The Warrior's Heart

Watchpoint Gibraltar was home, but it was far from looking like it. The former common room was in a state of utter disrepair. Winston had only been repairing vital systems and cozying up his own laboratory, and hadn't spent a lot of time on anything else. He hadn't expected the Watchpoint to become the central hub that it had. Many of them, McCree, the Shimada brothers, Jack, and Ana, had no other home, so they ended up staying there. Things being as they were, Lena had made use of her newly healed arms and taken it upon herself to start interior decorating. Anyone who had ever seen what Lena had done to a space would understand why Emmie did all the decorating at home.

So the stage was set for Reinhardt Wilhelm's arrival. He was a colossal man with a mane of white hair and a scar on his left eye. Despite his gruff appearance, he radiated nothing but paternal warmth. He came with two others in tow. One was a woman, recognized perfunctorily as an old friend of Reinhardt. The other, the more unusual and disturbing of the two, was an omnic. An omnic designed specifically for war. An omnic build deemed so dangerous they were hunted down and killed on sight. This one seemed off. Distracted. Sometimes by the bird on its shoulder chirping excitedly, sometimes just by the very world around it.

Torbjörn Lindholm, Overwatch's ex-Chief Engineer, had arrived about a week ago, saying to expect Reinhardt in a few days. When asked what former Lieutenant Wilhelm was doing, Torby merely gave a frustrated sigh and said that it was best Reinhardt explain everything himself when he got there. Now Torby, lips scrunched into a scowl hidden not at all by his big blonde beard, arms crossed, was just as hungry for information. He stared at the omnic with such pointed hardness that the machine shrunk away.

This was better than Torby's first reaction to the thing, which was to start ranting violently about how that thing shouldn't be allowed anywhere near them. Omnics were incapable of empathy, after all. The robot had only watched him, head lolling up and down, following his movements with its one innocent eye. If it understood, it only half-understood, and it said nothing.

Winston and Jack brought Reinhardt and Torby down to the common room. They left the omnic, who Reinhardt had called 'Bassy,' and the woman, Brigitte, in the charge of Genji. Winston figured that for the time being, Torby should be as far away from Bassy as possible. Lena was down in the common room, trying to make sense of the new cappuccino maker on the wall. Bless her heart, she was trying her best.

Reinhardt looked around at the garish yellow and pink walls.

"Yeah," Jack said. "That's Lena's work."

Reinhardt's bushy white brows rose, "Really? Lena," he said. "I love what you've done with the place."

"Want something to drink?" Lena asked eagerly. "We have water or peanut butter."

Reinhardt blinked. "Water… will do fine."

"That's what I get for letting Winston stock the pantry," Lena said, blinking to the mini-fridge.

Reinhardt sat down, sinking into the couch. Jack and Torby took the two chairs across from him.

"You owe us all an explanation, Vilhelm," said Torby in his thick Swedish accent. "Spare no detail."

Lena handed Reinhardt his bottle of water, then sat down on the floor eagerly, legs crossed.

Jack glanced at her quizzically.

"Reinhardt's going to tell a story," she said. "Right?"

Reinhardt smiled, eyes gleaming. His rough face grew friendly. "Indeed," he said. He looked to Torbjorn. "And I will spare no detail," he grinned wider.

Torby's scowl grew deeper still. "Vell? Let's get this over vith."

And Reinhardt began.

…

My story begins at your home, Torbjörn. Bear with me as I describe this piece for the benefit of our uninformed listeners. Fate and the road that is not so open as many suppose brought us to you just in time for Christmas. I regaled your children with a tale of heroism from the Omnic Crisis. A children's version, of course. The villains' flaws deeper, the heroes just a bit grander. The Omnic oppressors were shambling, soulless Dark Knights ruled by a demonic king. And we, the mighty, honorable Crusaders. I finished with the heroic sacrifice of Sir Balderich, and how his death inspired the flames of the Warrior's Heart to be roused to victory.

You may ask, why trivialize such a story of a great man? You ask amiss. Tales do not trivialize, friends. They immortalize. In death, Sir Balderich became a mythic symbol. A symbol that the world would remember. I thought that Sir Balderich would want to be remembered.

