Screeching tires, crunching metal, a bystander nearby screamed. The tang of blood and smoke stung the nose of the young woman lying on the asphalt and she suddenly found she couldn't breathe. Every movement sent streaks of unbearable pain coursing through her body.

"Let me through, I am a doctor!"

Camphor and tea flooded her senses as she dove into a pair of cerulean eyes.

A flash of light, the overpowering scent of hospital, the squeaking of wheels, and…

Relief, if only momentary.

"Go… Change your fate…" the name died on the angel's lips as the heart monitor stalled.

You awoke with a start, coughing heavily and gasping for air as if you'd been unable to breathe while you'd slept. Sweat clung greedily to your skin, sending cold shivers dancing across the skin of your arms in the early morning chill. While you scolded yourself for forgetting to close the window last night, your mind mulled over the scattered remnants of your dream. This was nothing new to you. In the five years of your known life, this was the first comprehensible memory, reduced to nothing more than a few passing fragments of a dream.

You rolled over and stared at the ceiling, running your fingers over the ring on your finger, thinking. Your name was Briallen Marsh, you were twenty-six years old, you were currently jobless, single, and suffering from amnesia. You had been in an accident five years ago involving a speeding four-wheeler and your inattention to the traffic lights. You'd been hit head on with such force that you flew about fifteen feet into a smaller car, knocking it askew. You should not have survived. But you did, thanks to a doctor who happened to be onsite and kept you stable. If they hadn't been there, you would have died on the spot. You'd wanted to thank your saviour, but they had disappeared before you woke up, leaving nothing but a name; Doctor Angela Zeigler.

"Maow," came the plaintive cry of your roommate before he leapt onto your stomach, causing you to let out a breathy "Oof!"

Chuckling, you reached up and scratched the top of his head. "Is it that time already, Piddie?"

He responded with a soft chirp.

Euripides, or Piddie for short, was your partner in crime and had been with you all five years of your known life. You'd found him, a sick little Cymric kitten, wandering behind the café you worked in for a while back in Switzerland and it was love at first sight. You'd taken him home and nursed him back to health, naming him after one of your favourite ancient playwrights. In all your five years of living, you don't think you'd ever met a sweeter cat.

You groaned softly, glancing over at the clock beside your bed to check the time; 5:30 AM, a good three hours before you'd normally wake up. Great. Piddie must have sensed your lack of unconsciousness and decided to take advantage of it. One of these days you were going to ignore him, roll over, and go back to sleep. But today was not going to be the day. Gathering yourself together, you sat up, gently scooped the furry baby up into your arms, and trudged your way into the bathroom, blinking the slight bit of sleep fuzz out of your eyes.

"What do you think, Piddie, am I gonna get a call today?" you asked, yawning as you set him down on the little towel bin on the back of your toilet and went to turn the shower on.

Euripides settled down happily among the fluffy fabric and purred, flicking his ears.

You chuckled and peeled off your pajamas before climbing into the shower, letting the lukewarm water slowly wake your tired muscles. This was your favourite part of the morning, especially when you could get your old handheld radio working and play some half-decent music to work alongside the semi-cold water to help wake you up. The stations in your area hardly ever played anything good, but it was better than a depressing, silent morning.

Euripides followed you out of the bathroom when you finished, brushing against your wet legs as you searched for something to wear and padding quickly after you when you were dressed and went to make your morning tea. Such was your morning routine; wake up, shower, get dressed, start tea, feed Euripides, edit tea, drink tea and read a good book with the cat on your lap. This had been your routine for a good month while you waited to get calls back for the jobs you had applied for.

"Maybe that cute guy who works at the coffee shop will be there today and a date might spur out of our awkward small talk," you said jokingly, pulling the teabag out of your mug.

Euripides gave you the cat version of a frown, pulling his ears back a bit and flicking his nonexistent tail as he took a bite of his Dancy Feast breakfast.

You laughed a bit, spooning a bit of sugar into your tea before picking up your book and heading to your apartment's little living room. "Yeah, you're right. That's far outside the realm of possibilities for me. I guess I'll end up being a crazy cat lady, then. What do you think of having, like, seven siblings, Piddie?"

