#i'm your queueberry

“So, you’re telling me… Your dad took down a skyscraper ?” You asked Brigitte as the two of you jogged around the facility. 

“A Titan, yeah.” She smiles at you, slowing down at the entrance to the main building of the facility. “He’s a brave man, and an excellent engineer.” 

You could hear the pride in her voice, talking about her father who no doubt was very much a war veteran, much like many of the members of overwatch, both past and present. With the way she spoke about her father, you could tell that not only did she admire and respect the man, but he meant a great deal to her. 

“Is that why you’re here? In the military?” She shakes her head, bright eyes turning to you. 

“Well..yeah.” She places her hand on her hip. “It’s not enough to wait until the battle is over to fix amour or bandage wounds. If you can fight by someone’s side, you can try to keep the blows from falling.” 

You stared at Brigitte, for her declaration, her passion and drive to join the military. Join Overwatch was far nobler than your own motivation to join the military years ago. She wanted to help her family and keep them out of harms way. You smiled at her, crossing your arms and sighing. 

“You want to be their shield.” 

“Huh…” Her eyebrows furrow in thought. “I guess you’re right. It’s a good way to put it.” 

You nod and lean against one of the poles holding up the awning above you. “It’s less… wordy.” 

“Mm. So, why did you join Overwatch?” 

“I didn’t.” You watch as her expression turns quickly to confusion, as though she couldn’t quite believe it. “Not conventionally.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Well, one way or another, you’re going to find out…” You muse, glancing at your boots before turning your gaze to level hers. “Put simply, my ‘present’ is set about 60 years ago.” 

“That’s not possible.” She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re joking.” 

You blink at her, your expression unchanging. 

“Oh…” She says when she looks at you. “You’re not kidding.” 

“Yeah… Anyway, things went sideways back in 2017 and now I’m stuck here, possibly for good. I was already military so in a complicated way, I was… told that I would be working with Overwatch pretty much until I can go back to my own time.” 

“So, you didn’t sign up for this?” 

“Not in the slightest. But,” You shrug. “Sometimes you need to work with what’s in front of you. For me, it’s falling into the clockwork. Come on, I’ll show you.” 

You wave over your shoulder for Brigitte to follow you, only stopping to wipe your boots on the concrete outside the door before entering the building. Your schedule was already thrown out the window by your newest companion, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t get her to come along for the rest of the day. You lead her to the laundry room, which, of course had no omnics in the vicinity. 

“Does your dad take out all the omnics on one day?” You ask as you set about separating the clothes. 

“He likes to get everything done as quickly as possible. And... He doesn’t like omnics very much.” 

“I gathered that.” You look over at her. “Don’t just stand there, this is part of what I do here, you may as well learn a thing or two about running in the military. Even if it is from an old soldier like me.” 

“Watson, you’re not that much older than me!” Brigitte laughs as she walks over to you. 

“If a chronological sixty-five years is ‘not that much’” You joke as you shove a load of clothing into the large washer. 

“Only five of those years count!” She says as she continues to sort the laundry.  

“Still makes me older than you, kiddo.” You say as you walk back over and see that’s she’s sorted the rest of it. 

There was a pause in the conversation as the sound of electronic machines went to work washing laundry, the electricity of lights humming above you. Although not entirely welcomed, you accepted the silence. It was a change to the mornings slow, but relatively productive start, and the boisterous nature of the day before. You look down at the patches on the arm of your jacket, making a note to repair the stitching around the edge of them. The Rising sun seated proudly above your flag. It would probably be considered something to put in a museum at this point, war shocked and all. 

“What was it like?” Brigitte asks you, tearing your gaze from the patches, to look at her, eyes also on your arm. 

“Australia? Or the army?” You ask, folding your arms. 

She shrugs. “Both.” 

“Well,” you sighed, “growing up at home wasn't without it’s challenges. There’s hot summers and cold winters.”

You tell her about general, broad slices of life as you remember the hot summers of running across hot roads and carparks in bare feet. Learning by getting all kinds of scrapes, cuts and bruises. And still making it back to your feet.

“Hell, even fell out of a tree a few times, break an arm if you’re lucky.” You remark, thumbing at the patch on your shoulder. 

“Why would you want to break an arm?” You smiled at her. 

“You get a cast, and for a while, you’re the coolest kid at school. It’s a badge of honour- almost. If you get hurt enough to need a cast, a bandage, something a kid can take a marker to – you’re the talk of whatever neighbourhood you live in.” You shrug and continue when you see another question in her eyes. “If you don’t break anything, you’re either very skilled, or very lucky.” 

“And the animals? There’s bound to be tons of animals when you’re from.” 

You smile and push yourself up to sit on the table you were leaning against, gaze on her again. “Kangaroos, koalas, kookaburras and foxes aren’t uncommon. At least, out where I lived.” 

“Did you keep any as pets?” You laugh. 

“I didn’t go ridin’ a ‘roo to school, if that’s what you mean. We only had a few animals that worked with us, two dogs. Dusty kept the sheep in line, and Red made sure the chickens were safe.” 

“You had dogs!” Brigitte grinned, “Did you have any cats?” 

You nodded. “Maris had a kitten, last I heard he was out catching mice instead of resting his injured foot.” 

“A warrior cat.” Her tone was light, expression bright. You nodded. 

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

“What about your parents, Watson? What are they like?” 

You pause at the question, schooling your muscles that wanted to tense. When you answered, it was through a stiff jaw. “I.. lived with my aunt before the army.” 

“Oh? What’s your aunt like?” You shake your head, knowing you had created a tense atmosphere already, and didn’t want to add to it. 

“She was your run of the mill aunt, y'know? Nothing much there really..” 

Liar.

Images dance across your vision, disappearing as fast as they arrive.

The uncomfortable tension slowly but never totally subsided as your conversation with Brigitte continued, for about the next hour or so, moving from family and home life to the places you had been before moving into the army. Places like the Opera, and Parliament Houses came up, as did less known places like the Giant Ram, Banana, and Pineapple. By the time you had gotten to the more serious questions, about being in the army and the difference from ‘the 10’s’ to ‘the 60’s’ you had moved from the laundry room to the training centre. 

“Yeah, we didn’t have any pulse weapons.” You pushed up the barbell, Brigitte spotting for you. “It was more, gunpowder and explosives.” 

“So, it’s like Papa’s turrets.” She notes as you lowered the bar. “That’s fifteen.” 

Nodding, you push up again and accept Brigitte’s help in placing it onto the stand. You sit up and stretch out your arms, feeling the tension partially dissipate from your shoulders and arms. You groan quietly as you stand and turn to face her. 

“Alright, you’ve sparred before, yeah?” You ask. 

“Of course I have!” She exclaims, looking surprised that you’d ask. 

“Alright,” you nod, “jump on the mat with me.” 

You gesture towards the sparring mat, Brigitte walks towards, and past it, towards the sparring weapons. You shake your head as you stand on the mat. “You don’t need those.” 

“Huh? Why not?” She turns towards you. 

“Weapons won’t help you if you aren’t able to fight hand to hand.” You say, moving into a balanced stance, an encouraging smile on your face. “Come see if you’re a good shield.” 

A smile lit up over her face as she approached the mat, eyes bright with the promise of competition. Stepping foot onto the mat, you waited for her to take her stance. She nodded to you. 

There was a moment of pause before you sprung into action. Sprinting towards her, using the force of your feet to push forward, following through with your hips. Your right hand pushed forward with the aim of hitting her arm, groaning with the effort. She moved aside, foot knocking out one of yours, catching your balance for a moment before you re-centered. It was enough for Brigitte to land a hit to your shoulder. The pain of the hit shook through your arm with the tension. 

You brought both arms up, one to grasp her wrist and the other to push her arm forwards, sending her centre of gravity out enough to twist her arm to her back, pushing her forward, huffing with the speed and effort it took to execute the move. You turn and watch as she picks herself up from stumbling forward, turning her gaze to you. She looked a tad surprised by the move and all you could do was let out a breathy laugh, urging her to come at you again. 

You pushed forward as she did, deflecting the hit she tried to land with her leg, your arms moving again to block the hit that was aimed for your shoulder. A fight that had you moving faster to block and land a few when you found the opportunity. It felt different to facing Soldier: 76, not as hard, not as blow-for-blow in terms of speed. It was certainly different. 

Dodging yet another blow, you crouch down and spring up to hit Brigitte in the abdomen, the blow landing at her exposed diaphragm. She was winded by the hit but recovered quickly enough for her leg to catch yours, causing you to fall on your arse. A winded groan of effort escaped you as your mind tried to catch up to the new position. Brigitte seated on top of you to pin you down, a victorious grin on her face.

“Hey, Watson!” 

The owner of the voice gave you pause, eyes turning in the direction it came from, Brigitte also turning her gaze to look. The owner of the voice was McCree. Which in and of itself was a surprise. You raised an eyebrow. 

“Yeah? What’s goin on?” You pushed yourself up as Brigitte got off of you.

“Boss wants to see yer pretty lil’ face in his office.” 

“Is it urgent?” You pushed your sleeves up, rolling the ends.

“Urgent enough.” He shrugs, an apologetic smile on his face, “bit of a foul mood. Best get a move on.” 

You nod and turn to Brigitte. “I’ll have to put a raincheck on the rest of this match.” 

“Looking forward to it! Good luck in there.” 

You pat McCree on the shoulder as you walk past and out of the training centre. You walk down the hall, wondering just what the commander would want you for, and if it was really that important, why couldn’t he come down himself? It wasn’t particularly strange, but it did leave your palms sweating, and muscles on the tense side of near uncomfortable.

You fucked up. Again. Your mind oh so helpfully chided.

Sighing, you came to a stop when you heard your name called, your actual name. You turned around and saw Angela jogging up to you, tablet held in one arm, the other calling for your attention. You raised your eyebrows at her. 

“Where’s the fire?” 

“I know you’re busy, but I need you in the med-bay when you have the chance. We need to talk.” 

“Good or bad?” you ask, placing your hands in your pockets and nodding in the direction you were headed. 

“It’s not bad, really..” She said as she walked by your side. 

“Then what’s the problem?” 

“I’m concerned about your health.” 

“Physical?” There was a twinge there, a hint you knew set in showing the potential for agitation in your voice. If this was about those stupid scans again… 

“No, no. Not this time. I..heard about yesterday. And I believe that it would be best for us to work this out, together.” 

Her concern had you pausing, eyes moving to her as you turned down the staircase, bootsteps tapping, soft reverbs bouncing against the walls. You sighed. “That a medical, or personal opinion?” 

“Both.” You stop, halfway down the flight, looking up at Angela’s empathetic expression. 

Perhaps it was for the best that you would talk to someone. You didn’t know how much good it would do, or if it would even help. But given that you were of the assumption that Hana or Lena had told her about your instability the day before, you could see where she was coming from. It could be a mix of things, and maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad to have a medical report that was more than a single page thick.

Don't be stupid, you'll just waste her time.

“See you at 1600?” 

“I’ll be expecting you.” 

With that, you parted ways. At the end of the short hall at the bottom of the stairs was the commander’s office. You wiped your hands on your pants before knocking, the tense set of your shoulders unchanging as you opened the door. 

Inside, the commander sat at his desk, as far as you could tell, his gaze was on the monitor. You shut the door behind you, standing at attention. The interior of his office was plain, no pictures, or decorations. It looked like an empty office despite the single box of files beside the desk. 

“Take a seat.” He says, and so you do, stiffly walking over to the chair at the other side of the desk and sitting down. The metal sturdy, but not entirely uncomfortable. 

“You need me?” You asked, eyebrows furrowed as you looked across the desk at him. 

“A week ago, you came back talking about Magnil.” He folds his arms, leaning back in his chair, the lines across his forehead telling you that he had his eyebrows furrowed. 

“That’s correct. But sir, I don’t understand, what-?” 

“I want you on active duty.” He turns to his screen after that, pulling up a file on the holographic surface. 

“Aren’t I already on active duty?” The confusion seeped into your voice, the chores and workouts weren’t just training, at least, in your opinion they weren’t. 

“You’ll be posted in Denver, with McCree. We can’t get all the intel we need through our virtual channels, so you’ll have to investigate.” 

“For how long?” 

“The rest of the month.”  

“Two weeks?” Your eyebrows raised. “Sir, that’s most of the time we have left.” 

“I know that.” You shake your head, fingers gathering the material of your pants. 

“See, I don’t think you do. McCree is an asset to your operation and having two of your operatives out on the field. We don’t have long and–” 

“The decision isn't yours to make.” His stern tone had you clamping your mouth shut as he leaned his elbows against the desk, flicking his index finger to scroll through the file he was looking at. “You leave in three days.” 

You could only stare as he pressed some buttons, a moment later, Athena notified you that there were documents sent to your virtual storage. You’d be leaving in a few days to investigate, you’d only have two weeks. An entire week too many. 

“Sir?” You asked, your gaze trained on your C.O. 

“Yes?” You sigh inwardly, a small bit disappointed. 

“Is there anything I need to know? Anything you’re not telling me?” 

“It’s all in the document –” 

“I’m not asking about the document.” You interrupt, his dismissive tone throughout the conversation was more than irritating, and you were wondering if you had something to do with it. “This isn’t just about the mission, is it?” 

You watch as Soldier turns his gaze to you, the set of his shoulders looked about as tense as yours. You levelled as he stared at you, sighing slowly. “There are agents concerned about you.” 

“You’re one of them?” You lean backward in the chair, crossing your arms. He shrugs. 

“It’s my job to watch out for you and the other young agents out there.” 

“I’m older than you.” You tell him, hearing the amused huff he gives at your ironic statement. 

“You know what I meant.” 

“Doesn’t make it any less true.” 

He folds his arms and leans his elbows on his desk, sighing. “Your outing with Agents Song and Oxton yesterday, I heard there were some complications.” 

Your eyebrows furrow at the change of subject. “It was just a mild inconvenience. I’ll be right.” 

Mild inconvenience? What a pathetic excuse.

