Brigitte wakes the next morning to the faint chiming of the alarm on her holopad. She groans at the interruption-she had been having a nice dream-but rolls gingerly out of bed. Her goal today is to leave the medbay and join the others for breakfast; not a lofty goal by any means, but ambitious comparative to the last few days. It seems that she's finally well enough to start feeling restless. She's never done well at staying still.
She stretches as she stands, feeling the pleasurable stretch of her awakening muscles in counterpoint to the gentle throb of her face as she yawns and compresses her bruise.
Getting to and from the bathroom is far easier than it was yesterday. It feels like some of her strength is coming back, and the dizziness is only apparent when she moves too quickly. The light still hurts her eyes some, but that might just be her adjusting to its fluorescent dazzle when she snaps on the bathrooms' overhead light. In its harsh glare she looks herself over and is pleased to see that she looks improved.
The color is back in her cheeks and her eyes are no longer bloodshot. Even the bruising on her face is lighter, turning a greenish-yellow around the edges...which actually looks kinda gross. Oh well.
Brigitte throws her hair up into a loose ponytail to disguise its unkempt appearance (which causes some interesting tugging on her staples) and then walks out of the medbay. As she passes the bed closest to the door she sees the curtain drawn, and the faintest glimpse of what might be blonde hair in the dim lighting. Well, even doctors need their sleep.
Passing through the door she feels a twinge of guilt. She should alert Dr. Ziegler that she's leaving but she's afraid that if she does, she won't be able to leave, and she's not willing to risk that possibility. Easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. She'll bring back some breakfast for Angela as an apology for sneaking out.
It occurs to her as she leaves the med bay that she doesn't actually know where the mess hall is. The whole of her familiarity with Watchpoint Gibraltar consists of the rooms she has just left. Are there signs in this place? Looking around she can see that to the right is a dead end, so she takes a left to find an elevator and a set of stairs.
Taking the stairs seems like an exercise in foolishness, so the elevator it is-there's only a ground floor and a first floor which simplifies things even more. She'll either wander around until she finds what she's looking for or she finds someone.
Exiting the elevator, she goes with her instinct and turns right when presented with the choice. Down the hall she goes, until she finds that the hall branches off into three long corridors with numerous doors. Maybe these are the living quarters? If so, Reinhardt is down one of these halls. She's not sure she wants to look for him yet-he'll probably be as bad as Angela if he spots her wandering here-so she turns around and heads back the way she came. Down past the elevator she finds the mess hall and a spacious kitchen, both currently empty.
She checks her watch-its 6:41. She had set her alarm according to the time she knows Reinhardt usually starts breakfast when they are at the castle, which is 7:00. So she still has some time to explore if she wants it.
Irritatingly, just her short foray has left her feeling tired. She opts to stay in the mess hall and wait, pulling up the news on her holopad to pass the time. Even more annoyingly, she discovers that looking at the pad for more than five minutes sparks the dull throb of a headache right behind her eyes. She could put on a video, but she wants to be able to hear people approaching. Letting out a sigh, she drops her chin on her palm and looks around.
The mess hall seems a lot bigger now that she's actually in it. The domed ceiling is high, considering it's been hewn from the rock. The roughness of its surface gives it a dappled appearance in the sunlight, and she thinks if she were closer she could see the very toolmarks that shaped it. The few windows that run along the south wall let in bright beams of morning sun, casting the whole room in a warm glow.
Several rows of long plastisteel tables, including the one she's sitting at decorate the place, with a few smaller circular tables around the edges. The setup reminds her a lot of her primary school cafeteria; the only thing missing are the stainless steel serving counters. The kitchen is industrial-sized with an impressive set of fridges, kitchen ranges and a wide sink. She can see why Reinhardt would like cooking here.
Brigitte tries to imagine the place full of people, all together and cooking, training, laughing. The lifeblood of this place, pumping through each nook and cranny, heating this cold rock from within.