He growled , scarfing down the rest of his breakfast before racing into the living room and hunkering down on your lap, making you laugh again.

"Alright, alright, I guess I'll have to be a crazy cat lady with one cat, though I don't know how that's going to work," you said, petting his head. Settling down, you quickly slipped into the world of fantasy printed on the pages in your hands.

The morning passed quickly and quietly with no form of disturbance. That is, until it hit 7:00, when your phone sprang to life with the familiar ringtone that meant an unfamiliar number was calling.

You sprang from the couch, nearly knocking the china mug onto the hardwood floor and swiped up your phone from where it lay on the coffee table. You glanced at the number, only barely registering that it read "Private", and answered it without a second thought.

"Ms. Briallen Marsh?" the caller asked before you could even say hello. The voice was deep, slightly gravelly and familiar in such a way that it sent shivers down your spine. Strange, you hadn't known anyone with such a voice, not that you could remember anyway. Maybe it was one of those weird deja vu moments.

Brushing off the strange feeling, you nodded, shooing Euripides away from your feet where he circled eagerly. "Uh, yes, this is her! How can I help you?" 'You've got to sound cheerful, Bri, Make them like you.'

"I'm calling in regards to the application you sent in. Are you available for an interview later today?"

Honey-brown eyes peered back at you from the glass of the cafe window, nerves sparkling through their depths. You'd dressed nicely for the occasion - a gentle, off-shoulder bow-knot ruffle blouse tucked into a slim black skirt, done your hair up in a somehow messy and neat ponytail, and even done your makeup, though it wasn't much. Your entire appearance screamed "assistant", and that was perfect, it was what you were going for, after all. If you nailed this interview, you were set for life, able to do the little things you enjoyed doing (making coffee, organising paperwork, all the little menial tasks that made life flow easier in a company), and you were going to be paid handsomely for it. Which made you very nervous.

A knock on the window startled you and you looked down to see a young couple staring oddly up at you. The older of the two women waved a hand and offered a confused "Why are you staring?" look to you. Embarrassed, you held up an apologetic hand, chuckling awkwardly as you turned away, rubbing the back of your neck.

'Good going, Bri,' you thought, taking a deep breath and forcing yourself to step into the cafe. 'How awkward can you possibly be? Try not to be like this during the interview… you need the job and the cash. Living in the apartment isn't exactly cheap, you know…'

"Welcome to Lucky's!" a waitress greeted you, smiling over in your direction as she finished serving coffee to a table of drooling teenage boys. "Just take a seat and one of our staff will come take your order when you're ready!"

"Actually," you started quietly, suddenly conscious of how out of place you looked; everyone here was dressed casually in jumpers and scarves and the occasional hat to battle the autumn chill, and here you were, trussied up and sticking out like a sore thumb. You shrunk a bit where you stood, trying to make yourself look smaller, less of a social target. "I'm here for an interview. Is there a Mr. Jones here?"

The waitress' smile faded a bit as she thought, her bottom lip poking out, making her look absolutely adorable. "Um, I don't believe so. Stay right there while I double check for you, love." She offered you another dazzling smile before gliding away, the boy's gazes following her, enraptured. You didn't blame them; she was very attractive.

Nodding, you stood there awkwardly, holding your light autumn jacket in your arms and trying to not feel so out of place. You felt like everyone's gaze was on you, even though they probably weren't. You weren't an important person, so why would they be concerned with you? Even still, your self-consciousness didn't let up and you felt like you were under a spot light.

After what felt like an eternity of standing on stage after forgetting your lines, Honey, the pretty waitress whose nametag you could now read, came back with a soft, apologetic smile and a menu. "My apologies, ma'am, but there is no Mr. Jones here now. But, we can get you settled at a table to wait for him, if you'd like," she offered.

You smiled gratefully, happy to be moved out of the sight of the other patrons, and nodded. "That would be lovely, thank you," you murmured, accepting the menu and following her to a table near the back. She'd obviously noted your discomfort.