“Watson.” He says, the tiredness leaning into his tone. “We can’t have these 'mild inconveniences' when you're’ out there by yourself on missions-“ 

“With all due respect sir, I appreciate your concern. But this is something I can manage on the field. You of all agents should understand the difference between civilian and field work.” You sit up, defensive. Didn’t he understand that you could handle it? 

“I didn’t call you here to start an argument. But, as your commanding officer, it’s my job to make sure all agents are working at their best. Which includes you.” 

You weren’t sure, or at least, not entirely, why your chest sank as the questions came flooding in. Did he actually care? Is all of this running after you just some babysitting gig?  

Did anyone like you?  

“Yes.. Of course you do.” You said, losing all the potential heat your voice had before. “Is there anything else you need to call my attention to, Sir?” 

“No, that's it. You're dismissed.” 

You nod and stand, turning and walking through the door at his office without another word. You had shit you had to deal with, worrying whether the people here actually cared or not was beyond your control. If it was their job, then they could waste the effort. All you had to do was free up enough time for them to get you home. 

- 

After your appointment with Angela, she hadn’t seen you around. In fact, it seemed that no one had seen much of you since Soldier: 76 notified you of your posting with McCree. Which was over 36 hours ago. It had her eyebrows furrowing, worried as both your doctor, and your friend. As far as she knew, you weren’t in your room, nor had you been in the mess hall. 

Missing meals especially was concerning to her as proper nutrition was essential for you to stay healthy and deal with the stress your heightened senses were causing to you, not that she could tell if you noticed. She knew you tended to avoid loud areas, and had a tendency to avoid being outside during the middle of the day. Perhaps she would have to invest in a pair of glasses for you, like the ones she assigned to lena for missions. 

Walking towards the medical bay, she encountered their resident mechanic. 

“Hello there Torbjorn.” He stopped by her, eyebrows furrowed and a frustrated expression on his face. 

“Heard you’re looking for that explosive agent.” He says, rather than greeting her. 

“explosive..?” She asks, not entirely certain if she was talking about you, or one of the other agents on-site. “Do you mean Watson?” 

“They've been staring at the same screw for the past hour!” He complains, “de är värdelösa.” 

“Watson’s been in your workshop this whole time?” She asks, folding her arms over the tablet she was holding. 

“Yes. Took apart their guns, ‘trying to figure out how they work’ and hasn’t left.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” 

“I haven’t had the time, there’s too much to be fixed around here.” He says, turning and walking past her, calling over his shoulder. “Just get 'em out of my workshop!” 

Angela shook her head and continued down the hallway, she knew the Swedish man was protective over his tools, as much, if not more so, than he was over his daughters, but this was just adding to her to-do list. She figured that she would need to get someone else to go after you, convince you to leave the workshop, if not for anything but to eat and get some sleep. 

Her lonely walk down the hallway had her reading forms and files sent to her by Winston. Hanzo would need to have his prostheses checked and recalibrated, and so would McCree. Although, Jesse’s check-up would have to be conducted before his posting. The electricity production had to be sorted out, unless of course Torbjorn had already fixed it but hadn’t got the paperwork through to her. Bandages to be restocked, her staff needed to be repaired. That was a job for tomorrow morning. 

She sat down at her desk and sighed, which she knew she was doing a lot of lately. Everything was running her off her feet lately, so much so that she had started wearing flat, sturdy boots over anything with heels. It’d be all worth it to keep the world safe. In the end, that was the primary goal, ensure that people were safe, and to keep the world at peace. 

Around fifteen minutes later, Angela was filling in forms and sorting documents when Soldier: 76 walked in, telltale boot steps leading up to her desk.

"Angela."

"What seems to be the trouble, Jack?" She asks, flipping to a new page in her work.

"You haven't seen Watson, have you?"

"No. Torbjorn told me that they were in his workshop." She says, glancing at him. "Meddling… Is something wrong?"

"They were supposed to attend a briefing with McCree."

Angela nods.

"They didn't show."

"Well, that certainly is odd.. perhaps you should check on them."

Angela gives barely a wave of her hand as she flips to the next page of her work. 76 knew that, that was her way of dismissing him. Torbjorns workshop. That's where you'd been hiding away. Not attending briefings or getting up to date on any new intel, at least, not in person. In truth, he didn't know how this mission would go, given your recent outing. He knew that he should place more trust in you, but he couldn't help the concern that surfaced when you were so reckless .

He knew that, at times, he wasn't exactly the most cautious, however, seeing you throw yourself at every obstacle and pushing through it like there wasn't anything to it despite the consequences… it was remarkable as it was concerning.

Soldier 76 walked through the doors to the workshop, a place that was connected to the outside by a large roller door. Looking around, it didn't take much to find you, sitting on a stool, leaning over the desk, one arm hanging down, and your head on the other. Overall, he thought the position looked uncomfortable, just like when he found you out in the rain, soaked and asleep. Though, you weren't shivering this time.

He looks over you as he stepped closer, your regular attire a mess. The jacket you usually wore laid on the bench, partially under your head. The bench  was covered in half assembled parts of your weapons what needed to be whole by tomorrow, and your face overall, a mess of soot and tired under eyes.

Stopping next to you, Soldier: 76 looks at your jacket, and the line of thread connecting it to a sewing needle in your hand, which he carefully removes so that you don’t stick yourself with it in your sleep. Your lack of response as he moves you from leaning on the desk makes his concern levels rise, in his experience, you would’ve been a little more than the rag doll he had before him.

Briefly he wonders if this was all the cause of what he said to you 42 hours ago. His gaze turns to you as he carefully lifts you up, a practiced ease from the times he’s had to move you in the past. When you’re settled, like an exhausted dead weight, he looks to your jacket, and the new patch sewn there…

An Overwatch patch.

He had heard some of the details of your panic attack, and the way a civilian attacked you for brandishing an overwatch logo in public.. so why did you have it on your sleeve with the others you carried on your arm..?

A seed of guilt settles in his stomach as he picks it up and turns, headed towards the sleeping quarters. He had once been the head of this organisation, and, while he wasn’t nearly the same man, he still put all of the responsibility upon himself and the way it all fell apart. You had seen some of the history, just enough to catch you up on world events, and what to expect. Yet, for him, nothing could have prepared him for you entering his world. The way you fought and trained until you could barely walk the next morning. Back talking him and taking the extra laps or reps with an attitude, almost like you had won even if you were the one on the floor in a puddle of your own sweat and tears… the way you made coffee.

Nothing could prepare him for that. Even the way you laid in his arms now as he walked down the last hallway to your door. There was so much that changed with you here. 76 himself had, as much as he didn’t like to admit, things were just.. a little better with you there.

Stepping into your room, he takes careful strides to your bed, and lays you down so he can unlace and remove your boots. Your unconscious body sinks into the firm mattress as he does so, preventing him from moving the blanket over you. He looks at your face, and moves some of your hair away from your eyes.. you looked distressed, even there, where you were safe enough. He couldn’t help the concern in his thoughts.

Of course you’re supposed to worry. You’re their commanding officer. He told himself as he stepped out of the room, that’s all it was. Tomorrow you’d be on a mission with McCree. It was only natural for him to worry after your well-being in this situation.

Right ?

- 

The next morning, you were sitting in the dropship to Denver. Your eyes on a tablet, rereading the intel to ensure you had it down. According to what you were reading, word had spread that the next big drug on the market was being released at your destination. As far as they were concerned, it could be Magnil, which wasn’t exactly reassuring. The word ‘could’ in any situation pertaining to intel you needed left room for a giant spanner to be thrown in the works. 

You bounced your knee as you sat there, scanning the intel over and over. There were no contacts in the area, but there was a safehouse. You wouldn’t be able to trust anyone. This wasn’t good, if you got separated from McCree, then you wouldn’t have any real way of contacting him. Not that you could really see a problem with losing him, he always dressed like a cowboy from old western movies. Would that compromise stealth? The point of going to Denver was to gather intel, if you couldn’t do that then- 

“Hey, what’s with that look?” A sense of déjà vu hit you. “Yer lookin’ a bit stressed there.” 

You stared across the small space to McCree, and for a second, you swore you could see Jenks instead of the Southern man in front of you. “W-what?” 

“Don’t get me wrong, darlin’. Starin’ at that screen would give anyone a headache. But yer not lookin’ yerself.” 

“Oh. Well…” You gesture to the screen. “Intel’s not exactly helpful.” 

“It’s not bad though, considerin’.” He says, shrugging. “Best not t’go in with a concrete plan. Could come crashin’ down if yer not ready for it.” 

“You talkin’ from experience?” 

“You’d be surprised the kinda wisdom I could impart on you handsome.” 

“That so?” 

He nods, and the conversation drops, at least for a few moments. You turn your gaze, but not your attention, back to the tablet, mind flicking back to the similarity between McCree and your probably now dead, if not, elderly friend. 

You missed him terribly. What was the last thing you had spoken about…? His baby. You wondered if they grew up well, they’d be at least sixty years old by now. The thought had you a little floored. A whole lifetime, literally, will have passed in your absence if you aren’t able to go back. You wouldn’t be able to hear the sap talk about his kid with the brightness of a thousand suns. 

“Watson? Hey, Watson? You alright?” 

McCree was leaning forward in his chair, hair in need of a trim in his eyes as he looked at you, concern written over his face. You furrow your eyebrows, was there something wrong? You bring a hand up to your face, where he was looking, and flinch when it comes away wet. Only to find that tears had spilled from your eyes. 

“Huh. Not even two hours out, and I’m emotional already.” You joke, wiping your cheeks. 

“Listen, I know yer a tough kid and you’d rather not talk about it, but.. what’s wrong?” he says, getting up from his seat and walking over to you in about two steps. “I can’t have you buryin’ yer head in the sand on this.” 

“It’s just…” You sigh and breathe slowly, sitting back in your chair. “You remind me of someone, believe it or not. And I’m only really remembering that the last time I talked to him, he had a kid on the way.” 

“Well shit.” He says, patting your shoulder, voice sympathetic and as he takes the seat next to you. “Tell me about him.” 

“For anyone just tuning in, annyeong! I’m D.Va, with me is a special guest, a new friend of mine. This is Watson!” Hana announced, a wide smile on her face as a new flood of comments appeared at the side of the holographic computer screen. ‘Watson’ appeared to be the preferred household name used to address you now, even if most people knew your real name.

Sitting with Hana to play games wasn’t a challenge by any means, and you had promised her yesterday that you would join her before training with Soldier: 76 in the early hours of the morning. Turns out, she was incredibly popular online, so much so that, according to several comments that she gushed over, many viewers set alarms and reminders so that they could tune in live to see what she was up to.

The sheer concept of not only having such a heavy online following whilst still maintaining her position in the military was astounding on its own. What had completely blown you away was when she announced that she was able to earn a living off the internet – you hadn’t thought it was possible.

You looked over the bright screen, controller sitting more comfortable in your hands than it had in your previous gaming endeavours. The comment thread rolling quickly as Hana spoke to the commenters, answering questions while you guided the go-kart in the race you were participating in. The broadcast bringing live and, mostly positive feedback. You turned the playable characters vehicle, driving around a narrow bend in the race, hitting what looked like a blue, mutant fish head. The kart spinning for a few seconds as AI controlled karts zipped past before you could continue with the race.

You didn’t have much skill in terms of video games by any means, but neither Hana, nor her viewers seemed to mind as you played. As far as you knew anyway, you weren’t reading the comments, Hana monitoring them as you played.

“Watson, Samx19 wants to know if you like playing ‘ Blizz-kart Racer’, they also want you to know that it’s ‘refreshing to watch a player improve as they play .’” Hana relayed to you.

“Uh – it’s a go-kart game?” You started, eyebrows furrowing, “It kind of reminds me of ‘ Pole Position ’ to be honest with you. Only, the controls are different and you’re able to throw things at other racers.”

You heard Hana giggle as you entered your final lap of the map. “No one knows what that game even is .”

Her comment had a small smile tug at your lips, of course they wouldn’t know; it was a 1980’s arcade game.

“I think someone just searched it up – hold on a second guys.” She brought up the link from one of the comments, a picture and short description of the game popping up.

“Woah! That’s so vintage !” She looked at the screen, reading over some more comments. “OxTrot-63 wants you to know they think it’s cool you managed to play the game, Watson. Apparently, it’s not available online anymore. Oh! And they love your accent.”

“That’s just someone being nice. I used to play all kinds of ‘vintage’ games as a kid.” You shrugged, overtaking one of the go-karts. “I was as bad at them then as I am now actually.”

“Aw, come on! You’re really good at this game.”

“For a ‘noob’.” You told her, finishing what most others would probably already think.

“You’re improving!” She declared, almost defensive over your progress. Her gaze flicked down to the comments. “Everyone here agrees with me – some are even sending you donations!”

You listened as she rattled off increasingly strange usernames, thanking the viewers for sending in donations, her glowing smile met with enthusiasm. Your own smile, albeit small, spreading over your face. You came third.

“It’s great that they’re supporting you, D.Va. I’m glad I found some time to come and hang out with you.” You turned to her, the winning character animation appearing over the screen. Her eyes filled with joy as she looked at your points.

“GG!” She shouted, her smile turning to a grin as she looked at you. “You’re doing really well!”

“It’s alright.” You shrugged, looking at the time.

You had been streaming with Hana for around two hours, and you were running late for training with Soldier: 76. He’d no doubt make you suffer for that, yet, you didn’t find yourself caring if he’d up the intensity. It was a problem for future [Y/N] to sort out. You stood up from your chair, stretching, your arms popping at the elbow and shoulder joints.

“Well, not that I don’t love coming by and playing games, but I gotta go before I lose my extra life to the commander.” You looked to the camera, showing both Hana and you in the shot. You waved at the camera, and therefore, the viewers as you heard giggling.

“Sure thing! Make sure you meet up with us for dinner though, okay?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll see you this arvo.” You smiled at her.  

Slapping your hands together and bumping your fists, you went on your way. Hana taking the stream over again, the controller in her hands. You picked up your boots on your way out of her bedroom door. Headed for the training hall. Your steps light as you set yourself into a jog, not wanting to be any later than you already were. Your pace only slowed when you encountered McCree in the hall, your pace and sock-clad feet not going unnoticed by the cowboy.

