Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
A Capella – To perform alone, without accompaniment.
Freezing.
Chilled hands, blue as the ice around them. A barely rising chest. Icicles laying daintily and dangerously along thick, frozen lashes.
And then there was the noise, the hiss of hydraulics as the air of the new world flew to meet her. Her body, wrapped so snugly in woolen sky blue, still shuddered, near violent in its contractions. Now, that chest was rising – no, beating, one quick inhale to follow an exhale. Too quick. Too intense. Too much.
A sharp breath and bullet of pain that was the air in her throat. Oxygen calmed her mind. Blood began to pump, and her body, slowly, surely, relaxed on the slick and icy floor.
Blood flowing to her brain was more a curse than a blessing. Her contentment laid in being unaware – now, there was too much to know. To see. To realize.
Those blue hands slammed – bang, bang, bang – against similar glass. A screech, a sob, a prayer of forgiveness. A wish for death. A regret that she was the one to survive.
And, finally, a cry, like a newborn, one that had been brought into a cruel, strange, and unfamiliar world.
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Mei jolted from sleep, heart pounding to the wildest rhythm. She jerked her head back and forth, unpinned, chocolate swirls of hair drooping and bouncing off her shoulders. The horror of the Antarctic base was replaced with the calm – if not slightly boring – orange walls of the Gibraltar watch point. A small patch of drool decorated the desk that had acted as her impromptu pillow. One teary-eyed glance at the clock told her 6:32 a.m.
A deep sigh heaved out from her chest and through her dry lips. Mei ran a hand over her face. The silence grew thicker as she pushed those awful memories out of her mind, repressing them in the process she knew all too well. Suppress. Ignore. Try to forget, rinse and repeat.
When she was composed enough, Mei grabbed her glasses off the desk, wiped her tears with the back of her arm, and sucked in a deep, calming breath. The edges of sunlight were just now beginning to tickle the morning sky, making her lips quirk. There never was any better remedy for a sleepless night than a gentle morning.
Being a natural early bird, Mei knew nobody would question her rising at such a time. With a sneer of disgust, she grabbed her parka and used the inside to mop the lake of drool from the desk. Gross. She briefly wondered if Mercy had any remedy for that. Her confidence in the German doctor had been multiplied ten-fold when she saw her (temporarily) switch McCree’s accent to British just by pressing a few nerves in the back of his neck. How that happened, Mei still never knew. Frankly, she was kind of scared to ask.
Her hands seized to a small coffee mug, marked with “World’s Best Boss Climatologist Lady” in Tracer’s erratic handwriting. Even now, Mei couldn’t hold back a small snicker.
The trip to the communal kitchen was a short one, thanks to her near photographic memory. Mei, though only being at the watch point for a handful of weeks, had accustomed herself well to the metallic surroundings and beautiful, islandic views. The latter of the situation served to calm the scientist – at least there was one reminder of beauty in this man made menagerie. Nature was the true architect, in her opinion.
One refilled cup of coffee later, and Mei was perching on the bar, happily sipping dark roasted love in a cup. A satisfied sigh trickled past her lips.
It wasn’t five minutes later that she heard a yawn and a little chirp of surprise. She turned to see a sleepy Tracer enter the kitchen, waving high while running a hand through her impossibly spiky hair. Mei still had not solved the mystery of whether or not she used hair gel – and she doubted if she ever would.
“G’mornin’, Mei,” Tracer greeted, her own empty mug in hand. There was a bit of fumbling with the Keurig before she finally popped in a pod of Sumatran and pressed the button. “How’s it?”
“I only just woke a few minutes ago myself,” Mei said with a chuckle and another sip of her coffee, “Did you sleep well?”
“Right like a baby, love,” Tracer chirped, leaning against the counter, “You?”
There was no hesitation in her voice. “I slept just fine.”
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The briefing room in Gibraltar was, in Mei’s opinion, horribly cramping. Not necessarily that it was small, but the sheer darkness of it, the near absolute lack of natural light made her skin grow goosebumps. Mei had gotten to the point that she could stand these kinds of spaces, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed it.
Winston knuckle-walked (something Mei had at first found amusing, but later grew fascinated by) to the head of the meeting table. He grunted awkwardly, scratched his forehead, and sighed. Mei wondered what was weighing so heavily on his shoulders.
Gathered at the table were Mercy, McCree, Tracer (who was trying to apparently balance a pen on her button nose), and herself. Winston looked the lot of them over, and for a moment, Mei could see a tinge of regret in those brown irises. Her heart went out for him. In many ways, she considered herself lucky to simply wake up in a world where Overwatch had fallen – the pain of seeing that happen, one by one, friend by friend, must have been excruciating. To see only a handful of their old friends gathered together . . . what a cruel reminder.
The moment was gone as soon as it came. Winston coughed. His thick fingers tossed a few files across the table. “I’m sure you all know why I’ve gathered you here.”
“Not really, partner,” McCree chimed, grinning from under his hat. Mei wanted to remind him that it was rude to wear that indoors. “Y’ kinda just grunted an’ here we are.”
Winston grumbled under his breath, something like “I do not grunt,” then looked up. “For those uninformed, and apparently oblivious, our numbers are lacking. Severely. Too many of our old . . . members,” she heard the pain in his voice, “Have died, left, or switched to the arms of Talon, and we are at a loss. I consider it a miracle that I’m able to gather even you. But this is not enough.”
He nodded to the tossed files. “Mercy and I have located newer recruits that show hope for our team. I cannot guarantee their acceptance – contact has been made and they are aware that we would like to hire them, but with Overwatch’s . . . reputation, it’s reasonable that they have their suspicions. There are four possibilities in all – which is why I am sending you in teams to, ah . . . interview them.”
Mercy stood, gathered the files, and began distributing them. She flashed a sweet smile, one that McCree returned with a wink. That smile turned into a scoff and a roll of the eyes.
“Here you are, Mei,” Mercy said in that angelic tone. She was always so gentle with the small scientist. “We wish we could let you choose your own teams and subjects, but unfortunately we were pressed for time. I am sorry for that, but surely you will find ways to enjoy it.”
“Oh, lookie here!” Tracer said energetically, “Mercy, love, I’m teamed with you!”
The blonde giggled lightly. “Yes indeed, Tracer. Ah, Mei, as for you . . . “ Her brows knitted anxiously. Mei blinked, took one look at her file, then huffed.
“McCree?”
“Well, howdy doodly,” came the cowboy’s laugh. He kicked his legs up to rest on the table only to get promptly swatted off by a frowning Mercy. “Seems like it’s my lucky day, indeed. Pleasure t’ be workin’ with ya again, Miss Mei.”
Normally, Mei was able to stand him, but right now her irritation with McCree’s absolute disregard for manners (and cleanliness) made her clench her jaw. Mei inhaled through her nose, exhaled through her mouth, then flashed him a polite, gentle smile.
“That is Doctor Mei to you, “buckaroo”.”