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Overwatch: Alive

Chapter 4: Killed

Bound to the chair, she could hear the rat-tat-tat of guns, and the thumps of grenades. There may have been a blindfold over her eyes, ropes around her wrists, and a gag in her mouth, but her captors hadn't covered her ears.

They hadn't told her where she was being transported to. Far away. Across borders even. Somewhere in eastern Europe. Her location leaked to her supposed rescuers in a manner they wouldn't find suspicious. Overwatch would believe that they'd detected the location of Amelie Lacroix. Overwatch, or more specifically Amelie Lacroix's husband, would act. And given the sound of guns and grenades, Overwatch had apparently arrived.

Not only arrived, but from the sounds of it, making rapid progress through the safehouse.

There were troopers in the room with her. Silent. Scared. Not knowing that they'd been sent here to die. As far as they were aware, they were escorting a high-valued target across the continent, one whose location had been detected by Overwatch. An organization that, despite the scrutiny brought upon it a year prior thanks to Venice, was still operating, and still committed as ever to stamping out Talon. A mercenary-terrorist organization that, under its current leadership, was dedicated to strengthening humanity through conflict. Social Darwinism on a global scale. Its followers, or at least the ones with her now, were willing to die for that goal.

Which, she reflected, was good. One way or another, they were going to die today. Better to die for a cause you believed in than one you didn't.

There was a pause in the gunfire. Silence lingered in her cell. In the darkness, she imagined the scene around her. She imagined the four guards…imagined hearing the beating of their hearts…the sweat trickling down their necks…she imagined, she believed, and in her mind's eye, it became real.

"Grenade!"

An opening door. A flashbang. Footsteps. Gunfire. Shouts. Screams. Silence. Breathing. Waiting.

"Clear!"

More footsteps.

"Commander, target is found. No injuries."

A radio. Words.

"Copy that. I'm coming in."

A voice. Familiar. Footsteps.

"God…Amelie."

A name. Familiar. She was being called Amelie. A name that…once called? Different, once…maybe…

Warmth. The feeling of a gag being removed. Of ropes being cut. Of a blindfold removed, allowing the light of a single bulb above to flood her eyes. Allowing her to see blue-armoured peacekeepers in the room around her. To see the bodies of four Talon soldiers, lying where they had fallen, blood pouring from numerous holes in their grey-armoured bodies. To look at the face of Jack Morrison, strike-commander of Overwatch.

"Amelie, are you alright?"

In his eyes…age. And concern. A mouth, that called her Amelie.

"Sir, if I may?"

A peacekeeper. A red and white cross on her shoulder. A medic?

"Here."

A flask. Water. Into her mouth. Hadn't realized how thirsty she was until now. Had to play the part. Bruises. Starvation. Dehydration.

Play the part. Play you.

The old her. She looked into the commander's eyes. Her husband's friend. Now, her enemy. Talon's enemy.

"Jack?" she whispered.

A smile, however small.

"You're here."

A smile that quivered. "Sorry we took so long."

"How…how long?" She rasped.

She didn't know. Not that it mattered.

"Amelie…"

Or so she told herself.

"It's been five months."

Five months. Five…long…months…of…something…in the dark…pain…old…gone now…memory?

"You've missing for five months," Jack repeated.

She let out a sob. She hugged him.

"Can you walk?"

She felt herself be lifted to her legs. Leaning against Jack, she took a step. Then another. And another after that.

"Gerard's waiting for you," Jack whispered. "Think you can make it?"

Gerard. A man that was close to the woman who was called Amelie. Looking at Jack, she whispered, "yes."

He nodded. And remained in place, as she hugged him.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you…I thought that…that I'd never…"

A tear trickled down her cheek. The role was played. The words were uttered. The feelings on show for her 'rescuer,' taking her back to her fair husband.

Feelings, that she reminded herself, were false.

This complicates things a lot.

The complications so far included two incapacitated guards that would eventually fail to make their radio checks, the sound of pulse pistol fire possibly alerting the guards who hadn't been incapacitated, and that said pulse pistols were being fired at her. Also, the pulse pistols were being wielded by Lena "Tracer" Oxton – a former agent of Overwatch. First deployed in the field seven years prior during the King's Row Uprising, and in her two years of service before the organization was disbanded, she'd established herself as a premier field agent. One who'd taken the fight to Null Sector, Talon, and a dozen other foes of the global order before it had cast Overwatch aside.

