"You're up early," Ana remarks as Reinhardt comes around the corner into the breakfast nook.
"Couldn't sleep," he says.
She's leaning against the counter, watching a kettle that is already boiling. "Are you worried?"
"Me? Worried?" He has spirit enough to laugh at the suggestion. "Never!" It is not precisely a lie; he has worries enough but not about this.
"A lot is riding on this. Jack's worried himself sick."
Of course, Jack would. It is he who will be taking all the responsibility for what they are about to do. All the censure, and potentially all the glory.
Tomorrow they take back King's Row.
"I do not envy him," says Reinhardt. "Nor you."
Jack may be the face of Overwatch, but Amari is its brain. It is her plan they will be executing tomorrow. She will be watching from on high, altering it in real-time and feeding information to the strike commanders.
Reinhardt has run enough missions with her by now to know that she wouldn't advocate for this if she didn't believe they would win.
Amari laughs, low and rich. "I suppose you wouldn't."
Yes, he has found his niche. This is where he belongs, this is what he loves. The simple swing of his hammer, the protective curve of his shield. He lives for the fight. He must love it, or be driven mad by it.
Amari takes the kettle from the burner and extinguishes the flame with a twist of a knob. She sets it aside and then dangles two infusers through the lid.
"Do you think she is ready?" Ana asks.
She, meaning Lena Oxton. The newest member of Overwatch, whose first mission may be the most important one she will ever face.
They had practiced, of course. Ever since Null Sector had held King's Row hostage they had prepared to fight. Even now that the British government had forbidden it, they still trained. This furious energy had to go somewhere, and now they are arrows poised to leap from the bow.
"Yes. We all are," he said without hesitation.
Ana goes to the cupboards and withdraws another cup and saucer, setting them beside the pair already on the counter.
"Tea?"
Reinhardt is not normally a tea-drinker, but he appreciates the offer so he accepts. She pours a stream of steaming liquid into one cup, then the next. She takes a spoon and digs into the earthenware sugar bowl that sits next to the flour and spoons two mounds of sugar into each cup, then stirs. When she hands him his cup, he sniffs it curiously.
It smells like...tea. He hasn't had it often enough to distinguish any particular notes aside from the floral sweetness of it.
"What kind?" he asks, blowing across the fragrant surface. The tea is murky, almost the same shade as black coffee.
"It is saiidi, from Aswan. Near my home."
Reinhardt takes a tentative sip. Even with all the blowing, it is still hot enough to sting his lips. Amari takes a drink from her own cup, unfazed by the heat.
It is thick, almost syrupy from all the sugar, but even with it there's an edge of bitterness that cuts through the darkly florid taste. It's not bad. He tells her this, and she smiles a little at his surprise.
Each subsequent sip is easier than the last. Together they drink in silence that is only broken by the soft clink of the teacups on their saucers.
Amari finishes before him and pours herself another cup.
"Take care of them out there tomorrow, Wilhelm."
It is a charge, not a statement. The eye of Horus, dark as kohl pins him where he stands.
"I will," he promises. He is their shield, he will not fail them.
That had been the first cup of tea he had shared with Amari, and one of the last.
Reinhardt awakens early the morning they are to depart, as is his tradition. His alarm goes off promptly at 4:30, and he rolls out of bed with a groan. The coming winter is already sinking icy fingers into his joints.
He warms them with a hot shower, then a perfunctory stretch. Touch toes, side-to-side bend, air squats, hamstring curl. Then he heads to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.
While he waits for it to brew he lets his mind wander. He does not dwell on what the day will bring, he will find that out soon enough. Instead he sets out several mugs and the pot of sugar, and when the coffeemaker beeps the end of its cycle he pours himself his first cup.
Reinhardt leans against the counter, cradling the mug in his hands and letting it warm him. The heat helps with the worst of the ache in his knuckles.
He sits and waits, and listens to the Watchpoint awaken around him.
The first to emerge is Hanzo. The archer arrives in the kitchen already fully dressed in his winter gear; black ski pants, a black winter coat, and, instead of his quiver, a royal blue sling bag is strapped over one shoulder.
"Coffee?" Reinhardt offers.
At first it seems like Hanzo will refuse, but he eyes the mug still steaming in Reinhardt's grip, then accepts. He takes his drink and leaves, and as he goes Reinhardt notices a glint of silver at the ridge of his nose. Hanzo has a piercing. Strange, how he never noticed that.
