Chapter 9 – Ghosts Among the Machines

There were definitely snippets of Overwatch propaganda from the old days being played along with the throbbing, pulsing audiological attacks.

We are hope.

Amélie gave Holo-Man what he wanted to hear—her own honest goal to escape the facility.

"And blow it sky high" she muttered. There were rare times she agreed with Overwatch's application of "overwhelming, uncompromising force." She would love nothing more than to watch this place burn.

For a time, it seemed this lessened her punishments—better food, shorter waterboarding sessions, fewer temperature swings. But that was an illusion.

We are honour.

Now when she slept, she had nightmares. Her old compatriots from her museum days, many anti-Overwatch, throwing eggs and jeering at her in a very public place. If she was lucky, she'd be wearing clothes in these horror shows. The worst ones culminated with a march of shame through downtown Paris, dragged by grotesque appropriations having the bodies of her adult friends but the heads of GreenWatch.

"Upper-class bitch!"

"Sellout!"

Some of the things she was taunted with in her own head were worse than curses she'd silently thrown at Vishkar. Many played on the fact that she (despite the torture) was still an attractive woman around 30, threatening things so vile she more than once woke up choking on bits of her own vomit.

We are courage.

Her mantra held. Not that she knew anything (virtually all of what Gérard would tell her could be found openly broadcast on the news with official Overwatch okay anyway), but she refused to give any satisfaction to those who must be ordering the borderline-automatons about. She and Gérard had no children of their own, but with his tacit acknowledgement of her informal adoption it felt like they did. Amélie focused on them, compelling herself to be strong like she'd always told them to be.

We are justice.

"If they think kidnapping my wife will make me give up, they have messed with the wrong man" growled Gérard upon returning to find his wife's face in the local news as a "missing person." He pulled out every stop and connection he could muster, receiving assurances that Lena "Tracer" Oxton and her pal Winston would personally search for Amélie.

We are compassion.

The "Lacroix Five" suddenly found themselves a minor cause célèbre. The non-profit working their cases mysteriously received enough funding to cover its operating budget and then some for two years. Overnight.

Amélie took to composing songs like Raphael did, inspired as he was by his Lúcio action figure. She kept them to herself, using them to augment the three lines she'd repeated thousands of times by now.

We are determination.

The session today differed greatly from all that she could remember. Through ears strained by repeated torments, she heard children's voices.

"What an idiot" said a voice that sounded suspiciously like Clement.

"But look what we got for those silly toys!" said Chloé viciously. "All this money!"

Bleary eyes told her that Raphael was holding some kind of magazine no kid his age should see. "See?" he pointed. "I bet she looks like this one!"

Lucie openly fanned through a pile of euro notes.

The only one not participating was Nolan.

"Aw, look at stupid Nolan" taunted Lucie. "Still thinks that stuck-up" (Amélie's shocked gasp drowned out most of hearing words like that come from a child) "lady actually cared! Maybe he can find his real daddy in the NAP!"

She tried to close her eyes, turn away, but Amélie found herself physically restrained like some kind of violent prisoner. After it finally ended, she was dragged back to her quarters where she welcomed the klaxons that blasted her ears and kept her awake. At least she didn't have to see that again.

"Do you think she bought it?" asked one. "Some of that video editing was pretty bad, and the vocal tuning was awful."

Her compatriot gave a look as if she'd suggested up was down.

"What do you think?"

Amélie Lacroix's anguished wails were almost loud enough to drown out the audio being used to torment her.

We are harmony.

As if all this wasn't enough, the slurs of her dreams invaded her reality. Those responsible for carting a nearly catatonic Amélie about suddenly began shouting very similar insults to the ones that terrorized her sleep. When one door closed, the next set of guards would pick up exactly where the previous group left off, a perfect chorus of denigrating comments.

Holo-Man was at first sympathetic, but over time began to question whether or not "you did anything to deserve or provoke this treatment. Carefully consider that nobody said anything for the three weeks you've been here so far…"

I don't know what they want. I can't give them what I don't have. Why don't they just kill me? Can't they just let me die?

WE. ARE. OVERWATCH! blared the speakers in her room.