As Lena cuts the engine and the rotor powers down, Reinhardt sees movement from the base. A familiar figure lopes towards the helicopter, swinging massive arms to propel himself. It's Winston.
Reinhardt and Lúcio slide back the door and lower the gurney out of the chopper, careful to avoid the slowing blades. As they wheel Brigitte towards Winston, the knight can see that the scientist is out of breath.
"Dr. Ziegler just arrived about ten minutes ago!" Winston says loudly over the hum of the helicopter. "I think she might still be setting up the med bay-I tried to get as much as I could ready but she had to bring a lot of equipment. Just finished moving it."
He gestures to them to follow him, and they wheel Brigitte off the launchpad and into the base.
As they take the elevator down to the med bay Winston catches his eye. "Whenever you're done in the med bay, we should talk about what happened tonight." He wrinkles his nose, perturbed. "Er, this morning? Whichever. You can wait til morning if you want. If you feel like doing an official report on it you can log in at a console. Everyone's profiles are back up, just set up a password or your fingerprint and you should be good to go." The elevator pings at ground level, and they exit.
Lena and Winston fall back behind Reinhardt, talking now in tones too low to be heard. Undoubtedly she is giving him her impression of what has happened, though there will not be much to tell. He cares little. Right now they are coming up on the med bay, and he can see light spilling from its doorway. As the gurney rolls up, a familiar face peers out from the doorway.
"Reinhardt!" It is Angela, looking the same as she did the last time he saw her. Beautiful, glowing, not a hair out of place, even at this time of morning. She places a gentle hand on his shoulder as he and Lúcio wheel Brigitte into the med bay. "It is good to see you, though perhaps not in this setting. It has been awhile." He enfolds her in a quick hug, returning the sentiment. Then her attention shifts to his squire.
"Could you tell me how she received these injuries?" Angela asks, applying monitoring pads to Brigitte before beginning to unwrap the bandaging Lúcio had applied.
"Well…" The question has brought him up short. He didn't actually see what had happened to her. He can only speak to the circumstances leading up to it. "I did not see. One minute she was at my side, the next she was feet away, falling to the ground." He hastens to add the details of the night for her, the manner of weapons their attackers used, and how she had been acting since she fell. "I do not think she was hit anywhere besides her head. Her armor was intact."
Angela slides on a pair of purple gloves and examines the bloody head wound, pressing at its edges. She opens Brigitte's eyes, peering into them as Lúcio had done before and causing his squire to groan in pain.
"I do not think this injury penetrated bone." She says shortly, replacing the bandaging. "But I need to run some tests to be sure."
"Is there anything I can do to assist?" Reinhardt asks trying not to wring his hands nervously, but Angela shakes her head.
"No, I think not. I will call you when you can come visit her."
Lúcio steps forward. "Pardon me, miss, uh-"
"Doctor Angela Ziegler." The doctor steps forward and strips off one glove, offering a hand politely which the DJ shakes. "But you may call me Angela. And you must be Lúcio Correia de Santos; Winston informed me of your arrival."
"Just Lúcio, actually." He smiles at her. "Is there anything I can do? I have this crossfade suit, which-"
"Transmits a biotic field via sound waves." The doctor finishes for him. "Yes, Winston mentioned that." She examines him thoughtfully. "Well, it certainly wouldn't hurt to have that around. Was it you who placed her IV?" Lúcio nods, and she smiles approvingly at him. "You did well. If you would like, stay and assist me?"
Reinhardt is then ushered from the room. He leaves the med bay entirely, making his way back towards the elevators. At the last second he detours to the stairwell instead; he's not eager to talk to Winston about what has occurred tonight. The more he has thought about it, the more he thinks how colossally foolish it was that they went through with the plan in the first place. The second he had seen those E 54 automatons he should have alerted Overwatch. Instead he had been overconfident, and because of that…
He rests for a minute on the first floor landing. Winston will have to do with a typed report. His thoughts are too chaotic, fractured; he needs to write things down, to see them so they can be put into order Most importantly, he needs to do it now, before the painful edges of the memories can be smoothed by his constant reflections on what he should have done.
He makes his way down the hall that leads past the mess hall and kitchen. The barracks are on the ground floor as well, but set away from the medbay and require a different stairwell to reach. Winston had said everything was being reinstated, did that mean his old room as well?
