Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Patience is a virtue," Peter quoted some film to Brian as the two watched the "No Walk" signal turn to "Walk." A crushed Styrofoam cup tumbled by, blown by a passing car that startled the boys and prompted a wave of nearby honks. Brian clutched his backpack closer, while Peter nonchalantly placed his hands in his pockets.

"So what do you think about Mrs. Delgado?" Peter asked once they found their way back onto the sidewalk. Brian's eyebrow quirked in confusion, prompting Peter to reiterate, "The new English teacher? She's nice, but I kind of preferred Mr. Alvarez."

Brian furrowed his brow, considering. "I don't know, she just doesn't...have it?" His gaze drifted to a girl in a pink hoodie sipping from a multicolored plastic cup. If the light hit it just right, the liquid would cast a stained glass effect.

"Brian?" Peter's voice pulled him back. "Yeah? Sorry, I zoned out for a sec."

"You're really out there today, man." Peter chuckled. "Maybe all that deep thinking is frying your brain."

Brian scoffed in mock offense. "Hey, at least I have hobbies beyond gaming and movie quotes."

"Touché." Peter grinned. "I forgive you for being a misunderstood intellectual."

Peter gestured toward a stairway leading up to the bullet train station. "That's me." Brian's smile faltered slightly. "I was thinking of studying for Mrs. Delgado's exam tonight. Maybe you could come over?"

Peter turned back reluctantly. "I actually have a date lined up. But hey, I could put in a good word if she has a friend?"

Raising his hands, Brian demurred. "Ah, no need. Good luck though, seriously."

As Peter ascended the stairs, he called over his shoulder, "Thanks, man. But you really should try talking to a girl yourself. Maybe get a date or two?"

Brian rubbed his chin contemplatively. "Not a bad idea, actually."

A suited businessman jostled Brian, prompting him to shuffle along the busy sidewalks. He wove through crowds of pedestrians engrossed in their phones, oblivious to the world around them. Gazing up at a massive billboard, Brian murmured, "I wonder if anyone really sees what's in front of them?"

His words seemed to drift off, unheard amid the bustling city sounds. Yet Brian felt a newfound sense of awareness, an inkling that a different perspective awaited if he opened his eyes to it.

A midnight black mannequin in a blue and white tutu caught Brian's eye, twirling gracefully like a ballerina on a digital billboard. "Coppelia," the caption read, listing an upcoming date and venue.

Smiling, Brian snapped a photo, filing away the aesthetically pleasing image before the advertisement cycled to an energy drink promotion. His observant blue eyes tracked a passing girl who crushed an empty can before tossing it into a nearby bin. With her cropped leather jacket and tousled brown hair, she exuded a... familiar vibe.

"Maybe she's in a band?" Brian mused. "Or just a rock fan who rides a motorcycle?"

He imagined the possibilities of her life story as she strode past, utterly unaware of his curious gaze. The momentary connection sparked his imagination before his attention inevitably drifted to the next passerby.

Seeing the light reflect off a stop sign, Brian's gaze lingered on an old man holding a child's hand as they crossed the street. The sun's glare on the man's bald head made it appear he wore a shining crown. Brian watched, transfixed by the tenderness in the simple act of their intertwined hands and quiet conversation.

He squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a soft "Hm." Pulling out his phone, he opened his contacts - "Dad, Peter, Tim" the only listings besides work. His thumb hovered over Peter's name as he began typing "So what's the friend's name?" but quickly backspaced. "How do I talk to-" he started again, then deleted it with a shake of his head. "I'll figure it out later. Dinner with dad tonight anyway."

Brian smiled wistfully, anticipating the momentary "distraction." But a nagging voice hissed in his mind, "Dad's just going to ask about college again." Pocketing his phone, he carried on, the city blocks blurring together until he found himself at their apartment door.

Their home was perched dozens of floors up, offering an enviable view of the skyline. Brian knew that later, from the west-facing balcony off his room, he could watch the sunset in uncommon tranquility. High above the cacophony, it was perhaps the only truly quiet vantage in the bustling city.

Brian moved through the apartment placing his keys on a table he removed his shoes and placed them near the door just like he always did.

Brian unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment's hushed stillness. Kicking off his shoes, he let his backpack slide off his shoulder and onto the floor with a muted thump.

He wandered through the open living area, pressing a fingertip and dragging it along the electric blue slider to brighten and reveal the panoramic city view outside the window. Rays of golden sunlight flooded in, casting long shadows that stretched across the hardwood floors.

In the kitchen, Brian retrieved a glass from the cabinet and filled it from the tap, taking a long pull of cool water. He leaned back against the counter, allowing the quiet to envelop him like an embrace after the kinetic energy of the streets.

His gaze drifted to the balcony off the living room. Sliding the door open, Brian stepped outside, greeted by a light breeze that tousled his hair. He settled into one of the patio chairs, crossing his ankles up on the railing as he watched the sun dip lower in the horizon.

This ritual of solitude and stillness became a reset, a way to decompress and align his frenetic thoughts after another overstimulating day. Brian closed his eyes, focused on the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat, and slowly released the tension from his shoulders

The tranquil moment was abruptly shattered by the shrill ring of Brian's phone, shattering the stillness like a pebble disrupting a placid pond.

He furrowed his brow as he fished the device from his pocket, the intrusive sound seeming to grate against his newfound serenity. Glancing at the caller ID, he inwardly sighed. Dad.

With a resigned tap, he accepted the call. "Hey, Dad."

"Brian, hey." His father's familiar voice crackled through the tiny speaker. "Listen, I'm stuck at the office. Another late one, I'm afraid."

Brian felt the tension he'd just released came creeping back into his shoulders. "Oh. Uh, okay."

A beat of silence passed before his dad continued in that too-familiar apologetic tone. "You know how it is. This deal we're working on is huge. But I'll definitely be home for dinner tomorrow, I promise."

"Yeah, yeah, no problem." Brian struggled to keep the disappointment from his voice as he stared out at the deepening hues of dusk overtaking the skyline.

"I'll make it up to you, okay?" His dad's voice took on that placating quality Brian recognized all too well. "Maybe we can do something fun this weekend before you head back to campus."

"Sure, Dad. Whatever." Brian rubbed his eyes, the moment's tranquility now utterly disrupted. "I'll just heat up some leftovers."

"That's my boy. I'll see you later tonight." The call disconnected with a sense of finality.

Pocketing his phone, Brian slowly rose from the patio chair, casting one last glance at the nascent evening shadows stretching long across the city. The magical stillness from moments before had evaporated.

"살기 위해 어쩔 수 없이 죽이기 위해 태어났어요!" The synthesized voice rang out as Brian scrolled through video after video. The same neon-haired anime avatar appeared in an endless loop - playing games, reacting to memes, shouting that odd battle cry.

He furrowed his brow as the Vtuber model once again took a sip from the same branded neon green soft drink that seemed to be ubiquitous in her content. Video after video, that can was ever-present like some low-key product placement.

Shaking his head, Brian was about to close the app when one particular thumbnail caught his eye - the Vtuber doing a realtime analysis of some classic martial arts movie fight scene. Curiosity piqued, he tapped play.

The video opened with the virtual avatar mimicking Bruce Lee's famous philosophical musings in that instantly recognizable synthetic voice. "...Being self-aware is not just a trendy idea. It's the taste of real life."

Then the fight sequence began, the unrelenting flurry of fists and feet slowing to a crawl as the Vtuber broke down every technical detail - weight distribution, angling, hip rotation. She called out openings, counters, feints and combinations as they happened.

"See how he buckles that front leg on the kick to borrow torque through the hips? Beautiful set up..." She gushed, clearly in her element as a true student of the craft.

Brian's lip curved into a small smile as the Vtuber's analysis grew more impassioned, her synthesized voice rising in intensity with each technical observation. To Peter or anyone else, watching an anime avatar meticulously break down fight choreography would likely seem an odd way to spend an evening.

But Brian found himself leaning in, hanging on her every enthusiastically shouted word. With each frame-by-frame breakdown, her sheer passion for the subject shone through the digital veneer. The excitement was palpable, transcending the virtual realm.

This was no mere vapid internet personality regurgitating shallow commentary. Brian recognized the hallmarks of a true student and practitioner, someone who had dedicated innumerable hours to mastering this craft. Her profound knowledge and appreciation for the nuances shattered assumptions.

As the video reached its climax, the Vtuber's avatar mirrored the onscreen fighter's motions with a series of crisp, precise forms, Brian could envision the real person behind the virtual mask - muscles coiled, movements honed through repetition bordering on obsession.

The faint beep of Brian's watch signaled 9:12 pm. He silenced the alarm with a press of the side button and padded into his bedroom, vigorously toweling off his damp blonde hair. He'd just emerged from a warm shower, now donning a blue shirt and grey shorts.

Brian crossed over to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city skyline. With a couple taps, he adjusted the smart-tint, allowing the myriad of glittering lights to blaze through the previously darkened glass. His gaze lifted to the waxing moon hanging like a silver coin amid a spattering of stars.

Struck by the tranquil beauty, Brian raised his phone and angled the camera upward, snapping a quick photo. He smiled faintly at the simple pleasure of capturing this moment.

A sudden shattering sound made him whip around. There on the balcony he'd occupied earlier, shards of the glass he'd left on the patio table were scattered across the floor. Brian's eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting, making out the unmistakable silhouette of the woman he'd noticed earlier that day - the one with the cropped leather jacket and wild brown hair.

But something was different now. A soft blue glow emanated from her chest, bathing her features in an ethereal light. As their eyes met, Brian felt a jolt of recognition spark through him like an electric pulse.

"You..." The word caught in his throat as memories came flooding back of that fateful day years ago when their paths had first crossed. Of the British woman who had heroically saved him and his little brother from the clutches of the Widowmaker.

"Tracer?" he finally managed, his voice a hushed rasp.

The woman tensed, turning away from him to face the city as if preparing to dash off into the night. Brian's heart stammered in his chest.

"Wait!" he blurted out. "It's...it's been a long time, right? Three...four years?"

Tracer didn't respond, but the taut lines of her shoulders betrayed her wariness.

"I think you remember me," Brian pressed on, his voice steadier now. "I...I punched Widowmaker to save you that day. You were out cold after she--" He stopped himself, not wanting to relive that traumatic memory.

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken history. Only the distant hum of traffic far below permeated the weighted stillness.

At last, Tracer turned back toward him, her brown eyes amplified by the soft blue glow, tinting them a warm amber hue. Brian's breath caught in his throat as he drank in every detail, amazed that his former hero now stood before him after all this time.

"Thank you," he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. "For what you did that day...for saving me and my brother." He paused, giving a small shake of his head. "And even after that... during the years when everything felt so hopeless, just knowing you were out there helping people...it gave me hope."

Tracer tilted her head quizzically. "For what?" she asked at last, her crisp British accent still so familiar.

Brian felt his eyes sting with the onset of grateful tears. "For being a real hero when we needed it most."

Tracer turned back towards the glittering cityscape, a wistful smile playing across her lips. "That's why I do this," she said, her melodic British lilt filling the silence.

Angling her body towards Brian once more, she cocked her head inquisitively. "So, can I ask you something?"

Brian nodded, matching her smile with one of his own. "Yeah, of course."

"What are you going to do now...that there's peace?"

The question seemed to punch the air from Brian's lungs. His smile faltered as their eyes locked, and in that moment, he glimpsed a profound sadness lying just beneath Tracer's warm exterior. Peter's teasing words echoed through his mind - "Maybe all that deep thinking is frying your brain."

He let out a heavy exhale, suddenly feeling like that naive kid from years ago. "Nothing, I guess. During the war, I thought things would never go back to normal. When you're in it, life doesn't seem to exist beyond that day. You just feel lucky to wake up the next."

Brian's gaze grew distant as the words tumbled out, unlocking something deep within. "Then imagine what it's like having to think about what's beyond the next ten years. It just doesn't feel real, you know?"

Blinking, he seemed to emerge from his reverie. "What about you? Did you have a victory party after it all ended?"

Tracer barked out a laugh, the unexpected snort startling them both into a shared peal of laughter. As it subsided, she launched into a rollicking story about an Australian friend launching an oversized firework rocket that "lit up the sky like a burning star."

Brian hung on every word, savoring the cathartic levity of this moment. With each animated gesture and mirthful chuckle from his childhood hero, he felt a profound sense of comfort and purpose wash over him.

The sound of a door opening behind him shattered the spell. Brian's watch beeped the hour - 10:30 pm.

"My dad," he murmured, turning back towards Tracer. But she had already risen from the patio chair and started towards the balcony's edge.

"Wait!" Brian called out. "You didn't answer my question. What are you doing now that there's peace?"

Tracer paused, her eyes locking with his in an endless moment. The sorrow he'd glimpsed earlier shone through, paradoxical to the sad smile playing across her lips. "Nothing," she finally answered, her voice small yet resolute.

Striding over, she gently tapped his shoulder with her fist. "Keep hope, kid."

Then, with two fingers raised in a jaunty salute toward her brow, Tracer murmured, "See you later, Brian."

A blinding azure flash bloomed outward, forcing Brian to shut his eyes against the brilliance. When he opened them again, the balcony stood empty, as if she'd been nothing more than a waking dream all along.

Brian turned his gaze back towards the patio chair where Tracer had been seated mere moments before. His eyes widened as the nearby table began emanating a soft, azure luminescence. The shards of shattered glass seemed to tremor, slowly levitating and reconstituting into their original crystalline form as if in reverse time.

Within seconds, the cup sat pristine and unbroken, bathed in that otherworldly sapphire aura. Tentatively, Brian reached out to grasp it, half expecting the delicate structure to disintegrate beneath his fingertips like a fleeting apparition.

But it was solid and real in his grip. He could feel the faintest warmth still clinging to the surface where Tracer's hand had been. Bringing the glass closer, Brian studied the cracks as they began to vanish.

This tangible remnant, this undeniable proof of what he'd just experienced, seemed to anchor him back to reality. Yet the memory of that chance reunion - of locking eyes with his childhood hero once more after all these years - still shimmered with an otherworldly, dreamlike joy.

Had he truly looked into the haunted eyes of the woman whose bravery and selfless heroism had pulled him back from the brink of despair during those dark times? Whose existence as a beacon of hope had given him the resilience and determination to keep moving forward, one step at a time?

The phantom impression of Tracer's tender salute lingered, the ghost of her parting farewell both profound and ephemeral: "Keep hope, kid."

"Brian?" His father's familiar voice shattered the reverie, pulling him back to the present. "What are you doing out here?"

Clutching the glass against his chest like a sacred relic, Brian slowly pivoted to face the open balcony door. A wistful smile played across his lips as he drank in the twinkling cityscape vista beyond, the canyons of steel and glass still vibrating with traces of Tracer's miraculous appearance.

"Something..." he finally murmured, his voice barely above a hushed whisper thick with profoundly awakened emotions. Giving the glow-kissed cup one last look of reverence, Brian turned and strode past his father into his bedroom. 

Chapter Text

Slivers of golden sunlight pried through the narrow gaps where the smart-tint didn't quite meet the windowsill, bathing Lena Oxton's bedroom in a soft, diffuse glow. The former Overwatch pilot and commander - a woman whose accolades and titles stretched into seeming infinity - groaned in frustration. Pulling the crisp white sheets up over her face, she squeezed her eyes shut like a petulant child refusing to be awoken for school.

The muffled staccato of heels clicking outside her door made Lena curse the thin walls. One exploratory eye cracked open, squinting against the morning rays. Her gaze fell upon the large Overwatch insignia poster hanging opposite the bed: "Carpe Diem - Seize the Day!"

Mei's gentle voice echoed through Lena's memory, that personal mantra and motto her friend had embodied with such heroic zeal. A pang of...something...longing? Regret? Tugged at Lena's chest.

Groaning again, she stretched her slender arms overhead, fingertips brushing against the headboard. In one fluid motion, she gripped the top sheet and flung it off, exposing the skintight orange bodysuit she typically wore during patrols.

The faint bite of cool air pebbled her exposed skin as Lena swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Reaching up, she snagged her zip-up jacket from the peg on the wall, pressing her nose into the soft lining and inhaling the comforting aroma of fabric softener and...ozone?

Yes, the ever-present electrostatic tinge of her accelerator clung to the fibers, an indelible reminder.

Crossing the plush bedroom carpet, Lena passed through the automatic bathroom door. She deftly peeled off the sweat-wicking undersuit, draping it over the hamper with a deft flick. Padding over to the main mirror, she leaned in, studying her reflection - the dusting of freckles across her cheeks, the messy tangle of brunette bedhead, the peculiar lack of fatigue rimming her warm brown eyes despite another seemingly sleepless night.

Unconsciously, Lena's fingers traced the teardrop-shaped gemstone resting in the pearl white metal necklace at the base of her throat. A series of hairline fractures webbed outward from its core, glinting with an azure luminescence that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

Her gaze drifted over to the shelf where her previous chronal accelerator rested, its round hollow chamber dull and inert compared to the pulsing glow of the smaller newer version which rested on her neck.

With a lingering look over her shoulder at the strange artifact hanging from her neck, Lena turned on the shower stream. Tendrils of steam began to unfurl as the bathroom filled with the invigorating fragrances of exotic soaps.

Stepping under the hot torrents, she closed her eyes and simply existed within that fleeting, quiet solitude. The mattress of heated water melted the lingering tension from her shoulders as Lena allowed her mind to go deliciously blank, unraveling the endless cyclical thoughts...for now.

Because she knew all too well, such peaceful moments never lasted. Sooner than she'd like, the world would come calling with all its insistent needs and demands.

But for these precious few minutes, Tracer could simply be Lena - just another young woman savoring the simple routines of a quiet morning before inevitably being propelled into the maelstrom once more. "how boring." Lena thought.

The gentle whistle of the electric kettle summoned Lena from her bedroom, bare feet padding across the hardwood floors of the open living area. She cinched her navy blue bathrobe tighter as the chill morning air raised goosebumps along her skin.

Grabbing her favorite mug from the dish rack, Lena prepared a steaming cup of bitter tea - a bracing shock to fully rouse her senses. She was just taking her first meditative sip when the staccato clicking of heels announced her roommate's arrival.

"Guten Morgan, Lena," Angela Ziegler's mellifluous voice carried a hint of quiet amusement, no doubt at Lena's trademark bedhead and drowsy squint.

"Good morning, Angela." Lena managed a warm smile over the rim of her mug, inhaling the reviving bergamot fragrance.

The former Overwatch medic looked impeccably put together as always in her signature pale blue turtleneck and white lab coat, golden hair pulled into a practical ponytail. Sliding a pair of black semi-rimmed glasses onto her elegant features, Angela peered at Lena with nurturing concern.

"So, what's your plan for today?" She moved to the counter, deftly snagging a piece of slightly stale toast from the breadbox. With meticulously groomed fingers, Angela spread a layer of grape jelly, taking a slow, considered bite.

Lena shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing in particular. Just the monthly lab tests, but I'm free after that."

"You should consider finding a hobby," Angela gently prodded. "Or perhaps get involved with an organization, meet new people outside our circles."

Pursing her lips, Lena contemplated this notion. "Maybe. I've been looking for something worthwhile, some purpose. As much as being Overwatch's liaison keeps me busy, it's...unfulfilling."

Her eyes strayed to the expansive window comprising one wall of their airy living space. Through the spotless glass, the balcony vista overlooked the glittering San Francisco skyline, a breathtaking panorama. And yet, the view prompted Lena's mind to wander back to her strange encounter the previous evening.

Angela let out a soft, considering hum. Moving closer, she tenderly brushed an errant lock of chestnut hair from Lena's brow, her deft fingers smoothing the limp strands into a semblance of the jaunty spiked coif her former student typically favored.

"I've always been driven to help others in any way I can," the medic said, a wistful lilt entering her melodic voice. "That's what led me to Overwatch in the first place. I know it's difficult adjusting to peacetime when combat was all you've ever known. But this..." Her sculpted features softened with a reassuring smile. "This is what we fought so hard for, Lena."

Those compassionate blue eyes bored into Lena's with a ferocious maternal intensity. "You are more than just a soldier. The world will always need heroes - people to keep inspiring hope and courage. But you've more than earned your happy ending."

Warmth blossomed in Lena's chest as she gazed upon her dearest mentor, the woman who had quite literally rebuilt her from the brink of oblivion all those years ago. Impulsively, she set her mug aside and pulled the startled but acquiescing Angela into a fierce embrace.

"You're right," Lena murmured, giving her a final affectionate squeeze before releasing her. She straightened, a renewed sense of determination squaring her slim shoulders. "I actually...met someone last night. Just a boy, really, but he was there during the museum incident a few years back. When I saved him and Winston." A faint, wistful smile played across her lips. "He seems to get it, y'know? The struggle of finding purpose and normalcy after everything."

Angela's eyes crinkled with a bemused grin, and for a moment Lena worried her former mentor had misinterpreted her meaning regarding this "boy" from last night's encounter.

"It might do you good to have a friend who understands what you've been through," Angela said carefully, "but isn't tied to Overwatch's legacy and can view you without...preconceptions."

Inclining her head, Lena considered this notion as she retrieved her tea. "Fair point. Oh, I was going to ask - did you maybe want to grab a late lunch after my tests today? Catch up properly, just the two of us?"

For a moment, barely perceptible, Angela hesitated. But then that dazzling smile blossomed once more as she nodded. "sure."

Lifting her mug in a half-toast, Lena managed a more impish grin. "Carpe Diem." Angela raised her half-finished piece of toast "Seize the day."

The sterile scent of disinfectant and undercurrent of ozone hung in the air of the pristine lab. Lena shifted on the exam table, the crisp paper covering crinkling beneath her as Dr. Courderoy reviewed the results with a affirming nod.

"Vitals show you're at the top of your form. No abnormalities, no issues - your bloodwork came back perfect." The matronly scientist offered Lena a warm smile. "You're pushin' thirty but got the vitals of someone half your age. Its extraordinary"

Taking the proffered clipboard, Lena skimmed the extensive stats and medical jargon without comprehending much beyond a general bill of health. She felt a flicker of pride that she hadn't even gained half a pound since hanging up her pulse pistols.

"Do you work out regularly, Ms. Oxton?" Dr. Courderoy asked, eyeing Lena's toned physique appraisingly.

Nights of tirelessly prowling San Fransisco's streets as a self-appointed vigilante immediately sprang to mind - logging endless miles in pursuit of common street crooks. "I run," Lena replied with a nonchalant shrug of slender shoulders.

But her grueling regimen was hardly recreational. Flashes of adrenaline-fueled confrontations, furiously chasing down purse snatchers and muggers through darkened alleys...it was all just an extension of the same endless conflict, albeit with lower stakes.

The doctor made a approving hum. "It's definitely paying off then. however..." She peered over her glasses. "I would advise getting a bit more sun and regular sleep. Your vitamin D levels are low."

Lena nodded, unsurprised. Her nocturnal schedule left little time for basking in daylight - rising at 8am only to depart for nightly patrols by 5pm and not return until dawn's first light.

"No worries, doc. I'll work on that," she assured Dr. Courderoy. Though the prospect of overhauling her life's current monotonous rhythms seemed...exhausting.

As Lena regathered her belongings, stepping off the exam table to grab her orange hoodie and slip on her converse with glasses fit with circular oversized orange lenses, she caught the incredulous stares of the lab techs. The very idea that this youthful, energetic bird was in fact the nearly 30-year-old government liaison to their formerly demonized Overwatch compatriots...well, it had to seem patently absurd.

The pungent tang of antiseptics and electrical ozone hung thick in the air as Lena slipped into the lab's pristine halls. Her converse shoes padded near-silently across the glossy white tile as she hugged the wall, watchful eyes fixed on the opaque glass door at the far end of the corridor.

1:45 on the dot - the door slid open with a hiss of hydraulics as a labcoat-clad researcher hurried out, already loosening his tie in anticipation of lunch. Lena seized the fleeting opportunity, spinning inside while the door was still ajar.

Her gaze immediately landed on the hulking apparatus dominating the secured chamber - two concentric rings encircling a central pillar from which an array of lasers and scanners bathed the unmistakable shape of the caduceus staff in a kaleidoscope of roving beams.

At the data terminal beside the staff's illuminated platform, a familiar mane of blonde hair finally came into view - Dr. Angela Ziegler, Lena's former mentor and colleague from Overwatch's glory days. Even from behind, Lena recognized the microscopic tics that betrayed the physician's intense focus: the unconscious worrying of her bottom lip, the restless bounce of her crossed ankle, shoulders squared with coiled tension.

Entire minutes stretched as Lena watched Angela's scrutinizing pale blue eyes furiously track each new stream of data populating the monitor. She held her breath as some percentage value in the bottom corner steadily climbed - 50...60...70...

At 82% Angela's rigid posture loosened just perceptibly, the anxious foot-tapping stilling. And when the numeric value struck 100% at last, her slender shoulders rounded in visible relief, the pent-up breath gusting outward.

"Angela?" Lena risked calling out, shattering the silence.

The blonde woman leapt nearly a foot in the air, whirling around with one hand clutching her clipboard like a talisman. "Lena! How...how did you get in here?" she sputtered, pale cheeks flushing crimson.

Striding further into the chamber, Lena affected a nonchalant shrug, gesturing back towards the access corridor. "Guy in the lab coat left for lunch right on schedule., I snuck in before the door closed"

Waving off Angela's sputtered rebuttals, she turned an admiring gaze towards the softly humming ring apparatus. "So you finally managed to rebuild it, eh? The staff from the old days?"

Angela's expression soured, brow furrowing as her shoulders squared like a prize fighter preparing for conflict. "Yes," she ground out from between gritted teeth. "After that snake Moira cornered me all those years ago and..." She swallowed hard, seeming to regain control over her emotional response. "She shattered the original caduceus prototype. But once the remaining components were recovered, I resolved to restore it, perhaps even mass produce the design so its biotic benefits can reach as many people as possible."

A familiar fire began rekindling in her arctic eyes, shoulders rising and falling with each impassioned breath. "No one should have to die or suffer simply because they lack access to adequate trauma care. These staffs could revolutionize medicine in the farthest flung corners of the globe if I can overcome the...manufacturing challenges."

As Angela ranted, pacing like a caged tiger in the confined space, Lena remained uncharacteristically silent and still. It had been far too long since she witnessed her former mentor's indomitable spirit in all its glory, that ferocious drive and empathy she channeled in the pursuit of safeguarding human life from oblivion at any cost.

It kindled an equally scorching feeling within Lena's core - not the mindless adrenaline of combat, but the deeper yearning for purpose, to once again direct her incredible gifts towards something meaningful. Something more than just fighting with street-level thugs or whittling away the sleepless nights as Overwatch's bureaucratic attaché.

She studied the humming caduceus staff, sensing the potential...no, the inevitability pivoting towards them like unstoppable forces of nature. This was merely the vanguard.

How long until the ramifications of Angela's remarkable achievement grew larger than one middle-aged woman could realistically control or corral?

"And then what?" The hushed question slipped out before Lena could reconsider it.

Angela halted mid-stride, her eyes sharpening focus upon Lena intensely. The accompanying smirk twisted her delicate lips in an expression equal part rueful and self-deprecating. "Then...I retire. I'm no spring chick anymore, Lena. I've been working long enough."

"we'll find something to work on together after right? You cant be telling me all about retirement after giving me an earful about how im spending my retirement." Lena joked and Angela sighed "Lunch?" she asked "lunch." Lena responded.

Lena's eyes lit up as she explained, "The whole point was that Gawain could have just tapped the Green Knight on the cheek and walked away. But he got caught up in trying to prove himself and chopped the guy's head off instead."

She took a sip of her smoothie before continuing. "When he returned a year later, he could've run away. But Gawain realized death was inevitable, whether from battle, old age, or any number of things. So in the end, he accepted his fate and made peace with owing the Green Knight his grim due."

Lena shrugged, a carefree grin spreading across her face. "I mean, the story was written 600 years ago - of course it's confusing to modern audiences."

Angela blinked, not expecting their casual chat about college to veer from Beowulf to strange anecdotes about medieval literature. But seeing Lena so at ease put a smile on her own lips.

She scanned their surroundings. Beyond the typical city smells of exhaust and greasy food wafting from a pizzeria, Angela noticed the floral fragrance of blooming cherry trees lining the street. A delivery boy on a hoverbike zoomed past, his blonde hair whipping in the wind.

Angela turned to say something to Lena, but her friend's gaze was fixed on a growing commotion up ahead. Without a word, Lena started pushing through the crowd, and Angela hurried to follow.

Shouts and the clang of metal filled the air as they neared the scuffle. An omnic with a large dent in its headpiece was wildly throwing punches at a man wielding a dented thermos like a club. The man grimaced as one blow landed solidly, but swung the thermos again, cracking against the omnic's head and dropping it to its knees.

"Such a troubling sight, mhuirnín. It seems you haven't quite achieved your goal yet."

The Scottish brogue of a familiar phantom cut through the clamor like discordant notes. Angela froze as the violence continued around her.

Lena struggled to push past the crowd. Stray arms brushed against Angela, light touches and incidental pats. But they brought a chilling reality to the phantom's words. Her breath caught in her throat, mind lurching back to the memory of icy hands trailing up her collarbone, nails like talons on flesh.

She squeezed her eyes shut, shoulders tense. The smell of exhaust choked her lungs until she coughed and gasped. Opening her eyes, she scanned the sea of faces. Brown irises had shifted to sickening shades of red and blue - hers.

Angela shoved her way out of the throng. Air flooded her lungs as she stumbled onto the sidewalk. She heard the meaty thud of fists striking soft flesh.

"Lena must be fighting." Angela sighed and sank onto a bench, trying to pull herself together.

The scent of pizza sauce wafted by. A bottle of water was thrust into her view. She followed the arm up to a blonde haired boy, blue eyes kind and uncertain as he averted his gaze.

"You looked like you needed this," he said.

With shaking fingers, Angela took the bottle. "Thank you."

The boy raked a hand through his tousled hair as his focus shifted to the crowd. "Thanks to you too, Mrs Ziegler."

She made a soft noise of acknowledgment as she gulped down the water. Its coolness helped settle her nerves.

"My brother broke his arm when he was ten. Without your biotic medicine, it could've gotten infected and..." His eyes glazed over for a moment, mind clearly revisiting an unpleasant memory, before shaking it off. "Just, thank you Mrs Zieglar. You did a lot"

Angela smiled faintly. "Just Miss Ziegler is fine."

The boy's cheeks flushed. "Sorry, Miss Ziegler."

She let out a small laugh, easing the tension. "I was just doing my duty."

Leaning forward with a warm look, Angela caught his eye. "I didn't catch your name."

The boy rubbed the back of his neck as his phone suddenly blared, pulling his attention. "Oh, um, it's..."

His words trailed off as his gaze dropped to the device in his hand. Eyes narrowing, "sorry I have to take this." he turned away to take the call.

Angela's eyes remained fixed on the boy's back as he took a phone call, likely from his boss at the pizza place. She took another sip of the refreshingly cool water, studying the logo on his bike.

The young man let out a long, weary sigh as he ended the call, his shoulders slumping. "Work troubles?" Angela asked, tucking a stray tuft of blonde hair behind her ear.

He turned back towards her. "Yeah, I have to make a delivery across town. My boss calls if I make any unplanned stops." His cheeks reddened slightly. "Anyway, I should get going. It was nice to meet you, Miss Ziegler."

"You too," Angela replied with a small wave as he mounted his hoverbike and sped off.

She leaned back on the park bench, resting her elbows on her knees as she watched him disappear into the flow of pedestrian traffic. A faint smile tugged at her lips. "He never gave me his name."

Her foot bounced with restless energy as she scanned the crowd, searching for any sign of Lena. The commotion seemed to have died down. "She's more than capable of handling a few street thugs, even without her chronal accelerator," Angela muttered under her breath.

Eyes drifting shut, she allowed the calming ambience to wash over her - the murmurs of conversation, chirping birds in the budding cherry trees, an occasional rush of air from passing hoverbikes. Lena's humorous anecdote about the medieval poem replayed in her mind. The warmth of the sun, the coolness of the bottled water, the fading adrenaline from the crowd's chaos - it all lulled Angela into a state of peaceful relaxation.

But it was fleeting. Within moments, the tranquility shattered as Moira's phantom voice echoed in her memory, that icy Scottish lilt piercing her subconscious like a frozen dagger.

Angela's breath quickened, the fine hairs on her arms standing on end. Her knuckles whitened as her fists clenched involuntarily, transported back to that dark, lifeless lab where Moira had stood in judgement. The smells of antiseptic and preserved specimens assaulted her nostrils. Rage, sorrow, guilt - they all swirled within Angela's gut as the disturbing memory took hold

Angela entered the dimly lit lab. Moira loomed over a small cage, her brow furrowed in concentration as she observed the lone mouse within. It scurried back and forth, pacing nervously across the bedding in its enclosure. An empty amber vial sat nearby.

"Moira, what are you working on?" Angela asked as she approached.

The red-haired scientist didn't turn right away. "I've been working on a type of gene therapy," she finally replied. With a slight twitch of her lips, she glanced over her shoulder at Angela. "Focusing on altering the hypothalamus of the brain to lower aggression."

Moira straightened her posture, facing Angela fully. A cold smile played across her sharp features. "I believe base instincts can be overridden. I'm attempting to edit the hypothalamus of mice to create an environment where territorial disputes are a non-factor." She spread her hands. "If it works at ebbing aggression even in highly territorial species, imagine the applications in human beings."

Angela tried to suppress a shiver as Moira's pale eyes bored into her. "I don't believe editing the genetic composition of human beings is something to treat so lightly, Moira," she said, her voice tinged with unease.

Moira's brow twitched in annoyance. "I am not treating it lightly, Angela. I am developing a cure."

Angela turned back to the small enclosure, mouth tightening into a grim line as she stared at the nervous mouse. "The human mind is not something to be overwritten and edited like...like programming."

"Like omnics, you mean?" Moira interjected.

She whirled back, eyes flashing. "Omnics are a fluke - something which exists outside the realm of evolution. They would not exist at all without human intervention. They are unnatural..." Her voice dropped, low and dangerous. "And from what I've seen, they are likely to be the death of our species if allowed to fester."

Angela paled, heart pounding. She shook her head slowly. "Omnics are sentient, Moira. I've seen it. Some do not wish death on humans, they simply wish to live and experience things as we do."

Moira grasped the empty syringe, dropping it into a nearby waste bin with a clatter. Her shoulders slumped wearily. "The omnics have merely learned from us - our literature, our speech, the very concept of rights. And now they are learning of our capacity for violence. They are winning our wars."

She sighed heavily and ran a hand through her disheveled hair. Some of the tension faded from her posture as she turned back to Angela, eyes softening. Closing the distance between them, she placed a firm but gentle hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "You lost family in the Crisis, just as I did. It was humans killing humans then. Today, it is humans killing omnics. Tomorrow if there is one for the human race it will be humans vs humans again." She gave Angela's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "But understand me, a mhuirnín. Your medical advancements, as brilliant as they are, will not solve these fundamental problems."

Angela flinched at the rare term of endearment from the normally aloof scientist. She pulled away from Moira's grasp, brow creasing with determination. "These problems are what make us human." she said, voice quiet. "As the ancient Greek said, 'Allow yourself to feel it, let the waters of rage flow with all the paper boats of forgiveness. But be human.'"

She met Moira's eyes levelly. "I'm building the Caduceus technology to create a world where violence doesn't need to happen - not because it can't, people have a right to stand up for their beliefs - but through dialogue, not weapons." She shook her head slowly. "I don't wish to take that choice from them."

Angela took a deep breath. "Please, Moira. Reconsider these experiments. I beg you."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and strode out of the lab, leaving Moira alone with the nervous sounds of the caged mouse pacing its small enclosure.

Chapter Text

Lena gave Angela a friendly wave. "I'll see you back at the apartment once we clear all this up!" she called out.

Angela nodded, squinting against the flashing lights of the police cruiser. A dull, pulsing ache was setting in behind her eyes, the beginning of a migraine. She shielded her face with one hand, trying to block out the strobing blue and red.

"Stay safe," she murmured.

As the cruiser pulled away with a blaring siren, Angela turned down the tree-lined boulevard toward her apartment. Golden beams of the setting sun filtered through the pale pink cherry blossoms overhead, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. Her heels clicked softly with each step.

The dull throbbing in her skull intensified with every squeak of the cruiser's tires and honk of traffic. Angela's brow creased, dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. Why did this keep happening? Her eyes squeezed shut, fingers pressing into her temples in a vain attempt to stave off the oncoming pain.

A gentle breeze rustled the cherry boughs, carrying the sweet scent of nectar. Angela paused, drawing in a slow, deep breath. She needed to get off the busy street and away from the stimuli overloading her senses.

Reaching into her coat pocket, she fished out her phone and sent a quick message to her assistant: "Taking the rest of the evening off. Please don't disturb unless it's urgent."

She hesitated for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen, before scrolling through her contacts list. Row after row of names strictly related to work or Overwatch operations - there was little else in this digital rolodex of hers. Frowning, Angela flicked up and down, unsure what she was searching for. Lena's number popped out, but her friend was likely tied up for hours with the authorities.

She kept scrolling until finally landing on the one number completely unaffiliated with her work. A small, wistful smile tugged at Angela's lips as she opened a new message.

"Hello, Hana. Are you free for dinner this evening? I could use a distraction from...everything."

Hitting send, she slid the phone back into her pocket and continued down the tranquil boulevard, the auburn sunlight filtering through the petals like stained glass. For a brief moment, the pounding in Angela's head receded, and her shoulders relaxed a fraction. She closed her eyes, allowing the gentle breeze to ruffle her hair and wrap her in the comforting embrace of night.

The warm glow of pink LEDs barely illuminated the dimly lit penthouse apartment. Hana stuck her head out from beneath a massive black desk, gilded metal glinting in the soft light. Computer cables and wires snaked around her like vines, tangling her limbs. She grimaced, meticulously pulling them free one by one.

"Tape p'yo-yo," she grumbled in Korean, sliding out from under the desk.

The thin, slick material of her jumpsuit whispered against the polished hardwood floor as Hana wormed her way out. She pressed her palms flat on the plush, bunny-shaped pink rug where her gaming chair rested. Pushing herself upright, she wobbled unsteadily, pins and needles prickling through her legs from sitting too long.

"Ah! Ah! Ah!" Hana huffed and stamped her feet, trying to restore blood flow.

Messy strands of her shoulder-length hair fell across her face. She swiped them back behind her ear with one hand while scooping up a stray extension cord with the other. Hana's dark eyes focused intently as she connected the three-pronged plug to a dock on her PC tower, the gentle whirring of fans filling the room.

A manic grin spread across her round features as the final cable clicked into place. Hana thrust her hands out triumphantly.

"It's alive!" she cackled, voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.

The LED lights pulsed in reaction, bathing the room in rapidly flickering waves of neon pink and deep violet. The colors rippled across Hana's pale skin as she basked in the electric luminescence,

"Bishi-bishi!" Hana's phone chimed from across the room. She dashed over, snatching it off the pink wireless charging dock with its cute bunny ear accents.

Pressing the side button, she pulled up the lock screen, her deft thumbs rapidly entering the passcode. Green and silver graphics flashed as the homescreen opened. "Mercy!" Hana exclaimed, sliding to a stop on the polished hardwood. Her bodysuit's sleek material offered little friction.

She studied the incoming message before glancing at her vtubing setup - a monitor with a webcam poised above it. Her digital avatar mirrored her movements in real-time as it established an internet connection.

Ping! Another notification. Hana typed a quick reply: "I can't right now but I'm free on Friday."

Dots bounced on Angela's side as the doctor typed a response. "Friday night? Sure. I've been thinking about getting pizza."

Hana's mouth watered at the thought. "I haven't had pizza in like a month. I'm definitely down," she messaged back before placing her phone down.

She brushed stray locks of shoulder-length hair behind her ear and took a deep breath, steadying herself. Pushing a button on her desk, she activated her mic. Hana threw her arms out wide, shouting, "Mwo il-iya?!"

She broke into an animated dance, grinning as her avatar copied her exaggerated movements. Hana plopped down into her gaming chair, spinning it in a frenzy as the chat exploded with thousands of heart emotes per second.

"What's up everyone?" she yelled, eyes sparkling. "Your bunny queen is back and ready to kick some ass!"

On screen, her avatar's eyes flashed crimson with simulated malice as a new first-person shooter booted up,

Hana looked over her avatar inside the game. A bubblegum pink katana with an electric green tip and a pink rifle of some kind slung over each shoulder—a large scope on the rifle's body had a crosshair in the shape of a punkish white rabbit. Grenades and flashbangs hung from a black belt wrapped tight around her character's waist. The skin she was using was an almost 1-to-1 recreation of her D.Va persona from her days fighting in the Omnic wars—pink armor plating made her look every bit the sci-fi hero, though her Meka mech was too complex to render in the game. She thought the outfit made her look like a battle-hardened cyborg. Hana shook her head, clearing doubts about her intimidating look before hitting "start." A neon logo flashed as the digital armory blinked out, replaced by the loading screen.

Hana glanced up from her monitors, the screens reflecting on her face. She stared out towards the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, peering beyond into the colorful nightscape of the city. This plush high rise gaming bungalow, nestled amongst Seoul's glittering skyscrapers, was bigger than some people's homes. Anime cutouts and plushies the size of couches were scattered around—artifacts of her elite mech-pilot celebrity in this post-crisis world. But the posh trappings felt hollow tonight. Half-finished energy drinks and empty snack wrappers lingered like ghosts in these cavernous gamer halls.

A chat ping snapped Hana out of her bout of isolation-induced melancholy. "Xx_BlueFist_xX just tipped 100 credits with the message: 'This is for you D.Va! Wish I was there!'" The animated "Dvalings" faces on stream broke into smiles and cheers. The rush of endorphins jolted her. Who needed IRL friends when she had millions online? She tuned out the silence in the room and tightened the headset, gripping the controller as she entered a new multiplayer battle arena.

Hana vaulted over a supply crate, using the momentum to slide into a tight crawl space. Pulling her pink katana off her back, she sliced at the ankle of an opposing player. A quick-time event flashed on screen. Hana smashed the right button, triggering her avatar to kick the enemy to the ground. Her katana flew into the air, skewering the fallen player with a satisfying slurp for +200 points toward a new weapon skin.

"That's what you get, loser!" Hana muttered under her breath in Korean.

A spray of gunfire erupted behind her. She ducked behind the metallic containers as smoke grenades clouded her position. Trying to tune out the taunts and calls of "spawn camper!" she slammed a new magazine into her rifle. Tightening her grip on the katana, Hana closed her eyes, letting the sounds of cargo footsteps echo. Judging their speed and distance, she calculated three lethal katana slices in the next two seconds.

Hana chucked a frag down the adjoining alley, driving her assailants together. Shards ripped through the space as their glowing footsteps approached. She pounced from behind cover, carving one soldier open. The butt of another's rifle crashed her health bar down by half. Glowing footsteps retreated around the corner.

Rifle raised, Hana glanced left then right, ready to take down her final target. But the countdown accelerated as the round neared sudden death. Scouring the arena, a neon green katana suddenly flashed at her feet. Blinding light filled her screen. Crackling steel sliced overhead as the counter hit zero. Hana froze, staring blankly at the frozen tableau of her avatar impaled by the glowing blade as the screen faded slowly to black.

The game faded away, replaced by a ravaged battlefield wasteland. Hana could almost smell the smoke and burning oil from shredded mechs and shattered omnic parts scattered across the torn earth.

A figure emerged, his silver mask dark and broken but the rest glowing green armor and cybernetics. one remaining eye fixed ahead from behind a cracked visor. He'd fought alongside Hana countless times before. His neon green blade carved through omnics with lethal precision to protect her mech as she provided air cover from above. They'd developed an almost shaky friendship over long months in the crisis.

Though one day his broken body had lain sprawled before her, medics working frantically to prevent the cyborg ninja from bleeding out. She remembered screaming soundlessly for him to hold on as they stabilized him enough for emergency evac.

Now the smoke parted and he dashed forward, intact and eye blazing. He leapt towards her mech, blade gleaming as it arced down swiftly not to attack - but to deflect incoming fire from above just in time. The scene froze on his face turned towards her as he defended her flank.

Hana blinked hard. She realized she was back in her gaming seat, hands numb from gripping the controls during her vivid flashback. Gradually the battlefield faded back into memory and she registered the firm present of the streaming room around her. She breathed deeply until her heart rate slowed,

Hana's brown eyes focused once more on the multiple glowing screens lying in front of her as she slowly returned to the present. Her chat log was flooded with increasingly concerned questions about her strange motionless period mid-stream. Trying to swallow, she realized her mouth had gone dry from hanging agape during the vivid flashback.

Her moderation team began flooding her private messages as well, asking if she was okay or needed assistance. Touching her face, Hana noticed lingering wetness on her cheeks. Her breathing grew more rapid and shallow as the full trauma of the memory washed over her again back in the safe gaming room. She clenched her eyes shut, forcing herself to inhale slowly, calming her runaway heart rate.

Hands still shivering like they had been submerged in ice, Hana's shaky fingers typed a quick message to her mods that she was fine, just needed a moment she closed the message with a smile emoji. She knew thousands were still watching her stream, expecting her smile and endless cheer. But the memory seemingly had drained her emotional energy completely. She couldn't summon the will to smile and go back to gaming as if nothing happened. At least not yet.

Over the next few minutes, she messaged her tight-knit mod squad to take over the stream temporarily. She promised she'd explain everything later. Right now, she just needed time alone to process.

Time melted away as Hana stood before the bathroom mirror, slim fingers running through her hair, massaging her scalp. Stress crept up her neck, seeking to smother her pounding heart. But she focused on her breathing, on the rise and fall of her chest, willing her body to stillness. She was D.Va: hero, entertainer, icon. The ghosts that haunted the other pilots would not consume her. She was the best of the best she wouldn't fall to what fell others. "Flow like water," she whispered, turning on the faucet and splashing the freezing water on her cheeks.

"Looks like you needed to cool off!" she declared with sudden brightness. The smile reached her eyes, making the marks on her cheeks rise. The stream was likely over now anyway. Nothing left but the wind-down.

Striding back into the gaming room, she wondered what Angela was up to lately. With a few clicks the screens powered down into rest mode. Silence flooded the vast chamber. At the marble-countered island, Hana grabbed a trash bag from under the sink. Crumpled cans, wrappers, and half-eaten plates were tossed inside one by one as she shuffled around straightening up.

"Clear space, clear mind," she repeated, gazing at her setup. The L-shaped desk stood alone in the room's center, elevated like an altar, surrounded by open floor on all sides. Plushies and posters covered the walls, gifts from fans over the years of streaming, but everything was kept back, leaving a sacred circle of space for her gear. She realized she didn't recognize most of the cartoon characters smiling down at her. The art was just background for her vlogs.

"Just got out of jail, wanna grab drinks?" Lena's message popped up, making Hana jump.

She quickly typed back. "Jail?? What happened?"

The bouncing dots taunted her before Lena's excuse appeared. "Got in a scrap, whooped both those wankers. Cops had a chat with me after."

Hana sighed aloud. "Here I thought they finally tossed your crazy butt in the looney bin."

"Not yet, luv! Can't lock up Miss Overwatch herself!"

That again. Hana flashed back to Lena's medal ceremony, when she got named "Overwatch Liaison to the UN" and everyone applauded. Those diplomatic immunity privileges definitely inflated Lena's head sometimes.

"I should petition to make Amélie Lacroix the Liaison instead," Hana threatened.

Lena's dot bounced indignantly before sending the tongue-out emoji. "Bleh! As if!"

Hana chewed her lip, wondering if she should ask... "Have either of you spoken to Amélie recently?"

"Nah, not since the Christmas bash, what five months back?"

"Almost six..." Hana trailed off. An uncomfortable quiet settled between them, millions of miles of empty space where words didn't need saying.

Hana glanced around at the walls of her silent streaming room, gaze landing on a group shot from that party of their old Overwatch squad. Amélie stood apart, looking away from the camera with a thousand-yard stare.

Hana took a breath. "You all should check on her sometime. She seemed...off that night."

"What, worried about the scary assassin?" Lena teased.

Hana rolled her eyes and lied, "No, but she's still reserve squad. It's good to keep tabs, just in case."

"sooo, drinks?" Lena asked again and Hana shook her head before realizing Lena couldn't see it.

"Not tonight. Had to end a stream early and...I'm just thinking of turning in."

A weighted pause before Lena spoke, quiet. "You saw him again, didn't you?"

Hana's body tensed, shoulders compressing inward. "I did."

Silence stretched between them like a taut wire. Finally, Lena offered, "You should talk to Amélie about it. She used to get those too, maybe she could help?"

Exhaling slowly, Hana dismissed it with forced lightness. "It's just the shakes, Lena. Everyone gets them sometimes. It's been a while, so at least they're going away."

"Right, that's the important part." Lena's tone turned gently encouraging. "Keep that chin up, it'll pass. Then maybe you can come out with us for drinks, yeah?"

"Oops, gotta run! I'll ring you later."

The line went dead abruptly. Hana wondered if the awkwardness had grown too much for her friend. She glanced around her cavernous apartment, enveloped in silence once more, the corners of her mouth tugging downward.

Why did it suddenly feel so empty in here?

Chapter Text

Brian leans against the steel railing of the fire escape, surrounded by lingering figures draped in fantastical glowing neon clothes. A small blue light orb spins lazily around his wrist before bouncing off seemingly nothing. A smirk curves his lips beneath the black motorcycle helmet.

"Ever wanted to be a hero?" he asks, turning to face the group.

A man in a red trenchcoat, his silver hair gleaming, scoffs. "What, like Overwatch?"

"Exactly."

The man shakes his head. "Respect what they did, but I'd chicken out in a real battle."

Brian's smirk fades as he mulls this over, removing one hand from the guardrail. "You know, I met an Overwatch member recently. Former member, I mean."

Another snicker ripples through the group. "Yeah, so did I when I was eleven. One came to school to lecture us on cyber safety."

Rolling his eyes, Brian presses on. "Not like that. This was different, more...personal. We talked about life and stuff."

The silver-haired man hops up to sit on the railing, back to the rain-soaked London skyline. "Lucky you. My dad says most of the old Overwatch crew are dead now. I bet you met one of the hot ones, eh?" He elbows Brian with a suggestive wink.

A flush creeps up Brian's cheeks as he shakes his head quickly. "We'd met before, but reconnecting recently...I dunno, they seemed to get me, you know? Like they'd been where I am."

His eyes narrow. "Since you chose this place, I can guess who it was. Did you get your answer?"

After a momentary hesitation, Brian nods firmly. Planting his hands on the railing, he vaults up to stand atop the thin metal beam, staring out over the city.

"I want to do something," he declares. "Chase a bigger purpose."

The trenchcoated man grins slyly. "Just don't get too caught up chasing girls, Bri."

Brian returns the smile. "Don't think I'll see her again to be honest."

With that, he steps off the railing. The ground rushes up—then stops abruptly as Brian begins to float, hovering a few feet above the concrete.

"Never say never," the man calls up with a wink.

Bobbing gently, Brian simply turns and drifts off, face tilted towards the setting sun.

Brian pulled off his black headset, placing it on the desk. Rising from his chair, he wiped away the marks left by the headset clasping against his face. He grabbed his phone and scrolled mindlessly through the news feed, not really searching for anything in particular. It had become an instinct.

Pulling on a jacket from the hook, Brian headed out. He snatched his wallet from the kitchen counter and stepped outside in a rush.

At the intersection, Brian slowed his pace to match an elderly couple crossing the road - a man with a cane and who Brian assumed was his wife. He offered them a smile before parting ways. The familiar aroma of sugar and dough wafted through the air.

The path transitioned from hard concrete to a soft, gravelly trail winding through ancient trees enveloping him in their embrace. The crisp air filled Brian with a sense of contentment as he followed the enticing scent.

Rounding a pond, he paused before an omnic statue raising its hand. The beautiful piece, standing tall above the tree line, imbued Brian with a feeling of determination - another piece of natural beauty.

He found the source of the aroma - a small tent with a camping oven and a pot of hot oil bubbling above it. The cook dropped in some dough, and Brian watched as metal tongs flipped the pastries until they turned a golden brown.

"Ciao," Brian greeted.

"Benvenuto," the man responded with a nod.

"Felice di vederti?" Brian asked, and the man shrugged with a small smile. "Could be better."

Switching to English, he explained, "I was late because a light was out at an intersection. Took forever to fix, so I got stuck in traffic."

Brian empathized, recalling how maddening traffic jams felt when he was working. "So you've got the day off?"

The man nodded. "Yeah, they're training someone new, so I've got some free time. Figured I could come here and get lost, you know?"

Understanding, Brian handed the man some cash and soon had his hands filled with sugar and honey-coated pastries. They waved farewell, and Brian continued down the cobblestone path. Sunlight filtered through the trees, casting an idle yellow glow over the park.

Brian searched for a break in the trees and hedges, finding a small, unbeaten footpath weaving through the natural surroundings. Stepping off the main trail, he followed it carefully, avoiding stray branches and vines that could trip him up.

A blue jay flits through the trees, and Brian raises his phone, leveling the camera at it. He snaps a quick picture, but when the image finishes processing, the bird is just a blurred streak of motion. Frowning, he looks back up, spotting the jay leaping to another tree.

Brian knows there's a small grove with a pond nearby and trails the azure-colored bird through the miniature forest. Crossing into the clearing, his eyes widen as a woman crouches near the pond, sprinkling seeds into the water. A brown crop top and familiar orange bodysuit make him pause.

"Tracer?" he calls out.

The woman jumps, blinking backwards across the pond. Brian's blue eyes meet her chocolate ones, immediately noticing the bags under his hero's eyes.

"Brian?" Tracer's grip tightens on the pulse pistols in her hands.

"He-llo?" Brian says awkwardly from the tree line, feeling her studying him. He wonders if this is what Peter meant.

Tracer lowers her pistols, letting them slip back into the magnetic holsters on her hips. Her hands drop to her sides as she lets out a groan. For a moment, Brian thinks he's interrupted something.

"I can go?" He gestures back towards the path.

Tracer shakes her head. "It's alright." She glances off towards the forest, clicking her tongue before moving away.

Before she can leave, Brian blurts out, "Are you -" He pauses. "Hungry?" Holding out the paper bag of pastries.

Tracer eyes the forest warily. "Bit odd to offer sweets to a woman with guns in the middle of the forest."

Brian shakes his head. "You're not a random woman, you're a hero." The words tumble out thoughtlessly, making Tracer sigh.

Brian sits near the edge of the pond, observing the cattails bristle in the breeze. Tracer stands, never sitting down as she eats half of the shared pastry. A stray glance goes her way - the bubbly, energetic star from photos and TV interviews seems worlds away from the lethargic woman fighting off nods.

Their eyes meet and Brian looks away. "Late night?"

Tracer waves a dismissive hand, mouth full of fried dough and sugar. Brian nods towards the water. "I saw on the news today, you stopped that fight in town. The official Overwatch liaison broke it up. There were videos of you. Thank you."

He pictures the footage - the liaison in an orange hoodie taking on a man twice her size and a steel-crushing omnic. "I know you do vigilante work. Not technically legal, but I'm glad you're doing it. It helps a lot, even if you're putting your life on the line."

Tracer studies his face, her piercing gaze making him squirm. She sighs and drops down beside him, crossing her legs. "Doesn't feel like it sometimes."

She pauses, expecting a response. Brian simply meets her eyes, beckoning her to continue.

"I fought for so long for humanity to survive. Fought omnics, then alongside them to help everyone. Thought if I worked hard enough, fighting would be something I could leave behind. But people and omnics are still warring over petty things."

Brian nods. "Seems tiring."

Tracer smiles wryly. "Nope." Leaning back on the grass, hands behind her head, she gazes skyward. "I love it. Love rushing into action, jumping walls, blinking across streets. It's amazing." A sigh. "Everything else that feels tiring that's what I'm worried about"

Brian eyes the blue bruise on her neck, then the azure sky. "So what do you think?"

Her direct gaze makes his eyes dart away. "I think you should be careful," he blurts. "A lot of people rely on you."

Tracer laughs. "Not exactly a safe profession, love."

Brian shakes his head. "I think you're cool, but please take care of yourself."

Hugging her knees, Tracer regards him. "You remind me of Angela, you know that?" Confusion knits his features.

"She's my best friend. A doctor who often tells me to be careful - it shows she cares, even if she seems more like my mom sometimes," Tracer explains with a small smile.

Brian mulls over being compared to someone's mother. Judging by the tired but genuine smile spreading across her face, he'll take it as a compliment.

"Do you ever want to go back to something you shouldn't?" he asks hesitantly.

Tracer tilts her head questioningly. "I'm not one for relationship advice."

"Not like that!" Brian rushes to clarify, making Tracer crack a grin as she waits for him to continue.

He pauses, eyes fixed on the pond's still water. "I don't want this to come out wrong, but...I miss what things were like during the war."

He keeps his gaze averted, not daring to look at Tracer's reaction. To his surprise, she responds with a tired nod of understanding.

"I get it," she says simply. "Been fighting for almost 15 years now. During the war, I was miserable - getting 2 hours of sleep a day if I was lucky. Spending time in battles, maybe a day of rest at most before the next one. On and on for years."

Her expression is pensive as she recalls those times. "But I met so many people. Had so many friends and saw more of the world in a week than most do in their lives. I never cared about being seen as a hero, more just being one."

Tracer shakes her head slowly. "No matter how much I acknowledge it was miserable, I still look back on it fondly."

Tracer nudges him gently with her elbow. "So what about you?"

Brian shakes his head. "It's kinda dumb."

"I probably won't remember this later, so..." Tracer shrugs, an open invitation for him to continue.

He considers for a moment before speaking. "During the war, my family stayed together because being separated meant having to fend for yourself. My parents fought a lot before, and I remember being forced to take my brother to the museum just to get away from their arguments."

His fist tightens around the paper bag as he recalls those memories. "Then we met, and then the war started. For a long time, they never said a word against each other. The entire war, they stuck together. When things got difficult, when there was no food, they figured it out as a team. We stayed a family."

Brian's jaw clenches. "But then the war ended, and it felt like the moment they had options, they ran as far away from each other as they could."

He looks at Tracer, frustration evident. "It's like everyone's a team player, but the second things get even slightly decent, it's back to being at each other's throats. I can't stand it."

"It's like they died anyway," Tracer finishes, a distant look of sympathy in her eyes for the boy's situation.

"So what are you going to do now?" she asks.

Brian shrugs. "Go to school I guess? Graduate and go out and do something important."

"Like what?"

Another shrug. "No idea."

Tracer laughs lightly. "I have no idea what I'm going to do either."

As she speaks, exhaustion seems to catch up with her. She leans against Brian's side, and he tenses, eyes forward, not daring to look at the hero resting on his shoulder. The blue jay that led him here sits watching from a nearby tree before taking flight.

Tracer's head rests heavily against him, her breathing deepening. After a momentary hesitation, Brian asks, "Hey, do you...want to get some coffee?"