“Where’re you goin’ in such a hurry, darlin’?” He called as you approached him.

“Training hall.” You smiled up at him, noticing the shift in his demeanour when you did so. “My arse is grass if I’m late!”

“Weren’t you shot two days ago?” He asks, eyebrows furrowing, your smile widening.

“Yeah! But I didn’t die – so I’m getting back into it.” He seemed a little worried by that, taking your arm to stop you in the middle of the hall. The smell of fresh gunpowder adding to his regular scent.

“You were shot and yer still going back, after one day of rest?”

“That’s right.” You pulled up your shirt. “Look, I’ve just got a gauze pad sittin’ there now. It’s really nothin’ to worry about.”

“Nothin’ t’worry about?” he looked down at the white patch attached to your abdomen. “How the hell did ya achieve that?”

“There’s way too much science involved for me to even begin to understand, cowboy.” You took your arm from his grasp, shrugging as you pointed down the hall. “I’d hate to leave you confused – actually, that’s a lie, I’d love to – but I’ve got somewhere I gotta be.”

You lightly slapped his shoulder before continuing you way down the hall, hearing him yell ‘Good luck’ after you as you turned a corner, going past the firing range. A small smile resting on your features, it had been a good morning so far.

You were at the training hall moments later, the idea of being put through another day of rigorous training not bothering you as much as it previously had. The training was nothing if not efficient. It had increased your stamina so much already, coupled with your strength training under Zaryanova, you were confident that you had been improving steadily.

Walking in, you saw two figures standing in the middle of the hall, only 76 being familiar to you. You sat down on the ground to put your boots on, inspecting the unfamiliar person. They wore a hood, long jacket coming down to rest at their ankles. The shoes they wore forming to their feet in a way that suggested they were sturdy. The ends of their pants coming down, looking as though they had been fitted under their knees. A visor rested over their face, the appearance starkly contrasting the one 76 wore.

“Jeez, is it bring your mask to work day?” You mumbled as you pulled the laces to your boots, making sure they were tight, yet comfortable. The pair approached you.

“This is Shrike.” Your commander announced as you laced up your boot and stood. “There’s been a change in today's regime. It’s time you learned what you’re dealing with.”

You looked between them, holding your hand out for Shrike to take, their hand holding yours in a firm handshake. Both were taller than you, it made you feel small. You straightened your shoulders.

“People call me Watson.” You introduced, letting go of their hand.

“You have much to learn.” They – she – said. “This way.”

You nodded and followed the pair, out of the training hall, towards the lower floors of the complex – the one underground. Your eyebrows furrowed, what was it they supposedly had to ‘teach’ you? Was it something to do with who you encountered a few days ago? If so, why were they important – were they a threat to the peace?

You followed them down the stairs and to a door that looked like a heavy vault entrance. Soldier: 76 entered a long code, one that you wouldn’t have been able to memorise if you tried. The door opened with the low sound of air compressors pushing the door open. You looked inside as the pair in front of you walked inside. There were files upon files, news-papers, and many of them having a big red ‘ CLASSIFIED ’ stamped on them. The last six decades must’ve been busy, you noted. A table sat in the middle, it was square and had a pair of chairs sitting at it across from each other. A holographic screen booting up at one end of the room.

“Take a seat.” 76 told you, gesturing to the chairs at the table. He was already sorting through some news articles.

You walked over and sat down in the closest chair, your knee bouncing as soon as you were seated. It was unnerving, the way the mood seemed to change, it felt heavy now, something was amiss.

“So, you had something you wanted me to know?” It was more a statement than a question, but you didn’t want the room to fall silent when you could be getting whatever you were supposed to be taking note of out of the way.

“It was suggested that you be informed of what you’ve missed.” He stated, pushing a pile of news articles your way. “In case your situation… becomes permanent.”

Your eyebrows drew together as you looked at him. Permanent? They really thought that there was no way home then, huh? You looked down at the articles in front of you, considering it intel you’d probably need either way. No matter the odds, you needed to stick to the end goal – getting home.

‘Omnica Corp Leading Tech in Positive New Direction ’

‘New Prototype to Be Released: OmniRobot’

‘Omnium to be released 2026’

Your eyebrows furrowed as you read over the headlines. The articles weren’t of much help either, they weren’t making a whole lot of sense.

“What’s… Omnica Crop?” You pick up the article in front of you, looking at the paper.

“A corporation focused on developing Omnics.” Shrike explained, your gaze turning to her. “They specialized in many kinds of weapons and domestic technologies.”

You nodded and scanned the article, it seemed as though the Omnica Corporation was, in part, responsible for the golden age of technology. Technologies of all kinds were developed in a rush to make the world better, more convenient to live in. Each company mentioned as shareholders, or in a way connected to the company seemed to be a part of developing it.

“So…” You sighed, eyebrows furrowing, leaning your chin against your hand. “There’s another race for new tech that went on, and this was part of it?”

“That’s right.” She said, pointing to the other articles. “Technology over the last century has been rapid in its’ development, but far more accelerated over the last forty or so years.”

“So… it’s the ‘ Back to the Future’ I was expecting back in 2017 then?”

The pair looked at each other, and in that moment, you felt much older.

“Heh… Reference for another time I guess… Anyway, we have the new tech race. What else do I need to know?”

Soldier: 76 collected the news articles into a pile, placing them down the table to make space as he brought up some information on the holographic screen. It was yet another article, but it had more pictures, and even some video reports. The title read ‘ Horizon Lunar Colony.’

“Are… Are we on the moon? – uh – humanity I mean.” You clarified, taking in both the name, and the first few pictures.

“No. The colony’s run by Gorillas and apes now.” 76 was the one to answer your question this time, breaking from his stoic silence. Your eyebrows furrowed as you read over the article.

“Was it just to live on the moon? What happened to mars?” Your gaze flicked up to them.

“Mars was too expensive to transport materials.” Shrike tells you, gesturing to the screen. “Athena, show file X7GS-5 on the Horizon Lunar Colony.”

“ Yes, Shrike. ” Athena’s voice came through the holographic screen, photographs appearing of the base. The first few you looked at were the construction, and the scientists. You looked over them as the images lowered in frequency, time stamps becoming further apart.

“And, you said it’s run by gorillas? Like… Winston?”

“He was part of the experiment, yes.” Your eyes widened as you looked at her.

“Winston was on the moon ? Part of all of that?” Shrike nods and looks at the photograph of two apes looking at a security camera.

“He has been through much.” She sighs, the only hint to it being the rise and fall of her shoulders. “He arrived back on earth just before things became… complicated.”

“Complicated?” Your gaze flicked between them as you grew confused. “What do you mean?”

“ The Horizon Lunar Colony focused on: Space exploration, and habitation of interplanetary spaces. The Colony focused its efforts on genetic modification as part of its secondary objectives. ” Athena informed. “ In 2064, Specimen 28 arrived on earth as the only subject non-adversely affected by the therapy provided by staff. ”

You mulled over the information, processing the fact that it was only about twelve years ago that Winston had come back from practically a lifetime on the moon. He certainly didn’t seem like he had spent time up there with his aggressive brothers. Maybe he got passed it, spending a decade back on earth. With the experience he had it was almost a miracle that he didn’t end up stuck with the rest of them on the moon.

“Okay – so let me get this straight… Winston was on the moon, and The Omnica Company… Sorry, Omnica corporation were making robots, no, Omnics . Yeah?” Your eyes scanned between the two masked individuals, both of which were agreeing with the facts you simplified.

Your eyes fell to the gap. These were articles, yes, but there was about forty years-worth of history between them. You glanced at the article about Omnium, which turned out to be just another name for the manufacturing of the Omnics under complete artificial intelligence.

“What happened in the middle here? With the Omnium plants. I mean, I’m kind of expecting I-Robot .” You lean back as you watch the pair glance between each other, a tension growing in the air. You could almost cut it with a knife, as the usual lightness common to your home country gave way to your sense of being completely serious. You quirked an eyebrow. “What? What happened?”

“The Omnic Crisis…” Shrike started, in what you could tell was her filling in 76’s role as informant. “It was an unpredictable event.”

A manila folder was dropped in front of you, the large red ink glaring at you as your fingers traced the side to untangle string from around it. You opened it, a hint of curiosity taking root within you. The contents of the folder were thick, the time stamp revealing that the crisis started around thirty years into your future.

“If I had to take a crack at it, I’d say the government but…” You placed your hand on the stack of information in front of you, index finger keeping your place in the centre of a paragraph. “How’d it start?”

“The omnium plants were shut down.” Shrike informed you, her voice calm. “They were decommissioned from the corporation-“

“But what does that have to do with the Crisis?” Shrike held up her hand, effectively telling you to shut up .

“The plants reactivated, self-sustaining code launching a Omnic legion of militarised robots. Slaughtering thousands. Both military and civilian.”

Your eyes widened as you stared at Shrike, technology that had the ability to not only turn itself back up, but launch military operations was simply unheard of. You assumed it was on a global scale, meaning that homes, even whole cities were possibly lost. You looked at Shrike, setting your shoulders, you wanted to hear more.

“How did you combat this? I mean, it’s obvious you won, to some extent at least.”

“ The Omnic Crisis was an event that no single country was equipped to fight. No one military could permanently shut down a single omnium. The adaptability of robots, once celebrated by humanity, had become a tactical nightmare. Fought by piloted Mechs, the countries of the world looked to professional gamers such as Hana ‘D.Va’ Song, Craig ‘Link’ Smith, and Sara ‘M.Use’ Velden. Their unparalleled reflexes allowed them to pilot the mechs and help turn the tide.” Athena’s voice came from the monitor at the end of the short room.

“Hold on. All I’m hearing is that the future is one big movie reference. I mean, come on-” You looked between them, gesturing to the monitor, “- piloted mechs? What is this? Pacific Rim ?”

Again, they shared a look.

“Watson,” Shrike started, “I understand this is a lot to take in, but the history of the world isn’t a joke, or a reference to a film.”

“Oh, no, of course it’s hilarious. It’s the biggest joke on the planet.” You chided looking at the images Athena was showing on the monitor. You saw the Overwatch logo, people looking on in fear of what you assumed were one of the many omnics. Feeling the stares of the two around you, and sensing that your smart mouth would get you into trouble, you decided to change the topic.

“So, Overwatch was created during the crisis. What happened?”

“Overwatch as it was before,” Soldier: 76 spoke, voice holding hints of frustration, “was supposed to bring hope and a time of peace. The Omnic Crisis slaughtered millions, and they blamed us for trying to help.”

You watched as more images appeared on the screen, articles even of overwatch being considered a hoax, hiding information, even corrupt. It made you rather upset, knowing their side of the story and that of course the public was willing to jump the gun without context. Hell, they had their own Captain America and they wanted to tear him down?

“And you were shut down? For a while. I mean, you’re running now, spread a bit thin maybe for what should be the talk of just about every city.” You looked to Shrike, and then to Soldier, they had grown quiet.

“Alright, so you survived the backlash then?”

Shrike placed her hand on your shoulder. “Overwatch was shut down. But the work here is good.”

“So-” you gestured to the monitor, “-this is all that’s left? All anyone knows? That the… Strike Commander died, and overwatch is just… Finished?”

You watch as she shakes her head. So, Overwatch was illegal, only due to the United Nations, acting as much like an absolute tool as you remembered it being. Your gaze turned back to the screen. Countries had populations thinned, if not destroyed, from Korea, to Russia, hell, even the United States.

An uncomfortable chill ran down your spine like an iron nail scraping against a corrugated fence. There was only one country you hadn’t heard or read during the conversation. Your eyes flick to your commander. He was an honest and blunt man, you could trust him to tell you exactly what happened. Right?

“Sir, in all of this… Where’s Australia?”

You never knew your home to walk away from a war if your allies were part of it. If the Crisis really had affected the entire globe, where the hell did you stand in all of it? Your expression changed from mere curiosity to an amalgamated form of worry and frustration as your commander sighed, the only indication being his shoulders rising and falling. You felt Shrike squeeze your shoulder, the gesture supposed to be reassuring.

“Watson, Australia survived the Crisis, they were a significant help in turning the tides, being resourceful as they are.” Shrike started, turning your attention to her.

You nodded along, your eyebrows furrowing, of course your country would get involved. They wouldn’t just stand out of something, be it their business or not. There was a but in there somewhere though, and you were afraid that it could be worse than you thought.

“After the war, your government gifted the omnium plant and a significant amount of land to the Omnics. Soon enough… The Australian Liberation Front formed, and war hit your country in its own way.”

“No.” You found yourself shaking your head, a disbelieving, yet frustrated smile stretching across your face. “Australia hasn’t had a war physically hit their shores since the Darwin bombings.”

“Watson, in your time, maybe that was true. But now, your country started its own battle.” You feel her hand move to your arm, her head tilted in a way that no doubt meant she was looking at you in sympathy, pity even. You cast your eyes downwards.

“…what happened?” You were hesitant to ask, but you needed to know. There needed to be a chance that your home was still safe. Still alive and running.

“The rebel group sabotaged the omnium’s fusion core… It exploded. Australia is a wasteland, the people there call themselves Junkers , Watson. As far as I know, you’re probably the only one left who calls themselves an Australian.”

Bullshit. It had to be. It wasn’t gone. It couldn’t be… could it?

Your home… A wasteland. You watched them as your hands clenched. They wouldn’t – couldn’t – be that stupid, could they? Were they really that selfish, over some land? Was it that unliveable that they couldn’t be called Australian anymore? You shouldn’t have asked. You didn’t want to be the only one left. Didn’t want to believe it. Australia, just… gone. Replaced with a post-apocalyptic knock-off that was barely worth mentioning.

You wanted to disappear. Didn’t want the pair of eyes you felt on you now as your fingers dug into your palms, pushing against your thighs and arms trembling in anger. The people in your country were so stupid . How could they make a decision like that? Ruin so many lives? Parasites the lot of them. If what you were being told was true, then your sister had no hope of being alive. There was no way you could go home and see your childhood house if you couldn’t get back to 2017.

