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Overwatch: Alive

Chapter 1: To Feel Alive

It was the French summer, and yet she felt a chill down her spine that extended to her entire body.

Amélie Guillard told herself it was due to the dress she was wearing. It was one of those rare times where Mama had picked something out for her, and she'd agreed, squealing as Madame Guillard heaped riches upon her only child. Running her hand through satin silk, as if it were gold.

A dress that showed plenty of leg, plenty of chest, and plenty of back – the type of dress that any girl of 14 years would be happy to receive. Less happy maybe in the context it was being worn, but still, the dress was nice.

Absolutely useless in keeping her warm, but nice.

Out on Lake Annecy was her family home – Château Guillard. An edifice of marble and stone, it had been the estate of the Guillard Family for centuries until their influence had waned after the French Revolution, falling into disrepair, untouched by the passage of time, the lashing of wind and water, and even war. All that had started to change shortly before she'd been born. When Jean-Pierre Guillard had married Amandine Bénichou and had set about bringing his family home back to glory, along with a daughter who might enjoy it. "Might," being the key word, since living in an island château didn't give one much opportunity to see the land beyond the lake. No chance to find her King Arthur, what with being Nimue. And little chance to enjoy it, when so much of the country was burning around you.

That it had been Guinevere who ended up with Arthur was a technicality. And besides, no amount of magic swords could stop the omnics in their tracks.

Nevertheless, the estate had regained much of its former glory, as had the Guillard family name. Château Guillard could have accommodated all these guests, but Papa and Mama had other ideas, and now, close to a hundred people were on the shores of the lake. Wining and dining, provided for by the people of Annecy. A celebration of the anniversary of the end of the Omnic Crisis one year prior, which of course, meant lots of wining, lots of dining, and lots of talking with people that she didn't recognize, and who were much older than her. People like Monsieur Hollande, who had just asked her about how her dancing was going on.

"Fine, thank you Monsieur."

"Fine? After all your father has told me about the time and money he spent on you, I would hope it would be more than 'fine.'"

Amélie winced. She saw Monsieur Hollande's wife give her husband a look, but it was cold comfort - especially as the wind was picking up, causing goosebumps to spring up all over her back. Nevertheless, Monsieur Hollande had just sipped some wine, and she knew that she'd have to respond before the glass left his lips.

"Quite fine, actually," she stammered. "Madame Gardinier is a good teacher."

Hollande lowered his glass. "So Monsieur Guillard says." Still holding his wine in his right hand, he gave Amélie a little pat, managing to avoid spilling anything on her dress. "Well, do keep at it."

"Yes, Monsieur. Of course."

She tried not to stare at Monsieur Hollande's dangling left sleeve as he and his wife walked off. Tried, and failed, because he'd never accepted a cybernetic graft after losing his arm in the Omnic Crisis. "A reminder of history," he would always say when people had asked why he didn't get a replacement. Raymond Hollande had been there at the Battle of Lyon, and while he and his unit had held the town, he hadn't held all of his body together. Which was more than what most of his soldiers could say by the time the battle was over. When the Rhône ran red with blood, according to legend. A legend that was only a few years old by this point, but still, a legend. The entire world had bled in the war against the omnics, and France wanted to remind the world that it had done its fair share of bleeding. Even if, in the later stages of the conflict, the bleeding had been done so that Overwatch could deliver the killing blow.

Amélie sipped some of her own wine. Like the waters of the Rhône, it was red, and like victory, it was bitter, and she wanted nothing more than to spit it out. But Papa insisted that she learn to drink wine, and she'd consigned herself to oblige. Still shivering, she moved away from the party out towards the lake.

Children were playing – sons and daughters of the elite that she and her family belonged to, able to enjoy life when so many didn't have that privilege in a post-war world. Most of them younger than she, and all partaking in behavior that Mama would deem inappropriate for a girl of her age. Laughing, swimming, splashing, and in the case of Fabian and Jennifer, kissing, far out in the water, unknowing or uncaring of those around them. She forced herself to look away, and instead sipped more wine.

