.
Overwatch: Alive
Chapter 2: The One to Die
It felt odd to be back on the shores of Lake Annecy. Even odder than being married.
But then, being married didn't feel strange for Amelie. Not to Gerard at least. Not after meeting him at the age of nine, in the midst of living while death surrounded them. Not after walking on these very shores a decade prior. A decade of staying in touch as best they could, as their lives moved in different directions. Amelie Guillard, a rising star in the Parisian ballet scene, accepted into the Opéra de Paris at seventeen years of age. Gerard Lacroix, who'd studied political science at the Université Paris Sciences et Lettres, and graduated last year with honours. Ten years of life conspiring to keep them apart, while they did their best to defy life's edict, and for a significant portion of the last decade, finding ways to do so. Walking. Talking. Laughing. Kissing. Being there for each other when no-one else could, or would be.
When Gerard had asked if he could put a ring on her finger, she couldn't say yes fast enough.
That had been nine months ago. Eight hours ago, she'd woken up, in what would be her last day of pre-matrimony. The two had exchanged rings and vows five hours ago. And now, as of five minutes ago, with the sun low in the sky, the two had been allowed to walk off together. Hand in hand, side by side, family and friends understanding that after all the speeches, all the dancing, and all the food, the bride and groom might want some time alone to themselves.
Amelie tightened the grip on her husband's hand and smiled. The people were right.
A cool breeze washed over them from the lake, but even in her wedding dress, she felt no chill. Not when she could lean against her husband's body, taking in his warmth. In sync, the two came to a stop as they walked across the sand. That common moment of understanding returned, as they held each other in their arms and kissed. Again, and again, and again. When they'd exchanged their rings, it had been one kiss. Now, it was many.
"I love you," Gerard whispered.
Amelie looked up at him and smiled. "I know."
They didn't exchange any more words for quite some time as they walked along the shores of the lake. Water lapped against the sand, the grains finding their way between her toes, and the bottom of her dress. It briefly occurred to Amelie that she might have to get it washed after today. Though that being said, come tonight, she'd be more concerned about getting out of this dress than getting back into it.
She smiled. And Gerard must have noticed, because he asked, "is something funny?"
She giggled, and looked up at him. "Nothing you can't imagine."
"Oh I don't know, I can imagine quite a bit." In the evening gloom, she nevertheless saw his smile fade slightly. "It's good to see you smile."
Amelie didn't say anything. She was glad that Gerard didn't press the subject, but in this moment, in this place, she was reminded of some of the other facts of life.
Out in the lake was Chateau Guillard. Once again left to rot, as Jean-Pierre had decided that he had interests outside renovating the family home, not to mention his own family. Amelie had never met the woman he'd left her mother for, only that she was young, pretty, and rich. And thankfully not a woman her father had brought with him today. As much as she hated him for it, he'd at least been here. Not like her mother, who'd spent the last five years in Canada, and didn't appear intent on ever coming back. Not even to see her own daughter, whether it be in the Paris ballet, or her wedding.
She could sympathize with her mother. To a point. But still…her father had left tonight. Her mother had left long ago. And all that was left was a chateau out in the lake, tempting her to come back to it. Taunting her with memories both good and ill.
"Amelie? You're shivering."
She turned to her husband. "I'm fine."
"Amelie-"
"I said I'm fine," she exclaimed, a bit louder than she intended. "I'm fine…"
Gerard nodded, put a hand on her shoulder, and kissed her cheek. It was enough. As she hugged him, feeling the warmth of his chest, it was more than enough.
"I remember being here."
She broke the embrace and looked up at him. "Pardon?"
"I remember being here," Gerard repeated. "Ten years ago. Your parents had thrown that party, remember?"
She smiled.
"I believe I was talking with Monsieur Hollande about the rights of omnics."
"Yes, you were. I think you rubbed off on him, not that he'll ever admit it."
Gerard shrugged. "If he gets the job done, I don't need credit for it."
Last year, Raymond Hollande had sat down in the National Assembly. His party was trying to secure omnic rights within the constitution. Some said it was odd for a man who'd lost his arm to the machines, but no-one could question his drive, even if they might question why his mind had changed.
