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Overwatch: Alive
Chapter 6: Departed
Brooks knew it was the coward's way out, but even so, he'd taken it upon himself to lead a team across the rooftops.
He'd left Napleton to deal with the crowds. The vultures had come to feast, as they always did. In less than an hour, Mondatta's face would be on every news network in the country, and dozens of others outside it. Come the end of the week, there'd be riots – omnics blaming humans, humans blaming omnics, and letting the whirly-go keep spinning as the vultures continued to feed on the shared misery.
He would know. Similar things had happened in Glasgow, when Minister MacDonald had given his speech to the crowd. Something about independence, something about the economy, something about forging ties…it stopped mattering after the blast.
The explosion. The confusion. The terror. The rage. Napleton pulling him out of the rubble, before going on to help as many other people that he could. People screaming. Him, recuperating for weeks. Watching the news, reminding him of his failure.
People asked who did it, and when Talon claimed responsibility, why they did it. A question Talon never answered, but everyone knew anyway – because it was what Talon did. Inflict pain, so that people may grow from it. So that humanity might be strengthened. To ensure that after war, peace was not a given. It didn't matter what MacDonald had stood for, or what 84 people had died for, only that they had, and the world was a "better" place for it.
In one hand, moving at the head of one of the rooftop teams, Brooks clutched his pistol, while his other kept a finger to his ear. Status reports came in, from the rooftop teams, to SIS agents, to the Metropolitan Police, to even ambulance services. The chatter had made it clear that his hopes that only one person who'd died tonight were fated to be unmet – numerous security forces had been shot or otherwise incapacitated by the assassin. With every confirmation of a body, the knot in his stomach twisted tighter – Mondatta's name would be remembered for decades. Theirs would be forgotten before the week's end.
"Brooks."
As he was sure Napleton knew as well.
"Please tell me you're doing better up there than I'm down here."
Brooks scowled. "This line is for sit-reps only."
"Yeah, and the sit-rep is that the sit is fucked."
Brooks didn't answer.
"Brooks? You there?"
The agent quickened his pace. Hoping that with increased distance, Napleton's voice might give out.
"You know how this is going to go down, right?"
Hoping even still.
"The debriefs, for starters."
Brooks grunted.
"Brooks, you…know this isn't your fault, right?"
Brooks glanced at the men behind him. At the crowd below. At the signs some of them still held, and the red and blue lights, spinning through the gloom.
"Yeah, we guarded Mondatta, but it was the men up top who-"
Napleton came to a dead stop. Holstered his pistol, so that he could remove his glasses.
"…failed in their duty to-"
"Say whatever you want, Napleton," Brooks murmured, as he looked at the body before him. "The dead can't hear you."
Napleton didn't say anything. Not even that he was cutting the transmission, which he did. Actions, it seems, spoke louder than words. And some actions, Brooks reflected, were very bloody indeed.
He knew it was a waste of time, putting a finger to the man's neck. Blood was pouring out of his chest, despite the body armour that had covered it. His own rifle lay beside him, and given the lack of shell casings around him, the poor bastard hadn't been able to fire a shot. Even up here, the assassin had got the drop on him.
Poor bastard. Brooks looked at the team leader and shook his head. The man made no move, but Brooks could see him tighten the grip on his rifle even tighter.
"Mark him," Brooks said. "Rest of you, on me."
The men obliged, as one of their own set a marker. In silence, Brooks led the team on through the night.
"Guy dies for a fucking chrome-dome," one of the men murmured.
Silence that didn't last. Further broken as Brooks glanced at the man, murmuring, "stow that shit."
The security guard gave him a look. "Don't tell me you're going to shed tears over an omnic."
Brooks remained silent.
"We've got at least four men died who died for the steel-head, and-"
"You're dismissed."
The man stared at him. So did the rest of the team.
"Crowd control. You're on it." Brooks put his glasses back on. "Go."
"…sir, you don't have authority to-"
"I do." Brooks nodded to the other end of the roof. "Now piss off."
"…yes sir."