Still bitter. And the wind was still cold. The only warmth she felt was when her eyes lingered back on the party, as she saw Gerard talking with Monsieur Arnaud. Feeling a warmth spread within her, beginning in her chest and making its way down through her body, she took yet another sip of wine and made her way over. Throughout the din of those who had flocked to Annecy for a summer holiday, she managed to listen in on the conversation.

"Very eloquently spoken Gerard, but give it another decade, and you'll see that ideals rarely meet reality."

"What happens when ideals are strong enough to bend reality?"

"Well then reality wouldn't be reality, would it?"

"Agreed. So let's change the reality."

She came to a stop and tried to make herself look inconspicuous. Not easy to do, given her dress, and her hairnet, and her earrings, and her shoes, and the bright red that covered her lips and nails, but still, inconspicuous, she told herself. Though of course, Gerard Lacroix would always be welcome to notice her. Not today, of course, but, well…

Monsieur Arnaud continued to speak. "Listen, Gerard, when you go to university, you-"

"Liberty, equality, fraternity," Gerard said, thumping his fist on his palm with each word. "If those words don't apply to all citizens, then they apply to none."

"Omnics aren't citizens."

"Not yet. But there are omnics who were built in this country. Omnics are rebuilding the country right now."

"After they destroyed it," Arnaud pointed out.

"If the sins of one's parents transfer to the children, then aren't we all guilty?" Gerard asked.

"Omnics don't have parents."

"No. But do they have intelligence? If so, doesn't it stand to reason that they have rights?"

As she watched Gerard's lips move, Amélie told herself that she was indeed listening to the conversation, and not just here to watch…well, lips move. And eyes move. And hair move, as the wind once again picked up. After all, Gerard Lacroix was intelligent. Yes, he had deep black hair like hers, and a build that was befitting of a true Frenchman according to her papa (whatever that meant, all she knew was that it was a build that was very…buildy), and brown eyes that were as deep as the finest chocolat, and…and…

She sipped more of the wine and continued to watch. Monsieur Arnaud's cheeks were turning very red as he tried to defend his position. Which was odd, because she couldn't see him holding any wine, and despite it being summer, it wasn't actually that hot. Was he angry? Certainly the way he spluttered indicated that. But-

Oh my.

While waiting for Arnaud to respond, Gerard had glanced her way. Gerard Lacroix was looking at her. Suddenly, she felt very, very warm, even as the wind continued to blow, her hair and dress dancing in the wind. It felt like summer. Proper summer. French summer. Summer were pretty girls saw pretty boys, and the pretty boys noticed how pretty the girls were. Girls who had noticed the boys long before. Boys who continued to look at her, for what felt like a lifetime and…go back to talking to people like Monsieur Arnaud.

"Like I said monsieur, there's no moral basis to refuse omnics equal rights within this country. And frankly, I find the legal justification to be shaky."

Amélie didn't feel warm now. She felt ill. So ill that she turned heel and walked out to the sand of the lake, hoping that the breeze would remove the nausea from her throat.

Stupid.

She kept walking down the sand.

Stupid stupid stupid!

She picked up her pace. The sand wove its way through her toes, scratching against her skin. She barely noticed. She didn't care. Once again, she had seen Gerard Lacroix, a sight that she had first beheld five years ago in Paris when their families had mingled at a gala – a way of telling themselves that the world was normal, even as a war waged across it. Once again, she had stood there, hoping that he might truly see her. Once again, her hopes had been dashed. There was no way that a boy like Gerard would ever take an interest in her. Not when she still found wine bitter on her tongue, when she could barely dance, when she-

She screamed.

A spider. There, on the sand. Coming right towards her. She fell backwards, the sand scratching her back and running through her hair. She scampered back, sweating, and not from any source of heat. But it kept coming. Its eight long, black, hairy legs, bringing it across the sand. Its fangs dripping with venom, ready to sink them into her flesh. To render her heart un-beating. To take her life, and cast it into the same abyss in which the spider's soul lurked. She screamed once more, her arm covering her eyes, as the spider came her way, intent on delivering the coup de grace. She…

…didn't do anything. She waited. Slowly, as slow as the retreat of the glacier that had formed the lake by which she sat, her eyes opened. Beholding the light of the sun…and the radiance of the boy standing above her.

