It is the end of September, a week since Brigitte was accepted as Overwatch's newest member. Summer is slipping away, the temperatures creeping down and the winds coming off the ocean carry the first chill of fall.
Reinhardt has to admit, Brigitte fits well into the team. How could she not? She's spent all of her life with two of them and heard stories about most of the others. Lúcio, Lena and she have become fast friends, which is entirely expected. They're all closer in age than any of the other agents, and have many of the same interests. Brigitte's prior presence at the Watchpoint almost makes her membership seem like a formality; it was inevitable.
He is glad to have her here.
He is less glad at the prospect of her involvement in missions.
It's no secret that they've been training these last few weeks to prepare for what will undoubtedly be a grueling and dangerous mission in Russia. Brigitte joined them in the simulations as soon as she could, and has performed well. She's mobile, has good team awareness and is adept at call-outs and reading the flow of battle. It took her less than half an hour to figure out the comms, impressive compared to his days-long confusion when he first began. He's proud, because he expected nothing less from his squire.
He's also conflicted.
So many warring emotions. It feels right, having her fighting at his side - where she has been before, where she should be - yet sometimes, when she slips into his blind spot he has a momentary flash of panic. He turns his head, half-expecting to see her falling to the ground, her face smeared with blood - but there's nothing.
It shakes him sometimes. He has to watch her for just a second, to make sure she is alright before he can refocus. It's a weakness he knows he won't be able to afford in a real battle; his attention must always be on the enemy, and how he can protect the team. He must trust his colleagues to protect her when he cannot, and he must trust her to keep herself and everyone else safe.
Still, sometimes his gaze lingers.
They have resumed their normal sparring sessions, despite the growing cold each morning. Angela has cleared Brigitte for regular duty, but even so she had taken Reinhardt aside one morning after breakfast for a private talk. They duck into the med bay, she closing the door behind them.
"I'm going to be frank with you. I do not think it appropriate that Brigitte has joined Overwatch. Nor do I think it right that you dragged her all over the countryside with you on your adventures." Angela crosses her arms, looking him straight in the eye as she does.
This is news to him. He'd never known what anyone's opinion of their actions had been before, though he has never asked either. Why is she telling him this now?
"Brigitte has made her decision," he replies, a bit stiffly. "I would have her by my side. She is old enough to choose her path." Hah, the same words Brigitte had tried to hammer into his head before, and now he's the one using them.
Angela tilts her head, concern written all over her face. One slim finger traces a path on her arm as she replies, "that may be so, but you know as well as I do how dangerous this can be. She is far too young to make this kind of decision!"
Reinhardt thinks he knows where some of her concern comes from. Angela herself was even younger than Brigitte when she entered Overwatch's employ. Is she reflecting upon her own life, trying to spare Brigitte some of the heartache she wish she could have avoided?
"I know, Angela. Believe me, I told her the same thing," Reinhardt replies, holding both hands out beseechingly, "but I left the decision up to her. She's of age, and I trust that she didn't make the decision lightly. I also trust that we will all do our best to keep everyone safe."
Angela still doesn't look convinced. Now her fingers are tapping on her crossed arms.
"You know we can't guarantee that."
He does know.
Jack. Gabriel. Liao. Ana. Countless other agents he had never known, all who they could not save. He will do everything in his power to ensure Brigitte does not end up on that list.
"Angela, you have my word that I will protect her. If I feel a mission is too dangerous, I will suggest that she sit it out, or that she be assigned to a different one. She will listen to me if I insist," Reinhardt says seriously, taking ahold of Angela's shoulders and giving them a gentle, emphatic squeeze.
Angela sighs, a bittersweet sound. "You may not have a choice. If we are to go to Russia soon we will need every agent." She presses her eyes closed for a second, then opens them. Her expression returns to its usual placid warmth.
"I apologize for being so morbid, it was not my intention. I only wished to express my concern," she unfolds her arms and touches his hand where it rests on her shoulder, "I know you have only her best interest at heart. I just feel that, perhaps she didn't ever really have a choice. Overwatch is in her blood, after all." Angela opens her door and returns to her desk, leaving Reinhardt with his thoughts.
He is still feeling uncharacteristically melancholy by the time their usual sparring session commences. It is a Tuesday, which means kali training. They're outside practicing on a grassy knoll just north from the cliff sides, enjoying the mild, breezy day. He's letting Brigitte practice her strikes, holding tight to a padded block and moving it around so she can vary her strikes, but his mind isn't in it. He's forgotten to move the block three times before she stops hitting.