The barrack hallway is lit by harsh fluorescent lights that clearly illuminate the doorways to each room; they bear plaques inscribed with each agent's initials. He finds his in the same place it has always been; the second from the last room on the right, next to one "J.M". The ghost of old pain drifts through him at the sight, and he drags a thumb over the dusty plate before opening his door.
Overwatch keeps its barracks neatly utilitarian. The only thing that sets his room apart from the others is that the bed is an extra-long full instead of a twin; the only concession made for his height. The bed can be lofted so that there is room beneath for a mini fridge or personal effects; on the north wall there is a plastisteel desk and chair with a computer console and lamp. The opposing wall houses a door that leads to a small bathroom outfitted with shower, toilet and sink.
Reinhardt boots the console up and sinks into his chair. Weariness is settling in now like a concrete and his eyes itch and burn with exhaustion. He has been awake for nearly twenty-four hours and his nerves are frayed from the last three of them. If he is to remain alert for much longer he will need a stimulant.
"Welcome, user. Please enter your credentials." Athena's smooth voice announces.
It has been years since he has used this login, but he still remembers it.
USER ID: WILHERE
PASSWORD: CuRRY1/\1ur$t!
"Welcome, Agent Reinhardt." The robotic voice sounds almost pleased as his home screen is revealed. A passing thought: did Athena miss them too?
Reinhardt rubs his eyes as he deliberates his course of action. He could submit an official Overwatch report detailing the night, but that involves filling out many different text boxes; something he is loathe to deal with. He could send Winston an email detailing the bare bones of what happened tonight with the promise of elaboration later. He could record an audio message of the former and send that.
He opts for none of these options and instead opens a blank document. As the cursor blinks on the white screen, his mind empties.
He must start at the beginning. There may yet be some detail he had missed before that will, under close examination, reveal to them something important. He must be thorough .
Reinhardt begins to type.
Nearly an hour later, a 5-page document sits on the screen, ready for sendoff. He may have been too detailed at some parts, but that's better than the alternative. He attaches the document to an email and sends it off to Winston with the suggestion that they meet to discuss everything the following evening. Then, he has another thought. He needs to tell Andreas to stay away from the clearing-first, to preserve any evidence that may be left, and second, because the thieves may still be around.
He sends off a message from his holopad, hoping that the man sees it and obeys. He adds that in all likelihood they will return in the near future to investigate, and to expect a visit. That will be one of his first recommendations to Winston later when they talk. That done, he is left with no other prospects. He feels like he is missing something about the whole night that he should be realizing, but he just can't place it. Perhaps a little sleep will help him to see things in a new light.
He uses the bathroom, has a quick shower to remove the worst of the day's grime. He has no toiletries, but that will have to be rectified later. It is only as he is washing that he notices the dried blood beneath his fingernails.
Red liquid wells, oozing from a deep wound.
Brigitte. How is she doing? It has been scarcely an hour and a half since he left the med bay, not nearly enough time. He must be patient.
The only clean clothes left in his duffel bag are a pair of underwear and a black undershirt, the rest lay bloodstained on the gurney with Brigitte. Another problem he will have to rectify….later.
He turns down the lights and climbs into the bunk, settling beneath the sheets with a sigh. He closes his eyes.
And can't sleep.
Now that he's here, the exhausted fog seems to have lifted. Yes, his body is tired; it aches and throbs from the strain of earlier that night but now his mind is wide awake. It is eager to relive the past few hours, to examine in detail every moment he might have changed.
When they received the letter. You could have said no.
When they saw the Bastions. What if you had called Overwatch then? They might have taken some units, but you would have had backup.
When Brigitte returned from the woods, attackers in pursuit. You could have retreated then.
Around and around his thoughts swim; agitated fish in an undersized bowl. He won't make those mistakes again; he will be more cautious next time. Will there be a next time? Yes, there will. When he wakes in a few hours Angela will have Brigitte all patched up, and he will apologize to her for taking up that request in the first place. He will apologize, and see if he can find semlor anywhere to bring as a treat.
Sleep takes him.
Reinhardt wakes a few hours later, feeling little better.
His sleep had been fractured with vivid, disturbing dreams that he can't quite remember. Now that he is awake though he doesn't feel like returning to them. He looks at his watch: it is 9:47. The knight rolls out of bed, splashes some cold water on his face and tries to rub the exhaustion from his eyes.
A razor is another thing he needs to buy, he notices as his fingers rub against the prickly stubble on his cheeks. He has no other clothes here and so must slide his sweat-stiffened underlayer back on before he leaves his room. Just outside the door he is momentarily distracted; should he go to Brigitte now, or try to round up breakfast?