"I'll give you a few minutes to decide what you'd like, and if I'm busy, I'll send Raeven to take care of you," she said, giving you a little curtsey and a charming wink before walking away.

Your cheeks flared up with a slight blush at the gesture, and you cleared your throat, dropping your gaze down to the menu. You'd been to Lucky's before; a quaint little cafe a few blocks away from your London apartment, it had been a fan favourite amongst your small group of friends. Anytime you guys met up for an afternoon, Lucky's was the place you hung out at before and after every event, it was where you celebrated little victories, like getting a promotion, winning the gaming competition (which was really Gibson and Iris' thing, but you all supported them anyway), and finally succeeding in making a decent casserole. Your group of friends was small, but it meant the world to you, even if more than half of them were halfway across the world right now; online friends were the greatest, in your opinion.

Speaking of the devil, just as you had decided what you wanted - a simple chai tea latte - your phone exploded with the usual vibrations which meant the triplets, Iris, Caelen, and Sylvia, were awake and active. Smiling, you pulled your phone out of your pocket to check your group chat.

The first thing you saw was a picture Caelen had taken of the three of them, with Caelen looking to be the first one fully awake. Iris was frowning with a toothbrush in her mouth, giving the camera the middle finger, and Sylvia was staring absentmindedly across the room from her bunk bed, her hair an absolute disaster. Caelen was smiling and posing with the all too iconic peace sign. The caption read; "GM frm Washington!"

You held back a chuckle, fondly letting your gaze rest on the image. You missed the triplets, ever since they'd moved to America with their aunt, things had been a lot more quiet around here. They'd been the ones who came up with the nicknames in the chat; you were "Bee" because you were "as sweet as honey", Gibson was "Hacker" because he worked in database security for his father's company and knew the ins and outs of pretty much every corporate database out there, Sylvia was "Baby" because she was the most innocent out of the group, which was surprising because she lived with Caelen, "MB" (short for Mama Bear), and Iris "PB" (short for Papa Bear), who were both known to use strings of expletives whenever something even remotely negative happened.

BEE: Good afternoon, lovelies! Is Syl gonna be okay? She looks like she needs some coffee…

MB: Y, she's fine. Had a lng nght

PB: FFS, MB, we BOTH did! Stp banging ur fwb in the opp room!

BEE: Sheesh, should I go? Do you two need some space? ;)

HACKER: God u 3 woke me up! I had 2 pull an allnter 4 my dad. Some ff broke my firewalls & cracked evrythng wide open

BABY: On behalf of my sisters, I apologise. Is everything going to be alright, Gibson?

You were surprised to see Sylvia joining in the messages, she'd looked so zonked in the photo Caelen had sent that you'd expected her to be offline for the next hour or so.

HACKER: Y, evrythng should b fine. I think I fixed it all. Dad was P.O'ed, tho.

BEE: I can make him some of my famous banoffee pie and bring it by the office after my interview if it helps.

MB: U got the interview?

PB: WTF y ddnt u tell us!

BABY: Congratulations, Briallen! I'm sure you'll do great! Charm their socks off!

HACKER: Congrats! Soon u'll b makng more thn me!

You chuckled and shook your head as the chat slowly devolved into its usual state. As you watched the messages jump up the screen, you thought back to what had brought you all together. As nerdy as it sounded, you were all major geeks and each a fan of the once mighty Overwatch. Everything had started from a theory board, moved to Instaphoto messages, then to texts, then finally you'd all met in person, right here in Lucky's. The triplets had lived a lot closer than Washington D.C, USA, in fact, it turned out they had lived in the same apartment building you did currently. Gibson lived a bit further off, in Westminster, but still close enough that the transport from there to Lucky's wasn't very expensive. Everyone had lost their minds when they heard you'd been saved by the Dr. Angela Ziegler - you were pretty sure Gibson had a shrine to her somewhere in his house -, and you'd sat around a table near the fireplace just sharing stories and getting to know each other.

"I'm back! So, have you settled on what you want or do I need to give you more time?"

