Courier Six: New Worlds

by ZE40

The Courier was a quiet man. All he wanted was peace and now that the Mojave was free from conflict, he could finally preserve it. Unfortunately, the wasteland had other plans. After a malfunction in an experiment gone wrong, The Courier is brought to a world alien to him. A world populated with heroes and legends. Now he must walk another road but this time, he has new company.

6. Chapter 6

This story is inspired by Return to Sender written by PoeticPillock. I recommend you read their story as well.

Changelog (13/10/23)

- Various grammatical errors were fixed across all chapters

- Paragraph restructure for every chapter

Hi everyone. Once again, I apologize for the delayed upload. This chapter was particularly hard to write and given that university has also been busy, I didn't have enough time to efficiently write this chapter. However, I have around 60% of the next chapter written. Additionally, PoeticPillock has uploaded the 65th chapter of Return to Sender, which I highly recommend reading. I thank you all for your patience and am grateful that my work is being read. If there are any grammatical or lore errors in this or any previous chapters, please notify me.

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The stillness of the atmosphere reverberated in his ears, accompanied by the gentle invasion of sunlight filling the room. It was just one among the many bewildering aspects of this unfamiliar realm that The Courier had yet to acclimate to. Rising from his bed, the windows slid open, revealing the breathtaking vista of the vast Atlantic Ocean. Stretching in his casual attire, The Courier flicked his wrist, greeted once again by his Pip-Boy, and instinctively donned his Elite Riot Gear. A sigh escaped his lips, a mixture of familiarity and weight settling upon his frame, as the coarse yet comforting leather brushed against his skin, casting a crimson hue upon his surroundings.

'Time to get to work.'

Having spent the previous evening at the watchpoint bar alongside the other members of New Overwatch, The Courier acted as more of an observer than an active participant. Thanks to the raucous festivities, he could traverse the base undisturbed, avoiding any encounters with fellow operatives thus far. Despite his solitary stroll being uneventful, a nagging sensation crept into the recesses of The Courier's mind. It was a feeling, perhaps a blend of anxiety and paranoia, but one he had experienced before. With each corner turned and every door opened, his hand instinctively gravitated toward the grip of his Ranger Sequoia. The anticipation of someone or something lurking on the other side, coupled with an undeniable urge to wield his weapon, intensified with each passing second. The Courier regulated his breathing, attempting to quell his restlessness, but his instincts honed in the harsh wastelands dominated his thoughts.

With every resounding thud of his boots on the smooth gray floor, tension mounted. His hand yearned for the familiar weight of the revolver within its grasp, yet The Courier resisted the temptation.

"I'm safe," he repeated to himself. It was a gradual and arduous process, but The Courier slowly began to accept the stark reality of his situation in this strange new world. Nevertheless, a fragment of guilt tormented him, accusing him of treason. The sensation unsettled him.

Here he stood, residing in a realm untouched by the ravages of nuclear annihilation, while his friends remained trapped in the nightmarish expanse known as the Mojave Desert. Regret pierced his heart. He would find a way to return to them, to his home. But for now, there was work to be done.

The doors to the Engineering Department slid open, revealing an empty laboratory. DVa's MEKA slouched in one bay, adjacent to The Courier's power armor, its vibrant pink hues sharply contrasting with the monotonous gray and silver of the room. It pained him to gaze upon it. Brushing past the MEKA, The Courier rummaged through the various workbenches, gathering the necessary tools. Shortly after, he commenced the task of repairing his power armor, picking up where he left off the previous day before he was beckoned to the bar.

A perilous azure flame ignited as The Courier activated the propane torch, the controlled heat colliding with the metal hull. Brilliant light mingled with the concentrated heat, assaulting his visor. Squinting, he focused on the cracks in the armor amidst the dancing sparks, while the world around him faded into an indiscernible blur. Aside from sleep, The Courier found solace in mending his armor and weaponry, viewing it as a form of meditation intertwined with a sense of purpose.

His exhaled breath filtered through the helmet as The Courier effortlessly guided the torch across his power armor, akin to an artist wielding their brush upon a canvas. Though lacking his customary repair kit, he made do with the unsurprisingly advanced equipment in the lab. The advanced technology of this world fascinated the wastelander, evoking memories of a certain group of scientists as he surveyed his apparatus.

'Hope Doctor Klein and the others are alright,' The Courier silently mused. Despite their eccentricities, the staff at the Big MT possessed a certain charm and significance. Although his initial encounter with them involved a lobotomy and Dr. Klein's profane outbursts, most of his memories of the old-world research facility revolved around him completing tests or gathering items for the scientists, all while being pursued by grotesque abominations he had believed were confined to the realm of science fiction.

As recollections from the Big MT flooded his mind, the room's door slid open, revealing a visibly hungover Brigitte stumbling inside, clutching her forehead in an attempt to regain her balance. Despite her fatigue, the engineer managed to identify The Courier at the other end of the room.

"Hey, Six. Last night was quite the wild party," Brigitte greeted the wastelander, wincing from the throbbing ache in her head as she made her way toward him. Struggling to find stability, she leaned against the workbench, her face contorted with discomfort and pain.

"Shame most of it is a blur," she added, gritting her teeth.

"Played darts with Oxton for an hour. Got mad at me for winning and promptly passed out. Spent the rest of the night at the bar with you and the others," The Courier recounted, not pausing in his movements as he shifted around to the power armor's right arm. Brigitte tried to steady herself, enduring the pounding in her head.

"Yeah, I vaguely remember that. Did you have a good time, though?" she inquired.

"I had planned to spend the night here. The bar was an unexpected change of pace. Not unwelcomed, though," he replied.

"That's good, I think?" Brigitte's voice trailed off uncertainly.

The masked man merely shrugged before resuming his work. Silence hung in the air for the next few minutes, leaving Brigitte unsettled by the absence of conversation. Although not as lively as Lena, Brigitte always considered herself easy to talk to, and the stark silence between her and The Courier didn't sit well with her.

Time ticked on, much to Brigitte's discomfort, although The Courier seemed oblivious to her unease.

"Are you always this quiet?" she finally sighed, stepping closer to inspect the hunched figure encased in the metallic suit. While the atmosphere remained somewhat rigid, Brigitte yearned for some one-on-one time with The Courier since their encounter in Nepal. Apart from his origins in another reality, curiosity fueled her desire to learn more about him. Perhaps it was her innate engineering curiosity, intrigued by the technology he possessed, or maybe it stemmed from empathy towards the harsh and unforgiving conditions he described in his homeland. Whatever the driving force, Brigitte yearned to unravel the enigma that was The Courier.

A faint click resounded, and the torch's flame was extinguished. The Courier emerged from behind the power armor, still obscured by his helmet.

"What would you like to discuss?" he inquired, placing the equipment beside her.

Brigitte hesitated for a moment, never expecting to reach this point. Her headache had subsided enough not to hinder her thoughts.

"Do you have any friends back in your world?" Brigitte's question hung in the air, met with a contemplative silence from The Courier. His expression remained concealed behind the helmet, unsure of how much he should divulge to Brigitte or if it was even appropriate to discuss them. There was a time when he didn't view them as friends, but rather as comrades, mere companions who aided him in battles. He pondered his decision, searching for the right words to describe them.

As the moments ticked by, a knot of nervousness began to form in Brigitte's stomach.

'What if he doesn't have any friends? Maybe they were all lost or, worse, turned against him?' Her mind spiraled, leaping from one conjecture to the next. Despite the whirlwind of thoughts, she maintained her composure outwardly, while The Courier stood motionless. Both of them remained in their respective positions until The Courier released a soft exhale from beneath his helmet.

"Six close friends. Four humans, one ghoul, one nightkin. Two pets. Cybernetic dog and an eyebot," The Courier finally spoke, breaking the silence. Brigitte's eyebrows arched with interest. The Courier flipped through his Pip-Boy, selecting a Polaroid photo that materialized in his hand, bathed in an amber glow. "Here."

The photo depicted The Courier and his companions gathered in the Lucky 38 penthouse. True to form, he donned his Elite Riot Gear armor. On his left stood a blond-haired man in a worn lab coat and glasses, followed by a stern-looking older man sporting aviators and a red beret. To his right were two women—one dressed in tattered brown robes that concealed her figure, with matching brown hair, and the other, a fellow redhead like Brigitte, exuding confidence as she flashed a smirk and clutched a bottle of whiskey.

Kneeling before the group was an elderly man, his skin disturbingly absent, leaving behind charred remnants. Clad in a cowboy outfit with various shades of brown and a matching sombrero, he stood alongside what appeared to be a cyborg dog, just as The Courier had described, as well as a spherical robot floating with antennas protruding from its rear.

However, it was the towering figure in pale blue attire that caught Brigitte's attention. The creature donned farming attire, goggles, and a straw hat, with a small lily adorning her chest. She easily dwarfed the rest of the group, possibly as large as Reinhardt in his suit.

"Wow, you have quite a diverse group of friends," Brigitte chuckled, her gaze sweeping over each individual. "Could you tell me about them? Maybe start with the redhead."

"Rose of Sharon Cassidy. Prefers to be called Cass. Used to own Cassidy Caravan. Has a combative and sometimes impatient demeanor, not taking insults or wasting time lightly. Like her father, fondness for violence when opportunity arises. Also inherited his heart condition," The Courier explained, equipping his Caravan Shotgun from his inventory and handing it to Brigitte. He then produced an empty whiskey bottle. "Preferred firearm is the Caravan Shotgun. Consumes the most alcohol in the group. Favorite drink is whiskey."

"Wow, she sounds like a fun person to have around. Reinhardt might have some competition if she enjoys drinking that much," Brigitte remarked, testing the weight of the shotgun in her hands. The wooden carvings felt smooth and cool to the touch, exuding a substantial weight. While her primary weapon was her flail, Brigitte was no stranger to firearms, having recently received training from Cassidy. "And she uses this? It must pack quite a punch." She promptly returned the shotgun to The Courier, who inspected it himself.

"Who else?" The distorted voice of The Courier echoed through the dimly lit room, carrying an air of authority and mystery.

Brigitte, her eyes narrowed in contemplation, replied, "What about the other girl?"

In a mesmerizing display of otherworldly power, the shotgun held by The Courier vanished in an ethereal amber glow, only to be replaced by a formidable power fist. The room seemed to vibrate with latent energy as the mechanical contraption settled into The Courier's grasp.

"Veronica Santangelo," he began, his voice tinged with respect, "Ex-scribe from the Mojave chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel. Born into the Brotherhood, remarkable talent for engineering akin to yours. Knowledge spans the breadth of technology, both before and after the Great War." As he spoke, The Courier rested one hand on the formidable armor that encased him, while passing the power fist to Brigitte.

The power fist, gleaming in its metallic glory, held an air of menace and purpose. Brigitte, her eyes widening with curiosity, couldn't resist examining the mechanical marvel. She took it in her hands, feeling its weight and marveling at its intricate design.

"What does this thing do exactly?" Brigitte inquired, her gaze fixated on the humming contraption.