"Are you alright?" Brigitte asks, panting. "You seem a little out of it."
"I am fine," he lies, and Brigitte raises an eyebrow at him. She always knows when he is being untruthful. "Er...I will discuss it with you after practice," he amends his statement, contrite. It won't do him any good to keep his concerns from her.
"We can talk about it now if it's bothering you that much," she says, lowering the kali.
Now it is his turn to raise an eyebrow at her. "I think you are just using this as an excuse to take a break!" he taunts her, raising the block again. "Come now, show me your strength!"
Brigitte's shoulders square at the challenge, her eyes narrowing in concentration before she's on him like a charging bull. Now his attention is completely on the fight; he has to put some weight behind his hold lest she knock the block clean out of his hands. They take turns holding the padding and switching their strikes before ending with an all-out spar using kali and the blocks as makeshift shields.
Afterwards, cooling off in the kitchen with tall glasses of water she brings it up again.
"You finally ready to talk?" Brigitte asks between gulps.
"Yes." Reinhardt indicates for them to take a seat at one of the smaller tables in the mess hall. When they do he curls his fingers around his water glass, not completely certain of how to start. Should he mention his talk with Angela? No...it is best to be general.
"I was wondering why you joined Overwatch," he says, finally.
Evidently this isn't the sort of question Brigitte expected. She stares at him over the rim of her half-raised glass, one eyebrow cocked. She takes a long draft of water before finally speaking.
"Why? I mean, it just made sense," she says, setting the glass down with a click. "I've always wanted to make a difference in the world. Hearing about what you and my father did back then, I think we need that sort of thing now. People willing to take charge and lead in the fight for global peace."
When she trails off, he decides to lead with his next question. "So, what would you have done if Overwatch had not been recalled?"
She gives him a funny half-smile. "I would have been your squire," her smile morphs, becoming teasing, "well, until you retired."
"Retire?" Reinhardt exclaims, sidetracked. Retiring hasn't even crossed his mind! Is she planning for such an eventuality? "Never! I will fight until my last breath!"
She has hit a sore spot, though he's loathe to admit it. Retire...it is synonymous with "death" for him. To retire means to give up, and he never gives up. He can still clearly remember Jack and Gabriel taking him aside, telling him it is time for him to hang it up, he's past the age of continued employment, he-
"Well, I guess that's what I would have done until 'your last breath', then." Brigitte says, interrupting his thoughts. "And maybe after that I would have taken up your mantle. It's basically what we're doing in Overwatch, after all."
She begins tracing a finger through the condensation on her water glass, musing quietly to herself while he sits speechless, processing the words she has just said.
"I don't know if I'd be on the road as often as we have been if I did that...I can't really take my whole workshop with me and there are still plenty of projects I'd want to work on, but maybe every couple weeks-"
"You would carry on my legacy?" He blurts out, unable to stop himself from interrupting her.
Brigitte cocks an eyebrow at him again, finger stilling in its motions. "Of course," she replies, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.
That stuns him back into speechlessness. He can only stare at her, frozen. He is oddly touched, that she considers him and his mission worth preserving. Why, it might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to him. He has to take a sip of water to ease the sudden tightness in his throat.
"What's wrong? You getting sappy on me, tough guy?" Brigitte teases, but there's no sting in her tone.
"N-no!" Reinhardt stutters, hastily setting his glass down. "I only thought that-that perhaps you might have other plans, if Overwatch had not been an option." There. He has diverted the conversation back on course.
"No, not really," she says, "I want to work on some new projects, and travel, and make a difference in the world. This just happens to combine all three." A wry grin curls at the corner of her mouth. "And the things Overwatch has done did sound pretty badass." The grin fades as her brows knit in an expression of dawning comprehension. "Wait...is that what this is about? You're worried I was like, brainwashed into choosing Overwatch or something?"
Clever girl. Too clever for him to succeed with this roundabout questioning, anyway. "Eh, or something..." he says evasively. He had gotten his answer anyway. This is a path she would have taken without his influence.
Brigitte gets up from the table and walks around to him, gathering their nearly-empty glasses and taking them to the kitchen. On her way, she bumps him playfully with her hip.
