If there was one thing that Lena did not expect to see when she blinked back into her room, it was Jesse. He was sitting on the bed horizontally, with his back against the wall. His hat loped lazily to the side, and he wasn't wearing the armoured chest plate he often wore even around the base.

"Nice to see ya back in the land of the livin'" he commented nonchalantly as soon as she returned, blinking onto her bed right next to him. Caught off guard, she smiled widely, lurching off the bed to dive for him. Naturally, she only succeeded in phasing right through him.

She face-palmed in a ditzy manner that said "oops", but still beamed at him, awkwardly standing up and shuffling her feet. He gave her a concerned look but said nothing.

You look well, all things considered," he said with a stifled laugh. "I mean, you look beat up as hell, but I've definitely seen you in worse conditions."

Lena lifted an eyebrow and gave a silent laugh. His eyes softened a bit.

"Ah, shoot. I know ya probably don't want pity, but dangit if it isn't hard. I'm not exactly skilled when it comes to being all sympathetic-like. Hard to know how I should treat ya, y'know?" he admitted almost shyly. Tipping his hat down slightly. He rubbed a speck of dirt off his poncho, causing it to fall onto Lena's bed, though neither of them particularly cared.

"Anyway, darlin' you should probably be gettin' to the lab. Winston and Angel have been working their tails off trying to make you a temporary harness. I think they're almost done. Then we gotta go meet Genji. He said he's got info on Fareeha."

Lena jumped up, trying to look cross. "You waited for me?" she tried to mouth, only for McCree to shake his head in confusion.

"Come on. Let's go meet him already. We don't want you fadin' again." After a few moments silence, while they began to walk, he added, "It's nice to finally see ya again. Haven't really spoken with ya since our last Blackwatch mission together." Lena pursed her lips, remembering the time she was posted with Blackwatch in an attempt to stop a small group of Talon agents from dropping a bomb on a city. They had several hostages, and were prepared to kill them should Blackwatch have interfered. In the end, it had taken Lena blinking in, taking a bullet for one of the hostages, blinked out while holding them, then recalling to heal herself, to give Commander Morrison and McCree a chance to get in there.

"I know you're not really a member of Blackwatch, but you certainly have what it takes," he earnestly complemented as they walked. "Whether or not that's a good thing, I'll leave up for interpretation," he admitted at last. "I know ya weren't a fan of our methods. Specifically, the interrogations. Can't say I understood why you hated it as much as ya did, at the time."

Lena sighed and used her hands to gesture to her ghostly form.

He gazed at her pensively for a few seconds. Realisation seemed to dawn on him. "Oh. So that is it."

She nodded sadly.

"Isolation was always the best method to make someone confess. Deprive them of happy sensations and whatnot. Reward 'em for fessing up. I suppose I should have been a bit more bothered by it, but I'm not as nice as you are."

Lena laughed again. That was the most ironic thing of all.

"I mean, I probably should've seen it sooner. I was one of the few that knew you before that harness was made, right? Didn't have much better to do between missions. Gabriel always told me to practice my aim. Pfft. Says the man who was partial to shotguns. Anyway, the way you were always lookin' out that window of yours, I don't know how I didn't see it sooner. You had the same look in your eyes as the people we were 'interrogating.' Kinda obvious now that I think about it. I mean, you smiled and such, which is more than I can say for quite a few people. I never really thought about it, though. I'd seen that look hundreds of times, but it took me until thinkin' through things in your room. Sorry for popping in unwelcome, by the way," he tacked on, knowing neither of them cared.

"I'm not too good with the touchy-feely stuff. Never have been. But it really is good to see ya again. I'm sorry for not exactly… understandin' how ya felt."

Lena shrugged, waving with a smile to tell him his apology was accepted.

"Heh, like I said, you're too nice. I am sorry, but if Blackwatch is ever cobbled back together, then odds are, I'd have to get back into the interrogations," he admitted, almost shyly. "Wouldn't mind if you played the good cop, though. Them folks you gave those little gifts to confessed the quickest. Amazing what a chocolate bar or a game of cards can do for someone."