"And then we came to the beach," Gerard said. He took his wife's hand, and they continued to walk along the shore. "Or you came, and I found you."
"The brave knight come to find his damsel?" Amelie laughed.
"Yes, I suppose so. In fact…" He came to a stop, his eyes downward. "In fact, I believe it was in this very spot where I saved you from that spider."
Amelie felt like her spine had just frosted over.
"Yes…yes, it was," Gerard said, his eyes twinkling. "In fact, the spider was here (he crouched down, gesturing to a specific patch of sand), and you screamed, before falling down."
"Gerard…"
"I mean, I did come in to save you, but only right before the vicious creature could sink its fangs into your-"
"Gerard!"
Her husband stopped. He got to his feet, beholding his wife. Her hand to her mouth, her eyes narrow, her gaze out towards the lake.
"Amelie?" he asked. "Are you alright?"
She didn't answer. She just stood there, letting her husband put his hands on her shoulders.
"Amelie, I didn't mean to tease you like that."
She looked at him and forced a smile. "No. Of course not. It's just…" She took a breath. "I've never been good with spiders."
"Really? I never knew that."
She laughed. "We've got married, and still don't know everything about each other? Obviously we're fated to end up apart and lonely."
"I hope not."
She fingered her wedding ring. "Likewise. But I…" She took a breath. It was a story she'd never shared with anyone, but Gerard was her husband now. She'd taken his love, his hand, his name. If she couldn't share this story with him, how could any of that count for anything?
"I grew up in that place," Amelie said, gesturing towards the chateau. "My father did a good job, but there was always some cranny. Some cobweb, some fleck of dust. More than one spider in there." She shook her head. "It was at night. Lying in my bed. Warm, safe, but always fearing that a spider would crawl under the blankets and bite me. That one day, mama would open the door and find her daughter dead."
Gerard said nothing.
"She must have known," Amelie continued, "because sick of Little Amelie running around the house, being a nuisance, she sat me down on her lap and told me to not go exploring every nook and cranny. For there was always a spider there. She would tell me that they had no emotion. That their hearts never beat. That they were cold. Unfeeling." She took a breath. "Monsters."
Gerard frowned. "Doesn't sound like a motherly thing to do."
Amelie smiled. "I loved my mother Gerard, don't get me wrong. And she loved me. But there's some stories in your childhood that never leave. Some…not for the better." She sighed. "My mother told me stories of the Swan Princess, and how one day, I too would dance on water. But she also told me the stories of spiders, and…" She trailed off. "I suppose all of those stories made me the woman I am."
Gerard smiled, and took his wife's cheeks in his hands. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."
Amelie smiled, before they kissed. As she again felt warm. In that moment, she could have stayed there forever. To be Odette in the hands of Siegfried, until death took her. But that came not to pass, as Gerard broke the embrace and began to speak.
"Speaking of being shaped by things," he said. "I thought you should know. I have a job offer."
"Really? The DGSI accepted your application?"
"No. Well, yes, they did, but I had another offer." He paused, before saying, "from Overwatch."
Amelie blinked. "Overwatch."
"Yes. I mean, they saw my resume, and they've got friends in the French secret service. They want me to move to Rome. Help them in their operations against Talon."
Amelie remained silent.
"I haven't said yes yet. And, well, come to think of it, I know this isn't the best time, but you-"
"You have to take it," Amelie said.
"I…I do?"
"Yes. I mean, it's Overwatch. You can't do any better than that."
"I…" Gerard couldn't help smiling. "You know it might make it hard for us to see each other. I mean, me in Rome, you in Paris, I-"
"Gerard Lacroix, you're the best man I know. Overwatch would be honoured to have you. And I would be honoured to know that you're among them." Amelie took his hands in hers. "I mean it. Because I love you. And I know how far you can go."
Gerard said nothing.
As his lips met hers, he didn't have to.
The dropship headed upwards, while she headed onwards.
The craft would pick her up once the hit was made. If it wasn't made, it would do the same thing, but right now, that possibility wasn't registering. Tekhartha Mondatta would die tonight. All she had to do was get into the right position and pull the trigger. And to do that, she had to get from the insertion point to a vantage point.
