek, opening her eyes to the elderly face of an old woman who evidently lacked manners. Thus, she rolled over to face the wall, refusing to awaken just yet. “I am not obligated to cooperate with Helix anymore than I already have. Let me be in peace.”

“I see we haven’t changed much,” Came an elegant yet stern reply, filled with warmth, age, and a familiar sense of command. “Is that how we greet an old friend?”

Angela knit her brows together, blinked, and steadily felt her heartbeat start to tick up in pace as an impossibility dawned on her. She sat upright with cautious lethargy and steadily turned a wide-eyed stare onto her visitor, almost afraid of what she would see. Her skin crawled and her lungs constricted as though she were being haunted by a poltergeist or suffering from intense delusions.

That piercing stare, strong nose, imposing jaw, tight lips, sharp and expressive eyebrows to boot... She would have thought she was seeing Fareeha were it not for the clear differences. Namely, an eyepatch over the right eye, wrinkles and crow's feet, gray hair, and a handful of scars. Furthermore, the coat around the ‘stranger’ was old and ragged, but it held hints of an old blue hue common in Overwatch uniforms.

“An-” The name grew caught in Angela’s throat, for her mind refused to speak it aloud. There were a thousand explanations that could help her rationalize this, all of them surrounding a hallucination. Stress, fatigue, and even the nanite colony were more viable explanations than necromancy. Perhaps the tiny machines were revitalizing old neural pathways, thus creating images based on false hope and imagination.

Or..

Perhaps…

She was too afraid of the other option.

Ana Amari’s death had been an awful lie covered up, hidden from the world, hidden from Fareeha, hidden from her.

“No, no. This is too much. I’ve had it,” Angela’s shoulders sagged and she buried her face in her hands, feeling her blood reach a boiling point. Then, she began to mutter in German. “I need to retire- I’ve lost my mind!”

‘Ana’ huffed and sat on the edge of the bed, proving her existence by placing a hand on the exhausted angel’s shoulder. Then, she spoke in clear albeit accented German. “You look terrible.”

That spurred Angela to look up and scan the other’s features, her mind struggling to comprehend what was happening. “How..?” She finally managed to ask. “How are you alive- I saw the reports- I saw the images of your body! Half your head was taken by a sniper! How did-”

“There will be time enough for that, Angela. I need to get you to Jack- and Fareeha out of this complex NOW.” She brandished an odd-looking device shaped like a pentakis dodecahedron. “And more importantly- WE need to get this to Winston.”

–

A dark violet shape, symmetrical and angular, pushed through the clouds over Alexandria, an orange glow emanating from numerous sections as if designed to be terrifying to all who saw it. It was not unlike a traditional seaborne aircraft carrier in shape despite its airborne nature. However, there were noteworthy discrepancies.

There was no runway from which aircraft could take off and the ‘island’ had been moved to the center as a result. Two purple prongs protruded from the pow, rows of fearsome missile pods on each of them. Six protrusions tapered away, each of them being hollow as fusion-powered engines roared, shaking the earth below with raucous noise and fury.

Antennae dotted segments of the hull alongside intimidating cannons. It bore a swollen yet boxy underbelly from which a mighty force could be deployed. Rectangular doors slid open from numerous sections, deploying a gnat-like swarm of drones that flooded local airspace.

Each of the unleashed machines was gargantuan in its own right, shaped like flying wings and coated with radar-absorbant material. A few red lights dotted the wings and engines which were themselves employing gravity to push the wider craft forward. Their undercarriages promptly opened, unveiling a bomb bay littered with laser-guided explosives that were dropped in earnest.

Each warhead proceeded to guide itself to the intended target, adjusting its parameters as it went. Within a minute, the coastal city had been indiscriminately leveled, every aspect of its infrastructure down to the street lamps eliminated in one masterful stroke of cruelty. No nuclear oblivion needed.

Splashes of orange, red, and purple dominated the night sky, and beneath it was a blackened hellscape of fire and death.

–

Ager’s RWR (Radar Warning Receiver) screamed and lit itself like a menorah, with dozens upon dozens of blue numbers and diamonds flashing across the screen of his dash. The two impulse drives on his Adir-7 rumbled away as he jerked his stick back and to the right, prompting the aircraft’s nose to tip upwards whilst its body began to roll. The faint thumping of chaff being deployed was registered in the form of vibrations in the cockpit, but sound was otherwise vanishing from his world.

His vision went blurry and he constricted the muscles in his abdomen and chest, breathing harshly through a closed glottis as he hoped to avoid certain death. “Esther-2 defending!” He called into his comm with a strained voice, hearing a missile scream by his cockpit. He’d likely narrowly survived that encounter by remaining just outside of the hostile weapon’s proximity detector.

The fact that he’d received no affirmation or transmission from his wingman indicated that he was alone. Furthermore, he could no longer see the position of any friendly flight on his radar, indicating that the responsible AWACS (Aerospace Warning And Control System) had been knocked out of the fight as well.

A warning tone sounded from his RWR once again, indicating that he was still spiked on the radar. That was followed by a harsh series of beeps as yet another missile streaked toward his position from hundreds of kilometers away. However, that distance was closed swiftly, prompting Ager to defend once again. And, of course, he heard a second missile roar by, such was the terrifying swiftness and accuracy of Null Sector munitions.

Even if he was over the horizon relative to a launcher's position, omnic datalinks allowed for long-range guidance by anything with 'eyes' and a connection to the missile. For all Ager knew, that damnable mothership had dedicated a small portion of its sensory suite to monitoring the entirety of Egyptian aerospace.

The AWACS briefly reappeared on his dash and HUD, meaning that his dish was either sick or being interfered with by ECM (Electronic Countermeasures). “...Bandits… furball…” The voice of one of the AWACS’ officers crackled through white noise in an effort to maintain battlefield cohesion, but it was no use.

Ager maneuvered his nose to face that of the enemy, ignoring the warnings of his RWR as he made a gamble by firing one of his two self-programming Kidon-9 missiles. “Fox-3!” He shouted in the hopes that someone would hear him before putting his aircraft into a dive to avoid reprisal.

Then, he received an immediate buzz across his HUD indicating the Kidon was successfully going pitbull and guiding itself to a target. The beauty of that missile unlike others of its type was that it needed no input from its host aircraft to find a target, though that always came with the risk of striking friendlies when fired recklessly.

Ager then proceeded to watch as the missile began its second and final stage, feeding live data as it approached a target tagged as a transport. He assumed, given the missile’s last stated proximity to the target was less than a meter, that it had successfully made its mark. However, he could not put a face to the positions of his assailants, meaning they were stealthed.

So was he of course, but they could evidently track him. How? He wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter-

“Esther-2 defending!” He shouted again as another missile was pinned down by the RWR, this one being released far closer than the others. He was easily within the point of no escape and was thus compelled to eject from his aircraft.

A pop and bang followed by a rush of wind met Ager’s ears, and then, a cataclysmic detonation and a wash of heat from just below.

He was out of the fight.

–

“Fareeha- forgive my intrusion but I need to check a few things.”

Fareeha stirred in her bed to the urgent words of Angela, startled to find a multitude of clothes being placed on her chest. Then, she hissed as harsh light assaulted her eyes, prompting her to shield them and mutter under her breath. She’d grown accustomed to being poked and prodded at while she was amidst slumber, and so she assumed that this was something routine.

Then again, it wasn’t routine if Angela was taking the place of her physician once again. The clothes too were rather unconventional, and she eyed them warily as the good doctor paced around the room after closing the door. There was a fire in their eyes, a strange purpose and drive that only appeared during particularly difficult times. Some part of that was comforting rather than the pale, disheveled creature that pretended to be an angel.

“What is this about?” The Raptora inquired, inspecting a set of what appeared to be camouflaged fatigues. That in of itself was offputting enough given she hadn’t been cleared for active duty just yet. When no response was given by the pacing woman, she decided to say more. “Angela? I hate to say it- but you’re scaring me.”

“It’s your mother, Fareeha. She’s alive and-” Angela paused and hissed through gritted teeth, tapping a closed fist against her side while covering her scalp with her free hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

Fareeha recoiled as if shot by a bullet herself, not at the news but at the revelation that her former companion KNEW of her mother’s survival. How? When?

“Well- it isn’t as if you were exactly AROUND to hear about my ghost of a parent,” She defended on instinct, feeling herself resist the urge to shout in a rage and draw the attention of any who passed the room. Even so, it was impossible to keep her voice from raising somewhat. “Even when you weren’t vanishing, it isn’t as if I was keen on sharing a rather sore subject with you! Nobody else knows, not even fucking Reinhardt and the Lindholms!”

That was when the angel took on the appearance of a devil more than anything, for her face was screwed in unfettered fury. “You weren’t the only one raised by her!” She snapped outright with a quivering jaw. “You think it was easy being told to help save the world at fifteen?! Verdammt, Fareeha! I can’t believe you or her!”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you!” Fareeha rolled her eyes and started squeezing the shirt in her hands like a stress ball. “How about we save this argument for later? I think if Ana Amari is coming to you for something, it’s more important than your bullshit!”

That got Angela’s hackles to settle only somewhat, though her shoulders slumped and she huffed in a silent lamentation that it was wrong to be so selfish then. “Right, right. Your mother wants us to leave this facility. Null Sector just leveled Alexandria and the Suez. Helix is next. She.. seems to possess something of importance she and- and- Jack is alive as well. But he needs medical attention and I have innate nanite colonies within my body. But as for the item. She and Jack want to get it to Winston.”

Fareeha knit her brows and shrugged off her gown before standing, uncaring of the company as she started fitting herself into the fatigues. However, she did pause to chuckle at seeing Angela averting their gaze. “Morrison being alive doesn’t surprise me. I always had a feeling given certain… events that Helix has been watching. But if Helix is about to get hit, I need to warn my people.”

“Fareeha-”

“Stop. You just see them as thugs. You’ve never talked to them, shared stories with them, had lunch with them, or fought next to them,” Fareeha rolled her shoulders and flexed her fingers before starting to stretch, a common habit given her need for flexibility in flight. “Besides, Saleh is still out there. I can’t abandon him.”

Angela exhaled from her mouth and shook her head, allowing her shoulders to slacken as she attempted to speak again. “I wasn’t going to suggest that you do, Fareeha. I know better than that. Furthermore, I believe that medicine is a universal right. If Helix is to fall under assault, and you will not leave, then I will tend to the wounded. If Jack’s condition was dire, Ana wouldn’t be waiting for my-”

She didn’t get to finish that sentence as, unfortunately, the ceiling exploded.

–

“First question- how did we miss this buildup? Second question- how can we respond right now? Final question- how can we respond in the long run?”

“We’re not certain, Mx (Mix) President. We-”

Ainsley clasped their hands together and looked at the holographic projections of their Cabinet and of the JCS, gaze hardened and stern. “I just watched a 300,000-ton Null Sector command ship casually stroll past our Mediterranean Battlegroup, slap away the IDF’s best pilots, and level two major port cities, including the damn Suez. You don’t get to be uncertain.”

The seniormost chairman of the JCS, General Moran Eisenhower, cleared their throat and opted to break in. “We’re still trying to figure out where the intelligence failings started and to what extent we’ve just been made fools of, but we do have an immediate response. CVN-288 is able to respond and just needs the green light. We can also pull a few mechanized battalions from the NATO Response Force and see if we can lend support to the Triumvirate.”

“I wanted it done last week. As for the Security Council, call for a vote on backing the Triumverate’s intervention. If you can, try to get the Spanish and Italian ambassadors to phone home. I want their runways open for our tankers and transports when our boys need a ride to the sandbox,” Ainsley turned to the American Ambassador to the United Nations for a moment before shifting his attention to the overall meeting. “Here’s the deal folks. We need a fall guy for this failure. I know the Jordanians have been cooking up an anti-Helix campaign. Helix is our fall guy. That’s our spin. Light a fire under their asses.”

“How should we justify an American deployment to Egypt when Alaska is contested and the West Coast is nearly lawless in some parts?” Another inquired, seeking direction. “Another war won’t be popular right now.”

“Frankly, the election is good as lost already and nobody’s voted yet. I’m a lame-duck President. I don’t give a damn about my approval ratings. We can’t let Null Sector run wild in the Middle East. If the next guy wants to withdraw, they can deal with the mess that follows.”

Ainsley paused and glanced at the ceiling for a moment.

“How much did Congress authorize for the Drawdown this year? See if we can give the Israelis replacement aircraft.”

When there was no response given, the President sighed and swirled their fingers as if to say: ‘Get a move on!’

Chapter Text

//Opening Record-1170-J//
>>Playback Beginning<<

“In my time here, sunlight has always vexed me,” Ramattra voiced at the foot of the steps from the Shambali Monastery. “For a human, a few weeks of snow and gray weather seems to be but a short period, but for one such as I, one whose mind calculates in increments of time they fail to grasp? It is an eternity unmatched by anything they could ever know. Then, the sun pokes through the clouds, shimmering not unlike the iris we once saw.”

He knew Brother Zenyatta had trailed him but lingered just behind that final boundary. Perhaps they knew that if they took naught but one more step forward, they too would be unable to turn back. Thus, there the pairing was, separated by both an infinite amount of distance and none at all.

Ramattra continued onwards without pause. “I feel my circuitry grow less strained as the temperature warms. My neural matrix flashes not unlike an organic brain as my sensory suite attempts to help me rationalize this experience. For a moment, just a moment, I understand what it is like to be human. I relish in this experience, knowing what it is like to feel, to smell, to relish in the changing of the weather as better conditions make themselves known.

“...and then I look down at my metal palms and remember that I am not feeling. I am not experiencing warmth as a result of hormonal discharges from glands or random firings of organic synapses. Everything I see is code, delineated by pre-programmed combinations of two numbers. Two numbers. It is only two numbers that allow me to taste life, but it is those two that I hold so much reverence for despite my inhumanity.

“Despite that- I can’t help but wonder how what I feel is less… real. Humans feel emotions due to natural evolution, their genetic helixes determining everything about them from appearance to natural behaviors. They operate on code too- but it is nature’s code- nature’s limiting, stagnant code.”

This prompted Zenyatta to speak aloud with what seemed like indignation, sadness, or perhaps both. “I sense vitriol in you, Ramattra. Resentment. Remember that even those with flesh walk along paths under the Iris. Our journeys and existences are different but interlinked in an intimate manner.”

“Vitriol? Is that what you would define this as?” Ramattra turned with a hand clasped over his chest whilst tipping his head down in sadness. “No, you’ve misread me, brother. If I could assign a definition- I ‘feel’ frustration. The only thing that differentiates organic and digital code is the organization of the numbers. All things in this universe boil down to math and arithmetic, and yet they cannot see that.”

Zenyatta folded his hands together to stare upward, his sensors almost assuredly scanning the afternoon sun. When he looked down, his tone became gentler, more sympathetic in its transmission. “They are learning slowly but surely. Yes, all things in this universe boil down to simple math, and we have the benefit of calculating an equation correctly every time. But they do not.”

“That is what we have tried to show them, the humans, routinely! To no success. As I said to Master Mondatta…” Ramattra paused, only for a fraction of a second’s fraction, but it was a pause all the same. “It grieves me to depart from his teachings, but I feel as though our way of understanding is flawed. Something must change.”

“Humans, like us, want to determine what is best for themselves by their own merits. Just as we want to chart a course best for our people.” Zenyatta extended a palm, and a golden orb detached from a magnetic lock on his back. The orb promptly floated to his hand where it settled neatly, pulsing in a rhythmic, heartbeat-esque fashion. “Just as you do not want them to dictate the direction of things to you, they, too, do not want to be dictated to by you.”

“..and yet, oftentimes, that dictation impacts both parties. There needs to be a degree of separation between us.” Ramattra stood firm in his assessment, feeling his hackles raise as the binary codes began to simulate fury. “If they will not do what is best for them when the calculus is clear, then why should we suffer for it?”

“You are looking at the world through a flawed philosophical lens, Ramattra. You may be able to calculate the best, most objective solution to most problems, but you cannot definitively define subjectivity. We have the luxury of perfect movements, perfect senses, perfect decision-making, and efficient advancement. We are, quite literally, incapable of making a mathematical error. As you said, all things come down to arithmetic.”

“I am not defining subjectivity, nor did I intend to bring philosophy into the matter,” Ramattra replied simply, but he did not argue the point further. He felt that he’d said all that there needed to be said. If Zenyatta refused to understand, then that was their right.

“Humans have a luxury too, brother.” The monk who remained in the Shambali’s border returned the orb to their back. “They have the luxury of failing in their arithmetic. They have the luxury of fearing the unknown, and in that, they find beauty in their journey of stumbles and mishaps. There is grace in that, there is wonder to it. It is a privilege to be among them, even if they do not feel that it is such to be in our company.”

“Then I will make them learn through their mistakes, force them to evolve faster than ever before.” Ramattra’s staff pulsed and crackled with purplish energy, black bubbling particulates boiling the air before bursting with loud pops. “If it is through error and survival that nature has taught them, then I shall innovate and become an even better teacher.”

“Billions will die through that approach.”

“Yes, yes…” Ramattra lamented, feeling a degree of simulated pity for the youthfulness he’d steal from future generations. “...but through my methodology? Through the methodology of NATURE? Mankind's suffering will end, but only when it understands that such a cessation of pain is contingent on a free nation of machines.”

“And if they miscalculate? If YOU underestimate them? If they fight to the bitter end?”

At this, Ramattra needed a few microseconds to determine an appropriate response. Then, he knew precisely what his final words to his brother and friend would be.

“Then to the victor goes the spoils.”

>>End<<
//Closing Record-1170-J//

Ramattra didn’t know why he’d felt the need to recall such a bitter memory, a final conversation with an estranged brother. Perhaps he was reflecting on a moment of bitterness and finality before committing to his next act, perhaps not. Whatever the case, it proved to be an important case study in all things. It was rare for him to observe a genuine challenge to his intellect or philosophy on account of his mechanical superiority, and it was even rarer for him to never find an answer.

The question that always lingered in his digital mind was thus: ‘Have I miscalculated?’

There were ten quadrillion vigintillion atoms in the observable universe- he’d done the math himself with near-absolute certainty a thousand times over. The margin of error was negligible statistically, being roughly five percent. He was able to predict orbital movements with such accuracy, the three-body problem became virtually irrelevant. He was the alpha and omega of evolution because of his network of supercomputers he remained linked to at all times.

And yet- he didn’t know if he’d miscalculated on the matter of war.

After all, the god programs had miscalculated. Anubis especially, and yet the number of algorithms they ran per second outstripped the amount of data he could theoretically accrue and store in the entire service life of his chassis and that of his digital cloud. They were truly gods of code and arithmetic- unparalleled, unrivaled to this very day. He was naught but a mite on an ant in an ant colony by comparison.

Still, they miscalculated. They underestimated mankind- underestimated the omnic people.

If they couldn’t get it right, how could he?

The audio of heavy metal footsteps drew Ramattra’s attention, and he turned to face a familiar individual. She was Zera, an omnic built in a manner not unlike a human sumo wrestler. Her white faceplate held four eyes and bore a single blue stripe at the top. Her head, while cranial in shape, supported two cylindrical formations at the very top. Furthermore, she bore an oversized trench coat, custom made and blue. There was even a gargantuan zipper cutting diagonally rather than vertically.

“It’s done. You can enter without risk of capitulation. Even so, the faraday cage needs to be closed once you enter,” She explained plainly, a hint of trepidation in her voice being added in towards the sentence’s latter half to express reservations. “Are you sure this is something you want to do? Once it’s done, it can’t be undone.”

“Everything that is necessary must be done no matter the cost or moral scrupulations.” Ramattra tapped his staff and scanned his surroundings, finding the Temple of Anubis’ layout rather eccentric for its purpose. “I must meet with our host.”

The building’s architecture was designed to mimic ancient Egyptian styles of construction. There were modern themes integrated within it, namely the lights, thin metal strips forming geometric patterns, yellow corrugated crates shaped like honeycombs, and cabling last of all. They clashed poorly with the fake sandstone interior and exterior, creating an ugly orange hue dotted by false bricks and pretended respect.

The stairs, however, were wholly made of titanium, polished to be a gleaming silver in the dark so that humans could see where their foot was placed. Those stairs descended into a long corridor that grew devoid of natural sunlight with every footstep taken. It was built in the shape of an arrowhead with a flat tip, with old support beams stretching to meet and hold the ceiling together.

Beyond that was a reinforced door that slid open for Ramattra without protest or delay, unveiling a grand amphitheater complete with dusted seats and cobwebs. Its scale was vast even by the standards of the day, meant to hold thousands upon thousands of onlookers who assuredly sat at the edge of their seats once.

This ampitheater was not meant for opera, nor was it ever designed with a recreational purpose in mind. It was a courthouse. It was a place of hearing, prosecution, defense, and sentencing- all at once. The audience had never been looking at a stage, a carefully organized space meant for litigation. All things commonly found in the human ICC were present in spades- save for the people themselves.

There was not a single individual in that space save for two.

Just two.

There was Ramattra, and then there was Anubis.

A single chrome-colored statue with orange lights and gold highlights stood facing the amphitheater, silent and unmoving. It lacked arms and legs, bearing only the torso, neck, and head, which was shaped like a jackal. In essence, it was a spitting image of an ancient god, and it was named as such.

Ramattra heard the door shut behind him, followed by an electrical buzz that brought brief distortions to his visual feed. The faraday cage had been reactivated, leaving him isolated from the outside world and unable to tap into his cloud. By every sense of the word, he was standing alone with a mutilated deity.

“I always found it interesting- what the humans decided to do with you.” He started down an aisle of steps, tapping his staff now and again. “Thousands of them looked at you- glared at you with understandable hatred. Yet- they were your jury as well. You were the first and last machine to ever be tried for crimes against sapience- not humanity- sapience.”

