Watchpoint Gibraltar, five days later, 1120 hours.
Morrison was just about to get up from his desk and head out to grab some lunch. Again. God, what time was it? He checked the clock and noted that he hadn't slept for the better part of 36 hours. He decided to fill his empty stomach, come back, take care of these documents he was working on, and then head to bed. There was definitely too much to do around here.
He had just closed a file when someone knocked on the door of his office. Morrison looked up from the now closed file to see Dr. Laguardia standing outside of his glass office door. Jack waved the doctor to come inside. For a moment, the noise of the command center outside filled Morrison's office as the doctor walked inside. So much for his much needed lunch and subsequent sleep.
"What can I do for you, doctor?" Morrison asked, putting the classified documents away in a drawer of his desk. He tried to not sound annoyed. It wasn't Laguardia's fault that he was working two jobs at once. The official and the unofficial one. For a moment, he considered inviting the doctor to lunch, but he decided against it. He didn't have the time for long lunch breaks anyway.
Giuseppe cleared his throat carefully. He had to admit that he was uncomfortable around Morrison. The commander had that strict, no nonsense aura he imagined most military leaders would have. So, in a way, this was most likely nothing uncommon. Be that as it may, Morrison's stern attitude made the psychologist uncomfortable. The commander was basically unreadable. His face was stoic und his eyes didn't betray a single emotion. He wore the large scars on his face with an unwavering pride, and it was absolutely clear that the Overwatch commander was a tough-as-nails soldier. Despite being well past his sixties already, Laguardia had little doubt that Morrison was still very much capable of some major ass kicking. A part of his aura was simply... scary.
"Doctor?" Jack asked, frowning slightly.
The Italian psychologist shook his head as if he had awoken from a trance before he laughed uncomfortably. "Yes, sorry. My evaluation of Dr. Ziegler is complete. You wanted to be informed about this?" Laguardia said, placing a folder on Morrisons desk.
"That I did" Morrison nodded, opening the folder and skimming through its content "Doctor, I'm sorry, but I don't have the time to read through this thoroughly. Report. What do you have for me?"
"Well" Laguardia stated, nervously adjusting his glasses on his nose. Could that man please stop staring at him like this? Just for a moment? Apparently not. "I'll give you a rundown then."
"Much appreciated, doctor."
"First things first: I do think Dr. Ziegler is fully fit for service. Her mind does not show any signs of forceful alteration. Her perception is coherent as are her recollections of past events. It is my professional opinion that any attempts to alter her mind have failed."
"That is good to hear." Morrison replied, not sounding too surprised. He knew that already. Laguardia's sole reason for being here was to give everyone else legit proof.
"However," Giuseppe added "I think it's my duty to also inform you that Dr. Ziegler has lived through some very traumatic experiences; events which are likely going to influence her permanently. To say that the few days she had been in Talon's hand didn't leave an imprint on her psyche would be a lie. She is coping well, but don't let her self-confidence fool you."
That made Morrison raise an eyebrow. "What are you saying, doctor? Didn't you just say she is fit for service?"
"Oh, she is. She wasn't brainwashed. What I'm saying is that Dr. Ziegler is, despite her trying to hide it, in fact anything but fine. And she knows this herself, which is rather rare with these conditions." Laguardia chuckled to himself for a moment. "She is showing various signs of post-traumatic stress even though she is making an effort to rationalize it and play it down. Now, I think it would be best for her to go back to her normal daily routine as fast as possible. A fixed, normal day is what I think is currently best for her psyche. This is part of the reason I deemed her fit for service already. But be aware that psychological traumata are usually developing only sometime after the traumatic event took place, so the full extent of the damage might still be left undiscovered. To say it clearly: I would like you to be aware that Dr. Ziegler might be in need of professional help in the future. We have agreed on weekly sessions so I can help her adjust. She can work in the safe environment of the Watchpoint, but I have to strongly advise you to not send her out as a field medic anytime soon."
"What timeframe are we talking about?"
"Half a year at the very least."
Morrison nodded after a while. "I see." He said without any expression apparent on his face. "I take it you are willing to continue your current occupation here, then? I would be inconsolable if you wanted to leave us again. You have done a good job so far, doctor." Morrison said with an ever so faint smile, but his praise sounded almost like a threat. Maybe it was his harsh military tone, or maybe he wanted it to sound intimidating, Giuseppe didn't know.