The Courier's voice resonated with authority as he explained, "Simple punch, the hydraulics within the power fist activates. Metal block extends, delivering overwhelming kinetic force to the target. Enough power to sever the head from the body in a single blow." Steam hissed from the intricate network of pipes, and the power fist emitted an electrifying hum as Brigitte slipped it onto her hand.

Intrigued by the immense power at her disposal, Brigitte couldn't contain her excitement. With a mischievous grin, she threw a punch into the air, witnessing the sudden extension of the metal block, narrowly missing The Courier's helmet. Her smile widened, relishing the satisfaction the power fist brought her.

"This is incredible!" Brigitte exclaimed, her laughter filling the room. "I wouldn't mind trading my flail for this. The impact is exhilarating."

The Courier nodded in agreement. "Veronica feels the same way. Uses it in every close-quarters combat occasion."

Curiosity piqued, Brigitte couldn't resist asking, "What's your go-to weapon for close quarters?"

From a concealed sheath at his hip, The Courier retrieved a menacing bowie knife, aptly named Blood-Nap. The blade, stained with dried blood, shimmered under the luminescent lights of the room. Brigitte, initially taken aback by the macabre sight, cautiously accepted the weapon, captivated by its enigmatic charm. The blood seemed to be an integral part of the blade, etched into its very essence.

"Found it in the Divide," The Courier revealed, his voice laced with a hint of reverence. "It has proven to be a reliable blade, rarely requiring sharpening."

A perplexed expression crossed Brigitte's face as she examined the blade, gently tracing her finger along its keen edge. Testing its weight, she fluidly swung it through the air, imitating the moves she had seen in online videos. Though she lacked the expertise of Genji, she couldn't help but feel a connection to the weapon.

Returning the knife to The Courier, Brigitte's attention shifted back to the photograph that had captivated her.

"What about the two guys?"

With an air of detachment, The Courier responded, his voice measured and devoid of unnecessary emotion. "Arcade Gannon and Craig Boone," he stated matter-of-factly. "Arcade, member of the Followers of the Apocalypse and the Enclave. Father died during Arcade's adolescence. Boone served in First Recon unit of the New California Republic." The Courier's eyes narrowed as he observed the hardened sniper in the photo. "Boone was my first human companion—a swift, lethal, and efficient teacher in the art of firearms."

Curiosity gleamed in Brigitte's eyes as she sought to uncover more about Arcade's role. The Courier obliged, his gaze shifting to the doctor in question. "Encountered Arcade during a visit to the Old Mormon Fort in Freeside," he recounted. "Said that life with the Followers had grown tiresome. Invited him to join me. He accepted." The Courier's gaze followed Brigitte's as she examined the photo, a soft laugh escaping her lips. Intrigued, he inquired, "Something amusing?"

A mischievous smile played on Brigitte's face as she responded, drawing a connection to a figure from another world. "It seems Arcade and Angela would have much to discuss. Kind of look the same as well," she mused, causing The Courier's brow to furrow in confusion.

Despite his stoic demeanor, The Courier couldn't help but exhibit a hint of intrigue as Brigitte's attention turned to the doctor. "Though he possesses the skills of a healer, Arcade doesn't shy away from defending himself," he explained. "Favors a plasma defender."

Brigitte's eyes widened with wonder as The Courier replaced his power fist with a small, pistol-like weapon. Its sleek design boasted a grey finish, complemented by a wooden under-barrel. Above the energy cell slot, a faint, glowing green rectangle hinted at its otherworldly nature. Sensing her fascination, The Courier handed the weapon to her, inviting exploration.

Her voice filled with awe, Brigitte murmured, "A plasma weapon?"

The Courier nodded, his tone infused with a hint of authority. "May lack the accuracy and swiftness of laser rifles, weapon harnesses plasma bolts that transform into toroids within the plasma chamber. Toroids are then propelled by a superconducting barrel, aided by electromagnetic claws for stability upon release." His words hung in the air, punctuated by Brigitte's enraptured silence. "Primary damage inflicted by plasma weapons involves thermal transfer," The Courier continued, offering a glimpse into the weapon's destructive capabilities. "Soft targets suffer searing burns, while hard ones result in melting. The plasma can induce spontaneous dissolution in extreme cases, causing the separation of soft and hard tissues or even molecular destabilization. Turns the target into a viscous green fluid." The Courier's words painted a vivid, albeit unsettling, image in Brigitte's mind.

"Can I test it out at the range?" Brigitte asked, eager to test the weapon herself. The Courier's response, as blunt and logical as ever, quelled her enthusiasm.

"Prefer to test outdoors," he stated flatly. "Reduces likelihood of accidental harm or fatality." Nonchalantly, he retrieved the plasma weapon from Brigitte's grasp, the weight of his words lingering in the air, hinting at a history steeped in battle-hardened pragmatism.

Within the enigmatic ensemble captured in the faded photograph, Brigitte found herself drawn to two distinct figures. Her finger hesitated between the man in the forefront and the towering presence at the back. Sensing her uncertainty, she sought clarification from The Courier.

"Man in the front is Raul, a ghoul," The Courier replied, his tone concise and unwavering. "Figure behind everyone is Lily, a nightkin."

Brigitte nodded, recalling her knowledge of the post-apocalyptic world they inhabited. "Ghouls are individuals whose biology has been altered by high levels of radiation, while nightkin are a specialized strain of super mutants, right?"

The Courier confirmed her understanding with a curt nod. "Raul is a skilled mechanic whom I rescued from Black Mountain. Convinced him to embrace former identity as the Ghost Vaquero. Found Lily in Jacobstown. Being a nightkin, she has schizophrenia. Although she receives medication in half doses."

Brigitte's eyes widened at the revelation, her curiosity piqued. "Schizophrenia? What do you mean?"

The weight of the topic settled upon The Courier's shoulders, his gaze momentarily clouded with a mix of sorrow and guilt. With a heavy sigh, he picked up the photograph, a silent reflection of his connection to those depicted within.

"Cloaking technology I used, called Stealth Boy. Nightkin knew of such technology," he began, his voice laced with a tinge of sadness. "Became addicted to it. Too much use can cause the mind to alter and deteriorate. Schizophrenia is a common affliction among the nightkin, accounting for their heightened aggression compared to other super mutants." The Courier's words carried the weight of experience, as he recounted his initial encounter with the elderly nightkin named Lily. In her presence, he had glimpsed a peculiar semblance of parental warmth, despite her disconnectedness from the harsh realities of their world. Memories of Veronica, captivated by Lily's eccentric innocence, flooded his mind—scenes of the two engaged in animated conversations within the laboratory, tirelessly working towards finding a cure for Lily's condition.

"Companions and I were working to develop a cure before I was sent here. Existing medicine could only do so much," The Courier explained, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy.

Overwhelmed by a surge of sympathy, Brigitte offered her condolences. "Courier, I'm so sorry."

The Courier's response, as ever, cut through the sentiment with a pragmatic edge. "Nothing to apologize for. You did not cause Lily's schizophrenia nor did I," he replied, returning the photograph to Brigitte's hands. "Though concerned, accepted the reality of her situation. Decided to act rather than mull."

She regarded him with a mixture of admiration and understanding, appreciating the strength of character that propelled The Courier forward despite the challenges that lay before them.

Brigitte's curiosity led her to the final members of The Courier's group—their loyal companions, the pets. Intrigued by the presence of robots in this futuristic world, her focus zeroed in on the peculiar 'eyebot' captured in the photograph. Its levitation capabilities ignited her engineering instincts, compelling her to unravel the mysteries of its internal workings.

"I must say, the robots in your world seem incredibly fascinating," Brigitte exclaimed, her eyes filled with wonder.

The Courier acknowledged her fascination with a nod, his voice concise and precise. "ED-E is an eyebot, designed for various purposes such as propaganda dissemination, reconnaissance, surveillance, message delivery, and even repair and medical services. Found him in Primm and managed to restore him using spare parts. Recently modified his chassis to enhance combat capabilities."

Brigitte's intrigue intensified as she absorbed every detail about ED-E. If given the chance, she would happily devote days to studying and understanding the intricacies of the robot.

Her attention then shifted to the canine companion within the photograph. "And the dog?"

"Mk. III Cyberhound, LEO Support Model, Serial no. B955883 or Rex." The Courier introduced, his voice softening ever so slightly. "Met Rex through the King in Freeside. In exchange for healing Rex, the King allowed me to keep him."

Curiosity tugged at Brigitte as she probed further. "What was wrong with him?"

"The cybernetics was straining brain, necessitating a replacement," The Courier replied with a touch of sadness in his voice. "An elderly lady in Novac provided a new one. Had to put down one of her own. Made our way to Jacobstown. Doctor Henry successfully performed the operation."

A warm smile graced Brigitte's lips as she beheld the cyborg dog, Rex, in the photograph. With his tongue lolling out and a wide smile adorning his face, there was no doubt that Rex was a cherished member of The Courier's group, infusing their dynamic with unwavering morale. Brigitte sensed the special bond shared between The Courier and Rex, yet noted the canine's affectionate nature toward everyone captured in the photograph.

However, her keen observational skills detected a shift in The Courier's demeanor as he returned his attention to his power armor. A quiet sigh escaped him, accompanied by a faint air of homesickness that clung to him in recent days. Brigitte, attuned to his emotional undercurrents, felt compelled to address the unspoken longing.

"You miss them, don't you?" she asked, her voice filled with empathy.

The Courier, ever straightforward, confirmed her observation without turning around. "I have noticed their absence, yes."

Concern etched across Brigitte's face as she approached The Courier, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. The sudden touch triggered a reflexive tension within him, his hands instinctively preparing for combat. With gentle determination, Brigitte turned him around, her eyes conveying a somber understanding.

"Six..." she began, her voice filled with empathy.

In that moment, unspoken emotions bridged the gap between them, as Brigitte offered silent support to The Courier, acknowledging the weight of his memories and the ache of longing that gripped his heart.

Before Brigitte could continue a voice rang out throughout the room.

"Courier, Dr. Ziegler requests your presence in her lab at noon." Athena's voice rang through the speakers. Brigitte quickly retracted her hand off The Courier's shoulder with a small smile across her lips.

"I'll see you later, Courier."

He gave the redhead a silent nod, keeping his gaze on her as she left him to his own devices. Silence flooded the room once again as The Courier slowly turned back to his work, letting out a heavy sigh.

…..

Angela's day had been nothing short of monotonous. Stacks of paper and research notes cluttered her desk, creating a disheartening sea of never-ending medical reports. While she was known for her unwavering dedication and persistence, even Angela had her limits. With a heavy sigh of exhaustion, she gathered a pile of notes, neatly organized them in a binder, and made her way out of her lab. Despite the creeping fatigue, Angela pressed on toward her intended destination.

Navigating the sterile, monochrome hallways of the base, she eventually arrived at Winston's lab and entered. The gorilla sat in his customary spot, engrossed in his monitors, enthusiastically devouring what seemed to be his third jar of peanut butter. A cacophony of voices emanated from the screens, as news reports flooded the monitors, with anchors and news crews animatedly discussing the recent temple collapse in Nepal.

