"For all we know… Trap."
"You want to… After what she… Mondatta? … Gérard?"
An amalgam of muffled voices and disconnected words pull Widowmaker from sleep. Eyes closed and head hanging, she wearily checks the state of her body: back to a soft bed like surface, long hair freed from its high ponytail, suit replaced with a thin hospital gown, boots removed. Groggy, weak feeling… restricted? Yes, she is restrained, she discovers as she attempts to move. Her arms lay across her torso, one on top of the other, bound in thick fabric - a straight jacket - and her ankles are bound together by the thin plastic of multiple zip ties.
She wracks her muddled mind for the events leading up to this shameful capture. At some point after she was… she was shot by Jack - no, it was Ana, she recalls, as the memory becomes more clear. She remembers stirring to find her cheek against the cold metal floor of a transport and her wrists bound behind her back. She remembers opening her eyes… and then the needle pricking her back, and how everything went dark once more.
Curious. Why didn't they kill her when they had the chance? What do they want from her...? Information...? She scoffs internally at the cloudy thought. Pathetic, that they think they can get something out of her. Talon has trained her psyche not to break - she will not yield to them. Neither pain nor threats can crack the safe of Talon's secrets stored within her. Nothing short of reverse engineering the gifts that Talon has bestowed upon her will make her talk.
With closed eyes and a still slow mind, she shifts her focus to outside of her being. The voices she heard before still yammer on, each individual one of varying tones of discomfort, fear, and aggression. They are not so distant sounding now - though that is probably due her being more awake than when she first heard them - but there is still a muffled quality to their talking. Perhaps they are in the room next door? She is not sure just yet.
"We're on thin ice as it is, initiating the recall without the UN's permission. If they find out we're harboring a criminal… We're done. We all go to jail." She recognizes the dark, rumbling voice as Winston's. "... But she was our friend. I am in favor of attempting to reverse what Talon did to her, if it is feasible."
There's some murmured agreements - she can discern the soprano voices Mei-Ling Zhou and Dr. Angela Ziegler, the baritone of Jesse McCree, the bass of Reinhardt Wilhelm, and two tenors she cannot recognize - but the low grunts and muttering of other voices tell her there is an equal opposition to, what she can gather from his words, her.
"I still say we turn her in now. Let her get her just desserts." She swears she knows the voice - smoky alto, exotic lilt, steely tone - and yet it is not familiar enough for her to place. Fortunately, she does not need to wait long for their identity to be revealed. "Where you hesitated, mother, she shot. She has already proved that the woman she used to be is dead to you."
Fareeha Amari, now known as Pharrah. Widowmaker barely ever saw her, except for birthdays and family holidays, like that one Christmas-
"But you do not know the information I do, Fareeha. You haven't seen the things they did to make her this way," comes Ana's firm reply.
"Knowing what they did to her and knowing how to undo it are two different things. You deal with medicine and chemicals and guns, not mental and behavioral therapy. And no amount of shots is going to fix someone whose mind has been so effortlessly warped."
"And you're using that as an excuse to not try? Are you really willing to let a victim fall through the cracks-?"
A delicate, deliberate clearing of the throat cuts the elder Amari off.
"While Ana may not have that knowledge, she will not be the only one working with Amélie. I had some training in psychiatry some time ago that may be of use," Dr. Ziegler says matter of factly, yet there's something very sober about her tone. "However, you make a valid point. We cannot get by on such a lack of experience in this field-"
Karma comes back to haunt Mercy in the form of Jack's swift denial. "If anyone catches wind that we're harboring an international criminal, we've handed victory to Talon on a silver platter. No one outside these walls can know what we're doing here."
"Then I think the lass is right about turning her in now, more than I already did before," grunts Torbjörn Lindholm from further away. "Even if there were any part of her that's salvageable, we can't help her with such limited resources. Can't build a working turret without all the right parts."
"I don't trust her either, y'know." Now there is a voice Widowmaker has heard recently: Tracer, the little brunette that tried to foil her assassination of the Shambali leader. "Coming from someone who has dealt with her first hand. She laughed after she shot Mondatta, like it was some bloody wonderful prank. She's too dangerous to keep her here. Best send her to the UN and let them deal with her."