Still, his work here was fascinating in more than one way. He felt like he was finally making a difference again, much like he did after the first Omnic war. It wasn't like he thought his normal cases back in Venice were boring, but he had to admit that they were... well, ordinary. And here at the Watchpoint they were anything but. The first two cases he had worked here were already the most interesting ones he had in his entire career. Not that Widowmaker's session turned out to be particularly positive, but he managed to learn a valuable lesson anyway.
So, being asked to stay was actually a no-brainer.
"It would be an honor to continue my work here. As I said, I do have further obligations to Dr. Ziegler, and I'd be honored to be of further assistance to everyone working in this institution."
"Good" Morrison nodded and paused, flipping thought the file the doctor provided. He didn't find what he was looking for. Not a word. "I seem to recollect that you also evaluated our Talon guest. Mind filling me in on what your opinion concerning her is?"
"Uhm..." Laguardia nervously rubbed over his neck, recalling what happened to him on that day. "Well, to be honest, I didn't get the chance to evaluate her properly. Our session was cut short."
"Oh?" Morrison rose an eyebrow, leaning forward in his chair. Not what he expected.
"Don't misunderstand; I'm not saying she is a threat. She, however, is not exactly a patient I'd consider generally mentally stable either. Now, everything I tell you is under the premise that there is basically no groundwork for brainwashing patients, neither on my behalf nor of my colleagues. No one bothered to look into the matter in depth. That said, it is my believe that patients like Widowmaker are bound to be among the most complicated ones a psychologist, like myself, can work on. Their minds have unnaturally been tampered with to an extent where it's almost a miracle that they can still formulate a correct, logical sentence. The exact workings of brainwashing procedures are not exactly common knowledge and, apart from being illegal, they generally are developed by small underground groups on their own by means of trial and error. Widowmaker has been subjected to excessive torture and brainwashing, among many other things, for long years, as I am sure you have read in her files. It is completely impossible to evaluate her by means of a simple conversation. Patients like her need to be handled with special care. We need to ensure they are in an environment where these patients can and want to open up. There might be special persons they connect to and want to open up to, there might be certain environments they are more likely to overcome the artificial barriers in her mind, et cetera. As I said, there is no general method of therapy. That said, I have to admit that I failed to tend to Widowmaker's needs in an appropriate manner. I didn't think the mere location of the sickbay and me being a stranger could trigger a negative reaction from her."
"What are you talking about, doctor?" Morrison inquired.
The Italian doctor stopped to think of a good comparison. "Have you ever seen a random object and remembered something you thought you had long forgotten, Commander? Something which was in a certain way connected to that object?"
"Sure." he shrugged. Whenever he looked at his old uniform, stored away in a display stand in the back of his office, he felt like he was back in Zürich, on the one day he and Reyes initiated the biggest play for the world to witness.
"The same thing can happen to abuse-victims quite frequently…only they relive memories triggered by certain external indicators at an intensity a thousand times worse than what you normally experience. They cannot distinguish between what is real and what is not for as long as that panic-attack-like state continues."
"Doctor, I didn't study psychology. That's why you're here. What happened with Widowmaker? Is she a threat? Is she going to attack my people? Do I need to lock her up permanently? These are the things I need to know."
"I'm not allowed to go into details. All I can say is I recommend that Widowmaker's psychological evaluation be done by someone who she is familiar with. If I may suggest Dr. Ziegler here, I think that would be ideal. Answering the rest of your questions will take time above anything else. I'm sure Widowmaker's reasons and motivations for being here are not of malicious intent. I'm also sure that she doesn't necessarily want to hurt someone…but this does not mean that she won't."
"What do you know about her reasons?" Morrison asked, perking up an eyebrow. He needed to know simply because he wanted some confirmation that the plan worked. That sending Tracer to deal with Widow bore the fruits they had hoped for. In a way, it didn't matter anymore, but he wanted to know never the less.
"As I said, my Hippocratic Oath prohibits me from disclosing that."
Morrison grunted in annoyance. That wasn't really what he wanted to hear, but it wasn't like there was something he could do about it. He would have preferred if Widowmaker was already cleared of some suspicions and he could let her out of solitary confinement. Apparently she had to wait for a bit longer.
"You think Mercy is able to evaluate her in a better way?"
Laguardia nodded once. "Seeing how the two are already familiar with each other, and considering the role Widowmaker played in Dr. Ziegler's rescue, I would think this is a relatively safe assumption. Medicine is not Math, Commander. There is no definite yes or no. Humans are not machines."
Just when Morrison wanted to reply, the phone on his desk rang. He glanced at the display reading 'Unknown Caller ID'.
"Thank you for your report, Doctor. I will carefully consider your recommendations. That would be all for now."
