For a small array of unfortunately logical reasons, Angela must concede Morrison not being unreasonable to refuse allowing her anywhere near the battlefield without at least going through basic combat training.
For starters, Overwatch does not employ civilian doctors near the battlefield - a fact she never learned for the lack of interest in ever visiting one. For the average applicant, an officer leadership course would be applied instead, but given her standing experience with leadership, the Commander has deemed such obsolete versus familiarising her with the military in the capacity of a soldier. For her own safety, and others', as he put it. Against which the latter point Angela has no way to object, nor can she publicly admit to being immortal at this point. It's an understandable concern at least, unlike most she's had to address to even get this far.
She could, theoretically, acquire help for her research in the form of other Overwatch medics who would administer her stabilising serum, dismissing the need for her presence in the first place. Unfortunately, she would first need to find one such medic she could rope into liability clauses, and trust not to pick a body too fresh or too old for needing this specific treatment.
Were she anyone else, this would perhaps be the preferred option. After all, any risk to herself is a risk to the whole project. Fortunately, precious few threats to her life exist in the world, changing what would otherwise be a reckless choice into a matter of expediency.
Her parents are understandably upset when she breaks the news to them. Truth be told, she's not thrilled about receiving a rank herself. Angela imagines she wouldn't react at all differently were it her hypothetical child that were to tangle with the military branch of the UN after already getting her dream job. Why, Brigitte keeps saying she will join too, one day, and Angela would definitely prefer her sister to never see even the vicinity of any battlefield, even if she does appreciate the girl's otherwise useless approval in this present endeavour.
"Just- why? Help me understand, you never even mentioned wanting to join the Strike Team."
"Mom, I'm not joining the Strike Team. I'll be working behind the lines with all the other medical staff, caring for people who get hurt."
"That's not what your father tells me." The woman crosses her arms, worrying her lip. "In an ideal world, maybe, but nothing ever goes to plan."
"Maybe because I'm not there?"
Mother's troubled frown has Angela drop her own attempt at a smile.
"Angela, it's dangerous. You're not a soldier. People die on those missions. Medics too."
"That's exactly the point. I can save them."
"No, that's not the point. It's dangerous. What if something happens to you? What then? You can help more people if you stay away from the fighting. You've already done so much."
So much, and yet almost nothing. A glorified first-aid device constituting half her life's work isn't what she'd call any stunning success.
"I'm not as fragile as most people."
The boot camp is, all told, more scary in her mind than in reality. That is not to say she would ever call the time she spends there easy, it becomes immediately clear on the very first day it's decidedly not when their sergeant singles her out with a God-given mission to prove she's unfit for the military. A sentiment she fully agrees with, truth be told, but finds it difficult to help the man reconcile with her presence by the dint of him not giving her the opportunity to speak.
Angela doesn't think he likes her very much, what with the chain of one gruelling task after another assigned to her. Gruelling for any other human, of course. Running a hundred laps around the camp isn't necessarily pleasant with a backpack full of rocks, and neither is doing a hundred push-ups, with another hundred following right after. It might well be precisely because she keeps frustrating his efforts to as much as tire her - a physical impossibility - that he tries so hard. It would probably break any other person, and doubly so for someone of her rather unimpressive stature, but she's not anyone else. Her body might be that of a teenager, but it isn't strength that is required of her, but endurance, of which she has an unlimited supply of. The first push-up is no more tiring than the two-hundredth, and the hundreth lap no more than the first. The challenge in carrying 60 kilograms of equipment doesn't lie with a lack of strength, but mainly with the effort chipping away at it. Rapidly, for someone of her slight build, if, again, she were anyone else.
The weapon training is the worst of it, really. Not because she has to do anything unreasonable that the others don't have to, or because she's a bad shot. Her aim is as steady as her hands are. But she swore to do no harm, and even if the oath does not extend to omnics, she would really rather never have to shoot a gun in her life.
At least the other cadets are nice enough. She sticks out like a sore thumb among them much in the same way she did in high school, but as opposed to their sergeant, they don't target her for it. She likes to think it's because they're decent people - some of them even know of her. One man proudly shows off a scar left by one of her inferior fabricators that he's got left as a souvenir from getting his stomach stuck through on rebar in a terror bombing, thanking her for her work. She maintains a polite smile even as she internally cringes at the unsightly gash. Her PFUSMN wouldn't have left such a flaw behind.