Lena nodded. She had always made an effort to sneak things to the prisoners. It wasn't to make the confess, though. She just didn't like the idea of people going through the things she had, be it in the chamber or her dreams. It was a bit of a morbid conversation, but it beat talking about Chronal Disassociation.

"Ah! Lena! Just in time! We have a new harness for you!" Winston greeted cheerfully as McCree opened the door Lena had just walked directly into. "It's nowhere near as good as the original, but it should do until we get the real one back!" Angela was sitting in an uncomfortable looking chair, slumped down and asleep. Winston was not looking much better, though he was still functioning, at least.

The new harness looked similar to her old one, but the leather and straps looked slightly less comfortable, and the metal wasn't quite as shiny, but other than that, it looked good. Lena lit up like a Christmas tree, bounding over to her friend, who prepared to put it on her.

"Now, this one will likely only last a few days before burning out. We'll need to get your regular one back by then. You also won't be able to perform your blinks or recalls, so be wary."

Lena nodded happily and reached out of the leather, only to find it was not destabilised.

"Ah, yes, I didn't have a way to make this like your other clothes, sorry. If it dies, it'll just fall off of you.

Lena nodded absently, gesturing for Winston to hurry up and activate it. After a few second's struggle, he managed to press a button that made the device project a dim blue gear.

Lena wheezed as pain flooded her. She groaned, collapsing to the ground. She let out a breathless laugh.

"Thanks, Winston! It works great!" she continued through gritted teeth. "I forgot I had these injuries, though!" Her broken ribs, hurt back, and damaged legs and arms protested to any movement, her head was pounding as well.

"Uh, Angel? A little help?" McCree almost shouted, waking the doctor up instantly as Tracer curled onto the floor, laughing and crying at the same time.

"What? What's going on?" She awoke with a start, her speech slightly slurred. "Oh! Lena!" she declared in a sudden panic, before regaining her composure. "I will retrieve my staff immediately! Jesse! Make sure she isn't bleeding."

"Uh, yes ma'am." He stutters, somewhat in shock.

Two minutes later, Mercy was back with her staff, allowing the healing beam to flood over Lena, easing her pain.

"We'll need to perform surgery. Winston, carry her to the med bay," Angela commanded as Winston gingerly cupped his friend in his meaty arms. Lena laughed.

"This feels great! Thank you so much again, Winston!"

Winston said nothing as he focused on carrying her as quickly yet gently as he could manage.

Lena's hearing grew dull and her vision dark as Mercy pricked her with something on the way there. She fell asleep in seconds.

When Lena woke up, the first thing she noticed was how great she felt. Her chest still hurt, and her limbs were sore, but it was such a welcome feeling. The second thing she noticed was that she was on an aiplane based off the familiar thrum of the engine, and the vibration of the ground below her.

She sat up with a groan.

"You doin' okay there?" Jesse asked her, startling her as she snapped her eyes open. They were in the large mission airplane, with several monitors in the front, a hologram map of the globe near the large doors, and several seats that resembled that of a roller coaster's that nobody ever used past their first few missions.

Lena was currently lying on a mattress that someone must have brought with them, as an IV drip pumped some sort of liquid into her arm. She panicked for an instant, feeling her chest for her harness. Her fingers closed on air, and she whipped her head to Jesse, who gestured with his unlit cigar to the device, which was propped on the table a few feet away. She sighed in relief.

"I feel great," Lena admitted, flopping back onto the mattress, rubbing its patterned surface with her fingers, feeling all the threads between her nails.

"I think you have low standards for great, then," he joked to her, taking off his cowboy hat as he fiddled with it idly, leaning back against one of the seats, but not sitting in it. His eyes followed her gaze casually, though there was a layer of concern beneath it.

"That tends to be the deal when you feel nothing at all for a while," she retorted, snorting. "Pain feels like the touch of an angel."

They were silent for a minute. "I still think it was stupid that you got picked for that Slipstream flight. If you could undo it, would you?"

Lena jumped, startled at the question. "Well, I was selected for the program based solely on merit. It was a huge honour."

"You're avoiding the question," he chuckled. "This ain't my first time at the rodeo."