He tries to sound nonchalant, but the slight waver in his tone betrays his nervousness. Tracer mumbles an assent. "In a little bit."

Brian looks back out over the pond, watching the light dance across the rippling surface. For now, he's content to stay in this peaceful moment, the weariness of the world held at bay, if just for a little while longer.

Chapter Text

Lena bounces impatiently on the balls of her feet, shoulders heavy with fatigue from lack of sleep. She purses her lips, grabbing her phone to check the time - 2:00 pm. The sound of approaching footsteps makes her turn quickly, startling the boy now standing before her.

Brian flinches at her sudden movement. Lena's gaze lingers perhaps a beat too long, taking in his navy blue t-shirt, denim pants, and beat-up white Converse. A royal blue zip-up hoodie hangs open over his shoulders. He struggles to meet her eyes, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

"Good afternoon?" His greeting lilts up like a question, voice tinged with obvious nervousness.

Lena offers a tired smile, a hint of her usual bright energy peeking through as she gives a small wave. "Hiya, Brian! Sorry 'bout that - think I might've scared you a bit." A soft laugh escapes her lips, trying to put them both at ease. "Was just zoning out waitin' on you is all."

The warm afternoon sun filters through the trees, casting dappled shadows that play across Brian's face. He blinks rapidly, seeming to shake off his initial surprise at her intensity. An apologetic look crosses his features.

"No worries, sorry I'm late," he replies, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Got caught up...well, just got caught up is all."

There's a momentary pause as he seems to consider something, worrying his lower lip briefly. Then his shoulders relax slightly as he meets her gaze properly. "Thanks for meeting me. Means a lot you'd take the time."

"Don't thank me, it's just nice to relax with someone," Lena says with a casual wave of her hand. "Plus, I think after our conversation earlier, I ought to repay you for the pastries."

Brian's face flushes red. "You didn't have to, Tracer."

She gives his shoulder a friendly pat, adjusting the fabric of his jacket. "Tracer to my enemies. Lena to my friends." She flashes him a warm smile. "So call me Lena."

The simple gesture and insistence on using her real name seems to put Brian more at ease. He returns her smile, a bit shyly at first, but it soon grows into a genuine grin.

"Lena it is, then." He lets the name linger on his tongue, as if testing how it feels.

In this quiet moment between the two of them, the weight of who she is - the famous Overwatch hero Tracer - seems to fall away. She's just Lena, a friend grabbing coffee with Brian.

The comfortable silence is broken as a trio of kids race past, chasing each other and shrieking with delight. Lena chuckles tiredly at their energy.

"Right then, where were you thinking for this coffee date?" She quirks an eyebrow teasingly at Brian. "Somewhere they've got the good stuff, I hope."

Brian felt himself shake as the sentence went over his head "I.. actually didn't expect you to say yes to this."

"Why's that?" she eyes him curiously.

He rubs the back of his neck again, a nervous tic. "You seemed really tired, and I wanted to talk more, but you were dozing off. I should let you rest, but..." Brian pauses, cheeks pinkening slightly. "I was really excited to see you again."

The earnest bluntness of his words makes Lena smile. She lets out a soft laugh, nudging his arm lightly. "Honesty is the best policy, and I did tell you I'd be happy to chat."

Brian returns her smile, the tension easing from his shoulders as they cross the street. Lena steps ahead of him to avoid a rushing line of pedestrians, and he can't help but notice her casual outfit - a bright orange tank top, waist-high black shorts, and white running shoes giving her the look of an off-duty track star.

He feels the warmth rising in his face again as Lena continues, "So I've been thinking of this coffee shop a few blocks from here. I usually go there with a friend - they make great teas."

Brian's eyes widen with interest. "Do you like tea?"

Lena turns back towards him, lowering her star-shaped orange sunglasses with a grin.

"Right."

As they move onto the sidewalk, Brian catches Lena gazing upwards towards a large billboard while he takes in the bustling surroundings. People watching has always been one of his habits, imagining the lives and stories of the strangers passing by. Lena, meanwhile, is utterly captivating - the vibrant orange of her outfit seeming to reflect the light like a miniature sun now walking among them.

"Have you ever eaten schnitzel?" she asks abruptly, body tilting towards him, hands clasped behind her back as they stroll.

Brian blinks at the random question. "No? I've always wanted to see why it was so popular though."

Lena nods sagely. "Had the same idea when I was younger. I had a friend from Germany and one day on vacation, they cooked some for me." She taps her lip thoughtfully. "Won't lie, it wasn't what I was expecting."

"What did you expect?" Brian asks, captivated by her exaggerated pause for dramatic effect.

"I expected something swanky, but it was just chicken with breadcrumbs!"

His brow furrows. "So it's just like fried chicken?"

"Exactly!" Lena throws her hands up in emphatic confirmation. "It's just fried chicken! And so I never understood why it's considered this 'weird foreign food'. It's literally just fried chicken."

As they continue down the sidewalk, Lena launches into a spirited recounting of other odd international dishes and culinary misconceptions she's encountered over the years. Brian listens raptly

Angela's gaze remains transfixed on the white-haired barista, the faded scar stretching across his face sending a jolt of painful recognition through her. Her shoulders tense, the mug hovering just below her parted lips.

But in a blink, the scar and hateful look disappear, replaced by the man's curious stare as he glances her way. Angela quickly raises her hand, waving him off before refocusing on her work, cheeks flushing slightly.

"Rinne sé iarracht riamh. Theip riamh." The familiar Irish quote barrels through her mind unbidden. She pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezed shut, trying to regain her composure. But the lack of sleep is taking its toll, making any hopes of productive work a losing battle.

The bright cafe surroundings suddenly feel overwhelming, the din of voices and clinking dishes grating on her frayed nerves. Letting out a weary sigh, Angela closes the laptop and begins packing up her things.

Her movements are sluggish, betraying her fatigue. As she slings her bookbag over one shoulder, she chances another glance towards the barista, but he's already turned away, busying himself with other tasks.

Angela worries her lower lip, a fleeting pang of...something...tugging at her. Regret? Relief? She can't pin it down through the mental haze of sleep deprivation.

Cradling her tepid mug of matcha, she makes her way towards the exit, the bell over the door tinkling cheerfully as she pushes through. Out on the sidewalk, she pauses to take a deep, steadying breath of fresh air, letting it fill her lungs.

Angela startles at the familiar voice calling her name. "Miss Ziegler?"

She turns to see a blonde head of ocean blue eyes she knows all too well. "Lena? What are you doing here?"

Her attention fully snaps to her former Overwatch teammate. Angela quickly tucks a stray tuft of blonde hair behind her ear, heart thudding in her chest as she tries to maintain her composure.

"I was going to grab a cuppa with my friend here," Lena replies, gaze shifting to indicate the young man beside her.

Angela's eyes meet Brian's, and she sees the same wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights look mirrored on his face. She blinks slowly, the fatigue weighing heavily, and for a disorienting moment, it seems his pupil shifts to a dark reddish hue. But when she focuses again, both eyes are their normal blue.

Shaking her head minutely, Angela straightens her shoulders, settling seamlessly into the calm, authoritative demeanor befitting Overwatch's former head of medical operations.

"Lena, is this the young man you were speaking of earlier?" Her tone is politely conversational, giving no outward hint of her frazzled inner state.

Lena, never one to be fazed, simply grins and throws an arm amiably around Brian's shoulders, pulling him in as she introduces them.

"Angela, this is my mate, Brian! Brian, Dr. Angela Ziegler - the best doctor in the world, probably the whole galaxy to be honest."

Despite Lena's energetic embellishment, there's an unmistakable fondness and respect in the way she speaks of Angela. For her part, the doctor offers Brian a warm professional smile, canted just slightly by the tiredness weighing on her.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Brian." Her handshake is firm but gentle, still radiating the compassionate bedside manner that no doubt reassured countless patients over the years.

She catches Lena's concerned gaze flit over her wan features, but the younger woman doesn't comment. Instead, she deftly shifts gears.

"Say, you simply MUST join us for coffee, Ang! This one here-" she gives Brian's shoulder a playful jostle "-was just telling me about this dish he's been working on. Could do with a bit of a bite myself, to be honest."

Lena's hopeful, cajoling tone leaves little room for argument. Angela huffs a small chuckle, acquiescing with a cant of her head.

"Well, I certainly can't say no to good company and a chance to get off my feet for a bit. Lead the way, you two."

Brian was led inside by Lena with Angela walking to his left "it is nice to see you again. And be formally introduced." The soft silk like tone of the Swiss woman's voice put Brian at ease "I wanted to talk more with you but duty calls." Brian trailed off "thank you for taking the moment to help me." Angela spoke quietly and Brian nodded "no worries." Angela blinked away the sight of the red pupil once again focusing intently on the boy.

"Angela, your order?" Lena's voice cuts through, finally drawing the doctor's rapt attention away from Brian.

Angela blinks slowly, as if surfacing from deep underwater. She turns to face the barista. "I...need a moment longer to think, please."

Her gaze slides briefly to Brian. "Brian?" There's a gentle prompting in her tone, as though coaxing a favored pupil to speak up.

Brian clears his throat, still flushed from Angela's uncomfortably intimate scrutiny. "A chai tea, please."

"One for me as well," Angela chimes in smoothly, giving Brian's arm an indulgent pat before reluctantly withdrawing her touch.

Lena's frown deepens almost imperceptibly as she watches the exchange. There's an unsettling intensity, an inappropriate intimacy in the way Angela dotes on this practical stranger. Her body language, the proprietary manner in which she seems to hold Brian's attention - it sets off faint alarm bells Lena can't quite define.

The trio receives their drinks and finds a small table by the window. Angela takes the seat next to Brian, while Lena sits across from him. Brian's blue eyes focus on the passersby outside until Angela breaks the comfortable quiet.

"So Lena told me you two met a few nights ago," she says, her palms leaving her paper cup of chai to envelop Brian's hands on the table.

The sudden intimate touch from one of his heroes makes Brian's cheeks flush crimson. "Thank you," she spoke leaving the boy caught off guard.

Angela's eyes crinkle warmly at the corners as she beams, seeming not to notice his discombobulation. "Just helping someone in need I'm sure." she soothes, giving his hands an indulgent squeeze.

Across the table, Lena's eyes remain fixed on Angela's face, a slight frown tugging at her lips as an unreadable chill prickles up her spine.

"Such a kind, thoughtful young man," Angela continues in that melodious, gently probing tone. Her thumbs brush over Brian's knuckles in a soothing caress as she leans in closer, fixing him with her full attentive focus.

"Lena mentioned your discussion the other night. About finding higher purpose, making sense of life's disappointments." Her head cants slightly, hazel eyes brimming with tender curiosity. "I must admit, I'm quite intrigued to hear more about the young man who's been such a big help."

There's an unmistakable grandiose admiration, an oddly proprietary fondness in the way she regards him. As if Brian is a uniquely special creature she's discovered - and her yearning to know every nuanced facet of his mind.

"We so often overlook the wisdom of youth in favor of age and experience," Angela murmurs, hand drifting across the table to soothe over Brian's forearm. The delicateness of her touch contrasts with the intensity of her attention, pinning him in place like a butterfly meticulously studied.

"But I find the younger generations have profound and invaluable perspectives to share, if only we take the time to truly listen." Her voice takes on a warm, urgent timbre, like one imploring a loved one to unburden their soul's deepest secrets without fear.

Lena's brow furrows as she watches this uncomfortably intimate display across the table. But she remains silent, lips pressed in a tight line as she scrutinizes her dear friend's ardent behavior with unease.

The café surroundings seem to blur and distort around Brian as Angela's relentless stream of questions washes over him. Her melodious voice probes insistently into the details of his life - his studies, hopes for the future, idle anecdotes.

Though something prickles with vague unease at the back of his mind, Brian finds himself helplessly caught up in the beautiful former heros attention. The words tumble from his lips in a rambling torrent, stories and private musings spilling out in a way that doesn't quite feel like his own voice, his own consciousness guiding them.

Across the table, Lena's frown deepens to a contracted wince as she watches. The fixation in Angela's body language, the inappropriate intimacy of her touch lightly trailing along Brian's arms...it sets off deafening alarms reverberating through Lena's skull, loud enough to induce vertigo.

"Brian?" Lena calls out, her melodic voice cutting through his conversation with Angela. Brian turns his head, her sunny disposition pulling him from his stupor. "Y-yes Lena?"

She flashes him a bright grin, though fatigue tugs at the edges. "You said you wanted to show me something in town. Think we can go check it out? Not sure how much longer I can last." Lena lets out an exaggerated yawn, her smile failing to mask the odd melancholy in her eyes.

Angela shoots Lena a peculiar look laced with subtle irritation. "We were just in the middle of something, Lena."

"I saw, but I'm afraid me and him are a bit pressed for time. So if you don't mind..." Lena rises fluidly, placing a hand on Brian's sleeve and gently tugging him up. He follows, giving Angela an awkward wave. "It was nice to see you again!"

As they exit the coffee shop, Lena exhales heavily, the weight of the meeting settling on her shoulders. They round the corner, out of eyesight before she speaks up. "So, you two have met?" Worry lines crease her brow.

Brian meets her piercing orange-tinted gaze, seeing stress and something deeper there. "While I was at work, I saw her pretty torn up about something. So I gave her some water, thinking maybe it would help. And then I thanked her."

"For what?" Lena prods, her slight irritation surfacing in her suspicious tone.

He falters, seeing no room for dishonesty with this woman who could probably break his spine like a twig. "My brother got really hurt during the war. Without her biotic machinery and nanites, he could have lost the arm."

Lena scans his face intently, searching for any hint of deception before sighing, hands on hips.

"She isn't usually like that with people," Lena says, a crease forming between her brows. "I wondered if maybe you two had some history."

Brian shrugs, running a hand through his hair. "I'm confused too. She seems really...affectionate?"

Lena shakes her head, chocolate brown locks swaying. "I've never seen her like that before. Be careful, won't you love?" She reaches up, placing a hand gently on his chin and tilting his face up to meet her knowing gaze. The intimate gesture surprises him, but there's a tenderness there that makes him feel butterflies.

She lets go and glances at her watch, the brief moment of wistful vulnerability overshadowed again by her plucky energy. "Lena?"

She turns back towards Brian, his nervousness palpable. Offering a reassuring smile, she makes an inquisitive "Hm?" noise.

"Can I..." He hesitates, cheeks pinking as he holds out his phone. "Can I have your number?"

A melodic laugh escapes her lips at his awkward but endearing request. "Sure."

Lena takes the phone, quickly adding her number and snapping a playful selfie, giving him a wink and stuck-out tongue for good measure. She knows this small, impulsive gesture will likely leave the boy wondering if he's in a dream.

Handing his phone back, she shoots him a warm smile. "Have a good day, okay?" Though her usual sunny disposition shines through, Brian catches a flicker of worry in her eyes before she turns and rejoins the crowd, bouncing off with a cheerful energy

Chapter Text

The cafeteria hummed with the clatter of trays and chatter of students as Peter ripped open a ketchup packet with a sharp tearing sound. Bright red condiment oozed out, and he methodically dragged the packet back and forth, smearing ketchup over the basket of golden-brown fries. Across the table, Brian idly prodded at his own lunch, the tines of his plastic fork pushing limp green beans around his tray.

"So let me get this straight." Peter punctuated the statement by scooping up a ketchup-drenched fry and popping it into his mouth. He chewed deliberately, eyeing Brian with a suspicious squint. "Tracer, the Overwatch hero, literally flies down onto your balcony. You two chat it up, then meet again at the park before going on some coffee date where Mercy just happens to show up?"

Brian's cheeks flushed, and he glanced around the bustling cafeteria, feeling exposed under his friend's scrutinizing gaze. "Keep it down!" he hissed, hunching his shoulders. "I know how it sounds, but I swear it happened just like that."

Surrendering with an open-handed gesture, he leaned in closer over the table's scratched surface. "Tracer gave me her number, and I don't know what to do."

Peter dragged another fry through the pool of ketchup, the red sauce clinging in thick streaks. He brought it to his lips, rubbing his chin thoughtfully before taking a bite. "Dad always says you gotta play it cool when a girl gives you her digits. Last thing you want is to come across as desperate or creepy by texting right away." He pointed the half-eaten fry at Brian. "Better to wait a day or two."

Nodding, Brian's gaze drifted off, his mind wandering despite the noisy lunchroom. "Yeah, but Tracer and Mercy?" He shook his head slowly. "They're not exactly normal girls. I mean, they could literally kill me without breaking a sweat."

"Exactly!" Peter smirked, slapping Brian's shoulder lightly and leaving a small ketchup-tinged handprint on the blue fabric. "Which is why I know you probably tell you have a raging crush on at least one of them." He raised an eyebrow mischievously. "C'mon man, spill. How you feel about Tracer?"

Sinking back into the hard plastic seat, Brian slipped his hands into his hoodie pocket, picking absently at a loose thread with his fingers. His mind drifted back to that electric night on the balcony, the image of Tracer illuminated against the moonlight. "She's just...incredible. Like a sun giving off this warm, vibrant glow." He cracked a smile, his cheeks pinking up slightly. "Talking with her is like sticking a fork in a light socket. One second, she's jetting around at a million miles an hour, telling these wild stories, and then she slows down and gets so...thoughtful. It's like she.. gets it, you know?"

A low whistle slipped through Peter's teeth. He polished off the last of his fries, draining his soda noisily through the straw. "I was gonna offer to hook you up with Sally Gianelli since her boyfriend's out of the picture. But sounds like your plate is full." He clapped Brian's shoulder again with his greasy palm. "Word of advice though? Dating an actual superhero isn't exactly like crushing on the hot TA in your Bio lab. She's a living legend, dude. I had Tracer stickers and action figures when I was a kid! If you manage to get anywhere with this girl, best be prepared for the sensory overload of a lifetime..."

Peter trailed off as Brian's eyes glazed over, his mind clearly somewhere else entirely. Peter rolled his eyes. "See? Zoning out already..." he teased under his breath. "So what's the verdict, lover boy? Level with me - this a full-blown crush situation?"

Pink crept higher onto Brian's cheeks as he remembered the flutter in his chest from when he'd first said Lena's name aloud. A faint grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "no.." he admitted quietly.

"Huh?" Peter questions, brow furrowing.

Brian leans over, cupping his hands on the table and squeezing until his knuckles turn white. His gaze grows distant as he thinks about Lena and Angela. "I don't know how to explain it, but I don't know them that well. I admire them, but it's like..." He trails off, worrying his lower lip between his teeth for a moment. "It's like they aren't real."

Peter runs a hand through his chocolate brown hair, the furrows in his brow deepening. "You think they're liars or assholes or something, secretly?"

Brian shakes his head slowly. "No, no. It's just like I'm only seeing the front of everything. I feel like I'm wearing a blindfold when I'm with them." He pauses, studying a crack in the tabletop. "It's like I can't think clearly."

As Brian speaks, images flash through his mind – Lena laughing over her donut, Angela's hair catching the sunlight as they spoke on the street. But the scenes feel flat, two-dimensional, as if he's observing them through a pane of glass.

An arm wraps around Brian's shoulders, and Peter brushes his knuckles against Brian's cheek in an imitation punch. "Don't think about it too much. Check the risks, you know?" A lopsided grin tugs at his lips. "Like, best case scenario? You're best friends with an Overwatch babe. Worst case? You have your spine broken by Tracer. I know people who'd pay for that."

Brian laughs wryly, the sound dry as fallen leaves. "I might have my spine broken either way." He glances down at his scuffed sneakers.

"Why?" Peter arches an inquisitive brow.

"Ange–" Brian catches himself. "Mercy was really weird when we met at that coffee shop. Over tea, she kept asking all these personal questions, and I must have zoned out or something because I found myself rambling."

Peter shakes his head, chestnut locks swaying. "Angela and Tracer are friends, right? Former Overwatch squadmates or something?"

"Yes?"

"Then she's probably just a bit suspicious of you, my guy." Peter sits, extending a hand in a 'do you understand?' gesture. "For all she knows, you're some clout-chasing bloke who just wants to get laid."

Frowning, Brian shakes his head. "I don't think so. She was oddly affectionate, kept touching my arm. And she was kinda...pushy?"

Peter nods knowingly. "Maybe she's one of those psycho girls."

"What?" Brian furrows his brow.

"You know, yandere or something?"

"I...don't think so?" Brian runs a hand through his tousled hair. "Maybe she was just tired or had too much coffee"

"I think you're just a chick magnet." Peter smirks, standing. "If they have any friends, slide me their number?"

Brian's face scrunches up, and Peter laughs. "I would do it for you..." He trails off, heading toward his next class.

Brian closes his locker door with a metallic clang. Glancing down, he pulls up the blue sleeve of his hoodie to check the time on his weathered watch face. At least thirty minutes until Peter gets out of class and they can walk home together or grab some food.

A ding from his phone catches his attention - a notification that the VTuber he watched earlier uploaded a new clip to YouTube. He makes a mental note to check it out later.

For now, Brian retrieves a tablet from his backpack and unlocks it with a practiced movement of his thumb. The search engine's bar blinks, prompting him to type. His fingers hover over the keys for a moment before tapping out: "Tracer Overwatch."

Leaning back against the lockers, he waits for the results to load, curious eyes scanning the screen.

"247, Lena Oxton is here to see you." The gloved hand of a prison guard presses an icon on a tablet, the small Overwatch symbol in white emblazoned with a number on his chestplate.

The sound of a massive figure rising from a bed reverberates through the cell, followed by the thud of heavy footsteps. A white-bearded man emerges, his towering frame filling the doorway as he comes face-to-face with the guard and the Overwatch Liaison. A booming laugh rumbles from deep within his barrel chest as his holocuffs unlock.

"Lena! It's been too long!" The man's voice is a thunderous bellow, yet warmth rings in his tone.

The Liaison returns his laughter, her slight form seeming dwarfed beside him. "It's only been a week, you big lug."

Reinhardt's arms engulf her in a crushing embrace as she calls out his name. "You've gotten taller!" he bellows, squeezing tighter before placing her back on the ground.

Lena smooths her rumpled attire, grinning up at the imposing former hero. "And you've gotten a bit stronger." Her gaze roams his physique, impressed by his combat-ready form.

Reinhardt's eyes crinkle at the corners. "A disciplined body is a disciplined mind, young bird."

Nodding, Lena glances around the dreary cell. "I guess so. Do you mind if we go to the courtyard? This place is a bit too dreary for me."

She looks to the guard, who gives a curt nod from behind his masked visage. "Not for long."

After returning the nod, Reinhardt places a hand on the guard's shoulder. "Herschliff, danke. Ich bringe dir ein Bier mit."

"Ja, Spaß haben," Herschliff replies with a slight incline of his head.

As Reinhardt and Lena depart towards the gate, she flashes her badge, prompting the guard to grant them access outside to a serene green field. Vibrant flowers surround a grey stone fountain, adorned with a statue – a familiar winged Overwatch hero holding a caduceus, the marble figure seeming to watch over them with a serene gaze.

Reinhardt pauses, his one eye opening wider as if a hint of worry crosses his weathered features. "What has become of Dr. Ziegler?"

Lena turns her gaze toward the serene statue, her expression a mix of emotions. "She's fine. Just delving into her work." Her voice trails off, leaving an unspoken weight hanging in the air.

Taking a seat on a bench, she waits for Reinhardt to join her, the man having to scrunch awkwardly due to his enormous height. "She's been focused on rebuilding her staff for a while now. But recently, she's been...complicated."

Reinhardt nods, his expression stern yet neutral. "Even after years, she has not spoken to me. Only letters and messages." A wistful look flickers across his face. "I am glad she has purpose."

Lena tips her head back, eyes fixed on the winged figure immortalized in marble. "I'm worried about her." Her brow furrows as she recounts, "I met this guy, and I went on a walk with him, and we ran into her, and she...changed." Glancing at Reinhardt, her nose scrunches in confusion. "She got weirdly clingy, like holding him and prying. Hard."

Reinhardt's gaze lifts to the statue, a contemplative silence stretching between them. "You remember what she was like after the war. She hasn't spoken to me since then." His voice lowers, heavy with some unspoken meaning. "She is intelligent, but her emotions...they will be the death of her. Maybe she was just making sure he had no ill intentions. It has been several years since you've dated anyone."

Lena shakes her head vehemently, a tinge of pink coloring her cheeks. "I don't like him like that. I barely know him. We just chat about things from time to time."

"Sonntaslgrüen," Reinhardt rumbles, the German word rolling off his tongue.

"What?" Lena arches an inquisitive brow.

A fond smile plays across Reinhardt's lips. "It's good to discuss your thoughts. Let them out."

He places a massive hand on her shoulder, his touch gentle despite his immense size. "You are retired. Go live your life and try to be happy."

Lena covers his hand with her own, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You shouldn't be in here. I could petition the board, ma-"

But Reinhardt cuts her off with a shake of his head, his expression resolute. "What's done is done. I have chosen my path. Let the world believe what they want." His gaze drifts to a tree, its branches bristling in the wind. "I would do anything to preserve this peace."

"So yeah, for two hours it's nothing but mildly surreal Hollywood stuff about some has-been actor. Then in the last five minutes, it turns into this movie about the bodyguard fighting a bunch of hippies with his dog. It's a weird movie, but I like it." Brian's gaze drifts towards a convenience store on the corner as he describes the old film his dad enjoys.

Peter arches a brow. "Wanna go back to your place and watch it?"

Nodding briefly, Brian agrees. "Sure, but let's grab some snacks first."

They veer towards the convenience store, the automatic doors hissing open to admit them. From the corner of his eye, Brian catches sight of a short girl in an oversized green and grey hoodie, a blue and orange baseball cap shading her face. Oversized black sunglasses and a mask obscure her features.

As she glances over at him, Brian's attention snaps forward to the array of drinks behind the glass-fronted coolers. "Yeah, just grab some sodas, man. I'll get the chips," Peter calls out.

Brian opens one of the cooler doors, his hand hovering over a green-labeled energy drink before grabbing it tentatively.

"Not a fan?" The muffled voice comes from the hooded girl beside him.

He shakes his head. "Not really. But a YouTuber I watch gets a cut whenever one of these is bought, so I might as well, you know?"

Studying the ingredients, Brian catches the girl tilting her head from the periphery of his vision. "Simp," she laughs, the sound light and melodic despite the teasing lilt.

A frown tugs at the corners of Brian's mouth, but he can't help the small smirk when her chuckle makes the mask shift, revealing flushed pink  triangle marked cheeks peeking out.

"I just think she's cool," he admits with a shrug. "Wish I could meet her."

The girl nods, pondering his words. "I don't like celebrities. Most of them are secretly jerks or weirdos." Pointing to a blue-labeled energy drink of the same brand, she advises, "That's a good flavor. The green one's trash."

After thanking the omnic cashier, she turns to exit, tossing Brian a casual two-fingered peace sign over her shoulder as the door whooshes shut behind her.

"It's like dying of thirst watching another man drown."

Brian startles, jumping back against the glass door as Peter's unexpected words cut through his contemplative silence. "Shit!" His heart pounds in his chest as he whips around to face his friend.

Peter's gaze lingers on the hooded figure exiting the convenience store, a bemused quirk to his brow. Turning to Brian, he shakes his head. "I have no idea what's up with you, man. But you gotta teach me this whole philosophy poet thing."

A confused crease forms between Brian's furrowed brows as he tries to parse Peter's words Brian runs a self-conscious hand through his tousled locks. "I, uh..." He falters, feeling oddly off-kilter. "I didn't even say anything, dude."

Peter smirks, amusement dancing in his warm brown eyes as he gives an inscrutable shrug. "Sometimes you don't have to, my man."

Chapter Text

Hana trudged into her "office", the thick carpet muffling her footsteps. She plopped a plastic bag brimming with snacks and drinks onto her desk with a crinkly rustle. Sinking into the plush chair, she plucked off her baseball cap, tossing it haphazardly onto the desk before giving her mouse a few impatient swishes across the pad to wake her computer from sleep mode.

As the monitor flickered to life, she queued up a new episode of her favorite show. The opening theme song had barely started when her phone dinged, the notification sound cutting through the stillness of the room. She snatched up the device, her thumb instinctively swiping to reveal the new text.

A groan slipped past her lips as she scanned the influx of theories and wild guesses about why her stream had abruptly ended – everything from medical emergencies to supposed FBI raids. Eyes rolling, she dragged a hand through her tousled hair as she opened screenshots from her team of moderators, brows furrowed.

Craving a caffeine jolt, she reached for an energy drink in the bag, nudging it with her knuckles. But the slim can teetered precariously before toppling over the desk's edge with a dull thud onto the carpet below.

"Ssibal!" The Korean curse tore from her lips as she snatched the dented can off the floor. Warily, she pulled the tab, tilting it forward with bated breath as she said a silent prayer it wouldn't explode into a fizzy, sticky mess of food coloring and caffeine.

The sickly green liquid glowed under the warm light, and a vivid flashback jolted through Hana's mind – the searing emerald glow of a dragonblade slicing towards her chest. She choked on her own saliva, lungs constricting as her heart stuttered and pounded against her ribcage in a frantic drumbeat. Her eyes squeezed shut as her ears began to ring. "물처럼 흐르다. 물처럼 흐르다" she repeated. The vision slowly fading from memory. 

The final tune of the credits began to roll, and Hana uncrossed her legs, sinking back into the plush chair. She exhaled slowly, attempting to push thoughts of the last few tumultuous days from her mind. "Nothing's going on," she reminded herself under her breath.

Her hand drifted to the pocket of her oversized hoodie, fingers wrapping around her phone. She tugged it free and began mindlessly scrolling through social media, glazing over the usual controversies and petty internet beefs between people she didn't care about.

Then a photo on the Instagram page for a local coffee shop caught her eye. It looked quaint and cozy. Her thumb hovered over the screen, about to take a screenshot, when a flash of bright orange made her pause.

There, seated at one of the rustic wooden tables, was the unmistakable coco brown hair and beaming smile of Lena Oxton. "Lena?" Hana mumbled, leaning in closer as if that could somehow clarify what she was seeing.

Sure enough, there was the pilot hero herself, casually sipping what looked like a steaming mug of coffee. But she wasn't alone. Across the table, a vaguely familiar boy made animated conversation, hands gesturing emphatically.

Hana's eyes widened as the realization struck her. "Wait..." She said the word aloud, her phone now raised up to her face as she studied the boy's features more intently. There was no mistaking those blue, the messy blonde hair. "The boy from the convenience store?"

"What the actual...?" She sputtered, at a loss for words as the image of Angela Ziegler caressing the face of the boy at the store came across her feed.

Hana nearly jumped out of her chair as her phone blasted to life, the ringtone shattering the stillness of her bedroom. Her heart stuttered as she glanced at the caller ID - Mercy.

With shaky hands, she swiped to answer, trying to steady her breathing. "Y-Yo, what's up?" She winced at how unconvincingly nonchalant she sounded.

"Hana, are you free tomorrow?" Angela's gentle voice held an urgency that brooked no argument.

"Uh, sure? I don't have a stream scheduled until Sunday, so tomorrow's open." Hana nibbled her bottom lip, unsure what prompted this sudden inquiry.

A slight pause before Angela continued. "Lena has acquired tickets for a theatre production tomorrow evening, and she's insisted we all attend. It's been too long since we've had personal time together as friends."

Hana felt her chest constrict with a subtle pressure, her pulse fluttering wildly beneath her skin. "I-I've never actually been to a play before..." She grasped at the flimsy excuse, anxiety prickling her nerves.

"Hana Song." Angela's tone shifted into that unmistakable stern, motherly timber that could make even the most battle-hardened soldier feel like a scolded child. "You know it's quite rude to refuse a generous gift."

"I'm not refusing!" Hana blurted, then grimaced. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. "I'll...I'll see what I can do, okay?"

A pointed silence stretched between them before Angela responded coolly. "I expect to see you there, young lady. And please, dress appropriately for the occasion."

The line clicked dead, and Hana slowly lowered the phone, staring at it with wide eyes. Her stomach twisted into knots as she recognized the events being set into motion.

Brian's Point Of View
 

Brian raises a pointed hand, and a menu of blue icons materializes, one pulsing red—the avatar of his friend. As the ringing chimes in his ears, he asks, "What's up?"

The man's voice crackles to life. "Hey, I just met this guy at Speedy's who claims he's the son of a former Overwatch agent. Join up with me."

A digital envelope appears in the virtual abyss. Brian stares at it, skeptical. A virtual nightclub hardly seems the ideal spot to encounter truthful strangers with good intentions. The neon lights of the nightclub's name beckon, but he imagines the thumping techno already pounding in his head.

Curiosity piqued, he slides open the envelope. His own avatar, donned in a sky-blue bomber jacket, materializes in the nightclub's booth, lined with intriguing black velvet textures. Brian takes in the dimly lit scene, electronic beats pulsing through the simulated space as random patrons mill about, drinking and laughing boisterously.

"Hey man!" a voice yells over the pounding techno, making Brian flinch at the sudden call. His friend "S"'s familiar silver hair and red jacket emerge from the flashing green and purple lights, prompting Brian to crack a smile.

The figure seated across from S that truly captures Brian's attention - a slim, blue-tinted robotic humanoid with a steel shine that seems to make the neon lights move through its phantom-like form. It sits with arms and legs outstretched, perfectly relaxed amidst the deafening club chaos.

"Drop SFX, this guy's the real deal!" S shouts, his voice barely audible.

Brian swishes his hands upward, sliding a virtual dial that instantaneously mutes the thumping techno beat. Suddenly, the gyrating crowd seems to dance wordlessly to silence, their movements taking on an eerie, disconnected quality.

"So you're into Overwatch stuff, right?" The man's voice booms through a digital filter, adding an artificial bass rumble that makes him sound like he's speaking through a fan.

Brian glances at S, who gestures toward the robotic figure. "You don't have to hide your accent," Brian states.

The robotic mask shows no emotion, but the comment seems to resonate. The being leans back for a moment before its head suddenly rises, as if jarred by Brian's words. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything, but you have a tinge to your accent," Brian clarifies, settling back into the digital couch.

After a tense pause, the man raises his hand, swiping it across his mask. The disguise burns away like smoldering paper to reveal a pair of glowing red eyes and a set of firmly pressed lips. "My name's Brian," the young man says, extending his hand.

"Lyudmila." The formerly masked stranger accepts the handshake, his piercing gaze locking with Brian's. As they release the grip, Lyudmila cracks a slight smile. "So what do you want to know?"

Brian glances sidelong at S, who seems preoccupied navigating menus. "S said you were the kid of an Overwatch agent."

Lyudmila sighs, shaking his head. "Former. My mother was a former agent." He snaps his fingers, and two glasses materialize on the table before them, filled with an amber liquid. "She was an original member but didn't come back for the war."

Brian raises an intrigued eyebrow. "A bunch of them retired after the war, right?"

"During the first Omnic Crisis, my grandfather was a cadet for the Raptora unit of Helix Security International." Lyudmila waves a hand dismissively. "Back then, they were an actual competitor to Overwatch."

Brian nods slowly, filing away this new information. "Raptora, like Pharah?"

"Exactly. Back then, they were paratroopers, jetpack units deployed to secure rural areas and capture territory." Lyudmila's synthetic eyes flare with intensity. "My grandfather was stationed in Moscow, helping the Russian defense forces take everything west of Arkhangelsk... Back then, due to Overwatch's ties with NATO, any help was off the table," Lyudmila explains, his synthetic voice carrying gravitas. "So while the first Omnic Crisis lasted maybe five years for the rest of the world, the Kremlin spent two decades clearing the subcontinent."

A chill runs down Brian's spine and he subtly shivers making Lyudmila smile.

"Eventually, they made their way to the omnium in Sakha," Lyudmila continues, "and deactivated it, bombing it until it was buried in rubble."

He takes a sip of the virtual drink. Brian follows suit, but immediately recoils as the simulated flavor assaults his senses - a foul, medicinal taste that seems to coat his tongue. Pushing past the unpleasant sensation, he refocuses on Lyudmila's words.

"At the end, my mom was born. Then, ten years later, the second crisis happened." There's a somber edge to Lyudmila's tone now. "At just fifteen years old, my mom began training for the Raptora unit, like my grandfather before her. She joined the fight, and four years later, when the second crisis ended, I was born."

"So how did your mother join Overwatch?" Brian asked, leaning forward slightly.

Lyudmila raised a hand, his expression serious. "Patience...after the Omnic Crisis, Overwatch remained as a global peacekeeping organization. But there was also Blackwatch." With a flick of his wrist, a hovering 3D image of the ominous black and white skull insignia materialized between them.

"Overwatch wasn't legally allowed by the U.N. to operate in countries that didn't agree to its supervision. Russia was one of those places. My mother had retired from Helix Security after they relocated to Cairo to guard the powerful AI Anubis. Then one day, a letter arrived with a job offer she couldn't refuse."

Lyudmila's eyes took on a conspiratorial glint as he dropped his voice low. "It was good money, and it allowed her to stay in Russia. The catch? She'd be operating as a covert spy for Overwatch within Russian borders, working for the underground Blackwatch division." He shrugged. "You've seen the news clips - you know what they eventually got busted for."

Brian nodded slowly, the pulsing nightclub beats seeming to fade as he listened with rapt attention.

"When Blackwatch was exposed, my mother was left with the remains of one of their contingency outposts, set up in case of another Omnic uprising." Lyudmila leaned in closer, his eyes boring into Brian's intensely. "Now imagine you're her. You have the power, the know-how, the drive to build a better world free from the shackles of corruption. What do you do?"

Brian's eyes widened as realization dawned. "She...took power?"

A slow smile spread across Lyudmila's features. "Precisely. She recruited former Helix agents across Russia. Thanks to the anti-Omnic defense program called the 'Blackwall' leaving the entire eastern region cut off from Moscow's control, they were able to operate unfettered."

He drained the last of his drink, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "By the time the Russian Defense Force declared its independence from the Federation with help from NATO weapons, it was too late. The RDF, with my mother at the helm, controlled everything east of Krasnoyarsk. The first priority?" His gaze hardened like steel. "The complete destruction of every last Omnic threat to Russian soil, by any means necessary..."

"so what happened?" Brian asked.

Lyudmila's crimson eyes flared with barely contained rage. "Overwatch happened." He spat the name out like a curse.

Brian's brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Without regard for borders, for sovereignty, for the good of the Russian people - Reinhardt led an Overwatch strike team into RDF territory." Lyudmila's fists clenched, knuckles whitening. "They laid siege to Benioff and killed my mother."

Brian's eyes widened, and he shook his head slowly. "Why? Why would they do that?"

A mirthless chuckle slipped from Lyudmila's lips. "Because the members of Overwatch are corrupt to their core. My mother was a hero, trying to save an entire continent, and because there was suspicion of her former Blackwatch ties, she was judged and condemned without trial."

He leaned in closer, his words laced with venom. "For the crime of serving her country when it needed her most, she was thrown away like garbage by the very people who once came to her begging for her help."

Brian's head swam as he tried to process it all. "I...I don't believe this."

Lyudmila scoffed loudly. "It's the truth, comrade. Think about it - look at Overwatch's vaunted heroes. Jack Morrison wanted to create a world of peace and prosperity for all. And what did the great Reinhardt do to further that noble goal?"

In one forceful motion, Lyudmila grabbed the front of Brian's shirt, dragging him so close their noses nearly touched. His eyes bored into Brian's intensely.

"He killed Morrison. The hero murdered his own commander without a second thought."

Chapter Text

A crisp breeze cut through the dry city heat, rustling Brian's golden hair as it swirled down the street. He sat motionless on the outdoor café patio, his blue eyes glazed over and unfocused as he stared unseeingly up at the baby blue sky.

Deep in thought, his fingers coiled loosely around a perspiring glass of ice water. Condensation beaded down the sides, forming a cool ring on the metal table beneath it. Brian paid no mind to the occasional droplet that broke free and trickled over his knuckles.

He remained perfectly still, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. The cacophony of pedestrian chatter, roaring engines, and distant construction clangs faded into a dull white noise.

Only when the ice cubes gave a subtle crackling shift in the dwindling water did Brian's gaze flick down. He blinked once, slowly, before raising the glass and Taking a long, languid sip of the chilled liquid. It soothed his parched throat as it trickled down, momentarily bringing him back to reality.

his thumb hovered indecisively over his phone screen, the bright display reflecting in his blue eyes. Lyudmila's contact information burned conspicuously under the harsh sunlight – a lingering reminder of the previous nights conversation.

A muscle ticked in his jaw as he warred internally, Before he could make up his mind, his thumb slipped, swiping upwards and switching to his contacts list.

Brian exhaled slowly through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut in a brief moment of frustration. When they reopened, his gaze immediately landed on the contact photo for Lena Oxton - her bright orange-tinted glasses and beaming smile practically glowing against the dark backdrop of his phone screen.

He jolted upright, his free hand swiping the air in panic as he rapidly dismissed the image as if burned. His phone clattered loudly against the metal tabletop, the blank screen flickering.

"Two or three days?" Brian muttered under his breath, his brow furrowing thoughtfully.

How long had it been since that morning of donuts and coffee with the effervescent Overwatch pilot on the park bench? The memory sparked a warmth that bloomed in his chest.

Even as his hand rose instinctively to wave the thought away, Brian found himself pondering aloud - "Was it...was that a date?"

The familiar rhythmic tap of leather soles on tile announced his father's arrival before Brian even looked up. His gaze flickered toward the open balcony door as the man strode through, necktie already loosened and the top buttons of his crisp ivory dress shirt undone. He moved with the casual, relaxed air of someone finally home after a long day's work.

Without preamble, Brian's father dropped into the patio chair beside him with a contented sigh, letting his head loll back against the cushion as a series of small pops emanated from his back. "Ah, that's better," he hummed, seemingly boneless now in his reclined position.

One eyelid cracked open, a salt-and-pepper eyebrow quirking upwards as he studied his son's pensive expression. "Girl problems?"

Brian's lips pulled into a tight frown, and he gave a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders. "Kind of. I'm...not really sure."

A knowing chuckle rumbled from his father's chest as he took a swig from a perspiring water bottle. "So what's the score, son?"

"There's nothing, really." Brian raked a hand through his hair with a mirthless chuckle. "A girl gave me her number, and—"

"Please tell me you waited a few days before calling her?," his father interjected, already shaking his head in playful admonishment.

Brian's frown deepened. "Not intentionally. I've just been...busy. And I learned some things that make me wonder if she's not who I thought she was."

The jovial spark in his father's eyes dimmed somewhat as his expression sobered. He gave a slow, measured nod, taking another pull from the water bottle. When he spoke again, his voice was low and considerate. "And so you're wondering if you should even bother texting her at all?"

A heavy sigh slipped from Brian's lips as he dragged his palm along the back of his neck. "Pretty much, yeah. What do you think I should do?"

That salt-and-pepper eyebrow inched higher. "Well, first tell me about her. What do you think of her so far?"

Heat immediately blossomed high on Brian's cheeks as his shoulders rolled in an awkward shrug. "I think she's...amazing. Incredibly kind, thoughtful, always looking out for others. And just..." His eyes drifted skyward, falling half-lidded as he conjured her vibrant image in his mind's eye. "Like a star - this radiant, beautiful thing you can't look away from."

His father watched him carefully for a beat before giving another solemn nod. "That's all that really matters in the end. If you genuinely like her and want to get to know her better, don't let rumors or speculation get in the way." He reached over, clasping Brian's shoulder firmly. "Meet with her again, and figure things out for yourself. If she really is hiding something, at least you'll know the truth. But don't let yourself get blinded by her 'star' quality, understand?"

Brian felt himself unconsciously leaning into the paternal strength of the touch and nodded slowly in agreement. His father's hand retreated into the pocket of his slacks, rummaging around briefly before withdrawing three slips of paper.

"Listen, my boss scored these tickets to a play in town - some fancy theatre production that's been all over the billboards recently." He held them out with a persuasive lilt to his tone. "I know you've always been interested in that artsy stuff. Could you do me a favor and go check it out? Give me your old man's take on it?"

Brian's eyes scanned over the elegant script printed on the ticket stubs - Coppélia. The name was indeed quite familiar around their city's arts scene. He allowed himself a small smile as he reached out to accept them with a nod. "Sure, Dad. I can do that."

 ++++++++++++++++++++++++

 Amelie's Point Of View

 ++++++++++++++++++++++++

 A dancer glided silently across the polished wooden stage, each step precise and practiced to perfection. The lithe dancer spun and twisted, the layered folds of her pure white dress flaring out like the delicate petals of a blossoming flower.

Every movement flowed with the effortless grace of a master at their craft. Balanced en pointe, she extended both arms overhead, fingers splaying elegantly as she executed a series of controlled, breathtaking turns. Her raven locks, tightly woven into a long braid, whipped out behind her like a silken streamer caught in a wild wind.

The harsh stage lights cast her pale, porcelain skin in an almost ethereal glow, lending an air of otherworldly beauty. But it was the calm expression on her face that truly entranced - eyes closed, lips slightly parted, completely attuned to the strains of music well practiced.

With a final pirouette, Amelie leaps across the wooden stage, landing with precision. Her arms spread outward to retain perfect balance. "Bravo! Bravo!" A young woman's voice echoes through the grand empty theater.

Amelie's eyes dart towards the suited figure waiting in the seats. "Mrs. Hollings."

Stepping off the stage, she moves towards the grinning woman. "I told you, call me Chloe." She rises, flattening her dark grey pencil skirt before extending a hand which Amelie takes.

"Today is the performance, right?" Amelie nods, a languid escaping her lips. Chloe watches the rise and fall of the dancer's chest quicken slightly. "Feeling pre-show jitters?"

Amelie's gaze drops to Chloe's shoulders as she considers the question. "I feel...nervous," she admits after a pause.

"I understand." Chloe offers a polite smile behind her thick-rimmed glasses. "How many days since our last session?"

"Fifty-three."

"Sharp as always." From behind the curtain, a cluster of performers in peach ballet dresses emerges onto the stage.

"Miss Director?" one calls out. "Shall we begin rehearsal?"

Turning back to Chloe, Amelie raises a hand gesturing towards the wings. "Could we move backstage, Miss Chloe?"

With a wave of her hand, Chloe follows Amelie's purposeful stride in her black heels. Boxes crates and set pieces painted and meticulously produced by the workers. ducking beneath a sandbag which hung overhead. Chloe spoke up "Coppelia, right?" she asks. "The summer ballet?"

Amelie nods, a wistful look crossing her delicate features. "Back home, it coincided with a festival. Every year my grandfather played Dr. Coppélius, and when I turned sixteen, I played Swanhilda - the female lead."

Her gaze drifts to a brown felt top hat resting on a nearby mannequin, eyes growing hazy with nostalgia. A small, fond smile curves her lips as she reminisces.

Chloe can't help but mirror the expression, touched by the glimpse into Amelie's memories. The usual poise and control she exudes seems to soften for just a moment.

"I played Swanhilda for the rest of my time at the Chateau," Amelie continues after a pregnant pause. "It is...a fond memory."

Her tone takes on a melancholic lilt that plucks at something deep within Chloe. She imagines a young Amelie, gracefully spinning across the stage in her hometown's quaint festival. A faint empathetic smile appeared on her face.

"Do you plan to stay for the show?" Amelie asks, a hopeful gleam in her hazel eyes piercing through the reverie. "I've cleared my night for this. I've even secured a reservation at a local place if you wish to have dinner." Chloe responds.

"We shall see," Amelie replies, measuring her words carefully. "I have to attend to some errands before the show, but..." Chloe pauses, holding Amelie's gaze. Before the ballerina cuts the silence "I have a ticket for you. It's a box seat, but I'm afraid you'll have to share."

A small, grateful smile edges across Chloes lips. "Merci"

 ++++++++++++++++++++++++

 Brian's Point Of View

 ++++++++++++++++++++++++

Brian's fingers crawl up his shirt, jumping button to button as he closes the pearl white fabric. Reaching for the deck chair, he fetches the black wool suit jacket and slides his arms through the sleeves, letting out a sigh. Tired blue eyes and messy blond hair stare back at him from the mirror - the image of a man dressed for business.

His elbow finds the wall, and he leans against it, cracking an artificial smile. "I need to return some videotapes," he mutters aloud to no one in particular. With a quick shrug of his shoulders, Brian shuffles toward the pair of black leather shoes, sliding them on. Turning back to the mirror, he raises his arms, letting the jacket's shoulders and sleeves slip into place like a tailored glove.

"Dad's suits fit me now. I'm getting old," Brian notes wryly, taking in his polished yet weary appearance. He opens the bedroom door and walks into the living room where his father sits on the couch, dressed in a shirt and pajama pants.

"It's like looking into a mirror," his dad remarks, giving Brian an appraising once-over. "No tie?"

Brian raises his hands in a surrendering gesture. "It's not my thing, dad."

His father shakes his head with a resigned chuckle. "Have fun, and don't do anything stupid."

Brian nods, grabbing his keys before moving toward the door. He pulls his wallet from his pocket, tucking it into the suit jacket's inner breast pocket with a deft pat. "I'll be back," he announces, lifting a hand in a brief wave goodbye. The door closes behind him with a hollow thud.

Tuxedoed men with young women clinging to their arms flow past, but Brian's pensive blue eyes linger on the rich dark woodwork and plush red velvet carpet instead of the patrons themselves. An unsettling familiarity draws his gaze to a blonde ponytail for a moment before he shakes his shaggy blonde hair, ushering himself toward the glass booth.

Presenting his ticket to the omnic attendant adorned in red and gold regalia, Brian can't help overthinking the theaters designed wondering about the artisans from decades before pouring their souls into each intricate detail.

"Your box is on the third floor, sir," the omnic's mechanized voice snaps Brian's wandering mind back. 

Brian's eyebrows furrow as he processes the attendant's words. "Box?"

The omnic gestures a metallic hand toward the grand spiral staircase, and realization dawns on the boys face. Of course - a private box seat. He nods awkwardly and picks up his pace, leather shoes scuffing against the plush carpet.

As he ascends, the hum of conversations and clinking glassware grows louder, setting an atmosphere that makes him nervous. Well-dressed men in tailored tuxedos line the stairwell, while the occasional young woman in an elegant gown cuts her eyes his way. He averts his gaze shyly, fixating on the steps ahead.

The clipped ticket feels tight in Brian's grasp as he follows the directions to a dark wooden door with "3" painted on the front. He sucks in a deep breath, steadying himself before grasping the ornate knob and pulling it open.

The lavish booth inside commands his attention immediately. A bottle of champagne and a charcuterie board lay untouched on a small, intricately carved table - except for the woman in her early 30s already picking at the spread. Her mouth falls open mid-chew as the door clicks shut behind Brian.

"Hello?" She manages around the mouthful, hazel eyes studying him curiously.

Brian offers an awkward little wave, feeling his cheeks flush. "Hi," he replies, his voice soft yet carrying an undercurrent of squeamish nervousness.

His observant gaze sweeps over the lush surroundings - plush velvet seats, gilded moldings, the shadows dancing from the soft lighting. It's overwhelming for someone so accustomed to finding beauty in life's simplest pleasures.

"So you're the...boothmate?" He ventures, the term feeling clumsy on his tongue as he meets her arched eyebrow.

Digging the ticket from his pocket, Brian rushes to explain, "I'm not sure I'm in the right place, the tickets were a gift. I didn't expect to have to..." He trails off, embarrassment tinting his cheeks.

"Dad..." Brian murmurs under his breath, a flash of understanding crossing his tired features. "Of course."

The woman looks briefly confused before Brian continues, his words tumbling out in a long-winded ramble. "Yeah, they were a gift from my father. I wanted to go, but the tickets were...well-"

He doesn't finish the thought, but the woman's knowing nod indicates she grasps the subtext. A understanding passes between them.

"I get it," she replies. "Mine was a gift too - one of my friends is a dancer, so I got one for free. Definitely not the usual splurge."

An awkward silence stretches between them, both seeming to appraise the other and finding unlikely kinship. Brian finally sticks out his hand, quirking a lopsided smile.

"It's nice to meet you...?" He trails off, leaving room for her name.

"Hollings. Chloe Hollings," the woman replies with a warm smile, shaking Brian's proffered hand.

"Wiser. Brian Wiser." His lips quirk up in a lopsided grin, the nervous tension easing slightly between them.

Turning his gaze outward, Brian takes in the opulent balcony view of the lavish stage below. Heavy scarlet curtains are drawn closed for now, but his mind begins whirring.

"It's like being in a movie," he muses aloud, eyes wide with childlike wonder. For all the simple things in life he liked, he couldn't lie, he enjoyed grandiose surroundings.

Chloe follows his line of sight down to the stage. "It was a trial to secure a place like this, so I've heard." Her tone carries a cryptic edge. "But luckily blood is thicker than water."

The strange comment hung in the air as Brian's eyebrows furrow, he tried to figure out the meaning. but the sound of curtains being pulled snapped him out of it. 

Brian found himself perched at the edge of the plush booth, utterly focused on the performance unfolding below. A young dancer, clad in a flowing white dress with vibrant red and blue accents, moved with captivating grace across the stage. Her impassioned movements synced the joyful orchestral music which grew with every twirl.

Brian drank in every detail – from the dress to the hand painted set pieces, to the dancer's expressive physicality as she danced in the role of Swanhilda. When she playfully hid behind an oversized prop lamp, peeking out mischievously, a lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

From right of stage, a young man revealed to be Franz stepped into the spotlight, craning his neck upwards as if calling out to someone. Brian leaned forward, straining to catch sight of the object of Franz's longing. There, silhouetted in the window above, lurked a pale-skinned figure, arms wrapped protectively around a book.

Brian's brow furrowed as he willed his eyes to adjust, to bring the reader's face into focus. But the details remained stubbornly obscured by shadows and distance.

Giving up with a resigned sigh, Brian leaned back in the plush velvet chair to watch the play continue unfolding before him. Occasionally, Chloe would lean over, her voice carrying a hushed enthusiasm as she commented on the quality of the set pieces and dancers. She seemed to obsess over every intricate detail.

He simply nodded along, offering soft murmurs of agreement as her whispered comments washed over him. Brian's stare remained fixed on the graceful dancer portraying Swanhilda. From this distance, her raven black hair and lithe movements were the sole features he could make out clearly on the dim stage.

His pensive eyes followed her swaying form, Noticing subtleties and a familiar way of moving that made him feel something eerily familiar, if he could only view them up close. Brian's restless hands found their way to a small ornate table beside the chair, fingers brushing against an abandoned brass set of spectacles.

Curiosity piqued, he retrieved the eyeglasses and brought them to his face, peering through the clear glass lenses. As Brian refocused his gaze on Swanhilda, the dancer's previously ambiguous features snapped into vivid clarity,

++++++++++++++++++++++++

 Amelie's Point Of View

 ++++++++++++++++++++++++

 Chloe breezed through the dressing room door, her scarlet backstage pass swinging, "Excellent show, Amelie! I'm impressed!" Chloe's enthusiasm was palpable as she clasped her hands together. Amelie, still in full stage makeup and costume, shifted uncomfortably in her chair before forcing a tight smile.

"It was less extravagant than I had hoped for," the dancer replied, her tone carrying a tinge of melancholy that belied the grandeur of the earlier show.

Chloe's brow furrowed. "It was amazing, Amelie! Don't be so critical - it was a good show."

As if in defiant response, Amelie silently lifted the sleeve of her flowing white dress and began peeling away the peach-toned covering over her metal prosthetic arm. Chloe averted her eyes, but natural curiosity won out as she chanced a sidelong glance. Amelie was flexing her articulated metal fingers freely, seeming relieved to be liberated from the confines of the artificial skin sleeve.

"I apologize if I made you uncomfortable," she said softly, her hazel eyes flickering up to meet Chloe's. "I know you do not enjoy seeing prosthetics."

Chloe's expression softened into a warm smile. "Don't worry about it. It's part of your life, so I just have to learn to live with it."

As Amelie began removing the last streaks of stage makeup from her face, Chloe couldn't help but observe the familiar transformation unfolding before her Without the vibrant cosmetics, her natural beauty and vulnerability shone through - tinged blue skin, a smattering of faint freckles, slightly hollowed cheekbones.

When she sighed contentedly and chanced a small, unguarded smile at Chloe, the dancer's features seemed to relax into an expression of hard-earned peace. The weariness of performing melted away, if just momentarily.

"I must change for the greetings," Amelie said, her tone carrying an unfamiliar warmth and gentleness that appeared to catch even Chloe off-guard. "Please wait in the hallway."

Chloe's eyes widened fractionally at the unexpected courtesy before a broad grin spread across her face. "Yes ma'am," she replied with an amicable nod, respecting Amelie's request for privacy as she headed for the door.

Amelie places the fingertips of her remaining arm on the cold, metal shell of the prosthetic limb. She lets her fingernails trace up the smooth surface, finding the knuckles and making a tentative fist with the replacement arm. A heavy sigh escapes her lips as she takes in the alien feel of the prosthetic.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

 March 10 20XX

 ++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Deploy anti-air defenses!" The static-laced voice of a distant commander cuts through the stormy sky as jagged lightning flashes overhead. Rain hammers down in sheets, the thunderous roars growing deafening, nearly drowning out the staccato bursts of gunfire and the earth-shaking rumble of artillery.

In response, the fortifications spring to life. Small cylinders, wrapped with scarlet neon rings, rise from the ground. Suddenly, swarms of missiles erupt from them, whistling through the air with spine-tingling speed.

For a moment, an eerie silence reigns, the world holding its breath as the missiles find their targets. Then, a series of muffled explosions ripple through the clouds, shaking the very foundations of the battered stronghold.

The chaos intensifies, the din of battle threatening to overwhelm the senses. Acrid smoke mixes with the stinging rain, visibility dropping to mere meters. Amelie Lacroix, the Widowmaker, grits her teeth, her enhanced senses straining to pinpoint any sign of the enemy as she focused.

Donning a black trenchcoat with the Talon skull emblem on the arm, Amelie strides purposefully towards a weapons rack. Her gloved fingers glide along the sleek metal of a high-powered sniper rifle, a cold efficiency in her movements as she retrieves it.

Making her way to a vantage point on the castle's stone walls, Amelie settles into a prone position. Peering through the rifle's crimson-tinted thermal scope, her eyes narrow as a flash of lightning crackles upwards in the distance. Zooming in, she tracks the bolt as it arcs across the sky, converging on the fortifications below.

Suddenly, a massive explosion of yellow and red erupts, the blast wave rippling outwards. Amelie flinches slightly, waiting for the vibrant glare to fade before lowering the scope back to her eyes. Activating the night vision, she spots a glowing light in the distance, the gleam of something reflecting the muzzle flash.

"Tenjite no aida de, watashi dake ga eiyo-aru mono de aru." With those words, Amelie's visor suddenly goes dark, vision obscured. But her finger moves with chilling efficiency, squeezing the trigger.

