Work Text:
After he was taken in by the Overwatch team, he shared many moments with them, unvoluntarily or not. First it was the first snow, then it was some casual small talks. Small talks, they are doors to a person’s mind, he just…doesn’t know if his doors are connected to the house anymore.
“Siebren, you must want to reconnect with your own researches, even though it costed you…a lot, no? After my incident, it took me years to finally finalize my tech. So I understand if you don’t want to, but our library is always open.”
He doesn’t remember who said those lines. Was it the blond one with wings, or was it the brunette woman…? He just remember that he zoned out at that moment, listening to them. He remembered a smile, but he always have that smile, emotions, something that Moira didn’t deem unworthy for the kind of his.
Emotions were a luxury for those in crisis. He would consider his state is crisis, all the time. When the walls are closing in despite nothing change; when times move and stay still at the same point; when voices echoing in the chamber of despair. He found emotions to be twisted and tied up in a corner, like a helpless victim with no abuser. Everything was abusing, and you can not put blame on the universe for your own doing.
“My friend!” - the other person’s voice was loud. He remembers him. Reinhardt, the big, bulky guy that always fight against him. For some reason, well it is easily answered: instict kicks in. He hold out his hand, as if his shield is still on his arm, as if it does anything to Reinhardt.
“No need to be so defensive, we’re on the same team now! My friend, it is good to have another man in the front. How are you faring?”
Loud, so loud.
Yet, somehow it drowned out the other voices.
“I’m fine…Reinhardt, no?” - He answered, his same tone, his questions are like music. The notes are flying in his head, in his eyes, they’re blue, green, and all other colors.
“Yes, yes my friend. Reinhardt, at your service! The others had told me about you, many great things! You are another scientist, right?”
“Yes.” - And it’s why he’s - “A Monster” - like he is now. The equations was - “wrong” - how can he made such small mistake? It was his fault, his fault, his own fault.
“You’re not a monster, Siebren.”
The loud voice soften. It was odd, was he talking out loud again - Sigma think to himself.
“You are safe now.” - Reinhardt still have that big smile on his face. How kind.
And somehow, Sigma finds himself smiling back.
“I am?” - he asked again, like a newfounded thesis that need to be proven, but not by facts. By emotions. It’s not tied up anymore, the ropes burn into its skin are soft leaves of a willow tree; the tears run down helped the flora blooms. - “How can you be so certain?”
“Because we’re here to help.” - The German man smiles brightly. - “I’m here, to help.”
People always say you can mend the broken, but the marking of violence will always persist. It is true. His mind is fractioned into many smaller pieces, and they are filled with void or the haunting machinery, the poisonous medicine or what so called experiment. Sigma knows he is broken, everyone around him treated him like such. They hold him in confidements, and for a long time, he believed they were correct to do so. He is a threat to society, a menace, a number no one factioned in.
But somehow, Reinhardt didn’t treat him like such. In the lost mind of a scientist, he found memories that hold the fierce eyes (or…eye) of the opponent, that behind that shield, he didn’t look at Siebren like a monster, only an equal. That in war, even if his flesh are metals and his hands are weapons, may he fight like he yearns for survival.
And now, it is his turn to see his opponent as a friend. As an equal.
In the folds of years and the wrinkles of memories, hold many faces. Many blurred faces of people he once know. People who lost, people who betrayed him. Their faces haunt every corner, every hallway he walks. Their voices echoes like a taunting chant, dragging him down to madness. How can a man knows love, if love only given to him in a rosy basket, covered by poisoned apples? How can a man knows honesty, if honesty only hold daggers and secrets?
Will he ever, be himself again, if he ever remember who he was?
I’m here to help.