収束ゾーンでのライフ: Life in the Convergence Zone

Of Gods and Monsters
Fragment s1,2: Mid-March2077
solarbird and bzarcher

Lena Oxton hasn't been flying the kind of aircraft she used to fly - the kind she loved to fly - since the Slipstream accident. Sure, she's handled the personal light flyer once in a while, that's been fine. But anything with complicated aeronautics - or that reminded her too much of the Slipstream test aircraft - has been off limits. But one day, when she's out supervising Oasis Security forces, a fighter jet flies overhead, and suddenly, everything seems to have changed.

Of Gods and Monsters is a side-step/alternate-ending sequel to The Armourer and the Living Weapon, told in a series of eddas, sagas, fragments, texts, and cantos, all of which serve their individual purposes. Eddas and Sagas appear late Sunday/early Monday, fragments, texts, and standalone cantos appear Thursday and/or Friday. To follow the story as a whole, please subscribe to the series.

Because this is a co-authored work, I'm only posting links here.

Of Gods and Monsters
"Edda 1: Bronze-Eyed Mercy"
by solarbird and bzarcher

Moira O'Deorain has won. With her three Weapons - the Changed and copper-eyed Tracer, the silver-eyed Oilliphéist, and golden-eyed Widowmaker - Mora O'Deorain has seized control of Talon. Akande Ogundmu is dead, his war thwarted. Gabriel Reyes is dead, his ever-shifting games of chess at an end. Sanjay Korpal is dead, his corruption excised - and more.

However, even that is not enough, not if she and her peerless weapons are to remake the world, and humanity along with it. She will need an entire collection of tools, a pantheon so powerful that no one could hope to stop her. But just as no plans survive first contact with the enemy, no one person can truly hold back all the wills of all the gods, so sometimes, plans - and perhaps, even, those who make them - must change.

Because this is a co-written work, I'm not reposting the text here. You'll have to read it on AO3.

This is the first edda in a side-step/alternate-ending sequel to The Armourer and the Living Weapon, but you do not need to have read Living Weapon to read it. We are treating it as a standalone work.

The overarcing story will be told in a series of separate eddas, sagas, texts, fragments, and cantos, each of which will serve a specific purpose. To follow it in order, you'll need to subscribe to the series, not any individual work.

I remind everyone - for the final time - that the AO3 archive warnings and tags are there for a reason. Please consider them appropriately before continuing. [View warnings and tags]

As these final chapters form the climax of the story, they will all be placed below cuts. This does not indicate anything about whether they are worksafe, though some will not be.

This chapter is worksafe. [AO3 link]

Shit is getting real.

This chapter is worksafe. [AO3 link]

Winston sat, quiet and unhappy, as the transport piloted itself back into the Watchpoint. That... could not have gone worse, he thought, as the vehicle rumbled quickly down the Gibraltar city streets. Lena had emerged from the washroom, given them the news, warned them about the Reaper, and had taken off just as quickly, Angela's attempts at an apology largely brushed off, an issue to be settled later.

At least she seemed to be in a better mood, he thought, as the gate closed behind them and the vehicle floated towards its garage, stopping just outside to let everyone disembark. I hope that's a good thing.

"Keep an eye out," he said, as the side doors folded back and the storage bay rattled open. "We have no idea where... uh... hello there."

Reyes stood, unhidden and unarmed, beside Morrison, who called, "Stand down, team. We have a truce."

"Nuh-uh," Hana said, pulling her pistol from the transport's small armoury, and aiming it at the hooded former Blackwatch commander. "Not 'til we're all ready to play."

Reaper shrugged. "The more time you waste with that, the more time you lose."

"I'll take that chance. You make one funny move, smoke boy, I'll blow your head off! Everybody, out of the transport, get inside and gear up."

"Whatever. I'll wait. Where's Oxton?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Oh, give me a break. I know she was with you."

"Jack, are you okay?" asked Mei-Ling.

The soldier nodded. "I'm fine, Mei. I've got this covered. Go on in with the rest of the team, gear up as much as you need to. We'll meet you in the conference room under the launch pad."

"Okay!"

"Since you came in shooting and tried to kill me?" asked Winston. "It hasn't been that long."

"I'm a heavily-trained special-ops super-soldier, and you're a research scientist. If I'd wanted you dead, you'd've been dead." He snorted. "But I have to admit, I made it look pretty good. Finally got you to issue the recall, too - that was a bonus I didn't expect."

"...what?" asked said research scientist. "You're joking, right?"

