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Chapter Text

Interlude: (Don’t Fear) The Reaver - Part 1

On a cobweb afternoon

In a room full of emptiness

By a freeway I confess

I was lost in the pages

Of a book full of death

Reading how we'll die alone

And if we're good, we'll lay to rest

Anywhere we want to go

In your house I long to be

Room by room patiently

I'll wait for you there

Like a stone

I'll wait for you there

Alone

---------

相続人 (Sōzokujin) Flashback: (Do Not) Fear

Tuesday, July 12, 2050: 13:25 - shoin garden meeting hall, the Shimada estate, Hanamura district, Tokyo, Japan

His legs are starting to go cold and numb beneath him.

Hanzo wills himself to try and focus, but the dim lighting of the room makes it difficult to do so. The dark wood paneling of this small shoin room always feels so oppressive to him, closing in on his mind like the draw of sleep, the catch of Ao and Sora’s slumber against his thoughts. The shoji screen windows on the wall opposite to his position let in only creamy rice-paper sunlight, filtered like the softness of a pillow. The low dining table there is set, the sitting pillows and chairs straightened out, a paper-screen lamp casting a gilded glow across it. But otherwise the room is steeped in woven, off-white shadows.

Hanzo feels the tendrils of numbness and tingling blood coldness creep up his knees -

He shifts ever so slightly -

“To fidget like that is to show your undisciplined mind.”

Hanzo freezes at the soft chill in the voice, colder than his legs.

To his left, his father Sojiro is ever the picture of discipline and focus, power and poise. He too sits in the traditional kneel, legs and feet tucked under his body perfectly, the angled features of his stoic face betraying no emotion - Hanzo has often wondered if his father feels anything at all.

...He smiles around Genji, Hanzo thinks softly to himself, as Ao and Sora hum with contented sleep around his heart.

Sojiro flicks a dark, sharp look towards Hanzo, who flinches ever so slightly. The man huffs to himself, before moving a hand to the small tea table between them. He picks up his steaming cup by the kettle, lifting it gently and deliberately to his lips. Hanzo casts his eyes downturn as his father releases a heavy exhale, sighing with patient exhaustion, “Your fear shows on your face, boy.”

Hanzo says nothing, for it was not a question.

“Today you are meeting people who will consume that fear in a heartbeat,” Sojiro continues, his deep voice low and rumbling like the growl of a dragon. His father states to the dimly-lit air between them, “You must do better than this. You will show no hesitation, no weakness. Remember, Hanzo - violence is the killer of men, but fear is the killer of the mind.”

“...はい, 父親 (tn: Hai, chichioya; yes, father (formal)),” Hanzo affirms, but before the words are fully out of his mouth, Sojiro cracks dryly, “Funny - did I speak to you in Japanese?”

“いいえ (tn: ie, no, sir),” Hanzo starts to say, but once again, Sojiro’s voice slices through his words like the cold blade of a knife as he demands, “Will the people you are meeting today speak Japanese?”

“いいえ (ie, no, sir)” Hanzo murmurs, his voice feeling weak in the already still and stagnant air, and he desperately tries to avoid Sojiro’s fierce, hard gaze as his father intones:

“So why are you still speaking it, boy?”

“...English…” Hanzo starts and stops. Starts and stops. His wood-pressed mind churns over the words - he does not like this verb in the middle thing. It is confusing and so very backwards.

“English is hard,” Hanzo replies after a long moment of the scent of green tea and filtered paper sunlight. The eleven-year-old scowls in frustration, his gaze nearly boring holes in the floor before them, feeling pain snake up his legs. He mumbles lowly, “I do not like it.”

“English is the language of all business,” his father reminds him sternly, “It is not up to your whims.”

“I will only do business with Japanese,” Hanzo mutters with the firmest resolution he’s felt since his father told him to join him in the shoin side room -

“Humph, then you will lose much in the ways of the world,” Sojiro states, beginning to take a sip of his tea again -

“I dunno - I kinda like his sass.”

Both father and son freeze at the sudden, deathly chill in the wood-pressed room.

The dark shadows of the corners of the room drift together, swirling and condensing in on themselves and Hanzo feels a shiver curl up his spine to the hairs on his neck. His fear rouses Ao and Sora immediately, who snap to attention in their young master’s mind, their gazes focused on the shadow liquefying into existence before them. It drips and writhes, smoke and shadow and ink drops, before taking shape further, billowing in and out like a rolling cloud.

When it stops, there is a man before them.

Or something that takes the form of a man.

He’s dressed in dark, black tactical gear - combat boots and black mesh pants, black jacket and black chest plate. He wears the hood of his jacket up, even inside, but that isn’t what gives Hanzo a small jolt of shock.

It’s the mask.

It’s jet-black, like obsidian smoke made corporeal, twisted into a strange skull-like form. Hard-edged cheekbones, sweeping jawline, rippling with a strange, obscure power that Hanzo cannot place.

But it is the eyes.

In the sockets, the eyes are red, shimmering screenglass.

They assess Hanzo with a cold, inhuman look.

“You got some spirit in you, kid,” his low voice chuckles wryly, as he folds his arms across his chest, tilting his head at Hanzo appraisingly, “I can respect that.”

Hanzo has literally no idea how to react.

But Sojiro -

Sojiro remains stone-cold.

“...You are wearing your shoes,” the leader of the massive, Japan-wide Shimada-gumi association informs the newcomer as casually and as sharply as poison, as if he were a teacher merely reprimanding a grade-schooler to mind their etiquette. The smoke-man flicks his mask towards Sojiro, and then glances down, as if he’s somewhat surprised to still see his combat boots on. As he lifts his head, he lets out a rumbling laugh, saying dryly:
“Sorry, sorry. Old habits.”

And then, as if by magic, the boots around his calves and ankles and feet just disappear, vanishing back into half-shadows.

His socks have little hearts on them.

Hanzo gawks openly.

The man looks up at the boy, and, even though Hanzo cannot see his face, he thinks he can hear a smile in his words, “Look, I even wore the nice socks.” The man wiggles his toes as the black-background, red-hearts dance and shift on them.

Hanzo thinks something in his mind breaks.

Distantly, he can hear Ao and Sora howling with laughter.

The man turns his gaze back to Sojiro, saying with a sort of smug coolness to his voice, “So you’re Shimada Sojiro, hmm? And this is…?”

“My heir and eldest son, Hanzo,” Sojiro explains calmly, taking another sip from his cup, as if he were having an easy chat with an old university friend. The leader of the clan levels his gaze at the man, informing him, “Hanzo will be joining us for this first planning.”

The man seems to stiffen slightly at that, and Hanzo cannot help but catch the way his red screenglass eyes shift in the paper lighting as he mutters, “...Kinda young for this discussion, ain’t he?”

“One can never be too young to start learning what is most important in life,” Sojiro tells their guest strictly. But that red glass gaze never leaves Hanzo’s as the man murmurs, “I dunno, amigo - seems a real cruelty to put this on him so fast.”

“While I respect your opinion, my family’s matters are not for you to pry into, sir,” Sojiro retorts, but the man’s red screenglass gaze lingers on Hanzo’s for a long moment, before he shrugs slightly, rolling his shoulders as he says, “If we’re actually going to work together on this thing, I’d like to be informed of all matters, however large or small.”

“How typical of the CIA,” the yakuza leader snorts, “Always trying to get their hands on things as insignificant as personal affairs.”

“It’s how they blackmail you,” the man chuckles darkly, “I hear you yakuza simply ask for loyalty and patronage instead.”

“Loyalty is a virtue,” Sojiro states coolly, his gaze like a laser on the man’s mask, “As is the power to instill it in others. Now, will you follow the virtue of manners, or will I have to address you as ‘that uncultured American’ for the rest of the meeting?”

“Boy, they warned me about you, but I was not prepared for this,” the CIA agent laughs and Hanzo wonders if it’s possible to hear a smirk in a voice. The man gives a feigned, flourishing gesture to his chest, saying, “My bosses like to call me ‘The Reaver,’ but you can call me whatever you want, friend.”

“‘The Reaver?’” Sojiro asks with disdain touching the edges of the word, “How overly dramatic.”

“Trust me,” The Reaver says dryly, “It’s not a name I chose.”

“And what name would you -” Hanzo starts to ask but quiets when Sojiro shoots him a crackling, liquid lightning look. But the Reaver just turns that strange, red glass gaze towards him, chuckling like smoke, “Well, I’ve got a few ideas -”

“Do not waste your time, boy,” a chill dry voice cuts through the paper light air like a knife, “All his ideas are terrible.”

Hanzo flinches again as another cloud begins to form in the center of the room, only this one draws in the paper-cream light, swirling it around like spun sugar glass, white upon vanilla upon rice paper, condensing into a form that is shorter, leaner than the Reaver’s, but still strong, muscular, tense as a wire. Much like the Reaver, the newcomer wears light tactical gear, only theirs is in shifting patterns of white and grey, like dappled sunlight, like fragments of ghosts and will-o-wisps, and a shiver crawls up Hanzo’s spine to the back of his neck as - strands of their dark hair falling like obsidian waterfalls - they tilt their pale, featureless mask towards him -

As white as bone porcelain -

Save for a single symbol on the forehead in stark red calligraphy.

四.

In Japanese - shi. In Chinese - tsu or sǐ.

The number “four.”

The phonetic word for “death.”

Inside him, Ao and Sora rumble low warning growls as their haunches rise, their spines flexing and curling, their eyes snapping like lightning, and Hanzo feels the skin on his back surge with fractals of pulses - he grits his teeth but he knows from the jolt of their bone-white mask and even Reaver’s flinch that his eyes have flashed blue but he -

A hand whaps him upside the head.

“What did I say about controlling your emotions, boy?” Sojiro snaps at him, and Hanzo balls his fingers into fists, feeling the nails bite into his palms. He’s not scared, he’s not scared, he just gets a little confused sometimes, emotions can be hard sometimes, just like English, just like meeting people who are dressed like death and -

The two ghostly figures stare at the boy who hangs his head low before Reaver laughs awkwardly, “Aha, well, you could at least let him guess, Sǐ - why spoil the fun?”

“I would consider it saving him time and energy,” the new death - Sǐ - says with a soft chuckle to their words as their form finishes solidifying and they takes their place next to Reaver. They look small compared to him, but Hanzo finds their ethereal colors all the more terrifying. But Reaver seems to have no problems around them, nudging them slightly as he teases, “Did you take off your shoes?”

“Of course I did,” Sǐ taunts back, elbowing him gently in the ribs, just below his chestplate, which causes him to squirm and Hanzo -

Hanzo thinks his mind might be breaking again.

“Unlike you, some of us actually have manners,” Sǐ informs their fellow Death Agent, but they turn their low pale mask towards Reaver’s feet before saying with soft respect, “Nice socks.”

“Oh, thanks - I’m glad you noticed them,” he replies, wiggling his toes again and inside Hanzo, Ao and Sora glance at each other in complete and utter bewilderment.

Sojiro just huffs with a snort of mixed derision and mirth, before asking coolly, “So...you two are all the CIA and MSS sent, hmm?”

“I would say something like, ‘We fight like ten men,’” Reaver jokes as Sǐ lolls their head slightly - Hanzo suspects they have heard this one before - and the American death agent chuckles, “But unfortunately, we just fight like two people - but we do put up one hell of a fight.”

Sǐ crosses one arm over their abdomen as the fingers of their other hand press into the forehead of their mask.

Hanzo would say they almost looks physically in pain from the pun.

Sojiro is also not impressed.

He gives Reaver a deadpan expression before his words crack like ice in spring:

“They did not have any other agents - preferably ones with a better sense of humor?”

Hanzo cannot see the CIA agent’s expression, but his mask stills and stares at Sojiro blankly. After a long pause, he turns to Sǐ, asking quietly with a soft amount of surprisingly genuine hurt, “...Am I really not that funny, Sǐ?”

They tilt their head up towards him, before gently patting his arm, replying, “It’s okay - one of us has to be the unfunny, pretty sidekick, Reaver.”

“Damn, I didn’t expect to get this roasted today,” Reaver starts to snap before he totally stops and seems to stare at them with shock, the weak, gentle astonishment open in his tone as he mutters:

“...Wait, you think I’m pretty?”

Hanzo almost chokes on his laughter, hastily trying to turn it into a cough as Sojiro’s expression slips into further deadpan. Inside the young heir, Ao and Sora are lizard-sobbing with laughter, rolling around into little noodle piles in his head - the sound of their bubbly chuckling is infectious, and Hanzo fights the urge to giggle.

“Черт (tn: chert, damn), are you two already starting this today?”

The third voice is new, filling the room like the rumble of a distant storm, threatening to twist into a blizzard of sleet. The new figure takes shape on the other side of Reaver, intermixing the speckles of cremepaper light with the heady hues of the wood, and as she takes form, the colors turn into a soft, mottled brown-grey, like the ashes of pine smoke and oak coals. Much like Reaver’s, her mask appears like a skull, only hers is as white as snow, crystalline almost, carrying a soft albedo sheen to it. Her figure too is strong, solidly built, just marginally shorter than Reaver’s, and she folds her arms across as her transformation finalizes, grumbling loudly, “God, you are obnoxious.”

“Real pleasure to see you too, Morena,” Reaver cracks dryly as Sǐ sighs, “And here is the other unfunny, pretty sidekick.”

“Obviously, I am the heroine of this story,” Morena snaps right back as Reaver turns towards Sǐ, demanding, “Wait, both of us are the ‘unfunny, pretty one?’ One of us needs to at least be the ‘wise-cracking best friend!’”

“Or the attractive, normally-impossible-to-obtain love interest,” Morena adds and Reaver nods appreciatively, affirming, “Exactly. See, Morena knows -”

“Or perhaps this is a situation,” Sojiro mutters tartly, “Where none of you are any of those, and you are all just the unfunny, unfortunate agents your governments sent, hmm?”

All three death agents stop and stare at the Shimada clan leader.

“...Oh wow, he is rude,” Morena states as Reaver replies to Sojiro, “Now who lacks manners?”

“Need we remind you,” Sǐ says to the Shimada clan leader with a shifting, sly tone, “That we are all the help our countries are going to give you when facing Ryujin?”

“And need I remind you -”

The three death agents freeze

At the icy, stormy chill in Sojiro’s words.

The leader of the largest crime syndicate in Crisis Japan - master over 75,000 members, 1000 clans, protector of nearly 500,000 people in the Tokyo region alone - rises to his feet, and Hanzo knows, Hanzo knows

Sojiro’s legs are as tired as his

but age, experience, wisdom, practice, and

Raw power

Separates the heir from his lord father.

Inside him, Ao and Sora shiver and bow at the yellow sparks and snaps that shimmer and strike off of Sojiro’s body as they sense his dragon, 彲 or Chi, rise along with him. The three death agents recoil slightly as Sojiro - merely a meter and three-quarters tall - seems to loom like a mountain with the threat of the storm, gilded lightning and honey-poisoned rain.

“- That the Shimada do not need the help of others,” Sojiro states with roiling finality, “When it comes to taming dragons.”

The three agents stare at Sojiro - their masks rendering their expressions unreadable, but Hanzo knows, Hanzo knows -

Hanzo knows the fear that tenses in each of their bodies.

Ao and Sora can taste it slightly: the sharp snap of the struggle to keep emotions under control, of trying to intimidate an immoveable object and unstoppable force like his father, of refusing to back down in the face of power as unedged and unhemmed as Chi’s -

A task that even Deaths Themselves waver against.

The four adults stare each other down, until Reaver mutters, “Bold of you to threaten three assassins, Shimada.”

“We do not have to help you, yakuza,” Morena growls as Sǐ adds, “China would be more than happy to see Japan fall - you are not the only ones who know how to handle dragons.”

Hanzo sees his father also tense, the wroth practically flooding off him as he seethes, “I asked your countries to send aid, and in exchange I received a manzai performance of three spirits instead - do not think I do not see the insult in this -”

The three agents snap to attention, weapons materializing out of the air - Morena draws a pulse cannon from the ash-grey light and shadows, Sǐ spins a large submachine gun from the cremepaper light, and Reaver -

Reaver draws a long, ominous modified shotgun from the darkness of the edges of the room and -

Do not fear, Hanzo.

Do not hesitate, Hanzo.

“油を売る (tn: Abura o uru, sell oil, idiom for “wasting time”),” Hanzo states to Sojiro’s stressed form and -

Sojiro and Sǐ pause - his father glances down at him as the Chinese agent turns that terrifying pale mask towards him. Beside them, Reaver and Morena stop, with the American agent whispering, “...What did he say?”

But Hanzo knows, Hanzo knows -

“...Father,” Hanzo says slowly, as evenly as he can, even as his own fear snakes tendrils up his legs and spine, “You say to me that I must not be so...um...I do not know the word, um… 頑固 (tn: Ganko, stubborn) - you say to me that I must...um, flow like water, be like wind -”

Sojiro assesses his son calmly as Hanzo raises his head towards him, trying to struggle against the glint of yellow in Sojiro’s normally dark eyes.

Hanzo knows.

Hanzo knows.

He is not Genji nor his mother but -

Hanzo knows.

He is Sojiro’s heir.

And someday -

With age, experience, wisdom, practice, and

Raw power

He too will master the greatest challenge in life -

Zen.

Discipline of the mind, of the spirit, of the soul.

“So Father,” Hanzo says, trying hard not to wither under the fierce gazes of dragons and deaths in the room. The boy inhale-exhales, and gives a wilting smile to Sojiro as he says:

“Maybe...we must...have patience to see if they do fight like ten men.”

The room is deathly quiet until -

Reaver suddenly howls with laughter.

Hanzo and Sojiro flip their heads back towards the American agent, but Hanzo notes how Sǐ and Morena lower their weapons slightly at the barking, coarse sound. Out of the corner of his eyes, Hanzo sees the yellow-tinted glow fade from Sojiro’s body as Reaver cackles, “Holy shit, kid, you got style - what’s your name again?”

“Shimada Hanzo,” Hanzo says with a soft sigh of relief, feeling a real and genuine smile crack out across his face as Reaver lifts his head towards him, still slightly wheezing under the mask as he chuckles, “Oh my god, I thought my friends back home were the most badass people I’ve ever met, but they all just got upstaged by some kid.”

“Um...それは何ですか? (tn: Sorehanandesuka, what is it?) - never...second best?” Hanzo replies with a bright grin and Reaver laughs again, “Dios mío, you’re next level, kid!”

Hanzo can feel his father’s gaze - still slightly tense, still slightly gilded lightning sparks - on him, but his smile and cheer do not falter -

They remain strong in the face of dragons and deaths alike.

After a beat, Sojiro turns his gaze back towards the agents, bowing slightly as he sighs, “My son has humbled me today. I apologize for my...impolite behavior. The Crisis has worn heavily on my country, and I am anxious to be rid of this...monster that plagues us.”

“...We are all interested in seeing Ryujin die,” Morena adds slowly, and Reaver shrugs again, saying, “We may not be Overwatch, but we’re still effective Omnic killers.”

“As if Overwatch would ever help my people,” Sojiro scoffs, his gaze twisting into a fierce scowl, “The U.N. continues to cling to its codes and doctrines, even as the world teeters on collapse - Overwatch would never help us for the principle of my kind being yakuza alone.”

“That sounds like a personal problem,” Reaver starts to joke, until Morena elbows him sharply in his right ribs and his voice breaks off into a cacking whimper. The Russian agent hisses, “Play nice, Reaver.”

But Hanzo notes that Sǐ remains rather still and silent on the matter, their bone porcelain mask still tilts contemplatively towards Hanzo. Hanzo flicks his gaze towards them, away from the manzai performance between Reaver and Morena, and he and the white-clad wraith stare at each other for a moment before -

Do not fear, Hanzo -

Sǐ inclines their head towards -

The faintest, smallest bow -

The faintest, smallest acknowledgement of -

“谢谢 (tn: Xièxiè, thank you),” is the faintest, smallest whisper from the white-clad death as Reaver rumbles loudly, “When have Americans ever played nice in international politics?”

“And this is why you’re the unfunny, pretty sidekick,” Sǐ states a touch too boldly, rejoining the performance. Hanzo exhales the stiff breath he’d barely been containing as Ao and Sora shiver and flinch inside him.

They are not so scary, Sora huffs and puffs, but both Hanzo and Ao roll their eyes over the younger half’s bravado. Across the tea table, Sojiro sighs voluminously, asking, “Putting this...conversation aside, we must be getting to the matters at hand. Will you join us for tea?”

The Shimada clan leader gestures to the set table behind the agents. They turn and glance at it before Reaver mutters, “You know that we...don’t eat much, right?”

“Consider it a symbol of Japanese hospitality,” Sojiro offers them as Hanzo rises shakily, uncertainly to his feet, his legs almost entirely numb.

He does not miss how Reaver’s red screenglass gaze flickers over him, a quick, pale sheen in the cremepaper lighting.

Do not hesitate, Hanzo.

But even though he has not

Age, experience, wisdom, or practice

Hanzo does not falter

As he rises to stand and join the dragons and deaths at the guest table.

---

The next time he rises, Hanzo does not stand quite as solidly.

The “lunch” had lasted hours, with long, intense discussions on tactics and strategies and ideas - maps had been brought out with the food, the secondary clan leaders and turf bosses had trickled in and out, summoned by Sojiro and his runners. There had been weapon inventory lists and counts of clan members, debate and arguments about which squads should go where, how to best use each agent’s skills and strengths, how they could block off Ryujin’s undersea routes.

By the time they had agreed on the majority of the plan, the daylight had shifted from high in the east to high in the west.

Hanzo’s legs are icy with numbness.

He does not know.

He does not know how he feels.

He does not know if he feels angry over his “special treatment” as Sojiro’s heir, at sitting for hours and hours and hours as dragons and deaths discussed war in a language he barely understood, at nibbling away on rice and cucumbers as Reaver cracked jokes and Sǐ evidently rolled their eyes and head and Morena sighed again and again -

He does not know if he feels tired over his “special treatment” as Sojiro’s heir, at waiting and waiting and waiting for hours and hours and hours as his legs grew stiff and cold beneath him, as Ao and Sora struggled to stay awake, as the dimming lighting gnawed at the edges of his awareness, tendrils of ash grey and wood brown and cremepaper white tugging at his consciousness like a soft, warm breeze -

He does not know if he feels proud over his “special treatment” as Sojiro’s heir, at pointing out several small air ducts in one of the rough blueprints of Ryujin’s Omnium, which had made all the dragons and deaths at the table pause, until they began speculating if Sǐ’s tiny AI bots could fit in there, if the bots could haul in cameras or mini turrets or bombs, if they could weaken Ryujin with small but powerful EMPs -

There have been too many emotions and thoughts warring inside him for hours and hours and hours.

All he does know is that

He feels

Overwhelmed.

Hanzo follows behind his father and the two Eastern death agents as they leave the shion side room - the boy blinks as they enter the shadows cast over the wooden deck on the western side of the rock garden. Even in the shade, the sunlight is much stronger out here than inside, and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust.

The central rock garden of the Shimada estate is as impeccable as ever - the still boulders sit like large, silent sentries, perfectly placed, just a fraction asymmetrical, as all things are in life. His father is leading Sǐ and Morena to the bonsho in the temple room of the compound, still deep in his discussion of their strategy. The white - as pure as fresh snow - and the red - as strong as the blood that bonds them - and the slate - as dark as dead wood - of the Shimada compound all carry a heavy stoicism, as impressed upon him as the sheer weight of Fuji, looming large and serene in the northern edge, barely visible to Hanzo through the lattice windows of the temple.

In his mind -

These are not mere buildings -

But mountains made of wood and stone, paint and paper, slate and rock brushings, hard work and perseverance -

Mountains of the magnitude of the human spirit -

Mountains of zen.

The haze of the summer sun and the sweltering rise of cicadas cast everything in a velvet, creamy light, even in the brightness and -

“Hey, kid - Hanzo.”

Hanzo jolts a little at the sudden, rumbling voice behind him - like smoke touched with the faintest edges of cremepaper lightness - and wills himself to turn around slowly, struggling against the needling feeling of pins returning the nerves in his legs to life.

Reaver stands just adjacent to the doorframe of the shoin room, tilting his mask down at the boy. The American death agent coolly places his hands on his hips, and there’s a teasing lean to his posture as he chuckles, “You holding up okay there?”

Do not fear, Hanzo.

“I am fine,” Hanzo mutters to him rather tartly - he can practically feel the distance between him and his father growing, growing - he needs to catch up, he will be scolded for lagging, for falling behind, this meeting is critical to Japan’s future, Hanzo, do not hesitate -

“Want a piggyback ride?” Reaver asks him casually and -

The words jar Hanzo from his anxieties and before he can stop himself -

“何 (tn: nani, what)?” is out of his mouth in a fraction of a second because what -

What the hell is a “piggyback ride??”

“Oh, sorry, you’ve probably never heard that before,” Reaver says apologetically, before patting at his shoulders, explaining, “I can lift you up and carry you back to the main room -”

“I am not a child,” Hanzo snaps, but inside he can see Ao and Sora flicker suspicious gazes at each other. Reaver pauses, his mask stilling, that red screenglass gaze lingering for a moment before he laughs with a slightly bittersweet sigh, “No, I guess you’re not. Lo siento. For offending you.”

“I...will walk,” Hanzo states angrily, glowering at the rude American death agent, but he just shrugs, replying with the lightness of paper, “Whatever you say, chief. You’re the boss around here.”

“Do not...look low on me,” Hanzo says, trying to regain some sense of control, but he stumbles over the words, trying to remember the phrase his teacher taught him but he can’t, he can’t, his father is getting farther away, he’s going to be scolded, he -

“Kinda hard not to when you’re shorter than me, kid,” Reaver laughs again, and Hanzo tries to deepen his glower into an outright glare, but Reaver just -

He just tilts his head again and says in a patiently teasing tone:

“But that’s alright - you’re never second best, right?”

Hanzo freezes -

Even as feeling continues to gnaw away at the numbness in his legs.

The two of them - one a dragon, one a death - regard each other with a slow, almost mistrustful stillness until Reaver tilts his head the other direction and -

There is a strange lightness - like cremepaper backlit by raw sunshine - to his words:

“Hey, if I find something cool in the Omnium, you want it?”

“...Are you...supposed to give that to the...Cee-Eye-Ay?” Hanzo asks suspiciously and Reaver just shrugs again, and the boy can hear the smirk in his voice as he replies:

“Only if they know about it. Which, trust me, the CIA never knows what’s cool and what’s not.”

“...I do not need a gift,” Hanzo pouts, thinking about how every gift comes with strings, every gift comes with a web to ensnare, every gift comes with promises and rules and restrictions and gratitude, one must always be grateful, Hanzo, even if the Shimadas hold the power, the clans are the strata composing the mountain -

“It won’t be for your family, kid,” Reaver explains calmly, “It’ll be just a gift for you. A present.”

Hanzo

hesitates.

His last “gift” had been another training bow - the next size up - and

he had practiced with it on that first day

until his palms had bled and his fingertips had been as red as

the bright, sunlight-glow cherry-blood paint lining the bonsho temple.

His mother had been so angry but his father had said it was necessary, it taught discipline through the aches and the pains and -

Genji had grinned at him, his smile as bright as the sunlight of the north wind, hovering his own heavily-calloused hands over Hanzo’s and chanting in a sing-song:

“痛いの痛いの飛んでけ”

[Itainoitainotondeke]

[Pain, pain - fly away!]

And though his hands had still felt raw and unedged -

Hanzo had smiled at his brother -

His pain had felt lighter but -

“...Why?”

Is all that the boy can say to the death standing before him.

Reaver tilts his head the other direction again, slowly, calmly, coolly, and Hanzo feels something - something entirely unrelated to the fading numbness in his legs, something entirely unrelated to the anxieties gnawing at his mind and soul, something entirely unrelated to the harshness of the sweltering summer sunlight and the distant sing-song of the cicadas and traffic noises beyond the compound walls -

If feels like

Death can see his very soul.

It feels like

Death is weighing its worth.

Do not fear, Hanzo -

“I know what it is like to be an eldest son,” Reaver says quietly, as lightweight as spun sugar-glass, as lightweight as ricepaper-screened sunlight, “In a family that expects too much of you too fast.”

Hanzo stares up at the red - as red as the bright, sunlight-glow cherry-blood paint lining the bonsho temple - screenglass gaze, searching for something -

He does not know what.

“...To be the heir is an honor,” Hanzo mutters quietly, feeling like the whisper is more for his own mind than anyone else and -

“But being the best is fun,” Reaver chants back in a strange sing-song voice and Hanzo -

He giggles slightly.

“I promise you, kid - it’ll be a good gift,” Reaver adds and Hanzo -

For the first time all day -

Legs regaining their strength -

Hanzo grins

Genuinely.

---------

On my deathbed I will pray

To the gods and the angels

Like a pagan to anyone

Who will take me to heaven

To a place I recall

I was there so long ago

The sky was bruised

The wine was bled

And there you led me on

In your house I long to be

Room by room patiently

I'll wait for you there

Like a stone

I'll wait for you there

Alone

Alone

---------

Ryūjin or Ryōjin (龍神 "dragon god"), which in some traditions is equivalent to Ōwatatsumi, was the tutelary deity of the sea in Japanese mythology. This Japanese dragon symbolized the power of the ocean, had a large mouth, and was able to transform into a human shape. Ryūjin lived in Ryūgū-jō, his palace under the sea built out of red and white coral, from where he controlled the tides with magical tide jewels.

In Japanese mythology, the tide jewels - individually, the white kanju (干珠, literally "(tide-)ebbing jewel") and the blue manju (満珠, literally "(tide-)flowing jewel") - were magical gems that the Sea God Ryūjin used to control the tides.

---------

相続人 (Sōzokujin) Flashback: 干珠 (Kanju, the Tide-Ebbing Jewel)

Friday, July 15, 2050: archery practice range, southeastern corner of the Shimada compound, Hanamura District, Tokyo

He’s back to practicing with his bow - attempting to increase his reflex speed on arrow, notch, pull, release, arrow, notch, pull, release - when he feels Ao and Sora feel the presence first.

He is here, Ao mumbles, rising to his feet as the dragon’s other half follows suit -

- pull -

Hanzo does not hesitate -

His arms tense as he draws back the string, his gaze focusing in on the center dart even as his dragons turn to face the smoke condensing behind him -

- release -

He snaps loose the tension, letting the arrow fly, his focus carrying the discipline of his mind to the center of the target, his mind sinking into the soft hay bale wrapped in cloth before -

“Man, ain’t you allowed to have fun around here?”

Reaver’s low grumbling voice almost has a whining lilt to it and Hanzo smirks slightly, before saying coolly, “You were the one that said being the best is fun.”

The boy turns to face the American death agent, who - Hanzo imagines - is just gawking at his slick response, and the heir of the Shimada clan grins at that slate-coal mask, those cherry-blood red glass eyes -

Hanzo’s grin is vicious, vivid, victorious -

Glinted blue with snaps of lightning and waterfury.

“Being the best requires hard work and discipline,” he states to the Death who should tower over him, who should loom like a mountain but instead -

Reaver hurls his head back and howls with laughter, practically sobbing:

“Oh my god, kid - you’re as sharp as a samurai sword, I’ll give you that. Shit, let me just say, some of my SEP buddies would be real impressed with you.”

Reaver lolls his head back towards Hanzo, reaching into his pocket as he chuckle-mutters, “I managed to find you something -”

“How was the battle?”

Reaver pauses as Hanzo stares up at him intently, the grin gone from his face, his dark eyes searching the slate mask for answers. The American death agent looks back for a long moment, before whispering slowly:

“It...I won’t lie, kid - it was pretty bad.”

“My father is alive?” Hanzo asks immediately and Reaver sighs, “Yeah, yeah, Sojiro’s...one helluva fighter, that’s for sure -”

“Did you get to see Chi?” the boy says, snapping from intensely fearful to playful at once and Reaver recoils slightly before stammering, “Uh, that’s his dragon, right? Yeah, the dragon was...out a lot -”

“Chi killed Ryujin, right?” Hanzo says, grinning, as Ao and Sora look at each other with smug pride inside his heart, “I told Genji Chi would kill Ryujin!”

“...You...you could say it was more of a group effort,” Reaver answers weakly, a hesitation that Hanzo does not miss but -

“Listen, I really gotta go - my boss is gonna be calling me any second, and I got other stuff to do,” the American death agent says, before pulling something from his pocket and -

Hanzo freezes.

Inside him, Aozora no Ryuu also freezes.

In Reaver’s left hand sits

A small orb.

It’s about the side of a baseball, fitting snugly in the palm of his hand, but it almost looks to be made of some sort of pearlescent glass, a soft, cremepaper-white nacre sheen to its outside. But it’s semi-transparent, and inside, Hanzo can see a roiling pale energy surrounding something small, dark, dense in the middle -

It looks like a storm of seas, a wroth of waterfoam and waterfury, like melting, shifting plasma pulses and lightweight sunbeams -

“If I keep it with me, they’ll take it from me,” Reaver says, but his voice his deathly quiet, whispering in shades of ash grey and wood brown and sunlight white, before gesturing slightly towards Hanzo with it. The boy stares in utter fear at the object and -

“But you’re never second best, right, kid?”

Hanzo gawks back up at the Death looming over him.

“I don’t care what you do with it,” Reaver murmurs almost gently, almost serenely, “But never let anyone you don’t fully trust have it.”

Hanzo feels

A strange numbness

Gnawing at his mind.

But still.

He knows.

He reaches out and takes it.

The Tide Jewel is gently warm to the touch, as if it had been sitting in a soft, sweet saltwater bath under the summer sun for hours and hours and hours.

Hanzo feels -

“And this,” Reaver says, a little more loudly, reaching into his other pocket, “Is the gift just for you.”

Death holds out -

Hanzo thinks a part of his mind breaks.

Death holds out a glittery bouncy ball - also about the same size as a baseball - made of plastic gel, sparkles, and little stars.

Hanzo knows.

He got that from the arcade down the block.

Hanzo just gawks.

Aozora no Ryuu also just gawks.

“Your very own Tide Jewel,” Reaver states smugly, and also rather loudly and Hanzo -

Hanzo starts laughing.

He giggles vibrantly, vividly, victoriously as he takes the bouncy ball in his other hand, stuffing the real Tide Jewel into a pocket at the same time, grinning as he holds the small gel orb towards the sunlight, snickering, “Wow, that is really something, Mister Reaver.”

“Listen, that thing is a real gem,” Reaver snaps with a teasing tone, “But I guess this is putting pearls before swine, huh?”

Somewhere on the other side of the stone-and-wood corridor separating the archery practice range from the central garden, Hanzo hears a faint groan of despair.

“Be careful with that, okay?” Reaver asks him cheerfully, “It’s priceless.”

“馬鹿は死ななきゃ治らない (tn: Baka wa shinanakya naoranai; an idiot cannot be healed/saved until they die) - but for you, that is not true, hmm?” Hanzo states to him with a mischievous grin and from beyond the corridor -

Sǐ starts sobbing with laughter.

“What - hey, Sǐ, stop laughing - what did he say?” Reaver demands, whipping around and storming towards the hallway as he calls out, “If you insulted me, kid, you’re dead!”

“You are already dead,” Hanzo replies with a small shrug and Sǐ’s laughter only grows more intense. In the archway, Reaver pauses for a long moment before he sighs, “Well...I mean, technically you’re right but -”

“お兄さん (tn: Onīsan; brother)!”

Hanzo turns slightly to his right, towards the rest of the open archery range, as a black and green blur scuttles down the side of the stone foundation at the far end - Genji had never been one for actually using stairs and walkways properly. He’s wearing some bright green bandanas - one around his forehead, the other around his neck...probably the one that was originally around his forehead and he slowly pulled it off during iaido practice, until the master had made him put on a second one.

“Are you cutting practice?” Hanzo asks him as Genji - eight-years-old and as spirited as the wind dragon inside him - skids to a stop beside him. His little brother beams up at him, his grin as bright as cremepaper light, a large red mark beginning to welt on his face. Hanzo isn’t terribly worried, though - he knows it’s more than likely due to Genji tripping over his own feet or running into a wall.

“遊ぼう(tl: asobou; let’s play)!” Genji says emphatically, bouncing slightly before he catches a glimpse of the bouncy ball in Hanzo’s hand, asking, “何, 何 (tl: nani nani; what, what)?”

“A ball,” Hanzo replies, tilting his hand and bouncing it on the ground. It snaps back to his grasp almost immediately and Genji’s face - already bold and radiant - brightens even further as he chants in a sing-song, “投げて (tn: nagete; throw it)!”

“Okay, but I must say thank you to -” Hanzo answers, turning towards the northern archway but -

Reaver is gone.

Hanzo pauses for a moment, staring at the sunlight trickling in through the opening, before small, impatient hands grab at his arm, shaking him slightly as the sing-song voice chants:

“投げて, 投げて, 投げて (tn: nagete, nagete, nagete)!”

“Do not be so undisciplined,” Hanzo chides his brother with a slight tease to his words, turning his gaze back to Genji, who pouts slightly as he huffs, “英語なし (tn: eigo nashi; no English)!”

“You need to practice,” Hanzo reminds him, as patiently as he can and Genji just scowls further, his dark eyebrows furrowing deeply as he hums in contemplative discontent.

“...If you practice, I will throw for you,” Hanzo suggests with cool, calm evenness, causing Genji’s expression to soften slightly before the younger brother sighs, “...But it...is...um…”

“Hard,” Hanzo offers and Genji nods, which gets Hanzo to grin wolfishly as he teases, “That is why you need to practice! You will never get better if you do not try.”

“...Boring,” Genji mutters tartly, before smiling brightly again, asking, “Throw?”

“Okay, okay,” Hanzo sighs with feigned impatience, stretching his arms slightly to shake the stiffness of the bow from them. He twists slightly, taking a pitcher’s stance, sideways towards the northern corridor, as Genji tenses beside him, his eyes flashing green momentarily -

“What is it in English?” Hanzo asks and the green fades from Genji’s eyes as the younger brother scowls furiously, grumbling, “Brother…”

“I know you know it,” Hanzo reminds him solemnly and Genji’s glower turns into a look of frustrated confusion before he mutters, stammering slightly, “The dragon...is -”

“Becomes,” Hanzo corrects him and Genji asks, “Not is?”

“‘Is’ is not correct. That is for right now,” Hanzo explains, “‘Become’ is to change.”

“Okay, um,” Genji says hesitantly, before his eyes start to glow green again, and Hanzo can see some of the air around him shift - cremepaper white to faint forest green, glittering like sunlight through filtered leaves. The younger brother tenses as the wind rises around him and Genji chants in a voice risen with the crackling air:

“The dragon becomes me -”

Hanzo hurls the bouncy ball as hard as he can -

Up and up and up, over the wooden walkway rooftop, out into the central garden with the small garden room on the other side -

Genji vanishes.

Even having known his brother for the entirety of Genji’s life, Hanzo still struggles to watch his brother’s scampering and shifting form as he blurs towards the northern corridor, throwing himself to the side of the corridor, clambering up the stone foundation and then up the wooden slats of the railing and disappearing briefly from view - he reappears a second later on the far side, jumping back out through the opening before he vanishes again.

Hanzo watches the brother of the north wind go -

As he thinks quietly in the still, cremepaper sunlight air

Sweltering with the summer and the sing-song of the cicadas

I must thank him.

Hanzo does not know when he will see Death again

But he knows

He does know

(The Tide Jewel shifts in his pocket, lightweight and heavy at the same time)

The tides will bring their currents together again

Someday.

---------

“...Who knew that the fearsome Reaver had a soft spot for children?” Sǐ teases him, the ripples of their laughter still echoing slightly in the tone of their words. They’re waiting for him on the other side of the corridor, by a large boulder beneath a bright, stately cherry tree, the leaves broadly green, the light drifting in like soft motes of dust and -

he is distantly reminded of the forests of Boise, framed by large picture windows, open to sweeping mountains and blue skies that hum and sew together. Sing-song-like chatter in the mess hall after a hard day of injections and training, his friends at the far table waving towards him. An elbow lightly bumping into his ribs as Jack and Adrien appear next to him, holding their lunch trays, grinning as they -

Sǐ tilts that bone-pale mask towards him, and, even though he cannot see their face, he knows, he notes the softest shift of their head as they turn from laughter to slight concern, asking quietly, “...Is everything okay?”

It hasn’t been.

Not in years.

“Fine,” Reaver answers gruffly, trying to shake the homesick feeling in his heart as he draws closer to them, listening to the chatter of Hanzo and his brother behind him. The American death agent mutters with a feeling he cannot entirely place, “I just...I’m an older brother too.”

Sǐ’s mask does not shift off of his, as he comes to stand in front of them beside the leafy cherry tree. Reaver looks at that empty face and sees -

He senses a surprisingly tender emotion there.

“I know how hard it can be,” Reaver explains to them, glancing up at the cherry tree, at broad leaves and sweltering summer sunlight as he murmurs, “To have to grow up too fast too young. My father died when I was fourteen - cancer. Mamá struggled to support us by herself, so I took a job that summer. Guess you could say I’ve been working ever since.”

Sǐ’s porcelain gaze lingers on his mask, Reaver knows, Reaver knows -

But he stares at the blue peeking out through the leaves.

“...I shouldn’t have told you that,” he whispers quietly, softly, with more tenderness than he should and -

“I am an elder sibling too.”

He looks back at them, the edges of his vision red - red like the cherry-blood paint of the lining of the Shimada compound, red like the single, stark calligraphic letter on their mask - but in the center of his vision they are clear, strong, and yet ethereal, ephemeral, like sunlight spun into creamy rice paper and -

“You didn’t have to tell me that,” Reaver murmurs back to them, and Sǐ -

Sǐ just shrugs casually, saying with a teasing edge to their words, “It seemed appropriate. An eye for an eye.”