Laguardia nodded, turned around, and left the office at a fast pace. As soon as the door closed the door behind him, Morrison reached for the phone.
"Yes?" he said, pressing the receiver to his ear.
"Have you talked to Volskaya yet?" The voice on the other end of the line asked. He didn't need to ask for a name; both men knew who they were talking to.
"I'll try to do it this week. Why? Have you talked to the big boss yet?"
"I'll do so soon. We need to get a move on, Morrison. Tempus fugit."
-/-
Three days later, Watchpoint Gibraltar, medical wing, ICU, 1624 hours
Beep...
Beep...
Beep...
It was the same monotonous sound over and over and over again, periodically appearing in a fixed pattern like the click of a metronome. While the sound was annoying on the one hand, it was also a huge relief for Angela Ziegler. That electronically created audio feedback was, along with an ECG, everything which confirmed that, yes indeed, Fareeha Amari was still very much alive. Kept in such a state by machines, true, but alive nevertheless. From the looks of it, she could have been dead just as well. She lay there, completely unmoving.
The Egyptian warrior looked rather peaceful in the bed she had been placed in. Her eyes were closed, and the blanket was tucked away under her arms. Her chest was heaving and falling in slow, barely visible, movements, and all noticeable proof of the woman's injuries were hidden under a carefully applied bandage around her neck.
Mercy looked at her companion who tried to protect her back in Zürich. She still felt guilty for what happened, despite Fareeha being alive.
The Egyptian being in a coma might have seemed like something to worry about, but for Angela, it was really good news. Mercy could work with a coma; she could do something about it. While it was true that she could also do something against death, her resurrection technology only worked for a short time after someone was declared deceased.
A coma was something different. Soon, she would be able to wake Pharah up again. And then, she would accompany her through the entire recovery process. Angela reached for a pen inside the chest pocket of her white coat and wrote down a few readings of the medical equipment on a clipboard. Soon, Pharah's body would be adequately prepared for the wake-up procedure.
It had been two days ago when Mercy was cleared for active duty again and she had taken back her former position as the head of medical research in Overwatch. It was good to finally have something to do again. Something to occupy her mind with. Something she was used to in a well-known environment. She did what she always did when a thought she didn't want to face bugged her: Angela drowned herself in work until she passed out from exhaustion.
Mercy immediately started to work out a complete treatment for Pharah. How she would wake her up from the coma and how she would help her recover afterward.
The first step was regenerating the damaged nerve tissue in Fareeha's neck. Angela had worked on that the past two days and estimated maybe two more days until Pharah's nerve endings would be adequately healed up for her to be woken up.
But taking care of Pharah was not her only responsibility. When Morrison cleared her for service, he also told her, albeit reluctantly, that she would be the one doing Widowmaker's psychological evaluation. He told her that, following Dr. Laguardia's advice, he would place the former Talon assassin in Angela's care for the next three months. She was responsible for her.
Mercy didn't tell him, obviously, but she didn't quite like the idea. Not really, and for obvious reasons, but she knew that if she wanted Amélie to get the life she apparently craved so much, the assassin had to play along for at least a little while. Angela would work something out soon. Besides, three months weren't terribly long.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the floor coming closer to her caught Mercy's attention.
"Ah! I thought I would find you here, Angela" a deep voice said from behind the doctor, and Mercy turned around with a relaxed smile on her lips. That voice could only belong to one.
"Reinhardt!" Mercy greeted happily. The two of them could have spoken in German to each other, since it was the native tongue of them both, but they agreed to not do that while at the Watchpoint. Years ago, someone complained that no one was able to understand what they were talking about, so, out of respect for all their colleagues who couldn't understand them, Mercy and Reinhardt paid attention to speaking English while they were on duty. It kind of stuck even when they were alone.
The tall knight walked up to the sickbed and looked at the woman placed inside of it. "She looks so peaceful" he commented, his deep voice falling silent as his eyes took in the sight of the sleeping woman.
"She does" Angela nodded supportively "I will bring her back soon enough. I'm already working on it; don't worry."
Reinhardt's sharp inhale was audible even over the beeping noise. "I know you will, Angela. You always give your best," Reinhardt flashed her a bright but sad smile.
Mercy reached out for him and placed her hand - which was tiny in comparison - on top of his. She was well aware of what was tormenting him so much. A lot of people knew, but no one ever spoke about it. Angela decided it was time to break that silence now. "Reinhardt, you should tell her when she wakes up. She deserves to know it."
The proud knight averted his gaze in shame "I made a promise to her mother."