"May I?" he asked, extending a hand.

Shaking for more reasons than she had fingers in that hand, Amélie accepted. She was pulled to her feet, and found herself face to face with Gerard Lacroix. Unlike her, his hair and clothing were free of sand, and also unlike her, his lips were formed in an amused smile.

"You…" she whispered. "You…"

"Yes, me. Yo, as the Spanish would say."

"You speak Spanish?"

"A bit. I finally managed to master English, but then, haven't we all?"

Amélie remained silent. She wasn't in the mood to get into a debate as to what made the world's best lingua franca. Instead, she wanted to…well, what she wanted to do was to hug Gerard, and tell the boy that she really, really liked him, but that would be inappropriate for so many reasons that she couldn't count. Instead, she asked, "where is the spider?"

"The spider?" Gerard's eyes twinkled. "You mean this poor thing?"

He lifted his shoe off the sand. There, below it, was the spider. Squashed. Dead. Consigned to the abyss it belonged in.

"Such a tragedy," he mused. "Still, I heard you screaming, and far be it from me to refuse a damsel's cry from a monster. Even one as small as this."

Amélie frowned. "It's not funny," she whispered.

Gerard's smirk widened. "How old are you, twelve? Shouldn't you be past this thing by now?"

"I'm four. I mean, fourteen. I mean…that's not the point!"

Gerard shrugged, and Amélie, her cheeks reddening, let her beating heart get the better of her.

"Why are you here?" she snapped. "Were you following me?"

The smirk faded, ever so slightly. She watched as he looked out to the lake, and murmured, "maybe."

"Maybe?" Amélie whispered, her eyes widening.

"Well…" Gerard ran a hand through his slick black hair. "I mean, I saw you at the party, only you walked away, and…"

"You noticed?" Amélie whispered.

He looked back at her. "Course I noticed. I mean, I've noticed you five years ago, and…well, I mean, you never seemed…"

"I didn't think you noticed," Amélie whispered.

"Well, I did. But I noticed that you didn't seem to notice, and…"

"But I did notice."

"Oh." Something sparked in Gerard's eyes. "Then I guess we're…on notice?"

Amélie laughed, the sound carried in the wind like petals across the fields of France. "I guess we are."

"Oh. Then…good."

The two of them stood there for a moment. Gerard, still rubbing his hair and neck. Amélie, her hands behind her back, her right foot twisting in the sand. Her heart, beating a mile a minute, and her body feeling very, very warm. And all the more so when Gerard began to speak again.

"Shall we head back?" he asked. "I mean, there's food, there's wine…lots of interesting conversation. Some of it better than others, I suppose, but if you want that, or some of that, or…"

Amélie laughed again, though softer than before. Gingerly, she stuck out her hand, like a maiden would when requesting a dance.

"Yes," she said, her smile becoming as wide as the lake itself. "I'd like that very much."

The city of London had been founded 2000 years ago. Now, in the year 2076, there were some who said it would last 2000 years more.

Approaching the city in a dropship, the operative codenamed Widowmaker observed the city's shining spires through the ship's external cameras. 400 years ago, much of the city had been consumed by fire. 130 years ago, much of the city had been reduced to rubble. Three decades ago, much of the city had been reduced to rubble again, and in a much more efficient manner that anything the Luftwaffe could have managed. Seven years ago, much of the city had burnt at the hands of Null Sector, and even then, after hundreds of deaths, the city had still survived. Having survived war, flood, and fire over the course of two millennia, it seemed that nothing on this planet could keep London down.