"A woman who takes such pleasure at the thought of killing indiscriminately is host to a monster, not a human. I am in agreement with Fareeha, the loud woman, and the short man," Hanzo Shimada mutters darkly. Genji gives an 'mhm' of assent.
There's indiscernible murmuring that follows. Torbjörn angrily growls "who even are you anyway" at some point - presumably in Hanzo's direction for being called "short."
Belatedly, Widowmaker realizes that these voices are in fact not coming from the room she's in, but beyond it. Seizing this opportunity, she just barely opens her eyes for a quick glimpse of her surroundings.
Stretchers and hospital style beds lie adjacent and across from her, the foot of each parallel with its respective partner on the opposite side of the room. Light blue, striped curtains made of a semi-thick fabric hang from the ceiling around each, pulled back so that each bed is viewable from all sides. A quick glance to the side reveals that hers are pulled back as well; she notes absently that moving as little as possible would be prudent of her as a result. Nightstands lie equidistant to the headboards of each bed, some bare, others with miscellaneous items resting upon them.
On the right wall, she notices, is double pane window with multiple figures grouped up on the other side - the source of the voices she's been hearing, no doubt - and a metal door, slightly ajar.
It seems the only company Widowmaker currently has are the furniture and black screened vital monitors within what she can only assume is the medbay.
Motion in her peripheral - someone turning towards the window - heralds the end of her quick reconnaissance. Widowmaker closes her eyes once more and, motionlessly, returns her focus towards eavesdropping.
An audible, synthetic sigh surfaces amongst the muttering. It is followed by an equally artificial (yet, not unpleasantly so) voice that draws the interlude of quiet side conversations to a close.
"I lack the schooling in either of the fields Dr. Ziegler has mentioned, but I believe I may be of use. This woman could benefit from exercises in meditation and self-reflection, alongside other care. However, if we are to go through with this healing process, those of us involved must come together and assess how much of what afflicts her now is of the body - and how much of this is of the mind and spirit. Only then can we even begin to comprehend what we must do to help restore balance and peace within her."
As the fog clouding her mind begins to disperse, Widowmaker recognizes the Omnic as one of the unfamiliar voices in favor of dealing with her themselves. She finds it interesting, his lack bias against her for Mondatta's death… or perhaps it isn't. After all, it should not - does not - matter to her either way.
Escape is her priority, she reminds herself. Not the prattling of being who thinks it can emote.
"I mean, I'm no doctor or anything either, but maybe my audio medic gig could do something for her." The other tenor with no owner speaks up. He is clearly much younger than the rest of the group, judging by both the energy in his voice and the colloquial vocabulary. "Maybe I can adjust the frequency of the sound waves help fix whatever got messed up in her brain? I don't know. Just throwing ideas out there."
Reinhardt makes a thoughtful grunt of a noise. "We can say 'maybe's' all day, but none of those constitute as a real plan. So let's make one. Ana, so you still have access to those medical files you found? Tidbits that you've written down will only get us so far."
"So that's it then? You're just going to ignore the opposition?" Pharrah hisses angrily.
Genji is quick to back her up.
"I mean no disrespect, but Fareeha is right. Will we proceed while we are so divided on the fate of this woman - a woman who is no longer a friend, but a deadly foe that could undermine us simply by being here? Even if we manage to keep her presence on this base hidden, who is to say Talon will not come after one of their best agents and inadvertently bring her presence here to the attention of the outside world?"
"I am in agreement." An unfamiliar, mezzo soprano now speaks up with a thick Hindi accent. "Overwatch is unstable as it is, what with the legalities involving the Petras Acts jeopardizing the very existence of this organization. I fear allowing her to be present here for an extended period of time will shift the precarious balance towards chaos. We cannot allow one person to destroy what we little we have been able to recreate thus far."
"No one asked you, Vishkar," snaps the unnamed young man. Vishkar - yes, Widowmaker knows the name well. Talon has attempted to make alliances with them for some time, but to no avail, she recalls.
The mezzo soprano makes a small noise of dismissal in response.
"However much to your chagrin it is, I am also a member of this team now, Lúcio. My words carry as much weight as yours do," replies the Hindi woman.
A low growl from the young man in question follows the woman's remark.
"Yeah, they sure do. They've got the weight of all the people your shitty company has exploited and killed."
