Airspace near the strait of Gibraltar, one day later, 1938 hours
The Orca shook at unpredictable intervals, the shockwaves running through the entire shuttle, making everything that wasn't bolted down jump a little. While the metallic rattling sound was anything but encouraging, Tracer knew better than to feel any kind of worry, though; the flight's unsteadiness was caused by minor turbulence typical for flying very close to the surface. She had to admit that it was a little weird not to fly the Orca herself, but that didn't mean the British ace pilot didn't feel the plane.
The current pilot kept the shuttle well below British radar surveillance, making sure no one would ask any unwanted questions about their approach toward the Watchpoint or even notice it in the first place.
Lena sighed, relieved, leaning back in her chair and stretching out her legs a little bit. She really couldn't wait to get back to the base after a mission well done. And it was well-done, a full success. The Bastion unit they were sent to secure was standing in the middle of the shuttle, the periodic turbulence not even bothering his advanced stabilizing systems, looking curiously at DVa's empty mech.
Hana, herself, wasn't feeling well at all—not one little bit. She hated flying, and she hated turbulence even more. The poor girl was literally green in her face, clinging to a bucket and periodically hurling into it, emptying what little was left in her stomach. Lena had been rubbing soothing circles on the younger girl's back for a while, telling her that there was nothing to worry about and that the Orca wouldn't just break in half. It really didn't help Hana at all. She had just replied that she would believe Lena immediately if she were the one flying the shuttle and not the one sitting next to her.
Realizing that there was really nothing Lena could do for her friend, Lena got up and walked over to Bastion, who was still very curious about DVa's mech. The Omnic tilted his head slightly, making an adorable beep. Lena had difficulties deciding who was cuter—the machine or its little bird-friend, whom they dubbed Ganymede for some reason.
"You really ain't the big scary killing bot we all feared to find. Such a bummer we had to get you out of that forest, you seemed to like it there." Lena smiled, and the robot made a series of longer and shorter beeps, looking at her for a moment before turning back toward the mech and poking the glass—which was supposed to shield the mech's pilot—reaaaally carefully. It was adorable in an innocent way.
"Zen? What did he say?" Lena asked. She couldn't communicate with Bastion directly. While the marvelous machine seemed to understand her perfectly, Lena had no idea what the various beeps of different lengths and tone meant.
Neither did DVa, for that matter. Only Zenyatta, being a machine, himself, was able to communicate directly with Bastion. This was why their first contact a few days earlier was quite the experience. Yes, it took them days, which consisted of smuggling Bastion past German customs and into the Orca while the robot's innocent curiosity threatened to inadvertently derail that little operation.
When they first encountered Bastion in the forest, Zenyatta had just left the team's cover and simply approached the bot in what seemed like total suicide, but the Bastion didn't even bother with anything, really. It saw Zenyatta approaching and acknowledged the other Omnic's presence before turning back to the river and watching Ganymede take a bath like it was the only important thing in the world. Zenyatta sat down next to the former combat robot and started talking to it. A few minutes passed before the monk gestured for Tracer and DVa to come closer. Bastion beeped for a few seconds. Tracer was confused. Hana had no idea what was going on. Zenyatta explained that the Robot was willing to come along but wanted to take his friend with him, the friend being Ganymede. Tracer laughed and said that wouldn't be a problem. A few hours later, they made their way back through the forest to the base camp they had set up. From there, Bastion was loaded into a container and, thereafter, a small truck that got them to a private airport in Switzerland. From there, they loaded Bastion into the Orca shuttle with a very surprised and perplexed pilot watching in disbelief. Admittedly, this really wasn't how Tracer imagined this mission, either, but far be it for her to start complaining about a smooth and successful job without any violence. It was a nice change of pace.
"He said that there is beauty in every place. He also said that he no longer wants to destroy. He thinks that only by watching others grow will he grow, himself."
"Our new friend is almost as wise as you are, Zenyatta," Tracer winked at the monk while Bastion made a noise that could have been the acoustic equivalent of blushing and quickly turned away. In doing so, his arm got stuck in one of DVa's control sticks, ripping the stick off. Luckily, the MEKA pilot had her face buried inside of her bucket, so she didn't notice Bastion falling into a hectic beeping-fit, quickly pick up the broken joystick, and immediately putting it back into its place—still broken. His other hand folded into his arm, and out came a small welding tool that he used to quickly reattach the module. He beeped rapidly all the while.
"It would seem he still has a lot to learn, though," Zenyatta remarked as calmly as ever. There was probably nothing that could faze the monk.
"Oy, can't be omniscient, can you?" Lena shrugged, finding the whole scene both adorable and funny. Bastion was carefully testing the joystick's functionality, holding the welding tool to a few points just to be sure everything was, indeed, the way it used to be. "Relax, big guy. I think you repaired it." She patted Bastion's underarm before turning around and walking away, saying something about checking on the pilot.