"You're silly sometimes, you know?" She calls over her shoulder, loading their glasses into the dishwasher.
"Silly? Me?" It had been Angela's idea, not his!
"Yeah, you. But that's alright, I still like you." Brigitte saunters out the mess hall doors, casting a look over her shoulder that clearly indicates that he should follow.
"I have been called many things in my life, but never silly!"Reinhardt intones gravely, following her.
They continue bantering back and forth the rest of the day, with Brigitte trying to rope the rest of the agents into giving an opinion on whether they believe Reinhardt to be silly while he tries to assert his position that it is she who is prone to ridiculousness, not he.
Their little feud is interrupted just after dinner, when they are cleaning the kitchen. Everyone is helping to wash their dishes, wipe the tables and pack up the leftovers when the faintest click of metal on stone alerts them to the presence of another.
"Good evening," Genji says as he walks into the mess hall. The cyborg has returned just as suddenly as he left, like a stray cat coming home.
"Genji!" Angela and Lena exclaim, rushing to greet him.
"I'm so glad you're finally back!" Lena exclaims, giving him a quick squeeze.
"How were your travels?" Angela asks, inspecting the cyborg as if looking for hints of wear and tear. Reinhardt notices that Winston, who had been wiping tables down has one finger pressed to the headset that covers his ear. He is frowning.
"The journey was long, but I deem it a success," Genji says simply. "I have brought along my master, who very much wishes to meet you."
"Really?" Angela looks around. There is no one else accompanying him, nor anyone in the hall. "Where is he?"
"Is he the one waiting at the gate, then?" Winston lumbers over to Genji, eyeing him intently. "Or is he the one Athena caught a glimpse of climbing the cliffs?"
Ah, that must be it. Athena has alerted Winston to the presence of an intruder. But wait, only one can be Genji's master. Who is the other?
Reinhardt begins to frown himself, uncertain of the unknowns now presenting themselves.
"My master waits at the gate, he wishes to be respectful of our privacy. He seeks permission to enter the Watchpoint." Genji nods to Winston, almost apologetically. "The other must be my brother. I was wondering when he would show himself."
"Your brother is here?" Reinhardt asks, drying his hands and going over to meet Genji as well. "Why is he skulking about like a thief? It is dishonorable to hide yourself from those you would call your allies!"
"Gomen-nasai," Genji inclines his head again, clasping his hands and bowing to them all. "As I said before, my brother and I were raised by the Shimada-gumi, a family of assassins. A straightforward approach is foreign to us, especially to Hanzo who has been hunted ever since he rejected his birthright. He is suspicious by nature. I beg that you forgive his rudeness."
Genji's plea is heartfelt, and rings true to Reinhardt's ears. He is certain that his friend is not lying about his past or the history of himself and his brother, but still he feels wary. He will need to meet this Hanzo Shimada before he can make any judgement.
Apparently Winston feels the same. "Well, we'll see," he snorts, and leads the way towards the hidden entrance in the garage where Genji's master awaits.
They go en-mass to the hangar, the women and Winston leading while Reinhardt brings up the rear with Torbjörn and McCree. They walk through the great stone tunnel that connects the garage to the road outside. It's barred by a heavy blast door that retracts into the ground when the appropriate code is entered into its keypad, and when it does Genji's master is illuminated.
They all stare in stunned silence. Reinhardt can't decide what is more surprising; the fact that Genji's master is hovering two feet off the ground, or the fact that he is an omnic.
The omnic floats soundlessly a few feet from the front gate. The sun is setting, burning red-gold against the omnic's silver plating. It's scrawny, just the bare bones of a form wearing long pants the color of dark straw and a rusty red sash like a loincloth. Both items look rough, thick like burlap and possibly hand-sewn. Nine dots glow robins-egg blue on its forehead, a three-by-three grid of lights just above its slit-like eyes. Eight large orbs hang suspended, floating like a necklace of fat golden prayer beads just above its shoulders.
"Peace and blessings unto you all." The omnic speaks for the first time, its voice a deep, melodious hum that is unmistakably masculine. It - or, he spreads his hands open, palms up, unthreatening as if to welcome them into an embrace. "I thank you for coming so quickly to greet me. Genji, would you be so kind as to introduce me to your friends?" The omnic seems to be the only one able to react to the situation, everyone else too stunned to move.
