Torbjörn was carefully fastening a couple of straps made of extremely durable nano-weave. While doing so, he paid extra attention to finding the right balance between fastening them tightly enough to not come loose but also not too tight so it would start to impede the wearer. The small wooden stool he was standing on creaked a little as he leaned forward to fasten the last strap on the very top.
"Your beard tickles." Widowmaker stated dryly, not moving from where she was standing. The Swedish engineer had made some improvements to the suit he had made for her, among some other changes she had requested.
"Ha!" Torbjörn snorted. "You insisted the suit be backless. I told you it was a stupid idea, didn't I? Don't complain now."
"I was not used to this area being covered. It felt weird." She explained to him, her eyes following Lena around Torbjörn's new, very spacious, and uncharacteristically not-messy workshop at Grand Mesa. It was tidy, structured, and well thought out. Everything had its own fixed place; everything had a purpose; nothing cluttered around. It bore more resemblance to a surgery room than to a workshop. The entire equipment was new and absolutely spotless. Perfectly clean—not a single scratch on anything. Not the ordered-by-size screwdrivers, not the ranches—nothing. To most mechanics, it would have been the dream workshop.
But Torbjörn seemed to be out of place in it. The shop lacked character. Character the old workshop at Gibraltar definitely had. The only light in the dark were the dozens of heavy wooden crates, which were partly opened, partly still closed, and scattered around the new workshop. The crates contained everything the brilliant engineer managed to pack together from Watchpoint Gibraltar when they had to make their more than hasty escape. The boxes seemed to bring some of the old flair back into the clinically clean new shop. Torbjörn had obviously begun to unpack and started to sort his equipment into every available space he could find. But, apparently, there were more important things to do than to unpack everything, since the bearded Swede didn't get far in his attempts to store his possessions. While he was working on Widowmaker, Tracer had nothing to do while she was waiting for her girlfriend to be done, so she occupied herself by looking at various items placed around the workshop. Looking meant usually picking it up and fiddling around with it.
"You do know that your skin isn't bullet-proof, right, luv?" Lena asked, looking over her shoulder while putting some weirdly angled box back into a shelf.
"Didn't need to be, so far." Widow shrugged. She was usually so far back, away from her target, there was no reasonable chance of an enemy appearing behind her. Usually. And even if, her enhanced reflexes and improved senses would give her the necessary advantage over any potential aggressor.
Lena crossed her arms over her chest in a cocky manner as a smirk spread over her lips. "Ah yes, do I need to remind you of the holes Angie had to stuff recently? I distinctly remember you getting shot by turrets." She said, moving on to 'look' at the next curiosity laying around in the workshop.
Widowmaker huffed. "You said you wouldn't bring that up again." She complained while Torbjörn couldn't stifle a chuckle.
"I know why I like you, Lena. You got a point there." He said, but Widow just shrugged. "And stop touching everything you see! Can't you just stand over there and not mess up my entire system?" he called out to Tracer, whose head snapped up as she let a sliver cylinder drop back into a box.
"There's a system?" she asked, entirely not convinced such a thing existed in this place. It definitely did not exist in Gibraltar, and if there was a system here, it would only be a matter of time until it was completely gone, destroyed, and ignored.
"Just because you don't see it doesn't mean there is none. Now stop it." Torbjörn grumbled.
Lena feigned a hurt expression, her lower lip quivering a little. "Mean..." she complained, but left the box with interesting objects alone and walked over to a row of lockers she decided to lean against. There was no way she'd bother the mean engineer here.
