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Overwatch: Alive

Chapter 3: Still Alive

It was winter, it was snowing, it was night, and she and Celeste had managed to walk out of the Palais Garnier without being spotted.

Having come from a performance of Swan Lake, one might have found it ironic to see the black and white swan of the performance walk together through the streets of Paris. But then, theatre wasn't reality. Reality was reality, and in reality, there was such a thing as too much fame. Having both danced to their physical and mental limits over the last month, both bowing before a roaring crowd, neither women were particularly keen on sticking around any longer than they had to. Which was why they'd snuck out through a fire escape, wearing overcoats and sunglasses. Even out here on the streets, there was a chance that someone might recognize the two rising stars of Paris's ballet scene. But so far, so good.

"So far, so good, eh?" Celeste asked.

Amelie looked at her. "Oh, you mind reader, you."

"Really? I didn't take you to be an optimist with that frown."

"I'm wearing sunglasses and an overcoat because there's only so much applause I can take. Of course I'm frowning."

"Hmm." Not it was Celeste's turn to frown. "But if you haven't been found out yet, shouldn't you be smiling?"

Amelie chuckled. "Touché."

The two women kept walking down the Place de l'Opéra. Sooner or later, they'd head down one of the city's many side streets, but for now, the main focus was on putting as much distance between the Garnier and themselves. Amelie winced as Celeste's phone rang, but fortunately, she could walk and talk at the same time.

"Hi darling. Yes, it's over. Usual space? Of course. Love you." She put the phone back in her pocket. "Saul will pick us up at the corner of de l'Opéra and Rue d'Antin."

Amelie frowned. "It's quite a walk."

"Oh, don't worry, I know some side streets." Celeste patted her on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. Hour from now, we'll be having coffee together."

Amelie chuckled. "Think I'd prefer sleep actually."

"Touché."

Neither woman spoke as they continued to walk down the streets. There was the constant humming of cars as their repulsors carried them along the street. The general hubbub of the Parisian crowd as they either braved the January weather, or did their best to get under shelter. Amelie, for her part, remained quiet. Even if her mind was not.

She and Celeste had met a year ago. Both of them rising stars in the ballet scene, both of them auditioning for roles in Anon 2.1's production of Tchaikovsky's masterpiece. The first time an omnic had directed a ballet inside the country, news of the production had been met with a mixture of interest, admiration, and scorn. For her part, Amelie had found him no less lenient or harsh than any other director. They'd danced, they'd sung, they'd had more than one twisted ankle between them, but in the end, they'd got the part. Celeste, the Black Swan. Seductive. Dangerous. And Amelie, the White Swan. Innocent. Pure.

He had no idea how wrong he was with that. Oh yes, she'd danced. She'd given interviews. And she'd changed the topic anytime mention of Gerard came up. Yes, the people knew that Amelie Lacroix was happily married. They didn't know exactly what her husband did, or where he was. And that was the way that Gerard liked it. As to whether she liked it…well…

"Amelie?" Celeste tugged at her coat. "This way."

Celeste guided her down a side alley. Both women removed their glasses. A silence and stillness lingered in the air before them. Winter's mist dancing like swans in the night.

"Should I be afraid?" Amelie laughed. "Should I expect to read tomorrow's headlines of how a jealous ballet dancer murdered her rival in a fit of passion?"

"How would you read anything if you're dead?"

"A minor inconvenience, I assure you. Also, someone would kiss me, and true love's magic would bring me back to life. Or something."

Celeste chuckled. "Of course."

Amelie bit her lip, before murmuring, "I do appreciate it though. Saul helping me like this."

"Oh, it's nothing."

Amelie hoped so. She'd stayed with Saul and Celeste for a month, and even being given a spare room in their apartment, she had the feeling that they were counting down the minutes to when the swan left the nest, and the remainer could return to making some proverbial eggs.

"But I can't help but wonder when Gerard will turn up," Celeste added. "I mean, we've been at this for four weeks."

Amelie glanced aside. "He's still in Italy," she whispered.

"Doing what? You're making history in Paris, and he can't pop over for even a week?"

"I'm sure he'll be here before the production's over."

Celeste frowned. "I hope so."

Amelie quickened her pace. It was getting colder, and not just because of the drop in air temperature.

Gerard was still in Italy. Naples, to be exact. He was operating in a secondary base after Talon had destroyed Blackwatch's Rome facility the previous year. What he was doing exactly was an answer he refused to give every time she asked. Only that it was classified, it was important, and that after the Venice Incident, he needed to guide Overwatch with a steady hand. The Italian government was howling for blood, half of the world's other governments were asking what the hell this Blackwatch group was, and there was even talk of a UN special committee to investigate the group's record. No-one knew, let alone cared that Talon was apparently on its last legs. To the people of the world, Overwatch was an organization of truth, justice, and order. Squeaky clean. Talon wasn't. Talon was nothing. Talon was on its last legs.

