Summary: Soldier: 76 is heading to a Los Muertos safehouse to set an ambush for one of the gang leaders there. Alejandra, the teenager he saved several months prior, is following him. Solarix, in the interest of minimizing casualties, is going to blow the warehouse up while Los Muertos are gone. This is going to go just swell...


Hey folks! Another story with my Overwatch OC. Enjoy and review!

My trigger/tagging/warning policy: I err on the side of caution. I tag and warn for things even if I don't think they'll be "triggering" per say, because 1) I might be wrong, and 2) some days you just don't need that kind of negativity in your life now matter how good the story is.

Rated for canon-typical violence and language.

Disclaimer: Blizzard owns Overwatch and all associated characters.

Warnings: dissociation, child in danger, panic attack, blood


Chapter 1: The Warehouse

Alma laid her head against the cool concrete ledge of the building, hands grasping at her lower abdomen. She groaned loudly. She didn't have time for this.

Vix, I'm going to kill you, she told her partner as another spasm hit her.

Vix was properly penitent. Alma could feel the emotion flowing from them to her. It was their fault and they knew it. They offered no apology, however. Do you want to switch off? they asked.

It was tempting, but just because Alma would be riding backseat didn't mean she wouldn't be able to feel every cramp. No, it was better to go with the original plan. That won't help and you know it. Let's just get this over with.

She pushed off the ledge and stood up straight, calming her mind and listening for signs of life in the darkened warehouse below her. It was just before dawn, after the members of Los Muertos had finished their nightly business at this, one of their main safe houses.

Alma and Vix were going to blow it up.


Soldier: 76 had spent the better part of the year hunting [and gunning] down members of the Los Muertos gang, but he was starting to think he'd have to give up the chase temporarily. Something else had come up, and it was not that foolish recall of Winston's that 76 repeatedly reminded himself he was not going to answer. No, it was a someone—someone who had recently begun following him.

He'd first become aware of them a few weeks ago when he'd been under chase from local authorities—the relatively un-corrupt kind, the kind he still couldn't allow himself to shoot back at. It was annoying, and inconvenient, because as a "dangerous criminal" he was under pursuit from pretty much the minute local authorities realized he was in the area. On one particular day he'd made a foolish mistake, let himself get boxed in, and found himself in a dead end alley. Preparing to sink another rung lower on the morality ladder, Soldier: 76 turned his back to the alley wall and readied his pulse rifle.

There was a clattering of cans and rubbish behind him—he whirled. Nobody was there, but a stack of rubbish crates had fallen—been pushed?—to reveal one of the almost-invisible, knife-thin alleyways that littered old European and South American cities. His instincts screamed that it was a trap, but there was no time to to listen to his paranoia. He darted down the alley.

A coincidence, maybe.

The second time he had realized he was being tailed early on. He circled back, but couldn't find anything but a teenager spray-painting the alley wall. When he walked by the place later, he saw the Spanish Overwatch slogan glaring at him in large clumsy yellow letters.

The feeling of being followed became a regular occurrence, and as he repeatedly failed to catch his tail, Soldier: 76 became increasingly convinced it was the work of a professional.

A very strange professional. One who, to his horror and confusion, managed to find the location of his local safe house [read: reasonably secure nondescript shack on the outskirts of town] and leave a case of ready-to-cook tamales there. He refused to eat them, sure they were poisoned, but seeing the case sitting in the corner whenever he stopped in reminded him to actually eat.

He spent a week agonizing over whether to abandon his safe house and go through the work of finding a new one. In the end he decided that he would, instead, complete his current hunt for a mid-range member of the Los Muertos gang. After getting new information and killing the thug, Soldier: 76 would turn his attention to his crazy stalker.


Alma and Vix had debated for a long time on the best time of day to complete this mission. Los Muertos were a dangerous and violent gang and they certainly would continue to wreak havoc if not detained. Unfortunately, Solarix was considered a vigilante and they had no way to see the terrorists arrested. Eventually they had settled on their current plan, which would minimize loss of life but hopefully cripple the gang's ability to work.