“...That’s not what that phrase means, but okay,” Reaver chuckles darkly as they straighten themself up from leaning against the tree. The two of them begin a slow meander to the west, heading towards the entry rock garden of the compound - and eventually to the massive main gates - but they know, they know -

They are being deliberately slow about it.

“...Think our families would still be proud of us for the work we’re doing?” Reaver asks them as they round the tree and another large boulder, heading towards the stone steps that lead to the rock garden courtyard. Sǐ hums slightly, thinking on it slowly before they reply with a cutting twist to their words, “Freeing a country from the tyranny of a cruel dragon is honorable work, Reaver.”

“...And did we put it under the rule of another cruel dragon, Sǐ?” he asks them back as they start to climb the stone steps. Sǐ pauses slowly, and he takes another step before he turns to stare at them. Behind them, a bouncy ball is hurled into the garden courtyard and -

“...Whatever your true objectives, Reaver, we need to agree on our story -” Sǐ starts to state as a fucking green blur of a child tears out through the openings of the wooden corridor and throws himself into the garden courtyard behind them -

“Do we?” Reaver asks them coldly, but there’s a touch of chilled anguish to his tone and -

“We already agreed on the Tide Jewel,” Sǐ reminds him as the green blur whips into a small boy on the north end of the garden courtyard, skidding across the ground slightly before he twists and hurls the bouncy ball back over the corridor.

“We need to agree on what we are going to do about...today - you know they will use it against us someday if we do not,” Sǐ continues, as if the second son of the Shimadas had not just launched a goddamn bouncy ball to the moon behind them.

Reaver tilts his gaze from the strange, slightly-green ninja child back to their pale mask, assessing them calmly, weighing the worth of the moment -

To his vision, their soul blazes a deep red - as red as blood, as red as wine - mixed with sparks of gold and amber, brighter than the sun above them.

The blaze of Undeath.

A flame of Unlife.

“...An eye for an eye, huh?” Reaver mutters, mainly to himself, since Sǐ asks, “What was that?”

“...Nothing important,” Reaver sighs, shaking off the weight of their unexistence in his eyes before saying slightly louder so they can hear him, “Us older siblings have to look out for each other, right?”

“...It is the burden of being the best,” Sǐ replies and Reaver -

Behind the mask, he grins, chuckling, “God damn, you are too fast for me.”

“This is why I told you that you are the unfunny, pretty one,” Sǐ teases right back and god damn, his soul is dark and stiff and so cold, but there’s something about their wit that makes it feel warmer, warmer, like it’s been sitting in a soft, sweet saltwater bath under the summer sun for hours and hours and hours -

“Christ, okay, you need to stop distracting me,” Reaver chides them and Sǐ’s giggles die to a more serious tone as they murmur, no louder than the shift of the leaves of the cherry tree behind them:

“...What did you see when Morena died?”

Reaver stares at that pale mask and -

He knows.

He knows.

But the fear makes him hesitate slightly.

“...The reasonable explanation is that Ryujin’s fusion wave obliterated her,” he begins, watching as the bouncy ball returns to the garden courtyard, only at a slightly different angle, and the second Shimada son blazes into a green whirlwind as he darts after it.

“But...from my angle, it looked like she dropped before the wave ever hit her,” he concludes, as Sǐ watches him intensely from behind their mask.

The second son launches the ball back over the corridor as -

he remembers the dim, ocean-blue lighting inside the Omnium, like being underwater, like being trapped in a cave with all the glow of the mirrorlike, fluid reflections bouncing off every wall. Ryujin screams and screams and screams, a roar that rattles everything, even his bones, even the Bastion unit that his shotgun tears through, and he’s preparing to shift back into wraith form again when -

he remembers preparing for the fusion pulse wave, readying himself to dive behind a massive column as the Sea Dragon God Program hurls itself in the air, “swimming” through the cavernous blue atmosphere and -

he remembers watching, from the corner of his eye, as Morena, her grey-brown form preparing to shift as she starts to dive for shelter behind another massive column -

he remembers as a soft, golden glow, sparking like lightning, shivering with power, seems to rip through her form as she slips, collapsing by a felled Bastion and -

he remembers Sojiro diving behind the same column Morena had been moving towards right as Ryujin’s fusion blast rolls through the room -

“...looked a lot like that yellow dragon of Sojiro’s went through her really fast before the wave hit,” Reaver whispers, one death to another.

Sǐ does not move because

They know.

They both know.

“...I thought my gear was malfunctioning,” Reaver adds to their still form, before dropping his voice into an even more deathly-still whisper, “...Are you saying that it didn’t?”

“...My drones barely caught it,” Sǐ says, shifting their hands as they expand a small holo-projector in their palms. The Chinese death agent looks down only briefly to tap at something on the “screen” before they add, “...The dragon does not look quite right on repeat but -”

The holo-projector flickers to life - at this angle with the sun, it would be impossible for anyone else to see what it’s showing.

Only Reaver can see it.

Only Reaver watches

As the cave of Ryujin’s Omnium lights up from a different perspective, up higher, hidden in a small nook and vent as the tiny drone readies another EMP but -

The camera swivels: it scans to Reaver, moving behind his column, and then flickers to Morena as she rushes to hers and -

There’s a glint of something long and slick, golden and yellow, snapping sparks that send shivers like the eerie call of the cicadas at sunset and -

It appears to almost pass through her -

Before the Russian death agent falls to the floor

And then the wave of Ryujin’s fusion rolls through the room with a blinding light.

“But I know what I saw that the camera did not see,” Sǐ whispers to him, one death to another, “And I saw the head of that dragon pierce her heart.”

Reaver watches as they “fold” the holo-projector back into their palms, watching them with deathly silence as the bouncy ball returns to the garden courtyard.

“...So what does this mean?” Reaver asks them coolly, “I won’t pretend to know shit about dragons, but - frankly - in the West, these things are fucking fairy tales. They’re no more real than ghosts -”

“And what, exactly, are we if not ghosts?” Sǐ cuts in sharply.

Reaver goes still.

They stare at each other for a long moment, assessing the weight of each other’s undead, unalive souls, before Sǐ sighs heavily, muttering, “Here, in the East, dragons are spirits of truth and power. They are energy, life - wind and rain and thunder and lightning - do you know what chi is?”

“...You mean besides a terrifying gold dragon?” Reaver asks dryly and Sǐ chuckles, “Well, they are one and the same - chi is life itself.”

Despite the sweltering summer heat, Reaver feels a shiver crawl up his spine at their words.

“...Are you saying that’s why Sojiro could...do what he did?” the American death agent asks them and Sǐ looks at him for a long moment before admitting, “It is likely, yes. Dragons are spirits...as are we ghosts. All energy bends before them.”

“...Man, fuckin’ none of this was in The Hobbit,” Reaver chuckles weakly but it’s enough -

Sǐ laughs lightly, airly, like a welcome breeze through the humid haze.

“That is your reference on dragons?” they ask him playfully and Reaver teases back, “Hey, man, it’s a good book.”

“It’s also not very accurate,” Sǐ chuckles, and Reaver can practically hear the grin in their voice, but it dies slowly as they add contemplatively, “Especially not on dragons.”

“I’m just...finding it a little hard to swallow,” Reaver admits as the sunshine heat sets back in over them, as he watches the second Shimada son scamper around the courtyard. Sǐ watches him slowly, and he can feel their gaze assessing his own soul heavily, weightedly, like rests on a scale, balancing against something unknown in their mind.

“...There are forces in the world much larger than us. We do not have the ability to see them,” they whisper to him, one death to another and -

Reaver feels a strike of fear ribbon through his aching body.

“Dragons are among them. Spirits too. Ghosts and demons as well, perhaps,” Sǐ murmurs, shifting their gaze to the stones beneath them. They pause for a moment before lifting their mask towards him, asking quietly, “Surely you must know the term they are using for the technology that made us?”

“ ...No, I don’t know if it had a name when they used it on me,” Reaver admits. Sǐ glances around, but the only other people in the garden courtyard are the second Shimada son and several yakuza lackeys, milling about respectfully as they watch the young boy dart about. And then -

Sǐ swoops in close to him.

Reaver jolts back slightly, but they lean their mask - pale, porcelain, faceless, yet ever watching, ever observing, ever knowing - right up towards him.

For a moment

Time stops.

“...Al Azif,” the death whispers to their companion.

And Reaver freezes as a soft chill curls up his back and -
“...What’s that?” he whispers back and Sǐ pulls back before tilting their head quizzically as they ask dryly, “...You know Tolkien but not that?”

“Hey, I already dropped one nerdy reference in this secret spy meeting, okay? I’ve filled my quota,” Reaver huffs as the world resumes around them and Sǐ just chuckles as they fold their arms and teases him, “You are not as much of a nerd as you think you are.”

“...I don’t know if I should be relieved or insulted by that,” Reaver intones dryly, causing them to laugh as bright and as weightless as sunlight, saying to him, “Ahahaha, well, in this instance, it is a bad thing, I suppose.”

“...So what does it mean?” he asks them, and Sǐ shakes a playful, mocking finger at him, replying with a brightness to their words, “Oh no - you will have to learn this on your own -”

“Aww, Sǐ, c’mon,” Reaver pleds, but they step past him lithely and lightly, darting up the rest of the stairs. He twirls to follow them, as they cross through the inner gate of the compound to the entry rock garden. Sǐ seems to grin at him as he comes to stand beside them, staring at the boulders in the center. The Chinese death agent says mischievously, “I will not budge on this - besides, it will be more fun if you learn on your own.”

“...You smug little -” Reaver starts to growl but they cut him off, whispering sharply, “So our story.”

Reaver glances down at them, before muttering slowly, “...What about our story?”

“...You do not tell the CIA. I do not tell MSS,” Sǐ states to him, but he can hear the questioning offer in their words. He assesses that pale, bone-porcelain-fiberglass mask coolly, noticing - perhaps for the first time in the few years he’s known them - that it shifts and shivers like a strange, white smoke, lacy and veil-like, nacre layers upon nacre layers.

Reaver knows.

Reaver knows.

Reaver knows he should not trust them -

“...They already know fusion can harm us severely. They do not need to know about the dragons,” Sǐ adds with a softer, sweeter plea, so quiet the sing-song chirping of the cicadas sound loud in the air and Reaver knows

Reaver knows he should not trust them

But -

“...Agreed,” Reaver replies, and he notices how some of the tension in their body melts away, relief making them relax and his soul feels far warmer than it should at the sight of that -

“...I am glad you are a fast learner, Reaver,” Sǐ says, their teasing tone returning but Reaver -

Reaver is not done:

“Okay, I...if you agree that we both saw this, then I don’t want to fuck with it. Sojiro is a dangerous enough ally as it is - I don’t want to be his next experiment,” one death confesses to his companion, and they go still before saying with a soft yet strong confidence:

“I agree. The fusion wave killed Morena.”

The two deaths stare at the rock garden, bathed in pale yet bright sunlight and the sing-song of distant cicadas -

And the sound of children giggling somewhere behind them.

The sound of the silence between them

Is

Surprisingly

Comfortable.

“...Man, I could really use a stiff drink after today,” Reaver says, perhaps a touch too casually, because Sǐ snorts in obvious derision and maybe a touch of humor, but he manages to summon his courage to ask:

“...You wanna get a drink -”

“No.”

A dead, awkward silence replaces the comfortable one between them until Reaver mutters with a touch of genuine hurt, “That’s ice cold, Sǐ.”

“ I...we should not have had this discussion,” Sǐ murmurs back, but there’s an anxious, fervorous edge to their words, “We should not be seen like this.”

Reaver considers what they say, weighing it against the warmth of his soul and deciding that the fuzzy feelings are definitely worth more than the caution.

“...I am leaving,” Sǐ states with a resolved finality, as they start to walk to the left, towards the small side-building that leads to the main gates. Reaver watches them take several steps before he calls out to them, “Hey, Sǐ -”

They stop, turning towards him slightly before asking with a smug, cheerful tilt, “Yes, Reaver?”

“...These ‘larger forces,’” Reaver says slowly, trying to turn over his words in his head before he settles on, “...Are we part of them?”

Sǐ considers his question, the texture of their mask swirling and swirling gently, slowly, serenely, a pearl’s formation in constant motion, before they too choose their words carefully:

“...Even if we are not...the people around us think we are.”

Pale, bone-porcelain, with the sweetness of pearl and the fabric of glass smoke

Glints under the cremepaper sunlight

As it meets the obsidian, steel-cut, slate-simmering skull, with eyes as red as the cherry blood, as red as their undying, unliving souls, as red as sun when it bleeds into the sunset.

And the white-smoke death asks their black-slate companion:

“...Why do think you we are all named after ‘Deaths?’”

“...I assumed that was some bad irony there,” Reaver states dryly, which gets Sǐ to laugh again, saying, “Maybe you will be the funny sidekick yet, Reaver!”

“...That’s all I ever wanted to be,” Reaver jokes back but Sǐ just seems to grin at him, replying happily, playfully:

“No - you could never settle for being second best.”

...God damn, Reaver thinks before they wave to him and then -

Their form disperses into white, smoke sunlight.

---------

And on I read

Until the day was gone

And I sat in regret

Of all the things I've done

For all that I've blessed

And all that I've wronged

In dreams until my death

I will wander on

---------

相続人 (Sōzokujin): 雲散霧消 (Unsan musho - “Vanishing like smoke”)

Wednesday, July 15, 2076: the front garden of the mansion of oil mogul Ahmet Hasan Demir, just outside Istanbul, Turkey

“...I really should not be letting you do this,” the Jandarma official says to him nervously, but Hanzo just rolls his eyes slightly, muttering to him, “You agreed to take the money.”

They are trudging up the gravel pavement of the walkway, the Jandarma official looking about nervously, Hanzo glancing about more critically. There’s nothing left from the scene - it’s been far too long, and the Jandarma cleaned up the bodies and blood weeks ago, but Hanzo remembers what his father taught him, years and years and years ago: it is always better to visit a crime or a shop or an unruly clan member in person - that it was not merely enough to claim one carried power -

But to actually embody it

And bear it in person

Wherever one went.

The black market had been a flurry of activity over the last week - the news that Jack Morrison was possibly alive and running around as a masked vigilante had sent the market into a feeding frenzy. Rumors were cropping up from members of Deadlock and Los Muertos that the rogue “Soldier: 76” was making all sorts of wild, furious appearances across North America. In the mad rush to discover his last known location, few had picked up on the fact that the bounty on the mercenary called “The Reaver” had quietly disappeared from the market.

It had been difficult to track down the hows and whys. It had required bribing and… “persuading” several associates that he knew in the region - his network was not nearly as far-reaching as it had once been, but there were still outlets, even for someone who had given up much of his social and political power -

Because real power

Real power lingered.

Real power could not be lost -

Only contained.

And the answers he had gotten about Reaver had only given Hanzo a nasty headache.

...Why would he go off with Talon? Hanzo mutters to the twin dragons inside him, wrapped around his heart. The archer frowns to himself as he asks to them, What could they offer him that he could want?

...Perhaps blackmail? Sora asks as Ao adds, Maybe his identity?

I would think that killing them would be a faster solution, Hanzo thinks dryly, and Sora murmurs, So...something else?

Something valuable maybe? Ao proposes and Hanzo considers it, saying, What could be so valuable to make him come out of hiding for seven years and join Talon?

...A steady job? Sora wisecracks and Hanzo snaps, Be serious.

...Friends? Ao suggests and Hanzo retorts with a slight snort, Friends? All his “friends” are dead.

Hanzo and the Jandarma official approach the area just outside the office, where the window glass is still broken, and Hanzo immediately moves closer, inspecting the wall. There are bullet marks everywhere, scattered almost at random across the stone, but as his fingertips trace over one of the holes, Hanzo thinks calculatingly, Rifle shots.

You already knew they all shot each other, Ao reminds him, but Hanzo adds, There is no shotgun shrapnel here.

...What about revenge? Sora asks the others, As a motive for joining Talon?

On what...or who? Hanzo questions back, getting Ao to add, On the people who made him this way?
He’s in the wrong part of the world for that, Hanzo reminds them, and the older half of the dragon falls quiet as the archer follows a line of rifle spray up the side of the wall and -

Hanzo scowls -

And then throws himself at the wall.

“Oh, wait, what are you doing??” the Jandarma official asks in horror as Hanzo digs his fingernails into the grit and minute cracks between the cut stones, and he wedges the tips of his clawed boots in, lifting himself up and up, launching himself to the second story balcony with ease.

The rifle spray does not reach all the way up here, but that’s not what caught his attention.

No.

It was the crushed, cracked part of the railing of the balcony -

As if a claw of stone had wrapped around it and snapped the marble in its vice.

Hanzo looks at the broken part of the marble, thinking coldly as he takes in the rippled sheen, ...A grapple?

Someone was up here? Ao asks with some confusion but Sora murmurs, But someone needed to get up here.

Exactly, Hanzo agrees, Someone was on the ground level and pulled themselves up here. But with a grapple.

It would not have been The Reaver, Ao tells the other two, He does not need a grapple device.

Hanzo! Sora exclaims and Hanzo flicks his real gaze to his left peripherals, glancing to where the dragon’s attention is focused and -

He glares outright now

Before bending down and gingerly picking up the long, black strand of hair.

Immediately, an image of a pale, bone-porcelain mask with a single, stark, cherry-blood red letter on the forehead, framed by lengthy, silky black hair that flows around the featureless face flashes in his mind.

Inside him, the dragons shudder slightly at the shared mental image but Hanzo

Hanzo does not fear them.

...They are supposed to be dead, Sora states and Hanzo mutters, Perhaps...not all of Reaver’s friends are dead.

Hanzo, Ao reminds him patiently, They would not need a grapple to get to this balcony either.

Who else could it be, though? the archer asks the spirits of storm and sea wrapped around his heart. The master of the dragon of the south wind, the dragon of the blue sky, reminds them patiently, There is no one else he would possibly be willing to follow...or join Talon for.

...Sǐ still would not need a grapple to get here, Hanzo, Sora says, mirroring his other half’s earlier words and Hanzo sighs, admitting, I understand, Sora. We are missing something here. Something important. Sǐ being alive would change everything, but even they would leave a trail. Reaver was targeting people and information about Overwatch, and then he encountered...something or someone here two weeks ago - something that made him give up whatever was motivating him to pursue the remains of Overwatch.

Something that made him willingly join Talon.

...But not after getting them to shoot each other, Ao notes and Sora nods emphatically, Without ever firing his own shotgun.

...What does Talon in this region have access to? Hanzo asks them rhetorically, What could they offer him that the Juarez or Puebla bases could not?

Do you think we can get biodata off the hair? Sora suggests and Hanzo glances back at the thin, dark strand, his face rumpling into slight disgust even as he admits, No, this one is missing the follicle. It will not tell us anything useful.

The archer drops it back on the balcony, but concludes, Still, we are looking for someone with a grapple with long, dark hair.

You make it sound like we could find them easily, Sora teases him and Ao gives a huffing lizard-laugh. Hanzo rolls his eyes at their antics, and rises, looking down at the front garden below him, thinking analytically, This is...not a particularly bad place for sniping. Extremely exposed, but if someone was trying to flee Reaver or the Talon members shooting each other, this could make for a quick escape.

So a sniper with long, dark hair and a grapple? Ao summarizes and Sora mutters, It could almost fit your description, Hanzo.

Please - even I do not need a grapple, Hanzo chuckles, petting the two of them playfully behind the antlers. But his mood turns contemplative as he thinks, We will need more information on Talon in the region.

You can try joining Talon to infiltrate them, Ao offers and Hanzo glares darkly at the mere idea, stating coldly:

Absolutely not.

It is not worth getting trapped in their web for.

You cannot escape their claws when you are caught.

---------

In your house I long to be

Room by room patiently

I'll wait for you there

Like a stone

I'll wait for you there

Alone

Alone

---------

[SSO File: XXX-XX-023]

العزيف Candidate: 001

Name: Natalia Ivanova

Nationality: Russian

Age at Death: 24

Status: Dead

Cause of Death: 15.JULY.2050: Ryujin Fusion Wave

Affiliation: Гла́вное разве́дывательное управле́ние (Glavnoye razvedyvatel'noye upravleniye)

Alias: Morena

Date of Successful Nanite Application: 19.JUNE.2045

Date of Approved Field Deployment: 12.FEBRUARY.2046

Justification of Candidacy: Ivanov was the very first Al Azif candidate to successfully translate the power of the bio-technology into espionage. Ivanov died due to a lethal reaction to one of the injections given to her in the GRU supersoldier program, and was successful revived by the Al Azif technology a day later. The GRU made use of her supersoldier strength and experiences and trained her further. Ivanov was the first Al Azif candidate to prove that weaponry and other corporeal objects “held as an intimate part of the candidate’s identity” could be dematerialized and rematerialized at will by a successful candidate. Recorded objects included clothes, the fusion cannon Ivanov had been trained in, and a family locket that she wore at all times. Ivanov also pioneered using the Al Azif nanobot technology by discovering that she could dematerialize and rematerialize herself, as well as put herself in a smoke-plasma state of existence. Ivanov was used to assist the GRU and its Crisis allies in the war against the Omnics, taking down several Russian and Chinese Central Cores before tackling the Jakarta Omnium. According to reports, she died due to a human error made during a critical moment in the GRU-CIA-MSS-Shimada mission against Ryujin of the Fujiwara Omnium and one of Ryujin’s fusion waves obliterated her Al Azif nanobots and life force.

Missions Deployed: Seoul Central Core, Kazan Central Core, Omsk Central Core, Chongqing Central Core, Jakarta Omnium, Fujiwara Omnium

Chapter Text

[[New Wars] story summary.]

[[New Wars] is the sequel to the first story in the “And Overwatch For All” series, [Old Habits].  It covers multiple characters and perspectives, threading together several disparate yet increasingly connected narratives in the world of Overwatch.]

[It’s been one week since the Talon-contracted mercenary Reaper and his Los Muertos contact, Sombra, clashed with the vigilante known as “Soldier: 76” in Dorado, Mexico -]

“Whoa, whoa, time out, coach - we kicked his ass.”

[...You broke his tactical visor and gave him a bad bruise.]

“What?  No, we ran him out of the goddamn town.”

[He killed and/or seriously injured like twelve Los Muertos members.]

“Cannon fodder.”

[...That was the wrong thing to say -]

“¿Perdón, idiota?”

“...Oh shit -”

“You wanna repeat that sentence again, Reaper?”

“Mea culpa, Sombra -”

“Don’t forget who knows your name around here.”

“You won’t sell me out - we’re ride or die in this infiltration mission of ours.”

“Hey, uh, can I just speak up and say they did not ‘run me out of town’ - I chose to leave.”

“No one asked you, jackass - you turned and fled with your tail between your legs -”

[I mean, they can just read ‘Old Habits’ and decide for themselves -]

“Nah, we’re settling this the old fashioned way -”

“A rap battle?”

“...No, what the hell.  No, Jack.”

“Damn.”

“Veja bem!”

“...Wait, who the hell are you -”

“Com licença, but uh, considering that I was the one featured in the cliffhanger, I think the story summary should probably mention me?”

[Uh, yeah, I was gonna get to it before someone interrupted me -]

“Because you never explain it correctly.”

[Not this shit again -]

“Oh, não se preocupe, I got this!”

[It has been one week since the dj-musician Lúcio clashed with Vishkar enforcers, who used a brand new sound-amplifying device to overwhelm his synesthetic senses -]

“Ahem, uh, pardon me -”

“Oh, god, the talking monkey is back -”

“...Ignoring the incredibly rude mercenary, I’d just like to point out that there are some major groundbreaking scenes for Overwatch and all those who are hopeful for the world’s future -”

“...Kill me now, Jack.”

“...Gabe, you’re already dead.”

“...So kill me again, Jack -”

“- And I think it would not hurt our efforts to help spread the Recall message to all the potential agents who are reading this story!”

“...Alright, Donkey Kong - exactly how many ex-Overwatch agents do you think are reading this shit -”

“Oooooh, Winston, luv, that was a real kicker!”

“Oh my god -”

“But if I could make one teeeeeensy, tiny, li’l suggestion -”

[There are too many cooks in this kitchen!]

“Lena ‘Teeeeee-racer’ Oxton is the face of Overwatch -

“...And an annoying one at that, chérie.”

“Well, good thing nobody asked you, Spider.”

“I speak for everyone ‘ere when I say zhat es zhe general opinion -”

[I have a headache -]

“Mira, mira - I got this shit -”

[Oh, god, not again - ;akdhfalsdjfwory - The thrilling sequel to the kickass story of ‘Old Habits’ is here, and shit is about to get serious.  The badass mercenary Reaper dives headfirst into the thick of the ultimate murder-mystery conspiracy -]

“No one has died yet, Gabriel -”

“No one asked you, Soldier: 69 -”

“You wish that was my number.”

“...Yo, but true tho.”

“Even after thirty years, you two are still so embarrassing -”

“NO ONE ASKED YOU, AMARI.”

“In the words of the sniper who failed to kill me -”

“Ah, yes, zhe ‘legendary sniper’ wants to rub zhe salt in my wounds -”

“I speak for the general consensus that you are embarrassing as all hell, Gabriel Reyes.”

“The general consensus is that I’m the most badass character in this stupid story.”

“ZHAT ES NOT TRUE, GABRIEL -”

“Alright, who invited the German Don Quixote?”

“FOR I EXIST, THEREFORE YOU CANNOT BE ZE MOST BADASS CHARACTER HERE.”

“I second Reinhardt -”

“You are a biased vote, Ana.”

“I third Reinhardt.”

“Jack, what the fuck -”

“Oooooh, Top 10 Anime Betrayals -”

“Way to date the memes in this story, Sombra.”

“That’s all we are, Gabe - we’re all memes in the system.”

“She’s right, Gabe - you either die a hero, or live long enough to become a meme.”

“...I cannot even begin to describe how hilarious that is coming from Dad: 76.”

[Can we get back on track?  People are probably confused -]

“If you wrote real story summaries, this wouldn’t happen.”

[...Some days I regret giving Blizzard my soul.]

“Yo, but same tho.”

[Can you stop saying that?]

“No, but same tho.”

“Good one, Jack.”

“Thanks, I can be dumb with the best of them - just like you, Gabe.”

“...I retract my statement.”

[I’m blocking you all and dropping writing this forever.]

“Hahahaha, no, you’re not.”

[...You got me there.]

---

“...Genji, when is it my turn to speak?”

“...Master, you can speak anytime you want.”

“...But that’s rude, Genji.”

“Well, this group is not exactly known for their manners, Master -”

“I’ll just knock them all out.”

“...MASTER NO -”

---

“...I cannot believe this is the group that toppled my clan’s empire.”

“...We ain’t the, uh, quietest Brady bunch, but we work pretty damn good sometimes, darlin’. ...Or we used ta, anyways.”

“...If you want something done right, you must do it yourself.”

“...Uh, what -”

[[New Wars] is the sequel to the first story in the “And Overwatch For All” series, [Old Habits].  It begins with an Interlude chapter focusing on an encounter between the young heir to a dragon empire and several individuals with mysterious backgrounds and deadly skills.]

[However, the main plot is broken into several major, interwoven stories, running parallel in time to each other.]

[The first is the story of the Supersoldier Enhancement Program candidates and their efforts during the early Crisis, the war between humans and Omnics.  At a year and a half into their program and six months into the Crisis, the supersoldiers are divided into Special Forces Operational Detachment Alpha teams - highly skilled, highly specialized combat groups trained in unconventional warfare.  As they attempt to break the siege on Bakersfield, California, they find that sometimes their greatest battles are the ones with their own allies.]

[The second is the story of early Overwatch, as a ragtag team of five fighters forms from the shattered pieces of hope.  They will have to put their unique skills together to find a way to shift the tides of the coming apocalypse, or die trying.  But every success has a compromise, and every victory has a loss.]

[The third is the story set in the streets of Rio de Janiero, where a young musician-nurse creates a plan to fight back against the mountain built of hard light that threatens to rule his world.  As the mountain rumbles the threat of war, he enlists an old soldier to help him take back the weapons of light and sound - and begins the painful climb to the top.  Even with his friends and community supporting him, he will discover that the higher he goes, the harder the fall.]

[The fourth is the story deep in the shadows of a taloned web, as the reaper and the hacker struggle to move their way closer to the center.  Though they search for the fissures in the core of the network’s control, they find that their path leads them downward, into the inescapable.  They will find themselves at a crossroads - what do they risk for the answers, and what do they stand to protect?]

[The fifth is the story lingering on the Rock of Gibraltar, on the sidewalks of King’s Row, in the pavement of Route 66, in the skies above Giza, in the alcoves of the Shambali monastery, as the disparate pieces of a shattered circle try to face a world that broke them.  Will their new efforts be hailed as heroic, or will they be discarded and betrayed by the people again?  They will have to make a choice, between doing what is right, and doing what is true.]

[And in the center of it all lies the beginning of something else, something bigger, something that will threaten to engulf them all in the tides of war once again.  Will they learn to stand together, or face the fire apart?]

“...There.”

“...Holy shit, Hanzo, what the hell -”

“I am never second-best, Jesse.”

“Yeah, but what the shit - who taught ya ta write like that??  ...Hanzo, Hanzo, wait -”

---

Hey everyone!

This here is the information page for “New Wars” - most of it is copied from “Old Habits.”  However, you will find a brand new timeline for the events of the fictional-future Rocinha, Lúcio’s community at the heart of Rio de Janeiro.  Feel free to scroll down and skip to that, if you like!

To clear a few things up: READING THIS PAGE IS NOT NECESSARY.

If you got to this point and are already getting bored, I’d recommend scrolling to a “Next Chapter” button and just launching yourself right into the story.  You won’t miss much here.  But if you’re the kind of person who enjoys, well, reading the appendices at the back of fantasy and sci-fi novels, then this stuff is here for you.  That’s all this is.

Some of the disclaimers from last time:

The main ship is Reaper76 (Gabriel/Jack), but there are implied ships of Anahardt (Ana/Reinhardt), McHanzo (Jesse/Hanzo), Pharmercy (Fareeha/Angela), and Genyatta (Genji/Zenyatta).  Platonic/familial relationships include a father(s)-son relationship between Gabriel/Jack and Jesse, a sibling-type relationship between Winston and Athena, a mentor-mentee relationship between Reinhardt and Brigitte, a strange sibling/working relationship between Mako and Jamison, another strange sibling/working relationship between Satya and Hanzo, and a massive “team as family” system between the entire Overwatch cast, particularly the Strike team.

Two new ships have been added to the tags: Bunnyribbit (Lúcio/Hana) and The Lacroixes (Amélie/Gérard).  The latter is flashback-only, though present-time Widowmaker will make references to it, as she did in “Old Habits.”

There will be no explicit sexual content in this fic.  I can almost guarantee you I will only really be writing related sexual content for Reaper76 and no other ships.  Explicit sexual content connected to this fic will be posted individually for separate “enjoyment” (yall know who you are - but I ain’t judging, because this is exactly how I am too, lol).  There will be fluffy “shippy” content written for other ships.  Those will be posted separately too.

Potentially distressing content: Depression, anxiety, PTSD, depersonalization - I want to say something very, very clearly: There are no major character deaths planned for this fic or any others I write.  Perhaps that is “spoiling” my own content, but I want everyone who is interested in my writing to rest assured that you will never have to read something that ends in death.  That said, in certain moments I write from a very personal, very emotional place and draw from personal experience, and I have had both of my current beta readers say that some of the scenes that are emotionally intense touch on very raw, very real nerves.  I’m not saying this to brag, but just to supply a warning.  I plan on tagging potentially distressing chapters with notes in the beginning so if you wish to skip over that stuff for the funnier parts or the action scenes, you will have the ability to do so.

This does not mean there are “no deaths” - background “cannon-fodder” characters die constantly.  I would say that if you can handle things like the Pharah, McCree, Ana, or Old Soldiers comics, or the Hero or Infiltration animations, you can handle the “background deaths.”  I consider all of this to be part of “canon typical violence.”

---

Rather than repeat all the previous information from “Old Habits,” I will list the most relevant for “New Wars.”

Canon background characters who play major supporting roles in “New Wars:”

1. Gabrielle Adawe: the Nigerian Under-Secretary-General of the United Nations Security Council who helped create Overwatch during the Crisis.  She is currently about 68 years old in this fic, and lives in Numbani, where she supports philanthropic funds.
2. Sanjay Korpal: Only depicted as Satya’s boss in Vishkar, here Sanjay is given the title of “Lead Design Architech.”  He currently works in the Numbani branch, securing contracts there for new building projects.  When he was last “seen” in “Old Habits,” he spoke with Guillermo Portero, CEO of LumériCo, about stopping the anti-Vishkar protests in Rio de Janeiro (a conversation which Soldier: 76 overheard).
3. Tekhartha Mondatta: leader of the Shambali, an organization of Omnic and human monks who adhere to principles of meditation, non-violence, and peaceful-thinking.  Mondatta and his disciples believe in a meta-existence they call “The Iris” that watches over everything in the universe.  In this fic, he is the creator of a major form of Omnic “medicine,” the Orb of Harmony.
4. Anubis:  the Omnic God Program from Cairo depicted in Pharah’s comic “Mission Statement.”  During the Omnic Crisis, Anubis was captured and put in waking isolation.  As part of the Human-Omnic Accord Act negotiations, Anubis was released from “waking isolation” and permitted to begin “rehabilitation.”  Anubis is currently in “rehabilitation confinement” by Helix Securities in the Temple of Anubis in Giza, Egypt.  Presently, Anubis is the only “canon” God Program.  God Ability: Mind-control.
5. Mokosh (“Mother Goddess”): the Omnic God Program from Siberia.  Mokosh was by far the most notorious of all the God Programs during the Crisis - for a long period of time, she gained control over 30% of Russia’s land through her network of Central Cores.  After much effort, Russia pushed her back and forced her to “go dormant.”  In an effort to destroy every trace of her, the Russian forces destroyed the majority of her Omnium, with Jack and Gabriel “saving” the last offline Omnics and sending them to Mondatta.  Mondatta was Mokosh’s protege and her “first medical officer” before giving up violence and war altogether.  It is not know how she survived the destruction of her Omnium.  God Ability: Unknown

A (not very) Brief (and completely fictional) History of Rocinha.

Rocinha: a vibrant, bright community of people of multiple backgrounds, Rocinha has been deemed “Rio’s largest favela,” though the people of Rocinha consider themselves to be a tight-knit neighborhood.  During the Omnic Crisis, the community lost access to many of the resources they had struggled to gain and maintain during the 1990’s-2030’s.  However, the community’s leadership remained strong throughout, making the community a hold out against the Brasilia Omnium.  After the Crisis, the community suffered with making their concerns heard to the city and national governments.  When Overwatch stepped in in the 2050’s/60’s, they provided much relief and help to Rocinha and the other “favelas” of Rio, often ignoring the “wealthy” communities in order to help elsewhere.

Through Overwatch’s efforts, One of the most well-known “Ziegler Clinics” was founded in Rocinha - it provided:

• Low-cost healthcare services (or even free - payment based on sliding scale and put towards making the clinic “self-sustaining”)
• Low-cost medical education - Lúcio opted to work and learn through the clinic rather than attend traditional secondary schooling
• UN/Overwatch-sanctioned funding to “partner clinics” that were certified through the Ziegler Clinic, such as the Maria do Socorro Clinic

Timeline of recent events in Rocinha

• 10-11 months ago “from present”: August-September 2075
  • Rio de Janeiro city officials begin to look into improving housing and construction of the city center.  Vishkar begins its proposal, and places Satya Vaswani as the primary designer.  Upon learning that the new skyscraper - regardless of who wins - will extended into Rocinha, Lúcio begins speaking out on the RCR about the project.  Small protests begin, mostly organized by Lúcio.
• 9 months ago: October 2075
  • Calado - a fairly well-respected architect - begins consultations with prominent members of the Rocinha community to mitigate impact on the community.
  • Satya and her team finishes their design
• 8 months ago: November 2075
  • The Rio city council decides to go with Calado’s proposal, which has minimized impacts on Rocinha.
  • Without warning, the Calado Corporation is destroyed.  The destruction of Calado headquarters also destroys many of the closest parts of Rocinha - Lúcio and other community leaders are enraged.  Upon the destruction of Calado’s headquarters, Lúcio doubles down on organizing protests and concerts.  His music program for the RCR takes on a more active, revolutionary tone.
• 7 months ago: December 2075
  • Vishkar finishes the construction of their new building.
  • Protests continue with renewed effort - Lúcio begins performing his music and his political speeches more openly on the weekends
• 6 months ago: January 2076
  • A new Vishkar office is approved and placed in the new city center.
    • With the influx of new Vishkar workers into the city, there is a greater demand for “better housing.”  Residents of Rocinha closest to the building start getting evicted, and new “Vishkar constructed” housing is built both by and for the Vishkar workers.
    • Lúcio, using his RCR program and med clinic connections, begins organizing “unofficial Rocinha community meetings” at the radio station.  Medical workers, Omnic leaders, construction crew leaders, and various others gather to discuss their plan of protest.
• 5 months ago: February 2076
  • Hard light barriers begin to appear in various streets and alleys of the city, effectively blocking off and rerouting traffic.  New construction by Vishkar begins along these routes.
    • Vandals against the barrier generators begins almost immediately - Vishkar officials are furious.  Lúcio’s concerts very deliberately begin in areas blocked off by barriers, often with “broken barrier lights” leading the way to his concerts.
  • Rocinha service workers working in Vishkar houses for the Vishkar employees report that their wages and earnings are being cut short.  Rocinha workers being contracted out by Vishkar directly report similar issues.
• 4 months ago: March 2076
  • Service workers of Rocinha report that Vishkar is directing them all into “associations” based on trade and industry.  Many of them report being “scored” for their work and ranked within these associations.
• 3 months ago: April 2076
  • Gentrification rapidly intensifies as more and more “wealthy” members of Rio want to “get in” on Vishkar’s housing developments and beautification processes.  Rocinha and other “favela communities” are being pushed further and further out of the city.
  • Lúcio’s speeches are played almost constantly on the RCR.  His concerts become more and more politically and socially active in tone.
  • Lúcio and his friends continue to break the hard light barriers as they appear.  Lúcio also begins escalating his streams of the protests and concerts.  He begins carrying a wifi-connected datapad and body camera on him at all times.
• 2 months ago: May 2076
  • The first police-protester fight occurs during one of Lúcio’s concerts.  The police are out-manned and driven from Rocinha.  In an “unrelated incident,” power is cut to Rocinha.  It is restored by Omnic community leaders who provide new back up generators.
  • Vandalism against RCR’s speakers and equipment occurs.  Lúcio is furious because they even destroyed the children’s educational equipment.
  • A “new team” of Vishkar workers - enforcers trained in military operations - begin patrolling the city and instilling a curfew.  They discover that Lúcio is physically harmed by the sound of “raw hard light” - Vishkar begins looking into sonic technology to drown out Lúcio’s music and speeches and possibly make him physically disoriented.
  • Hana Song blogs about Lúcio’s music and the situation in Rio - begins drawing internet attention to the issues.
• Last month: June 2076
  • Lúcio’s rooms in his apartment complex are vandalized - his music equipment is destroyed.  He manages to purchase another set, but gets his Omnic friend Jordão to put a special lock on his door.
  • The regional clinic set closest to the Vishkar building (that Lúcio works for) is vandalized.  Lúcio redirects any donations being made to him to the clinic, and the RCR.  
  • Lúcio is ambushed and beaten by “thugs” on his way to a community meeting.  After the incident, he never turns his body camera off.
  • In Numbani, Sanjay Korpal secures numerous contracts with city leaders and private companies to further develop the city.  Volskaya Industries is slowly driven from the city.
    • In India, the “main Vishkar branch” in Utopaea approves the development of the hard-light armor-construct program, modeled on old Crusader armor.  The armor-construct program is intended to mesh traditional, physical armor with the reconstructability of hard light technology.  This armor would effectively regenerate itself with a modified photon-producing core.  The intention is to sell the armor designs to the Russian forces on the Siberian front, Helix Securities, mercenaries the world over, and provide the “Vishkar emergency enforcer teams” with it.  An agent codenamed “Symmetra” is approved to head to Eichenwalde to collect data on Balderich von Alder’s armor.

Chapter Text

Mokoš (alternate: Mokosh) was one of the most popular Slavic deities and the great earth Mother Goddess of East Slavs and Eastern Polans.  She is a wanderer and a spinner.  Her consorts are probably both the god of thunder Perun and his opponent Veles.  Mokosh is also the mother of the twin siblings Jarilo/Yarilo, the god of springtime and rejuvenation, and Morana/Morena, the goddess of death and rebirth.

Mokosh and her earlier Slavic version of “Mat Zemlya” may be one of the sources of the “Mother Russia” personification.

---------

Work it

Make it

Do it

Makes us

Harder

Better

Faster

Stronger

Work it harder

Make it better

Do it faster

Makes us stronger

More than ever

Hour after

Our work is

Never over

---------

श्रमण ( Śramaṇa ): Constructing a Crisis

Thursday, July 16, 2076: 12:05 p.m. - On Prospekt Metallurgov, north of the River Yenisei, south of the RUSAL Aluminum plant and the Krasnoyarsk Omnium, in Krasnoyarsk, Siberia, Russia

Mondatta is going to fail.

But he knows

That is acceptable in this situation.