Some attributed that to the spirit of its people. Some attributed it to the United Kingdom's omnic population – used by the state to rebuild after the damage they'd caused, and even now, consigned to second class citizenship. Whatever the case, the sun may have set on the British Empire, but under the moon, the spires of glass and steel shone like silent sentinels. Marvels of concrete and steel, all new towers of London, through which flew a constant stream of sky traffic. When London had been rebuilt after the Omnic Crisis, the people had built upward, not outward. The future had come, and the past buried, joining layers of mud and stone that went down over two millennia. The result being that only a few areas of the city bore any resemblance to the place London had once been even before the Omnic Crisis.

King's Row was one of those areas. The neighborhood that she would be inserted into. The mission briefing in Rome hadn't covered why, and she hadn't asked. If the Inner Council wanted to maintain confidentiality, she wouldn't question them. It wasn't her place to question them. Her place was to pull the trigger. The one located on her rifle, that her finger traced up and down. Tonight, the trigger would be pulled. Tonight, she would make her kill.

INCOMING

The words flashed in front of her via a holo-projector. She alone was in the bay. The dropship only required a single pilot, and he hadn't said anything the entire trip. Sitting up straight, she watched as the projector displayed a blacked-out male. One of the Inner Council, though she couldn't tell whom.

"Widowmaker."

And with the voice filter, couldn't tell through listening either. Though of course, it didn't matter. Orders from the Inner Council were to be obeyed, regardless as to whom was giving them.

"I've had confirmation that you've entered London airspace," her contact said.

She nodded.

"Good." The hologram winked out and showed another figure – still male (such as it was), but not human. An omnic. One with nine glowing blue diodes on its forehead in place of eyes, its head an otherwise featureless piece of steel. The standard omnic labour model, and the most common type of omnic that remained in the world. Though unlike a lot of those omnics, this one was wearing white robes. And behind it, in the image, was the Shambali logo. So even before her contact began to speak, Widowmaker knew who it was.

"This is Tekhartha Mondatta," the voice said – heard, if no longer seen. "The leader of the Shambali. The one who tonight is giving a speech in King's Row. One who is going to claim that humans and omnics are all one people, and that unity is the way forward."

The information didn't surprise her. The Shambali had preached their religion for decades, since a group of omnics had 'heard the music' and set up shop in the Himalayas. Some people cried foul at the idea of robots forming religion. Most laughed. Some, in the early days, had taken them seriously. Now, those "some" had increased a hundredfold. Many might not have liked Mondatta and his creed of omnic-human unity, but like so many religious leaders, he'd at least made the world listen.

"Mondatta is going to die tonight," her contact said.

She nodded. Killing Mondatta would inflame the already high tensions in the UK, and indeed, the world. Talon thrived on chaos. Once, spreading chaos had been its raison d'être, and even now, under Vialli's leadership, chaos often remained the means, if not the goal. Arms sales, mercenary work, extortion, assassinations…some said Ogundimu's vision was alive and well.

She didn't. But then, she was involved in the assassination part of Talon's operations. Her job didn't involve her saying anything.

Tracing her finger up and down the rifle, memories of past assassinations filling her mind, she watched as the hologram shifted to a topographic map of King's Row.

"Security is tight," her contact said. "The people in Whitehall might not like Mondatta, but they've rolled out the red carpet. Personal guard, armoured car, rooftop security, the works."

She gave a small smile, even knowing that her contact would never see it. "Maybe I should have brought something heavier."

"Inadvisable. Besides, you'll have your opening. The preacher is going to sing his song outside The Meridian. Open air preacher, that sort of thing."

"Duration of speech?"

"Unknown. But long enough that you can interrupt it."

She smiled, feeling sure as well. The tactical map winked out and was replaced with Mister Black.

"London's a tinder box," her contact said. "We light it, the whole world will go up in flames." He paused, before murmuring, "so no screwups."

Her lips quivered as the hologram winked out. The suggestion that she could fail to make the hit. Ridiculous. But then, if she failed…

But nothing. This is your kill.

She slowly got to her feet. Her helmet's visor lowered, and through it, she saw London again, and specifically, King's Row. In its streets, in front of the Meridian theatre, was a human-omnic crowd. Awaiting the approach of their saviour, not knowing that like so many figures of old, he'd be dying for their sins.

"Approaching insertion point."