Indeed, there wasn't an awful lot Tracer could have checked on. The moment she had stepped foot into the cockpit, she had already seen the open hangar doors the Orca's pilot was just about to pull into. She sighed to herself, knowing that her job was done for now, as she walked back into the main area and informed everyone that they were there.
Hana looked relieved beyond imagination and darted through the open cargo hatch as soon as it allowed her to leave the Orca. The Korean MEKA pilot stormed right past Torbjörn and Morrison, who were standing inside the huge hangar full of multiple shuttles, supply-crates, cargo-transports, fuel trucks, hoses, and—of course—more technicians than anyone could have counted. The floor was shining concrete, and, despite the place seeming ridiculously messy at first glance, there were structure and system behind everything. The quartermaster and the commander of Overwatch were apparently only waiting for Tracer's team to return.
"Oy, Torb, you wanna get a look at our new friend?" Tracer smiled at the dwarf who just huffed in annoyance while Lena turned to Morrison. "Boss," she smiled, giving him a cheeky, two-fingered salute.
"Agent Oxton," he said dryly. "I understand the mission was successful?"
"Sure. No problems at all. We got the Bastion unit to come with us. Or better Zenyatta got it to come along. Now you just be nice to him and all is good."
"Oh, great. One Omnic is inviting more into our home. What could possibly go wrong?" Torbjörn grumbled. "I swear, Morrison, when I poke through this thing's source code and find just one line that seems dangerous to us, I will scrap the whole damn machine."
"Agent Lindholm, I expect a full analysis, either way. You know that there is not a single Omnic which was able to shake off the influence of a God Program on its own, yet this one somehow became self-sufficient. We need to look into this."
"Yeah, yeah. Don't have to like it." The dwarf huffed, nodding at something behind Tracer. The enormous Bastion unit was just leaving the shuttle with Zenyatta, who was floating next to him. The mountain of a machine looked around the hangar with apparent caution but obvious curiosity. "Is that the damn machine?" Torbjörn asked, looking pissed off as usual. "And what the hell is that thing on his shoulder?"
"Oh, that's Ganymede." Tracer replied with an innocent giggle while she quickly looked over her shoulder at the Omnic. "It's Bastion's little friend. Really cute, too."
Morrison and Torbjörn exchanged a quick glance, both shrugging slightly. "I expect your full report at the end of this week, Oxton."
"Yes, Sir." Tracer said with a nod.
"Good. Dismissed."
Tracer nodded again in acknowledgement and walked away, heading for the nearest metal stairway inside the hangar. It would bring her to the top level of the hangar from where she could reach the nearest exit she needed. On her way, she unstrapped her twin pistols from their holsters and loosened the belts and buckles on her combat suit, also opening the zipper of her leather jacket a bit to let some cool air in. Lena wasn't thinking about anything, really, so she utterly failed to notice the attentive, dangerous pair of eyes watching her from a dark corner. Oxton stepped through the automated doors, leaving the hangar, while she looked forward to a shower and some well-deserved downtime with a certain someone. She wasn't paying any attention to where she was going; her legs were finding the way back to her quarters on their own.
She was just peeling off her gloves, thinking of how great that hot and long shower would feel now and of how it would relax her muscles when two quick hands grabbed her and pulled her into a dark and hidden corner. Lena loosed a yelp in surprise, but it got muffled instantly. A cool hand reached around her face and quickly pressed itself onto her mouth while the person it belonged to used their body to hold Tracer pinned against the concrete wall in front of them. Lena's face was close to the wall and probably would have been pressed into it if not for the hand on her mouth.
"Any last words, chérie?" Lena heard the voice purr into her ear, followed by someone sucking on her earlobe. If her body was tense and surprised before, it instantly lost all its tension and relaxed into her 'assailant's' touch.
"God, how I missed you..." Lena breathed as a reply before being suddenly and violently turned around.
"I like that answer," Widowmaker grinned, leaning forward and capturing Lena's lips in a hungry and demanding kiss. "I think I'll let you live... for now," she said after pulling away and enjoying the deep red blush spreading across her lover's face.
"That's really generous of you," Tracer teased, letting her hands rest on Amélie's hips. Longing and desire burned in her French lover's eyes, both emotions so powerful that they made her yellow irises shine even more brightly than they did usually. That alone told Lena everything she needed to know, and she couldn't help but feel a tug of guilt gripping her heart.
"You were gone for too long," Widow stated, suddenly completely serious, as if the thought just came over her out of nowhere. To Lena, it didn't; she knew the mission took too long. She told Amélie that she would only be gone a day or two, yet it was more than double that time.
"Oh?" Lena looked at her lover with apologetic eyes. "Missed me that much?" she asked, knowing that there was more to it.
"Oui, that too. But there also were a few things I would have wanted your input on. Important things... I think."