A single shot rings out, followed by a blinding flash of green light. Amelie reacts instantly, leaping backwards off the castle wall. With a flick of her wrist, the grappling hook attached to her suit fires, allowing her to narrowly avoid the massive energy wave that sweeps through the area.

Silence descends as the gunfire and thundering artillery abruptly cease. Amelie feels her heart rate spike, the sudden calm unsettling after the chaotic battle. Her enhanced senses strain, searching for any signs of movement, any indication of the enemy's position.

Pulling herself up over the crumbling wall, Amelie's eyes widen at the sight before her. A massive gash extends from the floor to the very top, the solid rock of the castle seemingly fused together, burning a bright molten red as it melts.

"Merde," she curses under her breath, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

Suddenly, a prickly sensation prickles the back of her neck. Reacting on instinct, Amelie leaps forward, narrowly dodging a vicious slice aimed at her throat. She lands in a crouch, the sound of the blade whistling past her ear still ringing.

Whirling around, she brings her rifle up, searching for the source of the attack. Her enhanced senses strain, scanning the shadows for any movement. The acrid scent of ozone and melted rock fills the air, obscuring her vision.

Amelie's gaze snaps to the source of the voice, her piercing eyes narrowing as she takes in the sight before her. The glowing green blade is unmistakable - the signature weapon of the recalled agent.

"Genji Shimada," she utters, the name laced with a hint of recognition.

As the green neon lights activate, Genji's stealth mode disengages, officially announcing his presence. The air crackles with tension, the two deadly combatants sizing each other up across the ruined battlefield.

Amelie's brow furrows slightly at Genji, the cold indifference of the ninja sending a ripple of unease through her. "Reyes believed you had died," she states, Genji lifted his blade to rest beneath his chin, the edge facing outwards towards the Widowmaker.

"I did."

In response, Amelie raises her rifle, her finger tightening on the trigger. A spray of high-velocity ammunition flies towards Genji, but to her surprise, each bullet is sliced in half and deflected around his slowly advancing form.

"Do you believe you can face me?" Genji's modulated voice echoes across the ruined battlefield, a hint of challenge underlying the question.

Amelie steps back, quickly replacing the magazine in her rifle as she backflips towards the edge of the castle wall. Raising the weapon, she peers through the scope, watching as a flash of lightning illuminates the dark sky, revealing the form of Genji Shimada bearing down on her.

The cyborg ninja's long, glowing green katana slices downwards with blinding speed. Amelie's eyes widen in horror as she watches her limb fall from her shoulder, the rifle she had been wielding sliced clean in half. The pieces hit the ground with a resounding thud.

Amelie clutches the injured area, searing pain shooting through her limbs as her heartrate spikes. The stress and adrenaline threaten to overwhelm her,

Amelie's eyes widen as a brilliant golden light suddenly flares to life, illuminating the darkness around her. Without hesitation, she whirls and breaks into a desperate sprint towards the castle stairs.

Fumbling with her remaining hand, Amelie retrieves a communicator from her coat pocket. Pressing the red button on the bottom, a crimson light begins to flash - an urgent extraction request transmitted through the device.

But before Amelie can make her escape, a familiar voice calls out, halting the Widowmaker in her tracks.

"Amelie Lacroix."

Amelie's blood runs cold, dread coiling in the pit of her stomach as she recognizes the voice. "Angela Ziegler."

Chapter Text

"What did you think about the play, Brian?" Chloe asks, her gaze shifting from the now-closed scarlet curtain to the young man beside her.

Brian's eyes remain fixed on the spot where the velvet drapes had concealed the stage. His hands are clasped tightly together, thumbs rubbing absently against his palms. "The dancing, the music..." he responds absentmindedly, his voice barely above a whisper. "It was a good show."

Chloe leans in slightly, her expression hopeful. "It was breathtaking, wasn't it?"

Brian finally meets her gaze, nodding curtly. "It was." He rubs at his brow, glancing back towards the booth's opulent furnishings. "It was nice to meet you, ma'am, but I think I should be getting home. It's late."

As Brian moves to stand, Chloe's hand reaches out, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "There will be a dance after the show," she offers, a thin smile playing at her lips. "Perhaps you'd like to attend? Even if just for a bit."

Brian feels a flutter of butterflies in his stomach, his throat tightening at the invitation. He hesitates, considering her offer, before giving a quick nod. "Yeah, sure. Maybe just for a bit."

As the two make their way towards the ornate ballroom, Brian's eyes are immediately drawn upwards to the magnificent chandelier floating effortlessly in the air. The telltale V carved into the gold-coated frame reveals it to be a Vishkar Corporation product, the hard light candles flickering softly.

"Why don't you look around a bit?" Chloe suggests, gesturing to the lavishly decorated space. "Maybe dance a little, or pick at some of the expensive finger food on the tables."

Brian scans the room, his breath coming a bit shallow as he surveys the well-dressed crowd. He sighs, glancing off towards a table set with a shimmering champagne fountain, the white tablecloth pristine.

"You're leaving?" he asks, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"Just going to visit my friend," Chloe replies. "Maybe I could introduce you two?"

Brian raises a hand, offering a small smile. "Sure, I'll just wait over there."

With a reassuring wave, Chloe departs, leaving the curious young man to explore the opulent ballroom on his own. Brian shuffles towards the champagne table, his eye taking in the colors of the various paintings on the walls. Though initially overwhelmed by the grandeur, a sense of familiarity begins to arise as classical music began to be played.

As he stands amid the lavish surroundings, Brian can't help but feel a bit out of place. His eyes darted from art piece to piece of furniture hesitant to fully intermingle in the elegant crowd. But the allure of the slow waltzing dancers and the promise of exotic foods holds a certain appeal for the young man.

Brian's eyes slowly drift up from the tile floor as Chloe returns, her voice calling out. But the moment his gaze lands on the woman beside her, he freezes, every muscle in his body tensing.

Staring into a pair of familiar hazel eyes, Brian feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The glass in his right hand tightens to the point of nearly cracking under his white-knuckled grip, his posture rigid as adrenaline surges through his veins.

There is a profound recognition in those hazel eyes, a mirrored worry and unease that instantly sets Brian on edge. The woman's expression remains neutral, but her gaze grows clouded.

Instinctively, Brian sticks out his hand, his arm extended in a gesture of greeting. waiting for the woman to take it.

Amelie's face changes, and she jumps slightly as the hand approaches her. Brian scans her expression, noting the worry that creeps into the corners of her mouth, her eyes darting away before making tentative eye contact with him.

"Have you two met?" Chloe asks, breaking the silence.

Brian feels the tension in his shoulders ease slightly as Amelie's cold hand takes his, giving it a gentle shake. "No, we haven't. It's nice to meet you, ma'am," he replies, the quirk of his lips suggesting a subtle unease about the woman's touch.

Amelie's eyes widen, and she glances towards Chloe before clearing her throat. "Bonjour. My name is Amelie. I played Swanhilda," she says, her tone measured and formal.

"I, uh, noticed you...danced well," Brian responds, his eyes flitting from Amelie's face down to the floor as the two awkwardly avoid prolonged eye contact.

An uncomfortable silence settles over the trio, the undercurrent of tension palpable. Chloe shifts her weight, sensing the need for privacy. "Should I give you two a moment?" she asks, her tone gentle but probing.

Brian shifts his weight to his other foot his emotions clearly at odds with the strange familiarity he senses from Amelie.

Amelie, in turn, seems guarded, her eyes avoiding meeting his yet she looked instead to his right arm and he understood what she was focused on.

Amelie's eyes narrow slightly as she drags her finger along the rim of her champagne glass, a hint of amusement and curiosity passing over Chloe's features. "A moment would be nice... Chloe," she states, the therapist giving a knowing look towards Brian before clicking her tongue and departing.

The moment they are alone, Amelie's demeanor shifts, her expression turning accusatory. "What are you doing here?" she asks, the edge in her voice taking Brian aback.

"What?" he responds, caught off-guard.

"If you plan to shame me or expose me, do it already." Amelie continues, a cold mask settling over her features.

Brian pauses, searching for the right words. "I- I'm not here to do all that. I was given the tickets and I wanted to see the show. I didn't know you would be here."

The dancer's icy gaze lingers, making Brian feel as if he's under a microscope. "And you just happened to run into my friend and come to meet me?"

Raising his hands defensively, Brian tries to explain. "I didn't know she was your friend. We shared a booth, and she invited me to the dance. I just... " He trails off, a vulnerable tone creeping into his voice. "I didn't think you'd remember me. I thought I'd forgotten you."

Amelie studies his face, searching for any hint of deception. After a moment, she looks away. "what do you want?"

"I don't want anything from you." Brian responds instantly.

"What?" Amelie questions, her brow furrowing.

The young man meets her gaze, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "I... I'm just glad to see you're alright."

Amelie's expression suddenly hardens, and she shakes her head. "Am I supposed to believe that the man I tried to kill is just here for the dancing?" Her tone is accusatory, tinged with disbelief. "What do you want, money?"

Brian raises his hands defensively. "No, I don't want anything from you. I'm serious. I saw a billboard for the show, and I got the tickets as a gift. I really just wanted to see it. I don't want any problems!"

He whispers the last part emphatically, his brow furrowed in distress. Amelie's eyes narrow, her frustration evident.

"Dites la vérité, je n'ai pas de temps à perdre avec les menteurs," she says sharply, her words laced with impatience.

Brian's grip tightens around the glass as Amelie's suspicious, almost lethal gaze fixes upon him, a flash of recognition passing over her features. "Amelie," he says, her name spoken with a weighted significance that gives her pause.

"I-I've been bothered by what happened for a long time," Brian continues, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "I don't constantly think about it, and in the end, I came out in one piece. But it's stuck in my mind for a long, long time. And I just want to be past it. I'd just like to leave it all behind, so please..."

He extends his hand in a gesture of reconciliation, his eyes pleading. "I don't want to have to live life knowing that there's someone out there who could be going through the same thing. You obviously want to leave all that behind, and anyone who would go so far to hide themselves from the past obviously wants to move on. So please, I don't want you to think I don't forgive you for all that..."

Amelie's gaze shifts, her expression softening fractionally as she looks down at the outstretched hand. After a moment's hesitation, her brow furrows

""Your forgiveness means nothing to me, you're just here to play games and toy with me, I see through you."

Brian's brow furrows slightly, the tension in his shoulders rising a fraction as he frowns towards her.

His eyes dart towards Chloe who sits alongside another older gentleman. His eyes turn to Amelie and his eyes soften a smidge.

"Why did you start dancing?" Brian asks, the unexpected question causing Amelie's eyes to widen.

The former ballerina seems taken aback, her guarded demeanor giving way to a thoughtful expression. She pauses, considering the question.

"I..." Amelie begins, her gaze drifting away as memories surface. "I started dancing as a child." She looks down at her hands, flexing her fingers as if recalling the feel of the barre beneath them.

"My parents encouraged it," she continues, her voice quiet. "They saw it as a way for me to express myself..." Amelie trails off, the anger fading as a shadow passes over her features.

Brian watches her intently, his own curious expression open and free of judgment. He sensed a pain behind Amelie's words.

"It became my passion," Amelie finally says, meeting Brian's gaze. "The stage, the performance." She pauses, a flicker of the Widowmaker resurfacing. "Until that... was taken from me." Brian nods slowly.

"So how long have you been doing what others have told you?"

Chapter Text

 Lena Oxton's Point Of View 2 Years Ago

Lena's thumb tapped an anxious staccato against her thigh as she watched the Omnic surgeons work. She winced involuntarily as they extracted a tangle of wires from the back of Amelie's skull, followed by a long, wicked-looking needle coated in some unknown viscous substance from the base of her brain.

Raising a hand, Lena rubbed at the deepening bags under her eyes, seeking solace in the cold sterility of the recovery room's harsh lighting and antiseptic smells. Anywhere but the haunting images seared into her memory from that night in Russia.

"Mom—I mean, Angela—she said you could use some company."

Hana's voice shattered the tense silence, startling Lena from her trance-like reverie. She turned to find the young former mech pilot gingerly lowering herself into the visitor's chair, face contorted in a grimace as she jostled her injured arm.

"Really ought to get that thing looked at, love," Lena nodded toward the IV line snaking into Hana's forearm.

"I'm fine," Hana brushed it off with an unconvincing wave of her hand. "Just...needed to get out of that hospital bed, y'know? Too much lying around drives me stir-crazy."

"by the way Angela'll have a heart attack if you call her that again," Lena quipped, adjusting the IV line as Hana winced. The hospital had been closed to the public hours ago, but the two former Overwatch agents kept their solitary vigil.

Lena over their prisoner, Amelie. And Hana...well, Lena wasn't quite sure why the younger woman insisted on staying.

"So why are you really here?" Hana asked, dark eyes searching Lena's face as she settled into the creaky plastic chair. "Just watching over the prisoner," Lena replied curtly, her gaze sliding back to the blue-skinned woman's motionless form.

Hana frowned but said nothing, clearly perceiving there were deeper currents at play. An uneasy silence stretched between them, broken only by the whirring fans and mechanical arms of the Omnic surgeons.

"Pharah told me you haven't slept since Russia," Hana ventured after a moment. Lena stiffened ever so slightly at the mention of the mission.

"Don't want to talk about it," she deflected with a dismissive shake of her head. "I always get a bit wound up after jobs like that, you know how it is."

But they both knew this time was different. Hana worried, her hands in her lap, squeezing them together tightly.

"Is this...because of what happened to 76?" she asked hesitantly.

The name made Lena flinch as if struck. "His name was Jack," she ground out, leather gloves creaking as her fists clenched.

Hana bobbed her head in apology. "We're all just...torn up about losing him. But he went out a hero, Lena. You know that's how he would have wanted to go."

Lena's hands dropped heavily to her sides, the bone-deep weariness crashing over her in waves.

"I can't believe Reinhardt killed him," Hana said, voice barely above a whisper as she shook her head slowly. "It just doesn't make sense."

Lena's jaw clenched hard enough to grind enamel. "I couldn't believe it either," she lied through gritted teeth.

"No, you don't understand," Hana insisted. "I can't wrap my head around Reinhardt killing Jack Morrison of all people. He would never hurt one of his own, let alone his oldest friend and brother-in-arms."

A tremulous sigh slipped from Lena's lips.

"Who knows what really happened out there," Lena murmured, turning away from Hana. Her gaze fell upon the inert form of the former Widowmaker as the Omnic surgeon finished their grisly work.

  Brian Wiser's Point Of View

A streak of warmth rolled down Brian's face. His expression contorted in surprise as a sharp pain shot through the nerves in his cheek. He raised a hand to clutch at the stinging area, then lowered it slowly to stare at the dark red stain on his palm with wide eyes.

His eyes started to mist over as painful tears pooled up. His jaw clenched before the first teardrop began flowing down. Anger crept into his features.

"Do you think you're the only one who's been forced to do things they regret?"

Brian's fist tightened before dropping back to his side. "I never wanted to see you again. I hated seeing that war go on. I watched families being ripped apart. I remember scavenging for scraps on the streets I grew up on, using sharpened poles to move soldiers' corpses out of the way. Because of you, I had to abandon my own home."

He stepped towards Amelie, blood now covering the left side of his shirt collar. "For years, all I wanted was to hurt you. And then I saw you on TV as the face of reformed prisoners. I just wanted to see you pay."

His voice grew quieter. "But then you spoke. I saw the fear in your eyes. The guilt over everything you did. I saw the same pain, the same anger that I felt towards your existence. Except yours was turned inward, against yourself. It dwarfed anything I could dish out."

Brian placed his hands on Amelie's shoulders, eyes wet . "I meant what I said before. I can't stand knowing the hatred I felt towards you was nothing compared to what you had to live with alone. I don't know you, and you don't know me. But you've obviously tried to change. I don't want you blaming yourself anymore for things you couldn't control. Even if we never see each other again, even if I'm just some raving lunatic, I want you to let go of that past. So why don't you?"

Amelie's features softened, the sincerity in Brian's words seeming to get through to her. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

Brian shook his head. "Don't be. I told you I never needed your apology."

Amelie sighed, closing her eyes briefly before pulling a small handkerchief out from somewhere on her outfit. "Merde. You're bleeding," she said, grabbing Brian's wrist and half-dragging the taller man along as she led them out of the ballroom.

They moved quickly down the hallway, Amelie's heels clicking on the tiled floor as she guided Brian elsewhere. Her brow was furrowed in determination as she kept a firm grip on his wrist, the pristine handkerchief clutched in her other hand.

Amelie didn't speak again until they reached a more secluded area, like a quiet sitting room or parlor. Only then did she release Brian's wrist and motion a hand for him to sit.

"Hold still," she said briskly, using the handkerchief to dab at the wound on his face. Her movements were efficient but gentle as she worked to dab the blood up from the small cut.

An awkward silence fell between them, the only sounds being Brian's occasionally hissed breaths and wincing when Amelie's ministrations pulled at the torn skin. After a moment, she broke the quiet.

"You're right, what's done is done," she said evenly, not meeting his eyes. "I can't change the past. But I am trying to..." She trailed off, shaking her head slightly. "You understand."

Brian nodded slowly, still not making eye contact with Amelie as his brow furrowed in thought. He stared out the pane glass window, his eyes focused on some distant light outside.

"I liked the play," he stated simply. Amelie hummed in acknowledgment.

"Merci," she said quietly, gripping his face gently to keep applying pressure with the cloth, though he tried to pull away from her sensitive touch.

"You mentioned you could see right through me," Amelie stated, prompting Brian to raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I didn't mean to be creepy or anything," he replied.

Amelie shook her head. "It's perception. It's a skill." She lowered the handkerchief, allowing Brian to relax and turn away from her on the bench.

"People think it's creepy. People watching and all that," Amelie mused, her eyes darting towards a painting on the wall as an awkward silence settled in the room.

"People are interesting animals. They are complicated, multifaceted and unyielding," she said distantly, her gaze fixed on something unseen.

After a moment, Amelie spoke again, her voice quieter. "When I first began rehabilitation...Miss Hollings - Chloe - was there frequently. Asking me questions and reading books to me while I recovered."

She noticed Brian's eyes lingering on her left arm, her palm squeezing her knee unconsciously.

"It's fake, isn't it?" he asked carefully. Amelie stiffened before giving a small nod of confirmation.

Silence washed over them once more, the tension thick in the quiet room. Finally, Brian's lip quirked upwards in a hint of a smile as he turned back to Amelie.

"I'm sorry for being awkward. I didn't mean to offend you earlier." he said.

"It is nothing," Amelie replied evenly, though her body language remained somewhat guarded.

Brian seemed to be mulling over whether to speak further or not. After a moment, he parted his lips hesitantly. "Miss Lacroix..."

"Amelie," she corrected gently.

He paused, placing his hands on his knees. "Amelie, can I ask...is this your goal?"

She tilted her head slightly, a crease forming between her brows. "What do you mean?"

Brian took a deep breath before clarifying. "After everything...how did you find what you wanted to do? With your life, I mean."

Amelie was silent for a long moment, considering his question carefully. When she spoke, her voice was quiet.

"I would not say I have found my 'goal', no." Amelie shook her head slowly. "What I pursued before was an illusion. A manipulated, artificial purpose."

Her jaw clenched momentarily before she forced herself to relax. "Now, I am trying to rediscover my true self, not the identity they crafted for me."

Amelie's eyes unfocused slightly as she became pensive. "Certain days, memories of my past life feel hazy and faded. Yet other times, they shine vividly - the warmth, the contentment. c'est comme si je baignais dans la nostalgie" Refocusing on Brian, she asked, "Does this make sense to you?"

Brian nodded. "I don't understand French, but that sounded nice. As for my original question though..."

A rueful smile tugged at Amelie's lips. "For now, my purpose is simply to heal, to atone however I can. And perhaps, eventually, to be at peace."

Brian nodded slowly, his hand resting on his cheek as his thumb moved in circles over the wound. "Do you ever feel peaceful?" he asked hesitantly.

"When I dance," Amelie responded after a brief pause.

Brian sighed. "I never learned how to dance," he admitted, not meeting her eyes.

"So why come to the dance?" Amelie asked, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"Chloe asked me to, and I can't tell her no," Brian stated bluntly, prompting an almost imperceptible smile to tug at the corner of Amelie's mouth.

"Ah yes, it is a talent she possesses," Amelie mused. "However..."

She rose fluidly to her feet, kicking off her thin heels and stretching out her legs beneath the frilly skirt of her dress. "Do you want me to teach you?"

Brian's eyes widened in surprise. "You'd teach me?"

"My grandfather always said a young man should know how to dance," Amelie stated simply. "Now get up."

There was a firmness to her tone that compelled Brian to push himself up to stand as well. Amelie stepped towards him, placing her hands on his forearms and guiding the proper placement as he awkwardly hugged an invisible partner.

"Watch your foot placement," she warned, immediately drawing Brian's full attention.

Amelie demonstrated a swaying motion, shifting her weight from side to side. Brian mirrored her movements, but as soon as he tried to step, his foot moved over the other and he lost his balance, tumbling to the tiled floor with a thump.

Amelie looked down at him with an apathetic expression, letting out a small sigh. She extended a hand and pulled Brian back up to his feet. This time she placed his hand firmly on her waist and met his gaze with a dangerous glint in her eye.

"Step on my feet and I will slap you again," she stated with no trace of humor in her voice. Brian swallowed thickly, the cut on his cheek seeming to throb.

  Lena Oxton's Point Of View

Lena tuned out the technical conversation between Angela and the German biologist, their medical jargon going right over her head. Instead, her brown eyes scanned the opulent ballroom, searching for Angela's other guest.

Her gaze landed on Hana, looking positively ethereal in a light pink dress with puffy, transparent sleeves that made the young woman resemble a fairy from ancient myth. Hana deftly evaded the swaying dancers, slithering and sliding between partygoers as she made a beeline for the banquet table.

Lena shot Hana a warning look as the starcraft pro eyed the towering champagne pyramid with an awed expression. The golden, sparkling liquid cascaded down layers and layers of gleaming crystal flutes.

"Hana..." Lena spoke in a cautionary tone. The shorter girl puffed out her cheeks defiantly before accepting a small glass from a tuxedo-clad attendant who greeted Lena with a polite bow.

"Careful love, never know when there might be a camera crew around," Lena warned in a lighter, more chipper voice. Hana nodded seriously.

"Just a taste," she insisted.

Lena watched with bated breath as Hana took a delicate sip from the fancy champagne flute. The girl's expression morphed comically from delight to utter disgust as the dry, bitter liquid hit her tongue.

"Don't spit it out, just drink it!" Lena hissed under her breath.

Hana grimaced but obediently swallowed the champagne thickly. She let out a quiet groan before placing the glass back on the table and immediately grabbing a frosted cookie to gnaw on indignantly.

Lena sighed and shook her head in amusement before her gaze was drawn across the room by a familiar face. Her eyes widened as she spotted Brian, anger etched across his features, standing face-to-face with Amelie. The former Talon operative had one hand pressed to Brian's cheek.

Lena's brow furrowed as Amelie suddenly grabbed Brian's forearm and half-dragged, half-tossed him through a wooden door into what seemed to be a side room, the door swinging shut behind them.

 Lena Oxton's Point Of View 1 Year Ago

Lena gripped the railing of their apartment balcony, knuckles whitening from the force as she stared sightlessly out across the rooftops. A solitary light blinked in the distance, but her gaze was unfocused, turned inward to the tempest of emotions roiling within.

"It's just not right, Lena!"

Emily's indignant voice shattered the brittle silence. Lena turned to find her girlfriend silhouetted in the bedroom doorway, fiery hair haloed by the warm light, hands planted defiantly on her hips.

"It wasn't my call to make," Lena replied, struggling to keep her tone even and measured. "Angela's the one who signed off on Amelie's conditional release, said she believes the therapy is working. If a doctor I trust that much vouches for her, I have to put faith in the process."

She closed her eyes, shaking her head slowly as haunting memories threatened to resurface. "Besides, they've removed that bloody mind-control device now. Once the full psych evaluation is completed and any lingering effects have cleared her system, we'll know for certain whether..."

Lena's voice trailed off, her hand unconsciously rising to rub over her breastbone where the searing sting of Widowmaker's neurotoxin had once burned through her body. Even now, the ghost of that anguish made her breath catch in her throat.

"She's still a dangerous psychopath, Lena," Emily insisted, voice rising alongside the desperation crackling beneath. "If anyone else had been the one calling the shots, she'd be locked up at best, executed at worst!"

Lena's head whipped around, a spark of anger flashing through her despite her efforts at restraint. "well you don't get to make that call," she bit out.

Emily's eyes went wide, backpedaling slightly in the face of Lena's uncharacteristic harshness. "And she does?" she shot back, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the Overwatch facility where Amelie was no doubt being evaluated. "I've seen the news - the bodies they keep uncovering, the man-made atrocities! How many mass graves and bomb caches do they have to find before that woman faces real justice for her crimes?"

A muscle twitched in Lena's jaw as she fought for composure. "So that's it then? We just execute her without a fair hearing based on the court of public opinion?"

She stepped forward, shoulders squared as if bracing against Emily's verbal onslaught. "Amelie fought for the wrong side, just like I did according to most of the world's governments. If they'd won the war, I'd be the one on trial for fighting against their 'righteous' cause. There is no black and white anymore."

Emily shook her head adamantly, jaw set in that stubborn tilt Lena knew alltoo well. "That's utter rubbish, and you know it. You've never been anything like that...that remorseless murderer! Talon razed entire cities, slaughtered civilians by the thousands - how can you possibly try to justify Lacroix getting a free pass for that level of—"

"She has a right to due process!" Lena's raised voice cracked like a whip through the thickening tension. "To have her say about what happened, to explain whether she was even in control of her actions!"

The words rushed out in a torrent, Lena's normally unflappable control finally fraying. "Angela said she's responding well to therapy, that the more time that passes, the stronger her lucidity becomes. The Amelie I knew would never... She deserves a chance to make amends, to step back into the light after Talon's conditioning ruined her."

For a long moment, Emily was silent and still, arms crossed as her eyes bored into Lena with naked emotion. When she finally spoke, her voice was tight but softer.

"And did he get that same chance...to step back into the light?"

The simple question detonated like a flashbang in the center of Lena's chest. Her face contorted, anger and bone-deep fatigue warring as the ever-present guilt reared its grotesque head once more.

Distantly, she registered Emily's alarmed backpedaling, desperate pleas for her to stop as she stormed past. But the words were gibberish, white noise drowned out by the thunderous pounding of her heartbeat.

The door slammed behind her with a soul-shaking finality, leaving Lena alone in the silent hallway. Trembling hands clenched into white-knuckled fists as she struggled to draw breath, to dispel the phantoms nipping at her heels.

 The Modern day

Lena's fingertips trailed along the hem of her tangerine gown, lifting the gossamer fabric from the polished marble tiles as she strode quickly down the hall. A crimson droplet, glistening like a ruby, caught her eye – a stark contrast against the pristine white tile floor.

Her gaze swept the deserted hallway, ensuring no prying eyes lingered nearby before her fingers danced along the neckline of her dress lowering it and exposing her bra and glowing harness. the shimmering chronal accelerator brace adorning her slender chest.

 In an instant, Lena's form blurred, bathed in an ethereal azure glow as her molecules thrummed with energy. As swiftly as it began, the vibration stilled, leaving her poised and focused. With a featherlight touch, she traced the scarlet bead, The droplet's azure glow pulsed faintly as it hovered in the air, tracing an ethereal path down the deserted hallway. Lena's heels clicked softly against the polished tile as she followed the shimmering trail, the flowing lines of her orange dress gathered up to avoid dragging.

Reaching the ornate door at the end of the corridor, she paused as the liquid bead shattered against the solid wood like a tiny comet. A thin line of golden light leaked out from beneath, confirming her suspicion that someone - or something - lay within.

Lena's grip tightened around the handle as she pulled it open a fraction, just enough to peek inside. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, body tensing instinctively as she strained to detect any voices or sounds of movement over the eerie silence..

Lena felt the tension in her shoulders release as she peered through the cracked door, allowing herself a soft exhale. There was no threat awaiting her after all, just Brian and Amelie enjoying a private dance together in the dimly lit room.

She watched them sway gently to the unheard melody for a few moments, an unreadable expression flickering across her features. Amelie's head rested against Brian's shoulder, her blue skin and dark hair melding with his crisp blue suit in the soft golden light.

Whatever tender moment they were sharing, it was clear Lena's presence would only intrude. With a faint frown Lena eased the door closed with a featherlight touch, sealing away the vision of Amelie and Brian swaying together in their tender embrace. A melancholic ache blossomed in her chest as she turned away from the intimate scene, stiletto heels whispering against the floor.

Her fingertips drifted unconsciously to the azure gemstone nestled between her collarbones. Its soft pulsations echoed the cadence of her heartbeat as Lena traced the hairline fractures webbing outward - a constant reminder of all she had endured. All she had lost.

Trailing droplets of ethereal blue marked her path down the shadowed corridor, remnants of the ghostly trail evaporating like ephemeral memories. The distant sounds of laughter and music reached Lena's ears, alto and tenor voices intermingling in discordant harmonies. Part of her longed to join the ceaseless whirl of the grand gala once more. But another part recoiled at the thought of submerging herself in that sea of bodies and feigned happiness so soon after witnessing her ex and her friend dancing like lovers.

A frustrated sigh escaped her lips as Lena emerged into the kaleidoscope of colors and movement. Instinctively, her gaze scanned the crowd for any sign of Angela's sunshine tresses or Hana's vivid pink attire amidst the swirling dancers. Yet her two closest friends remained curiously absent, at least for now. A fleeting tendril of gratitude unfurled within her - Lena wasn't certain she could face them while this storm of conflicting emotions still churned inside.

Chewing her lower lip, Lena allowed the ebb and flow of the festivities to sweep her back into the bustling current. Plastering on a bright smile, she endeavored to immerse herself in the party once more. Yet the specter of Amelie's azure form intertwined with Brian's lingered, stoking an uncharitable ember of doubt to smolder in the pit of her stomach.

Why did he care so much for her who tried to kill him? "maybe hes blackmailing her. what would he even want?" Disturbing visions of a broken-hearted Amelie flitted through Lena's mind, swiftly banished by pungent memories of sweat-slicked, tangled sheets and the addictive scent of the other woman's skin.

Shaking her head minutely, Lena willed away the intrusive memories. She smoothed her features into an easy grin once more and rejoined the revelry, determined to focus on the situation later.

Chapter Text

The hovercycle's engine fell silent, the jets deactivating with a soft hiss as the sleek vehicle descended gracefully towards the ground, settling into its designated parking spot with a muted thud. A series of shimmering hexagons materialized, coalescing into a protective shield that enveloped the bike in an impenetrable cocoon. Brian's thumb pressed the lock button on the key fob, and the translucent barrier sealed itself with a faint hum, securing the cycle from prying eyes and potential thieves.

Grabbing his phone from his pocket, Brian swiped upward, dismissing the insistent notification from his work with a fleeting glance. His piercing azure gaze scanned the digital contacts, lingering upon Lyudmila's invitation to join him in virtual reality. A glance at the time – 10:37 – elicited a weary sigh from his lips as he slipped the keys into his pocket and turned towards the imposing facade of the apartment building.

The jingle of keys broke the stillness as Brian deposited them on the polished marble countertop. With deft movements, he shrugged off his suit jacket, draping the garment over a hanger with practiced ease. The trousers soon followed, folded before being placed within a protective plastic sheath alongside the jacket.

Padding towards the dresser, Brian retrieved a pair of loose shorts and a crisp white tee, quickly donning the comfortable attire. He settled onto the edge of the bed, reaching into a nearby cabinet to retrieve a sleek white box. Flipping the lid open, he extracted a futuristic white visor, securing it snugly against his face with a series of clasps at the rear.

Reclining onto the welcoming embrace of the mattress, Brian's fingers danced across the visor's surface, activating the device with a subtle hum.

+++++++++++++++++++++

Reinhardt's Point Of View

+++++++++++++++++++++

Reinhardt sipped the warm contents of his metal mug, feeling a sense of contentment as the dark liquid warmed his body. Reinhardt's reverie was interrupted by a voice. "So, I've never asked," the guard whispered through the transparent hard light door, his hands wrapped around an identical mug of coffee.

Reinhardt raised an eyebrow. "I don't suppose we could discuss this in the courtyard?"

The guard shook his head. "Sorry, no going out after 8pm."

Reinhardt nodded in understanding. "Always one for rules, Herschliff." The guard, his face obscured by a translucent visor, shrugged. "Better safe than sorry."

Reinhardt placed the mug on the small bedside desk. "Young Lena is... sympathetic," he explained, and Herschliff stared forward blankly. "How so?"

Reinhardt looked to Herschliff with his one good eye, letting the guard get a clear view of his facial scar. "Heroes are a rare breed. And real ones don't live long."

Herschliff scoffed. "You're getting up there. I remember I had posters of you in high school. And I'm turning 46 this year." He chuckled before Reinhardt stated "I am no hero."

The old crusaders face hardened. "Then what about Jack Morrison?" Herschliff asked, and Reinhardt spoke "do you wish to hear a story?" Herschliff shrugged "I don't have anywhere else to be."

"When Overwatch reformed, my squire and I were sent to pick up an old soldier on our way to a rendezvous. We found him surrounded by the bodies of a local gang, cradling the body of a young girl. The police were called, and he placed her there."

Herschliff interrupted. "She was attacked by the local gang?"

Reinhardt grunted. "She had her money taken - barely enough to buy bread. And they took it from her. The old soldier got involved, and when the dust settled, she was a casualty."

Reinhardt raised a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. "So he wasn't a hero because he couldn't save the girl? Or because he got her killed?"

Reinhardt shook his head. "No, it is because when I held him by his jacket and looked into his eyes, all he could say was... 'Sacrifices must be made.'"

Herschliff clicked his tongue, placing his hands in his pockets. "I... understand the tragedy. An innocent caught between him and them. It shouldn't have happened, but... one girl for an entire gang being wiped out. It's terrible, but think of all the people that were saved due to one girl's sacrifice... it sounds like an acceptable loss."

Reinhardt crushed the metal cup in his palm, his one eye locking onto Herschliff. The guard instinctively reached for his pulse pistol as he felt the wave of fear wash over him. "Jack Morrison believed the same. And what happened to him?" Reinhardt's knuckles popped as he balled his fists.

"It is easy to make sacrifices when your life doesn't hang in the balance," Reinhardt looked to the cell around him, somberly gazing at a singular photo. Some of the former members seemed to look back at him as he did so. "I sacrificed myself for my comrades every time I went out into battle. What was one more time. For a friend?"

Reinhardt simply stared towards the back wall of his cell. "I wish to sleep. Goodnight, Herschliff."

"Goodnight,"

++++++++++++++++++++++++

 Brian's Point Of View

 ++++++++++++++++++++++++

A familiar cyborg dashed past Brian, jumping over him and flipping midair, bringing a sword down on a mechanical monster that resembled a bipedal dinosaur. The monster roared and swung its massive blade-like weapon down, the metal glowing red-hot.

Brian jumped back, raising his rifle. His finger gripped the trigger, and a spray of kinetic rounds erupted from the barrel, embedding themselves in the dark, oil-black armor plating. The monster roared, "Lyudmila!"

The cyborg nodded, their arms glowing neon red as they stepped back, cracking the pavement. Before Lyudmila, their scarlet-colored katana was tossed into the air. They flipped, kicking the katana forward, the blade embedding itself into the beast's scanner, stunning it.

Brian reached out, and Lyudmila fell, throwing Brian onto the blade. The boy ran up the pillar of steel, sprinting along the blunt side as it began to rise, knocking Brian into the air. He pulled a pistol from his waistband, raising the gun to look through the iron sights. He leveled the barrel towards the scanner and pulled the trigger.

A shrill scream came from the end, and a massive bolt of energy shot out, slicing through the metal plating like a ribbon. A massive explosion rang out, and Brian was thrown back, his back colliding with a building, cracking the wall.

Lyudmila stared up towards the beast, their visor switching to thermal scanning the area through the smoke. A smile broke across the cyborg's face as they spotted the great beast, crumpled on the ground.

A menu appeared, showing the rankings and points from the fight. Lyudmila moved a slider, and the world around the two began to vanish in a wave of code. Brian stood up, standing with Lyudmila on a white, floating plain.

"You got bitch-slapped," Lyudmila spoke with a thick Russian accent, breaking the silence.

Brian places his pistol back on his waistband and shoulders his rifle. He pulls up a menu, and both weapons vanish, along with the combat gear and ammo belts. In their place, a blue bomber jacket, black jeans, and a dark-colored motorcycle helmet appear as the new outfit is equipped.

Lyudmila does the same, a tuxedo with a red undershirt and tie appearing around them, their mask being the only remaining item of their battlesuit. "So, it has been a few days anything interesting happen?" Brian scratches his chin. "not much just work. You mind if we relax for a bit?"

"Sure let me drop a portal," Lyudmila says, raising a hand. A distortion appears on the ground in front of them, and the two step through, finding themselves in an office space that Brian swears is from one of his favorite movies. Lyudmila splays out in a cushy office chair. Brian notices a watermark on the desk and a poster on the wall showing the name of the movie.

"Spaceman, you're zoning out. What's happening?" Lyudmila pulls Brian back to reality.

Brian's eyes seem to look distant as he contemplates his words. "Do you know anything about Tracer? The Overwatch hero?"

Lyudmila tilts their head. "Not much. They're British, they have time powers. They were a recalled agent. They were a squadmate of Jack Morrison."

Brian's eyebrows raise. "What?"

"I don't know much about it, but I do remember Tracer was a squadmate of Jack Morrison, even back during the second Omnic crisis. Supposedly, they were really close. I remember my mother joked about how Morrison was a... 'Manther'?"

Brian chokes on his spit, and Lyudmila chuckles. "That's what my mother called it. Supposedly, the two were really close, but Morrison supposedly had eyes for Angela Ziegler, and the feeling was mutual, supposedly."

Brian ponders the man's words. "Were they a thing?"

Lyudmila shrugs. "Who knows? I mostly studied the history of Overwatch, not really the gossip stuff."

Lyudmila clicked his tongue, a contemplative pause lingering before he tapped the desk with his index finger, tilting his head back. "Can I ask, before you wanted to know history, controversies and drama, but now you're asking about personal relationships." He raised the glass to his lips, eyeing Brian inquisitively. "Did something change?"

Brian understood the implied curiosity, steering the conversation. "I used to be a big fan. And to be honest, it's not every day that you meet an expert." He played to Lyudmila's ego, the Russian's eyes gleaming with a hint of pride.

"If you're truly interested, I know someone who could enlighten you further. They're expensive, but they can answer most of your questions," Lyudmila mused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. Brian's gaze flickered to the notification popup before him, his index finger swiping across the screen to reveal a sleek webpage emblazoned with a gleaming purple skull icon, eliciting a raised eyebrow. "Seems like a sketchy site."

Lyudmila waved his hand dismissively. "Add the account on the site, and then wait. Make sure your contact information is readily available on your page; people don't usually converse with them directly."

Curiosity piqued, Brian arched an inquisitive brow. "Why?"

"They typically deal with high-value clients, you know, like big secrets." Lyudmila's tone took on a conspiratorial lilt.

"Like paparazzi stuff?" Brian queried, prompting a nonchalant shrug from the Russian.

"Something like that."

With a flick of his wrist, Brian swiped the window away, tucking it into his 'saved for later' file. A name danced tantalizingly on the tip of his tongue, and he wavered, the phantom sensation of Amelie Lacroix's hand lingering on his upper back. Shaking his head, he posed the question, "What about the Widowmaker?"

Brian fell silent, his face slowly flushing crimson as Lyudmila's words hung heavy in the air. The Russian picked up on the confused, almost dumbfounded expression etched across Brian's features, prompting him to continue speaking. However, his voice fell upon deaf ears as Brian grappled with processing the bombshell revelation.

Later, Brian found himself seated before his computer, arms crossed as a video of Lena Oxton delivering an impassioned speech played on the webpage. The Widowmaker's striking figure was present alongside Angela and a familiar girl with brown hair and pink triangular markings adorning her cheeks. Pausing the video, Brian turned his attention to the open messaging app on his socials.

"I don't really know why you're so off about this. You don't even like her," Peter's voice crackled through the phone's speaker, eliciting a weary sigh from Brian.

"Well, how would you feel if you went on a date with a girl, then she didn't tell you that she was with someone who tried to kill you?"

A pregnant pause lingered before Peter's tentative response. "I don't want to be THAT guy, man, but... That sounds like a personal thing?"

Brian's hands rose to rub his temples in frustration. "It's just a bit weird she wouldn't mention that."

Peter's sigh resounded through the line. "I mean, would you want to admit to someone that you got with someone who almost killed them? Maybe she isn't proud of it. I know a ton of girls who are ashamed of their ex's."

His friend's words rang with a semblance of logic, prompting Brian to heave another sigh. "Maybe, but I actually met her tonight."

A groan of exasperation echoed from Peter's end. "I don't even know why I try anymore. So what happened?"

"She's a ballerina now. Or running one, I guess. She rehabilitated and seems nice, but even after talking with her and everything, I still feel a bit awkward thinking the woman who gave me dancing lessons also tried to kill me and ALSO was the girlfriend of a girl I went on a date with."

Silence hung between them before Peter spoke up once more. "This feels like something you might need to ask Tracer about. Have you texted her?"

Brian's palm met his forehead with an audible smack. "I forgot it's been two days..."

"Dude. TEXT HER, JESUS CHRIST." Peter's exasperated voice rang out, prompting Brian to pull the phone away from his ear.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

 Lena Oxton's Point Of View

 ++++++++++++++++++++++++

Lena stretched languidly across the plush tan couch, her lithe form sinking into the inviting cushions as the living room television flickered with another advertisement – this one hawking an energy drink alongside an antiquated brand called "Red Apple Cigarettes." With a weary rub of her fingers against the bridge of her nose, she seemed to melt further into the couch's embrace, the siren call of slumber growing ever more insistent.

A fleeting thought crossed her mind as she wondered why fatigue weighed so heavily upon her this night, when all-nighters were once a commonplace occurrence. Rousing herself from the couch's depths, Lena rose to her feet and pressed the red power button on the remote, plunging the room into velvety darkness as the television's glow winked out.

Padding towards her bedroom with the silent grace of a prowling feline, Lena eased open the door, her gaze immediately falling upon the familiar sight of her pulse pistols nestled in their holsters alongside her customary gear. An unconscious hand reached out, fingers outstretched to grasp the well-worn weapons.

However, a sudden, shrill ding emanating from her shorts caused Lena to jolt, her hand instinctively darting towards the source of the sound. She wrestled her phone free, nearly juggling the device before securing it in her grasp and raising it before her squinting eyes. The bright screen seared her vision in the dark confines of the room.

Unknown Number: Hey Lena its Brian.

Lena's brow furrows as she reads the text.

Lena: A bit late innit?

Brian: I thought I should. I wanted to talk with you.

Lena's lips quirk into a slight frown as she sits down on the edge of her bed, tearing her eyes away from her phone screen. For a moment, she lets her mind wander, thoughts drifting.

"I'll just see what his motive is," she muses to herself, fingertips absentmindedly tracing the worn bedspread.

Her eyes flit around the room, taking in the scattered piles of gear and well-loved movies stacked haphazardly on the nightstand. A tangle of fairy lights hung unlit above a small mirror

Lena's gaze lingers on an old photo stuck into the edge of the mirror's frame – Amelie sitting drinking coffee in a nightgown on a balcony. She feels a pang, quickly pushing the memory aside.

Refocusing her attention, she picks up her phone again, pulling up Brian's Instagram profile. As she scrolls through his meticulously curated feed, Lena can't quite put her finger on what nags at her. But something about this kid doesn't add up.

With a resigned sigh, she tosses her phone aside, falling back onto the bedspread. For now, she'll have to keep watching...and waiting to catch a glimpse of whatever game he's playing.

Lena: about what?

Three animated dots bounce rhythmically as Brian's tap out a message on his phone screen. Lena watches the looping ellipsis intently, her eyes narrowing slightly as it pauses and starts again.

He types and deletes, the dots pulsing with each revision. Clearly putting a lot of thought into his response.

Brian: I was wondering if you wanted to hang out

Lena arches one perfectly sculpted eyebrow as her keen gaze remains fixed on the screen

Lena: I'm a bit busy this week, maybe some other time.

Brian: I kinda just want to ask for some advice. But it feels like an in-person conversation you know?

Lena: not really.

Brian: I think you'll think it's weird.

Lena: try me.

The pulsating ellipsis bubbles up again as Brian continues tapping out his message, moving in fits and starts. Lena feels her irritation growing with each pause and restart of the animation.

Brian: I met the widowmaker again. And I.. forgave her.

Lena's eyes widen in surprise There was Brian earlier, holding Amelie close as they swayed together to the lilting melody. His hand resting at the small of her back. Lena closed her eyes tightly.

Lena: You forgave her?

Brian: I told her that since she was obviously trying to leave all of it behind her that its stupid for me to hold a grudge with someone who doesn't exist anymore. And even if its just one more thing she doesn't have to worry about then its worth it.

Lena: that's. noble of you.

Brian: it was really hard to say that.

Lena: whys that?

Brian: Because I spent years imagining getting some stupid revenge. Then when I was standing in front of her I could only think. She wasn't in control of herself. Its stupid to hate someone for what they cant control.

Lena: The coffee shop Sunday 5AM be there or be square.

Lena jabs her thumb aggressively, sending the text off with a dissatisfied huff. Tossing her phone down onto the haphazard pile of pillows, she lets out a guttural scream of pure exasperation - muffling the sound against the plush cushion clutched to her face.

"There's just no way this kid can be this NICE!" Her words reverberate through the fabric, dripping with bewildered disdain. "There's gotta be something to him beneath that dopey smile and stupid hair!"

Flopping back dramatically, Lena flings the pillow aside with a groan. Her eyes blaze with skeptical indignation as she replays the scene from earlier in her mind.

The way Brian had simply...forgiven Amelie. After that unhinged ballet mistress had quite literally tried to kill him. Most people would be pressing charges, getting a restraining order at the very least.

But not Brian. No, he just flashed those annoyingly kind blue eyes, wished Amelie well in her recovery, and carried on like it was nothing.

Lena scowls at the memory, fingers raking harshly through her disheveled hair. "I can't fucking believe this kid!" She seethes aloud to the empty room. "What kind of game is he playing at?"

++++++++++++++

Peter Omake

++++++++++++++

Peter concluded his call with Brian and proceeded to meticulously craft a chalk circle within the confines of his bedroom, meticulously etching a sizable star at its heart. Retrieving a collection of candles, he arranged them symmetrically, savoring the delicate fragrance of lavender as he prepared the ritual space. With deliberate care, he placed a candle at each cardinal point of the circle, punctuating the act with a drop of his own blood at its center. Igniting the candles one by one, he intoned the ancient incantation, "ut mihi amicam!" with fervent repetition, observing as the flames flickered and danced with increasing intensity until a surge of fire surged forth, engulfing the chamber and hurling Peter to the ground.

Reacting swiftly, Peter reached for a fire extinguisher, dousing the inferno until billowing clouds of white smoke filled the room. Amidst the haze, a voice pierced the air, feminine and resonant. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he discerned the figure of an Asian woman, meticulously polishing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.

In a moment of exuberance, Peter exclaimed, "FUCK YEAH!" as he enveloped the woman in an embrace, only to find himself abruptly encased in a solid block of ice,

Chapter Text

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Hana's point of View

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Hana leans back in her chair, stretching her arms out like a cat. Her baggy t-shirt hangs off her thin form as the chair creaks slightly, her back popping. "The Stream has now stopped," displays on her computer monitor. With a press of a key, her virtual model freezes, and Hana lets out a sigh of relief, rising to her feet.

She jolts as the electric feeling of pins and needles shoots up her sleeping leg, causing an awkward shuffle towards the kitchen. Hopping up the small stair, the tingling sensation in her nerves disappears as she rounds the near-empty kitchen. A set of knives sits untouched in a spotless block. Hana cracks a smile, looking to a large rack of gleaming pans. "Let's get cooking."

Her socked feet pad across the tile as she moves to the fridge, swinging the door open. The cool air brushes her face as she scans the shelves, biting her lip. With a nod, she grabs a cluster of vegetables - vibrant bell peppers, a plump eggplant, and a bundle of green onions. Placing them on the counter, she reaches for a cutting board and one of the pristine knives.

As the blade slices through the first pepper, Hana's shoulders relax. The rhythmic chopping, the crunch of the knife against the wooden board, it's meditative. Her mind wanders as she dices the veggies

Hana leaned against the metal guard railing, her eyes locked onto the two figures clashing in the training room. The salty ocean air of Gibraltar brought a cool breeze, making her shiver in her blue and white battle suit. A shower of sparks flew through the air as a metal blade made contact with a compound bow. The swordsman jumped back as a wave of shuriken flew towards the archer, who raised his bow, three arrows notched. Each arrow firing deflected the shuriken, pressing onward.

Hana gawked as the arrows seemed to change direction mid-air, all raining down on the ninja. Before they could strike, the silver-colored warrior swung a small blade hung at his waist, slicing the arrows into pieces. Hana jumped back as shards flew towards her. In a green flash, the arrows vanished. The swordsman crouched on the railing, crushed arrow shafts in his metal hand, the shards of arrowheads dropping harmlessly to the ground.

"I am sorry for the trouble," he spoke briefly.

Hana shook her head. "No, thank you for the save."

The swordsman nodded, turning back to the archer, who didn't meet Hana's eyes before walking away to another part of the base.

"What's his deal?" Hana questioned.

"He is... adjusting," the shinobi replied. "I must go. Heiwa ni ikimashou."

"You too." Hana gave a faint smile as the swordsman paused, bowed, then dropped off the railing, disappearing into a hallway.

"I see you met my brothers." Hana turned to see a girl in a red beanie, white t-shirt, and crimson hoodie tied around her waist over black jeans approach, arms resting casually behind her head.

"They're your brothers?"

"Well, we were raised as siblings..."

"They're brothers, but my mom was their combat instructor, so we've been close since we were kids." The girl leaned back against the railing, arms crossed. "I'm your all's new medic - Kiriko."

She spoke rapidly, and Hana studied her - the red beanie, the casual t-shirt and hoodie. "You're our new doctor?"

Kiriko raised a hand to her face. "I know, right? I look way too young and fresh-faced to be a stuffy old doctor." She flashed a confident smile. "Angela's got you beat, sis."

Kiriko stuck out her tongue playfully, earning a giggle from Hana. "But yeah, I'll be watching your back out there." She offered her fist, and Hana bumped it.

"So I've been wanting to ask..." Hana glanced back towards the training room. "What's up with those two? Especially the ponytail guy. He seems kind of a..."

"A dick?" Kiriko finished bluntly. "Pretty much."

She shrugged. "He's been like that since we were kids. Wherever Genji went, Hanzo followed, but usually took the blame whenever Genji got into trouble."

Hana noticed the dark circles under the archer's eyes. "So why does he look like such a sad sack?"

Kiriko's expression sobered. "Him and Genji have some drama. I don't really want to get into it, but the gist is Genji messed around too much, and their family decided he needed to be...gotten rid of. So they had Hanzo try to kill him."

Hana's eyes widened, but before she could respond, Kiriko continued, "Now Genji's back and brought Hanzo to help Overwatch. I figured, why not join my favorite two drama queens?"

Kiriko turned to face Hana, whose fish-like stare revealed her stunned disbelief. "Also, we're magic." Kiriko wiggled her fingers teasingly.

Hana snapped out of it. "You've been joking this entire time?!"

"Nah, that much is true." Kiriko waved a dismissive hand. "Just...cut the two some slack if you get caught in the middle. Those bros have some stuff to figure out."

Hana blinked rapidly, trying to process Kiriko's casual revelation about Hanzo and Genji's history. Magic aside, the notion of brothers being pitted against each other in that way was deeply unsettling.

She studied Kiriko's nonchalant demeanor - the slight shrug, the dismissive hand wave. For her, this problem seemed almost...mundane.

"How can you be so cavalier about all that?" Hana blurted out before thinking.

Kiriko arched an eyebrow. "You think I'm being cavalier? Believe me, I worry about those dinguses constantly." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "But if I got bent out of shape every time they did something stupid or dramatic, I'd be a mess."

A wry smile played across her lips. "Let's just say I've had years of practice rolling with their nonsense."

Kiriko pushed off the railing, falling into step beside Hana. The warm afternoon sun glinted off the water as they strolled the balcony's length in comfortable silence.

"I get it, you know?" Kiriko said finally. "They're my family, even if we're not related by blood. You don't just turn that off because things get...complicated."

Her gaze drifted to the horizon, where the sky met the sea in a seamless blend of blue. "We've all done things we regret, made choices we can't take back. But we keep showing up for each other. We have to."

Hana felt herself nodding slowly. She thought of her own found family - her MEKA squad mates who fought by her side, laughter and contrails intermingling in those frantic neon nights over Busan. She'd take a bullet for any of them without hesitation.

"Yeah..." Hana exhaled, leaning her forearms on the railing. "I get it."

Kiriko shot her a sidelong glance, understanding passing between them. "Then you're okay in my book, gamer girl."

Hana snapped out of the memory as a stinging pain shot up her nerves. Scarlet blood began pooling in her palm - she must have nicked herself while chopping vegetables. Cursing under her breath, she dropped the knife and dashed to the bathroom.

Rummaging through the cabinet beneath the sink, she retrieved a first aid kit and pulled out a small, dart-like object. Grimacing, Hana jabbed it into her palm. A soothing sensation immediately washed over the wound as a clotting agent took effect, a fresh scab rapidly forming to seal the cut.

She ran her palm under the disinfectant and quickly wrapped a bandage around it, inspecting her handiwork with a huff of relief. Turning back towards the kitchen, her heart sank as she took in the gruesome sight - the sliced veggies now appeared drenched in scarlet fluid.

"Shit," Hana sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. So much for that stir fry.

With a resigned shake of her head, she started gathering the blood-soaked ingredients to toss them. The biotic-gel may have closed the wound, but now her dinner plans were trickling down the drain, quite literally.

A small smirk tugged at her lips as she dumped the gory veggies into the trash. Only she could turn a simple meal prep into a scenes reminiscent of those classic Busan zombie flicks she loved. Some things never changed.

At least this mess was contained to her own kitchen. Hana didn't even want to imagine the clean-up required if this had happened out in the field. Between the tech grenades, bioweapons, and various other hazards, battles often left quite the mess back in the day.

With a resigned sigh, she quickly wiped down the counter and kitchen surfaces, checking meticulously for any stray splatter. The things she did for a simple home-cooked meal.

Satisfied the area was clean, Hana leaned back against the counter, unwrapping the bandage to inspect her already nearly-healed palm. Fancy future medicine was incredibly convenient, if a bit unsettling at times with how quickly it could cauterize wounds.

Her gaze drifted towards the living room window, where the warm glow of early evening filtered in, casting the kitchen in a cozy orange light. Maybe she'd just order delivery tonight. A quiet night in with her favorite Pizza and a movie marathon sounded perfect.

++++++++++++++++++++

Brian's Point Of View

++++++++++++++++++++

Brian snaps back to reality as a metal tray clatters against the granite kitchen counter, startling him. His blue cap falls from his head. "Snap out of it, kid. We got an order in S'nrio," his boss barks, grabbing a stray pizza box and quickly folding it.

Brian lifts his phone, checking the timeclock - 4:36. He glances back at his boss placing a pizza inside the box. "Cheesy bread, cinnamon roll sticks, a large Hawaiian with bell peppers," the boss lists off, scrolling through a tablet with narrowed eyes. He snaps his fingers at Brian. "Go to the cooler and grab one of those energy drinks...with the lizard on it."

Turning, He slides the glass door open. His hand wraps around a lime green can before hesitation sets in. "The green ones are trash," he remembers, cracking a smile. Reaching down, he grabs a blue one instead, setting it beside the pizza and order on the counter.

Brian pulls a thermal bag from beneath, packing the large order inside. Giving his boss a brief wave, he says, "It's a long drive. If I get there past 5, take the order, and clock me out."

His boss nods. "Got it."

Stepping outside into the rain, Brian pulls his blue hoodie tighter. He places the thermal bag into a locked basket on his bike and presses the shield lock button. The small metal cover snaps shut over the basket as he mounts the bike. Kicking off, the hoverjets cause rippling in the puddles, spraying water. Brian speeds onto the road, the rain pattering against his hoodie.

Brian parked his hovercycle on the curb, double-checking the delivery address. "Why would someone way out here in the fancy S'nrio district order from a pizza place clear across town?" he muttered to himself.

He made his way inside and into the elevator, his stomach rumbling as the aroma of pizza filled the small space. Brian closed his eyes, letting the cheesy scent and elevator music wash over him. "Damn, I think I missed KurpikaDv'as livestream again."

Checking his phone, he saw the delivery was for room 1433. Brian whispered the number as the elevator dinged open. He slid between the doors and down the plushly carpeted hallway, passing ornate wooden doors until he found the right one. His feet tapped quickly as the time on his watch ticked to 5:05pm.

Finally, the door clicked open, and Brian thrust the thermal bag forward, showing the QR code on his phone screen. "A Hawaiian pizza with bell peppers, cinnamon roll sticks, cheesy bread, and—"

His voice trailed off as he looked up to see sunglasses and a black face mask peering back at him. As their eyes met, the girl's widened, causing the mask to slip down slightly. Brian's finger shot up, pointing at her in recognition.

"You're the girl from the convenience store!"

The girl stuttered, seemingly just as surprised. "You're the kid who went on a date with Lena!"

An awkward pause stretched between them as they stared at each other. Brian's phone pinged with the payment notification. Wordlessly, he shoved the food into the girl's hands and turned on his heel, speedwalking back down the corridor.

"W-Wait, get back here!" she called after him.

"No thank you!" Brian called over his shoulder, not breaking stride.

"I'll give you a hundred dollar tip!"

Those words made Brian's sneakers screech to a halt on the carpeting. He pivoted slowly, the prospect of that lucrative tip giving him pause. His eyes narrowed slightly at the girl still standing in her doorway, weighing his options.

Brian eyed the girl skeptically, her offer of a generous tip hanging in the air between them. A hundred dollars was nothing to sneeze at for a simple pizza delivery. But the colossal ick-factor of potentially being involved with drama made him hesitate.

"How do I know you're not just messing with me?" he asked, squinting. "I think you just want to hear gossip."

The girl clutched the food bag close, shaking her head vehemently. Her tousled hair bounced around her shoulders in a way that was almost...cute? Brian quickly banished that errant thought.

"I'm not papparazi, I swear!" She pulled down the mask, revealing a slightly panicked expression and a smattering of freckles across her nose with pink markings on her cheeks. "Look, I was an overwatch member I knew Lena Oxton and ..." She waved a hand vaguely. "...I just wanted to ask you some questions."

Brian arched an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself at this new vulnerability he sensed. The girl glanced away, cheeks pinkening slightly.

"I just figured if I tipped you an obscene amount of money, you'd be willing to talk" She exhaled heavily. "No gossip or drama or anything, I promise."