Or at least, that was how Gerard had put it, in-between his cursing. After which came the apologies and promises. The same ones he'd been giving to her for at least a year. That he was sorry. That they'd be able to spend more time together soon. That he loved her. That one day, he'd even be able to see her dance again. One day, someday…always someday…

"Amelie?"

She looked at her friend.

"Are you alright?" Celeste asked.

"Of course." She wiped her eye. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Celeste gave her a look.

"Come on," Amelie said, patting her friend on the shoulder. "The night's young. And we-"

It happened quickly.

At the other end of the alley, a white van pulled up. Its side hatch opened. Out popped three men wearing all-black gear, including masks.

"What are you-"

Celeste stopped talking as one of the men pulled out a silenced pistol and fired. Celeste fell to the ground, a red dot appearing in the centre of her forehead. Blood pouring out of it, over her body. Over the cobbled stones.

Amelie screamed. The men grabbed her. She yelled. She kicked. She bit. She fell silent as a cloth was put over her mouth…sending her to sleep…letting her fly…free…away from the red lake beside her…

She barely felt her body being dragged across the stones and being tossed into the van.

She felt nothing at all as it sped away.

Over twenty years ago, Lea Bedeau had come to the United Kingdom.

Saying that out loud would have belied the desperate circumstances involved behind that action. That three decades ago, the world had been caught up in a global war that made immigration less of a prospect. Up to that point, wars had been waged with understood boundaries between nations and empires. In contrast, the omnics' had emerged from their omniums, spread across the globe. Less a war between nations, and more a war of extermination erupting from within nations. And France, like most countries in Europe, hadn't been spared the Omnica Corporation's legacy.

But she'd fled to the UK among thousands of other refugees, coming across in a dingy before beaching at Norfolk. Because at the very least, even as the UK fought its own war against the omnics operating from the Bristol omnium, it was an island. Europe might fall, the world might fall, but they could fight them on the beaches, or whatever the prime minister of the time had said then in an attempt to ape Churchill. Truth of the matter was, people fled wherever and however, just to get away from the mechanical creations bent on exterminating every last member of the human race.

And Antoine Brooks knew it, because his mother had told him as such when he'd been five years old. When the war was still going, when its outcome was up in the air, she'd told him that she'd set out to sea as Cherbourg fell to the omnics. She'd been lodged in the apartment of one Robert Brooks, who was soon drafted into the Army, while she'd become a mechanic and met him again in the motor pool, and, well, war made strange bedfellows. Sometimes, in more ways than one.

He'd never really thought of himself as French. He hadn't even bothered to speak the language, and the one time he'd visited the country with his parents, he'd let his mother do the talking. He knew in history that the two countries had once been enemies, before becoming allies in the early 20th century, and remaining frenemies for the 150 plus years since. He spoke English, learnt British history, ended up joining MI5, and that was that. And yet-

Your accent. There is a faint trace of French within it.

And yet either Mondatta had been bullshitting (lack of an opening in his buttocks aside), or perhaps he'd had more French in him that he thought. And right now, standing at the entrance of The Meridian, looking out over the crowd, he couldn't help but wonder about the nature of history. Countries who once despised each other becoming allies. Perhaps different peoples as well.

Mon-dat-ta! Mon-dat-ta!

He cast his gaze over the crowd, glad for his sunglasses given how extra lighting had been set up to spotlight Mondatta's podium. Most of the attendees looked like they were in their twenties, thirties, maybe early forties – those young and fit enough to be out on a cold night like this. Many born after the Omnic Crisis, many born during it. Some old enough to have even fought in it. Yet here they were. Standing beside numerous omnics, awaiting the appearance of their guru. Carrying signs with phrases like "We're All in the Iris," "Peace and Unity," or simply Shambali iconography, coupled with a few squiggled hearts. Two to three hundred by his estimate. No doubt tomorrow, some news pundits might mock a supposedly low turnout, but given the narrow streets of King's Row, plus the security restrictions, plus the autumn weather, it was probably as good a turnout as Mondatta had hoped for.

As for what he hoped for…it was hard to say. It was tempting to call the crowd mad. To take a leaf from Charles Mackay. But seeing the people chanting, listening to them cheering, seeing them stand side by side with machines that might have been their enemies once…well, maybe there was something to it. Centuries back, Lea Bedeau and Robert Brooks might have been enemies. Who was to say what the world would look like centuries from now?

Maybe Mondatta. Or Halo 2 – Tekhartha Bondatta, who'd arrived at The Meridian hours ago. He was one of the Shambali's senior priests, and not someone who would be speaking tonight. He glanced at the lobby, with the two omnics exchanging words, and Napleton, standing in the gloom, keeping a watch on them. Presumably, a view of the future would be in Mondatta's speech. And while he seemed to be preaching to the choir…

We are not machines, we are messages…we are ideas.

