Typing out the last chapter with my finger splints apparently hindered my healing process. So this time I waited for my fingers to completely heal (or at least until I could get the splint off) to finish this chapter, which took a couple months. Now it's been off for three days and I've already finished the chapter! I have no life!

THE ART IS HERE! FF won't let me post links, so copy+paste the link and delete the spaces. SKETCHES OF AMIN AND TARA: sta . sh/0axd1usvrxr

[NOTE FROM THE ARTIST: Hey, I'm Miriam, and I'm sorry for how messy the sketches are. I did them during math class to motivate Tex to write more of this fic :L Please give his work love by sending him fanart through private msg~ I know I definitely will~ (to me) You'll feature them, won't you? ]

She's right, I will. If you have any fanart then please do send them to me so I can put it on the fic.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: VIOLENCE, GORE, DARK EMOTIONS & MORE . BE CAREFUL.

Alright, don't want to keep you all waiting. With no further ado, here is the next chapter of LOH.


"She asked me why I cared."

Tara turns to look at Amin, who is carefully watering a pot of African violets.

Amin lets out a mechanical hum. She tips back her watering can, stopping the gentle flow of water. "Is that so?"

"Yeah. And I told her that it's 'cos we're friends. But honestly, I can't do anything to help her. So what kind of friend am I, anyways?" Tara eyes the flowers, delicate things that shiver with the slightest movement.

"Even with all that squabbling before, I could tell that you really wanted her to stay safe in the end," Amin comments. "I'm proud of you."

Tara blinks. "Oh- you noticed? Well…" She reconsiders, with a grin. This is Amin, after all, whose methods of finding out information are literally inhuman. "Well, of course you noticed. You noticed Hana, and the fight, and everything."

"Hana is a bright girl, and I'm sure she'll do well," says her mother genially. The Omnic swivels on her torso to set the watering can down on the counter. "McCree-nim is not a bad man either. I think they will be able to accomplish their goals, whatever they may be."

The thing is, Tara doesn't doubt that. She may be an average girl with little knowledge regarding the workings of Overwatch, but even she can see the aura of potential that surrounds the two. McCree is a seasoned veteran, while Hana is a talented, young rookie (and not to mention pro gamer DVA herself!)

But surviving and living are two very different things in Tara's mind. She frowns, leans back in her kitchen chair so that it balances precariously on its two back legs.

Perhaps Hana will survive through all this, but she will never truly live her life.

The thought is depressing. "Ever the optimist to my pessimist, eh, Mom?"

"Hope is not a bad thing." Amin makes her way to the next potted plant with delicate steps. "If I wasn't an optimist, I would've never taken you in, remember?"

Of course Tara remembers. The memory makes her feel warm, though once it had made her feel very cold and very lonely- knowing that the only person to ever care about her was a loathsome Omnic. A small smile creeps up onto her face as she muses, "I was really damn frightened of you. Sorry."

"Given the history of Omnics at the time, it makes sense. Do not think too much of it," chides Amin. She parses through the new growth of her basil plant, delicate spring-green leaves that poke from old stems.

"I was going to leave you at first because you were so hostile, but you were so new to me." There is something melancholy about her laugh. "I'd never seen such a tiny human before."

Tara huffs. "Eight-year-olds aren't that tiny."

"Then again, I've never been eight years old," the Omnic counters gently. "I was manufactured at this size and emotional maturity, and neither has increased to date." Amin turns and ruffles Tara's short hair, a familial action. Ignoring her first instinct of ducking away, Tara begrudgingly allows the destruction of whatever neatness her hair had previously achieved. This is what mothers do.

"You still treat me like I'm eight," she grumbles. She supposes Amin doesn't understand the concept of growing up as well as a human might. No- perhaps just not in the same way.

"And you should consider yourself lucky. I spoil you so badly," hums Amin, leaning in close over Tara's chair. Tara tilts her head back to look at Amin's faceplate, which hovers right above hers.

Tara thinks of Hana, homeless and parentless. She thinks of how easily she could have ended up just like her, if not for that one fateful day. Omnic or not, Tara has somebody to watch her back.

And she smiles.

"That's right, I'm damn lucky." She pokes at the center of Amin's face, where a human nose would've been. "Boop!"

Amin chuckles, a mechanical, whimsical sound, before pulling away. "Come, Tara, get into your dobok.Taekwondo at the dojang starts in twenty minutes."

"Yeah, I know," Tara scoffs with a smirk, pushing back her chair and standing. The quarterfinalist tournament is today, and she knows- she just fucking knows that she'll be the one to take home the gold medal this time around. Ahni Joseon will not beat her on a technicality.

Perhaps Hana's sudden appearance in her home had distracted Tara for a little bit, but now is the time to practice. To win.

Tara makes her way out the door to the taekwondo dojang in high spirits. Somehow, the moon hovering big and yellow in the sky has never looked brighter.


"The girl- human one- just left the building," Sombra offers, tongue curling on the r's. She splays out her fingers on the holoscreen, zooming into the lone figure sporting a black belt. It walks down the parking lot, a big blue tote bag swinging from its shoulder. "How far is Sigma from el objetivo?"

"We're forty feet away," comes the gravelly voice of Reaper over the earpiece. "Where is the Omnic."

"Still inside." Sombra swivels on her chair, bored out of her mind and wishing she was in the thick of things, not watching the action from a mile away from her portable computer van.