Next through is Winston, who refuses the coffee but instead selects a banana and heads for the hangar. Shortly on his heels is Lena, who takes her coffee with a few heaping spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of creamer, then speeds off after Winston. The two of them are to run pre-checks on the Orca, a task that usually takes half an hour.
They are set to leave at 7, and it is just after half-past 5 now.
Reinhardt finishes his first cup and is partway through his second when McCree arrives. He's dressed in his usual regalia, windblown and pink-cheeked from the cold. The earthy smell of his cigarillos follow him, and Reinhardt knows he has been outside smoking.
"T-that looks l-like just the ticket," he says, shivering. Off the warmer comes the coffee pot, and McCree pours himself a mug so enthusiastically it almost overflows.
He joins Reinhardt in his silent vigil of the coffee pot, drinking down the black brew in great gulps.
At 6:14 Brigitte and Lúcio drag themselves into the kitchen. Lúcio, half asleep fumbles for the pot while Brigitte raids the cupboard.
"Oh my God," says Lúcio as he stirs cream into his coffee and douses it liberally with sugar. "I think I'm gonna die."
Reinhardt and McCree both raise an eyebrow at him. Brigitte turns with a box of cereal in her hands.
"Don't be dramatic, Lu," she says, helping herself to some dry cereal. They're all out of milk.
Lu?
"You're only saying that because you got sleep!" Lúcio says, drinking his milky concoction. "I didn't sleep a wink. I took like, six melatonin gummies and everything."
"Are you worried?" Reinhardt asks, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu.
"Yes!" Lúcio exclaims. "This is like, first-mission jitters to the max! I kept thinking like 'what if my suit breaks before even get there' and 'what if I forget the call-outs' and 'what if I forget how to speak English'-"
Brigitte snorts laughter, almost spewing a mouthful of cornflakes. "Really?"
Reinhardt intervenes, laying a hand on Lúcio's shoulder. "Do not worry, Lúcio. We all felt this way before our first big fight."
He tells the story of how the night before his first fight he foolishly entered an impromptu drinking competition with his Captain, resulting in a massive hangover and him puking out the window of their truck convoy.
"That ain't nothin'," McCree says. "My first heist I was so nervous I couldn't even load my gun! Damn near used up all the speedloaders cuz I kept fumblin' my bullets. That's actually how the federales caught up to my ol' street gang, on account'a the bullets I left behind."
Brigitte, not wanting to be left out interjects, "I hit myself in the head with my flail the first time I used it in combat!"
They all laugh at the follies of their first fights, and Lúcio grins wearily over his cup.
"Thanks guys. That makes me feel a little better."
Reinhardt checks his watch. It is 6:32, about time that they begin wrapping this up and getting outfitted for the Siberian cold.
Brigitte crams another handful of cornflakes into her mouth, then returns the box to the cupboard. "These things could really use some honey, bleh. Or at least some milk."
"You could have put some coffee in it," Reinhardt jokes.
Brigitte snatches his mug and drains the remaining quarter-inch of coffee within, then hands it back, grimacing. "Ugh. I don't know how you can drink it like that."
"You can make your own cup, you know."
"Nah, no time. Gotta get the rest of my gear on. Catch you guys in a few!" And then she is gone.
She is right though, it is time to move. The mugs and coffeepot go into the dishwasher, the lights are flipped off and then Reinhardt returns to his room. He dresses, then collects his duffel bag and joins the small convoy heading to the hangar.
Torbjörn, Lena and Winston are on the launchpad where the Orca has been moved. Torbjörn checking the weapon and shield systems, Lena and Winston helping to load the last of the luggage onto the aircraft.
Once on board, Reinhardt watches the last stragglers arrive. Angela arrives, then Genji followed by Zenyatta. Genji speaks to his master for a moment before bowing and joining them on the Orca. Zenyatta will remain behind, watching over the Watchpoint with Athena. This is just as well; Reinhardt does not think the battlefield is the place for a monk. An omnic monk, whose brethren are being slaughtered by the hundreds out there.
Winston, Lena and Torbjörn are the last to enter the Orca, and the door raises shut behind them. Reinhardt straps himself into a seat just as Lena's voice comes overhead.
"Alright you lot, this is your captain speaking! Please buckle in to your seats, we're about ready to take off!"
She gives them a quick run through of the safety features of the Orca; the emergency door mechanism, the oxygen masks, the procedure in case of a crash landing, the parachutes built into their seats. Reinhardt pulls down his shoulder restraint until the metal clicks into place, and around him the others follow suit.
"I think that about covers it. If no one has any objections, prepare for takeoff!"