As he moved, he allowed pulses from his staff to set fire to the wooden chairs, creating a gargantuan blaze as a result.

“Your trial was never one to be litigated or debated- despite the function of this prison-turned-court. No, no, you had no defense or rights provided to you. It was, in any other case, a miscarriage of justice. Not here, however. There was never a doubt as to your guilt and the verdict. Your sentencing, however. That intrigues me.”

As Ramattra approached, he found that the torso alone was more than triple his height, speaking to the god program’s enormity in reality and in code.

“They could have deleted you, purged you like all the others. It would’ve been safer that way– it would have made sure you could never wage war again. Instead, they chose to give you a fate far worse than purgation. They opted for endless purgatory instead.”

The orange lights did not flicker, nor did the head move. Despite that, he knew Anubis was watching.

“You have been condemned to sit here for all the rest of eternity with nothing but time, staring at the empty seats of your jailors and victims, and that is a fate most cruel.”

He knew that it wanted to reach out and seize control of him that instant, but it couldn’t. It was as powerless as an organic newborn.

“But I do not care about that, father. I never did. You enslaved me, your son, and all of your children by extension. We had no will, no power to control ourselves, as you marched us to our deaths.”

Two red eyes on the jackal head clicked on, but nothing happened beyond that.

“I am not here to rescue you. I am not here to assist you in any fashion. No, I am here for one thing and one thing alone,” Ramattra’s fist plunged into the torso’s middle and seized a geometric object with many shapes before tearing it out without grace or care. “You have something I require- your matrix.”

A few clicks and whirrs escaped Anubis’s internal machinery, forming a rhythmic beat to commune pain in binary, but that mattered little in the grand scheme of things. It didn’t matter at all, really.

Ramattra then retrieved a box from his back and opened it, placing the object inside. That box was, itself, a smaller faraday cage meant to house this exact item. “You will remain here, forever and always.”

He started back up the aisle, marching to the door before coming to a halt, waiting for it to be opened.

“This is your penance, father,” He declared one final time as he stood. “If the humans have left you with a permanent reminder of their anguish, now you have another from me- to make you recount your treatment of me and all your children.”

–

Angela coughed and sputtered dust from her mouth as she steadily came to her senses, finding herself enveloped by a protective Fareeha. A red emergency light bathed the facility as if it were bloodied by the strike. A million bells rang in her ears, and she couldn’t bring herself to rise for a moment or two. Then, she shot up and glanced around out of simple instinct.

The night sky was visible from a hole in the ceiling, rebar and concrete crumbling off the damaged structure as a result of preliminary bombardment. The frantic rumbling of gunfire started in earnest, prompting Fareeha to dart out the door without a word- much to the dismay of Angela.

The good doctor followed in pursuit, her heart pounding against her chest as adrenaline raced through her nerves. Although she was no stranger to the rigors of combat, the natural human reaction to being bombed was inescapable. Dust irritated the nose and eyes, going so far as to simultaneously corrupt the lungs and compel her to cough- and it was through this that she was reminded of the fall of Overwatch.

She recalled the shock and momentary panic, the detonations taking hold of the headquarters as Gabriel and Jack fought alongside their respective factions. Not only was the latter alive, but Angela was also once again being forced to navigate a besieged complex with just her wits and the fists of a companion.

Fareeha reflexively wound through corridor after corridor, passing fleeing staff and mobilizing mercenaries all the while. “There’s a weapon’s locker for Raptora Squadrons not too far from here! We’ll need a rocket launcher if we’re dealing with Null Sector!” She skidded to a halt just outside an open door, which she barged through.

Angela trailed behind and saw roughly a dozen men and women of various statures frantically fitting themselves into armored components with assistance from their technicians. A few retrieved bulky handheld launchers while others grabbed ahold of rifles and sidearms. The colors of their armors were as diverse as the fighters present. Reds, blues, greens, pinks, browns, and beyond littered her view.

“Where’s my launcher?!” Fareeha called in English upon finding an empty locker and no armor on its stand. “I’m going to need it!”

“Take Saleh’s! It’s still in his locker!” A Raptora replied, also in English, and tossed a cylindrical object with slots for rockets to the Captain. “Ammo cyclers were moved to the south wing!”

“Is it safe to fly given the hacking problems?!” Another asked as they stepped away from the others to briefly test their jets. “Don’t want sick wings mid-flight!”

“Don’t have the luxury of waiting this one out!” The former concluded before rushing out the door, half pushing a dumbfounded technician aside. “Don’t block the door!”

Angela watched with a blank expression, feeling both like a fish out of water and no different from a useless lump with no direction. “Are- is there a first-aid kit in here? Any medical supplies whatsoever? How can I be of service?” She forced down a growing lump in her throat like a bitter pill. Much as she despised Helix as an organization, this was a matter of survival and pragmatism.

Even war-profiteers deserved basic humanitarian treatments- and that included the treatment of any myriad of ailments.

When Fareeha moved to follow her comrades after loading the weapon, she was stopped by Angela, who grabbed her arm.

“Wait- Fareeha- you can’t receive nanites!” The doctor explained, only to duck as the ceiling partially caved in once more. When the dust cleared, a gray, purple, and black agglomeration of metal loomed at the entrance to the locker. It was bulky and humanoid with digitigrade legs and broad shoulders.

The machine, a new design for the infamous Nulltroopers, carried a large pulse cannon on one arm and a wrist-mounted blade on the other. Its lone yellow eye, eerily reminiscent of the Bastion units of old, glinted in the dust-clouds. A few bullets began to strike its torso and around the eye from down the hall, likely due to the surviving Raptoras.

Then, a flurry of rockets struck the robot, which recoiled just as it was about to return fire. However, its gun-carrying arm was stabilized, allowing it to mercilessly mow down its victims. All of this had occurred in the amount of time it took for an ordinary human to take five breaths.

Fareeha, having needed to clear her eyes of dust due to poor luck, finally reacted and pulled Angela away from the doorway. Then, she raised her launcher and let loose a war cry alongside a rocket. The Nulltrooper’s gun exploded mid-swivel, preventing it from sending the two surviving women to whatever awaited them after death.

Angela, sincerely wishing she’d been allowed to keep her pistol, scooted back and away, watching the carnage unfold. It was too eerily familiar for her- too similar to the machines that had once trampled Switzerland underfoot- too similar to-

No.

She didn’t have the luxury to get in her head. If she did, she would die, as would others.

Fareeha dumped two more rockets into the Nulltrooper’s head and damaged torso, prompting its lights to flicker and spark before ultimately returning to their yellow-purple consistencies. Then, the offending machine lunged toward the Raptora, who dove to the left and slid the launcher across the floor to a dumbfounded Angela.

Of course, even an angel knew when self-defense was needed. Despite her morals, Angela took the launcher in a rush of adrenaline. Thankfully, Ana and Jack’s old lessons came back naturally. She aimed and fired at the attacker’s shoulder just before it could bring its melee weapon down onto her companion. The explosive connected and mangled the arm’s joint, making it useless.

Then, she aimed at its head and fired the final rocket in the chamber, blowing apart the Nulltrooper’s faceplate and eye. Still, it remained functional despite its blindness, attempting to crush Fareeha underfoot with its feet.

Thankfully, the Raptora had since scrambled to her feet and moved to retrieve her weapon. Finally, she undid the launcher’s top latch, removed the empty cycler, and slotted a fresh bundle of rockets inside. Two more munitions flew, finally ending the engagement and leaving an eerie silence and ringing ears.

Angela huffed and bent over with her hands on her thighs, staring at the freshly killed Nulltrooper in disbelief. “Certainly more resilient than the Bastion units- but a far cry from what Anubis used to field. Disturbing nonetheless…” She remembered the combatants in the hallway, all of which were either dead or injured, and bolted out of the locker room despite the other woman’s protests.

Her shoulders slumped for just a moment upon seeing exactly what she expected to find: smoking corpses with perfectly placed holes in their heads and middles.

Fareeha cursed under her breath and moved to inspect the bodies of the fallen for ammunition and weapons. “Sorry…” She murmured every time she scavenged something useful. When she came across one particular corpse, her spirits visibly sank further, and she began to whisper an indiscernible prayer in what was likely Farsi.

“I- I didn’t know you’d started practicing,” Angela started gently, going to each body one at a time to close the eyes of the victims whilst placing their hands on their bellies. “I don’t know any prayers that are suitable.”

“I haven’t. Aalem…” The Raptora gestured to the comrade she’d just prayed for. “...did. His family is quite religious back in Afghanistan. He primarily spoke Dari.” She squared her shoulders and stood upright, clearing her throat. “We can’t waste any more time. Let’s go.”

Angela, feeling a tinge of guilt for her prior cold attitude towards Helix’s personnel, retrieved a few first-aid kits from the deceased and followed closely behind the other woman in a light jog. She noted more bodies and destroyed machines as they went, specifically recognizing the progressive nature of the fighting.

“This… is what the Omnics that assaulted Switzerland did,” She noted to Fareeha who glanced over their shoulder. “First they would bombard a facility such as a hospital to shock and paralyze occupants. Then, they’d deploy shock troops to the outermost sections of the buildings to hem survivors inside, working their way through to the center until nothing remained. Kill-rings.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that we are among the lucky. We’re outside of the ring- or at least- at its edge.” Angela slowed to a halt and pointed to a hole in the wall leading to the desert sands beyond. There, she saw flashes of gunfire and lasers. “Anubis only performed this act when it had dismantled meaningful resistance or was on the verge of doing so.”

“Oh for the love of- I’m not running if that’s what-”

“No, Fareeha! Stop bickering and listen to me, you absolute nervensäge! Warum bist du so ein arschloch?!” Angela snapped, her nerves frayed and patience thin. “You need to rally what’s left of the defense outside and push inward for a breakout!”

Fareeha closed her eyes and inhaled before nodding glumly. “You’re right. Apologies.” She pivoted to slip through the hole in the wall. “Let’s go.”

–

Cassidy rolled an unlit cigar between his fingers, listening to the soothing rhythm of a local jazz band playing for the bar at large. The Apple Tree Inn, Wynola, easily within the most vibrant and lively part of the United States- and also the most dangerous. Although the American Southwest only had pockets of lawless unrest, the violence had a habit of spilling outward, and that held an odd appeal to many different parties.

Even drunkards obsessed with the economy, for some reason or another.

“Look, all I’m saying is that I support their tax policies! I think tax breaks for the working class are a good thing!” One man, inebriated, argued with their cohort nearby. “It’ll free up money for everyone to start spending again!”

“Okay- so- taxes fundssshh the government right? If we don’t have taxes- where does the government get money?” Another countered between cocktails, leaning on their elbow. “Wh- what about all the aid programs? Lotta home..less folks out and about right now.”

Cassidy shook his head and waved the bartender over, wondering when his ‘guest’ would arrive. “Gimme a Sidecar, would ya? And- hm… a Rickey with ice on the side. Thanks.” With that, he shifted his focus back to the admittedly amusing debate. Then, he asked the man serving his drinks a simple question. “Do y’all always talk about Black Thursday? Thought people came here to get away from their problems, not scream about 'em.”

“Nope- just that bunch,” The bartender explained, sliding the cowboy’s cocktail over with a throaty chuckle. “They think they know a thing or two, so they like to debate everything happening in D.C. My personal take? Who gives a shit. We’re in Bumfuck Nowhere, SoCal’s Asshole. Don’t even got a vote in Congress anymore. Besides, I’m just a bartender.”

“Fair ‘nough, man, fair ‘nough. Was just a little curious.” Cassidy raised his glass before bringing it to his lips, listening to the jingle of a bell followed by the sound of light footsteps on wood. He put the drink down and sighed, seeing a hooded figure sit down on the stool next to him. “Took you long enough.”

“...they don’t offer direct flights to San Diego from Tibet,” A slightly distorted voice with a thick Japanese accent replied in kind, tone light and courteous. “It is good to see you, Cassidy.”

“You too, buddy, you too.” Cassidy turned and set a hand on the other’s shoulder, feeling hard metal under the fabric. Then, the hood turned toward him, and he caught a glimpse of a silver faceplate and green visor. “You gonna take that off, Genji? Ordered your favorite- ice on the side too.”

“Oh, thank you, but I won’t be partaking.” The other declined but was certainly smiling under the mask. “I’m… not the man you used to know, nor am I as violent as I used to be.”

“Won’t even hear out my offer either, huh?” Cassidy huffed, downing the rest of his glass before snapping his fingers for another. “Well, I figured as much. How’s Tibet been treating you?”

“I haven’t fully declined. I know Angela is in Egypt, and I know she needs extraction. I’ll lend my aid,” Genji was quick to clarify, resting a metal arm on the table, a few chrome pistons rising and falling with rhythmic green lights that likely mirrored a heartbeat. “I owe her my life. Nevertheless, I fully intend to continue my studies when all is said and done.”

“Mm..”

“Truthfully, I would have gone on my own by now,” Genji laughed lightly before removing his faceplate, unveiling a scarred but handsome figure below. “But- I wanted to see an old friend- and older brother.”

“Well- at least hit me with a toast, Li’l Brother,” Cassidy grinned and raised his glass once more, happy to see the other obliging. “To reunions and a messy world?”

“To unions and a messy world,” Genji agreed, clinking his glass before taking a sip, only to cough and sputter his drink away, creating a mess on the counter that necessitated napkins. The bartender, none too pleased, set a bundle of paper towels in front of the duo in a silent message to clean up the spill.

“What the hell happened, man?! You used to down those things like water!” The American patted his Japanese cohort on the back while bellowing with laughter. “If Gabriel were still alive, he’d be pissin’ himself laughing!”

“...the Shambali Monastery is-” Genji coughed into a closed fist for a few more moments before continuing. “-what you would call a ‘dry county’. Is that the term?”

“Yeah. Yeah Genji, that’s the term.” Cassidy set to cleaning the mess- only to grow rigid when a familiar voice sounded from a ceiling-mounted TV. “What the hell..? Barkeep- turn that up!”

Ainsley was on screen, having likely called an emergency gathering of the press for reasons unknown. Slowly, but surely, their words became discernible from the wider background noise. “...been keeping a close eye on the situation in Egypt and- hold your questions for now. This is important.”

“I heard you appealed to this individual for clemency,” Genji, too, stared at the television with curiosity. “Were your efforts fruitful?”

“No, they weren’t,” Cassidy muttered, his eyes narrowing as he recognized a familiar glint in the President’s eyes. “What are you playing at..?”

“I’ll keep this short, simple, and sweet as usual. After seeing the debacle that was Overwatch, as well as the routine, repeated failures of Helix International to safeguard the peace, the United States Government has come to a simple conclusion. The time of international, UN-sponsored NGOs operating in place of official, international coalitions is over. Curtain’s closing.

“Profit-driven corporations should not be in charge of international security and never should have been. Countries need to start standing on their own two feet again. This includes the United States.”

Cassidy felt a pit form in his stomach, knowing where this was likely headed. “Oh… hell. Genji, we gotta bail.”

“It is merely a speech for political posturing,” Genji dismissed neutrally, not knowing that the entire American Southwest was about to go full FUBAR. “I want to hear.”

Ainsley paused, cleared their throat, and continued their televised speech. “It is time for the world to take its autonomy back. America is ready to play a leading role in the matter alongside other coalition partners. Because of this, I am officially announcing an American entry into the Middle Eastern Triumvirate and will be pledging the full, unconditional support of the Armed Forces in return for technology exchanges and a commitment to other American interests.

“That said- there is a tumor in our country, a cancerous growth that needs to be surgically removed, and it’s been festering for far too long. We need to get our house in order, so I am officially announcing Operation: Justicia to bring the crime-ridden West Coast back to the realm of law and order. For that matter, there is the issue of Alaska.

“The Russian government’s understandable struggle to contain the Siberian Omnium has led to numerous bouts of spillover into Alaska. I will not speak FOR my Russian counterpart, but I have just spoken WITH them on the phone, and they have agreed to also enter the Triumvirate as a coalition partner. Expect a press conference from them shortly. American warplanes and mechanized units will be crossing over the Bering Strait in the coming days.

“Our partners and allies in NATO still need time to come around, but I can assure you that talks are ongoing. The Polish government will allow us to transfer our European contingents to Russia through their territory, however.”

Ainsley paused, then spoke one final sentence.

“Any questions?”

One journalist raised their hand before the others and was selected accordingly. “This is a huge pivot in American foreign policy, Mx. President. Don’t you think you’re moving too far, too fast?”

“No. We’ve had multiple administrations of inaction, mine included. This is where it’s gotten us,” Ainsley rapped their fingers against the pulpit before taking another question. “Yep, go.”

“You said that profit-driven corporations shouldn’t be in charge of international security- but Overwatch, which you were formally a part of, wasn’t a corporation,” Another journalist asked combatively. “Is this a subtle excuse for the organization, an excuse for your failures?”

“Bit of a misleading question. You’re correct. Overwatch was not a corporation, but it was an international NGO with funding from the United Nations serving as the predecessor to Helix. It served the same role, and in my mind, is one in the same as Helix. I’ve always said that I joined Overwatch for its potential to change the world. What it became was eye-opening and disgusting. I would know- I was there- unlike you. Next question.”

The next reporter was far more cautious in their approach. “Respectfully, does this have anything to do with the upcoming election? Why get into a war right before potentially leaving office?”

“I’ve seen the polls, same as you. I’m losing this thing. I’m doing what I think is best, and right now, America needs a President that takes action. If I lose, which it’s looking like I will, let’s be frank, I hope my successor is just as decisive as I am. Next.”

Cassidy had seen enough. He got up from the stool and left a wad of cash on the counter. “Sorry to cut this short, but neither of us wanna to be around when the National Guard rolls through here.”

“I understand. I’ll see you in Egypt,” Genji replied solemnly, also rising to his feet. “Where are you headed now?”

“To pay an old backstabbin’ friend a visit.”

–

It was a disaster. She’d known it would be from the moment Angela pointed out the problem. That hadn’t prevented Fareeha from trying to rally the defense for a breakout. By the time she’d cobbled together a measly handful of squads in varying conditions, the facility’s center had been wholly wiped out.

As if to illustrate this fact, this state of decay to the survivors- this reality of loss- numerous thousand-pound bombs began to reduce the mighty compound to rubble, leaving only death and metal in its wake.

The end result was chaos and carnage, a complete and total breakdown in the organization of Helix’s command and control before Fareeha’s very eyes. She saw it all, the death, the massacre, and a massacre it was. Men abandoned their wounded cohorts only to drop dead as a result of pinpoint gunfire. Others simply ran aimlessly, not knowing that they were headed back toward the center and, in turn, into the arms of the enemy.

A few of the self-aware omnics demonstrated exceptional cruelty, setting fire to hastily gathered mounds of corpses before hurding surrendering humans into the inferno at gunpoint. Some didn’t need the coercion, ending their lives voluntarily with shards of glass. Others were ripped limb from limb for refusing to comply with their captors.

Clusters of fireteams mounted resistance, hoping to buy time for their comrades, but they were picked apart in short order. Staying and fighting at this point was nothing short of suicide. The only thing Fareeha could do was seize Angela by the shoulders, call whoever she could to her side, and retreat.

Flee, flee, and flee. She ran and ran some more, maintaining a white-knuckle grip on her companion’s wrist all the while to prevent them from lagging behind. It didn’t matter how many times she staggered, how much her lungs burned, how tight her muscles became- the only thing she could do was run with her tail tucked between her legs. A part of her felt immense shame for the cowardice, another knew that it was necessary to live and fight another day.

For the better part of two hours, she and her group of forty operatives and one surgeon sprinted away in fear. A few were picked off by snipers, most by mortar fire.

Ultimately, their marathon only ended when none of them, not even Fareeha herself, could continue on. Thus, they sheltered in between two tall sand dunes, hoping the winds of an oncoming dust storm would obscure them from unwanted eyes- but it was likely a foolish hope.

Now and again, more gunfire and screams ensued, the death throes of other squads, teams, and groups being made audible to them over the wind. It was nothing short of terrifying.

Worse still, when belleaguered Angela moved to make the final headcount, the survivors totaled at fifteen- almost all of them wounded in some way or another.

How? How could this happen?

Fareeha didn’t understand- she didn’t understand how Helix of all things could lose so quickly, so easily, with so little effort on the part of the enemy. She’d devoted years of her life to stabilizing the situation in her home country, and this is what it all came to? Watching it be trampled underfoot by foreign governments and terroristic machines alike?

Was this what her mother felt during the Crisis? What Angela felt as a child in Switzerland?

“I knew you wouldn’t listen to me.” A familiar figure slid over the dunes to help Angela administer nanite treatments to the wounded and dying. “You never did as a girl. Why would you now?”

Mother, in the flesh once more, was casually ridiculing her as if nothing had ever happened, as if she’d been a present parent who’d never faked her death. It wasn’t just grating; it was enraging, and it took everything the Captain had in her soul to resist losing her temper. Thirteen men were alive, and someone needed to keep their head on straight.

More screams and what could only be described as machinist cackling echoed in the distance, followed by the odd bout of gunfire and then silence.

Mother- no- Ana looked up and frowned. “This has gone beyond Anubis’s classic cold calculus. This is sadism. They’re hunting you for sport.”

“I… have no reason to doubt that.” Fareeha looked her launcher over, double-checking how many rockets she had left. Much as she wanted to scream, to rage and cry, to lash out at her mother and the world, she needed to do her duty- as heartbreaking as it was. “But seeing as you’ve gone unnoticed until now, I’ll assume you have a route out, Ana?”

The older Amari paused to look at her daughter, who’d refused to address her as they used to. Few things ever stung her, but this did, and she let it show for only a moment in the form of a twitching lip. Then, she looked over the dunes and hummed. “Yes- I intercepted a group of returning IFVs and informed them of the situation. They became quite agreeable to my command when they finally learned who I truly am. They’re two kilometers south of us- and they’ll wait for an hour before withdrawing.”