Her warm brown eyes bored into his imploringly. Brian felt his resolve wavering. Maybe she really was just worried about her friend. And that tip would cover his food bills this month with plenty left over...

Squaring his shoulders, Brian strode back towards the door, extending his palm expectantly.

"Fine, But I want some proof you actually know Lena."

The girl rolled her eyes dramatically at the boys suspicious nature, but couldn't say she didn't understand the reason. She slapped a crisp $100 bill into Brian's waiting hand. Before showing Lena's phone number. The digits matched the ones Brian had exactly.

"There," she said, adjusting the mask back over her face. "Now are you going to answer some questions or not?"

Brian nodded politely and stepped inside the lavish hotel suite, his eyes widening as he took in the sprawling space. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a breathtaking view of San Francisco's skyline, raindrops pattering rhythmically against the glass.

"Wow!" he exclaimed, craning his neck to try and absorb every detail of the cityscape.

"Are you going to keep staring, or are you going to come sit down?" Hana's voice snapped him out of his reverie. Brian felt his cheeks flush as he tore his gaze away from the vista and made his way towards the kitchen area.

As he passed by, various gaming posters and setups caught his eye. A high-end PC rig with multiple monitors dominated one desk, while a VR headset rested atop a mannequin head nearby.

"Is that the Vishkar Nimbus?" Brian asked, eyes widening as he studied the headset from every angle. "You play VR games?"

Hana looked up from the pizza box, cheeks puffed out as she chewed and swallowed a mouthful of steaming cheese and sauce. "Yeah, I try to get some virtual time in every night."

She quickly reached for a blue energy drink, popping the tab and taking a long, exaggerated sip. "Ohhh, that's so good," she commented, letting the cool liquid soothe her burning taste buds.

As Hana set the can down, she noticed Brian's intense blue eyes focused intently on her. An awkward silence stretched between them before she attempted to break the tension.

"Sooo...your name?"

Brian seemed to snap out of some daze. "Wiser. Brian Wiser." He extended his hand and Hana firmly shook it, though his gaze quickly dropped to the bandaged wound on her palm. "What happened there?"

"Kitchen accident," Hana replied dismissively, waving her other hand. "It's why I called you here, Pizza Boy." A mischievous glint appeared in her eyes. "And my name's Hana."

Brian leveled a warm smile at her. "It's nice to meet you, Hana."

Something about the way his handsome features shifted when he smiled triggered a strange flicker of recognition in Hana's mind. There was something achingly familiar about this kid...

Shaking it off, she slammed her drink down with a thud, fixing Brian with a scrutinizing look.

"So, down to business - are you a clout chaser?"

Brian's expression went utterly deadpan. "No."

Hana studied his face intently, scanning for any hint of deception. "You better not be lying, because I can tell when someone's lying."

She watched as Brian simply shook his head, seemingly unbothered by her accusatory tone. "I'm not. Lena saved me and my brother once, then a little while ago I randomly ran into her on the balcony of my apartment and we started talking."

Hana leaned in closer across the counter, her eyes narrowing. Their faces were now mere inches apart as she prodded further, "Talking about what?"

Brian averted his gaze, looking distinctly uncomfortable as Hana's intense scrutiny and close proximity bored into him. "Life, I guess? It's a little private, but there's nothing weird. I just...like talking to her."

He risked a glance back towards Hana, immediately regretting it as he found himself at eye-level with her ample cleavage peeking out from the loose top she wore. Brian felt his cheeks scorching as he fought to keep his eyes respectfully averted from her enticing chest.

Hana, for her part, remained blissfully unaware of the effect she was having as she continued studying Brian's expression like a hawkmissed detective.

"So you play Shockdisc?" Hana asked, studying Brian carefully.

He nodded. "It's one of my favorites, but recently I've been spending a lot of time in ReLife, just hanging out with this guy I know."

Puffing out her chest, Hana adopted a cocky expression. "I have over a thousand hours logged in Shockdisc and I'm ranked worldwide."

Brian smiled, seemingly unsurprised. "I don't have quite that many hours, but I'm ranked too - top 500."

Hana couldn't hide her raised eyebrows at that admission. Quickly recomposing herself, she fired off another question.

"What's your scoring average?"

As Brian answered, providing his stats and details, Hana listened intently, tossing out progressively more niche gameplay inquiries that he handled with ease. Finally, she switched genres.

"What about CombatBox?"

"I prefer FightingSkill, but CombatBox is okay," Brian replied with a shrug. "I like the physics gameplay mechanics in FightingSkill better than the weird hit detection in combatbox."

A slow smile spread across Hana's face as she appraised him with newfound respect.

"Hmm...why don't you and I play a round or two then? I want to see what you're really made of."

Brian paused, clearly taken aback by the abrupt transition away from the interrogation-style questioning.

"I thought you had more questions? Isn't going straight into gaming kind of...weird, after all this?"

Hana's cocksure demeanor faltered briefly, a flicker of displeasure crossing her features before the bravado reasserted itself.

"If you'd rather just go back to spend time home alone, I don't mind," she said with studied nonchalance, waving a dismissive hand. "I just figured you should back up some of those stat claims of yours."

She broke eye contact, ostentatiously taking a bite of lukewarm pizza and chewing slowly. The silence stretched as Brian seemed to contemplate her words. Finally, he sighed.

"Do you have an extra headset?"

A triumphant smirk split Hana's lips as she swallowed her mouthful.

"I figured you'd see reason," she purred, green eyes glittering with anticipation and challenge. "Prepare to get demolished, Wiser."

Without waiting for a response, Hana slipped off the barstool and strode across the plush apartment in a series of exaggerated, cocky strides. She retrieved a second headset from its stand, tossing it through the air back towards Brian with a cavalier underhand flick.

He snatched it cautiously from the air, giving the sleek piece of technology an appraising look. A grin slowly spread across his features, seemingly energized by Hana's brazen taunting.

"You're that confident you'll win, huh?" he asked, already slipping the headset over his messy blond curls. "We'll see about that."

Brian peeled the VR headset off, blinking rapidly as he transitioned out of the fully immersive dive. He sat up slowly, chest still heaving from exertion. Turning towards Hana, he was met with a devilish smirk as she stuck out her tongue and formed an 'L' shape with her fingers.

"L-Loser!" she taunted.

Brian rubbed his sternum, the phantom sensation of taking a stinging heel kick still tingling across his nerves. "The Nimbus...it's insane. Like I could actually feel every punch and kick landing."

"Mmhmm..." Hana hummed, stretching languidly before rising from her seated position. "State of the art VR tech. Only made for the pros and celebrities."

She shot Brian a sly wink, clearly relishing having such elite equipment at her disposal. Brian simply smiled back, an uncharacteristic cockiness spreading across his features.

"Well, what else would I expect from the one and only...KurapikaDva?"

The transition was seamless - one moment Hana's playful grin was firmly in place, the next it evaporated entirely. Her eyes went wide as her gaze snapped to Brian's knowing expression.

An awkward pause stretched between them as Hana's mind raced, putting the pieces together. Brian wasn't deterred in the slightest, feeding off her shocked reaction.

"The fighting style you used - Jun Keet Do," he began confidently. "KurapikaDva is a master of it. And in all her promo vids, she has this very distinct technique when throwing a full side kick."

Brian mimed the twisting heel strike, his eyes brightening with undisguised admiration.

"I've pored over footage of her matches, studying her unique form for stuff like gameplay analysis videos. That kinetic twist at the end is her signature move."

Hana remained frozen, holding unnaturally still as a bead of sweat trickled down her temple. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"I...I mean, sure, Jun Keet Do is getting really popular nowadays," she finally managed, attempting a dismissive shrug that fell utterly flat. "Could just be a crazy coincidence, right?"

A long pause as Brian considered this, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. When he spoke again, his tone brimmed with quiet confidence.

"Except not just anyone gets to be one of the top ranked players in the world at it. And how many people do you know that have not one, but two Vishkar Nimbus headsets just...casually lying around?"

Hana's carefully maintained nonchalance shattered. In the blink of an eye, she was on her feet and looming over Brian, grabbing fistfuls of his hoodie as she forcibly shook him back and forth.

"You can't tell anyone about this, you hear me?!" she hissed urgently, her earlier bravado vanished. "If people find out who I am, I'll get harassed and stalked! My life would be over!"

Brian could only nod dumbly as Hana rattled him, well aware of how fragile his current situation was.

"I'm a huge fan, I swear," he tried to reassure her between jerks. "Your secret's safe with me!"

Hana paused, searching his expression for any hint of deception. When she found none, some of the franticness bled out of her, replaced by an almost comical faux sternness.

"I forbid you from telling a single soul!" She thrust a finger in Brian's face, rising up on her tiptoes in an exaggerated display of dominance. "If you do, I'm gonna tell the entire world you're dating Tracer!"

Brian's eyes blew wide, panic seizing his features. "You wouldn't dare..."

"Try me," Hana shot back flatly, arms crossed in a challenging posture.

The two stared each other down for a heated moment before Brian slowly raised his hands in surrender.

"Okay, okay...I won't tell anyone, I promise. Just please don't go spreading crazy rumors about me and Lena." His expression turned imploring. "I don't want anything to happen to her because of me."

Hana held his gaze for another beat before nodding curtly. As Brian turned away to gather his belongings, she struck with cobra-quick reflexes - snatching his phone right out of his hands!

"Hey!" Brian yelped, spinning back around to see Hana holding the device high above her head.

He pawed futilely for the bobbing phone just out of reach. Hana danced backwards with a taunting grin, keeping the prize tantalizingly elevated.

Finally, when Brian was practically bent in half, she let the phone tumble from her grasp. He snatched it from the air barely an inch from the floor, cradling it protectively to his chest as he straightened with an indignant huff.

As Brian's eyes swept over the screen, checking for any damage, a strange sequence of letters and numbers caught his attention.

"It's my friend code," Hana supplied, watching Brian carefully. "I don't really know anyone who can play at my level I want to see what you can do, you're a decent matchup."

Brian simply shook his head slowly, grip tightening around the phone. His gaze was resolute when it finally lifted to meet Hana's once more.

"Liar," he stated flatly. "You were holding back in the game."

Hana felt like she'd been doused in ice water. The bravado, the teasing camaraderie - it all melted away as Brian's piercing stare cut right through her pretenses.

"Your...technique," he pressed on, taking a subconscious step closer as his voice lowered with intensity. "Your speed and reaction time...it was off compared to your gameplay videos. You're way faster than what you showed me."

Hana said nothing, rooted to the spot as he approached. There was an unnerving certainty to Brian's demeanor, a sense that he could see right through to her core.

"I'm not going to play around with you if you don't take things seriously," he said, squaring his shoulders as they came nearly chest-to-chest. "I love watching you fight so I hate knowing that you won't give me the real deal."

His next words emerged as a low, rasping murmur, eyes locked unblinkingly on hers.

"...So don't hold anything back."

Silence fell over the hotel suite, the air thickening with sudden tension. Hana drew an involuntarily sharp breath, keenly aware of the smoldering challenge in Brian's stare.

She found herself unable to look away.

++++++++++++++++++++

Fantasy Omake

++++++++++++++++++++

"Hana, I can't heal you if you keep jumping into the crowd of enemies!" Brian yelled.

"Maybe you just suck at healing!" Hana yelled back, raising her steel shield as a hobgoblin's club shattered against it. She kicked the hobgoblin in the face, knocking it backward. "Maybe you're just a bad knight!"

Brian swung his staff, the great blue diamond-like shape at the end colliding with a small goblin's head, knocking it out. "Lena, can I have some help!" he called to the elven rogue, who turned to look at him, a pouch full of coins in her hand after plucking it from a goblin's corpse.

"I'll get around to it, love. I'm a bit busy," Lena waved him off, making him sigh.

"Angela?" Brian turned to the priestess. Her black nun fatigues shielded her from the harsh sun, her hands clasped in prayer.

"Shit!" Brian jumped towards the crowd of goblins, leaping over one's head. He grabbed Hana and pulled her free, running away as a great black portal appeared beneath the goblin swarm. Great purple-eyed tentacles shot out, grabbing various goblins.

Brian strained, running faster as Hana smacked the back of his head. "Mush, faster, faster! It's coming!" she panicked, pushing the boy to quicken his pace.

Lena yelled out as a goblin wearing a golden crown was pulled into the abyss. Brian grabbed the back of her coat collar and pulled her away as a tentacle reached for her. He ran behind Angela, who laughed maniacally at the carnage the eldritch creature was inflicting.

"Where's Amelie?" Hana asked, making Brian drop her as he looked around in panic. The dark elf appeared from the tree line.

"I thought you all were capable of handling this," she said calmly, looking at Angela, who cackled maniacally like a witch as the tentacles ripped apart a larger ogre.

"I should have been a baker," Brian whispered to himself.

Chapter Text

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Angela's POV Several Years Ago

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Angela looked at Gabriel, brow furrowed with concern. "And what does he want?"

Gabriel leveled her with a tired look, lowering a stack of papers he'd been reading. Frustration was evident on his scarred face as shaking fingers rubbed the dark bags under his eyes.

"The Department of Special Operations has been trying to get their hands on him for 10 years now. The Janissary Act enables us to take him into custody - regardless of what he wants. It's either service or execution." He didn't hesitate in laying out the stark ultimatum.

Sliding the stack across the desk, Gabriel allowed Angela to read through the mission report. Her eyes scanned the documents, settling on an unfamiliar codename.

"What about this second member... Elizabeth Caledonia? 'Ashe'?"

"During the chase and subsequent arrest, after the boy was knocked from the gunner's seat, their armored vehicle lost control and careened into a nearby canyon." Gabriel's voice was devoid of emotion. "Search and rescue efforts are ongoing, but forensics says due to the river at the bottom, finding any remains is unlikely."

Angela nodded solemnly before changing tack. "I'd like to discuss something with you."

Gabriel glanced at the clock briefly before arching an eyebrow, signaling her to continue.

"Moira was deployed for the extraction, and due to the trauma and risk of infection, the arm was amputated. But reviewing the footage, it seems to me the injury could have been treated on-site with a biotic pack. The amputation was unnecessary."

Leaning back, Gabriel sighed - a gruff, weary exhalation. A cold, calculating expression settled over his features.

"He is extremely skilled with firearms, far more so than most of our agents. Frankly, it's a massive security risk leaving him intact and armed." He paused, letting the implication linger before continuing.

"Higher-ups thought it better to keep him alive, but...removing his arm and outfitting him with a cybernetic limb that can be remotely deactivated was deemed the logical solution. If he attempts escape or turns his weapons on us, it leaves his capabilities severely handicapped."

Angela slammed the documents down, anger flashing across her face.

"This was your plan all along! To cripple the poor boy and make him a puppet by dangling a new limb over his head? What were you thinking?!"

Gabriel rose, towering over her as his own temper flared. "I was thinking he's a wanted man in four countries who has killed several of our infantry! It wasn't my idea to bring him into Overwatch - if it were up to me, he'd be in prison or worse. But he has exceptional talent, and now he has a chance to redeem himself."

Leaning in, Gabriel's intense gaze bored into Angela's. "I've requested you be made his personal physician through recovery and rehabilitation until his new cybernetics are fitted. You'll be tasked with psychological evaluations as well. Are you willing to do this...or should I have Dr. Deorain attend to him instead?"

The unspoken threat hung thick in the air. Angela's fists clenched, knuckles whitening, as she fought to maintain her composure.

"I will see to his recovery," she ground out through gritted teeth. "I don't want Deorain anywhere near the infirmary."

Not waiting for a response, Gabriel turned and strode from the office, leaving Angela alone.

The sharp tang of antiseptic assaulted Angela's senses as she strode down the infirmary hallway. Each click of her heels against the tile seemed to echo interminably in the unsettling quiet enveloping the ward

A soothing hint of lavender wafted through as the air conditioners activated - a small, familiar comfort that allowed some of the tension to bleed from Angela's shoulders as she approached the closed door.

Clutching the patient file firmly against her chest, she grasped the handle and pulled, the latch giving way with a faint bell-like chime that cut through the stillness.

Angela stepped over the threshold, and her eyes immediately landed on the crumpled, motionless form of an omnic doctor sprawled gracelessly across the floor. Jagged dents and gouges marred its chest chassis in a manner that could only be the result of a fight.

Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze raked over the scene. There, by the toppled IV stand and the tray of scattered medical tools, she spotted the source of the damage - an indentation in the omnic's torso the unmistakable size and shape of a human fist.

A rustling sound snapped Angela's attention towards the privacy curtain sectioning off the bed area. It billowed softly with each perceptible movement beyond the fabric partition. Accompanying the rustling was an unsettling gnawing, tearing sort of noise that set Angela's heart racing.

Slowly, carefully, she trailed her fingers along the edge of the curtain until she grasped the fabric firmly. With a measured exhale, she pulled it aside just enough to get a clear view.

The sight that greeted her was one of almost startling normalcy after the wreckage just outside - a young man with tousled brown hair and the faintest dusting of peach fuzz along his jaw line. He sat upright in the hospital bed, movements slightly frantic as he shoveled food from a plastic tray into his mouth with an unrestrained hunger.

Crumbs scattered across the bedsheets with each increasingly sloppy bite. It was as if he hadn't eaten in days and was desperate to cure his ravenous appetite in that moment. An empty glass tumbler lay on its side, a few stray drops of water slowly trailing across the tray's surface.

"Good morning, Mr. Cassidy."

Angela's soft voice seemed to slice through the tension like a whipcrack. The young man startled, very nearly tumbling off the edge of the bed as he whipped around towards the unexpected presence.

In that instant, Angela found herself pinned by the most disarmingly calm yet inscrutable gaze. His brown eyes studied her with an intensity that bordered on confrontational, missing not a single subtle shift or tell as they openly assessed her like a targeting computer she felt a chill as his eyes met hers.

++++++++++++++++++++

Angela's POV Modern Day

++++++++++++++++++++

Angela snapped out of the vivid memory, blinking rapidly as she refocused on the present. Leaning forward on the kitchen countertop of the apartment she shared with Lena, she absently swiped away the banner notifications from her research partner popping up on her phone.

Her eyes were inexorably drawn to the live video feed from the building's entrance buzzer. There, framed in the grainy camera image, stood a familiar young man shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. Despite the low quality of the camera, those calm, studious blue eyes were utterly unmistakable - the same inscrutable gaze she remembered so vividly that reminded her of a familiar sensation.

This time, the blonde was clad in a bright blue tracksuit, white t-shirt visible underneath. He seemed to be scanning the area around the apartment entrance, casting furtive glances up towards the windows every few seconds.

The sound of a door opening behind her made Angela turn. Lena emerged from her bedroom, already dressed in yellow and black workout gear - a cropped tank top and fitted leggings that accentuated her lithe, athletic form.

Moving towards the kitchen, she pulled a clear orange water bottle from the fridge and gave it a shake, catching it deftly as she tossed it into the air. Only then did Lena seem to register Angela watching her, an inquiring look on the doctor's face.

"I'm heading out," Lena stated simply, shooting Angela a warm smile.

Angela's eyes roamed over the workout attire pointedly. "going to the gym?"

Her tone was kind, touched with the faintest undercurrent of maternal concern. Lena didn't appear to notice, already halfway towards the door.

"Just going for a run, gotta kick the calories, you know?" She tossed the teasing remark over her shoulder with a wink, the exchange so casual and familiar.

But as she rested her hand on the doorknob, Angela couldn't help but press further, an inexplicable unease prickling at her instincts.

"You haven't worn that outfit in a long time. Do you have a new running partner I don't know about?"

Lena visibly paused at that, her back stiffening almost imperceptibly. When she responded, it was without turning around fully.

"Nah, just gotta clear my head, is all."

Her tone was light, dismissive, but Angela frowned as she studied the set of Lena's shoulders, the tension there. She knew that posture, had seen it before when Lena was keeping something from her.

"Well, have fun then," Angela replied, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice entirely. "Stay safe out there."

Lena flashed her a parting wave and a brilliant smile over her shoulder as she ducked through the doorway. "Always do, love!"

The door clicked shut behind her, and Angela was left alone, chewing her lip pensively. Her gaze drifted back towards the buzzer camera, catching one last glimpse of the familiar blonde figure before the feed blinked to black.

++++++++++++++++++

Brian's point of view

++++++++++++++++++

Brian fumbled with his keys, fingering the new pink figurine attached to the keychain. Hana's parting words echoed in his mind - "Take this. If we play again and I beat you, I want it back."

He smiled faintly at the memory of her shoving the $100 bill between the bunny rabbit's paws before ushering him out of her apartment.

"Good morning."

Lena's voice made Brian nearly jump out of his skin. He spun to see her striding past, not even breaking stride as she called over her shoulder.

"Come on, we've got to move."

Weaving effortlessly through the light foot traffic on the sidewalk, Brian had to jog to catch up, falling into step just behind Lena's brisk pace.

"So am I square?" he asked hopefully. "You said be there or be square, and I was..."

Trailing off at Lena's confused look, Brian waved it off with an embarrassed chuckle. "Nevermind."

"So what did you want to talk about?" he tried again after an awkward silence.

Lena didn't even spare him a glance, eyes focused ahead as they crossed another intersection. "Just wait until we get to the park."

Brian simply nodded, sticking close as Lena turned another corner onto an empty side street. Though they had already covered several blocks at a brisk pace, she seemed utterly unfazed - Her breathing was measured, a light sheen of sweat just beginning to bead on her brow.

In contrast, Brian could already feel his heart pounding, lungs straining to keep up. He snuck a sidelong glance at the back of Lena's head, trying and failing to be subtle about admiring the fitting athletic gear that clung to her toned figure.

Get a grip! She's your friend...your very attractive, deadly friend who could probably kill you in about eight different ways without breaking a sweat...

Shaking himself from those hazardous thoughts, Brian pushed himself to run up alongside Lena, offering a friendly smile despite his own sweat-drenched hair plastered to his forehead. She cut him a sidelong look, eyes narrowing as a small frown tugged at the corners of her mouth before refocusing straight ahead.

Brian's own grin slipped at her cold demeanor. Had he done something to irritate her already? Steeling himself, he concentrated on matching her quickening pace stride for stride, refusing to be left behind.

Though his calves already burned with the strain of keeping up, Brian pushed himself to his limits as the park's black wrought-iron gates finally came into view ahead. With a final burst of speed, he pulled up alongside Lena, lungs heaving as they crossed the entrance threshold.

Too focused on not face-planting, Brian misjudged his momentum and pitched forward ungracefully. A strong hand gripped the back of his shirt collar, abruptly halting his forward descent and yanking him upright with enough force to expel what little air remained in his lungs.

Before he could even splutter out a breathless "thanks", Brian found himself slammed back-first against the rough bark of a nearby tree trunk. Lena pinned him there effortlessly, forearm pressed across his collarbone as she glared up at him with stormy intensity, their faces now mere inches apart.

"So, I'm going to ask you a few questions," she stated in a low, dangerous tone that sent a shiver down Brian's spine despite the sweltering heat. "And you're going to answer honestly. Got it?"

Keenly aware of Lena's proximity, the unmistakable strength coiled in her deceptively lithe form, Brian felt himself redden for entirely different reasons than their impromptu workout.

"Not again," he muttered in a strained voice as Lena leaned in closer, applying more pressure against his throat to pin him more firmly against the tree.

"Are you with the press?" She demanded.

"No!" Brian gasped out immediately.

"Are you a stalker?"

He shook his head adamantly. "No!"

Teeth gritted, Lena searched his expression intensely before continuing her interrogation. "Then why is it you keep running into Overwatch members, mate? What's all that about?"

Brian couldn't help but notice how her British accent grew more pronounced the more agitated she became. He swallowed hard, trying in vain to stem the misplaced fluttering in his chest at how perilously close their bodies were pressed together.

"I-I don't know! I'm just trying to relax, I don't try to run into you all on purpose!"

Lena's eyes blazed with barely contained impatience. "You better not be lying to me."

The quiet menace in her tone, the raw power radiating off her in waves - it all made something twist low in Brian's gut. He bit his tongue hard to regain focus.

"Listen," he pushed out in a strained rasp, eyes imploring. "I'm not with the press, I'm not a stalker, I swear. Anything that's happened has just been...chance encounters."

Her piercing gaze didn't waver, but Lena seemed to consider this for a long moment, shoulders rising and falling with each measured breath.

"Then why do you seem so damned involved with Overwatch members? Are you some kind of spy… or a playboy?"

Brian immediately shook his head, the back of his skull scraping against the tree bark with the vehement denial.

"No! No, I promise you, I'm not! I just—" His voice cracked with desperation, face flushing hotter as he forced out the humiliating admission.

"I just think you're really cool, okay? Ever since that museum thing, I've been a huge fan. When I run into you or other agents, I get excited because you all are heroes and-."

He trailed off in a mumble, mortified gaze fixed on a point over Lena's shoulder, unable to meet those blazing eyes. But her next words snapped Brian's attention back to the present in an instant.

"So you're trying to flatter me into going easy, is that it?" Lena scoffed in disgust, pressing him harder against the trunk to emphasize her point. "Flattery will get you nowhere, mate."

"It's not flattery, I swear!" Brian insisted, firm despite his compromising position. "I'm telling you the truth! You have to believe me, I'm just...i really like being with you."

He swallowed hard before forcing out the final, damning admission in a small voice.

"And maybe...maybe I was looking forward to seeing you again after you slipped me that number at the coffee shop..."

The silence that fell between them was deafening, broken only by the ambient sounds of the park around them. Lena stared up at Brian, brown eyes widening almost imperceptibly as she processed his guileless confession.

For several endless heartbeats, they remained frozen like that - breathless, strung taut between the charged crackle of tension and uncertainty.

At last, Lena drew a deep, shuddering breath and stepped back, dropping her restraining arm and allowing some precious space between their bodies. Her expression was indecipherable as she studied Brian with a clarity that seemed to strip him bare, leaving him exposed and profoundly vulnerable.

"So what are your intentions then?" she asked evenly, a desperate undercurrent just audible beneath the unwavering professionalism. "If not a stalker...or Press...why the coincidences? Why me?"

Brian's mouth worked soundlessly as he struggled to find the words, the confession. He opened and closed it twice before finally croaking out a tremulous reply.

"Because...because you make me feel... Alive. Like anything's possible if someone like you exists."

He let out a shaky exhale, gathering his courage.

"And I guess...I was hoping if I got to know you better, I might finally find something that makes life make sense."

The words hung heavy between them, laid bare alongside every messy truth and yearning Brian had been bottling up since their first fateful encounter. Lena seemed to study him intensely before nodding once, slowly.

A contemplative silence fell between them as Brian seemed to wrestle with finding the right words. Lena watched him intently, her earlier hostility giving way to curiosity as the first golden rays of dawn crested over the horizon.

"Listen, I don't really... d-" Lena started, then Brian shook his head, waving his hands. "No, no that's not what I meant."

He exhaled heavily, raking a hand through his sweat-dampened curls as he tried to organize his thoughts.

"It's difficult to explain. But I'll try..."

Trailing off, Brian's gaze grew distant, inward-looking as he appeared to mentally revisit their previous encounters. When he spoke again, his voice was soft but insistent.

"When we spoke for the first time, I really enjoyed it. The conversation, the connection - it just...felt right, you know? And then when we met again after you showed up at my place after pulling that all-nighter, it's like..." He hesitated, cheeks pinkening slightly. "It's been all I can think about since. Like someone in this world finally gets it."

Lena arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "Gets what, exactly?"

Brian's throat bobbed with a nervous swallow, eyes cutting away evasively as he seemed to wrestle with some internal turmoil. Finally, he forced the words out in a rush.

"Gets what its like to be trapped in time you know? Always focused on the past. I do want to keep meeting with you, talking with you. It just...it feels nice, you know? To have someone who understands what it's like being..."

He trailed off again, features twisting slightly as he struggled to voice the sentiment weighing on him. With a resigned sigh, Brian sank down to sit cross-legged on the dewy grass, squinting up at the lightening sky.

"You've always been the one thing that stayed the same," he murmured, so quietly Lena almost didn't catch it over the rising chorus of morning bird calls.

Shooting her a sidelong glance, Brian seemed to make up his mind about something. Before Lena could respond, he was laying back fully, using his hands as an impromptu pillow behind his head to stare sightlessly up at the kaleidoscope of pale pinks and blues streaking across the dawn skyline.

For a long moment, Lena simply studied the unusual young man stretched out beside her, venetian blind shadows still throwing harsh lines across his dirt-smudged features. She found herself searching for any hint of deception, of threat - but found only sincerity and a surprising quiet melancholy reflected back at her.

Slowly, as if almost against her better judgement, Lena lowered herself to mirror his reclined position on the soft grass. Pillowing her head on her palms, she fixed her own gaze upwards, appreciating the beauty of the fleeting sunrise spectacle as it painted the city in warm, living color.

"I like talking with you too," she said at last, so softly it was nearly inaudible over the swelling morning chorus enveloping them.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lena caught the ghost of a smile playing across Brian's lips at her whispered admission. She felt her own mouth quirk upwards in response as they lapsed into a comfortable quiet, simply basking in each other's presence while the rest of the waking world came alive around them.

Chapter Text

"And I guess...I was hoping if I got to know you better, I might finally find something that makes life make sense." Peter repeated the line, a puzzled look on his face as his voice echoed in the call. Brian finished getting dressed. The blonde's hair was still damp, stray droplets of water sliding down the nape of his neck from his cold shower after the workout with Lena.

"Dude, you know you can't just drop something like that on people, right?" Peter spoke slowly. "That's the kind of deep, meaningful stuff you save for right before you tell someone you love them. Or like, when you're proposing marriage."

Brian felt his cheeks grow warm as he imagined being in that kind of overly romantic scenario with Lena. He ducked his head, avoiding thinking about it as he focused on buttoning up the crisp white shirt he had changed into. The sweltering late afternoon heat had made keeping his usual hoodie on unbearable, so he opted for the lightweight short-sleeved top and a pair of casual shorts instead.

"I was just...confused, I guess. Wasn't thinking straight, so I might have said some stupid stuff," Brian mumbled, still flustered.

Peter replied skeptically. "I mean, yeah, some of those lines definitely sounded like they were ripped right out of one of those cheesy romance flicks girls are always watching. So who knows, maybe it worked in your favor?" He paused, giving Brian a long look. "But you need to be straight with yourself about this, man. Not long ago you were saying being around Lena and Angela was weird for you. That the whole Overwatch thing seemed off. Now you're claiming you don't want to date her but she is like everything to you? Those are some mixed signals..."

Brian shook his head adamantly. "It's not like that, I swear. I really do like Lena, but just...as a person, you know? I don't want her thinking I'm only hanging around her because I'm harboring some kind of crush. We're friends."

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them as Brian grabbed his wallet and hover cycle keys from the kitchen counter, getting ready to head out. Peter commented carefully.

"What about Amelie though?" he asked slowly. "Her and Lena used to be an item, right? Now that Lena knows you and the Widowmaker know each other...you don't think she might wonder if you've got designs on trying to get with her ex?"

Brian's brows furrowed in confusion as he glanced down at his phone, arching one eyebrow skeptically. "Why would I want to 'get with' the woman who literally tried to kill me, Peter? That makes zero sense."

Peter scoffed loudly. "Oh come on, don't act like that's not every guy's dream! The sexy, dangerous, murderous girl? Haven't you heard of Remy from Grey Lagoon? Or Yuto and Love from Fullmetal Wizard and Destiny Diary? Those types are always insanely hot."

Shaking his head slowly, Brian sighed. "I think you might seriously need to get your brain scanned for worms or something, dude. I don't know where you're getting these ideas..."

"I'm serious!" Peter protested. "Just...be careful, okay? You might not be thinking about it now, but what if a few months down the line you start catching feelings? By then, you could already be so deep in the friend-zone with Lena that you don't even register as a blip on their romantic radar."

Brian acquiesced with a noncommittal shrug. "Alright, alright, I got it. I gotta go grab some groceries, so I'll call you back later."

After exchanging goodbyes, Brian ended the call and pocketed his phone. As the elevator descended towards the lobby, he glanced out at the view of the city, eyes lingering on an old, faded billboard for Coppelia visible in the distance from the parking garage.

Once outside, Brian slipped on a pair of blue and green-tinted goggles over his eyes before kickstarting his hover cycle. He sped off down the busy streets, mind wandering as the cool evening breeze whipped through his damp hair...until his phone began ringing. Tapping a button on the cycle's handlebar, he answered the call with a curious, "Hello?"

There was a rustling sound, like papers being shifted, before a warm, accented female voice called out, "Brian?"

His eyes widened in surprise at the familiar tone. "Angela?" he replied, brows furrowing slightly as he concentrated on the road ahead.

The Swiss woman seemed to be smiling as she responded in a sweet, lilting tone. "I got your number from Lena. You two went for a run together this morning, yes?"

Brian relaxed a bit at her friendly manner. "Yeah, me and her just went for a jog. Nothing too exciting."

"Oh, I would have loved to join you both!" Angela lamented. "But I had some work I needed to attend to, unfortunately."

"No, no, it's totally fine!" Brian assured her quickly in what Peter always jokingly referred to as his 'negotiating voice.' "Like I said, it was just a casual run between friends. No big deal."

There was a brief pause, as if Angela was considering his words, before her tone shifted slightly. "Well...I'm happy to hear you two got some time together at least. Lena seemed quite pleased when she returned home. We had coffee and she talked all about your outing."

One of Brian's eyebrows quirked upwards at that. "Oh yeah? Well, I was just being honest with her about how I've been feeling about...things. Didn't want there to be any confusion, you know?"

"I see..." Angela's voice took on a contemplative quality. "So you two are becoming quite close then, it seems."

Brian felt his face warming again, cheeks flushing. "I...I just really enjoy talking with her is all. Lena's an incredibly nice person. I'm glad I got the chance to meet you both."

His focus was tuned more towards navigating the roads and traffic patterns, so he didn't immediately notice the brief silence that fell over the line. After a moment, Angela spoke up again, her previous bright tone returning.

"Brian...do you like chocolate?"

He blinked at the random query. "Uh, yeah...? Sure, I like chocolate fine."

"Oh, wonderful!" She sounded delighted. "You see, I actually made some fresh chocolate confections recently. I was wondering if you might like me to give you a box of them? Consider it a small token of my appreciation for bringing such a lovely smile to Lena's face."

Her kind words caused Brian's flush to deepen slightly, heart skipping a beat. "I...yeah, that would be great. I'd really like that. Thank you."

Angela hummed in satisfaction. "Alright, how about you come over later today and I can give them to you? I'll even prepare us a little dinner, if you'd like."

"Really?" Brian's face split into a wide grin at the invitation. "That sounds amazing! What time works for you?"

"Hmm...how about 5 o'clock?"

"Oh!" He piped up eagerly. "Actually, if it's not too much trouble, I could come over a little sooner and help out? I do a fair bit of cooking myself."

There was a brief pause before Angela responded warmly, "Why, how sweet of you to offer! Alright then, does 4:30 work for you, Brian?"

"Definitely, 4:30 is perfect. I'll see you then!"

"Wonderful. I'm looking forward to it!"

Angela hung up the call the edges of her mouth falling into a frown as the medic pulled up the texts between her and Lena looking at the earlier messages.

6:47AM

Angela: so how's your run going?

Lena:its going well just on my way home do you need anything from the shops?

Angela:No no im fine so anything interesting happen?

Lena:Nope just running to the park and back.

Lena: Is there something on the news?

Angela: No just wondering.

+++++++++++++++++++++

Amelie's Point Of View

+++++++++++++++++++++

Amelie adjusted the purple-tinted glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, careful not to disrupt the sleek coif of her dark ponytail. Each measured step carried her closer down the sidewalk towards the supermarket's entrance. The earbud nestled in her left ear filled the quiet morning air around her with the soothing melodies of classical compositions.

As the harsh late spring sunbeams attempted to bear down on her fair skin, Amelie reacted with a slight tilt of her wide-brimmed white sunhat, angling the accessory to better shield her delicate complexion from the brightness. She kept her chin raised, chin-length bangs swaying lightly with each stride.

Up ahead, the crosswalk signal illuminated with a bright pedestrian crossing graphic accompanied by a cheerful dinging noise. In sync with the others awaiting their turn, Amelie joined the small crowd and crossed over the busy street unhurriedly. Even through her purple lenses, she caught the lingering stare of a street vendor - his gaze trailing brazenly down the fitted denim covering her legs before snapping back up as she turned her head.

Slowly removing her glasses, Amelie fixed the gawking man with an icy glare that could have flash-frozen even the fires of hell itself. She held his widening eyes for a long second before carefully resetting her spectacles upon the slope of her nose and pointedly snapping her vision forward once more to watch where she was going.

The faint vibration of her phone sounded from within her black leather handbag, followed by a muted ping of a new notification. Reaching into the purse with her slender fingers, Amelie retrieved the device and glanced at the bright screen. Her expression soured almost imperceptibly at the selfie of Lena smiling back at her beneath the note of '3 New Messages.'

With a quiet sigh, she thumbed the power button and returned the phone to its resting place without so much as opening the conversation. Stepping through the supermarket's automatic doors, Amelie moved aside to collect a small yellow and black plastic hand-basket from the stock, casually rolling it back and forth between her palms while mentally reviewing her list of needed items.

"Flour, rice, bread, ketchup..." She murmured the reminders to herself, a hint of an accent caressing the syllables as Amelie began her prowl down the first broad aisle.

Halfway down the stretch of shelving, her sharp gaze caught on the peculiar sight of a young man in a plain white t-shirt standing before a looming pallet of rice bags. His brows were furrowed in thought as he stared almost unblinkingly at the mass of product before him. Then, with sudden abruptness, he reared back one fist and brought it down solidly against the surface of one of the larger sacks with a muffled thump.

The unexpected action made Amelie's steps falter for the briefest moment as she watched him, analyzing the strange behavior. Was he...checking for quality? Freshness? Her nose wrinkled ever-so-slightly in consternation at his methodology.

Seeming to snap out of his odd reverie, the man collected a small red basket from the end of the aisle before turning on his heel and continuing in Amelie's direction. As he neared the baking aisle, he slowed, eyes dropping to the phone grasped in one hand. Thumbing at the screen sporadically, his expression settled into one of pensive contemplation, as if searching for something specific.

There was something vaguely familiar about his overall appearance that nagged at the back of Amelie's mind. Even with the goggles obscuring much of his features, she found herself scrutinizing him appraisingly as their paths converged in the baking aisle.

Extending one arm, she reached up towards the top shelf to snag a bag of flour, fingers tensing in preparation of the expected weight. But the bag shifted unexpectedly in her grasp, suddenly tipping forward in a way that would surely see its contents bursting open in a plume of white across the tiled floor.

Then, an arm extended beside hers, a firm hand snatching the falling bag and arresting its descent just in time. The powdery explosion never came.

"I got it, ma'am." The voice was warm but cautious as the young man straightened, lifting his gaze to meet hers...only to visibly start at the sight of her face. "Miss Lacroix?"

Amelie felt her stoic mask falter for just an instant at the use of her name and the all-too-familiar timbre attached to it. Pulling herself inward, she calmly appraised him through narrowed eyes, suddenly aware of the others occupying the surrounding aisle space. Keeping her voice carefully modulated, she asked, "What are you doing here?"

If Brian registered her icy tone, he gave no outward indication. Instead, his expression cycled through a range of micro-expressions - surprise, confusion, realization - before settling into his typical easygoing demeanor as recognition sparked.

"Oh, uh..." One hand rasped against the nape of his neck nervously as he seemed to consider how much to divulge. "I was going to do some baking, but I couldn't decide what kind of flour to use."

He used his free hand to gesture vaguely at the towering shelves of flour options surrounding them with a slight grimace. Despite herself, Amelie felt her eyebrows inch upwards infinitesimally at his response.

"You know how to bake?" The words slipped out in a tone laced with poorly concealed skepticism before she could rein them in.

If Brian took any offense, however, he didn't show it. A small smile played across his lips as he gave a single decisive nod. "Yup, I started out making breads, but I can cook all sorts of things."

As if suddenly remembering his original task, he refocused his gaze on the dizzying array of flour options, brow furrowing slightly as he concentrated. Amelie watched him surreptitiously for a long moment, taking in the achingly familiar set of his features - features she had, not so long ago, studied from afar through the scope of her deadly kiss.

"I would assume cake flour is standard for baking, non?" She offered at length when his search seemed to stall.

But Brian was already shaking his head before she'd even finished voicing her assumption. "Nope, cake flour actually has a lower protein content than regular all-purpose flour," he explained, not looking up from the shelves as his fingers danced across the screen of his phone.

Amelie remained silent, keeping her expression carefully neutral as she waited for him to continue. After a few seconds spent scrolling through whatever information held his attention captive, Brian proceeded.

"The lower protein means it has less gluten-forming potential," he elaborated, the words holding a practiced cadence that suggested this was not his first time reciting this particular piece of culinary knowledge. "So whatever you bake with cake flour turns out lighter and more airy."

A soft sound of satisfaction slipped unbidden past his lips as his eyes finally landed on whatever product he'd been searching for. Reaching up, he plucked a fresh box of cake flour off the shelf and deposited it smoothly into his small basket without a second thought. Amelie's eyes darted to the boys lower stomach as his shirt rose for an instant a faded white scar barely visible.

"But..." He continued, squinting slightly as he regarded the other offerings with a more critical eye now. "If it's not something that's supposed to be soft and delicate, using cake flour could actually make it fall apart while baking." One finger tapped out a rhythm against the plastic of his basket's handle as he mused. "So you have to be really careful with your ingredients and ratios and all that..."

Trailing off, Brian finally lifted his gaze up to meet Amelie's own guarded stare head-on. A tiny smile turned up the corner of his mouth as genuine interest colored his words. "Have you ever baked anything before, Miss Lacroix?"

The simple question seemed to catch the former Talon operative momentarily wrong-footed.

As such, Amelie felt herself swallowing once, hard, before responding in as steady a tone as she could manage. "Not in a very long time." Her eyes drifted away from his searching hazel gaze to stare sightlessly across the aisle instead. "I'm...out of practice."

When her admission was met with only silence, Amelie forced herself to look back at Brian. He was regarding her with an unreadable expression, lips slightly parted as if to speak. But whatever thought had occurred to him seemed to die on his tongue before he could give it voice.

Instead, the young man shuffled his feet slightly closer to her, one hand raising to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. "Sorry..." He mumbled the apology, gaze dropping away from hers to stare unseeingly at a point somewhere in the vicinity of her collarbone.

Amelie said nothing, letting the uncomfortable silence blanket them both as the ambient noise of the bustling supermarket filtered in around their motionless forms. She could hear the dull roar of the refrigeration units humming, the squeaking rolls of carts being pushed down neighboring aisles, the occasional snippets of muttered conversation as other shoppers went about their business.

"I'm probably distracting you. I should get the rest of my stuff and head out." Brian huffed out an awkward chuckle, taking a half-step back as if preparing to withdraw completely.

But before he could fully turn away, Amelie seemed to close what little distance remained between them in the blink of an eye Brian barely registered it happening at all. One cool hand clamped down on his shoulder with a firm grip, stalling his retreat.

"I'd like to ask you something," she stated simply, holding his surprised gaze with her own unflinching stare.

Brian opened his mouth to respond, a reflexive, "Miss Lac-" falling from his lips. But Amelie's fingers tightened ever-so-slightly around the curve of his shoulder, cutting him off before he could even finish voicing her surname.

"I told you to call me Amelie," she reminded him, her tone leaving no room for argument or misinterpretation. "At the dance."

He felt his throat constrict as he swallowed hard against the lump that had formed there. "Amelie..." Brian breathed out the name, unconsciously leaning back to put just a bit more space between their bodies.

The former Talon agent seemed to realize then that she had unintentionally intimidated the boy. Her grip loosened, hand slipping away from his shoulder as if a switch had been flipped. "I..." She paused, licking her lips in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture before continuing in a slightly lower tone. "I have something to ask you. But this isn't the place."

Brian couldn't help the way his eyes cut instinctively toward the front entrance at her veiled suggestion of meeting elsewhere. Every single self-preservation instinct he possessed screamed at him to remove himself from this situation immediately. Adrenaline began to pump through his veins as his body prepared for fight-or-flight...only to be derailed by Amelie's next words.

"Do you know how to make jammy dodgers?" She asked the mundane question almost tremulously, hazel eyes skittering away from his in a rare show of what could have been anxiousness.

The unexpected query took Brian's mind a moment to process, like getting stuck in the gears for a second before it could click back into place. "Oh, like the cookies?" He replied automatically, bewildered confusion chasing away his rising panic. "Yeah, I can do that. Why?"

Amelie wet her lips again, seeming to struggle with her response for a beat before answering. "I've been trying to find some at local markets," she admitted in a quieter tone, still avoiding his searching gaze. "I haven't had any luck."

A dozen different scenarios flickered through Brian's mind in that instant. From her tone and body language, he was abruptly struck by the impression that the former assassin was thinking about something else.

But he didn't voice any of those thoughts aloud. Instead, his brain automatically jumped to the easiest, most obvious solution. "Can't you just order them online or something?"

Amelie frowned, finally lifting her eyes to meet his again. There was a glimmer of...something indecipherable flickering there. "It is better to make them at home, isn't it?"

Brian found himself nodding in agreement, a detached part of his psyche admiring her practicality. "Of course. Homemade always tastes better than store-bought." He inclined his head consideringly, looking her over with a more appraising eye. "If I can find a good recipe, I could...probably teach you how to make them yourself."

It was an olive branch of sorts, he realized. An offering to prolong their interaction - to indulge whatever ulterior motive may have driven her to seek him out in the first place. For what reason he wasn't sure.

For several heartbeats, Amelie was perfectly still and silent, her expression utterly inscrutable as she seemed to weigh his proposition internally. Just when Brian was beginning to think he'd overstepped, she spoke again in that same hushed tone. "I would appreciate your help."

Some of the tension bled from her stance as she lifted her chin long brown lockes swaying gently with the motion. When she spoke again, her voice had regained its usual composure. "You seem...different today." The observation was delivered evenly, without any overt hint of judgment one way or the other. "different from before."

It was such an oddly casual remark that Brian couldn't help but huff out a surprised chuckle. Shaking his head bemusedly, he replied with an easy grin, "Yeah, well...its a good day, I guess."

Arching one sculpted brow delicately, she asked, "In this heat what could possibly make it a good day?" Her tone carried a droll undercurrent, daring him to elaborate on his flip response.

"hanging out with a friend," Brian shot back quickly, not thinking as his mind lingered on Lena. Amelie felt her façade crack for a moment "I barely know you." she commented making Brian wave his hands. "no, no I got to hang out with someone this morning. But this is cool too honestly I'm just glad to spend more time with you." Be blurted out

Amelie simply stared at him for a long beat, her expression utterly impassive and unreadable. Just when Brian was beginning to wonder if he'd miscalculated and said something wrong, the corners of Amelie's twitched almost imperceptibly. It was the barest ghost of a something unreadable – there and gone again in a blink. But it was enough.

"Very well," she acquiesced at length. "If you're certain you can make the cookies..." Her tone remained crisply professional, not a single inflection betraying any hint of emotion at the boys words. "I believe it would be best for you to collect the remaining ingredients you need while I attempt to find a recipe."

Brian smiled brightly and Amelie felt at ease "I just have to grab a few things it shouldn't take long I'll just grab it and we can meet at the front, okay?" Brian suggested making the woman nod.

Brian's fingers curled around the final ingredients, red bean paste and castor sugar, as his eyes scanned the lengthy recipe one last time. With measured steps, he made his way back to the register, offering the cashier a friendly smile. One by one, the items were rung up and tucked into white and blue plastic bags. Turning towards the automatic doors, Brian's gaze landed on Amelie.

A flicker of irritation creased her brow as a young man spoke to her. With a dismissive wave, she shooed him away, her attention shifting back to the street as he departed. Brian crossed the threshold, calling out her name. Amelie pivoted, her eyes immediately fixating on the odd assortment of groceries cradled in the bags.

"Red bean paste?" Her tone carried a hint of curiosity, one eyebrow arched inquisitively.

Brian's shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug, a sheepish grin spreading across his features. "Yeah, I'm making some treats for someone. They really like it, so I figured..." He trailed off, letting the explanation hang in the air.

"How thoughtful," Amelie murmured, her voice soft and contemplative.

She held up her phone, the screen illuminated, casting a faint glow on her face. "I found a recipe for the cookies." A beat passed as she studied his expression. "Would we be able to make them today?"

Brian's eyes widened fractionally, blinking a few times as he processed her request. "Oh..." He hesitated, considering his schedule. "We could, but I have to be somewhere in a few hours." His brow furrowed as a thought occurred to him. "Can I see the recipe?"

For a moment, Amelie remained still, her body tensing ever so slightly. Then, a flicker of suspicion crossed her features before she leaned in closer, angling the phone towards him. Brian scrutinized the instructions, his gaze intense as he scanned the screen.

"It should only take about two hours," he said finally, the words emerging slowly as if he were mentally calculating the preparation time. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "That's plenty of time." His free hand fumbled in the pocket of his jacket, producing a set of keys. "We can go back to my house if you want, but if you'd rather use your place, that's okay as well."

Amelie's response was curt, her voice carrying a subtle hint of surprise. "I live close by."

As if on cue, a hovercycle glided into view, parking itself nearby with a soft hum. Amelie's gaze followed the self-driving vehicle, her expression one of mild curiosity. "Are these popular nowadays?"

Brian turned his attention towards the hovercycle, a flicker of amusement dancing across his features. "Not really," he admitted with a slight shake of his head. "But I rode one for a few years and got used to it, so I kept it." Stepping closer, he stowed the groceries in the small compartment beneath the seat, taking care to secure them properly.

Turning back to Amelie, he gestured towards the space behind him, his movements somewhat awkward. "You can carry yours, but the compartment will keep stuff cold, so..." His voice trailed off, leaving the suggestion open-ended.

Amelie complied, placing her items in the steel box with deliberate motions. Brian lowered the seat, and a faint flush colored his cheeks as he settled onto it. "Hope you don't mind, but walking in this heat has to be a nightmare."

Amelie followed suit, situating herself behind him, her arms encircling his torso in a loose, almost tentative embrace. Brian's face grew warmer, but he quickly refocused, clearing his throat softly.

"Can you send me the address?" he asked, turning his head slightly to glance at her over his shoulder.

Amelie paused, her thumb hovering over her phone's screen as she stared at the device. A flicker of distrust passed over her features, her brow furrowing ever so slightly. Then, her gaze met Brian's, and she seemed to soften at the familiar, bright, and energetic expression on his face something she saw in someone else before. Lifting her phone, she gently bumped it against his, transferring the address to his map app.

Brian studied the location for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the information displayed on his screen. After a prolonged silence, he spoke again, his tone light and casual. "Ready?"

"Yes," Amelie replied, her voice steady and unhesitating.

With a low rev of the engine, Brian eased the hovercycle out into traffic, merging onto the bustling streets with practiced ease. The vehicle glided smoothly, the wind whipping around them in gentle gusts as they navigated through the city.

"Are you not used to the weather?" Amelie's question broke the comfortable silence that had settled between them, her voice cutting through the ambient sounds of the city.

Brian considered her words for a moment, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as he formulated his response. "I've lived here for a while," he began, pausing briefly before continuing. "But the weather close to the summers..." He shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I'm still not used to it."

Amelie's gaze remained fixed ahead, but her peripheral vision caught sight of faded lines on the back of Brian's neck, just below the nape. She squinted, trying to make out the details as the fabric of his shirt shifted subtly in the breeze.

"So you moved here?" she prompted, her curiosity piqued by his admission.

Brian nodded, his eyes focused intently on the road ahead as he maneuvered through the traffic. "Yup, I used to live in New York, actually." Another pause, as if he were carefully considering his words. "My grandparents used to live in San Francisco, so my family would sometimes take trips over here. After my grandparents passed, my father inherited their apartment, so it just made sense to live here since it would be cheaper than buying something completely new."

A contemplative silence fell between them once more, punctuated only by the steady hum of the hovercycle's engine and the muted sounds of the city around them. Amelie's hands, still loosely wrapped around Brian's torso, tensed imperceptibly as she felt his breathing quicken ever so slightly.

"Did you like New York?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral, betraying none of the worry that had begun to gnaw at her.

Brian didn't respond immediately, and Amelie felt the knot of apprehension in the pit of her stomach tighten. Finally, he spoke, his voice subdued and tinged with a hint of melancholy. "I did when I was younger. But things change, and I really needed somewhere new, you know?"

Amelie's gaze flickered to Brian's hands, gripping the handlebars with a white-knuckled intensity. "Is that where you got the scars?" she asked, her voice low and measured, devoid of judgment.

Brian's grip tightened further, his knuckles growing pale as his breathing grew shallow for a fleeting moment before evening out once more. "Yeah, it's kind of--" He broke off, the words hanging in the air, unfinished.

"You don't need to explain it if you do not wish to," Amelie interjected, her chin dipping forward to rest on the nape of his neck as she leaned closer. She felt the goosebumps rise on his skin at the new sensation but remained silent, waiting for him to continue at his own pace.

"It's not that," Brian said after a beat, his voice strained. "It's just--I haven't really told anyone about that sort of thing."

Amelie's head tilted slightly, her eyes studying the tense lines of his profile with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "You don't have to if you do not wish to," she reiterated, her tone gentle but firm, leaving no room for doubt.

Brian shook his head, his shoulders sagging slightly as if a weight had been lifted from them. "I just don't want anyone to think less of me," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

A ghost of a smile curved Amelie's lips as she recalled their conversation from the dance, those familiar words echoing in her mind. "Do you think you're the only one who's been forced to do things they regret?"

Brian relaxed a fraction at her familiar phrasing, a wry chuckle escaping his lips. "I did tell you some things then, huh?" There was a comedic lilt to his tone, but Amelie detected an underlying edge, as if he were masking the true depth of his thoughts and emotions. He sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders as he spoke once more "An Overwatch Agent gave it to me."

+++++++++++++++++++

 A Few Years Ago

+++++++++++++++++++

The incessant droning of hoverjets caused Brian's teeth to vibrate with each bone-rattling pulse. The convoy grew nearer by the second, its thunderous approach raising the hairs on the back of his neck. His gloved hands gripped the taut metal netting firmly, muscles tensed.

Blue eyes darted to the ragtag assortment of men and women gathered behind him on the rooftop's edge. Hunger and paranoia were etched into the deep lines of their worry winkled faces, clothes hanging in various states of disrepair. Despite their obvious exhaustion, each set of eyes remained sharp and wide - locked on the horizon from which the hovering crafts steadily grew nearer.

On the opposite rooftop, his father knelt in a slightly crouched firing stance, the jury-rigged rifle nestled into the pocket of his shoulder. A grizzled older man crouched just behind him, carefully feeding a glowing power cylinder into the ramshackle weapon's loading breach. Brian watched and waited with bated breath for the signal to initiate the ambush.

The radio - a bulky, antiquated brick of a device - crackled to life with a burst of static. A sandpaper-rough voice grated through the speaker's tiny output.

"NOW!"

It was as if the single barked word flipped a switch. In one coordinated motion, every member of Brian's team pulled back, straining against the webbed netting clutched in their gloved grips. Muscles burned and tendons creaked as the steel mesh went suddenly taut, rising to capture their approaching target.

The hoverjets attached to the bulky purple convoy strained against the resistance, their combined thrust no match for the anchored net. Brian felt his boots skid perilously close to the rooftop's edge as the netting pulled them forward, fighting physics with every ounce of strength they could muster.

Then, with an ominous click from his father's rigged rifle, everything changed in the span of a heartbeat.

A blinding flare of brilliant blue-white energy lanced outward, the supercharged projectile leaving a blazing trail of ionized air in its wake as it closed the distance with the hover convoy at blistering speed. There was a brief, almost beautiful flickering corona of electrical discharge as the round found its mark...and detonated against the craft's armored hull in a deafening thunderclap of force.

The confused hoverjets cut out in an instant, plunging the entire convoy into a powerless free-fall as every system abruptly died. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the multi-ton hunk of dead metal plummeted towards the cracked city streets below in an unstoppable arc.

Then, with a resounding crash and deafening shriek of rending metal, the convoy slammed into the unforgiving tarmac. Sparks and plumes of acrid smoke erupted in all directions as its sleek shape was torn asunder, cleaving enormous furrows in the road surface. The collision ripped open entire sections of the hull, exposing the ship's innards like a eviscerated carcass as it careened onward - rebounding and tumbling end-over-end in a delirious spiral.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity happening in a single motion, the mortally wounded craft ricocheted off an old subway entrance at an angle, causing its shredded mass to keel over onto one side in a bone-rattling roar of groaning, warping metal. Grinding to a halt at last, the convoy lay crumpled and hopelessly crippled amid a field of debris scattered for nearly a city block.

Brian sagged in relief as the tension finally released from the netting, taking a knee and gulping down greedy breaths of air. His chest heaved from the exertion, but he barely registered the strain over the pounding of adrenaline singing through his veins.

One of the older men in their group snatched up the radio, voice already barking out the next phase of their operation. "The ship is down! Send in everyone else!"

At this, Brian's father finally shifted his intense focus away from their downed quarry. Shooting his son a meaningful glance, he tilted his head sharply towards the imploded wreckage before turning to make his way towards the fire escape - the hunter's rifle never straying too far from its ready position braced against his shoulder.

Brian understood the unspoken order immediately. With a curt nod of acknowledgment, he turned and broke into a flat sprint for the building's interior stairwell. His boots pounded down the crumbling steps, the heavy treads sending up puffs of dust and pulverized debris into the stale air with each footfall. He didn't allow his gaze to linger long on the scorched outlines burned into the concrete the silhouettes of past casualties left seared into the very walls by plasma weapons' fire long since spent. This building marked with death, like so many others across the ravaged cityscape.

Before the upheaval, this towering skyscraper had been an investment firm, its polished lobbies and pristine office floors a monument to excess and achievement Now, the structure's impressive height made it an ideal vantage point for the kind of high-stakes ambush their group had just executed. - a fact which had earned such operations the moniker of "fishing" among the other scavengers.

Hurtling down the final flight, he burst through the battered metal door and out onto the rubble-strewn street level. Shards of broken glass crunched underfoot as Brian sprinted across the cracked asphalt, vaulting over the rusted husks of long-abandoned vehicles with a nimble burst of speed borne from years of practice.

Once he reached the crater where their massive, beached "catch" lay in an tangle of fractured metal and burning smoke, Brian wasted no time. Sucking in a deep breath, he brought his fingers to his lips and loosed an ear-splitting whistle - the piercing trill cutting through the stillness like a knife.

It was the signal for the other teams to mobilize and begin the next critical phase.

From every darkened crevice and shadowed alcove within a block's radius, smaller clusters of figures materialized like roaches scattering from a flipped rock. Groups of five or six, heads swiveling to focus on the wreckage.