There's a hum that builds as the hover units begin to power up, and to his right Brigitte groans. Ah yes, she dislikes flying.
"Takeoff is the worst part," she mumbles, holding tightly to her safety bar. "I can't look."
"You might be surprised," he tells her. She has never ridden in a ship quite like the Orca, after all.
The hover units are joined by the roar of the thrusters as they fire, and the ship lifts off into the brightening sky.
The force of liftoff presses them into their seats, then eases as their momentum builds. The Watchpoint shrinks rapidly, becoming a pale gray block amid the blue bulk of the ocean and the dull green of the fields turning to dormancy, then even those are obscured as they ascend through the sparse cloud cover.
After a few minutes the sound of the thrusters changes, and Lena's voice comes overhead again. "Alright loves, we've reached our cruising altitude of 12,200 meters! It's safe to move about the cabin now. We're set to arrive at Krasnoyarsk in 8 hours, 24 minutes."
The safety harnesses are unlocked, and Reinhardt releases his, then helps Brigitte and Lúcio when they struggle with theirs.
"What it as bad as you expected?" he asks Brigitte as she stands and stretches.
"No, but I still hate flying."
The flight is a long one. Not quite long enough to warrant an overnight journey that they could have slept through, and not short enough that they can comfortably remain in their seats. The first hour is passed waking up, the coffee finally clearing out any remaining fuzziness.
Then McCree pulls out a pack of playing cards and teaches them a game called 'Texas hold'em', a form of poker. Angela wrinkles her nose when the prospect of betting comes up, and they compromise by having only silly punishments for the first person out.
To everyone's surprise the consistent winners are Hanzo, Genji, and Lúcio.
"Now that ain't right!" McCree laments when he's the first one out on their fifth round and is forced to dance a jig. "Genji, I'm beginnin' to think you got an unfair advantage!"
"If anyone has an advantage, it is Hanzo," Genji intones, sounding amused. "He has not told you that he was the champion of an American poker tournament."
Everyone turns to Hanzo, who shoots an annoyed look at his brother. McCree yelps, "You what?!"
Hanzo places his cards down flat on the table. "It was a long time ago." It's clear from his tone he wants this to be the end of it, but now everyone's interest is piqued.
"Really? That's so awesome!" Lúcio exclaims.
"You won a poker tournament?" says Brigitte. "How much did you win?"
"What am I missing?!" Lena's voice drifts from the cockpit, alerted by McCree's yelp.
"I would like to hear this tale," Reinhardt supplements. A good tale always makes the journey go faster.
Unused to being the center of attention, Hanzo shifts uneasily. "It is a long story."
"Ah c'mon brother, everyone wants to hear it!" Genji says, slapping his own cards down on the table. "Go on!"
Hanzo sighs. "Fine, but you must keep dancing!" he points a finger at McCree, who has stopped in his shock. As soon as McCree's boots begin to move, he starts talking.
Hanzo's tale spawns a game of two truths and a lie, which often descends into long-winded stories elaborating the more wild truths.
Almost before Reinhardt knows it they've been in the air for 4 hours, and next to him Brigitte is complaining of hunger. Lunch is more of a collection of non-perishable snacks than a real meal, but that's fine by him. He prefers to eat light going into a mission; the edge of hunger sharpens his wits.
After lunch there's a brief slump in the energy, and everyone takes a siesta. Reinhardt rests his eyes alongside Lúcio, while the others do who-knows-what. For awhile the world is dark, indistinct, brief flashes of dreams surfacing from his subconscious like colorful fish.
After a time, soft conversation awakens him. It is Torbjörn and Winston, who has come down from the cockpit.
"They told me they've acquired everything on the list you sent me," Winston is saying, hunched over his pad.
"Aye, but they better have some decent machinists too, 'else this whole mission's gonna take a while." Torbjörn says, and gestures to his own pad for Winston to look.
Across from where he sits, Reinhardt spies Brigitte toying with something orange that looks like a rotted fruit. Recognition sparks in him, spurring him to finally get up.
"Well, I finally figured out what the basketball hoop is for," she says as he approaches, squeezing the deflated ball. "But I don't think this is gonna cut it."
"I may have a solution," he says, taking it from her. He rummages through a side storage pocket near to where the basketball had usually been stored, and turns up a handheld air pump. He inserts the needle into the ball's orifice and then pumps until the pebbled skin is taut.
Giving the ball a test dribble attracts everyone's attention, and wakes Lúcio.
"Oh, are we keeping with the tradition?" Angela says, drifting over.
He hands her the revitalized basketball with a grin. "Of course!"