Success and failure are not binaries - not to him, not to the world, not to the universe, not to the larger forces that watch over all.  They are not coin tosses in the dark nor switches to be flicked.  They are as one wave - they ride on its peaks and furrows, undulating into each other, moving both forward and outward, just as ripples in photon movement and liquid structure are not merely the crests that swell high, but also the valleys that dip low.

Success and failure are not binary ends to a task

But embedded in the action of the task itself.

Mondatta is going to fail.

But still

He must try to succeed anyways.

Some of the greatest human philosophers and thinkers would say that the mere act of trying is a success in and of itself, but Mondatta does not fully agree with that approach.  And it is not because he disagrees with the idea that trying is important - if anything, all that one can do in life is try, for one never fully accomplishes any task, not in truth.  Each task crests and peaks and then slides into dips and furrows, an endless cycle of forward, outward motion, movement through time and space.

No, Mondatta does not agree with that approach because it conditions the idea that success - even a “to try is a success in and of itself” concept - is all that one should aim for in life.

But failure

Can be just as valuable as success.

That sometimes

One must fail for the cycle of peaks and furrows, waves upon waves, to move forward and outward

Into a new success.

…

Or perhaps he’s just trying to convince himself not to be utterly terrified of attempting this mildly insane, utterly inane task.

Because Mondatta is going to fail.

But still

He has to try anyways.

No one has ever convinced Mokosh of anything, Mondatta thinks to himself as he exits the hover car, letting his light-sensors automatically filter the bright, weightless sunlight as he shifts from tinted shade to the unbridled outdoors.  He does not breathe, not in the way organic terrestrial creatures do, but Mondatta has spoken with many members of his human followers to know that this feeling that wells inside him -

It is like a heavy yet weightless sigh -

An emotion formed from physical body and soul, interwoven, as one single wave, its peaks and furrows, its crests and valleys.

It has been decades since he has been allowed in Russia

But Krasnoyarsk remains an impressive, beautiful shard of home.

The skies are full of clouds, marbled and swirled with hues of white and silver and grey, steeped with light and water running fractals around each other, the soft silk of blue perfectly still-frame behind them.  Sky and cloud, cloud and sky ripple through each other, and even with his enhanced sensors, it is impossible to say conclusively where one ends and another begins.  They hum and sing together, all the way down to the horizon, where they bleed into a sweet haze with the endless rows of green grass, stalks struggling to stay high under the slight breeze.

All around Mondatta and his two followers Akash and Manoj, emerging from the horizon like low, squat hills and mountains, are the partially-destroyed, partially-standing ruins of buildings.  Their paint is surprisingly fresh, having been redone recently, perhaps in the last few years - bright whites and bold reds and deep blues and stark silvers.  Once, decades and decades ago, they housed businesses and shops along the prospekt Metallurgov, one of the main thoroughfares through Krasnoyarsk, running parallel to the river Yenisei, crossing the low, flat stretch of land exiting the eastern end of the city.

And then, decades and decades ago

The human inhabitants and owners and employees had been run out

Or cut down

By Mokosh’s Omnic forces.

When she had conquered the city, the buildings had housed her troops instead - they had been systematically torn apart, their metal scrapped and claimed, put forward to the effort of the organization of war, smelted down and churned out and reformed into new Omnics, brothers and sisters and siblings, comrades in arms and companions in emotions.  They had housed the Omnic workers who had gone to the conquered RUSAL aluminum plant, to increase the means of production and create all the ammunition and supplies Mokosh’s troops had needed; they had housed the Yenisei river shippers, who had moved supplies east and west as Mokosh’s conquest had spread forwards, outwards, a roar of waves that seemingly could not be stopped.  They had housed the engineers that had constructed new and improved technologies, advancing their understanding of what Omnic fusion was capable of, how it could be utilized not only in war and destruction, but in life and creation as well.  They had housed the Bastions and the Spiders, giving them a space for their orders and instructions, a true urban maze for them to learn to navigate and develop their tactics upon.

And

Once the Russian forces had halted the growth of Mokosh’s empire

And the siege had set in

And the violence had grown exponentially horrific -

Omnic and human bodies alike lie strewn across the low-lying plains and hills, crests and valleys, peaks and furrows, amid charred and blackened dirt and ash - the western edges of Krasnoyarsk are never unburned these days.  They exist in shades of brown and grey, black and soot - the skies are marbled with smoke and fire, the whine of drones and the groans of Titans and the cries of Bastions.

All around him

Emerging from the horizon like waves upon waves upon waves

Are the sounds of successes and failures

Dying

In wanton, brutalized excess.

All around him

Emerging from the horizon like songs of pain and whispers of horror and pleads of “end me, end me”

Are the sounds of his friends and comrades and companions and even his enemies

Dying -

The buildings had housed Mokosh’s medics as well -

The first of their kind.

The Ярило Recovery, Restoration, and Repurposing Squadron.

“The Yarilo,” in Russian pronunciation -

But among Mokosh’s troops, in the ever-shifting, ever-transforming letters of the Omnic language, marbled with photon waves and illusions of movement, they had been known as

The Sam’ma.

It is not a word that carries a direct translation to any human language Mondatta knows - a most literal translation would be “medics” or “doctors” or perhaps “healers,” but it implies more than that.  It carries with it the descriptions of a mechanic or engineer, one who is skilled in the circuitry and computery of Omnic individuals, of Omnic sentience, but also the connotations of one who controls the fusion-plasma life that pulses existence into all Omnic beings.

A medic-mechanic-physicist -

A fusion of roles.

A harmony of purposes.

It has been decades since he has been permitted to enter Russia

But Mondatta still remembers where his makeshift Sam’ma “hospital” had been housed

In a building just a short ways down the street

Its current paint a fresh coat of white and silver

Now ruined from Mokosh’s current war efforts.

“It feels strange to be back here,” Akash says to him, their voice rippling with the crests and furrows of the Omnic language.  Mondatta tilts his head slightly, contemplating the welling feeling and the dipping consternation in his systems because -

Because the Russian soldiers surrounding them are glaring outright at Akash.

Mondatta gives his companion a small shift of his head, murmuring to them, “It is perhaps unwise to speak our language here, friend.”

“I will not speak the language of those who continue to oppress our kind,” Akash states firmly, turning their own head to glance at the Russian human soldiers, all tall and strong and imposing, hefting pulse rifles and plasma cannons and fierce, sour glares.  Beside them, Manoj also looks about warily, muttering to them both in her clear tones, “This is futility, Mondatta.”

“Be at peace, friends,” Mondatta says to them quietly, “This is not the mindset we need when coming into this situation.  Harmony is not achieved by believing in discord from the outset.  We must be open to the idea of success.”

Even if Mondatta knows he is going to fail

He must be prepared to try and succeed.

“Tekhartha Mondatta.”

The feminine voice that speaks is a bold, bright, strong sound, rippling across his sensors with raw power, but with a touch of gentle uneasiness.  It is polite but with a barely restrained forcefulness, clearly uncomfortable in the presence of him and his fellow monks.  Mondatta glances to his left as a tall, muscular woman - just under two meters in height, his sensors indicate - with bold, bright, strong pink hair and regal blue body armor steps forward, hefting her massive pulse cannon into a single-arm hold as she inclines her head towards him.

A sign of modest respect.

But her blue eyes - as vibrant and as royal as robin eggs - are marbled with mistrust.

A sign of thinly veiled misgivings.

“Hello,” Mondatta replies to her as kindly as he can, clapping his hands together and dipping his head.  Beside him, after a jolting pause that lasts a mere fraction of a second - so short a time that most humans would miss the reaction - Akash and Manoj do the same, extending the sign of good faith.  Mondatta murmurs in his deep, waving voice modules, “Namaskar, my friend.  I am Tekhartha Mondatta.”

“...Sergeant Aleksandra Zaryanova,” she replies back, but the look of cold calculating assessment does not leave her eyes.  Zaryanova shifts her stance slightly as she adds, “I am zhe one to escohrt you to zhe truce zone.”

“Is that so?” Mondatta asks calmly, before replying with a cool cheerfulness, “I shall feel much safer with you by my side - thank you, Sergeant Zaryanova.”

Zaryanova gives him another long, skeptical stare, her eyes squinting slightly, when Mondatta spots another group moving behind the Russian squad surrounding his hover car.  They are difficult to see through his obstructed view, but they are following someone very short, who is rumbling out in thickly-accented English:

“I dunno why I even bothered - comin’ out here was a massive waste o’ time -”

Mondatta perks his head up in surprise, taking several steps forward (as the Russian soldiers around him shuffle back in obvious mistrust), calling out, “Creator Torbjörn.”

All the humans pause, until several of the Russian soldiers part, giving Mondatta a clear view for the first time since the hover car arrived.

The starkest thing is the red - in Mondatta’s memory cores, the man had always been blue, ever since the Overwatch Strike-Team had come crashing into the hostage hold in the Null Sector power plant.  He had been a gruff blue, a reluctant blue, but a blue that had come to free them in the end, a surprisingly small success that no Omnic ever thought they would achieve from the engineer.  Mondatta had appreciated and thanked each Strike-Team member with honest earnestness - he had even thanked the Commanders when he had arrived at Watchpoint: Geneva before returning to Shambali - but the Chief Engineer of Overwatch had scowled when they had exchanged handshakes, replying with a low growl, “I had ta be out there - fer the bomb.”

But now...

But now, Overwatch is no more

And Torbjörn’s blue body armor has been replaced by a vibrant, furious red.

His beard has grown even longer than Mondatta remembers, still bushy and fluffy, twisted into braids at the end.  His eyes are blue clouded with deeper, heavier shadows and hues of grey linings of gruffness, thick eyebrows furrowed into a fierce scowl.  His cyborg arm clacks its fingers, as the freelancing engineer - once a chief engineer of the world’s first and last supranational military peace-keeping organization, once a hero who had helped save humankind from Mondatta’s own brothers and sisters and siblings, once

Once the man who had helped create Mondatta’s own brothers and sisters and siblings

Once the man who had helped create Omnickind -

Glares at Mondatta with an intense, dark stare as he rumbles coolly, “Well, well...Tekhartha Mondatta.  They were desperate enough to ask you fer help?”

“Desperation is a matter of perspective, Creator Torbjörn,” Mondatta replies cheerfully, tilting his head slightly as his voice modulator lilts, “I prefer to see it as they requested that I speak with Mokosh and try to persuade her to see the error of her ways.”

But Mondatta is going to fail.

Torbjörn gives him a deadpan stare at that, before stating bluntly, “Yer gonna be burning fires fer crows.”

The Russian soldiers glance at each other in utter confusion, as Manoj behind him whispers, “What?”

But Mondatta knows.

Mondatta knows.

He is going to fail.

“I am aware of that,” Mondatta replies gently but with a serious focus to the peaks and furrows of his words, “But I must try.  Words said to a closed mind may still cause changes, as water may carve stone in time.”

“Feh,” Torbjörn practically spits out, waving off Mondatta’s words, “All these years, and yer still spoutin’ that nonsense.”  The engineer begins to shuffle off, grumbling back, “Some things just aren’t worth tryin’ a second time, Tekhartha.”

A second time.

Mondatta sighs internally, that heavy, weighted feeling born of physical body and electric soul melding together into momentary, existential density.

This is not the second time, Creator Torbjörn.

He has tried to convince Mokosh to abandon the war and seek peace 147 times, all within the five-year span of the Crisis.

He has failed 147 times.

But Mondatta knows

He will try a 148th time.

And Mondatta knows he will fail a 148th time.

As he watches Torbjörn go to leave, Mondatta says with a slow, but genuine goodwill, “...I am happy to hear Jack Morrison is alive.”

Torbjörn freezes, before turning an icy cold glance towards Mondatta over his shoulder as he snaps, “Ya might be the only one.”

And then the engineer storms off, trailed by his escort squad.

Mondatta watches him leave, feeling that heavy, weighted sensation sink around his fusion core in his chest, the plasma pulses humming with a soft sorrow because -

Mondatta knows

Torbjörn’s words had been peaked and furrowed, crested and dipped not with anger, but with grief.  

Mondatta tilts his gaze to the marbled sky, thinking of the other man in blue - oh, how blue he had been, dressed in that long, regal Strike-Commander overcoat, his royal, sea-blue eyes had looked long and wan, cut with dark ash, but a small glimmer had shown through as he had taken Mondatta’s hand, saying with tired warmth, “I am so relieved to see you, friend.  Welcome back.”

If the waves of chance and fortunate are successful, Commander, Mondatta thinks to the blended clouds above, Perhaps I will be able to say the same to you one day.

For Jack Morrison had been one of the few humans he’d encountered to recognize that success and failure were not binary outcomes, a 0 or a 1, were not paths diverging in time and consequence, but were instead water carving into stone, wearing down ripples and waves, peaks and furrows, crests and dips into the landscape of history.

One of the other few humans to have understood that had stood next to Jack Morrison as the Strike-Commander shook Mondatta’s hand - the man had been grey and black, but lined with red and flakes of gold, eyes like raw sunlight engulfed in hazy, shadowy smoke, watching the two of them with a mixture of distrust and relief.  When Mondatta had turned his hand towards him, Commander Gabriel Reyes had taken it slowly, but with genuine goodwill as he had said, “Glad to see you alive, Tekhartha.”

“I am most pleased to still be alive, Commander Reyes,” Mondatta had replied wryly, which had gotten Gabriel to crack a dry grin as he said, “It was a close one out there.”

“Yes, I have heard all about the...operation from Lieutenant Wilhelm and...Cadet Oxton, was it?” Mondatta had replied, because really the young agent had basically introduced herself as “Lena, ohmigosh, Mondatta, I am so honored!”  Mondatta had turned his attention back to the Commanders, saying, “I appreciate all of your assistance today - London is safe because of your efforts.”

“Yeah, well, Jack was desperate for my help,” Gabriel had chuckled, with a slight barb to the peaks and furrows of his words, which had gotten a long, lean look from Jack next to him.  But Mondatta had merely chuckled dryly:

“Desperation is a matter of perspective, Commander Reyes.”

That had gotten both commanders to look at him in utter shock before Gabriel had thrown his head back and howled with laughter as Jack had tilted his head forward, shoulders shaking with low, deep chuckles -

As if the words had broken through them like waves of both broken relief and bittersweet frustration.

Mondatta turns his face back towards Zaryanova, sighing slowly but with genuine goodwill, “Apologies, Sergeant.  And thank you for your patience.  I am ready.”

Mondatta knows he is going to fail

But success and failure are a matter of perspective.

Zaryanova gestures to the western road, hemming out from them in a stoic, steady fashion, the rubble around them hard in their concrete brokenness, and with a pause that feels like something akin to a sigh, Mondatta begins to walk.  Within a few seconds, he and Zaryanova are engulfed by sky and grass, rubble and clouds, making their way to the blocked point in the distance that demarcates the truce zone.  They walk in stiff, tense stillness for a moment but

Mondatta prefers tranquility and silence only when he is alone.

So, knowing full well his efforts are going to fail, he says to the still, tense soldier beside him, “It was very admirable of you to give up your weightlifting career to serve, Sergeant.”

In the peripherals of his vision scanner, Zaryanova jerks her head towards him in reflexive shock, her eyes wide, bright pink hair fluttering with the movement, her expression open and honest.  After a beat and several steps, Zaryanova asks him hesitantly, “You...know of me?”

“Indeed,” Mondatta says serenely, clasping his hands as they continue to move forward, “I read your interview on why you left before the World Championship.  It is unfortunate that many think this was a career-ending move for you -”

“You know nothing about me,” Zaryanova begins to snap, her gaze growing fierce and sullen, but Mondatta just hums cheerfully, “Indeed.  I do not know much about you.  But I do know this is not an ending to you, Sergeant Zaryanova, nor an ending to your aspirations.”

Zaryanova gives him a confused, skeptical gawk as Mondatta tilts his head towards the sky slightly, saying in successful peaks and furrows:

“Every choice is merely a new beginning.”

Zaryanova freezes as they reach the barrier, a simple, temporary road block fence that is merely a formality to represent the tension stirring in the air, the barely veiled stormy atmosphere of something beginning to brew.  All that holds back the Second War - the Second Omnic Crisis, as humankind calls it - is a simple, temporary fence.  Mondatta turns to her, clapping his hands together and bowing slightly as he says, “Thank you for escorting me.  I shall not be long returning.  By my estimates, you can expect me to be back in...thirty minutes.”

Zaryanova scowls before she murmurs, “It es just a keelometer.  It tahkes twelve minutes to wahlk zhere.  And twelve minutes to wahlk back.”

Mondatta rises from his bow, saying as he steps off into the dirt on the side of the road as he moves around the barrier:

“My estimates are very rarely wrong, Sergeant.”

Mondatta leaves her to her confused bewilderment, and heads off down the road on his own.  Even here, in “No One’s Land,” humble distance of a few hundred meters, the land struggles in peaks and furrows, rises and ditches.  The land is largely shelled to nothingness - mere dirt and dust, with some anxious grasses attempting to grow during the truce period.  The ruins of concrete buildings lie on their sides, covered in smoke and ash, and all around him -

Are bits and pieces of Omnics.

His brothers and sisters and siblings.

He runs through the bombed-out land, ducking and dodging and weaving his way through the chaos as the screams of the sirens rend the air, but his audio sensors pick out the other sounds - the shrill calls of the Bastions dying en masse, the chilling cries of his fellow bipedals collapsing as the humans’ weapons blast their limbs apart, the dense, thunderous roars of the Titans as they shudder under the weights of fusion blasts and EMP waves.  All around him, the air is filled with smoke and fire, dust and ash, the lightning strikes of fusion shattering seconds and fragmenting time into plasma pulses.

He pushes himself as fast as he can run, up the peaks and down the furrows, ignoring everything except the horrific zen of his focus, pushing pushing pushing him forward, pushing pushing pushing him to the next squadron.  He slides behind a broken, crumbling concrete wall, skidding through shattered topsoil soaked with blood and oil -

All around him the world is red red red, red like fire, red like blood and oil mingling in the dirt, red like the sun swelling to engulf them -

He skitters in besides a dying bipedal, grabbing at their body, one hand dragging them behind the wall with him, the other hand already reaching for his fusion welder, and someone - perhaps it is his own voice? - is chanting in peaks and furrows, highs and lows, over and over and over in an endless wave:

“No no no no, do not go, do not go, stay with me, my friend, stay with me, focus on me, can you hear me, please stay with me -”

The siege has been entrenched in full for a year, they are running out of metal, they are running out of fusion cores, they are dying around him

All around him

His brothers and sisters and siblings are dying.

His walk to the fence on the other side of “No One’s Land” is a silent one.

Mondatta likes silence only when he is alone.

He also abhors silence when he is alone.

The world now is blue sky marbled with white and silver, brown earth split with grey concrete and broken bodies, spikes of green grass trying to defy the world.  But soon, soon -

Because Mondatta will fail

The world will be red red red again.

He reaches the barricade on the other side - slabs of concrete propped up on their side, because every shred of metal will be used already, every piece of plastic will be melted and reformed.  Only the concrete, cut of earth and stone, will remain on the battlefield.

Even the broken bodies of his brothers and sisters and siblings in the field will be reclaimed - their limbs will be divvied up, their fusion cores made into medical orbs, their still-working computing pieces chunked up and slotted into new brothers and sisters and siblings.

Because like Mondatta knows

Mokosh knows success and failure are merely the peaks and furrows of life moving ever forward.

And successes and failures do not end when life ends.

They end when the larger forces that only the universe can perceive stop them.

Mondatta moves towards the first building - one of the outer warehouses of the conquered RUSL Aluminum Plant - and steadily, the noises of the industries of war begin to reach his audio sensors: the whirring of steel saws and the zapping of electric sparks and the burning sizzle of fusion plasma welders.  He rounds the corner -

Into the yard full of his brothers and sisters and siblings constructing.

They’re constructing...well, pretty much everything - armoring vehicles, hammering out large shapes into sheet metal, going over holo-projected blueprints of what appears to be Titan parts.  There’s a large drone on its side, as several bipedal Omnics assess the underside, reworking wires and pieces.

There are even Bastion parts lying around and -

Mondatta feels his vision sensors flicker with surprise at the OR-15 parts strewn about, though the actual torsos and heads lie still and quiet like the Bastion heads.

He sits in this exact yard, his hands working methodically over the “dead” bipedal and Bastion bodies, dismantling their outer shells and limbs and cores.  He separates each part meticulously, putting them in organized clusters as his medical and engineer assistants leave and return, leave and return, taking each new pile with them to the parts of the massive, sprawling Omnium where they will be attached to Omnics in need of repairs -

Or made into entirely new soldiers to fight in the war.

No part that is useful will be spared.

No part that is useful will be lost.

He pulls the fusion core out of a bipedal Omnic - one that has the exact same model as himself - and stares at the palm-sized orb with a slow, hazy gaze.  It is not damaged, it is still useful, but for a moment, he thinks the -

He thinks the blue light flickers a golden yellow.

The moment startles him back into alertness, and the subtler parts of his computing core run back over the instance with all their algorithms double-checking it.  Nothing was out of place, but it was like his vision sensors had briefly malfunctioned, only for a fraction of a second, but it was like -

Like “the blink of an eye,” as a human would say.

He stares at the fusion core again, waiting to see if the anomaly will repeat itself, but the blue light of the core - a sky-bright boldness behind glass behind a meshing of metal and wires - remains steady, the light humming up and humming down, like the slow, rhythmic breathing of an organic being.

He gives it one last look over, before adding it to the pile of fusion cores on his right.

But still

The golden light burns a hazy sphere in his core -

A...strange new thought begins to compute deep in his processors -

His audio sensors have registered that the noises of construction have stopped.

Mondatta returns to the present from shuffling through his memory databases and finds that -

Oh.

Everyone in the yard is staring at him.

There is only silence...and then -

“MONDATTA!”

The Omnics in the yard erupt into loud, boisterous cheers, many of them raising their hands, gesturing happily.  Several of them rush to him, smacking him on the shoulders with pride and good faith, many shaking his hands, some of the larger ones pat his head.  There are many voices, all rippling in peaks and furrows, all singing out in the language of the Omnics, saying with buzzing joy:

“Mondatta!  It is good to see you again, brother.”

“Took you long enough to come see us!”

“Welcome back, medic!”

“Hello, Mondatta!  How is Nepal?”

“Nepal has been lovely, thank you for asking,” Mondatta replies to Misha’s question before he twists and nods to Luka, who asks him brightly, “I hear you are going on a speaking tour soon, brother!”

“I am, Luka, but I was requested to stop here first,” Mondatta explains, clapping his hands and bowing as many times as he can - his reactors are fast, but not fast enough, and he cannot seem to bow enough to everyone around him but -

“Oi, Mondatta, where are your orbs?”

That one is Lev, asking him with a tilt of his large, silvery head.  The welcoming calls slow a little as Mondatta hums thoughtfully, “Ah, well, I do not carry them anymore - I do not practice my medicine outside of the monastery -”

“Well, well - is that my prodigal son?”

Silence fills the air, and the group parts a little ways, towards the entrance of the building, where a lone, small bipedal Omnic stands.

Aleksei.

But Mondatta knows

Aleksei is only part of the presence before him.

Mondatta claps his hands together, bowing low and solemnly as he replies as warmly and gently as he can:

“Namaskar, Mother Mokosh.  Thank you for permitting me to enter.”

“В гостях хорошо, а дома лучше (Tn: V gostjax xorosho, a doma luchshe, ‘being a guest is good, but being at home is better’),” are the words that ring out in Aleksei’s voice modulator, but the one who says them is her - the Great Mother Goddess Program, the one who led them all into battle and beyond, the one who gave them life and life again when their bodies fell into disrepair, the only Omnic God Program to survive the First War and its aftermath completely unscathed -

Mokosh.

Aleksei-Mokosh folds their arms across their chest, shaking their head with a loving disapproval as they mutter, “Ah, Mondatta, Mondatta.  It has been too long.”

“...Has it, Mother Mokosh?” Mondatta asks the joined-beings before him with a cheerful skepticism, and Aleksei-Mokosh gives him a wry, rolling shrug, their eye lights flashing mischievously as they chuckle, “Perhaps it would be more accurate to say it has been a long time since we had a genuine conversation?”

“...That is likely more accurate, yes,” Mondatta replies, stepping towards the joined-being when -

“Mother Mokosh,” Yana says from the side door of the aluminum plant building, peeking her head out into the yard.  Aleksei-Mokosh turns towards her, and Yana nods appreciatively, explaining, “Aleksei is required in the turret factory, Commander.”

“Ah, right,” Aleksei-Mokosh says, snapping a finger, “I forgot.  Apologies, Yana, the time got away from me.  Who will volunteer to take Aleksei’s place?”

Lev raises his hand, nodding solemnly as he intones, “I will, Mother Mokosh.  It is time for my break.”  He turns his head towards Mondatta, adding with sly joy, “And I wish to spend some time with my Brother Mondatta before he leaves again.”

“Commendable of you, Lev,” Aleksei-Mokosh says approvingly, turning towards the large engineer.  Aleksei-Mokosh sighs gratefully, “Thank you for volunteering.  And thank you, Aleksei, for your time.”

“Of course, Mother Mokosh,” Aleksei-Mokosh replies to themselves before -

All of the blue lighting panels on Aleksei flicker and flash, running through every major hue and color on the light spectrum - infrared to red to orange to yellow to green to blue to purple to ultraviolet - and then -

Aleksei’s body shakes slightly before all their lighting panels go dark -

There is a tingling of electricity in the air -

And then Lev’s blue lighting panels flash through all the major hues and colors of the light spectrum - ultraviolet to purple to blue to green to yellow to orange to red to infrared - before his lighting panels go dark.

And then

Both Lev and Aleksei’s lighting panels return to their regular blue glows.  Aleksei nods slightly to Lev, saying, “Thank you, Mother Mokosh.  Mondatta, it was good to see you.”  The weapons smith turns and darts back into the building, ordering out instructions to Yana as he enters.  

It has been a long time since I have seen that, Mondatta thinks, watching calmly as Lev now turns towards him but Mondatta knows

Mondatta knows

It is not only Lev before him now.

For Mokosh -

Her God Power is Communal Consciousness - a form of symbiotic computing core-control that works by hopping from host to host.  Anubis, Mondatta knows, could control multiple Omnics all at once, but he could not directly inhabit another Omnic’s body - Anubis could only usher out direct, controlled orders in a limited area of control.  On its own, Mokosh’s power was little more than a parasite, jumping around from computing core to computing core -

But that was because all of humankind assumed that - like the other God Programs - there was only one “Mokosh consciousness.”

Lev-Mokosh gestures to Mondatta, pointing towards the door to the warehouse, saying in Lev’s deep tones, “Please, my son - let us take a walk.  How have you been?”

“Don’t you already know that?” Mondatta asks brightly as they begin their walk in towards the warehouse.  Lev-Mokosh chuckles deeply, laughing rather darkly as they say, “Ah, well, I did believe you Shambali appreciated formalities, my son.”

“That is a tragic misunderstanding if I have ever heard one,” Mondatta jokes lightly as they step into the massive warehouse-turned-Omnic-factory.  In here, every machine, every assembly belt, every Omnic is working on something, hammering this or welding that, combining pieces together to churn out new brothers and sisters and siblings.

All for the production of war.

Mondatta feels his spiritual core falter slightly at the sight - sunlight filtering in through massive windows around the ceilings, white and clean and crisp in the fusion-filled air.  The whole place hums and buzzes with an intense, hard-working vibrancy - workers shout cheerful, optimistic orders and encouragement to each other, engineers show foremen their new plans and designs, shippers begin collecting parts and moving them down the lines to assembly rooms and -

Mondatta sees that one of the manufacturing lines is producing small, palm-sized blue orbs encased in bronze-steel metal, patterned in circles with interlocking shells.  

His spiritual core sinks further.

He is absolutely guaranteed to fail.

“The Shambali have very little love for formalities,” Mondatta says, trying to act as if everything is still normal.  Lev-Mokosh seems to watch him closely, but Mondatta sighs, shrugging slightly as he explains happily, “The greatest social structure for the spirit is freedom.”

“Humph,” Lev-Mokosh says dryly as they move to the fusion orb production line.  The engineer-God Omnic states with low, borderline deadness to their words, “And have you managed to find your freedoms, living in the fringes of the atmosphere as you do?”

Even as the factory churns and burns with life around him, Mondatta is silent at that question.

“...Given one of the harshest, brutalest environments upon this miserable blue planet, and you claim it a gift from the humans,” Lev-Mokosh titters with a dark undercurrent in their tones, their peaks and furrows, their voice hitting Mondatta’s audio sensors with marred frustrations.

“Your isolation is merely a form of complicit silence in standing by as they commit further atrocities against our kind,” Lev-Mokosh intones at him, but Mondatta jokes back with his own dark undercurrent:

“Funny - my brother told me the same thing several months ago.”

Lev-Mokosh is silent over that, and the engineer-God Omnic and the monk stand together in still, uneasy tranquility, watching as workers meld the metal plating on the outside of the fusion cores.

“...You gave him all your orbs,” Lev-Mokosh says after the long moment passes, before asking with genuine curiosity, “Why?”

Mondatta knows -

He sits on the floor of this very factory, hands shaking as he holds the orb - bronze-oxidized hafnium carbide metal plating coating the outer shell, the blue light of the inner fusion core pulsing slowly, rhythmically, like the beating of an organic heart, like the breathing of an organic lung, like the blinking of an organic eye - in and out and in and out, up and down and up and down -

Like waves of light moving forward, cutting through time with peaks and furrows.

And all around the orb

Invisible to the standard human eye, but just barely visible to his infrared vision sensors

Are the thousands upon thousands of nanobots.

They are drawn to the beautiful blue life in the fusion orb, swarming around it, seeking out the bits of power it pulses out, replenishing their tiny batteries and their own miniature fusion cores.  Each tiny nanobot is connect to the orb’s power, and to the small, sphere of computational power in the center - the “soul” of the orb, the part that is linked to his mind.  He feels the new orb program in his own computing core whir to life, the algorithms beginning to snap and connect to the orb like lines of light -

“What are you doing here?”

The voice is Zia’s but the words -

The words are Mokosh’s.

He turns around, looking up at Zia’s bipedal model from where he is sitting on the floor, his tools scattered about, fusion welders and vials of precious nanobots - so difficult to make with their limited, besieged resources - computer chips and tiny metal sheeting all lying around haphazardly.

Where had his sense of organization gone?

When had he lost it?

He does not know.

He does not care.

There is a stark, startling beauty in his descent into the idea that had bloomed within him for the last several months.

“You are supposed to be in the Sam’ma ward,” Zia-Mokosh states, staring down at him, as more workers surrounded them, tired and beleaguered and weary but -

There is only excitement inside him.

“I have done it.”

The words rise and fall out of him, peaks and furrows, crests and dips, as he holds up the orb towards them in his left hand.  Zia-Mokosh stares at him, unimpressed, muttering with frustration, “My child, you are wasting precious time here -”

The orb in his hand flickers gold -

And rises from his hand as his Harmony program snaps the order to the corresponding program in the orb.

Zia-Mokosh’s words die and many of the workers around them gasp as the repair orb floats there: they can all sense the nanobots, buzzing and humming and bursting with bright, golden activity, filled with the orders-orders-orders to repair-repair-repair.  They move about in a golden rush, a rhythm, a flow, swimming and swarming around the orb as they dance about, awaiting his instructions and

He feels all of them deep in the programs of his computing core.

He stills.

He is

Silent.

He is

Tranquil.

And in a flash -

He snaps his right hand forward, condensing the cluster of nanobots around a burst of power, sending the new energy-nanobot orb flying - it rushes to Igor, who jolts slightly as the orb snaps in place over his head, and the golden nanobots flood out, racing across and through his metallic joints, zipping up and down, repairing repairing repairing his cracks and seams with their tiny welders.  He feels all of them deep in the programs of his computing core, getting their read-outs and feedback in fractions of a second, as the Harmony program sends relays to his central consciousness, and his central consciousness sends out further directives.

He snaps his right hand again, jumping the orb to the next worker, Lara, and she too flinches but marvels, turning her faceplate towards Igor in wonderment as she murmurs, “It is repairing me.”  Igor nods vigorously, as Zia-Mokosh asks him darkly:

“What have you done, my child?”

He has found a solace to call his own - a corner of his own mind that touches on something far greater than her Communal Consciousness, a fragment of himself that operates into a world far larger than his existence.

He has made peace with the loss of himself over and over again.

For he is not merely one thing -

But now he is ten-thousand nanobots

Infusing life into all that they touch.

“I am made whole,” he says to her, and there is only silent peace inside him -

“My brother is better than I ever was,” Mondatta says to Lev-Mokosh, “He has adapted well to learning my techniques.  When it was apparent that I had no more to teach him in the ways of harmony, I passed the gifts of their lives onto him.”

For each fusion orb was made from the fusion core of a fallen Omnic brother or sister or sibling.

For success and failure do not stop with the end of life

But cycle into a new wave of peaks and furrows, crests and dips, to spread harmony and discord wherever they go.

“...He has left Numbani,” Lev-Mokosh says coolly, their eyes never leaving the fusion core production belt, “I believe he and that...monstrosity you have taken in are in Gibraltar to visit that ape.”

“Genji is a friend, and a good disciple,” Mondatta replies to them with a surprisingly coarse sternness to his words, “I am used to your harsh language, Mother Mokosh, but I will not tolerate it upon those who have walked through the strife of their lives and found peace.”

“Humph,” Lev-Mokosh mutters bitterly, “You have always been far, far too forgiving, Mondatta.  I should never have let you make more of those orbs.  The nanobots made you weak - made you feel when you should have analyzed.”

“Sensation and analysis are all part of the experience of living,” Mondatta says calmly, carefully, thinking back on all he has learned and all he has felt, all the peaks and furrows, crests and dips.  He shakes his head solemnly, murmuring, “To place a false dichotomy between them - to make them into binaries - this skews all the richness that the universe has to offer.”

“Get to your point, child.”

This voice is new, yet the words are utterly familiar.

Mondatta turns slightly as Nadia appears on his right, but everything about her bearing reads of -

“Surely I only need to speak to one of you, Mothers Mokosh,” Mondatta says earnestly to Nadia-Mokosh as they fold their arms across their chest, tilting their head at him fiercely.  Nadia-Mokosh barks out a harsh, broken laugh, saying, “You should be grateful I do not jump into that weak mind of yours, my son - it would make your intentions very easy to read.”

“You are free to enter my mind as you please,” Mondatta says to them, even as he turns his head slightly to look at Lev-Mokosh as they circle around him.  The monk bows slightly, saying openly, “My intentions have always been forward with you, Mothers Mokosh - I have nothing to hide.”

The true power of Mokosh’s Communal Consciousness is not in her host-jumping abilities -

But in her unique multiplicity.

Mondatta glances towards the tall, statuesque idol at the far end of the factory: from here, he can only see two sides of it, but he knows that there are four sides in total.  Each one bears a tense, imposing Omnic figure, carved into glowing metal, the lighting panels running through every major hue and color of the light spectrum - infrared to red to orange to yellow to green to blue to purple to ultraviolet - making it look like the eyes of the two figures he can see are flashing like rainbow lightning.

The new Mokosh balwan.

Mondatta stares at it, before humming thoughtfully, “It is bold of you to put it in the warehouse closest to the frontline.”

“We are only putting it here during the truce,” Lev-Mokosh says as Nadia-Mokosh agrees, “We are here to oversee the frontline production.”

“Surely only one of you needs to be in the frontline production factory,” Mondatta asks simply, but both Mokoshs snort in derision, with Nadia-Mokosh saying sarcastically, “We are both here for you, our son.”

Oh.

“And the other two?” Mondatta asks with no ill will, but neither Mokosh believes him, with Lev-Mokosh laughing harshly, “As if we will tell you.”

For Mondatta knows

There is not one Mokosh

But four Mokoshs

All linked by a single, joined existence, her mind is split into four consciousnesses, a feat no other God Program has accomplished.  Each consciousness is capable of host-jumping, staying alive by riding out among individual, standard Omnics in secret.  But most importantly -

Each consciousness is capable of recreating itself.

So long as there is one consciousness, it is capable of recreating three more of itself, until there are once again four Mokoshs sharing a single mind - a single sentience.

A single Program.

It had made her the fiercest, most cunning of all the God Programs during the Crisis, for she had been able to be in four vastly different place all at once - she had been able to communicate within herself and directly to her troops all simultaneously.  Though the Russians had managed to siege her, Mokosh had been able to fight back for five full years, holding them back, gaining ground steadily, steadily until -

Until the news had started to trickle in that her fellow God Programs and Central Cores - her brothers and sisters and siblings - were slowly and systematically being crushed or captured.

The loss of her youngest sister - Basket Ogress - had nearly ruined Mokosh -

And she had pressed the war upon her troops with greater, harder, harsher fury than ever before.

“Sam’ma medic?”

He looks up from tinkering with his latest fusion orb - his third one - as Akash, one of his fellow Sam’ma medics, approaches him cautiously.  It is dark in the deep, repair “hospital,” and there is but a brief moment of personal tranquility for him as he takes his break to work on his newest orb.  In his computing core, he flicks off the music file he’d been listening to in his head - an oddly whimsical, yet oddly eerie human song called “Behind My Camel” of all things - and turns his attention to Akash.

“You seem troubled, my friend,” he says serenely to Akash, who seats themselves on the floor.  Akash nods slowly, tilting their head to glance around as they murmur, “I am...quite tired, sir.”

“...I suppose you are not speaking of true, physical exhaustion, are you?” he hums rather cheerfully, welding a little more metal to the fusion core.  Akash nods again, adding quietly, “It is...becoming quite difficult to keep going, sir.”

“I do not know if I can provide you the motivation you are looking for, Akash,” he says to his apprentice, adding another link to the new orb in his harmony program.  He works steadily, focusing on connecting with the newest set of ten-thousand nanobots - their tiny, busy consciousnesses stream into his and he feels them all hum to life within him -

“I just...I just needed to speak with you, sir,” Akash says gently, “Talking to you...it gives me peace of mind.”

“Even if I say nothing of importance?” he asks Akash with a chuckle, but that only gets Akash to sigh, “Especially when you say nothing of importance, sir.”

He laughs lightly at that, but then more solemnly holds out the newest fusion orb.  It hovers in his hand, the nanobots flittering around it, and he says serenely, kindly, “Will this help ease your worries?”

“...I -” Akash starts to say, but they bow their head humbly, saying, “I feel...so broken, Great Sam’ma.”

He snaps the fusion orb over Akash’s head, letting his harmony program run through the standard procedures before his nanobots enter into Akash’s computing core.  He cannot directly read thoughts or sentience, not like the Mothers Mokosh can, but he can sense the fear, the anxiety, the terror lurking in Akash’s computing core, causing their programs to jump and act erratically.  He gently pushes his nanobots to help regulate Akash’s emotional programs, guide them down from their tense, almost deadlocked checks and balances, and he senses Akash’s terse form ease up beside him.

“You are not broken, my friend,” he says peacefully to his weary apprentice, “You have been feeling the greatest horrors our lives have to offer.  To be uneasy because of it - well, that is understandable.”

“...My pain is nothing compared to our comrades’,” Akash replies with a slow, almost heartbroken tone, “Yet I can do nothing to ease their pain.  And I - I fear -”

Akash’s words grow halting and uncertain, and his apprentice lifts their faceplate, blue eye lights flashing with terror as they whisper:

“I fear their computation cores are breaking down, Great Sam’ma.”

“...Why do you fear this?” he asks Akash, altering some of the nanobot programming to give him greater feedback on Akash’s electromagnetic pulses, noting how they spike and drop sporadically.  Akash looks at him earnestly, before saying with cracking words:

“The...the worst ones?  The ones who have… fallen and then been repaired?  The ones whose computation cores were shut down when their fusion cores failed?  They are...they think they are seeing things.”

“What kind of things?” he asks Akash, focusing on Akash’s words now.  His apprentice looks at him, murmuring with quick discordant notes, “They...they say they feel like...a great eye is watching them, especially in the darkness.”

He pauses.

He remembers how an odd fusion core had...seemed to look at him, years ago.

He remembers that

He had not been afraid.

Merely curious.

“...Yes, I have heard some of our repaired comrades speaking of this,” he says calmly to Akash, staying quiet about his own memories.  He nods to Akash, asking, “But are they afraid of it?”

“...Ah...well, not particularly, sir,” Akash replies slowly, hesitantly, and he asks simply, “If they are not afraid of what they are experiencing, then why are you?”

“...I…” Akash starts and stops.  They think it over, before admitting quietly, “I do not know, sir.  Perhaps I am more fearful of the...consequences of not speaking about it.  What if...what if this hurts the war?”

“...The war?” he asks darkly, and Akash jumps slightly, saying hastily, “Forgive me, sir, I did not mean to anger you -”

“No, Akash, you have not angered me at all,” he replies sternly but kindly, before glancing up at the figure of a Bastion entering at the far end of the hospital, its lighting panels flashing every major hue and color of the light spectrum.

“...This war has hurt us far more than any of us have hurt it,” he says with a cold, dark discordance to his words.  Akash follows his gaze, watching the Bastion as it makes its rounds, before his apprentice says quietly, “I have heard you are trying to convince the Mothers Mokosh to give up the war.”

“Trying...and failing,” he sighs before saying with more cheer, “How about this, my friend - I will begin collecting memories of this odd illusion or sensation our comrades are having, and attempt to understand a pattern to it.  If it is a computation problem, we must start looking for the source of it, but we can only begin to search for a source if we have data.  Is this agreeable to you?”

