Name: Gabriel Reyes. Occupation: Former Blackwatch Commander. Status: KIA.
Name: Reaper. Occupation: Mercenary. Status: Partner.
Swearing, mental illness discussed
With the food consumed, the party separates out to different corners. Sombra claims the couch and covers the living room in floating holo-screens, working on deciphering her stolen info. Reaper moves to the kitchen blasting heavy metal and brooding. Tracer scurries off to the bedroom not trusting anyone else in the quartet. Widowmaker is looking forward to hiding away on the roofs but there are a few things she needs to take care of first.
Reaper is sitting, his back against the wall, tossing playing cards into a trashcan at the other end of the kitchen space near the front door, his phone blaring "music" that sounds like a piece of cutlery in a garbage disposal.
He looks up as Widowmaker approaches, she pulls out a package of meds and tosses them to him. He catches it and flips the box over. Widowmaker sees his eyes light up as he reads the label: Non-Drowsy Combat Approved Pain Relievers, the good stuff. His mask dissolves as he rips into the sealed pouches. He pops a pill into his mouth and crushes it between his teeth; the second one he swallows dry. Noticing that she hasn't left, Reaper pats the floor next to him.
Widowmaker kneels down, moving as fast as her sore muscles will allow her. Reaper returns to his game and flicks a card at the trashcan. It flies through the air but loses speed halfway, falling short and joining others on the floor. Widowmaker picks up two cards. Mimicking Reaper's movement she throws the first one. It sails towards the trash can but veers away at the last moment. She frowns, recalculates, and tries again. The second card soars into the trashcan and hits the metal back with a clang.
Reaper growls in fake frustration. He picks up his next card, crushes it into a ball, and throws it at the can. It goes in.
"Swish," he says, "two points."
He grins. He's left his mask off revealing a scarred face, graying curly hair, and brown skin that's been discolored by death. It's a sign of vulnerability, of trust. Amélie returns the favor. She smiles back.
Reaper-Reyes, Widowmaker finds a voice in her head correcting her-picks up his phone and sets it back down so the sound pours out into the air before descending back on them, creating a protective bubble.
"So, what do you think of Rome?" he asks.
She thinks about the stones that refuse to crumble, the locals that refuse to cater to the tourists, the roads that refuse to be repaved.
"The city seems to say, 'I don't give a shit.' I can appreciate that."
Reyes chuckles. "You would like Naples; it's even worse."
He flicks another card. It goes in, just barely tipping over the can's lip. Amélie picks up a card and turns it over in her hands
"How's Overwatch?"
She shrugs. "No longer floundering. Still trying to work out their pecking order because they refuse to admit they have one. Still stalwartly pretending to stand for good despite the fact that they can't agree on what that is. How's Talon?"
"Still chugging along. Most interesting thing that happened was a small AI rebellion in the robotics division. Overwatch's interference has disrupted some of the uppers cozy routines. Suppose I should thank you for that. Akande is making changes, weeding out the leeches."
"No one to replace me?"
"They've tried." His eyes twinkle.
"My handlers are dead, aren't they?" Amélie spins the card.
"Yep," Reyes confirms, "though, that gunsmith you liked made it to Russia, last I heard."
"Hmm, good for him."
"You know, we're past January and Portero is still alive," he says and Amélie tenses, "That means I win."
She swears. She'd hoped he'd forgotten about that bet.
Reyes chuckles. "Told you. Politicians, they're like cockroaches."
"I'm afraid I'll have to pay you back later. My funds are little tied up at the moment."
"I'll put it on your tab."
"Your ingrate is doing well," she says testing the waters, "settled in nicely and found ways to make himself useful."
It took her awhile to figure out who the sharpshooter was, to see through the cowboy persona and lazy veneer to the skilled killer underneath. She had been foolish to underestimate him; it wouldn't happen again.
Reyes smiles bitterly down his hands. "McCree is a tough little pendejo. Shame he turned out to be a deserter."
"He was only following his instincts."
Reyes throws the card. "He ask about me?"