There was no way you could hear a kookaburra laugh before a storm, nor would you find cicada shells at the end of the summer. New generations wouldn’t experience what it was like to have to sprint across boiling concrete because they forgot shoes. They couldn’t just sit in their backyard with a campfire to bring them light near a tent used as anything from a castle or even a spaceship. There would be no running across the footpath covered in leaves to hear them crunch ing under their feet.

You were the only one left. The only Australian to know what it was like to experience the beauty and dangers of Australia without the fear of becoming radiated – the only one to be called an Australian with any ounce of pride . You were the only one.

And you hated it.

You couldn’t be the only one left. Not like this. Not with everything so blatantly stripped away, with everything suddenly crashing around you. There was so much left of home you hadn’t gotten the chance to see. That you had promised Maris you would see when you got home.

It was all their fault. It was the fault of the idiots down in Australia, the monumentally stupid decision that you made to join the army. The decision you made to go into the room with that giant piece of junk that someone would have had the gall to call science.

Your throat felt painfully tight, vision blurring. You couldn’t blame them. Not really. You probably would’ve done the same thing to protect your country. Coming out of a war immediately followed by handing those who still looked like the enemy not only land, but the very infrastructure that helped start the war? It wasn’t fair to blame them. It wasn’t. But you couldn’t help being angry. Couldn’t help wanting to throw the stupidly brave idiots through the closest wall.

You leant your head against the desk, taking a breath that trembled through you. Breathing out sounded like a pathetic whimper, and really, it was. More tears welled up in your eyes as you felt a pair of arms wrap around your shoulders. One of your hands came up to cover your mouth, you couldn’t stop. The tears were falling from your eyes, your shoulders were shaking. You didn’t want to cry in front of them. Didn’t want to be anything but a good soldier standing in line with the rest of them.

But you couldn’t. Your body wouldn’t stop shaking. You weren’t in control – you weren’t able to stop. Everything felt like it was crashing down around you without settling. A sob broke through and jolted your shoulders. It felt like you were choking on the dust of your memories with the realization that there wasn’t a soul that could truly know what you were talking about, not really.

You understood, you really did. You understood why they did it. You understood why people in the halls gave you sympathetic looks when you mentioned home or even spoke to people who hadn’t heard you speak before. What you didn’t understand was why is hurt . It hurt so much. Your heart hurt, aching, constricting with each beat. It felt broken. You felt broken.

Another sob broke through you, the person, Shrike, pulling you to her chest, one hand stroking your head with what you could only describe asa mother’s touch. Of course it was Shrike, your commander probably didn’t know how to cope with any emotion other than anger or calm. He didn’t seem to hold any sympathy towards you either. It was better than pity.

Soldier: 76 excused himself from the room when you started sobbing, the effort of trying to hold yourself together and ultimately failing burned into his mind like a brand. It was haunting . To see someone who had held it together for the last two months with only a relatively small outburst was startlingly impressive.

He couldn’t shake the way you imploded, shoulders hunching as you had bent forward to lean against the table, hair falling around your face. The way you shook with anger and refused to accept what was supposed to be your future instead of world history. In a word, he would only describe it as shattering. Clinging onto the idea that everything was fine, up until the last moment when you broke.

It made him wonder about the way you held yourself, standing almost at perfect attention all the time, pushing yourself past the point even he thought you were supposed to break. If your determined gaze when you sparred with him on the mat, the one-liners and apparent humour you displayed even if you couldn’t keep yourself upright, hell, even your smile.

It rivalled the damn sun when you were in the company of the younger agents sharing and creating memories and all he could think of now, was if it was all a façade. If you would even grow to like it here or if it was a front put on until you could go back.

The sound of your despair fell upon his ears again. He could feel your sorrow vicariously through the sound of the emotion you seemed to have no control over anymore. The sound of your broken sobs and barely coherent cries of ‘ it’s not fair! ’ affecting him more than he liked. He turned on his heels, walking down the hall, not one to dwell on emotions, nor wanting his own memories to rise to the surface. He didn’t find comfort in the way they set on his shoulders, nor the way it made swallowing harder, and so he refused to acknowledge them.

It wasn’t until he found himself at the top of the first flight of stairs that he found a pang of guilt settling against him for being an accomplice of your grief. Ungracefully tossing you the history of the world unflinchingly, and not a word as to why, leaving the explanation to both Ana and Athena. He was guilty of giving you no sympathy in the harshness of the world that he lived through, bringing to you like a ton of bricks when you took the operation of Overwatch with such understanding.

The challenges you saw and the revolts that Athena had shown you in images from the press left you not with a glorifying awe, nor anger towards the actions of his younger self. Your eyes held all the understanding that he had wished for from the public years ago. A patient understanding that knew overwatch as a group of people doing their best, one that left him with a guilty conscience as he didn’t allow you a shred of the same attitude that you so willingly passed onto them.

It surprised him. How was it that a young person from the past could show such understanding towards something you hadn’t lived through? Something you could have faced if you hadn’t wound up here? It was more than they – he – deserved.

-

You felt a headache sitting behind your eyes, face only having just calmed down from crying earlier. You were sure you looked less than presentable, but at this point you really didn’t care. A numbness growing over you, no amount of denying it was going to make it any less true. You had to accept the fact that you couldn’t go back home, not like it was.  

‘ There are many tests of life, ya Danaaya. I know there is pain now. It will pass. ’ Shrike had told you when you were calm enough to listen to her. You got the feeling that at some point, she was a mother. It was comforting to have that kind of touch, gentle and reassuring even this facility that was all too often leaving you with bad news.

You walked into the mess hall, figuring that you’d at least greet Hana and the others like you promised her that morning. When they say you, a chorus of loud, and enthusiastic greetings were sent your way. You sat across from Hana and Lúcio.

“Hey cara ,” Lúcio said as you sat down, his eyebrows drawing together, “tough day?”

“Something like that.” You said, a small smile on you face, as much as you could manage. You could be fine. You had to be.

“Was it because you were late this morning?” Hana chimes in, not giving you a chance to respond to her first question. “Let me guess, more laps? Bigger weights?”

A smirk crosses her face as Lúcio joins in. “Another jab at the Commander?”

“How ‘bout-a unwanted history lesson?” You sighed, folding your arms and laying your head against them on the table.

“Codswallop! That’s got to be against the rules. Isn’t it?” Tracer asked as she sat next to you, two plates in hand, one of which she places next to your head.

“By the looks of it… I ain’t goin’ home any time soon guys.” You could feel the sympathy that radiated off of the three kids around you as you closed your eyes. Not wanting to deal with this.

“Of course you’ll get home, love. If Winston was able to fix my jam, then I’m sure you’ve got it made.” The hopeful tone of her voice didn’t make you feel any better.

“If you say so.” You brought your head up, Hana placing a hand on your arms.

“In the meantime, you can play games with me! You’ve still got a lot to learn Watson!” Hana grinned at you, her tone cheerful and full of determination. You shrugged.

“Guess so.”

“Hey, don’t forget, Parceira, even if you don’t get home as soon as you want to, you still got us!” Lúcio’s tone caught your attention, it was more sombre, you looked at him. He had a small smile on his face, eyebrows upturned in a way that you guessed was supposed to be sympathetic. You nodded as the trio around you smiled.

“I suppose I do.”

“Trust us love. There’s a lot of people here who care about you,” Tracers arm snaked around your shoulders, squeezing you into a gentle side hug. “You don’t have to be in a rush all the time, you know.”

“Lena does enough of that on her own!” Hana smiles at you as a weak smile graces your face. That much was certainly true.

“You’ll get home.” Lúcio jumps in. “We know you will.”

“You just have to patient.” Lena rubbed your arm, squeezing your shoulder as she brought her arm from around you.

You nodded, your smile only a tad wider than when the conversation started. But it was enough to curb some of the worry these young people had for you. The conversation slowly filtering back to Hana’s stream, Lena’s organised visit to see a special friend of hers. Even Lúcio had news, his new album was due to come out in a few months.

On the other hand, you didn’t have much of an appetite, preferring to listen to the idle chatter until you were too tired to really stand it. The mindlessness of it leaving your mind wondering to the wreckage that was supposed to be your home. With the lack of interest in both food, and social interaction, you excused yourself with the promise of seeing them again tomorrow. Their conversation clearly not finished yet.

You left the mess hall, choosing to head to your room. The halls were quiet, your bootsteps tapping against the floor to fill the silence. You turned down the hall, steps faltering when you saw the window as the end of it. The sun was setting, not quite red. In fact, it was a dusty pink that spread across the sky. You turned your gaze, not finding it in you to watch the sunset. You couldn’t do it, not after what you found out today, too mentally and emotionally exhausted to find solace in watching it.

You walked to your bedroom, the goal of showering and falling into bed weighing into your mind. The prospect itself rather attractive as you stepped into your room, wanting to be left - -

“What do you think you’re doing?” A familiar, rough voice called out.

Your gaze snapped up from the floor. You had made quite the mistake, this wasn’t your room at all. It was your commanders’ . Your cheeks burned , embarrassment creeping into the mix of exhausting emotions. Soldier: 76 wasn’t wearing his leather Jacket, a short black shirt clung to his torso, un tucked and resting over the top of a pair of dark track pants. They sat low on his hips, towel in his hand signifying that he had probably come out of the shower very recently.

He was practically naked as he stood there, his arms folded over his wide chest, red of his visor glaring at you in anger.

“I - - I’m sorry Sir. I just - - I thought – ” You stammered.

“No, you didn’t think . Did your parents not teach you any manners?”

“N-no, Sir – I mean – of course they did, Sir.” God you were flustered. Stop staring . “But – they’re - - I’m terribly sorry I didn’t – ”

“Just stop. ” He raised a hand, running it through his hair. He looked tired, posture slouched as he sighed. “Just… stop talking .”

You shut your mouth, biting it in an attempt not to embarrass yourself further. A shallow grave was looking good right about now. Was he going to make you run laps? Scrub the training centre from top to bottom again? Work your arse off until you couldn’t stand? Maybe he’d have you hang from the high bar until your arms dislocated.

“Listen, kid.” He said, voice rough, tired, and not as hostile as it was before as you tried to keep your eyes directly on his visor instead of the environment around you. “Go get yourself some sleep, a decent six hours would do you good. Sort yourself out and report for training in the morning.”

“Uh – yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” You nodded, stepping back, awkwardly retreating from the dragons’ den and bumping into the door. “Sorry – sorry.”

You closed the door behind you, wiping your hands on your pants as you looked around the hall. Your door was directly across the hall from his. You weren’t sure if you should be delighted because you didn’t have far to retreat to or mortified because your room was a mere few meters away. If you had’ve turned left instead of right, you could’ve avoided interacting with the higher ranked man.

Did you want to avoid him? You weren’t sure. With everything so rapidly changing all the time, he was the only constant. The only unchanging factor. He was the same stick-up-the-arse man you were tackled by when you first arrived months ago. It really only made sense that you would cling to an unchanging factor, was it really all this that lead you pathetically clinging onto the unchanging nature of a C.O.? Where was it you stood with him anyway?

You placed your hand to your side. It was true that the bullet wound hadn’t needed stitches, but it remained badly bruised. It was even tender now. The image of Soldier: 76 carrying you, taking you from the battle field crossed your mind. He was such a strong man, a wall of muscle that lifted you with so much ease. You must’ve looked pathetic, losing so much blood and getting yourself shot like that.

No.

You had to move forward. Push from that and make sure it didn’t happen again, especially not to someone else. You had to stop thinking about the people who ranked higher than you as anything but that. Higher ranked officers. Hell, your rank was a trivial piece of history now. You were a cadet now. You didn’t want to confuse duty with the petty emotions of a highly intricate situation. No matter how physically attractive anyone around you was, that was no excuse for relying on them for anything.

You had to focus on your primary objective. Getting home.

You walked to the small dresser, taking from it a standard issue tank top and trackie dacks. All of your clothes fit in the top drawer, having nothing but the clothes you arrived with and a few sets of clothes from the resident angel and medic, Doctor Zeigler.

You walked into the bathroom and showered, the water as hot as you could stand it, part of you hoping you could scrub away the memories of the day. You washed your hair and body before stepping out and drying off. After dressing you made a beeline for the bed, climbing down onto the floor next to the bed that still felt too soft for you to get a full night’s sleep on. You hoped that you could get a few hours, as suggested by your commander.

You couldn’t sleep. A storm had rolled in about an hour ago, the sound of thunder and lightning flashing didn’t bother you. In fact, the electrical storm was closely tied with fond memories of running out in the rain only to get drenched on a hot summer’s night. You could feel the buzz of electricity across your skin like a subtle high. Your bare footsteps padding along the dim halls. Your hair sitting messily on your shoulders, band on your wrist in case you needed to tie it back. Your destination targeted outside, so you could go run in the rain, get your feet dirty in the muddy grass. The scent of rain to fill your lungs.

Feel like you were at home, if only for a moment.

You made your way outside, carefully shutting the door behind you, standing under an awning as the rain pelted down in fat droplets on the ground, and metal shelter above you. You took a deep breath through your nose, the scent of dirt, grass, and dense cool air filled your senses. The sound of the rain on the awning was like a tin roof. It brought a tearful grin on your face. You loved that sound.

Leaning down and rolling the ends of your sweatpants up, you listened to the rain. It splashed up to just under your knees when you stood, the cool air causing goose bumps to appear over your legs. But you figured that your pants wouldn’t get too dirty from the mud as you looked out into the dark, only being able to see as your eyes became accustomed to it. Your line of sight was about twenty meters around. You bounced on the balls of your face and your grin spread into an energy that shot through your very bones. Your feet pushed you forward as you bounded out from under the awning, splashing against the wet grass. Dirt came up from the ground, sticking to your feet, legs, and the bottoms of your pants.