"None of you ever understood my plans," he replied, only so patiently. "I'm going to reach into my jacket, pull out a sheet of paper. Don't shoot me, that shit stings."

"I'll be watching you," said Angela, staff at the ready, Fareeha armoured and beside her.

Reyes nodded, and reached into his jacket, as promised, and pulled out a sheet of paper, which he unfolded, and slid over to Winston. "Ask Athena for Blackwatch arms inventory record 20680524b1640. It's encrypted. That series of words forms the decryption key."

"Athena, does that record exist?"

"It does, Winston," came Athena's voice. "It is indeed encrypted. Checking for payloads and other inappropriate material..." She paused, several seconds. "Apparently clean."

"Does this series of words form an encryption key?" He held the paper up to one of the cameras. "Can you read it?"

"Yes, Winston. Scanning keywords for payloads... clean. Decrypting record and analysing for payloads..." Athena, in her own way, made it very clear didn't trust Gabriel any more than anyone else did. "Clean. Result is... a text file, last edited 24 May 2068, author Reyes, G., Commander, Blackwatch. 75 pages."

"To save time," Reyes grumbled, "it details my... belated... discovery of the key members of Talon, and my intent to go underground inside their organisation, in order to take it apart. I left it in case things went badly. I did not think I'd be using it like this."

"Athena?"

"The summary of the text is brief, but reasonably accurate."

"Last Blackwatch agent standing?" Hana mocked. "What kind of n00b do you take me for?"

Jack squinted, and tilted his head. "Agreed. Reyes, are you seriously trying to tell me you've been undercover this entire time? After all that's happened? After Geneva?"

"Bullshit," Winston said. "Pardon my language, but - bullshit! You had devices plugged into the mainframe for several minutes. Adding a minimally-restricted file like this wouldn't've taken a microsecond."

"True, and I'd be the one able to do it. But the transaction logs, not so much - and particularly, not the offline transaction logs from '68. Still got those?"

Morrison snorted dismissively. "No."

"I almost hate to say it, but... we might," Winston said. "I'd have to check long-term storage. There are several older archives left over from the investigations that we never destroyed."

"Really?" Morrison asked. "After that explosion?"

"Offsite backups are the best backups," Winston shrugged.

"This is stupid. What do you want, Gabe?" Song demanded. "You're here for a reason."

She's the one who keeps them on track, the former Blackwatch commander thought. Good to know. "Yeah. I am. What the hell are you doing assassinating Talon board members? I didn't think that was your sort of thing, or Oxton's - but that photo makes it pretty damn clear she's involved."

"Putting it all on the table, then?" Morrison asked, and Reyes nodded his confirmation. "Good."

"Fine," Song said. "We're not the one p0wning your bosses. But we know who is, and we're staying out of the way."

"Oxton's not. She's involved. Where is she?"

"She's trying to stop your war!" Dr. Zhou interjected, immediately regretting it.

"What?"

Song nodded. "Akande wants to start a second Omnic War. He's been planning it for years. We know."

"That's... true," Gabriel said, "at least, in part. Growth through conflict."

"So you admit it."

He shrugged. "Lesser of two evils. That's always been the game. I pit faction against faction, wasting money, whittling them down. It's why I got him put in jail, and it's why I broke him back out."

"But the world will not survive it," Mei-Ling said. "My paper on the climate anomalies will be in Nature in another few months, but the data are clear now. The world cannot survive another Omnic War on the scale of the last one. Not even half."

"I... what?" Reyes's surprise looked genuine to the scientist.

"Besides," the doctor continued, "What would be worse than another Omnic War?"

Reyes laughed, just a little. "O'Deorain. Who else?"

She projected an image against the cargo hull wall. "This is Antonia Rizzuto, the current leader of the Rizzuto crime family, and, through a variety of shell corporations and private investors who exist only on paper, the largest stockholder in INCAS, an arms manufacturer of some note. She is also the last target before we take on Akande and Gabriel directly."

"More spy action?" Tracer asked, brightly. "Liked that. That was fun!"

Moira smiled the least-ungenuine smile Tracer had ever seen her manage. "I'm afraid not - I don't know how much Reyes knows, but we must assume the worst. This will have to be a direct assault." She flipped to another image, a three-dimensional display of a wood-and-stone mansion on open ground, surrounded by forest. "Fortunately, I know she is at the family compound outside Laval, Quebec. It is more heavily fortified than it looks, and security will be heavy."

"Good!" Oilliphéist said. "I need a real fight. Anyone special?"