It's all empty now, nothing to keep the inherent chill of the earth at bay. She shivers a little as the creeping cold starts to get to her. Where can she find a jacket?
She's thinking of going to search for one when she hears the dull thud of footfalls. The cavernous room and long, empty halls amplify each sound such that she expects to see someone long before she actually does-not that she doesn't know who it is from the instant she hears his steps. Reinhardt comes into the mess hall, looks, then does a double take when he sees her sitting there.
"Shildlein?"
"Morning!" She waves two fingers at him, nonchalant. Nothing to see here. "What's for breakfast?"
"You were cleared to leave the med bay?" Reinhardt asks, coming over to where she sits.
"Ummm, well, not exactly." Brigitte drags out the answer, reluctant. She doesn't want to lie to him but she also doesn't want him to freak out when he learns the truth.
"Where is Angela?" He frowns down at her slightly, looking around as though he expects the blonde-haired doctor to materialize out of thin air.
"She's sleeping." Brigitte raises a hand to stop him when it appears he is going to fetch her, "No, wait! Don't. I'm fine, really!" She stands up, intending to perform a little pirouette - see, completely okay - but as she does a wave of vertigo hits and she has to hold on to the table to regain her balance.
"Brigitte…" Reinhardt starts, disapproving, "You should be resting. Come, I'll walk you back down." He offers his arm to her as though he's going to promenade her through the halls.
She doesn't take it.
"C'mon Reinhardt, I've been cooped up there for days! I just wanted a little change of scenery." she complains, trying to sidestep him and go into the kitchen.
"Shildlein, you were badly injured not even four days ago!" He chides her, placing both hands gently on her shoulders and barring her path. "What is it that you are always telling me, hmm? You need to rest so you can heal, or else you may make the injuries worse!"
She's never been on this side of the argument before. Countless times she had tended Reinhardt through his injuries, bandaged his wounds while they were on the road, even sewn him up a time or two. Getting him to take it easy when he was unwell was like trying to stop a boulder from rolling downhill. She recognized the sensibility of what he was saying, but now that she understood how vexing it was to stay in put all the time she couldn't help but try to fight the restrictions.
"Please Reinhardt? Just let me stay for breakfast and then I promise I'll go back for the rest of the day." She pulls out the puppy-eyes, an admittedly underhanded trick. She hasn't used this sort of tactic since she was little, begging her father to stay up late or for an extra sweet but more often than not it was effective. Only her mother had remained unswayed.
Reinhardt is not her mother though. He heaves a great sigh and lets his hands slip from her shoulders. "I will take your word on this."
He turns to the kitchen and begins pulling out breakfast supplies. Brigitte trails behind.
"Want any help?" she asks, leaning on a counter. He turns to give her a stern look.
"You should be sitting if you are going to remain up here. Go sit at the table, I will bring your food once I am done."
She sulks back to her seat, and behind her back she can hear him muttering that Angela would never forgive him if she fell.
From her seat she can watch his broad back moving back and forth as he dices, whisks and fries. Soon the scent of searing onions, peppers and garlic fills the air, a heady, robust aroma she can almost chew. She wasn't all that hungry when she first came up, but by the time Reinhardt brings her a steaming plateful of scrambled eggs she is ravenous. He takes the seat opposite to hers and together they eat in comfortable silence until the sound of approaching footsteps distracts her from her next bite.
It's Lena. Upon seeing the two of them she hurriedly makes herself a plate and takes the seat next to Brigitte.
"Morning, you two!" She pipes cheerily, spreading a napkin over her lap, "Didn't expect to see you out and about so soon, luv! I'm Lena Oxton - or Tracer, whichever you prefer." She reaches her hand across the table to shake Brigitte's.
"I'm Brigitte Lindholm, Reinhardt's squire." Brigitte introduces herself, squeezing Lena's smaller hand a little awkwardly. It feels weird to be introduced like this since she's sure they both know exactly who the other is. Evidently Lena has the same thought.