You looked up from your phone screen to see Honey smiling down at you again, a pen and little notepad in hand. Her presence wasn't exactly nerve-wracking for you, but she did have a personable aura about her that your suddenly shier side battled with.

"Uh, y-yes, just a tai chee latte, I mean, a chai tea latte for me, thanks," you managed, forcing a small smile as you brushed your bangs back. 'Get it together, Bri. You can't be this awkward when Mr. Jones gets here, you definitely won't get the job then.'

Honey giggled and nodded, writing your order down. "Hot or cold, love?"

"Hot, please."

"Alright! I'll be back with that in a few minutes. Anything else?" she asked, her smile unfading.

"No, that's all."

She nodded again and tucked the pen behind her ear before quite literally sashaying away to take someone else's order. You felt the blood in your cheeks rise and you swallowed heavily, trying to shake it off. It wasn't often that you had someone so blatantly flirt with you, but it was a bit jarring each time. You needed moral support for this.

Picking up your phone, you glanced through the messages and asked for help, all of which your friends tried to give you was little to no help at all. They really were great friends.

Half an hour, three lattes, and one piece of cake later, and there was still no Mr. Jones. Honey had upped her charm, loosened up a bit with you, joked a bit, even gave you the cake on the house. All you were waiting for was the bill with her number written on it. That and Mr. Jones. You were starting to get worried. Did something happen? Was he in an accident? Did you have the wrong cafe? What if this was just a prank? Your phone chirruped with a notification and you hastily picked it up, hoping it would help you understand what was going on.

It didn't.

It was a message from an unknown number, short and simple: The interview is a trap. Get out while you still can.

Panic flooded your system with adrenaline, your mind whirling as your heartbeat sped up. What did that mean? A trap? Well, you certainly couldn't leave now, not without paying. You looked up, hoping to see Honey somewhere nearby, but, for the first time that evening, she was out of your field of sight, as well as any other server you'd seen that afternoon. What was going on?

You gripped your phone tightly, watching as a man at the table next to yours, stood. He'd been sitting alone since before you came in, sipping the same cup of coffee that was most likely ice cold by now. Your pulse pounded in your ears as he reached into his coat and pulled out a pistol. Three shots into the air was all it took to send people into a panic, running screaming out the door. The only people that remained were a few other patrons who had sat calmly until everyone else had filed out, and yourself.

"Burza, get the door," the man said, his voice heavy and thick with a Midlands accent. His smile made your skin crawl as he turned to look back at you, something wicked in his eyes. "You're a brave little thing, aren't you?"

You swore you felt your phone case crack under the pressure of your grip, but you couldn't tear your gaze away from his to see if it had. You felt oddly calm with only an undertone of panic, and the adrenaline coursed through your body as you tensed, ready to leap if the moment presented itself.

The man laughed, a dark sound that was grating to your ears. "Look at you, so coiled up and ready to strike." He walked around, brushing the muzzle of the gun across your cheek. "Won't do you much good, though," he whispered, leaning down to press his nose into your hair, chuckling darkly. "You make one sudden movement and my boys will have you riddled with holes."

One of the "patrons" cleared her throat, glaring over at the man.

He simply chuckled again, standing up. "And my girls as well. Can't forget the lovely ladies now, can we?"

"Of course you can't, that'd be sexist," you said blithely, eyes following him as he paced a circle around your table. 'What the fuck are you doing? Don't antagonise the man with the gun!'

"Ooh, she's got a mouth on her, eh? Well, then why don't we make her talk, hmm? Tell me, girlie," he said, pulling out the chair on the other side of your table, his pistol still aimed at you. "What do you know about Overwatch?"

You couldn't help but snort softly, raising an eyebrow. "That's what this is about? I'm sorry, but you've got the wrong person, sir. I've no connections to-"

He tipped the pistol up and the bullet grazed your ear, making you freeze, suddenly realising the situation. This man wouldn't hesitate to kill you. One false move and you'd be dead in a heartbeat. You were treading on eggshells now.

