Breaking Out

I

It was the middle of the day in New York City, and the sun was reaching its highest point in the sky, light casting a yellow-white prism through the grey spires of concrete, glass, and steel. It was just the time of day that one would try to rob a bank if they very badly wanted to get caught.

The robber wore all black, and a golden skull mask that gleamed blindingly into the teller's face. With the decorative gold leaf inlays that seemed to be everywhere, and the golden trim on almost every object to be found, other than the criminal's skeletal aesthetic, he seemed to be just another part of the scenery.

"Put the money in the bag," the robber snarled, waving a black military-looking rifle adorned with golden skulls in her face. "I won't ask again."

The teller, a blonde-haired woman in a blue suit, obliged, moving slowly. The robber banged his fist on the counter impatiently, but he kept his word, and not ask again. The scene was almost idyllically harrowing, like something out of a comic book or a bad action movie. The bank was filled with kneeling hostages, none of whom much wanted to tick off the guy with the gun. They would merely wait until the police arrived, and they would sort this whole thing out. Hopefully.

If the robber were paying more attention, he might have seen the disheartened expressions on some of the hostages' faces, the looks of those who know that a situation is about to become much more complicated than it needs to be. The robber looked at the clock, tapping a shiny, bladed finger on the table.

"Oh, you know what time it is," someone drawled.

The robber turned around and saw the origin of the voice. It was a brown-haired man with a cigar in his mouth, dressed in a cowboy hat and red poncho. The outlaw turned outlaw-vigilante.

"Jesse McCree," the robber sneered, brandishing his rifle.

"So my reputation precedes me," McCree said with a tip of his hat. "Saves me a bit of time, I suppose. Who are you supposed to be?"

"I don't say my name around children," the robber said.

"Dick?" McCree guessed.

"Don't screw around, Cowboy Curtis," the man probably called Doomfucker said, anger flaring in his voice.

"It ain't my intention to screw around." McCree said. His placating gesture was rendered null by the revolver on his belt. "And I wasn't gonna mention the fact that you look like your pimp dressed you, but then you went there."

Pisstaker snarled again. McCree thought that he might want to look into improving his hostage negotiation skills.

Blue and red flashed outside, and two police officers, one a human male, the other an Omnic, entered the bank, brandishing non-lethal pacifiers designed to look like guns.

"Just in time!" McCree said.

The robber panicked, and aimed his gun into the crowd. Before any could so much as lift a finger to stop him, he fired.

The bullet found a target. A young woman with short brown hair. She fell over, whirling and landing face-first onto the ground, screaming.

"Shit!" One of the hostages shouted. "She's really bleeding!"

McCree unloaded his revolver's full complement at the robber, who ducked behind cover.

"You goddamn maniac!" McCree shouted. He flipped the gun's chamber out, dropped his spent shells, and refilled his weapon. It was practiced, thoughtless instinct. One that proved pointless.

The cops zapped the robber with a taser, and he fell to the ground, convulsing. If McCree hadn't witnessed a shooting, he might have found the robber, so self-consumed in his perceived air of menace put down in such a way, humorous. But he had. An innocent person had been hurt. The thought put him in a haze.

"On the ground!" the human said.

A confused expression colored McCree's face. The robber was already down. Who were they talking to?

The Omnic repeated the human's warning, making sure to address McCree specifically. Calling him 'Cowboy Curtis,' as well.

"I'll come quiet. N-No harm meant," McCree said, putting down his revolver and kicking it away.

"Harm done," the human officer said coldly. The freezing steel of the magcuffs burned McCree's wrists as they clamped shut. The memory of the last time he'd been in the slammer burned in his head. "You barreled into a hostage situation and got that woman hurt. Maybe worse. You're going away for this and every other time you took the law into your hands."

McCree put on a fake confidence that just sounded defeated and rueful. "I've busted out of your county jails before, officer. Ain't hard."

The officer lowered his face close to McCree's, and lowered his voice. "You're not going to any 'county jail.' You and him are going where we put all the dangerous ones."

