Psychos Like Us
Warning: Adult language, content, and tobacco references
She spotted them in their corner again. She had noticed them for a while. They wore black and gray. Some were masked and the others might as well have been. They stayed in their own groups and didn't interact outside of them. She noticed that people avoided them like the plague.
Lena Oxton was often in the hanger bay, it didn't feel right in her bones if she wasn't, but they seemed to live there. Coming in or leaving, they used the hanger bay more than any other team. She was somewhat aware that they were grounded though. That didn't seem to stop them from going out towards some unspecified location.
The most galling thing to her though was that she had yet to see any of them smile, not one. Lena knew life was hard, that at a moment everything can be pulled out from under you, but that wasn't a reason not to look up, see the sunlight, and be grateful you were alive. It also bothered her that everyone seemed to avoid one another. So what if tensions were high! The higher ups could handle their own problems without it affecting their underlings. With this thought in mind she made her way over to the gray mass with a aura of determination.
As soon as she took her first step they all seemed to turn in her direction. Every step she took was watched by masked and unemotional faces. Three steps in and she could already feel the coldness from across the hanger bay. They didn't seem surprised or angry or fearful, hell Lena could work with annoyed even, but this unemotive wall was something else.
She pressed on, marching under the direct fire of their stares and the stares of literally everyone in the hanger. She had been warned by others not to mess with them and judging from their faces they weren't kidding with her.
She had managed to cross the distance without freezing to the floor only to find that they had not let up their barrage. So, she moved to counter attack.
"Cheers all!"
A masked man with a sword, who had been staring intently, seemed to instantly lose interest and went back to sharpening his sword. A tall red haired woman, who Lena could have sworn was a singer, arched an eyebrow at her and dismissively began to scroll through a datapad. A tall scared man with a goatee rolled his eyes and purposely look the other way. Various others returned to their own activities. The only one who kept looking at her was a scowling man with a cowboy hat sitting on a box.
Well, an audience of one is still an audience.
"Hi I'm Agent Lena Oxton, call sign Tracer."
"..."
"Er, right! I've recently been brought on to train as a agent."
"..."
"Right, well, you're a vet right? The others have said you've been here a while."
A nod.
Yes! She was getting somewhere. He wasn't an arse or stupid, he was just one of those strong silent types. He'd be putty in her hands by the end of it.
"Awesome! I was wondering if you had any pointers or anything? You know, something that can help me with the training?"
The cowboy regarded her for a moment. His face betrayed no emotion and body language gave no indication of action. Without saying a word, he turned around to face the tall scarred man. The man gave the cowboy a nod. Turning back around he stood up and walked a bit before looking over his shoulder at Lena.
The inner pilot in Lena jumped to intercept the straggler, they were always weaker away from the group.
"Thanks love, I think-"
"Listen here kid."
"Lena."
"Fuck off."
She gaped.
"We're not a friendly bunch so we're not your friends, got it?"
She nodded mutely. She was temporarily set back a bit. She had expected a bit of attitude sure but still ….
The cowboy sighed.
"You seem like a nice kid."
"Not a kid," she grumbled.
"You'd do well over there," he nodded towards a group of Overwatch agents.
"With good people."
She was about to interject, but without even looking at her he raised a gloved hand.
"We're not good people."
"Listen here yank-"
"No darlin, you listen," his voice taking a tired and almost pleading tone.
"Overwatch is the best of the best," he indicated towards the mass of gray that were back to staring at them.
"But we're the best of the worst. Whatever you think about Overwatch, we're not it. We're not here to make the world a better place, we're not here for peace, and we sure as hell aren't here to help anyone," he turned to her and locked eyes with her.
"You don't wanna mess with psychos like us."
Lena took a moment to appreciate his serious disposition but ultimately couldn't contain her giggles. The cowboy didn't seem affronted by this, just impassive. Which somehow made it funnier. Seriously, it was like he stepped out of a angsty tv drama.
"Oh! Sorry love, just-" more giggles consumed her.
"Sorry, ha ha-" more giggles.
"No, I've got to be serious …" and even more giggles.
"I'm sorry, it's just … your face!" she broke out into a larger fit of giggling.
"Just wait," he said.
"Ha! For what?"
"For what a man can do to another man."
"You really are a cowboy, could've sworn I heard that bit from a western."
"Nope, a world war two film."*
"Ha! You're all uh … didn't quite catch your name love?"