"In an awkward, roundabout way. I gave him an awkward, roundabout answer."
"What about the younger Shimada? Is he really at peace with what he is?"
Amélie's face scrunches up as she thinks. She hadn't really seen much of the cyborg since she was trying to avoid Zenyatta. No point in stirring up more trouble than necessary.
She knew the basics of the cyborg's current state. Member of the Shimada clan, Blackwatch agent, brought back from the brink of death, integrated with state-of-the-art technology. She never noticed any signs of self-loathing or disgust. If anything, she would describe him as grounded.
"If not, he's putting on an impressive show."
"Good," he says, 'That's good."
Amélie picks up a card and throws it with her left hand. It doesn't go anywhere near her target.
"What about Morrison or Amari? They stick with the group or-"
"I'm not doing your groundwork for you, Reyes."
His obsession, his problem.
Reyes grunts but doesn't look particularly offended at being snuffed.
He stretches out his neck before asking, "What have they done to you?"
Reyes' tone is controlled but his solid form is rippling with emotion. He has a lot to make up for. At least he's trying this time.
"Not much," Amélie answers honestly. "They give me medication to help stabilize my body; scans and tests to make sure I'm not about to drop dead or go off the rails. The usual. Dr. Ziegler does talks therapy with me."
They'd put her in solitary confinement for a while. She worked with who ever came down, normally Dr. Winston or Soldier 76, but everyone dropped by at least once to gawk at her. After about a month of that, Dr. Ziegler had started whispering the magic word, rehabilitation. Amélie wasn't sure how Ziegler convinced the others, but she was given the option of therapy in exchange for more freedom around the base. She agreed.
Much to her surprise, Dr. Ziegler made it abundantly clear that she wouldn't do anything to Widowmaker, physically or psychologically, without her consent. Dr. Ziegler also took a large amount of time to explain the results from said tests and answer any questions she had. It had made her feel odd.
Back then, it had been a landmark realization. Frustration, boredom, and an array of other muted emotions. She was feeling again and she could no longer deny it. She had refused to let that information slip to anyone at Overwatch, especially Ziegler. It all seems so trivial compared to whatever is going on with her now.
As it turned out, Dr. Ziegler had not acquired a psychology degree during her years of medical training and had absolutely no clue what to do with Widowmaker. Most of their therapy sessions consisted of Ziegler asking her a few questions and then both of them sitting in silence for the next hour. Dr. Ziegler had started using the time to catch up on paperwork and organize files. Widowmaker spent time at her lake, re-living Mondatta's death, or planning out various hypothetical jobs.
"Ziegler hasn't been making much progress," Amélie says.
She supposes there can only be so many results in the psychological databases for Mind Control But Not Mind Control, Emotionally Repressed as Hell, Love of Murder?, and French.
Reyes mulls over this, allowing Amélie to recall Dr. Ziegler's picture perfect expression of confusion when Widowmaker explained she still remembered everything. It would be quite a disadvantage to have an assassin who didn't know how to tie their shoes. Strangely, it wasn't as satisfying as she thought it would be to see Angela so jaded.
"They haven't done anything else?" Reyes asks, "Anything to try to change you back?"
"No."
"Psychiatric drugs? Electrotherapy? Hypnosis?"
"No, nothing."
"Are you sure?"
"Reyes," Amélie says sharply, "It's Ziegler, not Mengele."
He grunts at this. Relenting, he grabs a card and shifts into a new sitting position.
"So, you looked like you had fun back there." he watches her.
"I did," Amélie replies, allowing the topic to change.
"And how are you feeling?"
She lets the silence hang before she answers, so soft she herself almost doesn't hear, "Like it's not enough."
"Do you want it to stop?" Reyes' voice has a dangerous sort of calm to it.
Amélie closes her eyes and leans back against the wall. She thinks back to her kill without a buzz. Enjoying a night out on the town. The garbled mess after the taxi. Feeling like she was suffocating in the freezer. The satisfaction of punching Tracer in the face. The fact that she wants to read a novel for no other reason than she likes the author.