Dangerous. No one had ever described Jesse as dangerous before. Not to his face, anyway. They grabbed him and threw him into the back of the police vehicle along with the recovering but magcuffed robber. The seats were cracked brown leather. It didn't look like that was their original color, and he didn't much enjoy the idea of sitting in them, but it wasn't as if he could say no.

The doors shut, and the vehicle began on its bumpy way to the police station. Left alone together, McCree looked over at the robber and smirked. "Not bad for your first day as a bad guy, huh?" He adjusted, getting comfortable. "Now, is that outfit an 'id' thing? 'Cause it looks mighty insultin' to a specific mutual friend of ours."

The robber, or as he was otherwise known, Jack Morrison, grumbled. "Couldn't they have taken this dumbass mask off before putting me in here? I can't see a damn thing."

Despite any misgivings, their plan was going off without a hitch. They'd managed to convince the police that Jack, or the man that Jack was pretending to be, was a new supervillain that they'd managed to bag early. And they'd picked up McCree as a 'bonus.' Under other circumstances, it would be unreasonable to hope that they would be sent to a specific prison. But they were the worst of the worst now. And the worst were only ever sent to one place.

"Smile, Jackie-boy," McCree said, putting on his own dopey grin, as if an example. "You're goin' to the Icebox."

…

One week ago…

Winston had Athena pull up a 360-view hologram of himself. It worked better than a mirror. He adjusted his tie, then hovered his hands above the top of his head, wondering whether he should adjust. He wasn't actually sure if he looked good, or acceptable. Before he'd left, Ana had squeezed his cheeks and called him a handsome boy, but she would do that if he was covered in blood and screaming in Yiddish.

"How do I look, Athena?" Winston asked.

"Like a handsome boy." Athena said, her voice echoing through the entire ship. The 'one-speaker voice' rule that Winston was always reminding her of hadn't quite taken.

Winston snorted. "You do realize that the fate of humanity might depend on this meeting?"

"You'll be fine."

The Orca touched down on the industrial district of Moscow, on one of Katya Volskaya's private helipads, cloak engaged. For as generous as Volskaya was even allowing this meeting to take place, she was nervous about what might happen if a talking ape walked in the front door. After all, there was only one person in the world that could be.

The image of a constantly snowed-over Moscow from every movie Winston had ever seen had not shown itself to be true. It was sunny today, the sky clear. In fact, there was no snow on the ground at all. He hadn't noticed at first from the absence of green. Moscow nowadays was just another New York, a jungle of concrete, steel, and glass. Russian weather satellites at work, keeping the climate temperate around this district.

Winston walked on his hind legs, knuckles hanging a mere half-inch off the ground. The black three-piece suit was specially ordered from, -Winston had no idea where Ana acquired such a contact- a very discreet tailor. It fit well. Too well to be comfortable. Other than his armor, Winston wore clothes a size too big for fear that it might rip. No one sold clothes specially for apes. Winston was constantly prepared to hear the sound of fabric tearing, and the whole meeting crashing to the ground.

Volskaya herself, wearing a dazzling white suit like a star against the black tarmac, was waiting on the helipad. Alone.

"Dr. Winston," she said. "Come inside."

"Mrs. Volskaya," Winston said, smiling in a rehearsed sort of way. "No… Protection?"

She remained stone-faced, but her tone implied the tiniest bit of humor. "So you know how bad your reputation is?"

"I just figured you'd want guards. Given yours."

"I've learned recently that trusting anyone else to handle your affairs is bad form."

"And yet, here we are," said Winston.

Smiling with a sharp and cold humor, she led him inside the building, a positively huge library. Winston had seen bigger, but what was most impressive was the volume of paper books gathered in one place. Winston was lead further in, away from the light of the colossal window that was currently the reading room's only illumination source. They saw no one on the way. When it became too dark to see, Volskaya led the way with a battery powered flashlight.

As if sensing the question arising in Winston, Volskaya said, "Security precaution."

"There's no security here," said Winston.

"Exactly," Volskaya said. "This is the oldest building in Moscow. It's a landmark, so no one's allowed to tamper with it. There's no security. No one watching."

"Powerful enemies," Winston surmised.

"No," said Volskaya, ruefully. "Powerful friends."