"I know. Reinhardt's mentioned you a time or two!" Lena smiles, her eyes bright as though she's holding back laughter at what Brigitte takes as her understatement. "And Torbjörn, for that matter."
Brigitte isn't quite sure what to say about that. Papa had spoken about her? She supposes that isn't too surprising; surely the Overwatch agents talk about their lives outside of the organization. She tries to imagine her father showing holopics of her and her siblings as toddlers and relating all their embarrassing antics and holds back a shudder. Lena sees the expression on her face and actually does laugh this time.
"Nothing bad, I promise!" She asserts, and points her fork at Reinhardt, "He'll tell you, it was all good things!"
"Yes, all good," Reinhardt states, his tone knowing, "Mostly remarking about how very like your father you are. Stubborn!"
This devolves into good-natured banter throughout the rest of the meal, and by the time they're finished eating one more person shows up. A young man with dreadlocks swept back in a thick ponytail bounces his way into the mess hall, sees them all gathered there and hustles over.
"Good morning everybody!" He crows, stopping in front of the table, hands on his hips. "You all are looking great today, I must say." He fixes his attention on Brigitte, sticking one hand out to shake. "I'm Lúcio. Lúcio Correia dos Santos, if you want to be specific, but only minha mãe calls me that." Lúcio smiles a grin as brilliant as the electric green frog slippers he wears. His hand is warm and dry, his grip firm. She likes him already.
"I'm Brigitte," she responds, returning the smile. "That's your speaker in my room in the med bay, right? Super useful, I think I'd be a lot worse off now if I hadn't had that around the last few days." He looks a bit surprised that she knows what it is, so she elaborates. "Reinhardt told me about your Crossfade tech."
"Oh, yeah. Pretty wicked, huh? Glad it's coming in handy!" He holds up a finger, "Lemme grab a plate, then we can continue this conversation."
When Lúcio sits back down he is pretty distracted by his food, so the other three talk more generally about lighter subjects; Brigitte has questions about what it's like living on the Rock of Gibraltar, what the defensive capabilities of the watch point are like, and the best places to eat in the nearby town. She really should message her father soon, first to let him know that she's already here and second to ask him the more technical questions the others can't answer. If she could start working on getting this place secure it would make her feel useful.
Once Lúcio finishes eating, Brigitte asks what has brought him to Overwatch. She had known about the recall, but hadn't realized Winston had been actively scouting out new members. She had kind of assumed that she would be the first of the new blood.
Lúcio tells them about how he shouted out to Overwatch on his social media page. Turns out he has quite the following, being both a musical icon and a revolutionary. His words had gained traction, ultimately attracting Winston's notice when Athena combed the net for mentions of the organization. Winston had reached out to the DJ, who had immediately accepted and set out the next day.
"I guess I didn't really know what I was getting into," he confesses, "but Overwatch was so legendary back in the day when it came to making big changes in the world - I just want to be a part of it! I know we are going to do something great!" The others nod, Brigitte perhaps a little less enthusiastically than them. Her head is starting to ache somewhat, and the exhaustion has come creeping back.
Reinhardt must be able to tell, because he tells her that he thinks is time she be getting back to the med bay. She nods tired acquiescence and gets up from the table, swatting at his hovering hands. He means well, but she's not an invalid. She can handle a little dizziness.
"It was nice talking to you!" She tells the two agents and she and Reinhardt depart. They have almost made it to the elevator when Brigitte remembers one last request.
"Can I look outside? Just for a minute?" Brigitte asks.
Reinhardt crosses his arms, prepared to lecture her but she interrupts him. "Please? Please please pleaseplease, and I'll stay in bed the rest of today and tomorrow!" she promises, hoping he doesn't look down so he can't see her crossing her toes. He pauses just long enough for the doors to the elevator to slide closed before grudgingly indicating her to follow him.
They have to go to take a different route to get outside, and the way he goes leads to yet another stairwell. This one lacks any elevator though, and he takes one look at the incline before sweeping her unceremoniously off her feet and ascending the steps himself.