Genji scampers to his master's side. "I would like to introduce my master, Tekhartha Zenyatta!" he says proudly, gesturing with one hand to the floating omnic. "He is a former monk of the Shambali monastery. I encountered him during my travels after Overwatch was disbanded and he became my teacher, and a good friend. Master," he begins to point at each of them in turn with the other hand, "this is Winston, who was part of the-"
He goes down the line, introducing them all. As he says each name it's as if they are released from a spell, able to move again. When he introduces Reinhardt, Reinhardt is unsure of how to react. No one else has moved to shake Zenyatta's hand, or otherwise exchange a greeting but it feels strange for him not to, so he moves forward and extends his hand. The omnic takes it, exerting gentle pressure as Reinhardt squeezes in return. The omnic's fingers are cool, but not cold; metal warmed slightly by some other energy.
As Genji continues down the line, Reinhardt thinks. The Shambali monks, yes...he has heard that name before. And Zenyatta's name bears a close resemblance to the slain omnic activist's, Tekhartha Mondatta. Hadn't Mondatta founded the order of the Shambali monks? If so, that would mean this omnic was a pupil of his. Most interesting.
Having finally been introduced, the group is no longer frozen, yet they remain uncertain as to what to do next. It is Winston who speaks up first.
"So, um, Zenyatta...did you want to join Overwatch? Is that why Genji brought you here?"
Zenyatta tilts his head slightly, hands resting loosely in his lap. "I did not come to join, merely to offer what I can to any who need counsel." He straightens his gaze again, looking at them each in turn with those strange slits that are his eyes. "I would be grateful to spend some time here, learning from you if I may."
Everyone looks to Winston. Like it or not, he is considered their commander now and all approvals or denials come from him. He seems flustered by the sudden attention, stumbling over his response.
"W-well, um, the thing is, uh…" his eyes dart rapidly from side to side as he searches for a response, "it's, uh, not simply a matter of just entering our private base. We have protocols to ensure that everyone coming here is not a danger to us." He seems to has found his rhythm, straightening up as his speech becomes more confident. "I know that Genji vouches for you, but if you'll permit me to run a few diagnostic tests I'll be able to okay you for at least guest-level clearance."
Zenyatta inclines his head, "Of course. I do not wish to be a source of disharmony among you." The omnic tilts his face up slightly, as if gazing to the heavens. "And it would seem that I am not the only one who seeks your approval. Genji?"
"Brother, come out," Genji says, exasperated. "They know that you are here. Do not be rude."
Out of the shadows overhead a man drops straight down next to Genji, landing whisper-soft onto the grass. He straightens, turning to face the cyborg.
"Do not presume to lecture me on manners." The stranger's voice is a quiet, husky rasp; low, but sharp in its rebuke. The man angles his body between Genji and the onlookers, his posture alert. This must be Hanzo, the brother Genji spoke of.
Reinhardt's first impression is that he is very short. The second, that he looks every inch a deadly warrior. He is lithe, compact, not an inch of fat covering his sinewy muscles; a whipcord leanness that speaks of many long, hungry days. His legs, Reinhardt can see are covered in dark, sleek metal similar to Genji's, armoring that ends at the knee.
He has never seen a man who looks as Hanzo does; his attire is completely foreign. He wears all black, befitting of an assassin. His top exposes the whole of his left arm and half his chest, revealing the tattooed blue body of a dragon that snakes its way down his arm to his hand. There is a bow strapped to his back along with a quiver full of arrows, his belt is weighed down with leather pouches of equipment and even a drinking gourd. All of these things together give him the appearance of a warrior, but Reinhardt knows that more than clothes make a man. It is in his eyes.
Reinhardt isn't sure if he likes the look in those eyes. They are almond-shaped, dark brown and they move ceaselessly, roaming over each agent in turn as if inspecting them for flaws. Hanzo is searching for weakness, and when his eyes meet Reinhardt's the knight does not blink, but stares unflinchingly into that sharp gaze. Perhaps it increases Hanzo's estimation of him, because he spends an extra second looking Reinhardt over.
Reinhardt knows he cuts an impressive figure.