He shuddered to think that he might be falling among the converted. Which was why, as his earpiece buzzed, he found some comfort in the report that all teams were in the green, and it was time for Halo to make his appearance.

He gestured to Mondatta that he was in the clear. In silence, the omnic nodded, and walked towards the doorway. He stood there, for a moment, as if taking in the sights and sounds. Preparing himself for what he was about to say. Or, maybe, he was giving his followers a good show. Maybe, maybe, maybe…maybes that he didn't know the answers to, and thankfully, weren't relevant. All he had to do was get Mondatta to The Meridian, let him speak at The Meridian, then escort him away from The Meridian.

As the monk began to speak, Antoine Brooks took some solace in knowing that he'd so far accomplished two of those objectives.

"Wow," Lena murmured to herself. "Quite the turnout."

It was a small miracle that she could even hear her own voice, given the repeated "Mon-dat-ta" chants, as well as the hooting, hollering, and other things that began with h, not the least of which was hugging. Humans hugging humans, omnics hugging omnics, and in some cases, combinations of the two. A moral crisis, according to some pundits, but then, a hundred years ago, they might have said the same about her and Emily.

Weird thing was, despite wearing her Overwatch gear, she didn't feel that exposed. There might have been the odd side glance, and she glanced a young girl trying to get her mother's attention as she passed by, but otherwise, all eyes were on the podium that had been set up outside The Meridian. Overwatch was the past, apparently. Mondatta was the voice of the future. A voice that, if listened to, would make the country, nay, the world, a better place.

She found her way into the middle of the crowd. She wasn't the tallest person in the world, so not only was she dwarfed by a significant chunk of the human crowd, but pretty much every omnic as well. The humanoid model had been standardized after all – whatever alterations were mainly cosmetic. Whether they be paint jobs, wigs, or blue spikes sticking out of the head. A style that…

Wait a minute.

Her eyes didn't deceive her. It was Iggy, and beside her, Lady and Lizzy. She walked up.

"Allo there."

Iggy didn't smile, but the spark in her diodes conveyed the same emotion. "Hey!" she exclaimed, giving Lena a quick hug. "Can you believe it? There are so many humans here! Omnics who never would have come are here too!"

Lena could believe it. Seeing was believing, and hearing was a good supplement. She exchanged quick pleasantries with Lady and Lizzy – both holding signs, both decked in the punk-rock gear that they'd been wearing when she'd met them in the Underworld. She might have dressed for the occasion, but then, "gotta be me," she reflected. Or you.

And not Kace, she reflected, performing a quick scan of the crowd. Thank goodness for that.

Only days had passed since she and the three omnics had met – Iggy in the midst of stealing a modulator for the Underworld's grid, Lizzy and Lady in the Underworld itself. Chilling out, listening to classic vinyl records – the type of stuff she'd done in her early teens, before she started spending her late teens listening to live performances in underworlds closer to the surface. It was, regrettably, a meeting that had led to an omnic gang pointing guns at her, and later on, a meeting with Kace. A robe-wearing omnic who, unlike Mondatta, was less than optimistic on the ideas of integration and equality.

She wondered what he was doing now. Watching from the Underworld? Giving his own lecture? Or something else? Something stupid? Looking at the entrance to The Meridian, she could make out an agent raise a hand to his ear. Kace might have been willing to set his goons on her, but even he had to be smart enough to see that there was no way he could get close to Mondatta to do something stupid.

Then again, she still had two pulse pistols with her…

"It's Mondatta! Look!"

As the leader of the Shambali stepped out, the crowd fell silent instantly. A few whistles, a few calls of "we love you," but apart from that, silence. No need to chant "Mon-dat-ta!" over and over when the actual omnic was standing there before them. In the flesh, so to speak, or rather, titanium alloy, much of which was covered in a white robe. From where she was standing, Lena was able to make out some of the patterns – clearly in the style of the giant banners that flanked the podium. An arrow with the eye of the Iris, and three orbs above it, representing body, soul, and heart.

Silence greeted Mondatta. Silence, he returned in turn, as he looked out over the faithful. Silence that lasted only a few seconds, but felt like a few hours. Maybe to Mondatta, they were, considering how efficient omnic CPUs were. But finally, the Shambali leader began to speak. And Lena, along with everyone else among the crowd, listened.

"Human…machine…" Mondatta said slowly. "We are all one within the Iris."

The crowd erupted in cheers, though Lena wasn't among them. As much as she admired Mondatta and supported his goals, she didn't really understand what "the Iris" actually was bar some concept of unity beyond this world. Still, that was fine, she told herself. Unity in this world rather than the next was what she was interested in.

Mondatta continued to speak. "Before me, I see the future. Humans and omnics, standing together…"

Wait.