"C'mon Reinhardt I can walk!" she grumbles, looping an arm around his neck so she can at least get some leverage and pushing against his chest with her free hand.
"I'm not going to risk it." he replies. She'll be darned if next time he gets injured she won't insist that she cart him around in a wheelchair after this treatment!
The door at the top of the stairs is rimmed in light, and the air smells distinctly different. Reinhardt pushes the door open with the small of his back, and then they are outside.
Brigitte gets a view of the ocean, vast and blue and sparkling like a diamond an instant before pain sinks like hot needles into both of her eyes. The switch from the shaded interior of the Watchpoint to the full brilliance of the morning sun is too much for her poor brain. She closes them against the intrusion, shielding her face from the light. Even with them closed her eyes feel strange, like the muscles that move them have all rusted.
Then she feels the wind, cool and brisk against her skin. It's distracting enough that she can forget her eyes for a moment. The breeze stirs her hair- a weird sensation with the staples. Then, the smell-briny and crisp-it reminds her of the oceanfront summer holidays with her family when she was young.
Brigitte really wants to get a good look at the place, so she cracks her eyes open again and tries peering through a slit in her fingers. She has only a general impression of wide expanses of stone, a curving road and the squat shapes of other buildings. Where the gray road ends there is the fresh green of new grass, and beyond that is the sea. It stretches endlessly into the distance, becoming a flat, blue line in the horizon. Looking down she can see the ripple of the waves, reflecting the light like a million shards of glass; too much brilliance to take . She has to close her eyes again, this time going so far as to press her face into Reinhardt's chest .
"Shildlein?" She can feel the rumble of his voice as much as she can hear it.
"S'a bit too bright for me," she admits, disappointed. She really had hoped to look around a little more, hadn't expected this much sensitivity. Brigitte wonders if anyone has some spare sunglasses she can borrow the next time she comes out.
"Alright then, back to the med bay." Reinhardt carries her back down the stairs, only letting her go halfway down the hall when she's protested enough. They stop for a minute when Brigitte remembers that she was going to bring Angela breakfast, and Reinhardt carries it until they emerge into the med bay.
Dr. Ziegler looks up from her desk, "I was wondering when you would be coming back," she says neutrally. She doesn't look disappointed per say, which is hopefully a good sign.
"Yeah, um... sorry for leaving this morning," Brigitte apologizes as Reinhardt places the plate and cutlery before Angela, "I just was feeling really cooped up. I hope I didn't worry you."
"Well, you are still wearing your monitors," Dr. Ziegler says, neatly unfolding a napkin onto her lap, "If you had removed them, well, I would have come looking for you." She pauses before bringing her first forkful of egg to her mouth, "In future, I should like to be notified if you feel the need to discharge yourself." Her tone is stern, but not harsh; a mother gently reprimanding her child.
Her neutral expression melts into one of slight amusement. "Fortunately, I am used to...difficult patients."
Brigitte thinks she might have made eye contact with Reinhardt on that last part, and conceals a smirk of her own. She agrees to Angela's wishes, feeling somewhat chastened.
"Are you feeling any pain?" Angela asks as Brigitte slinks back to her bed.
"I do have a bit of a headache," Brigitte admits, "I uh, took a little detour outside and it was really bright. Feels a little better now that I'm inside though."
Angela taps something on her holopad. "Your readings are still stable, so I am inclined to think that you simply overexerted yourself. Alert me if you feel them worsening though."
Brigitte returns gratefully to her dim section of the med bay and crawls into bed. Here in the darkness, surrounded by the low hum of Lúcio's music she already feels much better, though still tired. She hopes that particular symptom will disappear soon, she hates being so sedentary.
"Come and visit me later?" she asks Reinhardt, who has followed her to the curtain at her bedside, "bring Lena or Lúcio if you want. Bring anyone, actually. It gets boring here after awhile."
He snorts a laugh, and promises that he will. It seems like she is asleep before his footsteps have even faded from earshot.