I told my friend Torbjörn of the rumors I had heard. That Overwatch had been operating in the Middle East. I convinced him that the recall signal was no mere accident. We were to come to Gibraltar. Overwatch was returned, and we should answer that call. At least investigate. But my friend Torbjörn was, as always, an astute man.

We were seated by the roaring fire. The tongues of flame lapped at the air hungrily, but were contained to the red-brown brick furnace. It was a rarity to see such ancient technology used today. Torbjörn is also a very analog based man. There we were, drinking tall mugs of Mrs. Lindholm's superbly sweet apple cider.

"This isn't on the vay to Gibraltar," said Torbjörn. "Not unless you plan to svim through the Arctic."

I admitted to Torbjörn that I had other plans. At least for the time being.

I spoke gravely, "I would ask that you go to Gibraltar. Tell them that I live, and that I am coming. But I have a duty to fulfill before I do. After that, I may fight and die if need be with no regrets. The reason I told the story of Balderich tonight," I said, staring deep into the bottom of the cider, "Is because that is a story that has weighed on my mind as of late. It is as I said. Sir Balderich should be remembered. Not as a myth, but as one who existed. Men are fickle, myself included. They believe what they see and feel."

Torbjörn leaned in closer.

"His armor is still in the ruins of Eichenwalde. And that is where I go."

…

If it seems unusual that the armor of Sir Balderich would still be in the same place after six and a score years, I feel I should explain. Eichenwalde is a battleground that no man has set foot on since the Crisis. Not one has attempted to clean it up or repair it. It is cursed land. Some say the ghosts of the dead haunt it. The more practical ones were more concerned with the remaining omnics. They may be in a state of disrepair, but even a damaged unit can kill someone if they are not careful.

Brigitte and I stopped in the nearest town to Eichenwalde. We did not mention our mission. The suspicion surrounding Eichenwalde and the forest around it had grown to superstition and paranoia. Ghosts, they said. Omnics, they said. Ghost omnics, they said. I was unafraid. Healthily cautious, but unafraid.

We drove through the Eichenwalde forest, and my friends, it was a sight to behold. Trees of green sparkling with dew in the sunlight. The sky bluer than a robin's eggs. We drove along a cliff, and below us, a canyon stretched. A huge river flowed beneath us. With the golden sun shining on its surface, it was practically blinding.

Brigitte suddenly brought the van to a stop and I hit my head on the ceiling. There were police, or at least, men who looked like police, guarding the main bridge. I did not know what they were doing or why. I knew that they must have arrived recently, as the townspeople had not mentioned them. It could be that access was not restricted per se, but they had the look of folks who would search our vehicle before letting us pass. If they found my armor in the back, it might have taken more explanation than I and Brigitte could give to convince them that I was not the power-armor clad vigilante patrolling Europe.

We turned around. Confident that they had not seen us, and we were not being followed, we drove back along our way. I had an idea.

"You are out of your mind," said Brigitte, staring at the bridge. It was a train bridge, but in remarkable disrepair. As I said, this place had not been set foot in for nearly three decades.

"This is our way across," I said. "Unless you want to explain to those fine men over there that they should let us in."

Brigitte sighed. "Even if I was comfortable stepping on that with nothing but my foot, let alone a van weighed down with you and your armor," she said. "Do you not see the big gap in the middle? You can't drive over that."

Reinhardt looked again. The gap was too wide to jump on foot, either.

I raised a finger, shaking my head, "Brigitte," said I, "when have I ever proposed charging forward without a plan?"

Brigitte pursed her lips and looked upward ponderously, "Just this week, or…?"

"You are very funny," I said. "But I do have a plan."

I explained it to her. And before she knew it, we were trying it. She lowered the crouching suit of armor out of the van. In it, I would be a foot taller than I was without. The grey finish had grown shabby and scratched over the years, but the armor of a Crusader was built to last. Its performance had not faltered a whit.

