"What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies."
― Jack Kerouac
The morning after the party Brigitte awakes from a deep and dreamless sleep, feeling better than she has in weeks.
Her head aches a little from too much punch, and her skin is grainy with dried sweat - she had collapsed into bed without showering last night - but still, she feels changed. Clear-headed, without the dark cloud of anxiety surrounding her and Reinhardt's relationship.
She's done it! The feelings have been put to rest; things are looking up.
A hot shower and a bout of off-key whistling later, she checks her watch and heads to late breakfast. She isn't the only one who had a bit of a lie-in. When she enters the kitchen she sees Lena and McCree huddled at one of the round tables still pushed against the wall.
"Morning!" She plunks a glass of water and a bowl of oatmeal down next to Lena so enthusiastically that one of the half-melted tealights jumps, and the milk sloshes in Lena's bowl of bran flakes. "Whoops, sorry."
"Mornin', love! How ya holding up?" Lena looks as she always does: as cheery and bright as the summer sun. How does she do it? She'd downed an awful lot of punch last night too.
Brigitte drains half her water and slams the glass down with a puff of satisfaction. It might be her imagination, but she thinks she can almost feel the edge of her headache receding. "Good. Nothing a bit of water can't handle. You?"
"It'll take more than a little punch to take me down!" Lena thumps her chest, as though facing down an invisible enemy and then deflates with laughter. "I'm more worried about Mei!"
Brigitte winces in sympathy. It's all too easy to imagine what Mei must be waking up to - she had been there a time or two herself.
McCree yawns, drawing his serape around his shoulders more tightly. "What, she have too much ta drink?"
He doesn't look all that great. His face is rough in patches around the wild growth of his goatee, and beneath the brim of his hat Brigitte can see dark bags beneath his eyes. He's nursing a cup of coffee black as tar.
"You could say that. We had to carry her to bed last night." Brigitte blows on her first spoonful of oatmeal, watching the steam twist and curl in the chilly air. "Should I go check on her?"
Lena shakes her head. "Nah, I told Dr. Ziegler about her first thing this morning. She went to look in on her. I'm sure she's got something in her bag to fix her right up!"
McCree only grunts, bringing his coffee to his lips.
"Are you alright?" Brigitte asks. She remembers how he had chased Hanzo from the mess hall after his disastrous attempt to whisk him onto the dance floor. "Looks like you're close to needing that funeral."
That earns her a rough chuckle. "I'll be fine. Ain't nothin'."
"Did you and Hanzo try to murder each other last night?"
Lena looks back and forth between Brigitte and McCree, trying to piece together their conversation.
"Nah. Think me an' the ice prince finally came to an understanding, actually. Took a while though." He takes a huge gulp of coffee. "Hope ta God Winston don't want to kick sims off today."
Brigitte hasn't even finished her oatmeal before her pad vibrates. The notification: a nondescript circle that signifies an email from Overwatch's encrypted system.
"Speak of the devil," she mutters, and opens it.
"Well, looks like you're in luck. No sims till tomorrow, but we have a meeting at four." She transcribes Winston's message to McCree then scrapes the last dregs of breakfast into her mouth.
McCree groans, draining the rest of his coffee in a few long gulps. "Well, I'm gonna try an' get a nap in between now an' then. See you two later." And off he lopes, spurs jingling down the hallway.
Brigitte checks her watch. She'd slept in quite a bit; it's already almost ten. If she and Reinhardt are going to get any practice with the new shield mechanism they've got to do it either now or right after lunch.
She waves goodbye to Lena and disposes of her dishes, then heads for the practice range. When she opens the door it's to complete darkness; he's not here yet. Surprised at his self-control she moves towards the workshop instead. Perhaps he feels nervous about taking the armor out of its display holder.
But even the workshop is dark. Is it possible that he's hanging around in his room? Or that he's still sleeping?
There'd been no evidence of his cooking, but she'd thought that was because she had awoken so late. Retracing her steps, she heads back through the barracks towards his bedroom.
It's not like him to oversleep. Even when they get to bed in the wee hours of the morning on movie nights, he invariably beats her to the kitchen for breakfast.
She hesitates outside his door, then presses her ear to the plastisteel. It must have better insulative properties then she'd thought, because she can't hear anything beyond it no matter how intently she listens.
She knocks.
There's no sound from inside.
Waiting, she gives it thirty seconds before she knocks again. When there's no answer this time, she twists the knob, testing it. True to form he's left it unlocked.
It's dark inside, and cold as a refrigerator. A triangle of light from the hall spills in, slicing across the floor and creeping up the side of his bed to reveal a mountainous form humped under the comforter. As if there were any doubt that he's here, the thready rumble of his snores filters all the way across the room.
Jeez. He really is like a bear.
She pushes inside, shutting the door behind her and lighting her way to the head of the bed with her pad. How should she wake him? Should she extend the same courtesy that he's given her on certain occasions, blasting Hasselhoff at max volume? Or should she be kind?
Fleetingly, an image appears in her mind: she, bending down over his still, sleeping form and waking him in the manner of Sleeping Beauty - with a kiss.
