Lord's Bar, London

"Alright, I think you've kept us waiting long enough." A steel gauntlet gripped the edge of the pub's table, but immediately let off once it began to crack. The gauntlet's owner, a large tank of a man with a jagged, white beard and a scarred eye, grunted leaned back from the table. "Angela. It is good to see you, truly, but now is not the time for drinks."

"Speak for yourself." Next to the giant man, a heavily accented and slightly drunk voice protested as its owner barely reached his head over the table's edge. "I'd've thought you'd never refuse a drink, Reinhardt." He was stroking his own beard, which rolled to his chest as two blonde bundles of braided hair. He looked smaller than usual. Angela had not seen him often without any tech or armor on.

"I have yet to see you do so as well." Reinhardt picked up his mug and sipped.

Angela frowned at the giant, tracing the creases next to his eyes, and the dead scar tissue around his eye. It's difficult to believe he's become so old. "Is this everybody?" The bar was empty, save for the raven-haired bartender who had been polishing the same stein for hours and was obviously listening in on their conversations. By her orders, of course. "Where's Winston? Tracer? I'm sure they got word."

"Winston has been in contact with me for a while. He's holed up by the old Watchpoint." Torbjörn, the short man, squinted as he recalled. "He's been making some type of counteractive machine to protect armor and safes. Called me to ask if I could help him." The stout man snorted. "But I'll be damned if I could. It's all software. Anti-hacking devices. "

Reinhardt's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "For that Talon assassin. The shade that attacked the Volskaya corporation a while back."

Angela nodded. "If that woman gets into your armor, or my equipment, we'd be next to useless. Hell, who knows what will happen if she gets into Tracer's chronal accelerator." She leaned forwards, lowering her voice a bit. "And Talon may try to target us former Overwatch agents. Just like they targeted Mondatta."

Reinhardt locked eyes with the doctor. "Is that what this is about?" His accusation was gruff, but not unkind. "You think we're in danger?"

Angela opened her mouth to reply, then looked down at her lap. A silent confirmation.

"Angela." Reinhardt's smile was soft. "You don't need to take care of us anymore. We- and you know I mean this in a friendly way- we are not comrades, not any longer. You are not Overwatch, and as much as Winston would like us to believe that we are coming back, we aren't. Not for a long while."

"What he means is, while we're flattered by the offer, we'd like to get back to our own stinking lives." Torbjörn hopped down from his stool. "Thank you for the drinks, Doctor. It was sincerely good to see you again. But we all know that Overwatch is gone. And I have a family to be getting back to." He turned and almost waddled away when the bartender stepped in front of the door.

The man slicked back his oily hair with both hands before speaking. He was wearing a cheap black jacket and khaki pants. "Dr. Ziegler, your special guest has arrived through the back entrance." An earpiece was now visible in his left ear.

Angela's head shot back up. She mentally smacked herself back into composure. "Thank you, Oliver. Take care to lock the door behind you, and only let in those on the list."

The bartender, Oliver, looked confused. "How will I know who these two are?"

"One will have a glowing orb sticking out of her chest and the other will literally be a gorilla." Angela flashed him one of her sarcastic smiles. "I think you'll be able to figure it out."

Oliver nodded and ducked out of the bar, letting the dark, wood door loudly click behind him.

Torbjörn turned back around. "What the hell was that? The man follows you around like a bloody robot and you expect us to say nothing?"

Reinhardt stood up. "Torbjörn-"

"Oi, I was talking to the good doctor here." The small man scoffed indignantly. "Sorry if I seem a bit paranoid, but I didn't come here to get into any fights. Why would she be running around with a bodyguard if she wasn't expecting trouble?"

"Out of necessity, Torbjörn." Reinhardt took a step forwards, his steel boot clanking against the stone floor of the pub. The giant man frowned at his friend. "I've my armor, and you've your drinks. Why shouldn't Dr. Ziegler here be allowed to keep her peace of mind?"

"Don't play that card with me, Reinhardt. You know that this whole gathering is a provocation. Did you forget about the omnic Underworld here in London? You, me, and the good doctor have given them plenty of reason to hate us. We slaughtered them."

Angela's jaw tightened as she listened to the mechanic rant. "That wasn't my call." She said through a carefully composed mask. "And neither was Oliver. He was assigned to me. Now start acting like the man I once knew."