Alma crept to the locked access door in the center of the roof. It was the easiest route in-once she'd managed to get glide over from a nearby rooftop in a maneuver involving hot air and a sheet of nylon that they were not going to be repeating—because the ground floor of the warehouse had infrared alarms that she couldn't counter. All the roof entrance had was a simple metal lock. Alma melted it of and crept down the dark stairs, letting her combat bands heat up to provide a small glow to see by.

Another wave of pain rolled through her uterus and Alma silently cursed the indulgence that had made her allow Vix talk her out of getting that hysterectomy last year. Just so you know, she told them, next time you use the "But human physiological processes are so fascinating!" line on me, I'm going to spend a week watching Omnic cyber porn.

The horror that washed over from Vix would have been highly satisfying if it hadn't been so intense. Vix was a decidedly asexual Omnic: something to do, they reasoned, with not having an Omnic body.

They teased each other silently, threats becoming more and more absurd, as they made their way down to the control room, always keeping half of their combined attention tuned for danger. The room was just a partitioned section of the primary floor of the warehouse, open to the second-floor catwalks above. The security system would be simple to shut down, but things would have to be precisely timed because within thirteen seconds of hitting the ground floor sensors they would set off the infrared alarms.

You ready? She asked Vix.

Together as one, they replied.

With a deep, focusing breath, Alma and Vix melded, becoming Solarix, their unified alter-ego. They became aware of and in perfect control of every fiber of their being; all their complementing strengths fused; all distractions and uncertainties melted away like snow under the sun. They used the dim light from their combat bands to memorize the layout of the room below them before turning down their inner temperature as far as possible. They took several seconds to plan out each action needed to complete their goal.

Solarix dropped silently and gracefully into the control room, flipping the switch for the holo screen as they fell. As the system booted up, they rolled into a harmless landing and used their momentum to send a searing punch into the backup system under the desk, ensuring there would be no black-box recordings of their actions here for Los Muertos to find in the ashes. They quickly popped up in front of the now-ready control screen and made the pass code gesture they'd gotten from a previous spying trip. With two seconds to go, Solarix paged through the appropriate windows and shut down the warehouse's security.

Mission: Accomplished, Vix said with satisfaction as they separated.

Alma rolled her eyes. Alright, no more watching old movies.

Alma trekked back up to the catwalk to retrieve the bag she'd brought with her, stopping for a minute to grouse over premenstrual pain again. Then she made her way to the basement weapons cache. Out of the bag came several canisters of compressed oxygen. She cleared a space in the center of the stacks of boxes, located the crates of ammunition and emptied them all onto the floor. Same with the box of grenades. Then she stood each canister of oxygen upright into the middle of the pile. She went looking into other rooms until she found a tub of gasoline near an old-style jeep and brought it back to pour over the weapons crates. All finished, Alma stood with her arms crossed surveying the basement and thinking that blowing things up was actually a good cure for PMS crankiness.


Soldier: 76 surveyed the warehouse where Enrique Versalos managed supplied the Los Muertos. It was dawn, and the place was deserted. Los Muertos took pains to make the warehouse look empty during the day. No one would return until very late in the afternoon—at which point he intended to be inside, lying in wait for them. Checking for threats and watching eyes, he slipped along the outside of the warehouse, looking for a door to force.

Behind him, a fourteen year old girl peeked over an the ledge of a nearby roof.

Alejandra had been following 76 since the day he saved her life three months ago, first out of curiosity and then out of a growing sense of duty. The man was one of los Protectores, she was sure, and he was trying to bring hope to the community while alone and hunted. He needed her help. Alejandra knew the city and all its secret crannies better even than the Los Muertos gang. She was inconspicuous; everyone still ignored her like they ignored children. Gradually, Alejandra grew bolder in her attempts to help the mysterious man. She followed him home, and—realizing she never saw him eating, remembering she never thanked him for saving her—brought him a case of her mother's best tamales. She also learned, the hard way, when a call to the police would tip the scales in her hero's favor and when it would leave him very fucked.