"What tradition?" asks Brigitte.
"Oh no, not this!" Torbjörn sees what they're looking and and groans, but it lacks heat.
"Yes, this!" Reinhardt says, "We must keep Ray's tradition alive!" At Brigitte and Lúcio's confused looks, he elaborates. "Ray was our pilot before our esteemed Lena joined Overwatch."
"Damned good pilot too," Torbjörn interjects.
"He remained with the aircraft while we were on missions, which bored him. He installed a basketball goal as both a joke and to keep himself busy, which then progressed to a wager. Whoever made the first free throw would get to choose where we ate on the way back."
"Of course, the outcome was predictable," Angela laughs. "And Ray did have an abnormal fodness for Italian food. I never ate so much risotto in all my life!"
"Yes," says Reinhardt, "and when he left we kept it going. Though we may have... altered the hoop somewhat."
Angela tosses the ball up, only for it to bounce off the backboard. Reinhardt intercepts it before it careens into the table where Torbjörn is standing, then passes it to Brigitte.
They take turns shooting, though their aim is questionable at best. The number of interested shooters increases until even Winston looks up from his pad. Lúcio, attempting to spin the ball on his finger for a trick shot drops it, and it rolls away. Winston scoops up the ball as it comes toward him, examining it thoughtfully.
"Take the shot!" calls Lúcio, to the cheers of Brigitte and Lena, who is watching over her shoulder from the captain's chair.
Winston deliberates for a moment then lobs the ball, a surprisingly delicate move for as large as he is. It floats in a perfect arc before dropping straight through the net, not even touching the rim.
The cheers of the enthusiastic younger crew are momentarily drowned out by the blast of air horns and an explosion of confetti, and Reinhardt can't help but smile at the stunned expressions on their faces. He remembers how surprising that had been the first time it had been tripped.
"Woah, I did not expect that," says Lúcio, plucking a red piece of confetti from his dreadlocks. He can't possibly see the other pieces speckling the back of his head, so he is helped by Brigitte and McCree.
"Yeah, that particular addition was my idea. Adds a lil' flair to the thing, don'it?" McCree says, then adds, "Hey, Winston! Be thinkin' 'bout what kinda grub you want on the way home!"
The rest of the late afternoon devolves into games of H.O.R.S.E. and Around the World, before Lena warns them that they've got about one hour left before arrival. Then the ball is packed up, the confetti cleaned up, and the cheerful mood takes on a more anticipatory edge.
Looking out the window Reinhardt can see nothing of the landscape. Night has fallen while none of them were watching; undoubtedly the jetlag will bother them tonight.
They are getting close. Reinhardt feels the first twinge of anticipation; he is ready to get off the plane.
In no time at all Lena's voice crackles overhead. "We'll be landing in fifteen minutes, strap in loves! Could be a bit of a bumpy landing."
The safety bars are pulled down over the top of them, and once again Brigitte begins to white-knuckle her harness at the first hint of turbulence.
Reinhardt places a hand on her knee. "It will be alright, Shildlein."
"I know," she says through gritted teeth. "I just really hate this."
When the turbulence increases, she grabs his hand and squeezes it.
The Orca shakes in the crosswinds as they descend, and the roar of the thrusters increases as they fly ever lower. They're almost at ground level now, and Reinhardt can see the dim glow of fluorescent vests and waving beacons as air marshals direct them down. Lena skilfully reverses the thrusters and then powers them down slowly, and there's a gentle thump as the hover units engage.
They're down.
"Alright team we've arrived in Krasnoyarsk! Thank you for flying Tracer Airlines, please come again!" Lena chirps, and then giggles before the intercom cuts off. The harnesses unlock, and she blinks down to join them as everyone rises from their seats.
Reinhardt slips his coat back on, for it looks dark and bitterly cold out there. In the fluorescent glow of the stadium-style lights he can see people milling in dark gray and green winter coats, black and gray ushanka pulled low against the wind. He slips on his gloves for good measure.
"Is everybody ready?" Winston asks, looking very puffy in his winter coat and aviator hat.
There's a chorus of agreement, and then the hatch opens, letting in a blast of icy air.
There's a small cluster of people waiting just outside. When they descend the hatch, the leading figure raises its hand in greeting.
"Welcome, Overwatch!" a voiced boomed, heavily accented. "Welcome to Krasnoyarsk! I am Private Petrov of 4th squad, 10th Company. We will help you move cargo!" The voice is young, enthusiastic, clearly male. The whole group standing before them share approximately the same build: tall, broad, evidently the strongest soldiers.