Brooks was glad he was wearing glasses. If he was shedding tears over Mondatta's death, he didn't want anyone to see it. Not those who couldn't hold their tongues, nor those who could.
Never let them see you bleed, Brooks reflected, recalling the words of his father, recounting his time in the Army. What about weeping?
He led the men on.
I understand family can be difficult.
As words from someone else continued to ring.
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.
Ringing with falsehood, as he wiped his eye.
Don't tell me you've gone soft?
Napleton's words echoed in his mind as well. Even without the use of the radio, he couldn't escape from him. At the time, he'd avoided answering. And now? Now he feared the answer.
It was a relief, really, to come to the edge of the roof. To stop and stare at the person below, unmoving. To see her slowly stir, rising to her feet.
Easier to behold the living, he reflected, than the dead.
Easier to deal with what was present, than what was lost.
"Lena."
Lying on the rooftop, she didn't know why she was hearing her father's voice.
"Lena, are you listening?"
Standing on the street beside the bus that would take her and other recruits to RAF Shawbury.
"Lena?"
She couldn't remember what she'd said. She might have been following in Lionel Oxton's footsteps, but that didn't mean they were on speaking terms. Not when she didn't see omnics in the same way he did – the world might have been trying to move on from the Omnic Crisis, but her father couldn't. Or, as Lena had suspected over the years, wouldn't. Years that, as they went on, led to further strains between them, as their views on life, the universe, and omnics diverged ever further.
But on that day, she'd looked at him.
"Always remember, a soldier must know his enemy."
Actually spoken to him.
"Or her?"
He'd given her a rare smile, and an even rarer hug. "Or her."
The words had stuck with her. From the training grounds, to the Slipstream, to Overwatch. She'd come to think of herself as a soldier. Fighting to defend people and ideals alike.
Lying on the ground, she managed not to cry. She'd failed to defend Mondatta tonight. And his ideal, of a better world…it might have died with him.
She wondered what her father would have said about that.
Get up.
It wasn't her father's voice that echoed in her ears however.
Get up.
It was hers.
Get up. Now.
Or was it Emily's?
You have to get up.
Odd. She was usually the one telling her partner to do so.
Get up!
She grit her teeth, pushing against the ground. The chill in the evening air entered her lungs. Drew out her breath. Let her bones burn, as she struggled to push herself off the concrete. Flew out as she let out a soft cry, falling back to the ground.
I can't do this.
Lying down on the ground. Like at Shawbury, when Master Sergeant Caruso had given her a piece of his mind. Or in the training room of Overwatch HQ, when Genji had given her a piece of his fist. Reminding her that speed didn't always overcome skill.
Like tonight?
She began to push herself up again. Even as her bones screamed, as she'd done in what was a lifetime ago.
A soldier must know her enemy.
Not a soldier, she reminded herself. Not anymore. For the last five years, she'd been nothing more than a vigilante. Her 'wars' revolving around handbags and cats stuck in trees. Actual wars had been waged in the world, but over the past half decade, her 'battles' had been nothing of the sort.
Was that why she'd failed?
She thought of Widowmaker. Imagined her face before hers. As she'd been on the rooftop above. Smiling at her. Whispering to her. Mocking her. Imagining it now…it actually helped her get up. Put the physical pain to one side, as her mind experienced pain of its own.
Why would you do this?!
Widowmaker hadn't answered. And even now, she didn't have an answer herself. In her 26 years on this Earth, nothing she'd seen, read, or experienced, had given her the answer as to why people like Widowmaker did what they did. Creating chaos, instead of fighting it. Taking lives, instead of saving them.
But it's at the centre of this thing, she reminded herself. Still reaching upward, carrying the weight of her body and soul alike. Maybe I should understand it.
She rose to her feet. Shook her head. Felt her chest, and winced, seeing the damage to her chronal accelerator. She hadn't faded into nothingness, so it was clearly still functioning. But as the shining blue light in its centre winked on and off, not perfectly.
Not like Mondatta, she remembered. He was dead. His shining blue diodes…they would have closed forever.
The movement cannot be stopped, Tracer. We are not machines, we are messages…we are ideas. And an idea cannot be killed.
