My Name, Her Name
There was a few differences between Commander Reyes and Strike-Commander Morrison besides the spotlight. She knew this well and did nothing to prevent what could've been seen from the very start, watched them argue over who did what. That Jack left this person, that Gabriel never did thought about this, agents around them wondering what they were fighting for as blood was finally drawn. A civil war in a split second with so many turncoats it was impossible to tell friend from foe in a sea of cross-coloured blue and black hitting each other black and blue. In that moment the world seemed to freeze for her, the cap shot from her head and falling to the floor in slow motion into the blood of whomever lay before her in dark gray, the spray of shells from reloading.
She thought back then to her superior, of all the time spent on Lena only for it to be thrown away, for her to be thrown away.
The people she couldn't save...wasn't allowed to at times.
Genji's limited options, a soldier for a life…
The technology they stole to make their weapons, stole from her to break their promises.
All the lies of heroes whose main triumphs were accomplished by the darker side.
Of her young age in joining the war and all the cruelty, the stress put on her for greatness.
She thought of what she'd tried to forget, labeled as necessary sacrifice or just a part of life and combined it, the pros outweighing the cons in that very moment as the man she'd come to follow called out to her, directing her back towards their side- his side.
"Hey, kid, you planning on taking a break anytime soon?"
But he hadn't been the one to inspire her trust, and like the eye of the storm she stepped calmly through the fray and to her commander, drawing the pistol made from lies and empty promises.
And she fought with Blackwatch. Blood sprayed through the halls in a horrid discourse, disgust buried deep within her mind as she saw the fire in the man's eyes over her betrayal, alight with rage and ready to end it; he raised his arm and started to shout but what interrupted couldn't possibly be expected.
The blast of foundation and fire to follow with a hollow sound followed quickly by a terrifying shock of frozen bodies and screams as they were buried.
It was dark then, rubble trapping countless beneath the cold grasp of stone, encasing screams and air; her arm had rebar stuck through it; she didn't feel any pain. There was no sound beside the ringing in her ears, eyes blind in darkness, her legs were numb, arm felt strange, there's rebar in her arm, stronger wire made for foundation; it doesn't seem to register. She dizzly looks over the situation as her vision adjusts but remains in swimming dizziness, she can't hear her own screams, doesn't even know if she's making a sound. Liquid, there's liquid on her face, dripping down from the poor soul above, no movement, no breath, beneath is her commander, saved from the stone by the odd coalition crushed against one another; no sound, still no sound but he's breathing.
She starts to shake, blonde strands falling into her face and the strain of the above material taking its toll, she doesn't hear the groan nor see where the glob of blood she'd spat out goes. There's a little tremor beneath and eyes stare back at her in dawning horror, a body attempting to shift but ceasing as soon as the rubble follows suit. She gives a strained smile, limbs trembling as sweat drips down her face, arms fully extended to keep everything in place; it hurts, the flesh of her back dug into and arms strained by weight as she tries to mask it as best she can.
She speaks despite barely hearing her own words, knowing it's still quiet due to the strain in her throat that just her estimate of a whisper causes, "I...fought with you."
He's nodding but the look of horror doesn't vanish as she chuckles darkly, "I can save anyone but myself...isn't...that...right?" She huffed, remembering the memory fondly, coughing a bit from the dust.
He whispers a 'yeah…' she barely catches and can only watch in a way akin to that of a bystander, something he'd never wanted to be, as she falters in the silence, arm bending a bit before lifting up once more, so tired, sweat like a waterfall off her brow to mix with blood; she can barely keep herself up
"I'm glad...you deserve it, Gabe…Morrison's a jackass, I always just thought it was Overwatch's limitations but...we could have saved Lena...Amélie...Ana…Ugh!" The cry spills from her lips without warning nor permission, her right arm still permeated by the wire falters enough to be crushed under shifting slabs.
"Angela!" It's harder and harder to keep herself straight, focused, steady. She barely heard it, ears still drowning in odd static, the watery visage before her only further muffled by blood and fatigue, she shut her eyes a moment, fighting the strain and trying to keep the red liquid from her eyes as her forehead grew hot.