"While the exact nature of the incident remains unclear, most sources concur that Talon and the rumored New Overwatch were involved, as evidenced by this recovered footage," one of the anchormen commented, as a brief clip of Tracer and Cassidy's lower halves appeared on the screen, accompanied by gunfire and anguished screams. "However, the existence of this New Overwatch has yet to be confirmed despite some civilians claiming their involvement during the Paris attack. Some speculate that the events in Nepal were more of a clash between Talon and former Overwatch agents, rather than a coordinated skirmish. The United Nations have not yet issued a statement regarding the incident."

Lost in the news reports, Winston failed to notice Angela's entrance into his lab until the doors closed behind her. Startled, he turned around, finger still halfway inside the jar of peanut butter, and froze in embarrassment as the Swiss doctor regarded him with amusement.

"You know, you really shouldn't consume so much in one sitting. That's why you end up feeling sick afterward," Angela chuckled, making her way around her fellow scientist.

"I could say the same about you and those Swiss chocolates," Winston retorted, setting the partially filled jar of peanut butter down on his desk.

"Just so you know, those treats are actually quite healthy and meant to be enjoyed in moderation. And I can recognize a large size when I see one, Winston," Angela sighed.

The gorilla's face reddened once again, and he cleared his throat in an attempt to regain composure. "So, do you have the report I requested?"

"Yes, I finished it a few minutes ago," Angela confirmed, placing the collection of papers on Winston's desk for his review.

"And what did you find?"

A concerned expression washed over her face as she presented her findings to Winston. "It's as if he's more machine than man. I mean, you witnessed what happened in Nepal. It wasn't merely a fight; it was a bloodbath," Angela's voice trembled with a hint of horror.

"Do you think it's something you should discuss with him?" Winston inquired, a tinge of concern coloring his voice as he contemplated the potential consequences.

Angela sighed heavily, her gaze fixed on the report and notes spread before her. "I've been considering it. The challenge lies in finding the right moment to bring it up or even getting some one-on-one time with him."

"Well, considering everyone's sufficiently hungover today, you might have a chance," Winston suggested, reclining in his chair.

"Perhaps. However, I still need to figure out how to approach the subject delicately. If my analysis is accurate, which it should be, it may be difficult to elicit honest or comprehensive answers from him," Angela mused, flipping through the pages of the report. Winston sighed deeply, giving the blonde doctor a curt nod.

"He's not exactly the talkative type, is he? From my observations, he only seems to be somewhat at ease around you and Brigitte. If anyone can get him to open up, it's the two of you."

Angela agreed with her teammate's astute observations. While the rest of the agents may not have noticed, The Courier always appeared on edge, not out of mistrust but rather instinct. It seemed as though he was wired to be prepared for violence. However, with her or Brigitte, the barriers were slightly lowered. It was progress, albeit gradual, and The Courier wouldn't suddenly reveal his innermost thoughts overnight just because of a few conversations.

"I'll make an attempt around noon today. Hopefully, he won't be too occupied," Angela determined, her tone resolute, "What do you think of him?"

"I haven't spent enough time with him to conclude any concrete opinions but from what I've seen, he's almost inhuman. His mastery over firearms is nothing to gawk at. You should've seen him at the firing range. I'd never seen Cassidy's jaw drop so low." Winston laughed heartedly at the recent memory. Quickly his expression turned back to a serious one, "But I'm not blind to his 'unique' behavior and personality. He tends not to work too well in a team environment."

"Yeah. Even during the Null Sector attack on the base, he decided to take matters into his own hands. Not that I'm ungrateful but I couldn't help but think he was tired of waiting for us to finish the fight." Angela recalled.

"I don't think it's impatience. We know The Courier must have a lot of experience. Ending a fight quickly is something he's probably prioritized over everything else." Winston countered.

"That's what I'm worried about. If our next mission puts us near civilians, we don't know if he'll follow his instincts or stick to the plan. Even recently in Nepal, as soon as we landed, he was gone without a word. We were supposed to scout the town as a team but he decided to go in alone." A hint of frustration sprinkled in her voice.

"Another subject to discuss with him," Winston said.

Angela closed her binder and turned her attention to the monitors displaying messages. "Any messages?"

Winston began typing on his keyboard, replacing the news reports with the incoming messages. "Not from any former agents, but there have been suspicious Null Sector activities in Brazil and Canada. I've managed to snoop around the deep web, and some users talking about something going down in Brazil and Canada. I'm hoping that it will be a few skirmishes that local law enforcement can handle but given what happened in Paris…"

Angela looked over the screen, assessing the messages. "Right. We'll hold a meeting tonight, then we'll plan our next course of action."

Winston smirked, amused by the thought. "Of course. That'll be all, Angela."

"See you tonight, Winston," Angela said, making her way out of the lab, determined to prepare for her upcoming conversation with The Courier.

…..

As the scorching sun crept closer to its zenith, Angela couldn't shake off a sense of unease regarding her imminent encounter with Courier Six. For the past hour, she had paced anxiously around her laboratory, wrestling with the challenge of finding the right words for such a delicate situation. It was an arduous task, to say the least.

As a licensed psychiatrist and multifaceted professional, Angela had encountered her fair share of unique individuals. The agents of New Overwatch boasted diverse personalities, each grappling with their own doubts and vulnerabilities. However, The Courier stood apart from the rest. There was an indescribable quality that set him apart, aside from the obvious fact that he hailed from a different world altogether. In Angela's professional assessment, The Courier's psychological state was nothing short of a tangled mess.

In her very nature as a doctor, empathy coursed through Angela's veins, urging her to feel concerned for the well-being of others—be it their mental, physical, or emotional health. She couldn't help but draw parallels between The Courier and Cassidy, two individuals who shared certain similarities. Both originated from America, carrying an air of the fabled 'Wild West' in their personas. However, there was a crucial distinction. Angela had known Cassidy long before Overwatch, conducting meticulous research on every potential candidate during the organization's glory days.

When it came to The Courier, Angela faced a blank canvas—an enigmatic variable with little to no background information. Her report on him remained skeletal, for the limited time they had spent together during the Nepal mission had left her with only fragmentary insights.

Whilst deep in thought, there was a knock on her door. Angela jumped slightly before quickly regaining her composure.

"Come in." She called out, taking her seat behind her desk.

The door slid open, revealing the two glowing red lenses. The Courier's unwavering gaze through the gas mask locked onto her like a predator ready to pounce.

"Wanted to see me?" He asked, stepping into the room.

Angela tried to put up an inviting smile, gesturing for him to take a seat. "Yes. Please sit. And thank you for getting here on such short notice."

It was the first time The Courier had been inside the blonde doctor's lab. Various medical equipment scattered around, no doubt all technical marvels compared to what he was used to at the Big MT. Like most of the rooms he's been in, the office was all white. And so The Courier heavily contrasted against his surroundings as he took a seat across from Angela.

"Being reprimanded for performance on the recent mission?" He asked.

"No. Well, maybe. We'll get to that soon," She stuttered, once again caught off guard by how blunt he was with his words. "First, I wish to discuss your psychological state. Given that you are in a drastically different environment, I wanted to see how you've been adjusting. I also want to learn more about you since you're very closed off."

"Form of therapy?"

"Not therapy. Rather a conversation between teammates. We don't know how long it'll be till you can go home, so why not get better acquainted with one another?" She explained.

It had been a train of thought The Courier was not exactly comfortable with. A situation that was out of his control. The feeling of helplessness was one he had long since removed from himself ever since waking up in Doc Mitchell's house. Every situation in the Mojave he had planned out in great detail. From something as small as what weapons to keep to more complex situations such as battle tactics. The Courier emphasized control as part of his mindset but right now, he had none whatsoever.

"Agreed. Subject of discussion?"

"Let's start with something simple: Do you remember anything about your past?"

"Memories before my attempted murder are nothing but a blurry fog. Cannot remember much. Though was told part of my past from fellow courier."

"Oh? What did learn?"

"Community close to New Vegas, Hopeville. Later changed to the Divide, taking its name from its role both as a divide and bridge between the East and West, New California Republic and Mojave Wasteland." The Courier vividly remembered his talks with Ulysses both during his travels through the hellscape and afterward. "Settlement flourished due to a courier who was willing to brave the seasons and storms to deliver packages to the community. Whatever the reason, the courier braved that hard road repeatedly, giving hope and a connection. I was that courier."

"Sounds like you were important to them."

"Would believe so. Wasteland is difficult to navigate alone. Occupations such as couriers are highly sought after, more so because working vehicles are hard to come by." The Courier explained.

"So what happened next?"

He abruptly stopped himself for a second. Replaying the words that Courier Five had told him during his travels through the Divide. The distorted and gravelly voice echoed in his mind, coupled with the endless highways surrounded by the ruins of Hopeville.

"Was hired to deliver a package by the NCR. Package was from Navarro, former Enclave base of operations. Republic was hoping the residents of Hopeville make sense of the package." His voice got lower and briefly broke Angela's gaze. "Package was a device connected to the computers hidden below the ruins Hopeville sat upon. Connected to the computers were silos, containing nuclear warheads."

The doctor's eyes grew wide at the sudden change in tone. She held her breath as the ominous red lenses reconnected with her gaze.

"Device sent launch codes and overrides to the computers, activating the warheads. Explosions erupted beneath the earth, consequently creating earthquakes in tandem. Those who weren't killed by the nuclear detonations or debris let loose by the earthquakes were twisted by the radioactive storms, flayed alive, and turned into mutants; dead men walking sustained only by the radiation and the hate within." Rummaging through his Pip-Boy inventory, The Courier materialized a photo of the hellscape that was the Divide and slid it onto the desk. Its mundane yet eerie amber duststorms flood the air and the intimidating ruins of old skyscrapers and crumbling highways. A few figures stood out, men who looked similar to ghouls, yet their skin was fiery red. They wore various brunt clothing with, some of their armor burned into their skin.

The image that confronted Angela was nothing short of ghastly, casting a chilling pallor over her senses. The photograph alone threatened to wrench her composure from her grasp as if the very fabric of reality had frayed before her eyes. Yet, with a commendable display of inner strength, she steeled herself against the encroaching waves of shock, allowing her equilibrium to regain its hold.

"Mein Gott," she breathed, her voice tinged with genuine sympathy. "I'm so sorry, Courier. This must have been a profoundly harrowing revelation." Her words, laden with empathetic intent, were extended as an offering of solace to the young man. In response, he reciprocated with an impassive shrug, an aura of detachment shrouding him like an inscrutable cloak.

"Travelled through the Divide before the Second Battle of Hoover Dam," he stated with a dispassion that bordered on detachment. "Revelation did not affect me. Was all in the past, nothing could be done to undo the damage."

"Still," Angela persisted, her compassionate resolve unwavering, "that must've prompted deep contemplation."