Right now, she needed to know more about the situation before deciding either way. Alejandra jumped down from the roof and crept after 76, following exactly in his footsteps to be sure of avoiding traps.


Alma walked around the perimeter of the basement, putting a super hot hand against a box here and there until the wood caught. Soon many of the weapon's crates were flaming. The heat didn't bother her in the least.

Alright let's get out of here before we ruin our clothes again, said Vix.

Alma snickered at Vix's reference to her so called "Supernova" ability, an explosion of heat that in her opinion would better be called "Overkill". Last time Alma had tried it, the heat burned away all her equipment—and clothes.

Vix was right, though. They needed to am-scray.

Alma scurried upstairs and towards the nearest exit. Halfway across the shots rang out from above, directed at her. Fuck! was the last separate thought Alma had before diving for cover and melding with Vix.

Fuck! was the first thought Solarix had as they panted behind the giant tire of a grounded hovertruck. The warehouse had been empty when they entered. The alarms were off and they didn't know how many people had snuck into the building while they were occupied in the basement. It could be a full-fledged ambush from Los Muertos, for all Solarix knew.

Solarix took a deep breath and focused their mind. The shots had come from only one direction, over by the control room, but what they really needed was light. Unfortunately, the master switch for the overhead lighting was in the control room. Step one would be to shed some light, literally, on two questions: who and how many were their attackers?

Sacrificing stealth for force, Solarix heated up their combat bands. They glanced around, spotted a tire iron, a couple of heavy mechanic's tools and then a old-style rubber tire. The flammable kind. Solarix grinned and crept quickly over to give the large tire a fierce hug. Solarix burned hotter, driving up their skin temperature until it surpassed the tire's burning point. Everywhere they touched it the tire burst into flame. As quickly as they could, Solarix rolled to their feet, swinging the tire around to gain momentum before hurling it over the hovertruck. They vaulted after it an instant later, eyes searching the room as the bouncing ball of flame cast light all around.

Shots rang out from the catwalk as Solarix locked eyes with the masked shooter, perched on one of the catwalks with what looked like a pimped out pulse rifle. Definitely not Los Muertos' MO. This was an interloper.

A shot rang out, just one, and Solarix realized they'd just been target locked. Guided bullets were nasty. Instinctively they leapt off the top of the hovertruck and rolled away, but their conscious instinct and super reflexes was what saved them: they sliced both hands threw the air in front of them, creating a super hot channel of air that could repel slower bullets and melt faster ones. This one was fast—it melted in the air but it's momentum threw the liquid metal all over their chest. It didn't burn them anymore than anything else could, but when it cooled and hardened it would restrict their movement.

No time to dwell on it—Solarix scrambled across the warehouse floor, very aware of the timebomb ticking away a floor beneath them. They ducked into a row of five-meter shelving, and took the moment of cover to strip off their top. Hearing the catwalk clatter and a resounding thunk a second after, they concluded that the shooter had jumped down to the ground level with them. Solarix struggled for a moment, knowing they had to choose a path. Should they focus on escaping, and leave the interloper unawares to die? What if he escaped too? Was he someone they would have to eliminate, or would he listen to peace? What should they do?

Solarix wasted a precious moment to recenter themselves—not wasted, Zenyatta would say—and let the solution present itself. A moment passed, and another. Solarix was vaguely aware they were being crept up on; they could hear slow, sure steps slinking down the rows of shelving. The footsteps stopped. He was in the next row over, probably taking aim at them through a crack in the boxes.

Solarix threw themselves into the shelf, through a tangle of boxes and other detritus, burning away anything that did not immediately move. They rolled into the other aisle, straight into the shooter, making sure to get both hands on his rifle and one knee in his groin. Both of them toppled to the ground.

Solarix ignored the man's growls tried to prevent him from throwing them off. Face inches away from his, Solarix nearly shouted at him: "Listen! The floor is about to explode so can we take this outside?"