"Hanzo, introduce yourself!" Genji nudges his brother's shoulder with his own, and Hanzo flinches away from the touch irritably. He hisses something in Japanese at Genji, who responds in kind. Hanzo notes the omnic floating on the other side of Genji, and mutters again. This turns into a back-and-forth argument that Reinhardt cannot understand, but he doesn't need to speak Japanese to be able to read their tone. Hanzo is voicing his displeasure, perhaps at them, perhaps at the omnic - and Genji is defending. The ninja doesn't sound perturbed by his brother's snarls, rather he sounds almost amused. He cuts off the argument with a wave of one hand.
"This is my brother, Hanzo Shimada. I spoke of him earlier, if you recall," Genji launches into his introduction hastily, as though to ward off another argument, "and, as you have already heard everyone introduced, I do not think I need to repeat myself." He says the last bit towards Hanzo, clearly implying that the archer had been listening in to their earlier introduction to Zenyatta. Had perhaps been perched on the rocks overhead the blast doors, just out of sight.
There's an uneasy murmur of hello's from the group, and Reinhardt again moves forward towards the newest face and extends his hand in greeting. From the knit of the archer's brow he half-expects his handshake to be rejected, but Hanzo gives a perfunctory shake and the smallest of nods.
Reinhardt knows the measure of a man can be taken by his handshake. He reads Hanzo by the rough calluses of his palms, the strength of his grip, and the quickness of his withdrawal. He sees a man who life has tempered into a weapon; steelier than any omnic, as sharp as a blade. But respectable, perhaps even honorable.
Reinhardt's wariness of Hanzo drops enough for him to give Winston an approving look; he is not a threat. Winston gives him a look right back; I know.
So, Winston already had checked up on Hanzo; he should have guessed. Nothing is beneath the scientist's careful scrutiny.
"So, you're the one who's been evading my drones," Winston says mildly.
"Yes," Hanzo almost barks the words, completely unrepentant. "The security around this rock is laughable. You underestimate the abilities of anyone who would come here to harm you." His tone cuts through them, haughty, bordering on scolding.
"Well, if you'd be interested perhaps we could discuss improvements." Winston says, only the faintest thread of his frustration wearing through. He is being remarkably gracious.
He must have taken a few lessons out of Jack's book. Winston is far more suited for diplomacy than Reinhardt is. The archer may be respectable, but Reinhardt doesn't think he'd be able to tolerate being spoken to in that tone for very long. It seems that Hanzo thinks that they will have to earn his respect.
Hanzo says nothing to Winston's suggestion, merely hums a non-committal "Hn."
"S-shall we go back inside?" Angela says, her voice trembling slightly with cold. Reinhardt looks around to see her, Lena and Lúcio all huddled close together. The weather, though pleasant during the day has become unseasonably cold as night falls and none of them are wearing jackets.
Reinhardt gathers them before him like baby chicks and herds them back inside, followed by Winston and then Genji's company. They diverge once within; Winston leading Zenyatta, Genji and a reluctant Hanzo towards his studio while the others return towards their rooms. They're almost to the barracks when Lena peels off from the group with the intention of assisting Winston.
Brigitte follows Reinhardt down the hall, bypassing her own room. When he opens his door she slips inside and throws herself on the bed, tucking herself under his navy-blue sherpa blanket.
"So, what do you think about the new guys?" She asks conversationally, as though she is not hogging over half the mattress.
Reinhardt flops down heavily next to her, jolting her into tipping towards the depression his weight creates. She takes the hint, scooting over so he has room to fold his arms behind his head.
"I think…" he starts, and then pauses because he isn't sure what to think yet. "...that the omnic seems a pleasant fellow."
"Yeah, I liked him too," Brigitte acknowledges, leaning over him to steal one of his pillows, "though I thought Papa was going to blow a gasket when he saw him! You know how he feels about omnics."
Yes, Reinhardt does know. It is hardly surprising that Torbjörn distrusts them so; having designed so many of them in the past, he more than any other agent understands their capabilities for destruction. It is a small wonder that with his history that Reinhardt does not feel the same way; but if what Zenyatta said was true, the former monk is an oddity, even among omnics. A devotee of the Iris.
"I dunno how I feel about Hanzo yet," Brigitte continues, "he seemed kinda...standoffish. It doesn't seem like he thinks very highly of us."
"Yes, a man who can evade Athena's drones and your father's turrets for weeks surely has very high standards," Reinhardt half-jokes. He wonders if Hanzo will want to join in their training simulations - he would like to see the man put to the test. If he is as skilled with his bow as Genji is with his blade, he could be a formidable addition to the team. Not only that, a long-range specialist is something they sorely need.