Simple.
Getting across the rooftops of King's Row was easy, thanks to her agility and wrist-mounted grappling hook. No-one would be looking up at this time of night – in her experience, people in places like this never looked up. Their eyes would be onward or downward as they moved on with their pointless lives, unable to comprehend just how easily they could end. A king ruled this country rather than a queen these days, but the people were content to be drones nonetheless. Like most people around the world.
Did Mondatta foresee his end, she wondered? All intelligence indicated that the British government was aware of that possibility, given the security detail assigned to him. A detail that, as she came to a stop and lowered her recon visor, she could behold herself through its infra-red function. Peering through the gloom, she could see men patrolling the rooftops, each wearing body armour and carrying a rifle.
Rooftop teams. She frowned. The drones are competent at least.
She could see The Meridian from where she was crouched. It was one of the few pieces of glamour in this miserable little neighbourhood, a place where the upper classes of the country could come and enjoy a show, and maybe interact with the little people. People that were no doubt already gathered outside the structure as they waited for their prophet to espouse words of wisdom and hope. Words that would change nothing.
Words never changed anything, she reflected. Actions did. Action had started the Omnic Crisis, ended the Omnic Crisis, and Talon's actions got results. Not words. Mondatta could talk pretty words about peace and unity, but words didn't stop bullets.
There was still a risk here though, she reflected If the rooftop teams were following protocol, they'd be carrying out radio checks between themselves and the ground teams, and any interruption could put Mondatta back in an armoured car. So she could take the rooftop teams out, but as soon as a radio check failed, the gig would be up.
Sneaking through to line up her shot was another option, but that ran the risk of being spotted. Classic risk vs. reward, she reflected. Her reward would be a kill. Risk would be having that kill denied. The worst-case scenario, of a bullet tearing through flesh instead of steel tonight? She frowned, recalling the rifles the rooftop teams were carrying. If enough bullets came her way…well, she was fast, but not that fast.
She raised the visor. Hard and fast, that was the way to do it. Go in, take out whoever she needed to, and take out the target before the security teams figured something was up. After that, she could call the dropship in for extraction. Simple.
She sprinted into the gloom.
It was time to die.
"Plus, that's not even why I came to find you. I came with a message from Mondatta."
"What does Mondatta want with me? I haven't seen him since the Uprising."
"I do not know, but word's been going around that his followers are trying to reach you. He wants to see you before he gives his speech."
As she made her way through the crowds to the back of The Meridian, Lena heard Iggy's words echo in her ears. Which was a bit of a miracle, considering that the hollering of the crowd gathered outside the theatre was much louder.
Mon-dat-ta! Mon-dat-ta!
Few among the faithful gave her a second glance. All eyes, human and omnic alike, were centred on the front entrance. Where the most famous omnic in the world would be speaking to the assembled crowd after giving his speech in Westminster earlier in the day.
The irony of it all didn't escape Lena's notice. Mondatta had means of contacting the Underworld, but not her directly. Which, on the one hand, meant that she had at least some level of anonymity, even after all her "compensatory heroics" over the last half decade.
On the other, the back of The Meridian was guarded just as securely as the front. And stepping up unannounced without any written invitation, wearing her old Overwatch uniform and equipped with firearms…well, even all that aside, being an Overwatch agent didn't necessarily put you in intelligence services' good graces. Overwatch had been the arm of the UN, while groups like MI5 served their host countries. What was good for the world wasn't necessarily good for the nation-state.
She took a breath and walked up to the man standing beside the rear engine – black suit, black sunglasses, black tie, probably a black pistol somewhere beneath all that clothing, carried within a black holster. He looked down at her.
"Tracer," he murmured.
She cleared her throat and took out her ID. "Lena Oxton. Retired RAF." She paused. "Overwatch."
"Look, we know who you are. Doesn't mean you can just waltz-"
"Let her in."
Lena blinked – the voice was loud, had come from within the theatre, and must have belonged to Dumbo given they'd overheard Sunglasses Nevertheless, the agent gave her a look, nodded, and let her step into the hotel.