"If I hadn't been selected for the flight, then someone else would have been chosen instead. I wouldn't wish my condition on my worst enemy."

"Even someone like Widowmaker?" he asked, not in a joking way. He was more puzzled. "Seems like a decent way to put them bad guys out of commission."

"No! I would never ever want anybody to have to deal with this!"

"Deal with what?" he pressed, clearly knowing she wasn't speaking of the intangibility. His voice was gentle yet firm at the same time, similar to a brother questioning their sister about something.

"Did you read my diary?" she asked in a hushed voice, covering her eyes with her hand.

"Just the page it was left open at."

"That's an invasion of privacy," she muttered, her heart not in it.

"We all read it," came another, nervous voice from the cockpit area. Winston shuffled down the stairs and stopped in front of Lena, sitting himself down semi-comfortably. "Lena, I'm sorry, but we all knew you were secretive. I- we had to know what you were hiding. We couldn't help you otherwise…" they all knew how lame of an excuse it was. Jesse and Winston waited with baited breath for Lena to yell at them.

"Yeah, I figured you would," she mumbled in a hushed voice, unnaturally quiet, rolling over on the mattress, awkwardly pinning her arm under her with the IV drip in it. "So, any questions?"

"Why did you hide the dreams?" Winston began warily.

"So I didn't worry you guys." Lena offered no other explanation.

"What other things have you dreamt up?" Jesse asks in a raised voice.

"I think I have dreams about people I met or will meet. Or things I will go through-slash-have gone through."

"Such as?" Winston was growing more anxious but persisted in his questions.

"Well, at one point I was Jesse during his time in the Deadlock gang, right as Gabriel picked him up. I had that dream a few days before I met him," Lena bowed her head in shame, despite knowing she did nothing wrong.

Jesse visibly tensed and locked his jaw. "What else?" He was clearly looking to change the topic.

"I've been Amélie Lacroix as she was kidnapped and brainwashed, it was weird, coming back to my senses so suddenly. One minute, I was her, completely in her newly formed mindset, them I'm back being myself. It took me a minute to… uh… decide where my loyalties actually did lie." Both Winston and McCree looked mortified. Jesse was pale, and Winston had frozen in place.

"Though, recently I've been reliving the stuff I went through with the Slipstream, crash and all. Winston, I was you for a while after the crash. I'm so sorry! I never meant to worry you so much!" Lena declared suddenly, startling him. "It wasn't your fault; I don't blame you!"

"So you really and truly become the person when you fade?" Jesse asked, at a loss for words, obviously thinking about her comment concerning Deadlock.

"Sometimes. Sometimes I'm still… there, as in I can think for myself, but I'm like a puppet, not in control of my own actions. I can still hear the person's thoughts, though." Lena looked away, not daring to meet their eyes.

Lena could swear even the engines of the ship went silent as her friends soaked in this information.

It was silent for several minutes.

Lena only rolled back over, letting her arm drop off the mattress as the IV drip continued pumping the liquid into her.

Lena wondered idly what was in it. Was it a painkiller? Most likely. Surely she would be fine without it. Whatever was in there could not be the reason she was alive.

"You… heard our thoughts?" Winston asked in a hushed whisper.

"You read the diary," she casually replied, fiddling with the chord. "It's not like I had much of a choice in the matter.

"…How much did you see of me in the Deadlock?" Jesse asked stiffly.

"Just about everything you don't want me to have. I wasn't conscious at the time, so your memories all made perfect sense and I had the context-" Lena realized she was babbling. "Long story short, I've known about a substantial number of things you've done." Lena could have sworn she heard him mumble something under his breath.

"So now that we've had that lovely walk down memory lane, where are we going, and did you bring my uniform and pistols?"

McCree shot her a look that said: "We'll talk about this later." That was fine. Later was not now, and Lena was not feeling up for talking about it now.

"Yes, w-we brought one of your uniforms and pistol sets. They're in the cubby," Winston stuttered, gesturing with one of his bulky hands. Sure enough, one of her battle uniforms was neatly folded, with a spare of her gauntlets that kept her pistols concealed in them, ready to be flipped out at the press of a small switch.

"Can I take this IV drip off?" she asked, already gripping the needle to tear out.