Torbjörn looked up from the floor. A sudden wave of compassion washed over his face. "Angela." He began, almost teary. "I understand why you want this. Overwatch was my life, my redemption. But now that Jack's gone, the team is dead."

"Death is… relative." A voice from behind the bar rolled over the sole patrons, gravelly and powerful. When the mechanic turned around, the first thing he saw was the visor, a red streak that cut across his bruised face like a wound. White hair stood still and was slightly singed at the edges, and bullet holes peppered a blue-black leather jacket. He was wearing a long overcoat, black and soaked from the rain, but underneath he was armed to the teeth, with several sidearms and knives that Torbjörn remembered forging himself. His face was flushed and his breath was short. So it was that Soldier 76 stumbled into the Lord's Bar.

Torbjörn's jaw fell as he recognized the white-haired man, and Reinhardt's face screwed in disbelief. Angela simply smiled as she stood up, smoothing the front of her white dress. "So, Jack. Here we are, just like you asked." She gestured around the bar. "Everyone's back."

"Where's Tracer?" Soldier leaned against the bar. He was leaning on the bar like he had run a long way to get here, and he held his side with his left arm. "Why is she not here?" He sounded … scared?

"You're hurt." The doctor realized. She pushed through the shocked Reinhardt and Torbjörn and walked up to him. "Here, let me see."

"No, Angela-"

"Now." Angela didn't wait for a reply. She moved 76 firmly around, and he grunted as he lifted his arm away from his wound. Below, his coat and jacket had been burnt away from just underneath his armpit to his thigh, and the flesh underneath was red and charred. The doctor bit her lip subconsciously as she inspected the wound. "Reinhardt, go get Oliver, he should have a red cross bag in his car. Torbjörn, clear the floor." When she turned around, the two men were just standing around dumbly. "Now!" They both perked up, and Reinhardt ran from the room with lengthy strides.

76 began to protest. "Angela, please-"

"Jack, not now." She lifted his arm, and fished her phone from her pocket. Lighting up the wound with the light gave it a bit more clarity. A gradient degradation in severity of the burns closer to the armpit. She realized. A clear epicenter, along with evidence of bruising around the wound. Three gashes, jagged, hastily stitched. Fragmentation bites? Jack wrapped his arm around Angela's shoulder, and slowly let himself onto the floor. Torbjörn had taken his brown coat from the back of his chair and laid it out for Jack to lie on.

Reinhardt came rushing inside, carrying a steel suitcase with a red cross emblazoned on the front in his hand. Oliver came inside with him, brandishing a pistol in one fist while dialing a cell phone in the other.

Torbjörn immediately stood up. "Hey! What the hell is this?" He pointed at the handgun. "What's he doing?"

"My job. I'm here to protect you and the doctor." The man ran his hands through his hair, and shook his head. "Dr. Ziegler-"

"How many?" Angela asked as she removed Soldier's coat and jacket. She held out her hand. "Rag and Alcohol. Clear bottle with the green cap."

"There are five we could see, likely armed. One armored truck, but its impossible to see clearly with the rain." Reinhardt set down the suitcase and opened it, fishing out the bottle and handing it to the doctor. "They were wearing the Talon insignia."

"Want to be flashy, huh?" Angela poured the alcohol onto the rag and dabbed it against Soldier's side. "Oliver, Reinhardt, stay at the door. Torbjörn and I'll get Jack out through the back." She suddenly pressed the rag against the wound hard.

76 winced. "Angela-"

"What? Are we under attack?" Torbjörn was simply getting more confused. He turned to his large friend. "What's this now about Talon?"

Angela replied instead. "Jack was hit by a small explosive, a concussive grenade, maybe. They must have tracked us here. Through our phones, or earpieces." She reached into the suitcase and began looking around for something when a gloved hand pulled her away.

"Angela." Soldier 76 sat up, his forehead speckled with sweat. There was urgency in his voice. "They aren't after us."

"They aren't? Then…" The doctor's eyes widened with understanding. "Oh no." She muttered under her breath.

Soldier leaned closer. "Angela." He gripped her arm tightly. "Where is Tracer?"

— O —

Knock, knock, knock. Emily's eyes fluttered open, stray strands of hair blocking her view. She blew them off, letting them fall back over her ear. She shifted in bed, turning towards the silhouette against the pale curtains. "Lena?" Her voice was croaky from sleep.