No directions, eh mate?
She didn't speak it out loud – the hand that clutched her heart was also clutching her throat. She'd been interrogated by MI5 half a decade ago when Overwatch was disbanded, and it seemed their ability to intimidate her hadn't evaporated. They'd asked her about Commander Morrison, about Blackwatch, about anything that could give them reason to hold her before letting her run off to do her own thing. Rejoin the RAF, leave the RAF, meet Emily, get an apartment, and go Batgirl on the city.
But even then, she was going to see Tekhartha Mondatta – leader of the Shambali, world celebrity, and an omnic she hadn't seen in seven years. MI5 or not, her heart would have been beating like a mouse's regardless.
Sure is fancy in here, she reflected, as she looked at the lush carpets, and the posters of classic films and actors. Very fancy.
If the intelligence agents flanking the hallway were cinemaphiles, there was no sign of it. They just stood there in silence, watching her from behind their sunglasses. Gingerly, she walked up to the door at the hall's end, and just as gingerly, gave it a light tap.
"Um, hello?" she whispered.
Yep, definitely pressure.
The doors were opened, revealing an omnic before her. Wearing the robes of a Shambali monk, his nine diodes shining like opals.
Lots of pressure.
"Greetings, Ms. Oxton," Mondatta said. "Tracer. I'm glad you could come. It has been a long time."
"Yes," she whispered, as she followed the omnic in. "It has."
Was he smiling? She could swear he was smiling as he led her into the room. Course, that was impossible, since omnics didn't have mouths, but his eyes were glowing, and, well, maybe this was what omnics had meant all those years ago when they'd "heard the music." When omnics in London had walked off the job, heading to Nepal for spiritual enlightenment. Some universal connection that transcended body language.
Or she was overanalyzing, she reflected.
Mon-dat-ta! Mon-dat-ta!
Even in here, albeit muffled, she could hear them. Inside a room that featured a table, and on it, various plates of food – donuts, cupcakes, eclairs, fruit…she gave Mondatta a look.
"These refreshments were set up when I arrived. Please enjoy."
She looked at Mondatta, then the food, then Mondatta again. "They left you…food?" she asked.
Mondatta's diodes twinkled.
"That's a little rude."
"Not at all. A common human oversight, and it is one of the small things that divide us."
Lena nodded, then looked back at the food. She didn't want any of it. She wasn't even hungry, and anything that entered her stomach would be consumed by the butterflies in it anyway. Turning her gaze away from the sugar bombs, she instead focused on Mondatta.
He hadn't changed, she reflected. Least not physically. Granted, she could hardly say to have known him, period. She'd met him once, seven years ago, during the Uprising. When against the wishes of the prime minister, an Overwatch strike team had been sent in to subdue Null Sector and rescue the hostages, Mondatta included. It had been her first mission as an Overwatch field agent – a chance to prove herself that she was worth the time and effort. The time spent on her chronal accelerator, the time spent training her how to use it, the time spent on, well, everything.
They'd succeeded. Null Sector was, well, nullified. Mondatta had been one of a hundred hostages that the terrorist group had taken prisoner, granted, but then, she'd been first into Null Sector's base of operations. She'd been the one who'd personally unshackled the Shambali leader. She'd been the one to extend name, rank, and no serial number with the Shambali leader, and marvel how calm he'd been about all of it.
Maybe it came with being a monk. Maybe it came from being a machine. But after nearly a month of bloodshed, Mondatta had seemed…above it all, she reflected. Not immune to the loss of life (he'd attended the memorial service before leaving the country), but…enlightened, she supposed? Null Sector despised humans, but their scorn extended to any omnic who sought to break bread with their "oppressors," and even if the Uprising was over, they'd made their mark. But Mondatta had spoken of peace and unity even then. Of not being divided. Of finding union in skin and steel rather than division. Back then, with the wounds of the Uprising, and even the Omnic Crisis still raw, many hadn't wanted to listen to him. But now?
"Ms. Oxton?"
Now she was staring like a fish with lazy eye, at the omnic who might change things for the better. And not even eating while doing it.