He opts for the latter. If she is awake, his squire will be hungry. He pads to the kitchen, meeting no one on the way. When he arrives it is empty, though there is the scent of artificial warm apple cinnamon on the air. As if someone has been heating packaged oatmeal. He roots through the cupboards and the fridge, which are sparse. He finds a gallon of low-fat milk (that will not do), a large tin of instant coffee, powdered coffee creamer, a box of instant oatmeal packets (apple cinnamon, he had been right) and a box of protein bars. The only other food is several boxes of frozen dinners packed into the freezer. Sighing, he adds several more things to his mental shopping list and pockets one of the protein bars. He will repay whoever purchased them later. He pries open the tin and sets a fresh filter in the coffee maker.
As he sets to making the coffee, he hears footsteps coming and turns to see Lúcio shuffling into the kitchen, yawning. He is wearing the same clothes Reinhardt saw him in last, minus the crossfade suit.
"Mornin'.'" The DJ mutters, and points at the brewing coffee. "Can I have some of that?"
"Certainly." Reinhardt pulls another styrofoam cup from the stack and hands it to the him. "Have you not been to bed yet?" He asks, gesturing at Lúcio's attire.
"Naw, was helping Dr. Z for about two hours and then I was trying to figure out if I could rig a few portable speakers up in the patient bays. Thought it could be use-fuuhhl-" A jaw-cracking yawn interrupts his speech. "-sorry, useful. Got it all hooked up though and then I came here."
The percolating stream of coffee begins to thin out as the coffee maker reaches the end of its water supply. Reinhardt waits for the last steaming drops to fall before hefting the pot and pouring out three cups.
"Are you sure you want coffee?" He questions as Lúcio rummages for the powdered creamer. "It will make it hard for you to sleep."
"Yeah, I'll be alright." Lúcio stirs the powder into his cup, turning the coffee a muddy brown. "Not going to bed. Really messes with my brain if I sleep during the day. Cycle gets all outta wack." He blows on the steaming liquid. "You going to the med bay?"
Reinhardt nods, gathering a cup in each hand. He thinks that Angela would appreciate the sentiment, even if she doesn't appreciate the flavor. "I am." He hesitates, and almost lets the words spill from his lips: Is Brigitte okay? He stops himself before they do. He will not burden the young man further with questions he may not be able to answer. Dr. Ziegler will be able to tell him.
He bids Lúcio goodbye and heads for the elevators they had used the night before; he's not feeling foolish enough to manage the stairs when he has hands full of near-boiling liquid. As the elevator pings his floor, he feels a tendril of trepidation coil in his stomach; a snake threatening to strike.
The light to the med bay is on, the door open so he heads through it. Inside Angela sits at her desk, typing away on her computer. At the sight of him she stops working and takes to her feet, accepting his proffered cup with a murmur of thanks. She gestures for him to sit, and he does even though his nerves are demanding that he go see Brigitte immediately.
"You'll be wanting to know how Brigitte is."
It's not a question, but it's phrased in a gentle tone of quiet understanding. Reinhardt nods, not trusting himself to speak. His leg jitters nervously, almost sending his coffee slopping over the lip of the mug.
"Well, I won't lie to you. Her injuries are more extensive than I thought." Angela's fingers cradle her warm cup, coffee untasted. "I do not believe they are life-threatening though. There are two areas of concern: first, a large laceration along the top of her scalp." One hand traces a path from front to back along Angela's golden-haired temple. "From the appearance I would say a bullet grazed her. I placed a few stitches and it should heal with just a scar."
Now she places her coffee on her desk and plops back into her seat, clicking at something on the computer. She gestures for him to scoot around so he can see the monitor.
"The second injury is more serious." She double-clicks a file, bringing up a black-and-white image that he recognizes as some sort of scan. If he remembers rightly, it shows cross-sectional slices of the human body.
"I took images of her head because she seemed disoriented. It is the best way to know how extensive unseen injuries are." She points at the picture, traces the oval white outline. "This is the skull-" she moves her finger and taps the wrinkled greyness within it, "-and this is the brain." She scrolls through some more, the image growing larger as they travel top-down through Brigitte's head.