And, she reflected, as she approached the dropship's rear hatch, hers as well.

In his years of experience working for MI5, Agent Antoine Brooks had spent much of his time trying to apprehend omnics rather than protecting them. And he had a sneaking suspicion that the robot sitting opposite him inside the armoured car was aware of that.

Of course, if Tekhartha Mondatta was aware of his assigned meatbag's unease, he didn't show it. Not through any method Brooks could identify that was. Omnics like Mondatta lacked any facial features. The laborer model had been designed by the Omnica Corporation to resemble the human body in so much that it could perform any kind of human task, but not so human that there be no distinction. No face, no humanity, no soul, or so he'd read somewhere (granted, that was probably in The Sun). Still, human or not, soul or not, the omnic sitting opposite him was very much aware. Some of his diodes blinked on and off.

"You appear nervous, Mister Brooks."

Wanker. Scowling, Brooks looked out of the window, watching the silent streets go by. "Comes with the job description."

"Really? I didn't imagine your job description was designed to involve protecting my kind."

Brooks looked back at Mondatta. You really have no idea.

If eyes were the window to the soul, Brooks was glad he was wearing dark sunglasses, even if it was already dark outside. It was autumn, and as cold as you'd expect in this country, but that hadn't stopped a crowd gathering in front of The Meridian in King's Row for Mondatta's speech. Humans and omnics united together for a better future or some nonsense, all to hear their resident guru speak pretty words. This being after his address to parliament earlier in the day. The Greens had cheered, the Tories had jeered, and Labour was somewhere in-between, trying to appear simultaneously progressive while not forgetting the working class. The same working class who'd been squeezed for decades even before the Omnica Corporation rolled out worker models, cashing in on the era of automation. And along the way, that had led to a global war, millions of deaths, omnics living in a still-human word, and the Shambali. Somewhere in a grave, Isaac Asimov was turning in it.

And now we're doing the dog and pony show again, Brooks reflected. Only with people who choose to listen to the bastard rather than be obliged to do so.

Frankly, it was absurd. Omnics finding religion. The idea of robots having souls. Omnics knew who their gods were, and if the Omnic Crisis had proven anything, it was that their gods were very fallible, not to mention frail – a lesson reinforced in the Uprising seven years ago when over a hundred 'gods' had lost their lives to Null Sector. If the prime minister had any bloody sense, this event would have never gone ahead, and Mondatta would be preaching his nonsense back in Nepal.

"If it is of any comfort, I am not nervous," Mondatta said.

Brooks looked back at him. "Excuse me?"

"I am not nervous. Perhaps that comforts you."

It didn't, but nevertheless, Brooks decided to play the omnic's game. "Why would that comfort me?"

"Nervousness is the cousin of fear. Fear, I imagine, would make me a more problematic ward."

Brooks remained silent. He glanced at Agent Napleton, sitting beside him, but the man said nothing. His gaze was still out the window, scanning the streets of King's Row for any threat as they made their way down its narrow streets.

"Or is that a problem?" Mondatta asked.

Brooks sighed – his orders were "to extend all due courtesy to the subject," and he supposed that meant conversation. "You'll be fine," he murmured. "This vehicle we're in? May look normal from the outside, but it could stop a tank shell. No-one's going to-"

"You did not answer my question." Mondatta leant back in his seat. "But I shall not trouble you."

Should have thought of that before you came here. Brooks looked out the window again, and put a hand to his ear. "Team Two, this is Chariot. Approaching Diamond. Halo in the bag."

"Team One, this is Team Two. Diamond Gates are ready to open. Halo Two is present."

"Any trouble?"

"None from the rooftop teams, and we haven't heard anything from our people in the crowd. Natives are getting restless though."

"What's the status of Halo?"

"Also restless, but doing a better job of hiding it."

"Acknowledged. Chariot out."

