"You'll be meeting with Overwatch directorate. We organize by assembly, so if you are looking to reach an agreement you'll need to prove to each of the ranking officers that this is a worthy alliance. Considering the gamblignant's…role…that may be difficult. Overwatch is motivated solely in taking down the Empire, they're less than pleased with a the fleet's sordid history of piracy." All the while our goldbooded guide tells us this, a twisting whirl of psionics keeps him several feet off the ground. Just. Floating.

I lean into Lynx's ear and whisper, "he always do that?"

"Not while we worked together, no," they say idly. "We all pick up new hobbies, it seems."

"So you two were like, what?" I mutter. "Assassociates?"

"Matesprits, actually," Zenyatta corrects, and I jump a little. He's stopped in front of an impressive set of double doors with the distinctive sealant of a pressure locked room. He's still just floating. "Can I offer any other advice before you meet the officers?"

"You have already been very helpful Zenyatta," Lynx assures. "Thank you. And it's good to see you on the far side of the white woodspike containment."

Zenyatta shoots an absolutely dazzling smile at us all. "As to you, Lynx Seventeen. Good luck you three."

The last of the aforementioned three lifts her head from the papers Lynx had previously shoved in her face and says, "uh, yes. Good luck to you too."

This time his smile is more of a smothered chuckle, and he nods one final time before gliding away on flickering charges of psychic power.

"Matesprits?" I ask, this time making sure Zenyatta is out of earshot. "Really? You're meeting up after sweeps without seeing each other after both independently defecting from the Empire and all the angst you got for me here is water cooler conversation?"

"You were a member of the bureaucracy too, once upon a time," they remind me. "You of all people should know the importance of concupiscentions born of necessity?"

I shuffle uncomfortably. In the way this little revolution has played out, it's become apparent that Lynx Seventeen and I are the only true defectors. Everyone else left Alternia as fugitives, or never had the option to join up in the first place. Lynx is probably the only person on the Talon with my shared experience, yet they're the troll I feel the most distanced from.

Well, I suppose Moira shares that experience too, in a fashion. But Widow bristles every time I try to hang around her, and when even Sombra has found someone she wants to avoid, I know better than to press both my leaves' limits.

Shrugging, I say, "I guess. Was that really all there was to it?"

They tilt their head. "When one finds someone they can tolerate, drumming up the barest minimum of flushed feeling is perfectly attainable when one's survival is on the line."

They make it sound so simple, when my dealings with quadrants have been anything but. The idea that someone could just choose to feel sounds improbable. As unlikely as choosing not too feel.

When I realize we're probably holding up these Overwatch representatives with chitchat, I lean over and snap my fingers in front of Zarya's face. "Hey, Aspirant. We going to this meeting or what?"

She blinks at being disturbed from her reading, no doubt pages of homework Lynx has compiled so she has at least a general idea of who this strange group of freedom fighters is, and why they've reached out to the rebellion. I skimmed it, briefly. It's a good amount of knowledge for an organization no one knew existed until last perigee. That can probably be thanked to Lynx's inside man. Thanks weird floaty mustard.

Zarya nods. "Of course. The negotiations."

Planetside architecture is always baffling to me. Stone or wood instead of metal, where those materials are abundant and you don't have to worry about taking hull leaks into mind. Still, it's more the fact that I 'm on world at all that has me nervous: there's only so many habitable planets in the galaxy. Living on a hunk of rock instead of the statistically more plentiful empty space paints a big red target on your back, or at least the feeling of it. I have no idea what to expect, except that we (probably) won't be backstabbed as soon as we walk through the door. Illicit reports hacked from the latest frigate the Talon took indicated that this group has been wanted by the Empire for a while, operating against their interests and in line with ours. Now it's all about whether they want to be friendly or not.

That's why I'm here, I guess. Officially I'm a "bodyguard" but if anyone needs my impotent protective instinct is certainly isn't Zaryan. The fuchsia might as well be made of pure titanium for all she has to fear from a bunch of imperial washups. No, it's more the intimidation factor. Ever since Moira reconstituted my entire body into a mixture of self-crystallizing nanodes I've been wearing this sick new outfit to keep them all inside, and I've got to admit it's pretty terrifying.

When the doors finally slide open, we're greeted to a round table of staring masks, each director dressed down until their caste is indiscernible and their motivations more so. Lynx and Zarya stream past to join the table, their matching capes flaring out behind them as they part around me. I know the capes were probably going for "refined," but I think Sombra had the right of it when she referred to them as "adorable."

So I'm left to stand guard at the now closing door, a stoic watcher with my arms folded and my face hidden. A good plan.

However, any aspirations of stoicism are dashed by the fact that there is a giant fucking lusus in the room.

Even more shocking is when the lusus open it's mouth and says, "Overwatch welcomes you, Talon. Please, take a seat."

The delegates, no questions asked, leaving me standing here like a nugbone while no one can see my mouth flapping open under my mask.

"We appreciate your hospitality," Zarya says, discreetly peeking at her papers under the table, "…Winston."