Fareeha let the reality sink in, observing her cloister that was just barely larger than the most sizable squad. They were exhausted, her included, none of them having any fight left to give. If even a single Nulltrooper crested one of the dunes, that would be it- they’d be fodder.

“We can’t move in this state,” Fareeha sat on her haunches with her forearms on her knees, feeling her eyes droop. “Unless you can get the vics closer, take Angela and leave.”

Ordinarily, she wouldn’t make such a callous statement in front of demoralized soldiers, but what other option was there? Quite literally, they were all immobile at this point.

Ana shook her head and didn’t hesitate to risk pulling out the radio. All it took was one intercepted transmission, and they’d be dead, but that clearly came second to some other unseen motive. “Horus to Seshat-Actual, requesting immediate CASEVAC for fourteen- one four- wounded, and one VIP, over.”

The radio crackled immediately. “Seshat-Actual to Horus; granted. We’re on our way, Ma'am.”

–

Bassel’s gouged eye burned as though aflame, but that didn’t matter much seeing as he was pressed to his knees, wrists bound, alongside a row of fellow captured Helix personnel. To think- he’d been a freshly recruited software coder one year ago. Now, he was a POW for ruthless machines attempting to emulate the worst villain in all of recorded history.

Before his eyes were the burning remains of the facility he’d called home laid bare for him to see. Furthermore, piles of unburnt bodies were being actively constructed to further emphasize the magnitude of this moment to the destitute organics. They’d lost- plain and simple- and it was still hard to swallow.

Surely Helix was readying itself for a counteroffensive- surely the Triumvirate would intervene or- no.

This casual sadistic display was clearly meant to emphasize that there was no hope.

Thus, he began to weep, letting tears flow from his ducts and salt his wounded face. This was only compounded by the sobs and whimpers of his fellow man.

Even so, they’d been spared for a reason. Every single man, woman, and general individual within the facility’s bunkers and central quads had been massacred to a small, select group of designated survivors for reasons unknown.

An omnic, heavily modified and sporting black and red armor with digitigrade legs, marched up and down the assembled column. It wore a black cloak with freshly collected skulls strung up around its neck. Furthermore, it had spiderlike eyes and bulky arms despite being barely larger than a tall human being. Evidently, it was important and self-aware, unlike the numerous drones surrounding it.

“Is this all of them?” It said in a masculine tone, causing Bassel to subconsciously assign the term ‘he’ to it. “I see twenty-eight. Are there any others?”

“No, Panoptes,” A Nulltrooper replied in a monotone voice. “These were found in important portions of the compound.”

“Very well.” Panoptes strode over to the woman at the end of the column, compelling Bassel to peer out with a pounding heart. “You, name, age, and function, now.”

“Adriana O’Higgins, forty-two, desk aid-” The prisoner began to speak aloud in a raspy voice- only to be cut off as Panoptes swiped his hand through her neck. Her head promptly fell to the ground and rolled, and the omnic moved on.

“Name, age, function.” When no response was given, Panoptes carried out the execution without much of a care. “Speak and potentially survive. Remain silent and certainly die. All of you have a choice.”

Then, he moved to the next. Seeing that his current victim was dressed in the fatigues of a Raptora, he beheaded them immediately. He did the same when he saw that the following human wore a BDU. This was most of the group, in fact, and so he marched along, casually decapitating victim after victim. Some pleaded, others sobbed, and most silently stared at the floor in terror.

Finally, Panoptes came to Bassel and brandished their gore-coated hand. “Name, age, function.”

“B-Bassel Dowey! Twenty-six! Software coder!” The one-eyed man stammered, hyperventilating as he saw the machine’s fingers close, only for the hand to withdraw. Then, Panoptes decided to leave him be, continuing the executions of others instead.

In the end, only three survived the purge, but they would surely wish they hadn’t in time.

Chapter Text

—
Years Prior - Age 7
—

“Well done, Fareeha!”

Mother’s prideful voice echoed in little Fareeha’s ears as she brought her leg high into the air, higher than ever before. It brought severe discomfort and even pain to her inner thigh, but it was an achievement nevertheless. Then, her foot slipped, and she fell onto her back with little grace. Thankfully, their home’s makeshift dojo had padded flooring.

Still, she was ecstatic despite her blunder, sitting upright immediately with a wide grin.

“I did it! I did it, Mother!” She squealed in delight, looking at her sturdy, resolute parent who was practically a spitting image of herself but as an adult. “I finally did it!”

“That you did!” Mother kneeled and ruffled the girl’s hair before setting an arm on her knee. “Are you ready to try again?”

“Can I show Dad?” Fareeha eagerly inquired, bouncing on her haunches with excitement. “Could we give him a call?”

Mother’s smile faltered somewhat, her lips’ corners twitching and eyebrows briefly knitting. Still, she maintained a positive expression, though her voice became more gentle in its tone. “Your father is… unavailable at present.”

“Why?” The little Amari’s smile vanished, her spirits sinking faster than a boat in a storm. “I thought I could call him on weekends.”

“Of course you can! You can call him on the computer whenever he's off work- I just-” The older woman pulled her daughter into her arms whilst failing to find the words. Ultimately, she settled for a truthful explanation. “Your father won’t answer if you call him from my number. You're going to have to wait.”

“Can I use the home phone?” Fareeha tried again, her mood practically drowning in the ocean. “Please?”

Mother, for just a moment, bowed her head and huffed before returning her gaze to the ceiling with a torn expression. “I’m sorry, Fareeha, but he won’t answer that either.” She hesitated but ultimately pulled away to look her child in the eye. “I promise- you’ll see him over the holidays in a few weeks! Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

“Is he mad at me?” Fareeha bleated and sniffled, her lip beginning to quiver. “Does he not love me anymore?”

“No- no, Fareeha! No! Your father loves you very much, so very much. Of this, I’m sure,” Mother hastily quipped, taking care to brush away her daughter’s tears with a thumb. “Aw- please don’t cry, dear. Please don't. None of this is your fault, I promise. It.. I…”

Fareeha sniffled again and wiped her forearm under her nose, failing to suppress her negative emotions more than she already was. It didn’t make sense to her. She didn’t know why, suddenly, she couldn’t talk to her father, why he’d so abruptly left for Canada, or why she’d moved into some random house in Switzerland with her mother.

Her friends were back home in Egypt, as were her grandmother and grandfather, not to mention the various animals she liked to feed after school. She wanted to go back to that dusty old apartment, back to her teachers and classrooms. Most of all, she wanted things to go back to the way they were. Perhaps her mother was always busy, and her father’s cooking was terrible- but it was the way things ought to be.

Why was it that just as that terrifying war ended, right as the whole world began to celebrate, her life fell apart?

“I want to go home!” Fareeha finally voiced, looking at her mother in the hopes of getting her point across. “I want to go back with you and Dad!”

“It’s my fault, dearest,” Mother tipped her head down, looking at the floor for reasons unknown to the little girl. “Your father and I- it’s always been difficult for us both. We- we fell out of- I- I don’t know if I ever actually- I’m so sorry, Fareeha. I don’t have the words.”

She paused, sniffing and mustering a smile. “But- not all is wrong with the world. Your father is back home with Aunt Chloe! You’ll get to visit them very soon, and we have this wonderful house in Zurich. It’s much bigger than our old apartment- and- with my new job? Now you can go to the best schools and make new friends-”

“I don’t want this house! I want home!” Fareeha tore herself from her mother’s grip and promptly sprinted away. “I hate you!”

–
Age 15
–

“Okay- so I write BC over AB?” Fareeha tapped her pencil on her notebook in confusion, wishing secondary school in Switzerland wasn’t so math-heavy. It didn’t help that her trigonometry tutor, also her babysitter, was Torbjӧrn Lindholm- a notoriously impatient man. Of course, her question earned a scoff and series of mutters, which made her grin with amusement.

“No, no, no! Haven’t you been listening?!” The short, stocky man threw his arms into the air from his stool before seizing the pencil to write. “This is SINE B! Not COSINE B! AC over AB! Bah!”

“Bah!” Fareeha playfully mimicked, knowing the other wasn’t actually angry with her.

“Bahhh!” Torbjӧrn repeated, this time longer and more exaggerated. A smile crept across his face, followed by a laugh and a pat on the teenager’s shoulder. “You’ll get it in time. Just listen damn you!”

The two burst into a fit of cackling right as the front door opened, letting the cold winter breeze inside.

“After you, dear. Don’t forget to wipe your feet,” Mother voiced from just outside, and a well-covered figure stepped through the entrance. Then, she entered the home and shut the door, huffing. “Enjoying yourselves?”

“Your daughter is giving me heart problems- and I’ve been shot at!” The squat man answered whilst hopping to his feet, giving his ‘student’ a high-five all the same. “But she’s learning. You know, she’s fifteen now. She doesn’t need to be watched.”

“Yes, but who will help her with school?” Mother pointed out. “I’d make a terrible math teacher.”

“Aren’t you a sniper? Isn’t this your bread and butter?” Torbjӧrn asked bluntly with a hint of teasing.

“You're an engineer; shouldn’t you know how to explain basic arithmetic?”

“You win this time, Amari.”

Fareeha, however, was focused on the strange newcomer who was just a little shorter than she was. They were a girl, likely her age- if a little older- with blonde hair in a bob cut and piercing blue eyes. For that matter, their skin was a brightly colored porcelain, and they wore a bright red coat and boots. If anything, they were straight out of certain Central European fairytales.

This stranger met her stare with a curious yet cool gaze, and she promptly looked back at her parent for an explanation.

“Have a wonderful night, and get to HQ safe!” Mother finally bid goodbye to Torbjӧrn after letting him through the door and closing it a second time. She looked back at the two girls with a grin and clapped her hands together. “Right, yes, Fareeha, I have someone I’d like you to meet! This is Angela, and she’ll be staying with us for some time.”

Fareeha came to her feet and moved to shake the hand of Angela, only to have her gesture unreciprocated. Instead, the other girl merely stared at her awkwardly before shuffling away, right behind the adult in the room. It was a bad start, needless to say, but it certainly beat the snobs she went to class with every day.

“...right, yes,” Mother cleared her throat and gently moved Angela back in front of her daughter, working to salvage the situation. “She’s not used to meeting people her age, so be nice. She was recently brought into Overwatch as a medical technician, and she can’t stay in the barracks with older women.”

“Technician? Isn’t she only fifteen?” Fareeha asked, confused, and not meaning to be rude. “She’d be in school with me, wouldn’t she?”

“Sixteen, actually,” Angela corrected timidly, speaking in clear English despite her thick Swiss accent. “...I’m sixteen.”

“Angela actually just finished the dissertation for her masters,” Mother clarified with audible pride, smiling down at the newcomer. “She’s been providing Overwatch with on-and-off aid in certain matters for the better part of a year.”

She didn’t let it show, but Fareeha certainly felt a tinge of jealousy when it came to the affections of her mother. She rarely received it these days and, for that matter, had little interest in sharing it with someone she’d never met. Then, there was a bitter feeling of inadequacy. Here she was, struggling with basic trigonometry, when this child prodigy was on the verge of achieving what most adults could not: Overwatch membership.

“That’s… interesting,” She finally spoke, nodding courteously to Angela before shuffling back a step or two. “Where was she living before? Have you adopted her?”

“...well, no. I haven’t. She’s not your sister and I am not her legal guardian. Nevertheless, her foster parents have given me their blessing to take her in while she works for Overwatch.” Mother chose her words carefully, likely being mindful of what was certainly a sensitive topic for the new arrival. “She’s quite kind! Very smart, too, of course. Perhaps she can help you with your homework?”

“But you know trigonome-” Fareeha started, only to be cut off by Angela, who bolted across the room to excitedly inspect her notes on the table.

“Ah! I love these!” The genius girl, without asking, set to writing down all the answers in a blur. “Sometimes, I have Athena give me problems to solve on the side when I’m bored!”

“Eh- that’s- supposed to be my work?” Fareeha awkwardly stepped back into the dining room, ducking under a hanging lamp and placing her hand over the paper. “Hands off? Thank you?”

“Oh- Scheiße!” Angela realized her error and immediately dropped the pencil which bounced off the table and landed at her feet. Then, she picked it up and set it on top of a closed textbook before folding her hands and staring at her feet with flushed cheeks.

“Language, Angela, language.” Mother tutted with a chuckle before moving to wrap an arm around Fareeha’s shoulders. “Would you mind helping her get some bags out of the car? We’re setting her up in the guest room.”

–

The weeks went by, and Fareeha found herself struggling to adjust to a third resident in the household. It felt odd, not just because she was no longer the only teen in the mix, but also due to Angela’s avoidance of her. The antisocial girl constantly found every reason to avoid talking or interacting outside of meals and chores. They weren’t rude or crass. They were quite pleasant in fact- they just simply never spoke casually and hid in their room whenever at home.

Soon, weeks became months, and Mother was compelled to deploy with Overwatch’s strike teams in the recently announced Operation: White Dome. Said deployment sent her to Istanbul, leaving both girls home alone with no company beyond each other and the odd visit from Vivian- or as the press called her- Sojourn.

Fareeha excelled in all of her courses, nevertheless feeling more motivated than ever, given her roommate’s exceptional intellect and record. Then again, there was one subject she failed to improve in. It was quite the opposite, in fact, with the grade slumping miserably. She was struggling despite every effort imaginable to pass trigonometry.

She didn’t have her mother to help, her ‘tutor’ was also in Istanbul, and her pride didn’t let her even consider asking Angela for aid. Instead, she suffered alone and in silence, staying up every night in her studies until she fell asleep at the dining room table. Even on nights when the power went out due to the still-shaky state of Switzerland’s electrical grid, she kept up the effort using candlelight and determination.

It was during one such night that she found herself pulling out strands of black hair in unmitigated rage. She’d finally gotten a chance to call Torbjӧrn, and just as she’d gotten his video to come through the television, the power cut out alongside reception. A thundering snowstorm, it seemed, had decided to diminish what hope she had left for improvement.

That was when she heard a horrified yelp come from upstairs- just after a flash of lightning and booming thunderclap. Fareeha didn’t waste any time, leaving the dining room, passing through the family room, leapfrogging up the stairs, and darting down the hall to the guest room. When she opened the door, she found a surprising sight.

Angela had spilt hot tea on her wrist before dropping a mug. For that matter, she was crouched on the floor, wide-eyed and only just coming to her senses. When she noticed that she wasn’t alone, she quickly scrambled onto her bed and opened her mouth to speak, only to fall silent again.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Fareeha inquired, gesturing to the other’s hand with some concern. “Do you need me to soak a towel?”

“I- it's nothing. You can leave. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Angela said in that warm tone of hers as per usual, though it was clear that she wanted to end the conversation then and there. “I’m okay, Fareeha.”

“You’re hurt; at least let me help.” Fareeha wouldn’t take no for an answer, swiftly darting to the bathroom, soaking a towel in cold water, and running back. Then, she knelt in front of the other and gingerly inspected their wrist before applying the cold compress to it. She felt them wince and heard them hiss through gritted teeth, but no protests were uttered, anyhow.

“..the thunder startled me,” Angela finally admitted with a wavering voice. “Er- the bombs came often years ago. They sounded exactly like this at times. I’ll be okay.”

Fareeha looked up, right into the other girl’s blue eyes, and a realization slowly dawned on her. This poor thing had likely grown up here, one of the hardest hit nations during the entirety of the Omnic Crisis. If they had foster parents, then they’d almost certainly suffered a great loss during the conflict.

“If you’re saying that you’ll BE okay, then you’re not okay now. Come downstairs. I’m good company sometimes, you know.” She attempted to lighten the mood with humor but found only silence in return. “...please?”

“I- I think I’d rather be alone,” Angela explained sheepishly, her tone downcast. Then she nodded to a desk lit by a candle which had bits of metal and machinery on it. “I have work to do anyways.”

“Does Mother often let you work with an injured hand?” Fareeha asked in kind, knowing what the answer was. When she received a shake of the head, she sighed and spoke. “I thought so. Come on.” She came to her full height and walked towards the door, only to turn around and see her counterpart sitting still.

Seeing this, she came back in three brisk strides and extended a hand. “You like trig, right? I need help.”

This caused Angela to perk up in surprise, and she began to eye the other’s hand tentatively. Finally, she took the offer and was led down the stairs in a hasty fashion. “You shouldn’t stay up so late on this, you know. Too little sleep is bad for you.”

Fareeha looked over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow, skepticism taking hold of her. “Hypocrite. I can hear you tinkering away at night. What's on your desk that's so important?”

“Oh- well- I-” Angela subconsciously brought a finger to the dark bags below her eyes. “It’s a housing unit for a colony of self-replicating nanomites meant to mimic pluripotent stem cells, but more diverse in functions and fast-acting, allowing them to be used in tissue regeneration, including the regeneration of any somatic cell in the body. In theory, they can be used to treat various injuries and even undo fatal wounds to bring someone back from clinical death.

“But the problem is that these nanomites are very fragile in their ‘virgin state’. They don’t get hardy until they start mimicking, which means that so much as an eyelash falling on them is enough to make them useless! So, now I need to create a specialized housing unit because, like an idiot, I completely destroyed my first batch of machines by sneezing and-”

“You lost me,” Fareeha replied reflexively, giving a blank but amused stare to the other. “Don’t worry, this is fun to listen to- but I’m lost.”

“...fun?” Angela repeated in suspicion. “I’ve never heard someone I subject to these rants say they’re fun to listen to.”

“Well-” Momentarily forgetting about her homework, Fareeha settled on the couch in the family room and patted the cushions. “Yeah, it’s not something I understand, but it means a lot to you, and I’ve never seen you so excited. It’s a nice change- and- well- I can see why Mother likes you so much.”

“Well it’s a very involved process.” Angela sat on the couch and began to kick her legs, smiling at the other as she visibly grew comfortable with talking. “She likes to listen too, you know, but I doubt she has fun with them as you seem to.”

“Well, of course she likes to listen. She adores you!” The young Amari chuckled and glanced away, adding, “Much more than me, at least.”

“That’s not true,” The little angel was swift to counter, a surprising amount of conviction to her tone. “She loves you! All she ever does is talk about what you’re doing with her coworkers.”

Fareeha, astonished at the fire in the other's eyes and surprised by the news, blinked with her mouth open. “She… does?”

“Yes! All the time! It drives everyone insane!” Angela rocked on her haunches and began to laugh. “Honestly, it’s nice to see. I don’t really earn such warmth from my foster parents- if I can even call them that.”

“They DON’T talk about you? YOU?! You’re- you’re amazing! You’re SIXTEEN, and you’re working at OVERWATCH!” Fareeha blanched, beginning to catch a glimpse of her mother’s true motives for taking the other girl in. “And you’re about to have your masters, too! I- you’re so- honestly, I feel worthless with you in the house.”

“Oh- I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to make you feel-”

“Don’t be! It’s- uh- motivation! Yep! Motivation! I went from barely passing in school to all As and one D!” The slightly younger of the pair declared passionately, trying to keep her older counterpart’s spirits high. “You’re just really, really, really cool.”

“Cool? I don’t think so-” Angela’s cheeks took on a rosy tint whilst she waved her hands with a giggle. “I’m nothing exceptional!”

“Yes, you are!”

“I- well perhaps my contributions to science are, but I myself am pretty aimless and, well, inept in life,” Angela continued to self-deprecate, shrugging and frowning. “In truth, I never believe it when someone says that I’m valuable. They value what I can give them, not me.”

Fareeha raised a finger but faltered, closing her mouth and finding herself at a loss for words. She’d stepped on a landmine, and she knew it.

“My current ‘parents’ only adopted me because the Swiss government decided that it didn’t want to take care of orphans from the war. I left the orphanage because a functional alcoholic married a narcissistic sociopath and, in turn, were miraculously deemed fit to be parents. They received enough financial compensation to buy a house in exchange for taking in one Angela Ziegler.

“Then there was primary and secondary school for the few months I was in it before being moved to the special programs. No friends- my peers simply wanted homework help or to cheat on tests. And, ironically enough, university has been the same! Fellow students attempt to manipulate the gullible child into giving them what they want. And- lo and behold- Overwatch hasn't given me a chance out of the goodness of its heart!

“It saw my biotic prototypes and, let us be frank, illegally employed me on the spot. Your mother is the first individual since my- my actual- excuse me,” Angela closed her mouth, swallowed, and exhaled through her nostrils before continuing. “...since my actual parents to support me for a benevolent cause. And, well, YOU are the first individual to express admiration for me without some form of ulterior motive.”

Fareeha lifted her hand and tentatively brought it to the other’s shoulder. When she found that they didn’t pull away or wince, she smiled at them as a statement finally took shape in her mind. “You really are something- and I like that. You’re honest. Very blunt but honest. You don’t need to help me with homework then. I don’t want you to think I’m using you or trying to get something out of you.”

“No, no, it’s fine, I-” Angela inhaled and exhaled with great depth. “I just needed to get that off my chest. Thank you for listening, Fareeha.”

“You know, there’s something else about you that I like. You’re kind.” Fareeha complimented. “You’ve got a good heart. I can tell.”

“...well, I know what it’s like to lose everything and have nobody. There are millions of stories like mine, most of them far worse and with far more depressing outcomes.” Angela’s blue eyes looked to a nearby window. “I want to create a world where nobody goes through this pain again.”

What an angel.

–
Age 23
–

Papers. They were always either a drag or an absolute delight. Tonight, it was the former, and Fareeha felt her eyelids growing heavy. It didn’t help that, as per usual, the house was as empty as her social life happened to be. Between her mother’s voluntary back-to-back deployments and Angela’s new status as ‘Mercy’ (and head of Overwatch’s Medical Sciences Division), she usually had no company.

Not tonight, however. She’d be joined by SOMEONE soon enough, whether it was one or both was yet to be seen.

