Where are you?

Please…

I'm sorry.

Her waking was slow, troubled. A voice from a dreamless dream spoke in her ear, and her pulse quickened with the thuds in her chest. The first crack of her eyelids set her head swimming, but a dazed stubbornness forced her to open her eyes – her…eye?

She stared up at the ceiling, aglow not with artificial lights, but bright sunshine filtered through the window curtains. Her mind was as empty and dull as the off-white paint above her, and she stared for the longest time as her senses returned, one by one. She was lying in a soft bed with thick covers draped over her body. The room was silent, save for the regular beeping to the left of her bed. Her tongue was dry, thick with the taste of sleep. A single breath, and she knew she was in a hospital. But…why? She was…supposed to be–?

Then she realised why she'd felt wrong since she woke. Her left eye was free, but the right side of her head was wrapped in bandages. It felt…odd. No matter how she swiveled her eyes, there was no movement in her right. Was it because of the bandages? An injury, maybe?

She tried to rouse further into a sharper state of mind, but was rewarded only with a dull pain flashing through her head. She felt sluggish, so tired, even though it felt as if she'd had more than her fill of sleep. Why?

Helpless exasperation grew as more questions filled her head, then were lost before she knew it. Anxiety burnt low in her gut, and she didn't know why. Restlessness fought her leaden limbs in a futile attempt to make her move, and she felt more a prisoner the longer she stayed still–

The quiet creak of a door opening gave her a merciful distraction. She turned her head to find a woman and a man – nurses, she realised – approaching her bed with what seemed like pleasant surprise.

"Captain, you are awake. That is very good," one said, gentle voice laced with an accent she couldn't place.

This nurse kept speaking in that soft tone as she and her colleague set to work about the room, turning on the lights at half-intensity, checking the machines around her bed. Ana couldn't keep up with her words, deliberately slow as they were, and she stopped listening, not bothering to answer the nurse's questions. Eventually, she earned a worried look from the nurse, who peered down at her quietly, then spoke to her colleague in a foreign tongue, before the other left.

This one stayed with her longer, but didn't try to speak further with the patient. Instead, she busied herself with the holo-charts at the foot of the bed, and tapped on her personal datapad with a frown creasing her forehead. The patient watched the nurse quietly, wishing to ask questions which never reached her tongue, before her gaze was drawn back to the door – which admitted a man wearing a white coat, accompanied by the nurse who'd left the room earlier.

"Good afternoon, Captain Amari," the doctor said with a warm smile. "I am glad to see you awake. Now, let's see how you are doing…"

He moved to the female nurse and listened to her report, leaving the patient to her growing confusion as her bed was tilted higher to prop her in a sitting position. The nurse had addressed her with the same title earlier – 'Captain'. Was she a captain? What of? Was she in the military? The navy–?

"I have good news, Captain." The doctor came to her side, looking down at her with that ever-warm smile which…reminded her of someone. "You seem to be recovering very well. I would like to–"

"Who are you," she rasped through a dry throat.

The doctor paused, blinking as if he didn't understand her question. "Ah, I am afraid I don't speak Arabic. Could you repeat that in English?"

English? Oh… "Who are you," she asked in the common tongue, and recognition brightened the doctor's eyes.

"I am Doctor Baranski, and I am honoured to be the one taking care of you," the doctor replied, then gestured at his two colleagues. "And these are the two nurses who are–"

"Where am I?"

He changed tack smoothly, accommodating her terse utters. "You are in a hospital in Damnica."

"Damnica?"

"Poland?" The doctor eyed her with polite wariness. "A kind soul found you near a government research facility outside our village, and drove you here."

"Research facility? Why was I there? Why am I here?"

"Please, calm down…Captain," Baranski seemed to say the title more hesitantly than before.

"Captain? Why do you keep calling me that?"

Baranski stared at her for a quiet moment, then glanced back at his colleagues in a moment of understanding that she did not share. It sparked a frustration in her, but before she could lash out, Baranski turned back to her with his polite smile.

"If I may, I would like to ask you a question."

"Yes?"

"What is your name?"