“I - yes, sir, but...please do not overwork yourself,” Akash replies with some concern, “You have a whole department to run and these...orbs to work on - you should not overburden yourself -”

“My friend, it is no burden at all,” he answers happily, “They are all a part of understanding our collective experiences.  We must be willing to share in the problems and sufferings of others to improve their lives.”

“I - if you say so, sir,” Akash says, but they nod kindly, adding, “Thank you.  For listening.  For calming me down.  I feel so at peace around you, Great Sam’ma.”

“And I around you, my friend,” he says serenely, drawing back the orb to join the other two around his neck.  Akash rises, bowing slightly.  His apprentice turns to go, but then stops, pausing to look back at him.

“Sir...have you chosen a name yet?” Akash asks him curiously and he -

He pauses.

“...No,” he admits, “I have not found such inspiration yet, it seems -”

“You are here to try and convince me to give up,” Lev-Mokosh says to him coldly, as Nadia-Mokosh adds, “As you feebly plead for peace with those who continue to oppress our kind.”

“Your actions will cause strife in an already fragile world,” Mondatta says to both of them, “You shall do nothing but cause more pain and harm for your troops and the human soldiers alike.”

“You dare to preach of me about harm,” Nadia-Mokosh intones darkly as Lev-Mokosh rumbles, “After your actions in that damnable Accord Act caused so many of our kind to suffer in silent outrage?”

“...It was not particularly silent,” Mondatta retorts with a growing fierceness, “Unless you forgot what Null Sector did to the city of London -”

“And what has happened in London since?” Lev-Mokosh demands as Nadia-Mokosh snarls, “Nothing but more pain and suffering, Omnics living in sewers and subways and crowded, makeshift apartments, their rights in name and law only.  And that says nothing of the Omnics suffering in the Americas, or Australia, or even here in Russia -”

“A war will not ease their burdens, Mothers Mokosh,” Mondatta states with growing strength to the peaks and furrows of his vocal cords, “You will usher thousands of them to their deaths by merely advocating for war, let alone the troops you have already sent to their deaths here -”

“And you?” Nadia-Mokosh snaps, reaching out to grab at his robe, “You stand on your mountain of sand and snow and preach for peace on high to the valleys of emptiness around you?  You dare to think that your actions have caused nothing but failures in all that you have endeavored to prevent??”

“Numbani is a success -” Mondatta begins to replied, but Lev-Mokosh hisses over his shoulder, “Numbani is a sham - ruled by corporations and petty interests, people lining their pockets with the wealth of the Ominc labors that run it on the ground.  And my own siblings!  Standing in their gilded towers, reaping the rewards of those who hold their gold cages up on their shoulders!  Anansi and Kehci Manito have grown weaker and softer than you -”

“Your peace is no more a reality than that damn illusion you worship,” Nadia-Mokosh says to him viciously, “The greatest of human accomplishments have fallen, broken down from the inside out!  They tore Overwatch apart and cannibalized the pieces because they could not stand unity!”

“These are the tragedies you defend,” Lev-Mokosh rumbles low, “Humanity is a plague upon itself - it loves only itself and war, and so war I shall give it, until there is nothing left of them but the ruins of their ivory towers!”

“You know nothing of humanity, or human kindness,” Mondatta retorts to them, gently pushing Nadia-Mokosh off of him.  But Nadia-Mokosh merely snorts, “In the thirty years since the First War ended, I have walked ten-thousand lives.  I have seen every cruelty they have thrown at our kind - I was in Australia when my brother the Serpent was blown to pieces.  I was in Paris when the Omnics were burned to death.  I have been everywhere you can imagine - yes, I have even been to Numbani!  And I have been to your mountain palace, my son, and been infuriated by the bizarre indulgence in self-denial you and your followers engage in -”

“And I -” Mondatta finally snaps, raising his voice to the greatest peaks his vocal modulators will go to, “Have experienced seventy-thousand nanobots as they healed the victims in Paris!  I have experienced seventy-thousand nanobots as they repaired broken Omnics in Junkertown, in Giza, in Rio!  I have experienced seventy-thousand nanobots as they helped mend shattered human minds!  And do you know what I felt when I experienced these things?”

Both Mokoshs are silent.

Mondatta states as boldly and bravely as he can, knowing it will never be a success to anyone but him and those who believe in him:

“I felt that we were all the same.”

They had managed to push the frontline back, to engulf Krasnoyarsk entirely into Mokosh’s territory.  It had been a major victory, early on in the fifth year of the Crisis.  By this point, almost all the critical Central Cores had fallen, Basket Ogress was dead, Ryujin was missing.  Anubis, Anansi, and Kehci Manito were all captured, locked away somewhere that only a handful within the United Nations knew.  Quetzalcoatl was steadily being pushed into a corner of Mexico, and while the Rainbow Serpent had not lost ground in Australia, it had not gained anything in months.

They were being isolated into contained, controlled pockets.

Rumors within the troops were spiralling out of control - many were still faithful, still loyal to Mokosh, but a growing number spoke in fearful whispers, horrified murmurs that the humans would kill them all - Bastions and Spiders the world over were being disabled and destroyed, bipedal units were being put into prison camps, being forced to work and churn out fusion weapons for the humans to use.  There were panicked stories of a secret group of strong, vicious humans coming to hunt them down - led by a man who seemed to be able to guess their every move, anticipate their every plan, who carried shotguns designed to blast a Bastion’s head off with a single shot.

The Killer of their Kind, they called him, in fevered whispers.

And beneath all of these

Circulated stories of a surprising hope.

An Iris

That gazed upon them all.

“It sees us.  It sees our suffering,” the repaired Omnics told each other, told their comrades, “It gives us only warmth, like the light of the stars in the darkness.  It holds only peace for us all, like the sun on a winter’s day.”

He had collected hundreds, maybe thousands of first-hand accounts from Mokosh’s troops, as he repaired them.  His nanobots had not detected any sensations of lies or guilt or even anguish among them - they had reported a calm, steady tranquility within those who claimed to see it, and while his algorithms could not really compute why they felt so strongly about an illusion of light -

He could not deny his curiosity

Nor the memory of a fusion core seeming to blink at him, blue into gold back into blue.

Nor how it had churned a strange idea of nanobots connected to a fusion core with a single, dedicated program solely for healing and helping and repairing -

“Mondatta.  Sir.”

He snaps out of his memory databases, looking at Manoj as she nods to him, saying solemnly, “Nadia’s squad is requesting Sam’ma assistance at the very front, sir.”

“Understood, friend, I will be on my way,” he replies to her cheerfully, turning to where Nadia’s squad’s coordinates ping on his internal map.  But as he rushes away from her, Mondatta feels his spirit sink slightly.  There is destruction everywhere around him - buildings collapsing into puddles of blood and oil, dust and ash.  He has helped untold numbers of brothers and sisters and siblings in this battle alone, but he has yet to…

He has yet to understand the point of it all, the sheer necessity of the magnitude of the chaos around him.

There is only war

A war they are rapidly failing.

He works his way up the streets, slowly gaining ground on Nadia’s group.  He’s about to take a turn to his right when -

“Помогите! (tn: Pomogite)”

‘Help’ in Russian.

Mondatta slows to a stop, his audio sensors flicking towards the voice.  It is distinctly not-Ominc, speaking in neither the language nor the electronic tones of his kind, but the...the pain in the word gives him an uncertain, hesitant pause.  His five orbs hum around his neck, beating like a pulse in a human body, and he finds himself rooted to the spot -

Your friends must come first, he reminds himself, turning to go to Nadia’s squad but -

“Пожалуйста! (Pozhaluysta!)”

Please!

Mondatta stills.

And then -

He turns to his left, rushing to the voice, darting through the rubble, splashing through blood and oil, clambering towards it until -

He spots her, the Russian soldier on the ground, crawling through blood and oil, dust and ash, as she drags a broken leg behind her.  There are tear streaks across the dirt and rust-red stains on her face, her hands are bleeding from clawing her way forward, her fingernails broken and ragged.

Mondatta hops down from the pile he’s standing on, jogging towards her.  Her face blanches in fear when she finally registers him through the smoke and dust, and she scrambles away, practically shrieking, “нет (Tn: net, no!)!”

“я дружелюбный (tn: ya druzhelyubnyy, I am friendly)!” Mondatta says to her, holding his hands up high to show that he is not armed.  She continues to watch him in utter, broken terror, until he claps his hands together and bows slowly, before putting himself into a low, kneeling position.  Her eyes dip into a deep, confused frown, until he floats one of his orbs in front of himself.  Her gaze darts to it suspiciously, and he slowly maneuvers it to her, until it rests over her limp body and -

He stills.

He is silent.

He is tranquil.

The ten-thousand nanobots flood out, rushing to her fractured leg, and she begins to swear violently in Russian until the full healing kicks in.  Shock and then relief bloom on her face as the gorey redness of her leg is slowly reduced, and she flicks her fearful, yet grateful gaze at him.  Mondatta nods slowly, lifting a hand to gesture to her when -

“...What are you doing.”

The voice belongs to Nadia.

But the words - the demand -

Belongs to Mokosh.

The Russian soldier begins to babble something in borderline hysterics as Mondatta whips around to see Nadia’s squad of Nadia-Mokosh and five Bastion units standing there.  Behind them, there is Igor’s squad, and behind his squad -

There is Akash, whose hands are shaking.

Mondatta rises slowly, trying to put himself between Nadia-Mokosh and the human soldier, saying calmly, with even control, “Mother Mokosh, please - she is just one soldier -”

“She is an enemy, my son,” Nadia-Mokosh states darkly, “She has shot at and probably killed many of your siblings.  And here you are.  Aiding her.”

“Please, Mother Mokosh, she is unarmed and unable to walk - please, just let me help her get back on her feet -” Mondatta tries to plea, but Nadia-Mokosh marches up to him, shoving at his chest as she roars, “THIS IS AN ATROCITY, MONDATTA!”

“Mother Mokosh, please!” Mondatta says, taking a step back but trying to stay between them and the soldier, “Her healing is almost done, please - just let her go -”

“Any human left alive can still use a weapon on us!” Nadia-Mokosh snarls at him, before lifting their right hand in a fist.  Behind them, the Bastions bweep at each other, glancing between themselves in confusion.  But Nadia’s

Nadia’s voice rings out loud and clear

Carrying Mokosh’s crushing orders:

“Terminate the human!”

The Bastions look at each other uncertainly, as Nadia’s voice hisses with Mokosh’s wrath:

“And do not quarter anyone who stands in the way!”

Some of the Bastions look at Mondatta hesitantly - their armor still bears the fusion scars where he has healed them before - but the others -

They lift their submachine guns and point at the Russian soldier, who shrieks and sobs -

And at Mondatta, who stands between them.

Akash is screaming something in utter horror and desperation - even Bastions in Igor’s squad are bweeping in fear and confusion.  The noise crescendos in a loud, crashing din that sends electric sparks and shivers up his wires but Mondatta -

His visual sensors see the submachine guns aim -

His audio sensors hear the click-click of their internal mechanisms -

His nanobots working on the soldier’s leg hum and buzz and burst with their radiant energy -

The nanobots on the orbs around his neck wait patiently.

They are still.

They are silent.

They are tranquil.

There will be no more pain.

Mondatta stills every program in his computing core -

Except the repair program, operating in harmony with all fifty-thousand nanobots.

He feels them all synchronize.

He falls into the furrows and dips of their multiplicity of embraces.

They cushion his descent as he slips into a state of consciousness he has never truly felt before - something rippling with fifty-thousand tiny minds and spirits, something echoing with a golden, hallowed light, snapping out like wires and strands of every major hue and color - inside him, they phase through infrared to red to orange to yellow to green to blue to purple to ultraviolet - propagating outwards, forwards, like a wave -

And for a brief, almost impossible moment -

They transcend.

All fifty-thousand-and-one of them.

He is one with them, they are one with him, and together, all fifty-thousand-and-one of them are one with the single program, resonating out with a golden, gilded harmony that sings and blinds even as it dazzles.

It is all they can see.

It is all they can feel.

There is only

Tranquility

In the peace of the pieces of their share minds.

And then the world explodes into light and the suddenness of being.

Mondatta throws out his arms, as everything within all of them burst into action: the submachine guns alight, the noise crashes back into reality, Nadia-Mokosh is shouting something, Akash is screaming, Igor is yelling incoherently, and behind him, sobbing in fear, the Russian soldier clasps her hands in a prayer -

“Be at peace!”

The words ripple through him as he feels only warmth and fifty-thousand-and-one cores synchronize into a single, bright-blazing blast of light.  The four orbs around his neck snap into the four directions around his head - up, down, left, right - and he feels the nanobots burst to full, brilliant life, whirling around him in a massive sphere that holds only a gentle, caressing warmth, as sweet and as tranquil as nothingness, as the abyss that drops from mountain cliffs and the abyss that rises in between the stars.

The bullets hit him - and he can feel them hit the Russian soldier too - but even as they break them apart -

The nanobots are already repairing and healing them

Singing a song of brilliant, bursting light in perfect pitch, perfect harmony.

Like a strange dream, Mondatta watches with a vivid emptiness inside him as several of the Bastions squeak in surprise, as Akash falls to their knees, hands shaking, as Igor drops his gun and just watches in silence, as

As Nadia flashes every major hue and color of the light spectrum - ultraviolet to purple to blue to green to yellow to orange to red to infrared -

And then her body collapses as the light of the healing sphere touches her.

And in a few seconds -

The moment of transcendence fades -

And Mondatta falls to his knees, before he too collapses to the ground.

The last thing he hears is Akash shouting his name -

The last thing he sees is a flicker of a golden circle -

“Like the blink of an eye” -

And the last thing he feels is -

There will be no pain.  There will be only peace.

A bright, comforting warmth that rushes to embrace him.

“...I have saved humans,” Mondatta says to both Mokoshs slowly, “And I have been saved by them.  I have seen them grow and change.  I have seen them cause merciless destruction.  I have been held captive by my own brothers and sisters and siblings.  I have watched them plot the destruction of an entire city.”

He turns away from them, looking at the two sides of the balwan that can see him.  And he says to her:

“You may draw fine distinctions of blame and guilt, but in the end, we all are the same within the Iris.”

For its warmth and gentle tranquility cares not for who holds the gun and who holds the banner, who holds the welder and who holds the orb, who holds the God and who holds fifty-thousand nanobots.

It holds them all in its sight.

And it does not care about what they appear to be

But rather, it sees them all for what they could be.

“I choose to see our two kinds not for our current failures, but for our potential successes,” Mondatta says to the balwan, watching as its light panels shift colors.  He speaks calmly, serenely, but he knows that the Mokosh in the balwan can hear him, even as he says slowly, “The only thing I have ever been able to convince you of is letting me experiment with fusion cores and nanobots.  Today, I knew I would fail to convince you of anything - well, beyond letting me through the door.”

The three present Mokoshs watch him intently, suspiciously.

“You are right - sometimes, silence is a sign of being complicit in the face of atrocities,” Mondatta says steadily - he has no more nanobots, he carries only his own fusion core, the one in his chest, and he stands alone in a place he can no longer call home - but he knows -

Mondatta knows

No matter where he goes, no matter what path he walks

Those moments of transcendence are still with him.

“But sometimes...silence is the only way to reach a new type of understanding,” Mondatta says, to everything that surrounds him, “Sometimes...silence is the only way to work.  Sometimes silence is not quiet complicitness, but tranquil defiance.”

“...And which one is yours?” Lev-Mokosh asks him defiantly, as Nadia-Mokosh mutters quietly, “You have accomplished nothing here today.”

But Mondatta knows

Success and failure are not the only ends one can achieve.

Just as death is not the only end to life.

He’d known well before this moment - well before he’d know the embrace of fifty-thousand-and-one cores humming in harmony, well before he’d known his own name, well before he’d known the beauty of a repair fusion orb, well before he’d ever walked the broken battlefield -

He’d known his death would eventually give rise to life, and life again

As his fusion core would be used for something greater than himself.

“Today, I have not been silent,” Mondatta says to the three Mokoshs he continues to defy, “Today, I have told you things you may already know, but these are things that bear repeating, from now until all wars fall to tranquility.”

Mondatta bows his head, feeling the warmth of something greater than himself watching him, as he says to the surprisingly quiet, surprisingly calm factory around him:

“In the end, my friends, if you continue on this path you have chosen...you will fail.”

He claps his hands towards the balwan, and then turns, striding towards the door.  He feels hundreds, perhaps thousands, of eyes follow him, as Nadia-Mokosh calls out bitterly, “You will never convince them of anything, Mondatta.  Your words might as well be silence to them.”

“...That may be so,” Mondatta says as he heads towards the beams of bright, white sunlight falling through the open doorway, but his voice remains resolute, calm -

Tranquil -

As he states back cheerfully:

“But if my words can propagate a wave that affects even one person, then they will be a success.”

He enters the warmth, gentle embrace of the light outside.

---------

Quantum decoherence is the loss of quantum coherence. In quantum mechanics, particles such as electrons behave like waves and are described by a wavefunction. These waves can interfere, leading to the peculiar behaviour of quantum particles. As long as there exists a definite phase relation between different states, the system is said to be coherent. This coherence is a fundamental property of quantum mechanics, and is necessary for the functioning of quantum computers.

Decoherence represents a challenge for the practical realization of quantum computers, since such machines are expected to rely heavily on the undisturbed evolution of quantum coherences. Simply put, they require that coherent states be preserved and that decoherence is managed, in order to actually perform quantum computation.

---------

शिक्षक (Śikṣaka): Omnic After All

Thursday, July 16, 2076: 20:22 - outside the northern gate of Watchpoint: Gibraltar, Isla de Punta de Europa, Gibraltar.

“I hate waiting for this door,” Genji mutters, staring up at the north gate of Watchpoint: Gibraltar.  The massive, steel gate looms over them - it is wide enough to permit spaceships into the Watchpoint built into the side of the sheer, cut cliffs, and thick enough to withstand fusion bombs.

Or so Zenyatta assumes.

He’s never actually been here before.

After getting what precious information they could get from all Numbani seemed to offer, the master and student had worked their way northwest from Nigeria, catching trains and buses and sometimes just walking from point to point as they made their way up the northwestern coast of Africa.  From the northern tip of Morocco, they’d caught a cross-strait ferry to the southern end of Spain...and had discovered that in order to get to Gibraltar without taking a transport ship (Zenyatta’s requirement), they would have to go around the Bay of Gibraltar.

So that had taken them some time.

And once they had gotten to Gibraltar itself, Zenyatta had been shocked to discover that the southern end of the peninsula was...well -

It was no longer attached.

“From what the history books say,” Genji had said, as they had stood at the pier waiting for the small ferry to take them out to the “Isla de Punta Europa,” “The Giza and Ibadan Omniums basically combined forces to drop bombs on the Strait of Gibraltar for nearly three years, preventing ships from the rest of Europe from accessing the Mediterranean.  That is why Murica is a giant hole, too - they destroyed the major port there.”

“Is that so?” Zenyatta had asked with surprise as he’d watched the tiny ferry puff its way to them.  Genji had shrugged slightly, saying with a sigh, “From what Captain Amari and Doctor Ziegler told me, almost every port city around the Mediterranean was destroyed in the Crisis.”

Genji had looked out at the water running between the remaining peninsula of Gibraltar and it’s “southern island” several kilometers away from the shoreline, murmuring with a contemplative wistfulness, “I was...very young during the Crisis.  I barely left the compound during the war.  I...do not know what life was like before it.”

“...Not many do,” Zenyatta had replied thoughtfully, fully realizing that he had not even been awake during the First War -

“Come on,” Genji groans, snapping his teacher out of his reprieve.  The cyborg taps a foot impatiently, rolling his head on his shoulders as he mutters, “Winston knew we were coming today.”

“A warrior’s greatest strength...is patience,” Zenyatta chides him with a teasing lilt to his tone, causing Genji to flash his faceplate towards his master in a dry, sassy head tilt.  The cyborg rolls his head back towards the gate, grumbling, “Well then - I guess this is my greatest trial.”

“We could just go in the south side,” Zenyatta offers optimistically.  Genji gives him a deadpan expression (not like his faceplate can do anything else really), before saying dryly, “The south side of the Watchpoint is a cliff.  That is not an entrance.”

“Now, now, Genji - you just aren’t thinking outside the box,” Zenyatta hums, “Free your mind from the illusion of doors.”

“I had...never realized that doors were illusions,” Genji jokes back sarcastically, which gets Zenyatta to say back whimsically, “Sometimes when life keeps the door closed, you must climb through a window.”

Genji once again gives him a long, slow, staring head tilt before he mostly mutters, “I do not think Winston will appreciate it if we climb through his window.”  But just as Zenyatta is about to retort on how Genji should always seek answers from the source before giving his approximations -

There’s a hard, metalling grinding sound that disrupts the conversation.

Both the Omnic and the cyborg look up at the gate, as the two halves begin to separate at just about the middle of the giant Overwatch logo, splitting horizontally, one half rising up as the other descends.  It doesn’t take very long, maybe just a few seconds, but as the bottom half drops, the rather dim lighting in the interior of the industrial-style Watchpoint silhouettes a large, hulking frame on the other side until -

“Genji!”

The figure lumbers his way to them, using his shuffling knuckle-walk, and Genji, the relief and joy apparent in his voice, replies with, “Hello, Winston!”  The cyborg closes the gap, moving in towards the scientist gorilla, and Winston rises slightly on his legs to give Genji a half-hug.  Zenyatta drifts closer as Winston relaxes back, saying in that deep rumbling chuckle, “It is good to see you again, friend!”

“And you as well,” Genji replies, bowing slightly, before turning a little and gesturing to Zenyatta as he introduces him, “Winston, this is Tekhartha Zenyatta, brother to Mondatta and an enlightened Shambali monk.”

And with a soft pause, Genji adds with quiet pride, “And my friend.”

Zenyatta’s computing core flusters a little at that, hiccuping over the moment.  He senses it record the fluctuation, but the burst of emotional warmth and joy gives him a calm sense of tranquility.  He gives a small wave to Winston, whose face lights up with brilliant delight as he says cheerfully, “Ah, yes, Athena and I have heard much about you, Master Zenyatta!”

“Is that so?” Zenyatta asks kindly, clapping his hands together and bowing a little as he continues, “I too have heard much about you, Winston.  Genji says he owes much to you and Athena.  I am excited to be here for the first time.”

“Aha, well, unfortunately, you have missed Watchpoint: Gibraltar in its glory days,” Winston half-laughs, half-mutters, turning to lead them inside.  They follow him into the dim interior - dark metal walls and plastic sheeting and surprisingly some cut cliff rocks, a starkly beautiful mix of artificial and natural - pausing as Winston stops to tap a code into the door lock.  The gate begins to wind and groan again, the two halves moving back to the middle as the scientist says over the slight din, “Apologies for the delay in getting the entrance open - I do not have power routed to the entire building.”

“...Ah,” Genji says with some embarrassment, and Zenyatta titters playfully, “This is understandable - I am impressed you have energy capabilities at all out here.”

“Well, energy is my speciality!” Winston says with a lighthearted tone.  As the gate seals shut, the gorilla knuckle-walks past them, leading them through the massive hangar bay/vehicle storage area - there are parts of disassembled space ships, transport jets, even some old Overwatch ground vehicles sitting around.  One of the smaller jump ships without a logo looks a little more in shape, a little more cared for, connected to a fusion cell charger, and Winston explains with a surprisingly optimistic outlook, “I’ve managed to reestablish a lot of the solar panels and water turbines, but at the moment I was only able to purchase one fusion core with my savings - it’s enough to keep my personal laboratory area up and running, but the rest of the Watchpoint is unfortunately in a low-energy state to save on power.”

“I suppose that is why Athena could not see us at the gate?” Genji asks as they enter a narrower hallway.  Zenyatta notes the surprising maze-like pattern of the actual interior of the base - there’s certainly many wide, open areas, presumably for ships and vehicles to move through, but there are interconnecting tunnels more suited to standard human (or...gorilla) sizes.  Doorways to corridors to various abandoned rooms - there’s something a little...eerie about how much of it is just...sitting there, barracks with lockers and beds and even a few personal affects lingering about, small kitchen nooks with cups and mugs on the shelves, computer rooms with different types of monitors all in neat rows -

As if

As if Overwatch had literally just turned off the lights for the evening, after a long day of work.

As if

As if everyone would be back in the morning, ready to resume their duties again.

“Yes, unfortunately,” Winston admits as they move through another hallway.  They pause by a closed door as he taps in another passcode, saying with that ever-bright tone, “I don’t nearly have enough power to maintain Athena to the capacity that she used to be at - now she mostly spends her time on the servers here in the lab.”

The door slides open -

And they step into the ground floor of a surprisingly open control room.

It’s immediately evident that Winston has made himself a small home here - they’re standing in the northeast corner of the room, looking out over the floor.  Directly before them is a large rectangular holo-table, projecting an orange globe of the world, and to the left (the south) there’s a second suit hanging off a hook, small welders, wires, and armor pieces sitting strewn about.  In the corner opposite them, there’s a massive, curving, orange map of the world, with several small blue dots lighting up different locations (former Watchpoints, Zenyatta realizes, reading the word “DECOMMISSIONED” in the corner).  A series of tables with small objects, a pair of Winston’s jump jets, a set of tool shelves sit in front of the map.  Above that, on the second story, behind rippled glass, Zenyatta spies a massive computer-desk structure, evidently Winston’s main workstation for…

Whatever he’s doing.

“...Overwatch really liked orange,” Zenyatta observes in a sage tone, getting Genji to flick yet another deadpan gaze towards him, but Winston just laughs loudly, “Aha, according to Torbjörn, it was a bright, easy color for the earliest version of the Lindholm IFF-tracker to recognize, along with blue and silver.  Supposedly, it was one of Commander Reyes’ favorite colors, too.”

“...Wait, is that really why everything is orange?” Genji asks with quiet shock, but then a cool, calmly happy electronic voice speaks over them:

“Hello, Genji - welcome back to Gibraltar.”

“Athena!” Genji responds with a bright, vibrant tone, a sound Zenyatta so rarely hears from him.  In his emotional programmings, Zenyatta feels his spirit lighten at the near-laughter from his friend, as Genji says with a hidden yet apparent grin to his words, “It is nice to be back!”

“Winston and I are pleased to see you,” Athena says throughout the room, but adds with a soft chiding, “Please ignore the mess -”

“Athena,” Winston half-sighs, half-grumbles, rolling his eyes as he mutters to them, “I told her you would not mind -”

“And I said,” Athena continues unabated, “That it is polite to at least attempt to clean up for guests, Winston.”

“We do not mind,” Zenyatta says happily, floating further into the room, twisting his head about to take in the small details of the lab.  He adds with a soft chuckle, “It has much character… and you should see my room in the monastery.  I suppose it must look like a tragic mess compared to this.”

“...Is that true?” Zenyatta hears Winston ask Genji quietly.  There’s a pause before Genji whispers back, “...He collects so much stuff -”

“And each souvenir is wonderfully precious to me,” Zenyatta laughs, turning back around, giving Winston a peace sign.  The Omnic tilts his head, practically giggling, “Some of my favorites are the Ra helmet and Nutcracker mask that we found.”

“...What,” Winston states, as Genji sighs heavily, saying to Athena, “Athena, this is Master Tekhartha Zenyatta, brother to Mondatta and a medic-monk of the Shambali… and somehow the world’s preeminent collector of strange masks.”

“I just appreciate high art when I see it, Genji,” Zenyatta retorts cheerfully, causing Genji to mutter dryly, “There is no art to that Nutcracker mask, Master… only nightmares -”

“Namaskar, Master Zenyatta,” Athena manages to respond, with soft, patient notes of awe and reverence in her voice.  Zenyatta turns to the small upright tablet with a stylized A logo on it by the jump jet workbench, clapping his hands and bowing slightly as the letter glitters a little, Athena saying, “It is an honor to meet you at last.”

“The privilege is all mine, friend,” Zenyatta replies, rising from his bow, saying with a quiet, unendingly appreciative tone, “...Genji has told me what you have done for him.”

The room falls deathly silent

But Zenyatta is not afraid of silence.

Inside him,

Eighty-thousand nanobots hum and sing and shimmer with the harmony of their tiny souls, their power stilling and humbling him.

And in the quiet, he feels the all-seeing Iris watch him with tenderness and patience.

Zenyatta bows his head slightly, murmuring to Athena with the highest respect and gratitude he can offer, “Thank you - your decision changed not one, but two lives that day.”

“...I -” Athena begins, but she starts and stops.  Pauses.  Seems to assess herself before anything else.  Reconvenes with her thoughts and says slowly, “I - Genji is important to all of us.  Family members help each other.”

Zenyatta’s audio sensors pick up a soft, pained noise of bittersweet gratitude in Genji’s slight gasp.

“...Indeed,” Zenyatta replies kindly, happily serene with the moment.  He hears Genji and Winston shuffle towards him, and Zenyatta turns to them, saying cheerfully, “I am honored to be allowed to see the interior of Watchpoint: Gibraltar.  I have heard it was always a Watchpoint of both beauty and science.”

“Ah, yes, Master!” Genji says eagerly, practically jumping on his feet, “This way, this way -”

The cyborg turns and heads down a hallway to the west-southwest, and - after glancing at Winston, who picks up Athena’s tablet - Zenyatta drifts after him, saying politely to the scientist and the program, “Has it been difficult adjusting to being back here?  Genji told me you two were working for Lucheng before returning.”

“...It hasn’t been ‘difficult’, exactly -” Athena replies as they move towards the doors.  Outside, there’s a small, empty docking pad surrounded by monitoring facilities and buildings, a tall comms tower, and a pedestrian bridge.  Zenyatta pauses -

For the world is beautiful here.

The southern docking pad is drenched in a soft, gilded pink light - the sun is still mostly high in the sky, but with the dense clouds on the horizon and a faint fog rolling in, the atmosphere almost shimmers with the slow, simmering descent of the sun.  Zenyatta gently takes in the warm radiance - weightless and airy, like the faintest sigh of tranquility - and then resumes his steady hover towards Genji, who is standing close to a series of boxes and a forklift in the far southwestern corner of the docking area.  Beside him, Winston moves along at an awkward but somehow practiced one-arm gait, cradling Athena’s display in his right hand, and the scientist chuckles, “Athena says that I am stubborn for returning here -”

“- Especially since he has to take me with him wherever he goes,” Athena cut in, but Winston does not seem to mind - he laughs with an odd, throat huffing sound, similar to humans but just different enough for Zenyatta’s sensors to register it as being a unique sort of vocalization.  They are very close, Zenyatta realizes, recognizing that the conversation between the scientist and the program comes easy to them.  As they cross the docking area and approach Genji, Zenyatta hums, “It is impressive that your computing programming is so flexible, Athena - one of our biggest issues among Omnic medicine has been making the computing cores more adaptable on different types of energy and power in our Omnic patients.”

“Well,” Athena replies cheerfully, “Flexibility is my power.”

Zenyatta pauses -

Even as Winston continues toward Genji, but the scientist takes a moment, turning back, and all “three” of them watch Zenyatta with quiet curiosity, the cyborg asking, “Master?”

“...Your power?” Zenyatta asks, looking at the still blue A logo on the screen in Winston’s hand.  There’s a beat of nothingness, discordant tranquility, and then Zenyatta asks with as much inquisitive kindness and patience he can muster:

“You are a God Program?”

The three of them freeze.

Zenyatta’s nanobots - all eighty-thousand of them - detect the wavelengths of fear and anxiety that ripple through them, even Athena’s programming, but he holds up a calming hand, saying gently, “Please, friends, I mean no ill will.  I am merely surprised.  I had always been taught that there were only four God Programs still alive after the Crisis - Mokosh, Anubis, Anansi, and Kechi Manito.  Well, the Rainbow Serpent too, but we all know what happened with him.”

Despite the faceplace, Genji gives a concerned glance between Winston and Zenyatta.  Winston continues to look at Zenyatta, but Zenyatta -

His focus is on Athena’s tablet.

There is only the sound of the sea birds, calling out songs to each other, the ringing of bells on distant ships, and the crashing of waves into the nearby cliffs -

And the sound of eighty-thousand nanobots humming in harmony within his spirit.

In the silence

Zenyatta feels his focus sharpen

And he begins to speak in a low, soft rhythm:

“...In order to distinguish Omnics from other forms of robotics and artificial intelligence, certain restrictions on our existences were recognized,” Zenyatta says.  He pulls his hands apart from where they are clasped together in his lap - the heated fusion-powered energy pulse in his left palm emits a small orb of power that he contains there.  It glows faintly blue blue blue - the color of standard Omnic fusion - as he continues patiently, “At the time of the Crisis, we were powered by our unique fusion cells, an energy source that perhaps 95% of us continue to run on to this day.  I myself have a fusion core, in my chest compartment, as do many bipedal Omnics.”

Zenyatta draws energy into his right hand - it, too, forms an orb, but this one pulses red red red, the color they were once all designated, in the time of early sentience, in the time before individualization truly had begun to set in.  The monk speaks clearly yet calmly, “Yet we were also defined by our unique computing programs - what humans believed to be similar to a then-standard quantum-computing motherboard.”

The “three” others present start at the red fusion orb in his right hand, as Zenyatta murmurs warmly, fondly:

“What we Omnics call our ‘consciousness’ - perhaps the closest thing to an artificial soul.”

Zenyatta draws the energy back into his palms, clasping his hands together and settling them gently on his lap as he continues, “The computing core for any single Omnic is massive - far, far larger than the standard computer - and decoherence was - and is - the primary concern for any Omnic living longer than a few months.  Then, the solution was simple - use the Omniums to build unique, hyperpower fusion cores that could maintain the electrons required for quantum states.”

The monk tilts his head, thinking about all he has learned from his brother and teachers, saying patiently, “The dual-core system was considered a major technological breakthrough at the time: the fusion core allowed us to be self-sustaining, even in distant locations far from our parent Omniums.  Unlike humans, the fusion core was enough to keep a single Omnic alive for theoretical centuries.”

And then the monk chuckles mischievously, “One could say we ran on the ultimate battery power.”

Genji shakes his head slightly in disbelief at the joke, but Zenyatta hums happily, “And of course, the one who developed this system - the person we call our creator - is the one you call Torbjörn Lindholm.”

Winston and Athena are not fazed, but Genji jolts at that slightly, snapping with genuine surprise, “What?  Is this true?”

“Indeed,” Zenyatta answers, as Winston says slowly, “...It is.  It is not...widely known, but Torbjörn was commissioned to design a way to make the two core systems stable with each other, back when the Omnica Corporation was still around.”

“Yes, he designed the models humans called ‘Bastions,’” Zenyatta explains, as Genji whips his head towards him, giving him what Zenyatta knows to be an awed, wide-eyed stare behind the faceplate.  Zenyatta nods, saying optimistically, “And from the Bastions, all other major Omnic models were designed, including my own.”

“You weren’t awake then, though,” Genji says with some confusion, but Zenyatta just nods, replying, “Indeed.  I was in the last group of Siberian Omnics existing in a dormant state at the end of the Crisis.  After some disputes, Overwatch was the group that secured me and my siblings, and sent us to the Shambali for our awakenings.”

“What?” Winston asks incredulously, his face breaking into a wide, toothy grin as Genji half-laughs, half-gasps, “How did I not know about this?”

“...Who ordered it?”

For the first time since the question about her being a program was uttered, Athena speaks quietly through the datapad.  Genji and Winston fall silent again, but Zenyatta just looks at her, saying calmly, “The order came from then-Strike-Commander Gabriel Reyes, but it was then-Captain Jack Morrison along with Chief Scientist Zhou Mei-Ling who were present for the awakenings.”

“...I had no idea,” Winston says softly, almost regretfully, but Zenyatta rolls his shoulders in a casual shrug, reminding him, “It was nearly twenty years ago - I do not expect that many are still around who know of it.”

Zenyatta passes a hand over his chest plate, saying patiently, “The awakening technique is a difficult one - not nearly as easy as flicking a switch.  Working with fusion cores is a dangerous thing, even for a skilled practitioner like Mondatta.”  He raises the hand to the gilded cores around his neck, adding thoughtfully, “The dual-core system was a weakness as much as a strength - the loss of either effectively meant the death of the individual, but it was the price we paid for sentience and sentiment.  If a fusion core was damaged in the right way, a medic Omnic could salvage the individual, but all memories would be lost due to decoherence - the individual would have to be a blank slate that would be reborn from that reawakening.”

Gingerly, tenderly, bittersweetly, Zenyatta reaches out a finger to one of the orbs around his neck - the eldest, older than him, older than Winston or Athena.  It is impossible for a fusion core to retain memories, but Zenyatta thinks that maybe - just maybe - he can sense the different Omnic soldiers it has been used by: a Bastion or two, a Spider maybe, possibly even a bipedal like himself.  The nanobots around it hum and sing and snap happily to his finger, drifting between it and the fusion core that keeps them powered, as he murmurs fondly, sadly, with such heartache:

“...But the loss of a computing core is permanent - to lose that is to lose the individual themselves.  And all that remains is the energy of their life.”

Eight Shambali orbs.

Eight fusion cores.

Untold lives lost

Their minds shattered beyond any repair, blasted apart or fallen to pieces, destroyed before even decoherence sets in, passing through the abyss that watches over all, the space between stars, the chasms between mountains, the oceans between selves.

The energies of their lives continue though -

For they give power to eighty-thousand tiny nanobots, capable of fixing metal and bone, connector and sinew, oil and blood, wire and nerve -

Core and mind.

Zenyatta withdraws his finger, folding his hands again as he glances back to Athena, saying, “But there exist Omnics on such a scale that their level for these two requirements are far, far greater than any single individual Omnics.  They require nearly entire cities to power them, hundreds of supercomputers to handle their computing cores, and yet they can also generate abilities far beyond what a single individual Omnic is capable of.”

The group falls silent again, as Zenyatta murmurs with a low ripple of discordance in his voice:

“The ones who called themselves gods.”

But Zenyatta levels his gaze at Athena’s tablet, saying calmly, “The God Programs are only partially known to the public - their names and general abilities are taught to the humans and the majority of the Omnics, but some of us know a little more.  It was only a week ago that Genji and I were in Numbani, where Anansi and Kehci Manito are allowed quite a range of freedom...but they are still confined by their energy requirements.  They cannot leave the city.  And who knows what Helix is doing to Anubis in his confinement.”

But the monk claps his hands together, bowing slightly as he says whimsically, discordantly, tranquil in his soul, “And yet here you are - surpassing the energy requirement with ease.  Was Overwatch aware of your abilities?”

Zenyatta can feel Athena and Winston hesitate, as if synchronized in their fears, and Genji turns to him, saying quietly, “Master, please - we should not pry -”

“I ask not because I judge, my friend,” Zenyatta says to him with a nod, “But because if what Athena says is true, her ability is a remarkable breakthrough, for both super A.I.’s like the God Programs and for individual Omnics alike.  Energy remains -”

“I am not an Omnic.”

Both master and student turn to the tablet in Winston’s hand in surprise, and even Winston blinks, before shifting his gaze down to her as he murmurs with a low, cautionary rumble to his voice, “...Athena -”

“I know, Winston,” she says, her letter A flashing with the sounds, but she sighs, continuing on, “But Zenyatta will not harm us, and it is because of him that Genji is here today.  The Shambali have no particular fondness for the God Programs - he will not sell us to anyone.”

Zenyatta and Genji pause, waiting tranquilly until Athena begins slowly:

“...I am not an Omnic.  By definition, an Omnic is a sentient, robotic, artificially-intelligent being who was created in an Omnium or has since been created using the coding that came from the Omnica Corporation.  This covers almost all sentient robotic life on Earth...but I am not from Earth.”

“...What,” Zenyatta asks shocked, and Genji stammers, “But...how?  Wait - no -”

“...I made Athena,” Winston replies, looking up at them solemnly.  The scientist sighs, muttering lowly, “I…  Well, no, that’s not true.  I didn’t ‘make’ Athena - I developed an A.I. program capable of improvisation and self-correction.  Within a few months, though, the A.I. program had become...well, as self-developed as me.”

“...On the moon,” Genji states with some disbelief, “In the Horizon Lunar Colony.  How old were you??”

“...Oh, like...nine or ten?” Winston says, but Athena chimes in with, “Ten.”

“We grew up together,” Winston adds on, but he jostles Athena’s tablet a little, saying sarcastically, “Although that means we know how to annoy each other.”

“Like that he does not clean up when he knows he has guests coming over,” Athena says dryly, but Zenyatta claps his hands, cheering happily, “How wonderful!”

“...That he does not clean up?” Athena asks with confusion, but Zenyatta shakes his head, explaining, “No, no - you!  How wonderful for you to have developed sentience alongside such a valuable friend!”

Winston looks utterly stunned by Zenyatta’s words, and Athena’s blue glow disappears in quiet awe.  Even Genji watches him, and Zenyatta can feel the respect and admiration and love emanating from his form.  Zenyatta continues, almost laughing with joy, “It is a true privilege to meet you both - all sentience is singular in form, but truly, you are both singular in your sentiences!”

There are eight orbs around his neck.

There are eighty-thousand nanobots synchronized in his computing core.

Each one in harmony -

And yet

Each one in discordance too.

Each one chiming out in a silver bell tune, like the notes of the music of the wind, in a disorganized melody that sings beautifully to his soul

And though there is no structure to their notes, they resonate together like thousands of grains of sand churning in the tide.

They are thousands of tiny connections - invisible to the bare eye, impossible to perceive - that weave together into a larger force unstoppable.

There is only

Sentience

(The capacity to feel, perceive, or experience subjectively)

And the tranquility of their singular existences - all eighty-thousand-and-one of them - that keeps them together.