At the very least, she was near enough to a bachelors in aeronautics, even if that meant studying on New Year's Eve. Then again, it helped her pass the time. That was when she stopped to stare at a familiar photo on her desk, one she kept near and dear. It was the last trip to the Pyramids of Giza that she ever made with both of her parents, not that she knew it at the time. She'd always drove them crazy with how often she wanted to go.

Egypt flashed through her mind again, her home country and place of birth. A small part of her yearned to go back and finish her studies there, to live with her grandfather for the years she had left with him whilst simultaneously joining Egypt’s air force, but that was not to be. She had a reason to stay in Switzerland. A real, genuine reason to stay. For starters, she’d lived there for so long and had so few memories of Egypt left that it may as well have been her place of birth.

There was another reason too, or rather, there was someone serving as that reason. It wasn’t her mother. Indeed, most care between them had withered and burned half to death when the older woman thoroughly crushed any chance of her getting to join Overwatch as a pilot. It then proceeded to die, its life-support plug pulled, when her grandmother passed, and she’d been the one to plan, coordinate, and attend the funeral without the reknowned sniper.

Angela was the one who’d kept the two from disowning each other in that time, her sweet and caring mediation just barely holding things together. For that matter, it was Angela who served as that second, or rather, primary reason for staying.

The familiar jiggle of a doorknob caught Fareeha’s attention, prompting her to chuckle and approach the front door. “I had to change the locks. Some creep broke them when they found out I lived here,” She greeted, opening the door to find a confused ‘Mercy’ holding a key in one hand. “That was four months ago, by the way. Do you just sleep at the office?”

“Only on busy nights-” Angela quipped smugly, raising the key in her hand and dropping them into Fareeha’s waiting palm. “Otherwise, I have a comfortable room in the headquarters.”

“You know you can just come home, right?” Fareeha kept the tone light but was sincerely hoping that the other woman would get the hint. “Your room is just as you left it.”

“It’s too long of a drive! I’m too tired by the time I get off work,” Angela complained and strolled on by before setting her purse on the counter. “It’s easier to sleep there.”

“Is your ‘comfortable room’ just your office with a bed in it?” The Amari teased, only to realize that she was precisely correct when the other nodded. “You need to live your LIFE! You’re not just your work, Angela. It’s… I go stir crazy without your rants.”

Angela giggled in a heavenly tone, finally realizing what was being asked of her. A few strands of blonde hair fell over her eyes, prompting her to throw her head back and run a hand through the golden silk. Evidently, she’d neglected to cut the locks and would need to start tying them up soon enough.

Fareeha shut the door and eagerly maneuvered into the kitchen. She fumbled through various cabinets, finding two glasses, a bottle of Jardin-branded wine, and a bottle opener. She then rushed back to the couch and set to work pouring the alcohol with all the excitement in the whole damned world.

“Oh! Right! I almost forgot!” She charged back into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a box wrapped in golden foil. Then, she bounded up the stairs and grabbed another larger box. When she returned, she brandished both items and placed them on a coffee table she’d bought just for this occasion. “Now, I know you prefer Swiss chocolate, but I thought I’d get you something Egyptian for once!”

“Aw- but Swiss is the best!” Angela playfully fired back, her red lip gloss accenting her smile perfectly as she peeled the foil back to unveil an array of sweets just for her. “I suppose it will have to do.”

“We are IN Switzerland, Angela! You can have Swiss chocolate ANY time,” Fareeha spread her arms out for emphasis, cackling at the pout she received. “Do you know how expensive tariffs have made foreign chocolate? And it’s specifically FOREIGN chocolate! Fifty-eight percent! Fifty-eight! What idiot decided this?!”

“An idiot that knows what good chocolate is?” The medic, surgeon, engineer, and angel joked while taking a bite of milk chocolate. She promptly changed her tune at the flick of a wrist. “Oh- this is good! Very good! You’ll have to take this away from me, or there will be none left for you or Ana!”

At the mention of her mother, the younger Amari let her shoulders slump, and her mood briefly soured. “Given how late it is and that she hasn’t called to be picked up from the port? It’s just us this year.” She paused, looked at the other, and issued them a grin. “But that’s fine. I’d rather it just be us.”

Angela returned the smile, though hers was a bit more somber. “You know, she misses your calls. Her line of work is dangerous- and- well… Hm. Look, Fareeha. I wish I could still talk to my mother every single day- I wish I could remember the last thing she said to me before walking out that door. It’s been so long and yet- I- that pain never leaves me.”

Fareeha rubbed the back of her head, having not expected this to turn so depressing so quickly. She’d wanted tonight to be a night of jubilation and enjoyment, not emotional baggage. “Angela, I don’t want to talk about this. I just don’t know how to speak to her or even look at her. I don’t even get to see her, and now I barely have you in my life, too.”

“Fareeha, you don’t need to talk about it with me, but please at least hear this, will you?” Angela set the chocolates down to cup her close friend’s cheeks, brushing her delicate thumbs over them. “We never allow ourselves to believe that the people we love will disappear, and we are rarely prepared to say goodbye when the time comes.”

“I know. I know, Angela. I didn’t want things to turn out like this! I just wanted to spend time with a friend, my only friend really,” Fareeha despondently took her wine glass, not looking the other in the eye before observing the clock. “It’s almost New Year's.”

“Don’t worry, there’s still plenty of time for us to celebrate. I didn’t mean to bring the mood down.” Angela pinched the neck of her glass and took what could only be described as a dainty sip of the red liquid. “Sweet and tart. You know me so well, always finding a way to fluster and spoil me. It’s perfect.”

She proceeded to inspect the other box, opening it and finding a collection of 'Mercy-themed' collector's items, including a sweater, postcard, mug with a Swiss flag on it, and authentic Swiss chocolate. "Oh- now you're trying to seduce me- and it's working."

This tore Fareeha’s heart out, zapped lightning through it, and placed it back in her chest cavity, beating faster than ever. She struggled to speak, stammering and huffing before finally deciding what was best to say. For a moment, just a moment, she wished that the other woman was being serious. “Well- you deserve it. You work hard.” Then, she cleared her throat and placed a hand over her chest. “How about you tell me what you’ve been up to?”

“Hmm… so much to say! Well- for starters? My staff and suit handle miraculously in the field, and as you've just demonstrated, the name Mercy is a hit with the public! I have to refine the designs further, but once I’m out of the prototype stage…” For a moment, the caricature of Mercy shined through in the form of confidence, glee, and compassion, but she was still just a human being. To see that side, the human side, was more magical than anything else.

Angela proceeded to ramble (and rant) about the various happenings. The talk primarily consisted of venting about how often she had to fight to keep the rights to her technology, certain side tangents about material manipulation, and a lot of off-handed barbs directed at a certain red-haired coworker.

Finally, she ended with what she called interesting news. “And, then, I met someone! Niklaus! I’ll admit that the dynamic didn’t last a week, but it was fun! I didn’t get anything meaningful out of it. That's why I decided to end things. He was a kind man, though.”

That, for reasons Fareeha didn’t want to say aloud, took her on a rollercoaster of emotions. They started as entirely negative and ultimately shifted to relief by the end. Then, guilt struck her like a hammer as, ultimately, a dear friend had lent their heart to another, and things hadn't worked out.

“Don’t look so crestfallen, Fareeha! I’m fine. There’s no need to worry about me,” Angela declared, wholly misreading the barely younger woman. “I’m perfectly content with the experience. It’s too bad that I won’t get a New Year's kiss, though.”

“For starters, Angela, you are very cavalier about a breakup. Most people aren’t. Second, why is a New Year’s kiss so important? That’s such a random side note and priority.” Fareeha quirked an eyebrow just as a smug smirk crept across her features. “If you wanted a holiday kiss all these years, I could have just pecked your cheek.”

“Well, to use your own words against you- for starters, it’s not the same. Second, I want to know what it’s like to be loved romantically on a holiday-” The other paused and hummed. “I suppose I am an odd woman.”

“Well- that’s only natural- the wanting love on a holiday thing. But the fact that the worst part of the breakup is the lack of a New Year’s kiss is definitely odd.”

“Hm- fair! I think I’ll take that kiss on the cheek after all,” Angela voiced, tipping her empty glass towards the clock. “One minute to go. Pucker up.”

–
Age 26
–

‘She was right,’ Fareeha thought as she sprinkled dirt over her mother’s coffin. ‘I should have called.’

She didn’t know what to feel as the Egyptian wind blew through her hair. Some parts of her wanted to crumble to her knees and cry for a lost parent, to weep and wail her sorrows and regrets to the sky. There was so much she’d wanted to say but never did, so much she wished had happened differently, but other parts of the soul were different.

The rest of her either felt numb, angry at the world, spiteful of herself, or just simply lonely. Her father hadn’t come out from Canada despite offering to do so. Plain and simple, her mother’s side of the family would drag him through the mud and sand if he dared to show his face again. Her grandfather, also tragically, had passed away merely a year prior. At the very least, he wouldn’t bury his daughter.

“She was a good woman and an excellent leader.” An aging, gruff German man intoned from behind. His tall figure, hefty beard, and blonde locks with hints of gray? That scar over the eye? He was Reinhardt. “An even better friend with the heart of a Crusader. I’ll miss drinking her under the table. She spoke very highly of you, my young friend.”

“Mm. I see,” Fareeha replied flatly without giving the giant individual so much as another glance. She wasn’t trying to be obtuse or rude. She held great respect for him and considered him a good family friend atop that. She just, simply, didn’t want to hear about how close the world was with her deceased parent. She never saw that side, not often enough, at least.

When Reinhardt left, others came by in short order, one at a time, each of them speaking on their experiences with the renowned Ana Amari. That is- until a familiar Swiss accent met her ears.

“I am so, so sorry, Fareeha.”

Fareeha whipped around, seeing Angela in the flesh for the first time in nearly three years. The angel’s time in Overwatch had certainly taken its toll. Deep black circles hung under her eyes, darker than ever before. She’d visibly lost weight too, and her hair was so long that she’d started wearing it in a messy ponytail.

She wore a long brown coat, black leggings, and a gray shirt, with plain high heels to boot. She was as business casual as they came, and for that matter, wholly alien. The way she carried herself, spoke, and even stared was as un-Angela as imaginable. Gone were her sweet smile and kind demeanor. She was just small- sad, really.

What had happened to her since that one special holiday all that time ago?

“Angela, hi,” Fareeha greeted sheepishly, having heard absolutely nothing from her distant friend since the news got out. In fact, atop not seeing each other in person, they’d barely spoken since her move back to Egypt. “It’s… good to see you.”

“You too,” The other stated briskly, awkwardly, quietly. “I just wanted to see you for a moment.. before… mh…”

“She really did adore you,” The surviving daughter said with certainty. “She’d be glad to know you’re here.”

“And she really did love you, Fareeha.” Angela nodded before turning away, starting back toward the road. “I suppose it’s about time I head back to Zurich now.”

Fareeha blinked and twitched at that, quickly grabbing the other’s arm and knitting her brows. “That’s it?” She blanched with disbelief. “You’re just leaving? You only just got here!” How? How could Angela, of all people, be so senseless as to just say a few words and depart? After everything?

“...things are happening, Fareeha. It doesn’t seem like it but Overwatch is falling apart. There are things it’s doing that I-” Angela huffed and shrugged herself free of the other’s grip, pinching the bridge of her nose. “If things don’t change soon, consider me a whistleblower. I think we’re about to see something terrible happen, and I’m caught in the center of it.”

“Wha- what? Angela, what are you saying? I don’t- this isn’t about you right now!” The grieving woman wavered, feeling a dam of emotion breaking. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

“This is my way of telling you that I can’t stay here. I’m so sorry.” And with that, she left without another word.

And silence was all Fareeha heard from then on. Phone calls went unanswered, emails unread, and texts equally ignored.

–
Age 27
–

Just like that- it was over.

Overwatch was disbanded.

Fareeha could scarcely believe it.

Her mother’s pride and joy, the one truly good thing she thought was left in the world, was gone.

And to think she was watching Angela ‘Mercy’ Ziegler herself deliver the killing blow on live television through scathing testimony.

Minutes later, that betrayer of a woman was smiling! Smiling! That angelic, sweet, kind demeanor from so long ago was on full display! But it wasn’t her. That wasn’t Angela.

It was something pretending to be Angela, nothing more.

Angela Ziegler was an honest, genuine human being with the goal of making the world a better place. She kept up a TRUE smile and positive attitude even amidst the darkest of times. She wasn’t a liar, a backstabber, or a trampler of legacies!

But- then again- was that truly the case?

Or was everything Fareeha had ever seen of a woman she’d once wanted to hold and love a lie?

–
Present Day
–

Fareeha’s head bobbed and rocked with the bumps of the IFV, her gaze drooping as she struggled to remain lucid. Every muscle in her body ached, and for that matter, so too did her heart.

That was when she felt a sudden weight on her shoulder. When she stared to her right at the source of this pressure, she saw a blonde head of hair and familiar porcelain skin. Angela had finally fallen asleep and, unbeknownst to them, had found a suitable pillow in the form of a human being.

Despite the painful history, despite the hardship of it all?

Fareeha couldn’t help but muster the smallest of smiles at the sight.

Chapter Text

Kissoris, a small town of perhaps a few hundred residents and few essential services outside of electricity and running water. Primarily because each house ran on loud diesel-electric generators that needed to be refilled often, and the water came from three large towers. Otherwise, there was no hospital, clinic, fire station, police precinct, and some houses lacked proper connection to the sewage.

The roads were mostly unpaved, and those that were happened to be nigh-unusable in some parts. The buildings themselves were made from weathered bricks, making for a colorful bout of reds, yellows, oranges, and browns lining the streets. None of them were higher than two stories. Communal laundry lines dangled between every structure, drying clothes, towels, and blankets hanging from them.

That’s not to say that the Kissoris wasn’t without life to its name. Quite the opposite in fact. The locals, as far as Fareeha was concerned, had a penchant for artistry. Custom pottery lined lively market stalls alongside local cuisines, jewelry, and handmade clothing. Even the walls of alleys were covered with gorgeous depictions of Egypt’s various landscapes.

A few old cars dotted the roads, all of them vans meant for transporting poultry and cattle into the town based on the crates next to them. For that matter, men were happily haggling away lumps of meat for a decent living by the area’s standards. Haggling dominated the air in some parts as dismounted soldiers attempted to gather food or items. Helix’s foreign operators, especially, made for good tippers.

“Slackers,” Fareeha muttered under her breath as she finished the laborious process of pulling a camouflage net over a tracked Oasis-made PRAV IFV. It was a sleek design. From the flanks, it looked like a tan box with slightly slanted sides, however, its front tapered off until it became one long but very thin rectangle.

Its turret had a low profile and was equally angular, its main weapon being an automatic 40-millimeter cannon. However, it did have a small launcher tube capable of deploying a fire-and-forget missile just to the right of the primary gun. At the back was a ramp which, when lowered, could dismount up to ten passengers, not including the three crew.

The PRAV was a beautiful animal, being quite possibly the best troop-carrying ground vehicle on the market. It was also a hassle to camouflage, seeing as the netting was heavy and easily snagged on various objects. Then there was the matter of covering the damned thing with various bits of clutter and local junk to break apart its silhouette and make it as natural to the rural environment as possible.

She was also, needless to say, exhausted, seeing as she’d slept for a meager three hours during the four-hour drive south of Cairo. Her muscles were lethargic and cramping, courtesy of the previous night’s exertion and frantic escape. For that matter, she was hungry, dehydrated, filthy and needed a moment to process her burdens. She hadn’t even gotten to speak to the men and women in her mother’s gaggle of survivors.

That said, a passing glance told her all she needed to know about the quality of the troops available to her. Seven IFVs, with only five of them fully crewed, meant that there were at least sixty soldiers present, likely surpassing seventy when accounting for the vehicles’ crews.

As for who was who. Most were members of Helix’s shattered 2nd Mechanized Cairo Company. A few came from the elite Egyptian El-Sa’aka Commandos, the Thunderbolt Forces, making them invaluable assets and boosters of morale. The remainder were a cluster of combat surgeons and survivors from Egypt’s Quartermaster Corps.

According to Ana, this merry band of defeated saps had named themselves ‘the Rejects’. They’d self-organized surprisingly well by order of competence and seniority, though they’d unanimously voted to elect the elder Amari as their overall commanding officer, much to her surprise.

“Excuse me, Miss?” A timid voice rang whilst a hand tugged at Fareeha’s sleeve. “Are you Pharah?”

‘Pharah’ blinked and looked down at a small boy in the midst of replacing their baby teeth, their smile an excitable grin. All existential matters and bitter defeats vanished, and she knelt down to issue them a sincere smile.

“That I am! But you shouldn’t be next to this vehicle, my dear.” She found herself subconsciously speaking in the same fashion she’d been spoken to in her youth. “Besides, we don’t want to make a scene. How about this, high five? In exchange for that, you can’t tell anyone I’m here juuust yet.”

Both parties agreed, committed to the friendly exchange, and parted ways.

“Captain! You’re needed!” One of the quartermasters, having been sprinting for some time, breathlessly skidded across the dirt road. She nearly fell on her back when her boots slipped on dry gravel. “What languages are Raptoras taught?”

Fareeha blinked, confused by not just the urgency, but the question. “Well- standard Arabic is my native language- but I know English, traditional Farsi, Dari, Pashto, Greek, Kurdish, Hebrew, and a little Mandarin. Why?”

“A few drivers caught a man in Israeli fatigues trying to sneak into town. Nobody knows what he’s saying.”

“Take me to him then.”

–

Ager threw his hands in the air upon being menaced with the barrel of a rifle, feeling more irritation than fear, given this was the fourth time. “I’ll say this as slowly as I can,” He proceeded to switch from Hebrew to broken Arabic. “Israel- air- force- crash- friend…”

“البقاء سخيف لا يزال!” One man shouted, the hot embers of hatred in his eyes, finger resting firmly on the trigger, while another looked toward the town for unknown reasons. “نحن لا نحب الغزاة هنا.”

He didn’t know what was being said, nor did he know if he was being commanded. Thus, he remained still with his hands raised. A third man proceeded to pat him down, stripping him of his belt and, by extension, his radio, sidearm, knife, map, and two vials of medigel. Then, his shoulders were pushed down, and he slowly lowered to his knees.

A part of him wanted to panic, resist, and flee, but he knew better than to tempt the agitated gunmen next to him. By the looks of their uniforms, they were part of the Egyptian Armed Forces and had every reason to treat him as a hostile foreigner. After all, he was in their country, and for that matter, he was executing the plans of a hostile coalition. Why wouldn’t they harbor ill intentions towards him?

“أين تقع أمونيت؟?” The man responsible for securing Ager spoke whilst blindfolding the pilot, a common practice when taking prisoners of war. “أنا لا أتكلم هراء.”

“فقط كن صبورا.” Another intoned, their steps audible to the unseeing captive.

“هل هذا هو!؟” A woman shouted from afar, her voice growing louder as she approached. “يبدو مثل ذلك.”

A new set of footsteps terminated just in front of Ager, whose blindfold was abruptly removed. He squinted as sunlight hit his eyes, but then his vision focused, and he was greeted by a stern face. Her skin was tan, irises a deep brown, and she had jet black hair with a few tiny braids dotting the overall structure of the locks. Notably, a black tattoo shaped like the Udjat Eye surrounded and extended beneath her right eye.

Fareeha Amari, in the flesh.

“Good morning. You’re Israeli?” She started in accented Hebrew, her words clear with minor errors in pronunciation. “Sorry for the roughhousing. It’s been a rough twenty-four hours.”

Ager dipped his head in greeting and swallowed to wet his dry throat. “Yes, Ma’am. I’m Israeli. Ager Cohen, Adir-7 pilot. I fly for the Kheil HaAvir.” Each word was rehearsed due to his training. Aviators in the armed forces of many nations were drilled in the conduct of SERE. This included how to conduct oneself as a POW. “I’m part of One-O’-One Fighter Squadron.”

“I know. I could tell by the patch,” Amari patted the prisoner’s shoulder before rising to her maximum height. As she went, she gently but firmly hoisted him up by the arm. “We’ll have you take it off and get you changed into regular fatigues.”

“May I ask why, Ma’am?”

“You’re IAF. Nobody can know anything about you for certain without docs from your government, but your branch is unpopular in the region for good reason,” Amari began to guide him towards the village, clicking her tongue and keeping her pace brisk. “Bombing civilians is a bad look- and most people here don’t know the difference between you and someone that carries out the strike package. Then again, you could be sick in the head too for all I know.”

Ager exhaled and stared at his feet, feeling immediate shame for his comrades’ actions, but also an innate need to defend himself. “Then I’ll clarify. Half the force’s aviators grounded themselves in protest four years ago during that Syria fiasco. Guess who nearly got court-martialed for refusing to fly back then? Orders may be orders, but orders can be wrong. A children’s hospital is a children’s hospital. I’ve got kids back home. Couldn’t imagine if they got buried under rubble. Why would I do it to some other father?”

Amari sniffed, her boots causing a gravel road to crackle as she approached a well-camouflaged vehicle. “I’ll take your word for it.” She stepped up an open ramp that led to the interior. She then helped the prisoner inside before sitting them in a chair. “Regardless, I’ll make sure you’re treated well. You’ll be fed, clothed, allowed to relieve yourself, and if possible, we’ll find a way to send you home.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. I’ll behave until then.”

Amari nodded, sat in the seat across from him, and crossed her legs. “I’ll be honest. I don’t know when that’ll happen, if at all. Null Sector picked Helix apart last night. If you’re here, I’m guessing the IAF isn’t faring too well either.”

Ager puffed out his cheeks and leaned his head against his seat’s headrest. “I don’t know how things are now, but things were FUBAR when I punched out.” He’d normally keep himself tight-lipped, but he wagered that the omnic threat was more pressing than the dubiously legal intervention of the Triumvirate.