"It did," came the succinct reply, his words devoid of embellishment. "Though contemplation was not a high priority. The Divide was the most perilous crucible in the wasteland." With a deliberate gesture, he retrieved the photograph, holding it in his gaze for a fleeting moment. In that ephemeral interlude, a palpable undercurrent of remorse and guilt flickered within his heart before he returned it to its resting place within his Pip-Boy.

"So that was the earliest recollection from your past that you can summon," Angela gently steered the conversation away from the grim precipice.

"Goodsprings Cemetery," he intoned, his voice a measured cadence that carried the weight of history. "Given a task: deliver a package to a resident of New Vegas. Fate conspired otherwise. Captured by Great Khans and Benny. Shot in the head twice and half buried in an empty grave." His index finger traced the path of his forehead, indicating the location of the near-fatal wounds.

"That clarifies the nature of your head injuries," Angela remarked, her tone striving to inject a hint of levity.

"Correct. The first shot was intended to end my life. The second, to ensure it." His response bore the clarity of a man well-versed in the unforgiving lexicon of survival.

"And is this your earliest remembrance?" Angela inquired further, her clinical curiosity undeterred.

This time, the Courier opted for a wordless affirmation, offering a solitary nod to the physician seated across from him. Though the memory carried with it no semblance of pride, the Courier harbored no malice towards Benny. He recognized the pursuit of ambition, a common thread that bound all souls in this unforgiving realm. In the aftermath of those two fateful bullets, if not for that harrowing night, he would not have been molded into the indomitable figure he is today. Yet, this acknowledgment did little to quell the sense of satisfaction that coursed through him as he stood face-to-face with the checkered-suited bastard within the hallowed confines of the Tops casino.

"Earlier today, Brigitte informed me of your close friends," His head snapped up at the doctor as a small smile formed on her lips, "And I must say, you sure do have a knack for attracting unique characters. That Lily woman comes to mind."

Prior to this pivotal meeting, Angela managed to secure a moment alone with Brigitte in the common room. The fiery-haired engineer, still recovering from the revelries of the previous night, sought solace in the calm after the storm. It was during their conversation that Brigitte unveiled a hidden trove of information about the companions of Courier Six. The exchange proved enlightening for both women, reshaping their perspectives on the enigmatic courier in ways they never anticipated. An hour slipped away effortlessly as they delved into the revelations, until Angela finally noticed the passage of time, bidding the engineer a farewell before making her way to her office.

"Questions about them?" He asked, his tone containing an underlining hint of suspicion.

"No, it was just interesting to discover. You seem to be a very convincing individual to have that many companions, given what you've told us about the state of your world."

The Courier nodded in agreement with the doctor's assessment. In the unforgiving wasteland, survival often boiled down to a kill-or-be-killed mentality, a harsh reality he had learned firsthand. Violence seemed to be an inescapable part of his life, leaving behind trails of blood and spent ammunition in his wake. Yet, amidst the desolation, he had encountered moments that revealed a glimmer of hope in the remnants of civilization.

Surprisingly, the NCR, though far from perfect, had shown him that diplomacy could still wield power even in the post-apocalyptic world. The right words, spoken with conviction, could spare him from senseless gunfights and offer a chance at peaceful resolutions. In a place where chaos ruled, the art of persuasion had become a valuable currency, saving him time and again from being consumed by the violence around him.

But he remained cautious, for the wasteland was a realm of uncertainties. Every interaction was a calculated risk, like navigating a minefield where one misstep could lead to devastation. The Courier knew he couldn't let his guard down, not even for a moment. The scars of past encounters served as a constant reminder that trust was a rare commodity, and misplaced faith could spell doom.

With each journey he undertook, he witnessed the juxtaposition of a shattered world and glimmers of hope hidden amidst the ruins. The wasteland was a harsh teacher, showing no mercy to those unprepared to adapt or learn from its relentless lessons.

His life had become an intricate dance of survival, where each step was measured and calculated. The path to his next destination was always littered with danger, deception, and hidden traps, all waiting to ensnare the unsuspecting traveler.

"Words are just as powerful as a gun. Certain situations require certain approaches. Just so happens that most scenarios require violence."

Angela's desk then projected a series of holographic screens displaying bustling metropolises from across the globe. Brazil, Canada, Sweden, and Sydney. Each pulsing with life and humanity.

"These missions will put civilians at the forefront, including children and families," Angela began, her fingers dancing across the control panel. She spoke with a hint of nervousness in her voice, aware of the immense responsibility she carried. The upcoming missions were to take place in densely populated civilian environments, a fact that weighed heavily on her mind. "We need to be absolutely certain that their lives and safety take precedence over everything else. No more lone-wolf actions like the Nepal mission. You're part of a team, Courier, and we need you to work with us."

Courier Six, known for his straightforward and logical approach, sat silently, absorbing Angela's words. Memories of the Nepal mission washed over him—the isolated reconnaissance he conducted upon landing in the village. It wasn't that he had an aversion to teamwork; quite the contrary. He had collaborated with teams before, but always with a level of familiarity and understanding of each member's strengths. In this new world, the unfamiliarity of everything and everyone weighed on him.

"Fair request. Will do my best to refrain from usually violent tendencies and remain close by."

A sense of relief washed over Angela as she witnessed The Courier's acceptance. Her worry about how the conversation might have turned if he had rejected her requests vanished. She let out a sigh, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she regained her composure, appreciating The Courier's commitment to his duty.

"Now that we have that out of the way, did you have any questions of your own?"

"What can you tell me about yourself?"

The doctor found herself momentarily taken aback by the unexpected nature of his inquiry. The question had been poised with a gravitas she hadn't foreseen. Yet, her professional composure remained steadfast, and she responded with a seamless fluidity that belied her internal astonishment.

"Well, I hail from Switzerland," she began, her voice carrying a faint trace of reminiscence, "and my formative years unfolded against the backdrop of the Omnic War. Growing up with the constant loom of violence wasn't exactly the life my parents wanted for me. They would often volunteer at shelters or hospitals and I would come along with them. It was during those visits I was inspired to become a doctor. The desire to extend aid to those in dire need, to mend the wounded."

Her gaze, though fixed upon The Courier, appeared momentarily distant, as if she had momentarily surrendered herself to the embrace of cherished recollections. However, the warmth in her voice underwent a gradual transmutation into melancholy.

"One day, they went to the local hospital, as usual, to help out. I didn't come with them, I don't remember why though. That was the last time I saw them." In the profound silence that followed, her eyes welled with tears, their shimmering veil obscuring her vision. Her grip on her coat tightened as if seeking solace and strength in its fabric. "I waited for them for hours. When night came, I knew something was wrong. Someone knocked on the door and I opened it to find a police officer."

The Courier sat in silence, his penetrating gaze locked onto the doctor seated across from him. He observed as the doctor began to unravel, her composure slowly yielding to the weight of the memories she was about to share. Though a part of him contemplated breaking the silence, reassuring her that she needn't disclose her past if she wasn't inclined to, he opted for silence. The solemnity of the moment demanded it, and it wasn't his prerogative to compel her to divulge her secrets.

After a pregnant pause, Angela began to speak, her voice carrying the burden of painful recollections. "It was an airstrike," she began, her words measured and filled with a quiet determination. "The hospital was targeted while they were there. Everyone thought that I wouldn't want to work, much less be near anything related to anything medical after that. But it only amplified my desire. My desire to aid others and advocate for peace."

"Assumed you pursued medical degree?"

"Ja. I was called a prodigy in the medicinal field but I didn't see myself as such. Many other people were much better than me at the time. When I was fourteen years old, I worked at a hospital where I met Brigitte's father, Torbjörn. Actually, I think I might have a photo around here."

Angela's chair swiveled effortlessly as she reached for the photograph she sought on one of her many shelves. With practiced precision, she retrieved it and placed it onto the desk before The Courier, who regarded it with a detached but discerning gaze. The photograph, its colors muted by time, depicted a motley group of individuals.

The Courier wasted no time in singling out Angela amidst the ensemble, positioned between a diminutive man sporting a robust prosthetic arm and an eyepatch, and a youthful figure who bore a striking resemblance to a younger Cassidy. Towering over the group, a colossal man loomed in the background, unmistakably Reinhardt, his imposing presence not lost on The Courier.

Among the remaining figures in the photograph were five other adults and a young girl. The adults remained elusive, their features blurred by the passage of time. However, the young girl captured The Courier's attention with a disconcerting sense of familiarity. A woman, presumably her mother, held her by the shoulders, exuding a self-assured grin. Positioned to the left was a hooded man, his demeanor a stark contrast, his hands firmly anchored to his belt as he met the camera's lens with an unyielding and serious countenance.

To the right of the young woman, closer to the center of the photograph, stood a blond man. His smirk, though more subdued, emanated a palpable self-assurance. Finally, at the fringes of the group, two more figures completed the tableau—a dark-skinned woman with a prosthetic arm, positioned at the far right, and a man crouched at the extreme left, his countenance marked by a sardonic grin.

"That was my first experience with Overwatch. Torbjörn's the one at the front and that's me behind him. I helped with making his new arm and he was so impressed with my work that he invited me to their base in Switzerland for a tour."

"Joined Overwatch at that point?"

Placing the photo back on the shelf, Angela shook her head before pointing at a framed document on the wall behind her desk.

"No, that was much later. After I got my MD and PhD, I worked my way up to the head of surgery at a prominent Swiss hospital. During this time, I pioneered a breakthrough in the field of applied nanobiology that radically improved the treatment of life-threatening illnesses and injuries. It was this research that attracted Overwatch's attention, specifically Commander Jack Morrison. He was the blonde man in the photo."

'So Morrison was in a high position within Overwatch.'

Morrison's prominent role within Overwatch intrigued The Courier. He pondered why the man wasn't currently aligned with New Overwatch, but he decided to save that question for a more opportune moment. Angela's demeanor exuded a sense of accomplishment, a sentiment she had undoubtedly earned through her contributions to Overwatch. As he scanned the room, his eyes fell upon a multitude of accolades adorning her shelves, each celebrating the achievements of the Swedish doctor. To Angela, however, these trophies were mere metallic remnants of past triumphs. Her true satisfaction lay in the countless lives she had touched and improved through her unwavering dedication to scientific research.

"Jack was impressed with my research and paper on nanobiotic healing. He wanted me to join Overwatch, to be their head of medical research." Angela said. She could still remember that meeting as if it were yesterday.

…..

In the well-lit corridors of the cutting-edge medical facility, Dr. Angela Ziegler had just completed her meticulous follow-up paper on the intricate realm of nanobiotic research. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, synthesizing the culmination of her scientific endeavors. The hum of the lab's machinery provided a rhythmic backdrop to her thoughts, a melody of progress.

Soon, she would transition from words on a screen to the tangible world of the operating theater. A group of eager, aspiring doctors awaited her guidance, ready to witness the embodiment of her groundbreaking research. Her stride was purposeful as she exited her office, every step reflecting her dedication to advancing medical science.

But fate had a different plan for this day.