And just like that, all composure amongst the group is lost.
With Lúcio's comment as the catalyst, the room dissolves into heated arguments and jabs. The Hindi woman and Lúcio's voice rise in both volume and tension. The thickly accented, baritone and bass Torbjörn and Reinhardt follow - then the voices Pharrah and McCree, Tracer and Winston, and Hanzo, Mercy and Genji. (Mei-Ling, Zenyatta, Jack, and Ana voices are notably absent from the cacophony of noise.)
Fools.
Distant frustration at her situation morphs into amusement. If they are truly this disorganized and divided, they pose no threat to Talon after all. The ultimate objective - Overwatch's extermination - will be swiftly achieved at this rate.
Taking advantage of the derailed conversation once more, she chances another assessment of her surroundings - this time, with the aim of figuring out what may help her break out of her captivity.
Metal, standing shelves line the far left wall, home to various boxes, crates, and miscellaneous medical supplies strewn upon them. On the far right of the room: a desk with papers and files stacked nearly upon it, a chair with a lab coat draped across its back behind it, and more standing metal shelving, though significantly shorter in height than its left wall brethren. Scissors, scalpels, needles - small items that would normally be laughable suggestions for a weapon now gleam with promise.
If only she could move.
"Enough." The men and women in the room next store go quiet at Jack's sharp rebuke, and Widowmaker's eyes shut instinctively at the abrupt sound. "I'm done arguing over this. We need to decide what we're doing in a civil and professional manner. Is that basic task achievable, or are you going to continue bickering like children?"
"Jack is right." Despite having encountered her twice since Overwatch fell from its pedestal, Widowmaker still cannot get used to the age acquired rasp in Ana's voice. "I understand that hearsay is not enough for some people. And you are all correct: we cannot understand what we are truly getting ourselves into without full information, and we can't do anything with that information without the proper resources. Say we procure the documents necessary. We have those of us willing to directly participate in this endeavor analyze them and assess if rehabilitation is even achievable. Regardless of whether it is or is not, we report back to the group with detailed reasons for or against. Will that appease you?"
There are muffled murmurs of agreement, some eager, some reluctant, and others indignant.
It is only now that the bits and pieces of the conversation she's been listening to line up in her mind, as well as the events that may transpire as a result of their assent to this course of action: that they are more keen on tampering with her mind and body than they are extracting information. And she is not pleased with that knowledge.
In truth, Widowmaker would rather them turn her into the United Nations - the trial would be swift, and she'd be put to death immediately. No chance for her to break and spill information about Talon, however unlikely it is for her to do so in the first place. But if Overwatch has its sights truly set on cracking her, Widowmaker will step up to the challenge.
"Then I guess that settles it then," Winston says, very obviously relieved that tensions have died down somewhat. "Athena will be a necessity for getting back into Talon's servers, considering their security will be reinforced due to the last breach. I'll have her start running algorithms on them to find a point of entry once this meeting is over."
"Ana and I can go with you to work on getting the documents, Winston," Jack replies gratefully. Then, his tone returns to the authoritative one he had moments before.
"Angela, Lúcio, Zenyatta - run whatever physical exams or lab work you deem necessary for starting the assessment process. Jesse, you'll go with them as back up and another set of hands to help them."
"I would like to join McCree as backup." Genji says firmly. "Better to be safe than to be sorry."
"Fine. Both of you will supervise. Now get on it."
"Don't be puttin' on yer commander britches with us - all you gotta do is ask. Nicely," McCree drawls in a less than friendly tone. It seems someone has lost respect for the former strike commander, she muses.
McCree's plight is immediately ignored.
"You, from Vishkar," - the Hindi woman informs Jack that her name is Symmetra in a rather cross manner - "I'm sorry. Symmetra, take a look at the visor, arm piece, and rifle we took from Amélie and make sure we didn't miss any hidden tracking devices. Reinhardt, Lena, Fareeha, take first watch on the perimeters of the base. Torbjörn, Mei-Ling, Symmetra, you'll take second watch, which will commence in three hours. We'll assign the next three when we start nearing the third shift."
"Anyone else have anything to say?" Winston offers. Only muttering follows.