Each team hurriedly converged on the crash site from their hidden staging areas, pulling or shouldering heavy-laden carts and makeshift sleds bristling with all manner of salvaging equipment - everything from basic crowbars and bolt cutters to high-powered plasma torches burning with sickly green-white glow.

In seemingly organized chaos, the people swarmed over the downed hover convoy, scurrying like ants onto a fresh carcass. The torches' superheated beams lanced out, slicing carefully through reinforced bulkheads and blast doors to carve open new entrance points with precision.

A familiar hand fell upon Brian's shoulder, causing him to spin defensively - only to find his father looming behind him. The grizzled man's expression was set in grim determination, the rifle's stock still resting against his shoulder in a state of semi-readiness despite the apparent lack of any hostiles in their vicinity.

"Watch the skies," was his father's only terse instruction, the words laced with an undercurrent of wariness.

Brian opened his mouth to respond. But before he could give voice to his thoughts, a squeaky shout rang out across the din of scavenging activity.

"Brian!"

His head whipped around at the familiar sound of his younger brother's voice. Sure enough, Tim was hurrying over as quickly as his spindly legs could propel him while helping to shoulder one end of a small, wheeled supply cart. Brian's mother trailed close behind, features pinched with the same haggard stress that creased the brow of his father.

"You okay?" Tim panted out the question, his wide eyes searching his older brother's face for any signs of injury or distress.

In response, Brian could only muster the barest hint of a reassuring smile as he bobbed his head in a shallow nod. Truthfully, he could still feel the lingering adrenaline running through his veins in the aftershocks of their ambush, heart pounding in rhythm against his ribcage.

But there was no time for such acknowledgments. Already, the sounds of slicing torches and grunts of exertion echoed out as the first team breached the downed hull, prying apart an improvised entrance just wide enough for two people to slip through in a low crouch.

No sooner had the makeshift portal yawned open than Brian's mother straightened, eyes snapping to the opening with the same predatory intensity her husband had exhibited mere minutes before. Planting her hands on Tim's shoulders, she guided the boy to stand slightly behind her.

The harsh crackle of the radio shattering the relative quiet caused Brian to flinch instinctively. Raising the bulky device to his face, he keyed the transmission with a rough press of his thumb. "Brooklyn, do you copy?"

A terse pause lingered on the other end before the scratchy response filtered through the static-laced speaker. "This is Ellis. Scouts are saying there's some dropships heading north towards your position."

Brian felt his gut clench with a surge of apprehension as he processed those words. "They aren't supposed to be this far north," he bit out, unable to keep the edge of trepidation from his tone.

"That's what they're saying," Ellis confirmed grimly. "Did you tell Royal?"

Shaking his head despite knowing the gestured couldn't be seen, Brian pocketed the radio and whirled to seek out his mother's questioning gaze amid the controlled chaos unfolding around them. "I'll tell my dad," he informed her curtly, already pivoting to make his way towards the carcass of the downed convoy.

His father's form was silhouetted against a billow of oily smoke coiling up from the shredded hull as Brian approached. Without preamble, the young man reached out and planted his hand firmly on the older man's shoulder, using the grounding contact to forcibly hold his father's attention.

Leaning in close so as not to be overheard, Brian murmured the update in clipped phrases. "Dropships north. The scouts didn't say how far away, but they're coming in this direction."

For several taut seconds, Royal didn't react save for the muscle jumping in his weathered jaw as he clenched his teeth. His grip on the battered rifle shifted minutely, tendons tensing...before he seemed to reach some internal decision and relaxed his posture. Inclining his head in a solemn nod, he turned and loosed a shrill whistle that cut through the noise like a knife.

The nearest cluster of scavengers - those currently using torches to slice apart the convoy's outer hull - paused in their efforts at the summons. As one, they looked to their leader with a mixture of resignation and thinly veiled fear writ across filth-streaked features.

Royal didn't mince words. Lifting one hand, he made a spinning motion with his finger. As soon as the silent command registered, the scavengers reacted in near-unison. Torches were extinguished, teams hopping down from the hull to begin frantically loading the carts of any and all salvageable components already gathered.

Brian watched in silence as the evacuation procedures commenced. An older scavenger - one of the few Brian didn't recognize by name or face - jogged over to where the two of them stood in the epicenter.

"Royal, Deadlock's coming back," the man grunted out in a smoke-roughened rasp, shaking his head. "We can't afford not to take this loot."

For a fraction of a second, Brian's father looked as if he might argue - might insist that abandoning their prize and fleeing to safety took precedence over any potential material gains. But in the end, cold pragmatism and bitter experience won out over gut instinct.

Royal turned his stony gaze towards the ongoing evacuation. "Leave two jacks here!" He bellowed, voice carrying over the noise with a life-honed rasp of command. "We only need a few crates worth! Get everyone underground and meet us at Liberty!"

The grizzled old-timer didn't wait for a response, already barking out secondary orders to those still within earshot. Teams broke off and began peeling away, scattering like startled insects while dragging their laden carts behind them towards the nearest subterranean access points. Within what felt like a handful of frantic heartbeats, the street had been all but abandoned - home now only to the drifting plumes of smoke and the husk of the lifeless convoy.

Moving with a calm efficiency that belied the urgency of their situation, Royal crossed the short distance to where Brian still stood rooted to the spot. "Go with your mom and brother," the order was gruff but tinged with a flicker of something akin to regretful resignation. "See if you can round up someone else to help me with these."

Brian opened his mouth to protest. The words had already formed on his tongue, but Royal took a moment and held up a staying hand before he could give them voice.

"You need to go with them escort them back " his father amended; mouth set in a tight line that brokered no argument. "I'm trusting you with this."

Finally, Brian gave a slow, response. "Peter knows the way back to Liberty better than I do and he's better with guns." He spoke in a low tone.

Royal's expression didn't outwardly shift, but Brian caught the flicker of acknowledgment in the depths of his father's eyes all the same. Another moment passed in silence as the older man seemed to grapple with some internal debate before expelling a weary sigh.

"Fine" he relented at last with a curt dip of his chin. Turning away, Royal lifted two fingers to his lips and issued another shrill whistle - this one noticeably sharper and more piercing than the last.

The summons had an almost instantly galvanizing effect. From one corner of the wreckage, a lone figure emerged - one of the scavengers from the camp. The boy couldn't have been much older than he was.

"Petey!" Royal barked out, the sharpness of his tone making the boy flinch before snapping to attention with a visible startle. "Y-yes sir?"

"Go with Tim and Ruby," the older man commanded without preamble, jabbing one calloused finger towards the mouth of the subway entrance where two indistinct figures loitered in the shadow of the access shaft. "Take 'em to Liberty and don't make any stops along the way."

As if to punctuate the gravity of the assigned role, Royal reached into the tattered satchel slung across his chest with his free hand. When it emerged, his gnarled fingers clutched the rubberized grip of a well-worn but functional plasma pistol.

In one smooth, economical motion, the weapon arced through the air to land with a solid thunk against Petey's chest - the boy's hands flying up to cradle it reflexively before it could clatter to the ground between them. Brian watched the interaction with practiced detachment, keeping any outward reaction from registering across his features.

With the same rigidly-controlled calm, Royal met the frightened teens stare head-on. "Pull the slide back and fire it only when they get close," he growled out each word with deliberate measure, allowing no room for ambiguity or misinterpretation. "I'm trusting you."

Petey swallowed once, hard, but gave a jerky nod of understanding all the same. Clutching the plasma pistol against his ratty clothes like a lifeline, he turned robotically and began trotting towards the waiting figures lurking in the tunnel's shadow - not sparing a backward glance.

Only once the boy had vanished from sight did Royal finally shift his focus fully back to his eldest son. His expression remained an inscrutable mask, but Brian thought he detected a fleeting glimmer of something he couldn't quite put a name to flickering in those steely eyes.

Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant - shuttered away behind a expression of control and grim determination. "Go grab two pallet jacks," Royal spoke, the words more of a dismissal than an instruction as he turned and ducked into the sheared-open hull of the downed convoy without a backwards glance.

The rusty wheels of the abandoned pallet jacks screeched in protest as Brian hauled the two carts closer to the ravaged shell of the downed convoy. A brief scuffle and clatter of shifting debris echoed from within the sheared-open hole serving as their makeshift entrance.

"Dad?" Brian called out, lifting his voice to ensure it would carry over the noise. "Just grabbing the last of the stuff!"

Several tense beats of silence answered him at first. Then, without warning, a volley of scavenged items came raining out through the jagged opening in a discordant clatter of metal and plastic hitting the unforgiving ground.

A plasma pistol, its barrel smoking but otherwise functional.

A faded smoking blue trenchcoat bearing the insignia of a white globe.

Then, a small golden cylindrical object - one Brian immediately recognized with a surge of adrenaline. As it struck the pavement and rolled, it began emanating a soft golden glow, as if a light source burned within.

Without a second's hesitation, Brian snatched up the potential treasure and carefully placed it atop the nearest pallet, the canister denting slightly on impact but blessedly not rupturing

Just as he was turning back towards the hull's torn flank, Royal himself came into view, squeezing through the hole with ease. What made Brian's breath catch in his throat, however, was the vivid spatter of crimson marring the right side of his father's face.

"I have bandages-."

"It's not mine," Royal cut him off, not even breaking stride as he hefted himself down from the wreckage and stalked over to grasp one of the pallet jack's worn handles. Seemingly completely calm, the older man simply jerked his head in a silent command to follow before setting off back in the direction of the subway tunnels they'd arrived from earlier.

Without a word, Brian tightened his grip on the second pallet jack's handles and tugged, putting his back into forcing the heavily laden cart into lurching motion after his father.

Each impact of boot against cracked asphalt echoed through the wrecked city like individual salvos of muted gunfire in the uneasy quiet.

It wasn't until they reached the mouth of the access shaft and began slowly working their way down the graffiti-tagged wheelchair ramp that the quiet was broken.

The first thing Brian registered was a dull ringing sensation in his ears, He was only vaguely aware of the ringing's growing louder until Royal's voice suddenly cut through in a growl of alarm.

"Down!"

It was the only warning Brian received before his father's broad chest slammed into him with staggering force, bodily hurling them both behind the dubious cover of the pallet jack. Not a split-second later, a teeth-rattling explosion rocked the subway access tunnel in their periphery, a dense oily cloud of acrid smoke billowing through the breach like a thunderhead.

Hacking against the sudden assault on his senses, Brian scrambled to push himself upright while simultaneously willing his pulse to decelerate from its panicked gallop. Beside him, Royal was already in motion - untangling his limbs and clawing for something tucked into the back of his waistband with a grim purpose.

When the older man's hand re-emerged, it was wrapped around the comfortingly solid weight of a military sidearm - a battered but highly serviceable plasma pistol.

"Take the jacks onto the track and get moving," Royal snapped the order. He didn't spare a single glance in Brian's direction as he brought up the pistol in a well-practiced firing stance towards the smoke-choked access ramp, finger already pulling the slide to chamber a new magazine.

For Brian, it was as if his body had already leapt into motion before his mind could even process the command. With exertion, he rocked the pallet jack backwards until its swivel wheels found purchase on the raised metal lip of the railbed's edge. The strain of the overloaded cart's momentum made the ancient ball bearings protest in a shriek as he muscled it up and over, finally letting out a grunt as it clattered down onto the metal rails with a clang.

No sooner had he cleared the obstruction, Brian spun and lunged for the second pallet jack still laden with their scavenged bounty. It proved even more unwieldy and cumbersome thanks to its unbalanced cargo, requiring the young man to brace his shoulder against the weight to force it up and over the railbed's edge in an explosion of effort.

By the time the second jack had crashed down onto the rails beside the first, a fresh series of detonations echoed from the surface, this time noticeably closer than the initial concussive blast. A wave of scorched air washed over them from the breach, carrying with it the stinging stench of plasma scoring through concrete and rebar.

"Move!"

The bark came from somewhere directly behind him. Brian didn't even have time to turn before Royal's broad hand snared a fistful of his jacket and shoved him forward into motion. The pallet jack's bulk immediately began careening ahead of him as the young man's boots found traction on the rails.

With grit teeth and heaving lungs, Brian adjusted his stance into a controlled stride, the soles of his boots ensuring stablility as he leaned forward and wrapped both arms around the jack's long pull-arm. All around him, Royal's footfalls clanged in an erratic rythmn, the older man keeping pace with his son through sheer dogged momentum.

Something whistled through the space between them, impossibly close. Brian flinched before he could help himself, hunching his shoulders instinctively against the unseen threat. A moment later, an impact erupted against the subway's curved ceiling in his peripheral vision with a thunderous boom, showering them both in a hailstorm of metal shrapnel and pulverized rubble.

A ragged breath escaped Brian's abused lungs as he careened onward, face already growing damp with a cold sweat of exertion and rising terror. He didn't dare shift his focus for even an instant away from simply pouring every fiber of his being into putting one foot in front of the other with the pallet jack held ahead of him like a deranged battering ram.

From somewhere behind his straining shoulders, he became aware of an odd, sound like a metal filing cabinet being shredded by a chainsaw cut through the noise, swiftly growing louder with each staggering stride.

Brian did the only thing he could think to do in the face of that onrushing monstrosity - the one thing that, in hindsight, was more a primal desperation than a conscious choice:

He looked back.

++++++++++++++++++

The Modern Day

++++++++++++++++++

The drive descended into silence after Brian finished his story. Amelie remained motionless, her eyes fixated on the road ahead. A myriad of emotions flickered across her features as she processed the weight of his words. She opened her mouth, words seeming to dance on the tip of her tongue, but they never materialized, remaining unspoken.

As Amelie's home came into view, Brian arched an eyebrow, his expression one of mild surprise. The picturesque, cookie-cutter suburban home seemed plucked straight from the set of a sitcom, a stark contrast to the woman seated before him. He guided the hovercycle alongside the curb, deactivating the hoverjets with a soft hum. The motorcycle bounced gently as it made contact with the asphalt of the street.

"I--" Amelie began, her voice barely above a whisper, but Brian swiftly interjected.

"You don't have to say anything. It wasn't your fault." His words were firm yet gentle, carrying an undercurrent of understanding.

Brian dismounted first, allowing Amelie to rise from her seat. He opened the compartment beneath the seat, retrieving the groceries with careful motions before securing the bike once more. A subtle shimmering shield enveloped the vehicle, a reassuring barrier against potential threats.

Handing Amelie her belongings, Brian's demeanor shifted, a warm smile spreading across his features. "Now, we still have some time. Let's make some cookies!" His tone was light, almost playful, a stark contrast to the heaviness that had lingered only moments before.

Amelie's frown remained etched upon her face, her expression unreadable. Without a word, she turned and stepped forward, her movements fluid and purposeful as she approached the door, unlocking it with ease.

Brian followed a few paces behind Amelie, his footsteps muffled as the soles of his shoes met the plush fibers of the seemingly brand-new welcome mat. He watched, almost mesmerized, as she lifted the wide-brimmed white sunhat from her head, her movements unhurried and graceful. she placed the hat upon a nearby rack, a thin sheen of perspiration glistening on her brow.

It was then that Brian noticed the subtle shift in her complexion. A bluish tinge had begun to creep across her skin, . Amelie's eyes, sharp and perceptive, tracked his gaze, instantly recognizing the source of his curiosity.

"I apologize," she spoke, her voice low and measured. "The heat outside must be affecting my makeup." Raising a delicate hand, she traced the contours of her forehead, her fingertips coming away tinged with the same blue hue. The motion seemed to worsen the discoloration, causing it to become more pronounced upon her features.

"No, no, don't worry," Brian hastened to reassure her, his hands rising in a placating gesture. He held her gaze, his expression open and sincere. "it's nice."

Amelie studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. When she finally spoke, her words carried a hint of resignation, as if she had grown accustomed to a certain response. "It draws a lot of negative attention," she murmured, her eyes briefly averting from his. "Not everyone is so forgiving."

Reaching for a nearby towel, she began to dab at her face, attempting to remove the traces of makeup that had smeared across her skin. "I will go remove this," she declared, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Please, sit."

Brian nodded, his movements suddenly stiff and awkward as he lowered himself onto the plush couch. The cushions seemed to envelop him, their new condition and firm support suggesting they were recently bought. He shifted uncomfortably, his hands resting in his lap as his eyes darted around the room, taking in the surroundings.

It was immediately noticable that the house had been designed to fit a larger family, with large space and furnishings that seemed better suited to a full household. Yet, the clean condition of the decor and the lack of personal touches hinted that Amelie was either never around or had only recently moved in.

Amidst the cliché drab setting, a single item caught Brian's eye – a traditional painting hung upon the wall, its ornate golden frame and picture standing in stark contrast to the modern furnishings. The canvas depicted an young woman, adorned in a wine-purple dress that hung elegantly on her form. A crown of delicate flowers adorned her head, creating an air of ethereal beauty. She sat amidst a lush garden, her expression one of serene contentment, her amber-colored, golden eyes gazing off into the distance, away from the painter's canvas.

Brian found himself drawn to the portrait, rising from the couch and crossing the room in a few measured strides. He came to a halt mere feet away from the painting, his eyes tracing the intricate brushstrokes and lifelike details. The woman's pale skin was dusted with a smattering of freckles, their familiar face tugging at the edges of his mind, stirring a sense of recognition he couldn't quite place.

"Do you know who that is?" Amelie's voice cut through the silence, causing Brian to start slightly.

He turned towards her, his brow furrowing as he shook his head.

"It's a portrait taken of me when I was twenty-three," Amelie explained, her tone carrying a hint of wistfulness as she moved to stand beside him. "After I had completed my first major show in Paris."

Her gaze became distant, as if lost in the memories that the painting evoked. For several seconds, a heavy silence hung between them, punctuated only by the sound of their breathing.

"You mentioned that you have been acting and dancing for a long time," Brian ventured after a moment, his voice gentle, careful not to disrupt the fragile quiet that had settled around them. "Do you plan to have another show here?"

Amelie seemed to ponder his question, her lips pursing ever so slightly as she considered her response.

"It takes weeks to properly rehearse new dances and prepare sets," she said at last, her words emerging slowly, as if she were carefully measuring each syllable.

Brian's attention returned to the painting, his eyes tracing the delicate features of the woman depicted upon the canvas. "Are you going to hold more shows of Coppelia?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, lest he disturb the tranquil atmosphere that had enveloped them.

"There will likely be three more shows," Amelie confirmed, her tone subdued, almost reverent.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Brian's mouth, a glimmer of genuine joy sparking in his eyes. "I really liked the show," he admitted, his words carrying a warmth and sincerity that seemed to fill the space between them. "If you have the dates set, I'd like to see it again."

Amelie seemed to mull over his request, her brow furrowing ever so slightly as she weighed the implications of his words. An eternity seemed to pass before she turned and began making her way towards the kitchen.

"I will arrange for you to have tickets sent to you," she called over her shoulder, her voice quiet yet carrying a finality that brooked no argument.

Brian raised his hands, as if to protest, but the words died on his lips as Amelie pivoted on her heel, fixing him with an icy glare that effectively silenced any further dissent. " Taisez-vous! We have cookies to bake," she stated, her tone leaving no room for debate or discussion.

++++++++++++++

 1 year ago

++++++++++++++

The gentle rays of the early morning sun filter through the glass balcony door, bathing Amélie's kitchen in a warm, golden glow. Her brow furrows as she stares at the familiar red packaging, the scent of chemically altered sickeningly sweet jam wafting out and assaulting her senses. A distasteful grimace tugs at her lips as she imagines the artificial flavor pervading every bite.

Amélie's nightgown is still wrapped snugly around her as she leans back in her chair, slowly turning the pages of an old book she had purchased online. The rhythmic pitter-patter of approaching footsteps grows incrementally louder, pulling her gaze up from the worn pages. Lena appears in the kitchen doorway, her wild brown hair tousled, framing a tired yet warm smile that causes Amélie's heart to skip a confusing beat as their eyes meet.

"Morning," Lena greets, her voice still husky with sleep as she trudges over to the kitchen counter. She reaches for the red plastic cookie box, sighing contentedly as the sugary aroma envelops her. Plucking out a jam-filled treat, she takes a bite, savoring the sweet taste.

Amélie watches with a look of thinly-veiled disdain. "I have no idea how you enjoy those things," she remarks, her thick French accent dripping with disapproval.

Lena's grin widens as she holds out the half-eaten cookie. "They're good, you old lady. You should try one."

Amélie's eyes narrow at the proffered sweet, her nose wrinkling in contempt. "You should try some real sweets," she counters, deliberately turning back to her book and taking a sip of her coffee.

With a soft chuckle, Lena pours herself a cup of the steaming brew. Cradling the warm mug, she strides off toward her room, leaving Amélie alone with the lingering aroma of artificial jam and the quiet patter of her retreating footsteps.

Amélie's steely demeanor subtly falters for a moment as Lena announces. "I have to take care of some stuff back on the mainland, so I'll be gone for a few days. You'll be alright?"

 Amélie's stony expression return when Lena pokes her head out from the bedroom, a frustrated lilt in the frenchwomans voice makes Lena frown. "I'll be fine. It'll be nice to have some quiet."

Amélie dismisses her with a slight shake of her head, but a strange clicking noise from the hallway snaps her attention that way. The whirring of a camera echoes, causing her to frown. "What is that for?"

Lena waves the freshly printed photo through the air. "Marks the occasion."

"There is nothing happening," Amélie states flatly.

"It's a momento," Lena corrects herself, retreating into the bedroom with the photo clutched in her hand.

Curiosity piqued, Amélie rises from her seat and places herself in the doorway, observing the inside of Lena's room. The clothes she had arrived in a month ago lay haphazardly in the backpack. "What do you plan on doing with that photo?"

Lena's teasing grin returns. "Not keen on having photos of you in your skimpy clothes out and about?"

Amélie scowls deeply at the insinuation. Catching the look, Lena sighs and rises to her feet, meeting Amélie's gaze. "It's normal for your girlfriend to have a photo or two of you." She reaches up, placing a gentle hand on Amélie's cheek.

The tender gesture causes Amélie to recoil sharply, a flicker of unease in her eyes. "You're not my girlfriend," she bites out, the final word dripping with disdain. Turning on her heel, she leaves Lena alone in the room, tension lingering in the air.

Brian pulled the oven mitts from his hands, placing them gently upon the counter. His gaze was drawn to the tray before him, adorned with freshly baked cookies – small, circular discs filled with a vibrant strawberry jam. "They just need to sit for a bit now, I think," he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of satisfaction.

The sound of his voice seemed to rouse Amelie from her reverie, and she blinked slowly, her eyes refocusing on Brian's face. He offered her a warm smile, using the sleeve of his shirt to dab at the beads of perspiration that had formed on his brow. "I don't know if they taste alright, but they look good!" he exclaimed, his enthusiasm infectious as he studied the tray of cookies.

His smile was blinding, and for a moment, Amelie found herself momentarily dazzled by his unabashed joy. She watched as he checked the time on his phone, his expression shifting abruptly. "Oh, crap, I'm going to be late!" he exclaimed, rising hastily from his chair. "I have to head home and get ready for dinner!"

With brisk movements, Brian gathered his groceries from the counter, cradling them against his chest. Amelie glanced at her own phone, her expression pensive. "Hm. I suppose you should," she replied, her tone measured. "It is late."

Brian nodded, his steps carrying him towards the door. His hand wrapped around the handle, but he paused, turning back to face Amelie. "Sorry for heading out, but it was fun to hang out, Am–"

His words were cut short as a blue-tinted hand pushed the door closed once more, the force causing it to slam shut with a dull thud. Brian felt a sudden pressure against his back, Amelie's hand pinning him firmly against the unyielding surface. Through the glass, he caught a glimpse of her golden eyes, reflected in the pane, their intensity causing his face to flush crimson, a heat spreading across his cheeks that made him wonder if he was running a fever.

"Brian," she spoke, her voice low and quiet, effectively silencing him.

A heavy silence hung between them, charged with a tension that seemed to crackle in the air. Finally, Amelie broke the stillness. "Thank you," she said, the words emerging strained.

Brian swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "I just wanted to help my friend," he responded, his voice barely above a whisper.

The golden eyes disappeared from the glass, and Brian felt the featherlight touch of delicate fingers tracing the contours of the scars on the nape of his neck. Amelie's fingernails followed the path of one of the marks, her touch so light, so careful, that he wondered if he had imagined the sensation.

"I have no right to judge anyone for the things they've done," she murmured, her breath warm against his skin. "Don't think I'll ever judge you or think of you as lesser."

In a single, quick motion, Brian whipped around, his face mere inches from Amelie's as he stared into the depths of her eyes. "You have every right to," he countered, his voice low and intense. "You didn't do all those things willingly. I know that."

Amelie remained silent, her eyes widening ever so slightly, her expression unreadable.

"You're a good person who's been made to do a few bad things," Brian continued, his words tumbling forth in a rush. "Even if you try to hide it, I saw how passionate you were, and I could see how content and at peace you were in the past, before all this."

He reached out, his fingers curling around Amelie's hand, the cool metal of her prosthetic contrasting with the warmth of his skin. Gently, he raised her hand, holding it before him as if it were a priceless treasure. "Don't let yourself suffer, trying to atone for something that wasn't your fault," he implored, his voice thick with emotion. "It's not fair to you."

A sudden sensation against his pocket caused Brian's phone to chime, and Amelie withdrew her hand, pulling her own phone back. Brian stared at the screen, his brow furrowing as he registered the new contact information – Amelie Lacroix – that had been shared to his device.

"I…..trust you," Amelie spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, her words carrying a weight that seemed to resonate in the air around them.

Turning away from Brian, she waved him towards the door, her movements unhurried and graceful. "You said you had dinner to prepare for," she reminded him, her tone gentle yet tinged with a hint of finality. "So do I."

With those parting words, she disappeared into another room, leaving Brian alone in the doorway.

"I trust you too Amelie."

+++++++++++++++++

Lena's Point Of View

+++++++++++++++++

Lena set her keys down with a gentle clink, the metal contacting the small dish stationed beside the door. With practiced motions, she slipped out of her cropped black leather coat, its orange inner lining peeking through as she removed it from her shoulders. She turned towards the nearby rack, her movements halted by a chiding voice echoing from the kitchen.

"Please put that in your room," Angela's voice carried through the open space, tinged with a hint of exasperation. "We are expecting company."

Lena arched an eyebrow, her hand stilling as she gripped the jacket, draping it over her arm instead of hanging it up. "I didn't know anyone was coming to visit," she called back, her tone laced with curiosity. "Is it one of the lab people?"

Angela appeared in the doorway separating the kitchen from the entryway, a black apron tied neatly around her waist. She wore a white turtleneck, its snug fabric clinging to her curves, paired with black denim jeans that cut off just below her midriff. "Ah, no," she replied, offering Lena a bright smile that seemed to illuminate her features. "I invited a friend or two over for dinner. I hope you don't mind?"

A prickle of suspicion began to crawl up Lena's spine, her brow furrowing ever so slightly as she studied Angela's expression. "Who?" she asked, her tone measured, betraying none of the apprehension that had begun to coil within her.

"It's a surprise," Angela responded, her voice light and airy, as if the matter were of little consequence. "Now, our guests should be arriving in a few minutes. Do you mind grabbing the grocery bags from the fridge? I'm not quite sure if they have any allergies, so I'm making chicken pesto."

Lena nodded, her movements slow and deliberate as she made her way towards the refrigerator. Bending at the waist, she peered into the cool interior, retrieving several bags filled with fresh produce and ingredients. A package of defrosted chicken cutlets already sat upon the counter, awaiting preparation.

Straightening, Lena glanced down at her own attire – a t-shirt emblazoned with a red-circled star, paired with her signature orange leggings. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly self-conscious under Angela's scrutinizing gaze.

"Is this like a black tie thing, or can I wear this?" she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Angela's eyes swept over Lena's form, her expression unreadable for a brief moment. Then, a warm smile stretched across her features, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You look absolutely adorable," she declared, her tone carrying a note of finality that brooked no argument.

Lena felt her cheeks flush, a rosy hue blooming across her skin. "I–" she began, her words trailing off as she grumbled under her breath. Turning on her heel, she made her way towards her room, her steps carrying a hint of petulance. "I'm going to change," she called back over her shoulder, disappearing from sight.

With a huff of barely contained frustration, Lena flung her jacket towards the chair positioned in front of her desk. The supple leather sailed through the air, landing in a crumpled heap upon the cushioned seat with a dull thud. She pivoted on her heel, her steps carrying a weight, a purpose, as she strode across the room towards the bed.

Her hand reached out, fingers curling around the familiar form of her headphones as she snatched them from the wireless charger. Without preamble, without hesitation, she began to undress, peeling away the layers of clothing that clung to her body. Piece by piece, the garments fell to the rumpled sheets, discarded with a casualness that belied the turmoil simmering beneath the surface.

Turning her attention to the closet, Lena took a moment to survey the hanging garments, her eyes scanning the array of fabrics and colors. Finally, her gaze settled upon a wide-collared black sweater, and she reached for it, plucking it from its hanger. She held it before her, inspecting the orange ring pattern that adorned the elbows, her fingers deftly plucking a stray lint from the fabric.

With a smooth motion, she pulled the sweater over her head, the soft material cascading over her form, draping around her slim figure in gentle folds. She turned her focus to the task of selecting a pair of shorts, her hands rifling through the neatly folded stacks until they settled upon a pair of sun-yellow cotton.

Lena stepped into the shorts, drawing them up over her hips, smoothing the fabric over her thighs with a series of practiced motions. A faint rustle, a whisper of sound, accompanied each adjustment, each tug and pull, as she ensured the garment sat just so.

Satisfied with her ensemble, she pivoted once more, her gaze falling upon the mirror that adorned the wall. She scrutinized her reflection, her brow furrowing ever so slightly as she studied the image before her. With deft motions, she tousled her hair, her fingers raking through the strands, coaxing them into a carefully cultivated disarray – a look that Hana had once affectionately dubbed "floofy."

A soft smile tugged at the corners of Lena's mouth as she reached for her headphones once more, settling them over her ears and cuing up her favorite playlist. The opening notes of a rock riff filled her senses, the pulsing beat thrumming through her veins, and she found herself humming along to the familiar melody.

"She's in love with the world," she sang under her breath, her voice barely audible over the music.

With a purposeful stride, Lena made her way towards the door, her hand wrapping around the cool metal of the handle. She pulled it open, stepped out into the hallway, and let the door fall shut behind her with a soft click. Her feet carried her towards the couch until she planted herself upon the plush cushions with a contented sigh.

She reached for the remote, her fingers curling around the slender device, and adjusted her position until she was stretched out in a relaxed pose, her body sinking into the welcoming embrace of the couch. Her eyes drifted closed, the weight of her fatigue settling over her like a gentle veil, as she allowed the music to wash over her.

The gentle weight of her hands settled over her eyes, shielding them from the soft light that filtered through the room. Lena rubbed at her lids, the tendrils of weariness gnawing at her, beckoning her towards sweet slumber.

A sudden tap on her forearm jolted her, shattering the tranquil relaxation. Her eyes snapped open, the familiar lyrics dying on her lips as she blinked rapidly, her vision slowly adjusting to the dim lighting of the room.

"Yeah, Angie?" she mumbled, her brow furrowing as the silence stretched, punctuated only by the faint strains of music that still thrummed through her headphones.

The rhythmic tapping persisted, and Lena felt a flicker of irritation. She blinked again, her gaze refocusing, and found herself staring into a pair of bright blue eyes that were decidedly not Angela's.

With a startled yelp, Lena bolted upright, as if possessed. Her headphones tumbled from her ears, clattering onto the floor in a discordant clatter, the music abruptly silenced.

"Shit!" she exclaimed, her heart pounding in her chest, the rapid staccato of its beat echoing in her ears as she whipped around to face the unexpected visitor.

"There's no need for foul language, Lena," Angela's voice chided gently from the kitchen, the soft rebuke carrying a tone of fond exasperation.

Lena's eyes darted between Brian and Angela, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson as the realization dawned upon her. Brian raised his hands in a placating gesture, offering her a sheepish grin, his expression one of genuine apology.

"Sorry, Angela thought it would be funny to scare you!" he offered by way of explanation, his tone tinged with a hint of residual mirth.

A soft giggle escaped Angela's lips, the melodic sound carrying across the open space and settling upon Lena's ears like the gentle caress of a summer breeze. Lena's gaze snapped towards her, her expression one of disbelief, her mouth falling open in a wordless protest.

"What's the matter with you?" she sputtered, her finger swiveling to point accusingly at Brian, the digit trembling ever so slightly. "And you! You're the dinner guest?"

A look of confusion flickered across Brian's features, his brow furrowing as he processed Lena's words. "Angela didn't tell you?" he asked, turning towards the former medic with a quizzical expression, his head tilting ever so slightly to one side.

"I thought it would be nice to have a meal together," Angela replied, her voice carrying a wistful lilt that seemed to resonate with a deeper yearning, a longing for simpler times. "I have so missed having a full dinner table."

Lena watched as Angela's face fell, a shadow of melancholy passing over her features. Her own expression softened, the indignation she had felt mere moments ago melting away like ice in the sun. She sighed, a long, drawn-out exhalation, and her hands came to rest upon her hips, her fingers curling into the soft fabric of her shorts.

"Brian," she began, her tone gentle yet firm, brooking no argument. "Can you give us a moment?"

She gestured towards the glass door leading out onto the balcony, and Brian nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. A flicker of acknowledgment danced across his eyes, and he inclined his head ever so slightly, acquiescing to her request.

"I can go–" he started, but Angela's voice cut him off, her words slicing through the air with a quiet authority.

"That won't be necessary," she interjected, her hand coming to rest upon Brian's shoulder in a gesture that seemed equal parts reassuring and restraining.

Lena's eyes narrowed as she watched Brian's shoulders stiffen, his entire body growing taut at Angela's touch. Their gazes met, and Lena could see the unspoken intimidation lingering in the depths of his eyes.

With a curt nod, she silently reassured him, offering him a fleeting semblance of understanding, and he stepped out onto the balcony, pulling his phone from his pocket as the glass door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss.

"What are you doing?" Lena demanded, rounding on Angela, her hands falling to her sides in exasperation, her fingers curling into loose fists.

Angela's expression remained serene, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, her features bathed in a soft glow that seemed to emanate from within. "Lena Oxton,it has been so long since you've spent time with someone outside of Overwatch," she repeated, her tone carrying a gentle insistence, as if she were imploring Lena to truly consider the weight of her statement. "And much less a young man."

She paused, allowing her words to linger, to sink in, before continuing. "I want to make up for my perhaps inappropriate first impression. Its important to be in the good graces of a young man whose caught your attention."

Lena's eyes widened fractionally, her brows drawing together as she processed the implications of Angela's declaration. A soft exhale, barely more than a whisper, escaped her lips, and she shook her head vehemently, her chestnut tresses swaying with the adamant motion.

"I'm not going to marry the kid!" she half-whispered, half-yelled, her voice rising in pitch and volume, yet still restrained by the confines of the room. Her gaze bored into Angela's, a silent challenge flickering in the depths of her eyes.

Angela's smile only broadened, her features softening as a melodic chuckle bubbled forth from her lips..

"You don't have to marry the young man," she assured Lena, her words carrying a weight of understanding, a recognition of the absurdity of Lena's protestation. "He's just coming over for dinner. And I want to have a good evening"

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Lena let out a long, drawn-out sigh, the exhalation carrying a palpable sense of exasperation. Her shoulders rose and fell with the motion, her posture shifting ever so slightly as she struggled to maintain her composure.

"Just don't do whatever it was you did at the café, alright?" she implored, her tone carrying a sharpened edge, one that caused Angela to flinch ever so slightly. The medics eyes flashed with a dangerous glint, a warning that flickered briefly before being extinguished, replaced by a familiar warmth.

"The last thing I want is for him to be uncomfortable," Lena added, her voice softening as she spoke, the earlier heat dissipating like a summer storm giving way to the calm that follows in its wake.

The shrill chime of the doorbell cut through the quiet, its insistent trill echoing through the space and causing both women's heads to snap towards the door. Lena turned back to Angela, her expression one of barely contained exasperation, a silent question lingering in the furrow of her brow.

"Oh, great," she muttered, her steps carrying her towards the entrance, each footfall punctuated by the soft thud of her bare feet against the hardwood floor. "Who could it be now?"

With a firm grip, Lena grasped the door handle, her fingers curling around the cool metal as she pulled it open with more force than necessary. The hinges protested with a faint creak.

"Who is it?" she demanded, her eyes falling upon the newcomer, the words dying on her lips as her gaze met a pair of piercing golden eyes.

"Amelie?"

Chapter Text

Lena stirs awake to the dull, throbbing drumbeat of a hangover pounding at the base of her skull. Bleary eyes blink open, and her entire body is awash in a soft, pulsing blue aura as her chronal accelerator's rewind ability sluggishly kicks in. She can feel the lingering effects of the alcohol being slowly reversed - her taxed liver resetting, her weary cells regenerating one by one until the insidious hangover slowly, mercifully dissipates.

Propping herself up on one elbow, Lena squints against the dim lighting as she takes stock of her surroundings. The living room is cloaked in darkness, silent save for the ambient ticking of a clock and her own ragged breathing. A quiet sigh escapes her lips as she forces herself into an upright seated position on the couch, nose wrinkling at the faint but unmistakable scent of stale wine still clinging to the fabric of her rumpled black shirt. A low groan rumbles in her throat - she'll have to thoroughly clean it later.

Pushing herself to her feet with effort, Lena trudges down the hallway, one hand trailing along the wall to steady herself in the pitch blackness. She pauses in the doorway to her bedroom, eyes narrowing as they slowly adjust, scanning the room's interior with building trepidation. Her gaze snags on the thrown over chair, a dark puddle of spilled wine fanning out beneath its legs on the hardwood floor. An empty bottle lays discarded atop her dresser, its presence feeling almost accusatory.

Lena racks her mind, brow furrowing as she struggles to recall the events of the previous night. Flashes of memory flicker through her mind.

+++++++++++++++++

Brian's Point Of View

+++++++++++++++++

Brian's throat tightens, each breath coming out in shaky, pained gasps. Slowly, he raises his palm to his neck, eyes widening as crimson liquid coats his skin. He watches in almost detached fascination as his shirt darkens to a deep red, the liquid spreading further across the fabric. A dull, distant pain shoots through his system.

His gaze darts upward, eyes wide and fearful. The last of the air in his lungs threatens to leave him faint. He looks to blue skin - the hand that knocked him to the ground still outstretched. Following the tense limb upward, his eyes focus on a face he's seen in nightmares before. Poised. Golden eyes fixed on him, staring with the intense focus of a predator.

From the corner of his eye, he registers Lena placing herself between him and the one who hurt him. Fragmented memories of the museum incident come swirling back to him. Adrenaline courses through his body, tensing his muscles as he scampers from the room. He runs out the door, crossing into the apartment.

A pair of arms wrap around him, holding him close against a source of warmth that hushes him with quiet, sweet tones. Brian's senses slowly return as a set of kind eyes behind thick-rimmed black glasses focus on him. "It will be alright," a thick Swiss accent soothes, putting him at ease despite the panic still thrumming beneath his skin.

++++++

Awaken

++++++

The pungent aroma of garlic hangs in the air, intermingling with the soothing scent of freshly baked bread. Brian's fingers interlock with the smooth coolness of another hand, the leather surrounding their skin a comforting texture. A calming light blue hue envelops his periphery as smooth jazz plays faintly. Something golden catches his eye, reflecting light. The sugary smell of cotton candy blends with the softness of fabric against his skin. Flashing lights dance across his vision. Intricately carved wooden doors, the rich chocolate color drawing his gaze. Granite countertops, cool and polished. A soft pillow beckons.

These fragments of memory pour over Brian, his hand reaching up to wipe the slick cold sweat from his brow. His mouth feels packed with cotton, throat so dry that even breathing sends needles prodding at his tonsils. His eyes struggle to open, fluttering briefly before the warm ambient light forces them closed again, a sharp pain lancing through. Turning onto his side, his nose burrows into a soft, squishy material as his eyes attempt to open once more. He catches a glimpse of pink and white, alarm bells firing through his head, propelling him into an upright seated position. His weary bones and body scream in protest, but he is now sitting, the bedcovers wrinkled around him.

Placing a hand over his eyes, he allows a sliver of an opening between his fingers to survey his surroundings. A massive poster depicting some lizard-like creature and alien beings adorns the wall. Shelves upon shelves overflow with anime figurines and memorabilia. Wiping his forehead, an odd blue material grazes his face. He pulls his hand away, inspecting the dyed blue leather sleeve enveloping his arm. With effort, he shrugs off the unfamiliar blue bomber jacket, letting it pool in his lap as he studies the intricate hand-stitched inner lining. A small white cloth tag woven near the collar catches his eye – "For John."

The shuffling sound of someone nearby causes Brian to whip around, jacket falling to the bed as he moves backwards, propping himself up to face the door. It opens, revealing a young woman wearing a white face mask and black sunglasses. Catching sight of him, she lowers her hood and slowly removes the sunglasses. Brian's heart rate slows as he recognizes her. "Hana?"

A thump against his chest draws his gaze downward, where a pre-wrapped peanut butter and jelly sandwich now rests. "Eat that. And don't you dare throw up in here," Hana states, her tone carrying a hint of irritation. Brian's eyes dart between the bed and his own body. His pants are still buttoned, but his shirt has been swapped for a grey long sleeve adorned with a small cartoon cat character.

"Di-did we?" He stutters out, heat rising to his cheeks.

Hana's hands move to her hips as she shakes her head vehemently. "N-No! Of course not! Y-you don't remember anything?"

Brian blinks slowly as fragments seem to trickle back. His gaze falls to the jacket, "No. I...I remember sitting down to have dinner the-"

Hana trudges over, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "Yeah, you went to Lena and Angela's, and then you called me. Asking me to come get you."

Raising his hand, Brian stares at it with a confused expression that tells Hana his memory has fragmented gaps. "I-I'm sorry for the trouble. I can leave."

As he rises unsteadily to his feet and moves toward the door, a firm hand grips the back of his shirt collar, pulling him back with surprising strength for Hana's petite frame. He lands on the bed once more, and Hana leans over him, her brown eyes meeting his as a fearful, almost dangerous look flashes across his face. She removes her hand, folding them primly in her lap as that intense expression fades, replaced by a timid vulnerability.

"You aren't going anywhere." Her tone holds no room for argument. "You need to drink water or eat something. It's a long drive, and I don't want you getting sick."

Recognizing the shift in his demeanor, Brian lets out an awkward chuckle. "That's probably a good idea. Do you have any water?"

Hana turns back to face him, a forced smile not quite reaching his eyes as he regards her. Reaching into the convenience store bag beside her, she pulls out a bottle of water, movements unhurried. "Here."

Brian murmurs a quiet "thanks" as he accepts the bottle from her outstretched hand. He twists off the cap slowly, raising it to his lips and taking a long, deliberate pull. The cool liquid soothes his parched throat, but Hana's hand comes to rest lightly on his arm before he can drain it completely, cautioning him. "Easy, take it slow."

Lowering the bottle, Brian nods compliantly, a sheepish look settling onto his features. An awkward silence stretches between them, the quiet punctuated only by the ambient noises filtering in from outside Hana's cluttered bedroom. Brian's eyes roam unhurriedly over the shelves packed tightly with figurines and merchandise, taking in the intricate details and vibrant colors one by one. So many curious items surrounding them, yet his mind remains stubbornly blank as to how he ended up here in such a disheveled state.

"I-" He starts after a moment, turning his gaze back to Hana, but the words seem to catch in his throat. Her expression is a mix of concern and something he can't quite read. Pursing her lips slightly, she appears to be debating internally whether to speak up first.

The stretch of silence draws out further before Hana finally exhales a long sigh, the sound wavering slightly. "You really don't remember anything after dinner?" Her tone is gentle, patient.

Brian shakes his head slowly from side to side. "Just...fragments. Flashes of images and sensations." His brow furrows as he tries to concentrate, to pull the fragmented memories into something coherent. He closes his eyes, drawing a slow breath in through his nose, then releases it through pursed lips. "The food...that leather jacket...lights, music..."

Trailing off, he opens his eyes once more to give Hana an apologetic look. She watches him intently but remains quiet, allowing him to continue probing his recollections at his own measured pace.

Her lips press together in a tight line as something like apprehension flickers across her eyes. But she quickly schools her expression into a careful neutral look, holding Brian's inquisitive stare. "You were pretty out of it when I picked you up from Lena and Angela's. You were in the lobby and rambling about something involving a cowboy?"

The name sparks a faint recognition in Brian's muddled mind. he knew exactly what she was talking about.

Hana seems to read the confusion writ plain across his face. Her next words come out slow and measured. "I brought you here to sleep it off after you got...emotional. And maybe a little frustrated. When I had to change your shirt." Her gaze drifts away briefly, lips pursing once more before she continues. "I didn't know what else to do. It was covered with some type of wine."

Brian's stomach churns with a mix of shame and concern over what he may have said or done while under the influence. He sets the bottle of water down on the nightstand with deliberate movements, then meets Hana's eyes once more. "Hana...I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to cause you any trouble. Thank you for taking care of me." His voice is thick with contrition and hangs heavy in the air between them.

She holds his gaze for a long moment before her own eyes soften somewhat. "I know," Hana replies at last with a small nod. "Just...get some rest, okay? We can talk more later if you want." Offering him a small, reassuring smile, she rises from the bed and slips out of the room in unhurried movements, leaving Brian alone with his swirling thoughts.

++++++++++++++++

Hana's Point Of View

++++++++++++++++

Brian stepped out of Hana's room, entering the spacious living room where Lena had set up her streaming equipment. Hana's eyes seemed transfixed on some TV program playing on the large screen. He moved over to the wastebin with unhurried steps, depositing the empty water bottle and crumpled bag that had contained his peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Turning, he made his way to the couch and took a seat, leaving a cushion of space between himself and Hana. His hands came to rest on his knees as he settled into the plush cushions. Though Hana's gaze remained fixated on the TV before them, she caught him watching her through her peripheral vision. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly, rising and falling as if he meant to speak, but no words seemed to form.

The weighted silence stretched out until Hana finally broke it. "I'm sorry for peeking," she said, tearing her eyes away from the TV to look at him directly.

Brian turned his head towards her, regarding her apology for a moment before giving a small shake of his head. "No, you were just trying to help. Don't worry about it...you really did help me." One of his hands slowly clenched into a loose fist that bobbed idly on his knee. He drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly through pursed lips before continuing. "I just...this hasn't happened before. And I'm just...shaken."

His gaze dropped to the floor, studying the patterns in the rug for a beat. When he looked up again, his eyes found Hana's. She had shifted on the couch, angling her body more fully towards him rather than facing forward.

"But can we just pretend you didn't see any of that?" The question hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Memories flickered through Hana's mind of the faded scars she had glimpsed – the long line marring the skin from Brian's left pectoral down to his right side, the small burn in the shape of a cartoon bone just below his ribcage. She held his entreating gaze for a long moment before giving a slight nod.

"You know I don't care about all that, right?" She leaned over, delivering a light punch to his shoulder to punctuate her nonchalance. The action pulled a chuckle from Brian's throat, one that seemed to bubble up authentically rather than forced. Hana felt heat blossom across her cheeks at the sound. "I have a scar or two myself, you aren't special, loser."

Turning her eyes towards the windows, Hana watched the dark city skyline twinkling with glazes of neon light from the buildings. She could see Brian's reflection in the glass, hunched on the couch beside her.

"So..." she began, drawing the word out slightly. "Your memory coming back at all?"

Brian pursed his lips, seeming to mull over her query for a weighty pause before giving a quick shake of his head. "Not really. I remember going over to help Angela with making dinner. Then we made pasta and sat down. I remember Amelie was there."

Hana's eyes widened, her head swiveling back towards Brian in surprise. "You've met Amelie?!"

He met her incredulous stare with a nod. "Uh yeah, we kind of...ran into each other. At the ballet she put on, Coppelia? Have you seen it?"

She responded by punching his shoulder again, perhaps with a bit more force this time as incredulity morphed into indignation. "I was there! I even had to sit next to a stuffy old dude in a tux."

A laugh escaped Brian's lips, rumbling up from his belly. He leaned back against the couch cushions, shooting Hana a smug look. "Wouldn't know what that's like. I had a box."

"This is bullshit," Hana huffed, crossing her arms as she planted herself more firmly on the couch cushions. After allowing a petulant silence to linger in the air, she continued. "But yeah, I mean we met, got into an argument, and then she gave me private dance lessons."

Pausing, she turned back towards Brian, eyes twinkling with mischief as a smile formed on her lips. "You're running around with half the girls in town, you whore."

Brian's eyes flew wide, choking on his own saliva at her teasing accusation. He coughed, waving a hand in front of his face as he tried to catch his breath. "I am not! I keep running into people by accident and then usually something happens and we talk for a bit and that's it."

"Slut," Hana taunted cheekily, clearly relishing getting such a flustered rise out of him.

One eyebrow arched upwards as Brian slowly shook his head, but the hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. He cleared his throat before continuing. "But yeah, I was grocery shopping earlier today and then I ran into her at the store. And we hung out for a bit, then I had to go meet with Angela and Lena because of plans. And then Amelie showed up, and we sat down to eat..." He trailed off, gaze growing distant as he recalled the fragmented scene. "That's pretty much the last thing I remember."

Hana held his faraway stare, watching as he seemed to retreat into his muddled memories. "So Amelie showed up at Lena and Angela's place?" She let the question hang in the air for a weighted beat before adding, "That sounds like it would be awkward."

"It kind of was?" Brian replied, rubbing slowly at his chin as if deep in thought. "I mean, I don't really remember much of it clearly. I just remember feeling really uncomfortable. But that might have been because of Angela."

Hana's brow furrowed slightly at that admission, a crease forming between her brows. Brian seemed to pick up on the nonverbal cue, quickly giving a small shake of his head. "I don't have anything against her, really. It's just sometimes she kind of gets a bit too...close."

With a soft exhalation, Hana gave a slight nod, features relaxing once more. "I get it. I'm sure she doesn't mean to cause any problems, though. She's really nice."

Brian let his head loll over, coming to rest in the cradle of his palm propped up on the armrest. "I've heard a lot of stuff from Lena about her," he mused in a low tone. "And I should be thankful to her for the biotic tech. But whenever I'm around her, she just gets...off."

His gaze flicked up, meeting Hana's pensive stare head-on.

"I haven't really spoken with her much recently, to be honest," Hana admitted after allowing a weighty pause to linger between them. "At least not since the war ended. But she really is a kind person – she really took care of me and Lena." A fond smile played across her lips as memories seemed to flicker through her mind's eye. "Hell, we even called her 'mom' behind her back a lot of the time, since she really was like a mother bird."

The smile faltered slightly as she continued. "Once, when me and Lena got on this Minecraft binge during our off time, she had Reinhardt drag the two of us out of our quarters because we were living off lemon flavored Oreos for at least two days."

Hana saw the way Brian tensed at the mention of Reinhardt's name, his eyes darting guiltily away as his lips pressed into a tight line. She cleared her throat softly, allowing the awkward moment to dissipate before refocusing her attention.

"She took care of us," Hana stated, tone becoming more serious as she held Brian's gaze steadily. "So, if you do anything weird to her, I'm going to kick your ass, you get me boyo?"

After a weighty beat, Brian gave a solemn nod of acknowledgment. "Yeah, I gotcha." His fingers toyed idly with the cuff of the blue bomber jacket he wore. "Also...uh, do you want your jacket back?" He began to shrug it off his shoulders.

"That's not my jacket," Hana replied, her head tilting slightly as she studied the garment. "I thought it was yours? It isn't mine."

Brian stilled his movements, leaving the jacket on as his brow furrowed in confusion. "I thought you put it on me after I changed?"

Shaking her head slowly, Hana clarified, "Nope. You had that on when I picked you up." Her gaze dropped to the grey long sleeve emblazoned with a Hello Kitty graphic that Brian wore. Reaching out, she gave the shirt a light poke. "The shirt is mine, though. You're kinda lanky."

Brian scowled melodramatically at her teasing jab about his slender frame. "This is slander," he retorted, unable to fully commit to feigning offense as a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Whatever you say, beanpole," Hana shot back with a chuckle, pushing herself up off the couch. She moved towards the kitchen area, calling back over her shoulder. "You want something to eat? I can heat up some leftovers."

Settling back into the plush cushions, Brian considered her offer for a moment before giving a nod. "Yeah, that would be great, thank you."

As Hana rummaged through the fridge, Brian's gaze roamed idly around the living room. His eyes landed on the streaming setup with its array of cameras, lighting rigs, and microphones surrounding Hana's usual spot. Curiosity gnawed at him.

"So, you haven't been streaming much recently" he asked, pitching his voice to carry to the kitchen area.

"yeah." Hana confirmed, her reply slightly muffled. "I've been feeling a bit burnt out recently. I hit a new high on the leaderboards so I can't really play for fun against people unless I'm tryharding."

Brian let out a soft huff, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. "Of course. Should've known miss top of the leaderboard would need a break at some point"

"it's probably not as tiring as dancing, Mr. Ballet Lessons," Hana shot back in a teasing lilt as she reemerged holding two plates laden with food.

Flushing slightly at her jibe, Brian waved a hand dismissively. "That was just a one-time thing. Besides, I was probably floundering around like a baby gazelle."

"Uh huh, sure," Hana drawled, handing him one of the plates before retaking her seat on the couch, careful to leave a courteous distance. "I bet Amelie just loved that deer-in-headlights look on you."

Brian opened his mouth to protest, then seemed to think better of it as he took in the mischievous glint in Hana's eyes. With a slight shake of his head, he opted to change the subject instead.

"So did I say anything weird when you, uh...picked me up earlier?" he asked, a hint of trepidation coloring his tone as he began picking at the food on his plate.

Hana was quiet for a beat, considering. "Some stuff about video games you mentioned something about Ludwig being an idiot."

Relief washed over Brian's features before curiosity won out. "Anything...else?"

Pausing to take a bite of her food, Hana chewed slowly and deliberately as she decided how to respond. After swallowing, she met Brian's questioning look steadily.

"Just some drunken rambling about VR stuff" she said, keeping her tone neutral and observing him carefully. "You said that I was short."

Brian's face fell, shoulders slumping as he averted his eyes. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," she replied with a casual wave of her hand, as if brushing his apology aside. "We all have our moments of drunken idiocy, right? I'm just glad I was there to keep you from doing anything too stupid."

Offering him a small, reassuring smile, Hana turned her attention back to her plate. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the tension visibly seep out of Brian's posture. He matched her casual air with a nod and a quiet "thanks" before digging into his food as well.

"Brian?"

"Yeah?"

"Call me short again. And ill kill you."

"okay."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Amelie's Point Of View, The Dinner

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The soft clink of a fingertip lazily tracing the crystal rim of a wine flute cuts through the tense silence. Amelie's pale finger rhythmically taps against the glass in a meandering pattern, causing the deep purple liquid within to ripple outward in small, concentric cascades. She watches, seemingly entranced, as each languid tap sends a new series of rings spreading across the surface.

Her other hand rests heavily against the side of her face, nails scratching lightly, absently at her scalp. Pinkie and ring finger are stretched taut across the bridge of her nose as unblinking golden eyes fix their penetrating stare on the back of a chestnut brown head. The former pilot seems utterly oblivious to the heated, predatory glare burning into them from across the table.

Opposite Amelie, Angela Ziegler sits statuesque, radiating an almost regal poise and dignity. Her wine glass remains full and untouched since the first course was served what feels like an eternity ago. Amelie's eyes drift down, noting the medic's plate has been picked at in a scarce manner, but otherwise remains largely uneaten, the meal growing cold. For what reason, Amelie cannot discern. A finely arched eyebrow shifts almost imperceptibly as her unrelenting scrutiny meets Angela's eyes, silently demanding an explanation for this apparent lack of appetite.

Slowly, with controlled deliberation, Amelie's gaze trails down to study her own plate. Handed to her earlier by a flustered, red-faced Lena insisting she eat with that nervous, attitude. The pasta sits now in a state of growing suspicion, each minute that ticks by allowing the gnawing sense that some mistake has been made to nibble away at the edges of her hyper-attuned awareness. Dark instincts, honed and sharpened over years of life-or-death scrutiny, begin picking apart every detail of the scene before her.

"Amelie?"

Her attention shifts at the sound of her name. Golden eyes meet blue ones that seem to swirl and glow in the soft light. All eyes in the room are pulled almost magnetically to the French woman as the young boy's voice calls to her from the end of the small table. Chocolate brown eyes, pupils dilated for some unknown cause, stare deeply into hers, wishing to drink up every detail of her familiar visage. An uncomfortable flush washes over the older woman.

"Are you okay?" Brian's concerned query hangs in the air. Amelie nods, shifting in her seat.

"Yes. Just a bit tired," she murmurs, unconsciously raising the wine glass once more to take a sip of the sickly sweet liquid that makes her feel more and more disoriented with every lingering drop poured down her throat.

Lena turns away abruptly, not wanting to let her gaze rest on the woman any further. From the moment of their arrival at this impromptu reunion, Amelie has noticed the British woman's palpable flightiness, her unease growing more and more frustrating as the evening wears on. She had expected anger, rebuke, even hurt from Lena after the events at the dance - but not this charged silence, this refusal to acknowledge her presence.

She had invited Lena and Angela, had waited with bated breath to set eyes on her former lover during the performance or after. Only receiving a terse text from Angela afterward that they had enjoyed it as a group. Amelie remembers the scowl that twisted her features as the selfish thought cut through her mind - "She could have told me herself."

Her attention refocuses on the immediate moment, watching as Lena steals furtive glances her way. Golden eyes meet blue in a heated stare, and Brian seems to realize some mistake, quickly trying to divert attention away from Amelie with a hasty mention of something damning.

"I baked something today."

The words seem to hang heavily in the air between them all. Amelie feels a leaden knot of unease twist sickeningly in the pit of her stomach at Brian's deceptively innocuous mention. She watches, feeling almost detached, as Lena and Angela's attention immediately shifts to the young man seated at the end of the table.

"Oh?" Angela's gentle lilt breaks the tense silence, a warm smile slowly blooming across her lips. "What's the occasion?"

Brian returns the smile, though his eyes are heavy-lidded and glazed, hand idly fidgeting with the rounded base of his wineglass. The same glass that never seems to stay empty for long, as Angela vigilantly leans over to top it off with a fresh pour whenever his sips cease for more than a few lingering moments.

"I helped a friend make them," he explains, words slightly slurred as the alcohol clearly takes its toll. A wrinkle forms between his brows as he considers his next words carefully. "I don't really like cookies that much, but...I ran into them at the store and, well..." He trails off with a vague shrug of his shoulders. "You know how it goes. We made some cookies."

His plate lays bare, the helpings of food long since cleared away as the conversation slowly, inevitably, devolved into this hazy, looping cycle of drinking and storytelling. Lena recounts some humorous anecdote from earlier with animated gestures, only for Angela to chime in with an embarrassing or cringeworthy retort - some antidote rooted in the pilot's antics under her watchful care and friendship.