She hoped Mondatta was right. For his sake. For Iggy's, Lizzy's, and Lady's. For all omnics and humans alike.
"You there!"
For hers.
"Hands where I can see them."
She almost burst out laughing, seeing the rifle pointed at her from above. Widowmaker had failed to kill her tonight, and now, a security officer was threatening to finish the job. Even if the SIS agent didn't put a hand on top of the rifle, slowly lowering it, she would have let her mind drift anyway.
Why would Widowmaker kill Mondatta? Was she hired?
"Tracer?" the agent called out.
His voice sounded familiar. Even if he looked the same as all the other men in black.
Maybe this is a war. Or the start of one.
"Stay there, I'm coming-"
"No."
The agent stood there. Looking down at her. Like God alongside angels with guns, ready to cast judgement.
"I'm leaving." She looked at the men's rifles. At the way the agent fingered his jacket, where a holster might be. "And you can't stop me."
"Tracer, I'm ordering you to-"
She didn't say anything. Charging her accelerator, she bounded off into the night.
Mondatta was dead. The British government and all its agencies would have to look into that. Possibly even look into her now, as well. Not to mention Emily. But as Lionel Oxton had once said, every soldier had to know their enemy.
Maybe there was a war coming. Maybe not. But here, now…she was alive.
And now, it was time to head home. To join the living. To spend the night with the person she loved.
And prepare for tomorrow.
To continue to fight for the living.
Inside the dropship, she watched the newsfeeds.
Today in the streets of London, an explosion and shots fired…
The pleasure of the kill was more important than the pleasure of its aftermath. But even so…
…resulting in the assassination of a major figure…
She smiled, knowing that her mark had been made.
…in the fight for equality.
Even if Jane Mean of Channel 4 News wasn't. But then, people like her would never know the glory of the kill…and the deadness of life between shots.
An icon on her HUD flashed – one bearing the symbol of Talon. She accepted it…
An official police statement released just a minute ago…
But didn't mute the audio-feed. So when the face of Sanjay Korpal appeared, she could listen to the words of Talon and news-vulture alike.
"When we sent you to kill Mondatta, we expected it to be without complications."
…states that omnic leader, Mondatta, was shot and killed by an unknown assailant.
She frowned. "The job was done."
"Poorly." He leant back in his chair – behind him was a glass wall, and beyond that, the shining hard-light spires of Utopaea. It was in stark contrast to the hologram that had been displayed earlier. As if now that the job was done, he was willing to shine in the light, while casting a longer shadow than ever before.
"One shot, one kill," Sanjay said. That's what we expect of you."
"And yet, I always carry a full clip." Her lips curled, like a cat observing a spider. "And I wasn't expecting complications."
Usually, she wouldn't talk back to a commander, let alone one who sat on the Inner Council. But with her heart beating faster, with her blood flowing thicker, with her right finger, still stiff from pulling the trigger…her lips were loose.
Sanjay picked up a datapad and frowned. "I'm aware of the reports," he murmured.
There are also reports that former members of Overwatch, including former Overwatch agent Tracer, may have had some connection to the tragedy.
Listening to the feeds, so was she
"Perhaps we can arrange something to ensure any further operations are unmarred by such…complications." He put the datapad down. "But complications or no…"
Before his assassination, Mondatta was speaking to an audience of devotees, continuing his message of peace and harmony between humans and omnics.
"…you did the job." He smiled. "And both Talon and Vishkar stand to benefit."
"Vishkar?" she whispered.
Something in Sanjay's eye twitched. Nevertheless, he murmured, "Talon thrives on chaos. Vishkar thrives on solving chaos. I help Talon, I help Vishkar."
"Some might question your loyalty."
"And some might yours," he snapped. He leant back in his chair, smiling in a manner that would make Machiavelli blush. "But then, what would a brainwashed assassin know of loyalty?"
She had no answer.
Attendees reported hearing gunshots and at least one prior explosion prior to the shot that ultimately killed Mondatta. He died surrounded by security while standing only inches from his armored vehicle.