"Luv, you gotta admit, that walking around a battlefield backfree is not without its dangers." She commented, looking at Amélie. It was almost funny how she was standing in front of Torbjörn's stool, receiving a few last-minute adjustments to her gear. It was what Lena imagined being fitted for a wedding dress to look like. Except that the person doing the adjustments would be an overeager but very friendly Italian dressmaker of small stature with a tapeline hanging around his neck and a pincushion fixed to his wrist instead of the old grumpy Swedish dwarf with a multi-purpose tool for a hand. He wouldn't be making adjustments to a high-tech combat suit with god knows how many functions and kickass black and red leather look, but a sleek-looking, simple white wedding dress. It would be high-closing in the front, and it would flow into a short train on the back. The only thing in common with Amélie's battle suit would be the free back, because Lena knew just how much her girlfriend wanted it to be visible.
And that was just the point of it, wasn't it? Amélie wanted her back to be visible because it meant something to her. It was giving her a sense of self. It was the only little rebellion at Talon she had ever gotten away with, and she defined so much of herself because of it. It was her way of showing the world that she didn't care, that she was still her, and that she didn't give a damn what other people thought.
"If they get to my back, I'm dead anyway; what difference does it make?" Widow commented nonchalantly while tilting her neck to allow Torbjörn easier access for whatever he was fixing. She was slowly starting to feel like a dress-up doll.
With a final tug on the strap he had been working on, the engineer interrupted their little discussion. Not that Lena would or could have returned anything to convince her girlfriend.
"Alright, all done here." Torb handed the assassin a small silver ball while he walked to a console nearby. He hated his new workshop. Sure, it was larger and had a lot more tools than his old one, along with way more useful gimmicks. But it wasn't his old workshop. It lacked the flair, it lacked the mess, which had its very own system, and it also lacked so many of the things he had created but couldn't take along with him. There was nothing he could do about that now. At least the new toys were interesting enough to keep him occupied, besides the Bastion project, of course. He typed some commands into the console. "Squeeze the orb, please."
"Hu?" Widow frowned.
"I told you that the nano weave in your suit will help your strength and overall physical condition, right?" he asked, and Widow nodded. "This orb just measures if it works properly and how much the suit provides."
With a shrug, Widowmaker squeezed the silver orb with all her strength. The device made a faint buzzing sound before she let go of it again. Meanwhile, Torbjörn was joined by Lena in watching what, apparently, were the results. She soon noticed that she didn't understand a single word on the display or any of the graphs and decided to just move back to her place at the lockers.
"Hm." Torbjörn mumbled into his beard. "Well, you definitely have an advantage; your effective strength basically doubles that of an ordinary human." He stated and saw Amélie shrug carelessly.
"So, no improvement there, hm? Shame." She grinned and casually tossed Torb the ball, who caught it out of the air and placed it back in the tiny box it came from. He could hear Tracer giggling as Torbjörn rolled his eyes. He walked over to a set of lockers placed along the side of a wall and noticed that Lena was standing right in front of the one he needed. He grabbed her by her hips and moved her out of the way before opening the locker's door.
"Good to see your sense of humor is coming back." He said, eyeing the inside and beginning to shuffle through its various contents before he seemed to have found what he was searching for. "Lena?" He said, looking over his shoulder, before he pulled out the metal box and shoved it into Tracer's arms.
"What's that?" she asked, starting to unto the buckles and taking a look inside.
"Your pistols," Torbjörn started to explain, while he was already clearing out another locker in search of something else. "I improved your cooling units and modified your plasma coils, which should give you a better rate of fire, and you won't need to vent your plasma chambers as often. Shoot longer, shoot faster. They also shoot straighter now. But kick harder. So yeah, tell me how you like them." He said and missed how Tracer started beaming like a child at Christmas.
Appearing out of the next locker was Widowmaker's rifle, which he tossed over to her, knowing that the assassin would have no trouble catching it. "Same configuration you're used to, except now fully suppressed. Won't be louder than a wet slap." He explained, again already moving on to the next important thing, this time on his desk-workbench combination where the console was placed.
"What are you two waiting for? We're done! Now go trouble whoever it is you need to trouble." He made a waving gesture with his synthetic hand to shoo them off.