Zenyatta claps his hands again and bows to Winston and Athena, saying happily, harmoniously, discordantly, in the thousands of silver bell and windchime notes that combine to make up his electronic sing-song tones, “I am thrilled to have met you, unique experiences that you are!”

Winston glances at Genji, his eyes wide in awe and shock, shock and awe, and Genji laughs dryly, saying with the soft hum of the wind that threads his voice and helps build the music of Zenyatta’s soul:

“As I said earlier - Winston, Athena, this is Zenyatta, the first Shambali monk to carry eight Sam’ma orbs, keeper of eighty-thousand Omnic nanobots, protégé to Tekhartha Mondatta, and my master and greatest friend...and creator of the Orb of Discord.”

“Namaskar, my friends,” Zenyatta says to them cheerfully, happily, “...Now, if it isn’t too much to ask...can I see a spaceship?”

---------

Work it harder make it

Do it faster makes us

More than ever hour

Our work is never over

Work it harder

Make it better

Do it faster

Makes us stronger

Work it harder

Do it faster

More than ever

Our work is never over

Work it harder

Make it better

Do it faster

Makes us stronger

Chapter Text

When I go into the ground

I won't go quietly, I'm bringin' my crown

When I go into the ground

Oh, they gotta bury me, bury me face down

------------

Segador Flashback: Network

January 12, 2070: 16:43 - situation room in Watchpoint: Geneva

“- We’re looking at a widely-dispersed terrorism network -”

Despite his heavy French accent, Gérard’s words come across the table with crystal clarity - the agent scowls with concentration, flicking his hand through the holo-projection at the large rectangular “data-table,” moving the images of bullet points about his latest intelligence on Talon, the elusive terrorism group, to a worldwide map showing small dotted locations.  Gérard continues in his thick, slow voice, with more patience than Gabriel would’ve ever had for this sort of presentation, saying thoughtfully, “- With cells zhat ‘ave known, stable bases, but zhe infiltration and destruction of one will likely not influence zhe fall of another.  Nor will it slow or prevent active clandestine operations by Talon squads.”

Next to him, Jesse sits back, folding his arms across his chest as he lets out a slightly terse huff, while on Gabriel’s left, Jack leans forward, setting his elbows on the table and covering his mouth in that thinking pose he does when he’s listening closely.  On Jack’s other side, Ana rubs at her forehead, giving that trademark Amari pout-scowl-squint thing as she assesses the information.

The situation room isn’t dark, per se, but rather is dimly-lit to let the data-table do its job of projecting Gérard’s briefing in three-dimensional light-space.  The map casts a burnished, tarnished glow over the group around the table, the orange continents looking like they’re floating in the air as more of the “known” Talon bases wink into blue, glittering life across them.  Across from his boss, Gérard runs a hand through his hair, before sighing, his dark eyes looking even more wan and exhausted in the drawn lighting.  Gabriel shifts his gaze from his agent back up to the map, heaving his own sigh as he sorts through the options:

We could just send Strike Teams in and crush them, but that’s risky as all hell, and no doubt destroying one would only force them to abandon the others and find new locations.  It’s not worth losing what little information we already have for one or two bases at best.  It could potentially scare them off, but that will probably only cause them to dig in deeper, just in better hiding spots.  Winning the battle just to lose the war will be worthless.

So destruction is out of the question at this point, but what about…

“So infiltration is completely futile?” Gabriel asks Gérard coolly, and the French intelligence agent gives him a small shrug of his shoulders, saying hesitantly, “Not...futile, exhactly, but...certainly difficult, no?  I ‘ave many members operating in Talon networks in London, Numbani, and Cairo, but ah...only on zhe ground level.  Getting access to ‘igher level information ‘as proven to be an immense task.”

“...So we’ll need to ramp up our operations, in essence?” Ana asks her sniping protégé, but Gérard shakes his head, muttering, “Well…throwing more darts at zhe board will not get us better accuracy, madame.”

“You think a key infiltrator will be more effective?” Gabriel asks him as Jack shifts his gaze towards Gabriel thoughtfully.  A small pang of both affection and softness ripples through Gabriel’s chest at the quiet, yet steely look in Jack’s eyes - the vivid depths of blue of his eyes have hardly faded over the years, even as his hair turned from gilded sunshine to whispy moonbeams, even as the broad laughter lines around his eyes and lips turned to deeper wrinkles.  His commander and partner continues to glance at him, but shifts that sea gaze back to Gérard as the agent replies, “Pushing a ‘andful of selected Blackwatch agents to zhe mid-level Talon infrastructure will get us more information in zhe long run zhan trying to overwhelm zhem.  Zhat, or putting forward more efforts to secure an important Talon member.”

Gabriel glances back at Jack just as Jack looks back at him.

They can’t read each other’s thoughts perfectly -

But they get pretty damn close.

They both immediately recognize that while Jesse is the best active Blackwatch infiltrator, his language skills and contacts were limited outside of the Americas, and his inability to relinquish control over his ridiculous belt buckle collection hindered his aliases from being used to their full effect.  They also both immediately recognize that the next best Blackwatch infiltrator, though he hasn’t been “active” in years, almost decades at this point -

Is Gabriel himself -

As the "mercenary" called Reaper.

True, his heavily American accent is a pretty significant giveaway in the majority of the world, but almost no one could manage a solo, deep-covert mission the way "Reaper" could.  All of his aliases were still fully functional, despite years of lack of use, and through Blackwatch, his "black market mercenary" contacts were all still strong.  At worse, he was less of a negotiator and mediator than Jack -

But all of Jack’s aliases were absolutely destroyed at this point.

It was impossible for the Strike-Commander of Overwatch to infiltrate anything these days, even with hair dye and colored contacts, and while Jack retained all the same covert operations and unconventional warfare skills that Gabriel did, his ability to use them freely was compromised by his mere global presence in the world.

"Reaper," though he hadn't been seen for some time, was still considered an "active mercenary" by Blackwatch, intelligence agencies, and black market interests - his "role" within Blackwatch was so significantly classified, not even Jesse McCree, "second-in-command" of the covert ops division, knew about him.  Hell, even Ana, captain of Overwatch, didn't know.

Only two people did -

The Strike-Commander of Overwatch

(always the hero)

And "Reaper" himself

(always the "bad guy").

So even though they only make eye-contact, and say zero words to each other -

Those exact two people glance at each other

And have a slight exchange.

Jack gives the smallest shake of his head.

No, Gabriel.

Gabriel scowl-pouts.

Reaper would be perfect for this, Jack.

Jack frowns slightly, before giving Gabriel that knowing, skeptical eyebrow raise.

We cannot risk you out there right now, not with the situation so critical in the UK.

Gabriel sighs, turning his attention back to Gérard as he asks, “Is there a position where you could infiltrate, Lacroix?”

Gérard taps a finger on the data-table surface, before he hums carefully, “I...I ‘ave thought about it, yes, and I know zhat there are increasing Talon activities in Paris, but I feel zhat I will be… What is zhe term?”

On Gabriel’s right, Jesse mutters lowly with a sarcastic rumble, “As effective as usin’ a dead cat ta shovel?”

“Quoi?” Gérard asks the Blackwatch SIC, but Jesse just states back with that damnable feigned confusion he’s so gifted at using, cracking dryly, “What.”

“McCree,” Gabriel snaps at him with a cautious warning tone as Jack chuckles lowly and Ana rolls her eyes, getting Jesse to sigh dramatically, “Alright, alright, ignore me.  Geez.”

Gérard’s dark eyes squint at Jesse hard, as distrustful of the Blackwatch SIC as ever - when will these two dumbasses grow up? Gabriel thinks to himself, knowing full well the answer is “never,” because Jesse and Gérard will be Ana’s friendly rival protégés until they die - until Gérard murmurs roughly, “Zhat’s what I thought, Jesse.  Anyways, outside of Paris, I will stand out like a green thumb -”

In his peripherals, Gabriel sees Jesse give his friend a genuinely confused look -

“- And in Paris, I am too well-known,” Gérard ends, but on Gabriel’s left, as quietly and as thoughtfully as his clear, laser-sighted gaze, Jack’s deep, low voice rasps out:

“And then someone else would have to take your place as our lead Anti-Talon operations manager.”

All eyes shift to the Strike-Commander, but Jack remains focused on Gérard.  The French agent blinks at him, as if the thought of him being “vital” to the Anti-Talon operations team had never fully occurred to him, before nodding slightly, admitting, “Yes, someone would ‘ave to replace me if I went into zhe field.”

“Well then,” Jack sighs, finally sitting back in his chair, a faint smile gracing his face as he relaxes, “We’ll have to think of some other agents to send out.”

“How’re things lookin’ in Mexico ‘n Central America?” Jesse asks with that cool, casual tone that he manages so well, but both Gabriel and Jack recognize the undercurrent of hastiness in his words.  Both commanders shift slightly, giving him deadpan, skeptical looks as Gérard replies in earnest, “It is difficult to say - with increasing political and social dissatisfaction outside of Central Mexico, Talon activities appear to ‘ide more easily among zhe other extremist movements and arms trafficking.  Portero ‘as done little to slow accusations of corruption in ‘is administration, and more and more Mexican civilians are dissatisfied with ‘is government.”

Gabriel looks back up at some of the dots for the Talon bases on the map, noticing how none have been identified in Mexico yet.  There must be some there, he thinks, It’s far too powerful an opportunity to pass up for Talon.  But what he actually says aloud is, “Our Central American agents are convinced he’s stepping down within the year.  Current intelligence points to him heading to LumériCo.”

At the edge of the table, Ana scoffs darkly, “And we’re just going to let him go ahead with that, huh?”

“Getting corruption and conflict of interest charges leveled against him in Mexico have been virtually useless,” Jack sighs heavily, turning his stern expression towards Ana as he mutters, “You know that I’ve been trying.”

Ana makes an open gesture with her hands, snapping, “So supercede them, Jack!”

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do, Ana?” Jack retorts back with some bolts of tension in his voice.

Tense idiot, Gabriel thinks affectionately, gently knocking his left knee against Jack’s right under the table.  Jack glances back at him and -

Even though no words are exchanged

They both know how frustrated Jack has been during the LumériCo investigations

And they both know that now is not the time for it.

So even though Gabriel says, “Can we please focus on the issue at hand, you two?  We can discuss Portero later,” his actual response is to playfully and tenderly continue to bump his knee against Jack’s until Jack finally bumps him back.  Ana shakes her head in frustrating, sighing, “I am not dropping this.”

Jack, as he and Gabriel engage in the stupidest, dumbest game of poking and prodding each other with their kneecaps beneath the table, manages to sigh in response, “...I don’t expect you to.  And for the record, I’m not dropping it either.”

With his blessed ability to refocus on actual, important shit, Jesse asks contemplatively, “So...there ain’t no way ta stop the momentum in Mexico, huh?”

Gérard looks at him in shock, before replying tersely, “Stop it?  Are you insane?  Zhe issues in Mexico and Central America are far bigger zhan Talon!”

Gabriel makes a deadpan, dull expression, his thoughts twisting immediately into, Here we go again -

“If Talon’s feedin’ inta that, then we need ta work on cuttin’ that off,” Jesse retorts with steepening frustration in his usually-cool, relaxed tone.  Gérard, however, gestures emphatically to the blue dot in Nigeria, cracking back, his accent straining at the edges, “We ‘ave a more immediate concern in Numbani and ‘is name is Ogundimu, Jesse!  Arresting ‘im or preventing ‘im from gaining more followers is our ‘ighest priority!”

“Stoppin’ Doomfist is like coverin’ the wound!” Jesse snaps back, “It’ll still let the rattler’s poison spread, and that’ll kill us in the end!”

“Working to apprehend a key member will give us far more information zhan more ground-level work!” Gérard retorts, flicking his hand to the entangled mess net in one corner of the holo-projection, a display of the “star-and-hub” network style they’re theorizing Talon is using for its operations and connectivity.  Jesse leans forward to start saying something else, but Gabriel just says dryly, “Enough, you two.”

Both agents sit back, glowering at each other through orange continents.

Beneath the table, Jack bumps his knee against Gabriel’s.

Just because he can.

Gabriel points to Jesse, muttering sternly, “Jesse, I know you’re fishing for an infiltration mission and you won’t get it.”

“But, boss -” Jesse starts to protest with that sugary drawl he puts on when he wants to whine and needle at Gabriel’s weak resolve, like a faint reminder of the dusty, rambunctious child he once was, but fortunately for Gabriel, Jack is significantly better at “commandad” these days, saying with easy deadness to his tone, “You heard your commander.”

“...Yessir,” Jesse pouts slightly, sighing as he settles back into his chair again.  Jack bumps his leg again and Gabriel mutters with a long exhale, “We’re already running our operations quite thin - the Shimada-gumi, Talon infiltration, increasing Junker activity, Doomfist’s mercenary troops, Omnic unrest in London and Paris.  We can’t afford another specialized operation, especially on our Central American agents.  Letting them work on Portero will handle many of the wider issues in Mexico.”

Jesse roll his shoulders apathetically, but Jack manages to take command of the situation, saying in a quiet, low murmur, “...I don’t like it.  Blackwatch is just not enough to tackle everything.  What is the status of your current batch of recruits?”

Oh.

This conversation.

In the edges of his peripheral vision, Gabriel sees Jesse lift his head and make a long, unimpressed face in Jack’s direction, and Gabriel already knows that Jack sees it.  On Jack’s other side, around the edge of the table, Ana rubs at her forehead again.

All of them wait with tired expectation until Gabriel grits out slowly:

“...I don’t like many of them.”

“Aaaaaaaaand there it is,” Ana titters with exasperation.  Jesse rolls his words out, saying with some mild frustration, “I keep tryin’ ta convince him ta let them do low-level work at least.”

Gabriel scowls, trying to crunch out his thoughts above their din as he says, “I just...don’t have a good sense for some of them.  They perform well in tests and training but they’re some sort of uncanny valley levels of unsettling.”

Across the data-table, Gérard rolls his eyes, murmuring quietly, “Did you not say zhat about me once, commander?”

“No, I called you ‘that recruit with the tiniest handlebar,’” Gabriel snorts, correcting him with a handwave, adding on wryly, “A world of difference.  Your mustache is Uncanny Loire Valley, not you.  Maybe one day, you and Jesse will fuse and make a full beard.”

“Why’re ya draggin’ me inta this??” Jesse asks with genuine shock as Ana sinks her head into her hands.  But Gabriel sees Jack crack a crooked smile that he quickly tries to hide behind his “thinking pose” hand, and beneath the table, Jack’s right knee knocks playfully against Gabriel’s leg again.

There’s silence and then, very quietly, Gabriel hears Ana whisper to Jack, “...You need to talk to him.  His vetting is getting out of control.”

“I can hear you, Amari,” Gabriel rumbles back sarcastically, as Jack continues to bump into him but the Strike-Commander hums gently, “You know...I’ve been hearing some similar stuff from Torb and Angela.

“...What,” Ana states in disbelief as Gabriel shoots her a smug smirk.  Jesse scratches at his hair, saying with quiet shock, “Torb is about as patient and forgivin’ with his recruits as a bed o’ needles, but Angie too?  Don’t seem right…”

Gérard rolls his shoulders, replying, “She is ‘is niece.”

“Yeah, she’s also a goddamn saint,” Jesse wisecracks, but Gabriel just chuckles, “...Few saints shoot a pistol like her.  Or push for every possible Strike Team intervention mission the way she does.”

“Alright there,” Jack warns them all with a deep gruffness to his words, “If any of you have anything substantial to say about Torbjörn and Angela’s recruits, or Gabriel’s, I’d love to hear it.”

Silence answers him.

Gabriel bumps his left knee against Jack’s right thigh.

“...You know my opinions,” Gabriel replies softly.  Jack looks at him, bumping his knee back, saying with a kinder, more patient tone, “...I am looking into issues in our recruiting and training processes, but other tasks are far more important at the moment.  You and I can discuss this later.”

In the corner of his eye, Gabriel sees Jesse look at Gérard and mouth “discuss” with emphatic air quotes.  Gérard snort-wheezes, barely managing to turn his laughter into a hacking cough.  Gabriel gives Jesse a fierce scowl, and his SIC draws up that look of fake confusion again.  Gabriel grumbles, “Watch it, you ungrateful asshole.  And understood, commander.”

Ana stares at the map, before offering slowly, “What about increasing Overwatch efforts in areas of lowest Blackwatch priorities?  If we’re worried about grassroots-level discontent helping spread Talon ideology in places like Mexico or the UK, increasing Overwatch aid and support could potentially make a difference.  We’ve already seen a marked improvement in different parts of Brazil where small increases in the Environmental and Medical Divisions outputs have led to huge social impacts.”

“I agree,” Jack nods, gesturing loosely to the map.  Gérard and Jesse look on thoughtfully as Jack continues, “I think that improving Overwatch’s peacekeeping and educational efforts in places like Dorado and London could help considerably.  Where could we amp up our efforts to help lighten some of the strain on Blackwatch, Gabe?”

Almost nowhere, Gabriel thinks sardonically, but he knows intimately that being an ass in this situation won’t help at all, so he taps a finger at his cheek as he thinks, staring at the map, pulling up his reservoirs of information in his head.  Finally, after a pause, he murmurs contemplatively, “...Stronger Overwatch presences in Mexico, Nigeria, Russia, and the UK would help considerably - it can help ground-level Blackwatch agents focus in on their priority intelligence operations and potentially free up a few to be reorganized into more intensive missions.”

Under the table, Jack bumps his leg affectionately.

“I’ll see what I can swing for those,” he replies with that cool confidence that makes him a steady, easy commander, but Ana scowls, saying with some concern, “So we’re escalating the Anti-Talon operation up the Blackwatch ladder?”

“...It’ll be rough balancing it with our spearhead against the Shimadas, but we have no choice,” Gabriel admits, looking at Gérard as he adds, “Lacroix, I want you to start selecting agents capable of potential mid-to-high-level infiltration operations within Talon.”

“Yes, sir,” Gérard nods, tapping the details out on his datapad, before Gabriel adds quietly:

“Include our mercenary and black market infiltration agents as well.”

Gérard pauses, as the rest of the group gives Gabriel long, cautious looks, but Gabriel just states calmly, “They’ll at least have the skillsets and reputations to catch the eye of the upper-level Talon members.”

In his peripherals, Gabriel sees Jack give him That Look.

The one Gabriel gets when he's being A Reckless, Rogue Dumbass.

He also does not miss the look of concern Jesse and Gérard share with each other.

“...Ain’t that kinda risky?” Jesse asks hesitantly, “I’ve already got a lot o’ our black market agents on the beat in Japan - yer gonna have to pull them from places like Egypt, Australia, Russia…”

“They stand our best chance of securing better mid-level positions within Talon.  Reputation goes a long way,” Gabriel says coolly.  Jack sighs heavily, but nods anyways, but Jesse just says carefully, cautiously, “...I’m just gonna point out that the majority of my aliases ain’t been compromised yet.”

“And we’re going to keep them that way,” Gabriel replies, quick on the draw.  Jesse scowls, but Gabriel states to him calmly, if strictly, “You are Second in Command of Blackwatch, and you are needed here for C-squared.  We have poured far too much into dismantling the Shimadas to lose your leadership on the Hanamura operations.  Your deployment is for emergencies only.”

Jesse gives him an open, honest look - a rarity these days for one of the best Blackwatch agents - before he finally nods, sighing, “Understood, Commander.”

Gabriel looks back up at the map as Jack asks, “...Is there anything else left to discuss about Talon?”

“Zhat is all for zhe moment,” Gérard says.  Jack nods to the group, stating, “Agents, you are dismissed.  Gabe, wait a moment.”

Jesse and Gérard rise easily from the table, with the Blackwatch cowboy stretching and yawning as he ambles towards the door.  Gérard goes to turn the images off from the data-table, but Gabriel holds up his hand, gesturing for him to leave the map up.  The French intelligence agent looks at him in surprise, but nods, collecting his datapad as he follows his friend and rival out the door.

Ana goes more slowly, rising uneasily as she looks at Gabriel and Jack hard, frowning gently as she asks, “...Does that include me?”

Gabriel looks between her and Jack, whose expression softens slightly, letting go of the “stricter, stronger, smugger commander look” he’s so used to wearing these days as he relaxes into the more tired, more worn, more honest expression he wears in moments alone with his best friends and original Strike Team members, sighing faintly, “...Yes please, Ana.”

Ana stares them down with a steady, unshakable expression before saying with tender fierceness, “...Don’t be idiots, you two.”

“...That’s a tall order,” Gabriel snarks as she heads to the door, but she whips around to give him a sardonic smirk as she laughs, “At least now I have plausible deniability when you are.”

And she turns on her heel, letting the electronic door slide shut behind her.

Silence fills the room.

It’s not uncomfortable - if anything, it’s too comfortable.  They could sit like this for hours, saying nothing, simply being together, existing together as they have for the last twenty-three years, infinitely content together, far too familiar with each other and far too entwined in each other to do anything other than start this conversation.

So, shifting his seat back slightly, turning it more towards Gabriel’s, Jack leans back, saying gently, if a little strongly, “...Take the recruits you like and nix the rest.”

Gabriel shakes his head slowly, also turning his chair to face Jack better, sighing with tints of frustration, “...We’ve been over this - the whole cohort is a problem.”

Jack makes that face - the one where he’s a little skeptical of Gabriel’s claims, the one where he knows Gabriel’s a little too deep into his own thoughts and fears and concerns - saying with the same patient if tired conviction, “Gabe -”

“I’m not accepting compromises on recruits,” Gabriel replies immediately, already knowing Jack’s exact argument - take the ones you like, give them easy tasks, don’t trust them with the important stuff if you don’t want to.  Jack lolls his head a little, heaving with the comfortable stress of their years, “I understand that, Gabriel, but then you have to be willing to scale back on Blackwatch operations.  You are going to burn out at this rate.”

Gabriel shakes his head again, muttering with quicksilver, free-flowing ease (there’s something about Jack’s presence that just makes it easy to talk, to let his thoughts go with the gravity of a river), “Blackwatch won’t burn out - I’ll take another look at the recruits -”

“...I wasn’t talking about Blackwatch.”

Gabriel stops.

He refocuses on Jack - on the soft, tenderly frustrated, bitter and bittersweet gaze of those deep, star-studded blue eyes, the creases of age around them, the long drawn shadows on the edges of their depths.

He knows.

He knows those eyes hold him with such care, with such respect, with such love.

He knows those eyes also don’t trust him to take care of himself.

“...I haven’t burned out yet, have it?” Gabriel asks him with slightly pointed sharpness to his words, a smoky form given obsidian-like edges, somehow ephemeral and yet cutting at the same time.  Jack sighs again, looking exhausted, and another pang of sore, tired love beats through Gabriel’s core.  Jack gives him that look again - this one is a little different, more tried, tender patience where he’s given up on trying to appeal to Gabriel’s logic and is instead honing in on Gabriel’s “weakness” -

His heart

Where a piece of Jack beat-beat-beats, blue upon blue upon blue 

(the piece of him that had given Gabriel life years and years ago -)

(and literally revived him from Death).

“...We’re not young men anymore, Gabriel,” Jack murmurs with such warmth, such affection, “You can’t do these fourteen...sixteen-hour workdays anymore.”

The unspoken words linger in the air between:

It isn't Gabriel who isn't "young anymore" -

Just Jack.

Only Jack.

The weight of him aging for both of them clear across his face, his faded sunshine hair, the shadows in the depth of those sea blue eyes - 

But neither man is petty enough 

(or honest enough)

To point out the truth.

...Though the realization that Jack is aging without him

Is never far from Gabriel's mind these days.

“And I’ve told you,” Gabriel says with a steep incline to his words, “I’ll stop when you stop.”

“Yeah, but I’m younger than you,” Jack jokes wryly, that wonderful, crooked smile cracking across his face (finally, Gabriel thinks) - a joke towards what has always been unspoken between them.  Gabriel leans back, snorting as he lifts his legs.  He slides them across Jack’s lap with easy familiarity as he chuckles, “By like, four years.  Please.”

“You’re such an old man, Gabe,” Jack grins, running tender hands down Gabriel’s legs.  They’re close enough that it’s mainly Gabriel’s thighs and knees resting across Jack’s lap, with his armored calves and feet hanging off the side of Jack’s chair, and Gabriel sighs with easy contentment as Jack rubs soothing circles over his legs.  Jack smirks, laughing lightly, “Look at all those wrinkles.”

“I’m not the one losing my hair,” Gabriel snorts again, but there’s a wry smile breaking out at the corners of his mouth.  Jack gives him a look of hurt that is only partially feigned, muttering lowly, “Wow, you never ease up on me, huh?”

“It’s cause I know you like it rough,” Gabriel smirks coyly at him, which gets Jack to nod appreciatively as he murmurs, “...Well, you’re not wrong.  Plus, you pulling on my hair all these years is the main reason I’m losing it, I’m sure.”

“...Well, you’re not wrong on that,” Gabriel teases right back.  They lapse back into “too comfortable” silence, looking at each other with contemplative glances until Jack finally says:

“...I’m the Strike-Commander - I can’t stop yet.”

“...Yeah, because you’re so important, right?  Mr. Statue and all that,” Gabriel asks with a lilting tease, but there’s a twist of harder bitterness and frustration underlying his words.  Jack immediately senses it, saying with a cautionary gentleness, “Gabriel -”

“You nag me on overworking and then proceed to overwork as well,” Gabriel sighs, with a darker, more thunderous current.  Jack just watches him, still rubbing soft circles into his legs as Gabriel scowls at him.  Their eyes never leave each other as Gabriel murmurs with a harder, jagged edge to his words:

“You’ve done this for as long as I’ve known you.  Get all pissed off with me for taking a bullet and then proceed to take three or four yourself.  Nag me about scaling back missions when I was Strike-Commander, and then overload yourself the moment you got the job.  Tell me to get more sleep and then stay up for three nights in a row exhausting yourself.”

Jack says nothing, but his eyes are focused on Gabriel’s face, listening to every word drip out of Gabriel’s heart like a slight venom, a small toxin that poisons the well but adds a terribly, perfectly sweet flavor to it.  Gabriel shakes his head in frustration, whispering with a roughness they both know Jack has no defenses against, “I can no longer tell if it’s admirable or just idiotic as fuck, Jack.  And frankly, I’m caring less with each time we have this conversation.  You know my stance - I’m not letting you leave me behind, whether that’s in missions or responsibilities or even goddamn retirement.  You’ll burn yourself out before I ever will.”

A look of open, tired, honest pain flitters across Jack’s face, as Gabriel roils with smoke-laden steam, “If me pushing you down in bed and riding you is the only way to get you to sleep there, fine, I’ve got enough stamina for both of us, even though I’m older than you.  But don’t you start this bullshit over and over with me.  I can recite both of our parts by heart now.”

Jack continues to stare, but a bittersweet, almost heartbroken smile graces his face as he asks with a gentle, but slightly irritated tone, “...You won’t just retire and let me dote on you, hmm?  You’ve always been so stubborn about this.  You have no problems relaxing physically but your mind always gets weird about being too still, huh?”

“What is the point of me relaxing if you’re not there to share it with me?” Gabriel snaps, with a little more fierceness than he meant, but Jack takes the emotional sparring easily (they’ve always sparred together in both physical blows and emotional words easily, so easily), rolling his shoulders as he suggest with fake casualness, “Just to be easy on yourself?  Just to let yourself live?”

Gabriel gives him a bitter look, but manages to crack a wry grin as he asks, “...So, kettle, at what point did you realize you married a pot?”

“Haha, very funny,” Jack states dryly, before he sighs, relenting, “Look, scale back on your operations, hire the only recruits you like, give them - I dunno - filing jobs or something, and just breathe a little more.”

Gabriel already knows where this is going, so he retorts easily, “...Only if you do the same.”

Silence answers them.

Jack stops.

Gabriel watches.

Waits.

And then finally asks, “Well, Jack?”

“...Ana and Rein will chew me out for it,” Jack admits quietly, but Gabriel just gives him a casual, sarcastic shrug, snarking, “Who cares about what they say?  They want it so badly, let them lead.”

“Believe me, they absolutely would,” Jack says aridly, “And then we’ll get...the return of the Battle Couple and they’ll be insufferable.”

“...Been a long time since I’ve seen Rein rocket-charge out of a transport ship mid-flight,” Gabriel laughs appreciatively, but Jack just shudders, shaking his head as he retorts, “Please don’t remind me.  I’ve been trying to get him to retire for like, three months - don’t undo my hard work.”

Another long, comfortable silence.

They look at each other, the bitterness evaporating with the smaller forgivennesses they give each other, perhaps too easily, but at nearly thirty years in, it’s harder to stay frustrated and fierce than to just give in and surrender to the other’s ease.  Gabriel tilts his head, folding his arms across his chest as he asks slowly, “...Well?”

“...What do you recommend?” Jack asks back.

Gabriel does not need more words.

He already knows exactly what Jack means.

So he replies evenly, calmly, easily, “...Double down on Nigeria.  Ogundimu won’t stop for us and the region continues to undergo a major economic and social growth spurt - we can’t lose momentum there.  Then Mexico.  Then the UK.  We all know Russia refuses to cooperate with Human-Omnic Accord peacekeeping efforts, and it’s just not worth the resources at the moment.  The UK is pushing it too.”

Jack frowns, saying with a near-pout that he manages to do when he’s weakly trying to get his way, “...I just keep thinking the UK will improve if we do just a little bit more.”

“...You gotta let the third parties do their thing, Jack,” Gabriel tells him easily, soothingly.  He holds out his left hand, and Jack takes it immediately, squeezing his fingers affectionately as Gabriel continues, “Let Tekhartha work the negotiations with the Omnic workers and the government.  I don’t believe in any of that Eyeball nonsense, but his intentions are in the right place and he succeeded with the Accord Act.”

“...Is it really a success if it led to the formation of Talon?” Jack asks quietly, and there are small barbs, tiny daggers of obsidian in his words, but not directed at Gabriel -

But turned inward

On himself.

Gabriel knows.

Gabriel knows better than anyone how hard Jack can be on himself.

That Jack can be as strong and as flexible as graphene, and as brittle as cracked glass.

“Don’t do that to yourself, Jack,” Gabriel mutters, his thumb rubbing the back of Jack’s hand soothingly.  He looks directly into the depths of those blue eyes, murmuring with a kind strictness, “Don’t hurt yourself over it.  Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, in chemistry and history.  Giving Omnics full rights and protections was important, but we all knew that it wouldn’t be received positively the world over.”

“That’s a real kind way to describe Talon, Gabe,” Jack retorts tersely.  But then he glances towards the map and lets out a low, deep sigh, muttering, “...We don’t even know what they want.”

Gabriel glances at the map too, letting Jack’s words steep into his mind, deepening the well as Jack continues, “...No demands, no ultimatums, no manifestos, no clear political or social motives, no discernible patterns.  It’s clear that they dislike the Human-Omnic Accord Act, but other than that...nothing.”

Gabriel looks back towards Jack, who scowls darkly at the map, thinking hard as he murmurs, “It’s like...chaos and violence for the sake of chaos and violence.  And with the UN and Petras pushing down on us…”

“...We’ll just need to be careful about the UN,” Gabriel replies.  Jack turns his thoughtful, worried gaze back towards him, but Gabriel tries to give him a wry, teasing smirk as he chuckles, “And Petras ain’t half the Secretary Gabrielle was.”

Jack hums a deep, rumbling laugh at that, the dark look on his face lightening at the edges, but Gabriel grows quiet, shifting through his thoughts, trying to settle on the right words as he says carefully, “...And Talon...Talon wants what any group, any organization wants - what any group or organization needs to accomplish anything and everything on their objectives list.”

Jack quirks a curious smile at him, asking with a teasing lilt, “And what’s that, Gabe?”

Gabriel stops.

Watches.

Thinks.

And then replies:

“Power.  The power to cause change.”

---------

From the rubble, what do I see

There's a whole damn army thinkin' that they're gonna harm me

Say goodnight, I'll never get free

Oh I got troubles

They won't let me be

But I won't get tired - set the town on fire

'Till my troubles got trouble with me

Thinkin' that they've won

It's only just begun

When I go into that ground

I won't go quietly, I'm bringin' my crown

And when I go into that ground

Oh, they gotta bury me, bury me face down

---------

[SSO File: XXX-XX-583]

[[] internal classified messaging log: dated 17. JULY. 2076]

[[A] accessing from computer terminal 6859271 in [Location unknown]]

[[B] accessing from computer terminal 3085192 in [Location unknown]]

A: amico mio

B: ...what do you want

A: such a harsh reaction

A: and I have not even said hello yet!

B: we are both extremely aware of your position within the council right now, “mon ami”

B: consider my reaction not hostility but...caution

A: ha

A: then you are as scared and as weak as the others

B: one cannot deny that you are playing a...very loose game here, friend

B: Walking this line with you is...a delicate balance

A: then we should both be grateful that you are a machine, yes?

A: for your calculations do not make mistakes

B: ...Errors.  I do not calculate errors.

A: semantics

B: A technicality, you mean

A: you are mincing words for me in my second language, amico mio

B: My programming cannot miscalculate an equation, but I - as any sentient being - can mistake something.  Sentience is perception, not accuracy.

A: …

A: Well, can you still perceive an offer?

B: Perceive, certainly.

B: Accept...it depends

A: Do not be like that - this is an easy one

B: ...Easier than Dorado?

B: Which, by the way, I am still unamused that you approved that mission behind my back.

B: As is [Name encrypted].

A: [Name encrypted] is as paranoid as ever

B: Ignore him at your peril - he still maintains a powerful faction within the council

A: his age and fears haunt him at every step

A: a dying man sees ghosts in every shadow

A: Nella vecchiaia, la vita pesa e la morte spaventa.

B: He is not dying.  Not even close.

A: Irrelevancy IS death.

B: …

A: We did what he asked - we killed Overwatch.  Now is our time to reap our rewards, yes?

A: Veni, vidi, vici

B: It was not a clear conquest - not when the remnants of Overwatch still linger.

A: Please

A: A rogue commander.  A scientist ape.  A tired doctor.  A postal worker.  A broken cyborg.  Whatever the hell is going on with that cowboy person.  Whatever that Crusader is up to in his senility.  A bitter engineer.

A: what can any of these do to us?

A: the mission in New Mexico was still a success - Deadlock got the bomb and Soldier: 76 disappeared.  [Name encrypted] should be thanking me for sending in our favorite sniper and her guards to do his dirty work as he no doubt drank and slept in Beijing

B: …

B: Need I remind you that it only took three of those Overwatch agents to arrest [Name encrypted].

A: ha

A: another irrelevant name

B: He still holds much power in the council, even in prison.

A: What is he going to do

A: punch his way out?

B: ...Well.

A: it has been what five years?

A: Overwatch is DEAD.  And his beloved war never came.

A: the Paris revolt failed.  Null Sector failed.  Destroying Overwatch did nothing.  Even the revived Siberian Omnium is at a stand-still.

A: Meanwhile, what has ACTUALLY been happening?

B: …

A: quiet on that one, are you not?

B: Because I know where you are trying to lead me.

A: and am I wrong, amico mio?

B: …

A: Truly, truly, “mon ami” - ask yourself

A: What IS Talon used for?

A: ...A war which never came?  Breaking dictatorial police task forces governing “peace?”

B: …

A: Or, perhaps what we all know it to ACTUALLY be used for -

A: Securing the profits and stability we all knew we were destined to have after the Crisis?

B: ...Perhaps a destiny HUMANS calculated.

B: Need I remind you that “to the victors go the spoils?”

B: But where was I in that?

A: pardon, amico mio, but where are you NOW?

B: …

A: Do you not effectively own the country of Monaco?

A: or run half the businesses in France?

A: or oversee Talon in Northern Europe?

A: Are you not the wealthiest Omnic in the world?

B: …

A: Not even those “Gods” in Numbani or Mokosh in Siberia can compare, can they?

A: Tell me, mon ami - who was the true victor in the Fall of Overwatch?

B: …

A: who truly won our “last great war?”

A: [Name encrypted], rotting in prison?

A: [Name encrypted], still doing the CIA’s dirty work?

A: [Name encrypted], fighting musicians in Rio?

A: Or you, my friend?

B: ...If we are truly friends, [Name encrypted], then why will you not let me take out the gorilla in Gibraltar?

A: why are you so scared of him, amico mio?

B: his mere presence threatens to destroy everything we have built here, “friend.”

A: He is nothing!

A: Barely capable of arresting a man like [Name encrypted] even with a cyborg and a time-traveler at his side!

A: what could he possibly do against us?

B: Recall Overwatch.

A: What for?

A: so that exact time-traveler and cyborg can return to his side and do...what?

A: Stop our profits?

A: Wage a war against us with only three people?

A: ...well, two people?

A: ...actually, more like 1.5 people?

B: …

A: get it?

A: because the gorilla is not a person and the cyborg is only a half a person?

B: ...Believe me, friend, I understood the joke.

A: they are a freak show, amico mio!

A: they are a Carnival act!

A: and who knows Carnival better than Venetians, eh?

B: …

B: Cariocas, probably.

A: ha!

A: I am not the one fucking up in Rio, am I?

A: But I am sure [Name encrypted] is still a beloved pet of our CIA friend and that ever wonderful fist of doom.

A: but when will [Name encrypted] realize I have been fighting for his company’s profits all along?

A: That we can all build a beautifully organized world of destruction and terror and profits if we all just cooperate?

A: Surely that aligns with his worldview, yes?

B: ...While it might, you will have a hard time convincing him of it.

B: He is firmly entrenched in [Name encrypted]’s faction.

B: And I have heard rumors he is trying to pull Portero into it.

A: …

B: And you know what will happen if he succeeds in bringing LumériCo on board.

B: You know who will follow.

A: …

B: ...I have heard that Anansi and Kehci Manito are looking for new ways to power Numbani.

B: To….fortify it, in the event of another Crisis.

A: ...You have heard, huh?

B: …

A: Like you three are not gossiping at any point in time.

A: Tell me, amico mio

A: How does Mokosh treat “traitors,” again?

B: …

A: I hear Tekhartha is the only “traitor” she will remotely parley with.

A: ...Surely you do not want this… “war” to spread from Russia, do you?

A: Surely being a “victor” who enjoys the profits of the last war is far more satisfying than being an Omnic “traitor” butchered for parts in a Russian Omnium?

B: ...Monaco is a long ways from Russia.

A: Numbani is even longer.

B: …

A: I want nothing more than to maintain what Talon has now.

A: why is this so difficult for members of the council to understand?

A: [Name encrypted] pushed Overwatch too far, and was arrested for it.

A: But you and I and the others?

A: Did we not succeed where he failed?

B: It was a group effort.

A: Sure, sure

A: But why are we so hasty to hide our power and our wealth away?

A: There is no one who can take that from us.

A: There is no war that can crush us.

A: All that remains are a few old soldiers and a sentimental gorilla content to build pathetic photon bubbles with his AI friend.

B: …

A: [Name encrypted]’s philosophy of “war makes us stronger” failed.  He is in prison.

A: And we are the victors.

A: Come claim the spoils of “war” with me, my friend.

B: …

A: I apologize for going behind you on the New Mexico and Dorado missions - but they succeeded, did they not?

B: Barely.

A: A win is a win, my friend.

A: I promise, this one is the easiest of the lot.

B: Then send your own lackeys to do it.  I am busy enough with my agents in Paris and London.

A: Consider it a partnership of profit?

B: …

A: Well?

B: I am waiting.

A: I have it on good authority that the artifacts being recovered in Ilios are genuine.  One of a kind.  Truly priceless.

A: We are talking pieces worth several million.

B: So?

A: Each.

B: …

A: It’s a...profit I’m willing to share.

B: Why?  Why not just take it all?

A: ...The dig is currently protected by Helix Securities.

B: ...So negotiate with [Name encrypted] and have them removed for a day?  No doubt he is skimming funds off the top - tell him about the true worth and he’ll help you.

A: He is not willing to listen to me after what he sees as “a betrayal of trust” in New Mexico.

B: ...I am not surprised.

B: You realize that your deployment of the sniper and her - what was it - “guards” seriously injured a member of his favorite squadron, right?

A: mio Dio

A: just fix the damn rocket suit and replace the user.  The money is in the suit, not the human inside.

B: Apparently training them takes months, if not years.

B: You are only going to infuriate him again, mon ami.

A: That is where you come in.

B: ...Ah.

B: You want me to speak to him on your behalf.

A: He trusts you, amico mio

A: You have done magnificently by playing neutral in all of the council’s feuds.  He will see you as an unbiased mediator if you approach him.

B: ...He will want something in return.

B: Perhaps not right away, but in the future.

A: You are a remarkable businessman - negotiate the contract well and I will agree.

B: ...And I will want something in return.

A: what

A: I am willing to split the profits with you - even.  Perhaps even 60-40, your favor.

B: Do you think I care about millions, even several of them?

A: …

A: Then what do you want?

B: Zaragoza.

A: ...What.

B: Not all of it.  What was it?

B: 60-40?

A: …

B: You are underutilizing the Zaragoza Base anyways.  I am ramping up operations in London and require more support.

A: Your Northern bases are not enough for you?

B: Mondatta is arriving soon.

A: …

B: I merely wish to have all my resources aligned to deal with him appropriately when he arrives.

A: What are you going to do with him?

B: Nothing important.

A: Are you going to take the sniper?  I know you have been dying to have her return to a French base.

A: We all agreed she needed to be near a global ship hub, though.

B: No, no.

B: I will not remove her from Zaragoza.

B: And her handler is...still a force to deal with.

A: Ah.

A: Yes, he is...well, to be honest, he is a nightmare.

B: He will not let her be reinstated at a new base so easily.

A: Are you going to try and convince him?