He leant back against the padded chair, took his glasses off, and rubbed his eyes. Three decades ago, this city had been a warzone because of omnics. Seven years ago, Null Sector had done their best to start a second war, and killed over a hundred people in the process. And now? Millions of pounds were being sunk into protecting the leader of the Shambali in order to "promote human-omnic relations in the United Kingdom." Mayor Nandah had signed off on it, the prime minister had signed off on it, cripes, the king was probably in on it as well. The whole bloody country had gone to the dogs.

"May I ask you something, Mister Brooks?"

He put his glasses back on and looked at the target. "You just did so."

Mondatta made a sound that Brooks supposed was meant to be a chuckle. "I suppose I did didn't I?"

Yes. Now shut up and don't ask anything else.

"But as to what I was originally going to ask, would any of you be French?"

"Excuse me?"

Even Napleton was giving the target his full attention now.

"Your accent. There is a faint trace of French within it. I was wondering if-"

"Mate, there's a lot of everything in me."

Five of Mondatta's diodes flickered. "Of course. I understand that family can be difficult."

"Do you?" Brooks murmured.

"Why would I not?"

"Well, you're an omnic, and omnics don't have families, and-"

"There are people to whom I will be speaking tonight who beg to differ. And they are not alone in the world."

Brooks fell silent. Of course. Some omnic sympathizers weren't content to just sympathize, they were also deluded enough into falling in love with them. Which was fine in principle, but with the push to recognize omnic-human relationships in law? Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. It was proof that there was no God, or Iris, or whatever the hell the Shambali preached, because an all-powerful deity would have taken steps to prevent such stupidity from ever rising. Ideally, prevent the omnics from ever being created in the first place. In the absence of some all-loving deity, people at Omnica had played God, and millions had paid the price.

"But to my question," Mondatta said. "This country, and the country across the channel, were once enemies."

Brooks didn't say anything, not sure why he was getting a history lesson.

"And then, centuries ago, became friends, or at least what one may call allies. Close enough to fight beside each other in various wars."

"The Omnic Crisis included," Brooks murmured.

"Including that," Mondatta said, and Brooks could swear that the omnic's voice contained a hint of shame. "But if it stands to reason that enemies can become allies, is it also fair to say that history may repeat itself? Even after the riots? The Uprising?" Mondatta fell silent for a moment, before adding, "the war?"

Brooks fell silent as well. For a moment, the only sound was that of the car's repulsors, as it headed towards the back of The Meridian.

"I am not worried about what tonight will bring," Mondatta said. "Perhaps you do not see the truth of the Iris, but if you believe that the arc of history bends towards justice, towards peace, then tonight will be a further step down that road."

"Didn't you try that seven years ago?" Brooks asked. "At Turing Green?"

"I did."

"And?"

"And there are some who would rather tear up the road then walk down it."

Brooks's instinct was to press the point – Null Sector were omnics. Null Sector was still lurking in the shadows. Null Sector had killed over a hundred people, just over two decades after a war that had taken the lives of millions. But then, Null Sector had as much reason to want Mondatta dead as any other anti-omnic extremist. Mondatta preached peace between humans and omnics, and ergo, extremists in both groups wanted him removed from the world.

Still, Brooks reflected omnics had shown themselves to be similar to humans in one respect, in that they weren't a monolith. Which was why across the pond, the frogs were in the midst of passing new omnic rights legislation, while here, the mere act of allowing Mondatta into the country at all had parliament in an uproar.

But that was their problem. Tonight was his problem. Tomorrow, after Mondatta's speech was televised, it would be the news jackals' problem. And approaching the back of The Meridian, Brooks could take some comfort in knowing that the duration of his problem was coming towards an end.

After all, they'd just pulled up at Point: Diamond Gates.

Better known as The Meridian.

As she sat in her apartment, staring at the TV, there was a heaviness in Lena Oxton's chest. Weighing her down, even as she wasn't wearing her chronal accelerator.

The doohickey was lying beside her, humming quietly as it consumed the energy it required to keep her tethered to the present. For close to a decade, the little marvel had allowed her to blink across space and time, boosting her speed to superhuman levels. In a sense, the accelerator had allowed her to function as an Overwatch agent in the first place.