Alejandra had no trouble getting inside, but once that was accomplished it was very difficult to stay out of sight. 76 stalked up and down the warehouse, obviously looking for something. Once she kicked an old cigarette case and the small noise almost made her heart stop. Or maybe her heart had stopped when 76 swung around and aimed his rifle in her direction. To her relief he neither shot nor seemed to see her, so she backtracked very carefully to hide in an old hovertruck.

That's when things started heating up. Someone else, a woman who seemed to move like lightning and glowed like it too, began a hair-raising battle with 76. Alejandra had never seen her before. Was this 76's target? She certainly wasn't a member of Los Muertos… Alejandra stayed in the hovertruck, watching: he woman jumped up on top of it and the cabin became incredibly hot, unnaturally so. Alejandra prayed that she wouldn't bake alive. After the battle moved elsewhere she tumbled out of the truck, gulping fresh cool air. Then she heard a shout of surprise, and the voice belonged to her hero.

There were no more sounds, no more shots. Had lightning woman hurt him?

Without thinking, Alejandra grabbed the tire iron on the floor next to her and started running.


"What is that supposed to mean?" growled the shooter.

He didn't wait for an answer, bucking his hips and swinging a fist that Solarix only just managed to duck. The world spun briefly as the man managed to start a quick roll that would leave him on top and able to escape—or inflict more damage. Solarix linked their legs into his and let go of the rifle only long enough to sling one arm around it and hug it to their chest before blasting heat through their combat bands and hooking their free arm around his neck. He teetered, off-balance, but seemed to be recovering. He was too big for Solarix to win fighting fair.

The weakest point of his armor was his head and face. Before he could shake them off, Solarix lifted herself upwards, the arm slung around his neck straining to hold all their weight at the awkward angle, and smashed their face into the crook of his neck. It was almost like an embrace, except their skin was hot enough to boil sulfur. He lost the rest of his balance then, trying to jerk away from them, and Solarix rolled them both back over, managing to throw the gun away in the process. When they were back on top, they realized his mask was beginning to bubble in some places and his visor was sparking.

"Shit!" Solarix scrabbled at the mask, ripping it off before it could do further damage.

The man's face was not severely burnt, though it shone bright red and shiny. He was panting, gasping for air, and Solarix shifted their weight off his chest but not so far off he could escape. There was something about his face, grizzled and scarred, that was familiar…

Alma nearly fell off of the man as she realized with a rush of disorientation that Vix had separated. What was going on?

Vix! Are you okay? Why did you break off?

Sorry, I'm sorry. One of your memories—I wasn't sure but then his expression was exactly the same—I couldn't be fighting him anymore.

Alma didn't understand. Vix kept track of some of Alma's memories from before they had met Zenyatta because she didn't want to lose memories of certain triggering events—which meant he had to bring them to her attention if the situation called for it, because she could do it herself. Slow down and explain, Alma demanded, then added, but do it before he tries to kill us again.

No time—the basement, remember? But you know him. He's Jack Morrison.

Alma's gaze snapped back to the man's face. The resemblance was there, certainly… "Jack?"

He stiffened, for just a moment, before scowling at her as if he hadn't, and Alma knew it was him. What happened to him? Had he been captured by Talon, conditioned like one of Zenyatta's young followers had? Did he recognize her?

Jack tried to get up again, but Alma grabbed his arms and shoved him back down. "Commander Morrison. Jack. I'm Alma Charo. Do you remember me? We're on the same side."

"I'm on nobody's side anymore."

Alma, the basement! Any second now!

Jack was shifting, preparing stealthily to throw her off, and Alma knew she really couldn't stop him with his weight advantage. She heated an arm until the bands glowed and thrust it up to his throat, not touching but close enough to be damn persuasive. "You are Jack Morrison and you know who I am. You know you can trust me, dammit, so listen: I've rigged the building to explode and if you don't leave right now you're going to die."

There was a pause as Alma gave him the chance to not be an idiot. She was just about to let him go when the sound of footsteps rapidly clattering closer made her glance down the aisle.