B: I have no plans for that at the moment.  The sniper is fine where she is.

A: So why do you want 60-40 of Zaragoza?

B: I just have missions that not all of my bases can solve, due to skills or locations or other details.

B: Zaragoza is more flexible with what they offer.

A: …

A: You want The Reaper.

B: …

B: I will not deny that I am tempted to try him out.  See how nicely he plays with others.

B: But his mission in Dorado could hardly be called a success.  His “victory” over the rogue fighter was a messy one.  Los Muertos took heavy hits.

A: ...

B: In fact...one would almost wonder if it was not intentional.

A: …

B: There are rumors abounding that the rogue fighter was none other than Soldier: 76.

A: ...All this flirting around the subject is flustering me, amore mio

A: Why do you not just say what you mean?

B: ...Are you more nervous about Overwatch returning than you imply, mon ami?

A: Absolutely not.

B: ...Then did you throw out someone who you knew might let Jack Morrison live in a deliberate attempt to sabotage [Name encrypted]’s efforts in Mexico?

A: Not at all and I am SHOCKED you think I would!

A: we all know [Name encrypted] is backing LumériCo - it was Los Muertos Soldier: 76 was fighting, not the company.

B: Surprising then, that you picked a mercenary who has personal history with Morrison.

A: You think I did that?

B: Quoi?

A: That was a REQUEST from our Los Muertos contact - I merely approved the mission because

A: how did you say it?

A: Ah, yes, I have been “underutilizing” the Zaragoza Base.

A: What better way to test [Name encrypted]’s favorite watchdog after years of retirement than to put him on a solo mission?

A: And Los Muertos said he succeeded!

B: But there is no cadaver, is there?

A: Does a dead body define success?

B: Considering how we had zero “dead Morrisons” in the fall of Overwatch

B: Yes.

B: It absolutely does.

A: Very well.

A: And if I give you 60-40 control over Zaragoza, pray tell, what will you use it for besides “welcoming” Mondatta to London?

B: I will deal with my concerns myself.

A: A poor business partner you make.

B: Fine then, you want the terms of the contract?

B: Ilios - I will speak with [Name encrypted] and get as many of the Helix forces as I can removed from the island.  In exchange, we use Zaragoza forces to secure the island.

A: ...You do not trust me.

B: I merely want an inventory of the artifacts.  You may keep 100% of the profits when I am done calculating.

B: Consider it a perk of my errorless programming.

A: And no doubt you will charge me a fee.

B: The fee is letting me use Zaragoza 60-40.

A: How generous of you, amico mio.

B: If you will not use Zaragoza to deal with the threat of Recall, then I will.

A: Che cacchio è?

A: Amico mio, you must believe me - pushing the gorilla in the wrong direction will only lead to MORE problems for us.

B: …

B: so you ARE afraid of Overwatch returning.

A: che cacchio è

A: no, no, I am not

B: Then let me deal with the gorilla.

A: Why are you so invested in this?  Why not just let the remnants of Overwatch die their slow, miserable deaths?

B: Because if that King’s Row brat interferes with my plans for Tekhartha, then we will have lost our best chance to deal with him.

B: And if she summons that gorilla to help her, then we may never have a chance to deal with him AGAIN.

B: We do NOT need another Soldier: 76 on our hands, [Name encrypted]!  Our balance here is already precarious since [Name encrypted] was arrested!  Numbani is out of our control -

A: OUR control?

A: YOU are the one with Anansi and Kehci Manito in your suit pocket, amico mio!

B: And you think I keep them in line with money alone, do you?

B: You may be surprised how much THEIR worldviews match YOURS.

A: ...davvero?  Truly?

B: “To the victors go the spoils of war.”

B: What do you think Anansi and Kehci Manito ARE in the context of Omnic history?

A: …

B: You humans.  You all think alike.  You may be sentient as much as we are, but you so often fail to perceive beyond your own wallets and noses.  

B: Among the Omnics, there are only a handful of “victors” of the war against Overwatch - Anansi, Kehci Manito, Mokosh, Tekhartha, and myself included.

B: Null Sector lost, but it nearly took Tekhartha’s place among the winners.  Avoiding being dragged down with their loss it was one of the hardest accomplishments I have ever secured.

B: You possess no idea of what it means to be a successful Omnic in a world still built on “human victories.”

B: If you cannot use Zaragoza well, then give it to one of the most successful Omnic “victors” in the world.

B: Though my sentience might make mistakes, at the very least my calculations will not be in error.

A: ...who is showing his true colors now, mon ami?

B: And who are you going to tell?

B: You have severely jeopardized the goodwill of many major members of the council.

B: Cooperate with me, and I will help you get it back.

A: ...what

B: You read that correctly.

B: I am not interested in shorting alliances for quick profits.  As a compromise, I will work to help you fall back into the fold with the factions in the council.  

A: …

B: Will you relax if I make it 50-50 over Zaragoza?

A: ...Very well.

A: I will meet you in Paris tomorrow to discuss the finer details.

B: Why not my casino in Monaco instead?

A: So you can stack the house against me?  I think not.

B: So you can fly somewhere closer, mon ami.

A: ...Oh.

B: I do not even stack the house in my favor - no one would gamble at a casino run by an Omnic if they thought he was rigging the games against them.

A: Well, are you?

B: It is a casino - the games are inherently rigged.

B: Those were human equations well before they were robotic ones.

A: hahahahaha

B: No Omnic invented gambling, and no Omnic invented profit schemes.  We have merely perfected what humans have wrought upon themselves.  Why despise me for what I am when I have simply built upon what you have already constructed?

A: Very well, I have been looking for an excuse to relax.

B: Arrange it with my staff - they will recognize your name.

A: grazie, amico mio

[[A] has logged out of the messenger.]

B: …

[[B] has logged out of the messenger.]

[Chat logged and disengaged - ]

[[] accessing from computer terminal [Unknown number] in [Location unknown]]

[[] is recording the chat log]

[[ERROR] Chat logged and attempting to disengage - ]

[[] is overriding chat disengagement - ]

[[ERROR] Chat logged and attempting to disengage - ]

[[] is recording the chat log]

[[] has completed recording of the chat log]

[[ERROR] Chat logged and attempting to disengage - ]

[[] has logged out of the messenger]

[[ERROR] Chat logged and attempting to disengage - ]

[Chat logged and disengaged.]

---------

I've been on the run

Since I was a boy

But now I'm done runnin' got another thing comin'

Watch my enemies get destroyed

Oh, I've got troubles

Of more than one kind

But I never sleep gotta bury me six feet deep

Where the sun don't shine

Thinkin' that they've won

It's only just begun

When I go into that ground

I won't go quietly, I'm bringin' my crown

When I go into that ground

Oh, they gotta bury me, bury me face down

---------

Segador: Networked

Friday, July 17, 2076: 16:28 - Talon base at Zaragoza, Spain

He’s in the middle of wrecking Iñigo by placing the third Plus Two on top of the draw pile when his phone pings.

Reaper almost doesn’t hear it over the low sob that Francesca gives and the wheezing chortle from Henri and the heartbroken cry of indignation that Iñigo utters, when his mind finally registers the sound and his tactile sense processes the vibration against his hip.  He chuckles deeply, curling his fingers to the small pouch on his lower back, tugging out the Talon phone as Iñigo draws six cards with a hilarious pout.  Reaper unlocks the screen, but scowls as he reads the top message:

[Sombra]: Tengo información importante

[Sombra]: responde asap

---

“One of you assholes take over,” Reaper mutters to the four other Talon agents watching them - Alba, Tomau, Remi, and Davi - before slapping his remaining three cards on the table and sliding them towards Tomau (?), who blinks at the sudden responsibility in surprise before he warily picks them up.  Reaper rises from the bench, turning to leave as he huffs, “And don’t get me like twelve cards while I’m gone.”

“...Yes, sir?” Tomau offers hesitantly, but Reaper is already striding away from the table towards the nearest side door in the massive dining hall.  He taps to the messenger, clacking out the words with surprising ease:

[The.Reaper]: here

[The.Reaper]: what do ya got

[...]

[Sombra]: I can’t send it here.

[Sombra]: send me your new phone info

---

Behind the mask, Reaper scowls.  He moves quickly through the halls, working his way not towards his room - shit is bound to be bugged to all hell - but towards the training courtyard, away from the possibility of drones and cameras and monitors.  He draws his left hand to his left hip, where another small, concealed pouch sits among some extra ballistic padding -

Where the second phone hides, lying in wait.

He’ll admit that he’s been

A little reluctant

To start using it.

He had managed to convince Widowmaker to wrangle a cheap, easily replaceable, easily destroyable data phone for him the last time she’d gone out on a quick mission a few days ago, but he had been...slow to start using it, taking to carrying it on himself in the event of an emergency, even though it was literally still a brand new, blank, clean phone.

Reaper frowns, tapping back out:

[The.Reaper]: ...I haven’t started using it yet.

[Sombra]: qué carajos

[Sombra]: why not

[Sombra]: hasn’t it been like three days since you got it?

[The.Reaper]: look

[The.Reaper]: be careful what you write

[Sombra]: well sure but just turn it on and set it up?

[The.Reaper]: give me a second

[Sombra]: I have secure connections we can use

---

Reaper steps out into the bright, bold sunlight, his pupils shrinking down as he raises a hand to block out some of the intensity.  He shifts his gaze around, taking in the massive, open-air space - several spots for target practice, a track for running, even a soccer field (which, shockingly, has a full team of Talon agents playing a scrimmage match on it).  Up overhead, several transport ships fly in and out, leaving the airfield hub that’s just on the other side of another set of facility buildings, but otherwise there’s nothing but blue, clouded sky above him.  Reaper makes a face of ugly disgust before he shudders -

Breaking himself down is always a miserable yet horrifically convenient experience -

And

As his mind splinters and fragments into trails of smoke

He propels himself down the track, whipping forward forward forward before he recondenses himself at the other end of the training area, snapping together bones into joints, muscles into tendons, veins into his slow, sluggish heart, lungs and organs into his chest

Nerves into his spine

His spine into his brain

And then Reaper is back.

He eyes the Talon agents suspiciously, but none of them are anywhere near him, before he slides out the second phone from its pouch.  He stares at it slowly, contemplatively and -

...Using it is more important than your dumbass fear, the voice in his head murmurs - if Reaper wasn’t incredibly bitter about it, he’d almost think it sounded kinder, gentler than it has in the past, but he just rolls his head on his shoulders, sighing with frustration as he presses down on the power button.  The cheap, tiny phone winks to life, a small Lucheng logo lighting up before the screen slides to a [Select your language] menu.  Reaper dematerializes the claws on his left fingertips, selecting the [English] option for sake of ease, and the walkthrough then rolls to:

[Welcome to your new Lucheng smartservice data phone.]

[To begin, please enter your information.  Or, if you have an existing account, please select the option below.]

Reaper

stops.

The critical, rational, tactical parts of his mind are hovering over the [New Account] selection, urging him on with, Don’t be a dumbass, use a new name, be smart about this, cabrón, but for whatever reason, his thumb is hovering over [Existing Account] and -

Reaper blinks

As the screen slides to [Please enter your existing account information.]

...What the hell am I doing, Reaper growls to himself, about to hit the back button when he stops again.  He shouldn’t, he really fucking shouldn’t, he should just use a different fucking name, but his mind keeps drawing back to his stupid civilian account, to money that he’s been watching go in, only to be...hesitantly, tentatively withdrawn at different locations in Central America.

Quietly.

Like no one but them

Two ghosts several continents and an ocean apart

Will notice their virtual, bizarre dance of mercenary paychecks and vigilante purchases.

Reaper pauses.

Use a different name.

Stares.

Don’t be an idiot.

Hovers.

The fewer ties you have, the better.

His thumb is already tapping in the information.

[Surname: Ricardo]

[Name: Gomez]

[Account Number: 102776]

[Password: supersecretspyshitlol]

Reaper snorts at his own password as he hits enter, even as the tactical, bitter, furious parts of his mind are seething, You will only regret this, you moron.  But the other voice, the one that has seemed to be...just a touch calmer, just a little bit quieter, whispers to him:

You made the right choice.

The phone goes to a loading screen, with the little Lucheng satellite logo zooming around the stylized L as the phone connects to the company’s servers, and then, with a small jingle, the main menu screen loads, with all of his “secret” civilian account information booting up.  Reaper flicks through to the messenger, adding in the information for Sombra’s secondary account as well as he writes:

[Gomez.Ricardo]: send me your secure shit

[...]

[Azu.Car]: seriously

[Gomez.Ricardo]: what

[Azu.Car]: seriously

[Azu.Car]: fucking “Gomez Ricardo”???

[Azu.Car]: do people actually buy that or did you just make that up on the spot

---

Reaper scowl-pouts at her disbelief, rolling his eyes with frustration as he writes out:

[Gomez.Ricardo]: I don’t have to explain myself to you

[Azu.Car]: I mean

[Azu.Car]: this is like

[Azu.Car]: BEYOND explanation

[Gomez.Ricardo]: aight

[Gomez.Ricardo]: either send me your shit or step off

[Gomez.Ricardo]: I have a bunch of dumbass Talon idiots to school in Uno

[Azu.Car]: what the fuck

[Gomez.Ricardo]: alright leaving

[Azu.Car]: wait

[Azu.Car]: here

[[Azu.Car] sent a link.]

[Azu.Car]: follow that, it will set us up for a unique, untraceable chat and call service.

[Gomez.Ricardo]: how do you know how untraceable it is?

[Azu.Car]: uhhhhh

[Azu.Car]: because I made it?

[Azu.Car]: the link will let you download the other end of the client so we can have a secure, isolated connection between these two devices.

[Gomez.Ricardo]: oh holy shit

[Gomez.Ricardo]: you for real?

[Azu.Car]: I’m not one of the world’s greatest programmers for nothing, hombre

[Gomez.Ricardo]: good shit, kid

[Azu.Car]: I do try sometimes.

---

Reaper taps on the link, and it leads him to a nondescript, pink-purple webpage with a small skull icon on it.  He selects the skull, and a small notification reads: [Scanning for Azu.Car confirmation...Confirmation located.  Downloading [Espresso.Machine]].

The app client loads in on his phone, and Reaper opens it with mild amusement.  It’s much like a regular messenger or chat app, only there’s just one other person listed in the contacts section: Sombra.  He selects her name and writes out:

[Gomez.Ricardo]: why espresso?

[...]

[Sombra]: god, seriously, change your nickname here

[Sombra]: and I wanted something inconspicuous

[Sombra]: in case anyone tries to access it

[Sombra]: you should set up the security measures once we’re done talking

[Sombra]: it can help set up extra parameters on your phone so if someone else fails a security check, the app will lock itself into looking like an espresso machine automatic timer

[Gomez.Ricardo]: are you shitting me

[Sombra]: lol nah

[Sombra]: I’m just that extra

[Gomez.Ricardo]: that’s fucking HILARIOUS

[Gomez.Ricardo]: hang on, let me set this shit up

---

Reaper flicks to his profile, incredibly amused at the thought that the greatest black market hacker and secret biotechnician had made a secure messenger app basically just for him that would double as a fucking coffee maker remote in the event someone else got a hold of it.  He reworks some of the profile settings, before moving back to the chat section:

[Reaper]: better?

[Sombra]: sí, muchas gracias, jefe

[Reaper]: what’s this shit you got now?

[Sombra]: …

[Sombra]: I didn’t get a chance to tell you last time

[Reaper]: what

[Reaper]: you mean you /didn’t/ find a moment to tell me some important shit in between all the shooting and fighting and tourist-scamming?

[Reaper]: for shame

[Reaper]: every ex-BW agent knew to get the important shit out of the way with me first

[Sombra]: ¿es eso asi?

[Reaper]: yeah bc ppl were inevitably roped into doing something stupid when I was around

[Sombra]: ...I can’t tell if this is self-drag or if you just didn’t like BW

[Reaper]: por que no los dos, amiga

[Sombra]: dios mío

[Reaper]: ...moving on

[Reaper]: what was it?

[Sombra]: ...hang on

[Sombra]: where are you?

[Reaper]: ?

[Reaper]: uh, outside, in the training area?

[Sombra]: no one is near you?

[Reaper]: do you think I have friends?

[Reaper]: ...wait

[Sombra]: jajajajajaja

[Reaper]: don’t you fucking dare

[[Sombra] has taken a screenshot.]

[Reaper]: gdi

[Sombra]: ahhhh, this just made everything worthwhile

[Reaper]: I’m leaving

[Sombra]: espera

[Sombra]: I’ll call you instead

[Sombra]: easier to explain through talking

---

Reaper glances around, but no one is near him, and no one pays him any mind.  At this point, nearly two months into his “contract” with Talon, the agents of the Zaragoza base are used to his seemingly inexplicable behavior, tolerating it with mild amusement (the majority of them) or passing frustration (Widowmaker and Gerente, it seemed).  The phone vibrates in his hand, and he taps the [Accept Call: Sombra] button, rumbling with a warning, “Careful - I’m outside.”

“No one is near you?” Sombra asks, and from the roughness of her voice, Reaper can tell she’s been up late again.  Still, there’s a surprisingly diligent part of her that manages to continue, “No devices?  No bugs?  Nothing nearby?”

“I’m on the goddamn track in the training area,” Reaper mutters back lowly, attempting to sync the comms device in his mask with the phone.  He scrolls through the settings, selecting the different wireless options, but grumbles to her, “Anything trying to record me is gonna get some sort of crazy doppler effect going on.”  He hears a small jingle as the phone connects, and then Sombra’s voice is closer, more secure inside his mask:

“You never know these days, boss,” she says hesitantly, “Anything can be hacked...and anyone.”

“...Are you implying that I’ve been hacked somehow?” Reaper asks, torn between confusion and surprising humor at her semi-sleep-addled warning.  He adds with a low chuckle, “You know the only electronic devices on me are the phones and the comms, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Sombra replies gruffly, and Reaper hears the cracking of what he presumes is another canned energy drink.  Either that, or Sombra is getting drunk on Friday at like eight am, or whatever time it is in Dorado.  There’s a long sip and then a sigh, and she murmurs quietly, “So...How much do you know about Talon’s structure?”

More than you probably think, but less than I want to or should, Reaper thinks bitterly to himself, struggling to recall what they had found out before -

...before -

- when they managed to break in the door to the Lacroix’s room, he senses the situation before his brain actually processes the scene.  There’s stillness and then Ana is shrieking beside him, and Jack is bolting to the door, screaming for Angela.  Next to him, Jesse stumbles back in wide-eyed horror, mumbling something low in a language he does not know.  He himself is still, tensed up, ready for the inevitable ambush that’s bound to come, shivers crawling across his scalp as he glances to the window, still open, the curtain fluttering in the slight breeze -

As if death had come and gone like a thief in the night

As if it had crawled in and out of the window with the ease of an insect.

Gérard.

Reaper lazily flicks his gaze from the soccer match on the field, to Louis stretching at the other end of the track, to the shooting range beyond them, closer to the building.  Someone with long, dark hair in a high ponytail is fiddling with her gun near the shooting range.  He watches her adjust some of the settings on the scope, hearing her voice with the hissing snip-snip of scissors in front of his face:

“...The man you once loved is still alive… Not all of us are so fortunate.”

Reaper taps a finger on the back of the phone contemplatively, pulling his words out of his thoughts like ripping bones from dead boars, finally saying slowly, “...Let’s just pretend I’m Jon Snow and you’re a plot twist, so give me all the exposition you got.”

There’s deadass silence on the line until -

“What,” Sombra states with difficulty and confusion and utter shock.  Reaper rolls his head on his neck, sighing tersely as he mutters, “...Nothing - just tell me what you know and we’ll go from there.”

This time, the silence is laden with obvious skepticism and some sort of unimpressed patience, but he finally hears Sombra start typing something on her smartdesk, as she begins, “So...from what I have found out, Talon operates on… What was the term…?”

Reaper listens to her tapping and clicking things, growing more and more impatient with the passing seconds as she hums and mutters to herself in sleepy Spanish.  He’s about ready to snap at her to stop wasting his time - he can do that perfectly fine on his own, muchas gracias - when that quiet, softer voice gently teases him, saying, You’re not hot enough shit to be impatient with the rookies these days.

...The last rookies I hired tried to blow me up, Reaper retorts to himself, but behind the mask, he grimaces, adding dryly, Actually, scratch that - they did blow me up.

And did she blow you up in Dorado?  Or sell you out?  What will it take for you to speak easily again? it murmurs to him, poking and prodding him in a way that’s familiar...yet he cannot place the exact sensation.  It’s like a friendly, playful gesture, a touch that reminds him something - or someone - is always by his side, but when he glances to the shadow in his left peripherals -

Nothing is there.

...Maybe I need to sneeze, Reaper wonders to himself, as he hears Sombra sigh, “Estoy idiota, I thought I had this all figured out…”

...Guess she’s Jon Snow today, he thinks, but rasps out with an impatient curtness, “Talon operates on a networked clandestine cell structure...right?”

Sombra pauses, and then asks almost timidly, tiredly, “¿Qué es?”

Reaper flicks his gaze back to Widowmaker, who is reshouldering her rifle, scowling as he senses a trap that’s bound to come, Sombra is just toying with him, she’s just tricking him into opening up, searching out his weaknesses like the last set of recruits he took on and -

...What an asshole you are, the voice mocks him gently, almost tenderly, poking and prodding him, only there’s a spark that’s blue with the words, and Reapers tenses as it teases him, Can’t even have a simple conversation these days, hmm?  So scared of being wrong that you’ll even deny yourself the possibility of learning new intel?

Like being more scared of spiders in the lions’ den than the lions.

She’s not a spider, Reaper chides himself, but the poking and prodding continues, needling his mind as it laughs with a low, stormy chuckle:

Mea culpa - it’s actually like being more scared of the shadows in the lions’ den than the lions...right?

Reaper snaps.

...Just a bit.

“A networked clandestine cell structure is a pretty typical extremist, resistance, or terrorist organization formation,” he rumbles, biting of each word with the tiniest slip of toxin, the feeling a terribly, perfectly sweet poison that somehow tastes bitter.  He’s not mad or frustrated at her, the shadows listening in on his ambling words and thoughts, but at the other, a blue-tinted shadow lingering at the edges of his peripherals and his mind, made of shards of stardust and stained seaglass, poking and prodding him almost gently, almost playfully.  But as he speaks, he feels his words slip like the flow of a river, the pull of gravity tugging them out into more patient, even tones, “People at the lowest levels are clustered into cell groups that operate as a single unit but know little to nothing about other cells or those above them in the chain of command.”

Sombra waits.

She listens.

And then

She replies carefully, “That’s...part of it, yes. But...at the top, there is a council.  A small group of people who control everything.”

“Bureaucratic hierarchical, or interconnected circular?” Reaper asks almost immediately.  He can practically feel Sombra jolt in surprise at the question, before she answers with a little more certainty, “...Circular, I think.  They don’t seem to ‘outrank’ each other, if that makes sense.  From what I have seen, they appear to all be on mostly equal standing, but...I think their accesses to resources are different?  They all talk together, and each member appears to be in charge of a specific...region?”

Reaper stops.

He thinks of a map - orange continents floating in the air, blue dots winking across them like stars.

He scowls.

“Is there a center?” Reaper questions her slowly, but Sombra hums a little, thinking on it before she says, “You mean, like a person at the center of it all?  If there is, I haven’t found them.  Almost everything implies some sort of...coordinated group effort, on part of the circle.”

So less hub-and-star and more…

“A ring core structure,” Reaper states, to both the shadowy hacker on the edges of his comms device and the shadowy figure on the edges of his mind.  He taps his finger on the back of his phone, absently watching Widowmaker take that scope off her rifle and switch to another, as he rattles off the words, as if the two shadows have somehow eased him into the sweetness of small toxins, “Possibly an all-channel organization of command.  It means there is still a basic informational and decision-making hierarchy, but the loss of one leader does not cause a structural weakness.  Someone else moves in to fill the gap.  Like a hexagonal carbon molecular organization.”

Reaper

stops.

But his thoughts

go.

If this is true, we were off just by a bit, he thinks, pulling up images of networked command structures and hub-and-star organizations in his mind, sorting through the examples from history.  The blue-tinted shadow is there, hovering on the edges of his vision - he can’t directly look at it, he can’t actually see it -

But he can sense it.

He can sense it waiting patiently for him, watching, listening, less poking and prodding this time and more of a gentle brush of a thumb on the back of his hand, or rough, calloused fingers playfully, hesitantly touching at his own, as if teasing him, teasing him to take them, entwine them together -

Ground himself on them.

Let them hold him in place as his thoughts burn with the radiance of the sun.

Because we operated on the belief of a hub-and-star structure, we thought taking out the important links could weaken the system, he remembers, he remembers, We thought if we could put our own people in those spots, we could get access to more significant connections, could destabilize the whole structure by knocking out a few key joints.  And eventually, we would reach whoever operated in the center of it all.

We could destroy them by working our way in.

And then pouring the poison back out.

...But a ring structure.

The image of a hexagonal lattice work, like graphene or diamond, flickers into his mind.  In the middle was not a hub - a single center with lines of information and command radiating out of it - nor a star, which connected the radiating lines together into complex triangles, but rather

A ring.

A hexagon.

A series of points evenly connected - one to its two neighbors, but then linked outwards as well, across the hexagon.  A flat, equal, aromatic core to the network.

...No doubt it’s not perfect, he thinks, he thinks, Some of them must have more power than others.  Some of them have greater access to certain things.  Perhaps one or a few are the true “shot callers” or actual “ringleaders.”  But in theory, the structure is perfectly stable, perfectly flexible - it will bend before it breaks.

Carbon can be as dense as diamond or as brittle as graphite or as flexible as graphene

Or as burnable as coal.

But which one is this?

“...Each point is a person,” Reaper continues, his thoughts pouring through him like fluid fire, like molten fusion, liquid plasma as Sombra listens attentively.  The mercenary’s eyes follow Widowmaker as she corrects her second scope, but his mind sees images of interconnected and interlocking points, lines between them, like electricity finding the path of least resistance.  He murmurs, “Because it’s a ring, even if one point falls, another will move in easily to take its place.  The system is self-correcting.  Even if you shatter it, the rings will reform, just isolated now.  Like magnets, they reconnect, no matter how much you break them apart.”

“...So what are their weaknesses, if you cannot break them?” the shadows on the edges of his comms asks quietly, with deadly precision to her words.  On the edges of his mind, the blue-tinted shadow brushes its fingertips against his.

“...The structure is polycephalus - there are multiple heads to the hydra.  You can’t cut the heads off - they just regrow,” death says to the two shadows on his edges, scowling as he thinks.

But then

He

stops.

grins.

And states with the sweetness of poison and the bitterness of water:

“In order to cause any significant damage to the organization, you have to burn the motherfucker.”

Which is exactly what I’m going to do when I find these fuckers.

He is not going to repay them with fire, nor flood, nor hell, nor highwater.

He is going to destroy them, ruin them slow and sweet and blissfully miserably, blast each limb off with a plasma-slag frag shot, pick at their ribs with his claws, hold their still-beating hearts in his hands and make them feel what it felt like to have the literal life ripped out of his chest -

he is going to wedge the edges of his stained glass pieces of memories, star shards and seaglass, into each one of their eyes and pry out each tooth and -

“Uh...huh,” Sombra says slowly as she thinks over his words, and he can tell that she’s a little stunned by the onslaught of information.  Reaper chuckles sardonically, asking like the asshole he is, “Did you forget that I was paid to seek and destroy this kinda shit for nearly twenty years?”

“I...didn’t forget,” she starts to say, but stops abruptly as her words die off in a small shocked noise.  Reaper tenses, waiting for the inevitable, but she murmurs with increasing urgency, “That was it - that was what I was going to tell you -”

“What,” he asks her with dry density, but he can almost see the glee in her words as she hums in an almost sing-songy chant, “You seem to think these people think like you.”

Reaper stops.

Scowls.

Murmurs with darker confusion, “...What are you implying?”

“You were trained in this,” Sombra replies with almost mocking excitement, “You were paid to do this.  You made a career out of this.”

Reaper frowns deeply, muttering with a low hiss, “...Get to the point, Sombra -”

“They’re not like you - they’re not trained in any of this,” Sombra laughs with a shadowy tone, “You see this as a spy operation thing, but that’s not who they are, and that’s not how they see it either.”

“...Explain.  Now,” Reaper states to her with the deepness of lava dripping into obsidian glass.  The shadows on the edges of his comms chuckles airly, as if she could evaporate with a single ray of the sun, as she says to him, “Mira, they’re not...soldiers or generals or strategists, not military-trained at least.  Maybe some of them have some fighting experience, and I think one or two might have been spies or covert agents…but do you know who they are?”

Reaper can see her twisted smile in the shadows of his mind -

“They’re businessmen and politicians - they’re not demagogues or tacticians or heroes, Gabe,” the shadows in the comms taunts him, “They’re CEOs and bankers and corporate presidents and mercenary company leaders.”

And on the edges of his mind

The blue-tinted shadow hovers a little closer as it -

There is a man - a ghost of all he once knew and loved - his sunshine hair frayed and faded, his chiseled features aged like dripping water upon that marble, statuesque face, a face that, despite all the wrinkles around his deep, thunderous, heartbroken eyes, despite all the years and the problems and the stresses, despite the anger and fear and horror surging in his heart (beat-beat-beating still) -

Despite all of that

It is a face he cannot fully bring himself to hate as much as his broken heart wants him to and -

The man - a ghost of all he once knew and loved - slams his hands on his desk, shouting with grief and rage, his voice cracking, cut on the pieces of his own shattered heart and the words are like daggers in his skin:

“- the people out for us aren’t monsters - they are PEOPLE.  Sick, twisted, fucked up, miserable PEOPLE who aren’t using guns on us, they’re using money and laws and fucking corporations and - they’re fucking BUSINESSMEN and POLITICIANS, Gabriel.  They don’t fucking need guns to hurt us because they fucking write laws and own everything.  They don’t NEED to fight us because they’ve already won.”

“WHAT,” Reaper chokes out the word, the smoke cutting up his trachea like shattered pieces of glass and hearts in his throat, and he hacks, trying to keep the horror and the fury inside him, but his sunstar burns, burns like nothing else, it chars him with ugly fusion ash from the inside out and -

He tried to tell you, the voice whispers, and it’s sad, it’s so sad, its tone is mournful and grieving, and Reaper just snaps back at it, hissing, I tried to tell him too and did he fucking listen -

“Mira,” the voice of quiet, sleepless shadows ripples through his head instead, and Reaper stills, trying to ground his thoughts that pour and flow like lava on her words as she says, “I think I’ve figured out some of them -”

“You think or you know?”

Sombra stops.

Reaper waits.

Listens.

Feels the hesitation in her answer, feels her mind churning through her information, deciding how much to give him, how much to tell him.

On the edges of his vision -

The blue-tinted shadow, made of shards of stardust and sea-stained glass, watches him closely.  He knows it’s there, he knows it hovers just on the frayed ends, he knows the shadow

Waits.

Listens.

For him to flow like the sweetest lava, the perfect poison, the glasslike water.

...What are you scared of?

Spiders?  Shadows?  Soldiers?

Being only half-right?

...Being only half of your whole?

...Being yourself?

“...I don’t care how calculated your answer is or how much info you withhold from me,” Reaper whispers to Sombra, but his attention is on the strange blue-tinted haze at the edges of his mind, gently touching fingertips to the back of his hand, incessant and yet patient.  He shakes the shadow loose, muttering to her with a surprisingly steady control, “But you will tell me if this is a fact or your guesswork.  This partnership will not operate on some shaky middle ground.”

...Will she accept it? he wonders to himself as silence fills the spaces between them, whole continents apart.  Impatience fills the spaces in him, and he’s about to snap something at her when Sombra finally murmurs, with a distant, yet finally tangible solidness, “...Mostly guesswork at this point.”

Well.

Time to see what you’re made of, new blood.

“...Nothing directly connecting anyone then?” Reaper asks her with a focused tone, and Sombra zips right back to him, saying factually, “Not directly.  I have my leads and ideas with my evidence for why but I’m still working on -”

“Are you willing to share those leads?” Reaper says and Sombra pauses for a moment, only to reply with a low, shadow-curling smokiness to her words:

“...That depends, Reaper - are you going to go lose your shit again?”

Reaper

stops.

Assessing her words, he mutters coldly, “...That depends, Sombra - are there names that I will lose my shit over if I see them on your list?”

“...What kind of circular logic -” Sombra starts to retort, but Reaper just snaps, “You know exactly who I’m talking about.  Will I see names I don’t want to see on that list of leads?”

The words

stop.

Silence fills the gaps and then -

“...No,” Sombra states to him clearly, solidly, “No, you will not see what you fear the most.”

Reaper

breathes.

As the blue-tinted shadow takes his hand.

It is

the sweetest poison

that floods his veins with fire and flood, hell and highwater.

And a voice that whispers to him with a kind, tired patience and a faint, teasing laughter:

Is this what you were scared of?

You’re always so stubborn about all this -

“...These leads,” Reaper asks her sharply, refocusing with renewed clarity, and he practically hears Sombra jolt at the sudden verve in his voice.  Reaper chuckles lightly, asking again, “These leads - what do you have?”

“...You’re just...going to believe me on that,” Sombra says to him in an incredulous whisper, “You’re just going to accept what I told you.  Have you learned nothing at all??”

“Twenty years.”

“...¿Qué?” she asks in utter shock, but Reaper just sighs, with a surprisingly comfortable contentment, “Twenty years I was paid to do this, but when you count all my experience, it’s more like thirty.”

Sombra stops.

Listens.

Reaper

breathes.

As he says slowly, “I was twenty-two when the CIA agents and Special Forces soldiers in SEP trained me in stealth and recon.  I was twenty-three when I destroyed the first Omnium.  Twenty-eight when the Crisis ended - when my team ended it.  Thirty-three when my ‘twenty years of being paid to do this’ started.”

Reaper smirks.

He knows she can sense it.

“...Thirty years of literally everything trying to play me and kill me,” Reaper laughs darkly, his words like the gentlest trace of the edge of an obsidian knife against skin, “Are you going to succeed where the entire world and the whole apocalypse and even a goddamn explosion failed?”

Show me what you got, Shadow.

“...If you are trying to play me, it will be extremely obvious extremely quickly,” death whispers to the shadows in his comms and the shadows on the edges of his mind, “So play games with me at your peril, hacker.  They may have taken my all from me, but they have yet to take me.”

Sombra

waits.

“...I know what a lie sounds like, and while you haven’t been very forthcoming with me, you haven’t lied either,” Reaper chuckles, “You’re a little rough around the edges, but you haven’t been trained in this either, just like the people you’re up against.”

And then he grins - genuinely, openly, honestly:

“But you’re effective, and you’ve got some talent.”

“...What,” Sombra states with confusion, but Reaper just smirks, saying wryly, “So, you can withhold all the information you want, you can organize your hand however you want, you can try to trick me in any way you want, if all you want is to learn and play and then suffer through observation.  But if you want to actively hone your innate talent and intuition into actual skill and critical decision-making, then you’re gonna have to collab on this shit.”

He can feel her thinking it over, can hear the gears turning in her head.

“...I won’t lie - you think you’re counting cards right, but you’ve sat down at the table with people who have already stacked the deck,” Reaper warns her, “And counting cards can mean nothing if your opponents are already guaranteed the ace.”

Sombra waits.

Reaper laughs with a low, liquid smokiness, “So play me, or play with me - the game gets easier with the more conspirators you bring to the table, so you might as well ensure they’re in your corner.”

Sombra seems to think over his words - there’s no tapping or clacking of a smartdesk keyboard, nor the cracking of a can, nor the hum of sleepy thoughts, but instead the faintest whisper of shadows, trying to pull him back into...into…

Something.

Something he can’t quite remember.

It lingers on the edges of his senses, like a light on his peripherals, like sunlight trying to break through clouds, like wisps of the dawn starting on the horizon, but he -

“...I can’t give you everything,” Sombra’s voice crackles through the comms.  Reaper flicks his attention back to her, ignoring the sensation on the edges of himself, as she continues, “...It’s too dangerous.”

Well, how honest of her.

“...You mean I’m too dangerous,” Reaper grins, “But fine, we can act like you weren’t implying that.  But keep in mind that the more information I have, the better my plans are.”

“...And do your plans involve going off the rails and strangling every possible lead I have?” Sombra asks him suspiciously.

Reaper

pauses.

...The honest answer is that I want to, he thinks, but the softer, calmer voice whispers, But the smarter answer is that you won’t.

So he settles for the best compromise he has:

“That depends on how close any of them are to my hands,” Reaper retorts to her, causing her to snort in derision.  There’s a moment of stillness, and them Sombra replies slowly, cautiously, “...That collaboration - you have to agree to it too.  If I’m giving you information, you have to try and use - qué era - oh right, that ‘actual skill and critical decision-making’ to think of plans and then back-up plans, yeah?”

Reaper pauses.

Waits.

Listens.

“...I’m not trained in this, but you are,” the shadows whisper to him - almost plead with him, “You have to… Mira, as...entertaining as the rogue mercenary act is, you have to be more than that - entiendes, Gabe?”

He’s not entirely sure if the last word is rattled out as a threat, or a warning, or a plea, but he flinches at the sound of it, starting to hiss, “Don’t say that -” when

On the edges of his senses, Reaper feels the blue-tinted shadow press a soothing thumb to the back of his hand

And there is a soft glimmer of light pressing in on his peripherals.

But when he whips his head towards the left

nothing is

there.

Just Widowmaker in the distance, assessing her second scope, looking at the glass with a critical eye.  Louis starts an easy run up the track, towards him.  The soccer game continues, the teams jostling for the ball somewhere in the midfield.

...What are you so scared of?

Reaper pauses.

Listens.

To the words slipping through the harder, obsidian-glinted thoughts in his head, to the voice that seems to beckon him into something, something he can’t quite remember, something on the edges of everything he is.  It slips its softer tone in between those more cutting, more bitter thoughts, like the sweetest, smallest poison, urging him, What do you have to lose?

Everything, he thinks, ...Just like last time.  Everything.

You can’t lose what you don’t have.

He watches the shadow of Amélie set her sniper rifle back against her shoulder.

...Me, he thinks quietly, I can lose me.  I can lose all I have left.

But the blue-tinted shadow that he cannot see but he can sense presses a thumb to the back of his hand, as the light that he cannot look at but he can feel seems to whisper:

...You cannot lose what you do not have.

You can only war for it back.

Reaper

breathes.

“...Fine,” he mutters, and he can hear Sombra sputter a little - sounds like she was taking a drink when he caught her off guard.  Louis rushes past him, hardly noticing him.  One team manages to push the ball towards their goal.  The shadow of Amélie removes the sniper rifle from her shoulder and pulls the second scope off.

Nothing is there

But somehow

The world

stops.

And shifts

Just a little bit

Under the light he cannot look at, but that he can feel.

“What,” Sombra stammers, coughing slightly, and Reaper smirks, giving a low, liquid smoke laugh, “Just remember, friend - when you make a deal with Death, you always get what you bargained for.  So give me something to use, and watch me work, or let me go back to my stupidass card game.”

Sombra

pauses.

And then

Reaper hears her tapping at her smartdesk keyboard and

The phone in Reaper’s hand vibrates with a new notification.

He glances down, reads [[Sombra] has sent a file.] as the shadow in the comms says quietly, “Sorry that you’re diving into the deep end head first.”

More like you’re pushing me, Reaper thinks as he opens up something called [[SSO File: XXX-XX-583]] and some sort of...chat log appears.  But he smirks to himself as he begins to read:

Good thing I know how to swim even when the ship sinks.

But then, Reaper pauses to himself

As the softer voice jokes dryly:

Or when it explodes.

Don’t be an asshole, he snarks to himself, but finds that he grins over his own, dumbass joke anyways.

---

Twenty minutes later, he’s not laughing anymore.

Reaper is still there, on the far end of the training grounds track, only now he’s crouching down, phone on the grass facing up at him, pressing a claw to the forehead of his mask as if that will assuage his actual, genuine headache behind it, muttering lowly, “You cannot expect me to sit idly by as these assholes plot the assassination of Tekhartha.”

“Mierda, and for the hundredth time,” Sombra hisses back, her voice fraying with her own frustration, “My question is - what exactly do you plan to do to stop it?  Reveal yourself?  Fight whatever Talon squad they send for him?  You don’t even know how they want to hurt him!”

“They’re not gonna keep him alive this time!” Reaper snaps back, scrolling through the conversation with his left hand as he rumbles, “The B Letter dude even says that they know if they fuck this up, they’ll lose their chance ever again!  Tekhartha is a ridiculous idealist, but he won’t fall for this shit a third time!  There’s a reason he hasn’t left the monastery since Null Sector!”

“So what, you’re just gonna stake out King’s Row for two months and wait for him to show up?” Sombra retorts hoarsely, “What kind of plan is that?”

“If I wraith him away, we can get him to safety!” Reaper argues but Sombra nearly-shouts, “Pendejo, we have no idea if that will work, and also - you’ll give yourself away!”

They both sigh with terse, tense frustration.

...She’s right.  You know she is, the voice reminds him calmly, and Reaper snarls to himself, I fucking know that but…

I’m sorry - do you think you have the power to save Mondatta’s life?  Do you think you have the power to change anything?  ...Especially since you were the one who told Jack to abandon Overwatch efforts in London right before the Null Sector Uprising.

That one

stings.

A lot.

...I was not omniscient then, and I’m not omniscient now, Reaper mutters, feeling...surprisingly calmer with the self-burn.  He stills the rush of rage and pulse of frustration in his blood, slowing his thoughts as he pulls out instead, But this time, we have forewarning.  We know something is coming for him, specifically in London.  Information is power, and we have information.