"It was not like that!" Lena's indignant protest cuts through the laughter and banter, a flat palm slamming against the table with emphasis. Her face is flushed, tendrils of chestnut hair escaping the confines of her once tidy ponytail to frame her features in wisps.

Angela, ever unruffled, levels Lena with a look brimming with fond exasperation. "You attempted to help someone remove a magnetic boot from their car," she recounts evenly, "and it attached itself to your chronal accelerator. Winston had to disassemble the entire boot that had attached to you like a backpack."

A small, involuntary giggle escapes Brian at the absurd visual Angela's words conjure - only earning him a withering look from Lena across the table. "Bullshit!" she cries out hotly.

"Lena!" Angela's voice takes on a distinctly scolding tone, though the corners of her eyes crinkle with barely contained amusement. "It attached to me because Brigitte wanted to tinker with the magnet stuff. She accidentally activated it, and then placed it on my back. I didn't do anything. And it was Brigitte's idea in the first place - I didn't even know the person whose car that boot belonged to."

Lena fumes silently, slumping back in her chair with arms crossed tightly over her chest in a subdued pout, refusing to meet anyone's gaze. Brian, for his part, simply watches the heated exchange unfold with wide, glassy eyes - the mounting effects of the alcohol rendering his expression in a permanent state of tired half-closure.

The silence stretches for a beat too long before Lena speaks again, her voice low and laced with an unmistakable edge.

"And don't think I've forgotten about the time you spent two hours trying to cook a casserole for some Thanksgiving thing. But it was a gas stove, so you ended up just dropping the whole bloody mess and covering my brand new shoes in milk and macaroni noodles!"

An accusatory finger jabs toward Angela, who blinks rapidly as if awaking from a trance. Her eyes go wide with indignation at the unexpected slight against her culinary skills.

"Lena, you shouldn't make up stories about people!" Her tone is one of barely-checked offense.

"Like hell I am making it up!" Lena fires back without missing a beat. "I still have photos of the whole disaster!"

With a clumsy sweep of her arm, Lena makes a grab for her phone resting on the table's surface - but Angela is quicker, trying to swipe the device away before those damning photographic receipts can be brandished. A flick of Lena's wrist triggers her accelerator, rewinding the phone through the ether with a soft blue glow until it rematerializes in her grasp, openly taunting the fuming Swiss woman seated across from her.

"Don't you dare," Angela hisses, the words dripping with a surprising undercurrent of silent, smoldering malice - one that seems to go completely unnoticed by Lena, who is already busying herself with swiping through old photographed memories on her device.

Brian inhales deeply, his words slurring slightly as he speaks. "Do you all mind if I use the restroom?"

He rises unsteadily from his seat, facing towards Amelie. His eyes linger on her for a moment too long before shifting to Lena, then back again with a subtlety that makes something in Amelie's stomach stir uncomfortably.

Angela reaches out, her thumb rubbing small, soothing circles into the boy's shoulder as he sways precariously. "Sure, I'll show you where it is," Lena offers, using the table as leverage to push herself up. Her palms press flat against the surface to steady herself.

Amelie's gaze follows the two as they disappear down the hallway, watching them go with a furrowed brow. Once they're out of sight, she turns back to Angela, who has retaken her seat and is sipping from a glass of water that Amelie eyes with scrutinizing focus.

"So why are we having dinner?" The question hangs heavy between them.

Angela's gaze remains fixed on the entrance to the hallway as she speaks. "I wanted to have a simple reunion of sorts. I offered Brian some chocolates and he insisted we have dinner. And who am I to say no? He's been so kind." A pause as she purses her lips. "He told me you two interacted at the dance, and I figured it has been so long since we all had a simple meal together. Why not reunite?"

Amelie retakes her own seat, staring down the medic with narrowed eyes. "Connerie," she mutters, her patience wearing thin.

Angela's brow furrows at the blatant disbelief. "He can keep things to himself, that much I'm sure."

Amelie notices the way Angela's fingers begin tapping out a restless rhythm against the tabletop. "I don't know what you expect me to say," Angela continues evenly. "He mentioned you, and I figured since you two had spent some time together, it would be nice to have you both come around."

"How coincidental," Amelie clips out, unable to keep the sarcasm from her tone, "that you, knowing about our...history, would invite both him and me to have dinner with Lena."

Angela sighs, raising her hands in a placating gesture. "I believe you are being much too aggressive, Amelie. I simply wish for my friends to get along and for there to be no bad blood or problems."

Her eyes seem to subtly shift then, hardening into a new, steely demeanor. "Lena believed that you and Brian obviously had some involvement with one another. And obviously, that isn't the case."

Angela raises her glass, swirling the deep purple liquid contemplatively before taking another measured sip. "Perhaps you should remind yourself that you and Lena did have a falling out. And it was your decision."

The poisonous words echo hollowly in Amelie's mind. "Your decision."

Angela lets the slightest undercurrent of malice slip into her next words. "Maybe it was for the best, after all. Lena was in a...complicated predicament, and you were there to.. 'take' those feelings."

Amelie tenses at the loaded insinuation behind the statement. "I do appreciate you, Amelie," Angela continues in a carefully measured tone. "Brian seems to treat you without any malice. I certainly would have...conflicted feelings if we had a shared history like that."

She takes another pointed sip of her champagne, raising her hand as if just realizing something. "My, they are taking their time, aren't they?"

The suspicion bubbling over, Amelie rises from her seat, body growing warmer as the wine takes further hold. She trudges down the hallway, ears picking up faint movement from behind a white door. Pushing it open, her eyes fall upon Lena, taking a long pull from a dark green bottle before sloshing it around, the liquid within audibly agitated.

A quiet shuffling draws her attention, and she spots Brian seated in a white chair, hands clutching a piece of white paper as his eyes dart up at her abrupt entrance. He drops the paper in fright, and Amelie's hawkish gaze instantly focuses on it, realizing it's a polaroid photograph. An image of her sipping coffee, a red box of cookies on the table before her.

She moves on instinct, muscles tensing as adrenaline spikes. Lena lunges for the fallen picture, but Brian scrambles backwards, upending his bottle and splattering wine across the floor.

Amelie's hand lashes out, the bottom of her palm striking Brian's neck with brutal force. Lena's fingers close around the polaroid as Amelie yanks it back, the paper tearing with an audible rip. Brian clutches at his throat, heaving rapid breaths as an angry red welt blooms across his skin.

Lena's wide brown eyes meet Amelie's blazing golden glare for the briefest of moments before guiltily averting her gaze. Brian slips shakily past them and out into the hallway, leaving a trail of spilled wine droplets in his wake.

++++++++++++++++++

Hana's Point Of View

++++++++++++++++++

Hana's gaze is inexorably drawn across the expansive room once more, eyes settling on Brian's slumbering form on the couch. She watches, unblinking, as his chest rises and falls with each deep, even breath. Watches as his features twitch ever so slightly, brow furrowing in the throes of some fleeting dream before smoothing out once more into a mask of undisturbed sleep.

A few murmured, unintelligible syllables tumble past his lips and he shifts minutely - turning from facing the window to burying his face further into the couch's soft embrace. Hana lets out a slow exhalation, the sound seeming to reverberate loudly in the hushed stillness blanketing the room.

Tearing her eyes away, she takes a sip from the glass of water sitting on her desk, the liquid a shocking jolt of coolness against her dry throat. She savors it for a lingering moment before swallowing, trying her best to remain quiet and unobtrusive as the near-silent whirring of computer fans fills the pregnant pauses.

With forced nonchalance, Hana returns her attention to the glow of her monitor, quickly typing out a cheerful social media post announcing her imminent return to streaming over the next couple days. She copies and pastes an overenthusiastic PNG image of her signature cheering persona before hitting 'enter' with perhaps more force than strictly necessary.

Notifications and emails begin cycling through in a modest deluge, and she releases a Put-upon groan as she methodically works through each one - hitting 'read,' sighing, groaning again. Until her eyes snag on one particular message, freezing her motions.

An text from a personal contact she hasn't heard from in almost a year - not since last December's terse, three-word heads up: "I'm at the door."

Chest constricting ever so slightly, Hana double checks the sender: Amelie Lacroix. She releases the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and clicks to open the message, jaw clenching as she reads the short but ominous line of text.

"Have you eaten breakfast?"

For several weighted seconds, Hana simply watches the clock on her desktop tick by in a steady cadence. Then, fingers hovering over the keys, she types out a cautious reply.

"Not yet."

The message is marked 'read' almost instantaneously, and a sliver of unease worms its way into Hana's gut as an errant thought crosses her mind. The spiders watching, huh?

Leaning in towards the monitor, she arches one eyebrow as a new message arrives in short order.

"There is a small bakery selling custard tarts nearby."

Amelie supplies the name of the place - a quaint local café and bakery that Hana dutifully looks up on her phone's map app. Only a 15 minute drive, it claims.

Her frown deepens as she fires back, "Why did you text me?"

This response takes longer to arrive. Hana watches as the 'typing' indicator blinks on and lingers...and lingers...flickering sporadically before going dark again. Just as she's resigning herself to being left on read, a new message pops up.

"I want to talk."

With a soft scoff, Hana leans back in her chair, considering her next move carefully. "Can't we just talk over text?" she shoots back.

Another lengthy pause, the typing animation winking in and out of existence in fits and starts. Hana finds herself irritatedly holding her breath without realizing it until, finally, three simple words appear on the screen.

"Talking in person is better."

She lets out the pent-up exhalation in a derisive huff, shaking her head as she glances over towards Brian's unmoving silhouette. Her eyes linger on the side of his neck, obscured by the couch but no less branded into her mind's eye.

Turning back to the monitor with a renewed sense of determination, Hana types quickly.

"I have to take care of something first. Can we meet in an hour?"

She watches that interminable typing indicator blink...blink...blink... holding her breath again as the minutes stretch on. Just when she's about to give up, an emoji arrives in lieu of a text response: a simple thumbs up.

Smothering an exasperated sigh, Hana braces her palms against the surface of her desk and pushes herself to her feet with creaking effort. She moves with measured strides to pluck her keys from atop the desktop before making her way over to the couch.

Hands find purchase on Brian's shoulder as she gently but insistently rouses him from slumber. He startles awake with a jolt, eyes wild for a brief moment before focusing in on her concerned features.

"Easy," Hana soothes, raising a placating hand. "Listen, I have to go run a couple errands." Her gaze drifts to the window as the lie tumbles easily from her lips. "So I'll drop you off, because I'm heading out. Okay?"

Brian regards her through bleary eyes for a suspended moment before giving a slight, groggy nod of acquiescence. Pushing himself up into a seated position, he watches mutely as Hana raises her protective face mask to cover her mouth and nose.

Without another word, she turns on her heel and leads the way out of the apartment, steps heavy and purposeful. Brian follows along behind in silence.

Hana pulls her jacket tighter around herself as she steps out from the mild chill of late morning, ducking beneath the string of large umbrellas shading the outdoor patio area. A smattering of patrons are scattered about, nursing steaming mugs of coffee while scrolling absently through their phones or nibbling on bagels and other fresh-baked delicacies.

Her eyes scan the crowd with a scrutinizing sweep before snagging on a too-familiar figure seated alone at one of the patio tables. Golden eyes meet warm brown in a heated clash of wills for the briefest of moments before Hana plasters on a confident smile, striding over until she's standing over the other woman.

"A coffee date isn't quite what I had in mind for a reunion, ay Frenchie?" She lets the faint lilt of teasing sarcasm bleed into her greeting.

Amelie regards her with an appraising look, features carefully schooled into an expression of polite apathy as she lowers her dainty porcelain cup from her lips. The corners of her mouth tug upwards in a thin, courteous smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Good morning," she murmurs, the lilt of her accent thick and heavy.

Hana takes the unspoken cue and slides into the empty chair opposite Amelie, picking up the small paper menu to peruse the offerings. "So what's good here? I've never been."

A considering hum slips past Amelie's pursed lips. "The brioche French toast is excellent, even if the maker sources it from an American bakery."

Nodding absently, Hana allows her eyes to roam over the mouthwatering descriptions - fried donut holes, custard-filled crepes, fluffy French toast dripping with syrup and powdered sugar. Her mouth waters at the thought before an errant memory of mottled purple bruises blooming across pale skin flashes through her mind's eye, giving her pause.

"On second thought, I'll tread lightly," she decides with a shake of her head, sitting back in her seat. Her gaze refocuses with renewed intensity on Amelie's shrouded features, hidden behind a pair of stylish sunglasses.

"Alright, listen," Hana begins without preamble, never one to mince words. "Let's break this down. Why the sudden text after ghosting for so long?"

Amelie seems to consider her response carefully, taking another measured sip of her coffee before lowering the cup to the table with a soft clink. "I wanted to speak to someone," she says at last, shifting to cross one shapely leg over the other.

A knowing smirk tugs at the corner of Hana's lips, taking on a mocking edge. "Hey, that's Chloe's job, not mine."

Amelie flinches almost imperceptibly at the barbed retort, spine stiffening. "I did not wish to vent my frustrations," she insists, voice taking on a slightly clipped tone. "I wanted to talk to someone who...understood things."

Hana's sharp gaze scrutinizes the other woman's every minuscule reaction - the tightening of her jaw, the slight flaring of her nostrils, the way her fingers twitch against the surface of the table. A heavy sigh pushes past her lips as she tears her gaze away, scanning the other patrons milling about.

"Okay, listen," she begins again, leaning in with her elbows braced on the table. "Let's get some things off the table right now, because suddenly out of nowhere we're all being pulled back together again. And I'm having to put up with other people's dramas that I just...need to say something."

She pauses, searching Amelie's impassive features for any sign of reaction or protest. Finding none, she presses onward.

"I don't like you," Hana states baldly, letting the harsh words hang heavy between them. "Ever since...he and Angela had to bring you in, I've always thought you were creepy and distant and icy. And I get it, a lot of people have always been like 'she's going through some things, just be nice.'"

A derisive scoff slips past her lips, shoulders rolling in an indifferent shrug. "But it's been a long time since then, and not once have you ever reached out to me. I know Chloe practically had to force you to go to that Christmas party. And I get it - I've vouched for you and asked people if you were okay, because frankly I know what it's like to feel a bit...disconnected."

Hana pauses to catch her breath, searching Amelie's carefully neutral expression for any cracks in the facade as she continues her tirade.

"But it's been a long time, and I wanted to get it out there that, frankly, you're a friend of a friend. So I really don't care either way." She finishes with a huff of finality, sitting back in her chair with arms crossed over her chest.

For a long moment, Amelie doesn't react - doesn't so much as twitch a muscle. Then, almost robotically, she reaches for her coffee and takes a slow, measured sip, as if mulling over how best to respond.

"It is...understandable," she concedes at last, voice soft and liltingly accented. "I've not made much of an effort to reach out. And even before that, you and I were never close."

Her gaze drops to linger contemplatively on her prosthetic arm resting on the tabletop, synthetic fingers flexing slowly.

"Recently, it has occurred to me to make more of an effort to...get out there," Amelie continues, sounding almost uncertain of herself. "I want to help others who saw potential in me. I want to help those who have lost as I have lost. And I want to...atone."

The last word seems to hang heavy between them, loaded with unspoken history and implication. Amelie looks almost startled by her own candidness, golden eyes cutting away in a rare moment of open vulnerability.

Hana regards her stoically for a suspended moment before huffing out a sigh, body seeming to deflate slightly as some of the righteous fire saps out of her. Slouching back in her seat, arms falling limply to her sides, she allows a wry half-smile to tug at the corner of her lips.

"Listen, as messed up as it seems, I really don't care what kind of stuff you did in the past," she says with an indifferent wave of her hand. "I mean, yeah it was bad. But other than Lena, you never really did anything to affect me directly."

Her smile takes on a conspiratorial edge as understanding dawns. "I know that's probably why you called me here specifically - because we were in totally different orbits, you know? So just...don't be all mopey and awkward and distant around me, and we'll be chill. Alright? New leaf or some kind of personal growth b.s., whatever."

The pink swell of her cheeks rises as her grin stretches into a toothy smile. "A little birdie told me you turned out to be a pretty okay person after everything. So let's just let bygones be bygones, yeah?"

Amelie's own expression softens fractionally at the olive branch, tension seeming to bleed from her shoulders as she nods slowly in agreement. "Very well," is all she says, taking another fortifying sip of coffee.

An expectant pause hangs between them before Hana finally breaks it, arching one inquisitive eyebrow. "So you mentioned in a text that you wanted to ask about coppelia?"

Amelie considers her for a moment, setting her cup down deliberately before replying. "I gave Angela the tickets and told her that if she was interested, to attend. She said you and Lena enjoyed the show."

Hana's nose crinkles in confusion, lips pursing in thought. "Huh, I thought Lena scored those tickets, like you were trying to make some kind of apology or something."

But Amelie remains impassive, giving no reaction one way or another.

Leaning forward again, Hana splays her hands flat on the table between them. "She told me Lena got the tickets, and that Angie like...forced me to go. I didn't hate the show or anything, it just wasn't really my vibe, you know?"

Her gaze drifts away momentarily, drawn to the pavement below where a small ant busies itself in hurried trajectories. "Oh, and Brian got a box seat, while I got stuck next to a bunch of old people that smelled like ointment and mentholatum"

Hana watches curiously as Amelie tilts her head a fraction to the side, processing the new information.

"Ah, so you two have spoken to one another," the former Talon operative states, more than asks. There's an inscrutable lilt to her tone that Hana can't quite parse.

Waving a dismissive hand, Hana lets out a short bark of laughter. "Yeah, I thought at first he was just trying to sleep with Lena or be some kind of clout chaser."

Amelie scoffs softly at that, the faintest hint of an amused smirk playing across her lips. "I can guarantee he isn't a 'clout chaser'," she assures.

"I know, I know," Hana backtracks quickly. "I interrogated him already."

Now it's Amelie's turn to arch an inquisitive brow, golden eyes glinting with a hint of reproach behind her tinted lenses. "Interrogated? How so, exactly?"

 "Oh, you know..." She trails off evasively before surrendering with a sigh. "I kinda ordered pizza and he showed up and then I invited him inside and through some.. underhanded means I managed to siphon some info. Don't get all weird about it."

Amelie blinks once, slowly, seeming to process that admission before turning her attention elsewhere with a indelicate cough. "I did not expect you to be the type to try that sort of thing."

"Not like that! It was just a friendly chat! No waterboarding or anything crazy," Hana shoots back defensively, blush deepening.

An awkward silence lapses between them as she takes a moment to compose herself, fidgeting absently with the sleeve of her jacket. When she speaks again, her voice is smaller, more contemplative.

"I don't know what's up with him, really. He seems like a paradox." She worries her lower lip between her teeth as she carefully considers her next words. "He's nice, but almost...too nice? Like, something's up with him. He's super friendly, but keeps randomly running into people and then somehow winning them over. It's like he's awkward, but there's this weird charisma there too."

Amelie's head bobs in a slow, considering nod. "He is an interesting young man," she concedes. "But perhaps he simply wishes to live without much drama or anger in his life. Having no enemies guarantees a peaceful, quiet existence."

"I don't know..." Hana's brow furrows as she voices her doubts. "He's really young, sure. But he feels older than his age somehow. I don't want to sound weird, but it's almost like - like if he aged faster than his body did, you know?"

A weighted pause lapses between them. Amelie takes a contemplative sip of her now lukewarm coffee, seeming to mull over Hana's observations as memories of Brian's own explanation for his scars flit through her mind's eye.

Finally, she sets her cup down with a decisive clink, leaning back in her seat as she fixes Hana with an inscrutable look. "Perhaps there is more to young Mister Wiser than meets the eye," is all she offers by way of response.

Hana's mouth twists in a wry smirk, giving a slight shrug of acceptance. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just reading too much into it." Her grin stretches wider, all teeth. "So, You gave him dance lessons huh? Couldn't wait to get your hands on him?"

Amelie scoffs softly, the sound almost derisive. "He didn't know how to dance. I simply gave him some instruction." Her tone carries a note of finality, as if dismissing the matter entirely. "It was nothing more than that."

But Hana's sharp gaze remains fixed on a small bird that's landed nearby, pointedly avoiding meeting Amelie's eyes. "So..." she prompts after a weighted pause. "What happened yesterday?"

"We had dinner." Amelie's clipped response is devoid of any further detail or context.

Undeterred, Hana presses on. "Yeah, I know that. I had to pick him up after he drunk stumbled down to the lobby." Her brows knit together as the implications start coalescing. "He called you?"

She waves a hand in a halfhearted gesture of dismissal. "Well, yeah. He called me, and I came to get him since I don't really know him that well." Hana tears her eyes away from the forgotten menu, pinning Amelie with an inscrutable look. "But he called me specifically to pick him up. There has to be a good reason for that, right?"

Amelie seems to consider this for a moment, posture stiffening almost imperceptibly as she searches for a plausible explanation. Hana notices the way the other woman's dark lenses slip down the bridge of her nose - a telling sign she's not maintaining her usual hyper-awareness.

"Hey, Amelie?" The words cut through the tense silence like a blade.

A distracted hum is the only response Amelie offers, clearly preoccupied with her own inner contemplations.

Hana's piercing stare intensifies, jaw setting in grim determination. "So what really happened?"

Chapter Text

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The Acts Of The Angel and The Cowboy

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Cole didn't think much of himself growing up - just a young man hustling for spare change by performing tricks outside seedy bars, or learning to pick the pockets of drunks passed out on the curbs. In the nowhere dustbowl town of Redwood where he was born, thinking you were better than your circumstances was a surefire way to find yourself missing teeth and saddled with a limp that no amount of grit could fix. That's just the way it was.

Now, a training dummy slides into view within the stark, industrial chamber. From the leather holster on his hip, Cole raises his weapon and fires a single, well-aimed shot that finds its mark - dead center in the glowing light affixed to the robot's chest plate.

With an electronic ding, two more targets appear - one perched at a mock vantage point, the other ducking for cover behind a hefty crate positioned for added realism. Cole's next two shots come in quick succession, the first bullet knocking the elevated target off-balance before the second fries the central processor in its skull.

Spinning the revolver once with a languid flick of his wrist, Cole returns the heated barrel to its holster as his gaze trails downward. He slowly flexes the articulated, metallic digits of the state-of-the-art prosthetic limb he's been outfitted with, feeling the well-calibrated mechanisms whir faintly with each movement.

His eyes lift towards the small, elevated monitoring station, where three silhouetted figures loom behind reinforced glass. One holds a clipboard, staring down at him with an almost childlike eagerness. The other two regard his performance with guarded nonchalance bordering on apathy.

Bringing his flesh hand to the small, bead-like microphone attached to his ear, Cole offers his assessment in a low drawl. "The new arm's good, but it's real slow on the uptake."

The blonde woman at the monitoring station steps forward, thumb pressing down on the microphone button to open the speaker channel. Her voice crackles through with the heavy lilt of a Swiss accent.

"Is the weight evenly distributed? The difference in speed might be due to the arm's mass, not the technology itself."

Cole shakes his head minutely, gaze drifting down to study the prosthetic limb anew. "It's the arm. Weight's fine - it's actually lighter than my old one. Maybe something's not properly connected."

Pulling back the sleeve of his training blacks, he examines the freshly bandaged stump where the prosthetic nerve-interface meets his flesh and blood. Squinting, he can make out the hair-thin wires seeming to directly meld with his nerve endings. As he cautiously flexes the metallic fingers, he can see a faint pulsating response travel up the wires, like data packets surging through a cable from a remote computer terminal.

At least, that's how Cole conceptualizes the strange synthesis of man and machine. Medical miracle or not, it's a long way from the dusty, hardscrabble existence he once eked out on the streets of Redwood.

The reverence and near-mythic aura surrounding Dr. Angela Ziegler is palpable as Cole makes his way through the stark, brightly-lit corridors of the medical facility. "Never question the methods of Angela Ziegler" - it's an unwritten rule, a dogma that every staff member seems to abide by religiously. From the lowliest janitors who have had the esteemed nurse herself tend to mere paper cuts, to the grizzled soldiers who have had chunks of their bodies obliterated by cannon fire, only to be knitted back together by her pioneering techniques. "Angela Ziegler is an angel" is the immutable law observed within these sterile halls.

Cole can't help the derisive scoff that slips past his lips as memories of searing pain and the sharp claws of a red-headed woman clutching him in a vice-grip flash through his mind - the "emergency" amputation of his arm in less-than-ideal field conditions. He shakes his head, jaw clenching as he mentally files that particular trauma back into the recesses of his mind where it belongs.

A heavy door swings open at the far end of the corridor, its well-oiled hinges silent. Cole lets his footfalls carry him forward on autopilot, gaze unfocused as his mind begins to wander.

The hushed tones of awe and reverence amongst the rank-and-file personnel he passes are inescapable. "I was dead for three whole minutes, and Dr. Ziegler brought me back like it was nothing!" an infantryman had boasted during chow in the cafeteria line, chest puffed out with a bravado bordering on idolatry.

Cole has to admit, from his own limited interactions, the famed medic does carry herself with an air of gentle compassion and unruffled grace. He can still vividly recall the profound sense of shame that had washed over him as she had personally washed his hair during the decontamination process, softly chiding him about the importance of hygiene and avoiding potential lice infestations.

There's an undercurrent of unease churning beneath Cole's surface thoughts as the near-godlike reverence towards Dr. Angela Ziegler begins nagging at him. He hasn't been deployed on any missions yet, but a recent sparring session with a new recruit - more machine than man - left him with a horrific, bloody wound stretching from neck to navel like some dissected specimen. He vividly recalls the feeling of life slipping away into black peaceful oblivion...only to jolt awake on the floor sometime later, not even a scar marring his flesh.

The memory of his heart shuddering to a halt, of his exposed lungs straining for air that wouldn't come, still haunts him. He can almost picture a morbid bystander able to glimpse those vital organs spasming in their final rites. Yet Angela had simply appeared, that glowing staff in hand, and he was violently resurrected in an all-engulfing flash of golden biotic energy - divine retribution made manifest.

Staring down at his upturned palms, Cole can still feel the lingering essence of death itself being forcibly purged from his veins as fresh blood surged back into their channels, returning him to this mortal coil. An unsettling thought crosses his mind, giving rise to a new string of existential pondering.

"Does dying even matter if she can just...bring you back?"

He's no scientist, hasn't had any meaningful education beyond basic reading and writing. But witnessing the fundamental laws of the natural world being subverted with a mere tap of Angela's wand and placid smile...it makes something uneasy twist in the pit of his stomach.

Crossing paths with the esteemed doctor herself as he makes his way to the next evaluation and analysis, Cole offers a cordial greeting as she adjusts the glasses perched on her delicate nose. With little more than a cursory nod of acknowledgment, Angela turns and continues on her way to the office wing.

Cole's gaze lingers on the framed photos lining the corridor walls - captured moments showcasing Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes alongside Angela, her arms slung around the two legendary Overwatch leaders' shoulders as they regard the camera with sour expressions of annoyance.

"You can scare Reyes into a photo but you can't find some better decor?" Cole quips with a lopsided smirk as he takes a seat on the observation table.

Angela's musical lilt of a chuckle drifts back to him from across the room. "I like to keep my things together."

Scratching idly at the stubble peppering his jaw, Cole shakes his head with an easy grin. "Scotty's got a lava lamp in his quarters, you know."

"Moira would likely turn you into a rabbit if she found it interesting enough," Angela fires back with fond exasperation.

Cole can't help but shudder at the thought. "Yeah, I don't doubt that one bit, Doc."

An easy camaraderie has developed between them through his regular check-ins and evaluations to monitor his body's acceptance of the cybernetic implants. As Angela slides a pair of sterile gloves onto her hands, Cole slips into the familiar routine of casual banter.

"You're the supposed witch who can bring people back from the dead. Would you turn me into a toad, given the chance?"

Angela sighs, shaking her head as she moves to collect her instruments from the tray. "It's not reviving the dead, it's..." She launches into a whirlwind of complex medical jargon that flies completely over Cole's head until he's waving his hands in mock surrender.

"It was just a joke, ma'am! No need for the science speak."

Huffing out a rueful chuckle, Angela sets down her tools and turns to face him fully, hands on her hips in an approximation of a stern educator's pose - were it not for the warmth glinting in her eyes.

"Now, tell me - do the bandages itch at all? That's perfectly normal for the integration process."

Cole shakes his head, flexing the articulated fingers of his prosthetic arm with a considering look. "it doesn't and even if they did it's better than nothing."

"I don't like to miss things," Angela warns, tone taking on a clinical edge as she refocuses on her task. "One must be ever vigilant, lest something...slip away."

Meeting his gaze directly, she offers him a reassuring smile that manages to instill a sense of ease despite the lingering shadows of uncertainty clouding his thoughts. "We'll get through this together, okay?"

For now, Cole can accept that - can let himself be soothed by her bedside manner and the conviction shining in those compassionate eyes. If nothing else, he trusts in her medical expertise, even if the implications of her work disturb him on a more fundamental level.

 ++++++++++++++

Genji Shimada lay utterly still in the hospital bed to Cole's left. Only the faintest shifting of the thin hospital blankets hinted at the cyborg's slow, mechanical movements beneath. He had been brought in to have his prosthetic limbs refitted. An acrid, smoky scent - the unmistakable aroma of burnt metal - wafted from the area of Cole's warped stump. his nostrils flared as the harsh odor triggered a sense of nostalgia, memories of his own visits to the medical wing after missions gone awry flickering through his mind unbidden. He could have chuckled at the familiarity of it all, if not for the hushed but intense whispers now emanating from Genji's beside.

Slowly, with what seemed like immense effort, Genji raised his remaining hand towards his face. A puff of heat expelled with a tiny mechanical hiss as the silvery faceplate slid off, allowing the cyborg to speak freely. When he finally did, his gravelly baritone emerged in a rasping growl, the sound of reconstructed cybernetic throat muscles laboring.

"My right arm..." Genji paused, swallowing thickly. "It is not syncing correctly."

The doctor, who had been seated vigilantly at his bedside, leaned in closer at this. Eyebrows knitting together, she examined Genji carefully.

"It can be repaired," she said at last, tone reassuring yet professional. "Would you permit me to recalibrate the nerve interface?"

For a long moment, Genji remained motionless and silent, the only sound the faint whirring of servos. Then, with what seemed like monumental reluctance, he let his right arm fall limply at his side atop the mattress.

"It won't matter," he said, voice little more than a croak now. "You've done it four times and it still remains out of sync with my left arm."

The doctor's shoulders fell slightly at this, a pained expression creasing her features. She opened her mouth to respond, then seemed to think better of it, pursing her lips.

Angela reached out placing a hand on Genji's cheek taking a moment. When she finally did speak, it was with a measured tone, each word carefully enunciated. "I can adjust it however many times it takes, Genji. As many attempts as are needed."

With surprising quickness, he jerked his head away, as if struck - rejecting the doctor's kindness as one would a physical blow.

"If I cannot achieve total synchronization..." He trailed off, then tightened his remaining cybernetic hand into a fist so tightly that the whir of servos grew into a crackle of protest. "It means I'm not operating at peak efficiency."

The doctor reached out, placing her hand over Genji's clenched fist and rubbing slow, soothing circles against the unyielding metal. "You will adapt, Genji. I'm certain of it."

Silence fell, thick and heavy. Cole found himself barely breathing, afraid to so much as shift in his bed for fear of shattering the fragile tension. Just when it seemed the quiet would stretch on indefinitely, Genji's hoarse rasp sliced through it like a blade.

"I won't."

His next words emerged as little more than an anguished growl. ""a quarter of a second of delay is the difference between life and death if I cannot synchronize my organic arm with my inorganic arm then maybe I should remove the weaker link."

The sharp crack of flesh striking flesh rang out like a gunshot, Angela's palm connecting squarely with Genji's cheek. She surged to her feet, staring down at the cyborg with an intensity that made even Cole's heart stutter.

"I will not have you degrading yourself in such a way!" Her voice resonated through the medical bay, bristling with a ferocity that bordered on maternal. " You cannot simply remove parts of yourself that you deem imperfect because you perceive them so! You have a soul you have a life you are so much more than just a tool to be ripped apart and put back together."

Genji did not so much as flinch at her outburst. When his eerie artificial eyes flickered open once more, they glowed a dull, bloody crimson in the dim lighting, regarding the doctor with an almost dispassionate air.

"You misunderstand," She said, each word falling like lead between them. "Your biological components are not the root issue – You are simply...tired." "I am a soldier. Suboptimal performance is a practical concern that must be addressed through practical means."

"Practical, suboptimal. You are not a machine!" Angela's retort was immediate, laced with desperation. "Regardless of what Commander Reyes or anyone else tries to make you believe. You are not a soldier, you are not a machine you are a man!"

Her chest heaved with emotion, but Genji remained utterly motionless, his vivid red lenses fixed unblinkingly on her face.

"I am more machine now than man, Doctor." The words were spoken flatly, without malice or melodrama - a simple statement of fact from one who has accepted their cruel reality. "Without the intervention of Commander Reyes, I would not be here in any capacity."

Angela shook her head slowly, mouth a tight line. "You are alive because I would not allow someone with a chance to be saved die on my watch."

A mirthless rasp of a chuckle escaped Genji then. Lifting his remaining arm with obvious effort, he swept the blankets away from his body, exposing the remnants of his natural limb. Faded tattoos clung to the sickly pale flesh like macabre ornamentation.

"Your definition of 'saving' me seems to differ from mine, Angela." His words were measured, each one carrying profound weight. "At any moment, Reyes could deactivate my life support systems on a whim. Inside this chassis beats a heart regulated by pumps and filters that could be shut off with a single command."

Slowly, with mechanical precision, he resealed his faceplate, the whisper of servos reconnecting barely audible over the pounding of Cole's heart.

"Our perspectives may vary, but the outcome is the same. If I am not executed once my purpose is served, I will simply be kept alive to be studied and dissected by those less..." A contemplative pause. "...principled than you."

Appalled, Angela's hands curled into white-knuckled fists at her sides, whole body rigid with righteous indignation.

"I swear on my life, Genji, I will not allow that to happen. You will not become a glorified guinea pig for them to exploit!"

She turned abruptly, stalking away from Genji's bedside. As she brushed past Cole, the cyborg's parting words - terse and devoid of any inflection - trailed after her.

"Do not swear on what can be easily taken, Doctor."

Angela turned back to face him her mouth opening for a moment before shutting once again as she left the ward.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you it's a bad idea to piss off the lady who gives the drugs?" Cole quipped, unable to stay silent any longer.

Genji slowly turned his crimson gaze towards the source of the new voice. "Painkillers are of no consequence. Pain will only fuel the dragon within."

Cole scoffed, sitting up slightly in his bed despite his body's protests. "Bullshit. That whole 'I am an unfeeling warrior who cares only for the mission' schtick might fool the Commander, but I can see right through you, tin can."

For a long moment, the cyborg said nothing, unmoving.

"Listen buddy. You and I...we are both up the shit creek without a paddle here. We watch each other's backs, that's the only way either of us gets through this in one piece." Cole paused, seeming to weigh his next words carefully. "But if you keep fucking with the doctor, I wont think twice to put another piece of metal between what's left of your eyes. Are we clear?"

Cole held Genji's intense stare for a beat, then turned onto his side with a grunt, pulling the thin hospital blanket up over his shoulder.

" When did you become such an acolyte?" Genji muttered "Whatever that is, I'm not it."

Another pause, then Cole spoke – "I get it you want to die" "that's not true." Though Genji's synthesized tone was as flat as ever, Cole could have sworn he detected a hint of...something else beneath. Weariness, perhaps. "I know what it is to scrounge and be deemed worth less than dirt, doing whatever is needed to survive one day to the next."

Genji remained silent, listening.

"If what you says is true, and you were betrayed by your own family...Then maybe you should reconsider how you treat the few who give a shit. Because if you aren't lying – she's all you got in this world."

Neither man spoke again after that. In the stillness that followed, the rapid beeping of the monitoring machines seemed exponentially louder to Genji's ears. He knew Cole was right - they were both dead men walking without allies. Cole closed his eyes, he silently hoped the deadly cyborg would take his own advice to heart.

After all, having the ninja's literal dragon rage turned against him was the last thing Cole needed.

 ++++++++++++++

Angela shakes the small tin, flakes drifting down into the bubbling glass tank. She watches, transfixed, as the almost translucent flakes slowly sink through the rippling water before the multicolored betta fish dart forward, nipping at them greedily. The fish swim freely, weaving through the large aquarium.

"Angela?" A voice calls from down the hallway, pulling her attention away. "Are you ready?"

Small legs slide off the stool with a thump. Angela trots through her room at an unhurried pace, reaching up on her tiptoes to twist the door handle. She enters the living room, instantly enveloped by warmth. The faint crackling of scorched logs in the fireplace puts the young girl at ease.

She turns slowly, feeling something being placed atop her messy blonde hair. It's a small, multicolored winter hat. A long scarf is draped around her shoulders next, the soft fabric brushing her cheeks. Her mother crouches down deliberately in front of her, gently flattening Angela's jacket and leaning in to sniff.

"You smell like fish food," her mother chides, though her tone is light, a smile playing at her lips.

Angela's brow furrows. "Swanny was hungry," she reasons, a fingertip poking out to brush her nose.

"They're going to get fat if you feed them so often," her mother teases with an exaggerated sigh.

Tears prick at Angela's eyes unexpectedly. "Swanny won't get fat..."

Her mother's expression softens instantly. "Don't cry, sweetheart. I'm just joking."

Rising fluidly to her feet, her mother retrieves two woven white mittens from the side table. Angela sticks out her hands, letting her mother slide the mittens on one by one. She stares up into the thick black rims of her mother's glasses, catching her own blue eyes reflected back in the shiny lenses as her mother smiles down at her warmly.

"Come on now, we're going to be late."

Angela takes her mother's outstretched hand, their fingers intertwining. They step outside together, Angela shivering slightly as the chill wind greets her. Thick snow is falling lazily from the dark sky. She clutches her backpack closer with her free hand as her mother leads her towards their faded green car. Her mother pauses to lift Angela gently, settling her into the car seat. Angela smiles at the bobblehead palm tree cartoon dancing on the dashboard.

The door closes behind her mother with a solid thunk. After a brief pause, the engine starts with a low, faint hum. The older gas engine sputters quietly as her mother twists the key. Pulling out of the driveway, they begin their journey, driving in comfortable silence apart from the children's music drifting through the speakers.

The dark road stretches out endlessly before them, the familiar route seeming even more deserted than usual for the early hours of this winter morning. Through the passenger window, Angela's gaze is drawn to something in the distance. She squints, making out the vague silhouette of an overturned car, lying on its side with its doors flung open haphazardly and one window shattered.

Without warning, their car comes to an abrupt, screeching halt. Angela turns to her mother, perplexed. "Mama?"

Her mother's eyes are wide, her expression one of sheer terror focused on something ahead. Following her mother's gaze through the windshield, Angela feels her heart rate pick up. In the darkness, a pair of eerie red glowing neon eyes seems to be peering directly at them, scanning them over with intense, predatory focus like a wild animal assessing its prey.

 ++++++++++++++

The hovercraft touched down with a gentle thump onto the landing pad, the magnetic landing gear activating with a subtle hum that caused the seats to shake slightly. A few of the other students clad in crisp white uniforms jolted awake at the movement.

In the row ahead, a red-haired woman clutched a small white cage containing a grey rat that scurried nervously at the disturbance. "Temper, temper little Vergil," she soothed, her Irish lilt unmistakable. "We have not reached the gate just yet."

Angela shifted in her seat, blinking the lingering pull of sleep from her eyes. "Moira, you know they will supply us with test subjects once we reach campus," she pointed out, voice still husky from her nap.

"Aye, that they will." Moira didn't look up, her pale blue eyes transfixed on the small creature as she carefully wrapped her slender fingers around the cage bars. The rat - Vergil - immediately perked up, rising on his haunches to nose curiously at her hands. "But I've been painstakingly cultivating this line starting from Vergil's great-great grandparents Socrates and Appolonia, then Plato and Pleides after them..." She ticked off the lineage one by one.

Angela felt the corner of her mouth quirk upwards as she leaned her head against Moira's shoulder. "I remember Socrates," she mused, recalling finding her friend hunched over her bunk at their refuge camp, delicately offering a torn piece of bread to a tiny brown mouse.

"It would be a shame to abandon the fruits of years of my labor now, don't you think?" Moira murmured, finally tearing her gaze from Vergil to glance sidelong at Angela.

The younger woman hummed an affirmative, too relaxed in the moment to fully open her eyes again. "Aingeal beag," Moira said then, the endearment like a gentle caress.

Angela's lips twitched again at the familiar term. "Hmm?"

"We're here. The city..." Moira turned her focus outward, through the view-port beside them. "It's marvelous."

Forcing her eyes fully open, Angela had to blink a few times to adjust to the bright golden light of the setting sun spilling through the windows. Her gaze followed Moira's outward, sweeping over the rolling dunes of golden sand that seemed to stretch on endlessly.

In the distance, an impossibly tall spire rose like the trunk of a metallic palm tree, its burnished surface glinting brilliantly in the fading rays. Angela's breath caught in her throat at the sheer scale of the structure.

"That's...where we'll be studying?" she asked, barely recognizing her own voice with its open awe.

Moira's hum of confirmation vibrated against Angela's cheek where it still rested on her shoulder. When she spoke again, her words were soft but laced with steely determination.

"We're going to change the world." Her gaze drifted back down to the cage in her lap, to the small creature watching them with bright, intelligent eyes. "This is only the beginning."

Angela felt herself smiling, boldly allowing the swell of ambition and optimism to buoy her up. She knew without a doubt that Moira's words rang with truth.

"Yes," she agreed simply, giving a slight nod. "We will."

 ++++++++++++++++++

++++++++++++++

The Present

++++++++++++++

The energy in the arena was electric, a roar of cheers erupting from the packed stands as the booming voice of the announcer reverberated through the speakers. Giant projection screens flickered to life, displaying names and stats in bright, flashy graphics.

"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we bear witness to the first round of the regional deathmatch!" The announcer's gravelly tones whipped the crowd into a frenzy. "armor and is permitted - anything goes in this blood-soaked battle for glory!"

Spotlights danced across the messy battleground, illuminating the rusted husks of massive machines long since destroyed, their remnants littering the sand-covered arena floor. Overeager fans hurled food and drink indiscriminately, splattering the ground with stains.

"Twelve combatants, hand-picked from the best of the best, will compete for the ultimate prize..." On cue, the screens displayed a massive golden pot overflowing with digital currency, a gleaming 'Number 1' medal perched atop it all. "A ten thousand dollar prize!"

If possible, the roars from the crowd grew even more deafening at this proclamation. The announcer paused for maximum dramatic effect before bellowing his next words.

"Now...let's meet our fighters!"

The spotlights swiveled across the arena, fixing on a series of heavily reinforced gates lining the outer walls. One by one, the gates groaned open with an ominous mechanical screech. Plumes of smoke and flashing pyrotechnics heralded the entrance of each combatant as they strode through the doors, soaking in the raucous applause.

The heavy doors lining the colosseum groaned open one by one, disgorging a steady stream of combatants into the sandy battleground. Each fighter strode forward confidently, adorned with glittering medals and pins, waving to the roaring crowd that seemed to swell with every new entrance.

The cheers grew to a deafening roar as the assembled warriors gathered in the arena's center, greeting one another with bravado-laced words and posturing. The crunch of coarse sand beneath booted feet grounded one figure - a lithe form clad in sleek motorcycle leathers, a vivid blue sash pinned diagonally across their torso bearing a solitary 'Beginner' medal.

Rather than playing to the crowd, this rider simply stared upwards, eyes inexorably drawn to the massive golden pot and its glittering prize perched tauntingly high above them all.

"Lighten up, donde estan tus huevos?" A mocking voice crackled in their ear.

The announcer's amplified voice drowned out any response as the rules of the deathmatch began scrolling across the projection screens for all to see. A long, punishingly complex list of regulations, restrictions, and stipulations flashed by at dizzying speed.

The rider's shoulders tensed beneath their leathers. "I'm not used to these tournament conditions," they murmured, unable to tear their eyes from the scrolling text. "It's...a lot of pressure."

A burst of static-laced laughter met this admission. "It's not you actually fighting though, is it?" the voice taunted. "You're just playing with them."

Grinding their teeth, the rider scoffed. "Listen, I win this thing and we're even, I don't want to have to do this seedy stuff. It's crappy."

"Ooh, someone's testy!" The laughter returned, more condescending this time. "What, did your girlfriend dump you and now you're all butthurt about it?"

Visions of another battle entirely flickered behind the rider's eyes - one of smoke and screams rather than spotlights and spectacle. They drew a slow, steadying breath through their nostrils.

"That's not...just don't distract me. Please."

A contemplative pause. Then - "Well, since you asked so nicely...sure, I'll can it for now."

The comm-link disconnected with a final crackle of static. Alone once more, the rider flexed their hands into fists, rolling their shoulders as the first-round klaxons began to blare. Bringing their fists up into a ready guard, they exhaled hard through their nostrils.

The other fighters quickly dispersed, filing back through the heavily reinforced gates that lined the arena's outer walls. The rider paid them no mind, gaze rising to scan the packed stands surrounding the battlefield.

There, nestled amidst the raucous crowd, a pair of unmistakable pink bunny ears caught his eye. He shook his head minutely, forcing himself to refocus. No distractions this time.

As the opening klaxons blared, the rider settled into a ready stance - legs spread, hands raised to guard his face. Almost immediately, a swift kick lashed out, slamming against his leather-clad forearm with enough force to vibrate up into his shoulder. He didn't flinch, throwing a controlled jab towards his opponent's torso in retaliation.

The brown-haired fighter leapt back deftly to avoid the blow. Another punch sliced through the air toward the rider's head - he ducked beneath it fluidly, countering with two sharp jabs into the exposed armpit of his opponent's extended arm. The precise strikes visibly stunned them for a split-second.

That's all the opening the rider needed. He pivoted, putting his weight behind a vicious right hook that crashed against his opponent's nose with a sickening crunch. They stumbled back, hands instinctively raising to guard their bloodied face.

Not allowing them to recover, the rider launched himself forward, leading boot slamming squarely into their exposed jaw with brutal force. His opponent crumpled bonelessly to the sand in an unconscious heap.

The klaxon rang out again, signaling the end of the first round as cheers erupted from the crowd. Barely registering the adulation, the rider turned his gaze back towards the stands, seeking out that unmistakable slash of pink amidst the throngs.

There she was - the bunny girl, bobbed brown hair framing her impish features as she offered a small wave, the black bunny-suit and cropped bubblegum pink leather jacket leaving little to the imagination. Inclining his head fractionally, the rider raised two gloved fingers in response.

Then, with the same eerie detachment, he turned and strode through the fighters' entrance once more, leaving his fallen opponent behind.

"Not bad. Not bad at all," the voice crackled back into the rider's earpiece as he made his way through the tunnels beneath the arena. "Almost wish I could've been there to see that beat down in person. But duty calls, I suppose."

The rider - Baskerville, according to the announcer - shrugged one shoulder dismissively. "I didn't do much. Just followed the programmed motions."

"Maybe, but that last kick seemed a little...excessive for tournament regulations, no?" The voice held a lilt of amusement now. "Either way, it sure saved some time."

"That's all it's about," Baskerville replied flatly. "Efficiency."

"Ah, I see. That's my student."

They lapsed into silence then, the only sound the dull thump of Baskerville's boots on the concrete floor. As he rounded the corner into the staging area, the results chart flickered into view on the wall-mounted screens - 12 fighters now whittled down to only 6 remaining.

A harsh dinging klaxon shattered the quiet, signaling the start of the next round. With a final roll of his shoulders, Baskerville turned and made his way back out into the blazing spotlights of the arena's sandy floor.

His next opponent was already waiting - a lithe, golden haired scantily-clad woman adorned in what appeared to be snakeskin-patterned thigh-high boots and a matching corset top, leaving little to the imagination. She offered a predatory smile as Baskerville approached.

The opening klaxon sounded again and she struck like a viper, a lightning-fast jab lancing out towards Baskerville's eyes. In a blur of movement, he snatched her wrist from the air, hauling her forwards off-balance and slamming a brutal elbow squarely into her jaw. Wrenching her captured arm back, he mirrored her attempted blow, driving his other hand like a spear into her momentarily vulnerable eye socket.

With a pained shriek, the woman staggered back, clutching at her face. Baskerville whirled, planting a savage kick flush against her mouth that sent her crashing to the ground. One final arcing elbow plunged down towards her sternum and she went completely limp, knocked unconscious in a crumpled heap.

The victory klaxon blared as the crowd erupted into cheers once more. Baskerville paid them no heed, mechanically turning on his heel and striding back towards the fighters' entrance with the same dispassionate gait.

"Three minutes," he murmured to himself as he rejoined the staging area, studying the projected leaderboard intently.

The announcer's bombastic voice boomed over the loudspeakers then. "All combatants, listen up! Due to Fighter Number Three Baskerville having the quickest elimination times, he will rest while Fighters One and Two have their bout. The winner of that match will then face Baskerville for the final showdown!"

"Baskerville?" the voice piped up in his earpiece again. "Not a bad name. Kinda has a nice ring to it - based on anything?"

Exhaling a slow breath, Baskerville shook his head minutely. "It's...a long story."

A beat of silence, then - "I've got nowhere to be."

Baskerville felt the ghost of a smirk tug at his lips beneath his helmet. "I do."

The klaxons sounded once more, alarms blaring as the final round was announced. Showtime.

Instruments began to blare through hidden speakers as Baskerville emerged into the hazy spotlights, the crowd's deafening roars swelling in fevered anticipation. Across the expanse of sand waited his opponent - a towering, heavily augmented figure whose left arm and leg had been replaced with fearsome-looking cybernetic prosthetics.

As their eyes met through the smoke and flashing lights, Baskerville's eyes analyzed the enemy combatant with lightning speed, making tactical adjustments and noting potential weaknesses. The prosthetic limbs would require extra care - they looked sharp.

Without warning, the fighter spun with blinding speed, a flashing blade extending from the heel of their boot as they lashed out in a wicked slashing arc. Baskerville dropped into a slide at the last moment, the razor-edged heel shearing through the space his head had just occupied. As the fighter stumbled, off-balance from the missed strike, Baskerville swept their remaining leg out from under them.

His opponent went crashing to the sand in an undignified heap, the bladed boot raised defensively. With blurring quickness, Baskerville seized the deadly prosthetic by the dull edges, wrenching it back against the knee joint until the metal shrieked in protest. Then, with a grunt of exertion, he snapped it cleanly in half, leaving a jagged metal stump.

Rising, he loomed over his now-crippled foe, one heavy boot pinning the bladed stump against the sand. With a powerful stamp, the ragged metal edge punched down like a tent spike, pinning the fighter to the ground as they squirmed helplessly.

The final klaxon blared. Baskerville straightened, raising a victorious hand towards the roaring crowd.

Then, as abruptly as the savagery had come, his demeanor shifted once more to that cold detachment. Turning on his heel, he strode away from his defeated opponent, paying no heed to the raining adulation as he disappeared through the exit tunnel.

The tournament was over. Time to collect his prize.

The dingy neon sign proclaiming "Speedy's" bathed the nightclub's interior in its lurid purple glow. Baskerville settled into the cracked vinyl booth, back pressed against the worn material as he eyed his surroundings warily. A small glass clinked onto the table before him, clear liquid sloshing inside.

"I'm a big fan, you know."

The disembodied voice from earlier finally had a physical form - a lithe purple-skinned woman draped in gauzy veils now occupied the seat opposite Baskerville. He didn't so much as glance at her, snatching up the glass and hurling it away to shatter against the far wall.

"I'm not here for fun," he stated flatly. "I have the money. I want the file."

One delicate purple hand drifted up to toy with the shimmering fabric obscuring the woman's face. "Not one for small talk, are you?"

Baskerville leaned forward, fingers drumming an agitated staccato on the tabletop. "Cut the shit. I know what you are and I know what's going on here." His voice lowered to a dangerous rasp. "I have a vague idea that the longer I talk to you, the more likely I am to get arrested somehow. So here."

Producing a small data drive from an inside pocket, he slid it across the sticky surface towards her. A melodic chime sounded from somewhere within the veiled woman's robes.

"I'd usually charge extra for being such a dick," she mused, cyanic digits caressing the drive's casing.

Baskerville's smile was as feral as it was humorless. "I think that out of the two of us, you've done far worse."

The woman's shoulders rolled in an elegant shrug as another chime trilled, this one from Baskerville's side of the table - the data transfer commencing.

"Thanks," he grunted, already rising from the booth and turning away even as the files began downloading.

Raising one hand, Baskerville swiped his fingers through the air, a holographic display flickering into existence before him. A few deft motions later and the shimmering frontispiece of light engulfed his body in a blinding flare.

When the spots cleared from the veiled woman's eyes, her customer had vanished completely, leaving only the empty booth.

With a put-upon sigh, she reached up to dab at her obscured features with a napkin, tutting under her breath.

"Pinche Pendejo..."

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Brian Wiser's Point Of View

+++++++++++++++++++++++

On the tiled countertop, his phone buzzes with a new notification. Amelie has made her next move in their curiously silent game of virtual chess. He can't recall how this match was initiated, only that at some point he must have accidentally sent the invitation to her instead of Peter. Rather than clarifying the mistake, Amelie simply accepted and has been carrying on the game without a single word exchanged, her moves the sole form of communication.

"Everything good?" Royal's voice breaks through his thoughts.

Brian meets his inquisitive gaze. "Yeah, all good. Just...thinking."

His eyebrows arch ever so slightly before she returns his attention to the papers stretched out in front of him, scratching out something.

So much remains unspoken and unresolved from that night. Lena's deafening silence is the most maddening of all. No matter how many times he replays the fragmented memories, he can't piece together what happened or why she has become completely distant.

The notification light flashes again, impatient. Making his next move, Brian pictures Amelie scrutinizing the board through those striking golden eyes, her slender fingers grazing the ceramic pieces as she silently calculates her strategy.

White Pieces:

King: E1

Queen: H5

Rook: A1, F1

Knight: C3

Pawn: A2, B2, D4, E4, G2, H2

Black Pieces:

King: G8

Rook: A8, F8

Bishop: C8

Knight: D7

Pawn: A6, B7, C6, E6, F6, G6, H6

His black pieces are arrayed neatly on the digital board, facing off against Amelie's white forces. Brian has run through dozens of potential scenarios in his mind, thinking several moves ahead as he tries to anticipate her strategizing. But this odd game of silent, virtual chess feels more like a in cryptic dialogue.

Amelie makes her move. The white queen piece glides smoothly to the G6 square. Brian's eyes narrow as he studies the updated board, his fingers hovering over his phone. Placing her queen there makes it susceptible to capture by his rook or knight. A small crease forms on his brow as he considers. If he takes the piece, would it open up an opportunity for her to strike back, eliminating one of his threats?

After a momentary pause, he shakes his head slowly. No, the queen's move seems too brazen, too exposed. She could have easily checkmated him, ending the game right then. His lips purse as he scowls faintly, moving his bishop deliberately to the A6 square – a useless move.

Hitting send, Brian powers off his phone and rises from the couch, letting out a slow breath. His gaze drifts towards the kitchen, drawn by the familiar sights and scents. Baking...that could provide a welcome reprieve. Crossing the room, he begins gathering supplies - bowls, measuring cups, whisks. The bag of rice flour is retrieved from the cupboard.

The scratching of Royal's pen stills as he glances up from his work. "What's all this?"

Brian offers him a faint half-smile. "I'm going to bake something for a friend." Tying on an apron, he sets to work, temporarily losing himself in the rhythmic measuring and gentle whisking of the ingredients.

The air grows heavy with tension as Brian reaches for the door handle, his eyes locking onto the familiar chocolate brown irises, partly obscured by tinted sunglasses. "Lena?" The name falls from his lips, tinged with surprise and uncertainty.

A slightly nervous wave greets him in response. "Heya!" Lena offers, her usual exuberance tempered by a hesitant edge. "Probably didn't expect me here." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, a tremulous smile playing at her lips. "I sent a text, but you might not have seen it."

Brian's gaze remains steady and unwavering as the seconds stretch between them. "Oh, I've been a bit busy," he finally responds, distraction coloring his tone.

Lena's fingers fidget restlessly at her sides. "Aren't ya gonna invite me in?" She tries for a lighthearted lilt, but the question emerges strained, her nerves palpable.

A flush creeps up Brian's neck as realization dawns. "Oh yeah, sorry." He takes a small step back, creating just enough space for Lena to slide past him. The brief contact as she brushes beneath his arm sends a fresh wave of heat blooming across his cheeks. He gives a slight shake of his head, as if to clear the haze of his thoughts.

Once inside, Lena's eyes eagerly drink in her surroundings, a childlike sense of wonder momentarily breaking through her apprehension. "Wow, this place is much bigger on the inside!" Her gaze is instantly drawn to the cluttered countertop, laden with bowls and an array of cooking ingredients. "Making a spot of lunch?" she inquires, gesturing toward the disarray.

Brian follows her line of sight, his expression turning pensive as he moves to retrieve the tray of fish-shaped pastries, depositing them in the oven with practiced ease. Straightening, he grabs for his phone, thumbing it on to find the unread text from Lena that he had missed. A fleeting look passes over his features, something indecipherable flickering in his eyes as he's reminded of his earlier confrontation with his father. Glancing up, he finds the man in question has conveniently slipped away, the space oddly vacant.

"So we kinda need to talk," Lena declares, her voice pitched low as she perches herself on a barstool at the counter's edge.

Brian remains standing, his shoulders squaring imperceptibly as he meets her gaze across the granite expanse separating them. "Yeah, we do," he agrees, the words emerging hushed yet laden with weight.

A weighted silence stretches between them, pregnant with all the things left unspoken. Lena seems content to let Brian dictate the pace of the conversation, refraining from further comment as she awaits his lead.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Brian speaks. "I've been trying to text you to ask about what happened." His words are measured, carefully doling out just enough to convey the turmoil churning beneath the surface. "And I know you're reading them, so why not answer?"

Lena's fist clenches and unclenches at her side, a nervous tic betraying her unease. "Things have been a bit complicated," she offers by way of explanation, but the platitude rings hollow even to her own ears.

Brian's brow furrows minutely at the vague response. "What?"

Lena hesitates, struggling to find the words to elaborate. "I..." She falters, grasping for a reasonable excuse. "I don't want to get into it, but there's just some drama, and I didn't want to involve you."

Her words are met with a derisive scoff that Brian can't quite stifle in time. "That's not really an explanation," he counters, frustration edging into his tone. "Listen, I don't remember anything from the dinner, and I've been beating myself up over it because you just kind of ghosted me. I was scared that I had said or done something to mess things up."

Surprise flits across Lena's features, her eyes widening fractionally. "You can't remember anything?"