"Alright. Before we disperse, I want to further remind us all that yes, her being here at all is risky. As a result, the next 48 hours will follow high security protocols: reports every hour from every member on the base. Detailed, reports. Especially from those of you tasked with working with Mrs. -" he pauses awkwardly, "uh, Miss Lacroix. Are we clear?"
Muffled yes's are his answer.
"Good. This meeting is adjourned. Please assume your assigned duties as soon as possible."
The groan of the metal door about ten minutes of impatient waiting later heralds the footsteps (and… wheels?) of the five assigned to examining her. Delicate, graceful footsteps take point: Angela, no doubt. Behind her are the wheels, which sound suspiciously like a pair of roller skates, and behind those are two pairs of light yet noisy, metallic footfalls - presumably Genji and Zenyatta, or vice versa. Finally, the plinking of spurs against the tiled floor signals that McCree has taken the rear of the group.
Widowmaker keeps her face soft, her body limp. If she is to make her escape, she must maintain the element of surprise. The moment her limbs are free is when she will strike.
Three sets footsteps halt at her bedside, presumably the ones tasked with "fixing" her.
"So doc. Any idea why Lil' Miss Amie Lee's skin is all blue like that?" McCree says from behind the group, slowly, gently. Like he's talking to someone who needs comfort. And perhaps Mercy does. After all, the murderer lying before her was once a dear friend hers.
It seems betrayal is a pill too hard for even the doctor to swallow.
"Cardiovascular modification of some sort. I imagine they've adjusted her heart rate and blood pressure a significant amount to have so much deoxygenated blood without suffocating her," comes her cool reply, but her composure has a hairline crack; Widowmaker can hear it in the way her voice trembles ever so slightly towards the end. "As for how they did it, we won't know until we run X-rays and CAT scans on her chest cavity."
"Why would they do that, to begin with, though? Wouldn't that, you know, hinder her ability to fight if her heart is all messed up?" Lúcio asks curiously, lacking McCree's tact. Widowmaker scowls internally at his ignorance.
"One would think. Again, we won't know until we run the appropriate scans on her body - which means we need to get her out of that straight jacket. We can leave her ankles as is, just in case," she replies evenly. "Lúcio, can you help me get this off her?"
"You got it, doc."
Genji clears his throat from a little farther away. "I shall keep an eye on her, in case she stirs."
"Ana was sayin' that shouldn't be a problem though. Drugged her up real good after the first time she woke up," McCree comments. "But I hear ya."
"We shall see. If she has resisted the effects of the tranquilizer once, she might accomplish it again." Gone is the wavering in her voice. Out with Angela, in with Dr. Ziegler: calm, professional, unperturbed. "I'll go to the other side of her so it will be easier for both of us to work, Lúcio."
It's only once Mercy's dainty footfalls approach the left of her bed that it hits Widowmaker - that taking off the jacket will require touching her. And her blood inexplicably runs cold.
Touch that results in pain - a punch, a kick, the butt of a gun to a part of her body - that is different. That is to be expected, for there are no rules in combat. She does not care about those sorts of things. But to be touched outside of such a circumstance is not allowed. Only her doctors can do that. And they are not her doctors.
They are not my doctors.
Adrenaline kicks in. Her breath quickens. Unease builds into fear, fear into panic - all unauthorized emotions.
No. She cannot allow herself to be overwhelmed so easily. She must wait until her arms are free, and then she can lash out and attempt escape - or be shot and killed. Either option suffices, for both would assure that Talon's secrets remain sealed away.
And so she waits, fighting the unusual hysteria that threatens to override her training and her sense of reason.
The moment they lean over either side of Widowmaker to free her bonds is a torture of its own kind. Her body begs for her to take action, to strain and wriggle out of their reach - but she cannot. She makes herself suffer the humiliation of being rolled onto her stomach like a pig in a blanket, feeling their unbearably warm fingers fiddle with each clasp and belt buckle that puts her one moment closer to freedom. And then she suffers being rolled onto her back once more, her long hair draped messily across her face.
When it's all over, only one set of hands ends up fully pulling her arms, and then the rest of her body, out of the jacket: Lúcio's, based on the slightly rougher handling. She notes Mercy's absence and wonders if perhaps she has retreated to go procure a hospital gown and clipboard in preparation for her physical examination. For a short moment, she revels at the thought a brief reprieve from being touched.
