Betrayal. Panic. Defeat. Despair. They twist and weave in her lungs before her vocal cords tie them off and spit them out into textured sound that only she can feel. It rips the skin inside her throat before flying from her tongue - or perhaps it is the shape of the words that cuts her so.
Her hands ball into fists on either side of her head and press against her skull; her face crumples.
"Pourquoi avez-vous me jeter?!"
Death's touch in the operating room was just that: a mere touch. A noncommittal brushing of lips. True death is of the soul, not of the body. Widowmaker understands this now as bitter tears sting her cheeks and wracking sobs rob her of air to breathe. The potential truth - she was expendable all along - crushes her soul beneath the heel of its both, grinding it to dust. A soul that a spider should not have to begin with, and yet, somehow she does.
A brush of cold on her elbow jolts her out of her whirlwind thoughts. She recoils violently, scrambling as far as she can to the far side of her little infirmary bed, so far that she almost falls, but the Carol of the Bells does not allow her to escape. The melody glues her to the edge of the bed. Watery eyes lock onto metal fingers that reach for her arm and hover midair and then to Zenyatta's emotionless faceplate. He regards Widowmaker quietly as she pulls her knees and limbs close to her chest.
"What do you want?!" she shouts. Her voice is a junk drawer, contents rattling.
Zenyatta is still for several moments before retracting his hand, but he does not widen the distance between her and himself. No, he gets a little closer, the toes of his metal feet hovering an inch or so off the ground. He leans over the edge of the bed with an air of concern.
"...I sensed your turmoil in my sleep. In my dreams I saw it grow and bubble beneath the surface, before erupting from your lips like a volcano's lava. I saw you writhe in pain as it took form" he says quietly, gently. "Your voice awoke me."
Her tear-blurred eyes narrow at him.
"Tais... tais-toi, you mindless..." she hisses between sobs. His pity is as fake to her as the rest of his sentience - and even if it somehow were genuine, Widowmaker would not accept it. Not from an Omnic. Or anyone else, for that matter.
The former Shambali monk crosses his legs and proceeds to float over the rail of her bed. He comes to a rest on the opposite end, his orbs floating about his neck in slow rotation. She shrinks into herself further in an attempt to somehow regain the distance lost between them.
Unfazed, Zenyatta takes one of his orbs out of its orbit and gently spins it with the the tip of his finger.
"I understand… You are terrified of the thought that you may be as expendable as you believe me to be…" he says solemnly, more to the orb he fiddles with than her.
Widowmaker's breath catches. How could he know her fear? How could he be able to read something so intimate off of her? How could this damned omnic possibly know how she-?
A snarl spreads across her sharp features. No. Widowmaker will not be told what she feels by someone - no, something - that has had a hand in stripping her of her mind.
"You know nothing!" she screeches, held back from lunging at him only by Lúcio's damned modified Christmas carols. "Go away!"
She refuses to believe that they've broken her. She refuses to show weakness.
And then fresh tears fall - another betrayal by her own body.
"Get out of my head!"
Zenyatta's shoulders seem to sink ever so slightly at her shouts, but he does not move from his spot. Instead, with a small sound of exhalation, he sends the orb he'd plucked from the rest gliding towards her slowly.
She flinches at the movement. Her body remembers how the orbs had struck her abdomen and robbed her of her freedom before; she remembers the breathless, aching pain. She wants nothing to do with anything Zenyatta has to offer. But as it grows near, she notices something off about it. It glows with a soft golden light.
A cool hand on her head. The feeling of worry and pain ebbing away. Peace. Those little pieces of memory are all summoned to her consciousness at the sight of the halo around the orb, which she, being too stunned to move, has unintentionally permitted to float around her body.
Is it some sort of healing technology, similar to biotic fields or the Caduceus Staff? An emotional manipulator, like Lucio's gear, capable of enabling or suppressing those who are subjected to it? But with either, she would know, wouldn't she? She can tell when her body is mending, when her mind is bending to someone else's will, and she is able to resist, or has the want to resist, in some form. With this… she has neither.
Her tears dry. The phantom hand on her throat releases her, letting air fill her lungs. Her shuddering ceases.
Widowmaker is calm.
They must have been waiting for something like this, some sort of crack in her composure. Angela's gaze upon her is particularly intense today.
Widowmaker stares back, silent. Her mind is quiet now, less turbulent, but it is no less guarded than before. She will admit nothing to Angela, even if she already knows the details from Zenyatta. She will not allow this woman to have any more power over her than she already has.
"Are you in any physical pain in response to the most recent treatments?"
Widowmaker's eyes narrow. How cute of her to pretend she doesn't know the answer.
Angela blinks and shifts in her set.
"Please… if you are, tell me. I do not want you to be suffering."
"Do not play me for a fool, Doctor Ziegler," Widowmaker growls. "You already know the answer."
"... I beg your pardon?" The swiss woman looks at her with wide eyes. The nerve she has to give her such a look, to feign such innocence.
She lets out a dry, humourless laugh.
"Oh please, Angela. You're a terrible liar." Her voice is cold. "If you cared for my state of being, I certainly wouldn't be here right now, would I? Imprisoned in my own body, unable to go and do as I please? Operated on and changed without my consent?"