And now, Widowmaker reflected, the cretin was complicating things.

She shot up through the building with her grapple, firing her rifle as she did so. The Widow's Kiss's could act as an automatic rifle as much as a sniper rifle, sacrificing range, power, and accuracy for velocity. Only as fast as she fired, and as fast as she ascended through the stairwell, the child was keeping up. A blue-white blur, keeping up with the spider's ascent as her web retracted.

Reaching the top of the stairway, she swung through the air, smashing through a fire escape. With grapple in hand, she used it to quickly cross to an adjacent building. Lining up her sights, she trained her gaze on the door from which she'd exited…

There you are.

And fired, as she saw the girl pop her head out. Fired, and still failed to hit her, as she zipped for cover behind an adjacent wall.

Die, you insect.

If the security teams hadn't been alerted to her presence by now, they certainly would be now – unlike many places she'd visited in the world, gunshots in London were the exception, rather than the rule. Even so, she kept her finger on the trigger. She might not be able to hit her target, but she could keep the insect in her place while she planned her wider web. Not to mention that it made it harder for the cretin to fire back.

But why aren't you then?

Tracer wasn't poking her head out. She wasn't even moving.

What are you up to?

She lowered her visor and activated its audio-directional enhancer. If she could hear what the child was doing behind cover, she might have an idea as to how to counter her. And even as she continued to fire, the enhancer picked up on the insect's chittering.

"Mondatta is in danger, shooter on the roof! I repeat, shooter on the roof!"

The girl was talking to someone. Likely the security team.

"Mondatta's in danger, get him out of here!"

Frowning, Widowmaker started to back up, still firing to keep her enemy pinned. The penny had dropped. In less than a minute, Mondatta would be in a bullet-proof vehicle, and her chance to fulfill her mission, to take the kill, would be lost forever. For her to fail…to not make the shot…

No. That wouldn't happen she told herself. Even with an Overwatch agent and the security teams alerted to her presence, the target's life would reach its end this night.

His, and however many other lives that might require.

"Yes, I dare to dream, for dreams are the foundation of hope. And hope, the foundation of the future. A future where the distinction between flesh and steel is removed. A future where we are one in this world, as much as in the next. A future where the past's scars are no longer visible, for all eyes are looking ahead. To the next horizon."

The crowd cheered, and Brooks reminded himself that he was on duty. If he wasn't, there was a risk that he might…might…be caught up in the omnic's words. Yes, Mondatta didn't have a tongue upon which there could lie honey, but he had the crowd hanging on his every word regardless.

Humans and omnics living together, the agent reflected. Wouldn't that be nice? Impossible to achieve (and no, Numbani didn't count), but still, nice. Much as Mondatta dared to dream, and much as he was wary of dreamers for never facing reality, Brooks had to admit, maybe the monk wasn't too bad. He'd been on guard duty at rallies such as this before, and at the very least, Mondatta was sincere about his desire for a new society. Deluded, but sincere. One day, he'd wake up, but night had fallen, and the sun wouldn't be rising for over twelve hours. Until then, he'd do his job. Which in this case, meant putting a finger to his ear, and linking with a radio transmission.

The hell?

He could hear some kind of commotion on the other side. A sound he couldn't quite identify. Which, as loud as it was, couldn't drown out the voice. One that definitely didn't belong to one of his teams – it was female.

"Mondatta is in danger, shooter on the roof! I repeat, shooter on the roof!"

Brooks replied immediately. "This is a secure channel, no-one's a-"

"Mondatta's in danger, get him out of here!"

"Identify yourself, immedia-"

The feed cut off with the sound of gunfire. Very loud, very automatic gunfire.

For a microsecond, Brooks ran the options. There was a chance, however slim, that this was a hoax. There were any number of people who'd want to disrupt this event, be it for laughs, or to make some wider point. A stunt the likes of the Human Defence League might have attempted.

But even if there was 1% of a chance that there was an assassin in the area, he couldn't take the chance otherwise.