The simple question hit her with unexpected force. What is my name? I…I don't know.

"I'm not… I can't remember." Simmering panic raised her voice by an octave. "Who am I? Wait – you called me something before. What is it–?"

"Please, stay calm. I will explain everything you need to know…for now."

The beeps to the left of her bed had grown more rapid, and she didn't want to stay calm – but let the nurses guide her gently back onto the bed which she'd risen from. Tears sprang to her eyes – her eye, she realised when nothing came to the right, but was distracted from the anomaly when the doctor started speaking again.

"You are Ana Amari, Strike Captain of Overwatch. Do you remember that?"

Ana Amari. Something surged in her, told her it was important, but her mind drew a blank. She stared back into the doctor's expectant gaze, and shook her head.

"No."

Fareeha was tired. So damned tired. Everything was wrong – so, so wrong, all because of a single incident. A tragedy. And her world was turned upside-down, gravity that was beneath her feet now rested upon her shoulders, threatening to crush her under its weight. This shouldn't be happening. Not like this. But it was, and Fareeha was doing things that she shouldn't be doing in the first place.

She shouldn't be staring at the pot of porridge blankly after turning the fire off. She shouldn't feel like sliding down to the floor and sitting in a pall, maybe squeeze out a few tears to make herself feel better. She shouldn't feel useless in the inability to make up with an idolised yet begrudged mother, now dead. She shouldn't feel a tumult of guilt and anger and hopeless during the simple act of cooking some porridge, meant to nourish a grieving mother who could barely care for herself. She shouldn't feel or be doing all these things right now, in this moment, but she was. And Fareeha had to take a deep breath to calm herself down, before slamming her fist onto the counter in frustration.

She needs you, Fareeha reminded herself. So she took another huge gulp of air, and straightened her shoulders. Briefly wiping her eyes with the back of a hand, Fareeha dipped the ladle into the porridge, and scooped out five small portions into a ceramic bowl. Honestly, it was three scoops more than would be eaten, but Fareeha always erred on the side of caution. Just in case her mother would have a miraculous, inspired appetite. It didn't hurt to hope a little – at least, until she was carrying down a bowl still half-full.

Sighing once more, Fareeha covered the pot with its lid, took the spoon that her mother always preferred, and walked up to the master bedroom. She made sure to knock on the door despite knowing its occupant didn't care, before swinging open the door which had been left ajar, so that Fareeha could keep an eye on her mother easily. As always, the lights were not lit, and the curtains were drawn, so the room was cast in a dim shadow. Walking to the windows, Fareeha pulled the curtains just a tad apart, so that sunlight could spill through, and tell her mother it was daytime.

Kamilah lay in her side of the bed as always, eyes closed even though Fareeha knew she was awake. It wasn't easy to tell at first, but now Fareeha could identify whenever her mother was asleep or not. Kneeling by the bed, Fareeha set the warm bowl on the nightstand, and stroked mussed grey hair with her hand.

"Mama, time for lunch," Fareeha said softly, though Kamilah didn't react. "Come on, the sun's shining so bright, it's going to burn a hole in your backside."

Fareeha smiled at her own joke, but there was no twitch on her mother's face whatsoever. She stroked Kamilah's hair a while longer, before setting her head on the bed. "Mama, I know you don't feel like it, but you have to eat. If you don't, you'll become so thin, that when a wind blows through the room, you'll be swept out of the window."

Fareeha's smile stayed on her face, but not by force of will. Kamilah's eyes moved beneath her eyelids, and Fareeha waited patiently until her mother's dark brown irises greeted her. "There we go," Fareeha crooned, ruffling the grey tresses of Kamilah's hair playfully. "Ready to sit up?"

Kamilah closed her eyes again, and after a while, her brows drew together in a frown. Fareeha recognised the sign of exertion, and quickly slid an arm under Kamilah, lifting her mother so she could sit up comfortably. Running her fingers through grey hair, Fareeha smoothed over the strands sticking up from Kamilah's head, then reached for the bowl on the nightstand. Sitting on the bed beside her mother, Fareeha held onto the bowl, and grasped Kamilah's hand gently. She guided her mother to the spoon, which Kamilah held onto, and helped her mother go through the motions, scooping a half-spoonful of porridge and delivering it to Kamilah's mouth.