Okay, maybe not completely over him. Her face heats, pulse quickening. Yesterday's progress was something, but surely these lingering feelings will remain for a while.
She opts for a completely different approach; backing across the room to flip on the overhead light on and then stomps loudly back to announce her presence. As he begins to stir she throws herself over his bed, sprawling cat-like over his abdomen.
"Wake up, sleepyhead!" she sing-songs, as though this is a regular occurrence.
He mutters something incoherent, rolling slowly onto his back so that she's tipped towards the floor. The covers bulge as he raises his arms, scrubbing his face with both hands.
"What… time is it?" His voice is thick, muzzy with sleep.
"Nearly ten now. And we have a meeting at four."
A groan. She can feel his muscles bunch and then extend as he stretches. Propping her chin on a hand, she watches him knuckle the sleep from his eyes before pillowing his head on one arm. He, too, looks tired, though nowhere near as rough as McCree. Stubbly, half of his beard smushed flat, wisps of hair arcing wildly and sticking to the pillow.
He's adorab-
She crushes the thought before it can fully form.
"This is a pretty late lie-in for you. Was last night too much action for a man of your age?" she teases. When he takes a lazy swipe at her she dodges, then perches near the head of the bed. "How late did you stay up?"
"You do not want to know."
"Ah, c'mon. Surely it can't have been past one!" There's only so much to see while it's still mounted in its display case, after all...
Grimacing, he shakes his head.
"Two?"
He nods.
Two hours? He stared at it for two whole hours?!
She goggles at him, and he has the decency to look sheepish. That's a long time for anyone to spend looking at something that's not a screen of some sort. Wow.
Then again…
The way he had stared at the two sets of armor, wondering and wistful all at once.
"Thank you, Shildlein."
With a pang of fondness, she leans back against the swell of his shoulder. "Weeellll, if you want to get some more sleep that's fine," she says, feigning an air of flippant nonchalance. "Wouldn't want to try out the armor until you're feeling one-hundred percent. We can wait until you're a little more rested, maybe next week or next month–"
This time he moves too quickly to dodge. One arm snakes around her, pulling her back against his chest and pinning her arms to her sides.
"There will be no more waiting," he growls, a gust of breath in her ear. "My Christmas present is long past overdue. Give me two minutes and I will be in the workshop."
His arm is a warm bar across her abdomen, a discordant band of heat compared to the frosty chill of his bedroom. She shivers. "Nuh-uh! You have to eat breakfast first!" That's the rule; no skipping breakfast. It may be tempting, but experience has taught her that it only makes them grumpy later.
Another growl. He shifts, sitting up in bed and arranging her as easily as he would the limbs of a doll so that when he swings his legs over the side of the bed frame she's nearly sitting on his lap.
"Fine. Twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes!" she agrees. "Now hurry up, or I'm going to start cooking your eggs." It's not an empty threat either, she'll do it if he's not in the kitchen by the time she's moved the armor out of its case. It's a strong incentive too; she invariably manages to overcook them, turning them into a dry, rubbery mess.
He carries her to the door, feet dangling a foot above the floor and deposits her into the hall outside before neatly shutting the door.
Well, that went alright.
She loads the pieces of his armor and her shield onto a handi-mover and trucks it down the elevators, flipping on all the lights as she enters the training range. The place is completely deserted; she's certain none of the other agents are crazy enough to train the day after New Year's. As enormous as this room is, it feels sort of spooky to be down here alone; the wide, blank walls, the harsh white lights - it feels like she's a lone actor on an enormous stage.
It's only when she's laying the pieces out that she sees it: a brassy glint in the corner of her eye. When she goes to investigate she finds it's a spent shell casing. Odd. Looks like one of McCree's, but the training area as always swept after sims, so unless he's been in here since before Christmas–
Think me an' the ice prince finally came to an understanding-
Oh. Boys.
"Can't seem to communicate without swinging around their weapons," she mutters to herself as she lays down the last metal segment. She can easily imagine it, the two of them here in the wee hours of the morning, firing off round after round at the targets. Or maybe, each other.
She's just wheeling the cart back towards the door when heavy footsteps echo down the stairwell outside. Reinhardt comes blowing in at a jog, skidding to a stop at the threshold. His hair is still wet, slicked back into a ponytail and the smell of fried eggs is clinging to him.
"You sure you're ready for this? Wouldn't want you to puke in your new armor," she smirks. He shakes his head, vehement.
"No! I will be fine, let us begin!"
Then begins the painstaking process of getting him in the armor and adjusting it piece by piece. This initial fitting is something she'd never had to do before; aside from the brief changes in one or two joints every other session or so, his Crusader armor has always been, well - right for him. Though she'd taken the measurements from it, the design tweaks, changes in materials and changes in process mean that this one has to be form-fit.
It takes the better part of half an hour to finish. By the end of it her wrist is starting to complain from overuse, but the result is worth it: he stands before her in armor that gleams like chromium in the harsh fluorescent lights of the training range.
As he begins his exercises she stands well clear of his hammer and watches.