"Well, we'll show him!" Brigitte declares.
Silence falls in the wake of her proclamation, heavy, yet comfortable. The long day and tough training sessions are taking their toll on Reinhardt; it is scarcely eight, and already he feels the pull of sleep. His eyelids are heavy weights; he lets them fall closed for just a moment. He only wants to give his eyes a rest.
Brigitte is saying something again, but the words are distant, distorted; fish lazily swimming through dark waters. His bed is very comfortable.
Reinhardt dreams of long days on the road and even longer nights camping in the German countryside, young and carefree. Laying in the bed of his father's pickup, staring into a black sky littered with stars; numerous and endless as his possibilities. He can feel wild joy surging in his heart as he gazes up, galvanized by the knowledge that he can do anything, if only he reaches out to seize the opportunity...
When he wakes an indeterminable time later, Brigitte is gone, the light is out and he is tucked beneath his blanket.
Wednesday dawns cool and overcast. Winston moved their weekly meeting to the morning, as unseasonable thunderstorms are predicted for the latter half of the day and nobody wants to run to and from the briefing room through a deluge. Reinhardt takes the extra time to try his hand at making scones - warm bread this morning sounds heavenly.
They sit around the great black table, slathering jam, butter and honey on their breakfast as Winston lays out the matters for discussion today.
"Alright, first order of business: Torbjörn, I've spoken with Hanzo and identified a few blind spots in our current defense setup. I'm adding more drone paths and upgrading the flight range to cover more area, especially the cliff sides. He pointed out a few places that you could add more turrets; I've marked them on Athena's map and I'll forward it to you. Maybe we can take a look outside before the rain starts today."
Torbjörn nods, mouth too full to reply.
Winston taps his pad and pushed his glasses up. "Second, I've want to try running a few different sim types starting this afternoon. I'm hoping to mimic some of the conditions we could come across in Russia. We'll divide into smaller teams and take turns running them blindly - I want to see how mixing the team comp fares. With Genji back I think we'll be able to make an even split." Winston taps his pad again, then pauses to scarf a mouthful of scone, showering the table with crumbs.
"Last-mm-order of business," he says, brushing the crumbs to the floor, "Russia."
Russia.
Constantly it is a topic of conversation, and every week the results are the same. They discuss the latest developments (more deaths) what they can do about it (nothing, yet) and the communications Winston has received from Zarya (frustratingly few).
"So, not much has changed since last week. Private Zarya says that the RDF is still reluctant to let Overwatch intervene, though she's been unable to discover why."
Reinhardt can't hold back his frustrated sigh, and he's not the only one.
"C'mon, does it really matter why?" Lena says urgently, "People are dying down there! We need to do something!" She slaps her palms on the table to emphasize the point.
Reinhardt agrees. Just yesterday news had come off another omnic attack, resulting in 34 deaths and 78 wounded. With no end in sight, the body count is sure to reach the 50,000 mark before the end of the year.
Winston sighs heavily. "I know, Lena. I wish we could. You know why we can't though; we're crossing a line operating as it is. If we intervene in a country without their express permission, we're liable to all wind up in jail for a long, long time."
"That is only if they catch us," Genji interjects cheerfully.
"Yeah!" Lúcio whoops, "I'd like to see them try!" He raises a fist in the air, pumping it as he hoots: "Can't touch thiiiiiis!"
"Now, now," Winston holds out his hands, as if to contain their burgeoning emotions, "we have to do things by the book, at least to start. There's a good chance that if all goes well in Russia, we could get the PETRAS act revoked, or at least lay the groundwork for a consideration. Then we wouldn't be so constrained."
"Y'know what I wanna know?" McCree interjects, changing the subject, "Why they ain't just blown the whole operation up. Don't they got the firepower t'do it?"
"I'll tell ya why," Torbjörn answers him, "it's cos those omniums are run on fusion cores. You blow the place t'smithereens and you're gonna have a heck of a lot of nuclear fallout on your hands."
"Oh," The cowboy replies, looking nonplussed, "yeah, that'd be pretty bad." He slumps back his seat, chewing his lip.
"Anyway," Winston says, trying to get them back on track, "the point is, we're currently at a standstill. The best we can do is prepare everything on our end so that when they need us, we'll be ready."