"I know that" Mercy sighed. "But Ana isn't here. I know we never found her body and she is technically still missing in action, but, Reinhardt, you know as well as I do that the chances of Ana still being alive..."
"... are basically nonexistent." Reinhardt ended the sentence for her. "That I know. But I still gave a promise. What knight would I be if I couldn't stand by it now?"
"Don't you think she deserves to know who her father is? She has been without a mother for years; what damage could it do? She is your daughter, Reinhardt. Verdammt, don't abandon her like her mother did. She needs you. I'm sure of it."
"She wouldn't be without a mother if not for our new guest." Reinhardt said bitterly. "I will never understand why Morrison allowed that..." he swallowed heavily, clearly forcing himself to not fall into a hissy fit of his finest insults "... woman to be here."
Mercy nodded slowly "I understand how you feel, Rein, I really do." she decided to say after a while "But it wasn't her fault."
"It wasn't her fault?" Reinhardt repeated with mocking laughter "Not her fault? Oh, do tell me, Angela, how was it not her fault when she shot my wife in the face!? Was it not Widowmaker who held the rifle? Was it not Widowmaker who took aim? And was it not Widowmaker who pulled the trigger? The same Widowmaker who is currently sitting in one of our cells, waiting to be let out. Why? In my hometown, I would have challenged her to a duel to death and would have crushed her under my hammer. Crusader style. What happened to justice for the just?"
"Reinhardt, she is not the same woman who did all those things. The woman sitting in solitary confinement has little to nothing to do with the Widowmaker you are thinking about."
"And what exactly makes you so sure about that?" Reinhardt asked back. "You and I both know that there is a little more to the tale of Gerard Lacroix and his perfect wife, don't we? You and I both know that it's highly unlikely that she killed him because she was forced to."
Angela let out a small breath and rubbed over her forehead. True, her friend did have an argument with that. "That is not the point here. And I came to disagree with that assessment. If you just take the time to get to know her a little bit…Sure, she surely isn't a warm person, but I'm also certain she'd surprise you."
"I don't like the idea of that woman being here. I detest the whole situation, and I have to admit that I feel a certain hatred toward her as a person as well. Surely I will not get to know her." Reinhardt grumbled.
"You know that she was the one who saved me from Talon, don't you? She protected me and risked a lot while doing so. Without her, I probably wouldn't be here, and if I wasn't here, who would wake your daughter up again? So, in a way..."
"Stop that!" Reinhardt said sharply. "Of course I know that she was the one who brought you back. It's the only reason I haven't paid her a visit yet."
Mercy sighed "Please trust me on this. She is not who you think she is."
Reinhardt was silent for a long time after that, just looking at his daughter. She survived a shot to the head; stubborn and tough just like he was. She had so many of his traits, and despite him not being there when she grew up, just like Ana wanted it, Fareeha still turned out a lot like him. But, then again, she had so much from her mother as well. Her face and her eyes; the absolute image of her mother. The few times he heard her speak, he thought Ana was back and talking to him.
But Ana wasn't back. And despite never admitting it to himself, deep down, Reinhardt knew that she was dead.
Shot by Widowmaker.
The same Widowmaker who had freed one of his most trusted companions and friends out of the hands of a horrible organization.
He owed his life to that friend many more times than he cared to admit anymore. Without Angela Ziegler's work, he would not stand here anymore. Without her, his daughter's chances of ever waking up from that coma were close to zero.
And now that friend was asking him to give the woman who had killed his wife a second chance.
"I don't have to like it" he grumbled.
"You don't."
"Then I can respect it." he finally decided. "But Angela, if she tries to hurt you, or anyone else in this base, I will not hesitate to kill her with my own bare hands" Reinhardt promised and made a squashing move with his hands to emphasize his words. Mercy couldn't help but giggle a little bit.
"I appreciate the notion, but I'm sure that won't be necessary."
Reinhardt nodded "Well, you know where to find me. Please tell me when Fareeha wakes up. Maybe I will talk to her about some... things."
"Of course. I'm sure she'd be more than happy to hear it."
-/-
Widowmaker's temporary cell
"Chérie?" Amélie asked with a content hum. She had her hands crossed behind her head and was lying on top of her bed wearing absolutely nothing. And neither did Lena, who was currently kissing a trail down from Widow's collarbone in between her breasts, down to her belly button.
"Mhh?" Tracer replied, letting her tongue flick around and inside Widow's navel. The hot sensation on her cold body forced an excited hiss out of Amélie.