The security guard outside the hotel. He had a finger raised to his ear. Nothing strange about that, she told herself – radio checks were SOP in situations like this – but…

"…united by compassion…"

Something's wrong. She glanced up at the rooftops. Call it a bad feeling, call it sixth sense, call it gut instinct, something wasn't right. And in her experience, her bad feelings were usually on the money.

"…with common hopes and dreams."

She glanced at Iggy and her friends, hanging on Mondatta's every word. She glanced at the monk himself, pausing, giving the crowd time to cheer. She hoped she was wrong. Prayed she was wrong. But in the world they lived in, the dreams of humans and omnics differed in a number of ways. And if one of those dreams was acted upon tonight…

For a second, she told herself she was overreacting.

The second after that, she began making her way through the crowd.

Widowmaker didn't feel anything as she incapacitated the guard.

One kick, one strike with the butt of her rifle, and the grunt was lying on the roof, unconscious. In an instant, the dye had been cast – the guard would fail to check in via his radio, and as soon as that happened, the security teams would know something was up. If they were smart (and there was no reason to suppose that they weren't), they'd escort Mondatta out of the area immediately. Having watched the guard check in before knocking him out, right after his second radio check, she estimated that she had about two minutes to make the shot before being detected.

Plenty of time.

She gave the body a glance, as well as the spider that had taken up residence inside the air duct behind him. It was autumn, and in the night's chill, it was probably the warmest place for the spider to be.

Warmth. Spiders. The former she no longer knew. The latter…there had been a time once, when…

She broke out into a sprint. The past was irrelevant. All that mattered was the present. She leaped from one rooftop to the next, her silence belying her speed. She sprinted past another guard, just finishing his radio check. He was young…far too young for this line of work, or so she though. It didn't matter. Youth was no shield, while experience remained a sword. From her wrist, she fired her grapple into the wall beside him. In the second it took him to look at the metal protruding from the brick, then back at her, he might have come to the conclusion that she'd missed. But it wasn't true. She was going to hang the grapple from that place anyway.

That said, the grapple line gave her a way to wrap something tensile around the grunt's neck, pull him down, and knock him out with the butt of her rifle.

She ran the numbers in her head. Thirty seconds before the security teams realized something was up, if they hadn't already. Still enough time. Walking to the edge of the roof, she casually wrapped the grapple cord around her ankle, before descending down the edge of the building. Hung upside down, like some kind of trapeze artist, she rose her rifle, and lowered her visor. Zooming in, she saw him. The target. Tekhartha Mondatta. Preaching peace to humans and omnics, unaware that his life was about to end. For all the supposed powers of the Iris, precognition was apparently not among them.

People would call it an impossible shot. Most snipers relied on spotters. Most snipers didn't hang upside down. Most snipers didn't make shots that required shooting through air, two windows, and even more air, to hit a target far more resilient than any human. But then, she wasn't most snipers. She was the best sniper in the world. She was Widowmaker, and had earnt that name through dozens of kills, and dozens more that had made widowers and orphans as well. Steadying her breathing, awaiting the kill…she began to pull the trigger and-

Wait.

In her visor. A blue-white blur on one of the rooftops. Then in a microsecond, another. Too fast for a person…but not for-

Spotted.

She glanced aside and saw the enemy let out a whoop, opening fire at her with two pulse pistols. Energy-based weapons that had a small charge, but could pack a punch if they hit the target. Quick as a cat, she reduced the tensile strength of the cord, allowing her to descend.

Tracer.

Lena Oxton. Overwatch agent. Forced into mandatory retirement with the signing of the Petras Act.

She kicked off the side of the building, still attached to the cord.

Equipped with a chronal accelerator that allows her to move at super-human speeds.

From above, Tracer continued to fire. From below, with a single hand, Widowmaker opened fire as well.

Neither hit the other – she could steady her rifle against her chest, using it to offset its recoil, but it did a number on her accuracy. Even she wasn't that good against a target that could move as fast as this one. But she did hit something – a window, which she smashed through. The glass cutting her jumpsuit and skin, causing not pain, but rather, annoyance. The shards were like biting ants, complimenting the larger insect that was already in pursuit of her.

She landed lithely, and recalled the grapple, slinking back into her wrist launcher. She watched as Tracer landed on the edge of the building opposite her. Smiling like a child. One who didn't understand what was at stake, be it for the target or herself.

"Trying to crash another party luv?"

You have no idea, child.

The Overwatch agent opened fire. And Widowmaker flipped backwards, down towards the centre of the building, between the flight of stairs rising upwards.

This complicates things.

The enemy used her chronal accelerator to zip into the building as well.

This complicates things a lot.

A/N

Far as differences go, not much here. Simply the case of Tracer interacting with Iggy and co., taken from the comic.