Father and Mr. Reinhardt are there at the graduation ceremony. They cause quite a stir, the crusader especially once he starts giving out congratulations and encouragement to all the hopefuls. Judging by the expressions of others, were it not for her nanites, his thunderous clap on her back would've left a bruise.
"So." Father speaks up, his expression somewhere between constipation and pride. "Was that everything you hoped it'd be?"
Hah.
"Honestly? I don't think I'm military material." she replies at length, drawing an amused huff out of the man.
"You don't say?"
Joining the Strike Team support staff actually reduces the amount of work on Angela's hands. Mostly for the fact she gives up her position as a surgeon team head for this. It's a loss she quickly comes to terms with, having never noticed how much paperwork came with the job until it's all gone, for someone else to deal with while she's simply saving lives and working on her nanotechnology.
It also means getting to know some of the more… colourful members of Overwatch. Foremost among them stands a Moon gorilla scientist. Oh, she's ever been aware of his existence, hard not to be, catching glimpses of him around the base every now and then, but never exchanging a word for never having a reason to hold a conversation. Much as a scientific curiosity Winston is, his field of expertise falls far outside her own. A shame, now that they've been properly introduced. He's brighter than most people she's met in her life, and a good conversation partner once he gets invested in a topic enough to forgo his lacking oratory skills altogether and let himself speak in pure science. If this is the result of enhancing an animal's brain, Angela would very much like to see the same being done to a human.
Pity about all the research being left on the Moon. It'll be some years yet before any country on Earth feels strong enough to lay claim and reconquer it - if not because of the apes left there. In Winston's own estimate, his brethren simply lack the capacity, if not intellectual then civic, to form a stable society which could support them and any war effort long-term. The odd one out who could possibly rise to the challenge, Winston himself, was all but forced to leave, for which she is glad. Once the time comes, the apes shall be wiped out without fanfare. They only ever managed to take Horizon in the first place due to it being a scientific outpost without any real military presence. Were it not for the Omnic Crisis and its deep running wounds still taking up nearly all of the world's resources, someone would've done that already. Winston believes it'll be the UN who first returns there. Wishful thinking of a creature still holding out hope for his people, in Angela's opinion. Her own bet is on India, what with all their grand aspirations. The nation has long been quite vocal about wiping the slate clean there.
Hopefully it will happen sooner rather than later. It is only a matter of time before an arcology like Horizon suffers a catastrophic failure at the mercy of the brutes residing there now. If all else fails, she could always take matters into her own hands. Depending on whether or not the apes there figured out how to operate the agricultural biomes - a jury Winston is hesitant to give out - there can either be a few hundred apes remaining, or a few thousand. Two dozen or so individuals augmented to Shimada's capacity should be more than enough to cleanse the infestation.
Any such happenings, however, remain the domain of the future, and largely forgotten in the wake of her first deployment.
An omnic terror group, Null Sector, has been a thorn in humanity's side since almost the end of the war, and increasing in activity of late. Their efforts have so far only drummed up the resentment towards omnics, resulting in developments like the landslide negative vote in the British referendum to give them a semblance of rights. As far as she's concerned, omnics should be counting their blessings. It's a feat of humanitarianism rarely seen throughout history that their race has even been allowed to carry out their existence to a non-violent end, rather than all be dismantled outright. They have no business demanding anything of the ones who possess a future.
With time passing, there will be less and less omnics left in the world. The Null Sector's struggle is one already lost - they'd lost the war when they had the full might of the omniums behind them, what chance have they now? The answer is, of course, none. Their struggle is a futile one, with the only lasting effect being the misery brought into the lives of their victims and their families. That, and hastening the inevitable end of the homo omnis.
What a pointless waste of life. Biological and otherwise.