"Are you really sure this is a good idea?" Ever since Amélie had been put here, Tracer had been visiting. And it took her exactly two days before Lena couldn't take it any longer and just had to screw her girlfriends brains out. Ever since that day, Amélie had been worried that someone might find out; especially the guards, since they were positioned right in front of the door.
"As long as you can keep quiet? Sure." Tracer smirked up at her lover while she simultaneously glided further south and, soon enough, circled her tongue around a much more sensitive, much more exciting area than Widowmaker's belly button.
Under Lena's hot and skillful touch Amélie's body tensed up and she grabbed at her pillow, her legs spreading a little further without her even noticing.
"Besides, you like the thrill" Lena grinned, continuing her careful admiration of Amélie.
"I-I don't." Widow managed to hiss out, the feeling of Lena's tongue flicking and circling around on that place sending her mind into a frenzy.
"Lies!" Tracer laughed, letting her hand run up and down Widowmaker's inner thigh, lightly scratching the skin with her nails.
"A-ah, Lena..." Amélie moaned, not knowing where up and down was anymore. Her lover definitely knew what she was doing and, not only that, Lena made an art out of touching another woman. There was something in the way Lena always tended to her lover's needs, paying attention to every little detail to even the smallest of touches which made Amélie go crazy with anticipation and joy.
"Just so you know," Lena said, pulling her mouth back from in between Widow's thighs, replacing her tongue with a finger, curling it inside her in slow, rhythmic patterns "I'm totally going to sit on your face after that."
"Yessss" Amélie hissed, roughly shoving Lena's head back where it belonged. She didn't mind having Lena on top and in front of her face. Not one bit. Her lover always tasted wonderfully, and Amélie liked the position. She could wrap her arms around Lena's thighs and press her closer, preventing her from pulling away while she pushed her over the edge.
But only after Tracer had finished working her magic. Amélie felt the wave of pleasure rushing through her legs, stomach, and chest, her nerves overly stimulated, tingling and crackling with raw pleasure before every muscle in her body starting to tense up.
She felt a low growl in her back of her throat; one she had to force back by pressing her hand to her mouth. They cannot make too much noise or else they would be-
The lock on the door clicked, and someone walked inside, apparently not suspecting a thing. Amélie, being naturally alert all the time, noticed immediately.
Tracer didn't.
She sucked and licked one final time at Amélie's most sensitive spot even though Widow started to reluctantly struggle. She gave her lover no other choice but to find the orgasm they had been searching for. Widowmaker didn't stand a chance. Tracer knew exactly which buttons she had to push, and she did so without stopping to consider that they weren't alone in the small cell anymore.
Whoever came to visit saw Widowmaker sprawled out on her back, her legs wrapped halfway around Tracer, one hand in the Brit's unruly hair, one on her own mouth, and her yellow eyes fixed in shock to the door while her body convulsed with waves of pleasure, her eyelids fluttering as she struggled to keep them open.
The door was immediately slammed shut.
"You two must be insane!" Mercy called out, trying to keep her voice down.
That was when Tracer's head shot up from in between the legs of a heavily breathing Amélie who was still slightly trembling.
"Wha-" Tracer stuttered, wiping her mouth clean with the back of her hand, a deep crimson color spreading quickly over her cheeks. Lena didn't even bother to look for the sheets. "You really need to stop just letting yourself in! This better not become a habit." She said, clearly embarrassed.
Mercy rolled her eyes "You can't be left alone, can you now, Lena?" she sighed.
"Hey, I..."
"It's ok, it's ok," Angela said, releasing a breath she was unaware of holding. Deep inside, she knew that this would happen sooner or later. And she wasn't talking about the time she walked in on them in Diskon; they had been just kissing back then. No, Angela was talking about really walking in on them while they were at it. It was just the way they acted around each other. It was all the secrecy they had to display not only the past days but the past months, which led Angela to believe that there was no realistic chance that these two lovebirds could or would leave their hands off each other every chance they got. Besides, a certain desire for each other was perfectly natural. Mercy didn't voice that thought though. "I need to talk to the both of you" she added "So, please get dressed and uhh..." she looked around in the cell. Tracer's clothes were lying around everywhere and, of course, there was one of Widow's catsuits. "... I'll wait outside, ok?"
"...Sure" Tracer replied silently, the red color still very much prominent on her face almost at the same time to Widow's breathed
"... Oui"
"You need to get some more clothes, Amélie" Mercy noted as she was about to leave again.
"We have that already on the list of things we need to do once..." Tracer replied in high spirits before her voice faded away.