He moves well. It might just be her imagination, but it seems like every movement is quicker. Crisper. It's certainly quieter; she'd made sure to oil each hinge copiously. When he boosts the length of the training range towards her she doesn't even flinch as he cuts the rockets within a meter of her and comes to an abrupt, clanking halt.
"How does it feel?" she asks, feigning nonchalance even though her heart's definitely accelerated. Armor that looks nice is well and good, but if it doesn't perform as well as the old stuff then she's wasted her time on a pretty workshop centerpiece. He might try to lie to her to spare her feelings, but she knows him well; there'll be no hiding the truth.
Reinhardt lifts his helmet off, cradling it in one gleaming elbow. The grin on his face is wide, wild. "It is perfekt."
Warmth steals through her, flushing her cheeks with heat. The earnestness of his assessment and the brightness of the smile beaming down at her has her feeling both pleased and embarrassed. She turns away quickly and stoops to pick up her shield.
"Oh, good!" she says, still facing the other way. Though there's nothing that needs adjusting, she feigns fiddling with the shield's enarmes until the worst of the blush has faded. "So, do you want to see something cool?"
"Certainly!"
She approaches, indicating for him to hold up the arm bearing the lion-head crest. It's smaller in this armor, flatter, less likely to be hit when his shield breaks. "On your left glove there's a button just under the padding of the index finger. Near the tip of your finger. Do you feel it?"
It's likely he's accidentally deployed it a few times. Luckily, nothing happens without input from both of them.
"Yes…" he sounds a bit confused, and certainly curious. Inside she's dancing. She can't wait to see his reaction.
"Press it, and put up your shield."
Though she can't hear it, she sees the finger on his glove twitch. He bends his elbow, bringing his shield into being. The instant he does, she depresses the button on her own glove. "Interlock shield!"
At the same moment the words leave her mouth, the gleaming blue barrier transforms. Bigger, brighter, thicker than both of theirs together, a shield with more than twice the defensive potential and one and a half times the area.
Reinhardt gasps and then barks a delighted laugh at the sight of it. "What is this?"
With a smile of her own, she lets her finger off the button. The shield stays in place. "Just a little something I thought might come in handy. It's basically just a tougher version of your shield, combining the power of the particle generators between us. You can let go of the button, by the way."
Reinhardt is still regarding the shield with excitement. "How is this accomplished?"
Brigitte considers going into the science behind it, then decides against it. They only have a few hours to practice. "We just have to hit our buttons within a meter and a half of each other and it'll make one big shield. If you tap the button again, it'll separate. And if we accidentally move too far apart-" -she takes two huge steps to the side, out of range, and their shield instantly divides- "-it'll break apart on its own."
She isn't prepared for him to sweep her up into a strong, one-armed hug. It's not something he does often – embracing in armor is a recipe for broken ribs, after all – but he remembers his strength. This one is gentle, just long enough to lift her feet from the ground.
"So, uh… you like it?"
"Like it? It is incredible!" He smiles at her again, a rakish flash of teeth and a crinkle of blue eye. "Not even Torbjörn would think of something like this!"
She coughs to disguise the embarrassment that has flares anew at his praise. "Um, I figured you'd want to practice it before we have sims again. Really surprise people next time, y'know?"
And when he agrees, the real work begins.
They spend the better part of the hours until the meeting just practicing call outs. It's the easiest way to let the other know their intentions and helps with timing the button deployment. There are a few kinks to work out, of course. More than once just during the course of pretending to still swing her mace she's accidentally hit the button again, or else one of them has stepped out of range. Using the interlock during real combat will only be possible with regular practice, but she feels increasingly confident. By the end of their time in the range, they've gone a good hour without an accident.
She helps Reinhardt out of his armor and returns it to the workshop while he, still sweaty and grinning, heads for another shower.
"I think I will get complaints if I do not!"
After unloading the armor, Brigitte raids the fridge for leftover hors d'oeuvres from last night – late breakfast has led to no lunch – and snags a blanket and her sweatshirt from her room.
It's with only mild curiosity that she curls up in her usual spot in Winson's war room, a full five minutes before the meeting's about to start. She's not the only one; Lena and Angela are already there as well. For a moment she's confused. Where's Mei? Then she remembers - Mei is focused on the stratospheric anomalies, not this part of Overwatch duty. She's gotten so used to her, it feels weird to not see her here. She also realizes she hasn't seen Mei all day.
"How's Mei doing?" she asks Angela.
Angela only smiles wryly. "She will survive. Nothing a little rest and adequate hydration can't fix. Though I caution you both - " she holds up a finger, warning, " - do not make this a regular occurrence. Your liver can only handle so much."
"Aye, aye, Captain!" Lena salutes, while Brigitte only gives a thumbs up. She knows her limits.
The rest of the team members file in, with Winston being the last. As Reinhardt takes a seat heavily in the chair next to Brigitte, she can almost feel the shower-warmth radiating off him. He smells good, crisp, like whatever deodorant he wears.
Winston has to fiddle with his pad and equipment for a moment before the projector begins working, a sight that has Brigitte grinning. Though it's only been a couple of weeks it feels like it's been much longer. She wonders if anything interesting has happened in the meantime; surely this meeting, the first of the year, will be eventful.
