Chapter Text
Morrison has never been to Geneva before. Not that it bothers him - this won’t be the first time he has to land and hit the ground running. After waiting for the aisle to clear, he pulls his backpack from the overhead bin, shoulders it, and moves out. Commercial aircraft. Quite a change from the military craft he’s used to, and honestly less comfortable.
As he steps off the plane, a flash of movement catches his eye - Reyes, already waiting in the terminal. “Hey, Iowa,” the other man says, grinning. “Fresh from the cornfield?”
“And ready to go again,” Morrison responds. “Good to see you made it,” he continues, clapping Reyes on the shoulder. “This isn’t sounding like the sort of job I’d want to do alone.”
“It’s cute you think they’d even let you try,” Reyes jibes, turning towards the walkway.
“I don’t see you lone-wolfing it either,” Morrison points out, hitching his bag up on his shoulder as they walk towards the outside doors and ground transportation.
“Hey, that wasn’t my decision,” Reyes remarks, a bit defensively. Then he gestures broadly at himself. “They just don’t know they could save their money and get two for the price of one.” Glancing at Morrison out of the corner of his eye, he grins. “And besides, you know I just do what I’m told.”
“Don’t we all,” Jack mutters in response as they pass through the airport’s automatic doors and into the early morning Swiss sunshine. A taxi is waiting at the front of the line, and they jostle their way into the back seat. In moments, they’re off and moving, heading towards United Nations headquarters.
Torbjorn shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the waistband of his pants far, far too tight. He hasn’t worn a suit since his first job interview, he feels like. And after the first, his life started taking some...interesting pathways, none of which involved dressing up in some godforsaken monkey suit. His face is already flushed red, and he can feel uncomfortable pools of sweat developing under his arms. They just needed to hurry the hell up so they could get this over with.
The young man who’d shown Torbjorn into the office earlier approaches again with another man in tow. Torbjorn watches the pair pass by the glass conference room wall, carefully assessing the newcomer. The man is huge, built like a god-damn house. He moves easily though, comfortable with his size and strength, and his suit was tailored to fit him well. He almost has to squeeze sideways through the door, and he turns briefly to thank the young secretary.
He turns to Torbjorn then, and the mega-wattage of his smile almost blinds the Swede. “Reinhardt Wilhelm,” he booms, extending a hand the size of a ham. “Good to meet you.”
“Torbjorn Lindholm,” the shorter man replies, taking the handshake as a personal challenge and gripping the other man’s hand as tightly as possible. “You as well.”
Stepping back, Reinhardt grabs one of the rolling office chairs and settles into it, subtly checking it’s sturdiness before putting his full weight on it. He passes a hand back over his somewhat shaggy blonde hair, then says conversationally, “So, are you from Norway?”
“Sweden,” Torbjorn spits back, with a face that looks like he’d sucked a lemon. “People always assume Norway.”
“No offense meant,” Reinhardt replies quickly. “I loved Sweden when I was there. Beautiful mountains, and some of the best damn food I’ve ever eaten. The best sausages I’ve ever eaten, and those amazing little cabbage rolls with the berry sauce on the side.” He groans, imagining these delicacies before him once again.
“That’d be the lingonberries,” Torbjorn agrees. “How long were you in Sweden for?”
“A few months,” the other man answers. “I’ve been on the move a lot lately. Lots of countries to visit, places to see.”
“Seems like we’ll be doing more of that soon,” Torbjorn points out.
“Ha,” Reinhardt scoffs. “I didn’t come here to take it easy. Bring it on!” Crossing his arms, he leans back in his chair and smirks. “Isn’t that why you came here too?”
“They said they wanted some engineering help so that big lunks like you could crush some omnics,” Torbjorn replies, smirking.
“Well, a wee thing like you can’t do much crushing,” Reinhardt retaliates, his tone light and teasing. “Figures you’d be the brains of this thing.” Torbjorn chuckles, taking the jab in stride.
A small group of people passes by the glass wall again, with the secretary at the front. He ushers in three newcomers, interrupting their conversation. “I’ll let Ms. Adawe know you’re all here,” he chirps brightly, and disappears back down the hallway.
Morrison and Reyes stand close together. The former’s blond hair is ruffled, as if he’d forgotten to comb it. His suit hangs off him, obviously not tailored, though his bearing is confident regardless. Reyes seems to have put a little more care into his outfit, a dark maroon tie expertly knotted around his neck and trailing down his front, like a streak of blood. His moustache and beard are neatly trimmed, and his dark brown eyes move lazily around the room, sizing everyone else up.
The other newcomer is a woman. She strides to the other side of the room and takes a chair across from Reinhardt. Her dark hair is pulled back into a tight braid, and her navy pantsuit accentuates her trim figure and long legs. Ana Amari sits at the edge of her chair, reminiscent of a cat or a hawk, some sharp-clawed predator waiting for a target. A small tattoo marks her face under her right eye, black lines curving towards her cheekbone.