They came to a room marked, 'Group Study 1,' and entered. It looked rather like a smaller, more austere version of a corporate boardroom like Winston had seen in movies. It was, like the rest of the way, deserted, and utterly dark, save for Volskaya's light.

"Terms?" she asked, sitting down at the head of the table. She motioned for Winston to take a seat. He obliged, surprised he could fit in one.

Winston cleared his throat. "Simple enough in theory," he said. He'd planned a presentation, he always thought his oratory skills were better when supplemented by visual aids. But he had developed a strong impression that Volskaya would not be amused. "We need your support. And the support of Aleksandra Zaryanova."

"I'm afraid," said Volskaya, "Neither of those are within my control. I'm afraid I might not be in control of anything anymore. Why do you think we're here?"

"This friend of yours…" Winston said. "She's blackmailing you. Company damaging secrets."

"That is some of it."

"Your family," Winston said, understanding. "she threatened your family."

"You don't understand the gravity of this situation," Katya said, leaning in almost imperceptibly, her ice-grey eyes doing most of the work. "I interfere with my friend's plans, I otherwise irritate or vex her, my daughter dies, and my company collapses. I lose everything."

"Your dealings with Omnics," Winston adjusted his glasses. "That's still a… a sore spot, I suppose."

Volskaya swallowed.

Winston stammered, realizing how ominous he'd sounded. He patted the air. "Overwatch's intelligence isn't what it used to be, but we still know stuff," he said. "No one else knows, no one else will. At least not from me."

Volskaya's eyebrows rose, detecting the suggestion. "What are you proposing?"

"Your daughter will receive full protection from Overwatch."

"You're going to make me hide?"

"Until we find Sombra and bring her in, I assure you, there's nowhere safer."

"I… I cannot betray Aleksandra. Not again."

Winston frowned, thoughtfully playing with his glasses. "What- What do you mean?"

"Our friend will know, as soon as we make a move. I'm sure of it. Do you think I've wanted to wait here doing nothing? Even if you can protect my daughter, even if she is safe, I fear Aleksandra may not survive the day."

"Zaryanova… I had something in mind, ma'am. All you have to do is say the word, and I can have my people in position. We can do this. We can save them all."

Volskaya pointed her fingers into a steeple. She leaned forward again, not a gesture of strength this time, but intrigue. "And what would you have me do?"

"Secrets are Sombra's power," said Winston. "Take them away."

…

Roadhog heard the sound of a body being dragged across the floor by a chain, of fingernails cracking as they made futile grasps at fractured asphalt, and the apologetic screams. The sound he heard was in Australia, some years ago. He reminded himself that was here. In prison. Right now.

The Hog stared at the scratches in the white alloy ceiling of the cell. If someone looked long enough, it looked like ice. It might also look like bone, or an eggshell, or just about anything else white. It was a goddamn white ceiling. There could be a relaxing nature scene up there if you could imagine it. That wasn't what Hog imagined. Not at all. He closed his eyes, though outside of his mask, it might appear that he stared still. After a month of imprisonment, Hog's patience had just finally began to run bare.

"Rat," said Hog. His voice echoing like thunder down the cell block.

"Hog?" responded the Rat. Though he wasn't giving undivided attention. When Mako focused, he could hear the scritch-scratching of metal on ceramic plastic. If Mako knew anything about the Rat, he was planning his escape, writing it on the walls.

"Progress?" Hog asked.

"I've got a… A… Wait… Are killer whales native to Siberia?"

Hog didn't think so. "No."

"Bloddy fuckin'-" Rat muttered, followed by furious scratching. The scratching resumed, then stopped.

"You got another wall I could use?"

Hog stared at the wall a second. "Yeah," he said.

"Great, I could-" The Rat interrupted himself. "that question was rhetorical, you swollen tosser."

Hog was quiet a moment. "What's rhetorical?" he asked.

"It's when-" Rat stumbled over his words. "-it's when you're bein' a big ninny."

"Got it."

"Shut up," said a heavily accented voice down the hall. "Some of us are trying to sleep!" It was the middle of the day.

Hog didn't say anything else for a minute. But there was something on his mind. Something about the visions of the past that he'd been replaying. Something he'd forgotten. "Rat?"