"I'll get it, love." Lena turned around, fiddling with the top button on a white-yellow shirt. She winked as she slung a metal harness over her shoulders, the glowing orb on her chest whirring slightly in the city night. "Go back to sleep."

Emily murmured something even she didn't understand, and snuggled back into the patterned pillows. She could hear her girlfriend, or wife, now (it's still so difficult to believe that's really the case), snap on the last latch on the harness, and almost slide towards the door with soundless footsteps. The night was chilly, but some colored city light poked through the veiled curtain. She sighed into her bed, and felt herself fade into slumber.

BANG! Emily jolted awake, wondering if she was dreaming. Lena wasn't beside her. Thud. She could make out voices, shouting in the other room. The bedroom door was open, and she could see a sickening light that almost looked red…

"Over here! Move it!" A gruff voice barked orders as the Emily realized what was happening. A black figure stepped into the bedroom, red goggles nearly popping out of his skull-like mask. He pointed a gun. "Get down, off the bed!" He looked behind him and shouted. "Get over here! Now!"

Emily got up and out of bed smoothly, almost calmly, although her heart felt like it would explode in her chest. Subconsciously aware of her nudity, she wrapped herself in her blanket, a long drapery with floral patterns drawn along its edges. Preposterously, Emily almost slipped into her slippers before the man dug his fingers into her arm and dragged her out of the room.

The living room was destroyed, tables upturned, the flatscreen and several windows shattered, the couch flipped over. Five armored men, dressed similarly to her assailant, waited for Emily as she was pulled from her room, too shocked to fight back. The door was open, and a breeze that smelled like gasoline blew in through the window. It took the woman a moment to realize there was a corpse on the floor.

Lena lay face down, wings of blood seeping into the rug. Her brown hair had flopped over her head, her legs bent awkwardly. She didn't move. The five men converged on Emily, the barrels of their guns pointing straight at her. They were bickering to each other, their voices distorted by their skull-masks.

"I've found her plus one." The one who held Emily had some type of accent, but she didn't even try to place it. Everything felt numb. "Let's take her."

The men looked at each other, evidently confused. "This wasn't part of the mission." One said.

"We kill her." Another pointed the barrel of his rifle towards the terrified woman. "She's no use as a hostage."

"Are you sure?" The one who grabbed Emily seemed to intimidate the others. "Overwatch is loyal to its associates. We need a bargaining chip." Then, he tilted his head, his hand coming up to his ear. "Yes?" His voice was subdued, its commanding tone gone. "But what about- oh… Of course, ma'am. I'm sorry. We'll be out." He turned back to his comrades. "Kill her and take the target. She wants Tracer- the hell?" A brief flash of light filled the room, and when the soldiers turned around, Lena was no longer there.

Two died before they knew what was happening, two muffled pops from Lena's gun preceding their collapse. Another spun around towards the bedroom, but was greeted with a flash of light and a fist smashing into his jaw, dislodging several teeth and knocking him back over the couch. Streaks of neon blue darted around the room, each agent flailing their rifles wildly, attempting to hit the light. The stray bullets punched through the windows and furniture. Emily heard screaming from the apartments next door.

The man who held Emily tightened his grip, and pulled a sidearm under her chin. "You dash one more time and she's dead, bitch!" He growled. Emily could feel the cold barrel of the gun press into her throat.

The blue streaks of light immediately stopped, and Lana appeared, holding an agent's limp body by his neck. She was breathing heavily, her left hand pointing her pistol towards the accented man. The room was devastated, the rest of the Talon agents were left groaning or motionless on the floor. Someone had shot out the lamp, and only the now-blue din of the streetlights and Tracer's chronal accelerator kept the apartment lit. The last agent's red eyes pierced the shadowy night. "Drop them." He commanded.

Lena glared at the man, her eyes darting back from him to Emily's. Trails of white streaked down Emily's face, her eyes dark with red veins. The gun quivered in the hero's hand for a second before she dropped it, letting out a short sigh as the pistol clanged on the wooden floor. She slowly raised her hands above her head, clenched into fists.

The agent seemed to relax his grip a bit, and moved forwards, yanking Emily along. "Move along." He barked. "With me." Emily scuffled along the floor, and tripped.

The man looked down to pull her back up, and looked forwards just in time to see Lena slam her hand into his neck. He was knocked backwards in a sickening, jerking manner, with blue light all around him. His helmet cracked as it hit the wall, and one of his red goggles broke as he went limp and collapsed to the ground.

