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Fareeha had been able to trace herself in her mother’s face for as long as she could remember. Even when she had been soft and baby-faced, a contrast to the sharp lines of her mother’s adult face, she had always been an echo of her, if slightly altered. It had been an idle game of hers when she was younger.
Later, it became something she would do in the mirror when her mother left for another long, long mission. Her own face became the photo she would look on - posters just weren’t the same. Her mother was her hero, that was true, but those made her look so distant and otherworldly that they were hard to look at. Her own face was much closer to home.
She remembered herself, tiptoed at the bathroom sink, staring at her own face and seeing the traces of someone else. She watched her own baby face slowly melt away as she looked more and more like her mother.
And later even after that, it became painful to look at that mirror. Their relationship had become something stilted, steeped in the disappointment that she could feel in every conversation between them. Instead of wonder, it was a strange sort of resentment when she saw her, even with the undeniable undercurrent of love she had for her.
She just wanted a break from the constant pushback from all she had wanted to do for as long as she could remember. She wanted to focus cultivating her career, without the disapproval, the looming silence. She wanted to be free of that reproachful gaze.
Her father had not said anything when she moved the photos of her posing with her mother out of her room and into the living room. He did not comment on the way she put it down on the side table more forcefully than needed. But he did come into her room later, gently explaining that her mother just wanted to do what she thought was best for her and loved her more than anything.
She didn’t believe him but she nodded anyway.
In truth, she could take down all the photographs and posters she wanted but she couldn’t take down her own face. The mirror became her daily mocking figure, echoing scorn rather than her own appearance.
Then her mother died.
*
It was too late to fix anything.
She died being disappointed in her and knowing that Fareeha couldn’t stand being around her. Did she know that Fareeha loved her?
She wasn’t sure.
It was so terrifying. She had flown into active combat, unsure if she would come back and it was the possibility that her mother went to her grave thinking she didn’t care about that kept her up at night. She couldn’t chase away her own thoughts, surrendering herself to the comforting arms of her father, crying together for what they lost.
They didn’t even have her body. There was nothing to bury, nothing to hold onto. Only her own face in the mirror. That mirror. Not so much mocking as an important link now.
Hands up to her face. Shaking slightly. Touching the lines passed down. The lines of her mother’s face. And silently, slowly, she cried.
She didn’t want to look away anymore.
*
The tattoo the next day could be categorised as an impulse one. The tattoo artist certainly had doubts when she went to him until she showed him the squadron tattoo on her shoulder blade - she wasn’t new to this and it wasn’t a drunken decision on a bad night. It was something else.
The eye of Horus. She remembered what her mother had said about it when she’d asked the meaning. Her mother had gently swept her hair out of her face and smiled down at her. Still her loving hero.
To protect.
It was more than for memory. It was for her own sake as well.
*
This face of her mothers, along with the tattoo and the famous name, constantly made people make assumptions, during her time in the armed forces. It was either her using sympathy over her dead mother to raise in the ranks or it was the carbon copy of the legendary Amari. She would never succeed - or when she did, it wasn’t on her own merit and wasn’t up to par with her mother’s achievements.
She would show them all. She could be a legendary Amari in her own right. She was a legendary Amari in her own right. She wasn’t just her mother’s daughter.
She could lead. She could fight. She could command. She proved it time and time again even as that locker room talk seemed determined to keep her out. It was a constant uphill battle - but goddamnit, she deserved to be there as much as anyone else!
And she seemed to have finally proved it. A whole squad to lead - it was begrudging recognition but it was recognition nonetheless. It was something that even Overwatch shouldn’t be able to deny.
And they still did.
Application after application.
Rejection after rejection.
Why? Had she not done enough? Had she not proven herself? No, she refused to believe it. She had worked herself down to the bone for this. She was enough, she knew she was enough.
Was it Jack? Had her mother said something to him? Respecting her wishes from beyond the grave… That absolutely sounded like the man her mother had joked about and that absolutely sounded like her mother, expressing her disapproval and meddling, even when she wasn’t physically around to stop her.
It was admirable, in some way. But more frustrating than anything else. Her mother haunted her enough in the night time, she didn’t need her lingering in her day job.
She persisted. Sending letters, knowing she’ll be let in eventually, they couldn’t deny her forever-
Until Overwatch collapsed.
Until being her mother’s daughter meant never being let into her what her mother built and watching it all crumble for her.
*
It felt so stupid, mourning Overwatch.
It was an organisation that had rejected her constantly, made her doubt her own ability and proficiency - she should resent everyone involved. She should be glad to see it crash and burn, go for vengeful drinks with friends. This was her mother’s final spectre.
But.
But.
It had been her dream. It had been the dream that had torn her away from her mother and her mother away from her. It had meant being unsure that she was correctly remembering her mother’s voice from right before she died. It had meant her heroes, her aspirations, her life goal. It had meant everything to her.
And just like that… it was over. Its shadow loomed over the world but it was just a shadow. There would be nothing new, no interaction, no response. It might as well be the mirror you look into for memories of your dead mother.
*
There was very little Fareeha wanted to do. Active duty had sent a thrill through her veins - but it had always been a build-up for the real thing. She felt like she was playing with the toy guns of her childhood.
Still, she continued, protecting people the best way she knew how.
That was when Helix reached out.
A security company, clearly doing its best to fill the gaping void that Overwatch had left. It wasn’t just Fareeha that had felt Overwatch’s collapse - the rest of the world wasn’t doing too well either.
Here, she found herself a whole new space. Not Amari but Pharah . Not just flying the skies but dancing in it, becoming intimately familiar with its patterns and hiding spots in her Raptora. It became a second skin and her squadron, a second family. She was not just her mother’s daughter with them-
But still, she would trace her face in the mirror and could never deny who she saw.
*
There was no way the letter was real. It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be real.
Her mother was dead.
This was a fucked up prank to play on someone. She didn’t deserve this. God when she would find out who did this-
But the handwriting… The way it spoke, undeniably the patterns of her mother…
But she was dead! There had been a funeral! She had cried for days!
They had never found a body.
No. No, no, no. It couldn’t be… her mother wouldn’t just let her mourn her for years. Not without saying anything. She wouldn’t just disappear-
There was a date and location to meet. That would settle this.
There was no way. It couldn’t be her.
It couldn’t be.
*
Fareeha had been able to trace herself in her mother’s face for as long as she could remember. She had done it as a child. She had shunned those features as a sulking teenager. She had accepted those looks far into being an adult. She knew it well.
She knew that face.
Ana Amari. No longer a ghost in the mirror to trace herself onto. Weathered and older but undeniably her face echoing another’s.
Daughter overlaid on mother, calling out to one each other.