"Hog?"

"You ever think there's more to life than… Killin'?"

"Sure there is," said Rat, matter of factly. "Maiming, dismembering, destruction."

"Exsanguination," said the other voice.

"No," said Hog. "No… I'm talkin' about… Never mind."

"Alright," said Rat.

Hog stared at the ceiling a few more seconds. If there was anything he couldn't say to Rat, he couldn't say it to anyone. He wondered if someone might find that sad. He wondered if he found it sad.

"Rat," he said.

"Hog?"

"I'm talkin' about… Other things."

"What, like torture?"

"No. I'm talkin' about… Like…" Hog ran through all the words he knew, and picked the best one. "Like… Love?"

The scratching stopped. "Eww!" Said Rat. "You're not talking about girls are you?!"

"No," said Mako. "No. Never mind."

"Good. 'Cause they've got fuckin' cooties and shit," said Rat.

It was a silly thought. All this time alone was messing with his head. Rat was right. No living but the killing, someone had said, once. Hog thought it fit. He was who he was. There was a kind of comfort in that.

…

Aleksandra Zaryanova was too old to be giddy. That didn't stop her from feeling that way on the inside. She'd lived this long by appreciating the small things. Like the yard. Prison sucked. The yard sucked slightly less. The cold air and hot, bright sun bit her face, a feeling that was satisfyingly familiar. She saw some of the other less hardy inmates shy away from the weather, even some of the omnics.

She made a beeline to the weight room, remaining stone-faced despite herself. She nodded to the guard, a pale-skinned man wearing Kevlar armor and a standard security exo-skeleton. There was a process to letting someone in the weight room, that was, unless you were Zarya, and this guard -Dillon by name- was on duty. As repayment, she promised him an autograph, and an appearance at his daughter's birthday party when she got out. They smiled mirthlessly as they thought about that conversation, that deal, unlikely to be consummated, both at once, and Zarya went in.

As she expected, there was already someone there. Two, to be precise. The new arrivals. The Junkers. The large one wore a mask that looked like a leather, glassy-eyed pig. Her skin prickled under the rough bright green jumpsuit she wore, wondering why the warden had let the Junker keep his mask. The rumor was that they'd taken it off briefly in processing, and been so horrified at what they'd seen that they put it back. The small one was climbing on a weight machine, pulling on taut wires and lifting the iron bricks one at a time, clearly not having deciphered its function. Dillon should have stopped him, but perhaps he was just watching, waiting to be entertained.

She picked up two mid-sized hand weights and began her shoulder complexes. It was a misconception that more weight meant more results, one that many beginning, overzealous bodybuilders shared. One that, more often than not, discouraged them before they really began. Being successful in the business meant being more than strong, it meant being smart. This misconception was one that the Hog clearly shared as well. It showed. His body was huge, but soft-looking. He grunted and snorted, forcing the bar, weighed down by five-hundred kilos, into the air and down again. Jealousy, but also pride welled up in her chest. He was almost beating her record. Almost.

She finished, and went over to the squat station, a pleasurable fire tingled in her back and shoulders, now her legs. Zarya sometimes retreated inward as she did this. It was an easy enough exercise, and the old, typical malaise of 'leg day' affected her strongly today. She found herself thinking, the topics of thought beyond her control. She thought of the debrief, no, interrogation. Call it what it was. The one place she might have expected to help.

The man had seated her in a room dimly lit by a single hanging lamp, every cop show on TV had the same one. Uncomfortable chairs, black table, mirrors that one could never be sure were just mirrors. The military cop, gnarled and tough, but unused to dealing with celebrities-turned-vigilante, asked her what she was hiding.

She was a shit liar, but she lied anyway, and said "Nothing."

She had everything to hide. She knew the risks. Sombra would know. Punish Katya for certain, only that if they were lucky. She doubted this cop would believe her story, if he did, that might make things worse still if he decided to pursue Sombra. But if Zarya told this cop anything, she had a pretty good idea that the mysterious blackmailer would know. She glanced at her own reflection in the mirror, imagined someone was there, a purple glow in the dark.

"Who are you working for?" asked the cop. Sombra's unseen eyes were now on the back of Zarya's neck.