Reinhardt is displeased with this "sit back and wait" approach. It is just not his style, and he has to voice his opinion.
"Will there ever be a moment when we decide that we cannot stand by and do nothing?" he asks Winston, resting his elbows on the table and clasping hands together. "How many more will have to die before someone decides to do something?"
Winston looks at him, and he can see in those dark eyes the same thoughts that plague him. "We won't stand by forever, I promise," the scientist swears, "when the moment comes that we're needed, we'll act, PETRAS act or no."
Reinhardt wishes more than anything that he knew when that moment would come. He does not want to see something terrible happen, with them arriving too late to stop it. It feels like King's Row all over again.
The meeting is dismissed, with nothing more to add on the depressing subject. Afterwards Reinhardt takes Winston aside.
"May I contact Private Zarya?" he asks, "I was once a military man. Perhaps I can give her the words to get through to her superiors."
Winston gives him an appraising look. "Well, it can't hurt. I'll forward you her information, just let me know if you make any headway."
The rest of the day outside of sims and cooking is spent trying to craft his first email to Zarya. What should he say? Should he lay out everything that he's thinking, to prove total transparency? He doesn't know anything about her, or the best way to speak to her.
On a whim he searches her on the net. It is unlikely that a common soldier would appear in any news articles, excepting an act of heroism -
-but there she is.
Reinhardt isn't sure how many Aleksandra Zaryanova's there are in the Russian Defense Forces, but just looking at the woman in the picture that appears he feels this must be her.
The picture in question is in fact the front page of a magazine; dominating the spread is the bearlike figure of a woman. It could just be the lighting used in the photoshoot, but somehow Reinhardt doubts it. Those bulging muscles, barely contained by a red and gold leotard must be real. She stares out from the backsplash of the magazine, a handsome woman with a cropping of violently pink hair. A scar marrs her right temple, passing perilously close to her eye; he touches his left brow in unconscious sympathy.
The article is all in Russian, and he runs it through a translator to read:
"WEIGHTLIFTING CHAMP TRADES IN MEDALS FOR MILITIA"
Aleksandra Zaryanova, 28, known for her 2073 and 2074 sweep of the Women's National Weightlifting Championships has announced that she is retiring from weightlifting in the wake of trouble on the Russian Front. Aleksandra, who is originally from -
Reinhardt skims the rest of the article, which mostly expounds upon Zarya's many weightlifting medals and achievements, as well as her workout routine. It hardly mentions her role in the RDF, which isn't very helpful. Either way the article has helped; he has gained an appreciation for this soldier who appears to be a woman after his own heart. If there were to be a soldier contacting Overwatch in defiance of the RDF, he feels it would be her.
He sits at his desk typing up his email carefully. It's short and to the point, but he has labored hard over every word. The fruit of his labor reads:
Greetings Private Zarya,
I am Reinhardt Wilhelm, former Lieutenant of the Crusaders and a current agent of Overwatch. I write to you because the situation of your people weighs heavily on me. I understand from Winston that as of yet, the Russian Defense Forces are unwilling to accept our help. I would like to plead with whoever will listen to reason: let us do what we can, before more lives are lost. I know too well the great sacrifices your people have made during the Omnic Crisis, as Germany made many of the same. What is happening now bears a great resemblance to the events of the King's Row Uprising, where a great number of people could have been saved if action were taken sooner. If we work together I believe we can prevent a repeat of that devastation. If you feel it is an issue of communication with senior staff, I may be of some assistance.
Yours in service,
Reinhardt Wilhelm
P.S. What is Wilks score?
Reinhardt sends it off before he can second-guess himself and delete the whole thing. Then he goes to the kitchen and grabs a few cold beers to enjoy as he winds down for the night. The gloomy weather has put him in a mood for a movie, something good and sappy like The Notebook; a melancholy film always pairs well with a dreary night.
He invites Brigitte over under the pretense of enjoying some Schneider Weisse, and then starts playing the movie before she can protest. It doesn't stop her complaints, but she's already ensconced in his blanket again and protests that she's too comfortable to get up. Just as well, because he has no intention of switching movies. They drink and watch until this time it is Brigitte who falls asleep, her bottle tipping perilously in her lax grip.
Reinhardt affords her the courtesy of carrying her back to her room, even giving up his blanket for the night so as not to disturb her slumber.
He really should invest in a second blanket.