Angela's first deployment begins a few weeks following switching her career track, before she ever finds her first volunteer, and shortly after lunchtime she spends, as ever, in her lab. An omnic terror attack in Lombardy, Italy, on a major munitions factory. Apparently, it had been an ongoing situation throughout the night before they were called in, following an explosion which levelled the factory ground, killing dozens of soldiers sent to prevent that very outcome. Local forces in tatters, Overwatch has been called to hunt down the omnic straggles in the countryside.
They can see the plumes of midnight smoke as soon as their VTOLs breach the barrier of clouds pooling against the south of the Alps. Much of the country can, no doubt. Angela's own vehicle lands at the outskirts of the incursion, near to directly atop some building the Italians have already converted to a field hospital, and near enough still to hear the bullets and explosions in the distance.
It's better inside. Less noisy. She's never had to operate under such conditions before, and she's grateful for at least that one additional barrier the walls make. The gunshots fade into the background quickly, the explosions not so much.
They're all assigned their posts within minutes of landing, and soon enough Angela falls into the familiar rhythm of stitching together blue with blue. She can see two of her PFUMNs working overtime out of the corner of her eye, a few beds over, where the wounded are taken once the surgeons are done cleaning and dressing their patients' injuries. Inferior though the technology may be, she still feels a spark of pride at the inarguable contribution to the process. The machines shave off much of the work, to the point her task is largely only about preparing the injured for their dose, upon which receiving, they are wheeled off to the trucks and then a proper hospital in Milan. Most, Angela knows for a fact, without need for further treatment.
Shenever sees the dead until the wounded stop coming in some hours after nightfall. Angela emerges from the field hospital after a twelve-hour shift to stretch her legs before departure, only to stumble across the rows of body bags arranged by the side of the building. Some not-yet packed. Some only in the human shape thanks to whoever put them back that way. Right. Of course. She knew there were casualties before they even set out, still her hands shake before she forces them not to. She supposes she's gotten used to being able to save anyone.
If she had been here, with them, she could have. A few, anyway. But such thoughts are only good for driving herself insane; she never will be able to personally aid everyone in need. Plans are underway to make a syringe with her nanites part of a standard first-aid kit the world across, but even then one first needs to administer the treatment, and there will be times no-one can. Not to mention there is only so much her organic nanites can do. The synthetic ones would fare better, but even then, there is little to be done for the presently dead. Even once her latest idea is fully operational, there's a limit to how many it could save. To ensure the best chances for everyone's survival, everyone would need a synthetic brain.
Some singular cases would still be beyond recovery, of course, but with chances such as these, one could reliably expect to live for hundreds, thousands of years. Tens of thousands, maybe. It's hard to say without a sufficient sample size, and a sample size like that will take thousands of years to form.
One day. Far, far away.
Angela wouldn't call the mood aboard the VTOL morose, exactly, in their flight back. She's the only one on her first deployment, and the others must've learned to deal with the realities of it in their own ways by now. Still, half a day of work has taken its toll on everyone but her, and the surgeons all but fall over into their seats, where they quickly drift off into sleep.
A few minutes out into their flight, out of better things to do, Angela finds herself contemplating following in their example when Athena's voice sounds directly in her earpiece.
"Are you feeling alright?"
"Fine." She is fine, but at the same time the answer feels less than comprehensive in a way she can't pin down. There's no feeling of a job well done. Nor one done unwell. No satisfaction. No dissatisfaction. Nothing. All that evaporated the moment she stepped out of the field hospital. "Say, what is the logic behind this attack from your perspective?"
"The stated goal of the terrorist organisation of Null Sector remains the liberation of the omnic people and the founding of an omnic state."
"I know what they say they want." Angela bends her fingers backwards against each other, waiting for the pop. "I'm asking how does any of this contribute to that. You know how this goes. How many omnics do you figure will be destroyed in reprisals?"
"Judging by the previous incidents and their increasing-"
"I know. Sorry. Rhetorical question." Angela rubs her eyes until violet splotches form behind her eyelids. "It just doesn't make sense. They'll run out of omnics to liberate at this pace."
"Humans are adverse to suffering hardships when unnecessary. Terror tactics have worked on many occasions throughout history, and omnics are facing total anihilation in a matter of decades. It is perfectly sensible in the long term to test human resolve heedless of losses."