"All rooftop teams, check and clear. Halo is leaving. I repeat, Halo is leaving."

Would not take it.

"We have come far from the Omnic Crisis. We have, in a sense, peace. But peace is only as sturdy as the foundations upon which it is built…"

He walked over to Mondatta and saw that Napleton was doing so likewise. Tonight, like every night, peace's foundations had turned out to be shoddy.

"Sir, there's been a breach. We need to leave now."

Mondatta stopped talking immediately. In the holos, the type that people like Charles Brampton featured in, VIPs would often make a fuss about being man-handled. Tell them that there was no threat, only for them to eat their words later. In his experience however, when given orders, VIPs shut up, stayed quiet, and followed his orders without question. Even so, for a moment, he was afraid that Mondatta would object. Insist on speaking to spread his dreams of unity…to risk being a martyr…

Thankfully, no such thing occurred. Mondatta let Brooks guide him down towards the crowd. One which had fallen silent, staring at them with disbelief.

"Chariot, this is Team One. Halo is coming in hot, over."

He'd let them stare. He'd let them protest. He'd even let an inquiry reveal that this was all an overreaction. All that mattered now was that Chariot pull up outside the Meridian, and that he get Mondatta inside. His assignment demanded it.

And, truth be told, he didn't want the omnic to be hurt either.

"Hello?"

She'd lost the link. There was a chance that she'd gotten through to the other end, just as there was a chance that a meteor could strike the city tonight and solve all her problems for her. Just as, listening for the sound of gunfire and hearing none, there was a chance that Widowmaker could have run out of ammunition…or simply waiting for her to pop her head out of cover, and remove it.

Either way, she took a chance of her own. Wheeling out, pointing her pistols out, ready to use her accelerator to dodge whatever Widowmaker hurled at her and-

"Huh?"

She saw nothing. Heard nothing.

Where'd you go?

She wished she could count on Widowmaker to have given up. There was a chance of that, right? A chance, Lena reminded herself, but not one worth taking. Widowmaker had appeared on Overwatch's hit list six years ago – one year before the organization was disbanded, where one Talon sniper was but one of many. Having followed the newsfeeds since then, however (not to mention accessing various government documents that were meant to be classified, many of them passed on by Winston), Lena knew that Widowmaker had been kept busy by her employers. Hits from government members to gang leaders, shots ranging from impossible angles to literally crashing parties and opening fire, bathing the guests in red. Wherever she trod, she left at least one body behind. And now, for whatever reason, she was trying to kill Mondatta.

But why? Who on Earth could want a Shambali monk dead?

Lena didn't know. Peering through the gloom, seeing two security guards sweeping the area on the adjacent roof, she guessed that they didn't know either.

But seeing Widowmaker swing up on her grapple on the adjacent building, Lena at least saw where the Talon agent was.

And, her eyes widening, saw her lay waste to her opponents.

She'd used her grapple to swing off the building and onto the next one – coming up from below, using the laws of momentum to her advantage, and the laws of gravity to land and knock out one of the two guards.

The second opened fire. Darting forward, she evaded his bullets, and swung her leg, tripping him up.

More guards fired at her from the adjacent rooftops. Like a cat through the night, she dashed through the evening gloom. She could shoot them. Though if she stopped to do so, they would shoot her.

Gunfire. Pings from metal hitting metal. Steam from a ruptured pipe. Mortar from bricks. No sirens, no screams, just shooting. Bullets her conductor, as she danced her normal routine. Ever the ballet dancer. A black swan, casting her wings out over her foes.

No lake to soak up the blood as she neared them. As she opened fire. One fell, as she let out a burst, the man falling to the ground, his armour ruptured.

A second, knocked out with a kick. More shots. More guards. More rooftops.

She lowered her visor and raised her rifle. One shot. Two shots. Three shots.

One body. Two bodies. Three bodies.

Three kills. None of them the target. She was in the clear though. For now.

She lowered her visor. Activated its infra-sight function. Through a building, she saw the target – metal, accompanied by two meatbags. Heading for the car that would take him away.

Out of sight. Out of shot.

More gunfire – not the sound of rifles, but of pulse pistols. Tracer, still chasing after her. One swan chasing after another as the dance continued.