"Hey, you know I'm there for you. Let's go back to my quarters and we can talk about everything." She offered, but Amélie shook her head with a small smile on her plum lips.
"I waited long enough for you, and I didn't pull you into this dark corner to tell you that I missed you, chérie. I think it can wait for a few more hours. So let me show you how much I missed you..." Her voice was turning into a husky whisper as she leaned forward and kissed Tracer again. Their tongues danced around each other in a passionate battle for dominance as both sighed moans of appreciation. Amélie sucked on Lena's lower lip before breaking away and leading her admirations over her lover's jaw line toward the sensitive pulse point below her ear. She made sure to pay some more attention to Lena's earlobe, too, knowing how much the Brit enjoyed that. Amélie's hand snuck into the top of Tracer's leather jacket; she worked it downwards, towards Tracer's most private region, while opening the zipper further but stopping at every important station on the way there. Tracer didn't wear a bra because it would hurt her too much with the chronal accelerator strapped to her chest. That made Widow's job a lot easier. She teased Lena through the fabric of her—who would have guessed—old Air Force shirt she wore underneath.
"L-luv!" Lena breathed weakly. Her mind rapidly became fuzzy as Amélie gently, but with a notable urgency, moved her quick hands against Lena's trembling, hot body. "S-Someone might see us…" She tried to concentrate, but between Amélie's hand, now buried deeply in her pants, and the chilling-cool yet burning-hot kisses placed on her quickly exposed chest, she most definitely had a difficult time doing so. I have fucked a girl between the rudders of my fighter-jet before. What am I fussing about?! Oh gooood.
"Don't care," Widowmaker muttered in response to Lena's protest, as she roughly licked all the way up from Lena's collarbone to her neck, sucking hard. "I want you. Now." She whispered in a hiss. There was not a moment of pause before Lena felt the coolness that could only be her lover's hand turn inside her pants. Widow's quick fingers slipped Lena's already damp knickers to the side and quickly entered her ready folds, which prickled with excitement. Amélie's touch quickly lost its formerly gentle nature, the hunger she felt for Lena taking over. She couldn't show restraint anymore. Widow needed to feel Lena, and she needed to feel her now. The former assassin wasn't gentle with her younger lover anymore.
Not one bit.
But Lena didn't mind at all; to her it just showed how much Amélie craved her, how much she needed Lena to be there for her—which were exactly the reasons for Amélie's ardor. Despite not realizing the reason for her harsh desire, herself, Widowmaker needed to convince herself that Tracer was still there. That she was still hers and vice versa—something that would never change.
The location in some floor of the Watchpoint was long forgotten; Lena's only concern was keeping her balance. Widowmaker slipped her arm underneath Lena's thigh and lifted Lena's leg up to gain better access to the parts of her body that she was currently most interested in. That caused Lena to balance on one foot, which added to the excitement and arousal she felt. This made keeping her balance more and more difficult; the wall Widowmaker kept her pressed against didn't feel like much of a support.
As Amélie demonstrated how well she knew her lover's body, and while Lena desperately tried to hold on to Widowmaker to maintain her balance, Lena felt the tingling tension in her own body build and build, stirred and enflamed by the powerful caresses of her lover. The sensations were overflowing—Amélie's soft and quiet moans of appreciation, her unique, intoxicating scent, and her skilled, determined touch. Lena couldn't help but bury her nails in Amélie's back as her body went rigid.
Widowmaker was just waiting for the perfect opportunity. She captured Lena's lips at the very last moment, muffling Lena's relieving, moaning cry of pleasure almost completely with a hard kiss. She couldn't help but smile like a fool when she felt Lena relaxing against her body again, her lover's muscles weak and unable to support her on their own.
"I love you, Lena" Widowmaker whispered with absolute sincerity into her ear. No teasing. No grinning. Just honesty.
-/-
Infirmary, workout section, roughly the same time
Strained groaning and a muffled metal rattle filled the infirmary. The evening sun, which was slowly sinking into the blue sea on the horizon, bathed the room in dimly iridescent orange light. The long shadows of the only two present were dark silhouettes upon the sunlit floor. Pharah was attempting her first few steps in what felt like years under the close observation of one Dr. Angela Ziegler, who was watching over her patient with care.
Fareeha was trying to walk in between bars, her body supported by her strong arms as she was dragging her legs along more than actually walking. The training she was doing should not have been exhausting at all. Before she was shot, she could have done this kind of stuff for hours without even breaking a sweat. Now, this was different. The slightest movement was demanding, exhausting, shamefully forced and—overall—not what she imagined. Fareeha didn't like how slow her progress was. She should have been better by now, yet she was still unable to walk even one step without being supported. Even then, she barely managed a couple of small steps before her legs felt weak and were hurting.
Frustration was written all across her tanned face so clearly that a blind person could have easily picked it up and pointed it out to her.