When was the last time she had fun?
"No," she finally answers.
It hurt. The anxiety and rage and dread and grief still hurt. But it felt right, like a broken bone being reset.
"Okay." Reyes' face is schooled into a nonjudgmental expression.
They lapse into silence.
Reaper's playlist moves onto a song that is mostly screaming with occasional percussion. While Amélie takes more shots with her left hand, Reyes folds his card into a crude paper airplane. He throws it and it immediately takes a nosedive into the laminate floor.
"How-" Amélie trails off.
"Hmm?"
"How do you know if you're going insane?"
If the question surprises or bothers Reyes he doesn't show it.
"Well," his voice is the one he uses for mission planning, "there are your classic B horror movie symptoms. Seeing or hearing things that aren't there. Believing everyone is out to get you or the gov has mics in your house. 'Knowing' that you're Abraham Lincoln, that a movie star is in love with you, or that chairs have special messages for you."
"Then there are the less photogenic symptoms," Reyes continues, " Loss of hygiene habits. Refusing to leave a hazardous living environment. Inability to keep your relationships or job. Not sleeping for several days at a time. Refusing to speak to family or friends. Basically, no longer functioning as a normal human being."
Define 'normal', Amélie thinks, staring at him. "That was extensive."
Reyes shrugs. "Overwatch may have attracted the best and brightest, but some Blackwatch agents came from nasty backgrounds. Like Sombra said, we deal with some real pieces of work."
She frowns. None of those apply to her except paranoia, but that one is justified.
"Really, the easiest way to tell if you have a problem is when something starts repeatedly interfering with your regular life. And questioning your own sanity is a good thing because truly 'crazy' people are so detached from reality they don't realized they're suffering from delusions."
Reyes lets her process that.
"I thought you didn't want the emotions to stop," he tilts his head at her.
Amélie shakes her head. "No, feelings are a bitch but it's really the, mmm, other things."
Reyes waits. Amélie squeezes her card between her fingers into an arch.
"I've been having visions... envies? Non. Impulsas, impulsions, compulsions. Violent compulsions."
Reyes nods. Control is as much a part of their job as violence is. Widowmaker has a deep-rooted desire to kill, but she is its master, not the other way around.
"Like, intrusive thoughts?
Amélie blinks. "Yes, that would be a good way to describe it."
Reyes' scars twist as his face brightens in understanding. "That's just your brain screwing you over. Even normal people have those. It doesn't mean you'll do anything. You don't have to listen to them."
Amélie scowls and places her chin on her knees, drawing further in on herself. "I nearly threw a man, the asset, the mission, out of a car," she spits out. "I would have killed him."
"Did he deserve it?"
"Possibly."
"Did you want to?"
"... yes."
"Well, there you go. You wanted it to happen so you let it happen. You don't want to snap Shorty's neck, so you won't."
The explanation doesn't sound wrong, per say, but she doesn't think it covers everything either. Amélie growls wordlessly into her knees. She doubts this is covered in self-help books.
Reyes rolls his eyes. Sensing that sharing time is over, he moves on to business.
"Do you want to go back to Overwatch?" Reyes asks.
Amélie lifts her head. "You are implying that there is an alternative. I assume this is the extraction you mentioned."
Reyes nods. "I've got this nuclear bunker, built by a filthy rich family in the 40s, they sold it to Uncle Sam during the Crisis. Gov lost it sometime before I 'died'. It's designed to hold a dozen people comfortably, got all the necessities and then some. Plus it's out in Bumfuck, Arizona; better known as the middle of the desert. No one would bother you unless you wanted them to. You could stay there until you've figured yourself out."
Amélie makes a thoughtful noise.
"Arizona. Is that one of your states?"
"Mm-hm."
"What about Tracer?"
"Transport is still coming. Just say the word and she'll wake up in the back of some truck halfway to Gibraltar none the wiser."