It always was a slow process, but Fareeha could gauge her mother's mood during mealtimes. If Kamilah eventually started scooping the porridge herself – like now – she was doing better. If Fareeha had to feed her mother, then things could be better. In the beginning, she'd had to do most of the feeding for Kamilah, but as the days went by, her mother found enough strength to eat by herself more often. It was a good sign that kept Fareeha going, at the very least.

As Kamilah ate, Fareeha talked to her. Always about little nothings – what chores she did for the day, what groceries she picked up, what news or shows she watched on the TV that day. She kept the scope of topics small, just to make sure Kamilah could keep up, but she doubted her mother followed the one-sided conversation fully anyway.

When it seemed like Kamilah was about to give up halfway through the bowl, Fareeha said, "Oh, I added an egg this time, so you'll get some protein. How about eating one or two more spoons? You know, just to acknowledge my genius?"

Kamilah's eyes flickered up to her, and though there was no smile in reply, Fareeha could tell she'd gotten through this time. Kamilah scooped one, then two spoonfuls of porridge into her mouth, before letting go of the spoon.

"Thank you," Fareeha crooned, pecking Kamilah on the head.

Setting the bowl aside again, Fareeha guided her mother back towards the headboard, where she propped up a few pillows so Kamilah could sit and rest after eating. She busied herself with the blanket, patting it over Kamilah's legs, before she was given pause by the hand on her cheek. Fareeha looked up, and her heart sank at the expression on Kamilah's face.

"You are so much like her," Kamilah rasped. "Do you know that?"

"Yeah, I've heard that my whole life," Fareeha joked weakly, reaching out to wipe the tears rolling down Kamilah's cheeks. "Think I might start believing it soon."

Sobs rose from Kamilah's throat, and Fareeha shifted closer, pulling her mother into a hug. Kamilah clutched onto the back of her shirt, and Fareeha rocked her gently in comfort as choked sobs spilled forth.

Long ago, Kamilah had once thought that only a few would ever live through their worst nightmares. This changed with the onset of the Omnic Crisis, when she'd witnessed too many killed on the frontlines, too many who had left an empty space in their homes, a source of grief for days and months to come. She'd prayed for such a nightmare to never realise in her life, even years after the Crisis had passed, in times of peace enforced by a hero of a wife who constantly put her life in danger for the greater good. All those years of frustration, she'd come to realise, were not directed at Ana alone. It was at herself for not trying harder to persuade her wife into retirement. At the encroaching sense of inevitability, which had finally culminated when her life was supposed to crystalise into the happy end she'd always dreamt of.

She was robbed, cheated out of her happiness by life itself, which had taken away the very person who'd given her a whole new future to live for. It had twisted Ana – who'd saved Kamilah's life in more ways than she realised, who'd been the light in her life for so many years – into a spectre which brought her nothing but pain, grief, and a wish for an end to what Ana had given her in the first place. What was the point of life without the very one who'd given it back to her? What was the point of life when the world held no more meaning for her…

What is left…

A hand touched the top of her head, and Kamilah felt Fareeha's movements as her daughter came to kneel by her bed, as she did every day. Fareeha stroked her hair like always, and Kamilah focused on the motion, struggling to remember that all was not lost…despite how she felt.

I'm sorry, Fareeha.

"Mama? It's time for your promise," Fareeha half-whispered and sang, and Kamilah grimaced. "It'll make you feel better, I promise. Here, I'll help you down."

It took a few tugs on her hand, before Kamilah opened her eyes. She stared at Fareeha's heartened smile, which inspired a twinge of guilt in her chest, and a desperate grasp for energy which made her ache in response. Taking a deep breath, Kamilah pushed herself up with Fareeha's help, and sat still for a moment. Allowing Fareeha to draw the covers off her, Kamilah let her daughter pull her legs off the bed, her feet meeting the floor for the first time in two weeks.

"You're doing great, mama. Here, let's stand. Lean on me if you need to, alright?"