"Th-They are, er, were an organisation created during the Omnic crisis to help defeat the omnics. After the crisis, they continued helping the world until Blackwatch became part of public knowledge and the outcry caused the government to issue the Petras act, which shutdown the organisation and any later resurgence," you spouted, ignoring the pain in your left ear. "Other than that, I know nothing." 'Liar. You know they're coming back, albeit quietly. Why are you lying to him? Why put your life in danger to keep that knowledge a secret?'

"So, if I were to ask you why you were here, you wouldn't say it's for an interview with an agent of Overwatch for their open assistant position?" he asked, making your heart beat faster with fear.

"N-No, sir, I'm just here for an-"'Wait… that number was privated this morning… I wasn't told what Mr. Jones would look like… What did I sign up for?'

He grinned slyly, tilting the gun a bit as he met your gaze. "Interview, perhaps? Where are they located?"

"What- I don't, I have no idea what you're talking about-" you gritted your teeth as another bullet grazed your arm, sinking into the wall behind you. Lucky's was going to have some big repairs to make if this kept up.

"Who was coming to meet you?"

"I-I don't know. A Mr. Jones, I've never met him. That was all I was told," you said, squeezing your phone again. The case was definitely cracked, you could feel the plastic edge digging into your fingers, any more force in your grip and you'd have blood trickling down your arm.

"I'll give you one more chance, Ms. Marsh, who was coming to meet you?"

Your phone rang, the same tone from this morning, and you looked down to see the name was "Answer Me". 'Is that… is that them? I have to know…'

"Who is that?" the man asked, frowning, a dangerous look given your circumstances.

"My mum," you answered without hesitation, pulling your best poker face. "Please, if I don't answer it, she'll get worried. I promise I'll answer all your questions truthfully, just let me talk to my mum one more time." You turned your eyes up to him, pleading and biting your lip nervously.

It took a couple precious seconds, but he grunted and gestured to the phone with the gun. "Answer it. Five minutes."

Letting out a sigh of relief, you picked up the call and nearly smashed the phone against your cheek. "Hi, mum!" you forced yourself to sound cheery, carefully watching the armed man across the table.

"You're still in the cafe, ain't ya?" the voice that answered had a nice American southern drawl to it, making you smile softly. You knew exactly who this was. This was Overwatch. "They listenin' in?"

"Yes, mum, I'm still in the cafe. I just got done with the interview, I think I did pretty good. They said they'd contact me again, could possibly be a letter addressed to me," you answered, praying to god that he understood what you meant. You couldn't exactly answer his questions with the man listening to your side of the conversation. "How archaic is that?"

"A letter, darlin'? Now that is very archaic," the cowboy on the line chuckled, surprisingly jovial given the situation. "How many are in the buildin', sweetpea?"

You had to stop yourself from raising an eyebrow as you let your eyes wander over to the people standing guard; one in the front, two in the back, and one next to you and the man who had nearly shot you twice. 'Does he always talk like this?... Fuck, okay, five. Uh, how do I communicate that without giving this away?' "Yeah, I know, right? Nobody sends letters anymore. Anyway I think the interviewer was flirting with me, he commented on how pretty I looked at least five times. It must be my outfit because my waitress did the same and everyone was looking at me when I walked in, got up to go to the bathroom at the back of the cafe, and I swear there was even a man watching me while I sat here!"

The man with the gun snorted, scowling a bit. "You wish, sweetheart," he murmured, flicking the gun a bit. "Two minutes."

"Five? Really? Huh, thought they'd go all out for this one, 'specially if so many people were flirtin' with you, sugar," he chuckled, you could hear the smile on his face, even when it faded. "Alright, listen' here, darlin', don't do nuthin' erratic. Everything's gonna be alright, you hear? Jus' keep distractin' them while I break open the back door. I'll see you in a few, darlin'."

The line went dead and you cursed mentally, quickly finishing up the one-sided conversation just to keep up the act a little longer. You finished with an exuberant amount of "I love you"s before you finally "hung up" the phone with a sheepish smile. "Sorry, my mum's a little clingy. Helicopter parent, you know?"