As the heavy door of her office swung open, Dr. Ziegler found herself abruptly confronted by a man who bore an unmistakable air of authority. Jack Morrison, clad in his signature azure tactical trenchcoat and armor, stood before her. His presence, like an unyielding force, demanded attention.

The exchange of pleasantries was swift, for Morrison spoke in the manner of a man with a mission.

"Doctor Ziegler? I'm Commander Jack Morrison representing Overwatch. Would it be alright to have a moment of your time?"

In response, Angela's commitment to her profession remained unwavering. She had an operating theater waiting, students yearning to learn from her, and the relentless pursuit of medical excellence. With a polite but firm tone, she addressed the commander, her words calculated like a surgeon's scalpel. "I'm sorry commander but I have a job to do right now. If you're willing to wait a bit, I'll be able to speak with you properly. Now, if you'll excuse me."

With that, she gracefully moved past Jack Morrison, her mind a tempest of conflicting emotions. Doubt and fear gnawed at the edges of her thoughts, as she questioned whether her words might have inadvertently slighted the esteemed commander.

However, as she returned to her office, the scene that greeted her was far from what she had anticipated. Jack Morrison, not offended but rather wearing a broad and forgiving smile, awaited her. In that moment, Angela felt the weight of her worries slip away, replaced by a sense of camaraderie and shared purpose.

With a newfound ease, they embarked on the business that had brought Morrison to her doorstep, unaware of the extraordinary journey that lay ahead.

"Commander," Angela began, her voice laced with sincerity, "I apologize for my earlier apathetic dismissal. My commitment to my profession is unwavering, and it sometimes leads me to prioritize my work above all else, even Overwatch."

As they settled into their seats, a moment of respite amidst the demands of their respective callings, Jack Morrison, the enigmatic figure, chuckled warmly. His laughter, like a balm, washed away the tension that had gripped Angela moments ago.

"No need to apologize, Doctor," he replied, his voice carrying the weight of understanding. "Your dedication is admirable, and it's precisely that dedication that has piqued Overwatch's interest in you."

Angela was taken aback by this revelation, her jaw subtly slackening at the unexpected turn of events. She quickly composed herself, clearing her throat and sitting up straight, yet the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her lingering astonishment.

"What exactly about me has garnered Overwatch's attention?" she inquired, her eyes fixed on Morrison's.

Jack leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. "Your groundbreaking work on nanobiotics, Doctor Ziegler. I've read your paper, and I've shared it with our medical team. Your brilliance is self-evident."

Though the compliment was genuine and well-deserved, it didn't evoke the response Morrison had anticipated. Angela's response was humble, yet tinged with a sense of yearning, her dedication to practicality unwavering.

"Yes, I am proud of my work," she admitted, her eyes reflecting a burning desire. "But, at the end of the day, research papers are just words on a page. What would truly fulfill me is the ability to apply these theories and save lives, not receiving accolades and attending banquets for mere ideas."

Angela's passion for her profession shone through. She thrived on the hands-on aspects of medicine, conducting experiments, engaging in research, and directly impacting lives through her work. However, it also came with a lot of report writing, award ceremonies, and conferences that took her away from continuing to help others. Angela had come to accept the growing reputation her work was garnering, but that didn't mean she enjoyed all the attention.

The nanobiotics she had dedicated herself to were not mere concepts; they were a potential revolution in medical science. Angela had conducted innumerable tests, dedicated months upon months to meticulous research and experimentation, and she had grown impatient to see her life-saving creations in practical use. Regrettably, in a world marred by omnic-human conflicts and military aggression, governments and military forces had little interest in her nanobiotics, fixated instead on weapons and armor.

Morrison, aware of her reservations, leaned forward and spoke with a conviction that characterized his command. "I believe we can offer you a solution, Dr. Ziegler. I'd like to personally extend an invitation for you to join Overwatch as our Head of Medical Research. We can provide you with the resources you need to bring your research to fruition."

Angela was momentarily stupefied by the offer. Her dreams of seeing her research benefit humanity, of saving countless lives, had seemed distant and idealistic. However, she paused, recognizing the organization that stood before her. Overwatch had a history, one fraught with both valor and controversy.

She wasn't blind to the reality. Overwatch had been involved in countless battles against omnic threats and shadowy organizations like Talon, and there were always casualties in the aftermath. For an organization dedicated to world peace, they seemed inexorably tied to conflict.

"That is a generous offer, Commander," Angela began, her gaze steady, her resolve unyielding. "But I must respectfully decline. I am aware of the potential uses Overwatch's leaders may have in mind for my nanobiotics. I do not wish to contribute to the development of new ways to send soldiers into danger. My research is driven solely by the desire to aid civilians and foster the prospect of peace."

Morrison's response was swift, his words echoing with sincerity. "Doctor, we have no intention of weaponizing your discoveries. We would be more than willing to support you in dedicating your research to your vision of what's right. We simply want to provide you with the resources you need. Does that ease your worries?"

Angela met his gaze, his conviction aligning with her own principles. A slow, genuine smile began to grace her lips. "When do I start?"

…..

"And now, here I am," Angela reflected, her voice carrying a weight of both nostalgia and resilience, "One of the few remaining active Overwatch agents. Honestly, when I answered Winston's call, I only expected a couple of us. But to see so many old and new faces, it gives me hope."

Her words hung in the air, a testament to the enduring spirit of Overwatch. Time had forged bonds, and battles had tested their mettle, yet the conviction to protect and heal endured.

As the conversation shifted, the wasteland wanderer's curiosity honed in on the culmination of Angela's groundbreaking work. "Nanobiotics fully developed?" he inquired, his interest piqued.

Angela's smile widened, a blend of pride and confidence infusing her demeanor as she responded with a resolute nod. "Indeed," she affirmed. "Countless lives have been preserved thanks to them. I've incorporated them into my Valkyrie suit, which has kept me in optimal health throughout the years. Surprisingly, they've maintained my physical appearance since I first donned the suit. I may not appear it, but I'm thirty-seven."

The revelation momentarily caught the wastelander off guard. Angela did not fit the image he had conjured of someone nearing their forties. He had presumed her to be in her early twenties, maybe mid-twenties at most. The technology she described bore resemblance to a project he had encountered at Big Mountain, one of the scientific endeavors presented to him.

Doctor 8, with assistance from a translator The Courier had developed, had proposed a device designed to halt the natural aging process of the human body. The concept involved cloning cells within the body while eliminating the old ones, effectively preserving the body's state indefinitely. It was one of the more audacious ideas, but The Courier had not dismissed it outright.

"Was there anything else you wanted to know?"

"No. Only person who knows of my past. Seemed fair to inquire about yours. Required for any more questions?"

Angela's response was concise, aligned with her pragmatic nature. "Nothing else. Tonight, we're having a team meeting, in regards to future missions. Eight o'clock."

Their exchange held a sense of camaraderie, a bridge between two worlds connected by a shared mission. In the face of uncertainty, their alliance was a beacon of hope against the encroaching darkness.

With a curt nod, The Courier rose from his seat, his movements as precise and deliberate as ever. Angela mirrored his actions, accompanying him to the threshold of her office. Yet, just as he was about to step through the open door and embark on his way, Angela's soft hand found its place on his shoulder.

Her touch was gentle, a fleeting moment of connection in the midst of their exchange. His gaze shifted back to meet hers as her voice, like a soothing melody, broke the silence.

"I enjoyed our conversation, Courier," she confessed, her smile radiating warmth and gratitude. "Thank you for sharing with me."

Once more, The Courier replied with a subtle nod, his communication often found in gestures rather than words. Angela released her hold, and the door glided shut, gently closing the chapter on their meeting.

…..

As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting long shadows over the Gibraltar base, the moon ascended into the night sky, bathing the surroundings in its silvery glow. In this dimly lit hour, most of the base's facilities lay dormant, their occupants gone for the day, with one notable exception. Deep within the heart of the compound, the meeting room stood aglow, its occupants gathered in solemn anticipation. Among them, punctuality was a virtue, and The Courier, true to his reputation, was already seated, though he couldn't help but roll his eyes at the omnipresent Overwatch logo emblazoned upon the table. The agency's penchant for branding seemed unwavering.

Within this room, a hushed atmosphere prevailed. Agents exchanged furtive glances and whispered conversations, a blend of eagerness and tension in the air. The Courier found himself flanked by Tracer and Cassidy, two individuals with whom he had crossed paths more than once during his brief but eventful tenure here. Further down the table, Brigitte, Reinhardt, and an enigmatic Egyptian woman occupied their own reserved positions. The Courier had received proper introductions only for a select few agents, and he regarded those seated around him with a calculating gaze, his eyes concealed behind the unyielding visage of his helmet.

One figure immediately caught The Courier's attention—a Russian woman, Zarya, whom he had locked horns with upon his initial arrival in this unfamiliar world. It was during his night at the bar that Brigitte had revealed her name. The Courier had been taken aback when he had first encountered her formidable strength and resilience in combat. In a world where power armor was often the measure of strength, here was a human adversary who defied the norm, relying not on technological enhancements but sheer physical prowess.

What truly impressed The Courier, however, was the seemingly impenetrable shield she wielded. It had withstood the relentless barrage of his gatling laser, a feat he had rarely witnessed, typically only achievable by fortified materials like concrete or advanced power armor models. His curiosity was further piqued when he learned that Zarya's weapon operated on gravitational principles. This unconventional approach to weaponry intrigued him, igniting a desire to engage in conversation with this remarkable Russian athlete, should the opportunity arise.

Genji occupied a position further up the expansive table, nestled alongside a young Asian woman wielding a curious weapon that seemed to harness the power of ice. For The Courier, encountering individuals of Asian descent had initially been a startling experience, given the scarcity of such encounters in this post-apocalyptic world. His research had yielded only a few accounts, vaguely mentioning a Japanese figure in the DC area linked to Zeta aliens. As for remnants of the Chinese population in America, their fate had remained shrouded in the enigma of the Great War, whether their demise had been wrought by American forces or the cataclysmic bombs remained open to conjecture.

Intriguingly, the cyborg had been engrossed in what The Courier had initially mistaken for a comic book but was swiftly corrected by the cybernetic ninja. It turned out to be something called 'manga,' a distinctive form of Japanese storytelling that defied conventional comic book norms. In Japan's rendition, these graphic tales were read from right to left and featured a stark absence of colors, with only the cover breaking this monochrome tradition. This revelation added to The Courier's growing list of curiosities, though he decided to reserve his exploration of this novel form of literature for another time.

Casting his gaze down his section of the table, The Courier couldn't help but notice Brigitte's fidgety demeanor, her fingers dancing restlessly over her thumbs. Whether this stemmed from excitement or nervousness remained a mystery to the wastelander. In stark contrast, her godfather, Reinhardt, exuded an air of calm and conversational fervor as he engaged in lively dialogue with the Egyptian woman seated nearby. The exchange of warm smiles between the two hinted at a pre-existing camaraderie, leaving The Courier to deduce that their connection ran deep.