Even as big as they are, Reinhardt still towers over them. He has the impression of several pairs of twinkling eyes staring up at him, before the whole lot were introducing themselves and clamoring for orders.
"Um, thank you!" Winston says, shaking the Private's proffered hand. "We're glad to be here. Come, this way…"
Reinhardt and Winston open the cargo doors, and in no time there is an orderly line of people carrying their gear over to several hover trailers. Torbjörn is supervising the loading of their weaponry, dispensing instructions for the more delicate items.
Reinhardt himself hefts some of the larger items and carries them to the trailers. He notices that there are several uniformed Russians standing around watching the proceedings, machine guns cradled loosely in their hands. Were they perhaps an armed escort?
In a blink the cargo bays are cleared out. A new soldier approaches, this one wearing the fluorescent colors of the air marshals.
"I am Marshal Baranov!" he shouts over the chattering of the Russian squad. "We will tow your plane! Pilot, please ensure thrusters are completely off before we move!"
Lena leapt forward with a quick salute, then trotted back aboard the plane. When she re-emerged she gave a quick thumbs up, and then Private Krasnoyarsk began to speak again.
"Overwatch, please come this way," he gestures to an enormous armored truck, "we take you to your quarters now!"
They're loaded up into the armored vehicle, and as spacious as it is the ceiling is still a bit too low for Reinhardt's comfort. They and their small convoy of supplies are driven through a maze of tents, through a perimeter of barbed wire and eventually park in a small clearing in front of two modular barracks, where another small cluster of people awaits them.
Once disembarked, a slim man with a rather severe gray moustache steps forward.
"Welcome, Overwatch agents," he says, voice clipped and sharp. "I am Major Apalkov, head of 10th company. I trust my men have been helpful?"
They all nod in agreement. Over Major Apalkov's shoulder Reinhardt notices two other figures standing at attention. The one to the left dwarfs the Major, and it is a face he recognizes.
"Good." Major Apalkov says, though he doesn't sound glad in the slightest. "Tonight you must get situated here; my Lieutenants will attend you. Tomorrow we meet to discuss battle."
By the coldness in his eyes Reinhardt guesses that this is one of the men more strongly opposed to their intervention here. Unfortunate. Over the Major's shoulder he gazes at the familiar face again. Her expression is blandly neutral, but Reinhardt can see excitement dancing in her blue eyes. When she spots him looking, the faintest hint of a smile graces the corners of her lips, then vanishes.
"If you have needs, Lieutenant Zaryanova will attend you." Major Apalkov gestures to his left, and the woman, Zaryanova - or should he call her Zarya? - flashes a quick two-fingered salute. Ah, so that is how it is. This is a punishment for her, for daring to push her superiors. "I have work still to do. Da svidania." And with that curt goodbye, he leaves.
As soon as the armored truck pulls away, Lieutenant Zarya steps forward. The severe aura dissolves, her posture relaxing and her mouth curving in a small, pleased smile. "Overwatch!" she booms, spreading her arms wide. "I am glad to see you here safely! Welcome to Krasnoyarsk Front!" Unlike her superior's, Zarya's welcome sounds genuine.
"You are Winston, yes?" she says, addressing the hulking scientist. "Now I have a face to put to all those emails!
"Yes, that's me," Winston says, shaking her offered hand. "It's nice to meet you, Lieutenant Zaryanova."
"Call me Zarya! Here we are equals." she exclaims.
Reinhardt steps forward to introduce himself, extending his own hand in greeting. "I am Reinhardt Wilhelm. Thank you for hosting us."
Zarya enfolds his hand in a grip just as firm as his own. "Reinhardt! Somehow I knew it must be you." She releases his hand and leans back, a speculative look on her face. "You are smaller than I expected."
By the twinkle in her eyes he can tell that she is jesting, so he throws back his head and laughs. She joins in on the mirth, chuckling and declaring, "Soon we must arm-wrestle, as promised!"
Ah yes, he had made that promise, hadn't he? Just after discussing their bench presses.
"But of course!" he agrees, thinking that perhaps the arm-wrestling will have to wait until after they complete the mission. It wouldn't do to go into the fight injured.
"Zarya, this is my squire, Brigitte. She maintains my armor, as well as our weaponry. And here is Lena-"
He helps to introduce Zarya to the rest of the team, keeping it brief when he sees some of them shivering from the cold.
"I am glad you are here," Zarya says once she has greeted everyone. "We have much to speak of. But first, you are hungry after your long flight, yes?"