"Or to try a non-violent approach." Angela points out with a frown.
"Do you believe it would work?"
A grimace curls her lips at the thought. An independant omnic nation. The cautionary tale of the Australian Outback looms over any who would consider giving up land to the omnics. How much more remote a place than that can even be found on Earth exempting Antarctica, unsuitable even for machine habitation? The few de-facto claims, empty islands and such, that followed the war have been dealt with mercilessly. If it were the omnics who established themselves on the moon, the matter would've ended in atomic fire within a week - it's too perfect a place for machines to thrive.
Still
"It can't have-"
The swerve comes without a warning, the lights and alarm blaring only after her insides lurch to the side along with the vehicle, jolting everyone awake into a state between sleep and confusion. None of it helps. An explosion rocks the plane, throwing Angela out of her seat - together with said seat - amidst the cries of panic. She feels, more than sees, the hole punched into the side of the plane when the violent spiral they go into throws her against the edge of it. Something tears, taking a miserable chunk out of her side on her way out.
She wonders, with each turn of her spiralling body bringing her closer to the ground, whether the urgency in Athena's voice is her own, or a feature of her programming.
"You again."
Angela finds the venom in the words entirely disproportionate to the situation at hand in the brief moment before she remembers where she had last seen the horned man sitting before her. Then she spits right back:
"Look who's talking. God's little lackey, stuck with his desk job for the rest of eternity."
The desk creaks dangerously when giant fists slam against it, their owner's face contorted crimson with rage.
"Watch your tongue, human! Once I get my hands on your soul-"
"You'll what?" She bares all her teeth in something that could charitably be called a smile. A mean, cruel smile. She's not one to mock people, but the vile thing insulting the human shape in front of her is no person. He's a disease, and deserves no less than full treatment. "You don't get to decide. You can't even keep me here."
The thing's eyes flash, his fists creak, but he doesn't close the distance between them. He can't. She isn't his to do with as he pleases.
"I am ancient. And patient. Sooner or later you will come to stay, and then you'll regret everything."
Sooner or later she will figure out how to avoid such a fate. Uncle managed. And when the time comes this parasite upon humanity, too, will be eradicated. No different than any other contagion. The only thing it knows to do is wait until it gets its way, same as it has for aeons, while humanity marches ever onwards. They'll overtake it eventually.
"Right, how many years has it been for you since I was here? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Say, can you even leave here, or are you stuck in this box forever?"
Whether the creature means to answer or not, Angela can't say as the world suddenly grows bright. Her vision retracts to a pinprick, and a feeling much like what she imagines being sucked through a vacuum cleaner tube must be like overtakes her body.
Angela comes to, and immediately wishes she hasn't.
She inhales sharply, forcing a wet cough while squinting away from the brilliant scarlet light assaulting her eyes - the only source of light around. An attempt at pulling herself up informs her of all the injuries not yet healed, and the general pathetic state of her body, unable to do even that much. An onset of vertigo has her fall flat on her back, eyes closed and breathing heavily in the lilting silence of the wheat field surrounding her. The sensation is so unfamiliar she feels more confused than anything else. The last she hurt like this was… when she was still living with Uncle, probably. A long time ago, anyway
Irrelevant. She's alive, and getting better by the second.
What about the others?
"Hello?" she croaks out, then again. She tries with her earpiece, only to find herself short of a hand to do so. She stares at the scarlet-lit hollow in the place of her shoulder from behind her eyelashes, just now able to place the pain to its origin. With great effort, she heaves upwards for the half second it takes her to place the other source of it right below her navel, then falls back down with a pained cry.
Brilliant. What the hell happened? Were they shot down? They must've been. She fell out before they hit the ground, but little as she admittedly knows about matters of aviation, she knows at least that there's no recovery from spiralling like they did.
Where are the others? She can't imagine them handling the crash better than herself. They need help.
Which she can't give without legs.