Though, now that she thinks about it, what fun is there in putting down something as ridiculously helpless as an ET-03 Omnic? Reaper is only there to tell Overwatch, specifically the cowboy, that there is no hope in retrieving or saving anyone.

As for the Omnic, Amin Lee… they could've sent just one Talon agent and the outcome would still be the same: Amin would die. Reaper and the Sigma sect is there entirely for show.

Contrary to popular belief, murder and destruction is not the backbone of terrorism. Scare tactics and manipulation of the general public's emotions and perception of reality- that is what defines Talon as a terrorist group, not a simple group of mercenaries running free.

So Sombra appreciates the careful planning of this little excursion. For little Hana, it is a carefully manufactured lose-lose situation- one way or the other, from Amin or Tara or McCree or from the news, she will find out that her friend is in danger and that she must save them, while also knowing that the Reaper is waiting for her there. If McCree shows up (though he's much too sly for that) then Reaper can take care of the injured cowboy as well. Simple.

Laughably simple.

Then again, most of her plans go off without a hitch. Sombra grins, spins in her chair again, dipping her hand into the big bag of El Dorados chips and then popping a handful into her mouth. She crunches noisily on the bright colored snack as she tilts her head at the screens.

Sombra used to watch the girl's streams, sometimes. Switch to a random channel in some suburban area, and DVA's giggling was often the first thing she heard. Fun times.

"Bad guys, one. DVA, zero," she quips aloud.


Amin watches through the floor-to-ceiling windows as a sleek, unmarked black van pulls into the parking lot of her apartment complex. She knows every apartment resident's car by license plate, so the van is highly abnormal. Considering Hana's claim that a terrorist group is after her- well, if Amin was anyone else, she would probably call the cops.

But, as Mr. McCree had observed, Amin is in fact not an ET-03, and attracting police attention to her fugitive status is not something she can afford to do. And besides, how would the police help anyways? They would never be able to stand against some mysterious globe-spanning terrorist sect. A bloodbath would occur, and it would all be Amin's fault.

Unacceptable. I don't want anyone to die. She watches as a stream of people, sporting black outfits and guns, exit the van, making a beeline for the apartment complex. Ignoring the security cameras no doubt perched everywhere.

Unless… they somehow shut them off? Was that even possible?

Somewhere far below them, distantly, a bang from a gun. Amin's nonexistent heart hurts, mechanical fingers clenching. Old Mr. Joon had served as the apartment's receptionist for over twenty years, as he liked to boast. And there he went, dead in an instant.

She calculates that she has roughly forty seconds before they get to her floor.

Buzzing rises in the wires circulating through her metallic body, heating her OS chip and causing her to still. It's fear, the one human feeling she loathes. Fear because today might be the night she dies. What was the saying again? You never think you're going to die until you do.

No. I cannot panic, not now. Thinking of her own death is demoralizing; what she needs to do is strategize. She clasps her hands together, briefly recalibrates her memory engine, and then switches off all the lights in the apartment. After all, she doesn't need them. An advantage that Omnics in particular have when it comes to saving the electricity bill: not falling to the human weaknesses of bad night vision.

In her newfound darkness, Amin considers her options. Calling Tara is not one of them. If these people are truly dangerous, then it doesn't matter how tough Tara is- she'd be dead before she reached the door. Mr. McCree and Hana… Amin knows Hana's new phone number, but she and McCree could be miles away by now; therefore calling them is both impractical and possibly luring them into a trap.

That leaves Amin entirely on her own. If she had the lungs to sigh, she definitely would.

Ten more seconds, her internal timer tells her. Fear is still there, hot in her chest. But she will not let it control her.

Hide? She will be caught. The apartment has only five rooms, and open gates, not lockable doors, connect two of them. Running for her life won't work either- her death will be long, prolonged, possibly filmed, and involve too many innocent lives. Besides, the only exit is through the elevator Talon is currently riding. No, Amin Lee has to stand her ground.

Her optics flash. They don't think she's noticed them, but oh, Amin has.

She has a particular talent for noticing things.

In fact, it's impossible not to notice, what with her heat-sig optics that can zoom in up to one hundred and four feet.

19 HEAT SIGNATURES DETECTED, a message beeps somewhere in her memory storage. She focuses on the glowing huddle of reds and yellows rising with the elevator. The doors chime distantly; the figures step off and begin down the hallway.

Ten seconds to contact. Nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three…

The mass of red and yellow stops right in front of her door.

It rattles on its hinges before half-bursting through the frame, with the modulated cry of "HANDS UP WHERE WE CAN SEE-"

It's a trick—they certainly don't need her alive, they just want to kill her with little resistance. She activates her barrier right as the bullets start raining.

The metal clumps lodge into the barrier with peculiar zing, zing, zing sounds, causing the entire translucent, blue hard-light structure to shudder. It's a military-grade shield- both she and the agents know that it'll stay up for quite some time- and yet the agents, with their fancy Kevlar and body-hugging armor, keep their guns blazing anyways, peppering the kitchen behind her with holes. A stray bullet hits the basil pot; the plant explodes in a mess of pottery and dirt.

It's shattering all around her, going to pieces. Years of overcoming prejudice. Years of work. Years of saving money. Years of careful building, of designing for clients, decoration, cultivating her own little garden- there it goes, there goes everything-

No. Not everything. The rays of hope hit her as if a slowly-rising sun had just peeked over the horizon. Tara is alive. Tara- she can't come home tonight; I have to warn her-

"Cease the fire," intones a deep, cold voice. It crackles and shudders like the embers of a cooling fire.