Left. In. Right. Left. Out. You breathed as you ran, rain drenching you with the sheer amount that was coming down from the sky. The world became smaller as you were only able to see the dim lighting from the facility, rather than the silhouette of it. The feeling of freedom ran over you as your solid legs pushed you forwards. The grin on your face only widening as you let out a shout, thunder rumbling to meet you as you slowed to a jog.

You shouted again. It felt fantastic.

Your mind ran to a faraway place, the sound of childish laughter, the owners face springing to your mind as you imagined being far away from the future. Into the past with your little sister, at home. You could see her laughing beside you, her hair wet and sticking to her face and a million other directions. You could spend a million years in that memory, running through the rain with your sister, laughing and playing, even singing your favourite tunes badly.

You tried, the only one coming to mind was the jukebox classic that she’d screech at too early hours of the day. Joan Jett. The rest of the world fell away as you danced in the rain, kicking up waves of water, dirt, loose grass and water covering you as you lost yourself in the memory of your younger self dancing with your little sister under heavy rain in the front yard.

It would’ve no doubt looked ridiculous as you ran around, dancing as if she were here with you now, singing, admittedly more on-key than you would’ve a lifetime ago. Enjoying the chilling rain soaking you through, almost to your bones, clothes drenched and heavy. Not a care in the damn world.

You didn’t care. For now, you were home.

-

You woke up in a different environment than you had fallen asleep. A soft, but firm surface beneath you as you sat up. A different set of clothes on you, hair still wet, meaning last night wasn’t a dream. Opening your eyes and yawning, you looked around to find that you were on your bed, rather than beside it, in your room and not outside. The rain was still falling outside, though not to the degree it had been last night. What time was it? And, more importantly, who brought you back to your room?

Your guess was McCree, although Tracer was just as likely to bring you inside. There was light outside, so it was morning. Looking at the clock, you found that it was about ten. Commander 76 was going to eat you for lunch. Probably.

You got up, showering quickly and getting dressed in yet another pair of trackies, and a loose shirt. You made sure to make the bed before you left the room, running down the hall, boots and socks in hand. You figured that you’d slip them on in the training hall, no more time to waste. Maybe the commander would go easy on you today – not that you really expected him to, but it was worth a shot. On your way, you jogged towards Lena, a smile on her face.

“Good morning, love!” She called.

“G’mornin’ Tracer.” You greeted, coming to a stop as you reached her. “You wouldn’t by chance, have found me outside last night, would you?”

“No, I haven’t seen you since dinner yesterday.” She said, brows furrowing as she looked at you. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“It’s nothin’ really.” You shook your head, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’m runnin’ a bit late, on the highway to hell so to speak. But I’ll swing by later. Alright mate?”

“Of course. I’ll see you and the others later!” her smile lit up the halls as you continued your jog down towards the training centre. Maybe it was McCree who put you to bed then? Unless someone woke you and you just don’t remember.

You ran into the training centre, dropping onto the floor by the sparring area to throw on both your socks and boots. Soldier: 76 was across the way, doing a set of chin-ups with controlled ease. It wouldn’t be wise to interrupt. You yanked the laces in your boots, from the base of the interwoven strings, up through to the top until they were as tight as you could get them without being uncomfortable.

As you tucked the ends of your pants into the tops of your boots, you heard him drop from the bar, landing on the floor with a small grunt. He turned to see you getting up, patting down your shirt.

“Cadet.” He said, acknowledging your presence in the room. The word stung. “You’re late.”

“Yes, sir.” You nodded, arms by your side as you stood straight, at attention. “I don’t mean to make you hot under the collar, sir. I woke up late.”

“How would…” You heard him mumble, clearly confused. You swore you saw his ears turn somewhat red as he shook his head. You released your mistake, yet again.

“I – I mean angry, sir.” You explained, cheeks heating up as the American version of the slang rushed into your mind. The future still had slang differences, and it seemed you would have to be a little more careful about your turn of phrase.

You noticed that you were using more slang terms. Even ones that you might not have used if you were back home. Maybe you were just trying to bring more of home with you here in the future. But someone had to be a True blue… right?

'I suggest you find a better place to nap.’ Soldier: 76’s voice echoed through your head as you sat by the window, colours thrown in a spectrum of reds and purples across the sky. Hardly anyone disturbed you here. It was quiet, and hell, sometimes you just had to get away from people. Away from the noise and the buzzing of electricity in wide hallways or places like the infirmary where there were so many devices running. Coming here had become part of your daily routine. Over the past week since your night of gaming with the ‘Tree Musketeers’ you spent each day training, going through drills and sets with 76. Thus far he had taught you basics – mostly things you already knew. It was familiar, and it brought a sort of calm as you threw yourself into it, the routine training becoming more and more like muscle memory.

After training you’d usually share a meal with the younger agents who had quickly become friends to you, more than you could consider yourself to them. Today, you had skipped the option to each with them. Watching the sunset, wanting to do so from start to finish today. The colours were more vibrant today, clouds covering the sky. You wondered if it would rain soon; you loved the rain. You sat with your arms wrapped around one knee, the other leg out straight in front of you. The world at ease for a few precious moments, these usually being the ones you would plug in your headphones and listen to Maris’ voice. Her picture sitting in your hand. Her face smiling brightly at you.

The window had almost become your ‘spot’ in a lot of ways. No one really walked by, it was just inside a blind spot of a security feed. It was disconnected from the crazy outside world of the future and it’s millions of things you couldn’t even begin to understand. Sitting there it didn’t matter if the other agents of Overwatch thought you were crazy for doing a chore or two when it needed to be done, nor did it matter how hard you would push yourself when you trained. At the end of the day, you still had this. The sunset.

Hell, if Hanzo could preach about meditation and finding peace, glorified bathrobe and all, you could certainly find it for yourself in these small moments.

You ran your thumb along the edge of the polaroid in your hand, the edges worn and middle starting to fade despite your careful folding to keep it from doing so. Her smiling face was still the most beautiful thing you had ever had the blessing of experiencing in person. The sun was starting to dip further behind the trees.

You’d find a way back home to her eventually or die trying. It was a promise you were making to yourself, you wouldn’t stay more than half a century into your future. You’d get back home and make a difference, even if that meant leaving the army, risking the loss of being paid due to the aim at the special pension reserved for soldiers who serve twenty years. You could get a real job that would still pay the bills, one that would let you spend time with your sister. Try to make up for lost time.

“Cadet.” You jolted at the sound of your Commander’s voice, his tone sending your mind reeling to images of memories you’d rather keep buried. You stood from the ground, at attention.

“Yes, Sir?” You stood with your shoulders straight and right arm up in a salute.

“At ease.” He started, you placed your arm down at your side. You were still rigid, fingers curled into fists.

You nodded at him when he hadn’t continued with your orders.

“Winston wants to see you in his lab. He’s got Intel he wants to show you.” Your eyebrows furrow as you grow confused, eyes turning towards the ground. It had been in the last week that they had stopped running scans. Could they really have sorted through everything that quickly? It was a hell of a lot of data. More importantly, what was so important that they had to interrupt you during the one thing you looked forward to each day?

“Can - - Sir, may I have a minute to - -”

“No. He wants to see you asap.” Soldier: 76 stood there, his arms folded over his chest with a coldness as though he were scolding a child making a stupid decision. You relaxed your fingers. Maybe it was stupid to look forward to something as silly as a sunset.

You nodded, a defeated sigh falling from your lips as you moved forward, following an invisible path to Winston’s lab. If it truly was that important, then you supposed the sunset could wait until tomorrow. Not like they thought much of the natural phenomenon anyway. You took note that 76 didn’t join you on your long walk towards the lab. Was it a private matter? They didn’t really exclude him otherwise.

You followed the stairs down to Winston’s lab, the electric buzzing faintly in your ears left you tense as you stepped through the doorway. Both Winston and Doctor Zeigler were in the lab, documents open on the electronic interface of the desk. The gorilla scientist looked up at you upon approach.

“Watson. Please, have a seat.” He started, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. You sat, albeit hesitantly.

“We have some concerns.” Mercy told you, her eyebrows furrowed, looking over a type of chart. Your own concern only grew as you saw document after document glowing over the desk, each one having a single name written on it.

Watson.

“You need to listen very carefully to what I’m about to tell you,” the scientist started, his gaze sympathetic. You nodded, urging him to continue. He brought up a document, your original medical report, it seemed. “When Tracer brought you in, we didn’t know what to make of you.”

“She insisted there was something special about you.” Mercy cut in, looking at the document hovering between the three of you. “She said that you were different from other civilians.”

“The tests we conducted over the past three weeks have concluded quite a few things.” Winston states, bringing up a 3D holographic image of a brain. “The first being that you have an abnormally high level of perception and processing.”

“Meaning?” You asked, wanting to prompt the conversation along when it looked like both doctor and scientist were going to hesitate.

“It means,” She sounded hesitant to tell you, walking over to lean against the desk and face you. “Your brain sorts through information at an increased rate, constantly taking in information in your environment and analysing it. Like a super computer that is constantly running, even when you’re not conscious.”

“Is that a problem?” your gaze flicked between them.

“Ordinarily, no.” She sighed, placing two fingers against her temple. “Watson, it seems that whilst your mind has amplified its ability to process information, this has also lead to an increase of each of your five senses.”

Winston separates the image of the brain into two, different levels of colours appearing.

“In the first scan, you can see that your mind is working and processing information at around thirty cycles per second whilst in your induced coma. The second shows the activity to be running at forty cycles per second.”

You looked at the images, it impressed you that your brain could be processing so much, so quickly.

“We believe this has something to do with your lost memory.” Winston adds, bringing up yet another series of scans that no doubt leads down to some chemical equation as you why you’re the way you are. “It has to do with the theory of time travel.”

You nodded. The change in subject taking your interest, they were only just now deciding to tell you even though you had already known for weeks. You weren’t sure if you should be thankful that they were coming forward with it, or offended that it took so long.

“Watson, we are under the belief that whatever happened before you were found in London, has led to travel through time.” Mercy crossed her arms, button down shirt and lab coat bunching at her elbows. “It’s both fascinating and concerning.”

“And, how does this connect to my brain?” Your question was pointed. You didn’t see how the topic concerned you other than the fact that it was your brain at work. It frustrated you. If they knew this, then what were you all siting around for? Why weren’t you looking for a way home?

“Watson,” Winston’s voice was full of compassion, hints of sympathy laced through it. “We know very little in terms of your condition or even how it came to be.”

“Why?” You stared at them, eyebrows furrowed and finger nails digging into your palms as you sat in the chair in front of Winston’s desk.

“We only know what you’ve told us. There are no records of anything that could help us to get you back to your own time. Please understand - -“

“Russia.” You ground out, hanging your head. The conversation pauses, your head felt hot, cheeks flushed with both shame of failing to keep mission details confidential, and the disgust you held. You were desperate to get home… But at this cost? The cost of potentially important information?

“What was that?” Mercy asked you, her voice so irritatingly calm.

“I was in Russia.” You bring your hands to your lap to grip onto the fabric of your pants instead of digging so hard into your palms. “I was working surveillance.”

You could hear the tell-tale signs of typing as what you were saying wa being recorded on yet more reports about you.

“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” You heard mercy ask, feeling as though there was a sort of condescending hint that probably wasn’t actually there.

“It’s classified. The whole mission… I’m not even supposed to tell you where I was.”

“Why?” Why? What did she mean, why? What part of classified information did these people not respect?

“Doctor.” You started, eyes trained on your shoes. “I am giving you all I can on the mission. It is my duty as part of the Australian Armed Forces to not tell you anything about it. The information I have supplied you so far would get me court-martialled alone.”

You blocked out their voices as best you could after that. You didn’t want the questions. Your heartbeat was rising, the feeling of being unsafe filling your chest as it had on day one of being in the facility. You weren’t supposed to tell them about the mission. And you couldn’t bring yourself to tell them the specifics, but you had given them a location. You were sure that was enough. God, you were so selfish. Selfish for wanting to go home instead of protecting the information as it was your duty to do. Selfish for wanting to see your little sister, for wanting to get home.

For wanting sunsets.

You slowly forced yourself back into the conversation, you had to deal with what was in front of you. Had to deal with the repercussions of leaking classified information to people who weren’t supposed to be privy to the information you just handed over. An image of blood coated the backs of your eyelids. Blood on your hands, on walls, clothes, limbs. You could practically feel your guilt sticking to you like drying blood.

You took a deep breath as you looked up at them.

“What is your point in all this?” You asked, jaw clenching, hands trembling in your lap, skin flushed in controlled anger.

“Watson, almost the entirety of your brain is working at any given time. Taking in information, analysing it, processing and presenting it to you with a speed that we have never seen before. It is simply faster than any human has been able to accomplish. It is likely that this will not ever happen again.” Winston tried to explain, hints of curiosity and excitement in his tone.

“So, what you’re telling me is that you’re focusing on my brain to see just how ‘spectacularly’ it works? See if I maybe have a few screws loose that maybe some duct tape can hold together long enough for you to just examine?” You were raising your voice, every syllable pointed with the precision of a fresh blade. Your blood felt like it was boiling, face burning with anger that you just couldn’t hold in.

“Watson, that’s not - -“

“I’m not finished!” You growled as you stood from the chair, legs scraping against the floor. “I’m not going to just hang out and wait for you to ‘fix’ me and send me home.”

“We don’t know if it was just your mind that has been affected.” Mercy tried to reason, bringing her hands forward to reach for your shoulder. You shove her hands away.

“I travelled into the – fucking – future. Which, by the way, I knew about a fortnight ago.” Your voice was venom now, acidic as your eyes focused on the doctor’s shocked expression. “But oh no ma’am. That’s not the best part! I get to have the equivalent of a ‘super computer’ as if that’s a blessing that I should be bowing down to some god for. And yet I still get to find out that you with all your fancy equipment and future tech – don’t have a single, foggy clue as to what the bloody hell is wrong with me?!”