Mercy did no such things. Once she had reached the end of the bars, she gently touched her patient's shoulder. A faint and friendly smile limned Mercy's rose lips.
"I think that's enough for today, Fareeha. Pushing yourself too far will cause more harm than good," she said empathically.
"No, I can do another round. I need to," she gritted through her teeth.
"Fareeha..." Angela said calmly.
"I'm taking too long, I need to get back into action, I need-"
"Pharah."
The Egyptian looked at her doctor and wanted to speak up against it again, but the look in Mercy's solemn face stopped her. She had only the faintest of smiles on her lips, yet she managed to command an authority which was unmatched in its kind. Her whole expression was overflowing with care and gentleness, showing that Mercy was, indeed, most concerned with her patient's well-being.
So Fareeha just sighed in defeat and nodded, letting Angela help her back into the wheelchair, which was being kept nearby—albeit to Pharah's chagrin. She wanted to be at peak condition again as soon as possible. She felt like a 100 year-old grandma. Hell, she couldn't even go to the toilet alone; it was so shameful and she was so embarrassed about it. What kind of soldier needed a nurse to get to and on the toilet?
"Healing takes time above all else, dear. You have nothing to be ashamed of; your injuries would have killed a lesser woman," Angela said softly, as if she was reading Pharah's thoughts.
Shaking her head, Fareeha adjusted her position in the wheelchair. "Am I that obvious?" she asked.
"You are hardly the first patient I had." Angela allowed herself a small laugh while she turned the wheelchair around and pushed her stubborn patient away from the training equipment. "But yes, you are pretty obvious."
"Damn," Pharah laughed. "I should work on my poker face, then."
"That would be a good starting point, I agree," Angela replied light-heartedly as she pushed Fareeha toward the wet rooms. They had wordlessly agreed that Pharah needed a shower.
"Maybe I should ask your blue friend for some pointers." Fareeha looked over her shoulder to see Mercy's reaction. She couldn't help but notice two things about Widowmaker—no, Amélie, which was how Angela always insisted she should be called. One, that the assassin was mostly in close proximity to the doctor, and, two, that she seemed to glare with ill intent at everyone, except for the doctor.
Angela's facial expression was hardly giving anything away that Fareeha might have considered a clue. Angela just rolled her eyes ever so slightly. "You really like pushing that button, don't you? I told you already, I'm just—"
"—keeping an eye on her, yes, yes. You keep telling me that. But she is way nicer to you than she is to everyone else, from what I see. May I remind you of the poor guy who came to you because he had a headache a couple of days ago when you were so busy? The way she told him that you had better things to do than to take care of his booboo was just... scary."
"Naja, that's Amélie. She does that." Angela shrugged. If she had thought one step further into the right direction she might have realized that Fareeha was asking those things because she might have been a little bit jealous, that she was trying to make out the possible competition. Pharah had a crush on the doctor since she first saw her. She thought she had it under control by now, after all those years, but she didn't. Her cheeks still burned up like they did on the first day. Around Angela, she felt like a little girl again.
Mercy was totally oblivious to those things, though. She turned the wheelchair around and walked backwards through the saloon-style doors separating the showers from the training section. "Do you need help with the shower?" she asked gently, knowing that Fareeha did need the help but not wanting to hurt her pride by just going ahead with it.
"I..." Fareeha's face started burning a deep shade of red. "I mean there are nurses for that, right? You don't have to waste time with me and-"
"Paperlapapp," Mercy interrupted, pushing Fareeha into a cabin made to accommodate someone in a wheelchair and an assistant. "I'll take care of you," she said before stopping. "That is, unless you don't want me to?"
Fareeha thought it was impossible for her to get any redder in the face, but apparently she was gravely mistaken. "Nonono, that's not what I meant, I mean it's... I'll shut up now." She stuttered.
Angela took her white coat off and left it outside the shower before she rolled up the sleeves on the wine-red blouse she was wearing underneath the coat. Crouching down next to Pharah, she helped her patient to undress from her sweaty sports clothes. It was difficult since Pharah could barely stand on her own; getting rid of the tight and sweaty pants was not easy. Fareeha being so ashamed about it didn't help, either, but, eventually, they managed.
Pharah avoided looking into Mercy's deep blue eyes the entire time. Her heart was racing and she felt her face burning up time and time again. This felt so strange. It was very intimate, which was something Fareeha didn't really mind, but at the same time it was also so very awkward. There was something about getting undressed by Mercy in this situation that made Pharah slightly queasy. Maybe it was because she knew that the situation wasn't romantic in any way, no matter how much she wanted it to be. Mercy was doing her job, and she was doing it with professional care and precision. She was being very gentle about it, but Dr. Ziegler was ultimately just doing her job.
The old gods of Egypt were her witnesses, Fareeha wanted nothing more than for it to mean more than professional care. For it to be meant the way it felt to Pharah and to be able to touch Angela the way the Doctor was touching her now.