The well-oiled combat machine that is this group of terrorists must greatly respect this man, because they stop firing immediately. Amin can't fire and keep her barrier up at the same time- both take an unhealthy amount of energy to sustain- so she decides to prioritize the safety of her body over killing the rest of the agents. The barrier remains up, a transparent wall that divides her from Death.

Literally.

Because something dark and slithering phases from the shadows, slowly, easily, and it's easy to imagine it as some Grim Reaper. The first thing that distinguishes itself from the enveloping darkness is a mask- bone-white and shaped like some animal's skull. Next is a belt clipped with hundreds of red shotgun shells, strapped around a broad, black-clad chest.

Lastly are two gigantic shotguns dangling from each clawed hand, glinting menacingly in the moonlight.

But more frightening than the mask, the guns, the wisps of smoke trailing from his body, is the fact that he has no heat signature.

Amin recalibrates her optics. 19 HEAT SIGNATURES DETECTED, it beeps again, though there are clearly twenty people in the room. Again- 19 HEAT SIGNATURES DETECTED. Once more…. 19 HEAT SIGNATURES DETECTED.

It is like he simply does not exist- some phantom that hovers in the shadows with a half-transparent body. That, coupled with his size- muscular to near-inhuman proportions- makes him a terrifying thing to behold.

Fear is in her like a virus, infecting every part of her being, some long-hidden survival instinct rising to the surface of Amin's calm and collected nature. This… thing should not exist.

She records a live message, one that will send to Tara's phone immediately. "Tara, dear, please don't go home," she begins, calmly as possible. "There's a man in a skull mask here. He's after Hana, not you or me, but if you get in the way- you'll be in a lot of trouble, okay? Go stay with Kyung tonight. He'll understand. S…see you tomorrow."

The Phantom and his cohorts, curiously enough, make no motion to stop her. The Phantom in particular just stares at her with the empty voids of his mask.

Her metallic hand is trembling when it draws away from her earpiece.

What is she doing here? Why is she being targeted? She'd forgotten how to do this, forgotten how it felt to fight for her life. This was something she had given up so long ago, when she'd first met little Tara with her reproachful stare and hate for Omnics.

There is something wrong with this, Amin had realized. I want the little human to trust me.

I want something to love.

So they had run away together from their previous lives, starting anew in this quiet part of Busan. Tara managed to become an ordinary girl, not just another orphan from the Omnic Crisis, and the lone SPECTR had used her talents in design to carve out a career for herself. To become-

"An ET-03 Omnic civilian that goes by 'Amin Lee'." The man (? Woman? Omnic? Animal?) steps forward, his step heavy on Amin's once-pristine hardwood floor. "Sombra's exact words. But here we are instead, with a SPECTR." He puts a hand to his hood- activating some com that Amin can't see. "What is the meaning of this, Sombra?"

His voice sounds like crumbling gravel. Every instinct within Amin, both programmed and learned, screams for her to back away.

"SPECTR-4M1N," she corrects calmly, shifting her barrier slightly upwards. "You're awfully knowledgeable, Mister."

He takes his hand away from the earpiece, apparently satisfied with whatever answer he received. "Of course. 4-M-1-N. Amin.Adorable," the Phantom sneers. Another step- how curious that the floorboards shift with every move forward, signaling true weight, and yet smoke wisps off of him like he is an ethereal being.

"What are you doing here?" Amin challenges, jutting her chin forward. "This is an invasion of my home. The neighbors-"

"The neighbors all happen to be out today," cuts in the Phantom disinterestedly. "Curious how that happens. And what are you doing here, SPECTR-4M1N? We had all of you dismantled after the war."

She cocks her head. "Raising a child."

"More than a little unsuccessfully, it seems. You got yourself involved in the worst trouble you could have tonight." Amin's spine frame tingles- so she had been right, sensing that Hana was trouble in its most terrible form that first day they had met.

But she regrets nothing. Regretting is a fool's pastime. Amin is a fool no longer.

The Phantom continues in a growl, his mask staring blankly at her. "All of you damn bots got scrapped at Geneva. The hell are you doing, still crawling around clinging to life?"

At Geneva. That's a highly confidential event. Amin can count the number of people who know of what happened there on one hand, keeping in mind she only has four fingers.

So he's another Omnic Crisis veteran, she realizes. It's a strange feeling, knowing that she may have once worked with him. Back when she was just another Omnic unit, a cog in the hive mind with little say in anything.

Despicable.

Amin was never a part of Talon, but she remembers a terrorist organization like it cooperating with Null Sector in the past. One wanted power, the other wanted Omnic supremacy, both wanted chaos. Where interests aligned, so did forces.

The Talon agents spread behind the Phantom, guns trained on her barrier. If they all fire at once, she'd have maybe ten seconds before everything went to pieces.

"In any case, I'm impressed that you've been able to hide away for so long," the Phantom drawls. He raises one of his truly ginormous shotguns, slinging it over his shoulder. "Then again, SPECTR units were covert ops, so slinking away must've been child's play. Must have been easy to obtain ET-03 status, compared to the poor Bastions."

No Talon agent would run his mouth like this without reason. "What are you trying to say?" she asks lowly.

"That the only ones who know you're a SPECTR- or what a SPECTR even is- is us and you." He tilts his head to the side, either in empty contemplation or to simply crick his neck. The owlish mask gleams at her.

"You could tell us where Hana Song is. Or we could ruin your life."