"I'm okay! I'm okay…" She promises, wrenching her eyes open, the lie obvious in her hasty tone akin to a child assuring a concerned parent. Her pupils wide in the low light, blue heavily over compassed by black, "We're gonna be fine." It's chastising but easy to see its for her own sake, all too used to reassuring herself through patients and their security, yet even such a habit seems to snap under the weight of their situation, "...right?"
She feels so small when she says it, barely audible through heavy breaths, can feel the sting of tears in her eyes mix with dirt as they marked her cheeks; she's going to die, isn't she?
He ceases the hopeless battle in getting an arm free for just a moment, "Yeah, we're gonna be just fine, Merc."
She gives a watery smile, beginning a final request- the faint sound of crumbling stone smash apart as her muscles finally give, face hitting the ground below as her world goes dark.
The echo left hanging in the air, cut-off by a lack of time digging into her own and pulling at her soul as it rests within a limp body, "Gabe, please...I- I don't want to be remembered as Mer-"
"I won't let you die! Heroes don't die, damn it!" He's so tense, she chuckles, completely out of it in her dizzying high of dreamscape.
"Ha ha, I'm not a hero, you're the hero, Gabe." But then there's a pain in her chest and wet coughs, the sound of adamant hushes and the visible face of a bleeding comrade through nearly closed eyes harder to keep from giving into heaviness each second. The vague memory of her shoulder being shaken, his forearm holding up debris as he says they have to move. Legs nonfunctional, stumbling until he takes over, hoisting her up and sprinting in painful jostles each ignores.
Shouting, she hears it, tents set up nearby to help survivors, searchers knee deep in shattered glass, ruined foundations, and twisted bits of metal. She catches 'found,' 'two more,' 'another gone,' it's so unreal; a dream? She quits scanning the scene, eyes turning upwards to the night sky and taking a deep breath before diving into darkness once more, barely noticing the yelling get quieter and footsteps fading into a single pair as others are avoided like the plague.
Time blurs into the same step and she finds her mind less and less amenable to circumstance, a burning in her joints as she drifts in and out, finding herself in places growing more and more unfamiliar by the moment. Voices swirling like colours and the constant flashes of white-hot pain accompanying the harsh pressure on her midsection, the weight on her limbs. At times she'd unable to keep herself silent despite the hushed tone of the room telling her she should, little whines of unease in combination with hastily muttered phrases of terrified diagnosis.
"Gabe- Gabe, I can't feel my arm…!" And sometimes he'll be there, small words of encouragement, telling her it's okay, he'll fix it, they won't die now. Other times there is nothing more than stifling silence and an endless cold, bitter tears nursing the end of herself and wondering, pleading within the question of why she has to be alone, why she has to be in pain; why is she still alive? Is this even living?
Other times there was nothing more than her own words to fill the silence, working as long as she could to ward it off, endless questions, little answers, "Why...why was I there?"
He sounds perplexed as he takes his head from his hands, "...what?"
She laughs a bit, grimacing at the jostle, "In Switzerland, with Jack...did he know?"
Although she doesn't look she can nearly imagine the sympathy in his face, eyes full of sorrow and glazed over as he thinks back, "Yeah, he knew, probably saw it coming, in fact… Lena, she was the last straw for a lot of us...Blackwatch's ghost more than anything for how often she was around, the rabbit-"
"In the den of foxes…" She finishes, knowing the feeling easily from a youth spent in prodigious reputation and at the scrutiny of others almost constantly, "What- agh…! What are we going to do now?" She holds her bandaged abdomen tightly, another hand soon moving to rest on it and examine the red bleeding through; they can't avoid medical care forever…but they can't go back.
"To be honest, I have no idea what we should expect, or even what we'd be up against in running from them; they may label it an accident, maybe single us out as criminals; but I think we both know there's no going back," He pauses and she finally looks back, hypothesised reaction alight on his face that seems to only sadden her further; do they have any hope? "I...I know this may be a hard question right now but it wouldn't feel right otherwise...what are you willing to do?"