Warm water was starting to softly flow over Pharah's hair and body as she sat in the wheelchair. Angela worked carefully to clean her patient's body.
"Is the temperature ok for you?" Angela asked, her voice as soft and warm as the water.
"Mhm" was all Fareeha managed, afraid her voice would betray her. She tried hard to concentrate on anything other than Angela's tender hands rubbing soap into her sweaty skin and rinsing it away with water afterwards. Neither of them spoke a word while Angela showered the Egyptian, the latter staring straight ahead and biting her tongue hard enough for it to be painful. She would melt in shame and run down the drain together with the soapy water should she start moaning now.
Mercy quickly finished her work and carefully dried Fareeha off with a soft towel before she helped her into some fresh hospital clothes.
"You really need to relax, there is nothing to be ashamed of. I'm sure you would do the same for me if the roles were to be reversed," Angela said as she pushed Fareeha out of the showers and toward the sleeping area of the infirmary.
"I seriously can't be that obvious!" Pharah exclaimed, shocked that she was found out. Was she too tense? Too silent? Too awkward?
"You are all red in your face. It's kind of adorable, really. Don't show that face to the boys. They might get weak," she teased.
"So I really do need that stoic poker face Widowmaker wears all the time. How does she do that, anyway?" Fareeha asked light heartedly, not aware of the seriousness behind her question.
"You don't want to know, trust me." Angela's voice suddenly grew very serious, almost pained and distant. "She paid a horrible price."
"Oh," was all Pharah could come up with in that moment. She didn't want to let awkward silence spread between them, so she quickly added: "by the way, did you find her?" Fareeha wanted to know, curiosity getting the better of her as the thought suddenly entered her mind.
"I did." Angela replied swiftly.
"Where was she hiding?"
"The shooting range" Mercy said with a deadpan expression, while they approached Fareeha's bed.
"Figures," Fareeha chuckled, somehow not at all surprised but also not knowing why Amélie had been there. "That's probably where I would also run off to. If I could run."
"You will learn it again, don't you worry about it." Angela reassured confidently as she stopped the wheelchair next to Fareeha's bed, starting to help the muscular woman into the bed.
There was a box of Swiss chocolates on the nightstand along with some flowers. The origin of the latter was unknown to Mercy, but she had gotten the former for her a few days prior because she felt the unexpected urge to do something nice for Fareeha. At least, that was what she told her patient. She really did it in a desperate attempt to numb some of the guilt she kept feeling because she had somehow convinced herself that Fareeha's situation was her fault. That her bodyguard was only injured because of her, and that it wouldn't have happened if Angela would just have stayed more resistant and insisted that personal protection in Zürich was hardly necessary. Rationally, she knew just how much bullshit that was, but Angela simply couldn't bear it any longer. It didn't help that she knew it was bullshit. She also knew that there was no danger in taking cold showers, yet she found herself still incapable of doing so.
Angela made sure that the pillows were adequately positioned for Fareeha, and then she pulled the blanket a bit over Fareeha's waist, enough to keep her warm but not completely cover her.
"If you say that," Fareeha started, referring to Mercy's assurances about the prognosis, "I trust you, Dr. Ziegler." Ever since Fareeha woke up from her coma, she had lost a lot of her former stiffness around Angela. She was way more relaxed and informal with Mercy, something the doctor appreciated greatly. From time to time, though, Pharah still addressed the doctor with her title, and that sent a strange shiver down Mercy's back. The smile her Egyptian friend had on her lips when she used it indicated that she was very much aware of that effect.
Angela was about to turn and leave when she felt Pharah's hand reach out for hers and hold on to it.
"There is something else..." Fareeha said silently, her eyes starting to avoid Mercy's. "If you have a moment, that is. I'm sorry, but I really don't have anyone else I can talk to except you. Well, I could, I guess, but I don't want to." She managed a shy smile.
That statement, indeed, did fluster Mercy to some extent, and she had to concentrate to keep her voice calm. "Of course, I'm always here to talk. What is it?"
"I had an interesting talk with Reinhardt when you were off to track down Wido- Amélie."
"Oh?"
"Yeah... He..." Fareeha looked away awkwardly. "He's my father."
Angela smiled warmly as she sat down on the edge of Fareeha's bed, still holding her hand for some reason. For a second, the thought occurred to her that it was much warmer than Widowmaker's. "So he finally told you?"
"He did." Pharah replied, before suddenly looking at Mercy. "Wait, you knew?"
"I did." The doctor nodded.
"So they told you, but not me?" Pharah said, a touch of contempt starting to fill her voice. "My mother..."
"Stop it." Angela said firmly, "it wasn't like that at all."
"Why did she tell you, then?" Fareeha looked at Mercy, her eyes wide, and Angela could see just how much the whole matter affected the strong warrior—how much it hurt her. Angela sighed deeply.