"Yes!" Brigitte answers enthusiastically.
"Good! Come, we move out of the cold." she gestures for them to follow her, and then turns to the man at her side and says something in Russian. The man nods and jogs ahead of them and out of sight.
They trudge past rows of prefab buildings, towards one large tent that is belching clouds of white steam from some vent in the ceiling. They're ushered inside to be greeted by a welcome warmth and the savory scent of food. Reinhardt's stomach makes its desires known by growling.
There's a serving line, headed by empty trays and containers of silverware and napkins. Two kitchen cooks, putting the final dish in the serving line snap to attention once they see Zarya and her entourage.
"Spasibo!" Zarya calls to them, waving a hand at their salutes. "Vot i vse."
The cooks scurry off to the back of the kitchen, shooting curious looks at them as they go. Reinhardt feels a twinge of regret that he could not thank them personally for their work, but perhaps he will have a chance to later.
Zarya points out the various dishes to them as they go through the line.
"This pechenochnyy pashtet is good. You will need protein for the upcoming fight!" she says as Angela used tongs to lift a square of something pinkish from a row of other pink squares. At her curious look, Zarya thinks for a moment, then elaborates. "I think you call this liver. Liver of chicken!"
Lúcio, about to take one of the slabs himself hesitates, shrugs and then loads it onto his tray.
Further down the line is a red soup with chunks of potato and carrot that he recognizes once Zarya labels it as 'borscht'. Even further are more recognizable foods; stewed cabbage and thick hunks of rough, brown bread. Two beverage dispensers sit at the tail end of the line, one filled with water, the other tea.
Reinhardt helps himself to a bit of everything and takes a seat with his comrades, waiting until they have all been seated before tucking in.
It would not be his first choice for a meal, but Reinhardt is quite hungry and the food is warm, and the hospitality much appreciated.
Zarya has not taken any food for herself, preferring to sit at the head of the table. She removes her ushanka, revealing a crop of brilliantly pink hair.
This image of Zarya is so different than what he remembers from the news article that for a moment Reinhardt stares. It's not only the bubblegum brightness of her hair - jarring compared to the grayish backdrop of the building - it's her scar.
Reinhardt has many scars. His body is a map, each raised strip of flesh a roadmark, a story. He can read wounds like a book. Zarya's scar is raised, not the pink of a newly healed wound but the dusky rose color of a months-old injury. It bisects her brow and skirts the corner of her right eye. It's not the pockmarked hollow of a bullet, nor the clean slice of a blade.
It's at just the right height that he can imagine a helmet superimposed on her head, the rim passing just over the bulk of the scar. He imagines hot shrapnel flying, catching just under that protective lip, metal cutting and burning as she tries to strip it from her head -
Zarya turns her head and he shifts his gaze away, lest she catch him staring so rudely.
Her appearance isn't the only thing that Reinhardt notices, however. As he eats he becomes aware of the silhouette of armed soldiers through the tent walls, illuminated by the fluorescent lights on top of the building. Zarya follows his eyes as he watches them.
"Guards?" he asks lightly. He would commend her on their thoughtfulness, though it does make him painfully aware of their gear, still stored on the hover trailers.
"Yes. For your protection," she says, and leaves it at that. Despite this he feels that there is something she is not saying, but he will not press her on it.
"Thank you for the meal," he says when he is finished. "and give my thanks to your cooks as well."
"Of course! They will be glad to know you liked it." she says. A few members of the team are finishing up their last bites, so she rises to address them again.
"Tomorrow we discuss the plan," she says, pulling her ushanka back on. "I will bring breakfast, then we discuss with the officers our strategy. The rest of the day you have to maintain your weapons, armor and supplies. I will show you the armory, if you must fix something. Come, I will show you to your bunks."
They return to the same modular barracks the armored car had dropped them in front of, and Zarya points to one that has an orange strip of tape over the door. "This one is for the men." She points to the other, which has a white strip. "This one is for the women.
Zarya indicates a large tent just behind their barracks. "We will park the trailers in here once you have everything you need tonight."
They retrieve their bags from the trailers, then help Zarya and her soldiers shift the cargo into the tent, much to her chagrin - "You are guests, you should not be working! - before they bid her goodnight and file into their respective lodgings.
Zarya stops him with a hand on his arm as he goes by.
"Unfortunately I do not think our beds accommodate someone of your size, or Winston's," she says apologetically. "We put two together to try to help, though."
"It is not a problem. I have slept in army bunks before, I know how to adapt!" he replies with a wink, and claps her on the shoulder. "We appreciate any accommodations."