Battlepoint Grand Mesa, Election Day - 1521 hours
Mercy was brooding over the data set she had been working on for the last... she had lost count of the hours. She might have been a tad bit too optimistic when she promised Morrison an approximate rendering of Talon's leader's face. Even though NEWS had more than impressive calculating power, the parameters she had to adjust were within such a minimal margin of failure, and Angela was having a hard time setting everything to the right values. The fact that she hadn't slept in what felt like weeks didn't help.
She groaned loudly and reached for her cup of coffee. With an annoyed huff, Dr. Ziegler had to find out that it was empty. Again. Or still? When did she get the last refill anyway? Did she even get one, or was it one of the things she wanted to do but might just as well have forgotten? Either way, she would go and get some now. As she stood, her thigh softly collided with her new desk, making the cheap metal wobble ever so slightly. She would miss her massive marble desk from Watchpoint: Gibraltar, that she was certain of. Clutching her trusty cup to her chest, she made her way to the mess hall to get a refill. It wasn't far from the new medbay anyway; a short walk would help her get her thoughts in proper order again, and also, the coffee machine in the medbay had a malfunction. One that Torbjörn promised he'd fix eventually. If I said I will fix it, I will fix it. No need to remind me every couple of days. The grumpy Swede had said. Fair enough, Mercy supposed; there had been so many things going on, all of which were more important than her caffeine-addiction-enabling device.
Auckland, New Zealand, Election Day – 1943 hours
Soon the final, definite results of the election would be published. A few more minutes and then everything would be won, or everything would be lost. Recent surveys gave Thiery Savant little reason for worry; his victory was almost certain. Still. That was just the problem; it was almost certain, not guaranteed. There was still a chance, however small it may have been, that his adversary and current General Secretary Royce would come out ahead of him. A highly undesirable outcome.
He checked his elegant golden watch fixed to his wrist with the finest of dark brown leathers, just to make sure how many minutes had precisely passed since he last checked. Four. It has been a long time since he experienced nervousness, and even longer since someone noticed it.
"You don't need to worry, Sir. I know you'll win. You will be our next General Secretary." Sarah, his maid, said gently, resting her hand reassuringly on his arm. His dark blue suit with the red tie and silver shirt looked perfect on him. He regarded her with a small smile, thinking about how she had been able to provide a lot more entertainment and distraction than he had initially anticipated. He might even go as far as to say that he had begun to actually like her in some way. Not that he'd keep her around for too long. But maybe a little longer than usual.
"I know. But I want this whole farce to be over." He replied, turning out of her touch and starting to walk around in the room the event management had put him in. It was just barely more than a broom closet, hastily created behind the stage that had been set up for today's occasion. The only consolation about his current situation was that Royce was waiting in exactly the same kind of room that he had to make do with. Soon someone would come to get him; he would go on the stage with the current General Secretary, they would sit down and await the official result of the election. Both of them, no matter who won, would hold a speech and congratulate the winner. He didn't prepare a speech in case he would be defeated. In that case, he would simply leave the stage, no point in wasting time. But should he win, he would have a few words to say, carefully picked, meticulously arranged to keep up the illusion of the perfect public servant. Increased defense budgets, stricter regulations regarding Omnics, and a faster and more decisive dealing with the current crisis at hand. For which he already had the solution. Obviously.
In case he won, he would be elected General Secretary Elected, and in a month his inauguration would be conducted. From then on, he would be acting General Secretary, and his goal would be finally achieved. Savant could already see it so clearly in front of his mental eye.
The cheap cardboard door into the room creaked open, and a stage technician, complete with a ridiculous-looking headset and a clipboard, leaned into the room. "Mister Savant? It's time. If you would follow me, please." He declared.
"Good luck!" Sarah called after him as he left her in the room.