Angela checks for the earpiece with her remaining arm. Missing, as expected. Along with some half of her hair on the same side. Makes sense, hair is dead matter, her nanites don't regrow it like any living tissue. Whatever happened to her skull, the little accident she had with Mr. Shimada would be put to shame. Also completely irrelevant. For now. She's fine now, or at least better than anyone should be after a fall like that. She just needs to find her missing limbs and-
A rustle to her side has Angela freeze up. Rescue? No. Rescue would be calling out for survivors. Omnics? No, omnics aren't anywhere near as quiet with all their pistons and servos. A curious animal? Perhaps. Unlikely. No forests to speak of for dozens of kilometres. A simple bystander seems most likely.
All her suppositions turn out wrong when the intruder pushes through the barrier of wheat, revealing itself to be her own lower half.
That's… well. She can see a few ways of achieving this, certainly. The most probable being the wireless network her blood makes up for taking control of her disembodied parts and moving them towards the rest, or the head. Probably the head. She's certainly not controlling her lower body herself. No matter. It's all irrelevant right now. Her legs are here, and she knows from so long ago that her severed body parts can reconnect once put together. She needs to find the others.
It hurts less than the last time when she moves now, though it's still nothing short of a struggle with only one arm to manoeuvre around. It helps that her legs align themselves well enough with her torso to compensate when they fall over, presumably for that exact purpose. Angela pushes whatever strungout parts of herself she can feel out back in, picking up who knows how much debris in the process - that is fine, Uncle's nanites will take care of the intruding matter - and pushes herself onto her lower half.
Something snaps together in her lower back, as if with magnets. There's no buildup, the light flares red in an instant and with it the familiar sensation of almost-unbearable heat. The pain abates, and in a matter of moments, she is whole again.
Sans the arm, obviously, but that is a secondary concern given her ongoing possession of the other one. It'll grow back eventually if she doesn't find it, regardless. Right now there are more immediate problems to take care of.
She stands up on somewhat shaky legs, and inspects for any lingering damage in the fading red light. Naturally, there's none to be found, her nanites leaving no sign whatsoever of the recent damage her body sustained. Her uniform is done for, as much of it left as not. Next she inspects her surroundings, now that she has some elevation to do so from.
In the violet expanse of the moonlit sky, illuminated also by the towns visible in the distance, there's one source of light an estimated kilometre or so from her own position that pollutes the otherwise clear sky with plumes of black smoke. No bodies around. No sight of her arm, either. Though she supposes it could well be lying ten metres from her and she wouldn't know, even as it's slowly crawling towards her. No matter. She's alive. Now, the others.
Angela runs. It's little more than a jog at first, while she adjusts to her misaligned balance and the spike of pain every step sends through her empty shoulder, but she soon picks up the pace and before long is all but sprinting to her destination.
It's not a pretty picture. The VTOL is mostly in one piece, if one were to use a literal interpretation of the word in that it hasn't fallen completely apart. It's the best that can be said of its state, bent and twisted and burning as it is. An explosion looks to have gone off on impact, charred and burning as the ground is, a low ring of fire she passed through on the way slowly spreading out. The wreck of a bonfire illuminates the blackened clearing created in its wake, all the debris and broken equipment. It illuminates the bodies, also.
The one closest to her, and the furthest from the wreck, she has to put out with her jacket, first. His clothes must have caught fire when the ring passed over him. Their team leader - Henrich, she recognizes once she manages to turn him over from the blistered half of his face which remains recognizable - the other half and much of his body a pulp of grated flesh, one arm and both legs shattered. The arm she deems a lost cause, quickly applying a zip-band from his pouch to cut its blood flow. He must've fallen out on impact or close to it. Faint pulse. Shallow breath. A shot of nanites could stabilise him. Maybe.
She inspects the next one, Alouis - they've spoken maybe twice outside of work. His face is whole, if battered, but neck and limbs bent at wrong angles. One leg missing at the knee. Bleeding from ears and nose. Likely severe brain trauma. No pulse. No breath. Cooling already. His only chance would be a transfusion from her that she can't give here, not without tools and preparation. Beyond her means.
Right. Aidpack. She needs an aidpack. Hopefully the nanite shots inside are intact. Inside the plane. Others might be inside, too.
Bracing herself, Angela crawls inside the burning wreck on all threes. She'll be fine, smoke is poison like any other and any surface damage fire does to her will quickly be repaired - nobody else in there has such luxury.