“Watson, please, try to understand, we –“

“You What? Just want to help me? You want to try to understand my condition?” You shook your head, voice levelling out to a commanding tone. “I know your organisation needs new members because of the geographical spread of all of your soldiers. But I’m not a cadet, nor a private. I’m a fucking Lance Corporal. I don’t need to be talked to as if I’m stupid. If I have to be fucked up because of the sheer ‘concept’ of time travel, then I can sure as hell find my own way to get back to my own time and fix all of this absolute bullshit.”

You turned and stormed out. The scientist and doctor with all of their graphs, diagrams and data spread around the room had not a word to say. The display of frustration and anguish enough to silence them. It only took the edge off the amount of anger you had slowly piling on for weeks in the same halls, same rooms, same god forsaken building. You were probably less than welcome in their office now, you realised.

It wasn’t that what they said had made you mad to begin with. It was that they spoke with both the terminology of someone who was supposed to understand, and the condescending undertones of people who would regard you as stupid, or with no possible hope of understanding. A dull ache started in your chest, settling everywhere and nowhere at the same time. You pushed it down, not wanting to deal with it, not wanting to deal with anyone.

You were headed towards the window, knowing full-well that the sunset would be gone, and that you would have to last until tomorrow to see it. When you arrived at the window, the mood changed dramatically. The soldier was standing there, leaning against a wall by the window, staring out, a cup of coffee in his gloved hand. The sun expectedly gone as you approached, not wanting to back away and find somewhere else. You lent against the other wall, arms folded as you tried to compose yourself and rein in the anger before you opened your mouth and ruined things between the only other person of authority that you knew of.

After a moment or two, you felt his gaze on you. He could probably see the flush across your skin from being in the lab and snapping at his colleagues. You could feel it, even as you wondered how you would get the band around your wrist off and leave the facility. If you could find a hacker, they might be willing to get it off your arm. Although the idea was entertained, you knew it would never work, not only would you need to find a computer to do so, but you really had nothing to trade. There was no chance it would work.

“You lied.” 76 said from next to you, voice lowered.

“What?” Your gaze turned to him, the light of his visor emitting softly in the dark of the hall as he face you.

“Your name isn’t Watson.” He stated, the air turning threatening with the danger that seemed to radiate off him in waves. “You lied.”

“I didn’t lie.” Your tone was calm, level even. It surprised you how quickly the anger bubbled back up as your fingers curled to dig into your arms as you kept them folded. If he decided you were a threat then there wasn’t much of a future ahead of you, here or in your own time.

“If you didn’t lie, then what the hell is this?” He took a folded pile of paper from his pocket and held it out to you.

You took it from him, your gaze turning downwards as you unfolded the paper, reading over it. The basis of the accusation, and the information had a great many things running through you as you read over things you already knew. How the actual fuck did he get this? The man standing before you was much smarter than you gave him credit for, he had found your birth certificate, the school you went to, even the date you enlisted into the fucking army. He had the name of your little sister, Maris [L/N]. He knew who you were, and it showed in his cocky-arsed, military drilled attitude.

“Something wrong, [Y/N]?” His voice was like the distant rumble of thunder, promising lightning to come, it sent ice through your bones.

“How did you find this?” You looked up at him, was there really any point in hiding it anymore?

“Wouldn’t have had to go looking if you had’ve told the truth.”

“Yeah, because the truth is that your name is really ‘Soldier: 76’” Your voice was dripping with both sarcasm and anger. Fingers gripping onto the pages in front of you, heart beat rising. You almost regretted your decision to snap at him when he leaned down to your level.

“You’re digging yourself a grave - -“

“What? Be prepared to lie in it?” You finished for him, your entire body facing him, jaw set and shoulders straight, glaring into the ‘eyes’ of his face. “I constructed the fine print on my funeral the day I signed the enlistment paperwork. I’m already lying in it. I’m. Waiting. To. Fall. Asleep.” You hissed, shoving the papers into his chest as you turned, leaving with the last word, bitterness seeping into every last crevice of your body.

Deep down, you knew getting home was a stab in an inky blackness that could swallow you whole. Seeing your little start was as good as your chances of getting your next ‘headshot’ in one of D.Va’s videogames the next time you play. Near on impossible. If everyone around you could stop looking at you, your name and your family and start looking at your situation, maybe you would be home by now.

If they wouldn’t focus on what was important, then you would.

“Well done, mishka.” Zaryanova’s praise touched your bittersweet mood with a cheerfulness that had you feeling tired.

You had come to the training hall to blow off some steam, away from the infirmary, but still being productive, even if it was for your own gain. The Russian woman beside you handed over a water bottle as you sat up. You took it, stretching out one arm as you drank from the bottle. Your gaze turned to the weights, the total seated at about 180 pounds. Your goal was to bench 200 by the end of the month, if you were even still here at that point. You looked up when a shadow fell over your legs, looking up you saw the strongwoman standing over you, arms across her chest over a pink tank-top.

“Something is on your mind.” It certainly wasn’t a question, the stern undertone of her voice encouraging you to tell her what was bothering you in a very distinctively Russian way.

“It’s nothing too important.” You shake your head, shrugging your shoulders.

“You are happy with progress, no?” she sits across from you, taking a weight in her hand.

“My progress is fine – here at least.” You sigh, watching as Zaryanova uses the weight, doing bicep curls.

“Then, is an emotional issue.” She states, levelling your gaze with hers.

“Call it an altercation – an emotional immaturity, if you will.” You look out across the training hall, breaking eyecontact.

“What causes you to think that?”

“Over the course of the lax six hours, I’ve managed to be aggressively insubordinate.” You crack your knuckles, fingers giving as easily to the motion as you had to your previous anger.

“Is it important?”

“What?” Your gaze turned back to the woman sitting in front of you, working her muscles. Your eyebrows furrowed.

“Was it a necessary argument?” She was looking down at her arm as she completed another curl.

Was it?

You were a little stunned, did you really need to have the argument? Sure, you could’ve gone about it differently, but you had been so angry. You had felt like a child, everything down to something as trivial as a sunset stripped from you. It had made you feel vulnerable, defensive. Did Winston and mercy deserve to be yelled at? No, not really. But it was something you had to get off your chest. You didn’t think anyone would listen to you otherwise. Not even the soldier who appeared to take in your every word with a critical eye, he probably fact checked everything. You nodded.

“Yeah, I think… I think it was.”

“Then what is the problem?” She looked up at you.

“I…” You pressed your mouth into a line, looking at your hands as your shoulders sagged. “I think it’s going to severely mess up my shot at getting home.”

“Home is where you make it, mishka.” You felt a hand come to rest on your shoulder. “Is not home that is problem, yes?”

“I have… A family – a sister – to get back to.” You move your gaze to look up at her.

“You have much to learn.” Zaryanova sighs, running a hand through her bright pink hair. “Brothers and sisters are here as well.”

“How do you mean?” You were confused, just what’d she mean by that?

“To live, to fight in team. Would you not live and die for them?” She asks, giving you some ‘food for thought.’ “Are they not family in arms?”

You stared at the woman in front of you, giving you sound advice. Sure, you had to figure out the answer for yourself, but really you should’ve asked yourself that before. You’d not even been here a month and yet you had already acquainted yourself with new people, new friends. Were you being selfish by not accepting what was put in front of you? Throwing away the opportunity to do better?

“You might just be right, Zaryanova.” You decided. The two of you stood, her height allowing her to tower over you without a thought. You grasped each other’s forearms, the grin on her face was brilliant as it was cocky.

“Of course, I’m right, mishka.” She pats you on the back as you turn to leave. “I’m Russian.”

You left her in the training room, a calm sitting over you as you thought about what she had given you to consider. There was a lot you had to sort out.

-

The next morning, you were standing in Winston’s, having just interrupted a meeting he was having with Mercy and Soldier: 76. Which was unbelievably convenient. The issue certainly wasn’t going to sort itself out, and you had to get it over with. Standing there now, you felt small and insignificant, your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to compose not only your apology, but also your defence as to why you had argued and yelled at them in the first place. In a way, you felt as though they expected you to apologise, not that you had much of a choice. You didn’t want any more debts to pay.

“I want to apologise, for my actions yesterday.” You started, attempting to keep your voice even with their attention pointed at you. Your hands sat in front of you, one hand holding your other wrist. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. It was wrong, and immature. Especially when I’m here out of the generosity of your organisation.”

You took a breath, slowly, eyes scanning each of them to see if there was any disbelief or perhaps any hatred in the eyes of the trio that you considered judge, jury and executioner. You straightened your shoulders.

“Specifically, I wish to apologise for providing you a false name. I understand that there may be distrust of my position here, but by providing a pseudonym, I had a way to protect my identity… Not that it did much good in the end.” You looked at Soldier: 76, red visor light staring right at you. “I don’t mean you any harm. Not to your operation, families, or any information you have here. My name is [Y/N] [L/N], I am a Lieutenant Colonel of the Australian military… And I wish to formally apologise, and request that I take responsibility for my immature actions.”

Your long-winded apology didn’t go without its flaws, and you certainly hoped they would accept it, even if you highly doubted it. This was, realistically, the best wicket you had in terms of not only surviving in the future without any knowledge of how anything from income to shelter worked. It was also your best show at getting home. You didn’t know what was outside the perimeter of the facility, not with the Mad-band around your arm tracking your location.

You fidgeted as you waited for them to respond, your gaze turned down to your shoes as they looked at each other, the silent conversation running over your head. You were mentally preparing for them to drag your arse out of the facility with nothing more than what you had arrived with.

You hear Winston clear his throat. “Well, uh. This is a change of events, certainly. But your apology is accepted.”

Your eyes snapped up to look at him, you were surprised. The only other person in the room who even showed a fraction of sharing that same sentiment was 76, who had tensed as Winston spoke.

“However,” He continued. “we understand that mistakes are made, but as you said, you wish to take responsibility. I believe the best course of action would be to leave you at the hands of Soldier: 76 to levy the consequences.”

“Yes, Sir.” You nodded, turning when you were dismissed. Walking out of the lab you mulled it over; Soldier: 76, the American hard as nails Commander with a stick up his arse was going to deal your hand. Perhaps by the end of this, you wouldn’t need to find a way home after all.

-

Boots falling in step, Angela Zeigler and Soldier: 76 made their way towards the MedBay where Angela was looking to drop off some printed documents for filing. The topic of conversation was you.

“I know Watson had an altercation with Winston and I… But one with you,76? I hadn’t suspected that.” Her tone was thoughtful, her arms resting comfortable around the stack of files in her arms.

“A pointed conversation.” He clarified, opening a door for Angela to step through first. His thoughts on the content of the conversation he had shared with you.

“And that’s when you discovered that her name is, in fact, [Y/N]?”

“No. I have been looking into her from the moment she woke up.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “I have a few concerns about her.”

“General, or security?”

“Mental.”

He nodded, his mind flicked to the sight of you, anger so prevalent that you had been trembling with it. Eyes holding a darkness he had seen too many times in the mirror.

“I’m not certain of the extent of her condition… It’s… difficult.” She admits, eyebrows furrowing.

“It’s certainly something of an enigma.” He agreed, watching as Angela stepped through the entrance of the MedBay.

“I will have to test for Post-Traumatic Stress…” She sighs, placing the files on her desk. “One can only wonder what she has had to do with the old ideals.”

Soldier: 76 placed his hands in his pockets, the sight of you laying against the window appeared behind his eyes. The journal page that had been damp with tears, the note to a young child, and the way you were perpetually tense whenever you were anything but asleep. If he thought about it, perhaps he was being too hard on you from a security standpoint. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume that you carried yourself the way you did due to your experience. What was it you had told him?

You were waiting to fall asleep.

He considered the implications of that statement. Being here, closed off from the outside would, admittedly, send even him stir-crazy. But he didn’t that was what it was, the only thing he really considered in your actions was that it consisted of an almost muscle memory that set you into a routine best to adapt yourself to the environment.

“Is there anything I should take into consideration, Soldier?” She was looking at him now, her tone suggesting it wasn’t just the facts she wanted.

“That soldier needs help, Angela.” He admitted, sighing. “Don’t push too much, too fast.”

“Understood.” She wrote something down, eyebrows furrowed. “I best be tending to her arrangements.”

-

You felt a pair of eyes on you as you pulled yourself up for your sixty-seventh consecutive chin-up, a weight seated on your calves that were crossed at the ankle. You had been waiting in the training hall for Soldier: 76 to show up and give you your orders. It was possibly a stupid idea to place yourself on the highest bar to do chin-ups in the training hall, however it ensured that your feet wouldn’t touch the ground. You huffed as you pulled yourself up again, adjusting the grip of your hands, feeling as though they were starting to slip. You left yourself down before pulling back up, bringing your feel up when they felt like they were dropping, keeping your focus on the bar.

“You have better form. Good to know you were listening.” A deep, gruff voice called from beneath you.

It startled you, not expecting whoever had come in to come by and talk to you. You tried to adjust you grip as your hands faltered on the bar you were pulling yourself up to. The surprise yelp you gave as you slipped from the bar was replaced with the immediate realisation that you could potentially be seriously injured when you hit the floor. You brought your arms out as if that would do anything.

The hard floor never reached you, your descent suddenly slowed to a careful halt as you heard the weight thud loudly against the floor. A pair of strong arms were around you, holding under your knees, and across your back. Your heart beating quickly to both exertion and the sudden slip. You looked up to see Soldier: 76, the red light of his visor up close not as intimidating in the light of the training hall.

You breathed in, realising that he had caught you as though you had weighed literally nothing. It would’ve made for a romantic moment if you weren’t in the army, or if the thought that he was your commanding officer only there to make sure you knew just how badly you had screwed up.

“Thank you - - sir.” You mumbled as he put you down.

“You need to be more careful, cadet.” He stated.

“Because falling for you is something I can account for.” You muttered.

“What was that?” There was an edge lace in his voice.

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Exactly. Drop and give me fifty.”

This was going to turn out just great.

You weren’t getting up there, no way your arms could pull your body towards the bar. Since when did you weigh this much? Your legs felt like mush, the muscles exhausted. Push-ups were fine, planking across two benches, you were okay with that. Fifty damn laps around the complex had left your legs turned into jelly. And after all that, you were back at square one; chip-ups. You were up to number 34 out of one-hundred. You couldn’t do it, you didn’t want to do it. But he wouldn’t let you down, not until you finished. Sweat was pouring off you in waves, making if that much harder to pull yourself up.