A girl, not more than fourteen, raced into view and slid to an ungraceful stop several meters away. She was panting, and her pale face betrayed more than a little terror, but she was gripping a tire iron like a baseball bat and scowling threateningly at Alma.

"Leave him alone," the girl shouted.

"Dios mio," Alma breathed, feeling cold down to her bones.


Alejandra was ready to suppress a flinch, ready for the lightning woman to attack her. She didn't know what exactly would happen, but she had steeled herself-she thought-to be ready for anything. She didn't expect for Señor 76 to throw off his attacker and point at her.

"You!" he growled. "How did you get here?"

Alejandra flinched anyway. Her voice sounded small, small like it did when her Mamí caught her sneaking out, as she answered: "I followed you. I wanted… to help."

His mask was gone, Alejandra noticed immediately. His face was old, grizzled like her abuelo's had been, and scarred [not like her abuelo's]. It made his glare very impressive. For a moment, Alejandra thought he would stay angry, and it occurred to her for the first time that she had done the wrong thing. What was she doing here, with a silly tire iron, trying to keep up with a real hero like Señor 76?

Then 76's glare softened.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he he heaved a gruff sigh. "My professional tail has been a kid."

Alejandra grinned. Was she that good?

Suddenly a bundle of green cloth hit her in the face and Alejandra jumped, remembering the lightning woman.

"Put that around your head, niña. It's heat proof." The woman commanded Alejandra in rapid Spanish before turning her attention to 76. "Jack! Take her and run."

Alejandra picked up the cloth—it was a sleeveless undershirt of some synthetic material—she glanced at the woman, who, sure enough, was now wearing only her pants and a sports bra. Alejandra suddenly realized she was out of her depth. Hadn't these two been fighting a moment ago? Now 76 just nodded at the woman and bolted toward Alejandra.

"You heard her, kid. Cover your head," he said as he scooped her up as easily as if she were a doll. Alejandra scrabbled awkwardly at the shirt until it slid over her head, then gripped Señor 76 as tightly as she could as he started running. She didn't know what was happening to make these two fighters so frightened, but she knew with him she would okay.


There was a minuscule rumble beneath their feet. It was starting. Solarix ran, painfully aware that Jack was older and slower than them, especially weighed down with a leggy teenager. They paced themselves to stay with him, grasping for some kind of plan to get them all out of here. They weren't going to make it without one. The main explosion would come within the minute, as soon as the oxygen canisters caught.

Next time they wanted to blow something up, Solarix vowed, they would use explosives and a remote detonator like a normal fucking person.

A low, dark sound broke the early morning silence and the concrete floor gave a small roll. Solarix slid to a stop as Jack stumbled, unable to right himself and keep from dropping the girl at the same time. Solarix darted in to keep him from falling. As they caught his eye the look on his face reminded them very strongly of the Jack Morrison Alma used to know. "You're faster than this, aren't you?" he said.

"No, Jack," Solarix said, and they both knew Solarix wasn't replying to Jack's question.

Jack wouldn't be persuaded. "Civilians first, soldier."

This time Solarix was aware of the flicker of memory Jack's words produced, aware of Vix suppressing the desire to separate and sort out the rush of feelings it produced. Their distraction allowed Jack to pry the teenager's fingers off his jacket and force her into Solarix's arms. There was no time to argue; their lives were measured in seconds right now.

The girl was only a bit smaller than Solarix, but with unity came strength. For a few seconds, for all the time that mattered, Solarix could carry this girl. They sped away, soon leaving Jack behind despite the increase in his speed from being unburdened. They breached the outer door of the warehouse and kept running, well aware that the explosion would reach much farther. The building was shaking, and Solarix could sense the growing heat in its belly. Their minute was up.

"Hold onto me," they commanded the girl, before swinging around and planting their feet against the oncoming explosion. Their hands slashed in several wide arcs, building a heat shield to protect them. Solarix forced heat outward, like a solid wall, searing the air until it stood a chance of buffering back the incoming flames. Let the Iris help me.