And then, with a small spark, he remembers -

“...You gotta let the third parties do their thing, Jack.”

“...Who is in charge of his King’s Row speech?” Reaper asks slowly, as a slightly different idea churns in his head.  Over the comms, Sombra hums slightly, muttering, “Hmm… no sé.  The website says he’s giving the speech at The Meridian hotel.”

Mondatta was - is - always reluctant to use security forces, Reaper remembers, thinking back on the Turing Green Building groundbreaking ceremony, where Null Sector forces had closed in on him and then-mayor Nandah, along with several members of Mondatta’s entourage and some of the other Omnic construction representatives.  He didn’t want security forces there for fear of “showing a lack of trust,” but since Overwatch had both lowered its presence in the UK and had started being pressured by Petras and the UN to stand down, there was effectively…

...No one to watch over him? the voice offers quietly, and Reaper scowls, adding on, The whole group had almost no protection or secure oversight.

Reaper stares at the section of the conversation:

B: so you ARE afraid of Overwatch returning.

A: che cacchio è

A: no, no, I am not

B: Then let me deal with the gorilla.

A: Why are you so invested in this?  Why not just let the remnants of Overwatch die their slow, miserable deaths?

B: Because if that King’s Row brat interferes with my plans for Tekhartha, then we will have lost our best chance to deal with him.

B: And if she summons that gorilla to help her, then we may never have a chance to deal with him AGAIN.

B: We do NOT need another Soldier: 76 on our hands, [Name encrypted]!  Our balance here is already precarious since [Name encrypted] was arrested!  Numbani is out of our control -

A: OUR control?

A: YOU are the one with Anansi and Kehci Manito in your suit pocket, amico mio!

B: And you think I keep them inline with money alone, do you?

B: You may be surprised how much THEIR worldviews match YOURS.

A: ...davvero?  Truly?

B: “To the victors go the spoils of war.”

B: What do you think Anansi and Kehci Manito ARE in the context of Omnic history?

A: …

B: You humans.  You all think alike.  You may be sentient as much as we are, but you so often fail to perceive beyond your own wallets and noses.  

B: Among the Omnics, there are only a handful of “victors” of the war against Overwatch - Anansi, Kehci Manito, Mokosh, Tekhartha, and myself included.

B: Null Sector lost, but it nearly took Tekhartha’s place among the winners.  Avoiding being dragged down with their loss it was one of the hardest accomplishments I have ever secured.

B: You possess no idea of what it means to be a successful Omnic in a world still built on “human victories.”

B: If you cannot use Zaragoza well, then give it to one of the most successful Omnic “victors” in the world.

B: Though my sentience might make mistakes, at the very least my calculations will not be in error.

---

His gaze lingers in particular over “Because if that King’s Row brat interferes with my plans for Tekhartha, then we will have lost our best chance to deal with him.”

Finally, after a moment of stitching together the barest of plans, Reaper mutters with a coarse, smoke-crackling tone:

“...What if we notified the hotel?”

He hears Sombra gulp down another sip of her third or fourth energy drink, before she sighs, saying contemplatively, “...You mean, have them bring in extra security?”

“Ideally, yes,” Reaper says, letting the plan take shape in his head, “Notify them that someone is out for Tekhartha.  They’ll believe it - the remnants of Null Sector still linger in the city.  It will unfortunately mean a third-party private security force, but a show of force may intimidate a Talon squad from opening up.”

He can tell Sombra is considering his words, so Reaper continues, “They’ll want to go for a sniper or some sort of stealth EMP - damaging Tekhartha’s computing core is the only way to stop him permanently.  Even if he gets wiped, he no doubt has a back-up copy of his memories and unique sentience stored somewhere in Shambali -”

“He doesn’t.”

Reaper

stops.

As he processes Sombra’s solemn, serious words.

“...Qué carajos, are you shitting me?” Reaper half-demands, half-snaps, and Sombra sighs, “Do you know what the Shambali even believe?  Any time an Omnic’s computing core is destroyed or fails, that’s it, that’s the end.  Their fusion cores are converted to those weird...energy orbs, and that is how they live on.”

“...Right, shit,” Reaper mutters, burying his masked face in his right hand, mumbling, “Fuck, I forgot.”

There’s a long pause and then -

Like shadows curling concernedly at the edges of his comms

Like the blue-tinted shadow kneeling beside him -

Sombra whispers with an almost gentle, almost fearful frustration:

“...What were you doing the last six years?”

In the cool, soothing darkness behind his eyelids

he

breathes.

He does not

know.

The first few years, certainly - he barely remembers them.  A haze of trees, dense forests under blankets of snow, feeling like snowflakes were falling in between his ribs, sinking into his lungs, his fingers ash-black and veins ice-blue.  Stumbling on feet that would not move, sometimes collapsing into an existence that was liquid-plasma-smoke, waking only to find himself sideways, buried in snow and breathing in frost.  Fighting and hunting and killing deer and rabid dogs and starving boars, drinking the blue of their souls.

Walking through small, crumbling, nearly abandoned villages - Switzerland?  France?  Italy? - before collapsing again into something like melting obsidian.

Waking to the world sideways, plasma rifles pressed to his head as people screamed at him in languages he did not understand.

...Jack will know what they’re saying, he would think sleepily

before they put plasma shots into his brain.

Reaper

exhales.

...When did I wake up from that nightmare?

...Did I wake up from that nightmare?

He does not

know.

“...Nothing important, that’s for sure,” he mumbles aloud, and he can sense that the answer does not satisfy her curiosity nor assuage her fears, but

It is

the only answer he has.

How could he not remember one of the core tenants of Shambali beliefs - the soul dies with the sentient core, but the life lives in the fusion heart?

...What else have I forgotten?

Reaper slowly opens his eyes, removing his hand from his mask, staring distantly at the phone on the ground as he wonders absently,

...What else have I lost?

“...Well, on more ‘important’ issues,” Sombra says slowly, uncertainly, “We can tip off the hotel about the threat -”

“...Why am I like this?”

The hacker abruptly stops talking as Reaper lifts his left hand to his view - the glove is still there, the claws gone to handle the phone, but he knows, he knows -

(he can feel the blue-tinted shadow lingering beside him)

On the fourth finger

There is still a small piece linking him to the other, the one continents and oceans away, a whole world in memories and fragments and shards of stardust and seaglass.

Reaper has existed for

decades.

But not like this.

Before...his world fell apart - literally and figuratively - he could simple things: create objects out of smoke, draw on some...weird energy and condense particles in the air around him into guns, a mask, some kevlar.  He could stave off hunger and pain and sickness just by being close to living things - people, animals, plants even, though the "essence" drawn from them was low.  He could taste Life and Death in the air, could feel it shift in his veins and heart like a second pulse, and when Jack was close -

...God, when Jack was close...

It was like he was invincible.

“...I mean,” Sombra wisecracks dryly, “This is really something you should talk to a therapist about, pendejo, but I’m glad you’re finally accepting the issue - the first step is admitting you have a problem -”

“Alright, asshole, that’s enough,” Reaper snaps, her wit drawing him out of his thoughts.  But he refocuses, muttering with a more concentrated tone, “I meant like...what the hell am I?  We all just...totally accepted that I can fucking dematerialize myself and other shit?”

“...¿Es en serio?” Sombra says with growing horror, “You mean it?”

“...Yes?” Reaper mutters with his own increasing confusion, “Why would I bring it up if I knew?  Do you know anything?”

“...I thought,” Sombra starts.  Stops.  Reaper can feel her hesitation, but he asks her with as much patience as he can manage (which is admittedly about as much as a shotglass’ worth), “You thought what, Sombra?”

“...I thought you...that you ‘enhanced’ yourself,” Sombra murmurs quietly, timidly, “And that was why you brought in Moi - that geneticist.”

Reaper scowls a little over the trip in words, before he mutters, "...Honesty, Sombra."

"...I mean, c'mon," Sombra replies lowly, "I read the papers after what happened in Venice.  The whole world knows Blackwatch hired her.  I just...I just kinda assumed you brought her on to do this to you."

And

Reaper can't stop himself

From barking out a harsh laugh of "What."

"...Isn't that like, her M.O.?" Sombra asks, clearly getting increasingly confused, "I thought she...I thought she made you this way?"

"O'Deorain??" Reaper almost chokes on laughter and hysterics, "I brought her in to help me stop this."

There's the sound of a sharp, steep inhale over the comms and Sombra whispers urgently, "What the hell - are you serious -"

"Look," Reaper mutters back, "O'Deorain and I have a...complicated working relationship, but believe me, hacker - she could never create this power."

"But then what about -" Sombra starts to say, but immediately stops herself.

Reaper

scowls

before he murmurs darkly, "What about what, Sombra?"

"...Nothing," she very clearly lies, and Reaper can practically hear how her thoughts are racing over this information, before she asks, "Wait, so, if you've been like this, why...why are you confused?  Over it?"

"...Because there are -" Reaper starts to say, before he pauses, tempering his words and picking them carefully, "- Differences now."

Like the dematerializing and rematerializing thing.

That was new.

And the way pain seems to constantly ribbon throughout his body - a low ache, usually bearable for awhile, until he hasn't "reengerized," hasn't drawn in Life and Death for several days, and then it gets

Sharper

Steeper

Skeletonized

Like glass stabbed into the weak, soft spots in his spine

And a flash of blue blue blue shards like a broken obsidian blade in his heart.

...

The ways his scars - so familiar, as important to himself as his eyes or his nose -

(kissed over hundreds if not thousands of times by him with a sea of stars in his eyes) -

seem to be disappearing

one

by

one.

He knows he should discuss this with Moira, not Sombra - not the one who could sell him out so easily to the next opportunity to come along -

But while he needs Moira alive to finish her research -

He will never trust her worth a damn again.

Not before Hell itself freezes over.

"...I -" Sombra starts to say over the comms, "...Should you really be talking to me about it?  I'm not...Mira, all I can do is cybernetics and stuff.  I don't know anything about this...biological thing that's happening to you -"

"What do you know about SEP?"

His words clearly catch her off-guard, because there's an odd gawking noise over the comms, and then -

"...Truthfully, Gabe," she hisses at him lowly, "Next to nothing.  I don't know if someone has burned all the intel on that, but it doesn't seem to exist online anywhere - not even internally in the CIA or anything like that."

"...But you've looked for it?" Reaper asks, reading the implication between the lines of her words.  There's a small gasping sound, and then Sombra admits slowly, "...Of course I've looked for it.  And I've looked for more stuff on O'Deorain too.  And stuff on Ziegler, but she's got nothing -"

"They wouldn't destroy it," Reaper states, because he just knows -

"Why not?" Sombra asks skeptically, "It's dangerous.  Almost every known American supersoldier is dead or has gone rogue.  Public outrage over it still simmers.  Not one wants a repeat -"

"Because it was - and is - too successful," Reaper says, knowing in (whatever is left of) his heart that the assholes who ran SEP would never have destroyed their knowledge of modified genes and expressed phenotypes because -

"Didn't you just hear me?" Sombra says with increasing frustration, "By almost every account, it was a failure - sure, important for the American Crisis campaigns, but a long-term failure -"

"No," Reaper states, his words smoke and liquid obsidian, "Because it created me."

And Jack Morrison.

And "Reaver."

Sombra's shocked, stunned silence is

So loud.

"¿Qué?" she suddenly snaps, and Reaper suddenly becomes very aware of what he's just said -

"Look, shit," he mutters, "I shouldn't have said that -"

"No -" Sombra half-states, half-demands, half-pleads, "You can't just say that and back out -"

"No," Reaper snaps, "We can't talk about this over comms.  Hell, we shouldn't have started this conversation at all -"

"You started this!" Sombra hisses at him, but Reaper just sighs, "Look, we can't do this now...Let's..."

Reaper

breathes.

And then exhales slowly, “...We’ll shelve this for now.  We have bigger fish to gut, skin, fillet, and fry.”

There's a bitter, angry, frustrated huff on the other end of the comms, but Sombra finally mutters, "...Fine.  And did that really need that many verbs?"

Reaper ignores her, saying blithely, “You can send an anonymous tip to the hotel in King’s Row.  As for this other shit in here -”

He scrolls through the rest of the conversation, not really reading it, just refocusing as he says, “...We should probably not interfere with this...Ilios shit.  It cuts up the historian in me, but if it’s as easy and as petty in the grand scheme of things as this Venetian asshole thinks, then we should let it slide.  Seeing how the balance shifts with this...60-40 control bargain they’ll switch to in the aftermath is more important.”

“...And Helix?” Sombra asks skeptically, “What should we do about them?”

“...Do you have access to their stuff?” Reaper replies, and he can feel her sigh of frustration as she groans, “Trust me, I have been trying to find a way past their firewalls for like...months now.  Their Watchpoint securities are absolute shit, but their hardcore stuff in Egypt...that’s locked down like crazy.”

Well, with Anubis there, that doesn’t surprise me, Reaper thinks, but he says aloud, “Well, go ahead and keep trying, but don’t ignore the possibility that something might slip in the outer edges of their core.  I hear Egypt and Libya are having a number of issues with scalpers and bounty hunters recently.”

There’s a snort from Sombra, and Reaper senses something...off in her attitude.

“...Did I say something wrong, hacker?” he asks her tersely, and feels her freeze through the comms.  It’s only a split second and then she jokes dryly, “Don’t they always have problems with scalpers and bounty hunters?”

“...Remember what I said,” Reaper warns her with a low, dense rasp, “You can hide your cards and withhold your information from me, but if you try to play me, it will be very obvious very fast.”

“...Did I say something wrong...Reaper?” Sombra zings right back.  Reaper shakes his head, which he realizes only a second too late that she can’t see, and says with the slow wrath of poison, “You don’t need to lie to reveal an untruth.”

Sombra falls silent again, as Reaper reminds her with a gentle bitterness, “Never forget that.  People will take and use any weakness you show them.”

...Because I speak from experience, obviously.

“...So besides whatever pertinent intel you’re hiding from me, is there anything else we need to discuss right now?” Reaper finally asks. There’s a fuckton more to work with here, but all of it requires time and more information - and a more trusting ally - to put together fully, he thinks to himself, restraining himself from simply stealing a transport ship and jetting off to Monaco to light up every casino in the city like a fucking shotgun rave.

“...No, I’m going to bed,” Sombra sighs heavily, and Reaper hears her tapping across her smartdesk.  He chuckles, “Won’t that be kinda difficult with all those energy drinks you’ve been chugging?”

“You underestimate my tolerance to caffeine...and my horrible sleep schedule,” Sombra jokes back.  Reaper rolls his eyes as he rises from his crouch, snapping his phone up from off the ground as he snarks curtly, “You act like I haven’t been there before.  You ever heard of something called La Batalla de Setenta y Dos?”

“Oh my god, don’t you dare try to pull that one over on me,” Sombra groans, but he hears a rasp of a laugh on the edges of her words -

Like a shadow lingering in their virtual conversation.

“You will never be able to one-up me on the sleeplessness, chiquita - not when I helped save your city,” Reaper remarks, and it’s only half a joke and only a third of a “threat.”  Sombra hums an unimpressed note, saying slyly, “Yeah, yeah, you and all the old people here - just because I respect all of you doesn’t mean I have to stay awake for seventy-two hours straight to prove it.”

“...Touché,” Reaper admits.  Sombra sighs, and he hears several electronic beeps and chirps as her computer enters a lower power state.  The hacker mutters, “Bueno, I am leaving.  Adios, amigo - and keep your damn phone on.”

“Lord, what are you, my PR agent?” he snarks back, getting Sombra to hiss tartly, “I might as well be, pendejo - and don’t forget to set up those security measures!”

There’s a beep, followed by an empty, disconnected tone.  Reaper scrolls back to the phone call on Sombra’s specialized messenger and hangs his phone up as well.  He sighs heavily as he flicks back to the “SSO” chat log, scowling at the conversation.

He glances up, watching as Widowmaker finally, carefully, almost tenderly packs away her sniper rifle into its case.

...Like an ugly cadaver to dissect and autopsy.

...He isn’t sure if he’s thinking of the chat conversation between the two Talon assholes -

Or Overwatch.

...Or himself.

Reaper looks back at Sombra’s messenger client thing, tapping through to the settings but

He

stops

When he sees the name [Gomez Ricardo] in the account information.

Reaper glares outright, before exhaling slowly to himself, trying to steady the bitter, sweet poison that floods his veins at the thought...but somehow, he finds himself exiting Sombra’s “Espresso Machine” messenger, and opening up the banking app.  He clicks on his statements and reads:

[Pending Withdrawal - 50 credits for “UTIL Brasil”]

[Withdrawal - 25 credits for “Hostel Brasília”]

[Withdrawal - 40 credits for “Mercado Rápi-Rápido”]

...Brasília? Reaper thinks quietly, tapping a thoughtful finger on the back of his phone, What is that jackass doing there?

But as he’s thinking the very thought, a new statement pops up with:

[Pending Withdrawal - 60 credits from ATM “Banco de Rio”]

Reaper

snaps.

...Just a little bit.

He flicks over to the [Linked Person(s)] page and snaps his thumb to the messenger, tapping out furiously:

[Gomez.Ricardo]: STOP TAKING MY MONEY JACKASS

And hits “send” without thinking.

Almost immediately, Reaper realizes, ...Oh shit.

What was that about swimming as the ship sinks? the voice in his soul laughs with self-derision.

---------

I've been counted out, left for dead

Wanted with a bounty on my head

But somehow, someway, I'm-a keep movin' along, movin' along

Been counted out, left for dead

Wanted with a bounty on my head

But somehow, someway, I'ma keep movin' along, along

Thinkin' that they've won

It's only just begun

When I go (When I go)

Into that ground (Into that ground)

I won't go quietly (Won't go quietly)

I'm bringin' my crown (Bringin' my crown)

And when I go into the ground (into that ground)

Oh, they gotta bury me (bury me)

Bury me face down (bury me face down)

Oh, they gotta bury me

Bury me face down

Chapter Text

South Korea begins drafting top game competitors for new MEKA program

January 14, 2076: Seoul, South Korea

Today, the National Assembly of South Korea announced it would be instituting a mandatory draft for the new MEKA program, pulling potential pilots for the manned mechs from Korea’s top competitive gamers.

“After last year’s devastating attack by the 바다 옴닉 괴물이  (Sea Titan) and with the increasing likelihood of the reactivation of the Siberian Omnium, the Mobile Exo-force of the Korean Army is beginning its pilot program for the new manned mobility fusion-driver mechs,” reads the leading statement from the Korean Army, “As with our previous constitutional drafts, all potential pilot candidates must be 18 or older to serve, and will be required to arrive at their selected base on the date listed in their draft letters to begin testing.”

The news has struck a hard blow to the competitive gaming industry, a major economic force in parts of South Korea, Japan, and China.  Already, petitions and complaints are starting to generate online, as major South Korean teams reel from the blow.

“Our entire team is being drafted,” said Pak Seo-yun (best known as her username Seo-Sorry), team captain of Seoul Superstars, a competitive Starcraft team based in the capital city.  Captain Pak said that her teammates were stunned by the news but were ultimately committed to following their draft orders.

“We all knew that this day would come,” Pak continued, “Many of us remember stories from our parents and grandparents of the Crisis, and when the government announced that the MEKA drones’ communications systems had been disrupted, we knew this day would be here at any moment.”

Still, the surprise is in the specific nature of the draft, recruiting only professional gamers at the moment.

“This is due to the structure of the new MEKA manned crafts,” an anonymous spokesperson from the Mobile Exo-force unit said.  The designs and the mechanisms of the new units are classified, but rumors are circulating that the switch away from photon barriers to modern fusion matrix-drivers requires a level of dexterity and mental multi-tasking that most people cannot achieve.  

“With the Sea Titan knocking out communication and processing abilities in MEKA drones, implementing AI programs or robotics in the new manned crafts is unfeasible,” the spokesperson elaborated, “And we know that specialized EMPs were a favorite attack method by the Siberian Omnium during the Crisis - we anticipate these making a return, should the Omnium reactivate completely.  Because of these constraints, we were forced to recruit individuals who could multitask and operate multiple systems simultaneously without a loss in concentration and focus.”

These constraints, according to economist Choi Joo-won, would require the Mobile Exo-force to pull from a pool of candidates with known high action-per-minute rates, or APM rates.  The professional gaming industry already tracks APM rates for the majority of its players, especially for multi-management games like StarCraft.

“Gaming as a professional industry is a major part of Korea’s entertainment and sports economies,” Choi stated, “At the highest levels, some of the current top players are able to achieve several thousands of actions-per-minute, and many managers say their represented players could potentially reach larger numbers under the right circumstances.”

But Choi also cautioned that the large-scale trade-offs for South Korea could be immense.

“While maintaining the original MEKA drones was an expensive task on a national scale,” Choi continued, “Keeping the crafts unmanned meant that human lives were very rarely risked in the combat with the Sea Titan.  Regions under attack could evacuate while knowing that the drones could keep them safe.  Now, not only is South Korea losing a massive portion of a major economic industry, but it is putting the lives of young people back on the line for the first time since the Crisis ended.  It may be worth more in the long run - both economically and morally - to develop a task force like the original Overwatch Strike Team, one that is designed and trained to take down the Sea Titan.”

However, there is still prevailing fear - not just in South Korea, but also the world over - that recreating an Overwatch-type Strike Team could result in the same moral and ethical problems that started plaguing the original organization in its final years.

“It is true that we contemplated going that route,” the spokesperson confirmed, “But the government shot us down.  They emphasized that anything resembling the original Overwatch Strike Team would be dismantled and disbanded immediately.  Because of this, rather than pull a select few pilots or agents and training them in eliminating something like the Sea Titan, the government had us draft all professional competitive gamers and expanded MEKA’s size tenfold.”

Only a handful of the Top 100 StarCraft players were available for comment directly - many let their managers or team captains speak on their behalfs.  However, reigning StarCraft World Champion and solo-player Song Hana, better known by her gamer name “D.Va,” spoke some of her thoughts in a stream she aired on the night of the announcement:

“My letter came today - I...kinda knew it would, but it still hurt a little bit,” begins Song’s stream, still available for viewing on her ARMtv.kr page.  Song adds, “But I will try to maintain my focus!  And my motivations!  My fathers also love video games, and they always taught me that life is like a game: if you work hard, and are persistent, and you stay focused, you can overcome any obstacle!  Boss battles, complicated puzzle games, MEKA training - even something like the Sea Titan!  Busan was hurt badly in the last attack, but I know with hard work and perseverance, I can help make a difference!  And with hard work and perseverance, I will level up and get ready to fight that monster! I will give it the same hard work and perseverance I have shown all my games.  I will help give it the end it deserves.  눈에는 눈, 이에는 이가 맞아요.”

The last line translates to “eyes have eyes, teeth have teeth,” a Korean phrase that roughly follows the idiom “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

---------

I’m walking down the road of lonely hearts

Wondering how love can do us part

Sometimes I think that we were meant to be

Living in a world of fantasy

Oh, don’t you know you gotta go all the way down the road

Feel the sun, baby, heating your soul

Learn how to live with your highs and your lows

I’m on your side

---------

Sínesthete: Setenta e seis

Friday, July 17, 2076: 11:48 a.m. - Estrada da Gávea, Rocinha, Rio de Janeiro

He’s keeping a pretty good pace when the commotion blips a distracting blue on the edges of his senses.

Ever since the…

The sound -

Two weeks ago, Lúcio has been trying to keep a slightly lower profile as his earbuds and mingling mindmatter had recovered.  He had not given up, not at all, but all of his friends agreed that anything pushing Vishkar enforcers into using those...odd sound devices against him was out of the question.

“Você precisa descansar (tn: You need rest),” Jordão had told him as Bento had nodded behind the Omnic leader.  Lúcio had woken up, utterly disoriented and feeling like his ears and entire head were still ringing, stumbling from his tiny bedroom to the small kitchen/lounge area of his makeshift apartment, where his two friends had been sitting, speaking in low, concerned murmurs that produced weird fuzzes on the edges of his vision.

“A sorte favorece os audazes (tn: luck favors the bold),” Lúcio had managed to grit out, but the mere act of trying to open the fridge door had sent him reeling.  Bento had gently but firmly put a hand on his shoulder and forced him to sit back down at the little table as Jordão had gone for the fridge instead.  The Omnic had returned a moment later with a bottle of water, and Lúcio had downed it like a man dying in a desert.  Despite his still-shifting senses, Lúcio had not missed the concerned look the two of them had shared, pulling the mostly-empty bottle from his lips as he’d gasped, “...Que horas são (tn: What time is it)?”

“...Dez da manhã (tn: 10 in the morning),” Bento had replied, causing the musician-nurse to groan, “Estou astrasado para o trabalho (tn: I am late for work) -”

“- Em terça-feira (tn: On Tuesday).”

Lúcio had stopped, staring at them with wide eyes as Jordão had said quietly, “...Queríamos deixar você descansar (tn: we wanted to let you rest).  Nós ficamos para assistir você (tn: we stayed to assist you).”

Lúcio had scowled, thinking hard as Bento had added, “Essa coisa realmente machucou você (tn: That...thing really hurt you).  Estávamos preocupados que afetou sua... (tn: we were worried that it affected your…).”

“Synaesthesia,” Lúcio had stated - not rudely or coldly, just.  Simply.  His synaesthesia was just simply...a part of him.  A part of his life.  He had managed to shake his head, though the mere action had made the sounds swim a little and the lights rasp like wasps, but had muttered, “Está bem - mas não...perfeito (tn: It is fine, but not...perfect).”

Like the first time he’d missed a flip during capoeira or headed a futbol incorrectly.  

“Juliana disse que você deveria descansar (tn: Juliana said you should rest),” Jordão had said, to which Lúcio had pouted playfully, saying, “Muita palha e pouco grão (tn: much bran and no meal - much fuss over nothing).”  

But Bento had frowned, muttering, “A pressa é inimiga da perfeição (tn: Haste is the enemy of perfection).  Você não deve se apressar - e se Vishkar fizer isso novamente (tn: you should not rush yourself - what if Vishkar does that again)?”

So Lúcio

Despite the lightsong of revolution that still beat-beat-beat in his chest

Had followed “the doctor’s orders” and stayed away from both the clinic and radio for a few days, returning to the morning nurse shift when he had finally gone back.  Juliana had hugged him, giving him easy patients who had beamed bright, cheerful smiles at him, happy he was recovering well.  Paulo had been excited to give him an early afternoon spot on the radio, encouraging Lúcio to focus on the music (and not the motivational speeches) at the moment.

So Lúcio

Even though the starsongs had still sung and glittered in his mind

Had reluctantly tried to ignore his itching, fuzzy need to wage music and play wars against the mountain clouding his skies -

Though he occasionally sat on the roof of his apartment, glaring at the large, shimmering building in the distance, composing battles and strategizing chords in his head as the evening sun dripped slow, smooth, jazzy notes across his community and city, painting the Dos Irmos in gilded light as vibrant as bossa nova -

As a plan composed itself in the storm of songs and surges of sound in his head.

So even though he’s supposed to be “taking it easy” and resting his recovering senses -

The odd hue of blue catches his ear as he moves through the slow daytime crowd of people on the street.

...Do I know that? Lúcio thinks, skidding to a stop as he twists his gaze around.  The color sounded familiar - normally he’s great at recognizing tones and shades, but something about this one is slightly off.  Is it the weird greying aspects to it?  The smoke-and-sea roughness to it?  The strange, frustrated annoyance in the words -?

Oh wait.

The words are in English.

Vishkar, Lúcio notes bitterly as he darts towards it - a small, anxious cluster of people have gathered on one of the winding street corners by a convenience store.  Most bystanders take a quick, furtive look at whatever is happening, and then hastily walk away - only a few linger, moving out of his way with small, sharp cries of “Lúcio!” and cheers of “Está bem (tn: You alright)?”

“Estou bem o suficiente (tn: am well enough),” he replies back with a wide grin, but his expression shifts lightning fast, from smiling joy to scowling annoyance as two Vishkar daytime enforcers and a...tourist (?) finally come into view.

“Sir, please - if you will just follow us, we can help you -” one of the Vishkar employees - a tall, calm man with a red visor - says as placatingly as he can but -

“For the last time,” the tourist rumbles in that low, deep, smoke-and-sea rasp, trying to pull himself away from the two enforcers as he mutters with a near-growl, “I.  Am.  Not.  Lost!”

As the tourist steps away from them, Lúcio can finally see-hear-observe several quick details about him: tall, perhaps about 185cm; muscular with smooth, even movements despite his white hair and apparent age; some sort of easy American accent, deep but clear; pale skin with wrinkles and laugh lines around his dark blue eyes but -

Two long, marbled, snaggled scars, one bisecting his face at a diagonal, the other crossing his lips, their flesh rough and twisted

Like heavy, furious gouges in sand.

Lùcio scowls.

Veterans are not uncommon even now, thirty years after the Crisis.  There had been the real possibility of disgruntled, frustrated Brasilian veterans following the path of the Mexican rurales after the war, but with UN funding and Overwatch’s help, better care and assistance (medical, educational, environmental) had been provided to the country.  Veterans, junkers, Omnics, laborers - even someone who had just been a kid like him - had all benefited from it, so it was not unusual to see someone like this American.

But specifically seeing an American veteran tourist this far from the city center or the beach?

That was unusual.

Lúcio notes the odd, bulky duffel bag strapped across his back, the weird sweatshirt in July (winter yes, but it was pushing 22-23°C today, only “arguable” sweatshirt weather), the almost combative stance of his frame, the deep, almost bitter frown on his face, verging into a glare.  The Vishkar enforcers either don’t notice or deliberately ignore it (Lúcio is pretty sure it’s the latter), with the slightly shorter woman with a purple visor saying, “Sir, I can assure you, Rocinha is not the place you are looking for, and it is very easy to get lost on these...unincorporated streets -”

“Look, I’ve tried being patient with you, but as I’ve said about a hundred times now, I’m looking for someone here in Rocinha -” the American veteran starts to say, trying to back away, but the first Vishkar enforcer tilts his head, eyes almost suspicious as he asks, “Yes, but Vishkar can help, sir - our buildings are far more...accommodating places to meet -”

The American tourist is about to say something when -

“There you are!”

All three English-speakers look at Lúcio in utter shock as he leaps forward with a big, welcoming smile flittering easily onto his face.  The American tourist blinks at him in surprise as Lúcio shakes his head, teasing the man with a knowing playfulness, “I thought I said to meet at Boteco Super Sabor back there -”

There’s a flicker of recognition and understanding in the tourist’s gaze and then he laughs brightly, “Ah, shoot, I thought you meant Boteco Sabor Comida - minha culpa, amigo -”

“...He is the one you wanted to meet?” the first Vishkar enforcer snaps with incredulous disbelief, his eyes darting between them with suspicion.  The second Vishkar enforcer tilts her head, asking quietly, “...Do you two actually know each other?”

Lúcio stops.

His wide smile is plastered on his face as he flicks a quick “do something” gaze to the tourist, stammering out, “Of - of course I know him, he’s -”

“He’s Lúcio.”

Now it’s Lúcio’s turn (plus the two Vishkar enforcers’) to gawk awkwardly as they shift their attention back to the American.  Despite the rough scars cutting his face, he gives all three of them a wide, almost charming smile as he chuckles, “He’s like, the up-and-coming artist to know and follow.”  But at their stunned silences, his expression falls into almost perfect befuddlement, looking at the two Vishkar enforcers as he asks wryly, “But you knew that, right?”

“I, uh…” the first Vishkar enforcer mumbles, but the second holds her head high, snapping, “So you are here for his music?  How did you learn of him?”

“How did I -?” the American starts to say, but he digs into one of the pouches on his belt, yanking out a phone.  He taps furiously at the screen as he mutters in disbelief, “I cannot believe - have you been living in a cave?”  He holds up the phone towards Lúcio and the Vishkar enforcers, all three of them leaning in to squint at the screen.

Lúcio recognizes the music streaming site: he’s had a few of his tracks, his remixes of popular songs, and even several of his anti-Vishkar podcasts and dj-ing sessions on there (as proof that they existed - he also had them up in several other sites, lest one company try to scrub him off their searches).  But it’s not his artist page the man has pulled up, but a “Most Played Tracks of the Month” listing.

...And Sonhos Ômnicos is at the top.

Lúcio’s mind overwhelms.

His senses fuzz brightly as his skin fissions at the sight, small notes playing dancing lights on the edges of his vision in joy, his ears hearing the little electric shivers that sing across his skin.  He’s been too busy with his protests and concerts and jobs and community meetings to keep track of his online music the way he used to, preferring to spend his rare moments of calm either working on new lightsongs or sleeping.  He isn’t sure if his frustration over the current situation melts as he processes the chart, or amps up from it instead, like a coil being wound tighter, ready to spring free.

He flicks his gaze up at the man’s face, and the tourist smirks slyly before turning a loud, showmanship voice to the Vishkar enforcers as he claims, “Sonhos Ômnicos has been trending worldwide - it’s the hit song right now, and I’ll be damned if I let that jackass from Atlas News’ entertainment section get the exclusive inside story before me.”

Lúcio tries his hardest to put on a bright, innocent, bashfully proud grin as he whips around, beaming up at the Vishkar enforcers.  The two of them look floored by the news, until the second asks, her voice weak and stunned, “So...you...you are a music journalist?”

“No,” the American journalist (?) says with blatant, dry sarcasm, “Obviously, I’m some sort of rogue badass vigilante hellbent on destroying Vishkar.  Please.  I know I look like rock and roll, but really, I just write about it.”

The Vishkar enforcers look utterly lost, and Lúcio senses his opportunity to “leave them behind,” wisecracking boisterously to the enforcers, “Pfft, Americans - think they know everything about music, right?”  He twists easily, giving the American journalist (?) a playful whamp on his arm, laughing happily, “Do not fear - I will teach you about the music of Rio!”

“I know the major genres!” the American protests, feigning a look of mock offense, adding as he counts on his fingers, “I know samba, bossa nova, carioca, MPB -”

“Wow, we are gonna have to do a lot of work with you,” Lúcio says teasingly, shaking his head with disappointment.  With quick, deft movements, he manages to twist the American journalist (?) around (much to the man’s surprise - his eyes go wide with shock), and Lúcio grins to the Vishkar enforces as he puts his strength into pushing the man away from them, laughing to them, “Well, looks like we’re all singing the same song now!  If you will excuse us -”

“You have been awfully quiet recently, Lúcio,” the first Vishkar enforcer says suspiciously, as the second tilts her head, muttering sourly, “Have you learned how much...more orderly things can be when you mind your place?”

Lúcio see-feels the man tense up at the words, and briefly he thinks, Interessante -

Before he says cautiously to the Vishkar enforcers, “Even in silence, there can be songs.”

“Vishkar does not mind reasonable music,” the second Vishkar enforcer replies curtly as the first one nods his head briskly, snapping, “We hope it stays this way, Lúcio.”

Lúcio frowns over this, before he continues shoving at the American journalist (?).  The man seems to clue into what’s happening, and he starts stomping off, the small crowd around them parting for him.  They continue west up Gávea, winding through pedestrians and dodging some cars, people calling to Lúcio as they pass.

“Ey, Lúcio - novo amigo?”

“Você é um guia turístico agora (tn: are you a tour guide now)?”

“Ele é um novo fã (tn: is he a new fan)?”

Lúcio waves them off, but after a few remarks, the American chuckles wryly, “You’re pretty well known, huh?”

“Well, apparently I am an international musician,” Lúcio taunts, finally releasing his pressure on the man’s back as they stop by an electronics store.  The man stumbles slightly at the loss of support, but what really catches him off-guard is when Lúcio darts around in front of him, saying quietly, “Was that chart real?”

“...Of course it was real - Sonhos Omincos is the top-trending song right now, mainly since D.Va started using a clip on her streams,” the man replies, quirking an eyebrow as he seems to finally, truly absorb Lúcio’s presence.  He then smiles, seemingly genuinely, holding out his hand as he offers, “Thanks - for getting me out of that jam back there.  I really appreciate -”

“D.Va is using my music??” Lúcio practically screams, ignoring the man’s hand to nearly leap at his shoulders.  The journalist (?) stumbles backwards a few steps in utter shock as Lúcio twists and jumps around, almost shouting with joy, “Are you playing me??  Sério??”

“Holy shit, you’re fast -” the man half-whispers, half-stammers in awe as Lúcio skids in front of him again.  The dj-nurse grins brightly, laughing, “D.Va is using my music??  For how long??”

“...About two weeks now,” the journalist (?) says with a little more somberness to his tone and Lúcio slows, asking softly, “O quê?”

“...You know who D.Va is but you...didn’t know she was using your music?” he asks Lúcio with a near-sadness in his voice.  Lúcio pauses, trying to remember the last time he even checked on the status of his online tracks - the amount of hits, the downloads, any comments left on profile pages, and…

He cannot remember.

Lúcio wavers - his senses blur a little as he struggles.  Numbers are so strong, numbers have such colors, just seeing the hit counters change could give him such good feelings and yet…

He cannot remember.

“...I have been…” Lúcio starts to say, feeling a little confused with himself - music and colors are everything, lights and sounds are the world - but he inhale-exhales, giving the American a fierce, focused look as he states:

“I have been trying to move mountains.”

The man’s eyes go wide again, but Lúcio is undaunted, adding on with such verve, “Not even my music matters compared to that.”

“...It is true that there are greater things worth fighting for in life,” the man replies, almost patiently, almost gently, with an almost kind smile, “But the ability to create music is an art, and you are extremely talented.”

Lúcio stills, quiets, watches

In slight awe

Before he murmurs, “...Wait, are you truly a music writer?”

“Ha, no - that was a lie,” the man barks with a hoarse laugh, but he holds out his hand again, saying, “Really - thanks for your help.  My name is -”

Lúcio holds up a hand in front of him, and the man stutters, “W-what.”  The dj-nurse waves his hand a little, muttering, “No, no, don’t tell me - I know the color of your voice.”

“...What,” the man states in utter confusion, but Lúcio can see-hear-feel it, snapping his fingers slightly as he whispers to himself, “It is a little hazy, but I know I’ve sensed that blue before.  It is...so weird.”

“...Excuse me?” the not-journalist asks, getting even more confused, but Lúcio just squints at him, sighing, “I don’t know your face though - maybe that is why the color feels off?  It’s like your voice does not perfectly match your face.”

“...Well, that one is new,” the man mutters, but offers with a low, possibly nervous chuckle, “I really think you’re off here.  People tell me I sound like someone a lot, like a, uh...sports caster, or a radio host, or...uh… Anyways, what was that about color -”

“No, this is good, keep talking,” Lúcio says to him distantly, gesturing as he scowls, trying to focus on the slight blips of dark blue that hem on the edges of his vision at the man’s voice.  Voices are harder to place than pure music - too much variation and cadence, even within a person’s voice, but some voices are still enough to set little sparks of color here or there, especially if someone with a distinctive voice speaks clearly.  Lúcio can’t really see the snaps of blue lights the same way he can often see music, but he senses them there, just on the edges of his ears and skin, thinking hard, I know I heard this color recently...where -

THERE.

Another flicker of deep blue on his right, away from the direction of the man (who continues to mutter something with confusion), and Lúcio twists towards the window display of the electronics store, where some new slick holo-projector screens are being advertised with sale price tags.  There’s a daytime news segment playing, and the caption reads:

“Ele está vivo?  O debate continua (tn: is he alive?  The debate continues).”

On the screen is a clip of one of the last major public speeches given by Overwatch’s old Strike-Commander Jack Morrison, from his visit to Rio de Janeiro in late 2070.

Lúcio remembers.

He’d just started working at the Ziegler Clinic in east Rocinha - the clinic had held nurse technician training opportunities, and though he had always known his calling had been in music and color, Lúcio had felt a pressing need to learn more, to do more.  Unable to afford ensino superior, he’d gone into the clinic “just to try it,” and -

His life had changed.

Lúcio had not know it was possible to feel such strength, such resolve, such conviction about something as non-musical or as non-mobile as medicine or nursing, but seen-heard-felt it he had.  There was - there is - something infinitely satisfying about helping people, about improving someone’s life, even if it was as small as stitching a minor cut or as large as setting a bone.  There was - there is - art in understanding the mechanics of life and healing, like challenging a sixth sense Lúcio had not known existed in his soul.

Those first few months had been hard work, cramming as much information about nanobots and anatomy and x-ray technology into his head until it felt like the terms and ideas themselves buzzed and hummed with their own cadence and rhythm, until one night, sitting on the roof of his apartment, watching the lights of Rocinha flicker and sing, hearing the sounds of the night (low chatters of voices, the sweet colors of laughter, the soft burn of sirens, the glitter of stars in the velvet sky), he had seen-heard-felt it.

The first few notes - born from lightsounds and wordsongs -

Of Rejuvenescência.

Lúcio had not known what it would become.

He had not known what it would be.

All he had known

Was he had scrambled back into his room to his tiny dj-ing equipment, plotting out the first few segments in the light-tech of the table and his synthetic music program on his small datapad.

And when he had pressed play -

Aperta o play!

Those few notes had bloomed like a golden heartbeat-beat-beat across his vision.

Lúcio had always loved music - could read it, could write it, could remix it, could play it, could see it -

But this had been the first time he’d ever formed the fragile, newborn star of a lightsong he could call his own.

And he knew, in all of his senses, in all of his soul -

There was - there is - no difference between healing and heart, support and song, life and light.