"... you are certain that I'm not going to murder you all in your sleep" Amélie replied nonchalantly.
"That's what I need to talk with you about." Angela said with a brief smile before she left the cell as quickly as she appeared.
-/-
Unknown location, France, somewhere near the coast, the following week, 1534 hours
The car which pulled up in front of the huge mansion made no noise on the well-kept gravel courtyard which lay in front of the majestic building. Naturally it didn't, since it lacked tires…or wheels for that matter. All that was heard was the whir of the electric engine and the loud noise of heavy rain pelting down on the metal roof of the car. The skies were dark and full of threatening, spooky clouds, flashes of lightning flickering behind the clouds, lighting them up for but an instant, followed by the roar of thunder in the distance.
The driver of the car was visibly uncomfortable. He sifted in his seat, stiff as a log and further from relaxed than he had probably ever been in his life as a chauffeur.
"We're here, Sir" he said, stealing a shy glance over his shoulder, looking for but a moment at the passenger he was sent to pick up in the middle of nowhere at one of Talon's secret shuttle airports. He had been driving for eight hours since, and the guest he had picked up, clad in a black leather coat and wearing an intimidating skull mask, hadn't spoken a word the entire ride. Not once. Maybe it was for the better. Usually, the chauffeur was driving the board of directors of Talon to the mansion and back to the airport, so he was used to not asking any questions, but that didn't mean that he didn't know one or two things about Reaper.
"Obviously." Reaper growled, looking out into the rain. He liked weather like today. Stormy with heavy rain and loud thunder. Harsh winds whipping the raindrops around like painful projectiles, the cold seeping into every fiber of one's body. It was beautiful in its very own way.
Opening the door, he left the warm safety of the car and was immediately greeted with exactly the same environment he imagined. Cold and wet. It even smelled like he imagined. Reaper took a moment to suck in a deep breath before he slammed the door shut again.
There were six soldiers positioned in front of the main entrance standing in the rain unmoving and uncaring. They stood guard like they were probably told to. Adding to the four guards at the main gate a few hundred meters down a gravel road leading up to the mansion that made ten guards so far. Reaper was certain there were way more…just not as easily visible through the dense rain. He didn't care enough to turn on the heat sensors of his mask.
"Agent Reyes!" a feminine voice called out for him, quickly catching his attention. Rushing out of the mansion came a woman dressed in a classic maid outfit hiding under an umbrella which was at least twice her size. Reaper felt himself grin under his mask, because he couldn't help but wonder how that woman wasn't flying away while holding on to the umbrella due to the strong winds. Hell, they were pulling on his heavy leather coat and the woman... or the girl, for she appeared to be rather young, was probably just as light as she was young on years.
She rushed over to him and struggled to hold the umbrella high enough for Reaper to stand underneath it. He was rather tall, and the maid was, well, not downright tiny, but there have definitely been larger women before.
Reaper pushed the umbrella back at her. He didn't mind a little rain "Already wet. Don't bother" he grumbled.
"I'm sorry, Agent Reyes. You arrived earlier than we anticipated." The maid replied, a lot more humble than Reaper fancied. The car that brought him here in the meantime turned around and left the property again, silently gliding off and vanishing behind the dense rain.
"You know my real name" Reaper stated, not making any efforts to hide the hostility in his voice while he followed the maid inside, not acknowledging the soldiers standing guard.
"I do" the maid said "My name is Gerda. I'm the head maid at this place and the personal servant of-"
"The big boss. Yeah. Figures" Reaper replied, his deep voice sending shivers through Gerda every time he spoke. He was right up there at the top of the scariest people she had ever met. Definitely in the top three. Gerda just wasn't sure who was scarier: Him or Widowmaker. Reaper seemed cruel. Not only that, he actually was cruel and knew no mercy, leaving a trail of chaos and bloodshed in his wake. Widowmaker, however, was more cold than she was cruel. And that gave her an entirely different aura of danger. Where Reaper seemed like he'd enjoy torturing someone to death, Widowmaker was the kind of person to kill someone over spilled tea, should she be allowed to do so…which was perhaps scarier. Gerda hadn't seen Widowmaker awake often. Usually, when the maid dealt with her, the assassin had been knocked out by tranquilizers. It really didn't matter anymore. Talon's master assassin was no more. She had sunk to the freezing depth of the arctic ocean together with more than one thousand others. Buried in a cold, lonely grave. Strangely fitting for Widowmaker, Gerda supposed.
"Am I not to call you by your name?" Gerda asked carefully.