In the meantime, and unbeknownst to the soon to be General Secretary, a small aircraft was making its way toward Auckland at breakneck speeds. Flying mere meters above the surface of the ocean to avoid radar detection, the agile craft would soon reach its destination. The sleek, dark gray hull gave no clue of the plane's origin; no markings were to be seen, and no position lights were active. Merely a faint, deep red glow from the cockpit could be spotted from the outside.
Tracer and Widowmaker were the only two occupants of the vessel, commonly known as XE-91 Saberdart. A compactly sized deep incursion special purpose jet, designed to deliver small groups of operatives deep into enemy territory. It was a fast and nimble machine with great range, and luckily part of Grand Mesa's inventory. The Saberdart had been dropped out of an Orca-Shuttle a few hundred kilometers outside of New Zealand, above international waters, and long before any kind of radar would even start to look for anything.
"I have identified an advantageous position for our attack." Widowmaker stated, sitting in the co-pilot chair next to Lena. The red battle lights were dipping everything in their dim light, giving the plethora of controls and switches in the cockpit an eerie aura. The high-pitched hiss of the engines, combined with the occasional creak or rattle, didn't help the tense and squat atmosphere inside the cramped cockpit. Amélie was looking at a map, holographically projected into thin air, displaying a city map of Auckland. The stage on which Savant would be speaking was already marked, as was a taller building approximately 1300 meters away from that stage. It provided a clear line of fire directly on the stage and was large enough for their Saberdart to land. "I am sending coordinates to your HUD now."
Tracer nodded, seeing her partner's target projected right into her eye. "Got it. I will do a pass around the city and make my approach from behind the building. The main street should be large enough to fit us in, and with the stealth drive engaged, no one should notice our approach."
"Excellent. I will confirm we have green light for the mission." Widowmaker said, switching some dials and controls on her side of the cockpit, thus keying in a frequency into their radio. "Little Whisky, Little Whisky, Skyking 1, come in."
"Skyking 1, Little Whisky, send traffic." A voice in Amélie's earpiece said.
"Little Whisky, Interrogative, Go-Status on Mission Peacekeeper?" Widowmaker inquired, patiently waiting a few moments for a reply.
"Skyking 1, Go-Status unchanged at standby." The calm voice on the other end of the line replied.
She suppressed a sigh and kept her voice level. "Little Whisky, we are approaching our Alpha Oscar, update Go-Status when advisable, how copy?"
"Solid copy, Skyking 1, proceed with operation as planned, we will update you as soon as the mission status changes. Be advised, you are clear to engage target only after the green light. I say again, only engage after the go-code."
"Affirmative, Little Whisky, we will wait for the go code. Skyking 1, out." Widowmaker replied evenly, turning off their radio device again, allowing herself her much-desired sigh only after doing so.
"Still no green light?" Tracer asked with a short glance to her side, one eye always glued to the augmented reality route displayed in her head-up display. Their jet was coming closer and closer to the coastline of New Zealand. The destination for this mission was creeping into vision far back on the horizon. With the deep orange sun already almost completely sunk behind it, the city created a marvelous scenery of light and shadow to cast on the almost calm surface of the sea.
"No, apparently Morrison still wasn't yet able to talk to the General Secretary for the final go-ahead." Widow returned, sinking into her chair.
-/-
"Madam General Secretary!" steps came rushing up behind her in the most urgent of manners, reaching her barely at the moment when she was about to enter onto the stage. "Madam General Secretary!" the voice repeated again as she turned around. Coming up behind Lilith Royce was one of her assistants, in their usual dark gray suits.
"Yes, Michael? What is it?" She asked in a short breath, unable to suppress the rolling of her eyes. She just wanted this day to be over. It was over. Her hunt for Talons master mind, for the unknown puppet master pulling the strings from the shadows, it would end today. She would lose the election; there was little doubt about it. She had staked everything on one card and lost when she decided that she would keep a low profile while Morrison and Reyes would work to find their adversary. They had been too slow, or their opponent was simply too smart. Either way, it didn't matter anymore. Their fight was coming to an end now. And a small, but very verbal, part of her mind was rather happy about that. Maybe her successor, this Thiery Savant, would do a better job. He was an aggressive player; maybe he would have a different approach to dealing with the Talon meanace... and the Omnic uprising. And all the other matters that she hadn't been able to tend to properly. Maybe she had been hunting a ghost all this time?