Wasting no time, Winston launches into the discussion as soon as the display snaps on.
"Okay guys, I know that it's right after the holidays, but there's something important I want to talk to you about." Winston shuffles his pad, clearing his throat. "It's about the future of Overwatch."
There it is.
Brigitte leans forward in her chair, intrigued. This is the sort of update she's been expecting for some time.
"I've been thinking. Before we go public, there's a few things we need to do. First, we need to increase the number of active-duty members." He taps the remote, bringing up a slide with all of their faces on it. "When Overwatch was at its peak, we had over one-hundred members spread over more than fifteen outposts, and I'd like to have enough to cover at least two Watchpoints."
Looking around the table, Brigitte notices the conspicuously empty seats. Even accounting for the spaces Papa and Mei could take up, one-third of the table resembles nothing so much as an empty grave, the black backs of the chairs like sad tombstones. They have a long way to go.
Evidently Lena's thinking the same thing.
"Uh... we haven't exactly been recruiting anyone, big guy," she pipes up. "We got quite the open roster. Do you want me to reach out to some of the same groups from before?"
Winston shakes his head. "No, believe it or not, I already have a few interested parties."
At this announcement there's a small flurry of movement; from all around the table glances are exchanged. More than a few of them look toward Hanzo, who shifts, discomfited. Is he finally going to join?
"Do you mean Zaryanova?" Angela asks.
Again, Winston shakes his head. "No. She's active duty with the Russian Defense Forces, they won't allow her to make that kind of commitment to us. But I think we can at least count on her to act as an informant."
At that Reinhardt nods. "I have no doubt that she will assist us in any way possible!"
His declaration is earnest, unwavering. Though she'd only met Zarya the one time, Brigitte thinks that Reinhardt has forged a bond with Zarya that goes beyond their cursory meeting in Krasnoyarsk. Is he still in touch with her?
"Anyway, while we're waiting for new people there's still plenty for us to do. Namely: investigate the remaining outposts."
This time when Winston taps the projector remote the world map pops up, lit with glowing yellow dots. Brigitte recognizes one of them as Watchpoint Gibraltar, but the others are a complete mystery.
"McCree, you already saw the state of Watchpoint Grand Mesa when you were in America," Winston says, and McCree dips his head in acknowledgment. "Some I'm sure are a lost cause. But what I'd like to do is get some of the old bases back online.
"I've developed a program that should allow Athena to access any Watchpoint, Ecopoint or outpost remotely, as long as you can get into the mainframe." Winston fiddles with something on the table, then holds up a flash drive so small that it almost disappears between his thick fingers. "Ideally I'd like to get into at least one in each continent that we've got bases on."
Brigitte nods, already guessing at where this is going.
"So, what I'd like to do is divide into teams. One for America, one for Europe."
And this time when he taps the remote, the icons have been split. McCree, Genji, and Angela in a group; she, Lena, Reinhardt and Torbjörn in another, Lúcio by himself. Hanzo is conspicuously absent. Winston clicks again, and the screen splits in two: one half, their icons, the other half, the world map.
There are nine glowing dots spread over North America and Europe, with one solitary glowing spot in South America.
"These are the points I think we're most likely to resurrect," Winston says, then uses the laser to point at four of the dots. "These I've still been able to ping. It's just a matter of installing the updates and making sure security is still online. All the rest… well, they're dark."
Brigitte looks over to Lúcio, who is staring at the display with a small frown on his face. He, like her, must be wondering why he's been separated from the groups, but is apparently still too confused to ask.
"Angela - your team I have going to America. You've all been to those points, and McCree, you've actually already been to one of them recently. You'll be able to show the others what to look for security-wise. Reinhardt, your team I have touring Europe. I'm sure you're aware of all of these outposts?"
Both Reinhardt and Lena nod at that, while Brigitte can only watch, clueless. So, this is what being a newbie feels like...
"I'm not sure how long Torbjörn expects his business in Sweden to take," Winston says, addressing Brigitte directly, "but maybe he could meet up with you on your way to Paris?"
Ah, so one of those glowing spots is Paris.
Brigitte nods, but then realizes that Winston is, in a roundabout way, asking her a question. "Oh! Uh, I'll message him and see what he wants to do."
In truth she had almost forgotten that Papa was busy hunting omnics. Or, possibly hunting omnics. She hasn't heard a peep from him since Christmas. Under the table she pulls out her pad, considers, then decides against sending a message. Once Winston sends them his customary follow-up email, she can relate her question to it.
The meeting wears on, Winston providing more detailed instructions for each outpost that goes right over her head – she foresees a lot of self-study later. But he's thorough. He even brings up blueprints of each location, which makes her engineer heart sing. It's so much easier to envision it with a diagram.
By the time the meeting is nearing its close, Lúcio is at his breaking point. When Winston stops to swipe at something on pad, he blurts: "So, uh – where exactly do I fit in all this?" Then, more apologetically, "Not tryin' to be rude and all, but I'm feeling a bit left out!"
Winston smiles at him, baring inch-long incisors. "I'm glad you asked. I have a very special mission for you, come see me after."