"It's a painkiller; I don't think you should. We still have a few hours for you to heal," Winston suggested, beginning to pace nervously around the room.

With a sly grin, Lena tore out the IV drip and struggled to her feet, holding out a hand in the "stop" gesture when Jesse scrambled to help her.

"I've felt worse," Lena commented ironically, causing them both to cease in their attempts to help. Her legs were still sore, but she was able to reach her outfit and take it to the small, cramped bathroom on the ship. She quickly changed, pulling o the familiar skin-tight and orange leggings that read "Tracer" on them. Her jacket was styled to look similar to that of a pilot's, with her Tracer icon and the UK flag on either shoulder and her goggles, which she pinned to her face, tinted the world orange. Sure, if she couldn't blink, she probably didn't need the goggles, but that wouldn't stop her. It was a relief to finally be Tracer again. Quickly slipping on the comfortable yet secure slip-on shoes, she bound out of the room, ignoring the throbbing in her legs, arms, back, and basically everywhere. The pain was far more manageable now.

"L-Lena, I have a favor to ask," Winston began as though he were about to ask for her arm. "Angela has been flying us for hours, and has had minimal sleep. Would you be okay with taking over? I'm not exactly good at maneuvering the tiny handles, and the day I let Jesse fly a plane is the day Hell freezes over."

McCree shrugged. "Fair."

"Is that all, Love? Sure thing!" Tracer declared, forcing down her unease. She had to fly a ship? She hadn't piloted anything since the Slipstream. It's not that she couldn't but what if something went wrong? What if her body, which was being stabilized by the harness, caused some sort of reaction with the plane and caused it to crash? Or worse, what if it emitted some kind of signal that destabilized everyone on board-" Tracer stopped and took a deep breath. She was being silly. Nothing was going to happen like that; they would be okay. "Leave it to me! Quick question, though! Where are we going?"

Jesse chuckled. "We're heading to the Shimada property in Hanamura. More specifically, the arcade 'round those parts. I think I saw it on a map once, I'll show ya-"

"That's okay, I know where it is!" Tracer declared happily, already bounding over the controls, slipping on her gloves and checking to make sure her harness is not too far so she would not fade.

"Really? Did Genji tell ya?" McCree asks, surprised.

"Nope! I saw it in his head. Dreams, remember?" she admitted with slight unease, to which both McCree and Winston blink, not sure about what to say to that. Winston looks simultaneously pensive and antsy, probably thinking back to what she wrote about that particular dream in her diary. Jesse idly chewed on the back of his cigar which he was forbidden to light while in the ship.

"Cheers, I got this!" Tracer bound over to the controls, ignoring the pit in her stomach. Sure enough, at the controls, Angela was firmly seated, her posture perfect as she controlled the ship. Her expression, though, was completely blank, as though she were not present mentally.

"Doc, go get some rest," Tracer commanded, gently putting her hand on Angela's shoulder, who seemed to jump back to reality.

"No, no, I am quite alright," she assured, though her voice was raspy and tired.

"Go get some sleep! I've already rested up, thanks to your operation!" Tracer assured with a laugh.

Mercy nodded breathlessly, her eyes swivelling around to the rest of the ship, where Winston was awkwardly sitting on the floor. McCree was leaning back in the small; blue had his feet kicked u on the table with his hat tipped down as he tried to sleep. Or pretended to. One of the two.

Mercy helped herself off the seat, stumbling slightly as she made her way down the stairs. How long had it been since she got a substantial amount of sleep? No matter! They had a professional pilot ready to take over the controls! I mean, it was a professional pilot that was desynchronized from the flow of time after crashing a jet… but still!

Lena plopped herself in the seat, checking all the functions of the plane to make sure Mercy hadn't missed anything. The control sticks were simplistic compared to some of the dogfighting jets she has used in her piloting days. She gripped the controls in her hands. They seemed to tremble in her hands. Or was that Tracer that was trembling? She gritted her teeth and checked the coordinates. Perfect. They should be at Hanamura in six hours or so. That was decent.