"No, unless Reyes beats us there. Otherwise, only ordinaries - but a large number."

Widowmaker smirked, and Oilliphéist shivered a little, excitedly. "Oh, all the better. I haven't been able to give myself really free rein since the chateau."

"Any... non-combatants in the mix?" Tracer asked. "If it's a family compound..."

"Crime family, not family-family, dear. They've controlled Quebecois organised crime for nearly a century. We'll be doing the honest local police - insofar as there are any - a favour."

Tracer bit her lip, nodded, and flipped through the satellite photos on a disposable padd. "Snipers likely ... here, and here..."

"And here, and here," Widowmaker added, pointing. "Less obviously."

"How far into the building were you taken when you were last on mission in Quebec, Danielle?"

"Only to the first rooms on the ground floor. The left room off the main entrance is a library and office. There are central stairs up in the foyer, which is two storeys tall, and has hallways leading left, and right, in back with two doors visible. The right room on the ground floor is a salon, and is where we discussed the mission. There are double-doors from there to another room, further back, but they were closed. Also, there were exits back and out on the ground floor, on either side of the stairs."

"Good memory, love," Lena said, appreciatively.

"For some things, at least," the assassin replied.

"Neither Emily nor I have ever been there, so unless Lena has any surprises..."

"Sorry - never even heard of it before now."

"...then we will be operating on far less ground data than I would like. I apologise for that, but it is what it is."

"This is a terrible idea," Tracer said, frowning. "We need more about the interior layout, at least..."

"We lack options. Reyes knows what's going on - and he may well know of your involvement. At the moment, we are ahead of him; we must stay that way, for the final stage to have a solid chance of success." She flipped the padds to another document. "For what it's worth, building plans were on file with the provincial offices, and I have included them. We should assume they are incomplete and at least partially out of date, but they are more than nothing."

Lena frowned, but nodded. "I don't like it, but ... I guess so."

"Memorise all of this, then get some sleep. I'll awaken you before we land, we'll scout the situation, and plan on site. Any questions?"

"Yeh. Do these seats fold out?" She fiddled at the attachments. "Oh, they do. Brilliant!"

"Memorisation first, sleep later," Moira said, sternly.

Lena glared at the doctor. Bloody hell, you're irritating, she thought. "Thin dossier, doc. Already done," she said, finding a blanket, and rattling off the building's key points as she lay down. "Well, mostly. I'll get the rest of it before I'm asleep."

"You also have a good memory," the Widowmaker said, approving.

"For some things," Tracer replied, grinning wickedly, "at least."

By the time Widowmaker curled up against her back, she was already mostly asleep, but woke just a little, and smiled at her lover's cool touch. Ohhh, that's better, she thought, barely even forming the words in her mind. Much better.

"Her brain was not altered. We did full-time intensive analysis and simulations for over two weeks, and found nothing. Her peripheral nervous system, her eyes, yes, and we have been studying those changes ever since she returned, but her memories have checked out, her psychological profile has checked out, and her mind shows none of the Widowmaker markers - and we had Widowmaker to compare against directly."

"Look. I don't care what your scans say, I don't care what your tests say, she's not Lena Oxton anymore. Not the same Lena you knew. Not if O'Deorain's had her." Reyes cradled his head in his hands. "You've given Moira the most dangerous weapon she's ever had, and on a silver platter."

"And why should we believe you?" Song snapped. "You've killed dozens of people that you say were generally Talon agents or founders - how can we know that? We can't! Even if Winston and Mei-Ling find that old data set, and even if that file turns out to be from '68 - you've been in Talon for years! You could've gone over to their side three months in. This could all be you just trying to distract us, throw us out of the game. Save Akande, get your war."

He nodded, slowly. "You're right. All that could be true."

"What's your real goal, Reaper? Whose side are you really on?"

Reyes leaned back in his chair, and for a moment, looked not only human, but old - genuinely old, and very, very tired. "Ogundimu wants to force humanity to improve," he said, slowly. "To put it to a test. To push growth, but not dictate its path. O'Deorain, on the other hand... she just wants to 'improve' humanity - to her ideas - directly. Reform it to her model. To perfect it, all at once."

He closed his eyes, head back. "Can you picture that world, with her ideas of perfection? One of her favourite sayings is 'stupidity is not a right.' People laugh it off - even within Talon - but she has very narrow ideas about what's smart, and damned few people make the grade. Imagine that world." He looked back up, eyes open. "Where is Oxton?!"

"Winston to conference room C - uh, guys? We found it."