76 stood with his arms folded near you, watching as you pulled yourself up, grunting with the effort it took to simply pull yourself upwards. Your hair was a mess, having no chance to retie it for the duration he had been dealing with you so far. This form of cruel and unusual punishment confused you, originally, you thought he’d make you scrub the room, do laundry and other chores until he had thought you’d done enough to satisfy the grievance.

This hadn’t been what you had in mind at all. Did he enjoy putting you through training? Watch as you eventually struggled to so a basic set? You pulled yourself up, falling back to the full length of your arms before your chin could raise above the bar. Dammit.

“You can’t come down until you finish.” He reminded you, and you were sure you could hear a smirk in his stupid voice. You’d be hanging here for the rest of the century!

“I can’t get up there.” You groaned, trying again to pull yourself upward, muscles protesting with every centimetre.

“Then you’ll just have to hang there.” You pulled yourself maybe an inch higher, gritting your teeth at the comment.

“Sir?”

“What, Cadet?”

“Respectfully Sir… Go fuck yourself.” You quipped, pulling your chin above the bar.

-

“You told Soldier: 76 to – ha! That’s so great!” D.Va laughed at the comment you had made to the commanding officer hours ago, making your way down the hall with trembling muscles.

“I don’t feel great.” You groaned. He had made you clean the entire training hall after the smart-arse comment.

“Still. I wouldn’t have been brave enough to say it.” She smiled at you, “I can’t quite tell if that was a stupid or brave move on your part though.”

“Trust me, D.va, it was incredibly stupid.” You stopped at your door, the one with the sticky note on it, your name written down in neat letters.

“Hey,” D.Va turned to you, your gaze now on her. “Call me Hana.”

“You nodded at her. “Alright… Hana.”

You opened the door to your room and stepped inside. You were taken aback, it was certainly bigger than you thought, especially when you considered it housed a single person. There was a bed in the centre of the wall, too big to be a single bed, yet too small to be considered a double bed. Next to it on the right side was a desk, at the corner facing the wall, a window seated above it. The window just enough to let natural light in during the day. Next to the door was a dresser. There was still ample room for you to walk around, and have another person inhabit the space with you.

You looked at the room, your eyes widening. It might’ve been quaint, or small to some standards, but if filled you with a small sense of security. A sense of ease that came with having a space that was yours. Hell, you had your own bed.

When was the last time you had your own bed?

“At least something good came out of all this.” You sighed, walking over and running your hand along the covers. They felt soft.

“I’ll let you get settled into the new room.” You could hear the smile in her voice. “Meet us for dinner?”

“Yeah… Sure.” You nodded, hearing the door close behind her.

You turned and laid down on the covers, sinking into it, the mattress firm and holding you properly. It smelled like vanilla and something earthy. Not wanting to move, you laid there, staring at the ceiling, contemplating just how lucky you were in a lot of ways. Being here had improved you physically already, you were significantly more fit than you had been the first couple days you used to sneak off to the training hall. You had gained a sort of surrogate family born out of the battlefield rather than during the middle of it.

Tracer kind of reminded you of your sister, energetic and optimistic with an impatience that rivalled most. Hana was what you thought a ‘best friend’ should be, with her competitive nature and overly fantastic instinct to read the emotions of people. Lúcio was like a brother to you, his music was pretty good and showed not only his work ethic, but his big heart that you could see in each interaction you had. Even Zaryanova had made it into the mix, he solid advice had you in the position were in now, pushing through and trying to stick it out. To be patient and prepared for the possibility that you might not actually be able to get home.

Even McCree was on the list, only, he spent most of his time either in the firing range or doing god-knows-what somewhere else. He was always up for the company though, if you had time to give it. Your ‘acquaintanceship’ was more him openly flirting with you, like he did with most anyone (except Tracer – something about a girlfriend?) and you’d have a one-liner. It was kind of like going out drinking, without the liquor.

Your thoughts drifted to the American poster boy; Soldier: 76. Sure, he was your superior, but so was Zaryanova, and even Mercy. Both of whom would share a slice-of-life type story if it came up. With your commanding officer, there weren’t any conversations besides the regular Drill Sargent insults, and your smart-arse comments. Would he be the only one around who would almost outright avoid you outside when he had to talk to you? A small part of you hoped that wouldn’t happen. In a weird way, it felt like he could relate to you better, knew when to push you harder or to back off a bit. You shook you head, closing your eyes and sighing.

He was different to others that had trained you, sure. He treated you like he was supposed to, but there was a mutual respect there. The whole ‘I’m your superior but you’re still a human, kid.’ (why could you imagine him saying that?) You rub at your left wrist, feeling ghost pain rise up in an unexpected dull ache.

It was going to be one of those nights.

-

About two weeks into the hard and fast training Soldier: 76 had put you through since your apology in Winston’s lab, you found that you were allowed in the gun range. So far, you had been in there for about two hours. Mercy having just been by with a pair of hearing aids, only, to do the opposite to what you considered normal for your hearing. They adjusted automatically to the noises around you, gunshots scaling lower, and voices at a regular volume. You were immensely grateful to her for them, the sound of electronics in the area barely registering upon your ears now as you stood in front of a training bot that hovered above the ground.

You pulled the trigger to the rifle you had in your hands, apparently it was called a ‘Pulse Rifle’ and it had a far greater range to regular bullets. You looked at the training robot, some thirty yards away, you aimed, keeping your elbows from locking as you steadied the weapon. When you pulled the trigger, your arms moved, the force of the kick moving your hands, and the rest of you to the ground. The bullet missing the bot by a few metres, McCree chuckling to your right.

“You alright there darlin’?” He asked, a smirk in his voice as he watched you get back onto your feet.

“M’fine.” You brushed off your hands onto your pants. “Kick’s a bit bigger than expected.”

“Should’ve taken my advice.” He said, putting his cigar into the holder on an ashtray as he walked over. “It’s not enough to jimmy it against yer shoulder.”

You looked at him, eyebrows furrowing. “How’d y’mean, cowboy?”

“Well, missy,” He places his hands on your shoulders, turning you to face the bot again. He smelled of tobacco and stale liquor, whiskey mostly. “What it is yer doin’ is sitting the butt of the rifle against the wrong part of yer shoulder.”

You face the mark once again, eyebrows furrowing. “Okay, let me figure this out.”

You looked at the bot, adjusting your grip on the rifle as McCree stepped back. You moved the back end of the gun to sit better against your shoulder, and your side as you aimed it towards the bot and practice targets around it. You adjusted your stance to be more grounded, more centred as you pulled the trigger. The first few shots you tested missed. You readjusted and took to it again.

The shot hit.

Your eyebrows raised, and eyes widened as the training bots’ head exploded, the bot falling to the ground. Sure, you were adept at using weapons, or, at least those you could understand, but to actually hit a shot with this type of weapon? You were impressed with yourself. Your gaze turned to McCree, a smirk on his face.

“Looks like you’ve got the hang of it there all on yer own.”

“Yeah.” You breathed a laugh. “Wasn’t expecting it to just blow up like that though.”

“Best not stop while you’re getting the hang of it.”

You nodded, an affirmative sound coming from you as you turned to shoot, eyeing each target and shooting at it. Sure, anyone with a pair of hands could pick up a weapon and shoot, be it beginners luck or what have you, but it took training to get the amount of shots you were getting. You guessed it was perks of working your arse off when you were back home training or out on the field in a skirmish, that lead to your ability with this new kind of weapon.

A low whistle from beside you caught your attention, you lowered the weapon, looking for a way to reload it.

“Do I meet your expectations, darlin’?” you mocked his accent a little bit on the last word, raising an eyebrow as you found the release for the clip.

“Meetin’ and exceedin’. Didn’t think you’d actually start hittin’ the targets that quick.” He confessed, smiling at you when you looked at him.

“And they call you a quick draw.” You reloaded the rifle, looking back to the grounds as more targets rolled out. “Besides, I gotta set the bar somewhere.”

Aim, shoot, breathe.

-

Winston’s conversation with Soldier: 76 was going no where near the plan he had for it. The anger in the soldier’s features was evident as he presented the news.

“You want to put her out on the field?” 76 asked incredulously, voice low and seething as he stared down the gorilla from behind his visor. “She hasn’t got the training, let alone the bearings.”

“She’s been improving steadily.” The tone of Winston’s voice suggesting that he was trying to be reasonable. “She holds tremendous tactical advantage. Look at this.”

He looked at the live feed that was brought up. You were standing in the range, McCree smoking a cigar at the table nearby. You were handling a rifle half the size of you. When you took a shot and stumbled back, you turned, saying something to McCree, a smirk on your face as you adjusted your stance and took another shot. You hardly flinched with the kick, taking shot after shot.

“With her fighting for us, we could take care of Talon and its agents scattered over the globe. We could stop the largest crime organisation in the world. You don’t think she has the training? Look at her marksman skills.”

He watched as you took calculated shot after shot, until you emptied the clip. You brought the rifle down to look for the release. Just how many weapons had you tested so far? He discounted the thought. It didn’t matter if you could carry a weapon and have complete accuracy. It didn’t matter if you continued to exceed his expectations. It didn’t convince him that it would be the same on the field, he didn’t want to be the cause of more needless death. Especially when you didn’t even belong here.

“Handling a weapon in a controlled environment means nothing. It’s completely different on the field. Just because she’s able to stick something with a bullet doesn’t ensure she has the physical endurance required to take down Talon by any measure.”

“76,” Winston sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You know her, evidently more than I do, but the fact is that with her, we may have a chance at bringing peace again. Making a difference again.”

“She hasn’t got the training.” He stated.

“I’m sorry, but the matter’s out of my hands. It’s already been decided.”

“By who?” His voice was stern as he folded his arms, you shouldn’t be on active duty. He watched as Winston brought up your file, or, what he had access to.

“These scans and diagrams show that she is physically stable. 76, Angela cleared her for active duty, everything in her files, from medical diagnosis to conversations they’ve had is strictly under Angela’s clearance.”

“You didn’t look into her files yourself?”

“Angela is a capable doctor. Her decisions have come to be an advantage to us more than once.” He takes her file from the display on his desk. “She will be accompanying you tomorrow. There isn’t any risk, the mission’s only reconnaissance anyway.”

“You’ll regret that decision when her blood’s spread across the pavement.” He said, standing and leaving Winston’s lab. He had preparations to reorder.

-

The next morning, you were guided to a hanger, located in a separated building from the rest of the complex. There were ACVs – Well, kind of. You could tell they were military vehicles, due to the reinforced tyres on most of them, the thick metal shell of them suggesting that the vehicles were built to be in a skirmish. You crouched to look at the wheels of one of the vehicles, your eyebrows furrowing. They weren’t touching the ground, and nothing was connected to them.

They had hover cars.

“Stop gawking.” Soldier: 76 said, standing beside you. You got up, looking around the base again.

The hangar was big, and it seemed every car had its own designated space. Your eyes turned forward when you noticed movement, a pair of familiar faces standing by what looked to be a dropship. McCree and Tracer stood by the door. It brought a small comfort, having familiar faces on your first mission, even if this whole thing felt like a test.

You’d have to place trust into people you hadn’t long met, only one of which you had actually train with, and they would have to place their trust in you. You’d have to be ready for anything that came your way. It felt like déjà vu, like meeting your squad back home all over again. McCree like Jenks, the Texan boy with a sharp aim. Tracer like Mouse, resourceful and extremely quick. Then there was Soldier: 76, and yeah, he was kind of like Sprint, quiet and to the point, if he didn’t have the metal visor for a face, you were sure he’d always have a scowl on his face. The revelation had you feeling as though you were in good hands, and it made you want to be better.

Being in the army did that, you supposed, trusting your comrades faster than any regular person. They were the ones you had to trust like your life depended on it, because, your life did depend on it.

“Get in.” 76 ordered, Tracer and McCree walking up and into the dropship. You followed them up, abiding by his orders. He was the highest-ranking attendant to the mission as far as you knew, and thus, all orders he gave had to be followed.

You sat down across from Tracer, McCree next to her and the Commander next to you. You were nearest to the back of the vehicle, wondering what the mission would entail. You were told it was a simple reconnaissance, which explains why you were even allowed to toe in the direction of the mission in the first place. However, in your experience, nothing was ever just recon. You were hoping it was an easy in-and-out mission. That wasn’t too much to ask for, right?

Your thoughts were interrupted when the ship lurched, lifting upwards before moving forwards. You looked forward to Tracer, a recurring thought came to mind that had your eyes widening, awe dawning on your face as she laughed.

“You have hover cars.” You announced.

“Of course, love! They’ve been around for ages.”

Setting foot on ground zero had an eerie feel to it, there weren’t any people around, not that you could see. You were on the outskirts of what you were told was a rundown city, which, in all honestly just looked like the grungy side of Sydney. There was graffiti over the walls over buildings, posters over noticeboards. The more you looked at the city, which was really more a town anyway, you found that it was fairly run down. A car had been stripped of parts nearby. Windows were broken, doors broken in.

“Group up over here.” 76 ordered, placing a bag of equipment down and crouching to unzip it.

You stood alongside your companions, McCree inspecting his revolver and flashbangs, Tracer adjusting her jacket before she took her weapons from Soldier, who unloaded a rather large rifle that matched what you were coming to assume was his unspoken aesthetic. He stood, turning as his gaze settled on you. He had another rifle in his hand, a scope sitting atop it.

“Your weapon.” He stated, holding it for you to take, which you did, pulling the strap over your shoulder, letting it rest comfortable. Your commanders gaze turned to face the three of you.

“This is a monitoring, reconnaissance, mission. I don’t want buildings going down due to a lack of tactfulness, or lack of care.” He stated, turning his gaze to you for a moment as if you would send a building to the ground. “We aren’t expecting any heat on this but be on your guard. Don’t get yourself killed.”

You nodded, watching as Tracer and McCree just listened along, probably used to this kind of quick, on the job briefing.