Even after the organization's disbandment, it had allowed her to keep fighting the good fight in London. Doing everything from retrieving stolen handbags to, as of a few days ago, helping out with the Underworld's power grid.

"Compensatory heroics," as Emily called them. And as much as Lena told herself that she was doing all that because it was the right thing, and nothing less, she couldn't avoid the nugget of truth in Emily's words. That there was a yearning for her past that being a friendly neighbourhood vigilante couldn't make up for.

"Lena?"

Nor could she not hear Emily's voice, even as she turned the volume up. Listening to the reporter go on about Mondatta's impending speech.

"Promises of a protest from the Human Defence League have not materialized, but the security services are taking no chances. You can see behind me that-"

The TV (no holos for them, too expensive) was turned off. Slowly, Lena looked at her partner – arms folded, remote in hand, her eyes showing "the look." The thing she gave Lena every time she said she was about to do something that was, according to Emily, reckless.

By Emily's metric, that was most things.

"You don't have to go you know," she murmured.

"Course I don't have to go," said Lena. "But I want to."

"Yes, I know you want to go to see Mondatta, but is that because you want to see him, or you feel you need to because of what happened in the Uprising?"

"…yes."

Emily sighed. "That isn't an answer."

"Yes."

"Are you going to give me an answer?"

"No."

"For goodness sake, will you-"

"Oh would you look at the time?" Lena said, getting up from the couch and not giving her chrono an actual glance. "Goodness, time flies doesn't it? Well, pip-pip, off I go, don't spare the horses."

"Right. And what about you?"

Lena's smile, forced as it was, faded.

"What if you don't come back?"

Lena's smile returned, again, forced as it was. "You saw the news report Em, you think there's any chance of that happening?"

"It's because of the news that I think there's a chance of that happening."

"Chance, smance. There's a chance that I could be hit by a car, doesn't stop me from leaving the house."

"Right. And what were the chances of the Slipstream malfunctioning?"

Lena didn't answer. She could answer, granted – parroting the technicians who'd assured her that the OWX-01 Slipstream was perfectly safe, that nothing would go wrong, and if something did go wrong (which it wouldn't), she'd remain safe. They'd been wrong on all counts, and while it had happened before she'd met Emily, her partner knew the story. And it was a story that she'd use against her every time she wanted to make the case of not doing something reckless, because what were girlfriends for?

But still, this wasn't a teleporting fighter, Lena reminded herself. And as she made her way to her chronal accelerator, she reminded Emily of that.

"I'm just saying, it could be dangerous," was the response.

"For omnics?" Lena asked. "Or for humans?"

"Both."

Lena didn't answer. She just started putting the accelerator on.

Five years since Overwatch had disbanded, she reflected. And, granted, anyone who claimed that the world had become more peaceful than less in those five years needed their head examined. The Second Omnic Crisis was going on in Russia. Talon was still active in the world, and if anything, had been emboldened by Overwatch's absence. South Korea was fighting the Gwishin. Junkers were rampaging across Australia, and the Dragons across Europe. Boklovo remained in ruins, with the rest of Kurjikstan not far behind. And that was saying nothing about the proliferation of PMCs to fill the void Overwatch had left behind. PMCs that, nine times out of ten, held themselves to a much lower moral standard than Gabrielle Adawe's baby had.

Even here in London, Lena wasn't immune to the simmering tensions of the world. Heck, with the state of human-omnic relations in this country, she was pretty much at Grand Simmering Station. Over the last few days, she'd been helping fix the Underworld's power grid – providing parts supplied by Winston himself, before he'd contacted her this evening in light of Talon's attack. Some of the omnics, like Iggy, had welcomed her. Others, like Kace, hadn't. There'd been those who'd called the Underworld "a festering sore" upon the city, and having been down there, Lena could agree, and not.

Not, because having walked its underground passages, having made friends there, she couldn't call the place a boil. Agree, because if human-omnic tensions ever erupted in this city, the Underworld was where the water would come boiling up if the boil burst.

It was a situation that couldn't last. A situation that one government after another had ignored, kicking the can every five years or so. Tonight though, things might change as Tekhartha Mondatta spoke to the people.