"Actually," Brigitte corrected, "it's barely a pile of shit at the moment. This thing is not combat ready. Not even a little bit. You do this thing, you get out. Don't even think about fighting."

I agreed. Though I was not illiterate in these things, I trusted her opinion more than I trusted mine. I stepped into the chassis, and it closed around me. Not many would consider the interior of powered armor comfortable, but I was a Crusader to the bone. The armor was a second skin. I booted the armor up and placed the helmet over my head. I left the rocket hammer in the trunk. I would not need it for my plan.

I wrapped the massive metallic hands of the Crusader armor around the van, Brigitte safely inside. I pushed the van forward onto the bridge, steadily increasing speed. Just as we reached the gap in the bridge, Brigitte turned the repulsor-lifts on the van to maximum upward thrust at the same time I activated my back thruster. The result: we hopped slightly, just over the gap. Unfortunately, I misjudged the distance, and my feet landed on the edge of the bridge. It was not the van's weight that caused the structure to collapse, but mine.

I shoved the van out of my grasp, and Brigitte made it safely across. However, the force knocked me backwards. I could not regain my balance. My fingers brushed the edge of the bridge, but it crumbled in my fist. I saw Brigitte swing the door open, but then I fell.

Thinking fast, I activated my back thruster again, propelling myself towards the cliff. I crashed into it, and I lodged all my fingers into the dirt and stone. For a while, I thought I would slide right down into the water, but soon, I came to a stop. Carefully, I took my one hand out of the dirt and slammed it back in, slightly higher than the other. It held. I did this again and again, rising higher, towards the top. I hoped to make it fast enough to let Brigitte know I was alive.

But just before I reached her, I heard shouting and gunfire. I did not waste any more time. I used the thruster once more, pushing to its limit, speeding to the pinnacle. Just before it sputtered and died, I launched into the air, seeing five men dressed like swat officers. Brigitte was nowhere to be seen. I dropped down onto the first, punching him lightly in his center of gravity. 'Lightly' is a relative term. My armor punched him with the force of a charging bull. The rest opened fire without so much as an order to stand down. These men were not swat, but I knew that as soon as I heard them open fire on Brigitte. These were doppelgangers. Who sent them, I did not know.

I grabbed the second and threw him into the third, shrugging off their bullets like they were insects. I needed not bother even raising my shield. I charged into them. Or tried to. There was a popping and sizzling sound as I felt a slight rush of heat on my back. My thruster had failed.

I took a sprinter's stance and launched myself forward, grabbing the remaining two men, one in each hand. I brought them together, knocking them out, but at the last moment, my arms failed, clapping together, then dropping to my sides limply.

It is one of my embarrassing propensities to scream uselessly at things when they do not work. I picked this up from Brigitte. I did so, cursing my arms to move. The first man stood, uncannily hefting his rifle and opening fire.

The bullets bounced away, but I was consumed with dread. I am loath to admit that my immobility made me as frightened as a scared boy. What made me afraid was the thunderous sound coming from the woods. I heard the cracking of fallen wood as I began to feel the thunder in my feet.

From the forest emerged a massive figure, a foot taller than me, clad in blood-red armor. Its head was a grinning dragon, mouth filled with demonic fire. It held a giant axe with an orange, glowing edge. It cocked its head like a mischievous spirit, then jammed the hilt into the ground. The Dragon grabbed a tree trunk and snapped it off effortlessly. It took it in both hands, then swung.

The force dented my shoulder, and I cried out as hot hydraulic fluid spilled onto my arm, and I rolled on the ground, dirt flying into the air. My arm actuator rebooted, and I used that arm to stabilize myself. I ripped the inoperable arm off and swung it like a flail at the dragon knight, but it caught my swing and retaliated, punching my chest with the strength of ten explosions. My armor shattered, and I flew backward, my armor completely dead.

Blinking my eyes clean of the blood, I saw the clear blue of the river far below. I felt the cool breeze on my face, and I knew that my helmet was off. I saw it, just a foot made of red metal crushed it. That same foot then wound back and kicked me over the edge of the cliff.

And that is how I died.

Vhat?! You- You fucking liar.

But I got you, didn't I?