It was then that Emily found her breath, taking in a huge gasp of air, which then came out shaky and broken. She didn't realize that she was sobbing until Lena had her arms around her. "Calm now, love. It's alright." Lena held her tightly. "They won't ever hurt you. I won't let them."

"I- how-" Emily felt like she was breathing through a straw, scarcely able to take in enough air to speak. "But you- you were there and…" She shook her head and brought herself to speak slowly. "You were dead?"

Emily was surprised when she felt Tracer chuckle. "You have no idea how often I've heard that at work." She pulled away from the embrace and held Emily's face, nudging a lock of red hair away from her face. "I'm fine. Honest. Just a hero thing, is all." She looked around, at the unconscious and dead men around them. She showed no evident emotion. "We'll get to the car. I'll call Winston, and we'll go to the Watchpoint until everything is over with, okay?"

Emily's breathing began to calm, though her heart still punched at her chest. She saw the determined glint in Lena's eyes, and mustered up a small smile. "Okay." She agreed.

After Emily changed into a new set of clothes, Tracer explained their situation to the police and neighbors who had congregated outside the door, flashing some sort of professional badge when the police wanted to take her in for questioning. Tracer took Emily's hand and led her down the stairs, feeling her shoes click against the wooden steps. She stopped at the door which lead to the street level and turned to look at Emily. "Here, love." Lena pulled out a pistol from her hand bag, and offered it grip-first to her girlfriend. "Safety is on the left side, here-" She pointed to a small switch just above the trigger, "-and make sure that you keep your thumb clear of the slider." Emily looked at her girlfriend in confusion. "Just until we get to the Watchpoint. I promise you, you won't have to use it."

Emily stared at the gun for a bit, then sighed and took it from her hand. It was front-heavy, and cold. She stuffed it into the back of her pants, and pulled her orange-yellow raincoat over it. "Thanks."

Tracer looked away. "Let's get going." She said as she pulled her own white coat over her head. She pulled the door open, and stepped into the rain. It was pouring, creating a foggy mist that she'd seen so often in London streets. She looked both ways, but to little effect. The light of her chronal accelerator lit a three foot cone in front of her, but after that her sight dispersed to a wall of diffuse grey. She couldn't even make out her car on the curb from here, but there didn't seem to be anyone around.

She turned around to beckon for Emily to come out, when something exploded next to them. Purple smoke filled the air, they both fell to the ground, their eyes and throats burning. The rainwater around them turned a sulfury yellow as a figure walked out of the grey shroud. Eight red lights shone from her head, individually poking around in the darkness. Tracer looked up, through her watery eyes, saw a woman holding a long, blue rifle. She smirked down at the hero.

"A-" Tracer fell into a fit of coughing. "Amélie."

Widowmaker kneeled down, holding up Lena's head. Her helmet parted to reveal a blue face and cold eyes. "Salut, ma chérie. It seems I'm little late to this party." She let go, and Tracer's head fell into the water. She couldn't find the strength to move, and could see Emily collapsed in the doorway, in much the same condition. Her eyes pleaded for help. "Consider this an invitation to my own." The blue woman said, her helmet snapping shut.

Eight red lights zoomed in on Emily's forehead, who leaned against the door. "No…" Tracer muttered weakly. The rainwater flowed onto her tongue, and it burnt. "No…"

Widowmaker held up her rifle, and it began to glow dimly blue and make a whirring noise. Emily looked over to Lena, and gave a weak smile that didn't reach her eyes. A line of light shot out of the rifle, smashing into Emily's forehead. Her head smacked back and she was thrust into the door before she slowly began to fall onto her side. She collapsed into the pavement, her scarlet hair falling over her head. She didn't move.

Tracer tried to scream. She twitched, and spasmed as she tried to hoist herself up, to press her accelerator, to reverse this and kill Widow… But everything was so difficult to do, to see. Blurry and tough to make her body act. She couldn't think. Time sprinted and didn't move at all, all fluid and jumpy. Suddenly, Widowmaker wasn't there, and three policemen were around her, helping her up, helping her onto an orange stretcher. Lena didn't see Emily's body, it had faded into the veil of rain. She wanted to say something, but she couldn't. She wanted them to get her wife as well.

Maybe that was when she passed out.