Now that doesn't sound ominous at all.
Lúcio and Brigitte exchange looks, and she shrugs. She hasn't the faintest clue what Winston has in store for him.
"I think that covers the basics," Winston finishes. "I'll be sending you the blueprints as well as some instruction manuals that might be helpful, but really it's just going to be a process of trial and error. And if you have any questions, we've got the rest of the month to prepare."
"I have a question."
It's Hanzo. Normally the only dissonant voice in their meetings, he hasn't spoken a word until this moment.
"How is transport arranged?"
Winston blinks. It's clear he wasn't expecting that question. "Well, uh, in the past we've been able to use chartered flights or Overwatch's personal vehicles, but for this mission I believe we're going to just have to travel like civilians. I, uh, don't really know a whole lot about that, though."
Yeah, he probably wouldn't. Brigitte doubts Winston has ever seen the inside of a civilian plane, domestic or international.
"Very well. I will be accompanying the team going to America." Hanzo's tone makes it clear that he will brook no argument, and to punctuate his point he crosses his arms.
Winston clears his throat nervously. "Well, uh, that's fine… but I'm afraid I won't be able to allocate any of Overwatch's funds to cover your transport. You being, uh, not an official… member…" His voice trails off in the wake of Hanzo's glare, which is as disdainful as it is chilly.
"I do not need money from Overwatch."
The disquiet of the moment grows, only to be interrupted by Genji, who slaps a hand briskly on Hanzo's shoulder. "That will be no problem, Winston! My brother is very adept at navigating many modes of travel, as am I."
Hanzo only shrugs Genji's hand off and stands up from his chair. "If that is all, I will take my leave."
And then he's gone.
Pulling her blanket more firmly around her, Brigitte feels the taut atmosphere in the room dissolve. She's glad that Hanzo won't be traveling Europe with them; somehow she thinks the experience would be extremely uncomfortable, even with Genji's mediation.
"You will have to forgive my brother," Genji says with an apologetic bow to Winston. "He is struggling to make a decision. I think, given time, he will come around."
Winston waves off Genji's apology, the tension seeping from his huge shoulders even as Brigitte watches. "No, it's fine. Really I'm just glad to get any help at all."
Lúcio slides his chair closer to Brigitte's, and she tunes out Genji and Winston's conversation in favor of turning to him.
"So, uh, was it just me or did Winston make that sound super ominous?" he jokes, jabbing a thumb Winston's way.
"No, you're right," Brigitte agrees. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it though… maybe he's just got like, a super secret mission for you or something."
Lúcio leans back in his chair, tipping it dangerously onto its back two wheels. "Maybe. Gotta say, I'm a little bummed that I'm not going with you guys."
Brigitte feels it too. Traveling with Lúcio would have made the whole mission a lot more fun. "Yeah, me too. But I am pretty curious. I wonder what he wants you to do."
"You can say that again." He rocks forward in the chair, letting its feet hit the ground with a clunk. "Guess I won't know until I ask, huh?" He indicates Genji's retreating back, and gets up. "Better now than never. See you at dinner, hopefully!"
Brigitte sweeps her blanket around her shoulders like a cloak and stands, then shuffles back towards the mess hall with the rest of the group. Her mind feels a bit fried, fuzzed over with information. Winston had only skimmed the surface with those diagrams, and already it's feeling a bit daunting. There's so much to do.
Over dinner she puts her head together with Lena and Reinhardt, working out the general plan. They decided to use the hauler, a decision that makes the most sense; it has enough room for the three of them and will allow their group to travel with all the necessary equipment. Lena suggests bringing her motorcycle.
"Maybe we can split up after Paris," she says. "If things go well with the first two I can probably handle King's Row on my own and let you lot go to Santorini. Two birds with one stone and all that."
Brigitte didn't even know that Lena had a motorcycle.
By the time that dinner is winding down she's got her pad out, constructing a list of everything that needs doing in the next month. It's pretty extensive, but most of it just comes down to research; the blueprints, learning about fixing electronics, trying to predict what they'll find so she can be ready. She's so preoccupied that she doesn't even notice Lúcio's arrival until he sets his plate down next to her.
"Oh, hey!" she checks her watch, realizing that he's been gone for nearly forty-five minutes. "Wow, you were gone a long time. Did you get everything figured out with Winston?"
Then, she notices his face. He's blinking dazedly, a glassy-eyed look that speaks of an oversaturated mind. It's easy enough to understand, she herself feels that way right now too - but what had he learned to put that look on his face?
"Uh, you okay?"
Lúcio picks up his fork, stabbing it into his mound of salad. "Yeah, I'm good. Just gotta say, I was not expecting that."
"What?" Now she really wants to know. She waits eagerly for him to finish his bite of greens, bouncing her knee against his when he feigns exaggerated, deliberate chewing. As soon as he swallows, he comes right out with it:
"He wants me to establish a Watchpoint in Brazil."
Now Brigitte is the one blinking, stunned. "What, really?"
"Uh-huh." He begins to swirl his fork in his carbonara, gathering the pasta noodles in a tight spiral. "That's why it took so long. Man, there is a lot that needs to be done to set that up, and Winston's already done most of the work. He's a real champ!"