"Me," she said. "I decided that Talon should be stopped."

"Do you understand something?" said the cop. "This isn't some CSI bullshit where I ask you what you know because I don't have anything, this is me trying to help you."

"If you have something, you should charge me," said Zarya. The idea that she should play someone repentant of her crimes crossed her mind, but she would be honest before convincing.

Being honest? While lying through your teeth? Seriously, Zarya? She thought.

"You were reported as colluding with Overwatch operatives in Ukraine," said the cop. "You know what that makes you? Per Petras? That makes you Overwatch."

"I'm aware," said Zarya. Those words being spoken to her, she'd spoken those very same words, hours before.

"You know what being Overwatch makes you? Makes you a goddamn war criminal in peace time. I know you, and you are not a terrorist. People like you, Zaryanova? They don't just go bad. Tell me what the fuck is going on."

"I took matters into my own hands," said Zarya. She leaned forward, cold chains biting into her forearms. "Because I thought to myself, 'Maybe Overwatch is right.' I took the fight to Talon because nobody else could. And I'm not ashamed to admit that I did what I believed in." And to her surprise, she did believe what she was saying. Every word.

He looked into her eyes one last time, looking like he was about to flip the table right over. The expression there was not truly anger, but betrayal. It was the same look that flashed across Dillon's face the first time he'd seen her. Aleksandra Zaryanova. Athlete. Celebrity. Soldier. Hero. And now war criminal. How did she expect them to look at her with a resume like that?

As soon as the cop broke eye-contact, Zarya locked eyes with herself again, with the Sombra behind the mirror. Her invisible, imaginary face grinned in victory. And Zarya thought, Now we're both liars. Happy yet?

She shook the thoughts away, the smell of sweat and iron brought her back to the now. "You know," she said to the Hog. She grunted, coming up. "We really should have spotters." She didn't expect him to answer, but she'd always talked to someone working out. Before the Hog had showed up, she'd talked to herself.

Hog snorted harder than before, derisively.

Zarya's eyes flitted to the Rat, who still hadn't seemed to figure out the machine. The Hog's arms started to quiver under the weight, but he managed to bring the bar up once more before setting it on the rack.

"Good one," Zarya was about to say, but the Hog interrupted. "One-Hundred," he said.

The Hog sat down heavily, the fabric of his grey jumpsuit stretching against his girth. His breaths were ragged and labored, painful. When Zarya finished with her reps, Hog brushed past her and took the station straightaway.

Zarya placed the two six-kilo weights on the bar. Five-hundred and twelve. Her old record. She hadn't done it in years, not since she'd left the scene and joined the RDF. Perhaps, with how much more free time she'd had, she'd be able to get to it again. Of course she could. War criminal or not, she was still Zarya.

She laid down on the bench and stretched out her fingers, then got into position, starting her first rep. It was a bit harder than she'd expected. Not more than she could handle. She was left to imagine whatever look had found itself on the Hog's masked face, but Zarya was calmly smiling, even against the pain.

Something happened, she wasn't sure what, on rep number ten. Her hands slipped, or something did. The bar came down fast, nearly touching her throat. Too tired to put more force than equilibrium on it, she could only hold it, not push it back up. The guard saw this, and rushed to her aid.

"Get over here!" he said to the Rat. After looking at the camera on the wall, the Rat grudgingly followed the command, but his help was barely felt.

"You're the- You're the bloddy one with all the meat on you!" the Rat grunted. Who he was speaking to, the Hog, seemed implicit.

The Hog finished with his set, and calmly approached Zarya. Laying both hands on the bar, he lifted it back onto the rack. Zarya sat up, sweat somehow beading on her forehead despite the frosty disposition of the atmosphere.

The Hog snorted. "Weird havin' your record tattooed on. Makes it seem like you don't plan on breakin' it."

Everyone looked at the Hog. The Hog looked to the guard, then to the Rat, even more intensely. They finally let go of the bar.

"Be nice to have a spotter," said Hog. "Like to leave, guard. Next time."

The guard nodded, and the Junkers were escorted from the room.

Zarya wasn't sure she liked exactly how that had developed.