Angela sits up slowly, one arm struggling to get her upright as the other stays limp with her legs, as if biding her time but an answer is already firm on her lips, nearly inaudible from the new standards of half-deaf ears as it's caught in a sigh, "Anything. Anything for you and her, for survival...for all the people he left behind and made me give up on!" There's the relief of tension in the final statement, a yell rather than a whine as though the cap of a leaky bottle had finally been wrenched off, "For when the only thing that kept me going was a promise...a promise he couldn't even keep."
And through that sorrow he sat with her, reliving her horrible memories of Genji's resentment and a lack of anything but negative reinforcement but covering them in the here and now that was pain's reminder of reality and Gabe, the one person in her life that had never been a false persona. Everything was going to be changing soon, the signs obvious whether from the numbness in parts of her body, stolen painkillers in her blood, the bombing itself, or...the face of Jack as he watched her carry out mutiny. The only consolations being she wasn't alone, she wasn't back with them, and she believed in the person she'd sided with, for once.
Talon was a cold place no matter where the given station was. Maybe it was the people, husks of skewed morals and ambitions to pluck the sun from the sky, perhaps the plans, bombings, murders, thievery, or maybe it was just the desperation… She could sense it in herself, in those sitting beside her, in those she wakes up next to at every mistake, coursing through the only original blood in her veins. Her wings were the start. Left behind for her trip but not quite unarmed thanks to her gun, the technology was stolen shortly after their joining, plans destroyed, and everything rebuilt and improved through hours of work. The same went for Lena, a normal pattern developing in infiltration and a clear lack of boundaries none were quite sure about yet.
They'd tried 'Demon,' 'Discord,' 'Angel,' 'Pride,' yet she couldn't wrap her head around any of the roles and their required disposition. That was the thing about her chosen place, what it took and did not return, birthing The Reaper, Widowmaker, Lethe...and her.
A whole world of difference constructed by means of grudges and those with nowhere else, skilled but empty, sound yet silent, human only not. It reminded her of of all their differences in coping, Lena wearing it like a second skin made by circumstance, showing off her face and gloating as she covered up the abandonment and sorrow, using it as fuel for what was necessary as she reminded them of what they'd thrown away.
Gabriel shrouding himself in an enigma to escape the questions and shallow hope of redemption to ensure he himself thinks he is beyond help, if only to keep it together every time he sees a familiar face.
Even Amélie, deep down, wanted to remember her past, her name as an alternate persona to represent the person she was not but knew dwelt within, the one who had made her a widow.
So, what was she? Did she want to forget, to hide away, openly show her grudge and expect guilt, or what they wanted...someone fuelled by blood and corpses, a monster controlled rather than taught; the only thing they didn't have. But she was a doctor, once-
"...what are you willing to do?"
"Anything."
Her hands went to her ears as they rung with memories once more, the haunting message of her own voice as though reminding her of a promise she'd never meant to make; a fine print never read she herself wrote. 'Anything,' echoed again and again with the same question, simplified, none of the strings attached, emotion changed from sorrow to anger as though to prove something, make amends that were never needed… Their conditioning? She'd do anything to end it, anything. Anything. Anything- Stop!
"Promise?" Came the usual purr, standing before her eyes with an odd look in its eyes and a twisted feeling that seemed to pull at her, as though the apparition and all that came with it would vanish if she just…
Stop…
"Just promise," It insisted, a tiny voice like a pleading child, like the one she'd pulled from the wreckage once before, those little tears, a tiny body begging for relief from their tragic life without anyone; she had been that once. A little girl with a mop of blonde trapped in a memory- the memory. Blue eyes blinking at the lifeless, too shocked to speak as her stare remained, for a long time she didn't scream, speak, nor even make a sound; distraction coming in any book she could get ahold of. She could promise...it had said the memories would stop, the insistent cries of her own demons, a past full of lonely days and wishes unanswered (because wishes aren't real, never are).
"Say it and I'll stop. No more."