"You see this?" She points at an area of darkness on the left side of the skull that indents slightly on the ghostly folds of Brigitte's brain. "This is where blood has collected beneath the skull. It is called a subdural hematoma. And this-" Her finger slides over just slightly, pinpointing a thread of black interrupting the white contour of bone, "-is a fracture." Angela's hands fold back around her coffee cup. "She has sustained some blunt trauma there that caused the bleeding. This may explain her disorientation." She blows a small breath out and meets Reinhardt's gaze. "She is lucky. The fracture will not require surgery, and I believe the bleeding has stopped. I will be watching her carefully for the next few days to ensure that she remains stable. "
A brain injury. He had known other soldiers with such complications during the war, those that survived had often been altered forever by it. His heart hammers, remembering glazed eyes, slack faces, inarticulate moans. Would that be her fate, too? The proud squire he knows, handicapped permanently?
Angela must have seen the devastation on his face. She reaches out, presses one soft hand to his arm. "Try not to worry Reinhardt. You did the right thing, bringing her here. We will get her all patched up." He notices she does not say she will be fine .
"May I see her?" His request comes out a hoarse whisper, and he takes a sip of coffee to wet his throat. It tastes bitter.
Angela slides out from behind her desk, smoothing her clothes as she stands. "Certainly. I was just about to check up on her." She moves to intercept him before he can make his way through to the recovery bays, raising a hand. "I must warn you though, she may be a bit disoriented."
She leads the way into the darkened room, past a curtain that has been drawn around the second bed. She slides it back enough for him to pass through, and as he does Brigitte is revealed.
She looks simultaneously better, and worse. Someone has cleaned the blood from her face, but that only serves to accentuate the dark swelling along her temple and cheek. Her eye is a puffy purple bruise. Her hair fans in a dark halo around her head, interrupted at her temple by a white bandage. Instead of her black underlayer she is clad in a pale blue gown, and he can see the IV still snaking from arm, connected to a bag that hangs at the head of the bed.
A gentle touch on his arm; he sees Angela tilt her head, indicating that he should wake Brigitte.
" Shildlein? " He calls softly, pressing one hand on the closest part of her he can reach-her covered ankle. He squeezes it gently, thumb rubbing around protuberant bone. When she doesn't react, he raises his voice slightly, "Brigitte?" her name punctuated with another squeeze.
Brigitte's even breaths shift, interrupted by a sudden, deeper inhale. She shifts slightly in the bed as she wakes, and he releases her. She opens her eyes.
"Rein..har'?" Her voice is a rusty mumble, but it sends warm relief cascading through him. The knot of tension in his stomach eases; she recognizes him. Her left eye is nothing but a swollen slit, and it seems she is having trouble seeing him. A questing hand reaches up toward him and he moves to the side of the bed to capture it. "I'm here, Brigitte."
Now that he is here seeing her his concern has faded, but in its wake comes guilt. He should have been more careful. What can he even say? In all their time on the road she has never sustained injuries like this. He had gotten overconfident, and she had paid the price. He can't even find the words to express how sorry he feels. He is trying to find them when he is saved by Dr. Ziegler.
"Brigitte?" Angela comes to the other side of the bed, catching his squire's attention. "Are you awake? How are you feeling?" Brigitte nods her head to the first question, wincing as soon as she attempts the motion.
"Head hurts." She complains, coughing a little. "And my face."
"I'll see what I can do about that." Angela assures her, "But first I need to do some quick tests. Will you look at me?"
Dr. Ziegler then runs her through a series of motions: first having Brigitte tell her how many fingers she is holding up, then following said fingers moving nothing but her eyes. Back and forth, up and down the fingers go, only to disappear inside Angela's pocket and produce a penlight much like the one Lúcio used the night before. She peers into Brigitte's eyes, murmuring a quiet apology as her patient's face contorts in pain. Tucking the penlight away she asks, "What is the month and year?"
"Um...August, 2076?"
Reinhardt can't tell if the uncertainty in Brigitte's tone comes from her confusion about the question, or whether she really isn't sure of the date. He gives her hand a reassuring squeeze; it feels cold.
"And, where are you?" Angela asks from the other side of the room, fiddling with a locked med station.
He wonders if she has even been told where she was brought. He certainly hadn't; didn't think she was lucid enough on the flight over to even know.
"A...hospital?" The answer comes, even less certain.
Dr. Ziegler returns, a small glass bottle in one hand and a syringe in the other. "Very close," She says, drawing the fluid out of the bottle. "You're in the Watchpoint Gibraltar med bay." She taps a bubble of air out of the syringe and then hooks it to a port on the IV. "I'm giving you something now that should help for the pain."