It worked. Just like a counter blaze that turns away a prairie fire, the shield turned aside the outside heat, leaving Solarix and the girl uncomfortably hot but not dead.

Unfortunately, there was no power in Solarix's arsenal that could do anything about the shockwave that preceded the explosion, blowing them off their feet.


Alma remembered only ever having one mission with Commander Morrison. She didn't know him well; he wasn't Jack to her like he was to Winston and Dr. Zeigler, or even Dad like it seemed he was to every third Overwatch employee. Just Commander Morrison, the slightly less intimidating version of Commander Reyes.

Both of them were on this mission with her, as well as Winston, Reinhart, Torjborn and several of Overwatch's other heavy hitters. They were taking a heavily guarded terrorist headquarters, one guarded with stolen Bastion units from the war. The idea, Reyes explained, was to sneak her far enough behind enemy defenses that she could blow up the headquarters. The terrorists had been given every chance to surrender, and instead they had responded by taking more lives. Overwatch was ready to wipe them off the map.

The bulk of the team led a distraction while Commanders Morrison and Reyes acted as her escort. The way the two had moved together, a seamless team, was so breathtaking that it was one of the sharpest parts of the memory. They'd only gotten halfway in when their pursuers had become too strong: Reyes and Morrison stayed to hold them back, directing Alma to sneak ahead. Alma remembered thinking, incredibly anxious, that she'd have no problem creating one of her little Supernovas. She was so on edge the difficulty would be in holding back until the proper moment, until everyone on the team was out of the blast zone.

Then it had all gone to hell. Alma reached the center of the encampment and seen that it was full of civilians—not hostages, probably more like family members. She'd balked, reported it to the others, and listened to Reyes and Morrison have a short and vehement argument that included the phrase "acceptable casualties" several times. Finally Commander Morrison cut Reyes off and ordered her to abort: "Civilians first, soldier."

Alma stayed with the civilians, unable to retreat until the others fought tooth and nail to take the encampment the old-fashioned way. Not even Reyes or Morrison could come get her, even though she told them several times, in a terrified voice, that she didn't know if she could hold back an explosion—she felt like she was shaking apart.

Tucked into a corner, Alma tried to shut her eyes and ears to the world around her. She shrieked at anyone who came near her, afraid of hurting someone. She stayed that way even after the others arrived. "Get everyone away from me!"

She could hear disgust in Reyes's tone and heard Morrison shout for everyone to clear the area. Many footsteps leaving, then one pair coming towards her. She heard someone kneel down in front of her.

"Hey." It was Commander Morrison. "You did a good job. You kept everyone safe." His voice was low and soft. "They gave up pretty easy after Gabe let them know we essentially had their families hostage."

With a bomb. With her. She was the bomb.

"You did good. It's time to settle down now."

"I… I can't." Alma remembered she'd started sobbing by then.

"Are you injured?"

"No. I think I'm going crazy. I'm a time bomb." Alma looked up then, and surprised herself realizing how close Commander Morrison was. Close enough to feel how hot her skin was burning. He wasn't flinching away; instead he acted like he didn't notice. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he was such a badass that nothing bothered him. Why was he such a perfect soldier and she was so fucked up? Another sob. She put her head in her arms again. "I hate this. I hate being a weapon. I'm not even a good one. I'm out of control."

"You're not a weapon, Charo. You're a soldier. You're even a good one. You don't give me half the shit Tracer does."

His radio buzzed to life; he dismissed the voice on the other end with a firm "Not now" and returned his attention to her.

"Charo. Alma. Listen up. You saw the world needed help and you stood up to help it, and that makes you a hero. And that's tough, I know. But you're not alone here. Everyone in Overwatch is fighting with you, fighting for you."

A long pause. Alma remembered thinking wryly that they should put Morrison in charge of recruitment. After a moment, he sighed. "Ah… I'm no good at this pep talk stuff. I'm just a soldier. But I've got your back, Alma. You can trust me on that."