A holographic projection of Winston's office appeared in the open area between the stairs down to the conference centre. Winston held up a storage pack, Mei-Ling beside him, looking very unhappy.

"What'd you find?" Song asked.

"Backup datapak with all the logs from 2068. It's had evidence tape across the access port since it was sealed in '70, and it was still in place. I'm afraid..." he took a deep breath. "I'm afraid it backs Gabe's story. The file existed, same checksum, same last-modified date."

Gott in himmel, not again, Angela thought, hands raising to her mouth. She looked at her wife. "I... I think Fareeha and I should get back to Oasis right away. Awaken everyone, bring in the whole staff. See if anyone can find what we have missed."

"I'm not a biologist," Reyes interjected, "but I know know a few things about her work over the last few years. Most of it's been focusing on the idea that you don't need to control someone's will - or even rebuild their mind - if you can just make them want the same things you want, on a very low level. Change them so they like the 'right' thing, and they'll just do the 'right' things - creatively, even - all on their own. I don't know if that's any help, but..."

"It might be. Thank you. Athena, is the Sparrowhawk prepped for return flight?"

"Affirmative, Dr. Ziegler."

"Hold on, Angela," Morrison said, "we don't know that any of this is real, yet."

"The best lies," she said, side-eyeing the once-Blackwatch commander, "are at least partially true. I'm not panicking - Reyes gave me an idea, and you cannot do everything by remote. I need to get back to my labs."

"Fair enough. You can send Jesse back via the Sparrowhawk, and Lúcio if he's available - we need a medic on site. Everyone else should stay, I think." He paused for a moment. "Hana, can you call in a replacement mech here? We need to be in operational condition as quickly as possible."

"No sweat," the once-pro-gamer replied.

"Athena?" Winston asked. "Contact Genji; update him, see if he can come in. And bring the Watchpoint out of standby and up to full operational status."

"Acknowledged, Winston. Beginning wakeup."

"We have to try to recall her," the scientist continued. "I insist."

"That'll tip her off," Gabriel said, "and that'll tip off Widowmaker, and that materials engineer she was sleeping with, what'd you call her, Oilliphéist? And Moira."

"Her niece, Emily," Winston said, and Gabriel blinked, momentarily confused.

"Yeah, it might," Song said. "Don't care. Do it. She's one of us," ...I hope... "and she needs to know what's going on. But she'll be in radio silence 'til..."

"Where is Lena?!" demanded Reyes.

Song bit her lower lip, and gave him a long, hard look before deciding. "...we dunno. Not specifically. She's with O'Deorain. On another mission."

"Shit. Well... we're already at maximum alert. I'll have to tell Akande that Oxton's involved, but otherwise - I guess we're as ready as we can be."

"We?"

"Talon."

"Of course." She glared. "You need to make a call, and we need the room. Reyes?" she continued, "Out. Athena, watch him. Close. And listen in on his comms - no cheat codes for you."

"Decided to believe me?" he asked, standing.

"Don't get cocky," Morrison replied. "I know you. It's probationary, at best."

Reyes snorted, and even managed a hint of a grin, before jogging up the stairs. "Good."

I forgot to mention, last time, but Dr. Ngcobo is based on concept-art Mercy, for those familiar with that.

This chapter is worksafe.

[AO3 link]

"Oh, I know this," Lena said from inside the sensory isolation chamber, as the song played. "You used it last time, too."

"You know it?" Angela asked by microphone, watching peripheral nervous system reactions in real time. Dr. Ngcobo, also watching by remote, noted that the ring didn't shift, but Lena talked through it, so of course it didn't. He queued the sample for replay again, later.

"Yeh. Always have."

"That's interesting," Dr. Ziegler replied, pausing the stimulus set. "It's a fairly obscure traditional tune, a lullaby - how do you know it?"

Lena shrugged, mostly relaxed and floating in the dark. "Just do, that's all. Makes me think of my mum."

"You... I did not think you remembered your mother."

"Don't, love. Pop, either, not really. But, y'know..." she waved her hands around a little in the small space. "Y'have impressions, doncha? Ideas? I do."

She's never mentioned this before, Angela thought, but when has there ever been cause? I should check her psychological profiles. Aloud, she replied, "I suppose one may well. I'm going to repeat it, later - when you hear it again, I'd like you not to talk. Let your body react to it, but nothing else. Is that all right?"

"'Course it is. I like it - particularly the tune, yah?" A little 'heh' came over the speakers. "Shame the singer sounds like, well, you know. Her."

"...Moira? Does she? I didn't notice."