There are two more bodies inside that she can see, the cockpit reduced to half its size and the pilot with it. Someone else must've fallen out, too. The flames lick at her exposed back and arm, but she forces herself to crawl forward. First she checks on Ellie, her pelvis half torn-out, skull caved-in. Dead. Then, there's the other nurse, Sebastian. Breathing. Broken, but breathing. No sight on Johan. No sight of an aidpack, either.
Later. Get the living out.
It is no small undertaking with her one arm, lacking size, smoke-filled lungs, and continuously healing burns - but she will live, and the man would not. And that is that. It's a relief unlike any she's felt in a long while when she braces her feet on the hole she crawled in through, finally heaving her colleague out. She allows herself a few seconds of rest while her nanites take care of the skin cooked beneath her singed tatters before standing up and pulling the nurse a bit further away, slipping and falling twice.
Finally, she turns to assess the damage on the- no longer breathing man. Pulse? Gone.
Lifepak. There'll be one near the aidpacks for sure. Will it have survived? Unlikely. Fragile. Maybe an AED. Nanites won't hurt either. She needs a nanite shot for Heinrich anyway, and can't give CPR with one arm and her size, so-
A piercing pain blossoms in her chest, taking away Angela's breath, then again, and another before she even falls over with a cry. An oppressive heat instantly springs to life deep inside her chest, further depriving her of air. More gunshots fly above her head. Omnics? Have to be. The ones who shot them down? Probably. Irrelevant.
She curls around her patient, mind racing. Can she drag him away? She'll be shot. She'd live, but won't manage to help. Run and draw the omnics' attention away? They'll still die. They have minutes, at most. She needs an aidpack. Hide inside the wreck and find one? There are weapons inside, too. She has one arm - a pistol won't suffice.
Angela flinches when more shots sound in the air. But no bullets whizz above her head, nor do they strike her, or the ground, or anything. Yet more shots follow, and none of them in her direction. She keeps down, draped over her ubreathing colleague until all is silent but for the roar of flames.
And footsteps.
Slowly, she dares raise her head to assess the situation, only to come face to face with a stress-induced hallucination.
"Howdy," the cowboy greets her with his cowboy accent and a tip of his cowboy hat.
She ignores the phantasm for the moment, looking instead for her assailants. They're not very hard to spot, sparking and smoking, crumpled and stark in the fire they reflect against the soot-black backdrop. The cowboy is still there when she looks back to him, revolver in hand, with his hat, and poncho, and spurs, and-
"Get over here and give this one CPR. I'll be right back."
"Now wait a-"
"Now!" She snaps, and doesn't wait a second longer before plunging back inside the wreck. She's learned in her tenure as a leader it's best not to give one a chance to object when dispensing orders that must be heard.
Finding an aidpack is a trial which takes entirely too long on account of the smoke assaulting her eyes and the first one she comes across being a crushed mess. Not to mention having to stick her hand into fire to get the other, but a minute or two later Angela reemerges from the plane to find the cowboy, hat on the ground by his side, following her command. Good.
First, she runs up to Henrich. Whether her nanites will help him now, she can't say. Only hope. Her old tech isn't very good with burns, and that's just one of the problems here. It's also the best they've got. She rips the clasp open and pulls the syringe cap off with her teeth, then jabs it straight into her patient's heart, injecting the entire half litre at once. Now:
"Stop. Move" She instructs the cowboy once he finishes a set, settling across from him, the second nanite shot already in hand, then plunges it into the nurse's heart. "Keep going."
She applies the shock pads before the man can finish the next set. The first shock doesn't help. Neither does the second, but the third time proves to indeed be the charm when their patient wheezes for a pained gulp of air, his eyes flickering, unseeing, before closing again. He continues breathing, laboured, but measured.
Heinrich doesn't. The nanites don't do anything for the bits of brain splattered about his freshly-mended skull. She only takes note while checking for a pulse again.
"You okay there?" Angela jumps at the presence behind her.
"Fine." She retrieves her previously discarded jacket from the ground, burying her fist in it to stop the oncoming shakes before making to stand, almost falling over in the process but for the man's quick reaction in guiding her back to the ground.
"Don't look fine to me."