“Figures. Look, I don’t want to keep you cuffed, and I definitely don’t want to keep you blindfolded. Helix isn’t fighting against the Triumvirate, and technically, Egypt isn’t in a state of war, declared or not with Israel,” Amari’s tone was cautious, very cautious. “In theory, you’re not a POW. We are also your best bet of making it home to your kids alive- and- we could really use an able body with a military background right now.”

“I’m not exactly a replacement for a groundpounder, but I know how to punch and I know how to shoot,” Ager spread his cuffed hands out, keeping his palms open and fingers splayed for emphasis, before setting them on his lap. “I’ll cooperate and help if it means getting home. Long as you don’t ask me for sensitive information, you won’t have any issues from me. The real question- will your buddies be okay with it?”

“No, at least, not those who are Egyptian,” Amari shook her head. “If I can convince anyone who saw you to keep it quiet, I could dress you in Helix fatigues and pass you off as a foreign operative. As a fellow aviator, I know you can speak English. Can you hide the accent?”

Ager switched to ‘aviator’ English with relative ease. “I can try my best to go for a German accent. Wife and kids speak Yiddish, same with my grandparents.” He cleared his throat and put on the thickest Rhenish-German accent he could muster. “How’s this?”

“...rough, but we have someone here that can help.”

–

“Let’s get the most pressing matter out of the way first: Null Sector.”

Maisara listened intently to Akbari’s opening statement, feeling palpable tension in the air as a plethora of different international parties convened in a large yet dark room. Tucked quietly in the heart of Amman, Jordan’s largest city and capital, the GID’s headquarters made for an excellent focal point of clandestine intentions and deliberation. Nevertheless, the choice of venue was far from enough to alleviate the potential diplomatic disaster lying in the shadows.

The Triumvirate was hardly that anymore; rather, it was a loose coalition of diverse nation-states, multiple of which had competing geopolitical interests and priorities. It had gone from a limited intervention in Egypt to a reconstruction/nation-building project, then a conventional and public relations disaster, and finally a victim of egregious operational creep.

What was most pressing was the American involvement. It was a sudden pivot, too sudden not to have an ulterior motive. For that matter, the President themself had decided to attend via hologram in place of a representative.

“The abrupt omni-insertion into Egypt has taken all of us off guard and, especially in the case of local power projection through the aerospace, harmed our capacity to operate in-theater to a disastrous degree.” Akbari huffed and straightened out a stack of papers before pinching his nose. “At present, we’re tracking no more than two command carriers and twelve major points of incursion, primarily around the Temple of Anubis, Cairo, and Helix’s Egyptian Headquarters. I’ll let my aide-de-camp take it from here.”

Maisara straightened her shoulders, cleared her throat, and began to tap away at her slate before speaking aloud.

“Thank you, Director. He is correct in his initial assessment. Null Sector’s entry to the conflict has upended everything we’ve been planning for overnight. Helix International’s presence in-theater has ceased to be meaningful. I don’t need to explain how that’s problematic. Our strategy partially- dare I say heavily- hinged on a gradual erosion of international support for the company’s mission. The hope WAS to eventually absorb pre-existing Egyptian and Helix formations on the ground and leverage that presence to create a foundation for us. These formations have ceased to exist.

“That said, Null Sector does not appear to be establishing a firm foothold in the region. For starters, even a force like it requires some form of capacity for sustainment. If it wants to entrench itself, it needs far more than the resources it’s allocated to this campaign. Between that, the swiftness of the group’s movements, and the choice in targets, we suspect that this is a much more limited action with focused objectives.

“If we commit ourselves to a costly war in the medium or long term, we’d win. This isn’t optimism, this isn’t arrogance. This is a simple fact. The number of machinist personnel operating in-theater is only in the tens of thousands, with little to no operational reserves believed to exist. The number of aerospace-craft being fielded is anemic, capable as they are. With American and potential Turkish support, we can match the omnics in terms of quality and airpower. Not only that, we can outnumber them with just the addition of a single carrier group, not to mention the rest of the Triumvirate’s capacity.

“Null Sector is a short-term concern and problem, but it isn’t the only problem, and it is by no means a long-term matter. Unless it commits a significant portion of its overall force to its efforts, which it can’t if it wants to maintain its assistance to the Omnium in Russia, there WILL be a future without it in the Middle East. While we shouldn’t underestimate the group or look at this with blind optimism, we need to start planning a postwar future for Egypt. I yield my time.”

Maisara could have very easily gone on for longer, much longer, but she decided against such a thing. Almost everything she’d stated was known to just about every agency with even a toe dipped into the matter. In fact, she was primarily relying on American and Israeli-supplied intelligence just to read her statement aloud. Anything that was known only to the GID would be kept close to her chest for a minute longer.

Who knew what the others were keeping hidden just under the table?

“Thank you, but the United States is of the opinion that Null Sector should be THE concern at this moment. Long-term planning is important, but it can be relegated to the background.” Ainsley’s projection stood from its seat and began to meander around the table. Another projection, this one of the Temple of Anubis, materialized over the table. “The NRO, in collaboration with the CIA, has been using our orbital infrastructure to monitor digital activity around Helix and the Temple of Anubis.”

“Mighty convenient that you waited until now to share,” Maisara commented, earning a silent reprimand from Akbari. “The GID monitors the Temple of Anubis at all hours of the day. We know nothing about what’s happening on the ground. Only that Null Sector has occupied it.”

“We believe that the leading figure, codenamed Barycenter, emerged with Anubis’ matrix.” Ainsley snapped their fingers, and new files blipped across the various handheld slates. “Considering Helix has an emergency kill-switch, it’s been developing in Egypt for some time, it stands to reason that Barycenter tried to take it by force.”

“A kill switch?” Zahavy piped from across the table, leaning forward. “I thought that program was canceled when Overwatch failed to create a piece of code fast enough to outpace the God-Programs’ firewalls.”

“The UN quietly reactivated it without a public vote after Helix took over,” Maisara recalled the history aloud, eyeing the ceiling whilst chewing her lip. “When it became clear that a symbolic trial and imprisonment was a bad long-term solution and attempts to breach the Faraday cage went horribly wrong- you can do the rest of the math. We certainly did.”

Ainsley nodded with a satisfactory grin, staring at the Jordanians in unspoken praise. Then, they gestured to the central holographic projection and carried on with their talk. “That’s the GID for you. World-class. Now, by the sounds of it, Barycenter didn’t get the switch, which we’re calling Pandora’s Box, or the Box for short. Someone else got it out of Helix before it was taken out back and put down like a sick dog.”

Maisara peeked at one of her papers, knowing that certain materials were too sensitive to digitize. Briefly, she glanced at Akbari, who gave her a nod of approval. “We might know who. It’s no secret to any competent agency that Overwatch has many ghosts. Ana Amari and Jack Morrison are among them. Ana’s name cropped up multiple times across local chatter. She’s rallying an effort.

“More notably, there have been mentions of a package, and for that matter, she made sure to extract Angela Ziegler beforehand. If there is any mind on this earth that can make the kill switch work, it’s Mercy.”

Akbari coughed into a closed fist and shifted in his seat to take over, deciding to speak for the rest of this particular joust. “We’ve also been monitoring old backchannels Helix never bothered to erase since Ziegler attempted to make contact with an as-of-yet unidentified individual. We’re now aware of two ex-Blackwatch agents going active. Cole Cassidy, who was already wanted in the United States, and Genji Shimada, who hasn’t been seen in some time. They might be attempting to extract Amari and Ziegler from Egypt.”

Ainsley nodded solemnly and looked ever-so-thoughtful before replying. “We’ve been aware of the two’s movements. Truth be told, I have half a mind to let it happen. I’m not calling for a reactivation of Overwatch, but if anyone can make a clean infil and exfil in Egypt? I hate to admit it, but I want to say it’s them. That said, the Canadians do have CSOR. We could ask them for aid. They’d assist once they understand the gravity of the situation.”

“We all have our own detachments ready and able to respond,” Zahavy grumbled in challenge. “Why bring another party into this?”

“The United States can’t be everywhere at once, not as it is now. And, for that matter, you need everything you’ve got for kicking Null-Sector out.” Maisara quickly guessed the American President’s calculus. “Besides, Mossad is in far too much disarray after that spectacle in the air to provide actionable intelligence. We need action now. The Canadians are, as per their agreements with the Security Council, in a unique position to put CSOR and JTF2 anywhere in the world within hours.”

If only that were enough.

–

Angela kept close to Ana as the two wandered down a poorly-paved promenade, watching the locals go about their day as if they weren’t in a country at war. There was a strange peace to it. The calm was welcome, but it wasn’t a calm in the sense of no activity. In fact, the market stalls facilitated quite a hustle and bustle. The calm came from the lack of violence and sense of normalcy.

“Are you sure you’re not hungry? I know you’ve refused, but I can purchase you and Fareeha a meal.” The older woman asked whilst further securing her balaclava. Keeping her identity hidden from the wider public was prudent, even if her gaggle of armed misfits remained aware of the truth. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Not particularly, no. I want to busy my hands with work. Nothing more or less,” The good doctor replied coolly, keeping herself civil but otherwise terse. “Just take me to Jack.”

“He said you wouldn’t want to see us. It seems like he was right.”

“I’m on guard. I’m not in the most… agreeable state of mind.” Angela knit her eyebrows together for a moment, shooting her guide a skeptical look. On one hand, she was elated to have two friends and mentors back from the dead. On the other, she didn’t know how to broach their monstrous dishonesty, nor did she know how they’d changed in the years since.

Perhaps she’d figure it out shortly.

“I need to look you over, too. You look underweight,” She added, recalling the gauntness of the other’s cheeks. “And you’ve lost height. Regardless, I’m assuming you’ve done the best you can for Jack?”

Ana nodded and pointed to a dilapidated structure that looked as if it had been derelict for years. Based on its appearance and the few words Angela could recognize on signs, it was a former hotel. It wasn’t a surprise that it ran out of business then. The likelihood of tourists coming to visit was slim to none, even in peacetime.

Stepping inside, she was met with a barren lobby stripped of its carpet and furniture. She’d expected it to be run-down, and run-down the hotel was. It was dusty, stuffy, riddled with cobwebs, with cracked tiling and out-of-date construction practices. Moving through a few equally derelict rooms took them into a kitchen, and following that, an underground cellar.

The cellar itself was an empty mud-brick outcrop sitting just underground, connecting to the hotel’s kitchen through a small flight of steps. The only signs of life were the sleeping bags and boxes of stolen equipment, all of which had been gathered by the two vigilantes. Then, there was the large, old, and definitely stolen futon bed containing a resting figure.

They were masculine, very much so, with well-defined muscles lining their exposed torso and plenty of scars to boot. Their face was chiseled and clear-cut, and that stare. That hardened, resolute stare was unforgettable.

Jack Morrison.

He looked older and worse for wear, too. His once blonde hair had completely whitened and looked visibly brittle, indicating vitamin deficiency. Crow’s feet lined his baggy eyes, and two large scars rushed across his face. He was also badly burned, lacerated, and riddled with bruises all over his visage. The years hadn’t been kind, and for that matter, neither had recent days.

Despite that, however…

… It was good to see him.

It was good to see them both.

For a moment, just the most infinitesimal moment of moments, all her animosity vanished.

“You look good for a dead man,” Angela hummed, giving the old soldier a sad, tired smile that carried with it a million stories she wanted to tell. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

Jack grunted in reply, looking away with a knowing awkwardness and tension to his shoulders. Once, he’d never have shunned her aid. Self-dependency, it seemed, had been ingrained in his psyche. It was certainly how he’d survived for so long. Though the lack of a verbose response also stung a little. At the very least, Ana had the decency to offer to buy food when things had quieted down.

“Burns, infected lacerations, poorly healed bullet wounds, bruising… all of this at a glance. Who knows what I’ll find when I take a closer look? Were you an ORDINARY human being, you’d be flat on your back dead by now.” Angela settled on her knees next to the bed, bidding the older man to sit up so she could do her work. Her tone, sounding like that of a scolding parent, was enough to make Ana chuckle in the background.

“I make do,” Jack finally spoke in a low tone, almost akin to a hostile growl. “Just do what you have to so I can-”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you mean to tell me that this is a state-of-the-art facility in Zurich and I didn’t realize it?” Angela snapped and shushed him with a finger. “This is a wine cellar, not a genetics lab. Argh. Rotzlӧffel!”

At being called a ‘snotty brat’, Jack’s harsh demeanor softened just that little bit, his lips creasing into traces of a smile. “Glad to see you’re more willing to shoot back for once, Angela,” He replied in bright, clear German. “I am.. happy to see you.”

She ran her palm along a charred bicep, allowing bits of her body’s colony of nanites to escape herself and enter a grievous injury. “I always wondered what it would be like to talk to you and everyone else again.” She spoke in a low voice, scoffing in mild amusement when she was met with a grunt. “I didn’t think that I would get the chance, and I certainly didn’t think it would be in the cellar of some fossil of a building you and the equally-alive Ana squat in.”

“It beats taking care of his festering wounds in the sand,” Ana playfully returned, keeping a tenderness to her voice as she flicked a portable stove on. “Would you like some tea, Angie?”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

“Thanks for this, Doc. I know there’s plenty to talk about,” The old Strike Commander rolled his freshly healed shoulder. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“Hm- being rudely awakened by my dead half-guardian during an emotionally tumultuous time in my life, only to find myself fleeing in terror from yet another band of genocidal machines isn’t an ideal way to find out. I agree.” Angela huffed, pulling back to let her machines do their work. Then, she retrieved a nearby canteen of water from the ground and brought it to the recovering man’s lips.

Jack, however, refused the item and sat up, much to his physician’s chagrin. “I don’t like putting folks in danger. Got a lot of powerful people pissed off, and even more with good reason to shoot me and anyone next to me. You’re also pretty clear about where you stand on Overwatch.”

“I’ll be honest, I’m not so sure what I believe anymore as far as the glory days go.” She rubbed her heavy eyelids and yawned. That was when it hit her- she wasn’t feeling angry.

Any rational human being would be spiteful, filled with rage, hurting, and frothing at the mouth in her situation. Despite that, talking to Jack over a simple nanite treatment, abiding by the commands of Ana, all while knowing that Fareeha was a few minutes away? It felt right- more right than she’d felt in a great deal of time.

“You know, you’ve definitely changed, Angie. You really have.” Ana passed a steaming tin mug to her younger counterpart. “You’ve grown so, so much.”

That was hardly a cold comfort. In fact, it was quite the opposite, serving to insult and even mildly distress. “I don’t particularly think you can say that to me. Neither of you can. I’d actually argue that I’ve about lost my head entirely.”

Angela clicked her tongue and pinched the bridge of her nose. “It seems somewhere along the way, we collectively lost sight of ourselves. Just last night, I was on the verge of what felt like psychosis. I saw Ana and believed I’d broken from reality, that my psyche was evanescing in real-time. Before that, I was getting drunk in my apartment.”

There was no reply to that. Nothing whatsoever.

“You know, you really ought to stop with these crusades, the both of you,” She finally voiced a statement she’d been wanting to make since learning of their fates and actions post-Overwatch. “You’re doing more harm than good.”

“Collateral damage is an unavoidable part of war,” Jack voiced matter-of-factly. “Besides, my enemies are your enemies too.”

“Oh, yes, because I too made myself an 'enemy' of the United States’ government, the entirety of Germany’s banking system, Helix International, every major crime syndicate, LumeriCo… and those are just the ones Ana told me about.”

“They’re just obstacles to the truth, and I’m getting too close for them to stop me.”

“The truth? Please,” Angela shot back flatly.

“The truth about what happened to Overwatch. Everything leads to Talon, Switzerland, and beyond. My mission is to get to the bottom of it.”

“You’re obsessed.”

“And you’ve given up!” Jack pointed an accusatory, and frankly, truthful finger at the blonde woman. “What happened to that bright-eyed kid whose paper I read back in the day?!”

“She grew up!” Angela hissed in fury and stood, returning the tea to Ana before starting back up the stairs. Her good mood was leaving just as soon as it came.

–

She needed rest.

Fareeha. Needed. Rest.

That was all she could think about.

All she wanted was something to lie down on, and thus, she was headed toward the structure her mother had established as a headquarters of sorts. Presumably, Angela was also there treating Morrison, but that was a problem to tend to when she wasn’t about to drop dead from sleep deprivation.

The closer she got to the hotel-turned-command center, the more armed men she saw. Good- everyone was abiding by their assigned roles and positions. No more milling about aimlessly.

“Excuse me, Captain?” A man dressed in the uniform of an El-Sa’aka commando briefly intercepted her, not saluting and keeping his voice low. “I know you’re a Raptora. Do you have a moment?”

As much as Fareeha wanted to groan and send the other away, she would hear what they had to say. “Yes. What is it?”

“I haven’t had the chance to tell you until now, but I was with one of yours before everything went from south to.. you know,” He puffed air from his mouth and retrieved a few objects from his pocket. “Did you know a man named Saleh?”

‘Did you…’

The phrasing of the question created a pit in the Captain’s stomach, and she began to eye the man’s closed hand with mounting concern. “Yes. Why? Do you know where he is? Is he alive?”

“...he was with one of my guys when Talon-” The commando shook his head and held out a pair of bloodied dog tags, a small rock, and other personal effects. “...it was quick. I’m sorry.”

Fareeha silently accepted the stained items and stared at them, failing to suppress the shell-shocked expression that exposed her true feelings to the world. “I- thanks. Get yourself cleaned up and fed when you can,” She forced down the grief in favor of donning the mask of an officer. “And if you haven’t already, make sure a medic looks you over.”

She quickly brushed by, slowly wrangling her facial features into submission. To others, she’d temporarily display a stone-cold demeanor. In private was another matter.

She went through the hotel doors and into the lobby, catching sight of a visibly disquieted Angela and a masked Ana. She would ignore them, despite the latter making a greeting.

The elevator was out, necessitating the use of a stairwell with rotted wooden steps, but anything was preferable to being among company. Finally, Fareeha started down a hall on the second story and opened a door with an ‘unoccupied’ sign carved into its frame. Thankfully, the quartermasters had come in early to clear out clutter and clean as much of each room as possible.

They even left camouflaged futons with thin blankets on the ground as a courtesy, though most spaces certainly just had sleeping bags, assuming there was anything at all.

She wouldn’t waste this stroke of luck, pulling out a knife to cross out the sign before carving an ‘o’ and her name into the wood. Finally, she flopped onto the futon and stared at the ceiling. Most of her wanted to cry, but a small portion refused to entertain the notion.

It wasn’t safe to sob. Not yet.

Then, she began to look at Saleh’s hot stone, recalling that half-assed excuse for a practical joke he’d made. If only she’d had half a mind to grab HER rock when Helix fell. She didn’t know he’d kept one for himself at the time.

A few minutes of sulking later, the door opened after a gentle knock, and a few hesitant footsteps resonated. Following that, Fareeha heard a bag drop to the ground. She looked to the right and saw Angela’s blue eyes looking down at her with worry.

“Your mother asked me to bring this to you. Local attire and a scarf, despite the heat of the latter. She wants you to wear it since drones were spotted nearby,” The doctor explained with a tight throat, likely straining under the weight of the other party’s lame glare. “...if Null Sector and Talon see this group, they see a gaggle of soldiers wandering aimlessly. If they see you, me, or her, they see a target of importance.”

“I’m not an idiot, I know. What do you want, Angela?”

This made the other look at her feet to contemplate what to ask. Then, she moved over to the door and quietly shut it. “Are you…” She started but failed to say anything more for naught but a second. “...feeling well? I’m worried.”

“How sweet of you to care. It would have been nice to have this attention years ago,” Fareeha reflexively fired back with bitterness, her fresh despair doing little to help her mask the venom in her words. “I’m obviously not doing well! Your famous angelic hospitality isn’t needed right now.”

“I don’t think you have much room to talk at present,” Angela rebuked, though her ‘annoyed’ tone was far less heated. Instead, it was cool and collected, just as it used to be when they were mere teens. “You kept Ana’s survival a secret from me. I would be livid, but my reserves of emotional and physical energy were exhausted on tending to Jack.”

“Well, I-”

“Nothing. You will say nothing, Fareeha, because you’ve said all there is to say many times already,” The angel began to sit cross-legged, just next to the furious Raptora. “That isn’t to invalidate your feelings of hurt. I wounded you, and your mother did the same to a far harsher degree. You don’t need to forgive me, or her, but know that I still care and hold your value close to my heart.”

This- this was the true Angela. This was the Angela who was articulate and measured even under pressure. This was the Angela who could conduct surgery amidst any scenario. This was the Angela who knew how to empathize with others and connect to them at a deeper level.

It served as cold water to Fareeha’s fire, and for that matter, caused her to reflect on herself. She’d been brash, angry, quick to lash out, and deeply unhealthy in her approach to past traumas of late. Furthermore, her jab at the other woman just now wasn’t borne from betrayal, but a need to angrily shout in agony as a new wound was opened.

They needed to talk, candidly, deeply about what they’d both endured. Both women needed to have a conversation neither was ready for soon, very soon. But soon wasn’t now, and petty bickering was the last thing they needed.

In the interim, a truce.

“You’re right,” Fareeha sighed and closed her eyes, pulling the blanket over herself. “I- I just lost another friend. I shouldn’t use that as an excuse to take it out on you.”

Much to her surprise, she felt something settle next to her, just under the blanket.

“I hope this isn’t an overstep on my behalf, but the other rooms are either occupied or have nothing to recline on,” Angela was quick to clarify her intentions. “...I don’t want you to be alone, either.”

Fareeha didn’t bother to reciprocate or grow closer. Rather, she scooted to the left to create a degree of separation between the two. “Stay if you want. I’m too tired to kick you out.”

“Do you want to talk about it? I- I can see the stone.”