She couldn't say it out loud… If she said it then all was lost, "Fuck you," She snarled, drifting into sobs easily encouraged by fatigue, "I'm sick of these damn games…"
The shadow bounces on its heels like a child, swinging little arms and drawing just a little closer to her back, "Then what're you here for? Didn't you want-?"
"Shut. Up."
"There's a price, Angela. Pay it," How do a kid's high-pitched tones of sweetness become so corrupted to form this voice? Sinister in nature and making her skin crawl, a shiver permeating the stillness as she rubs at baggy eyes, running a hand through unwashed hair, she breaths a little harder, "Angela," It insists.
"Shut up!" She roars, giving in as she turns around and stops short because there she is. A little girl with a mop of blonde hair trapping her in a memory- their memory. All those times she'd insisted her pain was not known but whatever spoke she'd never looked and saw...she did know...didn't she? "I- I'm sorry…"
"It's okay...I know," A tiny hand against a tear-stained cheek that drew their blues together in a meaningful stare, "But I still need you to answer. You remember that wish we made, don't you?" The wish...someone promise to be there for me...someone make it so I'm not alone; the one that never worked.
"I…" Her breath hitches as she lets out a sob, her resistance waning and memories turning into nothing more than mush throughout blending patterns of abuse of both physical and mental, just promise, she feels like a child again when she finally says it, small and helpless, that same kid pleading with what they knew to be false hope if only for a chance.
"I promise…"
It felt like a stage-show in that moment, no longer all by her lonesome as a hand claps her shoulder, looking up granting her a look of sympathy and the short squeeze an apology. Her own voice haunts the picture as her head meets her hands, knees curling up to her chest, as she breaks down and speaks not a word as she cries; hiding a more telling expression with sympathy.
Martyr. The creation made of what was left behind as she hides in a moniker. Explanation comes much too late, a rebuilding process so alike the wings she can no longer be without lest she fear being hauled back. They fought for her, she knows that, can see the building's scars where angry storms of bullets were set forth in a two-man war determined not to let Angela, their Angela, see what they'd seen when each disappeared; what created Reaper and Lethe. But promises mean nothing in a place like this outside hers, that same persona drowning in a voice so familiar yet small, buried in regret and agony unlike any prior.
Refusals are met with those words, threats so far from empty even the beginning tone is terrifying, because they found their way to ruin her mind and wouldn't hesitate to push until nothing was left but a shell like their purple-skinned agent. None of them can let that happen, lest they have to put aside helping her for the sake of needing saving themself. Act the part. You promised- you promised, Angela.
She loses herself, watching her actions like her body is possessed and pained like it wasn't hers to control every other instance. A headband like a halo was what she'd once envisioned, a symbol, impractical but meaningful, to reach out on wings of light and pull the injured from their darkness; their cries for mercy answered by its symbol. That crown broken into pieces that were sharp like thorns as if to poke fun at her corruption, yellow light once bathing those in sight now a murky grey and lacking an colour besides mangled tones of pale blue appearing ripped a the seems. Even her hair was changed in their ways, as if to make whoever caught sight of her from before question just that bit more if blonde had truly lightened into white as Lena's locks had been darkened into black, the only difference being faces, one covering everything beneath the eyes with an opaque veil of black and the other leaving eyes tinted by red goggles.
But the strangest thing had to be the repairs finally made, as though she'd been held captive before and was only just gaining some sort of privilege. Metal replacing each leg and the arm on her right, her back long since repaired with the additions to her spine but further fixed to accommodate the lengthy uses of her wings...something she herself might have made necessary considering how wrong it feels to be without them now; much like Lena and her 'Chronal Accelerator' as it was named, not that she felt it fair to compare their situations considering what the pilot had been through. The scars marring her remaining flesh reminding her of that day, of the human parts once held but taken if only because of the inconvenience of being that much farther from perfection; what may have healed torn off if only to further cement her new identity. In a way it had touched them all, the purple of Amélie's skin and hair, the red glow of Lena's accelerator, Gabriel's newer abilities of shifting into smoke and a mask of Blackwatch's crest, and the glow of her enhanced eyesight casting an eerie crimson glinting off the metal sitting about a reinforced jaw.