Brigitte inspects the blonde doctor as she does it, and Reinhardt thinks she can see recognition dawning on her face. "You're...Angel?"
Angela laughs, light and amused. "Very nearly correct. I'm Dr. Angela Ziegler, but you may call me Angela." She reaches down to shake Brigitte's free hand. "And you are Brigitte Lindholm. I've heard a great deal about you from your father."
"Papa has pictures of you." Brigitte shakes the proffered hand weakly. "At a Halloween party."
Another trill of bright laughter from Angela. "Ah, I remember that picture! I had no idea he still had it!"
Reinhardt remembers that picture. He does not think there is a member of the team that does not have a copy of it. He still remembers it as if it were yesterday; their doctor, clad in a dark parody of her usual regalia-positively bewitching. Coaxing even the normally taciturn Torbjörn to smile for the camera had been a feat. How long ago those days seem.
His recollections are interrupted by a feeble press of fingers against his palm.
"Reinhardt...what happened?" Brigitte asks.
Across the bed he sees Angela make a small motion with her hand. She catches his eye and mouths , 'What do you remember? '. Ah, she wants to see how badly Brigitte's memory has been affected.
"How much do you remember?" He replies.
Brigitte is silent for a moment, thinking. "We were..at the farm. The stakeout. I was..chasing someone through the woods? And there was-a teleporter." Her brow clouds again. "I can't remember anything else."
So she doesn't remember when she was injured. It may be for the best; surely it was traumatic.
"We fought off the rest of them," The half-lie slips smoothly from him "And you were injured at the end of the fight. We escaped and I called for backup. Lena flew us here."
Another spark of comprehension. "I remember being somewhere really loud. My head hurt from it, but then it started to get better. I think there was...another person?"
She remembers Lúcio too then; that must be a good sign.
"Yes! He is Overwatch's newest member-you will meet him soon I am sure." He plans on asking the young man if he wants to visit Brigitte later. He is sure she will want to thank him. "He kept you well on the way here."
"Oh." Is all Brigitte says in response to that. Her gaze is becoming unfocused, her grip on his own hand more lax. "I'm hungry."
Reinhardt wonders if Angela will allow the protein bar. He knows sometimes she prefers her patients to have nothing to eat until she is certain that they won't need surgery. He pulls the now-warm bar halfway out of his pocket, angling his body away from Brigitte. He raises his eyebrows at Angela, asking without words: is this alright? She nods.
He unwraps the bar and relinquishes Brigitte's hand, placing it there. As she eats, he notes how she shifts the bar to the right side of her mouth, away from the worst of the swelling. She is making a valiant attempt at disguising it, but he can tell that each bite hurts. He makes a mental note to buy some soft food when he goes to the market today.
Once she is finished eating he can see her eyelashes fluttering with the effort of staying open. He decides this is as good to leave her be so she can get some much-needed rest. With a soft "I will come back later, Brigitte.", he leaves the bay with Angela following behind him.
She closes the door to the patient rooms partway so they will not disturb Brigitte. "I am going to keep a close eye on her for the next few days. Regular check-ups every few hours, and I'll run another scan on her tonight just to be sure the bleeding has stopped." She tilts her head, blue eyes suddenly focused keenly on him. "What about you? Are you well? Did you sustain any injuries in the fight?" He knows that look all too well. He thinks a mandatory physical exam will be in his near future.
"Uh, well-" He tries to come up with an answer that will keep her at bay, "I am fine. Nothing a little sleep can't cure!" Which is mostly true. He has the usual aches and pains associated with getting older, but on top of that some bruising and blisters from where his armor has rubbed and pressed repeatedly. Not to mention the screaming muscle pain in his arms; it has been awhile since he has swung his hammer in such an unrestrained manner.
He's not convincing enough.
"I expect to see you back here by tomorrow for a physical." She orders and strides back to her desk. She picks up her coffee, and takes a long drink from it. "Heaven knows I'm going to have enough to do when all the agents return. It's best I see what I have to work with, sofort."
Reinhardt beats a hasty retreat from the med bay before she can launch into a lecture about the merits of routine wellness exams, nutritional counseling and proper stretching. He has missed Angela, but he's heard enough of these lectures that he can recite them in his sleep. As he makes it back to his room, he realizes he left his coffee in the med bay.
...it's not worth it.