Even terminating the audio-feed didn't help her come to the answer.
Loyalty. Something she knew, on some level, had been programmed into her. Put in a cell, brainwashed, sent to kill Gerard Lacroix, and had then returned to Talon. Given extensive training in covert arts and transformed into a living weapon. Her heart slowed to help her aim, numbing her skin and soul alike, if the latter even existed. A living weapon who knew she was a weapon, who continued to act as a weapon. To took likes without mercy, as only a weapon could. Feeling life only in the presence of death.
All of this for the last six years. And done because…
She licked her lips. Because there was nothing else. Because if her soul remained, it wouldn't be going to the place where her first kill had. Even if she'd let Tracer live. Because that…because she'd taken a life tonight, she reflected. Many lives. And there were times to let the living live. Because it was only when taking lives, that she herself, felt life. Like any living weapon should.
Like a spider.
"You'll be debriefed in Rome," Sanjay said. "Can't say when I'll be there next. In the meantime…" He smirked. "Keep spinning your web."
She let him terminate the feed. Not pointing out that she didn't spin webs. That all she did was walk along it. Walking the path of silk laid out to her. Sinking her fangs into whatever target presented herself. Like tonight. Or…
She raised her visor, the image of a scared, confused girl filling her sight.
"Why?!"
Her question filling her ears.
"Why would you do this?!"
She laid her rifle across her lap. Began to dismantle it.
Magazine – thirty-five rounds. Effective range up to three point four klicks.
Gripped it, as she might an old friend.
Compatible with the T4 recon visor.
Tried to empty her mind. To prepare for the next mission.
"You're a real widow-maker, aren't you?"
Tried, and failed. Because as her mind wandered, it returned not to her last kill, but her first.
She couldn't say she was surprised.
For what were strands of memory, but a web?
From which even the spider could not escape?
Escaping the estate had nearly been as easy as being brought inside it.
Two weeks of memorizing the patrol routes of the guards and drones. Knowing the emergency exit located beneath the greenhouse that would take her to a well located outside the wall. Poor Bianchi had unfortunately not kept up with his schedule, which was why she'd had to break his neck and pull him inside the greenhouse, but apart from that…
Her heart beat ever faster as she continued to run through the forest beyond the estate, heading north to the RV point.
She was only meant to take one life tonight. Not another. Bianchi didn't need to die, a voice told her. Only the target did.
Or didn't?
Her heart beat faster. Blood continued to stain her makeshift bandage. Her mind continued to run.
You killed him.
Blood flowed ever faster.
I killed him.
Mind screamed, fell silent, then screamed again.
We killed him?
Her sweatshirt. Stained. Marked.
Murderer.
She, herself, damned?
She came to a stop. Taking what time she dared to catch her breath. Sooner or later, the target's body would be found. Likely later, but the plan had already gone slightly wrong tonight. And when Bianchi failed to report in…
Didn't need to die.
She ran ever faster. As if trying to outrun the voice within.
You killed your husband.
She steadied her breathing, using the techniques that Talon had imparted to her. The target was Amelie's husband. Not hers.
What is your name?
She was not Amelie. They had asked her what her name was, and caused pain when she'd lied to them. Amelie was…not her.
What is your name?
In the forest of the night, she dared to close her eyes. To trade one type of darkness for another.
Are you alive?
She dared open her eyes, and looked up at the trees. The forest canopy was thick, but she could make out the moon, and some of the stars. Even here, with shadows above and within, there was enough light for her to behold herself. To see the blood on her hands. To listen to…and silence…the voice that lurked within.
Go back.
Or try to.
Go back.
She closed her eyes. Listened to the silence of the night. Yearning for anything to break that silence.
Go back. It's not too late. You can-
There. A quiver in the air. Opening her eyes, she found herself meeting the gaze of another.
A barn owl. A creature of black eye and white feather. A creature that she knew she had seen before…once…in another life, perhaps…when she had been called Amelie…
Still Amelie…
She ignored the voice, but the owl kept staring. Perched on its branch, its beak opened and closed, as if it was trying to speak. As if trying to whisper, "go back."