The sky outside was like fire, intermingling shades of red, orange, yellow, and pink as the sun behind them began to trail upward. The fire reminded her of one of her fights during the Omnic crisis, where there had been three or four jets chasing her. They were on all sides. She had nosedives, spinning the ship around and firing into the wings of the other ships. It had worked, and they had exploded into bursts of smoky flames, consuming the jets and whoever had been inside.

Tracer shook her head wildly. No need to dwell on the past! She did that enough without her harness! She chuckled at her own lame wit and focused on keeping the ship steady. It had been her form of meditation back when she flew. Don't think about anything except the thrum of the engine, the distance until arrival, and the stability of the control sticks. That was what she did when she first flew in any jet, even if it was just for a short while. That's what she did in the Slipstream.

Tracer's breath grew ragged. The Slipstream. Why did it crash, anyway? Winston said it was a malfunction he could re-engineer, but what he had to do to cause it was so specific that it couldn't have happened on its own. Did Lena cause the crash? Did she do something that made it malfunction? What if she made that same mistake here?

Stop it, Tracer! She was being ridiculous! That was not going to happen! They were not in a dogfight. The jet was not trying to teleport. They would not crash. Lena took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. She realised she had been clenching her jaw the whole time, and her palms were sweaty beneath her gloves, and she was still trembling. She took another deep breath. She would be fine. She just needed to calm down.

Tracer took a deep breath. Take it easy. She could do that.

"What a shame that you refuse to work with us," croaked a raspy voice that Pharah refused to acknowledge. "I was hoping we could work out a mutual friendship." The Reaper mused, spitting the word "friendship" like it was tipped with acid.

Pharah stared blankly at the plain wall as Reaper crept around the room. He was in the same outfit as seen in the security footage, with the skeleton mask concealing any hints of his identity. His steps were fluid, almost too much so, and completely silent.

"How about another offer, then?" Much to Pharah's morbid relief, he pulled something out of his jacket. It was a small, silver knife. "You tell me something about how Overwatch is going. Maybe how many people have been coming back, or what you were doing at the lockup. You do that, and this little toy of mine goes away." He twirled the knife in between the odd claws he had on his fingers deftly.

Pharah remained silent.

"No? What a shame. I'm sure I can change your mind on this, though." Flipping the knife over, he ran the blunt edge of it over Fareeha's cheek, the cool metal chilling her to the bone. Then, he turned the blade on her.

Fareeha slammed her eyes shut, biting her tongue. She knew it would come to this. Part of her was relieved. If Reaper was resorting to pain, he was admitting that he couldn't change her mind otherwise. It meant she was stronger than him.

Fareeha held onto this thought like a lifeline, chanting it in her head over and over again as the blade sliced through her cheek like butter, and a steady stream of blood began to trail down her jaw, staining the otherwise spotless white floor a deep crimson.

It felt like hours, but it must have only been a few seconds until Reaper pulled the blade back to admire his handiwork. The once pristine knife was now a deep scarlet, not even reflecting light anymore.

"Keep in mind; you can end this at any time by cooperating." Reaper did not sound like he cared. He was enjoying this. That was fine. Pharah would not humour him with words. The pain would not dissuade her.

"I see you intend on being stubborn. Too bad." Pharah could almost hear his crooked smirk.

He trailed over her arm with the blade, drawing a thin line of blood as he travelled to her hand, which she had clenched in a fist. Using the claws on his hand, he pried her fist apart, holding her hand open as he traced the folds in her flesh, lining up the blade. Then the chilly blade turned to fire as he began to cut deeper.

Pharah bit the inside of her lip and began chanting in her head. "I am stronger. I am stronger. I am stronger."

It was true. It had to be. There was no other choice.

Jack couldn't help but be jittery and nervous as he and Ana crept through the urban area of Hanamura, the moon shining overhead as the abandoned streets seemed to glow due to the excess of lit up signs posted on the buildings. It was officially the fifth day: the day Jack promised Genji they would be there.

"I can't even describe how stupid this is, going into an arcade of all things," Jack complained, his visor tinting the world a deep crimson.

"It's the closest to the Shimada property, and who would check an arcade for two outlaws? Besides, I need revenge against one of those rigged claw machines," Ana teased, easily keeping up with his brisk pace.