Alma couldn't let that one go. "You have everyone's back." She looked up at him, with a weak half smile. "Commander Dad."

He'd rolled his eyes, or something, and threatened, without any real intention, to kill McCree for starting the joke. "Alright, Sunstroke. Try this on: I trust you to have my back. Explosions and all. Now what do you say we go home?"


Alma kept her eyes tightly closed long after the world stopped spinning. Vix, I can't wake up.

Yes you can, they assured her, in the tone one might use to coax a frightened child out of a hiding spot.

What if they're both dead?

Vix could feel the worry tumbling around Alma's mind. Deciding it was best that they take charge, they gently wrapped Alma in comforting memories and then started assessing the situation. I'll drive.

Vix mentally checked their body for injury. They'd been blown back onto their back, and most likely slid for a ways as well, judging from the burning scrapes on their back and their aching shoulders. Without a shirt the damage had to be pretty severe, and the wounds would be dirty. Vix stifled amusement as they noticed their menstrual cramps were still valiantly vying for attention as well. Their ribs hurt; there was a strong weight lying on them and Vix realized that they could hear the human teenager's heartbeat just above theirs.

There, the girl is alive, see?

Alma's fear tamped down slightly.

Vix opened their eyes and had to blink against the sun. Not more than a twenty minutes had passed, but it was enough for the dawn light to filter down the street to them. It cast a pretty shade of pink on all the wreckage around them: chunks of blackened concrete, metal detritus, twisted support beams… The warehouse was a decrepit shell of a build slowly but surely falling into the crater left by the explosion. It also cast a halo around the dark head of the girl lying on top of them. She was awake, but she hadn't moved. She had nudged their shirt down around her neck and was staring at Vix with round, wide brown eyes. Her mascara was smudged and she looked shaken.

"Hello there. We haven't met," Vix said, smiling. "My name is Vix. I use they pronouns. Who are you?"

"I'm Alejandra… pero everyone calls me Ale. I use she pronouns, Señore." She was whispering.

Vix was pleased to note the gender neutral title—what a polite young woman. They switched to Spanish with a little help from Alma. "Ale, are you hurting anywhere?"

Ale shook her head, then bit her lip. "My legs—they're scraped pretty bad. And I'm kinda dizzy. And my heart is beating so fast."

"That's what happens when you're very brave. Afterward it all catches up with you."

Ale nodded seriously.

"Ale," Vix said after a moment, "are you able to get off of me? We should probably leave before the authorities arrive."

"Oh!" Ale started to scramble up, then winced and moved more gingerly to her feet. Vix followed, groaning a little. "The police don't come to this side of town often," Ale continued. She half turned, taking in the ruins of the warehouse. "They might come for that, though."

Vix agreed. Unfortunately, they didn't have a safe house nearby, nor any quick way to get out of the area. They hadn't anticipating things to shit this badly. I'll listen out for sirens, Alma told them. Or other interested parties…

Ale's expression was deeply furrowed, and Vix waited for her to speak up. "Señore, what about…"—the girl glanced back at the still smoking warehouse— "What about Señor 76?"

Jack… Alma keened.

"That's our first stop," Vix told them both. "Can you be brave a little longer and come with me, Ale?"

Ale's expression firmed into determination once more. She nodded.

They both picked their way towards the warehouse, slowly, hampered by aching backs and aching shins, eyes scanning the ground for their friend. Vix was also keeping their senses tuned in the way Zenyatta had taught them, listening for other life—the hum of an Omnic's power core, or the beat of a human's heart.


Soldier: 76 regained consciousness alone, without fanfare, face down in the rubble. His first instinct was to move, to dodge, to scan for danger—his body was programmed to shake off shock way faster and preserve adrenaline way longer than a normal human's could. It meant sometimes his brain had to catch up to his instincts. In this particular instance it meant he tried to get up immediately, assume some sort of battle ready stance, before properly checking his surroundings. The pertinent aspect of his surroundings being the sharp spar of iron spar balancing inches above his back on edge of a broken slab of concrete. Before he could remember that a building just fell on top of him, 76 knocked it off it's delicate perch.