Kamilah nodded. Clutching at Fareeha's arms, which had circled around her, Kamilah rose to her feet with Fareeha's help. Just this simple act of standing felt so foreign after weeks of inactivity, and Kamilah expended much of her focus just to keep balanced. It didn't take long though – the odd feeling passed, and soon, she felt…right. Better, maybe, though she was still hesitant to use the term.

At Fareeha's gentle urging, Kamilah started to put one foot ahead of the other, again, and again, until she'd walked out of the bedroom. Her heart, still flat despite the sing-song encouragements from her daughter, felt a twinge of…something as they neared the stairs, and climbed down step by step. Kamilah's body was weak, but Fareeha's strength was enough to support her, and soon they'd reached the bottom of the staircase safely. They walked into the living room, where Fareeha settled her into the sofa, and placed in Kamilah's hands a stuffed purple dragon, with an impish grin on her lips.

Kamilah kept staring at the toy even as Fareeha moved away. Over the weeks, Fareeha had found that the dragon was the only reminder of Ana which didn't immediately send Kamilah into tears. Or too many tears, at least. The first two times, Kamilah had hugged the dragon to her chest, tearing up as she heard in her mind a young and rough voice cooing playfully at the toy. Such an inconsequential, yet soft memory that eased the ache of the past, and Kamilah had found it comfortable to hold close. A balm for her aching soul.

She touched the dragon's snout with a thumb, then the button sewn as a replacement for the dragon's right eye. The thought brought a lump to her throat, and Kamilah squeezed her eyes shut, taking deep breaths as Fareeha had guided her through so many times before, calming herself down without imposing on her daughter.

"Here we go," came Fareeha's voice behind her, and Kamilah opened her eyes, glad for the distraction.

She looked up, and watched as Fareeha offered a hot bowl of soup on a coaster to her. Kamilah eyed the clear soup with macaroni, and the strips of chicken and vegetables which Fareeha had shredded for easier consumption. Her heart grew soft at her daughter's care, and the weight lifted slightly from her chest, as she set the dragon aside and took the bowl in her hands, nodding when Fareeha asked if she could hold it.

"Is it too much? If you don't want the meat, you can leave them."

Kamilah shook her head, and scooped up some soup, blowing on it gently before bringing it to her mouth. She was surprised by the flavour in the broth – almost identical to the soups she'd made whenever Fareeha was ill.

"Is it good?" Fareeha asked, with a proud grin. "I found your recipe book in the kitchen. Thought I'd give it a go. Hope it's nice."

Kamilah nodded, and took another sip of soup. She was careful not to drink too quickly, aware that she'd subsisted on mere porridge for two weeks, and slowly made herself accustomed to the heartier sustenance. She nibbled on macaroni and vegetables, and surprised herself by eating more than a few strips of chicken as well – her appetite had trickled back to her, and Kamilah gladly indulged in it, a solace provided by her daughter's cooking.

Halfway through the bowl, her stomach started to feel full, so Kamilah slowed down and raised her eyes to the TV, which Fareeha had switched on. The news was onscreen, reporting on some arts festival held in Cairo, but it was brought to a quick end by the anchor – who wore a look of disbelief, soon smoothed over by professionalism. Kamilah watched as he spoke of a tragic incident in Zurich – specifically the Overwatch headquarters, which had suffered a devastating explosion, destroying more than a third of the facility.

Fareeha leaned forward in her seat, presumably affected by the news, but Kamilah found her heart still beating a regular, steady pulse. She could feel nothing as aerial video feeds of the ruined headquarters were shown, then replaced by the news anchor once more, now accompanied by pictures of Morrison and Reyes – both men now presumed dead, though their statuses were pending investigation.

Just then, the screen turned dark. Kamilah glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, Fareeha's hand holding the remote.

"Mama, you alright?"

Kamilah nodded slowly.

"I'm going up to…check on something. You sit here, and finish the soup if you can, yeah?"