True to his word, Reinhardt returns at lunchtime bringing both a tray of food and their two teammates. It's an interesting spectacle, seeing three people crowded around her bed, using pilfered overbed tables as makeshift lunch tables but its a welcome change. Dr. Ziegler even joins them once she sees the small crowd at the bedside. After everyone leaves Angela wants her to undergo another physical exam; first to check her neurological status, next a general exam "for her records".
"I may have to do this again in a few months. You may be experiencing some strength loss and issues with coordination until your brain has completely healed," she states when she asks Brigitte to touch her toes, and the young woman almost tips over.
One thorough exam later, Brigitte has more time in which to kill. It really sucks that she promised Reinhardt she would stay here, because there's still nothing to do. She settles on composing a message to her father, using the voice-to-text function when the strain on her eyes is too much.
In it she asks him for a breakdown of the offensive and defensive capabilities of Watchpoint Gibraltar, the specs of the turrets he has in place here, and for permission to get everything up and running until he gets here. She doesn't think he will refuse; he's learned to trust her with his tech and appreciate her own creations. Perhaps she can pick his brain for the best use of some of her work here-she adds that in a postscript to her message, and sends it off.
Well, that has killed maybe 20 minutes. What else does she need to do?
Brigitte tries to put her mind to the immediate future. Once she's recovered a little more she's going to need to be ready to run drills with the team, right? That's one thing she's heard Lena and Reinhardt talk about starting up soon. She needs to recover her armor, and finish the shield she had prototyped. To do that, she needs her tools and her workshop. Does her father have a workshop here? She should have asked him that. Maybe she can send a follow-up message...
She also needs to fix Reinhardt's armor, but she needs all the aforementioned things to do that. She needs to go to the store. Someone had procured toiletries for her, but whoever it was forgot to buy lotion or floss, and she could use a few more sets of clothes.
She makes a To-Do list and a To-Buy list, which ends up eating up lot of time. It seems like once she thinks of one thing, it spawns a whole sub-list of follow-up work or pre-work she hadn't even considered. Some of it is stuff she's sure her father will want to check when he arrives, but, by tackling it now she can make the process more expedient for him. Not to mention, doing these things will help her learn about this place, as she is still almost completely unfamiliar with the Watchpoint and what is required for the day-to-day running of it.
She puts down her pad with a sigh. There's still a little time before dinner, so she kills the remaining time with a long, luxurious wash; enjoying the way the heat helps mask the ache of her injuries at least temporarily. When she leaves the bathroom she sees Reinhardt is already there, with plates. This time, Lena and Lúcio are not with him.
"The other two already eat?" she asks as she finishes toweling off her hair and joining him in sitting on her bed.
"No, they are having dinner with Winston," Reinhardt answers, passing her a napkin. "Lena is trying to get him to get used to taking meals with the team, I think."
"Why, did he not eat with you guys before?" she spoons up mouthfuls of hot soup eagerly, alternating between it and chunks of soaked bread. Her hunger has really returned recently.
"Ehhh, not so much," Reinhardt says, "even before the recall he usually dined alone."
"Why?" Brigitte is a little curious. She had always imagined the team as a unit; training together, eating together, relaxing together. Like one big, happy family.
Reinhardt shrugs, "I believe he prefers it. Lena thinks he is simply shy."
The eating habits of the resident scientist are not something Brigitte had ever thought she would devote much time to pondering. Far be it from her to judge anyone on how they wanted to spend their meals. It does make her think though, about Winston and how long he stayed here with no one but Athena as company. It must have been lonely.
They finish their meals and the empty dishes are stacked on the overbed table.
"What now?" Brigitte asks, "you going to go chill with the others, or go to bed?" She wishes she could join the rest of them. She is sure this place must have a nice rec room and a decent TV. Unwinding with everyone before bed is something she's definitely doing once she's let out of the med bay.
"No. Actually, I have something I would show you." He picks up the dishes and heads toward the door, looking over his shoulder at her when she remains sitting on the bed.