"Yeah. I wouldn't even know where to start with that…" Brigitte trails off, trying to imagine it. Establishing a location would require purchasing land, or a building, outfitting it with all the tech required, running cables, establishing security protocols and more, and doing it all under the nose of local authorities.
"Well, apparently Winston does. He wants me to go down and scout out a few locations. If I like one of them, he'll push some kind of purchase through and then I guess it's up to me to try to set the place up." Lúcio shoves the wad of pasta into his mouth and then chews, considering. "I hope he holds my hand through that bit. I know electronics when it comes to turntables and mixers and software and stuff, but not actual computer servers."
"I'm sure he will. Winston's never sent us anywhere without good prep before," Brigitte reassures him.
"Hmmm… yeah, you're right." Lúcio nods, but it's still dampened, a shade below his normal enthusiasm. "How do you feel about your assignment? You ever been to any of those places?"
She commiserates with Lúcio while he finishes with dinner, filling him in on the glaring gaps in her knowledge. This is the first time the two of them have been made to feel their inexperience ever since the mission to Russia, and it's nice to know that she's not the only one who came out of the meeting overwhelmed.
As they walk back to their rooms she sweeps an arm around his shoulder, squeezing him to her in a friendly side-hug.
"Don't worry, Lu. We're both gonna be just fine."
She hopes he believes her.
That first week she, Lena and Reinhardt spend a considerable amount of time huddled together, poring over the blueprints while Brigitte prods the two of them for more details. They're the one with the memories of these places, but even so she suspects that if anything more substantial than plugging in the power is required, it'll fall on her to do it. She is an engineer, even if her exposure to the electrical variety is only cursory.
"I'm pretty sure the server room is actually there," Lena jabs a finger at the lower corner of the Barcelona blueprint, where a square labeled 'Rec Room' sits. "I think they rearranged some things after the first two years."
"Yes, I think you are right," Reinhardt agrees, though his voice is edged with doubt. "I do not remember this very well. I was only stationed there once."
Brigitte circles that room and makes a note of it.
Plans for the remaining outposts proceed in much the same manner; she, drawing their memories out like a snake charming serpents; they, offering insight into changes to the plans and filling in the gaps in her knowledge as best they can. She even begins to read some of the instruction manuals that Winston had sent along for the tech that's allegedly installed at the outposts. By the end of the second week she feels stretched thin between prep and sims, but is confident that they've done as much as they can do now, and shelves the blueprints.
She's been updating Papa for the last two weeks, though his responses are short. Just acknowledgments. He won't tell her what he's been doing, only saying that he thinks it's going to take a bit longer.
Neither Lena or Reinhardt seem particularly disturbed by the news.
"Bah, he just doesn't want to work!" Reinhardt jokes. "Sly old dog. He probably hasn't even left the house yet!"
Brigitte only elbows him. "I'm going to tell him you said that."
Aside from Torbjörn's presence, which she can do little about, there's still a few loose ends to tie up before they're going to be ready to go. The first is planning their accommodations in each city; they research the area thoroughly, bookmarking the most acceptable spots and checking availability. They can only rent out their hotel rooms in Barcelona as of now, not knowing how long they might be there.
Then, there's the hauler. After 3 years on the road she and Reinhardt have gotten quite used to it, but it's also acquired a fine layer of clutter and grime that she thinks Lena will be too polite to complain about. That definitely needs taken care of.
And so a week from their departure she finds herself in the hangar with a shop vac, a trash can and a pile of rags, tossing out the years of old receipts, gum wrappers, and odds and ends that have collected in the cupholders and glovebox. There's so much junk in here. Odd coins, paperclips (when had they ever used those?), crumbs from god-knows-what, even an ominous, odd screw.
When the worst of the clutter is trashed, she attacks with the shop vac. No corner remains untouched; beneath the floor mats, the nooks and crannies between the seats, even the inside of the cabinet that stores their various snacks and supplies.
It's when she's shoving the nozzle into the lowest shelves that she sees it: the broad, scuffed case that serves as their medical kit.
She pulls it out and flips the latches. Inside is a mishmash of medical supplies; bandages, tubes of ointment, disinfectant, sutures, band-aids, a skin stapler, scissors, adhesive tape. There's even a thermometer. It's gotten them through a fair bit of travel, but the stock has dwindled, especially since she'd forgotten to pick up anything new after they'd returned home before the call to Andreas's farm. Could Angela spare anything?
Setting the medkit out as a reminder, she turns her attention back to the more pressing matter: the remaining cleaning.
The back of the trailer where their armor is stored is a little better than the front. She may not be obsessed with cleanliness but she is fastidious when it comes to organizing her tools. They've been shut neatly away, and the padded locker where his armor is stored is likewise tidy. Instead of clutter this area is just… sticky. Every surface gleams with a light sheen of oil, an amalgamation of the grease she uses to lubricate their armor, aerosolized Brasso polish, and the volatile fuel used to power Reinhardt's rockets.
Ugh.