"T'me she does. Particularly in the low notes."

Well, Angela thought, that's interesting. She added two more, similar snippets she had identified in advance to the queue, randomly interspersed. Let's see if that repeats, as well.

Oilliphéist and Widowmaker watched from behind glass, sitting in a viewing room, able to see the chamber and both doctors at work, and hear them as well. Lena had insisted on that in the strongest of terms, and Angela did not push back, but certainly noted it for discussion later.

Danielle considered what she'd heard. "Did... that sound like Dr. O'Deorain to you?"

Emily snorted. "Aunt Moira can't carry a tune in a bucket. But if she could - maybe, a little?" She smiled, calm but deeply aware and ready, her arm around her lover's shoulder. "I really don't know what Ziegler's chasing, here."

"Perhaps some sort of keyword, some sort of..." She tapped the armrest of the chair. "Some sort of activation phrase?"

"What, like in those old movies?" Emily laughed, a little. "Doesn't work that way. Even I know that."

"Doesn't it?" the Widowmaker asked, one eyebrow raised. "I received a 'go' code."

"You were already all there, sweet. I know, I was on the team."

"My first kill," the senior assassin sighed. "And I felt nothing at all."

"I'm sorry for that. The doctor and I both wanted it to be different for you, but..." She shook her head. "That... reminds me... of something. What... was it... oh!" She sat up straighter, silver eyes bright. "In your office at the chateau, you have a framed picture from Amélie and Gérard's wedding. It's the two of them cutting the cake."

Danielle blinked, surprised, something not easily done to the spider, and she looked directly at her counterpart. "...I do? Really?"

Emily nodded. "Yes! It's on the bookshelves, to the left of the desk. I was so confused. Why?"

"I..." She shook her head. "I suppose it was already there, and I never thought to throw it away," she replied, not as entirely convinced of that as she wanted to be. "I imagine you smashed it?"

Emily chuckled. "'Course not, sweet. It's yours! Why would I do that?"

"Because you hated him! Fiercely. I may not have felt anything yet, and I know not to entirely trust my own memories, there have been too many changes, but... I still remember how you hugged me when I returned. How happy you were that he was dead." She gave the other woman a soft smile. "That... I did feel. Just a little."

"Aw. Love you too, pet. And I remember that. But it's all water under the bridge, these days." She grinned, freely. "He's gone, you're here, we're together, I'm..." she hugged herself, and shivered a little with pleasure, "...oh, it's hard to describe, but I feel so... complete, at last."

She looked back through the window, keeping an ear out for any additional conversation from the doctors on the other side of the glass. "I really think she's starting to settle in, too. I was thinking about it a couple of nights ago, I thought it'd be such a struggle, but... no. She's become a brilliant weapon."

"She already was," Widowmaker noted, a little quirk up at the side of her mouth. "That's what got my attention at the start."

"And so easy to like! I told her back at Auntie's place that I'd never kill her, because you love her, but..." she smiled broadly, "I don't even want to!"

"I like our new sleeping arrangements," the spider said, quietly, gaze focused on the chamber.

"So do I," replied her beloved.

"We should talk more seriously about the future, you realise. Not here, of course, but..."

Oilliphéist nodded, agreeing. "Yes. I love Aunt Moira, but..." A bit of a grimace. "She's a tricky one. We'll have to stay a couple of steps ahead of her if we can, for all of our sakes."

Danielle reached over and took Emily's hand back into her own. "I'm... relieved to hear you still agree."

"Don't worry, sweet." She grinned, nuzzling at Widowmaker's hand. "I've got you. We'll be fine." A glance back up, through the window. "All three of us."

"She's not... acting entirely like herself, is she?" Winston said, nervously, flipping through pages of data he was not reading. "I've worked my entire life to understand human body language, and it's not always easy, but I've got a pretty decent grip on it. Hers is different, now."

"It is," Morrison nodded. "Has been since the eyes, but it's getting worse."

"She was always very tactile, very physical," Dr. Zhou said. "But you see her with them, and they're always touching. Over and over again. It's a little off-putting."

"It's a little creepy, you mean," said Hana Song, back from Korea only a few hours before. "No, it's kind of a lot creepy. And that palm nuzzling thing is just bizarre."

"She is not changing any more, not physically," Angela said. "Some of the body language, I think, is more getting used to a very different nervous system than she once had. But I have also noticed the... nearly obsessive need for physical contact with Widowmaker and Oilliphéist. With everyone else, she's hardly touch-averse, but it is different."