And then one of Mercy's soft, repulsively gentle hands sweeps the curtain of hair off Widowmaker's face and tucks it behind her ear with care - like a mother caring her sick, sleeping child.
Widowmaker's now free right hand flashes up to seize the underside of Mercy's wrist, and then proceeds to twist the woman's arm inward as her left hand seizes the underside of her elbow. Then in a swift, forceful pull and twist of her torso from left to right, Widowmaker flings the doctor across the bed and into Lúcio, Zenyatta, and McCree.
Dr. Ziegler - and anyone else in this room - will not touch her again. She will make sure of it.
Genji, who managed to avoid being toppled over, draws a blade from its sheath on its back with a metallic shing and lunges forward.
She wastes no time getting off the bed. Pulling her knees close to her chest, she swivels on her bottom to the left and proceeds to throw her body off the bed. Her upper body lands on the adjacent beds railing, hands gripping the cold metal shoulder-width. As anticipated, she hears Genji sprint in pursuit - and then the grunt as he vaults over the bed behind her.
Pérfect.
She leans against the rail, pushes off with her hips, and lifts forcing her body upwards into a cast handstand. As she reaches almost total inversion of her body, Genji's blade slashes at her - and she smirks as she lifts herself almost completely out of its arc, letting her bound ankles just barely glide along its edge so that only the zip ties are sliced.
Widowmaker is free.
Genji realizes his mistake a moment too late. "No-!"
She continues with the momentum of her arc instead of stopping at the top, finishing the rotation so that her feet hit the mattress. Using the mattress as a launching point, she bends her knees and springs off of it, flipping backwards with all the grace of a professional gymnast. She lands without so much as a wobble.
All that is left to do is subdue these fools, find her visor and rifle, and bail.
Genji spares no more time lamenting his error. He sprints and jumps over the bed she just bounced off of, blade poised and ready to strike.
"Cease, or die-!"
With lightning quick fingers, she grabs a pair of scissors lying on the nightstand to her right - they'll have to do until she can get that blade from Genji, or some other, more efficient weapon - before turning to the left and rolling on her shoulder just out of harm's way. Using the impetus from the roll, she springs to her feet and turns to him as he lands in the spot she occupied only a moment before. Her expression is cold, and her jaw is set.
"It is you who should cease, if you value your friends' lives," Widowmaker leers. A challenge.
Genji rises to it with a ringing battle cry and lightning quick lunge and slash of his blade at her body.
Widowmaker ducks beneath the lethal arc of steel into a half crouch and seamlessly proceeds to lunge at his leading leg. She grabs it and yanks it towards her, then springs up and rams her upper body to his, sending him falling backwards. Another successful takedown.
He grabs for the railing with his right hand as he falls, transferring his sword to his left. He finds purchase and manages not to fall completely to the floor, but she refuses to let him recover. Before he can move to get to his feet, however, the top of her knee connects with the underside of his chin with a sharp thud, whipping his head up and back. Giving him no reprieve, she drives the scissors - closed, pointed end first - into the underside of his left wrist. Genji lets out a shape cry of pain as his artificial tendons release, letting the sword slip from his grip.
"Adieu." Widowmaker snatches the blade with her left hand and sprints for the doors, leaving the scissors lodged in Genji's lower arm.
She glances back over her shoulder, making sure he hasn't gotten to his feet just yet. She is relieved to see that he is only just now recovering from the blow to his head. Good. With the others still scrambling to get up, she'll be out of the med bay without further hassle.
It is only as she turns her gaze forward once more that Widowmaker sees a canister flying through the air toward her.
Bright light erupts in front of her face, blinding her - a flash bang.
She stumbles backwards, disoriented, unbalanced. A moment later six, orb like projectiles barrel into torso, striking her solar plexus agonizing force. Her body is sent flying backwards, tumbling through the air briefly before bouncing off the side rail of one of the beds farther away. She is slams into the tiled floor in a surprised, frustrated heap.
No…
Her lungs gasps for air that does not come. Her head reels. Pain blossoms and spreads from her stomach, her chest, her back, her limbs.
"It seems we will need more anesthetics if we wish to proceed," Zenyatta says calmly, floating - not walking, she realizes, once her vision returns - towards her, legs crossed neatly one over the other.