Sometimes she wondered if they'd rather believe her dead. Every moment she grew in the dark and remained steadfastly in avoidance to their recall spent with the dwelling of the same question. Still, she'd promised, it was why she was here now, Widowmaker at her flank with Lethe and Doomfist leading the charge, ear buzzing with Sombra's updates and Reaper's advice. The well known faces, reputations easily proceeding them on the more difficult missions, especially those requiring the finesse of an example; she herself tended to stray from the limelight, however, supporting from the sidelines just like old times...though, unlike then, those who thought her an easy target tended to die first. This time, however, was different, hesitation breeding in her steps as she comes face-to-face with a man she knew too well not to recognise no matter the changes. Genji.
She gave a little growl, eyes narrowing as she bared sharpened teeth towards the threat, brushing aside the brush of familiarity of a memory, the 'shark teeth' of a child playing pretend; they'd mocked her for it at first, nothing more than light-hearted comments not meant to cut. Yet, the reminder was plain as days slept through after the lengthy graveyard shifts, the trade made for anything, that damned promise… One hand unsheathed a blade, the provision of a surgeon shown as she held the scalpels steady, aiming for openings, the best place to strike, her chances of hitting it just so; low. Distraction. Be a distraction. Check-in wasn't for another sixteen and a half minutes, without her word they'd know then; no need to alert the enemy of her back door.
Refocus. No signs of recognition besides an obvious, albeit strange, interest judging by his long period of silence without action. They eyed each other as she set the stage, whittling her time away with each second unknowingly wasted; then the silence was broken, leaving tension that could be cut with a knife.
"Who are you?" Comes the prompt, she was unprepared, almost, at the seemingly sudden interest.
"Who wants to know?" She replied, drawing it out and laying her accent on heavily, words slurring into what could be incomprehensible had he not known it.
He almost seems to squirm under her gaze, as if not expecting the reply nor her attention being drawn so easily without a fight, "Just a curious soul…"
Neither is content to sit still in the tense moment, each moving to circle each other as it becomes apparent combat is inevitable, she snaps her jaw with a threatening intention, a metallic sound ringing out before her sneer, "I suppose that makes me the puzzle then? Or do you interrogate every enemy like so?"
"You remind me of someone," The answer matter of fact and strangely honest.
She's taken aback a bit by this, barely stopping a jolt in its tracks, her wings twitching in alarm, "I could say the same for you…" She wanted to lie but nothing could be more composed than the truth of the matter, half not whole, of course. Angela could feel a hammering in her chest, anxiety, and sweat at her brow growing only more intense as he drew close and suddenly she felt helpless. She was frozen in place he put a hand to his chin in a mocking gesture, it made her wish biting her lip was still a feasible option, fingers idly twirling her blades. She takes a deep breath, swallowing audibly before finally growing irked, stopping her motions short and holding a knife to his neck in a split second before his hand seizes her wrist, holding a hand steady as it shakes with purpose.
"Who are you?" He pushes.
"Martyr, shouldn't you know that, at least?" It almost seems to frustrate him like old times, yet he remains calm and so different from before the next moment. But they're closer, too close, and he sees something in her that only sparks more fear. Nine minutes.
She steps back, eager to stay on the defensive despite not wanting to cause panic, it's rational though, she can't kill him. She can't. She grits her teeth, a promise...anything, but this is about her sanity, what she refuses to let go as it remains just shy of the anything pledged. Thus began a different sort of race, her hand jerking free to unsheath a larger dagger that struck his blade with a metallic twang! Short showers of sparks as a flurry of shurikens are sharply hit from the sky, landing with a few clatters on the pavement and a short thunk as one lodged in the woodwork. It's hard to spot a visible slip in the flighty display besides the occasional droplet of blood from a shallow mistake, a little mark left inlaid on certain parts of false limbs; the surprise is evident as her advantage of his lack of knowledge is left behind, a slice in a long sleeve showing through an easy facade. Her hand cups a bloody cheek, blade having slid to the floor as far from her as could be, costume sliced in places, her veil having slipped from face to hanging around her neck from a small tear in the holding band. Everything falls into place in the worst ways possible.