"An urgent call for you, coming in via secured channels. Commander Morrison, ma'am." Her assistant was handing her an earpiece, looking at her intensely.
For a moment, Lilith Rocye did not move a muscle. It was like time had frozen everything in place. There was no loud cheering from the crowd outside, waiting for the candidates. There were no busy personnel running around backstage, fixing lights, or shuffling equipment around. There were no blinding lights from the stage. No butterflies in her stomach. No nervousness. The knowledge of just how important this day was, all but gone. There was only stillness in her mind.
She took the earpiece and put it into her ear.
"Royce." She said flatly.
"Finally, I got you on the line." A more than unsettled Commander Morrison said into her ear, "We got him."
"What do you mean, you got him?" she wanted to know demandingly.
"The person behind Talon is also the person who is responsible for the Omnic uprising. It's Savant. He underwent some genetic alternations, but it's him. We are sure about that."
"What?! Are you saying-"
"I am. It's him. We already have someone on site to take him out. Do you authorize us to proceed with the mission, Madam General Secretary?"
For a moment, there was silence. "How good is your intel, Commander?" she wanted to know.
"As good as it can be given the circumstances. The eggheads over at the Strategic Threat Analysis Division predict 87% accuracy. My top medical expert is working on samples of Savant's genetic material to confirm his true identity once and for all, but she is not done yet. What we can say for sure is: Thiery Savant is a construct. A made-up persona who has undergone genetic alteration at the base level of his DNA. We can prove that by now. That construct is running Talon, and we are, within an acceptable margin of error, sure of that. The source we pulled the information from had a killswitch implanted into her brain. Giving up this intel killed her off, but it also means we have proof."
Royce inhaled sharply. "The political ramifications of your timing will be difficult to deal with. That is, however, none of your concern. I want every piece of compromising information on Savant asap."
"Understood. Shall we proceed with the mission?"
"Where are your agents now?" Royce inquired tensely. She had to play her cards right. Having her opponent in the election assassinated now was not ideal. It was a solution, of course, just not a very clean one. And if what Morrison said was true—that he could prove who Savant really is—then this would open another door for her. A cleaner, better door. One that would take Savant out of the picture without raising questions.
"Currently en route to the target. It's a special sniper team, if you catch my drift," Morrison replied.
That could only mean Widowmaker. "I understand." Royce said. "How long until your team is combat-effective?"
"No more than 45 minutes."
"Alight. I will have the evidence you presented reviewed. If it seems viable, I will have Savant arrested under charges of high treason, war crimes, mass murder, and terrorism." She inhaled sharply. "I can feel your protest, commander, but we are not dictators; we have some rights and values to uphold. I understand the pressing nature, and I am under no illusion as to how close we are cutting it. Should we not be able to reach a conclusion, you may authorize your sniper team to carry out their mission before Savant finishes his speech. He will either leave the stage in handcuffs or not at all."
Morrsion grumbled into his nonexistent beard. He'd lie if he said that this was something he didn't see coming. And to a certain degree, it made sense. Then again, Royce was taking risks he personally wouldn't want to take. On the other hand, he wouldn't have to face any political repercussions. And the general secretary was right. They had to uphold certain values—values of democracy and humanity. Values they'd be kicking with their feet should they start to assassinate people. "I'll update my team on site about your decision. They'll be ready. The information will be forwarded immediately." Morrison said, and the connection was terminated.
General Secretary Lillith Royce took a deep breath. This was it, all of a sudden. What they had all been working toward for so long. The endgame. It was finally there. And there was so little time.