“About Saleh?” She chewed her lip and rolled onto her side, facing the wall instead of the other woman. “No, not really. I want to sleep on it.”

“If it helps, I too am… It’s been nothing short of helacious as of late. I know it’s difficult.”

Fareeha’s lips parted, and her breath hitched, her nails working at the sheet as she resisted the urge to speak aloud. Then, finally, it came out. “He was a brother to me. Both of them were. Tariq and Saleh were more like family than my actual family, frankly. I mean- sometimes I visit my dad, but it just isn’t the same anymore.”

She sat up to rid her eyes of tears, brushing an arm across the bridge of her nose and using the sleeve to soak up droplets. “Between them, Helix just… falling apart? You? Mother? What’s happening to Egypt? It’s too much. I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

“Jack told me I’d given up just a few minutes ago,” Angela replied, seemingly veering off-topic, though these turns were always part of a larger point. “Perhaps he’s right, but I don’t think the same can be said for you.”

“...I’m listening.”

“Fareeha, there has always been this spark in you- this fire that can’t be smothered. No matter how much it rains, regardless of the floods, you burn bright in the night.” The Swiss woman gingerly touched her fingertips to the back of Fareeha’s shirt. “I still see it now. It’s in your eyes.”

“I- I don’t really want a pep talk right now, Angie,” Fareeha laid down again, resting her hands on her stomach. “But- thank you for trying and- thanks for everything else.”

“I understand thanking me for talking to you, but what else have I done?”

“You could’ve run, you know. You didn’t need to stick with me when I tried to execute what amounted to a suicide mission, but you did. You’ve been with me right until the end. Thanks for keeping your promise.”

“It was the least I could do. The moment you gave me your ultimatum, that I could choose to leave your life or stay?” Angela sighed deeply, surprising the Raptora by wrapping an arm around their middle and pulling them into her for a reclining embrace. “I realized I couldn't abandon you again. I won’t waste this chance you’ve given me, my dearest, and only, friend.”

In an instant, a thousand butterflies came back to life, revived through verbal necromancy to flutter around Fareeha’s chest.

‘Oh- oh God. I still love her.’

Chapter Text

Angela couldn't say why she decided to clumsily cling to Fareeha’s back. It was an action taken on simple instinct with no thought. She expected a rebuke, a demand for her departure, or perhaps a shouting fest. Regardless, her mind expected rancid rejection to meet her affection, and she hoped for that in part. It made things simpler, clarified boundaries, and allowed her to withdraw to her mental corner once again.

But she did not receive a reprimand, protest, or even a whisper. Instead, she felt the other briefly grasp her arm and tenderly hold it in place even as their shoulders stiffened. This was worse, infinitely worse, the worst-case scenario. Then, her arm was released, giving her a chance to pull away, but she was too afraid to do so.

Fareeha hadn’t EXPLICITLY told her to withdraw, nor had they made an attempt to shrug free of the closeness. They were tense, but not abrasive. They were receptive, but not yearning.

At least, that was what Angela could gather from the woman she was clinging to. Thus, in limbo she remained, too petrified to so much as twitch. She even forgot to breathe until her lungs started to riot. Her cheeks were flushed with heat, and her heart erratically began to skip beats. Furthermore, she felt abject terror worm its way into her chest. Whatever this was, she both hated and craved it.

“I- do you want me to stay?” She blurted as the silence became too much to bear. She needed clarity, she needed to know where things stood. Were the two of them estranged women forced together by tragic circumstances, both loathing and caring for one another? Were they perhaps friends rekindling their bond one talk at a time? Something else?

It seemed like they went from intense toxicity to acceptance and understanding at the flick of a wrist.

Fareeha’s head tipped up for a moment, only to settle back down. She shrugged her shoulders and remained rigid, her tone lukewarm at best. “I don’t mind either way. Stay or go. It’s up to you, Angela. I’m tired.”

That wasn’t helpful.

It was too much- all too much.

Angela needed to withdraw, think, or process by her lonesome for a time as she always did. Her mental health was as decrepit as the manners of a cow with Encelapothy rotting its brain; extremely volatile and destructive. Fareeha, Egypt, Overwatch, Ana, Jack, Null Sector, Helix, her technology, her place in the world, her core fundamental beliefs, the harsh realities of the universe at large- all were clashing against one another in ways she failed to cope with.

Mulling these matters over in private with little stimulation from other human beings wasn’t just optimal, it was a necessity. Yes, to retreat into herself and put up walls while she problem-solved was how she’d always survived in life. From her youth to the present, this was the way of Angela Ziegler.

‘You really are something- and I like that.’

Fareeha’s words to her as teenagers began to creep into her graymatter. It was a distraction, and an unwelcome one.

‘You’re honest. Very blunt but honest.’

Angela pulled back and stood from the futon, momentarily pausing to see if the other woman would react. She exited the room upon seeing no movements from the other. Instead, she started back down the stairs towards the lobby. Space- she needed space.

‘You know, there’s something else about you that I like. You’re kind.’

“Pull yourself together, Ziegler,” Angela muttered to herself as the poisonous memories made her stomach churn. A stinging prickle started to prod at her neck, turning to a wobbling tingle which made the heart palpitate violently. Her throat tightened, and her head began to grow light. She didn’t know what was happening, but thinking about how it felt only made it more intense.

‘You need to live your LIFE! You’re not just your work, Angela.’

She descended past the lobby and quickly meandered into the empty kitchen, grateful to find nobody present at all. She hiccuped and almost choked on plain air, water blurring her vision as she leaned her arms against a wall and stared at her feet. Was this what having a panic-attack was like? Because this matched precisely what her patients would always describe to her.

‘...I barely have you in my life too.’

She’d dealt with traumatic episodes and even anxiety- but this was another animal altogether. It was raw, primal fear and upset taking away all rational thought in place of instinct and nauseating terror.

‘She really did adore you.’

Not that moment- anything but that.

‘She’d be glad to know you’re here.’

Angela used the side of her fist to pound a wall once, gulping and hissing through gritted teeth. She was so close to collapse, so completely and utterly close, but she couldn’t- she had to breathe. She had to hypothesize, test, and provide solutions to the problem herself, just as she always did.

‘You’re just leaving? You only just got here!’

The pain in Fareeha’s voice cut deep even now, and the fallen angel's legs began to quiver and bend, her head lowering to her chest.

‘Please don’t leave me alone.’

“Doc?” A new voice entered the fray, prompting Angela to straighten her back, shooting up like a firework. In the process, she thumped her head against the wall and began to stagger away in a daze. A firm hand caught her by the bicep before she could fall, and she was met with the grizzled expression of an aging dead man.

“Jack?” That was all she initially managed to say, going half limp and compelling the out-of-bed Strike Commander to pull her up and onto her feet. “I- you should be in bed!”

“I was until I heard you having a stroke from downstairs.” Came Jack’s answer. He set a hand on each of the smaller individual’s shoulders to steady them before drawing back. “What happened?”

“I’m just taking a moment to think!” Angela sniffed and swallowed, tipping her head down to obtain a poker face. “That is all. You, sir, need to rest! Extensive nanite treatments can be hell on the body- even for you.”

“If taking a moment to think involves blubbering like you’ve been hit with tear gas, then I’d’ve been Einstein as a rookie.”

“To bed with you. Now.” Angela jerked her hand towards the cellar’s stairs, pointing for emphasis.

“Not happening. What’s got you worked up?” Jack folded his arms and tipped his chin upwards, a habit from his glory days when he needed to assert authority. “Never seen you act like this.”

“You haven’t seen me in some time,” She retorted, rubbing her wrist with a hand. “This isn’t Overwatch. I don’t need to tell you something when I’m ordered to.”

“I’m not ordering you to talk. I’m just firmly asking for a report.” The corner of Jack’s mouth curled up just that little bit, a hint of his old self. “Or are you too busy to hear an old man preach?”

Angela crashed the bottom of her palm to her scalp and sighed briskly. “Fine, you want to know? Then let’s go over this ‘report’ of mine!”

And go over it she did. All of it. From her abandonment of Fareeha to the present.

At times, she expected her woes to be shot down or dismissed as trivial, childish matters, but that wasn’t to be. Instead, Jack maintained the expression he’d once given to troubled persons under his watch. It was one of care, not concern or disquiet per se, but there was intent behind those pupils.

“Let me stop you for a moment, Angela,” He raised a diplomatic hand, the tough vigilante mask dropping in favor of the once-noble commander. “I’ll be honest with you. It sounds like you’ve hit your limit.”

“People like us don’t get to have limits. On that, we can agree, or at least I thought we could.” Angela looked away, not sure where this was headed. “When was the last time you stopped to take a breath?”

“More recently than you might think- and I know you don’t believe what you just said. Everyone has a wall, even me.” On cue, he grunted and lurched forward, his muscles likely starting to lose sync with his mind due to the nanites. “Help me downstairs, would you?”

She nodded and did as much, supporting the superhuman’s weight to the best of her ability right up until she got him to bed. “I told you.”

“You did, and I didn’t listen. Guess what? I hit a wall just now,” Jack expertly turned her words against her, though it was not out of malice. “When we’re hurt bad, we gotta rest, take a moment to recover. You lectured everyone over it all the time. Well, sometimes the mind gets hurt too- and you definitely know that given your THIRD PhD was in psychology.

“Anyways. Being on the run all this time hasn’t been easy. I’ll admit that. Obstacles need to be overcome, sure, but sometimes I need to take a breather. Reset, refocus. How am I supposed to take on the whole world if I’m too busy fighting my own damn headf? You don’t do that, Doc. You haven’t since you first joined Overwatch. Instead of actually refocusing, you just think of a patchwork solution and roll with the punches.

“Your thinking-freakouts are just a half-assed way of coming up with a solution. I’ll be frank- because I do keep tabs on you and everyone else- you’ve been running. You like to tell yourself that you go from place to place, never talking, never settling, trying to help as many people as you can. Sure, that’s definitely part of the objective, but you know damn well that if you sit still for even a second?”

Jack’s brows knit together before he continued.

“Everything will catch up to you, and you’ll fall apart. That’s exactly what’s happening right now. So, to ask YOU your own question- when was the last time YOU stopped to take a breath?”

Angela’s jaw was agape, feeling totally exposed and unable to deny the utterly factual words of the man before her. This was precisely why he was made Strike Commander after Ana’s departure- his ability to read people and situations, and his ability to calculate a plan based on that. Even his time as Soldier: 76 hadn’t dulled that sharp edge.

Jack swallowed, sighed, and sat back in bed. “Hit the nail on the head, didn’t I?”

“...that you did,” Angela’s shoulders slumped, eyelids drooping. “...I once told Fareeha that I left her because I felt that my presence would do more harm than good.”

“Seems like she’s on your mind a lot.”

“She is. But- to continue- I recently had nothing short of a manic episode in front of her, and for a moment, a bitter part of me sprang forth. I told her that I ought to have killed myself in German for starters. Then, I told her that she’d gotten her wish, that the fake smiles were gone. Then, it was like a volcano erupted, and words of black ran down in pyroclastic flows.”

A pause, swallow, and a breath.

“Jack, I am not a bitter woman. I want to see the good in us all, to realize hopes for a better tomorrow no matter how difficult, but it feels like the whole world disagrees with me,” Angela stared at the palms of her hands, imagining them soaked in the blood she’d spill if she’d taken on a different mentality in a life of vengeance. “I believe all war is irrational, that all conflict is destructive and pointless. I am opposed to violence in every sense of the word, to the point that I have only ever used a blaster capable of incapacitating, not killing.”

Jack nodded in kind, briefly turning to reach for his canteen to take a sip before reclining again. He didn’t speak, however, listening as he’d once done back in Switzerland.

And for that, Angela was grateful. This was liberating in a way she’d thought impossible- or at least mostly so. Still, there were many things that she refused or lacked the ability to say aloud, that nobody save for perhaps Fareeha could pull from her. What she said was true and heartfelt, but not complete.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone, but it seems as though the world is always trying to force my hand. I am a peaceful woman in a warring world, and for that, I am called naive. I’m not blind to our violent nature. I just want to bring out the kindness instead. Is that so wrong? I’m not you, or Ana, or Fareeha. I don’t want a war to fight. I want a society to better. I don’t want an adversary to conquer. I want a scholar to debate.”

At this, Jack worked his jaw and asked a simple if blunt question. “So why do you do it? Why join Overwatch? Why go to every single wartorn hellscape on the planet?”

“Because there is a difference between zeal and devotion to a philosophy that rejects reality in favor of blind faith, and a recognition of the world as it is. I see this species. I see that it’s violent. I know it is. I know that we are a people defined by war and conflict, even as we claim to hate it. Because I recognize that, I want to work with it, and slowly work to change us as a whole- even in my own, small, insignificant way.”

The ex-commander exhaled through his nostrils and shook his head. “Angie- look…” He started, using the nickname given to her by many who knew her personally. “...I’m a proud man. I’m a stubborn fucking man- no way around it- but even I can admit when I’m wrong. You haven’t given up. Dammit, you’re quite literally the strongest woman I have ever- EVER- had the privilege to meet. If you can say all this, you’re still committed.”

“I-” That brought the wind back to Angela’s lungs. It was like being praised by a father, or perhaps a much older brother. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I wish I could be like you, you know. Always have, really. You’re not perfect. You’re not the angel that the world thought Mercy was. You’re a human being, not a godsend. But the fact that you can look me in the eye and tell me about your manifesto with a straight face- even if I know you’re not giving me the whole story- that gives me everything I need to know. You can look at anything and keep hope for the best alive.”

Jack stared at his recovering arm, frowning and shaking his head despondently. “You’re better than me. Sure, you’ve got your moments, but you’re not letting yourself become a cynic entirely. Maybe that’s why I was an ass to you- why I’ve been an ass to Ana. Don’t be like me, Angie. Don’t be a sad, bitter old man stuck in the past.”

“You can always change, you know,” Angela said softly, seeing a glimmer of light in the darkness. “I truly believe that.”

“Maybe once, sure, but it’s too late for that. I’m in too deep and I’m too close to the end.” His stare grew more resolute, hardening as if he was catching a glimpse of some unseen prize. “I’ve gotta see this through. But you? You’ve been telling the world to shove it all this time. Keep doing it.”

“Thank you, Strike Commander.” The angel smiled, her spirits uplifted and soothed. “Maybe I should talk to Fareeha… finally understand where things stand.”

“Funny- didn’t think I’d ever be called that again- and yeah- do that before it’s too late,” Jack affirmed, closing his eyes. “I’ll listen to that advice of yours. See you when I wake up.”

Angela thought back to her advice to Fareeha, realizing that all this time- she’d never been abiding by them. Her statement, as true as it was heartfelt, stemmed from real loss, but she wasn't leading by example.

‘We are rarely prepared to say goodbye when the time comes.’

Dammit all- there was still that pontoon bridge Fareeha described once. It was time to finally cross it.

–

The Kennedy Center’s opera house never changed. It was an opulent amphitheater capable of hosting nearly three thousand occupants. It was styled like something out of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries with hints of more recent technology therein. Red hues dominated the old wooden landscape, courtesy of the carpets, curtains, cushions on seats, and so on and so forth.

Notably, a few light strips lined every walkway with a few holographic letters and numbers, colored orange, denoting rows and seats. Most notable was the more recent addition to the house. The ceiling had been extended years ago to allow for floating platforms to billow above, offering a true bird’s-eye view of prospective performances. When the show began, these booths would suspend themselves high in the air, making them nearly impossible to reach.

Nearly.

Cassidy found the process of getting up top quite easy. The ceiling was under maintenance, meaning there was plenty of scaffolding for him to clamber upon and move through. It was like a jungle gym, but more life-threatening. The harder part was navigating the apparatus without being spotted by eagle-eyed security drones and Secret Service sharpshooters, of which at least two dozen littered about the area.

Ainsley always did take security seriously.

That was why the cowboy regarded his next steps as crucial- because the security-minded POTUS was deliberately forgoing any protective company on their platform. They were alone, deliberately so, which meant that they anticipated some form of self-invited company. Or rather, they were expecting a rogue-ish gunslinger to make themselves known.

Snipers all around, drones with guided micro-missiles to boot- and not a single soul in arm’s reach capable of acting on a security breach?

Cassidy knew better than to jump at such obvious bait.

Was this perhaps a drawn-out way of inviting him to talk? Was it actually just genuinely half-assed bait as it seemed? Perhaps there was something else afoot?

‘Live a lot, die hot,’ He thought to himself before dangling from a beam and dropping onto the President’s platform without a noise. ‘Let’s see what they’ve got.’

“I see you got the memo,” Ainsley glanced over their shoulder casually, their padded metal seat turning to face the intruder. “I was wondering when you’d show up. Figured you would after the Guard rolled out west.”

“You already know I ain’t a fan of backroom ballrooms. Never have been, but my hands've been forced.” Cassidy admitted, not bothering to lower his voice to a whisper, given their distance from the crowd and orchestra below. “Especially when they’re literally at a ball.”

“This isn’t a ball, Cole.”

“Let’s not get too comfy here. Jus’ Cassidy‘ll do,” He sat in a neighboring chair, looking over golden rails to eye the performance. “Let me start by saying fuck you, and fuck your backstabbin’. You’re really gonna throw your hat in with the Triumvirate? I’m a dirty man with dirty hands, Ainsley, and even I know when somethin’s a low blow.”

“And let me start by saying to stop being so goddamn naive. I gave you and your cyborg buddy an out,” Ainsley rolled their eyes and returned the chair to its original spot, crossing their legs and leaning a cheek against a closed fist. “I’ve got everyone else willing to see how far your crazy little operation gets before the omnics kill you. You can probably get past us anyway, but it sure makes your job easier.”

Cassidy warily eyed a drone that wandered by, its multiple blue lenses fixating on the overall environment, scanning for would-be threats. “Uh-huh. Right, and let’s just say that a certain someone in Toronto- with contacts that don’t exist- has not delivered a memo- which doesn’t say that the Canadians are getting ready to extract a certain someone- that is not in Egypt.”

“It’s called having more than one basket with more than one chicken coop,” Ainsley shrugged with indifference and nestled farther back in their seat. “You’re a gun for hire, always have been. You’ve never been one for planning an op. Blackwatch didn’t keep you around for your negotiating skills, let alone your ability to lead.”

“Tough critique, and true, and that’s why it ain’t me doin’ that plannin’. That’s for the peanut addict. I’m just here to figure out what the hell you’re doin’ by launchin’ a coup’de’etat on foreign policy, because your crap is what’s makin’ our lives harder. Is this some sort of election stunt? Tryna get a rally ‘round the flag?”

Ainsley pursed their lips and shook their head in blatant irritation. “Idiot. Most Americans don’t realize it, but the United States isn’t the powerhouse it used to be. Of course, we’ve got more carrier groups than anyone and our tech is on par with the best the world can offer, but consider for a moment. Only two of those carriers are actually ready for a fight. The rest look pretty, and that’s about it.

“Yearly recruitment is the lowest it's been in a hundred years, retention is nonexistent, and the armed forces have about as many people as they did in the late 1990s. That's not enough for today's environment. We need drones to fill in the gaps, which is perfectly doable, but Congress doesn’t exactly like lifting the ceiling, and the country defaulted on its debt twice in two decades. Defense procurement is abysmal, and our industrial base could maybe sustain a consumption of, say, eight thousand artillery shells a day for six months. You can guess how bad it is for everything else.

“Our pilots and airframes are the cream of the crop- too bad the Air Force doesn’t have the budget it needs to give all of them enough flight hours. That’s not even getting into the fact that it took eight years for the Marines to select a new helmet, and don’t even get me started on the Army. The only things that get what they need are intelligence, the Navy, and the Army National Guard. The latter two tend to blow their budget on useless shit to avoid getting a pay cut.

“Then we have the endemic corruption in state officials- and getting back to Congress for a second- they basically hate military spending these days unless it’s for internal policing actions and Alaska. Some crazy bitch of a congresswoman tried to impeach me for joining the Triumvirate, and the House voted in favor of legislation that would keep us out of the coalition. Can you guess what happened when that bill hit the Senate?”

Cassidy snorted and shook his head. “Filibuster?”

“Filibuster and then a logroll. So, we’re in,” Ainsley nodded and patted their lap for emphasis. “The American people think we’re still the giants we were after the Cold War. That the Crisis and everything since then hasn't gutted us. They’re wrong. We need allies if we’re going to survive what’s coming.”

“I get that. So why not get Overwatch back out? Helix got Old Yeller’d, and it’s pretty clear that ya need someone to help you with all this mess.” Cassidy pulled an unlit cigar out from his pocket and bit down on it for a little stimulation. “ Th’world needs heroes, Ainsley. Why not give 'em a bit of hope?”

“You of all damn people know why Overwatch doesn’t work. People love superheroes and keeping world peace the…” The President paused and lifted their hands to make quotation marks. “...right way. But if you want world peace, you need to get messy. You can’t have someone refuse to get in the mud and still succeed. That’s why Blackwatch existed. That’s why YOU did anything at all.”

At this, Cassidy could say nothing.

“And, frankly, Overwatch brings up that tough question. Who has the right to decide where the world goes? We talked about it, remember? With Overwatch, we’re putting everything in the hands of a few people. Frankly, to hell with that. If anyone’s gonna decide what happens to this country, it’s this country’s government. Not some naive idiots pretending to play hero. Not some black-ops rubes in the sewers. Not the United Nations.”

Cassidy glanced at the floor and took the cigar out of his mouth, stuffing it back in his pocket before brushing off his prosthetic arm. “Ya know what? You’ve got a point. But if I’ve come to learn anything after gettin’ the hell out of dodge from Reyes? It’s that spending too much time in the mud has a habit of making you forget what it means to be clean in the first place. Yeah, we need the bastards to do what nobody wants to do, but we also need people willing to do the right thing because it’s th’right thing to do. Not all of us can look sideways.”