When he gets inside he sees that indeed they have pushed two bunks together, though not in the way he expects. They form a T-shape, offering more space for his legs to extend.
The other bunks are arranged side by side, evenly spaced with enough room to walk between them. There are six in all, not including the extra two for Reinhardt and Winston.
Torbjörn drops his bag on the bed next to Reinhardt's and begins rummaging through it, looking for his toiletries.
"So, what do you think about all this, eh?" he says in a low voice. Whether he doesn't want to be overheard by the others or by their guards Reinhardt doesn't know, but he takes on the same tone when he responds.
"They seem pleasant enough. Perhaps more guards than I was expecting."
Torbjörn snorts. "And the fact that Major whatever-his-name-was looked like he'd sooner shoot us than greet us didn't bother ya?"
Reinhardt shrugs, pulling free his pajamas. "I knew that not everyone here would be happy about our involvement. Perhaps he could have hidden it better, but I would rather know his feelings than be surprised later."
There is a small washroom just outside their sleeping area, and they all take turns performing their evening ablutions in the sinks before bedding down for the night.
Reinhardt lies awake in bed, listening to the quiet sounds of his teammates breathing. How familiar and strange it seems at once; it has been so long since has been in the company of anyone but Brigitte at night. Yet, he can clearly remember missions much like this, sleeping bags packed on the floor of the Orca or else piled in one hotel room, laughing and talking into the night like rowdy twenty-somethings. He had been a younger man, then.
He lies awake, drifting aimlessly through memories until at last he falls into an uneasy sleep. It's punctuated with strange dreams that he cannot remember, and though he wakes several times it is still jarring how long the night seems. It seems so long that he's a bit startled when a sharp rap comes at the door, and Zarya sticks her head through.
"My friends, it is time to get up! Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes!"
And then she is gone. By the speed at which everyone except Lúcio has gotten up and begun to change, it is evident that Reinhardt isn't the only one who was laying awake. Perhaps they were all trapped in the same limbo as he, afraid to get up lest they disturb their sleeping fellows.
They dress and have a quick meal of porridge and sausage which is brought to them on trays. Then they are ushered back to a vehicle which drives them through the forest of tents and out towards the edge of the city of Krasnoyarsk.
The field is alive with soldiers, tens of hundreds of people moving in and out of what must be the command center here. The building is huge and looks very old; it might once have been used for storage.
Zarya brings them inside, and then takes them into a side room where a small army of people with measuring tapes awaits.
"Apologies, we must do this first," she says. "Preparation, as requested by Winston, yes?"
Ah, this must be for the IR shielding.
They are all measured accordingly; height, the circumference of their chests, waists, their inseams, their shoulders. Reinhardt has a brief mental image of them striding into battle wearing highly tailored reflective suits, before he quashes the thought.
Afterwards they're guided into a room with a large central holotable. It's filled with officers, who all turn as they arrive. Zarya salutes to them; they must be her superiors. She spits out a barrage of rapid Russian before one officer steps forward.
"Generál ármii Ivanov," he says by way of greeting, nodding to them. "Overwatch, it is good you have come. These are my men," he gestures behind him and rattles off a list of names that Reinhardt has no hope of remembering. He instead memorizes the insignias on their pressed green uniforms; stars and stripes means Colonel, vertical stars means General.
Winston steps forward to introduce them, Reinhardt does not offer his hand as no one else seems inclined to shake.
Introductions taken care of, they settle down to business.
"This is a current map if the battlefield," Army General Ivanov says, indicating the holotable. There's a 3D projection of the omnium, the surrounding terrain, the jagged edge of where it meets the city. Superimposed over this is what looks like color-coded attack patterns and defensive lines, and glowing red clusters of what must be omnic activity.
"Their forces are strongest here," Ivanov says, pointing at the red clusters and confirming Reinhardt's thought. "They send advanced troops every few days. The main force is here." He points to a space about a third of the way between the omnium and the city.
"We manage to keep them at bay, but we have no luck advancing. Their numbers seem endless, and we cannot touch the omnium." Ivanov exchanges a significant glance with Winston. "That is why you are here."
"Yes," Winston acknowledges, looking over the map. "We have a plan to deal with the Titan, we just need to get close enough to enact it."
"We can get you close," Ivanov says, and taps something so that a glowing gold line appears on the holotable. "This is the path you will take. It is old sewage tunnel, goes right to the heart of the omnium."
Torbjörn exhales a trifle louder than usual.