Cassidy, true to form, reclined in his chair, his booted feet casually propped upon the table, a cigarette casually perched in his mouth. Save for his signature hat, the cowboy adhered steadfastly to his accustomed attire, mirroring The Courier's unyielding adherence to his own distinctive style. However, Dr. Ziegler, who occupied a position at the head of the table alongside Winston, directed a stern glare at Cassidy, no doubt disapproving of his relaxed demeanor.

Amidst this assembly, a striking blue and white omnic named Echo floated gracefully alongside Dr. Ziegler, deeply engrossed in conversation with Zenyatta. The exchange reminded The Courier of encounters he'd had with sentient robots in the unforgiving wasteland. Witnessing such advanced technology, untethered from reliance on nuclear power, stirred a profound sense of intrigue within him, expanding the boundaries of his understanding.

Dr. Ziegler, once she had taken stock of everyone's presence, rose gracefully from her chair, commanding the full attention of those gathered in the room. Her presence radiated authority and gratitude.

"Thank you, each and every one of you, for your unwavering dedication to this cause," she began, her words resonating through the room and invoking smiles that spread like ripples in a pond. "To our new recruits, we are honored by your presence and thrilled to have you join our ranks, fighting shoulder to shoulder with us. And to our seasoned agents, it's heartening to see your enduring commitment to the mission of saving our world."

The screens behind Dr. Ziegler flickered to life, unveiling a montage of footage depicting the harrowing Null Sector invasion of Paris. News clips, and amateur videos captured by civilians on their mobile phones, all bore witness to New Overwatch's valiant actions on that fateful day. The resurgence of Overwatch's protective mantle was a beacon of hope, eliciting a genuine smile from Winston. It seemed that, at long last, Overwatch had returned to its former glory, steadfast in its mission to safeguard the defenseless.

"As you're well aware, the threat posed by Null Sector has intensified," Dr. Ziegler continued, her tone underscored by urgency. "Paris was merely the beginning, a startling wake-up call. Based on the intelligence we've gathered, both Winston and I strongly recommend that we increase our missions to counter the Null Sector threat."

In a dazzling display of technology, a vivid blue burst radiated from the center of the table, startling some of the newer agents. In an instant, a holographic projection of the globe materialized before them. Brazil and Canada were marked with intense crimson highlights.

"Winston's diligence has unearthed critical information. Null Sector appears to be focusing its aggression on these regions, with Brazil and Canada emerging as prime targets, each having endured sporadic skirmishes in the recent past," Dr. Ziegler elucidated, her gaze sweeping over the attentive audience. "Specifically, Rio de Janeiro and Toronto have been singled out. We shall embark on a two-phase mission, commencing with Rio and subsequently moving to Toronto."

"Do we know anyone in Brazil? Someone who can give us the lay of the land?" Brigitte's inquisitive voice pierced the air, her inquiry seeking potential connections in Brazil. Angela was poised to reply, but Tracer interjected with her trademark quickness, leaning forward and firmly planting her hands on the table.

"Oh, I've got someone in Brazil we can reach out to," she exclaimed, her enthusiasm evident. "He's a well-known figure down in Rio, and I'm pretty sure he can get us the intel we need. He's got the city mapped out in his head."

Cassidy, his cigarette still smoldering, chimed in with a note of caution. "You reckon we can trust this fella, Tracer?"

Tracer's response was swift and unwavering. "Absolutely. He's got a heart as big as Rio itself. Back when the resistance booted Vishkar out of town, he was right there with 'em."

Hana, ever alert and excited, was the first to latch onto the name. "Lucio? Are you talking about Lucio? I love that guy! His music is top-tier! I always play his songs when I'm streaming."

"Lucio? That DJ who zips around on rollerblades?" Brigitte's bewilderment lingered as the holographic image transformed to unveil the Brazilian freedom fighter and DJ. Draped in vibrant armor, equipped with rollerblades, and crowned with distinctive headgear, he gripped an enigmatic weapon, its Vishkar insignia drawing particular attention.

"He's quite the celebrity, isn't he? And he's practically a fixture in Rio, save for when he's touring," Tracer explained with unwavering confidence. "If something's stirring in that city, you can bet your life he's got the inside scoop. I'll reach out to him tonight and give him the lowdown on our plans."

As Tracer spoke, a video clip played on the holoprojector, featuring the Brazilian sensation skating through the bustling slums, rendering aid to the locals, engaging in spirited games of football with children, and igniting lively concerts within vibrant markets.

Cassidy, Winston, and Angela exchanged glances, their trust in Tracer evident. Angela, the blonde doctor, nodded in affirmation. "Lena, if you believe in him, then we trust your judgment."

Tracer couldn't hide her elation, her fist pumping in the air as she settled back into her seat, her infectious smile a testament to her enthusiasm. A detailed model of Rio materialized, its towering skyscrapers casting shadows over the teeming streets and crowded slums. The city was a tumultuous labyrinth of congested thoroughfares and bustling markets. Given its high population density, the prospect of a Null Sector attack bore the grim reality of unprecedented civilian casualties.

Winston, his eyes fixed upon the holographic representation of Rio, articulated the strategy that would be needed to secure the city and repel any impending Null Sector attacks. The weight of the task ahead hung heavy in the room.

"It's going to take all of us to cover the city and repel any Null Sector attacks," he emphasized. "After we make contact with Lucio, we'll need a small team to group up with him while the rest of us do our best to keep the city safe."

"The streets will be tight, and no doubt crowded." Winston continued, assessing the hologram. "That means Reinhardt, Zarya, and I will try to stick to the main streets and be on crowd control."

Zarya, her readiness palpable, chimed in with a smirk directed at Reinhardt. "Sounds like a challenge, but I'm ready to crush Null Sector and see what the German is made of in a fight."

Reinhardt met her enthusiasm with a hearty laugh, his eyes shining with the prospect of combat. "Another chance for glorious battle? You'd think me a fool if I weren't excited!"

Winston and Angela exchanged playful eye-rolls, all too familiar with their friend's unbridled zeal.

Winston's attention shifted to the aerial support team. "Fareeha and Hana will provide air support, alongside Echo, to ensure the safe evacuation of civilians from Rio's airspace. Null Sector is likely to deploy air units, and your primary objective is to fend them off and secure the city's airspace. Remember, one stray shot could result in countless casualties on the ground."

Fareeha acknowledged the mission with a salute, pledging her dedication. "You can count on me, Winston. And I'll ensure that Ms. Song remains focused."

Hana, with a playful pout, retorted, "Hey, I'm focused. I just wouldn't mind getting some footage for my viewers, too." Her last words were muttered under her breath, though her determination remained unshaken.

Winston allocated the critical tasks to the remaining agents, ensuring that each member understood their role in this imminent operation.

"Genji, Mei, and Baptiste, your mission will focus on clearing the slums and smaller streets that are otherwise inaccessible to our main team. Your top priority is to evacuate as many civilians as you can, directing them to the escape ships. If you encounter Null Sector, draw them away and onto the main streets where Zarya, Reinhardt, and I can deal with them."

With resolute nods, the trio acknowledged their instructions. Then, Winston addressed the last contingent.

"Cassidy, you'll lead Zenyatta, Tracer, Brigitte, and The Courier. Your group will accompany Lucio. We'll move together initially, then divide into our designated areas. Are you up for the task?"

Cassidy, oozing confidence, affirmed his readiness. "You can bet your boots on it, Winston. Retirement hasn't dulled my edge."

"Good to hear." A confident smile was exchanged between Winston and Cassidy as their attention returned to the holographic map.

Winston proceeded to announce the departure time. "Our departure is scheduled for noon tomorrow, and we'll be entering Rio airspace around eight o'clock local time. Our intel indicates that the attacks are expected to commence at that time. Once you've been deployed, you'll have to act swiftly. Does everyone understand their roles?"

With unanimous nods, the agents signified their understanding. The holograms extinguished, allowing the room's lights to regain their full intensity. In response, Winston, Angela, and Echo stood up, and the rest of the agents followed suit.

"Rest up tonight and ensure your gear is prepped for tomorrow," Winston urged, the gravity of the situation evident in his voice. "The scale of this attack remains uncertain, but we must be prepared for every eventuality."

With these final words, the meeting drew to a close, leaving the agents to contemplate the formidable task that awaited them.

…..

Cassidy stood in the dimly lit confines of the gun range, the faint scent of gunpowder lingering in the air. This had become a daily ritual for him, ever since his days with Overwatch and Blackwatch. After his morning meal, he'd make his way to the range to keep his skills sharp. The same routine applied after lunch, on the occasions when he didn't have a mission, and once more before retiring for the night. Cassidy, wasn't great at many things but the cowboy could confidently admit, he was a damn good shot.

Yet, today's session was different. His usually keen focus was clouded by thoughts, intrusions that had become all too familiar. They haunted him, casting long shadows across the firing range, shadows that seemed to morph into grotesque specters every time his finger squeezed the trigger. Memories of that fateful Nepal mission seared into his mind, like cattle brands branding his soul.

As a member of Blackwatch, he had been no stranger to the crimson hue of blood. The Venice operation had left its own stain on his conscience, a stain he bore like a grim badge of honor. But the horrors he witnessed in Nepal transcended anything he had ever experienced. It was a nightmarish descent into the abyss, where the boundaries between life and death blurred and humanity itself seemed to wither away.

Cassidy's hand tightened around the gun, his thoughts wandering into the dark recesses of that mission. The sights, the sounds, the helpless cries of the innocent - all of it wove a tapestry of despair that threatened to consume him. He tried to shake the memories, to bury them deep, but they resurfaced like stubborn specters, persistent in their haunting.

Cassidy couldn't shake the haunting images that flashed before his eyes with every shot he fired. The memories of that night in Nepal were like relentless phantoms, their wails of pain echoing in his mind. Blood flowed across the floor, seeping into every crevice and painting the walls with crimson horrors. It was no mere skirmish; it was a descent into madness, a death sentence executed with cold precision. The Courier, whose very presence had transformed him into the judge, jury, and executioner, remained unfazed by the chaos he wrought.

What Cassidy witnessed that night didn't just trouble him; it terrified him to his core. It wasn't the lifeless bodies that piled up, but the person responsible for this blood-soaked tableau. The Courier stood amidst the carnage, a figure seemingly untouched by the destruction he had wrought, like an embodiment of chaos, draped in the shroud of merciless efficiency.

Cassidy, a soldier trained under Gabriel's wing, knew the dance of war, how a soldier moved, how they navigated the chaos of battle with a certain grace. But The Courier was different. He moved with a brutal grace, a deadly efficiency that defied understanding. Every step, every dodge, every calculated maneuver was like a macabre symphony of destruction. Cassidy had never seen such a potent blend of brutality and precision embodied in one person.

As he placed his revolver down, his hand trembling ever so slightly, Cassidy hoped that a few deep breaths would dispel the lingering anxiety that clung to him like a shroud. But the memories refused to fade, and his fears morphed into a new and unsettling realization. He had shifted from pondering The Courier's threat to Overwatch's enemies to pondering The Courier's potential threat to Overwatch itself. The enigma that was The Courier seemed like a force of nature, and Cassidy was unsure whether such a force could ever truly be controlled.