"...Angela?" She jolts, casting a crimson glow in his direction, one hand massaging her jaw as the other holds a firearm.
She holds it steady, aiming to drive off more than anything, "Not anymore," She empties the chamber in his direction, idly turning on her comm as those minutes drain to a close, "I am Mercy's Martyr." And as alike as they were it had turned upside down, she was the hateful monster, swimming in regretful days and fighting for nothing, and just like him, human no more. The name just didn't belong to her anymore.
Thus came a flood of unwanted questions, almost condescending as they try to reason with her.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Why are you siding with Talon?"
Then they deluded themselves, thinking her coerced or kidnapped and programmed.
"Angela, it's us!"
"Are you okay?"
"Do you know who we are?"
"Angela…?"
Then she snapped.
"Do you think I am stupid?! That I don't know what I am doing?! I know I was Angela! But at least I'm not foolish enough to think I still am!"
She is not stupid. She knows what she promised, she knew what she was doing, and even now she knows more than all of those around her. A show of a breakdown, a way to think her vulnerable yet strong, putty in their hands refusing to unstick in its own form of rebellion. What she was looking at was not her, an apparition, an inspiration of loyalty bouncing about her head by whatever they'd stuck in; it couldn't fool her nor Sombra.
Jack Morrison, he was stupid. Because he held his hand out and told her not to go he thought he held all power over her action, that she would watch the real fighters die before her, unrescued and without any room left to be cared about. She could still recall his screams roaring above those asking for Mercy, ignoring that one call in favour of all the others. Because she had built wings for a reason, not to sit in their gilded cage, to watch valiance die out, nor to be a poster-child prodigy girl with a pretty face for the cameras.
Overwatch didn't see the madness, the casualties forgotten about, Blackwatch's work behind the scenes every time they stepped out; a mess cleaned and a broom left behind as a clapping crowd shouted their congratulations to whoever seemed to have done it. They thought they could control her, thought her position a temporary holding until they had what they wanted of her work, and the most foolish thing of all, that they had the right. Her and all she's done went together, a package not to be tampered with, cut apart for the games of politics and flaunted about. Mind games, higher-ups assuming she'd see a battle and quit, but she would let them build all the damn warmachines they wanted to keep them in check; keep herself there. It was why she couldn't join up with Reyes when he offered an out for a faltering angel, wearing herself ragged in a civil war without an army; she wouldn't let them blame him for it, not him.
Because those men looked at her like all she'd ever imagined when she made herself a symbol, an angel, and Overwatch simply talked too loud of how out of line she was, decided long before she was a nuisance who shouldn't see combat if she can't follow orders. The jokes who thought heros never died never having seen the true heroes fall time and time again, forgotten and misplaced by history.
And everyone has a limit.
Weeks before they'd caught her, that same hopeful look of inspiration in their eyes as they planned to join her ranks against Overwatch. She could recall teary moments from the pure show of trust, the smiles between plans of murder she couldn't help but condone having seen what she saw. Each tired of being a body to step over for the 'golden team' and their leading boyscout, a hopeful exposure only to cast blame on them after all they'd done, and an innocent girl swept aside when it became clear she wasn't worth even good publicity to them. It was that night nobody noticed the empty halls of the covert ops, nor the empty bed in a doctor's room; that was the day they plotted the death of Overwatch.
And now that hunt has turned no different outside the persona of an old fool. Because Overwatch may think Angela lives and the world may think she died in the bombing, but Angela died long before, taking with her all her pacifist ideals and mercy left for pretenders hiding behind righteousness so as not to be revealed as the scum of the Earth. A martyr of mercy, reborn for a cause pursued without fear nor conviction, for Lena, Amélie, and all of the Blackwatch team.
To save heroes left to die.
And destroy any who called it justice.
After all, it was as she'd heard their target say after thinking his rival dead:
"Someone had to do it."
And as her fellow hunter muttered when he caught sight of their prey and aimed for his heart:
"As it should be."