"I will be. I'm not bleeding." She dismisses his concern in as few words as possible, not in the mood for a conversation. A shiver runs down her back, whether born of the night chill or not, Angela can't say. She tries, with little success, to put her tattered jacket back on.
The stranger observes in silence for a spell before shrugging off his poncho to put around her shoulders. It functions much like a blanket with their difference in size and her knees up to her chin.
"I heard. Name's McCree. I take it you're The Doc, yeah? Ziegler?"
At that, Angela looks the man over head to toe. She doesn't make any secret out of her unfortunate accident involving Mr. Shimada, but neither does she care to spread the story. As a result, it is all but unknown outside Zurich, and certainly outside Overwatch. Yet the man has no blue on him to speak of, looking the furthest thing from uniform one can imagine. That said, he did dispose of the attacking omnics and helped her with Sebastian. Overwatch or not, they're on the same side.
Angela digs her fingers into the cooling, ashen soil under the cover of her poncho, nodding in the absence of words to pass the gauntlet of her throat. Then she makes to stand.
"Whoa there! You can barely sit, let alone-"
"Then help me up," she spits out, the sudden onset of anger thawing out the ice stuck behind her tongue. She's not done working yet. There's a patient to check on, and an MIA to find. Dead, probably. But then, maybe not. Which direction did the VTOL fall from? "Here." She digs out a flare from the aidpack after checking on her one surviving teammate. "Shoot it if his condition worsens."
"And where do you think you're going?" he calls out, nonetheless pocketing the flare when she sets out back whence she came from. Johan, his body, has to be somewhere between here and where she woke up, right?
"One's missing. He should be- there. Somewhere." She offers with a wave of her arm, the gesture diminished by the curtain the poncho makes for.
"What, you got night vision, too?"
"No." She blinks. "Wait, do you?"
"Nah, this wasn't supposed to take this long. Look, boss-man's telling you to sit tight."
Angela turns her back on him without another word or the scoff threatening to slip past her teeth. The man's boss-man can choke on a body part of his choosing. Sit tight. While precious seconds of someone's life may be ticking away.
A heavy hand lands on her good shoulder. "Sit your ass down, there might still be omnics around."
"I'll be fine. It takes a lot more than a clueless omnic to kill me." She turns away again, only to be picked up by the waist and thrown over the shoulder.
"Sorry, no can do. Reyes will have my ass if I- sunova-!"
Angela is thrown, more than dropped, to the ground when she bites the man's exposed forearm. It could well be enough to get a headstart at least, if not for the fact she falls on her bad side, the pain taking away her breath and sight for a good few seconds it takes the man to easily pin her down.
"Now listen here, you-" he cuts off, his hazel eyes darting wayside of her own. "Your AI wants a chat."
Her AI? She doesn't-
"Athena?" She ceases her struggling, if not for finding no purchase at all against the hand pushing her chest into the ground. The cowboy doesn't answer, busy dislodging his earpiece from his own ear and putting it in hers.
"Please comply with Commander Reyes' orders." A familiar, pleasantly synthesised voice sounds in her ear once more. "A search and rescue party is on the way. ETA, two minutes, twenty seconds."
A quick calculation has Angela sag beneath the hand still holding her down. Two twenty is good. If the last member of her team is alive out there they'll find him in seconds. If he's not… then it doesn't really matter whether it takes a second or a day.
"Okay," she breathes out, to both the people listening. "Okay."
"Thank you. Please stay safe and return agent McCree's earpiece to him." "Not gonna try running again?" The AI and man both speak at the same time. Angela finds only enough energy in her rapidly depleting supply to let go of the arm she's been clawing at to hand back the comm device to its owner. Gradually, carefully, the pressure on her chest lets off.
Angela doesn't move an inch, feeling exhausted in excess of what she knows is possible for her. She's done what she could under the circumstances. Help is on the way. Most of her team is dead. Nothing to do but wait.
Nothing, until the cowboy jumps away with a curse, gun in hand.
"Ah." Is all she can manage at the sight of an arm, covered in soot and clawing closer through the ash, inch by inch. It must've landed much closer than the rest of her. "That's mine, I believe."