Gritting her teeth, Widowmaker kept flying. Kept running. Focusing on taking one life, while preserving her own as long as it took to do that.

Things, she reflected, were getting complicated.

Chariot had pulled up on time. He and Napleton were escorting Mondatta through the crowd. The Shambali leader was silent, thankfully not stirring up the kind of fuss that his followers were.

"Mondatta, come back!"

"We love you!"

"Where are you taking him?"

"Freedom of speech!"

"Fascists!"

Were they blind, he wondered, or idiots? Did they think this was a joke? That the government had paid for all this security for Tekhartha Mondatta, just to whisk him away? Had it not occurred to them that someone might actually want the chrome-dome dead? At least they weren't being violent about it, and he'd been called worse on the job before. Experienced worse before…like Glasgow…fucking Glasgow…

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

Brooks looked up at the rooftops for a moment – in one ear were the roars of the crowd. In the other, the radio chatter of the rooftop teams. Some were looking for the apparent assassin. Others weren't reporting in. But, assassin or no, he couldn't see anything, or anyone, above this position that could pose a threat.

That didn't mean there wasn't one. But as soon as they got Mondatta inside the car, they'd be home clear.

Nearly there, Brooks thought, guiding Mondatta to the open door. Nearly there…

Damn, she can move.

There were some who called Lena the Fastest Woman Alive. With her chronal accelerator, that was pretty much the case, even if she'd never be allowed into the Olympics with it. But even then, she was having trouble keeping up with Widowmaker. Yes, she was faster. But she was still jumping from roof to roof, taking a moment on each, however short, to find her footing. In contrast, Widowmaker jumped from tile to tile with ease, never missing a step.

But as long as this chase had gone on, Lena still had a sense of direction. Where Widowmaker was headed.

To The Meridian.

To Mondatta.

She opened fire with her pistols, but Widowmaker was still moving too quickly. The guns were good for short bursts at short range – back in Overwatch, she'd get up close to the enemy, open fire, then blink back to where she'd started before they could react. Widowmaker however, had so far evaded her shots, through luck, through technological limitations, and, damn it, even through speed.

She told herself that it didn't matter. The longer she kept Widowmaker occupied, the longer Mondatta had to get out of the area safely.

Told herself, and found it hard to listen.

More shots. Another roof. Widowmaker jumped through the air, the lights of Big Ben shining behind her – the hour was marked 5:10 – counting forward through time, rather than counting down. Unaware of how the seconds were ticking down for Mondatta.

Lena jumped across as well, onto the adjacent roof, ran past a chimney…

And coughed, as purple gas enveloped her. Slowed her. Caused her to skid across the roof, its surface cutting through her suit and skin alike. She didn't scream – her throat was burning. Her lungs were burning. Even with her goggles, her eyes were watering. The purple mist was far behind her. But as she came to a stop, it didn't matter. Its effects were remaining. She continued to cough. Struggled to breathe. Managing, barely, to stay conscious. Widowmaker had set a trap for her. But if the trap was sprung, then where was the spider?

Click.

There she was, she reflected. Or more specifically, there was her rifle, right above her head, with a foot on her chest, connected to the body of Widowmaker. The spider, smirking, looking down at its prey, ready to inject a second, and final, round of poison. Lead, in this case.

"Such a sweet, foolish girl," the spider sneered.

Lena coughed – there was only one person in this world who called her sweet, and it wasn't this murderer. If words were what mattered, she would have made that clear. But words didn't win wars. Wits did. Wits, and technology. Wit enough to activate her chronal accelerator, technology rewinding her personal timestream. Taking her body back to where she'd been just before the gas had activated. Removing any trace of poison from her system, as her personal timeline was altered.

Theoretically, the accelerator could make her immortal. But now, all that mattered was to stay alive. So when the rewind stopped, as she found herself in mid-air, instead of letting gravity take her down, she blinked forward. Shooting upwards, and onwards. Looking down at the face of a very surprised spider.

"What's that?!" Lena yelled.

She fired her pistol. Moving at superhuman speed, Widowmaker dodged – the round didn't hit her. Instead, it hit a pipe, spewing steam everywhere. Making it impossible for Lena to see her.