"Whatever, just answer my question, who-" he jumped at a small explosion from the back of the building and the sound of gunfire, his finger slipping on the trigger and sending a bullet into your arm. His face was red with fury when he looked back at you. "You sneaky little bitch! Richards, Shirley! Go take care of that!" he shouted, turning his gaze away for a second.

Without thinking, you sprung into action, flipping the table over and tackling the woman next to you. You wrestled on the ground with her for a few seconds, but your surprise attack had caught her off guard, which made it easier to rip the semiautomatic from her hands.

The man who had shot you let out a furious cry, pushing himself up from off the ground and leveling his gun with your head. "You're dead, bitch."

"No, you," you said, voice clipped as you wasted no time in letting a few rounds rip through him before he could pull the trigger. Your breathing was hard, yet steady as you watched him fall, not necessarily dead, but definitely dying, his pistol skittering across the ground. Pushing yourself up, you snatched up the pistol before the girl could get to it. As you turned, she let out a feral scream and leapt at you, managing to slice open your shoulder with the knife in her hand. Unfortunately for her, the movement put her stomach against the muzzle of the rifle and your reflexes had you squeeze the trigger. She was definitely dead.

Blood splattered your arms and face, ruining both your makeup and your blouse, which, disturbingly enough, was the thing that you were most upset with. You'd just killed two people, went full on fucking combat mode on them, and you were worried about how you looked? You dropped the guns almost as soon as Jesse McCree stepped into view, his eyes wide.

Your gazes met, and you could have sworn in that moment you'd never seen a prettier pair of eyes on a guy. No, that was a lie, you'd seen the old Jack Morrison posters, but goddamn. Had it not been for the fact that you'd seen quite a few pictures of him, you wouldn't have recognised him without his usual cowboy getup and signature beard. He was dressed in what appeared to be something more along the lines of normal civilian wear, a pair of slacks and a rather nice looking, yet blood splattered, suit. He looked nice, even if a bit feral.

"Hey there, cowboy," you croaked, smiling a bit. "You're late."

He stared at you, wide-eyed for a second, before pointing at the bodies near your feet. "Did you do this?"

You cringed a bit. "Uh, yeah. Self… Self-defense. The fat one would have killed me had I not done something. Didn't mean for it to go this far…" You reached up to rub the back of your neck and hissed as pain ripped through your arm. Oh, yeah, you'd forgotten you'd actually gotten shot. And stabbed. Endorphins and shock can be wonderful at times.

He frowned and made his way over to you in a few strides, gently gripping your arm to inspect it. "Damn, and here I was hopin' to get you outta here unharmed. There goes that dream, I suppose."

Your head reeled with the scent of whiskey and cigars that came with him, and his warmth made you want to press yourself against him. Thankfully, you were in a right enough mind not to do so, and you just watched as he gently wrapped your arm up in some fabric he ripped from his suit shirt.

"Well, I had a dream of getting an interview and landing a job today, so I guess we were both disappointed," you quipped softly, the moment not quite sinking in yet. "And you're lucky, if you had come in any earlier and I hadn't dropped the guns, you might be dead where you stood."

He looked up at you, confusion dancing through his hazel eyes before he laughed, a deep rolling thunder that made you smile even as your arm throbbed. "Wow, you are a hoot. Alright, let's getcha somewhere more secure, sweetpea. The monkey's dyin' to see ya."

'The monkey? That must be Winston..' "I… have a name, you know," you said, watching him go retrieve your phone and jacket, your eyes meeting his again as he placed the jacket over your shoulders.

He smiled, a slightly crooked grin that made your heart flutter involuntarily in your chest. "Yeah? Is it as pretty as you are?"

You flushed and looked away, playing with your fingers. This cowboy… no, cowman was certainly going to be interesting to work with, if you got the job, of course. "I don't know, maybe you could tell me if it is. It's Briallen. Briallen Marsh," you glanced up to see him watching you, his hand never leaving your shoulder.

"Well, it certainly is pretty. A pretty name for an even prettier woman," he mused, handing you your phone before going to lead you out the back of the building. His hand was warm where it rested, dangerously close to your neck.

You still had a while before the adrenaline faded and everything that had happened finally settled in your mind.