"Do you remember when you were around 15? You were terribly ill. Your mother told you it was only a fever when she brought you to me."
"I remember that. She said you were just making sure I'm alright and that you normally wouldn't have time for petty things like fevers," Pharah said. The good doctor couldn't help but feel offended that Ana would imply that she had no time for people with easier-to-treat sicknesses. She was a doctor. Helping people was what she did; the kind of illness mattered not.
"What you were suffering at the time was no ordinary fever, far from it. The symptoms were similar, true, but your illness was caused by your genetic makeup acting up big-time because of Reinhardt's modifications. It was severe. Your body was deteriorating on a cellular level, you know, since Rein was never supposed to be able to reproduce. We nearly lost you that day because I didn't know why your body was acting the way it was. It made no sense. I told Ana that I needed to know everything about you. So she told me how you came to be. With a sample of Rein's stem-cells, I came up with a treatment and was able to dampen parts of your genetic code, and you lived on."
Fareeha groaned, "You could have told me, you know?"
"I promised your mother that I wouldn't do that," Angela replied.
"Yeah, because of that stupid church thing."
"The Iscariot Organization, yes. Those were total lunatics at the time. Your mother was afraid someone would take you away. You were her everything. She would be so proud of you these days; I'm sure of it."
"Yeah, tell that to the marines, Angela." Fareeha looked away "Don't come to my mother's defense now. She used to be my hero, but I meant nothing for her." Her voice was cracking up, the façade of indifference slowly breaking and showing that, underneath it all, there was just the little girl deeply hurt by her mother's neglect all those years ago.
"That's not true. She was trying to protect you; that's all." Angela replied sadly.
"Oh, was she now? Then you surely can tell me how not knowing who my father is was supposed to protect me, exactly. Or how it protected me that she was never there for me when I could have used some advice? Or where she was when I had trouble? Protecting me apparently had a lot to do with neglecting me. I mean, she shipped me off to some boarding school as soon as she could. I didn't see her for 12 years before the message that she was killed came to me. 12 years. She made no attempt to talk to her own daughter in 12 whole years."
"That's not..." Mercy wanted to say that what Fareeha told her wasn't true, but she had to admit that it unfortunately was very much what happened. "Listen, your mother loved you."
"She had a strange way of showing that."
"I'm sure she would do a lot differently today," Mercy said with a sad smile.
"I don't really care anymore. I don't need her. There was a time when I wanted nothing more than her approval, but I don't care anymore. She gave me my name, but that's where our connection ends." She squeezed Mercy's hand for a moment and looked her in the eyes with a solemn expression. "And I'm pretty sure she wouldn't be proud of me, if she knew what I want in my life."
Another shiver ran down Angela's back—one she didn't expect. Despite Fareeha's claim, Angela couldn't help but think that her mother had shaped a lot more of her life than just her name.
-/-
French south coast, deep in the same night.
The white full moon was shining brightly down onto the veranda enclosed by a heavy stone handrail, which was just another minor detail of the extremely luxurious villa in France. Sombra could have sworn that the moon was bigger than it usually was, but that might have been because she was staring at the peaceful orb to distract herself. The breeze was chilly at this time of the night—so cool, in fact, that it gave Sombra goosebumps. And that wasn't because the unique Latina was used to warm temperatures and generally enjoyed them the most. But Sombra still kept her hands placed on the even colder stone handrail in front of her, leaning slightly forward. Another gush of chilly air brushed over her body, and she shivered ever so slightly, feeling the cool air entering the hem of her ridiculously light nightgown, which was hanging wide open around her shoulders. The purple fabric was see-through all the way, and Sombra wasn't wearing anything underneath. The silk swayed gently in the wind. She felt the gush of cold air between her legs creeping up and around her small but firm breasts.
Her eyes stared at the moon, her body otherwise unmoved. It was strange that she felt the cold so strongly and that she found the resolve to look at the moon while her body was otherwise completely numb and unresponsive; however, her body was not numb in a way that she couldn't feel. It was numb in a way that it didn't comply.
"I like that you have piercings," a voice muttered behind her as she felt a set of warm hands pull her long but open nightgown back around her hips. The hands were placed on her pelvis and started to glide upward on her sides before moving around to cup her breasts in a less than gentle manner. Her pierced nipples were tightly squeezed between two thumbs and index fingers, the sensation being both entirely unpleasant and unwelcome. Her squeal got stuck in her throat, but the squeeze was still tightened a little more, just to add to the sting. For what felt like a few minutes her breasts were being toyed with before one hand left her now hurting bosom alone and wandered downwards, over her well toned stomach and in between her legs. She had them spread already, not voluntarily but not left with another choice. Sombra didn't even realize this herself; her body just moved into this position when she arrived and refused to move ever since.
"You should get one here, too, I think." She felt a finger rub roughly over a particularly sensitive spot between her legs. "Right there."