Nothing that a bucket of soapy water and a little elbow grease can't fix, so she gets to it.
She's managed to wash the ceiling, walls and is on her hands and knees scrubbing the corners where the grime is thickest when she hears a distant door slam and then the approach of heavy footsteps. There's only one person that can be.
Continuing her cleaning, she feels the hauler dip as he enters, then the vibrations of his steps as he edges his way into the back.
"What's up?"
There's a particularly stubborn bit of gunk that she has to use her fingernail to pick off. By the time she's gotten it, she realizes that Reinhardt hasn't replied. She looks back.
There he is, staring down at her with a faint look of surprise.
"What?"
He starts, then blinks. "Ah, I did not realize you were cleaning. I would have come to help if I had known!"
She waves him off. There's plenty that still needs to be done, this is just for Lena's comfort. "Nah, it's fine. Did you need something?"
"Ah, yes! I have a message for you from Torbjörn. He says to check your pad."
Brigitte clicks her tongue. She'd left that in the front seat during vacuuming and completely forgotten about it. Trust him to call the only time she's put it down!
She wipes her hands on a dry cloth and edges past Reinhardt to the front seats, snatching up her pad. Sure enough, there's two missed calls and a text message. Text, huh? He must really need to talk.
She opens the message first.
Going to need the trailer. Can you deliver within the next two weeks?
"That's interesting," she says aloud, just to share her confusion. Before Reinhardt can even ask, she answers. "He wants us to get his trailer to him. Soon."
Rubbing a finger on her chin, her mind races but she can only come up with one conclusion: he's found something.
"Do you think Winston will let us bump up our leave date?" she asks.
"It is possible," Reinhardt stops, peering over her shoulder as she hits reply to Papa's message. "Has he found something?"
"He didn't say, but I can't think of any other reason he'd want us to get it to him. He's got some extra traps and things on board." She considers the blank message space, then ticks the pad's sleep button. Asking Winston is the first step. It'll only take about two days to get the trailer to him if they go directly, but if they can take care of the outposts on the way over…
She whips the cleaning cloth from her shoulder and plops it on Reinhardt's. "I'm gonna go talk to Winston. Wanna finish wiping off the floor back there?"
And bless him, he does.
Winston seems curious about the development with Torbjörn, but grants her request to leave early. She thought he might, they've done almost everything they can to get ready by now at any rate. When she informs Lena, Lena leaps from her bed and pulls a suitcase free from her closet.
"I'll be packed by tonight!" she salutes, cheery. Which only reminds Brigitte that she too, must pack, and not only clothes; there's an array of tools in the workshop here that could be useful, and that's not to mention the medkit she needs restocked.
Her lazy cleaning day has suddenly devolved into a frantic race against the clock.
When she returns to the hanger it's to inform Reinhardt of the change in plans. She's already got her pad out, consulting the list of pre-departure tasks and lamenting at how the hours between now and tomorrow morning have whittled down to what feels like nothing.
"Shildlein, it will be fine. We are ready!" Reinhardt pats her on the shoulder, almost jolting the pad right out of her hands. "Leave the rest of the cleaning here to me and go pack your bags."
"Okay, okay." She's just about to leave when she remembers the medkit and snatches it up. "I'll be back."
Down the stairs she trots, all the way to the med bay where she knocks gently on the door frame outside Angela's open office. "Hey, Dr. Z?"
Angela isn't in her normal place, which is at her desk, looking over her computer, but the lights are on in the room beyond, where the actual patient beds are. Feeling a bit like she's intruding on hallowed ground, Brigitte enters.
"Dr. Z?" She pokes her head around the corner to see Angela with her stylus and pad, looking over what appears to be an open medication dispensing system.
"Oh, Brigitte!" Angela looks up. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you knock. Is everything alright?" She closes the door to the machine with a gentle click and slides her stylus back into the pad's holder.
"Yeah, no problems or anything. I was just kind of wondering… would it be too much trouble to ask for some supplies?" Brigitte holds up her battered container, flipping it open to show Angela the mishmash inside. "I can go into town if it is. I don't need anything too crazy."
"Oh, my." Angela's eyes widen at the sight of her collection, a small frown puckering her brow before being smoothed away as she schools her expression. The picture of professionalism, she smiles mildly and indicates for Brigitte to set it down on one of the beds.
"Is that what you've been using?" Brigitte follows Angela as she flits to one of the nearby cabinets and opens it.
"Yeah. It's kept Reinhardt in one piece so far!" she jokes, watching as Angela pokes through the boxes and clear containers of supplies.
That earns her a soft laugh. "You've done well. That man has no regard for his own well-being, I'm afraid. I'm glad someone is looking after him." She shifts boxes of supplies to the floor, now almost shoulder-deep in the cabinet. "I could've sworn I had one here-"
Brigitte watches one of the containers on the top of the cupboard wobble dangerously as Angela's arms jostle the shelves. "Uh, do you need some help?"
"Aha!" With a triumphant smile, Angela drags something from one of the bottom-most shelves and presents it to Brigitte.
It's a rucksack. A large rucksack in a bright red tone she'd recognize anywhere, if the white red cross emblazoned on one corner didn't make it clear. When Brigitte takes it, she's surprised at how heavy it is.