"Are you alright?"
"What? Oh, yeah, sure, sure. Perfectly alright."
"You are keeping yourself busy, even after the end of Overwatch?"
More than you know. "Eh, odd jobs here and there. Nothing special."
Mondatta made a "hmm" noise. "That is not what my friends in the Underworld tell me."
She shrugged. "Haven't done that much…odd jobs, odd parts…"
"Given the parts you have procured for the grid, there are those who beg to differ."
Lena began rubbing her arm awkwardly, as she shifted her gaze away from Mondatta for a moment. She didn't want to reveal her source – not yet. Not when Winston was borderline violating the Petras Act by supplying the gadgets he was. Not when, thinking of Kace, she knew that not all those in the Underworld saw her as a friend, and wouldn't see Mondatta as one either. And not when she couldn't win a staring contest with a humanoid that had seven more eyes than her.
But then, she had to face the music. So, looking back at Mondatta, she murmured, "truth is, I'm not sure why you wanted to see me."
"I remember you, Tracer." Clearly, Mondatta was facing the same music. "You were brave then. Humans and omnics, we must be brave now."
She sighed. "I know," she murmured, thinking that 'brave' was the last thing she'd felt as she'd fought for her life back then. "I know how hard things are for the omnics here. I don't know if I'm the person who should be helping but I also don't want to look away."
She glanced to one of the windows. To the darkness of evening. Lights flickering in the gloom.
"Do not look away, Lena Oxton."
She glanced back at Mondatta.
"I need you to look forward."
She almost scoffed. She spent so much of her time moving, she couldn't look any other way. But to borrow a Shambali phrase, the foolish talked, the wise listened, and the enlightened learnt, so that when they spoke, they could be wise. So as Mondatta talked, she listened.
"The conflict between humans and omnics never served either side. It is time for both sides to see that continued war will destroy us all. Humans and omnics need…peace."
"I want that too," Lena murmured. "But I think you know the war isn't over for everyone. We all need to be careful. This journey, we're on? It's dangerous."
"Yes." Mondatta's diodes dimmed slightly. "But more than that, right now, Tracer, we must be courageous. We must make the future now. There is no time."
Time, Lena reflected. Didn't she know it? Perhaps better than anyone…
"Mondatta?"
Better than the MI5 agents who'd just entered the room, she supposed. Still wearing sunglasses, looking at Mondatta like the bodyguard he was. The omnic looked at the agent, and with a nod, turned to leave.
"You will be cautious, right?" Lena asked.
"The movement cannot be stopped, Tracer," Mondatta said, as he headed for the exit. "We are not machines, we are messages…we are ideas." He glanced back at her. "And an idea cannot be killed."
Lena gave a small smile, as he departed into the adjacent hallway, with the agent following. Another agent, the one she'd seen at the back entrance, began talking to her. Saying that it was time for her to leave. She nodded, barely listening, as Mondatta's words echoed in her mind.
An idea cannot be killed.
Winston would have liked him, she reflected, as she headed for the exit.
"Had a good chat?"
"Yes," Mondatta answered. "It was most informative."
Brooks snorted. "Aren't you meant to know everything? Be enlightened and stuff?"
"To be enlightened is to understand that there is always more to know." Mondatta's diodes flashed. "But I do know quite a bit, actually."
Brooks snorted and kept marching Mondatta through the halls, taking note of the movie posters. For a theatre as upmarket as this, some of the films on display were decidedly low brow – stuff like Hero of My Storm (some cli-fi nonsense) and Some Like It Bot (romance twaddle). The former was the type of holo he would have seen as a teenager, the latter he might have taken girls to if he'd ever actually had a girlfriend. And yet, seeing either of them would have been more appealing than his current assignment.
Of course, no films were playing tonight. The Meridian had been shut down for the evening and commandeered by MI5 for Mondatta's speech. The owners hadn't been happy about it, but they'd been compensated for their loss, and given vague assurances that being the site where the great Tekhartha Mondatta had given his first speech in the UK in seven years would bring them more than a pretty pound. From what Brooks had heard, the response to that was somewhere between "yeah, whatever mate," and certain words about omnics that had given political correctness the finger.