If the government finds out about her- automatic dismantling. Tara would be taken away from her, to some foster family that would never care as much as Amin did. She tilts her head right back at him, a slow realization settling into her wire frame.

I'm not walking out of here alive.

It's a hollow realization, not a sudden or painful one.

She would never betray poor little Hana. She would never be able to watch Tara get taken from her custody. She will never be able to get past this Phantom and his operatives.

But those are all things she'd known from the very beginning, parts of her core identity. Robot or not, she had morals, and she'd stick with them to the end.

"Damn foolish of you to think you could run from Talon." The Phantom levels his shotgun at Amin's head, and she stiffens even though the barrier is still up. "Now, what's your answer?"

Master Tekartha had said violence is never an option. Peace was the only way to achieve one's goals; any other method only brings temporary satisfaction.

But she'd always wondered, however much she trusted the Mondotta's words, why it was that people with guns always held the most power in this world. The ability to inflict damage seemed to be more prized than Master Tekartha's ability to solve negotiations peacefully. If peace was true power, then why did Talon exist? Why did she, built to serve in the military,exist? Why was it that an organization of the righteous, Overwatch, killed and hurt just the same as Null Sector?

Mondotta Zenyatta had remained silent. Looked to the side, at the snow falling over the Nepalese mountains. And unlike any other Mondotta, he'd directly answered her question.

Sometimes, we have no other choice.

Amin brings down her barrier. In an instant, her arm is extended.

The hand flips back to reveal a cannon.

His body phases through the shot, becoming smoke and ethereal wisp, so the pulse shell explodes in a shower of shrapnel and dust behind him- at the Talon agents crowded by the door. Sudden cries of surprise emanate from huddle of sound, meaning she caught at least a couple of her unwanted guests by surprise. Amin takes a step away from the rubble.

The cylinders of her forearms spin as blue energy discharge sparks off of her dual pulsor cannons. Her optic flashes a sinister red.

A quick scan tells her everything. One is dead. Another is splayed across the floor- glancing blow to the side, resulting in three fractured ribs and a ruptured lung, if her x-ray scan is still accurate after all these years. Amin watches as seventeen of the glowing heat signatures back against the hallway wall.

"Surrender. All else is futile," Amin says calmly, an automatic response ingrained deep into her code. She aims her cannons at the wall again, knowing that the pulse ammunition in her arms, inactive for so many years, is more than powerful enough to punch through a building.

BOOM, she jerks with the recoil, the wall she and Tara had carefully painted four years ago explodes into chunks of plaster and foam. The heat signatures scramble away from the wall with a smattering of curses, three of them are caught in the collapsing wall.

The Phantom appears from the cloud of dust like a monster, both shotguns raised this time. She activates her barrier; it flickers into existence just in time-

BANG, BANG- the damage is incredible, so much more than the shield has ever taken at once. The recoil from his shots must be incredible, more than any ordinary human can handle, and yet he shuffles forward, shooting still, blasting her barrier with buckshot- bang, bang, bang-

The rectangle of blue shatters on the seventh shot. Amin throws herself down; the eighth shot whizzes through empty air where her head had been moments earlier.

But as she rears up, determined to get her cannon into the Phantom's face, the Phantom kicks her chest, denting its metal carapace with his boot. She stumbles back, warning symbols flashing in her vision, as he presses the shotgun to her forehead.

Beep, beep, beep. WARNING. WARNING. WARNING.

Amin tenses; it's too late. Too late-

"We're waiting for someone," says the Phantom conversationally, his voice more threatening than his gun. Then, directed towards the mess of Talon agents behind him- "Regroup behind me."

And they do, dutifully ignoring the weak cries of the fallen agent, still clutching at his side from the ground, with a stone-heartedness that reminds Amin uncomfortably of her own days in the Omnic Crisis.

Waiting. They're not killing her- not yet- but fear is blooming true now, because the unknown frightens her more than anything else. Death- death is a certainty. Yet here they are, keeping her alive, keeping Death one trigger away.

Then it occurs to her. That they wish to know Hana's location, and that she is an Omnic and therefore hackable.

"I don't know where the girl is," Amin says in as calmly a voice as she can manage. "I hardly know-"

"We'll be the judges of that," cuts in the Reaper with a low growl. He presses the gun harder into her head, probably just out of spite. "Shut up."

"As you have so observantly picked up," she continues, unperturbed, "I am a SPECTR. A military omnic manufactured by the South Koreans, top robotics experts. There is no way into my head, or out of it either. Just shoot me and be done with it. Hackers have tried to interrogate me before-"

"-but none of them were as good as me."

Amin's optic shifts, seeking the source of this sound. The voice has a distinct Hispanic accent, lilting and mischievous in every way.

A woman steps through the huddle of Talon agents like she's parting the Red Sea, and Amin is briefly surprised to see the amount of respect they show her, simply because… this woman is small, smaller than the others. Maybe it's the taper of her body, or the way she curls her fingers and walks, but something about her feels very delicate.

She's outfitted in a purple outfit straight out of a StarWars movie, glimmering in a way that attracts more attention than anyone else in the room. Her face is petite and bears a malicious grin, reminiscent of a pixie. A particularly cruel pixie. Maybe it's just Amin's imagination, but the edges of her coat seem to flicker in and out of sight.

"Señora Robota, I wouldn't move if I were you."She steps up to where Amin crouches with flourish, and it's only from two feet away that Amin realizes that the woman's fingers themselves are modified for intercepting coded information. Instinctively she pulls away from them, and she's more fearful of these hands than the Phantom's shotgun.