What Cassidy grappled with was the enigmatic and potentially volatile presence of The Courier, an unknown variable that had displayed an unnerving expertise in the art of death-dealing. Add to this the shroud of an identity concealed in the deepest shadows and an inscrutable mental state, and it was enough to send shivers down the spine of even the most battle-hardened warrior. Cassidy's thoughts swirled in a vortex of uncertainty, his stomach twisting and turning as he pondered the enigma that was The Courier.

Lost in his contemplation, Cassidy failed to notice the entrance of a new presence into the gun range. As fate would have it, this newcomer was none other than the man who had been haunting his thoughts. The Courier brushed past Cassidy, wielding his formidable Anti-Material Rifle. This behemoth of a weapon loomed over the range, its massive muzzle poking up above the stall dividers. The rifle's deafening report thundered through the air as it spat out .50 caliber rounds, causing the dividers to tremble like leaves in a storm. Shot after shot rent the air, the stall dividers quaking with each explosive discharge.

Cassidy fought to maintain his concentration on his shooting, but it soon became apparent that this was a losing battle. The cacophony and the seismic reverberations were too much to bear. Yet, leaving the range was not an option for the inquisitive cowboy. His insatiable curiosity drove him to shuffle a few stalls down, where he could peer around a divider and observe how The Courier was faring. Another deafening shot rang out, and Cassidy watched from the shadows, his gaze locked on the enigmatic figure who had become a specter in his life.

Amid the deafening retorts of The Courier's Anti-Material Rifle, Cassidy sought to bridge the silence that had enveloped them. His attempt was a simple question, an endeavor to fill the oppressive void that had hung in the air.

"You ever been outside of America?" Cassidy inquired, his words rolling forth like tumbleweeds across a barren landscape. The Courier's mechanical motions paused briefly as he swiftly loaded a new magazine into the rifle.

"No. Never left the mainland. Stayed on the western side," The Courier replied in his characteristically concise manner, his gaze locked on the next target. Another flash of light burst from the rifle's muzzle, and the holographic target wailed in agony before fading, replaced by an identical one.

Cassidy, seeking to probe beneath the enigmatic exterior, leaned against the wall, the weight of his concerns evident in his words. "Well, Brazil's a very dense area. Lots of civilians. This won't be like Nepal. Think you'll be able to handle it?"

The Courier's response came as he squeezed the trigger once more, his focus unbroken. "Worried about civilian casualties?"

Cassidy's tone sharpened, his concern for the impending mission and its potential human cost evident. "Yes, rightfully so. You should be too."

Amid the thundering discharges, The Courier's silence felt like a heavy weight in the air. He fired again, sending another hologram to its simulated demise. The tension simmered, each word they exchanged hanging in the balance.

"We aren't losing anyone tomorrow. That means civilians and the team come first, understand?" Cassidy's voice carried an edge, a firm resolve, a cowboy who had seen too much bloodshed.

"Understood."

"And what happened with Brigitte doesn't happen again."

Cassidy's patience waned as the silence persisted. He watched The Courier intently, eye twitching in a gesture of frustration, his fingers curling into a tense fist. The cowboy was on the precipice of speaking out, of demanding an answer, when The Courier began to swiftly pack up his gear. Without a word, he brushed past Cassidy and left him standing there, alone in the stark silence of the gun range, the question left unanswered, the tension left unresolved.

…..

Saturday morning unfolded with an unusual vitality as Overwatch's agents prepared for the mission that lay ahead. The various facilities within the Gibraltar base buzzed with activity. Some agents honed their aim at the firing range, while others fine-tuned their gear and equipment. A handful were engrossed in research, delving into the depths of knowledge about Brazil, courtesy of Winston's findings on the deep web.

Among the diligent agents stood Hana Song, the vivacious Korean icon known for her piloting skills. She had realized that she had been relying heavily on her MEKA, and hadn't dedicated enough time to mastering her sidearm, which she affectionately referred to as her "Light Gun." The compact, bright pink pistol felt comfortable in her grip, and its advanced plasma cartridges produced minimal recoil. However, despite these advantages, Hana struggled to consistently land her shots.

Inserting another magazine into her Light Gun, Hana raised her sights once more to the holoprojection before her. The simulation commenced, bringing forth virtual figures that darted back and forth, leaping and crouching with unpredictable movements. She made a concerted effort to control her shots, searching for a rhythm that would lead to more accurate targeting. Occasionally, her aim was true, and a hit caused the figures to turn red, accompanied by a gratifying ding from the speakers. However, these moments of success were fleeting, as she inevitably missed again, her determination to improve her marksmanship unwavering.

As The Courier observed the agents practicing their firearm skills, his keen eye assessed their efficiency with a sense of satisfaction. Cassidy, Baptiste, Tracer, and others displayed mastery over their chosen weapons, a reassuring sight for the wastelander. It was a stark contrast to the inexperienced individuals he often encountered in the unforgiving Mojave. The Courier didn't harbor any frustration towards those with limited gun experience. Instead, he saw it as an opportunity to impart his knowledge, teaching essential gun safety procedures and more.

However, among the agents, one figure drew his attention. Hana Song, clad in casual attire that bore the "MEKA" logo, stood in front of him. Her stance, grip on the weapon, posture—all these aspects piqued his interest. The Courier spotted numerous irregularities, which triggered a sense of dissatisfaction within him. Deciding to address these issues, he approached her and gently tapped her shoulder just as she emptied another magazine.

"Oh, hey. Need something?" Hana, initially taken aback by the presence of The Courier, met his inquiry with a quizzical expression. She continued to load her pistol, avoiding direct eye contact, a common reaction among those who still harbored unease around the enigmatic figure.

"What is your weapon?" The Courier inquired, his words measured and precise.

Hana responded, her voice laced with pride as she displayed her sidearm. "Oh, this? It's the HB50 Light Gun. Standard issue for every MEKA pilot. Though, I made some personal modifications to mine." Her pistol, a compact and loud design with a zany appearance, was presented with a hint of excitement. The Courier would have been inclined to comment on the unconventional look of the pistol, but he realized the eccentricity of his own Recharger Rifle.

"May I?" The Courier asked, extending his hand to request the weapon.

"Yeah, go for it," Hana consented hesitantly, relinquishing the pistol. "Just try not to break it."

The Courier meticulously examined the HB50 Light Gun, his gloved fingers tracing over its contours and features. Despite its playful, almost toy-like appearance, the weapon possessed a certain weight that might deceive the average person. The Courier's experienced hands discerned the nuances of the firearm, even if it was drastically different from the weapons he was accustomed to. He studied the neon-blue highlighted sights, assessing their effectiveness, and noted the pistol's distinct ergonomic design that deviated from his familiar firearms. After a thorough inspection, he stepped further into the booth, selected a scenario, and gingerly squeezed the trigger.

The initial observation was the weapon's nearly nonexistent recoil. The pistol barely budged when he fired, which might have been due to his extensive experience with heavier caliber firearms. Turquoise energy pellets erupted from the barrel, each producing a faint hissing sound as they traveled through the air. The Courier, who had expected a burning effect from a plasma-based energy weapon, was surprised when the projectiles impacted the back wall. Instead of searing damage, they left behind only a small smoldering spot, no larger than his palm. Even the weakest laser pistols he had encountered in the wasteland were more potent than this.

Once all twenty rounds were expended, The Courier ejected the magazine and placed it on the table. Hana observed him closely, anticipation evident in her eyes. She had observed The Courier's unique arsenal alongside the other agents while Dr. Ziegler conducted her tests on him. Hana had hoped that her advanced sidearm would impress the stoic wastelander, contrasting it with what she affectionately referred to as his "old and obsolete lead throwers." Yet, it was challenging to gauge his reaction given that he never removed his helmet.

Hana received her pistol back from The Courier, her confidence beaming. She couldn't help but boast about her weapon.

"Pretty cool, right? Probably way better than those rusty pieces of metal you have," she declared, her pride evident in her voice.

The Courier, with his characteristic bluntness, offered his assessment. "Similar to BB guns. More attuned to hunting small creatures like geckos. Not suited for combat."

Hana's smug expression rapidly shifted to a blend of flustered frustration and anger. "What?! This is one of the best sidearms in Korea! Even our military uses it."

The Courier maintained his matter-of-fact tone. "Does not seem effective against living opponents, much less automated enemies." He added, "Also observed your stance. Ineffective and would result in misses during battle."

Hana, taken aback by The Courier's critique, retorted, "Seriously? I thought I was pretty good. My team and I would practice at our base during downtime between Gwishin attacks."

The Courier raised a pointed question, his gaze fixed on the screen that displayed her accuracy and kill count. "In a controlled environment. Always rely on the mech in battle?"

Hana's face reddened with embarrassment as she realized the accuracy of The Courier's observation. She could hardly argue with him on this point.

"What's going on over here?"

Baptiste, now joining the conversation, approached with his assault rifle casually slung over his shoulder. Dressed in a plain white shirt adorned with the Overwatch logo and beige cargo pants, the ex-Talon soldier's presence piqued The Courier's curiosity. He had overheard The Courier's comments regarding Hana's stance and the need for improvement.

"Abhorrent stance. Trying to fix it," The Courier explained, his attention still focused on Hana's posture.

Baptiste, intrigued by the conversation, agreed, "Really? Let's see it." He moved to the side of the booth, positioning himself to observe the adjustments Hana would make.

Taking The Courier's suggestions into account, Hana corrected herself and assumed her usual stance before aiming. Instantly, Baptiste winced, acknowledging The Courier's concerns. As someone who had encountered various levels of skill and experience during his time with Talon, he was taken aback by the sheer lack of proficiency in Hana's stance, especially from someone who claimed to have undergone training.

"Yeah, I see where he's coming from. I'm gonna be honest here, how the hell have you lasted so long with a stance like that?" Baptiste inquired, his voice colored with a mix of surprise and disbelief. He took a closer look at her posture, noting its glaring inadequacies. Hana, too embarrassed to respond, chose to maintain her stance in silence.

"Want to instruct her?" The Courier asked when Baptistse finished his inspection.

"Me? Nah, I'm good. I may have been a soldier but that doesn't mean I was good at giving orders, much less teaching. Plus, I kinda want to see how you'll handle this."

With a shrug, The Courier returned his attention to Hana and straightforwardly instructed her, "Right. Take your stance."

Following his directive, Hana resumed her stance, gripping the weapon with both hands, her arms rigid and her back arched excessively. Her posture was far from ideal, but The Courier made an effort not to show his frustration, even though it was challenging. He couldn't help but be surprised by how long Hana had managed with such an inadequate stance, given that she had tacitly admitted to relying heavily on her mech.

The Courier proceeded to provide guidance and instruction. "Arching back too much. Causing too much stress on your body. Arms are too straight, will produce unnecessary strain on muscles, which will affect aim and stability of the weapon. Footing is good, however," he pointed out as he made small adjustments to her form. He gently pushed her forward, eased her shoulders, and brought the weapon closer for improved aim and stability. "Try now."