She called her assistant. They had 40 minutes left to get serious work done.
-/-
On a dark rooftop, far away from the inauguration event, two figures were lying underneath a thermal dampening blanket, both unmoving. One was lazily peering over the scope of a high-powered rifle, her golden eyes gazing into the distance, while the other one had a high-magnification rangefinder mounted on top of a small tripod. A classical sniper team, waiting for their go-ahead. Positioned in between the two was a radio unit, permanently set to receive any signal from a certain frequency.
"If we don't get our green light soon, we might as well fly back empty-handed." Widowmaker complained silently, chewing on the first half of a fruit-energy bar before slowly passing the remaining half over to Tracer. The taste was reminiscent of strawberries. Or at least, it was supposed to taste like them. The distinct chemical aftertaste ruined any chance of a proper strawberry flavor.
"You heard the Commander. He'll be arrested. And if not, we do our job. Until then…we can't just shoot the person who is probably going to be the next General Secretary without confirmation."
"Technically, nothing is stopping us," Widowmaker said, and Tracer could hear the careless shrug in her voice but knew that the woman to her left didn't move a single muscle apart from chewing slowly.
"I won't even reply to-" Lena was cut off by the static sound coming from the radio, followed by a slightly distorted but still effortlessly understandable voice: "Skyking, Skyking, do not answer; delta hotel x-ray four five four November, time, twenty twenty two, authentication; Mike Juliet. I say again: skyking, skyking, do not answer; delta hotel x-ray four five four November, time, tewnty twenty two, authentication; Mike Juliet. I say again: Skyking, skyking, do not answer; delta hotel x-ray four five four November, time, twenty twenty two, authentication; Mike Juliet." The message repeated five more times with a sign out from Little Whiskey when the channel cut.
"That's the termination code. What's happening?" Tracer knew what it probably meant. But to actually see it happening. She didn't believe it, they had to arrest Savant.
Widowmaker picked her sniper rifle up against her shoulder and peered through the scope. "Remind me again, Cherié, why is it that we are not to reply?" She asked as the crosshair was searching for her target.
"Minimizes the chances of our location being tracked," Tracer replied, spying through her rangefinder and finding the person whose life they would soon bring to an untimely end. "Let's see what they are up to down there."
"Encrypted quantum entanglement communication is a thing, you know?" Widow quipped while she set her eyes on the target. Thiery Savant, standing on the stage behind the speaker's desk, looking like the smug, self-righteous asshole Widowmaker knew he was. "I really want to shoot him," she stated. She didn't remember ever meeting the man, but as she laid eyes on him, a deep hatred overcame her. She didn't know why or where it came from, but for some reason, she knew: It would have brought her a lot of satisfaction to kill that person. "But seeing him arrested has to suffice for now. Maybe I'll get my chance." She gritted through her teeth. Again, there was this overwhelming urge to kill. Just a few moments to go. Her scope moved a little to the left, waiting for the first cops to emerge on stage.
"I know, I know. But it's politics, right?. Can't be helped." Lena replied. "Distance to target: 1537 meters, wind from south-south-west, point zero two klicks, at currently 19 degrees Celsius." She said calmly.
Widowmaker adjusted the precision scope of her sniper rifle a little. "I thought we would not shoot him?" she stated flatly.
"Just in case." Lena replied. "Maybe he'll try to run."
"Bien. I like how you're thinking." Widowmaker said, watching how five policemen emerged on stage. The commotion erupting on stage was something to witness. So far removed from the event, all Widowmaker and Tracer could do was see but, of course, not hear. It was like watching a movie on mute. Someone slammed Savant's head on the little speaker's desk in front of him before the man was handcuffed.
The crowd seemed to be completely in shock as the French businessman was led off stage in handcuffs, a black bag pulled over his head. At the same time, a group of police vehicles were pulling up, and Savant was quickly pushed into one of them.