"How do I let you talk me into these things?"

"By succumbing to my charm and sparkling personality. Besides, you get antsy if you don't get to do something life-risking for more than a week."

"I'd object to that if you weren't right."

"Wouldn't you always?"

"Someone's got to keep you in check."

"Aw, but that's no fun."

They continued their lighthearted banter as they passed scores of restaurants and shops, all their neon signs switched off in the late hours of the night. The arcade was only a few blocks away. It wouldn't be long now. Soon, everyone would know that Jack Morrison and Ana Amari live.

They fell into a hushed silence as the freakish green monster in the spaceship became visible, a gaudy statue on the building opposite to the arcade. Everything seemed to be undisturbed until Jack noted that the door to the arcade was ever-so-slightly cracked open, something no employee worth their salt would ever leave in that state.

They knew they would be the last ones to arrive. That was their plan. The last thing they needed was to linger in a city where their faces were plastered on every wanted poster in the area. What they weren't expecting was the surprising quantity of members already accumulated. For the recall having gone out a few precious days ago, having some of the best agents respond so quickly was decent.

Jack watched Ana's face closely as they carefully entered the building. None of the games were active, save a lone claw machine in the back of the room that a certain cybernetic ninja was absently playing, with a cheerful British agent cheering him on as he maneuvered the claw to catch a plush in an attempt to catch one of the stuffed prizes. Genji and Tracer, two of the deadliest agents, tearing up the backlines of any enemy.

Jesse McCree, in the flesh, was lighting a cigar, the warm glow of the lighter and pungent odour surrounding him. He was leaning against one of the cabinets with no regard for the smoke alarms. His outfit was the same one he'd been wearing on his Blackwatch mission, and his face, while showing more age, was largely unchanged. Next to him was a weary Angela Ziegler, who was wearing her Valkyrie suit, watching him with a dismayed look, likely due to the cigar that he was taking great pleasure in smoking in front of her. She looked completely identical to several years ago, as though she had not aged a day.

The final agent present was Winston, the gorilla that had joined the team after the disaster in the Lunar base. He was watching the group passively and was the first one to notice Jack and Ana entering the room.

"C-Captain Amari!" He gasped, causing the room to fall dead silent. Jesse's smouldering cigar fell to the floor, turning the white tile it fell on an ugly shade of grey. Winston was as still as a statue, Angela was in shock, her hands slowly lifting to her mouth. Oddly enough, Tracer only smiled joyously, not seeming to be too surprised.

"It is wonderful to see you again, Captain Amari, Commander Morrison," Genji greeted courteously with a small bow. There was the second bomb dropped.

"J-Jack?! Ana?! Is it really you?" Tears had formed in Angela's eyes, trailing down her unblemished face.

Jesse slowly removed his hat, holding it close to his heart. "I'll be darned… y'all are alive?"

Jack grunted, pressing the release on his visor, which pulled away to reveal his scarred face. The facts hit home. They remained silent. He clicked it back into place after a few seconds, mentally sighing in relief as the world returned to its familiar red tint.

"How come you never contacted us? Why did you just… let us think you were gone? I was at your funeral… Reinhardt, Torby, we all were… at both of yours… and you just… you've been alive the whole time…" Angela took a single, raspy breath, then another, this one smoother and calmer. "We will need to discuss this later."

"Gladly, Angela, but for now, we need to focus on rescuing my daughter," Ana agreed, changing the topic quickly. "Genji, why did you not tell them it was us?"

The cyborg only let out a metallic chuckle. "It was more fun this way." Jack rolled his eyes behind his mask. Ana laughed heartily.

"It is good to be back among you," Ana admitted. "Unfortunately, pleasantries will need to wait. We need to save Fareeha. Genji, have you found the information we requested?"

"Yes commander," he replied curtly. "Your suspicions were correct. The remains of the Shimada Clan have in fact joined forces with Talon, expanding the underground empire. The nearest base of operations they are actively working at is a few miles from here: a research facility."

"Wonderful. We shall head there immediately. You all are here to help?"