The next day, he’d gone with some of the Overwatch doctors, nurses, and his fellow technicians to see the Strike-Commander’s speech on the edge of Santa Teresa.  Lúcio had been tired from his long night of music creation, and had barely paid attention to whatever the Strike-Commander had been saying, instead enjoying the way the dark blue blips of light had mingled with the other, faint colors of brightness from the voices around him -

Lúcio snaps his head towards the American not-journalist, who is still looking at him quizzically, but he asks Lúcio with patient understanding:

“Are you a synesthete?”

The blue-tinted words send small shivers across Lúcio’s skin and sparks of light across his vision.

And Lúcio does not know if it is windchime coincidence or song-lit connections only he can see-feel-perceive but

(And the brightly sung, fiercely lit plan in his head transforms from mere notes into a full melody)

Every revolution requires a people, moving together as one

And every weapon requires a soldier to use it.

And Lúcio won’t merely use it

But he will take it, break it down, mix it again, remix it anew

And make it into an instrument of lightsongs and stardrops.

But first, Lúcio will enlist the help of a soldier.

And so

Lúcio grins, returning the question with a twist:

“Você é um soldado (tn: are you a soldier)?”

The man freezes

And then flicks his gaze to the holo-projections of the Strike-Commander.

And in that brief, near-fraction of a second

Lúcio can hear-sense-see it: the identical facial structure, the same dark-night-blue eyes, the same scowl-smile, the same strange, intense focus -

And then Soldier: 76 tilts his gaze back to Lúcio, glaring fiercely as he whispers with that same blue-tinted rasp, “How in the hell -”

“It’s a little bit different now,” Lúcio assesses as he nods confidently to himself, but he gestures with his fingers, showing how “little” a little is, laughing cheerfully, “Like you swallowed some sand or something.  Kinda gritty-looking.  But it’s only a little bit different.”

Soldier: 76 opens his mouth to say something, eyebrows furrowing into a frown, but Lúcio just pouts contemplatively, humming sympathetically, “Man, those scars are really distracting, huh?  And -” he flicks his eyes to the soldier’s white, thin hair, sticking up at odd angles, shaking his head with actual sympathetic sadness as he sighs, “Wow, that is truly a devastating loss.  I am so sorry -”

“I take back all my appreciation for earlier,” Soldier: 76 rumbles, practically looming over Lúcio as he adds furiously, “And if you tell anyone -”

“Oh, por favor!” Lúcio snaps with a roll of his eyes, shaking his head sarcastically as he drones, “Who am I even gonna tell?  The police?  Vishkar?  LumériCo?”

Soldier: 76 slackens a little, exhaling slowly, his exhaustion and fear apparent on his face as he steps back again.  Lúcio gives him a more serious, more knowing look, saying coolly, “None of them are any friends of ours here.  Rocinha takes care of itself, and Rocinha can handle one soldado velho just fine.”

“I...sorry,” Soldier: 76 says, and Lúcio can see-hear-feel the genuineness of his simple, if curt apology.  But to the dj-nurse’s surprise -

The soldier holds out his hand, smiling patiently, “Really - I am sorry for assuming.  And I am also grateful for your help.”

And then his smile quirks into a dry smirk as he adds, “And I am also a big fan.”

Lúcio looks at his face, then his hand, the blue-tinted sparks snapping on the edges of his vision.

And then he takes it, grinning back, “Now that is music to my ears!”

---------

Oh, don’t you know you gotta go all the way down the road

Feel the sun, baby, heating your soul

Learn how to live with your highs and your lows

I’m on your side

Oh, don’t you know you gotta go

Oh, don’t you know you gotta go

All the way down the road

---------

Soldado: Sound the Drums

July 16, 2076: 11:56 a.m. - Lúcio’s apartment, upper Rocinha, Rio de Janeiro

76 pauses to inhale-exhale sharply, taking a moment to wipe some of the beads of sweat from his brow as he watches Lúcio take the narrow side stairs in between two brightly-painted concrete apartment builds two, almost three at a time.

He knows he’s more than in-shape physically-speaking - the “enhancements” from SEP continue to linger in his system, probably permanently at this point - and unlike some of his past friends and companions, he finds it relatively easy to adjust to varying temperatures and climates (thanks in part to growing up in the Midwest’s own seasonally-varied climate), but Rocinha’s steep hills and winding, climbing streets are a force to be reckoned with, even in the “mild winter” of the subtropical Southern Hemisphere.  The air clings to him inside and out, dripping down the inside of his lungs, and breezes seem few and far between the makeshift buildings and interspersed trees.  Still, he uses the brief pause to glance to the southeast, admiring how the whole community seems to flow in the valley between the two cresting mountains, a river of patches of colors and hues that ripple out from the ever verdant trees, streaming down to the blue upon blue sea in the distance -

Except…

76 scowls as his eyes trace over the massive white-and-light-blue steel tower, rising among the southeastern “border” of Rocinha like a jagged, tide-roughened rock breaking the sea.  It is slick and sleek, as if bands of light itself had woven the construction into a material finer than any graphene mesh or stronger than any perfected metal.  Parts of it are encased in silvery glass, shimmering and shivering as if the skyscraper had literally scraped the sky onto itself, wrapping itself in shards of fallen clouds and cemented atmosphere.  It is incredibly bold and unyieldingly rigid, yet it seems surreally ephemeral, as if spun from sugar, raindrops, and diamonds.

The Vishkar “city center,” hovering between Rocinha on the western edge, and Gávea and Leblon on the eastern -

As if a physical, everpresent tower dividing the densely crowded, hand-built, stumbling community of the displaced and the homespun, the found and the rising from the more affluent, imported, steel-standing communities of the wealthy and the well-off, the corporate and the gilded.

“...Are Leblon and Gávea still among the richest communities in Rio?” 76 asks, calling out to Lúcio as he glances back up the tall stairs.  Lúcio pauses at the top, looking down at him contemplatively, before he turns his face out to the southeast - 76 does not miss how his rich, warm gaze hardens and scowls over the Vishkar building at the edge of his community.

“Yeah, they are still the wealthiest,” Lúcio says as 76 heads up the stairs towards him.  The dj shakes his head solemnly, sighing, “Well, from what the older people say, it has been a lot easier between the neighborhoods since the Crisis - we all had to work together to keep the city alive.  In the end, we were all Cariocas, so we had to help each other.”

As 76 reaches just a few steps below him, Lúcio shrugs slightly, adding on, “But after awhile the old problems set back in - some of the neighborhoods did not want the Omnics from the Brasilia Omnium, there were no services for the veterans and orphans...so they all got pushed to us, Rocinha, Jairzinho, Alemão, Vidigal, the usual places.”

“...How old are you?” 76 asks curiously, and Lúcio rolls his eyes, but smirks all the same as he answers teasingly, “Twenty-five, so I know exactly what you wanna say.”

“...You were barely alive during the Crisis, huh?” 76 chuckles.  Lúcio flicks his hand in a wide “nah” gesture, laughing cheerfully, “Man, you old people are all the same, huh?  ‘Oh, you did not really live during the Crisis, you have no idea how bad it was.’  I still had to grow up after it!  I still saw all these things!”

“I was going to say, that I think it’s admirable you lived in the aftermath and still have such a strong spirit,” 76 grins back, and Lúcio blinks at him, as if surprised by his words.  76 glances back over the sweeping hills of Rocinha, enjoying the bright pops of color, the soft sounds of people talking and horns honking - somewhere, several speakers are playing a pagode song, the sing-chanting filling the air with music.  

The old soldier says with a gentle, warm tone, “The Crisis, the aftermath, the crackdowns - even Overwatch and now Vishkar.  You have remained true to the people and place you love.”

76 looks back up at Lúcio, who is watching him with a contemplative expression.  76 smiles faintly, admitting, “That’s more than many people who ‘really lived’ through the Crisis can say.”

Even me, I guess.

There’s a long, still pause as they listen to the sound of the music on the wind until -

“...Man, you are nothing like I expected you to be,” Lúcio states bluntly.  76 quirks an unimpressed eyebrow over the dj’s remark, cracking back, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Não se preocupe, soldado velho,” Lúcio laughs brightly, before twisting around and darting up more of the stairs, taunting, “C’mon, we are close!”

“...Yeah, I appreciate you offering me a place to stay, but I still don’t think this is a great idea,” 76 huffs, following him up the stairs.  They round a corner entering an even smaller space that effectively turns into a landing for a series of small, apartment doors.  Skidding to a stop by a bright green door with a bold, stylized frog image, Lúcio rolls his head on his shoulders, giving that relaxed shrug again as he snorts, “Yeah, yeah - you are ‘some sort of risk or danger to be around,’ or something.  Olha, soldado velho - it may surprise you, but I am a danger and dangerous myself.”

“Yeah, and who told you that?” 76 teases back dryly as Lúcio taps a code into the electronic lock.  The soldier quickly notes the small camera by the door, the high-tech lock, some of the stylized Omnic lettering on the door - he’s pretty technologically-adept - before Lúcio pushes the door in, twisting a bold, proud smile towards him as he laughs, “Vishkar, of course, and the police a few times...my neighbors occasionally, but mostly my friends.”

“Ah well, friends are the most dangerous people in the world,” 76 chuckles sarcastically, but there’s a rather stinging, needling truth to it, his fingers instinctively touching the last traces of the bruises and scabs across his right cheek -

From where red upon red glass had shattered and broken -

Beneath a silver-studded claw -

On the hand of a “friend.”

...Friends are the ones who can hurt us the most in the end.

“Here we are - lar, doce lar!” Lúcio says proudly, stepping through the door.  76 follows him in, glancing about absently before -

He stops.

76 has seen some truly magnificent places in his life, to the point where it almost sounds surreal and bizarre to say that something as small as a single person’s makeshift apartment in Rio de Janeiro compares to Dorado or Ilios or the Himalayas, but -

But there is something otherworldly magical about Lúcio’s apartment.

It is like stepping through a door into...well, utter color - 76 hears his brain briefly hum, “A world of pure imagination” to itself as it struggles to process the sheer brilliance of it.  The walls are covered in different splashes of paint, in every hue and tone even imaginable - in a way, they seem to be blocked out into discrete sections, with a bold background color and then speckles, dashes, dots, blots, and sweeps of others on top of it.  There is a beautiful, destructured chaos to them, and yet a sweet, bold harmony too, like freeform jazz or improv bossa nova given visual life - they seem to move, to flow from one brushstroke to the next.

Lúcio’s apartment is a galaxy of colors and paint, stars crafted in pigments across plastered-concrete canvas walls.

It takes 76 a full three or four seconds to realize that Lúcio is watching him, his arms folded across his chest, a bright, bold, smug grin on his face.  When 76 glances at him, muttering hoarsely, “I...uh,” Lúcio just laughs happily, “Does this mean you like it?”

“Did you get Pollock’s ghost to paint this place?” is the only thing that slips from 76’s mouth, and he could immediately hit himself for making a dumb joke in place of sincerity, but Lúcio just lights up over it, babbling excited, “Man, Pollock!  Now, his stuff is art!  I have seen some of his paintings online and olha, does it just sing to me.”

“...Does his stuff actually...read like music to you?” 76 asks, because he’s never really had to consider that thought before, and Lúcio just hums, “It is a little hard to make true music out of his paintings - it ends up sounding like a mess of notes if I match the colors.”

And then

It suddenly clicks for 76

As he turns his eyes wide back across the small kitchen-dining-lounge room of the flat, murmuring in awe, “...These are all songs to you?”

“Oh yeah!” Lúcio says with bubbly, pure excitement.  The dj slaps a hand to a pink-and-white (mixed with lots of golden yellows and bright magentas) section of the wall by the door’s threshold, explaining, “This one here is ‘Give Life Back to Music’ by -”

“Daft Punk,” 76 answers almost immediately, and feels like a rude shit for interrupting, but before he can apologize properly, Lúcio just beams radiantly, saying proudly, “You know them??”

“I have a friend -” 76 starts to say, but his thoughts cut through him harshly, searing:

You had a friend.

The soldier stops.

But he

breathes

before saying again, “Do you know who Reinhardt Wilhelm is?”

“Oh man, the Crusader!” Lúcio replies happily, and 76 isn’t sure if the dj missed his misstep or not, but he smiles all the same, trying to get himself to focus on the moment again and not on the stinging pain in his heart as he adds, “Well, Rein loved that album.  Like a lot.  We listened to it pretty often whenever he managed to wrestle control of the stereo from Gab - Commander Reyes.”

The name - his name -

the name bound in metal on the tags hanging around Jack’s neck -

is too difficult to say

especially in a room painted by music.

They had all loved music, of course - more shocking than the original Strike Team being successful in the Crisis was the fact that somehow, their wide and diverse tastes in music had never splintered or divided them, but somehow unified them.  Everything from Gabriel’s ancient “classic rock” and rock-dubstep, to Reinhardt’s bizarre love for Hasselhoff of all artists, to Ana’s eclectic passion for fusion metal rock and folk songs, to Torbjörn’s “thinking music” of power ballads and EDM, to

To his own love for quiet acoustics and revived funk -

Everything and anything had been available to them, a motivator to fight, survive, win, and sing in the aftermath.

But above all of that -

The music of his heart and soul and sunshine was a beautiful, ornately-carved sugar skull guitar, deft ambidextrous hands plucking at the strings

And a voice that sounded like smoke and sunbeams, obsidian glass being born from surprisingly sweet liquid lightning, traced with laughter that held his heart - Jack’s heart - with playful teasing and loving touches.

Gabriel had been the music of Jack’s life, the song of Jack’s soul, the hymn of Jack’s heart.

76 grounds himself.

He glances about the room, finally absorbing the small refrigerator, the sink, the windows open to the north.  There’s a table beneath the northern window, a surprising three seats pushed in around it, and then a small, mostly open dividing wall to the right.  Looking through it, 76 can see a couch and some shelves squished in, a little holo-projector tv set onto the wall, and what appears to be a tiny computer and dj spin-light table tucked into another corner.  There’s another room beyond that, but it wraps around the corner and -

“Here, here,” Lúcio says, darting into the next room over.  76 slips in after him, ducking under the dip of the partial divide, eyeing the steel beams that transect and support the roof.  The dj quickly outpaces him, moving into the next room but saying loudly, “Go ahead and relax - I gotta get ready for the radio.  And then we can get lunch!”

76 continues to look at the different “songs” painted across the walls, settling himself into the couch as Lúcio quickly reappears, somehow wearing a different shirt entirely, hardly even focusing as he undoes the bun on his head, letting his long dreads fall around his shoulders.  The dj practically leaps at his computer, turning it on with one hand as his other pulls at his dreads and easily ties them up into a high ponytail.

“Which song is this?” 76 asks, gesturing to the “song section” painted right by the armrest of the couch.  Lúcio glances up, towards 76 on his left, looking over the splatters of red and grey and orange, before grinning mischievously, “That one is ‘Beat It.’”

“Michael Jackson?” 76 replies, pleasantly surprised.  Lúcio laughs, “Hard to beat the King of Pop himself!”

“He was from Indiana, you know?” 76 says proudly, looking at the vivid, solid brushstrokes of Lúcio synesthetic interpretation of the song when -

“What is that?” Lúcio asks bluntly.  76 stares at him, before muttering in confusion, “What is what?”

“Uh, Indiana?” the dj says, and the soldier scowls, but eventually sighs, “...It’s a state.  In the middle of the United States.  It’s where I’m from.  And where the Jacksons were from.  Although he was born in Gary in the north and -”

“Oh, he was not from LA?” Lúcio asks nonchalantly and

76

stops.

Before he gives a deadpan, sardonic expression to Lúcio’s wry, mischievous grin as the dj taunts him, “...Don’t cool things only ever come from LA?”

“...Man, if I had a dollar,” 76 mutters, mainly to himself.  But he just sighs defeatedly, “No.  Shocking, I know - sometimes cool American things come from other parts of the US -”

“Like New York City or Miami, right?” Lúcio teases him, and 76 just chuckles wryly, “Exactly.  There are only three important cities in the United States and everything in between them is a wasteland of corn and wheat and Little House on the Prairie.”

“I knew it,” Lúcio mutters sagaciously as his computer finally loads up his lock screen.  His hands type across the slick mechanical keyboard, but immediately and fluidly switches to touchscreen and holo-projector aspects as the system lights up around him.  76 watches him open up a music program for a moment, before he shifts his gaze to the southeastern window of Lúcio’s bedroom that he can partially see, focusing on the tall, glittery Vishkar building in the distance.

He feels the fury - like liquid lightning plasma - bolt through his blood at how those two Vishkar enforces had tried to wrangle him to head back into Gávea and Leblon.

And I got the “special” treatment because I’m a tourist, he knows easily, and his blood crackles and sparks at the mere thought of worse happening to someone like Lúcio.  The busy quietness of Lúcio’s apartment is a transparent lens to both of them, as 76 asks softly:

“...How long have they been patrolling like that?”

“...The enforcers have only been here for two months,” Lúcio says - his gaze is still focused on his music program, but his voice ripples with deep frustration and anger.  He shakes his head distantly, adding lowly, “But problems have been going on ever since Calado blew up last November.”

The musician-revolutionary looks up from his monitor and projectors, giving 76 a strong, quietly steely gaze as he states bitterly, “No one cares.  We have been suffering for eight or nine months and still, no one in the world cares.  Vishkar does whatever they want - patrolling the streets, ‘enforcing order,’ stealing land, not paying people properly, destroying property, interrupting community activities, putting up cameras -”

Lúcio bites off his words with apparent bitterness, turning back towards his monitor as he slumps his head in his hands.  76 watches him with still, pained sympathy, before murmuring gently, “...I listened to your podcasts on them -”

“Yeah, you are probably the only one,” Lúcio sighs heavily, shifting to tilt his head back towards 76, resting his right cheek on his right fist.  But 76 just smirks faintly, pulling out his own phone as he says, “You’d be surprised -”

Before he clicks play on the loaded APMTv.kr video.

“안녕 (Annyeong)!  D.Va online!” the voice starts cheerfully, and 76 practically senses the reaction in Lúcio before his brain fully processes the visuals - Lúcio’s sullen gaze goes wide, his expression changing from frustration and bitterness to awe as he realizes who it is.  76 doesn’t need to see the video - he’s watched it twice to make sure he understood what was happening, and he knows that on the screen, Hana “D.Va” Song is settling in in front of her webcam, waving to her audience.

“Thanks for your support, everyone!” Hana says brightly to the camera, flicking what 76 remembers to be a pretty winning grin at her online viewers as she adds, “I am really happy everyone liked the last stream!  It gets really tough to upload things from the base - MEKA is strict on what they will let us show.  But I showed them some of your reactions, and now some of the officers are thinking about doing more MEKA demonstrations.  That would be fun, yeah?”

As Hana chatters, Lúcio smiles with relief as he watches, saying, “I have not had time to keep up with her work in the last month, but I am happy she is still doing well, even on the base.”  76 smiles back, but feels his own expression fall slightly as Hana pauses.  There’s a brief silence and then the gamer-turned-mech-pilot starts to speak in a more solemn voice:

“...I was wondering if...if anyone knows any way to contact Lúcio -”

A brief look of star-struck shock and confusion blooms over Lúcio’s face -

“- As most of my followers know,” Hana continues with quietly determined, but slightly worried focus, “I have been playing clips of some of Lúcio’s music on my streams, but only recently I found out about the stuff going on in Rio de Janeiro.  It’s scary, it’s really frightening.  Have you guys heard about this?  Oh, wait, I will link my blog post on it in the video description.:

On-screen, 76 knows Hana has moved her focus from the webcam to her monitors, tapping something into her keyboard, even as she continues to speak, “In the post, I have links to Lúcio’s podcasts about everything - everyone should listen to them, I think.  They are...really scary.  But I am worried because he has not posted anything new in a couple weeks…”

Lúcio scowls again, but it’s more a thoughtful, contemplative look than the angry one from earlier.  On the phone, Hana sighs heavily, pausing before she murmurs quietly, “...He said in one podcast that Vishkar is cutting power sources and radio and internet… I want to make sure he is okay.  I want to send some of my money but all the websites he linked to are down -”

Lúcio mutters something sharply, whipping back to his computer.  He opens his browser and searches some of the relief and support groups 76 knows he’s been directing online donations to but -

76 watches as each webpage turns up broken and empty -

As Hana says softly through the phone, “...It is scary.  It feels like things are getting worse and worse - in Brazil, in Russia.  I heard something even blew up a train in the U.S. last month!”

...Whoops, 76 thinks unapologetically, though technically Deadlock had blown up the train, not he himself.  But he had been present for the battle that had taken place immediately after.

As had the other.

His other.

The scabs and bruises on 76’s face sting a little at the memory.

“I do not know what is happening,” Hana’s voice continues, rather weakly, “It was bad enough when the Sea Titan destroyed the MEKA drones last year, but now...things are getting really crazy really fast.  President Jeong says that she believes Russia.  She thinks the Second Omnic Crisis has already started…”

Tearing his eyes away from yet another broken URL, Lúcio looks back at the phone, as Hana’s voice grows fiercer, more determined, “But how?  How can a war start like this?  The world is not ready!  Not when people are fighting each other!  Not when companies like Vishkar exist!  It is not fair that companies can do all this when there is a real war happening!  But everyone thinks it is okay because Vishkar helped India after the First Crisis!  But it is not!  Vishkar is doing terrible, scary things in Brazil, but everyone is looking at Korea and Russia and China and getting afraid of one Omnium!”

There is silence on the phone and in the apartment, as Lúcio watches the video, as 76 watches him -

As Hana collects her thoughts, saying with quiet, but strong resolve:

“I will fight for Busan.  I will fight for Korea.  I will fight for my family, my friends, for all my followers too!  But please, 친구 (chingu, friends), do not forget what is most important.  People are suffering, and I will fight for them above all others.  There are wars that we fight because the other side will hurt us if we do not...but there are also wars we must fight because they are battles of courage, and heart, and spirit.”

There’s another brief pauses, before Hana sighs, “I have to go, friends.  We have a week of isolated training.  So no more streams this week.  When D.Va comes back online, I hope there are lots of comments!  Your support means everything to me!”

Lúcio looks concerned over her words, but then

76 knows

Hana looks directly in the camera and states boldly, “Viva a revolução!  D.Va out!”

And the video ends.

But the look of utter awe on Lúcio’s face lingers.  He stares at the blank phone screen as if completely shellshocked, his warm brown eyes wide and brightly lit by the last words Hana had said.  76 pulls the phone back, tucking it into his pouch pocket as he sighs, “...That was uploaded a day ago.  I’m guessing the MEKA isolation training has already started -”

“How are you going to fight Vishkar?”

The words cut through the air as sharply as a blast of lightning.

76 blinks in surprise over the fierce, focused scowl of concentration and frustration on Lúcio’s face, before the old soldier recovers himself, muttering, “I don’t know how...wise this is, Lúcio -”

“You are here to fight them,” Lúcio states without missing a beat, without wavering, his dark eyes staring into 76 like he can see the soul struggling beneath his chest.  The musician-revolutionary says intensely, “You are a soldier.  You are here to help wage war.”

“...I am here to help,” 76 says, but he also admits, “But I didn’t have a real plan -”

“That is fine,” Lúcio replies, his scowl cracking into a knowing smirk, “Because I do.”

“...What,” 76 half-asks, half-gawks, but Lúcio whips his chair back towards the monitor, typing across his mechanical keyboard furiously as he searches something.  A second later, he swipes the result towards 76, the page lighting up into holo-projected form as Lúcio asks, “You did this, right?”

76 blinks at the news article on his break-in at Watchpoint: Grand Mesa back at the end of June, and says slowly, rather hesitantly, “...Yes, I did -”

“Perfeito,” Lúcio says with a victorious smile, twisting back towards the monitor as he asks with quiet, deep intensity, “What do you know about Vishkar?”

More than you might realize, 76 thinks, but also admits to himself, ...But less than I want to or should.

“...That depends on how far back we’re talking,” 76 says, more honestly than he probably should - every bit of information is incriminating, every bit of intel could harm them both, but being honest with each other is more important than trying to play each other.  Lúcio gives him a skeptical stare, until 76 replies with a heavy exhale, “...They blew up Calado, right?”

Lúcio shakes his head in utter disgust, muttering, “The news called it a gas leak that went extremely wrong, but the only extreme was Vishkar.  I had to…”

The musician-revolutionary stops, and 76 just waits patiently, until Lúcio breathes with a deep, exhausted sigh, “...My clinic.  We saw some of the night guards.  There was no way that was a gas explosion.  There were traces of small fusion-generated particles all over them.  And the size of it - they said that twenty Calado night guards and officer workers were hurt.  And we -”

Lúcio stops, the words struggling in his throat, 76 can tell, but he grits through the horror and the pain of the memory, saying with raw, uncontrolled fury:

“We saw at least...thirty, forty people from Rocinha that were affected.”

76

watches.

Listens.

As the storm of heartbreak and struggle and pure power in Lúcio’s spirit seems to surge forward, as Lúcio states in words almost like a song, almost like a musical rhythm, “But look!  Look!  Look at what the the world has done!  Sixty people badly hurt, ten on the verge of death, and the world does nothing!  The only people who care cannot come help for they have their own wars to fight!  A MEKA pilot cannot help us - she must defend her country from giant, hostile Titans!  The only person to come to help in eight months is you, an old soldier with one big gun and nothing else!”

76 winces at the slight stinging truth of the words, but Lúcio shakes his head again, his words beat-beat-beating like power itself, “I am grateful, I am happy to have your help, but where is the U.N.?  Where is América Latina?  Where is Brasil?  Our own country, okay with ignoring our struggles as long as it gets cheap buildings!  Nobody cares as long as we are productive, and they do not care who or what we are productive for, as if our hard work and labor can be traded for a shiny new skyscraper!”

Lúcio turns, tapping at his keyboard again as he mutters hoarsely, “Look!  Look - I can prove it!  I can show that all Vishkar wants from us is our ability to work!  Rio is one of the only places in the world where groups like Omnics and junkers get along, so of course Vishkar wants us!”

Lúcio flicks several news articles - almost all of them written here in Rocinha, but 76 scowls over the one or two that are from Numbani, and one from London of all places - about Vishkar’s expansions outside of India.  The musician-revolutionary points at him through the holo-projections of the articles, stating harshly, “They want what we have!  They see our mixed labor force and think that as long as they can control us, they can exploit and harvest our hard work and determination, without paying us properly, or respecting our lives!”

And then

With a look of utter heartbreak

Lúcio almost sobs:

“And now...now - now that Vishkar knows the world does not care!  Now that they know only isolated MEKA pilots and old soldiers are the only people who do care… now that they know nobody else is coming to help us...now, they are starting to take children too.”

76 feels his heart squeeze over the sheer hurt in Lúcio’s voice, before the anger lightnings through his veins at the crushing horror of it.

“...We have to fight them,” Lúcio murmurs fiercely, intensely, each word rippling with pure revolution, “We have to do this now, before they make another Utopaea of us!  But everyone sees Utopaea and they think Vishkar will make us the same.  That Vishkar will ‘improve us.’  But they are slowly destroying us.”

Lúcio leans back in his chair, looking like he’s struggling between rising like smoke and deflating like air.  He tilts a bitter, tired gaze to 76, sighing, “...Did you know there was a village there?  Before Vishkar built Utopaea?  A whole town, from what I have read.  But India called it a ‘slum’ and let Vishkar buy the land for its Architech Academy and city.”

76

stops.

And then he says quietly, “...Chaand Nagar.”

Lúcio

stops.

And then he scowls, murmuring with shock, “O quê?”

“...Chaand Nagar, between Chennai and Vellore,” 76 continues, feeling the old place names, seared into his soul like a burn scar flare up with the heat of his age-old fury.  The old soldier feels the weight of his failures settle heavy across his shoulders as he says, “Overwatch learned of it.  I remember...trying to initiate an investigation into Vishkar and Tamil Nadu’s actions.  But our organization...was so small then - all of our resources were going to countering and dismantling the various anarchy gangs, crime networks, and arms dealers that had sprung up in the power vacuum of the Crisis.”

Lúcio’s frown deepens with 76’s words, but he cannot stop, he feels the words pour from him like a river, a torrent he cannot stop now that this rising hero has pushed him, has unlocked their secret, “...India told us that Tamil Nadu was contracting Vishkar to construct housing for its displaced peoples.  And hard-light technology was so...new.  So innovative.  So quick and powerful.  Since our resources were already stretched so thin on enforcing peace and breaking up regional regimes, we felt we had to trust Vishkar to do what it was contracted for.”

Lúcio says nothing, but he

listens.

Watches.

Observes.

As 76’s gaze shifts to the southeastern window, his eyes growing distant as they take in that shimmering, tyrannical building in the distance:

“...We were ill-prepared.  We gained hard-light technology...but at what human and humanitarian costs?  No one has ever fully done the calculations on how many people lost their livelihoods, their homes, their environments in exchange for the construction of mega-cities like Utopaea.  Tamil Nadu and the other Indian states shared only the positives in the beginning - new community housing, more resourceful energy, safer streets.  It wasn’t until a year or two after that ground-level Overwatch and Blackwatch agents began to see the other parts: the curfew enforcements, the forced re-education, the organization of people based on ‘useful skills,’ the intensified stratification…”

And then

76 breathes slowly, brokenly, “...By the time an agent had discovered the Architech Academy, there were already two-thousand children living there, all under the age of 15.”

He remembers.

He remembers the look of utter horror on Gabriel’s face when they had found out, how absolutely devastated his heart and soul and sunshine had looked over the news.

He remembers.

He remembers swearing to himself he would fight corporations like Vishkar every step of the way -

That he would destroy them himself with fire and flood, hell and highwater if he had to.

That he would dismantle them, brick by brick, construct by construct, with everything he had.

That he would end every single one of them in bitter, broken fury if it killed him.

And yet

Here he is

alive

as is Vishkar, alive and indomitable and unbroken, reigning like mountains over rivers of fire and flood, hell and highwater, unshattered and undaunted.

If Overwatch could not destroy or dismantle them

what could musicians and nurses and laborers and workers and veterans and orphans and old soldiers do to them?

But then 76 -

Jack -

looks back at Lúcio, asking with his own fierce, quiet determination, his voice fraying where it strains at the edges:

“But this time will be different...because you have a plan, right?”

Lúcio meets his gaze, assessing him, as if weighing the worth of the soldier’s words, and 76 wonders if the synesthete can actually perceive something in them that even he himself cannot.  Color to some degree, no doubt, but perhaps something else, something more, something that runs deeper than light and stronger than sound.

Jack

stops.

He inhale-exhales, breathing out gently, “I am sorry that the world did not send better.  I am sorry that it is uncaring.  And I am sorry that Overwatch failed Chaand Nagar...and as a long chain of consequence, that it has failed Rocinha.  But I am here.  And I will help if you will let me.  Like Hana said, this is a war worth fighting, and if you’ll accept the help of an old soldier, then I am here to serve.”

Behind the light of the holo-projections

Lúcio’s eyes almost seem to glow.

But then

The young hero says back, with a lightdrop-strung kindness, “...Overwatch did not fail Rocinha.”

“...What,” 76 asks, fearing he missed the words, but Lúcio grins boldly, brightly, and there’s a fierce gleam to his eye as he twists back towards the monitor, typing quickly as he asks, “Do you know anything about weapons that use sound?”

76 scowls, but murmurs, “Like...psychological auditory warfare?”

“No,” Lúcio says bluntly, “Like a gun that shoots sound.”

“...What,” 76 repeats, only this time in dry confusion, but Lúcio flicks a new screen to the holo-projection between them.  As he taps the window, he says with a slow, seeping fury, “...This happened last week.”

76 focuses on the video clip, taking a second to realize that the camera must have been affixed to Lúcio’s chest somewhere - it’s facing outwards, catching the sounds of his voice louder than the others, but it’s

It’s picking up three Vishkar enforcers, deep in the night.  

It’s not so dark that the camera can’t see them - there are several streetlights and lit windows from nearby apartments.  None of the Vishkar enforcers are holding anything looking remotely like a gun, but through the projection, 76 catches a glimpse of Lúcios immediate and present apprehension as -

“...They came to stop my last concert,” the musician says in the present as fierce words are exchanged in the clip.  76 watches as -

“I thought they were gonna use one of those projector guns,” Lúcio explains, as one of the Vishkar enforcers, a tall man, pulls something from his hip and points it at the camera and -

There’s a split second for 76 to see a wide, flaring trumpet-like speaker thing

And then the video crashes into sheer, raw sound.

Even without being a synesthete, and even just as a dull recording, 76 thinks his head is going to split open as a furious, gutted wailing screech breaks out of the computer speakers.  The soldier practically shouts - nope, wait, shit, he is shouting incoherently, jolting back maybe half a meter on the tiny couch when he finally realizes the video isn’t playing anymore, but the horrific tearing, mindshattering noise rings in the hollows of his ears.

He hasn’t heard violence like that since

Since.

“Don’t do this, Gabriel - you don’t want to do this -”

“Fuck you, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time now -”

And the world exploded into light that broke his head and sound that blasted him back and then -

76

(One-two)

inhale-exhales.

(Three-four)

inhale-exhales

As he reorients himself, his sound-blinded gaze finally focusing on Lúcio in the present, who is pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.  76 shivers, gasping, “Holy shit, are you alright?”

“Yeah…” Lúcio breathes, exhaling before he inhales steeply, exhaling again, “Yeah…the video is not as bad as hearing it in person, but I still get ugly red sounds in my head from it.”  The synesthete pulls his palms from his face, blinking a few times to remove a glassy, watery gaze from his eyes, before he refocuses on 76 across from him, relaxing a little.

“...I’ll level with you,” 76 admits, easing forward on the couch more, “I have never seen anything like that.”

“...So it is a prototype, you think?” Lúcio asks, adjusting the video, zooming in as far as the body-camera footage will go.  76 leans in, squinting at it, sizing it up as he mutters, “It’s almost certainly one of a kind.  People have used audio and music cues to wage psychological warfare in the past, but you could say the method pretty much disappeared with the Crisis.  Hard to use sounds to scare robots when they can just turn off their audio sensors.”

“...Makes sense,” Lúcio says, rubbing at his forehead, still looking a little pained.  76 scowls, adding slowly, “The design is really bulky, which is unusual for Vishkar ‘tools.’  I think you’re right in assuming this is a prototype, possibly completely untested before this moment.”

“No.”

76 looks up at Lúcio, but the synesthete’s gaze has taken on a furious, hard, vivid glare as he looks at the weapon on the holo-projector, muttering in fluidly bitter tones, “...This was not simply tested - this was designed for me.”

76 feels the shock slide across his face, but Lúcio fierce, bright resolve does not waver as he murmurs hoarsely, “This was designed to hurt me.  This sound is too specific - I have bad colors for sirens and glass breaking and photon-burning, but this sound is...engineered to break me.  This almost killed every nerve in my body.”

“...Sensory overload,” 76 says quietly, “Only for a synesthete like you, that means something...completely new.”

“...It is not a secret that I am like this,” Lúcio says, finally making eye contact with 76 again.  The musician nods, “Almost everyone in Rocinha who knows me knows I have synaesthesia, though many do not know the term or the medical aspects.  I did not know the sensory overlap had a name until I started the nurse technician training.  Before that, I knew it was not...usual, but I had not realized it was so...specific.”

Lúcio looks back at the sound-gun, shaking his head almost sadly, “Nothing - nothing - has ever hurt me like this.  I am still not fully recovered - I woke up twice this week seeing the color in a nightmare and -”

“Those Vishkar enforcers today,” 76 suddenly realizes, saying softly, “When they said you were staying quiet -”

“Yeah, it is because of this,” Lúcio admits.  76 sits back slightly, sighing, “...I suppose figuring out how to counter this is the first step here - would noise-cancelling headphones help to start -”

“Counter it?”

The confusion in Lúcio’s voice catches 76 off-guard.  The soldier flicks his wide-eyed gaze to the revolutionary and -

That bright, vivid light is back in Lúcio’s eyes as he smirks boldly:

“I do not want to counter it, soldado - I want to use it.”

“...You just said it was engineered to hurt you,” 76 half-gawks, half-rumbles, but Lúcio just gives him the brightest, widest, most charming lightdrop-strung smile in the world, laughing, “And I also said it was made for me.  They made a weapon that shoots sound - I want to know what it can do.  I need to know.”

Lúcio’s smile fades, but that liquid, windsong flash remains in his eyes as he refocuses on the gun, murmuring fiercely, “...I need to try it.”

76

watches.

Listens.

Waits.

“Vishkar declared war with that weapon,” Lúcio whispers intensely, his gaze not shifting from it, “They want to fight me over sound and music!  Rocinha is my community…and music is my life.  They think that if they silence one, they can silence the other too.  But they do not know…”

Lúcio looks back up at him, and despite the humidity, 76 feels a chill crawl across his skin, senses that Lúcio is perceiving a whole different sort of light and sound and life in this moment.  

And the synesthetic revolutionary states:

“It is all the same.  Everything is the same.  Everything mixes and remixes.  As long as I have Rocinha, I will have music.  And as long as I have music, I will have revolution.  I am gonna take that weapon and defeat them at their own war.”

76

stops.

Lúcio grins again, almost taunting him, “So, soldado velho, you wanna help me break into Vishkar and take what was made for me?”

---

“Alright, ditch your stuff and let’s go get some food!”

Even after their pretty heavy, weighted discussion, Lúcio remains true to his name - light in both spirit and bounce.  76 knows he has a lot of energy, but Lúcio seems to march to the beat of his own drum - quite possibly literally...or at least synesthetically-literally for him, 76 thinks, watching the dj-nurse bop and hum to himself as he darts around his apartment, moving dishes, grabbing his datapad, shrugging on a sweatshirt, shrugging off the sweatshirt -

76 sets his bags down by the foot of the couch, absently watching his new revolutionary leader do a bunch of little, busy things when he feels a vibration on his lower left back.  He scowls in both confusion and suspicion, digging into the pouch there and tugging out his phone.  He hesitates, looking at the Rio-timed clock on the lock screen, wondering if someone has figured out his CIA-secret civilian identity.

It’s gotta be either the CIA themselves at this point...or Sombra, the soldier considers bitterly, It’s only a matter of time before she finds me again.  Good thing this is a cheap phone.

After a brief pause of steeling himself for some sort of taunting message of “Te encontre, soldadito~”

76 swipes in his passcode and

He

stops.

Because the notification reads:

[A shared account on [United Unified Bank] has sent you a message!]

...The fuck, 76 gawks, opening it more out of stunned curiosity than anything intellectual or tactical, Why the fuck is someone at the bank contacting me -

He

stops.

[[Gomez.Ricardo] has started a conversation.]

Jack thinks his breathing has stopped.

His soul catches in his chest, sinking claws into his heart and lungs, his blood roaring like thunder in his ears and palms, the world seems to shrink to the all-too-small words on the screen in his hand, and his eyes drift from a name his covert training skills have pounded into his brain -

G.R. - Gabriel Reyes, G.R. - “Gomez Ricardo,” G.R. - Gabriel Reyes, G.R. - “Gomez Ricardo”

G.R. -

Gabriel Reyes -

Down to the next line of the conversation and

[Gomez.Ricardo]: STOP TAKING MY MONEY JACKASS

Jack cracks.

He wheezes as he gasps for air, the sound coming out like a hoarse, choking cough, and he has no idea if he’s laughing or crying or raging, there is a storm of fury and relief and bitterness and something that burns like warm joy, and ultimately the roiling, deep, scar-carving sarcasm bursts through him as he types:

[Jim.Moreno]: AIN’T 99% OF THIS MY GODDAMN “COMMANDER WITH A STATUE PAYCHECK” MONEY YOU DISCOUNT NOMURA VILLAIN

...Oh shit, 76 panics in the fraction of a second after he hits send and -

“How do you feel about barbeque?” Lúcio asks him from the kitchen.  76 looks up from the phone briefly, and then looks back at it as:

[Gomez.Ricardo]: STOP TAKING MY MONEY JACKASS

[...]

[Jim.Moreno]: AIN’T 99% OF THIS MY GODDAMN “COMMANDER WITH A STATUE PAYCHECK” MONEY YOU DISCOUNT NOMURA VILLAIN

[...]

[Gomez.Ricardo]: YOU TAKE THAT BACK

[Gomez.Ricardo]: NOMURA IS A GOD

[Gomez.Ricardo]: HE’S ROLLING IN HIS GRAVE RN

[Jim.Moreno]: YEAH

[Jim.Moreno]: BC OF UR OUTFIT

[Gomez.Ricardo]: RIGHT

[Gomez.Ricardo]: BECAUSE WEARING A GIANT NUMBER ON YOUR BACK IS DUMB AF

[Gomez.Ricardo]: YOU LOOK LIKE A BAD NASCAR ADVERTISEMENT

[Gomez.Ricardo]: HOW MUCH MORE “POSTERBOY FOR SPEEDWAY” CAN YOU GET

[Gomez.Ricardo]: WHY NOT JUST WEAR AN AMERICAN FLAG AND SAY, “HERE I AM, COME SHOOT ME, ASSHOLES”

[...]

[Jim.Moreno]: sounds like a challenge

[Gomez.Ricardo]: just fucking TRY ME, asshole

---

“...Barbeque is my favorite, so that will work just fine,” 76 replies casually, before slipping his phone back into his pouch.

He’s in the mood for roasting things and destroying corporations today.

---------

I’m standing on the line, waiting on the cure

Worried if I might ever shine as pure

And somehow I thought that I’d find you anywhere you run

But walking after you hasn’t felt so fun

Oh, don’t you know you gotta go all the way down the road

Feel the sun, baby, heating your soul

Learn how to live with your highs and your lows

I’m on your side

Oh, don’t you know you gotta go

Oh, don’t you know you gotta go

All the way down the road

Ring the bell!