“Report back if you see anything. Tracer, you’re headed east. Watson,” His gaze was back on you for a moment. “East. McCree and I will head through the middle. Remember to use your coms. Move out.”

From there you spread out, taking the east side as you were instructed. You appreciated the fact that you were given all the information you needed to know and weren’t expected to know when and where everything was. It gave you a sense that you were still part of the team despite the obvious difference in authority. You crouched at the corner of a building, looking around before heading inside to start clearing it, attempting to find any information that could’ve lead to the call to come out in the middle of nowhere.

You ducked through a kitchen, dirty dishes still in the sink. A teddy bear siting beside a highchair. You worked through clearing each building you could get to on the way towards the east side, not spending too much time in a building; just enough to clear it before moving on. There were a few stores that you cleared, the one you were clearing now had a door siting ajar, leading to what was probably the office. You walked over, pointing your gun towards the door. You toed it open with your boot, scanning the room.

You had to turn away.

A family had been killed in there, mother father, and two little boys. The dried blood on the wall hand your grip on your rifle firm as you worked to clear the rest of the store before moving on, only pausing to take a lone roll of duct tape from a shelf. Never knowing when you might need it as you pushed down the failure and thoughts of being so useless that you hadn’t come at an earlier time to save the people in the store. Not that there was anything you could’ve done.

It felt the same, each building was empty of anything interesting, unless you counted the body count. A common theme was occurring to you as you worked your way through the buildings. It had to be an act of terrorism, or a measure of control that had left the few bodies you found, other places with a spray-painted sigil of a barn owl. You found your way outside, weaving past bins and cars that had been stripped for parts. This town was a horror show put on display, and you had to focus.

You were probably at it for about an hour now. You were growing concerned as you searched, you hadn’t received word from the others. You reached up to your ear and pressed the button on your communications device.

“Commander, status. Over.” You spoke as you cleared the street of any possible signs of movement. All you got was static.

Shit.

“Commander, status report- -” The sound of distant gunshots ringing in the distance caught your attention.

You hadn’t been expecting resistance on this mission. The line was dead on your commanders’ end. You had no way of contacting him. You made your way towards the sound, creeping behind bin, cars, even fences to find cover. You tried your coms again.

“McCree, do you read me. Over.” Static.

You got closer to the gunshots, loud enough to tell you that the fight was going on very much nearby. You swept the area before going into the closest building. A hotel. It would make for a good vantage point. You had your eyebrows furrowed in concentration, clearing the open halls as you took the stairs, running up them as quietly as you could manage. If you could make it to one of the top levels, you’d have an almost perfect vantage point given the heights of the other buildings.

You heard shouting in the street, someone was down there. You ran into the closest room you could get to, kicking the door shut behind you. The empty living room of an apartment facing you, everything set out as though a family had lived there. You jump over a couch, rolling to land against the far wall of the room, adjusting your rifle so you could see through the scope. You sat up, using the scope to look out the window, attempting to pinpoint the location of the skirmish.

You look over the streets, your gaze turning to find movement towards the north-west. You moved your rifle to the window and crawled over to the next window, not wanting to take the chance if there was a sniper. You looked through the next window, scope showing you that the boys; McCree and Soldier: 76 were outnumbered, a group of mercenaries facing them with what was the equivalent of automatic weapons. You tried to get a clear shot, they moved behind a building, out of your range.

You groaned and hurried out the door, back down the stairs. You needed to make clear shots or you would give away your cover. You almost tripped on the last staircase, catching yourself on the rail as you made your way through the foyer, legs carrying you with an ease as you cleared corners and roads on your way to a closer building. Your eyes found a higher building as you heard how loud the skirmish was. It was rather close. You sprinted towards the building, ducking and weaving behind anything and everything in the environment you could find as you got to the entrance.

The large broken window was enough for you to jump through and find the stairs going up. You heard voices as you climbed the stairs, they sounded like mercenaries. You made your way up the stairs, careful not to make an unnecessary amount of noise. You followed the sound of the voices as you made your way up the staircase, to the fourth floor. They were being rather loud.

Kicking open the already ajar door, you were met with a group of three surprised mercenaries. You aimed at the first, the one on the right, aiming and shooting him as your muscle memory of how to operate in the situation took control. He dropped to the floor with a thud, the one on the right was a girl, her face looking young, but not for long. The middle one had scrambled for his gun. He aimed for you, but the shot was too far to the left, whizzing past your ear. You aimed and shot him, the bullet sinking into his shoulder. Gritting your teeth, you took the second shot in a rapid succession.

Dead.

You stepped inside the room, which was wrecked. Furniture and miscellaneous items scattered everywhere. Jumping over a couch and near missing some glass bottles, the smell of old, and new alcohol mixing in the air was enough to make your stomach leave you feeling nauseous at the smell. You made your way to the window hoping you weren’t too late as you set yourself up, aiming.

Looking down at the field, you saw that there were at least six targets on the ground, shooting at your comrades, another two in the lower level of a building. You looked up at the top of the building, a sniper with a long pony tail on the roof. Setting up the shot, you took a deep breath in, squeezing the trigger. The sound of your shot was like lightning cracking as the bullet you sent her way missed your intended target.

The only bright side was that her scope was broken; a heavy disadvantage in the field of ranged targets. Your attention turned down to the heat on the lower floors of the building the sniper was on. As you ducked out of the way, you felt a hot pressure graze across your arms, looking down, you saw that you were bleeding, a hole now in your jacket sleeve. You looked it over, hissing in pain, the blood not enough to worry about, you pushed your sleeve up you arm so that it could soak up more blood that would no doubt seep from your arm.

You chanced another look at the battlefield below you on the ground. Your concern not only on the talented sniper you would have to deal with, but onto your team who was being pinned down. You saw a black figure down on the ground now, a white face under his hood. You didn’t have time to think about it as a bullet collided with the brickwork at the height of your head. You swore, ducking behind the wall further. You just caught the flash of blue on the ground, a British voice calling out, signalling Tracer’s arrival to the unexpected party.

Perhaps you could use her arrival to your advantage? You looked around the room, you took note of the electronics from earlier, the nails that were sticking into the carpet and various other seemingly useless items. An idea struck you, effectively lighting a fire under you as you took to the floor, taking wiring, nails, a liquor bottle and an empty soup can, as well as the roll of duct tape you found in one of the stores earlier in your search. You crafted a ‘home-grown’ grenade, all kinds of shrapnel put inside of a device that could very easily explode. You only had one chance at seeing if it would work.

Turning to the window you saw that the figure in black had the attention of your comrades, the other targets busily reloading their weapons. It wasn’t that far, maybe fifty metres. If you could throw it at the right angle it would land and (hopefully) explode at the feet of the enemy. You stood behind the cover of the brick wall, calculating the trajectory of your very dangerous concoction.

You took a breath as you stepped out of your cover, throwing the grenade and watching it’s trajectory, landing a meter out of proportion. The confusion of the targets on the ground matched your own disappointment as your contraption did nothing, your intended targets inspecting it. It was only the span of a few seconds, but the resulting explosion in a flurry of glass, nails and liquor left a sadistic, morbid side of you satisfied with your work. The screams of pain, and the sight of fire catching to the clothes of the targets below left you – wincing? Why was there a pressure in your abdomen? You move behind the brick wall, looking down as you lean backwards. There was blood seeping over your shirt. You placed your hand firmly over the wound as you pushed yourself forward, towards the door. The crimson covering your hands a result of the wound and your physical strain as you coughed, placing a hand on the wall, blood slick hand slipping as your shoulder slammed into the wall.

It hurt.

You clenched your jaw and kept moving, towards the stairs. You knew it was a bad idea, but you started running when you saw the stairs, bringing your hand up to your coms. The resulting static signalling that they were still cut. Fuck.

Your blood pumped faster, your legs moving overly quickly as you ran down the flights of stairs. Warm liquid cooling against your hand, leaking over your arm. It hurt worse than when your hand was broken, or the time you were beaten for a long close-minded belief.

Your feet lost traction on the ground as you tripped, hands flying to the hand rail, your body slipping and rolling down the stairs into the main foyer of the building you were in. The gunshots outside didn’t hold as many numbers, it left you guessing that the targets in your sights had been neutralized. It was a fleeting, yet comforting thought as you pushed yourself up on slippery, sticky, and crimson covered arms. A harsh cough sending more blood and saliva over the floor. Your blood quite literally starting the paint the floor. Your skin felt flushed with heat. It confused you, you were losing blood weren’t you? Fear made its presence known around your rapidly beating heart.

You didn’t want to die.

You caught a glimpse of bright red outside, pulling yourself to get closer. You groaned with the effort of moving, the pain causing tears to spring to your eyes. You squeezed them shut, taking as large a breath as you could, hoping he’d be able to hear you.

“I need a medic!”

The sound of your pained voice just barely reached Soldier: 76’s ears. He didn’t want you out on the field in the first place, and yet, here you were. The explosion had certainly caught his attention, had you been caught in the blast? He didn’t bet on it, your voice coming from behind him. He shot his pulse rockets at the man before him, now known as Reaper before turning around, sprinting towards the building as Tracer and McCree distracted him. He looked around for you, unsure of what he’d find, especially from a kid who had told him explicitly that they had wanted to die.

He stepped into the foyer of an apartment building, heavy boot falls pounding against the pavement. He saw blood covering the floor and the sound of raspy, shortened breathing coming from the corner, near the staircase. He jogged over, finding you leaning against the wall, your eyes dull. He was over to your side in less than a second, the recognition on your face only followed by coughs that had your shoulders shaking, and blood pouring over your chin.

Soldier: 76 leaned over you, putting his arms under you, one under your knees, the other across your back, his rifle against his back and he lifted you upwards, turning to get back to the dropship. He could hear your shallow breathing, could see the tears that collected at the corners of your eyes as you leaned your head against his shoulder, biting into your hand when he headed for the door, just barely muffling the whimpered groan that made its way up through your throat. He made a mental note to figure out why you did that when you were safe, back at the facility.

“I know you’re lying down, kid. But don’t fall asleep just yet.” He managed to saw as he called for an E-VAC.

There was a set of hands on you, a gruff voice talking to you, a hard surface beneath you. Above you was the roof of the dropship, the face of McCree looking down at you with concern hair falling around his face. Pain was shooting through your side, the wound at your shoulder doing the amount of a paper-cut in comparison. You could feel your eyes closing, eyelids heavy. Why did you bother trying to stay awake? It was so hard. Wouldn’t it be easier to just rest? A wet hand met your face, turning your gaze to a red lit visor, something sticky attaching to your face.

“Stay awake for me, [Y/N]. Don’t fall asleep.” The man in front of you said, almost pleading undertones in his voice. Despite his robotic face, he looked how you imagined your perpetually disappointed guardian angel to appear, if you had one. Maybe he spent his days drinking? You didn’t have time to entertain the thought, a retching sound hit your ears as you jerked, a splash of saliva and blood hitting the floor, doing nothing to relieve the pain in your abdomen and chest. You couldn’t breathe.

“Bloody hell - why does she sound like that?” a British voice asked.

“Punctured diaphragm, collapsed lung. We’re going to have to stabilise it ourselves.” The white-haired man said, taking some type of tool from a first aid kit.

A hand took yours, a flask of something put to your lips as you were made drink whatever burning liquid was in it. You thought you heard something like ‘just squeeze if it hurts Darlin’’ before immense pain hit your side, the ability to breathe becoming slightly easier, something putting pressure on your lungs as the hand in yours was set in a death grip. Weren’t you supposed to be good at this?

You felt hot, what was the temperature? Did it make a difference? The pain wasn’t so intense, so it had to be a good thing, right? There was more talking, but you didn’t pay much attention. Couldn’t pay attention. It felt like you were under water, everything blurry. You could feel your vocal cords vibrating in your throat, suggesting that you were speaking, or groaning – something that you couldn’t register. You felt hot, why was it so damn hot? An intense wave of tiredness washed over you, a fleeting memory of napping in the summer passed behind your eyes. Were you allowed to sleep?

Eight hours later, Doctor Mercy Ziegler was looking at you perplexed, her confusion evident. Your wounds weren’t as bad as the amount of blood on your clothing, nor Soldier: 76’s. You had only needed a few stitches and gauze, but only because she had to take out whatever was used to stabilize your lung in the first place. It was quite the ordeal, leaving you feeling stupid for wasting resources that someone else may have needed. But, in a way, it was the lack of care you required that scared you in the whole situation. Shouldn’t you be dead?

“You were shot, yes?” She asked, for the fourth time in the last hour to which you nodded yet again. You hadn’t understood it either and you didn’t like the alienated feeling it gave you in a room with both sets of eyes on you. “Hm. And there’s no extensive damage… Perhaps... no, that’s not it..”

“It’s not, what?” You asked, gaze on the doctor who was looking back through your files. Mumbling to herself about charts and scans.

“An effect of your travel in time and space.” She said, the gears of her mind churning, you could almost see the gears clicking into place.

“So, what? I get super powers now?” You asked, a sarcastic edge to your tone.

“No, not ‘super powers’. However, it seems likely that you may have gained some physical abilities –  aside from the mental effects. Such as your apparent regeneration.” Her eyes were on your wounds. “I will have to and this hypothesis to your medical file.”

“So… I’m free to go? Just like that?” You asked, standing up and pulling your shirt down, Doctor Ziegler nodded.

“There isn’t much I can do for you now, other than suggest you take things easy and rest.” She had a rather thoughtful tone to her voice, profound confusion evident. “We may need to run another scan.”

“You’ll want to talk to Winston about that first.” You stated, seeing him as the head of all things to do with scanning and any other scientific developments in the complex.

“Yes, yes. I will.” She dismissed, waving her hands to signal that you could leave.

You walked out of the med bay, seeking a much-needed shower, hoping to get clean and release the tension in your muscles. Walking presenting a dull, but manageable ache as the stitches pulled on your side. The universe left you with more questions than answers. Was the mission a success? Was the point even surveillance? Who were the enemy? Did anyone else get injured?