Everybody nodded with various degrees of enthusiasm. Winston piped up, still shocked from earlier. "I was planning to stay behind on the ship to knock out any cameras possible, along with the fact that I am not subtle in any way."

Jack nodded. "That'll do, then. Where is the dropship? We need to leave immediately?" And just like that, Jack Morrison was back to leading Overwatch.

Fareeha's fists were clenched, but she wasn't sure if this made the pain better or worse. She refused to look at her mangled arms and hands, which were sticky with blood. Her head was swimming, and her vision was blurry.

However, there was a small part of her that was pleased. She was resisting. She would survive. They would not break her. The pain was horrible, but she could handle it. If it got worse, she would need to handle that. That's all there was to it. If she died, then she would still be the one coming out victorious.

The door opened. Already? It had only been a couple of hours since Reaper's visit. Fareeha didn't even have time to sleep.

To her surprise, it was Widowmaker. Her hair was in its normal ponytail, and she wore the same styled suit as last time, though it was more of a crimson colour. In her hands, she carried a small tray of food. Perhaps she was here to taunt Fareeha. That was fine too.

Slowly, she walked over and released Fareeha's arm bindings. Confusion echoed through her mind. Then Widowmaker handed her a cool, damp towel, gesturing wordlessly to her wounds. Why was she being kind? Pharah didn't understand. It was all wrong. Warily, Pharah pushed herself up, using the wall as support for her sore and stiff back. It cracked in a satisfying manner as she stretched it out for the first time in hours.

Pharah warily ran the towel over her arm, biting her tongue at the sting from the injuries. Her arm had various, trailing cuts extending down to her wrist. Her hand itself was in a horrid state, with blood smearing over the hand completely, disguising the actual location and appearance of the cuts themselves. She hissed quietly as she cleaned her hands, the sting of the towel almost as bad as the actual knife.

Most of her wounds' bleeding had stifled, leaving ugly red marks, several of which would likely scar.

When Fareeha was finished cleaning her wounds, Widowmaker took the towel back with little regard for the blood on it, setting the tray gently down on Fareeha's lap. There was a glass of water, a sandwich, an unopened packet of potato chips, and a small pudding cup.

"The food is not poisoned or anything of the likes," Widowmaker informed, reflecting Pharah's hesitation. To prove this, she picked up the sandwich and took a bite out of the corner without hesitation, handing it back to Pharah while chewing quietly.

Pharah began to eat, slowly at first, but speeding up with every bite, savouring the meal. IT was finished all too soon, but Fareeha kept her expression neutral.

"Why are you giving me this?" She finally asked after Widowmaker was preparing to leave with the tray.

"You need food. Without the towel, your cuts would get infected. You would die prematurely in that instance. It is foolish that the boss here believes that these small commodities should not be given to you," Widowmaker explained with a snort.

"You are acting against him?"

"Yes, I am. I would appreciate you not mentioning this meal to anyone, at least if you want another one."

Pharah nodded distractedly. "I do not see why you would view me as a subject worthy enough to treat with such caution towards my life."

Widowmaker chuckled dryly. "That's not why. I am simply curious."

Pharah's eyes narrowed. "Curious about what?"

Widowmaker gestured to the arm bindings. "I suggest you let me put those back on you, lest you want your punishment to be worse," she commanded without answering the question. Pharah begrudgingly complied, letting her arms be pinned back down to the table. Then, Widowmaker turned and began to leave, offering one, closing statement.

"I'm curious to see if you will last longer than I did. My personal record is yet to be beaten by anyone."

With that, the door shut behind her, leaving Fareeha to wait for Reaper.

This was the schedule for five long, painful days. Five days of waking up to Reaper with his knife, waiting for a meal from Widowmaker, and then sleeping. Hope in a rescue began to ebb. She held onto a hope of freedom as much as she could. It was her only chance at remaining sane. She would not, under any circumstances, give up. She would let herself be killed before she gave Reaper the satisfaction of victory. This promise did not wane. She only hoped she could hold onto her sanity long enough for a rescue to come, be it from Angela, Winston, even her mother. Any small shred of evidence that she was not abandoned. That was all she needed. Just a tiny shred of hope. She could only wait until she received that lifeline.