She nodded again, as Fareeha set her own bowl on the coffee table, and went running up the stairs. Going to text Jesse, probably, and check on Overwatch's situation. The girl must be feeling anxious for her friends in Overwatch – but Kamilah couldn't bring herself to feel anything.

She turned her eyes back to the TV's black screen, staring at the dim reflection of herself on the sofa.

Overwatch was the reason why she's sitting here alone, wasn't it?

The first few days since Ana's awakening was rough. She couldn't remember the details of her own life, and wrestled with the weight of despair and baseless anger, which had her lashing out at her caretakers on a few occasions. But they were patient with her, and as three weeks went by, Ana recovered steadily in the hospital's care. Her memories trickled back bit by bit, aided by the dog tags and wedding ring which the staff had placed on the stand beside her bed.

Ana had fiddled with the dog tags in the beginning, mulling over her identity, remembering exactly who Captain Ana Amari was, and how powerful her name had been, even in the agonising years of Overwatch's decline. The memory of the organisation she'd bled for, which she recognised was descending into chaos that would surely tear it apart, made her set down the dog tags, never to pick them up again.

The wedding ring stayed in her hand from then on. It gave her much more pleasant memories. Of a wife who'd stood by her side throughout the tough years, waiting patiently for her while she'd buried herself in official matters in Zurich. Kamilah, who'd loved her despite her flaws, whom she dearly wanted to see again. Fareeha too, the daughter with whom she'd fought for too many years to count, whom she still loved dearly, even if recent memories made her heart ache more than anything. What she wouldn't give to travel home this instant, to be with the family she should be with.

But now was not the time. In her weeks of recovery, her doctor had given her in moderation the information she yearned for. Ana remembered facing Amelie Lacroix in her last mission with Jack, but not what had transpired after. Apparently, a retired soldier had passed through the area, on a personal mission to search for any survivors who needed aid – when he stumbled upon Captain Amari, who lay unconscious in a pool of her own blood, just barely breathing. He'd loaded her onto his jeep, and sped to the nearest hospital to seek aid.

They performed surgery on her, but kept her identity a secret. The village was much too close to hotspots which terrorists had targeted for the past months, and the hospital didn't want to draw undue attention upon themselves. They gave Ana's profile a fake name, and kept her in the most secure and private ward until she was fit to leave. Which wouldn't be anytime soon, given her current state.

Ana touched the bandages covering her right eye, heart wrestling with denial and fear. Her scope had been shot by Lacroix, and the resulting pain in her head hadn't been due to the bullet, but by the broken glass and metal shards which had flown into her eye. The surgeons made the decision to completely remove her cybernetic eye along with the shards, and Ana's doctor had informed her of the choices she had now – to get a prosthetic, or leave the empty socket as it was. A decision that Ana didn't want to ponder at the moment, and so left it alone for now.

Setting down her cup of water on the nightstand, Ana leaned back in the elevated bed, and turned her eye to the TV mounted on the wall. The news was on, and Ana watched it idly, before her senses turned sharp from the breaking headline which had appeared over the screen.

'Overwatch Headquarters Destroyed by Explosion'

The ground opened up beneath her, threatening to swallow her whole, but Ana held on and watched as images of the ruined facility were shown on screen. Her second home for nearly half her life – now lay in ruins. The grief had barely set in when two new pictures were laid over the destruction – Jack and Gabriel. Both of whom were suspected of having caused the explosion…which they had been caught in, and presumed killed in the blast.

"No. No!"

Ana slammed a hand on the call button, and was halfway up from the bed when the nurses rushed in. "Discharge me. I have to leave. I have to go–, no!"

"Please, Captain, you have to lie down."

"Let me go!" Ana struggled against their firm grip, dismayed to find that her strength hadn't fully returned. "I have to go back. They're dead. Jack and Gabriel. They're–, I have to go!"

She managed to push one nurse back, but the other had taken her by the shoulders, and guided her gently down to the bed. Ana wasn't even aware of the tears cutting down her cheeks, or the prick that she received on her arm, and the odd feeling of calm which descended slowly on her despite her desperate need to move.

"They're dead," Ana uttered as she lay in her bed in defeated, forced calm. "They're gone. It's all gone…"