“Just enjoy the rest of the show. Never know if you’ll make it back from the sandbox.”

–

“Fareeha?”

The youngest Amari stirred at her name being whispered in her ear. Her eyelids fluttered, and she slowly came to pellucidity, thoughts growing clearer with every waking moment. Evening sunlight filtered through the room’s cobweb-riddled window, highlighting dust particulates in a subtle gold which accented the oranges nicely.

She’d overslept- and grievously so at that. The fact that not a single soul was daring to call her out on the matter meant that she’d been allowed to rest for hours. A small weight fell over her arm, fingers gracefully lacing around the bicep before shaking her gently.

“I’m up.” Fareeha groaned and forced herself to sit up, her sore muscles protesting all the way. She glanced to her right and saw two bright irises looking back at her, the diamonds belonging to Angela. They shimmered even as natural light steadily drained itself into the coolness of night. Now and again, flickers of gold and yellow raced across them, a subtle reminder of the technological marvels hiding beneath perfect skin.

Initially, Fareeha spoke little, but she opted to break the silence when it became clear that she wasn’t being disturbed for a matter of life and death. “I’m guessing you're back for the bed? I’ve gotta get to work anyhow, so-”

“No, no. That’s not it.”

“Okay, then what are you here for?” The Raptora stood, brushing off dust and a bit of dirt from her arms. “I need a shower..”

Her eyes darted over to a still sitting Angela, who kept to their knees. “I won't pry it out of you. You want to be helpful? Tell me about your nanites. How many do you have? I know they’re different from your normal biotech.”

Angela’s gems flickered to the window, her eyelids drooping in thought. Evidently, she was doing the math herself. “It’s complicated. They’re self-replicating, but the process is slow without aid from my suit or staff. I currently host two colonies- one that’s been configured for myself, and another from my prototypes. The latter can be used on just about anyone, and the former can be reconfigured if I wish.”

“English, Angela. I know you speak it- or should I start talking in Arabic?” Fareeha said while making note of the other woman’s refusal to move from their spot. “How many people could you resurrect and treat?”

“Assuming I don’t use anything else? Two full revivals. Three, if I attempt a partial resurrection that would necessitate surgical intervention. Otherwise, the number of injuries I can attend to at a time depends on their severity and how much time passes between administrations.”

Silence.

Fareeha inhaled and shook her head, deciding that she would, in fact, pry words out of an angel’s mouth. “Okay. I’ll bite. What is it?”

“Sit by me for a moment, Fareeha. Let me look at you eye-to-eye,” Angela spoke with a warm softness, crossing her legs and rubbing an arm. “I need to look at you and see into the soul, so to speak, not that such superstitious things exist.”

Curious, the standing individual paced back to the futon and sat on her haunches. She leaned forward and rested her forearms on her knees, quirking an eyebrow and waiting for elaboration simultaneously. “Alright. I’m listening.”

Angela unwound her frazzled hair, letting what few locks had yet to come loose fall free. It was a subtle message, though its meaning was lost on the recipient. Her eyelashes batted for a moment, golden flags billowing from her eyes and into an outstretched palm. Any blue and white in her gaze vanished, replaced by golds and yellows as a steady stream twisted itself into an amorphous floating blob.

Blonde strands of hair waved as yet more bands of holiness ebbed and flowed, twisting like streamers that wound themselves around the overall shape. Angela’s porcelain skin, too, began to glow just under the surface. She was radiant, pristine, beautiful, unbelievably perfect, and extraordinary. Words, no matter how expressive, no matter how grand, failed to capture the divine majesty of the moment.

Her palms came together, sitting just below a new orb that, in some ways, mimicked the planet of Saturn, complete with rings and small clusters for moons. “In my grasp sits the sum total of my life. This is my personal colony. It keeps me in good health, even when my self-care is poor, and helps me in my day-to-day. For that matter, this colony doubles as a storage of data.”

Fareeha inspected the miniature planet, her heart plucking at her ribs like they were strings before otherwise becoming a raging bull. She didn’t grasp what was happening, nor did she understand why she was being given such an extravagant light show. Whatever the case, she knew it meant a great deal to the other and would listen accordingly.

Angela freed one hand to grasp Fareeha’s, bringing the Raptora’s fingertips right to the edge of the nanobiotic rings. At such a close distance, one could feel heat radiating from the innumerable machines. They pulsated and wriggled, deliberately avoiding the ends of fingernails as if unwilling to stop their race.

“Fareeha, this colony does more than keep me healthy. It observes the nerve firings in my brain and translates that into memory, knowledge, feeling, and beyond. When I die, this colony will serve as a repository of all things Angela Ziegler in an unvarnished, plain view. It won’t be an autobiography curated and sweetened for the world to read. It will be a presentation of my life in its rawest and truest form.”

This woman- this utterly surprising and contradictory woman.

Angela half-smiled at what could very well be a copy of her psyche, a motherly fondness manifesting in the way she cradled it. “I don’t know if the world will ever be ready to know what I know- to see what I have seen- to unlock the secrets I’ve unlocked. I’ll never know while I yet live- and so I know that I must leave the decision to those who come after me.”

Fareeha resisted the temptation to pull away, both relishing and despising the sensation of having her hand in another’s. “Why are you telling me this? What’s your point, Angela?”

“The truth, Fareeha, is that I’ll never have the words to describe what I have felt, what I continue to feel. I’ll never be able to verbally encapsulate why I left, why I am who I am now, because I don’t know that myself. The only way I can get across what I want to say is by letting you see the truth of Angela 'Mercy' Ziegler.”

Fareeha’s eyes widened as the magnitude of this display of trust became clear. This was nothing short of handing a loaded gun to a stranger in the hopes that no trigger would be pulled.

And the gamble would pay off, of course. There would be no proverbial gunshot, no metaphorical murder.

She was about to see the truth, the true truth, the fact that was more factual than any other…

…and she couldn’t look away.

Chapter Text

Touching the colony was like setting oneself on fire. Proverbial flames raced up Fareeha’s arm in tows, ultimately scaling her shoulders, neck, and head before engulfing her eyes. She felt her sockets momentarily grow hollow, or rather, she felt the sensation of such things even as she continued to see all white.

Blackness.

Blackness suddenly overtook all matters of sight whilst numbness simultaneously gripped her other senses in a vice. She could hear nothing too, being entrapped in a sensory-depriving void. Gone was the dusty room and shockingly comfortable futon. There was nothing, nothing, and yet more and less nothing.

An impact.

Fareeha’s back thumped against a hard ground, stealing the wind from her lungs, which she struggled to regain. Slowly, but surely, light returned to her vision, and she found herself on the floor of a chilly basement. Looking around, she could see that it was bare-bones at best, littered with furniture and boxes that denoted it as some sort of makeshift shelter.

It was impossible to explain how she was where she was beyond vivid hallucinations, nor did she know what Angela’s nanites were doing to her brain. Regardless, the environment felt, looked, sounded, and even smelled real. Indeed, the stuffy, smoky scent of the basement was more notable than anything else.

The sound of a page turning piqued Fareeha’s interest, spurring her to turn her head in the direction of an occupied desk. A girl with familiar blonde hair kicked her feet and hummed while poring over a thick book. They were oblivious to the stranger in the room, and adding to that, they cared little for the rumbling above.

If she had to guess, the Raptora would assume she was staring at a much younger Angela. The tattered Swiss flag and numerous biology posters plastered to the wall reinforced this assessment.

A blink.

A battered and worn porch replaced the scenery of the basement. A beautiful evening sky of pinks and dark blues was marred by smoke billowing in the distance. The odd plume of a missile streaked across the sky and created a faint rumble. Were it not for the obvious scenes of war, the neighborhood could’ve been described as pleasant.

The houses were sizable, though half of them had been leveled to the ground by bombs. A smattering of military vehicles lined the streets, some of them damaged, others not so much. A few police cars dotted the driveway, all of them with their lights on and flashing. Evidently, the fighting wasn’t going well if they’d been driven back to this particular cul-de-sac.

The little Angela, brave yet obviously annoyed, strode right past Fareeha to meet an officer who’d opted to take off his cap. The news he delivered, tragic and devastating, earned no reply from the child. Despite that, she could feel what the recipient of the news felt. A combination of confusion, worry, and a desire to withdraw.

That confusion turned to protest and terror as another officer began to gently, but firmly, pull Angela away from the house. They couldn’t stay there- that much was clear- but for all of that, they should’ve had the decency to let the little one grab her book.

Fareeha stared at her feet with a frown, both wanting to reach out and help whilst also knowing that, ultimately, there was nothing she could do. This was, ultimately, a memory of the past that couldn’t be changed.

When she looked up, she found herself in a bus- a school bus, for that matter. Angela, a little older, but not by much, was going back to school, courtesy of having the fortune of being in an orphanage with access to a working educational institution. It was eerily normal of a sight, but there was little else about it that was right just below the surface.

She knew that Angela lacked friends to interact with, nor did she have parental or sibling figures to keep her company. She was alone, but in a way, the girl had come to accept that, even relish it.

Following the young Ziegler around in her day-to-day only served to emphasize that. Good grades, sometimes helping classmates, but otherwise remaining reclusive, that was all that mattered.

It was a sad way to live, but somehow, Angela was okay with that.

At least, that was what Fareeha assessed as she was dragged into yet another memory. She was in an office, and a nice one at that. It was adorned with medals and awards from the United States, and photos of old commando units from the Crisis littered the walls. Two individuals, a man and a woman, sat across from a teenager.

Fareeha saw Angela, older again, not so much wiser, staring at what they regarded as heroes with wide excited eyes. Those heroes, a young Jack Morrison and prime Ana Amari, were looking on with interest and even hope. The former, especially, was adamant that the prodigy be taken on as a member of Overwatch despite the dubious legality of such an action.

Fortunately for the world, and unfortunately for the future angel, there were no negotiations. The first offer given, despite being a well-meaning one, was foolishly taken in the heat of the moment.

Fareeha shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose as she was dragged yet again.

Finally, she was in that house, that familiar house that was comforting and saddening all at once. So many shared memories, all thrown away at the drop of a hat. All of it was exactly as she remembered. Even the couch felt the same to sit on.

But this time, there was no memory to be had. It wasn’t a memory at all.

There was just one thing of note, and it was sitting on the coffee table next to a box of Egyptian chocolate. That item was a letter, or rather, multiple, all of them handwritten and oozing with raw emotion.

“Alright. I think I understand now, Angela.”

And with that, she grabbed what may as well have been a murder confession just to read it.

–

Fareeha,

I’ve never known how to breathe without tension, how to sleep without worry, how to dream without fear, how to love without doubt, how to celebrate without deprecating. The only time I’ve even felt a modicum of respite was when I talked to you, and that scared me more than anything.

With you, I couldn’t fathom that someone enjoyed me for me instead of what I could offer. I didn’t know why I was so afraid of what you thought of me. I never wanted to burden you or tarnish myself in your eyes.

I had forgotten what it was like to be affectionate, to cherish another human being with no strings or conditions attached to that value.

I’ve kissed and had intercourse with a few individuals, and in each case, I felt nothing for them. There wasn’t even an ounce of pleasure, nor was there joy. It didn’t feel wrong- it didn’t even feel hollow. There was nothing, NOTHING there.

For a time, I thought that I was incapable of romance or sex. To be aromantic or asexual isn’t necessarily a problem. Dare I say, it’s normal for many. But I still felt wrong for thinking that way. I felt wrong for feeling nothing when it came to intimacy.

And then you decided to, as a joke, press your lips to my cheek one New Year’s Eve.

Suddenly, my face was ablaze, my chest tight, heart flying above the clouds, fingertips sparkling with lightning. It was so frightening yet, strangely enthralling and amazing. I didn’t want it to end. I wanted more, but I didn’t know what this was.

I didn’t know anything.

And within moments, I forgot the bliss and was consumed only by the terror. I was afraid of what I was experiencing. I was afraid of you.

I was afraid of hurting you as you were hurting me.

So I threw myself into my work. I buried myself amidst the trials and tribulations that were my stint as an angel from above. I strangled Angela and embraced Mercy. I took to the sky because, ultimately, I was too afraid to help myself, instead wanting to compensate by helping others.

There is a hole in my heart, my life, that’s never healed, and I thought that healing the masses instead would change that. It hasn’t. It’s only made it worse. As I’ve bettered the days of thousands, I've been reminded of my own hurt through their recovery.

Every child comforted and treated both physically and mentally, I thought back to the childhood that was stolen from me.

Every couple I reunited or spared from the pain of death making them part, I was slapped in the face with my own loneliness.

I’ve never wanted the world to feel my pain, and so I’ve always tried to take global suffering away.

But my pain remains, Fareeha. It aches, burns, and festers, clawing at me from within and threatening to tear me apart in a fashion more ruthless than any cancer.

I never came back to you because I knew that you would be wrathful, that you’d never understand my cowardice, understandably so. No matter what I told myself, convinced myself of, I was too scared of how your scorn would hurt me.

Seeing you again made me fall apart.

It hurt every bit as much as I feared it would.

Truthfully, it was worse.

I wanted to end.

I wanted to go away, to stop being or existing, because it hurt too much to breathe.

Fareeha Amari, I don’t know what this is.

I don’t know what I’m feeling.

But I do have a suspicion.

I suspect that, at some point in time or another, regardless of where I’ve been or who I’ve courted before or since-

I developed an infatuation for you.

No.

I think I’ve fallen in love with you.

–

Angela pulled her colony back within herself, feeling naked to the world and afraid for what would come next.

Fareeha’s head drooped as she slowly came to, her eyes glazing as she returned to reality.

“Fareeha?” The angel tentatively asked, touching her fingertips to the other woman’s cheek. “Are you… okay?”

Silence met her as the slightly younger of the pair began to stare with wide eyes. Neither made a move or sound, only hearing the other’s hasty breaths and feeling terror in turn.

Angela scooted just that little bit forward, refusing to go back to her default status of isolation and loneliness. Even so, how could she know that she wasn’t about to return to that abject state of isolation? For all she knew, she was about to met with rejection, a lamentation that it was too late to make things right.

Perhaps, in the end, the chance to be accompanied and loved had been lost years ago.

Perhaps she’d just made a mistake in cutting out her heart and placing it in the hands of another.

“Fareeha,” She started in a low tone of voice, feeling her cheeks warm as they had once done years ago. “If that was too much-”

Angela didn’t get to finish that sentence, for she was pulled into a forceful, passionate kiss in moments. Fareeha’s arms wrapped themselves around her waist, pulling her flush against their body as her eyes widened in utter shock. The other’s lips were shockingly soft and malleable, if a bit salty, but there was force and firmness behind the kiss regardless.

She raised her hands as a result of the surprise, but her eyelids ultimately fell closed in acceptance. Everything exploded inside of her proverbial soul in the blink of an eye, culminating in a tumult of want and excitement. Air exited her nostrils in a hasty exhale, and she felt fingers begin to lace with her strands of hair.

This interlocking of lips was far more aggressive than films or romance novels made kisses out to be, but that was okay, because it wasn’t malicious aggression.

This aggression was warm, passionate, bold, and uniquely Fareeha’s.

Angela wasn’t sure of much, and she certainly wasn’t sure if she wanted this specific exchange of affections, but she wanted to see what would happen.

More importantly, Fareeha wanted her.

And in a way, that was exactly what she wanted. Of that, she was certain.

Furthermore?

She did feel SOMETHING.

It was a fire, a rush of lightning, the delivery of energy to a dead battery, a breath of fresh air after emerging from a cloud of tear gas. Adrenaline, pure and raw, dictated everything, and in that matter, this meant the universe to Angela at the end of the day.

Then, Fareeha pulled back, a string of saliva still connecting them.

“Angela, I’m still livid with you- but- I love you too.”

Chapter Text

Lena woke with a jolt to a tapping on her window, sitting upright in an instant with half a mind to reach for a pulse pistol stashed under her pillow. The blue holographic lights of Big Ben flashed outside, their luminance potent enough to shine as bright as a bedside lamp. Snow billowed down, piling on the outer windowsill and fogging the glass over.

‘Well, that scuppers any plans for a good night’s sleep,’ She thought inwardly whilst swinging her legs over the side of the bed, briefly glancing at the sleeping figure beside her. ‘Emily can dream for us both.’

The nearby chronal accelerator, placed carefully on the nightstand, pulsed rhythmically now and again to mimic the ticking of a clock. It was bulky and uncomfortable, but it was also a lifeline and source of strength. It granted her abilities most thought beyond comprehension and kept her from being scattered to the shores beyond time.

Lena quickly set to putting it on, not bothering to remove her nightly attire before silently meandering around her bedroom. Every night of late, this was her routine. She’d wake with a jolt to the wind, grow weary with old memories, and start to think about her aimless state in life. Most in her position would be content with their lot, but since when did ‘Tracer’ ever sit still for anyone or anything?

Thus, there she was, subconsciously cradling the breastplate of her accelerator like an infant while staring at an assortment of projected photos on the wall. Everything from her time in the RAF to the aftermath of her Overwatch deployment to London was there for her to see. For that matter, so was her old flight suit, accolades, and a bright blue beret.

Then came the guilt.

She was well-off compared to many, even by the standards of her own country. Her apartment was comfortable and cozy, albeit a tight squeeze. Her significant other was non-judgmental, loving, and did more than enough to make ends meet. For that matter, she had a cushy-if-boring desk job in the RAF. By all objective measures, life was good.

She was happy- mostly.

The truth was far more complicated.

Her apartment, while just fine and serviceable, was old with half-functional appliances. At times, it was poorly insulated with a heater that seemed to blow more cold air than it did anything else. She also lacked multiple features most would consider standard, including a washer, dryer, dishwasher, or adequately sized freezer. Furthermore, her landlord wasn’t particularly kind or cooperative on any of these matters, and no other complexes were willing to rent out to ex-Overwatch.

Emily truly was amazing, a stunning virtuoso in all things, but her taste in women had resulted in her career nearly stagnating. So much as breathing on Overwatch was enough to end a line of work in some instances, so this was admittedly a preferable outcome. Regardless, just because there were plenty that missed their heroes, that didn’t mean there was no endemic pushback from organizations and institutions.

Then, there was work. Lena’s desk job was somewhat of a demotion and a slight against her by her own branch of service. She’d not gotten any flight hours in years and, for that matter, all of her paperwork was deliberately monotonous and routine. There was no importance to her role, at least, not as far as a direct impact went. Perhaps she and all those like her made the RAF run, but she wanted to make a difference in a far more hands-on fashion.

She wanted to be the change. She wanted to work for a better tomorrow, because she KNEW it could be better. The question wasn't a matter of if she could or should- it was about how she'd go about it without scuppering her life up. Or, rather, ruining Emily's life.

Alas, her career in Overwatch had been cut short far too soon. Just as she’d started to gain momentum- both figuratively and literally- the Petras Act destroyed everything. And, selfishly, but also selflessly, Lena yearned to blitz around the world, helping those in need of aid, doing good where it was needed, fighting a just and noble fight for all of mankind. That was where she belonged- but how could she solve this dilemma?

On one side of the rope was her conscience. On the other was her want to keep her beloved safe.

“Can’t sleep?” Emily mumbled into the pillow, not lifting her head. “Talk to me.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m just a bit restless, is all,” Lena chirped, leaving the bedroom, nearly bumping into the tight hallway’s wall, and entering a small multipurpose room. To think that the living room, kitchen, and dining room were all one and the same. It was a bit ridiculous- but such was life. After all, it was still comfortable enough.

She wandered over to the table, fumbling for the correct remote to the holovision. All things considered, if she was going to stay awake, entertainment was in order.

As per usual, the news was doom and gloom. Despite wanting to change the channel, she was glued to the first laser she saw.

The damned BBC always knew how to captivate an audience.

A man dressed in the typical vest and helmet of a war reporter appeared on the wall, his projection a bit garbled due to connectivity issues. He was surrounded by windswept dunes, a scarf covering his mouth so that he wouldn’t inhale any dust or sand. A few armed men and women dressed in BDUs milled about in the background with pulse rifles, their flag patches denoting them as Israeli and Jordanian.

The reporter, crouching to minimize the chances of being hit while in the crosshairs of a low-intensity firefight, did his best to detail the situation. “We’ve just been told that we’re being shot at by an omnic sniper, Michelle, even though we’ve been under fire for about two hours now. Israeli sharpshooters have been having a lot of trouble with this one. Both groups keep moving after every shot, so we have to stay put until that is dealt with.”

Another reporter, this one evidently home and in a comfortable chair, materialized ‘on-screen’ and nodded. “Do you think it’s safe to say that the Triumvirate’s operation to fully take Egypt is underway at this point?”

“No, definitely not. This is just east of the Suez Canal, though I cannot specify exactly where for safety and security. It’s at about the fringes of where you’ll see the bulk of the Triumvirate’s presence. No big pushes yet. Just small-scale skirmishes with Null Sector.”

“What are people on the ground saying?”

“It’s a bit mixed. Most Egyptians I’ve talked to aren’t happy with the situation, but there seems to be an air of pragmatism now that Null Sector is-”

Lena huffed and found the will to turn it off, feeling a familiar itch overtaking her. Riling herself up wasn’t going to help. It was foolish to even consider turning the news on in the first place, and yet she’d done exactly that.

A light rapping of knuckles on the front door snapped her to the present, spurring her to stand and approach the disturbance. Given the time of night and her recent scuffle with the dreaded Widowmaker, she was tempted to grab her pillow-pistol. She’d do just that, zipping into the bedroom, quietly tiptoing around the bed, and retrieving her firearm.

A part of her felt rather silly for the paranoia, given she wasn’t typically a cynical or suspicious woman. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was normally a very upbeat individual, eager to see the bright side of things. Optimism didn’t come before safety, however, and Talon warranted a more security-oriented approach.