Granted, those two responses weren't always mutually exclusive.
What was mutually exclusive, at least to him right now, was being inside the theatre with Mondatta, and his sense of ease. Chariot was parked outside with two agents, while he and Napleton were guarding Mondatta directly. Even from here, he could hear the crowd chanting Mondatta's name. And if he didn't know better, he could swear that the Shambali's leader was smiling at it. Lack of lips aside.
Mondatta looked at him. "Can you hear them chanting, Agent Brooks?"
Yeah, the chrome dome was definitely smiling. "I have ears," he murmured.
"And? Does the sound please you?"
Mon-dat-ta! Mon-dat-ta!
Brooks shrugged. "I've heard better."
Mon-dat-ta! Mon-dat-ta!
"Such as?"
Brooks remained silent. He didn't feel like discussing his musical tastes with a robot.
Mon-dat-ta! Mon-dat-ta!
Oh for God's sake, shut up! He and Napleton kept leading the omnic through the theatre. He knew the layout like the back of his hand, having been briefed on it weeks before this operation. Entry points, exit points, even where the popcorn was stored. How popcorn could be a threat to an omnic he had no idea, but one couldn't be too careful. Speaking of which, he came to a halt inside the lounge; an area in-between the reception and the actual cinemas.
"Alright, wait here," said Brooks. He gestured to one of the seats for Mondatta to sit down on.
"Trouble, Agent Brooks?"
"Final checks."
"Ah. Well, do keep at it. The natives are getting restless, as I believe your friends said earlier."
Brooks blinked. "How did you…"
"Ears." The omnic tapped the side of his head. "Or rather the next best thing."
Brooks really wanted to punch Mondatta just now. He wished the omnic could have talked in mystical mumbo jumbo, because that way he could ignore him. But no, he had to toe the line between snark and sensibility, reminding Brooks that while his life was in their hands, he was the one with the rope tied around them.
Bastard. He put a finger to his earpiece. "Team Two, this is Team One. Inside Diamond Gates. Stage Area One."
"Affirmative. Position held in Stage Area Two."
"Status?"
"Crowd's restless. So is Halo Two."
Brooks frowned. "He'll have to wait awhile."
"Noted."
Brooks looked back at Mondatta, before saying, "check in with the other teams and Chariot. We…" He paused, before murmuring, "we can't be too careful."
"Affirmative. Team Two, out."
Brooks took his finger off his ear and looked at Mondatta. "We should be out soon."
Mondatta nodded.
"If you need anything, I…" He smirked. "Don't suppose food or drink are of any interest to you."
"No. But I would like to see Some Like It Bot before I leave the country."
Napleton, who'd remained silent up until now, murmured, "you watch movies?"
The omnic looked at him. "I assure you Agent Napleton, the life of a Shambali monk is not complete abstinence from life's pleasures."
Napleton snorted. "Bet there's some pleasures you don't know about."
Mondatta's diodes flashed. "Indeed."
"Yeah. So, like, there's people out there who want to be married to omnics. But since omnics can't engage in-"
"Napleton." Brooks gave him a look. "That's enough."
None of the three said anything for a moment. The moment after that however, Mondatta leant back in the chair and put his hands together, his diodes shutting down. Prayer, Brooks wondered? Rest? Who could say what went on inside an omnic's CPU? Whatever the case though, it gave him pause to take off his glasses, wiping them down. There was more sweat on them than he'd expected.
"Brooks."
He looked at Napleton, still with his glasses on. Walking over.
"You okay?"
Brooks frowned. "Course I'm okay."
"Yeah, well, just wondering…" He nodded at Mondatta, before looking back at Brooks. "Hell of a job, eh? I mean, who the hell did you piss off to get this assignment?"
"What, you're blaming me?"
"Hey, we've been in MI5 for nine years. Wherever you go, I get to follow."
"For which I'm grateful. Especially after Glasgow."
Napleton made a mock shudder. Neither of them was supposed to mention Glasgow. Glasgow was full of Glasgowians, and on that one occasion, Talon.