The doctor's expression hardens slightly, but there are still questions in her eyes. "Please answer the question, Amé- Widowmaker."
Her glare drops another ten degrees in temperature. Just how long does this woman plan to keep up this pathetic act of hers?
"I always took you for a blissfully ignorant little woman who only knew how to follow orders - not a manipulator. But I applaud you on such a convincing performance. Truly," she sneers. "You made me think there may have been hope for you after all-"
"Widowmaker." Her tone is suddenly stern. "Do you need pain medication or not?"
Silence.
She doesn't like this. Not at all. Why hasn't she cut to the chase? Why hasn't she started asking her questions about Talon and if they are coming for her? Why hasn't she egged her on yet?
Widowmaker needs answers. Now.
"... Ouais," Widowmaker lies, ochre eyes piercing into Angela's pale blues. "I've been getting headaches occasionally. Last night's was… painful."
Angela fishes a pen out from the breast pocket of her jacket and begins to write on her clipboard.
"Do they come daily?" She asks, still looking down at her clipboard. "If not, are there any patterns you've noticed that correspond with them? Certain head movements, reclining positions, the like…?"
Widowmaker stares at her, dumbfounded. Was she really not informed of what happened last night? What words she and the omnic exchanged?
"No, and no. They come and go on their own."
More scribbling follows.
"How bad is the pain usually?"
Widowmaker looks away. She can barely believe this is the conversation they are having, as opposed to the one she predicted. "Minor. Last night was an exception."
Angela's pen hovers over the page, paused in thought. And then she proceeds to write some more. "I'll bring you some acetaminophen. It's an old medication, but newer kinds will conflict with the treatments already being administered to you, so it will have to do. Take one pill as needed. If the pain is particularly unpleasant, you can take two to start. Continue to take one pill as needed every four to six hours, but make sure you take no more than six pills in 24 hours.
"If it gets as bad as last night… please send for me." Angela pockets her pen as she begins to exit the room. "I'll go get those pills for you."
Widowmaker stares at her back as she goes, suspicious and bewildered.
How could she not know? Rather, how is it possible that Zenyatta didn't tell Angela? Isn't he supposed to be aligned with them and their goals to change and manipulate her? Isn't any personal information about her - whether she has intentionally disclosed it or not - of value to them?
Why would he go against his programming?
4:00 am. In two hours, Angela will have been awake for forty-eight hours straight. Of course, this thought doesn't even cross her mind as she takes another sip of her long-since lukewarm green tea, cross legged on her plush bed in her pjs. She has too much work to do right now to think about her own health. Sitting in her bed as opposed to sleeping in it will have to do.
She's been monitoring "Widowmaker's" recovery closely. The fact that she's even still alive is miraculous; the amount of brain matter Talon removed from her and modified should have been enough to cause a brain under normal circumstances to suffer from fatal necrosis. But hers hasn't. Angela's daily EEG and PET scans to study the regrowth of the removed parts of her limbic system also showed the progress of parts of her brain that had only been damaged to be regrowing as well - and those parts have not been treated with stem cells. Not yet, anyway. As far as the doctor can conclude, Widowmaker's brain seems to be regrowing itself, slowly, but surely. Angela's treatments are merely accelerating and controlling the process.
While having this accelerated healing process is all well and good, she doesn't understand what it is or how it works. She doesn't know if this self-regrowth will stop once her brain is whole, if it will continue to make new brain matter to the point where she develops tumors, or if her brain will no longer fit in her skull. She doesn't even know if this is somehow a fail safe if her conditioning is reversed - a way of terminating her without needing any devices or bombs. Though she highly doubts the latter, she simply can't rule it out; she was after all, the one who said Amélie Lacroix was unharmed and safe to return home two weeks before she murdered her husband.
Angela is honestly surprised the group trusts her to fix this woman at all.
A knock on her door jolts her a little more awake. Her paperwork scatters off her lap as she goes to answer it, footsteps unsteady from fatigue. The door swings open before her hand can even touch the doorknob. Ana Amari in full gear stands before her, her still good eye squinting at her.
"You should be sleeping, Angela."
Angela offers a dry, weary smile.
"As should you. Unless you sleep in those clothes."
"Don't get smart with me, missy," she says with a smirk on her face. "But mothering you is not what I'm here for."
Her weathered face turns serious. "The new recruits arrived."
Angela runs to her scattered paperwork, nearly slipping on a sheet of notes as she goes, searching for her spare medical forms.
"At four in the morning?! Wasn't Jesse supposed to go get them at 6?"
"The little one got her flight time mixed up. One of them forgot that we are two hours behind their time zone, and the other two just got released by the UN. They wouldn't hold them there any longer. Morrison has them."
Angela stops, mid reach for a paper.
"The United Nations- they approved of them joining us? And they will let us reform Overwatch?"
"For the time being, yes. Between Doomfist's escape and the attempted assassination on Katya Volskaya, I think they see there is a need for us again." Ana folds her arms. "About time."
She cannot decide if she is overjoyed or concerned. She does not want Overwatch to be what it was - but she wants Overwatch to exist at the same time, in a new way. One that won't fall apart over petty squabbles.
Papers clutched to her chest and a pen between her teeth, Angela shoves her slippers on and runs past Ana through the doorway.
"Tchell them tcho meet me in tche medic bay!"