"This was a lot smoother than I would have thought." Widowmaker stated flatly. "It was kind of anticlimactic. Disappointing even."
"Agreed." Tracer nodded. "But that's the job. We're done here. Let's head back for debriefing."
Widowmaker robbed backwards from her position before she got up. Quick and skilled hands folded her rifle and stowed it away in a carry case. "Why is it that I don't believe that this is over yet?"
Her girlfriend looked up from folding their thermo-camo blanket and shot Amélie a grin. "Right? It feels too easy."
"Oui. Way too easy. We haven't heard the last of that."
"Agreed. But we'll see. Maybe we get lucky once, right?"
About 1500 meters away from them, Savant was about to explode. How could that happen? Where did the arrest warrant suddenly come from? How was it possible that none of his spies had informed him about this? The United Nations was slow. Bureaucratic. There was no way his sources would not have known about it. It could not be.
And yet here he was.
Handcuffed.
In the cramped, uncomfortable back of a police car. He inhaled sharply for what felt like the 100th time while concentrating on the charges he had been presented with upon his arrest.
High treason. Mass-Murder. War crimes. Terrorism.
The problem was. They were all true. But Thery Savant, the persona he created, had nothing to do with those things. He was just a French businessman. Nothing more.
Someone had put the pieces together.
He had been so close. Victory had been within his grasp. But this was not over yet. It was not. He would not allow it. He knew full well that Lillith Royce was behind all of this, but she would only buy herself some more time. He could still win this. The election was too close. She would not be able to prove any of the accusations in such a short time. There was no way.
There had to be no way.
Still…. There was a chance.
Should he take the risk? Should he play along and get out of prison with his attorney? Abraxas Schroedinger would make short work of… He had killed Abraxas.
Shit.
Savant tried to calm his mind. He had other lawyers available, of course. That was not the issue.
But he had a horrible gut feeling. Not because of his current physical position inside a police car on his way to a small cell somewhere in Auckland, no. Because of the reason for his physical position.
The charges. They were too specific. He could feel something was coming.
He made his decision.
In the end, he would get what he wanted. One way or another.
The other way was still open to him. All he needed to do was activate his emergency beacon.
-/-
A/N:
Patate, what am I seeing? Are you updating this? After all these years? And here I thought you would never go back to writing?
- What do you mean, never?
Well you didn't have lots of time on your hands, right?
- I forgot what time even is.
Oui, oui. I know. I'm only messing with you. You're doing good. We're proud of you.
- Wha... What? Who are you? What did you do to Widow? You are suspiciously nice.
Angela told me to take care of you after all that happened. I am doing that. No arguments, everything will be fine again.
Or so she says..
Oh well... Hey dearest readers. I won't even try to come up with any apology. Is anyone even still interested in Overwatch? I haven't heard anything about the game for years, other than they sucessfully killed it. Whatever. It's been so long and I have no idea about the canon anymore.
It sounds hard, but I don't have the time to look it up either. This will follow my own canon I guess.
I forgot how to English in all that time, honestly this was such a pain. Imagine you have a word in your head, a word you once knew, and it's on the tip of your tongue, but you can't remember? It's there, but gone at the same time. And then you remember suddenly, but you start to struggle so hard with how to spell it.
It ruins the writing flow. I was very lost. I was very lost with the story and the plot and to be honest, I knew whatever I would publish would disappoint. It would not live up to standards anymore.
I came to terms with that. This is not up to standard anymore. But it's all I got
Sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry. I wanted to give you an epic finale, but I will not be able to. I lost the finesse of my language, it's gone, along with a lot of my fantasy and plans. I was sick for a long time, it took it's toll, unfortunately.
So Beta-Reader was an AI. Had to start somewhere, my grammar was absolutely atrocious.
Next update will probably be around 2040 ( I realize that this is not a funny joke after... 5 Years)
Happy new year anyway.
I love all of your, thank you to everyone who is still here. You are all good people!
Amélie says hi.