The Latina inhaled sharply, a wave of discomfort and sharp pain gripping her body.
"Would that please you, Master?" Sombra found herself asking, yet she didn't want to speak those words. She wanted to kick backwards, into the balls of the guy pressed up against her back, groping and touching her like this without any permission or consent on her part. She wanted to kick his nose so deep into his face that it would come out on the other end of his skull and then make a run for it—just get away from here, use the arrangements she had already made, and vanish forever. But she couldn't. A part of her demanded that she stay, and, what was even more horrible to what little remained of her numbed-out original self, a part of her even might have enjoyed.
"Oh, it would please me greatly," the voice of the man behind her replied. Sombra could hear the disgustingly smug grin in his churlish face. She knew that what really got him going wasn't the intimate decoration itself but how painful it would be to get one there. It wasn't much different when she got her nipples pierced and he made sure to play with them a lot right after that, when they were still very sore and tender. He would do so again.
Despite knowing this, despite seeing the pain this would cause her and despite the fit of insults that welled up in her throat, screaming to be spit into his abhorrent face, Sombra opened her mouth and said: "Then I will get it pierced for you, Master."
"See, you can behave if you want," he replied with a sadistic sneer in his voice. "But enough of that. Be a dear and strip out of that gown for me," he ordered as he stepped back a little. Sombra's eyes were still fixed to the moon, she herself but a visitor in her own body. She prayed he wouldn't make her turn around for what was to come while she let the purple silk slip off her shoulders and fall to the floor with a barely noticeable reluctance and the faintest of moments of hesitation. If she had to look into his green eyes again, she was certain she'd break.
His hands were on her hips again and she felt his nails roughly sink into his flesh. "Put your ass out more," he commanded. When Sombra didn't comply immediately, he dragged her into the position he desired before she felt a sharp pain in one of her butt cheeks, being slapped—hard. His hands grabbed her behind firmly and gave it an unnecessarily tight squeeze, pulling the cheeks apart with no care for being gentle at all.
A finger slid in between her buttocks, finding the most private point on Sombra's body, an opening not meant for the insertion of anything. "This hole hasn't been used in a while, don't you agree?"
Sombra swallowed heavily, her insides convulsing.
"Yes, Master," she heard herself say despite everything.
She looked at the moon as his belt came loose.
It was a beautiful moon.
"Excuse the interruption, Sir," another firm male voice exclaimed. "She has arrived and is ready to give you her report."
The big boss groaned, heavily frustrated, spanking Sombra hard another time just for good measure. "The timing that bitch has." He grumbled as the sound of small and light footsteps was coming closer.
Sombra was starting to feel more and more in control of herself again as she let out a deep sigh. Whoever was interrupting must have been sent by god.
"I am sorry for intruding, Master," Gerda said as she walked up to her former owner. She, of course, saw the woman bending over the handrail, stark naked, and also knew who it was, but Gerda did nothing in terms of somehow interacting with Sombra or even acknowledging her in the slightest. She just ignored her, as if she wasn't even there. In her years as Savant's personal maid, she had seen scenes like this more than enough and her fair share of far worse stuff. At least his victim wasn't bleeding.
Yet. That might be subject to change, considering the expression Savant wore on his face.
He was furious and Gerda could see it clearly in the full moonlight.
"You are here now. Speak, before I make you regret your choice of timing." He sneered.
"As you ordered, I kept a close eye on Reaper and his doings while he was in charge of our organization. I sneaked away unnoticed by him, as you requested. As stated in my previous report, he has been working through all the old files of Talon. Everything there is."
Savant grabbed Gerda, shaking her violently. "I swear if that's all you have to say I will feed you to the dogs. I wanted to know what he was doing with all those documents. What is he up to? I demand to know. Is he trustworthy? Can I leave him in charge or do I need to replace him? Answer!"
"I don't think he's up to anything, Master," Gerda replied—and immediately regretted it, as Savant's fist connected with her abdomen. She felt the air escape through her lungs as she stumbled to the ground, kneeling.
"Gerda," Savant hissed, "I'll ask you again. What. Do. You. Know. No one reads these documents without any intent. Tell me what you know. That's an order, you dumb, useless cunt."
The maid felt an all too familiar painful tug in the back of her head, a force urging her to tell her that Reaper had not only been looking into various top secret documents but also that he placed some suspicious phone-calls after reading them. She felt the overwhelming urge to tell Savant about Reaper's suspicious behavior, how he had been conducting missions with no real value and no apparent objective, and how they hadn't really gotten anywhere since Reaper took over Talon.
"There's..." she groaned, her insides hurting and her head feeling like it was about to explode. She was scared of Savant, with excellent cause, but whereas she never had a choice other than doing his twisted bidding, there seemed to be another way now.
"Thank you, Gerda."
"I'm not your master. Grow a spine."