The former agent landed, and drew out a pulse bomb. She couldn't see Widowmaker? Fine. Priming the device, she threw the explosive into the swirling fog. Either she got the spider, or the spider left its web for a second helping of pulse pistol. Easy peasy, lemon-

Bam.

No.

The bomb exploded in mid-air. In the microsecond that existed between seeing the explosion, and being hurled off the roof by the explosion, Lena realized that Widowmaker had shot the bomb almost immediately after she'd thrown it.

Oh…

The microsecond after that, she was falling down towards the ground.

Shit!

Struggling to stay conscious, she looked up.

No.

Widowmaker had jumped off the roof. Widowmaker was aiming her rifle at her. Widowmaker was pulling the trigger.

No!

The trigger was pulled.

The bullet was fired.

He heard the explosion before the screams.

Not shouts. The people, humans and omnics alike, had been shouting as soon as he'd led Mondatta away from the podium. This time, however…screams.

He, Mondatta, and Napleton looked up. In the night air, two bodies. Both falling. One above the other.

A shot. The lower body disappeared. And-

The sound of a third falling body.

The sound of someone screaming.

He turned around, and saw the third body.

Mondatta. Legs outside Chariot, upper body within it. A gaping hole in his chest. Sparks flickering. Wire exposed.

More shouts. More screams. Napleton and the Chariot Team trying to keep the people back.

He rushed towards Mondatta. Praying to whatever deity cared to listen that he was still alive. And for a moment, that looked like the case. Mondatta's diodes were still active. They…

They flickered. Off…on…off…off…

Off…out.

The diodes went out. Brooks, behind his glasses, stared in horror.

As Tekhartha Mondatta, Halo, Prophet of the Shambali, and the hope of millions, died.

This was it. The moment of the kill.

It wasn't the way this was meant to happen. She was meant to go in, take out the target, and be extracted. No muss, no fuss. Instead, she'd been shot at, her rifle's magazine was more depleted than she cared for, and she'd nearly lost her life herself.

But not now. Not anymore.

She'd tricked the trickster, and now, the trickster had fallen off the building – sent hurtling through the air by her own bomb. If she had more time, Widowmaker would have let her fall. But with every passing second, the target got closer to being taken away. And that…that was unthinkable.

She had to make the kill. There was no alternative.

So she'd jumped off the building. Before her was the crowd, and in it, headed for the armoured car, was Mondatta. Between her and him, a few hundred metres, and Tracer's body. Hundreds of faces looking up at the blast, and the two figures that had emerged from it. One face in particular, nine blue lights shining in the gloom…

She fired. And be it instinct or not, Tracer blinked away. Used her device to disappear into thin air, right before the bullet hit her.

Good for the girl. Even if the bullet had never been meant for her. The bullet, which continued onwards, downwards, and into Mondatta's chest, inwards.

It's done.

A feeling rushed through her. Not joy. Not adrenalin. Not anything that could be boiled down to psychology or physiology. But it was something. Happiness, or some approximation of it. Life, or its sensation. Taken from a kill. Taken from death. Flowing through her. Carrying her up as much as the grapple did, back to the rooftop. From whence she had dived down into Hell. Where, she saw, as she landed back on the roof, was a vantage point that she was sharing.

Tracer blinked back into existence. For a moment, she comically fingered her accelerator – checking for damage, perhaps? Or simply reassuring herself that she was still alive? Windowmaker didn't know, nor did she care. The knowledge that she could pull the trigger again and end the girl's life wasn't lost on her.

But that feeling…it stayed her hand. Kept her at bay. And, as Tracer turned and looked at her, as Widowmaker shouldered her rifle, guided her words as well.

"Looks like the party is over."

Despite the gloom, despite the orange goggles that Tracer wore, Widowmaker could see the confusion in her eyes. She could also see, and much more easily at that, how the girl zipped to the edge of the roof. To look down into the crowd, and behold her foe's handiwork.

"No, no, no," she heard the girl whisper. Still smirking. Still reflecting that she could end her life so easily.

"No, no, no, no!"

She didn't have to guess what had her so upset.

She, Tracer, was alive.

Tekhartha Mondatta wasn't.

A/N

Far as changes dictated by London Calling, nothing actually changed in this chapter, in case you're wondering.