"Lena…"

"I'm going, Em." She finished putting on the accelerator. "That's final. Mondatta's speaking, and he's the best person to make the world right."

Emily scoffed and looked to the window. To the darkness of the autumn evening, and the glow of the street lights that shone forth. She brushed her ginger hair aside, her face reflected against its glass. Not hiding anything from her partner.

"You don't think he can do it?" Lena asked.

Emily bit her lip, still looking out the window. "I think he can do a good speech, but sometimes, words aren't enough." She looked back at Lena. "As I'm sure you know."

She did. Words hadn't stopped the Uprising, nor the Omnic Crisis. But then, if weapons won wars, words were the things that stopped them from breaking out. Or so she'd been told. Which begged the question as to why words so often failed to do their jobs then.

Maybe it's because we're all just screaming, she thought, thinking of the Human Defence League. Of Kace, of Overwatch, of Null Sector, and everyone in-between. Maybe speaking isn't the problem, but listening.

Or not. She hadn't got the answer, and granted, for most of her life, she'd been a better speaker than listener. As Emily had pointed out more times than not.

"Lena? Are you even listening to me?"

Case in point. She sighed, and headed into the bedroom, opening up the closet; Emily's clothing on one side, hers on the other. A kind of respite to when, by the day's end, their clothing ended up in the same pile.

"Fine," Emily murmured. "You're going to do it then."

"Pardon?"

"Run out, damn the consequences."

Lena winced and checked her watch, the ticks echoing in her ears as much as Emily's words did.

Fifteen minutes. Plenty of time.

She looked at herself in the closet's mirror, wondering if she should changer her outfit. Brown jacket, orange pants, chronal accelerator fixed to her chest…she'd been wearing her old Overwatch uniform for the past few days. She'd started after meeting Iggy, and until now, not even recognized the full significance of it. Looking inside her side of the wardrobe, she frowned – sneakers, jeans, shirts…safe clothes for a safe life. One that had become less safe over the last few days, and could become more or less dangerous depending on how tonight turned out. And as for Emily…

One thing at a time, Lena. She picked out her goggles, and, after a moment's hesitation, her pulse pistols as well, coupled with a pulse bomb. One thing at a time…

She turned to face Emily, posing, like she had back in the old days. "How do I look?"

"Like an RAF nut who thinks she can bring firearms and bombs into a secure zone."

"Hey, Mondatta knows me. Besides, I can zip in and out without any security guards noticing. And if anything does go wrong, then…" She tapped one of her pistols. "Better safe than sorry, right?"

Emily frowned. "Lena, if something goes wrong, the security guards are the ones who are meant to be dealing with it."

"Yeah, but you know me." She smiled. "Compensatory heroics, am I right?"

Emily, after a moment's hesitation, smiled as well. Brushed some of her hair aside, before giving Lena a quick kiss.

"Just don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Stupid? Me?" Lena chuckled. "What kind of person do you think I am?"

"Someone who isn't stupid but does stupid things, leaving me to worry about you."

"Because you're stupid enough to stay with me?"

Emily's smile faded, as she looked to the window. "Guess I am…"

For a second, Lena just stood there. Taking in the lines of her partner's face. Taking in the apartment's sights and smells. Reminding herself that whatever happened, whatever she did, she'd still be able to come back to home and heart.

"See ya around, Em."

For a second, she waited to see if her partner would look back at her.

A second later, she was gone.

A/N

So, yes, as the story description states, this is a novelization of the Alive cinematic short that was released way back when. That said, the story I ended up writing is very different from the one I originally planned because of the London Calling comic series. So for posterity if nothing else, I'm going to mention what the original version of a chapter was when necessary.

So in this case, the Tracer section was originally meant to follow up from Recall. Originally, Recall took place a few hours before Alive, but London Calling retcons this to Alive taking place days/weeks before Recall. Ergo, in the original version, Tracer would be talking into Winston here, playing into the arc I originally had planned for this story. Since that isn't possible under current canon however, rewrote it to the version seen here.