"I don't care. You already know" Reaper replied "So, say whatever. As long as you don't say it too loud. We won't be seeing each other again after today anyway."
"Of course" the maid nodded. "This way, Sir" she motioned toward a double winged door with another two soldiers waiting in front of it. As they approached, the two guards opened the door into a large room behind it.
Impressive windows made up the majority of the right wall. The heavy rain was drumming against them, running down the flat surfaces like waterfalls. A fireplace on the left side was lit, and old oil paintings were decorating the walls, showing god knows whom. Reaper didn't pay any of this much mind. He hadn't come here to discuss art. Some dark brown lounge chairs were surrounding a flat table. There was an old and rather large pendulum clock, which was ticking loudly despite the crackling fire. And two sets of knight's armor standing to the right and the left of the door on the far side of the room with two more soldiers standing guard completed the picture.
Reaper followed Gerda through the room in silence. He had to admit that it had a certain style; something lofty and sublime. Reaper could imagine living here. Minus all the guards. Just him and his family... well, at least what was left of his family after he had to leave everything behind.
He approached the door, but one of the soldiers blocked his way.
"Sir, I have to ask you to discard all weapons you currently carry." he said, holding a hand out to stop Reaper from walking further.
The black-clad man just chuckled deeply. Holding out his hand, he materialized a shotgun out of thick grey smoke and handed it to the soldier. Then another one. And another one. And another one.
"...Sir?" the soldier asked in confusion, struggling to balance the amount of weapons suddenly appearing in his arms.
"I can stand here all day long doing this until you drown in shotguns. Here. Want another one?" smoke came forth from Reaper's hand and quickly formed into a weapon. "And one more, maybe?"
"Sir. Sir? Please, I get it" the soldier said at a total loss "Just proceed."
"Good." Reaper said, and the small mountain of shotguns he produced dissolved in black smoke, seeping back into his body "Don't ever stop me again" he warned before proceeding into the next room.
It was an office, and a fairly normal one, all things considered. The desk was huge, however, with two chairs placed in front of it. One of which was already occupied by a woman with brown hair, a prominent side cut, and purple tips. She lazily turned around in her seat, waving Reaper "hello" with an uncaring shrug.
"Please wait here. You will be contacted soon." Gerda announced, and was gone before anyone else could say a word.
"Sombra" Reaper said, pulling the other chair back and taking a seat.
"Reyes" the Latina replied with a smug grin, apparently getting a kick out of knowing Reaper's real identity. "Fancy meeting you here of all places. Come here often?"
"...No" he growled.
"Ah, me neither. The first time, actually. Though I like the place. Maybe I'll make some adjustments in the Registry of Deeds"
"... Sombra" Reaper growled. The woman had a way of getting on his nerves way too quickly.
"What? It's a nice house, you have to admit."
"Why are you here?" Reaper urged, but Sombra just shrugged, unimpressed.
"Probably because of the same reason you are. The big boss wanted to talk to me. Speaking of whom, where is the fine lad?"
"I'm right here" a voice said. Reaper looked around in the room, but no one was there. "Thank you for coming here on such a short notice. We have important matters to discuss."
It took Reyes a moment longer than he liked to figure out that someone was speaking to them using a speaker system. Luckily, Reaper's face was masked, because he was certain that he wouldn't have been able to prevent the disappointment from showing.
"And I thought we'd meet in person" he said, audibly mad.
"Ah, yes. I'm afraid that won't be possible this time. But I'm sure we'll shake hands soon enough."
"What do you need us for, great illusive man?" Sombra asked, sounding like she was definitely mocking the man.
"It is time for our plan to move into the next phase. We have worked hard for this goal, and it is partly thanks to you that the world is the powder keg it is now. International relations are strained, human Omnic relations could not be worse, and all that is missing to ignite this beautiful mixture is nothing but a little spark. We'll proceed as planned, Sombra. I want you to bring Project Gearbox online."
"With pleasure, Sir. It will be ready in a few days" Sombra replied "Which will conclude my contract."
"Indeed, it will. You can expect payment within a few hours after the successful launch has been confirmed." The bodiless voice said
"Gracias" Sombra smirked.
"As for you, Reaper, I want you to carry out a special mission."
"Always ready to strike" Reaper said, keen to find out what the big boss was up to. Up until recently, Project Gearbox was a hypothetical scenario. A rather large one at that. Not one intended to go live any time soon…or at all, for that matter. But now it was, and to be simply activated like this, and to be ready in only a few days, it had to have been in serious preparation for quite some time. Reaper quickly evaluated how that would change his own goals, and decided that it didn't matter. People will die either way. People have died already. People always died. What's a few more?