"Bring it here." Angela closes the cabinet behind her and goes to the nearest bed, patting the open space on the mattress where Brigitte deposits the bag. Delicately Angela unzips it, opening the flap to reveal a mass of supplies bundled in clear plastic dividers.
"It's a combat kit, of sorts," she says before Brigitte can even ask. "A bit archaic for our purposes here at the Watchpoint, but it's the sort of thing I'd send with a team without a dedicated medic." She smiles knowingly. "And I think you'll find it's a little more organized."
That it definitely is. Brigitte can see clearly defined spots for bandages, tourniquets, scissors, stitches, even a stethoscope.
"Wow, thanks, Dr. Z!"
"You are most welcome, though I hope you have no need of it." Angela zips the bag back up and tilts it towards Brigitte. "It comes with an instruction manual too, but perhaps you're already acquainted with many of these items."
"Yeah… a bit." Brigitte smiles, though it's closer to a grimace. Too many times she's stapled Reinhardt's wounds, packed particularly deep cuts, iced his bruises. Each injury leaves its shadow in her heart.
Angela must sense the conflict behind her words. She reaches across the bed and places a hand on Brigitte's arm, squeezing it gently. "You've kept him whole. You've kept each other whole. That's more than many can say, from what I understand of your life in the last three years."
Brigitte warms at the unexpected compliment. She also feels confused; how much of their travels does Angela know about? Has Reinhardt been talking to her?
Angela's hand slips away. "And I have hope that this mission will not be too dangerous. Most of the world believes Overwatch to be dissolved for good, and I do not think our little stunt in Russia has spread very far. You'll be fine."
"Yeah, I'm sure we will be." Brigitte, unsure of what else to say, stands, then slings the rucksack over her shoulder and heaves her box of med supplies in hand. She feels a bit rude, just waltzing in and out like this, but there's still much to be done. "Um… thanks again, Angela!"
And then she rushes off.
Well, it may be nearly eleven but she's done it. Everything is packed but her toiletries, and she'll shove those into the suitcase tomorrow morning. Lena's motorcycle, their armor, the medkits, snacks, and tools. Hard copies of the blueprints, even though she's got everything on her pad. Most importantly: the flash drives.
They've each been given two on lanyards, and she's stuffed one in the glove compartment for safekeeping. The other is around her neck.
Torbjörn's trailer has been hitched to the hauler's towbar. The hauler itself has been given a test drive, all its fluids topped off and it's parked directly in front of the outside entrance, huge and hulking like a bear ready to charge.
That's it. They're ready.
Brigitte wakes the next morning early. When she rolls over to check the clock she groans: it's five a.m. They're not even supposed to leave until 7! Still, she's too keyed up to go back to sleep, so she rolls out of bed and heads for the shower.
When she makes it to the kitchen she finds she's not the only one. The rest of her team has already assembled, Reinhardt preparing eggs and toast, while Lena cradles a cup of tea in her palms.
"Mornin'," Brigitte yawns.
The three of them eat together, a sleepy, quiet meal that feels oddly somber. Perhaps that's just the earliness of the hour; perhaps it's the silence of a cafeteria that normally hums with quiet chatter. Either way, it's with an unusually heavy heart that Brigitte packs her toiletries and gives her bedroom a once-over. This is it: once she shuts that door, she might not be back for a long time.
Jeez, don't think of it like that.
The rest of the team have come to see them off, minus the Shimada brothers and Zenyatta.
"You be careful out there," Angela says, enfolding each one of them in a careful hug. It's like she thinks they'll break. "Check in with us regularly."
"Alright, Dr. Ziegler. Same goes to you!" Lena chirps.
McCree salutes them, Winston and Mei wave. Lúcio's the last one Brigitte bids goodbye to, enfolding him in a tight hug. He's the one she's worried most about; returning to the country where he's being actively hunted by the Vishkar Corporation and trying to establish a new point? He has the most daunting task of all.
"You be safe there, Lu," she tells him, feeling the first tightness in the back of her throat. Missing the team is something she's expected, but now that they're actually going? Far harder than she thought. "If we get done early maybe we can come help!"
"Ah, for sure! I'd love to show you around!" He's all bright smiles and upbeat energy, but before they break apart he squeezes her again, so tightly that her bones creak. "I'll be seein' you all again before you know it!"
It's with a tang of bittersweetness that she climbs into the hauler's driver's seat and slams the door shut. As it powers on she rolls down the window, waving and shouting parting goodbyes as they pull silently out into the tunnel that leads to the hidden exit. When it closes behind them, she feels a queer sense of closing too. It feels like when she'd graduated from high school, as though she's closing the door on her old life and stepping through the threshold into a new one.
Her time at the Watchpoint has ended.
They're on the road again.
A/N: Nope, I'm still not on hiatus. Just slow as all get out. All my classes for the next month and a half have been moved online, here's hoping I have more time to write being cooped up inside and all. Y'all stay safe out there; don't touch your face, cough into your elbow, wash your hands, all that good stuff.
As always, thanks for reading!