"I thought I had to stay here the rest of the day?" she says, finally getting up.
"Permission was granted by Dr. Ziegler," is all Reinhardt says. He leads the way to the mess hall to unload the dishes and then takes the same path they had taken earlier that day. He's taking her outside?
He offers his arm as they approach the steps and she takes it, fearing that if she doesn't he will pick her up again. Ascending the stairs, she reaches ahead of him eagerly for the door and pushes it open, revealing the Gibraltarian evening in all its splendor.
The sun is halfway set, a burning red-gold disc sinking into the darkening sea. The last rays or light dance across the quivering water, bathing the waves in warm splashes of color. The sky, nearly cloudless, is fading from a burnished orange to dusky purple even as she watches.
She can hear the low roar of the ocean as it churns against the island. As she walks towards the edge of the cliffs she peers over the side, watching the waves rolling and crashing into the sharp rocks below. On the weakening updrafts seabirds wheel and glide, lighting on craggy rock faces to roost for the night. The landscape here is strikingly stark; a harsh beauty.
"Wow," she breathes, taking it all in. It must be awesome to be stationed here in the spring and summer. "I can see why this place was good for your tan."
Reinhardt laughs. They're standing a few feet from the cliff's edge, behind them is a wide road that snakes between several buildings out of sight. She remembers that this place had been a launch point for rockets before; this must have been the path it would take.
She takes a seat gingerly near the edge of the cliff, leaning back to enjoy the cooling breeze coming off the ocean. It feels like heaven on her face, which has started throbbing faintly in the absence of Lúcio's speaker.
She's afraid that if she doesn't distract him soon he will drag her back inside, so she says, "So, Overwatch is going to intervene in Russia?"
"You heard that, hmm?" he says, taking a seat next to her.
"Yeah. I might have been listening in the other night."
"Frech, Shildlein!" he chides, teasing.
"You're one to talk. You're always working out when you're injured, even when I tell you not to. And no changing the subject!" she retorts, leaning over to bump her shoulder against him, "What do you think? You wanna fight omnics in Russia?"
He is silent for a moment, pondering his response. She knows how she feels about it; excited, at the prospect of being able to help, nervous at the thought of facing down armored bullet-spewing monstrosities and, beneath it all, suspicious as to how the debacle at Andreas's farm might tie into it all.
"I think it will be good to go there and help. Too long has the world stood by and done nothing," he says finally, "I wish to see with my own eyes the destruction they have caused."
"Do you think it'll be like...back then?" She asks.
His voice is dark with remembered pain when he answers. "I hope for everyone's sake that it is not."
They sit and watch as the sun finally dips below the horizon, the last strains of the day fading into deep red, purple and finally a bruised blue-black that blends into the rippling ocean. Somehow she had never really thought much about what it must have been like back then. Oh, her father had told her some; mostly answering her questions about the omnics and their capabilities, or their weaknesses. Both he and Reinhardt had told her the story of how his arm and eye had been lost, but only in the vaguest, kid-friendly terms. Not much more than "Reinhardt had saved Papa's life", though to hear the story told after Reinhardt had gotten a few drinks in him was... interesting, to say the least.
It seems as though she will be finding out, sooner rather than later. Which only adds urgency to all the plans she had made earlier today; she needs to get well soon so she can be prepared for this fight.
Around them night has fallen. Reinhardt heaves himself to his feet with a grunt, and she knows her time is up. She doesn't object when he offers her a hand up, just takes it and then follows him back to the med bay. She's pleased to note that she doesn't feel dizzy at all walking around; she's getting better. She bids him goodnight and then tucks herself under the blankets, pulling up the most recent Russian news. She lays awake later than is probably wise, straining her eyes a little as she scours the deeper parts of the web, watching shaky handheld holovids from civilians and soldiers alike. Real videos from the front line, nothing like what's been shown on the news.
She falls asleep still playing them, and the echoing hammer of bullets, screams of pain and fury follow her into her dreams.