The simulation commenced once again, and holographic targets materialized. Hana, determined to maintain her adjusted stance, began firing down the range. It felt awkward and uncomfortable, particularly in her arms, which were unaccustomed to being bent in such a way. Nevertheless, she persisted, making a concerted effort to adapt to the new stance. As the simulation unfolded, it became evident to the trio that Hana was missing fewer shots compared to her previous attempt.

Once the simulation concluded, The Courier pulled up the statistics for comparison. The improvement was apparent, with a "Fourteen percent increase in accuracy," he noted, giving a nod of approval to the young Korean.

Hana, still adjusting to her modified stance, rolled her shoulders and remarked, "I kinda feel better, but it's also weird."

"Will take the body time to adjust," The Courier replied, understanding that changes in technique required patience and practice.

After discharging her weapon, Hana moved beside The Courier to review her performance, her expression reflecting genuine intrigue as she read the statistics. Meanwhile, The Courier decided he had seen enough for the moment and headed back to his room to prepare his gear. Baptiste, accompanying him, seemed to want to discuss something as they walked together.

As Baptiste and The Courier walked together, Baptiste attempted to strike up a conversation to fill the silence that hung between them. He began by complimenting The Courier on his performance earlier, noting, "You handled yourself well back there. Seems like you know a lot about these kinds of things. Were you also a soldier for the, what were they called? New California Republic?"

The Courier responded matter-of-factly, "No. Was never a soldier nor trained to be one. Though, did a few jobs for the Republic before forcing them out of the Mojave, but never was a part of them."

Baptiste was genuinely surprised by this revelation, as he had assumed The Courier had some prior military experience. "Really?" he inquired. "Because I know a soldier when I see one. And with how you were instructing Ms. Song back there, I thought you'd be a veteran or something."

The Courier then turned the conversation back to Baptiste, inquiring, "You are a soldier?"

Baptiste corrected him, stating, "Was. For Talon but, those days are behind me. I'm trying to do the right thing, and New Overwatch seems to be the right path."

"Seen too many times, good people corrupted or destroyed from the inside. Money is most common cause," The Courier began while they strolled down the hallway. "Few would bring themselves back. Most would fall deeper, becoming content with the corruption."

Baptiste couldn't help but wince at the mention of money, a flicker of regret briefly crossing his face as he contemplated his own past. Since his induction into the ranks of New Overwatch, he had often found himself alone with his thoughts, plagued by doubt about his place in this group. The weight of the atrocities he had committed and the lives he had disrupted still haunted him. Could he ever truly be deserving of the acceptance he had found among these fellow agents? Despite their open arms, he remained locked in self-doubt.

"Do you know anyone who managed to turn things around?" Baptiste ventured, the echo of his own inner turmoil ringing in his voice as they rounded a corner.

The Courier's mind drifted back to a close friend as Baptiste posed his question, memories of the past intermingling with the present. "One," The Courier replied in their characteristic terse manner. "A sniper. His wife was kidnapped by the Legion. He tracked her down but the odds were stacked against him. So, he positioned himself on a vantage point with his rifle. His wife suffered, and there was no other way to save her."

Their pace slowed, the corridor growing darker with every word. The Courier vividly recalled the night when Boone had unburdened his soul, revealing the reasons for his own journey. "He chose to end her suffering, swift and merciful. But he couldn't release the burden of guilt. He clung to the past. He became a shattered man. A hollow man."

"And how'd he get through it?"

"He talked," The Courier replied, their voice carrying the weight of experience. "I listened."

As Baptiste glanced around, he realized that he was alone in the now desolate corridor. The presence of The Courier had quietly departed, leaving him with much to ponder. Their words hung in the air, like an invitation to a profound self-reflection. Maybe, just maybe, Baptiste considered, The Courier was right. Perhaps, all he needed was someone who would listen, someone with whom he could share the weight of his own story.

…..

Within the hushed confines of the Orca ship, silence reigned supreme. The air was devoid of the usual playful banter and strategic debates that had filled the chamber before departure. The gravity of their mission weighed heavily on every soul aboard. Some of the operatives exhibited a steely confidence, their eyes gleaming with determination, while others concealed their apprehension beneath a facade of unflinching resolve. As for the enigmatic figure known as The Courier, he occupied a unique space within this spectrum of emotions.

Seated in contemplative solitude, The Courier's thoughts swirled like a tempest within him. He embodied a paradoxical fusion of confidence and uncertainty, his aura tinged with an unmistakable sense of ambiguity. This wastelander, born of the unforgiving crucible of a post-apocalyptic world, found himself on the precipice of a mission unlike any other.

Unlike his comrades, The Courier had no preconceived notions of Rio, the destination of their perilous voyage. While the other agents possessed a mental map of the city, carefully crafted through briefings and holographic projections, The Courier approached this mission with an unfiltered and untainted perspective. He had indeed reviewed a holoprojection of the city, the same one that had illuminated their meeting room, but his intuition, honed by years of traversing the unforgiving wastelands, told him that experiencing a place in person was the true key to understanding it.

In his eyes, Rio promised to be a city drastically different from his own concept of urbanity. New Vegas, the only city he intimately knew, was a patchwork of decaying structures, a testament to humanity's resilience in the face of nuclear devastation. A few buildings stood defiantly amid the ruins, some blessed by the hand of Mr. House during his Strip's revitalization. Yet, Rio de Janeiro, based on The Courier's meticulous research, bore a stark contrast. It was renowned for its sprawling slums and tightly packed streets, where throngs of people wove a living tapestry through the city's heart. Navigating this urban maze promised to be a daunting challenge.

However, The Courier was no stranger to improvisation. His past exploits, such as navigating the treacherous labyrinth of the Sierra Madre and surviving the wilderness of Zion, bore witness to his extraordinary ability to adapt to new environments with scant preparation. In Rio, he anticipated another test of his mettle, one that would demand an acute awareness of his surroundings, swift decision-making, and an inherent knack for turning the unexpected to his advantage.

Moreover, The Courier recognized the volatile human element that would play a pivotal role in their mission. With the looming threat of Null Sector, they would undoubtedly engage with the city's civilian population. Crafting a strategy on paper was a straightforward task, but in the real world, mobs and crowds proved capricious and uncontrollable. Once fear and panic gripped the populace, attempts to enforce order would be an exercise in futility.

With these thoughts and considerations weighing heavily on his mind, The Courier steeled himself for the unpredictable challenges that awaited him in the unfamiliar streets of Rio de Janeiro. In this mission, where the stakes were high and the terrain was alien, The Courier's unwavering resolve and adaptability would be his most potent weapons.

The concept of teamwork was a familiar one to The Courier. He had, after all, ventured through the treacherous terrain of the Mojave Desert with a band of nine individuals, himself included. Yet, as he pondered the impending mission, he couldn't help but reflect on those moments when he roamed the wasteland in solitude. There was an indescribable freedom in those solitary journeys. His expeditions to the Big Mountain, his exploration of the Divide, and his leisurely forays into the Mojave, these were the times when he truly thrived.

The unique challenge he faced now lay in the pre-established team dynamic within New Overwatch. He wasn't naive or oblivious; The Courier understood that many of his fellow agents harbored reservations about him. However, he didn't dwell on their opinions. What mattered, in his pragmatic view, was that the team functioned as a well-oiled machine and that they successfully completed their mission.

His gaze shifted to the right, where Genji had been engrossed in his manga since their departure from Gibraltar. The sight of the cyborg ninja fascinated The Courier deeply. Genji was a living testament to the technological prowess of this world, a captivating blend of human and machine. It was a form of technology that piqued The Courier's curiosity, and he hoped to explore it further during his limited free time.

Lost in his contemplation, The Courier hadn't realized how long he had been watching Genji until the Japanese man shifted his attention away from his manga. Their eyes met, and in his characteristic style, Genji responded with a quiet chuckle, "Does my appearance intrigue you, Courier?"

"Cyborgs are fiction in the wasteland. Closest being implants and augmentations."

"Like yourself?"

"Yes."

A somber stillness pervaded Genji as he stroked his chin, the faint hum of contemplation escaping his lips. He directed his inquisitive gaze at The Courier.

"You mentioned that the Great War was between America and China. Do know what happened to Japan afterward?" Genji inquired, shifting his cybernetic form to face The Courier.

The Courier responded in his characteristic manner, succinct and logical, "Assumed Japan met its end much like China and America. No Japanese encountered, no word of them in the Mojave. Though there were whispers of Japanese outlaws in the western expanses of Nevada, particularly in New Reno. Said to be the descendants of the Yakuza, the pre-War Japanese mafia, skilled in the arts of the blade and the of throwing weapons, armed with wakizashi."

"Interesting. The Yakuza still live, huh? That is no surprise." Genji remarked, chuckling to himself.

"Exist here?" The Courier inquired further.

Genji's eyes, concealed behind his mask, shimmered with a wistful nostalgia, his voice carrying the weight of memories. "In a manner of speaking. The Shimada Clan has risen as a formidable criminal empire, profiting from illicit arms trade, contraband, and the shadows of assassination. However, unlike the Yakuza, the Shimadas recognized the value of honor and loyalty in forging unbreakable bonds between rulers and subjects." His voice held a subtle, yearning smile. "They demanded much of those who followed their banner, but they inspired unwavering devotion in return. In the end, the Shimada Clan ruled with honor and treated the people of Kanezaka with the utmost respect, standing as their guardians against rival clans."

Though Genji's voice had been significantly augmented by his cybernetics, The Courier's perceptive instincts discerned a subtle undercurrent in his tone. He leaned forward, his manner direct as ever.

"Detect a hint of pride in your words. Speaking from experience?" The Courier asked, his words laced with curiosity.

Genji's gaze shifted briefly to an omnic seated beside Mei, engaged in conversation with her small robot. He spoke with a touch of introspection, "Yes. I was the younger of two siblings. My brother, Hanzo, was destined to inherit the leadership of our clan after our father. I must confess, my younger self was brash and headstrong, but I have since learned from the errors of my ways, thanks to my master." His eyes flickered toward Angela, that particular omnic who had become his guiding light. "Angela shared your past, or at least what you could recall of it. It brings me some measure of solace to know that I'm not alone in having brushed with death."

"Read your file as well. Brought back with cybernetics. Though, you still remember your past vividly."

"What I'm getting at is I, too, understand what it's like to awaken after enduring immense suffering, disoriented and frightened. I was fortunate enough to find myself in a better place, learning from my transgressions. But you, your past remains an enigma, and you've been denied the closure you rightfully deserve. While you're here, Courier, I hope that we can aid you in finding answers."

As the conversation trailed into silence, the ship's low hum and vibrations filled the cabin. Unconsciously, The Courier's hands sought out Blood-Nap, his fingers tracing the serrated edges until they came to rest at the bloodstained tip. His mind, typically a realm of sharp pragmatism, seemed adrift, perhaps lacking the luxury of wandering thoughts or perhaps finding nothing else worthy of contemplation. The truth remained a mystery, hidden even from himself.