Reyes and Morrison finally move into the room as well, sitting down beside each other. The silence stretches out between them all, as they gaze at each other in their professional suits and stiff demeanors, trying to place any of the others as faces or names they’d heard in the past, and realizing they knew almost nothing.
The door opens again, and a tall black woman enters, carrying an armful of portfolios. “Thank you for coming,” she says warmly. “I’m Secretary-General Gabrielle Adawe. What we talk about today must stay in this room.” She moves forward to hand a portfolio to each person sitting around the table, keeping one for herself.
Moving to the end of the table, she sits down next to Reinhardt, who makes her look small in comparison despite her height. “We’ll get right down to business, as we’re all busy people. I have a proposal for you all, and I do hope you’ll take me up on it. You all have a particular set of skills, and we need each one of you.”
She opens her portfolio, prompting the others to open theirs as well. The Secretary-General has prepared her case well, and she moves through her presentation smoothly. Building her case piece by piece, she describes each of them, partly as a way of introducing them and partly a sly wink at how much she knew. Reyes and Morrison both knew exactly how classified their participation in the super soldier programs were, but she discusses it blithely, as if it’s been in all the newspapers. Torbjorn’s work had been held up in legal issues with his last job, bickering over intellectual property, but she addressed some of his biggest triumphs as if the lawyers weren’t still arguing over every piece of meat left to pick off the bone.
The next page is a stark listing of every omnic attack in the last 5 years, arranged by year. Statistics go along with each attack - casualties, monetary damages, lost territory. The rate of attacks is obviously picking up - this year has three times as many attacks as the first year.
“You’ve seen the news,” Adawe says, finally coming to the crux of her quick and targeted presentation. “You understand why this is important. And you’ve seen why our current methods aren’t working.” Each of them, with their own military experiences, could speak to the last. Current military methods weren’t cut out for working against artificial intelligences. They couldn’t move fast enough, couldn’t adapt.
“This is why we ask for your help.” The Secretary-General’s brilliant green eyes flick to each person in turn. “Unlimited funding,” she begins. “Unlimited resources. Your team will have the freedom to do what needs to be done, the speed to strike when needed, and the resources to adapt as you need. We’ll make the connections to whoever or whatever you need, and get you whatever information or resources required. Your job will be to turn the tide of this war.”
A silence settles over the group. The conference room suddenly seems very large, when Adawe starts talking about the five of them taking on the omnic crisis. Each of them slowly turns the idea over in their head, processing their options. If they agree...impossible. Five people, against the inexorable tide of omnics? But if they leave, they return to their lives, to the losing battles and evacuated cities, to military positions that don’t seem to do anything effective, so they can watch more civilians die when they fail.
“I’ll join.” Ana is the first to speak, her voice crisp and strong, decided. She has shut her portfolio, and her hands are gripped tightly around it. “We’re already proving we can fail on our own. Together, this might give us a chance.”
“She’s right,” Reinhardt agrees, leaning forward in his chair. “I’m with you.”
Reyes glances at Morrison, and then nods, for the both of them. “We just do as we’re told. It’s nice when it’s something you can believe in.”
As one, the group’s attention shifts to Torbjorn. He grins, a bit of a feral gleam in his eye. “If it’s one more opportunity to take out those buckets of bolts, I was in from the beginning,” he agrees gruffly.
The Secretary-General smiles. This foolish idea, this secret agreement discussed in hushed voices behind closed doors at the United Nations, might actually bear some fruit. She’d done her research before this meeting, talked with generals and presidents and prime ministers, selected her people carefully. Even the proposal of this idea to the five had been a victory. But Gabrielle Adawe had never been one who anticipated defeat.
“The last packet in your portfolio is information about your new circumstances - living quarters, pay, other details. For now, you’ll be assigned an office here, and we’ll modify things as needed. You’ll always have direct access to me. Ask, and I’ll get you what you need.” The packet is already there, waiting for her assured success. She knew the people she’d invited her today, and had known they wouldn’t turn her down.
Reyes slides the pages out of the folder and skims it quickly. “So who calls the shots?” he asks, eyes flicking between each person sitting at the table.
“You’ll report to me directly,” Adawe explains. “And you’ll be the acting commander, Mr. Reyes.”
He nods, settling back further in his seat.
“When can we get started?” Reinhardt speaks up, eyes shining, obviously eager to begin.
“I’m told your commanding officers have already given you leave to join us. Briefings for you all are waiting in your new office,” the Secretary-General says. “I can escort you there now.”
She stands and moves towards the door. “Thank you,” she says, emotion thickening her voice for a moment. “We need to be able to have hope. Hope that our tomorrow will be like the better days we remember.” The Secretary-General leads them to their new offices, the glass conference room door shutting softly behind them all.
The world needs heroes, and for now, it has chosen them.