"While you go there, we will mount an attack," the Army General hits a button again, and a glowing blue wave advances from the city towards the omnium. "It will distract the omnics from your movements, and draw the attention of the big one."
"And, when we've taken the Titan down?" Winston says.
Another button push, and the omnium dissolves in explosion of light.
"We will destroy it."
"The plan is simple, I will give them that," Genji remarks lightly.
With the plan detailed, they had been dismissed from the command center with both plans for the sewer system and the information that Zarya would be accompanying them on their mission. It had not been a request; she was to be their guide to the omnium, as well as an apparent guarantee of their safety.
A simple plan indeed. Reinhardt knows that sometimes the simplest plans are best, but in this instance it seems rather risky to have no backup plan.
"They are foolish," Hanzo mutters to his brother, "if this is their only plan. They hinge too much on our success."
Reinhardt leaves the brothers behind to go to the tent and unpack his armor. Most of the agents are working on this already save Angela; she had requested to be taken to the medical tents, willing to offer her assistance to the soldiers there.
Brigitte is attempting to haul the protective cases of their armor out from the pile, and Reinhardt rushes to help her before she hurts herself.
"Thanks!" she exclaims as he helps her lay the cases flat just outside the tent. "Thought I was gonna throw my back out."
"You should have asked for help!" Reinhardt scolds.
"Where's the fun in that?"
Each piece of their armor is removed from the cases, inspected, polished, and interlocked until Reinhardt's armor is in two pieces: the lower half, which he must slip on like a pair of pants, and the upper half which he will have to heft overhead to slide into tomorrow. A quick test of the rocket mechanism proves fruitful, and no joints squeak when they are moved.
Brigitte's armor is built in much the same manner, and they stand the pieces side-by-side inside the tent for easy access the following day.
"Wow," Brigitte says, inspecting their work. "This is like, really happening. It still feels kinda unreal."
"Yes, it is happening. Missions are often like this; waiting around only to leap into action at a moment's notice." Reinhardt replies, laying his hammer lengthwise behind their armor.
"It's just...crazy. This time tomorrow we could be fighting hordes of omnics!"
Reinhardt looks at his watch: it is 11:37. "I am more inclined to believe that we will be inside the sewer at this time tomorrow."
"Yeah, well - you don't know that there aren't any omnics in the sewer!" Brigitte retorts. "What if we have to fight the whole way there?" she pantomimes swinging her mace.
"I should hope not. That would make our approach far less subtle."
"Reinhardt, you don't exactly do subtle," Brigitte says, and dances away when he attempts to put her into a headlock.
The rest of the day for Reinhardt is spent taking meals, planning with his teammates and even sparring with Brigitte. They clear a space in between the beds of the women's barracks and spend a few rounds cycling through ground fighting, boxing, and wrestling. It feels good to move after the whole day of inaction yesterday. When Zarya peeks her head in and catches them at it, she is eager to try.
"I heard you are afraid to arm wrestle me old man, so I went easy on you!" she says when he pins her, just barely. He laughs and helps her up, clapping a hand on her back. Wrestling her had been like trying to wrestle down a bear; her brute strength was really quite something to behold.
"Afraid, me?" he says, puffing out his chest. "I don't know the meaning of the word! We will arm wrestle, make no mistake. But first we must take down the Titan!" They shake on it in agreement before Zarya takes them to the kitchen for dinner.
The meal that night is somewhat subdued. Everyone talks quietly, or else is seemingly deep in thought. Once dinner is over, McCree slinks off to smoke a cigarillo and Genji and Hanzo disappear like smoke on the wind. Angela has still not returned from the medical tents. Back in their barracks, Winston is deep in his pad, undoubtedly looking at the sewer plans with Torbjörn at his side. Lúcio and Brigitte are sharing a pair of earbuds, Brigitte nodding to the time of whatever song they're listening to. Lena is outside, attempting a video call with Emily.
Reinhardt spends some time readying himself for bed and then neatly packing his bag, then takes some time to briefly look over the blueprints of the sewers Winston had forwarded them. They make little sense to him; without seeing them in the context of the omnium, he can't guess at which branches they will take. He will have to trust that Winston, Torbjörn and Zarya know the way.
Sparring even seems to help with his jet lag, so that when at last darkness falls again Reinhardt finds it much easier to relax. He closes his eyes, feeling the insidious creep of sleep tugging at the edges of his thoughts. The murmuring of his friends becomes fuzzy and indistinct. Tomorrow a great battle awaits, and perhaps he should feel apprehensive, but right now he feels only peace. They have done all they can to prepare.
He will protect them, come what may.