He managed to roll away before the falling end could skewer him, but the rough edge tore through his jacket and into his side, leaving a long deep gash before plunging into the ground with a deep ringing noise.

Well, this is nice, 76 thought as he realized that he had rolled the wrong way. The other direction would have had him on relatively clear ground, able to pick his way out of the pile of rubble surrounding him. Instead his back was up against a concrete wall and the iron spar had him effectively pinned in the tight spot. At least he wasn't too badly burnt. Not that it would do him a lot of good if he bled out, or if he was still stuck here when the authorities arrived, or worse, Los Muertos.

The sound of crunching rubble made 76 tense. Someone was approaching. Had Los Muertos already arrived? Carefully, 76 reached down for the hidden knife sheathed in his boot, just barely able to reach, restricted as he was. The steps were definitely coming towards him. He readied his aim.

The moment the intruder was in view 76 threw the knife. The figure dodged.

"Son of a virus!" Sunstroke swore. "Do you always shoot first and ask questions later?" Something about Sunstroke's voice, or maybe her turn of phrase, sounded different—different even from a few minutes ago.

The girl peeked her head out from behind 76's old comrade, looking relatively unharmed. "Señor 76!" she chimed, touching concern written all over her face. "You're bleeding!"

76 suppressed a growl. "You were supposed to get the kid to safety," he said accusingly to Charo.

"I'm working on bringing her whole being to safety. She is physically out of danger, and I am attempting to rectify her emotional distress right now." Charo picked their way closer to 76, followed by the girl.

There it was—he had it. Charo was talking like an Omnic. He regarded her suspiciously. "What happened to you?"

Charo's expression showed she could obviously sense the long-term connotation of the question. Her response was unexpected, though. "I'm sure Alma would like to ask you the same question. And before you ask—no, I'm not Alma right now. Will you trust me to explain after we're not in the middle of a crime scene?"

Hell no. Charo—not Charo?—sighed at him. "Alma needs to rest, but she says she still trusts you to have her back. Ah… 'Explosions and all.' Is that good enough for you?"

76 remembered the conversation she was referring to, despite the many years that had past. To be honest he had not crossed paths with Charo much. She'd been far less confident, far more troubled, when he knew her. Still, it wasn't such a unique turn of phrase, or something he could be sure she never would have told anyone else… His mind wandered to the growing bloodstain on his side and he growled in frustration. He didn't have a choice. "Alright. Fine. Can you help me out of this goddamn deathtrap?"

Charo-Not-Charo grinned, and squatted down as close as they could get with the spar of iron between them. "Great. My name's Vix. They/them pronouns. I have good news and bad news for you."

Obviously they were waiting for him to ask. "Are you going to elaborate?" he said.

Vix gestured to the iron spar. "Good news is I can get you out."

Obviously. This new Sunstroke obviously had much finer control of their heat abilities. They could likely just melt the spar way.

"Bad news is… you're not gonna have to worry about bleeding out."

…which was, 76 realized, a delicate way of saying that the hot iron was going to cauterize his newest injury and probably a good deal of non-injured skin would be burnt along with it. This was gonna hurt like a motherfucker.

"Fuck."


Notes: Don't forget to review! Also, this fic is unbetaed, so feel free to be helpful and point out typos and inconsistencies, esp. w/pronouns!

Dedicated to Hyourin MaruIce

Spanish Translations:

Los Muertos: The Dead

los Protectores: The Protectors [here: Overwatch]

Dios mio: Oh my God

Señor 76 does not mean Soldier 76 but Mr. 76 [Ale does not know who 76 is, just noticed the number]

Mamí/Mom

Abuelo/grandfather

Niña/girl

Pero/but

Señore is the gender neutral version of Señor [Mr. or sir]/Señora [Mrs. or ma'am], not officially recognized, also can be seen as Señorx