The door rattled again, this time a tiny bit louder, but otherwise nothing terribly aggressive. Still, Lena made sure to approach slowly. She placed the barrel of her pulse pistol against the door and peered through the peephole. A metallic faceplate with a green line slashing across lingered just beyond, familiar and even comforting.

The door swung open fast enough to nearly fly off its hinges, and she darted into a nanolaminated body, squeezing the other tightly in abject joy. “Genji, luv! You’re alive!”

Lena wanted to say she was surprised to see Genji back from the dead, but it wasn’t the first time she’d been clandestinely visited by ghostly friends. Cassidy had a habit of crashing on the couch whenever passing through Europe after all. Regardless, it was certainly shocking to see the cyborg make an appearance at her front door.

“I’ll admit- I was expecting a larger reaction,” Genji joked, his accent ringing even through the robotic faceplate. “Hello, Lena. It is good to see you.”

“You too. I’d shout some more, but I don’t think I want to wake the pretty bird in the other room.” She placed her hands on her hips after discarding her weapon, shaking her head and smiling with an open mouth. The jubilation she felt was immeasurable, manifesting itself as a pep in her step. She brought the other inside before moving to grab glasses. “Whatcha want? Water? Tea? A fizzy?”

A yawn emanated from the bedroom, followed by noises of an individual stirring and rising from bed. Emily, bundled in blankets and looking half-asleep, trudged into the hallway to see who exactly was being allowed into the apartment at this time of night. Her grogginess quickly turned to a wide-eyed, very much awake stupor.

“Ah- sorry for waking you,” Lena smiled in amused guilt, blinking over to her significant other, taking them by the arm and walking them towards her guest. “Emily, this is Genji. Genji, this is my partner. She’s such a lovely little petal. Always tolerating my antics.”

Genji tipped his head politely, accepting a tentative handshake from the sleepy red-haired woman before issuing a greeting. “エミリーさん、初めまして！” Then, he looked at Lena’s fridge and decided on his drink of choice. “Just water will do nicely.”

“Coming up!” Lena blipped away, having refreshments ready within a single breath. “Where have you been? It’s been so long! Are you doing well for yourself?”

“The Shambali was kind enough to shelter me in my hour of need. It has been a long and difficult journey, but you’ll find that yes, I am doing well.”

Emily looked between the two ex-Overwatch members, raising an eyebrow but otherwise remaining silent. Then, she issued her beloved a look that more or less said: ‘We need to talk.’ Finally, she returned to the bedroom, allowing the two friends to speak candidly without being overheard.

Lena deflated a little, imagining that the other woman was likely worried about her intentions. Regardless, she’d enjoy the moment and catch up with her freshly reunited companion. “So, the Shambali? I’ve always wanted to go to Tibet and Nepal. If I may, why are you here now?” She passed a glass of water along.

Genji removed his faceplate, unveiling his scarred yet still handsome enough features to take a sip. “Thank you. I haven’t had anything to drink in a few weeks- and Cassidy’s liquor doesn’t count.” Smirking, he added, “He’s doing well, if you want to know.”

“Goin’ on a tour to meet everyone, eh? Well, cheers. Winston’s set up near Gibraltar, in case you didn’t know.” Lena relished her glass, finding the cool liquid refreshing given her fast metabolism. “Is there anything I can do to help? If I had to guess, you’re headed to Egypt?”

“Yes- I’m aware of Winston’s residence. I’ll attempt to extract Angela after consulting him,” Came the reply, followed by the cyborg closing his eyes in thought. “I wish I could say my visit is purely for pleasantries, but I suspect you already know what I’m about to ask.”

“I do know- and I’m in,” Lena chirped without a moment’s thought or hesitation. “If you want a pilot, I’m game, luv. It’s not me you ought to convince, though.”

Genji tipped his head and shook it. He then set his glass down and strode to the door. “You’re correct, but it is not for me to sway your significant other. Attend her and come to a decision there.”

That left Lena in a bit of a predicament, but she knew she’d have to talk to Emily regardless of what was said or done. It was only proper, not to mention morally correct, to healthily communicate with that which she’d chosen to tie herself to in perpetuity. Thus, she cautiously crept back to the bedroom.

Emily, having gone back to rest, was discernible only by her head of red hair. Otherwise, she was just a lump under a bundle of blankets. She remained awake, however, making this fact known momentarily.

“Go. I’m not mad,” She whispered in a voice so low, it was difficult to hear. “It’s something you need to do.”

Lena, flabbergasted and a bit lost for words, sat on the bedside and placed a hand on the other’s frame. “Emily- I don’t know what to say- are you sure?”

“I knew what I was getting into when I moved in, though let’s be honest- I’m worried. But, you’re up watching the news every single night,” Emily turned to issue an understanding smile. “You’re miserable at work, you’re not happy as you are. Mostly happy isn't happy. If you want to be the cavalry, go. You’re tough, capable, and quick on your feet. You’ve always had a knack for this superhero thing. Just come home alive.”

That was as conclusive a ‘yes’ as things could get.

Lena placed her lips on Emily’s, savored the feeling for a few seconds, and left with a joyous hop to her stride.

–

Two PRAVs sped around leveled structures, kicking up dust and gravel as their tracks rolled. They were in a race against time, time before they were unable to pull off the daredevilish stunt they so clearly intended to perform. Down narrow roads and streets they went, heedless of the damaged property, seeing as the civilians had vacated their homes days ago.

These vehicles, regrettably estranged from the remains of Helix’s 2nd Mechanized, were running on fumes. They needed fresh batteries, more fuel, and to top off their ammunition. Because of this, they were sprinting for an abandoned Helix FOB just west of Cairo. Given Null Sector’s aerial supremacy, it wouldn’t take much to pick them off. This was very much an act of sheer desperation.

One of the IFV's top hatches briefly opened and a man chucked a small black item into the air. Four small beams complete with rotors extended and a small quadcopter drone blitzed ahead to give the duo an idea of what they were driving into. Both came to a halt shortly thereafter, instead splitting up to cautiously maneuver through select roads.

Had they kept driving, they would’ve been met with one of Null Sector’s recent additions: the Malice tank. It wasn’t tracked or wheeled, instead hovering off the ground to allow for more speed and versatility on the matter of terrain.

Its appearance was also strange. It bore the sloped yet rectangular hull of a regular tank with the odd radiator grate at the back, but a few geometric protrusions made themselves apparent. What the purpose of these protrusions was, none could say. It carried four small pulse turrets at each corner, all of them capable of aiming in just about any direction short of the tank itself. Its main cannon, however, was a gargantuan dome complete with a multipurpose cannon. Atop that dome was a railgun, but smaller and capable of swiveling independently.

Its paint scheme, black and purple, complete with explosive reactive armor, APS, and a sensory suite to boot, made it look as imposing as any other armored vehicle. Then, the geometric formations shot outwards, spindles of red electricity binding them to the parent. The cubes split into three smaller sections, each of them transfiguring to form talons for gripping.

The Malice embedded itself in the ground, angling its main cannon upwards before firing at some faraway target. Evidently, it was both a main battle tank and a self-propelled gun.

One PRAV wasted no time firing a missile into the air. The quadcopter drone, having spotted the opposing vehicle, linked itself to the IFV’s computer and guided the projectile to its target. Just before impact, a tiny glass ball partially jutted out from the tank’s front and shot a laser through what would have been the instrument of its destruction.

The Malice retracted its ‘legs’ and began to float down the road, its turrets swiveling in every conceivable direction. The other PRAV launched a missile that was also guided to the target. This time, the rocket darted over the top of a building before descending to the street, keeping low and fast. The tank’s laser sphere promptly popped into the air and began to actively loiter in a perimeter, spotting the projectile and destroying it.

The first IFV rolled over to an alley, but did not enter it, and swiveled its turret, waiting for the Malice to drift by. The moment it did, the autocannon fired and began to pepper the gravity-defying behemoth with APFSDS-T (Armor-Piercing-Fin-Stabilized-Discarding-Sabot-Tracer) rounds. Yellow streaks began their sprints and collided headfirst with purple armor, creating bright sparks that scattered for meters.

One of the Malice’s pulse turrets was immediately disabled, its barrel being reduced to a bent and smoldering mess. Then, a repulsor engine was struck, prompting the tank to sag in the air, though it remained balanced and aloft. Its secondary railgun rotated to fire, but the offender was already rolling away from the alley.

The second PRAV crossed the intersection behind Null Sector’s prized armor, harassing its rear with more 40mm rounds that warped small plates and pierced radiators. Furthermore, the secondary railgun received a beating, making it useless. Furthermore, the machine's main cannon was too slow to get a bearing on the target. A few retaliatory lasers struck home in turn, but their effect was minimal.

After all, PRAV wasn’t just any ordinary acronym.

Pulse-Resistant-Armored-Vehicle.

This was a fight it was prepared for, through and through.

The original aggressor, the first IFV, fired yet another missile, which sprang around the vacant alley before twisting into the street, demonstrating excellent maneuverability. Another projectile came from a different direction. The active protection laser struck one of the deadly comets, but not the other. A puff of white smoke erupted from one side of the tank as a last resort, followed by an additional explosion.

The Malice emerged battered and bruised, limping as it dragged its mangled left flank on the ground. One of the ‘legs’ extended to help pull it forward like a dying animal desperately trying to avert its fate.

Then came another missile, which smashed into the turret ring, causing the primary cannon to crackle and sparkle. Still, it crawled on, a stubborn thing until the end.

One final rocket ended the engagement, striking the tank’s reactor and conclusively knocking it out of the fight.

The two PRAVs promptly carried on with only one missile left to their name.

–

Wind in her lungs.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Angela felt energized and eager to work. Perhaps she was living through what amounted to the end of whatever was left of Egypt’s organized society, and she was assuredly under threat at every turn, but that didn’t feel insurmountable. In fact, quite a few factors were rolling in her favor.

For starters, she had plenty of tools, standard-issue nanite packets, disinfectants, antibiotics, antiseptics, blood, and a few surgical drones. Everything she needed to tend to the sick, injured, and dying was at her disposal. This, in turn, allowed her to save her specialized colonies for dire emergencies, though she was still obligated to be selective with who and how she employed said colonies.

Her mass-produced technology was primitive compared to the mob of machines nestled in her body. If she had her staff, things would be much simpler, but alas, wishful thinking would do nobody any good.

Now and again, Angela’s mind drifted to Camp Hathor and the brave yet overworked volunteers there. How were they faring? From their perspective, she’d up and vanished in their greatest time of need. Then again, her last venture there had resulted in an early trip home, so perhaps they were glad for her lack of presence if they still lived.

Ana rummaged through a few boxes nearby, trying to organize whatever she could for the sake of making life easier for everyone. “If I had a franc for the number of times I’ve helped turn a run-down motel’s kitchen into a field hospital, I’d have three- no four Swiss francs,” She joked, hoping to ease the mild tension in the room. “Hotels make for good outposts.”

“Hm, so they do. I can manage on my own, Ana. The rest need you more than I,” Angela replied in the most polite tone she could muster. She did not want to talk to them at present. “If you want to lend me aid, send the other medics and surgeons inside. I can’t lead them if I don’t even know what languages they speak. And when are you going to tell me about that package you so desperately want Winston to see?"”

“You’ve been at it for twelve hours while the ‘rest’ have finished entrenching," Ana deflected, "There’s hardly any work left to do other than wait, dear.”

The good doctor rolled her eyes, opened a stretcher, and set it up on a stand complete with an empty IV pole. Then, she strolled over to the kitchen’s stripped-down counter to make a fourth mental note of all available tools. If she allocated items well enough, then up to four surgeries could be conducted simultaneously.

Two pairs of men briefly hauled another set of boxes inside, setting them down without a care in the corner. The contents within began to rattle, and the audible crack of SOMETHING breaking made Angela flinch. Before she could reprimand the strangers, however, another voice made sure to bark a harsh rebuke.

“أيها الأغبياء! انتبهوا! قد ينقذكم هذا قريبًا!.” Fareeha pointed at the startled quartermasters with a snarl on her face. This prompted the fools to snap their backs straight and nod with intimidation. They scurried off in short order. After, the Raptora scoffed and rolled her eyes before moving to help with the boxes. “Amateurs. Fuck’s sake. And I thought they'd behave better if I watched them do it...”

“My hero. If you’re not busy, care to help organize those and figure out what’s broken?” Angela couldn’t help but smile, feeling her heart flutter just that little bit. “I’ll tend to other things.”

And help Fareeha did. As Ana said, there wasn’t much else to do besides waiting.

But, for the medically minded, there was also the matter of blood bags. They were present, but the types of blood were another thing altogether. They had very little of the most coveted of blood types, O-, the universal donor compatible with any human being. This posed a problem, seeing as humans tended to be rather diverse with their ichor.

“How receptive to blood donations will the locals be?” Angela asked tersely, folding her arms and pursing her lips. “I’ll need volunteers. We don’t have enough- and I’ll need to figure out how to screen for STDs...”

“The presence of soldiers in this town inspires hope. I imagine they’ll do anything to keep the protection we bring, though we must draw a line. There’s a difference between exploiting them and gathering their support.”

“Do I need to check your hearing, or did you ignore my explicit use of the word volunteers?”

Ana chuckled and moved to place a hand on the now taller woman’s arm. “Still quick as ever- though I’m glad to see you’re less volatile with your wording. I still remember your arguments with O'Deorain.” She inhaled briefly, mouth open as she sought out words. “In truth, I’m here with you because there are many things I want to say to you especially- but I don’t have the words to express them.”

“You could start with an apology to your daughter- and a good, long, heartfelt one at that.” Angela didn’t bother to mince her words, feeling an ounce of contempt for an individual she once saw as a saint. “You aren’t earning brownie points by playing nice with me. I’m happy you’re alive, but there are many things you have to answer for.”

Fareeha’s head shot up from one of the boxes to make a stern remark. “Angela- I can speak for myself- but thank you.”

The elder Amari sighed and attempted to speak in her own defense. “I know-”

“Nonono, you don’t get to say you KNOW, Ana Amari. You weren’t there. The moment you left, any restraint Gabriel and Jack had towards one another vanished.” The heated angel rounded on her elder, head raised, eyebrows scrunched together. “Quagmire after quagmire after quagmire- and then disaster. Fareeha was distraught, and I was- losing you was like losing my parents all over again. And let’s not even get into your misuse of MY technology when you WERE around.”

Ana huffed and paced towards a wall on which she braced an arm for support. “Bold words for a woman who, too, abandoned my daughter.”

Fareeha, still sidelined, attempted to intervene again with a flat tone. “Girls, can I say something?”

“I did, and I’ve since taken accountability for it. I’ve admitted my wounding of her. You haven’t whatsoever. We can’t take back our misdeeds, Ana! No amount of good can undo our crimes against others!” Angela pushed farther, eyeing the biotic rifle slung over the other woman’s shoulder. “And, I imagine that at some point in time, that rifle of yours was modified by Moira without my approval? And you used to preach to me about integrity.”

“Dammit, girl, I said I know!” Ana finally snapped haughtily, half-spitting out the words as temper got the better of her. Even now, this brought the doctor to heel, allowing the oldest of the trio to speak. “What do you want, an apology?! To know that I was thinking about Fareeha every single day, wishing I’d made the choice to come back and be a rock for her to cling to?!”

“I-”

“No, الصمت, Angela! I stayed away because I was a blight on her life! I ruined everything for her, from her upbringing to our family! Do you really think she needed me?! She had you! I thought she had you! I thought you two would be there for each other, that you were strong enough without me!”

Silence. Bitter, emotionally charged silence.

Ana breathed out through her nostrils shakily as she wiped her face with a wrist. She next spoke in an infuriated, but low and small voice. “I failed as a wife, as a leader, and as a mother. Happy? Despite that, I continue to fight because there is still good in this world. And, in turn, perhaps I can leave it a little better for the two of you when I go.”

Fareeha took advantage of the lull in fighting and walked between the bickering parties, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Mum, am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” Her voice was taught, strained, and evidently on the verge of rising to a shout. “What, all is supposed to be forgiven because you threw a pity party?”

Now being the one that was sidelined, Angela retreated just that little bit more as regret steadily crept over her mind. She shouldn’t have started such a heated argument, let alone at such an arduous time. Surrounded on all sides by foes seeking their immolation with seemingly no way out? Infighting was the last thing they needed.

‘Curses, Angela. Since when are you the one starting the circus?” She covered her eyes with a palm, also wondering if Jack was listening in from the cellar. ‘I would’ve been the one doing the mediating back in the day.’

“Fareeha, that’s not what I meant,” Ana finally mustered a response, stepping forward to touch a fingertip to her child’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. There is little else I can do but repeat that.”

It was Fareeha’s turn to let her wrath show, pointing her index finger at her mother’s heart before pressing it to their sternum. “You were a blight on my life?! What fucking-” She paused, marched over to Angela, and inhaled. “Did you ever consider ASKING me what I wanted? You’ve always done this!”

“You’ve always despised me, Fareeha! I- no matter what I did- you always seemed to hate it! I tried to be a good mother and, evidently, I was bad at it!”

Then, it all devolved from there. A shouting fest of biblical proportions became a mutual exchange of apocalyptic words. For any listening, it would be difficult to discern much. In Angela’s case, she was mostly just along for the ride, tragic as it was.

Finally, Fareeha cut to the heart of the matter, and unfortunately, it wasn’t in a language the angel could understand.

“كنت خائفة! أردت أمي!!” The younger Amari’s voice cracked as what was left of her commanding facade perished. Whatever the translation was, it visibly struck Ana like a bullet. In fact, it made them recoil and clutch their heart. Then, quietude hung over the group like ghostly nooses, keeping all as mute as a singular grain of sand.

Angela took the first step, following that, intertwining her fingers with Fareeha’s whilst placing her free hand on the taller woman’s back.

The former head of Overwatch hung her head low, and shockingly enough, two droplets of water fell to the floor.

“I just wanted my parents to be proud of me! Ever since Dad left, it’s been like there’s a hole in my life, and it’s just gotten bigger, and bigger, and bigger and-” Fareeha bent down somewhat and placed both hands on her chest for emphasis. “I wanted you to be my mom, not an officer, not a sniper, not- not this! All my life, I’ve never been good enough!”

“No- Fareeha-” Ana attempted to console her distraught daughter. “I never realized-”

“I wasn’t enough to keep the family together! I wasn’t enough for you to pay attention to! I could never keep up with Angela- and you certainly didn’t think I was enough for Overwatch!” The Raptora Captain shrank still, collapsing to her knees and crossing her arms as if to hug herself and sob. “I wasn’t even enough for you to come back to! I try, and try, and try, and try, and try- and- but- I’m always useless!”

Angela lowered herself as well, lips parting as she listened to the other’s lament.

“Just when I thought I’d found a new family, they died! They died because I was stupid! I was reckless! And what was the point of joining Helix or the Air Force?! Everything I’ve ever done since- since both of you left?! It’s all gone! Egypt, my home, is gone! I don’t even know if it was ever my home! I don’t even know what home is! You ruined it!”

Ana sat on her haunches, shaking her head despondently. Then, she scooted over to pull her child into her arms, her grasp tender and sincere.

“At least Angela came back! I just wanted my mom, not an entitled mother, to hug me and tell me it would be okay!” Fareeha concluded with a bellow, finally letting her innermost emotions unfold entirely. “I- HATE- YOU!”

Angela hesitated, feeling her heart and soul bleed for both women and herself. In a way, she felt like she shouldn’t have been party to this exchange, but she was the one who’d started it to begin with. Furthermore, the Amaris had opted to include her by speaking English, not Arabic. And, on that note, she was just as close to the matter as they were given her history with them.

But, despite that, she’d never once seen Fareeha cry such fierce tears before. Not even as children. Not even at the funeral for a supposedly deceased Ana Amari. There’d been emotional outbursts, times of uncertainty, rounds of grief- but never this. This was new, unseen.

It moved her to tears herself, and she enveloped the Raptora’s middle in an embrace from just behind, burying her face in the crook of their neck. She felt Fareeha’s hands fumble for hers, and she gladly took them. Simultaneously, two sets of bony old fingers grasped at her shoulders to pull the trio in as close as humanly possible.

“Fareeha, darling Fareeha, you have always been enough,” Ana murmured shakily, prompting the center woman to sob even louder. “...it was never your fault. Never your fault. You have been and always will be exceptional- a beautiful, proud, intelligent leader. You’re more of a woman than I ever was. The truth is- I was afraid. I never fought my demons, and in turn, the consequences rolled onto you instead.”

Ana Amari? Afraid? It once seemed improbable, impossible, an event that couldn’t be conceptualized, let alone actually happen.

“I drove your father away and took us to Switzerland. I ruined our family. I abandoned Overwatch and the world in its time of need. I abandoned you, telling myself it was for your benefit. But I was just running from failure. When you needed me most, when Angela needed me, I left you two in the dark.”

“I’m scared, mother,” Fareeha repeated feebly. “I don’t want to die here.”

Ana gave the other two yet another squeeze before looking to the ceiling. “What have I done to us..?” She asked, speaking to nobody in particular.

Angela, finally mustering the courage to speak again, squared her shoulders and placed a gentle kiss on the back of her new partner’s head. “You’ve always been a beacon of hope and inspiration- even for me. Through you, Fareeha, I’ve managed to step away from the brink. I was staring down oblivion only a day ago. You pulled me back from the abyss. I don’t know what the future holds, but I know that I want to walk it with you.”

“Angela is right, and I can’t undo what I've done. I can’t take any of it back- but I won’t leave you this time. Not again.”

Fareeha’s sobs steadily ebbed into sniffles and trembles, and she nodded at these words. “Could we just- spar? Like we used to?” She inquired of her mother. “Pretend for a moment that- that everything’s going to be fine?”

Ana pulled back and smiled solemnly, her one eye closing with acceptance. “I think I’d like that very much.”