Winston rumbles appreciatively, except that name is vaguely familiar and I do not remember the briefing mentioning the invitation was sent by an ape lusus. That's the sort of thing that, you know, sort of jumps out at you. Then again, I was reading it while Widow was fussing with my new armor and Sombra was putting it back out of place every time she turned her back, so maybe I was a bit distracted…..shit.

Winston smiles genially. I didn't know an ape could do that outside of cartoons. "This is the first time we've had an opportunity to make progress, or even contact outside our organization in…ever." All the chargebeast excrement formalities sour immediately as his next words form in his mouth. "Of course, as grateful as we are for answering our call, we're cautious about offering a full alliance considering-"

"Cut the shit," the troll at the far left of the table barks. "Are we going to sit here patting each other's backs or are we actually going to start issuing ultimatums?"

Soldier: 76, I deduce. I remember that much at least, and it appears he has just as low a tolerance for posturing as I do. I hate him already.

"I actually was hoping to see who could boost the other's ego the largest," Lynx says as they rest their chin on their hands, "but if you have a more pressing matter…"

Winston clears his throat. "What Soldier means to say," Winston shoots the visor-clad troll of indeterminate hue a piercing look, "is that there's a bit of an elephant in the room."

"We're not working with Doomfist," Soldier bites.

Zarya immediately stiffens. "The Successor is our general and tactician. He is not- I cannot negotiate individual parts of Talon. The revolution would be nowhere without him."

"Not really a revolution though, is it?" the troll to Winston's right pipes up, though not nearly as bitterly as Soldier. And unlike him, her eyes can be seen shining through the goggles fitted over her gas mask. This one's Tracer then, infamous in every imperial report I've gotten my hands on, known for having a drone killcount in the thousands. "Just sort of playing pirates, no major tactical raids or anything. Overwatch had big goals, and we want to know you're er…Well, it doesn't seem like you lot are really serious."

Through this, the Shrike has says nothing. The last member of the Overwatch directorate poses as Lynx's mirror: hands folded, chin resting atop, her featureless black mask staring blankly at the proceedings. Except, now that I am looking harder, I realize it's not actually all that featureless. The Shrike has permitted a single aspect of anonymity, leaving her sign as a projection across her face, which watches in lieu of her invisible eyes.

The longer I look the more I see. There's something familiar about it, I'm sure I've seen it somewhere…those three unconnected lines with the dot in the center…

Oh fuck.

The dickering of moral grandstanding is cut short as I rush forward and flip the table.

There is a brief commotion as I bring the mealplane up in the best cover I can while Zarya demands, "what in Sufferer's name are you doing?"

"This whole thing's a trap!" I shout over the sound of Overwatch scrambling to their feet. "The Shrike, she's an Imperial Captain, and we've walked right fucking into it."

Zarya affixes me with a blank stare as she processes that, but I don't get to see whether she believes me since in that moment Soldier: 76 comes barreling around my half-erected cover and tackles me to the ground.

"Reaper!" Zarya barks as the two of us go skidding across the room.

Soldier freezes mid-pin, but I don't let him recover from his hesitation before kneeing him in his biliary gland and standing up past him. The lusus—Winston—has climbed over the table and this really isn't a fight I can win without guns especially since neither Lynx nor Zarya seem to want to actually helpme as they gawk at the proceedings-

"Stop it. Both of you."

The familiar wave of Ana's psionics hits me right in the sleep bone. It doesn't knock me out cold, but I wobble until my knees hit the carpeted floor and exhaustion threatens to overwhelm me.

76 swaggers to stand over me. "So you remember Ana but not me. I'm hurt, Reaper."

He says my name so bright and poised that sweeps of memories inside a tin can floating through space come busting through for the second time in as many minutes. "Jjaakk?" I hiss in disbelief.

But he's already gone back to treating me with that self-righteous indifference, as familiar as Ana's consciousness in the back of my pan. He turns to Zarya and says, "it appears there's been some confusion, Ma'am. This one," he jerks his thumb at me, "is the real imperial loyalist. Shrike and I used to work with him before we defected."

"Me?" I bark through my fogging mind. "You two are so damn loyal you died for the Empire. Or didn't, it turns out. Mind explaining that one?"

This time Soldier just ignores me. Ana comes forward and says, "sleep Gaberl. We'll sort all this out."

She takes another stab at my psyche, but still I resist the yank into unconsciousness. She can't make me go there anymore. I've learned all her tricks.

The table has fallen back into place, and the other two members of Overwatch look as uncertain as my own supposed allies. Zarya glances between Soldier and Winston before saying, "it appears we have some previously unknown interpersonal issues that have affected our diplomatic relations. Again." She sighs. "If I will forgive us, I think we should end the proceedings for the day here. It might be best if we sort this out…not in person."

Winston rumbles, "yeah. I think I might be right." When nothing happens for a moment, he glares at Ana.

She withdraws her sleep psychosis, and the pressure on my mind finally lifts. Lynx carefully helps me to my feet, but I can still feel her and Soldier glaring daggers at me through their respective disguises. Talon might be retreating for the moment, but I'm done with them. Not by a long shot.