"You are very lucky, Symmetra."

Mercy sits by Satya's bed under the cool lights of the infirmary, scribbling on a set of paperwork attached to the front of a clipboard. She still remains in the black undersuit she wears beneath the Valkyrie, her lab coat tossed on overtop of it. With a faint and tired smile, she expels a sigh and brushes a blond lock out of her eyes.

"Junkrat told me what happened," she says, and pockets the pen into a fold of her coat. "It's a relief I only have a leg wound to heal. I am going to tell you what I told him when he was injured: you must be more careful. Medicine has come a long way, but there are limits."

"It was my fault. I didn't fully realize the danger. I should have called to the others." Satya stretches out her right leg over the white sheets, testing the extent of the recovering muscles as she rotates her foot. Both her legging and her shoe have been removed to let Mercy perform her work. She knows she shouldn't feel like this, but embarrassment at her own incompetence burns beneath her skin. "I understand what happened now. I won't make a mistake like that again."

"Everyone makes mistakes. That is part of life. If I have to set a broken leg or extract a few bullets, I accept that as part of my job." She lifts herself from the chair, holding the clipboard to her stomach. "However, we must make a point to learn from our mistakes. If we choose to make the same mistakes over and over again, well…" Mercy shrugs. "There may be bigger problems, then."

Suppressing a snicker, Satya nods in agreement. "I appreciate the help. Thank you for tending to me."

"It's not a problem. I do what I must to keep this team healthy." Mercy leans down to check the place where the bullet had punctured into her calf, the pads of her fingers sweeping gently across the skin. "Everything seems to have sealed up just fine. There may be a slight scar, but I don't think so. It could have been a far worse wound. It looks like the agent's aim must have been off, or he may have been struggling. The shot was not precise or clean at all."

"I believe his foot was in distress at the time. He shouldn't have come after me. I hope it was broken." Satya sets her jaw and folds her hands together, rubbing at her knuckles with the metal across her fingers. The sensation of a thick arm hooking around her neck surfaces out of the billowing black, and she swallows out of reflex. "I would have been dead if not for Junkrat. He jumped from a roof and eliminated that man."

"He told me that as well," says Mercy. "Seemed quite proud of it, in fact. He can be very arrogant if the situation permits."

Satya bites at the inside of her mouth. "I don't understand his motives."

"What do you mean?" Mercy straightens her posture and tilts her head in bewilderment. The overhead lights soak her hair in cool platinum, streaking down its length and across her fringe. "He's part of our team. You did the same for him, did you not? You helped stabilize a fatal wound until I could see to him. You prevented his death, just as he prevented yours. Isn't that proper cooperation? Shouldn't teammates act in the best interest of their own?"

Yes, she supposes. That's how things should work. A cohesive team looks out for one another and does anything within their power to keep themselves functioning, even risking their lives for another member. Ideally, all units should work in concert to achieve the most efficiency through their efforts, but humans are not so perfect in their synergy.

Still, the goal of Junkrat's proposal is to foster partnership and unity despite glaring differences. And while it is a good idea, in theory, the thought of him performing even more impulsive stunts to save her life makes her steep in rigid discomfort.

"I may be looking too far into it," she admits with a knit brow. "I suppose fully trusting hired mercenaries is difficult."

"Symmetra," says Mercy, "might I remind you that you are also a hired mercenary?"

"A technicality." Satya stares at the once-injury that had marred her right leg. She rotates her foot once more, and the muscle in her calf tightens and releases in a gradual rhythm. "I left Vishkar on sabbatical so I could pursue the efforts of this organization's recall. I am not accepting pay as Junkrat or his partner does. This is for the good of our world, not for greed."

Mercy sighs. "Well, you do have a point. Their loyalty is as much as we offer to pay. Still, they do their job well enough. I've seen no reason to distrust them. Junkrat may be a little mad, but he does seem to take his work seriously, which is more than what can be said for other mercenaries."

"But he acts like a child," says Satya. "He's filthy and he keeps his spaces a mess. He's insane, impetuous, and a total disaster. I've never seen a grown man behave so poorly."

"And yet you seem to be with him quite often."

Satya bristles, her spine straightening in a quick snap. Something knots in the back of her throat, her nails sink into the flesh of her palm, and the thumping of her heart could be a hammer against her eardrums. She doesn't know why her first impulse is to scoop the sheets over her head and hide, but it is, and she hates it.

"Not by choice," she says, unable to temper back the bite in her voice. "I do not choose to be stuck with him in combat, nor do I choose to be stuck with him outside of it. His space is beside mine in the workshop. I am forced to sit with him because no one else will. He is a wreck."

"It was just an observation," says Mercy, contrition shaping her countenance. "I meant nothing by it. I hope I didn't offend you."

Satya shifts her gaze to the far wall among the various instruments, unable to look her in the eye. Her heartbeat knocks rhythms under her ribcage and her mouth is dry and there are indents puncturing the continuity of her lifelines. "I suggest keeping future observations to yourself," she murmurs.

"Very well," says Mercy. "I understand."

She tucks the clipboard under her arm, a warm smile curving the corners of her mouth. There is no malice there, no ill intent, no reason to lash out, and yet Satya feels overwhelmed by a fierce defensiveness that she cannot name.

"Well, as for your injury," continues Mercy, "you may rest here for a short while. I wouldn't put your full weight on it just yet. Keep in mind, Winston wants everyone together for a debriefing at 1400 hours, so that should give you a few hours of sleep, at least. I think everything should be fully healed by then. I will check on you when I can."

With a light and graceful bow, Mercy excuses herself from the infirmary.

Drawing in a deep breath, Satya lies back into the pillows and shuts her eyes, the steady beat of her heart pulsing through her neck. Silence encroaches around her and she focuses on the hum of distant machinery chugging somewhere within the outpost's walls. The pain in her leg has absconded thanks to Mercy's incredible talents, and she supposes the way she reacted serves as poor thanks for all of her hard work, but gods, she can't help but be angry. She doesn't want to be associated with Junkrat. Regardless of whatever game he's roped her into, she doesn't accept how he behaves or his messy habits, and she definitely doesn't accept his beliefs on how the world works.

Unbidden, the flight back to Gibraltar melds in beneath her eyelids. She remembers the quiet sunrise on his body, the blotches of dried blood on the fabric of his glove, the faint sounds of soft snores. She remembers the cadence of his breaths, she remembers the exhaustion painting his face, and she remembers the warmth of his shoulder as he slept.

Why is she doing this to herself?