That had been four years ago. One year after Overwatch was disbanded. As if Talon couldn't resist showing the world that it couldn't be kept down.
"Still," Napleton said. "Better terrorists than omnic weirdos, right?"
Brooks looked at his fellow agent. "You've got that low an opinion of him?"
"Him, and all the other steelheads." Napleton frowned. "Why? Don't tell me you've gone soft?"
Brooks's first instinct was to refute any such suggestion. But looking at Mondatta right now…listening to the people chant…remembering what Mondatta had said to him…
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.
Brooks sighed and put his glasses back on. "What if he's right?" he asked.
"Excuse me?"
"What if he's right?" Brooks repeated. "What if he's on the money?"
"Brooks, you can't seriously believe there's some magical eyeball out there that-"
"No, I mean, about us. Them. The world."
Napleton frowned. "I don't follow."
"Omnics. Humans. I mean, come on, omnics don't get the best of deals in society. Certainly not in this country. I-"
"Brooks, did you take something? Because you're sounding crazy."
Brooks remained silent.
"Brooks, come on," pressed Napleton. "Omnics try to wipe out mankind, and only fail due to Overwatch, millions of lives, and a hell of a lot of luck. Only reason they're still alive is because too many hearts were bleeding then."
Brooks forced a smile. "Yeah. Of course. I mean, omnics nearly destroyed this country. Only stands to rights that they rebuild it."
Napleton didn't say anything. But he was still looking at Brooks funny.
"Listen, I need to use the restroom for a sec. You mind…?"
Napleton looked at Mondatta. "Sure," he murmured.
"Thanks." And don't murder him while I'm gone.
Brooks headed into the restroom. In the mirror, perfectly polished, was his reflection – muscular build. Short brown hair, kept well within regulation length. Brown eyes. Chiseled jaw. Napleton had joked a few years ago that he should be the next James Bond, before they cast Charles Brampton in the role. Of course, considering that the omnic Saleta 1.7 had been his debut film's Bond girl, he supposed he should count himself lucky. Yeah, Dead to Rights had gotten good reviews, gushing on Saleta's performance more than Brampton's, but that was the press for you – always willing to jump on a cause, no matter how fashionable.
He began to wash his hands. The hell am I doing?
Mon-dat-ta! Mon-dat-ta!
Even here, he could still hear the crowds. Humans and some omnics getting together to listen to their guru speak. Madness. But then, madness had a way of changing the world, and the world had certainly changed across its bloody history, and overall, for the better. But even then…
Your accent. There is a faint trace of French within it. I was wondering if…
Brooks turned off the tap and began to dry his hands, trying to focus on the task, to make sure the dryer removed every last speck of water. But despite his efforts, Mondatta's words rang in his ears. Not so much because of the question, but because of the answer. He didn't think he had any French left in him, but even then…
"Team One."
Even then, it wasn't as if he'd known his mother that long. He began drying his hands, trying to fight the lump in his throat.
"Team One, come in."
He sighed – reminiscence could wait, ideally for an eternity. "Team One."
"Checks finished. Halo is clear."
"Affirmative. Be there in two." He sighed, looking at himself in the mirror. Trying to think of something appropriate to say, if only to himself.
Mon-dat-ta! Mon-dat-ta!
Tried, and failed, before he put his glasses back on and walked back into the lounge. Napleton thankfully hadn't murdered their ward yet, and Mondatta, as if possessed of some divine instinct, was already on his feet. Or maybe it was a coincidence.
"Mondatta?" Brooks asked.
He supposed he'd never know.
"You're in the clear."
He told himself he didn't care.
"Excellent." Mondatta adjusted his robe. "Shall we begin?"
We, Brooks reflected. Not I.
Once again, he tried to tell himself that he didn't care.
Tried, and failed.
A/N
As far as alterations to the original story go, this is a case of London Calling making things better. Originally, it was simply a case of Tracer stopping to compose herself, and exposition/character development being given. Her interacting with Mondatta however, was a far better option than anything I came up with. So, basically transferred material from ch. 2 to ch. 1, and incorporated the Tracer/Mondatta scene from the comic into this.