Widowmaker scrambles to get to her feet, but the feeling of suffocating makes it difficult for her to push herself up, to steady herself. Genji reaches her by the time she gets to a knee. He grabs the back her head and slams her face against the floor. A sickening crack and a sharp, throbbing sensation from her nose ensues. She strains against his hand as crimson blood drips from her nose, warm and metallic. Desperately, she tries trying shake his hand off of her by turning her head to the side and lifting her back; a knee digs fiercely into her back in response and anchors her torso to the floor.
Widowmaker thrashes at Genji's touch - how dare he touch her - furious, foiled.
"That is enough, Genji. We need only restrain her, not harm her into submission," Zenyatta intones quietly. His cold, metal hand comes to a rest on her back with a ghost of a touch as Mercy, Lúcio, and McCree rush over to her location. "Miss Lacroix, please, do not make this harder on yourself. We do not wish to hurt-"
"Va te faire enculer," Widowmaker spits. What audacity, for him to think she will just let them tamper with and violate her mind and body with such a half-assed reassurance. She strains against her oppressor with renewed vigor, bucking and tossing wildly - but Genji holds fast.
"You see what she is capable of, master, and you still insist that we should help her?" Genji argues.
"Genji's got a mighty fine point. What a lil' viper we got on our hands," McCree drawls darkly. Peacekeeper glints in his hand, which raises to point the barrel at her head. "You'd best not do that again, darlin'. Wouldn't want no mess on Angela's clean floors, now would we-?"
"Jesse," Mercy utters, her voice a frigid warning. "Put that down."
McCree, reluctant to lift his threat, gives her a sharp look.
"She nearly broke your goddamn arm, Angela. We best keep the steel to her temple so she doesn't get riled up again."
"We will be shooting no one." Mercy shoots him a glare in her prim, delicate manner, before moving her gaze to the group at large. "Keep her down, Genji, and try not to hurt her too much. McCree, Zenyatta - restrain her legs as well. I don't have any general anesthesia here, but I have twilight sedatives I can inject into her legs. They'll have to do for now. Lúcio, if you could play something that might calm her down, that would be most helpful. I have a feeling we'll need something supplementary to the sedatives to get her to sit through all the scans and lab work."
And with that, Mercy turns heel, the end of her white doctor's coat swishing over Widowmaker's writhing body as she walks away. She begins rummaging through a plastic bin a few feet away labeled AN.
To say Widowmaker is furious at this turn of events is an understatement. She is livid.
She was free.
Given his directions, Lúcio skates up to her and drops into a crouch by her head. "Hey there - Amélie, right? We're gonna help you, don't you worry. But you gotta calm down for us first, alright?"
She thrashes harder in response, eyes fixed on him and her face twisted into a snarl.
"Even badass assassins like you gotta like music, right? Let's whip up some tunes for you. What styles do you like? Jazz? Alternative? Rock?"
"Ferme ta gueule."
"You know what, you look like an old fashioned, instrumental kind of chick. How 'bout Debussy?"
She blinks at the musician's name, wondering if Lúcio only suggested because of the artist's French nationality - and then she bears her teeth at him once more.
"Je te tuerai."
"Looks like we got a winner. Debussy it is."
The little speakers attached to his gear - on hips, his knees, his back pack - come to life with a soft, neon green glow. And then, the soprano plinking of Claire de Lune pours from them… But it sounds different. No, it feels different. Not in the emotions it evokes, for she feels nothing towards this song, but rather in the sense of the presence of physical sensation. The notes are warm silk caressing Widowmaker's ears, her face, her skin; they are gentle fingers stroking her hair. Her body begins to cease obeying her desire to struggle - her thrashing lessens, and the snarl on her face begins to ebb away.
"Stop… this…" She manages to grit out between her teeth, but even her jaw is slackening now. She is powerless against the tinkling ivory keys.
The delicate footsteps of Mercy approach once more, holding a tray of pre-prepared syringes. The doctor crouches beside the lower half of her body and rips open a small packet. The cold wetness of a pungent alcohol swab is wiped up and down her the outer part of her left leg; the prick of needles follow.
The last thing Widowmaker remembers is Genji scooping her up off the floor bridal style and Mercy gently mopping the blood up from underneath and around her nose with her uninjured arm.