He took the cigar from his mouth, spat then fixed her with a new stare.
"You smoke?"
"No, that kills you."
"You drink?"
"With the best of them! I bet I could do you under!"
"Competitive aren't we. Pilot?"
"Yeah, that's some sharp eyes you have."
"The sharpest."
He took his unlit cigar from his lips and examined it. Lena could tell he was thinking something over and decided to let him have his say.
"You think you could take some advice?"
"Depends, you haven't said anything useful yet."
Again, no humor on his face and his eyes didn't bother meeting hers. He twirled the cigar between his fingers like he was trying to find an aerodynamic defect.
"Don't die."
With that he started walking, signalling that the conversation was over. Unfortunately for the cowboy, signals were the one thing that Lena struggled with the most in flight school. She fell into stride alongside him to begin a new conversation.
"So I have to ask, why are you wearing spurs?"
"Horses," he grunted.
"Haven't seen horses around here. Aren't they a little outdated?"
An indiscernible grunt was his response.
"Can I ask a blunt question?"
"Can't stop you can I?"
"No, are you gay?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Yep."
They were now out of the hanger bay heading in the direction of what Lena remembered as the administrative center.
"I could have a sworn ... I mean, with a getup like that."
"You're not the first one to make that joke."
"I'm not joking."
He turned his head towards her in what she assumed was a perplexed face.
"I take orientation seriously. I'm a pilot after all, you have to know which way you're going and who you're aiming for."
"Understood."
"So, extreme cowboy paraphernalia but not gay, are you "very" traditional then?"
"Is this a polite way of asking if I'm a homophobe because I talk and dress funny?"
"Hell no! I didn't mean it like that! I don't assume someone's homophobic because they have a southern accent."
"Western."
"What?"
"Not southern, western."
"Is there a difference?"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
A grunt.
"Honestly, I only know about three American accents."
"Only thing you need to know about the US, people from LA and New York are assholes. The rest are alright."**
She giggled.
"I refuse to believe that. I've always wanted to go to Los Angeles, fly under the Golden Gate Bridge."
"That's in San Francisco."
"I know that! San Francisco too! If I'm in a plane it won't take me long to get to both."
The Blackwatch agent walked into an open and waiting elevator and Lena blindly followed him in. He only raised a questioning eyebrow but didn't vocalize his curiosity. Tracer either didn't register the question or didn't think it was worth answering.
"So what part of the US are you from?"
"Route sixty-six."
"What?"
"Route sixty-six."
"Yeah, I heard you but that's not a state?"
"You didn't ask about a state."
"Yes I di- oh bollocks you're right."
She was surprised by the soft chuckle emanating from the fashion disaster beside her. YES! She had done it!
"Ha, you do laugh!" she boasted as the elevator door opened up. The cowboy instantly collected himself and marched out but looked over his shoulder and called out.
"At you."
She ran to catch up to his long strides.
"Well at least that's something."
"Not sure if that's something to be proud of."
"What? Getting Mr. "we're not good people" to laugh? I'll put it on my tombstone!"
He stopped.
She actually walked right past him it was so sudden. When she turned around she found him piercing her with a look. All mirth was gone from his face and Lena was distinctly aware of the coldness that seemed to enclose around him. His eyes didn't leave hers but Lena stood her ground and took the assault.
"You got a religious objection to cremation?"
"What? No!"
"Good, less paperwork. Overwatch personnel are typically cremated baring religious objection. No tombstones about it."
He walked around her and proceeded on. It was while looking at his retreating form that she finally understood them. The Cowboy was wrong, they weren't the best of the worst. That's not why they were so cold, that's not why they were so distant. They had lost too much. How many people had come in just like her? How many bright young people had their lives abruptly taken away?
Lena glanced around the hallway and found many young people like her going every which way. She felt so insignificant in that moment. All the hundreds of people from around the world employed by the organization, the billions of dollars funneled into it by a multitude of nations, the careful hierarchy that had been unraveling of late. She realized now, despite all that the organization had poured into her, she was still a casualty waiting to happen.
She looked back to where she had last seen the cowboy. He was gone but nearly a dozen people had come and gone since then.
Just like it could be with her.
That's why they were cold. Not because they were killers. Because they were survivors.
She turned around and headed back to the hanger.
A/N *Modified and pulled from the movie Fury.
** No offence meant. McCree is the real asshole.