Brian shakes his head, a troubled crease forming between his brows. "I don't," he confirms, dragging a weary hand over his face. "I just remember waking up somewhere I didn't recognize because I had to call someone to come get me. I couldn't get home by myself." He pauses, drawing in a steadying breath before continuing. "And if it's drama between you and Amélie or something else, I'm kind of involved since I'm your friend, Lena."

His gaze softens, the hard edge giving way to something more vulnerable as he struggles to find the right words. "I can tell you what happened, but I didn't want you to get involved with something that wasn't any of your business."

Brian repeats her words back to her, incredulity lacing every syllable. "Involved with something that's none of my business?"

Without warning, his hand moves to grasp the collar of his shirt, tugging the fabric down to reveal a large, mottled bruise marring the skin at the base of his neck. It extends up onto his shoulder in an angry, splotchy discoloration. "I got this that night, and I don't know what it's from," he states, his voice low and hauntingly calm despite the gravity of his words. "For a week, all I knew was that someone might have punched me or I might have gotten drunk, and someone..."

He trails off, the unfinished thought hanging heavy between them. Lena's eyes seem transfixed on a spot beside the bruise, where a quarter-sized scar is branded into his flesh. Brian tenses, panic flashing across his features as he quickly releases his grip on the shirt, allowing the fabric to resettle and hide the wound from view.

"I just want to know what happened," he implores, his desperate confusion finally bleeding into the tremor of his voice. "But it's almost like everyone's agreed to just not tell me anything."

The tension between them amplifies as Lena's gaze is drawn to the marred scar beside the bruise. "What's the scar from?" she asks, her usually buoyant tone subdued by a thread of genuine concern.

Brian's brow knits together as the question registers, confusion flickering across his features. "What?"

Lena's focus remains fixed on the quarter-sized mark, the words seeming to emerge from a place of deep-seated trepidation. "The scar. What's it from?"

A muscle ticks in Brian's jaw as he tenses. When he responds, his voice is tight, constricted. "It doesn't matter. Listen, d-don't change the subject." His attempt at staying calm is undermined by the nervousness bleeding into his words, a discomfort rippling through him as his mind is pulled back to the still-hazy memory surrounding the scar's origin.

Sensing the sharp shift in his demeanor, Lena shifts almost reflexively in her seat, a subtle recalibration as she refocuses their dialogue. "Listen, there was wine," she begins, treading with care over the treacherous terrain of that night's missing fragments. "We all drank some with dinner and-"

The mention of wine acts as a trigger, jarring loose a fleeting memory in the recesses of Brian's mind. The images unfurl in a series of flashes - himself standing in front of a bedroom mirror, Lena's form sprawled across the bed behind him, a bottle of wine cradled loosely in her grasp as her lips move, her words indistinct yet etched into that memory.

His hand rises, fingers pressing against his temple as if to ease the mental whiplash. "Why was there a bedroom?" The bewildered question tumbles from his lips, his voice laced with desperation.

Lena stills, her expression suddenly guarded as she picks up on the undercurrent of Brian's escalating nervousness. A pregnant pause stretches between them before she responds, her words precisely measured. "I thought you said you couldn't remember anything."

"It's coming back to me," Brian insists, his eyes widening incrementally as he turns a questioning gaze back toward Lena. A feverish intensity has crept into his manner, fueled by the emergence of his memories. "Why were we in a bedroom?"

Lena's focus appears to turn inward as her gaze drops, her fingers fidgeting restlessly against her palms. The silence that stretches between them is finally broken by a small, careful exhale as she seems to find her footing once more.

"I was just showing you to the bathroom," she begins in a tone of forced lightness, "and we had a conversation. I told you this story about Angela and me."

Brian's nod of acknowledgment is slow, measured, as he allows the trickle of resurfacing memories to take firmer shape. "Okay," he prompts after a beat, his voice hushed yet insistent. "What happened next?"

The expectant hush that falls over them is punctuated only by the faintest sounds of their mingled breaths. Lena seems to war internally for several long moments before finally offering a small, tight-lipped smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"After that, you big dummy," she murmurs, the words almost fond despite their underpinning of strain, "you spilled some wine on yourself and had to leave."

A pang of uncertainty, sharp and insistent, lances through Brian's chest as a fleeting glimpse of haunting golden eyes flashes through the periphery of his memories. His throat works convulsively as he struggles to maintain his composure.

"You're being honest, right?" The naked vulnerability bleeding into his softly spoken words is nearly palpable, hanging heavily between them.

Lena's gaze remains steady, unwavering, as she offers a solemn nod of affirmation. "I told you I'd tell you the truth," she reminds him, echoing the sentiment of their earlier conversation in the park with quiet conviction. "You get me, right?"

Brian feels his face flush as his mind whiplashes back to that shared moment, the recollection jarring yet grounding in its familiarity. He searches Lena's expression - the small, disarmingly perfect smile curving her lips, the openness reflected in her upturned features - and gives a slight, infinitesimal dip of his chin in acquiescence.

"Yeah."

The shrill chime of the oven timer shatters the tension blanketing the room. Brian turns toward the sound, his movements brisk yet almost mechanically precise as he retrieves the pastries from the tray and transfers them into a waiting Tupperware container.

"I have to deliver these," he explains, the undercurrent of nervous energy driving his actions almost palpable. Yet when he glances back toward Lena, his gaze holds for a heavy pause, weighted by a flood of warring emotions. "But Lena..." he murmurs, the gratitude underpinning his words colored by a lingering worry. "Thanks for explaining what you can. It helps."

The tight smile he offers is a mere shadow of his usual warmth as he continues in a hushed rush. "Think you can see yourself out? I kind of got to get there quickly. It's a long drive."

Lena's nod is equally subdued as she rises from her perch. "I can see myself out, kiddo," she assures him, the fondness in her tone subtly undercut by a current of sadness. "You drive safe, okay?"

With a final exchanged wave, weighted by everything left unspoken, Brian takes his leave, the door closing firmly in his wake with a resonant sense of finality.

Alone in the eerily silent apartment, Lena makes her way toward the balcony in a daze, her steps leaden as she leans her weight against the rails. Her unfocused gaze drifts outward, sweeping over the sprawling cityscape without truly seeing as her thoughts drift inward.

Down on the bustling street below, Brian crosses toward his waiting hoverbike with purposeful strides. He slides the helmet into place with practiced ease, the familiar motions grounding him as he engages the powerful engine. The comforting thrum of the machinery reverberates through him, steadying his nerves as his gaze instinctively lifts toward the balcony.

Lena's silhouette is clearly visible as she offers him a brief, farewell wave, the movement subdued, almost robotic. Something sharp and insistent twists in Brian's gut as flashes of haunting golden eyes sear through his mind, the visceral tremors of fear that had gripped him that night nearly overwhelming in their visceral potency.

"She lied," he reminds himself, the words carrying the weight of frustration as he tears his gaze away from Lena's form.

The tranquil atmosphere of the balcony is disrupted as Royal's imposing figure appears, leaning his weight against the guard rail. His gaze sweeps over the sprawling cityscape below before he clears his throat, a deliberate sound that instantly commands Lena's full attention.

"Mr. Wiser, I don't think we've met yet," she greets, her tone friendly as she extends her hand in welcome.

Royal's eyes flit to her outstretched hand with clear disinterest, not making any move to reciprocate the gesture. His arms remain firmly crossed over his broad chest. "You aren't what I imagined, to be honest," he remarks, his deep voice carrying a hint of skepticism.

Shifting his stance, Royal leans back slightly, his penetrating stare fixed on Lena. "A few weeks ago, Brian said he got a girl's phone number," he begins, the words drawn out and measured. "He seemed really upbeat about things. He's been going out more lately." A faint crease forms between Royal's brows. "And even if I think he should be focusing more on school, he's been happier."

A small, unconscious smile tugs at the corners of Lena's mouth at the mention of Brian's improved spirits. However, the subtle curve of her lips does little to thaw Royal's guarded expression as his gaze bores into her.

"Something irks me," he states flatly, the words hanging heavy in the air between them.

With a slight push off the railing, Royal closes the distance separating them, his towering frame seeming to loom over Lena as she instinctively shifts her weight. "My son came home a week ago with a bruise on his shoulder," he continues, his voice adopting a harder edge. "While he reeked of alcohol. He's never touched it in his life."

Royal pauses, his stern features tight with barely restrained emotion. "And frankly, I don't think he would have unless he was goaded by someone into it." His eyes narrow imperceptibly. "The bruise could have been a hickey, but I've messed around a lot in my time, and I've never seen a hickey perfectly shaped like one's palm before."

Lena meets Royal's intense, scrutinizing stare from behind the tinted lenses of her sunglasses, the glare obscuring her eyes. "I don't understand," she responds, confusion lacing her tone.

Royal's jaw tightens minutely. "I think you lied about what happened," he accuses, each word clipped and precise. "I'm not sure why, but if you are lying and you hurt my son..." He trails off, drawing in a deep, steadying breath through flared nostrils as he visibly reins in the swell of anger welling up inside.

When he continues, his voice is low and weighted with an unspoken threat. "He's a good kid. Been through enough trouble for someone twice his age." Royal takes another step forward, fully closing the distance as he towers over Lena. "If you're just going to string him on or get him into more trouble, do me and him a favor and get lost. I'm sure you can see yourself out."

With those parting words hanging heavy in the air, Royal turns on his heel and strides back through the balcony door, leaving Lena rooted in place. Alone on the balcony, her stomach twists with a sickening sense of unease.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

70-80k CELEBRATION Q AND A ANSWERS! AND 4th WALL BREAK

Hello everyone its me the author! If this was a comic imagine I was at a podium but since the release of the 70K special I have been compiling the questions from every comment people have asked about the story, the characters, the action!

Here are some of the compiled questions.

"Why are there so many coincidences?"

Will Brian become stronger and or learn to fight?"

". Whats going on with mercy she seems weirdly clingy to someone shes supposedly never met?

Let's get into the answers!

The sharp crack of the ruler against the blackboard slices through the classroom air, an authoritative demand for attention from the golden-haired teacher at the front. With practiced strokes of chalk, she meticulously jots down a series of questions, the scratching sounds punctuating each measured movement.

In the front row, a young man with attentive blue eyes watches her intently, his pencil poised over a scrap of paper, ready to transcribe her every word. "You, in the front row. Brian Wiser!" The teacher's finger extends in an accusing point over the class.

Brian snaps to rigid focus at the sound of his name. "Yes, Miss Angela?" he responds, back ramrod straight.

Another resounding thwack of the ruler against the desktop cuts through the hushed silence. "I will answer this question," Angela declares, her tone brooking no argument. "And you will answer the next one."

"Yes, ma'am!" The words tumble from Brian's lips in an reflexive affirmation, a crisp nod accompanying them.

To his right, a young woman pulls a dangling pink earbud free with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "Calm down, weirdo," Hana chides with a lopsided smirk. "It's not life or death."

"Hana, it's the 80k special," Brian insists, leaning in conspiratorially as if imparting a vital secret. "We have to impress the readers, or the author will be struck by lightning."

Hana arches one delicately shaped brow in patent skepticism. "Who told you that?"

Before Brian can respond, another voice cuts through the tense quiet like the crack of a whip. "It's the rules!"

They both turn to find Lena lounging in her seat behind Brian's, one booted foot kicked up onto the chair before her. The oversized blue varsity jacket draped casually over her t-shirt lends an air of studied nonchalance. She leans forward, the fabric parting to reveal a teasing grin. "I'm serious, look at Ernest Hemingway. He got in like two plane crashes in a week or something because a bunch of people thought he was weird."

Slowly pivoting in his seat to face her, Brian's brow furrows in patent dubiousness. "Who told you that?"

With an easy shrug, Lena pulls out her ever-present phone and waves it aloft. "It was on one of the Google doodles."

"Mr. Wiser!" Angela's voice rings out again in sharp reprimand. "Eyes forward!"

Instantly, Brian swivels to face the front once more, his shoulders instinctively squaring under her censuring glare. With a deft motion, Angela perches her glasses on the bridge of her nose and raises the ruler in a silent demand for quiet attention.

"Now," she begins, her voice a study in practiced lecturing. "To answer the question of coincidences..." She pauses deliberately, letting the implications linger before continuing her thought. "The reason so many characters are in San Francisco, where the story takes place, has two answers. One real answer, and one...lore-friendly answer."

Leaning back slightly, Angela launches into an expansive narrative, "For the lore-friendly explanation - after the second year of the Omnic Crisis, key cities were hit by targeted EMP attacks prior to Null Sector's invasion. The goal, of course, was to destroy vital infrastructure and communication lines with the military by shutting down things like aircraft and radar systems."

Her gaze takes on a considering weight as she paces before the blackboard, the ruler tapping an idle cadence against her palm. "But due to the unique nature of omnics, most if not all are immune to the effects of conventional EMPs. This made them incredibly useful tools for hostile takeovers while minimizing the collateral damage to the omnic forces. As you know New York was utterly destroyed leading to refugees finding their way west to places like Texas and California. Brian, Royal and Peter being people who managed to make their way west in a refugee convoy to get to San Fransisco which was one of the most populated cities on the continent."

A slight frown creases Brian's features as he considers her words. "Kinda dumping my crybaby backstory here," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "I don't even think Lena and Hana, or you for that matter, know any of that in canon yet."

Behind him, Lena leans forward with a wolfish grin, the motion causing her jacket to fall open and her slender form to press flush against the back of Brian's chair. "Keeping secrets, big boy? Ive got a few secrets for you too.. undress" she husks, her breath puffing in a warm caress against his nape.

A full-body shiver ripples through Brian, and he quickly scoots away from the source of that tantalizing distraction, fixing his attention fully on Angela's lecture once more.

"As for why the rest of the Overwatch members are situated in San Francisco," the instructor continues in a measured cadence. "Lena, as the official liaison between Overwatch and the United Nations, would need to be in close proximity to the UN regional headquarters there. While I live in the city due to the ready access to resources and facilities required for production of a second Caduceus staff."

Angela pauses, weighing her next words carefully. "Amélie and Hana are also present because Hana wished to–"

"I'll have you know that is spoiler territory!" The bespectacled Hana suddenly interjects, slamming both palms down on her desktop in a startling burst of emphasis.

"Ah yes," Angela concedes with a slight, chagrined incline of her head. "My mistake. Amélie came to San Francisco due to its proximity to an Overwatch facility where therapy and rehabilitation services would be readily accessible should she require them. Although..." A sly, enigmatic smile curves her lips as she trails off meaningfully. "There may have been another, more...personal reason for her relocation there as well. You see, Amélie still harbors certain lingering feelings for someone."

Raising one hand, Angela muffles a speculative giggle behind its cover. But the sound proves too much for Lena, who rockets up from her seat in a swirl of indignation.

"S-Shut it!" the younger woman sputters, face flushing a vivid crimson. "It's not like that! You're talking bloody nonsense!"

Once again, the thunderous crack of the ruler against the desktop cuts through the clamor, instantly restoring order.

"Now, now," Angela admonishes in a tone of long-suffering patience. "As for the real-life reason behind the San Francisco setting..."

Her expression takes on a warmly rueful caste as she lapses into an indulgent, self-aware 4th wall break, detailing how the entire narrative concept can be traced back to the ill-fated first draft penned when the author was 16.

"In that version," she reveals in an aside to the captive audience, "Brian here was actually an employee at the movie studio I owned. A stuntman of sorts, working as the stuntman about a movie chronicling the life of Genji."

Brian stares down at his hands, looking distinctly discomfited by this revelation of his fictional history. "Yeah," he mutters with a grimace. "And apparently, it was much more raunchy..." He trails off with a weary exhalation and shake of his head.

"Oh, you mean the part where you got fondled by Hana and Mei in a photobooth?" Lena supplies with an impish grin, utterly unperturbed by the furious glare he shoots her way.

"Shut up!" Hana cries, punctuating the demand by whipping a heavy textbook across the room. The projectile sails harmlessly over Lena's head, embedding itself in the wall with a dull thud.

"Let's not forget the weird subplot about Brian learning French...from Pharah, of all people," Angela continues in a musing tone, shaking her head in fond bemusement at the youthful indulgences of her past self. "That one, ah...certainly went somewhere interesting, to say the least." Her porcelain complexion takes on a rosy hue at some recollection left unspoken. "Although if I recall, I was considered more of a romantic interest for Brian in those early chapters. In fact, by chapter fifteen, if memory serves, the two of us had already..."

Her voice trails off delicately as she buries her rapidly reddening face in her hands, unable or unwilling to continue that salacious train of thought.

"Yeah," Brian interjects with a grimace, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Because apparently you drugged me with something. I'm honestly glad things changed from that first, uh, iteration."

Only then does he notice Angela murmuring something under her breath, her words muffled yet still audible from between her fingers. "...and some things stay the same..."

"What was that?" Brian can't help but press,

"Nothing," she finally dismisses with a practiced wave of her hand, smoothly transitioning back into lecturer mode. "Anyway, as I was saying...the real-life reason for choosing San Francisco as the setting mostly boiled down to pragmatism."

Squaring her shoulders, Angela begins to pace before the blackboard once more, the familiar motions seemingly helping to ground her after that momentary lapse of composure.

"You see, when it came time for the author to actually pen this redux, there were copious publicly available maps and resources for the San Francisco area." She punctuates her words with a few crisp gestures of the ruler, using it to emphasize key points. "That level of detail made it an ideal place to set the narrative. If a scene called for a coffee shop or bowling alley, for instance, chances were good that an actual establishment fitting the bill could be easily referenced."

Brian rises to his feet. All eyes turn toward him as he straightens, seeming to draw an intangible mantle of authority around himself.

"Guess this next one's on me," he begins, squaring his shoulders as he reads the query. "'Will I become stronger or learn to fight?'"

A wry chuckle escapes his lips as he considers the question. "I'm not great at fighting or physical stuff really. When I went running with Lena, I kinda was out of breath after only a few blocks." He shrugs in a self-effacing manner. "And I mean, I can fight in VR, but in VR you don't get tired or really have to control your balance. You don't need to be strong since the game will make you as strong as your item or weapon."

To illustrate his point, Brian steps away from his desk and attempts a kick, putting his full weight behind the motion...only to immediately lose his balance and land flat on his backside with a dull thud. A peal of laughter bursts from Hana's lips at the inelegant display.

"Yeah, in VR stuff you kinda move quickly and like a brute," she manages between giggles. "But in a real fight, if you tried that stuff I think you'd die."

Groaning softly, Brian rubs at the base of his spine, shooting Hana a halfhearted glare. "Maybe if you actually learned how to fight, you'd be able to beat me in VR stuff," she counters with a smirk.

In response, Brian sticks out his tongue in a childish taunt. Hana, ever game, immediately mirrors the expression right back at him.

Huffing out an exaggerated sigh, Brian gingerly regains his feet and returns to his seat with as much dignity as he can muster. "I could fight well if I wanted to," he insists, unable to resist getting in the last retort. "But I don't really like being angry, so I'd rather just have fun instead of going all out."

"You should learn to fight like this guy at regionals," Hana presses, undeterred. "He was really cool, kicked everyone's ass in like two minutes flat per round."

An audible scowl contorts Brian's features at her description as he pointedly averts his gaze. "I hate that type of guy," he mutters darkly.

Sensing she's struck a nerve, Hana leans back with a distinctly self-satisfied smile curving her lips. The silent exchange stretches out between them before Angela finally clears her throat, drawing the class's attention back to the front.

"Now, now," she interjects in her professorial tone, eyes skimming over the next inquiry. As she reads it, the faintest of frowns creases her brow before she smooths her features once more with a subtle throat clearing. "What about this next one..."

Her voice trails off as she lingers over the question, seeming to weigh how best to field this particular conversational gambit.

A tense hush descends over the classroom as Angela considers the next query, her brow furrowing ever so slightly as she weighs her response. When she finally speaks, her tone carries a weighty solemnity that commands the rapt attention of every student.

"This next one requires some self-awareness," she begins, casting a meaningful look in Brian's direction. "And I don't particularly believe that it is a simple thing that can be answered definitively."

Under the weight of her studious gaze, a flush creeps up Brian's neck, staining his cheeks with a vivid crimson hue. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as Angela continues in an even, measured cadence.

"If you look back at the chapters and really pay attention to the small details regarding my narrative..." Her lips quirk in the faintest of enigmatic smiles. "Things like whenever Brian appears, or how I remember certain events and interactions. Like with Cole Cassidy, for instance."

A significant pause follows as she allows the implication to linger in the charged air between them all. "The narrative thread with Reinhardt will play into this sometime in the future. But if you really want something damning..." Angela's gaze intensifies as it locks onto Brian's. "Go back and research the name written on the inside of the coat Brian wakes up wearing in one of the early chapters. And revisit the scene where he first appears and offers me a bottle of water."

A quiet murmur ripples through the captive audience as they digest the potential ramifications of her words. Angela waits for it to ebb before pressing on in that same, unhurried cadence.

"The most recent chapter being referenced here contains a single line of dialogue that I share with Cole," she reveals, letting the detail hang enticingly in the air before adding one last tantalizing tidbit. "It might also connect with the storyline I have in mind regarding the reviving other characters."

With that loaded statement hanging like a lead weight over the classroom, Angela rises languidly from her seat and moves to perch on the edge of Brian's desk. She crosses her legs with studied nonchalance, the practiced move drawing every eye as she leans in toward the flustered young man.

"I can explain it even more," she murmurs in a tone thick with unspoken promises, "if you stay after class for a...one-on-one study session."

The blatant insinuation has Brian's blush deepening to a vivid scarlet as he immediately backtracks. "I-I gotta return some video tapes," he stammers out, the excuse emerging in a strangled rush. "Sorry!"

Before he can extricate himself further, he feels the slender weight of Lena's arms encircling his torso from behind in a warm, intimate embrace. Her chin comes to rest on his shoulder as she leans in with a shameless grin.

"I'd be happy to help out with some...private tutoring, if you need it, babe," she husks, her breath puffing in a tantalizing caress against the side of Brian's neck.

The combination of Angela's heated innuendo and Lena's boldly amorous display proves too much for the flustered young man. With an inarticulate squeak of distress, Brian shoots upright and out of the classroom without a backward glance, his hasty retreat punctuated by Lena's lilting peal of laughter chasing him down the hallway.

Chapter Text

Hana's thumb presses down on the remote control, the buttons emitting a soft clicking sound as the pointer methodically scrolls through a vast array of multicolored movie posters on the streaming site. The volume is turned up high, and she watches intently as a romantic comedy trailer about some academy plays out. Her own face appears briefly on one of the posters, causing her to cringe. "Jimin... I- Lov-" The scene abruptly cuts off as she switches to another movie, her gaze momentarily lingering on her phone, where a social media feed is swirling with some drama that fails to capture Hana's interest.

Sprawled out comfortably on a large gray raccoon bean bag chair, Hana can feel the oppressive heat from outside seeping in, prompting the AC unit to kick into high gear, its hum filling the room. A long, drawn-out trill dinging echoes through the penthouse, and Hana lets out a groan as she reluctantly rises to her feet. She trudges towards the door, using the back of her hand to wipe away the beads of sweat that have formed on her forehead, leaving a damp mark on her white t-shirt adorned with a small rabbit.

"Who is it?" she calls out in a half-yell, her posture straightening as she pulls the door open to reveal Brian standing on the other side, holding a Tupperware container filled with something that emanates a sweet aroma. "Brian! You didn't text... what are you doing here?" Hana's eyes quickly scan over her own disheveled appearance.

"I-I just wanted to drop these off," Brian stammers, his gaze momentarily drifting down the hallway, a heavy weight seeming to settle on his features. "But I can go if you-" He takes a step back, but Hana reaches out, halting his retreat.

"Wait." Brian turns back towards her, his eyes meeting hers. "You haven't really said anything since you came over last time. Are- are you okay?" She studies his expression as he looks at her, his eyes traveling down quickly towards the ground, and a scowl forms on his face.

"Come in," Hana says, stepping aside to allow him entry. Brian cradles the Tupperware container in his hands as he moves past her, and Hana's eyes linger on it, her curiosity piqued. "Come sit down. I was just looking for something to watch." Brian shifts his weight from one foot to the other, finally settling on the couch, with Hana joining him on the other side of the small sofa, leaving a comfortable distance between them.

A few moments of silence pass before Hana speaks up. "So what's up? You look like a kicked puppy," she jokes, attempting to lighten the mood, but her words fall flat as Brian lets out a sigh.

"Lena came over today, and I think she lied about what happened at the dinner," he confesses, his voice laced with a hint of uncertainty.

Hana's expression shifts, her brows furrowing slightly. "Why's that?"

Brian shakes his head slowly. "I'm not sure. I mean, I can't remember most of the dinner, but recently, things have been coming back to me, and I'm not sure what was real or not because she seemed so sure, and we agreed to be honest with each other about things." He turns to face Hana, a frown etched on his face, his eyes reflecting an odd emotion. "And then, after radio silence and no one else really telling me what happened..." He pauses, letting out a weary sigh. "Other than you, it's like no one really cared about how I felt."

Hana's features soften as she moves closer, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. "Brian... I think you're being a bit of a little bitch right now," she says, her tone surprisingly comforting despite the blunt words, causing Brian's eyes to dart towards her as his mouth falls open in surprise.

"I don't really get why Lena would lie. She's not really the type," Hana says, her brow furrowing as she considers Brian's words. "But if you're so sure, then I believe that maybe something did happen." She pauses, carefully choosing her next words. "Lena might be ashamed of something and covering it up."

Brian stutters, visibly taken aback by Hana's frank assessment. "B-But how am I a little bitch?"

Hana chides him gently, reaching out to give his arm a light squeeze. "You're being a little bitch because you need to grab the bull by the horns. If something happened to you that they're trying to hide, it's not okay." She holds his gaze steadily. "But you need to confront Lena. Tell her that she needs to tell you the truth because it matters a lot."

Brian's shoulders slump as he shakes his head slowly, a despondent look in his eyes. "I did. Me and her met at this park thing, and she grilled me about talking to everyone and how she didn't want me around if I was some clout chaser or reporter." He falls silent for a moment, the weight of the memory seeming to weigh heavily on him.

Finally, he continues, "And she said that she wanted me to be honest with her and that she'd be honest with me." Brian clenches his jaw, his grip tightening around the Tupperware container as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "And I promised to be honest with her if she did the same, and so I told her the truth then. And then..." His voice trails off, a flicker of hurt crossing his features. "And then she lied to me."

Hana's expression tightens as she curses under her breath, the frustration evident in her tone. "You can't always trust your friends." She shifts her position, hugging her legs to her chest in a protective stance. Brian's eyes are drawn to her, searching her face for any sign of reassurance or understanding.

+++++++++++++++++++++

 South Korea 3 Years Ago

+++++++++++++++++++++

Hana places a small thermos on the coffee table as her co-pilots and various other MEKA pilots gather around in chairs. The low light from the TV in standby mode illuminates the room.

"So what's the deal, Hana? This is cutting into my beauty sleep," Jae-eun asks, the small badge signifying his MEKA pilot name "Casino" monogrammed into his silk pajamas.

"Probably some more bullshit about the null sector attack," Yuna scoffs. She pilots the MEKA named Beast. "We got our butts handed to us last time null sector attacked. It wasn't like the normal Gwishin. We needed Overwatch."

Casino leans forward, resting a hand on his knee. "You heard Captain Myung. No contact means no contact. We had to escort Overwatch out of our airspace after the battle was over. That means we still need to be on alert."

"Yeah, the U.N. still deems them criminals. They're lucky the entire military didn't come down on them and flush them out," Yuna adds with a hint of bitterness.

Hana shakes her head. "How could you say that? They saved our lives. Without their medics' help, we would all have been killed. And null sector would have destroyed Busan."

"I acknowledge that, but orders are orders," Casino interjects. "Now what's going on, Hana? What is this?" He nods toward the thermos, both his and Yuna's eyes drawn to it.

"It's a jammer. I don't want the captain or anyone else hearing this." Hana's tone grows solemn.

Yuna starts, "Hana, the world needs our help. We have to answer the call. We all took an oath to save human lives-"

"We took an oath to protect our country," Hana cuts her off. "We are the only line of defense, and our place is here."

She pauses, studying their reactions before continuing. "And what about the rest of the world? What happens if we protect Korea but the rest of the world falls? What happens when instead of just one ship, there's 20 or 100 flying overhead? If we work with them, we can end the fight for good."

Yuna shakes her head vehemently. "What you're saying is desertion, Hana. You'd be arrested or worse if the captain heard this."

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Hana presses on. "Desertion, treason - none of it will matter if the world ends. We all joined to protect people, so when did it become about protecting our country versus protecting humanity?"

Yuna slams her hands down on the table, her voice rising in frustration. "It's always been about protecting the country! We were all kids when we were taken, Hana, just like you. I couldn't give a damn about the rest of the world burning as long as we protect our home. Who cares? Let everyone else figure it out!"

Casino chimes in, his tone placating. "It isn't right, but she has a point, Hana. The Americans have their super soldier program. The Russians have their Stratago-whatevers. Everyone has their own wars to fight. Our place is here, fighting for our home."

He rises to his feet, signaling an end to the discussion. "I need to sleep for training tomorrow, Hana. Get some rest. Think things over. Me and Yuna will pretend like this never happened."

Casino grabs Yuna, preventing her from further argument, and the two make their way to the barracks.

++++++++++++++

The Modern day

++++++++++++++

Hana's fist clenched tightly as she continued explaining, her voice thick with emotion. "The next morning, before training, there were twenty guns focused on me." She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. "Yuna had told the Captain about our conversation, and I would have been sent to a military prison for desertion."

A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by Hana's measured breaths as she gathered herself to continue. "They found the jammer, and they wanted to replace me. I had asked Overlord earlier to rewrite my MEKA's programming so it wouldn't be accessible from the outside." Her gaze grew distant, as if replaying the events in her mind's eye. "Using my bracelet, I managed to summon it and escape, but..."

She trailed off, her expression clouding over with a mixture of regret and resignation. "I had to fly solo for a few days until I arrived at the recall point in Gibraltar. There, I met up with a few other Overwatch members, and here I am."

Exhaling slowly, Hana turned her attention to Brian, her features softening ever so slightly. "All of us pilots were like family. We all swore oaths to protect humanity and to put saving others above our own lives." Her voice took on a tinge of bitterness. "And then, when we could finally do something that matters, they shirked away and only tried to save themselves."

Brian shifted in his seat, studying the young woman before him. "Hana," he began, hesitating as she turned to face him. "I'm not... great with people stuff. But maybe they were scared."

Hana tilted her head to the side, considering his words. "I would be scared about having to save the world," He admitted after a moment's pause. "I've never been in that situation, so I don't know how it would feel." Her gaze grew pensive. "But if me and you were like family, and then you told me you were going to leave and maybe get yourself killed all by yourself... I don't think I could let you go."

Brian's eyes drifted down to the Tupperware container in his lap, his fingers tracing its contours absently. "During the war, I was so afraid for the people around me," he confessed, his voice low and tinged with a haunted quality. "It felt like at any moment, something terrible would happen, and I'd lose everyone important to me."

He fell silent, the weight of his memories pressing down upon him like a physical burden. When he finally spoke again, his words emerged haltingly, as if each syllable carried a profound significance. "I got... separated from my family once. And I thought they were all dead, and I did things I wasn't proud of to survive. I still have some of the scars to show for it."

Brian's gaze lifted, meeting Hana's with a raw vulnerability that seemed to strip him bare. "I changed because I was so scared that someone I cared about, someone I loved, had been taken away and hurt. And it hurt really, really bad." His grip tightened around the Tupperware, his knuckles whitening. "I think I'm a bad person. Because I think if I were in the same position... I'd rather you be safe. I wouldn't know what I'd do if something happened to you."

A heavy silence fell between them, the weight of Brian's confession hanging in the air like a tangible presence. Finally, he seemed to shake himself from his reverie, offering Hana a rueful smile. "I'm probably just rambling, and I'm maybe looking to much into it but that's what id think."

Hana sighed, her expression softening with understanding. "I think you missed the point."

Brian's brow furrowed, his gaze searching hers. "No, I get the point. You can't trust everyone, and even those you're close to will lie if it's convenient or if they think they're doing what's right." He paused, swallowing hard. "And Hana... I hate it. I hate that people will lie and cheat and steal, and I think that good people shouldn't do those things. I don't know why I'm so affected by Lena lying. It doesn't make any sense."

Leaning against Brian's shoulder, Hana's voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "You think she's a hero."

Brian blinked, taken aback by her observation. "Isn't she?"

A wistful smile played across Hana's lips. "There's a difference between being a hero and being thought of as a hero. People aren't perfect. It's so stupid to try to be perfect."

She nestled closer, her warmth a comforting presence against his side. "Try to focus on what's real, not what you think is real."

Brian looked down at her, confusion furrowing his brow. "What do you mean?"

Hana fell silent for a moment, her features pensive. Then, a soft chuckle escaped her lips, quickly blossoming into a full-fledged giggle. "Brian?"

"Yeah?" he answered, his bewilderment only growing.

"Don't you think it's funny how every time we meet up, we don't actually play games or 'hang out'?" She grinned up at him, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "It's always weird stuff."

Despite himself, Brian cracked a smile, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Speaking of..." He reached for the Tupperware, pulling it free from its confines. "I wanted to repay you." "I've been wondering what's in there."

"I baked something for you," Brian admitted, watching as Hana froze, her eyes widening comically.

"You could bake the entire time?" she exclaimed, her voice pitching higher with incredulity.

Brian couldn't help but chuckle at her reaction. "I told you I baked some cookies!"

Hana looked down at the Tupperware, her fingers curling around it as Brian handed it to her. "Is it cookies?" she asked, her tone equal parts hopeful and skeptical.

Shaking his head, Brian offered her a small smile. "I thought that maybe you'd like these. They're more of a celebration thing, but..." He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'd say the fact that neither of us are dead is enough to celebrate."

With trembling fingers, Hana pried open the Tupperware lid, a wisp of condensation escaping as she did so. Her breath caught in her throat as she lifted a single pastry from within, the small, almost perfect fish shape filled with a red paste that emanated an eerily familiar aroma.

"Bungeo-ppang," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion as she cradled the delicate treat.

Brian shifted, suddenly self-conscious. "I didn't know if you liked them or not. If you don't, you can throw them out. I don't mind." He glanced at his wrist, his expression sobering. "I need to be going, actually. I have one more stop to make."

Hana's eyes remained fixed on the bread, her expression unreadable. Brian rose from the couch, making his way towards the door. "It was nice talking, and I'll text you if something else comes up, okay, Han-"

His words were cut short as a hand grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him back. He stumbled, caught off guard, and felt something warm press against his cheek. Hana's lips lingered there for a heartbeat, two, before retreating, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake.

"Th-thanks," she stuttered, her face flushing crimson.

Brian could only gape at her, his mouth working soundlessly as heat flooded his own cheeks. Before he could muster a response, a fish pastry was suddenly shoved between his lips, effectively silencing him.

"Now go. Shoo!" Hana exclaimed, her voice equal parts flustered and fond as she ushered him towards the door, closing it firmly behind him.

Left alone in the hallway, Brian could only blink in bewilderment, the lingering taste of the bungeo-ppang mingling with the ghost of Hana's affectionate kiss upon his cheek. Confusion and a strange, warm feeling swirled within him, leaving him adrift in a whirlwind of emotions he couldn't quite put a name to.

+++++++++++++++++++++

THE GIRLY WATCH EXTRA

+++++++++++++++++++++

"Did I do something wrong?"

The question emerges slowly, each syllable carrying a weight that seems too immense for Hana's young shoulders to bear. Her small voice cuts through the tension blanketing the room like a knife, sharp and piercing. She sits cross-legged on the plush living room carpet, clutching a hard-won trophy in her hands as she gazes up at her father with wide, innocent eyes.

Dongtae freezes mid-stride, his restless pacing coming to an abrupt halt. He turns, almost mechanically, to face his daughter, and a heavy silence descends upon them, thick and oppressive. Long moments stretch into what feels like an eternity before he finally responds, his words emerging slowly, as if being dragged from the depths of his very soul.

"No, no Byeol." The use of her nickname, that affectionate term, feels like a stark juxtaposition against the worry etched deeply into the creases of his face. "General Park wishes for Hana to join..."

His voice trails off, the unfinished statement hanging in the air like a lead weight. Yet the implication is clear enough to rouse Hana's mother from her trance-like state. Seated in an armchair across the room, she had been silent and motionless, her eyes glazed over as if she were worlds away. Now, those eyes widen with a sudden, piercing clarity as she focuses on the present with startling intensity.

"They want her to join part of a new program?" Each word trembles with barely contained emotion, the shrillness of her tone cutting through the stillness like a knife.

Dongtae swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion. A heavy pause follows, loaded with unspoken dread, before he finally continues. "They want her to get into one of those... death traps, don't they?"

The words seem to catch in his throat, emerging as little more than a hoarse whisper. "They assured the MEKA units have been upgraded and are much safer."

But even as he speaks, the lie rings hollow, unconvincing even to his own ears.

Hana's mother scoffs, her features twisting into a mask of visceral disbelief and fear. "Safer?" She spits the word out like a curse, lacing it with venom. "Dongtae, you remember what happened on TV. When the Colossus arrived, one of the drones got captured and crushed like a toy in its grip."

Her voice rises with each syllable, escalating towards a desperate crescendo as she unleashes the torrent of emotions that had been simmering just beneath the surface. "And you want Hana to get inside one of them?"

The outburst seems to shake Dongtae from his reverie, his shoulders squaring as he whirls to face his wife head-on. "I don't want Hana to be anywhere near it!" His shout reverberates through the room, the raw anguish in his tone causing Hana to flinch instinctively. "But what choice do I have?"

He throws his hands up, palms open in a gesture of exasperation, of utter helplessness. "The mandatory military service is still in effect. Whether she joins now or joins in five years, there's no difference!"

Another silence falls, this one punctuated only by the sound of their ragged breathing as they grapple with the enormity of the situation. Hana shifts uncomfortably, her grip tightening around the trophy as she studies the fear etched into the lines of her parents' faces, suddenly understanding the weight it carries.

"They want me to pilot the MEKA units?" The question slips out before she can stop it, her voice small and uncertain amidst the charged atmosphere. A tremulous pause, then: "Like... like Overwatch?"

The mere mention of the defunct organization seems to drain what little color remained in Dongtae's face. He shakes his head vehemently, crossing the room in two long strides to drop to his knees before his daughter. His large, calloused hands engulf her small shoulders as he looks her squarely in the eye, his gaze intense, bordering on desperate.

"No, Hana." His tone is low, hushed yet carrying an undercurrent of steely conviction that leaves no room for misinterpretation. "This won't be like what you see in the games. This is real."

He holds her gaze, willing her to understand the gravity of his words, to comprehend the harsh reality he is trying to impart. "People get hurt. People die. I don't want that life for you."

Hana's brow furrows as the first flickers of confusion and trepidation spark behind her eyes. She glances down at the trophy cradled in her lap, its once-gleaming surface now dulled, its significance paling in comparison to the weight of her father's confession. "But... what happens to you?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy and loaded, and for a long, agonizing moment, Dongtae can only stare at his daughter, his mouth working soundlessly as he struggles to find the words to answer her. Then, slowly, wordlessly, he pulls her into a tight embrace, holding her trembling form against his chest as the weight of her innocent query threatens to crush him beneath its implications.

The three of them remain that way, frozen in an endless moment, until at last Dongtae stirs. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he releases Hana and rises abruptly to his feet. His movements are stiff and mechanical as resolve hardens his features into a grim mask, a single-minded determination settling over him like a cloak.

"I have some relatives in Shanghai," he declares, the words seeming to drain what little color remained from his wife's face. "We can go stay with them for a while."

She recoils as if struck, her eyes widening in abject horror. "Dongtae, what are you saying?" Her voice is little more than a horrified whisper, laced with a desperate plea for him to reconsider.

But Dongtae is already moving towards the bedroom, reaching for his phone as he begins dialing a number with shaking fingers. He pauses only to utter one more thing, his tone ringing with grim determination.

"As long as I live, my daughter will never see the inside of one of those machines."

With those words lingering in the air like a death knell, he disappears into the bedroom.

Chapter Text

Amélie sits on the couch in her living room, the curtains drawn against the harsh sun outside. The room feels gloomy, shadows deepening every corner. Her fingers trace the edge of a throw pillow as she presses her phone to her ear, the tension visible in her hunched shoulders.

"Ah, Amélie! It's been quite a while since I've received a call from you. How have things been? Busy, I'm sure!" Chloe's voice, cheerful and warm, flows from the phone, a stark contrast to the somber atmosphere.

"It has only been 62 days since our last session," Amélie responds quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. She glances at the framed photo on the mantelpiece – Amélie standing with Chloe, taken at a ceremony on a sunny day.

"Still been a while," Chloe muses. There's a pause, the sound of papers rustling in the background. "And I'm guessing this isn't a social call?"

Amélie sighs, her breath fogging up the screen of her phone for a moment. "You're right. I apologize."

"Don't be sorry, Amélie. I'm your psychologist, but most importantly, your friend. You can rely on me if you need to." Chloe's voice is kind, a soothing balm to Amélie's frayed nerves.

As Chloe speaks, Amélie notices a subtle change in herself. Her shoulders begin to relax, the tension easing out of them like air from a balloon. It's as if Chloe's infectiously upbeat tone is a magic spell, chasing away the gloom that hangs over her.

"So, fill me in?" Chloe prompts.

Amélie takes a deep breath. She looks down at her sweater, a loose gray thing that seems to swallow her, making her appear smaller than she is. Her hair, usually sleek and shiny, looks dull today, a reflection.

"It's about the dinner," Amélie starts, her voice wavering. She glances at the photo again, drawing strength from the memory of that sunny day. "What happened after... after I had too much to drink. And then there was this old photo, a Polaroid. But Lena's reaction, that's what worries me most."

She pauses, listening to Chloe's steady breathing on the other end. The silence is comforting. Amélie's gaze wanders to the window, the curtains a barrier against the world outside.

"Take your time," Chloe says softly. "Start from the beginning. Tell me about the dinner, about Lena. Help me understand what's troubling you."

Amélie nods, even though Chloe can't see her. She closes her eyes, and in her mind, she's back at the dinner table, the laughter, the wine.

Amélie's nose scrunches. "Not bonded," she corrects, her voice a whisper in the gloomy living room.

"You two became friends," Chloe amends, the rustling of papers audible through the phone.

Amélie tilts her head away, her golden eyes drawn to the painting on the wall. For a moment, she sees Brian's wide-eyed gaze, his fascination with her pale skin. It makes her feel... odd. "I told him I trusted him," she admits.

Chloe inhales sharply, then exhales in a faint whistle. "It took you 3 months of near-daily sessions for you to say that to me. I feel a bit cheated," she jokes, her tone light.

Amélie murmurs an apology, but Chloe quickly reassures her. "Don't be sorry. That's good. Being able to trust others, especially people you can relate to, is a sign of progress." There's a pause. "But about this thing with Lena..."

A flash of memory: Lena ripping the torn piece of Polaroid from Amélie's grasp. Amélie's palm covers her eye, as if she could block out the vision that twists her stomach.

"Have you ever heard of the concept of the hedgehog's dilemma?" Chloe asks.

Amélie shifts on the couch. "I believe you mentioned it during our 4th session."

Chloe hums in confirmation. "The hedgehog's dilemma arises from the fact that hedgehogs must hold each other to gain warmth during winter. Yet, due to their spines, the closer they get, the more likely they are to hurt one another."

Amélie rises, her eyes staring off into the distance. The room feels colder suddenly, the shadows deeper.

"Imagine," Chloe continues, "fame, fortune, adoration. The entire world falling at your feet, thinking you're the symbol of greatness. A perfect paragon of what's right." She pauses, and Amélie realizes who she's talking about. "Imagine being that. And then one day realizing that the only other human you have a connection with, the only person who can feel comfortable with, is someone who truly despises you."

Amélie grinds her teeth. "Mais ce n'est pas réel!" she exclaims, her voice echoing in the empty house. "So they decided to become attached to someone who doesn't care for them! That is their problem! Not mine!"

"Amélie..." Chloe's voice is empathetic.

"Non," Amélie cuts her off. "Doesn't she understand how it looked? It wasn't fair. She had power, she had the authority. Whatever was supposed to happen happened because what would have happened if it didn't?"

Chloe sighs. "So you're saying you were coerced."

Amélie rubs the bridge of her nose. Her temperature cools. "If you feared what would happen if you refused, what would you do? Tell someone?" Her voice is quiet, almost lost in the stillness of the room.

"That isn't an answer," Chloe presses.

"It's enough," Amélie replies, her tone final. She waits for the dial tone, for Chloe to end the call. But instead, there's a click of the tongue.

"So Lena attached herself to you because she saw an opportunity for stress relief?" Chloe asks, her voice neutral.

Amélie scoffs, her gaze drifting to the drawn curtains. Outside, the sun must be setting, painting the sky in hues of gold and red. But in here, it's all shadows and silence. "What other reason is there?" she whispers, and for a moment, she wonders if she's asking Chloe or herself.

The sun dips lower outside, casting long shadows that stretch across the room like reaching fingers. Amélie stands by the window, one hand resting on the heavy curtain. She doesn't pull it aside, not yet. Instead, she stares at the faded pattern, tracing the whorls and loops with her eyes.

"Amélie, I'd like to better understand your perspective," Chloe says, her voice shifting to that clinical tone Amélie knows so well. It's the voice that means Chloe is about to dig deeper, to unearth truths Amélie might prefer to leave buried.

"The photo," Chloe continues, "why would she keep that?"

Amélie's fingers tighten on the curtain. "As a trophy," she says, her voice flat.

"Why would she hide it?"

"She showed it to Brian." Amélie's voice catches, remembering his wide-eyed look, his curiosity. "Yet kept it hidden from me. Blackmail, perhaps?"

There's a pause, the sound of Chloe's pen scratching on paper. Then, "Now, what about the cookies?"

Amélie freezes. The scent of sugar and spice ghosts through her memory, the warmth of the oven, the way Lena's eyes had lit up...

"You told me you made Lena some cookies. Some type that was important to her," Chloe presses. "Why would you make cookies which hold meaning for someone who you believed took advantage of a situation?"

Amélie opens her mouth to respond, but Chloe continues, her words tumbling out like a river breaking through a dam. "I think you care. I think you do feel some connection to Lena, and that it did mean something to you. But you're afraid."

The words hit Amélie like a physical blow. She leans against the wall, her forehead pressing against the cool plaster.

"Afraid of allowing yourself to be close to someone," Chloe says, her voice softer now. "So you assume the worst. You pretend they're a bad person just taking advantage because it's easier to feel anger that someone lied to you and threw you away. Rather than live with the fact that you found someone who actually cared for you. And you lost them."

Amélie slides down the wall, her knees curling to her chest. The room is almost dark now, the last rays of sunlight painting abstract patterns on the floor. She stares at these patterns, at the way they shift and change.

In her mind, she sees Lena's face as she bit into one of the packaged ones a year ago, the joy. She remembers the warmth of Lena's body on hers, the quiet moments they shared. And then, the torn Polaroid, the look in Lena's eyes - not triumph or mockery, but something else. Something Amélie hasn't let herself name.

"I..." Amélie starts, then stops. Her voice echoes in the empty room, a whisper of all the things she's afraid to say. She closes her eyes, and for a moment, she allows herself to feel the weight of what she might have lost.

The incessant knocking finally stops when Amélie pulls the door open. Her hair is wild and undone, dark bags under her eyes prevalent even with her blue skin. She stands there for a moment, the cool night air brushing against her bare arms, making her aware of how underdressed she is in her pajama bottoms and sweater.

Golden eyes meet blue ones as she cycles through surprise and acceptance. The scent of oranges and ginger fills her nostrils, a comforting aroma that seems out of place in the stillness of the night.

"Sorry for coming in late," Brian speaks quietly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks uncertain, as if he's not sure he should be here.

"Now is not a good time," Amélie says, her voice low. She reaches to pull the door closed, but Brian's foot stops it. She looks down, sees his worn sneakers, then back up at his face.

He pulls his shirt collar down slowly, a smile stretching across his face as Amélie's expression darkens. In the dim porch light, she sees it - a scar, fresh and pink, mirroring her own. "We match now, don't we?" he says softly.

Amélie lets the door open slightly, just enough for her golden eye to catch the light. It seems to glow in the gap, a beacon in the darkness. "I'm not in the mood to answer questions," she warns.

"I brought food," Brian interjects. He holds up a bag, the logo of a local takeout place visible. "All I want is to have dinner. We don't have to talk or anything. All I want is to sit for a while."

Amélie pulls back, her eyes staring at the back of the door. She stands there, motionless, her mouth slightly ajar as she contemplates. The house behind her is silent, the rooms dark. Just hours ago, she was on the phone with Chloe, raw emotions spilling out. Now, here's Brian, offering quiet company.

"Trust me," Brian says, his voice barely above a whisper.

The door opens slowly, hinges creaking softly. Amélie steps back, then strides towards a table, gesturing vaguely. Brian follows, his footsteps echoing in the quiet space.

He looks around, taking in the drapes shut tight against the world, only thin beams of streetlight seeping through like lines drawn with bright pen ink. It's as if Amélie has cocooned herself in darkness, shutting out the world and its complexities.

Brian places the takeout boxes on the coffee table. The rustle of the paper bags seems loud in the stillness. Amélie leaves and returns with plates and silverware, the clinking of cutlery a counterpoint to their silence.

Bits of chicken and vegetables spread out on her plate while Brian opts for an egg roll. They sit in silence for a while, the only sounds their chewing and the occasional clink of a fork against a plate.

Amélie's stomach grumbles, a low, insistent sound that seems to echo. Brian smiles slightly, a soft curve of his lips. Her cheeks flush violet, a dusting of color in the dim room. "Apologies," she murmurs.

"Don't worry about it," he says gently. His smile lingers, though she can't quite see it in the shadow.

"You're... chipper," she says after a moment, letting the foreign word roll off her tongue. She watches him, checking his reaction as if she'd just uttered a curse.

"I try," he says, taking another bite of chicken. He chews thoughtfully, then looks towards the drapes. "So, how's about this weather?"

Amélie shakes her head, a slow movement. "I've been working inside today."

"I've been on the road mostly," Brian says. He sets down his food, a faint smile on his lips. His hands fall to his lap, fingers intertwining as his eyes focus on something not quite there on the coffee table. "I wanted to bake something. But I also wanted to see you."

Amélie feels her carefully constructed calm begin to waver as his blue eyes shift to focus on her. She looks away, towards the shadows in the corner of the room.

"Why don't you make any real moves in the chess game?" he asks suddenly.

Confusion flushes through her before she refocuses, placing her fork down with a soft clink. "What do you mean?"

Brian pulls out his phone, the glow of the screen casting strange shadows on his face as he scrolls to their chess match. "You're throwing the game. You could have won, but you keep extending it." His face changes, a seriousness settling over his features. "It's not a good game if you try to let someone else win."

Amélie doesn't move, just tilts her head to the side, a bird-like gesture. "Don't you want to win?" she asks, her voice even.

"I want to play with you," Brian says. He makes a move, exposing his king. The piece stands vulnerable on the digital board, a silent challenge.

"That doesn't make any sense," Amélie counters, her brow furrowing.

Brian watches as another inconsequential piece moves across the board. "Why's that?" He moves another piece, equally unimportant.

"I'm not good at games," Amélie replies sternly, her golden eyes narrowing.

"You might not think that," Brian says softly. "But I still like playing them with you."

"But what's the point?"

"There isn't a point," he says, moving another piece. All it would take is a bishop moving one space diagonally. "You're better than you think."

Amélie studies the board, the pieces frozen in their digital stalemate. "Where'd you learn to play chess?" she asks, her voice softening.

Brian chuckles, a quiet sound that seems to warm the room. "A collapsed subway tunnel. You?"

"A trench."

They look at each other then, a moment of understanding passing between them. "See?" Brian says. "We aren't world champions. But even if you might not think it, this is way more fun than fighting champions."

Amélie is about to move when Brian reaches over, his hand hovering over the screen for a moment before his thumb gently moves a piece. Checkmate. A victory screen appears on her phone, a new game icon blinking below.

"You're better at it than you think," Brian says, his voice a whisper in the quiet room. "So quit pretending you're not and do your best."

Amélie pulls away from him, a hand pressing against his chest. His breath hitches as her thumb grazes the bruise there. She falters, her hand hovering for a moment before she rises, putting distance between them. The room feels colder suddenly, the shadows deeper.

"What is this? What do you want?" Amélie asks, her voice quiet but tense. She stands by the window, one hand on the heavy curtain, as if ready to tear it down or hide behind it.

Brian sits on the seat next to where Amélie was, his eyes distant, as if his mind is calculating something far away. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint tick of a clock and the occasional car passing outside.

After a moment, his fists ball. "I-," he starts, the calm, confident façade faltering. "I'm sorry. For barging in like this. I know you probably don't want to see me or talk to me, and I was worried I fucked things up between us. I mean, I'm worried I broke your tru-."

Amélie puts a hand on his fist, pausing him. Her touch is light, barely there. "What are you talking about?"

Brian pauses, his blue eyes darkening yet lightening for a moment as he looks at her. "The dinner. I can't remember anything. But I remember you punching me. I was scared that I did something that might have made you angry or-."

Amélie scoffs, putting her palm over her eye. The gesture is familiar, a shield against memories she'd rather not see. "You didn't do anything. Why would you think that?"

Brian shifts uncomfortably, looking away. His gaze falls on a framed photo - Amélie and Chloe, smiling in a park. "Lena told me I got drunk and spilled wine on myself and then I had to leave. I could remember seeing your eyes and you looked afraid or something. I thought I did something to you and I've been... scared," he admits, not meeting Amélie's gaze.

She curses in French, the words harsh in the quiet room. "You didn't do anything. It was an accident. I-," she pauses, her hand falling from her face. "Lena had a photo of me, and you saw it and tried to grab it and accidentally struck you. The wine bottle Lena held spilled on you as she lunged for it as well, trying to hide it."

"So she did lie," Brian says, looking to the floor. The clock ticks, once, twice. "But why did she try to hide it so bad? What's the point? Why go through all the trouble of hiding it even after I got hurt?"

He turns to Amélie, their eyes meeting. She feels a tinge of something - unease? - as she sees a manic, anxious emotion behind his eyes. It unnerves her, this raw vulnerability, so different from his usual calm.

Amélie begins to explain, her words slow, measured. She tells him about her relationship with Lena, the problems, the drama, the breakup. What it was and what it wasn't. As she speaks, the room grows darker, the last of the streetlight fading, as if the world outside is retreating, leaving them in this bubble of truth.

Brian's emotions remain unchanged, which surprises her. But she assumes he could glean some of it from the awkwardness between her and Lena. His face dark, the bruise on his chest a reminder of the secrets and misunderstandings that have led them here.

She finishes speaking, and silence falls again. The room is a study in contrasts - the warmth of their shared meal cooling on the table, the glow of Brian's phone screen casting strange shadows, the echo of shattered perceptions hanging in the air.

Amélie turns fully to the window now, her forehead resting against the cool glass. Outside, the world continues - a car passes, a dog barks in the distance. But in here, in this room, something has shifted. She feels exposed, raw, like she's played a game she didn't know the rules to.

But maybe, she thinks, glancing back at Brian, that's what trust is. Playing without knowing the outcome, just knowing that the other player won't let you lose alone.

Brian bounces a balled fist on his lap. "I get it," he says, his voice low.

Amélie turns towards him, her face suspicious.

"You've always been the one thing that stayed the same," his words flash through his mind, and he looks downward. "I'm stuck in time," Brian murmurs. "How am I any different?"

An image flickers through his mind - two pink triangles moving with a smile. Amélie reaches out, grabbing Brian's hand and slamming him back-first into the couch until she pins him. The action is sudden, violent, yet there's something else in it - a desperation, a need to make him understand.

"C'est différent," she says, her voice a growl. "I can tell you don't have any bad intentions. You might think you're like me. That you've done a few bad things and that you're just like her." Brian struggles against her grasp, but Amélie stares down at him, her grip like iron. The light, lithe woman presses down on him like an anchor.

"I've seen monsters. Fought with them. Fought against them. Tu n'es rien comme eux."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?" Brian relaxes, his voice laced with a poison she hasn't heard before. "What do you know about monsters? You think you're one."

Brian feels Amélie's breath against his face. Something about this is familiar, a déjà vu that makes his skin prickle.

"You think I'm not?" Amélie asks, moving off him. Brian sits up, watching as her hands reach down to her waist. Her golden eyes peer towards him with an apathy that makes a chill rise up his spine.

She begins to pull her sweater up. Brian lunges forward to stop her, but an outstretched hand halts him. "You showed me your scars," she says quietly.

She pulls up her shirt. Brian feels his face redden before he stops, his eyes widening. Scars mark her, places where flesh had been ripped and stitched back together. Cuts and burns, one stretching from her upper shoulder where her arm is missing, down to her waist. Her bare chest is visible, but his eyes linger on the symbol on her upper stomach - a black widow spider tattooed into her skin. Silvery lines emanate from every leg, holding her together like threads in a doll.

"Do I not look like a monster?" she asks.

Brian stands there, trying to comprehend. Amélie's golden eyes bore into his. She can imagine his face turning to disgust, or worse, pity. She doesn't know which she would hate more.

Brian raises his hands and pulls up his shirt. His own scars are shown to her, faded and almost translucent on pale skin in the dim light. A large circle on his chest near the bruise, shaped like a skull and crossbones, branded like cattle. Another looks like a bone beneath his pectoral, almost decorative beneath one large enough to stretch across his chest like a claw mark.

"I was a hound," he speaks in a low voice. "We're the same." He shakes, even though the room is warm.

She tries to take in his scars, but he moves forward, wrapping his arms around her, covering her bare chest with his own. "I don't think you're a monster," he whispers into her hair.

Amélie lets her arms hang at her sides. Her instincts scream at her to shove him away, to fight, to beat him down. Yet he simply remains there, holding her, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against her scars.

"Je ne veux jamais que tu penses que tu es une mauvaise personne," she speaks, her voice trembling. "Si vous êtes une mauvaise personne, alors personne dans ce monde n'est un héros."

"Don't say it again." She says, Brian shivers, not from cold but from the dangerous tone in Amélie's voice. "I-I won't," he promises, his voice a whisper. The adrenaline starts to ebb, leaving him jittery and hyper-aware. The scent of her shampoo - lavender, maybe? - fills his nostrils.

They stand there for a while, the silence punctuated only by the soft tick of the clock and the occasional rustle of fabric as one of them shifts. Outside, the world continues its nightly symphony - a dog barks, a car alarm chirps, life goes on. But in here, in this room with its drawn curtains and shared secrets, time seems to move differently.

"Amélie," Brian starts, his voice uncertain.

She stays quiet for a moment, then, "Brian?"

He takes a deep breath. "I... I'm scared of slipping back into bad habits."

"I understand," she interrupts softly. Her eyes are fixed on his chest, tracing the map of scars. "If you'll do the same."