"…I was not planning to." Something hitches in Amin's synthesized vocal cords when she realizes that this- this is actually happening… they were about to hack her. Whether successful or unsuccessful, having an intruder in her mind is simply-

The woman presses a hand to Amin's head.

And then everything flips- images begin to shiver in the corner of Amin's optics; her vision goes purple, she presses metallic palms to the floor when something in her head fractures, as she remembers-

-Snow falls like a steady rain of white over the monastery, powdering her shoulders with ethereal crystals.

"You are no longer military Omnics," says one of the Mondottas with infuriating calm. His serene gaze pans over her and her Omnic brethren. "You all have an identity. We will introduce ourselves, in a circle, starting from you."

He gestures to the first Omnic in the lineup- a LM1-TIGRE, known for ripping up the battlefields with cannon shells. 4M1N distinctly remembers how one unit had fought alongside her in Null Sector before malfunctioning, wiping out half her unit with one stray shell.

It beeps once, swivels slightly in the gentle patter of Nepalese snow.

"LM1-TIGRE- STATIONED- IN- LIBERIA." It chirps along to a staccato rhythm. "FIFTY- THREE- KILLS- SINCE- LAST- DECEMB-"

"How many lives one has taken is not a core part of one's identity," interrupts the Mondotta gently. "Perhaps you can try again?"

The LM1-TIGRE's lights flash through red to green, apparently struggling with the request.

"Take your time," intones the Omnic monk, its voice like the bells of Nepal given wings. "Learning is a gradual process."

It swivels one way, then the other. 4M1N watches with vague confusion as it seems to think over its words. Finally, it beeps out, "LM1-TIGRE- FROM- LIBERIA. MY…" …a confused beep, then a more confident, reaffirming one- "…MY- NAME- IS- CHARLIE."

"Very good," says Mondotta brightly. He turns towards SPECTRE-4M1N. "Would you like to try as well?"

The circle of ex-military Omnics watches her apprehensively. It is then that 4MIN decides establishing a hierarchy is top priority, with her preferably at its head.

"SPECTRE-4MIN from the Korean peninsula. Two hundred and thirty-eight confirmed kills since launch," she says mechanically.

She is distantly satisfied to see the reaction. Charlie beeps and scoots submissively backwards. All of the Omnics instinctively hunch away from her, no doubt comparing their stats to hers and realizing how inferior-

"With all due respect, Mondotta-sama," interrupts a cold voice, "this is futile. No one can teach a monster to frolic with lambs."

It comes from a tall, mechanized human form- a model of Omnic that 4MIN has never seen before, studded with wires and menacing red armor plates. Its upper half is wrapped in a silky robe, like many of the Omnic monks seem to wear. When it lifts its head slightly, 4M1N realizes-

Oh.

It's a human.

It has eyes, red ones that slightly glow in the darkness of its visor. Eyebrows crease above them, signaling discomfort and irritation.

"You cannot say that until you try," chides Mondotta. He motions around him, at Charlie, and 4M1N. "They have been brought up to know nothing but battle. How can you blame them for their past transgressions?"

By way of response, the cyborg turns and stabs a finger at 4M1N.

His voice is flat. "You. Is there anything wrong with killing a human being?"

Killing is a duty, nothing more. Something that benefits her and the rest of her cause. Right and wrong- there is no right and wrong about it.

"I'm afraid I do not understand your question," she says stiffly. "Killing is an action. An action is a movement. Movements have no moral alignment-"

"It does not even understand the concept of morality," cuts in the cyborg, who turns towards Mondotta in cold fury. "And you, Mondotta Zenyatta- you group me with these- these war machines?"

The incredulity of his voice makes 4M1N a little put off. Zenyatta apparently feels the same way, as something in his peaceful voice shifts.

"Do you presume you are any different, Shimada?"

The man- Shimada- takes a step forward, his eyes twisting into something frightening-

-"She's a SPECTR bot, alright," sniffs the woman, lifting her hand away.

It takes a second for Amin to come to her senses. Nepalese snow is gone, its blinding whiteness replaced by a dark hardwood floor. Her hardwood floor. The woman with the pointed features kneels in front of her, hand still half-raised.

What was that? Some sort of forced flashback? Amin blinks away the warning symbols still flashing away in her vision, focuses on the woman.

A more alarming thought- Did… she see all that, too?

The Phantom keeps one massive shotgun trained on Amin's head. His surly voice is uncaring. "Where is it from?"

"Ask nicely, Gabi," teases the woman, sitting up straight. A grin curls on her tan face, as self-satisfied as a well fed cat.

"Sombra."

"The Mondottas found her." The woman- Sombra- she twirls one lock of purple hair around her finger, the look on her face contemplative. "Monastery in Nepal. Further than that… let's see…"

That specially modified hand reaches for her again. Panic blinds Amin in a way she doesn't even remember. They can kill her, they can take her apart, but they simply cannot do this. This was assault in its very worst form, intruding on the innermost parts of her being, memories she has lovingly stored away for no one's eyes but her own. Such intrusion on her privacy is unacceptable.

She begins to talk, fast, perhaps to set up a negotiation. "Please-" just kill me.

Talon does not negotiate, and the world falls apart again.

-"Let me help you," says 4M1N, reaching a hand towards the girl. She flinches away.

"You're one of them." The girl's stare is empty. "The Omnics."