Long ago, someone had told Amelie that the owl was the symbol of the goddess Athena. Known once in this part of the world as Minerva. A goddess of wisdom and warfare. A goddess that she supposed, she might look up to. For it was through Talon's wisdom that the operation had been conducted. Talon's wisdom, through which Akande Ogundimu's vision could be realized. Wisdom, which would lead to warfare, which would lead to a stronger humanity. Wisdom that people like the target, and the woman who had been his wife could not see.
The owl didn't seem to see it either. It just looked down at her. Less an instrument of a pagan goddess, and more like an angel. Sitting in judgement.
Eyes unblinking…wings unmoving…her heart, beating…until the owl flew away as a shadow passed above the trees.
She smiled, even as Amelie wept. She ran through the forest, heading after her transport.
The forest remained silent, as did, at last, her mind. The running. It helped. It took her back, almost…when she was out of the room, and trained to master her body, after they rebuilt her mind…or a time before even that, when she moved differently. When she didn't so much run, but…danced…
The target had seen her. The woman whom he called Amelie. Watched her. Applauded her. Loved her…
And now he's dead.
Whether that thought be her own or the woman who lurked inside her mind, she couldn't tell.
She made it to the RV point. The transport that touched down was a modified stealth helicopter. Supplied to Talon through contacts in the Slovak Army, it wasn't high-tech, but it did the job. Advanced enough to fly under the radar (literally), and to make minimal noise via its rotors, but cheap enough that it could easily be maintained. Overwatch, as directed by the target, had done plenty of damage to the organization, reducing its supply of armaments and personnel. What dropships they had couldn't be deployed at a whim.
She stood there as two troopers came out of the helicopter. Men in black armour, pointing black rifles at her, with red helmets, from which shone two orange lights. Demons in the dark, only coming from above rather than below. Striding free, now that Minerva's representative had departed. Perhaps to find angels of better nature.
One of the soldiers spoke, his voice distorted by his helmet, but otherwise clear. "Demand me nothing, what you know, you know."
Through the dark, she whispered, "a murder, which I thought a sacrifice."
As the trooper lowered his weapon, she was left to reflect that she didn't know if that was true or not. But the words had been exchanged, and she was free to be whisked away to a Talon safehouse in Austria for debriefing. Plus, additional enhancements.
Run.
The other trooper walked forward.
Still not too late.
She could swear that behind that helmet, he was smirking.
Don't have to…
"So you did it, eh?" he asked.
The voice had no answer. Nor did she.
"Killed your hubby?"
Still, the silence. Still, the silent screams.
"Wow," he said. "You're a real widow-maker aren't you?"
She opened her mouth to correct him. But no words came out. In part, because his counterpart beckoned for them to board the helicopter. In part, because he had spoken the truth.
She had killed the target. Gerard Lacroix. And the one called Amelie…the one he believed to be Amelie…she'd made her a widow.
Now, all that was left was to return to Talon. To complete her training. To become the perfect assassin. To take the lives of more men, and be a widow-maker.
Still not…too late…
To wait for Amelie to fall silent.
To cease to be alive.
A/N
Unlike the last two chapters, this was another case of me having to change this chapter significantly to fit London Calling. Or at least, specifically in regards to Tracer.
My original idea for this chapter basically had Tracer and Brooks interacting (a sort of reflection for both characters), then have Tracer's story arc end with her contacting Winston, having a "I'm in" moment, as in, spurred to join Overwatch by the events of the story (tying in with the conversation they'd have in the original version of this story). Again, however, London Calling made this impossible, given the shifting of the timeline and whatnot. This also extended to the planned Tracer-Brooks interaction, since the comic makes it clear that this can't happen, in part due to the artwork of the panels, in part because she's only listed as being "possibly involved" in the event by the media, rather than confirmed. Why she's never questioned in the comic is a mystery, but meh. Also, fun fact, her thinking of herself as a soldier? My original plan was to have her reflect on the opposite, but nup, the comic made me rewrite the entire section I'd already rewritten once I went back and actually checked the monologue.
Go figure.