Brian feels a push towards the couch. He falls onto his back, and then a strong hand guides him onto his side. His cheeks flush as he feels Amélie's face rest against his back, her breath warm through his shirt.

"The temperature's supposed to drop," Brian comments, trying to move. But then her whisper tickles his ear.

"So then come closer," she says, her voice a command wrapped in tenderness. Her arms, cool against his skin, wrap around his chest. "Stay, mon hérisson."

As the night deepens, the room grows cooler. But neither of them notice.

As the night deepens, the room grows cooler. But neither of them notice.

Chapter Text

The air grows heavy with tension as Brian reaches for the door handle, his eyes locking onto the familiar chocolate brown irises, partly obscured by tinted sunglasses. "Lena?" The name falls from his lips, tinged with surprise and uncertainty.

A slightly nervous wave greets him in response. "Hi!" Lena offers, her usual exuberance tempered by a melancholic lit. "Probably didn't expect me here." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, a tremulous smile playing at her lips. "I sent a text, but you might not have seen it."

Brian's brow furrows and he looked back to his phone which rested on the couch "ive been busy but… hi."

Lena moves to sit opposite Brian on the couch, palming a cup of water as his eyes remain fixed on the coffee table, trying not to stare. She sighs, a hand covering her face as she peeks between parted fingers. "I know we haven't talked, but...I've been trying to figure out what to say."

Brian's hands rest firmly on his knees as Lena's gaze drops to the cup cradled in her lap. "I know you have questions about the party, and I'm going to answer them. As best I can."

He opens his mouth, the bruise on his chest pulsing as if still fresh. "What happened?"

Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, Lena begins. "We all drank and got drunk on some wine or something Angela had. We ate, then got into a conversation about Thanksgiving." Her shoulders tense as Brian's expression remains neutral. "I was showing you to the bathroom, and you found a picture I took of Amelie. She walked in, and I wanted to hide it. I lunged for it, and Amelie did too, accidentally hurting you in the process. You spilled wine and ran out."

Her gaze falls to the table as Brian inhales sharply. "That's it?"

Anger rises within Lena as his eyes bore into her. "What do you mean?"

Brian crosses his arms, leaning back. "For a week, I've been sitting here assuming the worst. Getting frustrated and worrying about you and everyone because I thought maybe I did something wrong or hurt someone and got hurt back." He shakes his head. "And turns out I just got drunk and got hurt in a misunderstanding."

Their eyes lock. "Don't you have any questions?"

A sigh. "Not really? If it's just an embarrassing photo of my friend, I can understand her not wanting me to see it."

Something bubbles up in Lena as she shoots to her feet. "That's it? That's all it took? I just had to tell you what happened!"

Brian flinches. "I can tell you aren't lying, so what's the point? People get drunk and do stupid stuff all the time."

"That's not it!" Lena snaps. "You got hurt, and nobody said anything to you, and now you're just going to say 'my bad'?"

He looks up at her, confused. "Lena, it's no big deal."

"It is! Do you know how long I've been trying to come up with a way to fix this?"

"It's been less than a week."

Lena pauses, breath hitching as Brian's sincerity hits her. "Lena, if there's something you need to tell me, I'm here for you. If something else happened and you feel like you can't tell me, I guarantee you can."

Her fists clench white as she drops back onto the couch, a hand grasping her face. "Do you remember when we went running?" "Do you remember when we went running?" Brian nodded. "I was so angry because I was at the play. Angela dragged me along and I saw you dancing with Amelie."

Brian stiffened for a moment, yet seemed to understand. "You asked me in the park about chance encounters."

Brian's eyes started to widen as he opened his mouth briefly before stopping himself. Lena continued, "Me and Amelie used to be a thing. It wasn't for long, but me and her broke up and we haven't seen each other for a long time. I kept a photo of her because...it meant something to me."

Her voice took on a somber tone. "But the thing is, I don't hate her. I don't know what I feel about it because it just doesn't make sense. Me and her got together because I was messed up after the war. I ran out on my girl and then found myself at Amelie's door, and we hooked up."

Lena's hands tightened as the memories resurfaced. "Everytime I wasn't working, I was at her place. It was like drinking. As long as someone didn't need me, I was with her, and I didn't think about anything else. All I wanted was to not feel anything, and she was there. And I think she felt the same way, so we stuck together."

Her gaze met Brian's, raw vulnerability in her eyes. "Then I wanted to get serious, and she shirked away."

Brian remained neutral, processing the weight of her confession. "Lena, I-" He rubbed the back of his head. "I don't know what you want from me. I mean, you two have history. And I know how it might be complicated to see someone you're friends with dance with your ex, but..." He shook his head slowly. "I don't think any less or more of you. Even if I still had problems with Amelie because of our past, I can't tell you anything."

The calm acceptance in his voice only seemed to fuel Lena's anguish. "Yes, you can! I cheated on my girlfriend and slept with a former assassin who's probably killed more people than you've talked to! And you're just going to shrug it off?"

Maintaining his calm, Brian rises to pull a tray from the oven. "Lena, it's relationships. I don't really know much about them. I've never even had a girlfriend before."

He turns, Lena speaks a hint of exasperation slipping through. "So you just don't care?"

"I care about the fact that it's tearing you up like this over a simple conversation." Brian pulls a pastry from the tray, placing it in a small Tupperware. "I don't get why you seem so...pissed about this."

He meets her gaze, his own eyes reflecting a mix of concern and confusion. "I care that you ignored me for a week and made me feel like shit, thinking I did something stupid to hurt someone. I care that I can still remember Amelie's eyes looking at me like I hurt her. Now, to know it's all about a photograph and your old relationship..."

Lena shakes her head, rising abruptly from the couch. "You know what really makes me angry?" He exhales heavily. "You could have just texted me what happened, and that would have been fine. I don't care what you did in your past, Lena, I really don't. But something's bothering you, and even after explaining about you and Amelie, you're still hurting."

Brian's brow furrows as he studies her inscrutably. "So do you just not trust me? Or are you lying about what happened? Are you really that ashamed about you and Amelie?"

Silence hangs heavy between them before Lena sighs. "This just didn't go how I thought it would."

"Lena." Brian's voice is gentle but insistent. "I'm telling you, even if you have a problem I can't help with, I'd help you in any way I can. You know I would. I don't want to see you shouldering something like this by yourself."

Lena rubs her arm self-consciously as a fish-shaped pastry is offered to her. "We've been here before," she murmurs, accepting it.

Brian's confusion is evident. "What do you mean?"

"I showed up once. And I lied." Lena's fingers worry at the pastry's flaky crust. "I felt ashamed about Amelie and the fact that I cared about her and the fact that we were together. I rewound over and over again because I just kept lying, and it never got better."

Realization dawns in Brian's widening eyes as he processes her admission. "So you've just been having this conversation over and over, trying to find some way to not hurt me but keep your relationship with Amelie secret?"

Running a hand through his hair, he lets out a disbelieving chuckle. "That sounds stupid. Aren't you angry about, you know, being rewound?" she asks

Her eyes narrow at his amusement. "A superhero has been rewinding time like Superman just to make sure my feelings aren't hurt. That's such a stupid idea, it sounds like it's from a comic book."

His laughter is cut short by her fist impacting his shoulder. "You're a bastard!"

Wheezing between chuckles, Brian shakes his head. "Lena, what did you even expect to happen if you told me you were with Amelie? I already danced with her, so it's not like I absolutely hated her. And it's not like I could even hold a grudge. I mean, me and her baked cookies together."

Lena's eyes widen in surprise. "You helped bake the cookies?"

"Yeah, Amelie wanted to bake them, and she was dead set on it, so I helped." Taking the fish pastry from her, Brian shows her the edge of the bruise peeking from his collar. "You know, my dad thought this was a hickey."

Lena was violently expelled from the vivid vision, the scene before her eyes burning away into ashen nothingness. An infinite expanse of swirling tesseracts materialized around her - kaleidoscopic fractals of sights, sounds and scents threatening to overwhelm her senses.

Fragments of memory flickered in and out of the maelstrom. Brian's warm smile as he offered her that flaky pastry rapidly decayed into formless ether. The stinging guilt she'd felt in that moment gnawed at her anew with vicious intensity.

"Shit..." Lena gasped, adrift in this surreal dimension.

++++++++++++++

Yesterday

++++++++++++++

Lena barges in, slamming the door. Her eyes land on Amelie reading from a tablet on the couch. Amelie glances up, catching Lena's fiery gaze. "That good, huh?"

Angela's smile fades as Lena seethes. "We need to talk. Honestly this time, because things are getting messy."

With a sigh, Angela removes her glasses and sets the tablet aside. "About?"

Lena drags a hand down her face. "The damn dinner party. I've been avoiding it, but Brian knows I wasn't straight with him."

Angela's expression saddens. "Lena, I'm not sure exactly what happened. He was just...very upset leaving."

"Don't play dumb." Lena steps closer, jaw clenched. "Why the hell did you invite Amelie?"

Taken aback, Angela replies carefully. "I thought you'd want to see her after the play. A friendly meal together."

Lena scoffs as Angela sips her coffee. "You could've warned me at least. And bringing Brian crossed a line!"

"I wanted to thank him," Angela says evenly. "He's been a positive influence. You seem happier, haven't been going out getting into trouble."

Lena opens her mouth, but Angela continues. "After your jog, you both had this...glow. I assumed you were becoming close after your date."

Lena notices the hollow ring of Angela's smile. "So inviting him was a 'thank you', but Amelie was just a coincidence?"

A measured nod. "I invited others like Hana too, but she declined."

"Lena..." Angela leans forward, holding her intense gaze. "I'm struggling to understand. You willingly attended Amelie's play, had her at the Christmas party despite protests. But having her to dinner was unconscionable?"

Straightening, Angela presses. "At the play, you were...off. Preoccupied. Then being dishonest about your meetup with Brian. Why did I have to hear about your jog from him?"

Lena shrinks under Angela's clinical stare, feeling utterly exposed. "It seems you're upset they were both there. Are you afraid of Brian learning about Amelie?"

Jaw tightening, Lena exhales sharply. "Yes! Alright? I don't want them knowing about each other."

Angela arches an eyebrow but remains silent until Lena finally snaps. "What, you think he'd judge me?"

"No?" Angela prods gently. "Then why?"

Fists clenched, Lena's voice wavers with restrained emotion. "Because she was there for me when I was at my lowest! I stupid, foolish idiot, I let myself get attached thinking she actually gave a damn."

Angela's expression hardens. "You're lying to yourself, Lena. You sought intimacy, a reprieve from your inner turmoil. That paradoxical attachment is natural when tensions demand release."

Rising, she continues with clinical detachment. "You didn't truly care then. It was afterwards you recreated an idealized romance to rationalize feeling rejected when she walked away."

Lena recoils, stung. "So it's all my fault?!"

Angela's features soften as she cups Lena's cheek. "Of course not, liefje. But you projected your needs onto her without considering her perspective. You paid the price emotionally when she couldn't return your constructed affections."

Her voice gentles further. "It's understandable to feel shame. People stray searching for understanding during trying times, even if it's misguided. But such things are uncharacteristic for you."

Those piercing blue eyes bore into Lena's again. "So I have to ask - does Brian knowing about Amelie shame you for the affair itself? Or are you afraid of him seeing your vulnerabilities laid bare?"

Lena shoves Angela back, fire in her eyes despite her trembling hands. "Don't shrink me, Angela! I'm not some bloody case study. I cared for Amelie, she didn't feel the same. That's the truth!"

But the memories of Brian's crestfallen eyes and Royal's soul-piercing gaze haunt her.

Waving a dismissive hand, Angela's voice regains its pragmatic edge. "Your feelings for this boy are obvious, not an issue. Just prioritize resolving things with Amelie first. I don't need personal drama complicating matters."

Her tone Brook's no argument now. "We have a meeting with the UN liaison Isaac Bergstrom from PCER tomorrow. I expect you present and professional."

++++++++++++++

Today

++++++++++++++

"We were somewhere outside Barstow, in the middle of the desert, when the drugs started to take hold," Royal sighs. He brings the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. The menthol flavor coats his tongue, cool and sharp. He releases the smoke slowly, watching it mingle with the clear air before it disappears into the ether.

The sun hangs high overhead, a merciless eye in the cloudless sky. But here, under the small umbrella-like structure erected for smokers, Royal and the intern are blanketed in blessed shade.

"Drugs?" the intern asks. He's a gangly man, all angles and awkward limbs. His dark brown hair is unkempt, almost dented from the headphones he wears. The white shirt clings to him, slicked with sweat from the harsh sun. He leans against the wall beneath the shade, a blue binder hugged to his chest like a shield.

Royal's fingertip taps the cigarette, knocking ash from the burnt end. He watches the small gray flakes fall, drifting slowly down from the skyscraper like miniature meteorites. "Calorplagamedicus," he says, his voice a low rumble. "A heatstroke medicine. Keeps you from going into shock or expending too much water."

He pauses, eyes drifting to the shimmering horizon. "Not exciting, but if you had to deal with the desert with no assurance that rest stops or cities would have supplies... it was hope."

The intern shifts his weight, his shoes scuffing against the concrete. "I can't imagine what a drought would have been like here during the war, sir," he says softly.

"Neither can I," Royal admits. He turns his head towards the intern, but his eyes are distant, focused on something far beyond the city skyline. "I'm from New York. But moved here for this job."

"Ah," the intern nods. "I used to live in Singapore, sir."

Royal's eyebrows rise slightly. "Lucky. Singapore banned omnics, didn't they?"

"After the first crisis," the intern confirms. "It was deemed necessary, sir."

"It isn't the start of something or some judgment," Royal muses. He takes another drag, holds the smoke in his lungs. "If anything, it was a good idea. Ticking time bombs, omnics. Mess with them enough, and they try to rip you limb from limb."

The intern shifts again, discomfort flickering across his face. "My mother had the perspective that they aren't much more dangerous than people. 'Murders are frequent enough,' she said."

Royal lets the smoke trickle out slowly, watching it dissipate in the faint breeze. "Humans don't try to exterminate all life on the planet every 15 years, do they?"

The intern looks out onto the city, a patchwork of old and new, of scars and resilience. "I never had issues with omnics," he admits. "30 years ago, they were considered new. A marvel. I remember our teacher showing a broadcast of the president shaking hands with one when I was in 3rd grade." He pauses, swallows. "But then the crisis happened. Then another. Then another. Then the war."

Royal cocks his head to the side, studying the intern. "Do you know what my first job out of college was?"

"No, sir."

"An underwriter," Royal says, tapping ash off his cigarette again. "Insurance companies hire people who do risk assessment to deduce the value of one's life. It's mostly the type of thing you'd see in a movie. But you take in certain factors. Smoking, drinking, drug use. And you deduce the life insurance payout, or even if you should let someone take out a policy."

He takes the cigarette from his mouth, holding it between his fingers. The ember glows faintly in the shade. "One day, word came down the pipeline that omnic employees were starting to drop the ball on calculations. Numbers wouldn't be calculated correctly. Sometimes the wrong names were attached to files. You get the idea. Eventually, all work done by omnics had to be shifted over to the human employees."

Royal gestures with his cigarette, a ribbon of smoke trailing his movement. "People in the breakroom do what they do. Drink coffee and talk out of their asses about how the calculators can't calculate, and how we have to do more work than we're paid to."

He pauses, his eyes unfocused as if seeing a scene from the past. The city sounds fade - no car horns, no distant chatter. Just the whisper of the wind and his voice. "Eventually, in the office one day, this guy started going on about it to an omnic. And it did what it was supposed to. Apologies, some words of consolation, acting like they can empathize. That whole act."

Royal gestures to his breast pocket, a slow, deliberate movement. "Eventually, the guy laid a hand on it. Wasn't more than a tap. If someone did it to you in the hall, you'd barely notice. But the omnic didn't take it. Returned the tap."

He takes a final drag of the cigarette, lets the smoke curl out of his nostrils. "And the guy returned with a jab. And the omnic returned that too. One punch from it, and the man's jaw flew off and shattered a computer monitor."

Royal stubs out the cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray with more force than necessary. "But you know what it did next?" he asks the now-nervous intern, who begins to fidget, his binder creasing under his tightening grip.

"It went back to normal," Royal says, his voice low. "Just sat back down and went back to work. Even took a phone call when its desk phone rang. Just spoke about some deadline at the end of the week. Even sounded cheery that the bonuses would be granted in a week."

He rises slowly, moving across the concrete rooftop with measured steps. He sinks into a beach chair in the shade, the fabric creaking under his weight. "Took maybe 15 minutes for police to arrive. They had to shoot it." He pauses, letting the words hang in the air. "A month later, the crisis happened."

Royal stretches like a cat, joints popping over the wind. "Anyway," he says, as if he hasn't just narrated a prelude to global catastrophe.

"My second job was on Wall Street, working for a real estate firm," Royal began, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia mixed with bitterness. "After the first crisis, land became a hot commodity. There was a housing crisis, and America had experienced a few of those at the turn of the century, so it boiled down to getting enough guys to make phone calls and sucking up to the S.E.C. When things stabilized, the money was good. I got to wear suits, drive fancy new cars, buy a penthouse, and even had a kid." He paused, his gaze distant. "Did you know that omnics weren't allowed on the stock market floor until '67? A bunch of guys with microphones argued that they'd manipulate the stock market and edge out the little guys. But everyone knew. Whatever a human could do, an omnic could do better. Think, act, fight if they needed to. They were predators, simple as that. Every facet of human existence could be completed using an omnic."

Royal looked out over the city, his expression hardening as he continued. "What do you think of if someone asked you to recall the worst moment of your life? Is it the most embarrassing, the most dangerous? Do you think of that girl in high school who you thought you'd be with forever?"

He fixed his blue eyes on the intern, his stare intense and unyielding. The intern shivered under the weight of Royal's gaze. "I think of the moments I wasn't there for my family. My wife was visiting her parents in Greenwich, and I was still at work when the EMP detonated. A roomful of wise guys were either screaming profanities and shouting in victory or seething in anger. Then I found myself in a silent room. The air conditioning kicked off, the phones stopped, and even the lights shut off. It was dead quiet. A few minutes later, a guy named Bill dropped to the ground, gasping because his pacemaker had shorted out. A few guys went to help him, but real anarchy broke out once the planes started falling from the sky."

Royal raised his hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off a headache. "I hate doing the same thing over and over again," he confessed, his voice tinged with frustration. "First, it was policies. Then, it was stocks. Now, it's starting peacekeeping initiatives that want nothing more than to see tin cans turned to slag."

The intern's watch beeped, drawing his attention to the small text. "Bergstrom's stuck at the airport. He's going to need you to open up the meeting with the U.N."

Royal closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if trying to draw strength from the air around him. "What's on the itinerary?"

"Discussion of the peacekeeping initiative and the implementation of Caduceus nanobiotic technology into field hospitals."

Royal sat up straighter, his interest piqued. "Peacekeeping. That sounds like Overwatch business. Will the liaison be present?"

The intern flipped through the binder in his hands, scanning the memorandum. "I'm not sure. The liaison mostly deals directly with the U.N. outside of meetings."

Royal shook his head, a slight frown creasing his brow. "Do you know who's been sent to discuss the Caduceus technology?"

The intern hesitated for a moment. "Dr. Ziegler? The former Overwatch agent, sir." He made a wing gesture with his hand. "The angel one."

Royal nodded, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Understood." He rose from his chair with a sense of purpose. "Time to meet the reason we're in this mess."

The intern followed closely behind, clearly eager to keep up. "Sir, if I might ask, why'd you mention all that?"

Royal paused at the door, turning to look at the intern with a mixture of weariness and determination. "You're going to observe the meeting. Just remember something. I watched an omnic rip apart a man with his bare hands. And I shot down U.N planes during the war to sell them for scrap. And I'm going to advocate for omnic rights and sign some paychecks for U.N peacekeepers."

"Nothing makes any sense." Royal said stepping inside.

++++++++++++++

Elsewhere

++++++++++++++

Angela taps her foot in rhythm to the dull elevator muzak. Her eyes scan the "P.C.E.R" lettering painted on the back wall as the last bits of Caduceus data transmit to the data pad in her palm.

"The nanomachines are operating at peak efficiency?" she asks, met with a tired huff on the other end.

"Yes, Angela. Everything should work perfectly fine now. The collagen bonding issue is resolved, so next week's test should go swimmingly."

A satisfied smile tugs at Angela's lips. "Perfect. So I just need to present the data to the U.N., and with P.C.E.R.'s approval, we can help so many people."

Audible giddiness laces the assistant's voice. "I'm so proud, doctor."

Angela hums in acknowledgment, adjusting her hair as the elevator dings, signaling its arrival at the 40th floor. "I'm at the meeting room. I'll update you afterward."

"You better, doc!" The assistant's lighthearted laugh rings out before Angela ends the call with a smile, her hand extending outward as the doors part.

Angela smelled cigarettes, Her jaw going slack as Jack Morrison stared down at her.

Chapter Text

Royal leans back into the chair at the end of the cocoa brown desk. His hands wrap around a light-colored file, flipping through pieces of paper. An old analogue clock on the wall ticks away the moments. His eyes lock onto the photos of the actual design for Caduceus.

He holds up a page from the file. "Miss Ziegler, is this what you'll be submitting for circulation?" he asks, looking up. The blonde woman at the end of the table seems to be scanning every inch of his face with an almost glazed-over expression.

Royal's eyes return to the page, then glance towards the clock. 1:10. The meeting was supposed to start at 1pm. He checks his phone. Zero messages.

Placing the folder flat on the desk, he brings his other hand up, rubbing his forehead. "I don't mean to assume, but you were a former Overwatch member, weren't you?" Royal asks Angela.

She gives a subtle nod, her eyes losing that glassy shine. "Ah, yes, I was - still am, but I mainly focus on the research of medical technology."

Royal hums, his face stone-like. He sighs. "You wouldn't happen to have the number of the liaison, would you?"

Angela nods, palming her phone and looking it over. "I told them to be here early for the meeting, but unfortunately..." She trails off. "I don't seem to have any messages."

A subtle shiver runs through Royal as the room seems to grow slightly colder.

A knock at the door draws the eyes of both Royal and Angela. Royal raises an eyebrow, glancing towards the glass window next to the boardroom door. A familiar head of hair comes into view.

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear," Royal mutters under his breath.

Angela's eyes dart towards Royal questioningly.

Royal stands up, wiping his lap down and flattening the wrinkles in his clothes. He moves to the door, pulling it open.

Royal opens the door, revealing Lena Oxton. She's wearing a white long-sleeve button-up with charcoal grey trousers and a black tie, hastily done. Her typically wild hair remains messy and free.

Her eyes lock onto Royal's, and he notices a subtle look of fear cross her features. She tries to speak but stutters, looking like she's seen a ghost. Her gaze darts around his taller form, fixing on something past him.

"Arriving late is unprofessional," Royal says, his words laced with venom. He steps back, shooting a look at the receptionist, who shirks away.

Closing the door behind him, Royal addresses Lena, who's now seated and sitting straight up. "Mrs. Oxton, I assume you're aware of the purpose of this meeting?"

"Only Miss Oxton," Lena corrects quickly.

Royal's eyebrow arches. He makes a clicking noise with his tongue and sits at the end of the table. "And yes, I know that P.C.E.R is working on the production and shipping of Caduceus tech."

Royal nods. "Unfortunately, Joseph Bergstrom, who was supposed to be overseeing this, ran into some flight delays. I'll be overseeing the meeting, and my assistant will handle communications between us and the U.N. about the peacekeeping initiative."

He raises a hand towards a camera on the wall. "Yan Bai Hu, patch the call to the U.N. to the screens. The liaisons have arrived."

Soon, the Vishkar loading screen appears on the wall, turning and spinning. Blocks of windows begin to clear, revealing blurry camera views of a U.N. council.

Angela's hand is wrapped around a pen, her fingers cracking its thin black enamel. Her eyes are glassy, zoned out completely. A brief sensation against her leg, tapping frequently, pulls her attention.

Everything seems different. Her eyes move before her head does, darting upward to look towards Lena. The other woman looks just as offset, seeming to seek support from Angela.

Angela shakes her head subtly. Her gaze shifts to focus on Royal, who stares forward impassively as the call to the UN connects.

/-Sometime later-/

The call disconnects. Lena's eyes remain fixed on Royal, who ignores the intensity of her gaze. He collects his things, waving to the camera and gathering the Caduceus photos into a folder. Sliding it across the table, he states robotically, "It was nice doing business with you both. I hope this is the beginning of a fruitful business relationship."

Royal stands and moves past them. Lena whispers something to Angela before following Royal into the hall. He strides towards the elevator, his face calm and neutral, belying the magnitude of the deal he's just negotiated.

Pushing the elevator button, Royal rubs the soreness from his neck. "Royal, wait up!" Lena calls. He exhales, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Inside the elevator, Royal turns to Lena with a stern glare. She flinches, seeming childlike despite her age. "What is it? I'm busy," he asks brusquely.

Lena, slightly breathless, collects herself. "I wanted to ask you... when it came down to a vote, you were the decider. Why did you side with me?"

Royal's eyes narrow as Lena continues, "Given what happened and your suspicions about me, you could have easily held a grudge and blocked it. So why didn't you?"

"You think I hold some sort of grudge?" Royal scoffs.

Lena counters, "Don't you? You made it clear you don't trust me, so why side with me, especially when you could have easily blocked it just to spite me?"

Royal rubs his temples, eyes focused on her. "It isn't about trust, Miss Oxton. Caduceus is useful. It would save lives and has potential. My personal feelings have nothing to do with the decision."

Lena frowns, scanning his face. "But after everything, why wouldn't you want to see me fail?"

Royal sighs, "I can separate personal and professional. I'm not going to lie to you - if you've done anything to my son or have anything planned, I'm going to make it my problem and solve it. But other than that, the point of life is getting over whatever bullshit you have going on in order to do the right thing for others. Regardless of how it makes you feel."

The elevator stops. Royal exits, then turns back to Lena. "Something's been bothering me since the meeting." He watches her back straighten, her feet shifting as if ready to move. "I see the way you stare at me. Flinch whenever I move. Who did you kill that I look like?"

/-/

Angela stares vacantly at the back of her driver's seat, clutching a file. Her fingertips are red and stinging from rubbing the material.

The car door opens, letting in a stream of light. A hand lands on Angela's shoulder, gently shaking her.

"Angela?" Lena's voice is soft, comforting, despite her own visible unease. "Hey Angie, it's me... it's Lena. I'm here with you."

Angela freezes, her eyes darting to Lena's. There's a darkness in them that Lena's never seen before.

"L-Lena?" Angela asks shakily.

Lena nods. "It's me, Angie. We're in the car now."

Angela takes a long, shaky breath. "I'm sorry, I- should've-"

Lena squeezes her hand. "It's alright. You're doing okay. The meeting went well, so don't worry. Everything's fine."

Angela tries to steady her breathing, staring at her hands with a thousand-yard stare. A faint smile curves her lip. "He just... looks so much like Morrison. I-... It brought back everything."

Lena frowns, her own hands shaking slightly in her lap. Her eyes dart away as she recalls Royal's question:

"Who did you kill that I look like?"

/-/

The cliff face trembles as Brian's back slams against it. The impact reverberates up his spine, each vertebra a tuning fork of pain. His teeth chatter, the taste of adrenaline metallic on his tongue. Glancing up, he sees the health bar hovering in his peripheral vision – only a quarter remains.

In his right hand, Brian clutches a massive longsword. Its blade gleams, a mesmerizing pattern of silver and gold that seems almost alive in the virtual light. His left arm strains under the weight of a towering white shield, its face adorned with two elegant golden arcs that catch and reflect every flicker of movement.

The air around him suddenly shifts. It's subtle at first – a whisper, a disturbance in the digital air. Then, in a heartbeat, it erupts into chaos. A deafening burst of gunfire shatters the silence. Brian's muscles tense instinctively as he raises his shield. Two rounds slam into the barrier with earth-shaking force. The impact travels through the shield, up his arm, rattling his bones and setting his nerves ablaze.

As the echoes of gunfire fade, the threat materializes. A whirlwind of crimson rose petals, beautiful yet deadly, whips past him. They coalesce into a form both graceful and lethal – Hana, her scythe a blur of red, black, and white. The massive blade comes down with crushing force, missing Brian by mere inches. It bites deep into the concrete, sending spiderwebs of cracks racing outward.

Brian doesn't hesitate. He raises his heater shield once more, this time channeling a different kind of power. The shield's surface ripples and pulses with waves of deep purple energy. As Hana closes in for another strike, the energy surges outward. It catches her mid-leap, her eyes widening in surprise as the force hurls her backward.

She twists in the air, a testament to her agility, and lands with feline grace several feet away. Her chest heaves with exertion, each breath a cloud in the cool air.

"You're really going all out, aren't you?" Brian asks, his voice a mix of admiration and challenge.

Hana's eyes narrow, a predatory glint in their depths. "You wanted me to go all out before," she says between breaths. "I think you're ready."

Her hand moves to a brace on the scythe's handle. Brian's muscles coil, ready to spring. He's seen this move before, but knowing what's coming doesn't make it any less terrifying.

A gout of flame erupts from the back of the scythe, transforming the elegant weapon into a makeshift rocket. Hana launches forward, the ground beneath her feet cracking from the sheer force of her acceleration. She becomes a blur of pink, blue, and red – a deadly comet hurtling towards Brian.

Time seems to slow. Brian raises his shield, bracing for impact. Hana whirls in midair, her scythe describing a perfect arc. The clash when it meets Brian's shield is thunderous. Sparks fly, and the air itself seems to ripple from the collision.

The force drives Brian back, his feet leaving furrows in the ground. But he's not out yet. In one fluid motion, he sweeps his shield aside and thrusts with his sword. The blade cuts through the air with a whistle, aimed straight for Hana's midsection.

But she's already gone.

In a burst of rose petals, Hana vanishes. Brian's sword meets nothing but air. His eyes dart around, searching for his opponent. A whisper of movement above catches his attention.

There she is, perched impossibly on the flat of his extended blade. Her form is crouched, compact, with one eye pressed against the scope of her transformed weapon. The scythe is now a sleek, high-caliber sniper rifle, its barrel pointed directly at Brian's head.

"Gotcha," Hana says, her voice tinged with triumph.

The world explodes into sound and fury. The rifle's report is deafening, the muzzle flash momentarily turning night to day. Smoke billows out, obscuring Brian from view.

Hana lands lightly on the ground, her rifle morphing back into the war scythe. She peers into the smoke, waiting for it to clear, anticipation building in her chest.

Suddenly, a pulse of purple energy dispels the smoke like a gust of wind. As it clears, Brian steps forward, seemingly unharmed. His shield, now back in its scabbard form, hangs at his belt.

Hana's jaw drops. "How'd you dodge that!" she exclaims, disbelief evident in her voice.

Brian's face swirls with white-gold energy, a testament to his activated ability. With a casual motion, he spits something onto the ground – the bullet, flattened and smoking.

"Bit the bullet," he says with a roguish grin, unable to resist the pun.

Hana shakes her head, a mix of frustration and grudging respect in her eyes. "You're insane," she mutters.

Brian pulls up his menu, the translucent interface glowing softly in the air before him. "You're moving quick," he says, scrolling through options. "I think I'm going to change my loadout. You mind?"

As Hana catches her breath, Brian takes a moment to really look at her. She's using her official vtuber account, and the outfit is pure anime fantasy come to life. The blue bunny suit hugs her form, its surface catching and reflecting light in mesmerizing patterns. Pink and black highlights add depth and contrast, drawing the eye along sleek lines. Black stockings disappear beneath the suit, adding an air of mystery. Atop her head, bubblegum pink bunny ears twitch and move with surprising realism.

Her eyes, unnaturally large and expressive, narrow as she catches him staring. "Simp," she accuses, though there's a hint of amusement in her tone.

Brian rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "A bit too short to be looking down on me, aren't you?" he retorts, unable to resist the jab at her diminutive avatar.

In response, Hana raises her weapon and fires another round. It pings harmlessly off Brian's chestplate, but the message is clear.

"You attack me because it's the truth," Brian quips, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His finger hovers over an old notification in his menu: "From: Lyudmila. As my biggest fan, I figured you should try this."

Brian's eyes roam over the new costume and weapon sent to him. The cyborg ninja outfit, complete with a long, sharp blade glowing scarlet, catches his attention immediately. He examines the dark black suit, thinking it looks a bit edgy, but intriguing nonetheless.

"You mind if I experiment a bit?" he asks, glancing at Hana.

She waves him off impatiently. "Hurry up!"

"Alright!" Brian grins, activating the new loadout.

Hexagonal blue textures begin to envelop Brian's entire body, growing over him like digital moss. The transformation is mesmerizing, each hexagon pulsing with energy as it spreads. Finally, when he's perfectly covered, the hexagons burst into nothingness, revealing his new form.

Where Brian once stood, a sleek cyborg warrior now takes his place. His blonde hair has turned a striking silvery hue, contrasting sharply with the solid metal jaw that now defines his lower face. In his hand, the crimson sword pulses with barely contained energy.

"Let's try this out," Brian murmurs, his voice carrying a slight metallic edge.

He turns to Hana, noticing her unfocused stare. Her eyes seem to glaze over as she slips into a battle stance, clearly thrown off by his dramatic transformation.

Brian switches into his own battle stance, legs parted, holding the scarlet blade to the side of his head in a classic ninja pose. A visor slides down over his face, and suddenly a burst of information appears before his eyes.

"Lyudmila must have spent weeks designing this," he whispers, marveling at the complexity of the interface.

An outline of Hana appears in his vision, highlighting weak points and predicting movement patterns. Brian swings the sword out, his foot catching on the black heel of Hana's boot. She pivots, kicking back against his arm, which he braces with his new armor.

In a flash, Hana bursts into rose petals. Brian, guided by his new interface, jumps into the air, slashing through the mass of petals. The cloud splits in half, surrounding him in a storm of flowers.

Acting on instinct, Brian presses a button on the blade. A Japanese Kanji appears, glowing in the air, and suddenly the storm of petals freezes in place. Hana floats in midair, her eyes wide with shock.

"What the hell!" she exclaims, her voice oddly distorted in the time-frozen bubble.

"Guess this was supposed to freeze time?" Brian wonders aloud, swinging towards her. He watches as a massive chunk of HP is taken from her health bar, drawing Hana into the red to match his own depleted health.

The time-freeze effect wears off, and Brian notices a red zap of electricity cutting over the blade and spreading up his body. "Ripper mode is ready," flashes across his visor.

Without hesitation, Brian presses the button again. His entire body engulfs in red lightning, muscles feeling like they're filled with electric, burning lava. The power is intoxicating, almost overwhelming.

Hana, recovering from the time freeze, charges towards him. She raises her blade, spinning it down in a deadly arc. Brian parries each slice, returning with an equal flurry of strikes. They jump from place to place, a deadly dance of blades, each testing to see whose guard will break first.

Suddenly, Hana aims the back of her scythe towards him. A massive flaming round shoots over Brian's shoulder, the recoil launching Hana backwards. Brian raises his blade as a wave of bullets flies towards him. They ding heavily off the blade, the spray of fire deflected by his lightning-quick movements.

Moving forward with inhuman speed, Brian slides on the ground. A blade juts out from his heel, piercing one of Hana's rabbit ears and pinning it to a nearby tree. He raises his sword, and a massive blood-red dragon appears on the blade, its ethereal form coiling around the weapon.

Time seems to slow as Brian swings down on Hana. His eyes widen as he realizes the full extent of his attack. The sword embeds itself deep into the wood of the tree, missing Hana by mere millimeters.

A window pops up, replacing Hana's frozen form: "Hana Song has exited the Match."

Brian pulls the VR headset from his face, the gold and black Vihskar device cool against his fingers. He places it carefully on the couch, the soft thud barely audible over the muffled sounds coming from inside Hana's penthouse.

He rises slowly, each movement deliberate. His eyes scan the room, landing on Hana's desk. A knocked-over glass of water catches his attention, its contents slowly seeping into the plush carpet. The growing stain feels ominous, a silent harbinger of something amiss.

The open door to Hana's room draws his gaze. Brian hesitates, torn between respecting her privacy and concern for his friend. The sound of movement from within makes the decision for him.

He approaches cautiously, each step measured. As he nears the doorway, his eyes are drawn to the closed bathroom door. A shadow moves behind it, breaking the light that spills from beneath. The soft sound of running water reaches his ears.

Brian's hand hovers over the doorknob, uncertainty etched on his face. "Hana?" he calls softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

The shadow behind the door freezes. The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the steady drip of the faucet.

Slowly, Brian turns the knob. The door creaks open, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense atmosphere.

"Hana?" he repeats, peering into the dimly lit bathroom.

A blur of motion is his only warning. Something - someone - lunges at him. Brian's body reacts on instinct, muscle memory from years of training taking over. He catches the attacker's arm, using their momentum to pin them to the ground.

As they fall, time seems to slow. Brian raises his fist, ready to strike, but stops abruptly. His knuckles hover mere inches from Hana's face, her brown eyes wide with a mix of fear and something else - something raw and vulnerable.

Recognition dawns, and Brian scrambles backward. His back hits the wall, and he slides down, his breath coming in short gasps. The adrenaline coursing through his veins makes his fingers tingle as they dig into the carpet.

"I'm sorry, I-" he starts, but the words die in his throat as he takes in Hana's state.

She hasn't moved from where she fell. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, each breath a silent struggle. Slowly, her hands rise from the ground, trembling slightly as they cover her face.

The silence stretches between them, heavy and oppressive. Brian watches, helpless, as Hana's shoulders begin to shake. Soft, muffled sobs escape from behind her hands.

"H-Hana," Brian begins, his voice rough. He swallows hard, trying to find the right words. "What-"

He falls silent as Hana chokes back a sob. She sits up slowly, her movements stiff and uncertain. The back of her knuckles rub at her eyes, but it does little to hide the redness or the tears that continue to fall.

"Sorry," Hana says, her voice unnaturally bright. The contrast between her tone and her tear-stained face is jarring.

"I just- something came over me," Hana says, her voice straining for nonchalance. "It doesn't matter. Don't worry about it."

Brian sees through the facade. Her puffy red eyes betray the truth behind her words. He rises to his feet slowly, his voice soft but firm. "It matters."

"Whatever it is, you can tell me. I u-"

"Bullshit!"

Hana whirls around, her finger jabbing the air between them. The sudden outburst makes Brian flinch.

"Bullshit!" she repeats, her voice trembling with emotion. "You know how many people say 'I get it. I understand. You're not alone.' But guess what? They don't!"

She spreads her arms wide, her next words tumbling out in a rush. "Who the hell even are you? You talk all about the war, saying you lost people, saying you did things. The scars, the anecdotes, the fact that you know everyone - who even are you?"

Hana's hand moves to her head, rubbing her face as if trying to erase the pain etched there. "Listen. I'm feeling sick. Maybe it would be best if you-"

Before she can finish, Brian moves forward. His hands raise, not in surrender, but in determination. In a swift motion, he pins Hana, his arms on either side of her. The sudden proximity makes the air between them electric with tension.

"It's been a shitty fucking week, Hana," Brian says, his voice low and intense. "But I'm sick of this. Sick of people lying, sick of people pretending like they're so special and strong because they had problems."

Hana scowls, her hand pressing against his chest. She tries to shove him away, but Brian doesn't budge. The physical struggle mirrors their emotional one.

"You told me that when it came to Lena, if someone was lying, to grab the bull by the horns and confront them," Brian continues, his eyes locked on hers. "Maybe it's because I think of you as a hero. Maybe it's because I think of you as a friend. But I can't stand seeing you all torn up and not being able to do anything!"

Brian's words hang in the air between them. He watches as Hana's face begins to change, the anger in her eyes giving way to something more vulnerable.

"I don't want to be a hero," Hana whispers, her voice barely audible.

Brian's shoulders relax slightly at her admission. The tension in the room shifts, no longer confrontational but heavy with unspoken truths.

"It's stupid," Hana continues, her gaze dropping. "But the ninja thing... it just reminded me too much of something."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Brian asks gently, giving her an out if she needs it.

Hana's reply is quiet but firm. "No."

"Do you need to?"

There's a pause before Hana responds, "Probably."

Brian brings his hands down, stepping back to give Hana some space. He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. "I... I'll tell you about what happened to me if you tell me what happened in there," he offers, a peace offering of vulnerability.

Hana seems to bristle at the suggestion. Her eyes drift to his shirt, lingering on the spot where the giant slashing scar laid. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, almost resigned.

"You've already seen it. And I know you have questions."

+++++++++++++++++++++++

FRANCE A LONG TIME AGO

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Hana flies alongside the carrier, her MEKA cutting through the frigid air. Her HUD flickers with life signs of the strike team inside: Genji, Kiriko, and Hanzo, all strapped in and ready for action. She engages altitude and cruise control with the press of a button, wiping condensation from her face shield.

"Having fun out there?" Kiriko's voice crackles through the comms.

Hana scowls, her breath fogging up her visor. "Yeah, come out here and see. It's a-mei-zing." The pun falls flat as her HUD displays the harsh reality: "30 degrees Fahrenheit."

As the MEKA's heater kicks in, Hana grumbles, "An entire fabrication plant in Gibraltar and no one can make me a winter plug suit?"

"Like you would wear it," Genji quips.

"You're able to wear clothes over yours. Whenever I wear mine, I look like a yeti," Hana retorts, her voice a mix of frustration and amusement.

Hanzo's gruff voice cuts through the banter. "Focus is imperative to complete this mission."

"What's got you so sour, top knot?" Hana prods.

"The mission was supposed to be stealthy. It's best to keep the airwaves clear." With that, Hanzo cuts his comms.

Kiriko sighs heavily. "He's a bit anxious. Usually, he has this whole pre-fight ritual thing he does with incense and sake, but since this was kind of impromptu, I think he thinks it's bad luck."

A soft thud echoes through the comms, followed by Kiriko's yelp, "Hanzo!"

"What's going on?" Hana asks, concern creeping into her voice.

"He bonked me with his bow," Kiriko replies, sounding more annoyed than hurt.

Hana laughs, the tension momentarily broken. "Can't you like, instantly heal or something?"

"It's a more emotional pain," Genji chimes in, barely containing his own laughter.

Suddenly, a flash of red on Hana's HUD snaps her back to high alert. Her eyes dart around, scanning the gaps in the clouds that cut through the dark mist like oceans parting before a ship. Two orange lights flare in the distance, and a glowing orb hurtles towards the carrier.

"Contact! 9 o'clock!" Hana veers left, her defense matrix activating as she lands atop the small aircraft. Her targeting computer locks onto the familiar emblem. "Talon!"

A missile breaches the mist. Hana's defense matrix springs to life, disintegrating the projectile before it can detonate. A second missile veers around, its fins adjusting its trajectory. Hana turns to face it, her matrix ready.

Without warning, a jet roars overhead, a string of gunfire pinging off the hull, leaving deep gashes in the metal armor plating.

"Yeogi doum-i pil-yohaeyo!" Hana yells, her Korean plea for help echoing through the comms. The sound of slashing metal beneath her adds to the chaos, but she remains focused on the jets now strafing their position.

"Genji, can-" Hana starts, but an arrow suddenly streaks past her, exploding into the darkness with a digital shriek and a blinding orb of light. Red outlines of the jets materialize in the clouds.

"Hanzo?" Hana asks incredulously.

The archer nocks another arrow. "Focus!" he shouts, loosing it into the night sky. The arrow bursts apart mid-flight, its fragments ripping into another incoming missile, causing a spectacular explosion.

"The sky is the domain of the dragon," Hanzo declares, a rare hint of pride in his voice.

Genji appears beside his brother, drawing his blade. Its green glow illuminates the determination on his face as he points towards the other jet.

Hana unleashes a swarm of micro-missiles towards one of the enemy aircraft. "Hana, go out and play offense. Me and Hanzo will remain here," Genji commands.

In a flash of light, Kiriko materializes on the hull. "I can get us to a break in the cloud line. You boys keep them busy, sound good?"

The Shimada brothers nod, standing back-to-back, ready for battle.

Kiriko's eyes begin to glow as she brings her hands together. A massive gate of blue light tears open the sky before her, stretching out to infinity. The craft picks up speed, rocking Hana in her MEKA as they hurtle towards a break in the clouds.

The night air whips against Hana's mech as she launches into the inky sky. Her heart pounds in her chest, adrenaline surging through her veins. Suddenly, the quiet is shattered by a rapid staccato of pings – machine gun rounds ricocheting off her armor. Each impact sends a vibration through the cockpit, a reminder of the danger she's flying into.

Hana grits her teeth, her hands tightening on the controls. With a swift motion, she whips the mech around, its servos whining with the sudden movement. Her eyes dart across the holographic display, searching for the threat. There – a blip on the radar. She raises her defense matrix, a shimmering wall of energy materializing before her.

A crack of lightning illuminates the sky, briefly outlining the sleek silhouette of a jet. Hana watches, mesmerized, as it performs a graceful barrel roll, engines roaring as it turns to face her. For a split second, pilot and mech pilot lock eyes across the battlefield.

The moment shatters as the jet unleashes a slew of missiles. They streak towards Hana, leaving trails of smoke in their wake. Time seems to slow as Hana's training kicks in. She raises her defense matrix again, watching with bated breath as the energy levels on her display drop rapidly. The missiles hit the matrix one by one, each impact a brilliant flash of light and heat.

As the last missile approaches, Hana realizes her matrix won't hold. Thinking quickly, she fires off a burst of micromissiles. They race towards the incoming threat, and Hana holds her breath. The projectiles collide in midair, resulting in a chain reaction of explosions. The night sky lights up like a miniature sun, the shockwave rattling Hana's mech.

Through the fading glare, Hana spots the jet. It's vulnerable now, its missile barrage spent. This is her chance. She pushes her thrusters to maximum, feeling the g-forces press her back into her seat as she charges forward.

The distance closes rapidly. Hana can make out every detail of the jet now – its streamlined fuselage, the glow of its engines. With a resounding crash of metal on metal, her mech slams into the aircraft. The impact jolts through her body, but she maintains her grip on the controls.

Hana unloads her machine guns, the mech's arms vibrating with the constant fire. She watches in a mix of awe and horror as the jet's metal skin is slowly ripped apart. Chunks of wing and cockpit go flying off towards the distant earth, leaving trails of smoke and sparks in their wake.

After what feels like an eternity, the jet's cockpit opens. Hana catches a glimpse of the pilot's face – a mixture of fear and resignation – before they eject, vanishing into the roiling storm clouds above.

As the adrenaline of the dogfight begins to fade, Hana turns her attention back to the ship. Her eyes widen as she sees the gate, now glowing with an otherworldly light. Great plumes of black smoke begin to overtake the vessel, moving with an unnatural purpose.

Hana speeds towards the ship, her mind racing. What new threat is this? As she nears the smoke, she attempts to scan it, but her instruments begin to error, screens flickering with static and warning messages.

With a screech of metal on metal, Hana lands her mech on the craft, skidding across the surface before coming to a stop. Through her viewport, she spots Genji standing near the tail end of the ship. His sword is drawn, gleaming in the intermittent lightning, but his stance betrays confusion as he stares into the roiling dark storm.

"Genji, what's going on?" Hana calls out, her voice tight with tension.

Before Genji can respond, he whirls towards his brother. "Hanzo!" he shouts, his voice carrying even over the howling wind. "Sore wa akumada! Sore ni mukatte doragon o hassha!"

Hanzo, his long hair whipping in the gale, lowers his bow. "That's nonsense!" he retorts, skepticism clear in his voice. "It is just a storm!"

Genji raises his blade, its edge catching the light. "Trust me!" he yells, conviction resonating in every syllable.

What happens next makes Hana question her own eyes. The venting ports on Genji's cybernetic body begin to burst forth with gas, forming swirling patterns in the air. A great dragon, ethereal and glowing, materializes around him. Its roar drowns out even the thunder, as green lightning arcs through the sky, seeming to meld with Genji's blade.

Not to be outdone, Hanzo kneels, drawing his bow with practiced precision. Hana hears him chant, the words lost to the wind but their power palpable. Suddenly, azure blue dragons rise from the man's skin like living tattoos, flowing around the arrow in a mesmerizing helix.

Hanzo releases the arrow, and it bursts into blinding light. The dragons flow outward, growing to a size that dwarfs the ship. Hana watches, awestruck, as they swirl and roar into the night, their scales shimmering with otherworldly power.

In a display of superhuman agility, Genji leaps into the air. His blade moves in a complex pattern, somehow catching the essence of the dragons. With a shout lost to the chaos, he launches them towards the black storm.

The collision is cataclysmic. Dragons of light and energy slam into the dark miasma. A great, unearthly screaming fills the air, sending chills down Hana's spine. She watches, transfixed, as the dragons tear through the blackness, dissipating the unnatural clouds and revealing clear sky behind.

As the echoes of the supernatural battle fade, Hana's combat instincts suddenly flare. A red blip appears on her HUD, directly behind her. She whips around, her mech responding instantly to her commands, guns at the ready.

Her eyes lock onto a figure she hadn't noticed before – a man in a great black coat, his face hidden behind a white mask. Time seems to slow as Hana registers the gun in his hand, already raised and aimed.

Before she can shout a warning, before she can bring her weapons to bear, the man pulls the trigger. The gunshot cracks through the air, grotesquely mundane after the mythical battle they've just witnessed.

Hana watches in horror as Kiriko, standing just beyond her field of fire, jerks from the impact. The young woman's eyes widen in shock.

As Kiriko begins to fall, Hana finds herself frozen the taste of ozone and gunpowder bitter on her tongue.

Hana rubs her face with her hand, her eyes puffy and pink. She clutches her legs to her chest, leaning back against the headboard of her bed. With a shaky sigh, she tilts her head back and closes her eyes.

"There was some more but..." Hana's voice trails off, thick with emotion. "Kiriko was a friend to me. She was important and because I wasn't paying attention, she... she didn't make it." The words hang heavy in the air, laden with unspoken grief.

Brian sits at the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. He seems to be wrestling with his thoughts, trying to find the right words. "I- I'm sorry," he finally manages, his voice soft and uncertain.

Hana sighs, her face buried in her knees. "Don't be. It had nothing to do with you." Her voice is muffled, but the pain in it is clear.

Brian shakes his head, his hand inching towards hers. He fights the urge to grab it, unsure if the gesture would be welcome. To his surprise, Hana reaches out, placing her hand on his and giving it a small squeeze.

"I haven't really told anyone about this," Hana confesses, her voice barely above a whisper. "I mean, when Kiriko died, people asked about it. I saw a counselor, but it didn't really help. I mean, everyone goes through this sort of thing differently, but..." She trails off, letting the silence stretch between them.

Suddenly, Hana's demeanor shifts. A forced smile appears on her face, the corners of her eyes crinkling with the effort. "It's fine," she says, her voice artificially cheery. "I mean, everyone's gotta have something, right? Even the perfect D.Va has got to have something." The facade is painfully obvious, a stark contrast to her earlier vulnerability.

Brian frowns, discomfort clear on his face. "Stop that," he says, his voice gentle but firm. He looks away, one hand rubbing the back of his neck while the other rests on his knee. "You remember when I told you I didn't want you to hold back?" He pauses, gathering his courage. "I didn't just mean in video games. I- I wanted you to not hold anything back. I hate people who hide things, and I don't want to be just another person seeing a persona, you know?"

He looks back at her, his eyes earnest. "I mean, I'm a big fan, but I don't want you to have to pretend to be some invincible hero who doesn't have problems just because they think they shouldn't have them." A small, hesitant smile crosses his face. "You told me that I need to stop thinking about people as heroes. And I met you, and I didn't know who you were at first. I met you as Hana Song. Then I found out you were this really cool VTuber that also fought bad guys in a multibillion-dollar mecha. But at the end of the day, I don't care about all that."

Brian raises his hands, his words coming faster now, driven by a need to make Hana understand. "I mean, I do. What happened was bad, and there's no denying that. But I'm not friends with D.Va or the hero Hana Song. I'm just friends with Hana." He smiles, hope shining in his eyes as he waits for her reaction.

The room falls silent, the air heavy with unspoken emotions. Hana's facade begins to crumble, her forced smile faltering as Brian's words sink in. She looks at him, really looks at him, seeing past her own expectations and fears. In his awkward, earnest attempt to connect, she sees something rare and precious – acceptance of her whole self, flaws and all.

Hana's lips quiver, her eyes welling up with tears she's been holding back for far too long. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, she leans forward, wrapping her arms around Brian in a tight hug. Her body shakes with silent sobs as she finally allows herself to grieve, to be vulnerable, to be simply Hana.

"You can't ever tell anyone," Hana says, her voice muffled against Brian's shirt as she continues to cry into it.

"I won't. You're my friend, Hana," Brian reassures her, his voice soft and sincere.

As Hana continues crying, Brian tries to ignore the rising heat in his cheeks, acutely aware of her closeness. His eyes dart around the room, scanning the plushies and game figurines on shelves and desks, desperately trying not to stare at Hana as she breaks down.

"You're the king of the simps," Hana suddenly says, her voice thick with tears but tinged with amusement.

Brian arches an eyebrow, confused. "What?"

Hana looks up, her eyes puffy but with a smile that seems genuine. Brian can't help but think it's cute. "You have a girl in your arms and all you can do is look at anime figurines."

Brian looks shocked. "I didn't think you'd want me to really look at you."

Hana rises, sitting next to him. She uses her hand to wipe a tear from her cheek, a lazy grin spreading across her face. "You're so lame," she says, but there's affection in her tone.

Brian gives a small laugh, relieved to see her mood lifting.

"Brian, I... I trust you," Hana continues, her voice growing serious. "Even if we haven't really hung out normally, even if we only really meet when bad stuff happens, you're the first real friend I've had in years."

Brian almost asks about Overwatch but thinks better of it. Instead, he simply asks, "Really?"

Hana sighs, her gaze wandering around the room. "Yup. I bought this place thinking I'd have roommates. Friends. Sleepovers. But it's been a while, and none of that's happened." Her voice holds a wistful note. "But then there's you. You show up with your pizza boy hat and old blue hoodie, and now you're watching me cry. It sounds like a crappy manhwa."

She stretches out over the bed, getting more comfortable. Brian watches her, a mix of emotions playing across his face.

"I could... come over more often if you wouldn't mind it," Brian says quietly, his voice hesitant.

"Why would I mind?" Hana asks, genuinely curious.

"Isn't it a bit awkward to have someone ask to come over all the time?"

"Only if I didn't like you."

Brian's cheeks go pink as he tries to decipher the meaning of 'like'. Hana notices his reaction and smirks.

"You're a good guy, Brian. Don't get all weird and wussy on me. I've seen you without a shirt, and you don't look like a wimp."

Brian's face flushes a deeper shade of red. "Speaking of which," Hana turns to look at him, a mischievous glint in her eye, "you owe me a story."

Brian tenses up. "I don't remember that," he says, looking away.

Hana curses in Korean, her frustration evident. "You can't give me all that stuff about lying and hiding stuff then play dumb about this. It's... hypocritical!" she exclaims.

Brian turns towards her, his expression a mix of embarrassment and defiance. "What about all that stuff about caring about more than looking like a hero? I thought you were amazing even at the gas station when you wore a mask and talked to me about drinks."

Hana's cheeks turn rosy. "I guess it was kinda hypocritical, but still!" She gets up, and Brian can't help but look her over. The pink shorts and white crop top she wears make him a bit tense. "You owe me a story."

"Couldn't we get dinner first?" he asks, trying to change the subject.

Hana glances at the clock. "Hm. Let's get takeout."

Brian searches for excuses. "What about if it's over at like 3 AM and I have to drive home in the middle of the night?"

Hana looks at him, raising an eyebrow. "You'll spend the night, dummy."

Brian squeezes his hands in his lap, his nervousness evident. "I've never slept over at a girl's house."

Hana rubs her temples, muttering under her breath in Korean, "Hananim, i salam-i balo naega seontaeghan salam-ibnida." She takes a deep breath, then says, "We can just go all night in VR if you're down."

Brian visibly perks up. "You mean Moonlighting?" he asks, excitement replacing his nervousness.

Hana nods.

"I've never done that with someone before." leaning down, Hana flicks him on the forehead. "Then I guess I'll be your first," she says with a taunting smirk. She turns around, pulling her phone from her pocket. "I'm ordering takeout. I'll be right back!" she calls over her shoulder as she slips out of the bedroom.

As the door closes behind Hana, Brian lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He looks around the room, taking in the details of Hana's personal space, a mix of excitement and nervousness coursing through him

+++++++++++++++++

4th of July Party Omake

+++++++++++++++++

The tent buzzes with activity as the women prepare for the holiday celebration.

"This is stupid!" Hana yells, clutching a towel to her chest.

Angela peeks out from behind a curtain. "When in Rome, do as the Romans do," she says before disappearing again.

Amelie steps out, looking like a swimsuit model in her American flag print bikini. "It isn't the most revealing thing," she says quietly.

Hana's eyes dart over Amelie. "Yeah, but you're used to being risqué. You used to be a model! I used to wear hoodies in summer!"

Amelie tilts her head. "It was a personal request. I don't see the point of it. It's not anything different than a costume party." She examines her outfit. "It is a bit odd how they seem to be so customized."

Angela emerges in a straw sunhat, star-shaped sunglasses, and a knee-length dress with a thigh-high slit adorned with the same same stars and striped pattern "I like it. It shows that care went into it, and frankly, that's half the gift in itself."

Hana looks down at her costume - a striped bikini with a crop top jacket, red and blue with a large white star on the back. "This is ridiculous."

"It's a holiday," Angela corrects, taking Hana's towel.

Lena enters, wearing an American flag shirt crop top above a blue and white monokini and silver mirrored aviators. "Food's gonna be ready soon!" she announces.

Angela turns to Hana. "Come on, Hana. It's a party. Have some courage."

"Lena's wearing an actual shirt and swim suit!" Hana protests.

"It's tied up to look like a bikini," Amelie states.

Hana runs a hand through her hair, not noticing the silent agreement between Amelie and Angela. Suddenly, she's tackled to the ground.

Brian stands at the grill, flipping a burger and adding a slice of cheese. He glances over to see Peter building a sandcastle with Mei, an older woman with her hair done up in a large needle-like pin. Brian notes the odd scent of brimstone around her.

"Hey!" Lena's voice calls out. Brian turns to see her leading the group, with Amelie and Angela holding Hana up by the arms. The shorter woman's legs dangle, unable to reach the ground as she tries to escape.

"4th of July time!" Lena yells in her British accent.

Brian feels an odd sense of satisfaction. In his mind's eye, he imagines himself wearing Roman soldier armor and a crown. "I did it, My emperor, George Washington. I did it," he thinks to himself, shedding an imaginary tear.

He looks out to the sunset where the figures of Julius Caesar and George Washington appear on the horizon, smiling and giving him a thumbs up.

Back in reality, Lena, Angela, and Amelie pull Brian in for a group hug. All the while, Hana continues screaming in Korean.