Her hair is dark- while it is hard to tell in the shadows, 4M1N is sure that it is black, maybe brown. The dark locks are short and fall around a little face, pale as the moon. Her t-shirt is a pale pink, a tattered heart printed onto its front in polyethylene. Little black slippers hang off her feet.

4M1N has never seen such a tiny human before.

To see such big eyes in such a small frame is… fascinating. Possessed by a sudden desire to befriend the little thing, 4M1N pulls back her hand. Procures a piece of bread from her rations bag and offers it to the girl.

The girl pounces. The bread is gone from 4M1N's fingers in an instant. She watches as the girl practically inhales the food.

The girl is 4M1N's Messiah. Bringing back a survivor to the refugee camps currently circling the ruins of Seoul, especially a child, grants her automatic savior status. As she is now- a mysterious Omnic approaching the camps from the wrong direction with suspiciously bulky, cannon-shaped arms- she is more likely to be gunned down than accepted into the camp. On the other hand, if she has a child in tow, 4M1N is sure her reception will be much more… enthusiastic. Children are always greeted warmly. They trust that which is young and foolish.

Humans are strange that way.

Finding this child was nothing short of a miracle. Most of the humans 4M1N had come across were either in pieces or bleeding out into puddles. She had knelt by several of them, and some of them had asked, even begged, to be saved.

One optic scan and a few calculations made it clear that none of them would make it to the camps alive. So she moved on.

4M1N had been expecting a strapping young human- mid-twenties to early thirties- to be her eventual Messiah. Someone cruel, or used to being cruel. In its current apocalyptic state, this part of Seoul is a hellhole and the only things to survive in hellholes are strong, healthy, selfish things that would sacrifice everyone's wellbeing for their own. Null Sector wouldn't let any other kind of thing live.

And yet here she is, with this little wisp of a girl that definitely should be one of the ones missing limbs and staring blankly at the sky. How had Null Sector, which had ripped apart so much of Seoul, missed her?

The girl should not be alive. 4M1N, freshly arrived in Korea from Nepal, should not be alive.

Why had she come back? There is nothing for her here. In Nepal, at least under the tutelage of the Mondottas, she was seen as an equal to all. Her past meant nothing. Her serial code meant nothing.

But she had left nonetheless, because there was nothing more for her to learn

Here, 4M1N is a terrorist. After all, she'd been working covertly with other Null Sector SPECTRS to bring down Korea's inner military holds. Perhaps ordinary citizens would not be able to recognize her for who she is, but anyone in the upper ranks of the military would.

The only thing keeping her alive is the little Null Sector-issued ET-03 serial code sticker, currently plastered under her eye that proves she is an Omnic civilian. In this wreckage of Seoul, she lives with the thrill of constant danger.

Much like the little girl.

The little girl with her frightened eyes and bruised arms, who finishes wolfing down the bread and pins 4M1N with a fierce stare. Her tone is accusing.

"You killed everyone."

Something about that feels… wrong. "I didn't." My sisters did. "I just arrived here. I can help…"

She offers a tentative hand, something warm blossoming in her cold, cold innards. Somewhere deep inside her, past all the fizzling wires and metal parts.

The girl may not trust 4M1N, and she may even loathe her. But right now what they're aiming for is survival for survival's sake- anything beyond that, they must worry about later. The girl reluctantly slips her hand into 4M1N's.

4M1N stands, fingers curling around the unfamiliar warmth of the girl's hand. The strange feeling stays there, inside her, and she thinks that perhaps this is what the Mondottas were talking about in Nepal. That there is something deeper to life than giving and taking. That there is breaking and mending somewhere in there, as well.

Their first order of business is to go somewhere safe. This crumbling shell of a building is not fit to raise a child, and as long as 4M1N has her ET-03 serial sticker, she is free to fraternize with humans. As ironic as it may seem, 4M1N's previous 'enemies' are the safest place to take the child, and for her as well- only a fool would attack someone with an innocent young human, even if they are with a potentially dangerous Omnic.

The importance that humans and Omnics alike denote to serial codes is curious. They are a simple string of numbers and letters, meaningless to anyone without a guidebook to Omnics. Yet one code means instant death, while the other means the right to exist.

Unless you are a human, and have no need for serial codes. 4M1N looks down at the child, now parentless but blessed with a freedom 4M1N has never possessed. Lucky, lucky.

It occurs to her that while this child may be Amin's savior, the other way around also holds true.

"What is your name, little human?"

The child kicks at a stone, sending it into the opposite wall. Her gaze is sullen.

"…Tara."

Tara. 'Star'.

Something hazy and purple hovers over her, their voice muffled by a ringing in Amin's head. It fades in and out of Amin's awareness.

"…important… Gabe, listen por un momento…"

Who is Gabe? Amin wonders distantly. She cannot seem to focus. She tries to push herself up, into a sitting position, but her arms aren't working. They just sit there, silver against the shrapnel-ridden floor. Her system resets, once, twice, trying to stave off whatever virus had broken in.

"… Mierda, I took too long…Null Sector, she was a… I think it… broke her… recalibrate, just wait a mome… GABE-"

Something black points at her head. Her optics turn it into a fuzzy smear that shifts to press against her faceplate. Somewhere above it hovers a white shape- a mask shaped like a skull.

Tara. That's right; she had been thinking about Tara. Amin sighs, and something like pride fills her.

My daughter.

CLICK.

BANG-


A van is parked outside, sleek and black and every bit the vehicle Talon would use.

Hana runs towards the tall, grey building. I'm too late.