The voice on the other end of the speakers chuckled. "I want you to go to Berlin Monday evening. There will be a secret meeting of the board of directors; one I set up for you. I want you to go in, confirm that everyone is indeed there, and get rid of them all for me. Kill them. They have served their purpose. They kept Talon alive. But we don't need their money anymore. They became a liability, and now it's time for them to go. You will take their place as my second-in-command."
Reaper actually had to swallow. He did not expect that. Not in the slightest. The board of directors was a secret council consisting of powerful corporations from all over the world which had decided that their interests weren't best served with the legal side of politics. Years ago, they were persuaded to fund Talon's rather expensive activities, and in exchange, they got a say in how Talon's missions would look. Killing the natives of an oil rich area in the rain forest? Talon's soldiers marched in with brutal force. Villages in the way of larger trading routes? Talon specialists poisoned the water supplies until the last villager was dead or had fled. Rivaling companies on the rise? Talon's assassins were there to handle matters. Politicians who didn't want to cooperate? Talon had the perfect hackers to dig up their dirtiest secrets.
It all played into the hands of the big boss who always managed to stay anonymous. Yet, the companies all got what they wanted. They made more money, in the end. Absurd amounts of money. So much that they didn't care what Talon actually cost them…simply because it didn't matter. It was enough, so they also didn't care what the big boss was up to on his own as long as their needs were met.
And now the big boss apparently decided the council's usefulness had come to an end.
Such a pity.
"I'm a freelancer. I was hired for the dirty work." Reaper pointed out, his voice with a slight edge.
The man on the other side of the speakers found this apparently amusing, because he, yet again, laughed. "And that's why I want you. Because you don't want to. You aren't ambitious. Someone ambitious is no good to me in that position. No, you are the perfect person. You get paid to do your work. Once you cleaned the mess up, you will have official command of Talon and will run it on my behalf."
Reaper growled in a slightly annoyed fashion. Inwardly he wanted to jump around the room in joy, but that was not the role he played here. God, Reaper was really looking forward to the time when all this ridiculous pretending would finally stop. He was sick and tired of it.
"Oh, I see. Yes, of course. You are a freelancer" the voice seemed like it came to an important realization "And, naturally, you will be paid appropriately for your new responsibilities. Does that sound acceptable to you?"
"Sure" Reaper replied after a bit of carefully placed silence. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.
"Excellent." the voice said "I take it you have met my head maid by now? Gerda will fill you in on the finer details of the mission. She will help you get settled in afterward as well."
"Great" was Reaper's less-than-enthusiastic response. And it wasn't even an act this time around. He really wasn't happy about the maid babysitting him. He didn't need someone watching him, and he especially didn't need the small maid from before. He really had hoped that he'd never see her again. There was something about her which didn't sit well with him.
"Where will you be? Holiday in the Caribbean?" Sombra wanted to know easily.
"Something like that. You have your orders. I expect them to be fulfilled perfectly"
"Yes, Sir" both Sombra and Reaper said in unison before the line went dead with a distinctive clicking sound.
"Well, Reyes, that leaves the two of us, right?" the laidback Latina sighed.
"Wrong. It leaves only you. Get to work, Sombra" Reaper instructed before he vanished in a cloud of black smoke.
"God, I cannot wait to get out of this loony bin" she uttered under her breath.
-/-
A/N:
So, that concludes chapter 25. Wuhey!
I decided to make Reinhardt Pharah's father simply because I like the idea. I really enjoyed the theory that Pharah's skins are a mix of Ana's and Reinhardt's (Ana having minerals, Reinhardt metals and Pharah a mix of both) and I do think that Pharah's personality would perfectly fit as well. Also, I really can't wait until Blizzard releases new canon information, otherwise I could probably publish an update once every year. And that sounds like a really bad idea.
So yeah, Reinhardt is Fareeha's dad. Hopefully everyone is okay with that, because I'm not changing it now :D
Also, we saw a bit of Sombra in this episode. Maybe some of you can already guess where I'm going, but let's just say that she'll show up more often.
Thank you everyone for all the love and attention and feedback you all are giving me! It's really appreciated and I cannot say thanks enough. *bows in respect* You all are the reason this story is alive.
Special thanks, as usual, goes to the three angels (a guy, a girl and an attack chopper.) :P You guys rock, I couldn't do it without you :)
It was an honor, I will see you in the next one
o7
E82
P.S. If you want to support me and my story, you can do so here:
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