Amélie holds up a card, thinking it over. The queen trembles in her fingers. She squints at her hand. It's shaking ever so slightly. It shouldn't be doing that. Maybe she needs to eat again? This mission has been more taxing than she anticipated with all the complications and the damned soul-searching. She snaps her wrist and watches the card sail into the trash can.
"I still need almost constant medical attention."
"I'm sure Sombra could blackmail a few eggheads into helping you."
"Perhaps," she says crossing her legs and straightening her spine, "But will they have graduated head of their field at the age of nineteen? Did they pioneer a medical breakthrough that altered war and medicine, as we know it? Could they- if needed- bring me back from the dead?"
Reyes scowls. "Maybe not a singular person, but as a team-"
"If I am going to entrust my life to anyone whether it be Overwatch or Talon or blackmarket surgeons, I rather it be the doctor who is so set in her convictions that she did not buckle even for Overwatch's Crisis Heroes."
Reyes' expression darkens further.
Amélie didn't know the details, Ziegler was a professional after all, but she did know that Angela's staunch pacifistic ideal caused her to speak out against Overwatch's military tactics more than once. While Angela was brilliant, she wasn't irreplaceable. The woman had quite a spine.
Amélie comes to a decision. Her enhancements, her eyes, her altered twitch muscles, are all wonderful advantages in her line of work but her circulation problem has to go. It's too limiting, causing too many issues, making her too dependent on chemicals and other peoples' expertise. Back at Talon it gave her an edge, but there were fabrics that can do the same thing. Having an increased heart rate, a normal heart rate, will cause some issues but if other snipers can accommodate for it then so can she.
If she frames her request correctly, Dr. Ziegler will perform the surgery personally, protecting her before, during, and after the procedure. Poor Angela was always such a bleeding heart.
And after she's recovered? Well, maybe she'll procure a horse to ride off into the sunset. She'd been planning to slip away soon anyway. This mission was the perfect opportunity. (Too perfect, but she's already wasted hours analyzing that.) At the very least, she'd planned to push boundaries but too many complications popped up and whatever this is.
Her priorities have shifted. She's not stupid enough to pretend things will be the same when they return to base. With all the combined slip-ups they've attracted too much attention. Someone will start putting the pieces together.
And on the official record or not, she's sure there will be consequences for her recent actions, but she's going to have to do this she's ever going to be truly independent. Zeigler is still her best bet at reversing what has been done to her circulatory system, if that's even possible. And despite his surface level understanding of psychosis Reaper isn't exactly a model of mental health and neither is she. Ziegler will at least have resources and connections if there is something truly wrong with her.
"I'm going back to Overwatch," she says, "They've relaxed their guard around me and I know how to work them. It's a risk but I have to think about what's best long-term."
Now it's Reyes' turn to sulk. "I suppose that means you'll need more gossip to keep stringing them along."
"If you'd be so kind." Amélie stands to take her leave.
"Cheer up, mon cher, it is not a permanent arrangement," she walks past the brooding killer, "You'll be seeing me again soon enough."
Betaed by Dot, Snazzy, 2JRC6
Edited 7/23/18
Thank you to MrClikk for checking my translation.
Shoutout to HK52! Thanks for writing me!
Thank you to everyone who commented or left kudos!
Translations:
Pendejo – (Spanish) Dumbass
Envies? Non. – (French) Longings? No.
Impulsas – (Spanish) compulsions
Mon chér – (French) My Dear
Reaper's Stats
Gumption – 8
Chutzpah – 8 total (5 +3 dead bonus)
Moxy – 8
Childlike Wonder – 1
Cut of Your Jib – 2
A Certain Je Ne Sais Quoi – 5
/
Mercy: Let's start by talking about the emotions you are feeling right now.
Widow: Stabbing.
Mercy: Stabbing isn't really an emotion, Ms. Lacroix.
Widow: Well, maybe I feel stabby.
/
/Proud how this chapter turned out.
Intrusive thoughts are fairly common, and I think everyone would benefit from doing a little research on them.
In other news, hamster. Hero 28 is a hamster. Haaammmster.
This is what've dedicated a large portion of my personal time to./