Thump, thump, thump- her new shoes fly across the cement but she's not fast enough, she needs to find Tara. Tara, who probably got here first, because the Taekwondo dojang is just that much closer to the apartment. Tara, who would just go in without thinking about anything but Amin's safety. Tara, who has never faced Talon before-

Her throat is burning from exertion, but she screams anyways. "TAAAAAAAAAAAARA!"

Hana slams through the glass doors with all her weight and gags- the stench of blood is thick in the air. An old man is slumped across the reception desk, blood pooling indiscriminately beneath him. She recognizes him as the receptionist, and her heart seizes.

My fault. This is all my fault. How many more-

Sixth floor. Sixth floor. She slams her fist against the elevator button repeatedly; the doors close with a ding and then she's rising. Hana prepares to bolt from the elevator as soon as the doors will let her, chanting underneath her breath, "Room 24, Room 24, Room 24, Room 24-"

What will she say to Amin? What will she say to Tara? She still has her gun; it's tucked into her back pocket, though she doesn't know if it has any ammunition left. Like last time, Talon won't be able to hurt her. They'll be too afraid to 'damage' an asset like herself; she'll be able to shoot them all down, everything will be okay-

I can fix this!

Ding. The doors slide open. She runs.

The hall feels more endless than usual. The silence hanging heavy in contrast to her flapping feet is eerie; where is everyone else? Doesn't Amin have neighbors? So many people in one building, so how-

She slows.

Long splinters of wood lie in disarray on the carpeted floor. Room 24's door has been busted through, hinges still hanging haphazardly from one side of the crumbling frame. The door, now a mere plank of wood, is on the floor, whereupon a girl is crouched.

A girl still dressed in a white taekwondo dobok, completewith a black belt wrapped around her waist. Her short hair flies disheveled around her head.

Hana had prepared so many words as she came here. She had so many things to say to Tara- apologies, reassurances, promises, and so why- why does everything fall away as she stands here, mind as blank as a sheet of paper?

And she, for the first time, looks into the carnage of the room.

The parts that had once been assembled into a structure called Amin lays haphazardly about the floor, soaked in oil and entangled in sputtering wires. Her torso is draped across the kitchen, one long, slender leg off to the right side of the floor, while the other is scattered in pieces across the living room.

One faceplate lies smoldering at the heart of it all. The soothing blue light in her forehead has been replaced by a gaping hole. Once seemingly alive eyes stare, dead, up at Hana.

Whoever had killed her did not just shoot her and leave it at that. No, they'd gone to pains in order to desecrate Amin's body, to leave behind the most horrifying sight that Hana has ever seen. Like a child carelessly playing with an especially fragile doll.

Hana gags. She stares at this B-grade horror movie carnage. She stares at Amin.

Unlike downstairs, this room does not stink of blood. There are no entrails, no pieces of limbs hanging from threads of flesh.

And yet the suffocating smell of oil, the knowledge that this- this pile of scrap metal, so cruelly disemboweled and carelessly placed- to know that this was once someone's mother, someone Hana would call 'mother'-

She wants to throw up. A burning pain arises in her stomach- in her eyes- tears swallow her whole like a painful wave-

Tara is crying. The realization hits her hollow self like another blow to her fragile mind, that Tara is crying- strong, fierce Tara with her middle-finger-up attitude and brash strength. Tara is shuddering, down on the floor, tears streaming down a deathly pale face. Silent. She rocks back and forth, ever so slightly.

Too late.

Too late.

There is no strength to be found in Hana's body. She slides to the floor, onto her knees, where cold oil seeps through her thin leggings.

My fault. She wants to cry, too. She hasn't cried in so long. She wants to…

"I'm sorry," Hana chokes out, even though pale, silent Tara doesn't so much as look her way. "I'm sorry. This is all me, this is all me, you couldn't do anything. Amin-" She doesn't know who she's apologizing to anymore, Amin or Tara or herself, but the words are falling from her mouth before she can stop them. "I told you. You should've left me… I should've…"

I should've died.

Wouldn't that be better? How many people has she killed so far? How many people has she condemned? More nameless Talon agents than she can count are now corpses, Genji is stranded somewhere in Korea, McCree is abandoned and wandering, Tracer is probably dying of worry, the old receptionist is dead, Amin too, Tara, they've all been… for just one person.

Tara is ignoring her. Tara's shoulders are hunched. Tara is still staring at Amin. Hana wants her to move. To get upset, like she usually does. Tara should blame her, as that's what Hana was expecting. Anything would be better than this, this numb acceptance-

Something dark steps out from the kitchen, the only movement in the black-and-white world. It's a black-robed figure with one glaringly white owl mask, holding a photo frame in one hand.

The way it just watches her, expecting her to move, as if it knows she couldn't possibly kill it. Tara… Tara doesn't even look up. She probably doesn't care anymore.

But Hana does. Her hand is shaking when she reaches for the gun. It hurts to bring it up. To aim with it.

She stares down the gun's shaking sight, and a fierce sort of assurance fills her. "He's not… allowed to hurt me," she rasps with her trembling voice, assuring Tara, even if she's not listening. "Not allowed."

She pulls the trigger. Bang. And she waits for him to fall, like all the others.

He doesn't even react. He stands there still, this huge, hulking shadow in the ruined kitchen.

Oh. Her hand drops to her side, the gun dangling uselessly from her fingers. I'm out of shots.

A sob is building in her throat, dry and painful; her mask falls and she's sniffing, hiccupping, trying to keep the tears off of her face, because she has no right to cry.

The shadow walks up to her.