"Sit down and eat something."
"It's better if you don't know."
He was cold. But he was friendly in his own way. Not once did he mistreat her so far.
"... just nothing. He is thorough. That's all. Please, Master, there is nothing to tell except for that. I came to confirm that your decision was right. Have I ever lied to you?"
Savant groaned in frustration, running his finger through his hair and turning on the spot twice before he apparently decided that kicking Gerda in her face would be a stupid idea for venting his anger and instead opted to kick Sombra between her still-spread legs. Hard.
The Latina yelped in agonizing pain at the unexpected assault and barely managed to avoid falling to her knees.
"I don't like how this feels. I don't like it." Savant murmured to himself, regarding Sombra for a moment as she writhed in pain, then sighing with an unmatched arrogance and annoyance.
"Great job, Gerda. You and your timing. I should have you whipped or something. We were having so much fun, but now I'm not in the mood anymore. You are dismissed, Sombra." He said and the Latina immediately got up from the pose she had been holding and reached for her night gown with a more than ashamed expression on her face. "No! You leave that here and go with that useless maid for now," he ordered, and Sombra shakily retreated her hand which was about to pick up the little piece of clothing, the uncertainty in her movements not unnoticed by Gerda. Savant placed his hand on Sombra's shoulder. "I want you to do me a favor." He said plainly, his emerald eyes peering into hers. Her irises went wide—so wide that only little of the unusual purple color remained. "Soon, you will find yourself tired. You will fall asleep, and when you awake anew, none of this will have happened. Return to your reality again." The expression on her face vanished completely, replaced with absolutely nothing. She just nodded once.
"Do you want me to bring her back to her workplace, Master?" Gerda asked, she, herself, getting up from the ground again, barely able to stand.
"Do that. Apparently, you aren't always completely useless." Savant hissed before turning to an already-leaving Sombra. "Oh, and get that piercing done in time, understand? I want you to have it next time around. Freshly, that is."
"Yes, Master," Sombra replied, quickly leaving the veranda with Gerda following equally quickly. They vanished into the villa's complex arrangement of hallways and walked for a couple of minutes before Gerda spoke up again.
"Are you still about to come back? Or did he overwrite the real you again?" she asked Sombra with a quick glance.
"The master gave me his orders." She replied automatically, her eyes completely out of focus. She didn't even realize that she wasn't wearing anything. "I will comply."
"The latter, then," Gerda said plainly. "Don't worry; you will have forgotten in a few hours. Ignorance sure is a bliss. The cheerful you is really nice." She said these thoughts out loud despite knowing that it wouldn't make the slightest difference. The maid took a good look at the attractive young hacker walking next to her stark naked. She was absolutely gorgeous. Her copper skin was flawless for the most part, except for some metal implants along her spinal cord, but even those seemed beautiful in their own way. Her purple eyes, however, had no spark in them. No life.
It would return soon enough, all thanks to the magical trickery Talon's scientists had applied to her computer-enhanced brain—a voice command to make her obedient and a voice command to revert her back to normal with a little bit of delay.
In a way, Gerda was jealous. She would never have a body like this, never be able to show off curves like the Latina did. She would never have her amazing hips and surely not her perfect breasts.
On the other hand, the maid was very happy that her childish body held little to no sexual interest for the big boss. She was only beat up. And even that was at an all time low since she was given to Reaper.
No, she wasn't really jealous of Sombra, come to think of it.
-/-
A/N:
"Are finally done?"
-Yeah, for now. Why?
"We wanted to go to Lena's place, remember? You promised"
-Yeah, I'm coming, I'm coming.
So, that's it for this chapter. I have to say, it wasn't really easy to write at all. I also have to say that it's stupid to publish this chapter now, because the next chapter will take me considerably longer than three days. But whatever ^^
As for the Sombra-scene. I'm aware that it wasn't nice to read, but that was an important part. It had to be uncomfortable. And those of you who read Addictions with an attentive eye will surely be able to draw some parallels to Amélie or how she must have been treated.
Still, I drew no pleasure from writing that sequence. None at all. But I hope I achieved my goal and made you all hate Mr. Savant even more. Because he is a complete bastard.
"You coming already?"
-I'm talking about Sombra, give me a sec.
"Oh. Désolé"
-I'll be downstairs in a moment.
Well anyway, that's it for today. I hope you enjoyed the chapter otherwise, it wasn't easy to write, like… at all. Especially balancing Pharah and Mercy in this chapter, making the first steps toward a relationship without taking in too far was an act.
Special thanks go once again to the three Angels, Azuki Rose, EhMattissimo and of course Ihaveacoolname, who once again did an amazing beta-reading job. You people are rockstars!
And you lot are too! Thanks for all the love!
Don't forget to tell me what you think! I'll see you all in the next one.
And now I'm off, before Amélie strangles me to death. She'd do that…
o7
E82
-/-
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