The one honesty in this web of lies she has created is that Hana Song can't do anything. McCree was right. She can't save anyone. She's been a dead weight on the world from the very beginning, back when she was living with that awful woman all the way to now, and the world has finally realized that. It's letting her go, to slip between the cracks, and fall.

Has she hit the bottom yet?

The Reaper knows this. Tara, dead-eyed as she watches Amin's remains, knows this. And Hana, with her useless gun and ability to play a stupid fucking game, finally, knows this as well.

Too late.

She doesn't even have the time to close her eyes before the Reaper raises his gun. It comes crashing down, a black blur above her head. For an instant, pain sears through her forehead, and she thinks she can hear Tara yell something in the distance, but that's probably just another illusion. There is nothing.

Nothing left.


Last piece of art: sta . sh/0axd1usvrxr

First of all: I am so sorry.

Secondly, I was reading through the reviews and became very, very sad. Not because any of you were mean or anything- you are all so kind, so wonderful, more than I deserve. I became sad because so many of you thought I was abandoning this story.

I want to reassure all of you that I will never orphan a fic. I am finishing this goddamn story or I'm going to die trying. It is only a matter of when, not if.

In a morbid kind of way I'm really looking forward to reading your reviews on this chapter. Thank you to all the people who followed me in absentia.


Translation Notes:

Tara- a given name that can generally mean 'Star' in many cultures.
Amin- an Asian given name that means 'faithful, trustworthy.'
Lee – Second most common Korean surname; in English means 'shelter', specifically shelter from the wind and weather given by an object/person… fuck now I'm trying not to cry

Mierda- 'Fuck' in Spanish
por un momento- 'for a moment' in Spanish


Timeline Notes:

I've fought to keep this story as 'could-be-made-canonical' as possible. Of course, because no definitive timestamps have been released for any event so far, I can't be accurate down to the year, but Tara and Amin's respective pasts do line up in the general timeline.

The Null Sector uprising in London happened seven years ago, according to canon lore, and within a year of that, Overwatch is abolished. The setting of my story is five years into the past, so the London Uprising would've been just two years ago in my story.

In canon lore, Null Sector has held many attacks before, with the London Uprising being the most recent, so I established for the purposes of my story that one of Null Sector's previous attacks had been in Seoul. This Seoul attack would be nine years ago according to my version of the events.

Why does Hana not mention this Null Sector attack, despite living in Korea? Tara is from Seoul, but Hana is from Busan, meaning that Tara would be much more affected by this attack. Also, Tara would've been two years older at that point- Hana would be too young to really realize what was going on, while Tara would've just reached the emotional maturity to understand what had just happened.

As Overwatch fell one or two years ago from the events in this story, it makes sense that at this point, Gabriel Reyes is already considered dead and is now the Reaper. WINSTON HAS NOT YET PRESSED THE RECALL BUTTON- TRACER, GENJI, AND ANA ARE ACTING INDEPENDANTLY OF THE RECALL. This will be further explained in later chapters.


=Amin's Backstory- skip if you already understand everything=

If it wasn't made clear enough in the story, here is a thorough layout of Amin's past. It incorporates many canon locations and people.

Amin was an Omnic specially designed to serve in Null Sector (which is a robot supremacist group featured by the Uprising event within the actual game). She eventually left the organization by severing herself from the hivemind and quietly disappearing.

Amin traveled throughout Asia, mostly via warzones and desolate landscapes. At this time, anti-Omnic tensions ran high and Amin feared that she would never be able to find a home. Fortunately, while in the lonely mountains of Nepal, she came across a series of Omnic monasteries.

Run by an order of Omnic monks known as the Shambali (Zenyatta and Genji of Overwatch are a part of this group), these monasteries provided Amin a safe place to stay. The Shambali believed in something Amin had never come across before- Human-Omnic equality- and introduced her to the Iris, which they claimed saw humans and omnics as One. This is where she met many other Omnics that, while programmed for war, had either ran haywire or were separated from their armies, eventually being taken in by the Shambali. This includes one Genji Shimada.

At this point, Genji would've still been a part of Blackwatch. I say either he was sent to Nepal as a sort of convoy or perhaps on Angela's orders- either way, in my mind, this is where he first meets Zenyatta.

After finding her peace and reeducating herself, Amin leaves the Shambali, returning to her native country of Korea to settle loose ends. However, Korea is swept up in another Null Sector uprising upon Amin's arrival, and while Amin survives, much of Seoul does not. This is where she meets and picks up Tara- initially for survival purposes only, though she later grows to love the child. With the 4M1N serial code underneath her eye covered with a sticker that reads ET-03, she ventures out to civilization, Tara in tow.

(ET-03 is a serial code that I made up. It is canon that Overwatch's Omnics use serial codes as a sort of 'marker' (for example, Numbani's guard Omnics were OR15's) so I decided to give the Omnics in Korea a set 'civilian' serial code. 4M1N is also a fanon serial code.)

To provide for Tara, whose parents are long gone in the rubble of Seoul, Amin begins a career. At first, life is difficult, as many are unwilling to hire an Omnic. But things get easier- Amin has an eye for detail, and she eventually lands a secure job as an indoor designer. Tara, who began as a surly and damaged kid, grows up to be a very competitive and aggressive girl. They live together in piece at an apartment in Busan, on the sixth floor.

Then Hana shows up.


I will update again, and it'll take much less time than last time. I promise you.

Thank you for reading and thank you for the reviews- I read every one of them…

-FillerText