"That part seems pretty normal to me," Winston noted. "She still sneaks up and gives me a noogie at least once a day."

"I could fly in after the show tomorrow," Lúcio said, over comms. "I haven't seen her in a while, I could tell you how much she's changed, or hasn't..."

"If you can manage it, certainly," Angela replied. "The more data I have, the better. But I am far more concerned with the reactions in her nervous system."

She brought up a set of charts that wouldn't mean anything to anyone not a research doctor, but they gave her something to point at while speaking, and that made her feel better, like she had more of a grasp on the situation than she really had. "There is a hint of a pattern to sensory input reactions. It is not a pattern I can yet identify, it is not anything easy to find - she does not react, for example, to video samples of Moira, with or without sound." The doctor switched to paired video of Dr. O'Deorain and Lena's data, placid and nonreactive.

"It would be very tempting to make assumptions and be led seriously astray... but... there are... agh," she spat the word. "I do not like speaking in such terms. It is very un-Swiss of me, but there are... rumours and innuendoes. There are inferences in these numbers, barely outside margin of error, but... I cannot even say they are statistically significant. I simply do not understand them yet."

"She clearly hasn't been programmed to like Dr. O'Deorain," Winston said.

"No, clearly. Similarly, not Talon. It is entirely possible that it is just biases in the way her nervous system works, and it could turn out all to be something as trivial as your love of peanut butter, which is, for the record, complex in similar ways." She glared at the shifting data. "But - I am convinced something is here."

"You heard her at the debriefing," Morrison said, flatly. "Would the Lena Oxton we know - we knew - smile at Widowmaker relishing a kill?"

"That's unfair, Jack. You know how she scored on psych exams back in '68. It's why..."

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But..."

"Look, n00bs," Hana Song interjected. "You're all missing the obvious. Spiderbitch is one thing, okay? She's a defector. She's a merciless assassin, but she's also a victim. So I can just about see Lena going for that, particularly given her looks. Everybody with me so far?"

"What are you getting at, Hana?" asked Lúcio.

"C'mon - Oilliphéist? Really? Oilliphéist?! She isn't a victim. We don't know much about her, but we do know she wanted this. And Lena is apparently... okay with that? And we're supposed to be okay with her being okay with that?" She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. "I don't think so."

"She and I have talked about it," Winston said, "She's aware..."

"And she's still doing it. Watch 'em touch. I'm not sayin' they're in love, it's not even sexual, they're touching just all the time. Watch them. It's weird."

"Should we cancel this operation? Talon has already taken a real body blow. The governments are finally starting to set their operations in motion..." asked Winston.

"No," said Mei-Ling, firmly. "Absolutely not. The risks are too great."

"Even if it means we lose Lena to... whatever this might be?" If it's even anything, he prayed to himself.

Mei-Ling looked down at her padd, eyes haunted, and did not reply.

"Look," Winston continued, "why don't we just... get her away from them for a few hours. See how that goes. We could have an Overwatch Night Out tonight, like we used to. Hana, you come; Angela, you bring Fareeha. All of you, me, Mei, Lena... see if we can't just remind her who she's always been. She if she snaps back."

"That would be wonderful," Mei-Ling said, wistfully. "I miss those days very much. It seems so long ago already."

"The pub back in Gibraltar?" Angela asked, a bit of a smile. "It has been a while."

"Why not? It's a bit of a haul, but at least they're used to me," Winston noted, "And Athena could fly us back if we stayed up too late."

"It would be worth a try, at least," Angela said, thoughtfully tapping her chin. "We are in an alien and stressful environment, particularly for her. If she reverts to normal in a comfortable, normal situation, then perhaps... we are all just reading too much into everything."

"She is not the only one under stress," Dr. Zhou noted.

"I can't believe we're having an executive meeting to decide to go out for drinks," Morrison snarked, shaking his head.

"You have forgotten the old days, Jack." Dr. Ziegler snorted. "I absolutely can."

This chapter contains canon-level violence.

[AO3 link]

The brown-eyed woman raised her right eyebrow. "Oxton."

"Last name only? A bit formal for a waitress, don't you think?"

"Lena Oxton," replied said waitress in her formal black-and-whites, with a bit of a nod. "Mum." Her curly walnut hair - a reasonably convincing wig - bobbed a little with the rest of her head.

"Well then, Lena," said the older woman in her dark business suit - a bit out of place in the grandstand, but layered with enough of the right kind of jewellery to make it up - "why don't you be a good girl and see what you can do about a better version of this." She handed over a lightly-sampled vodka martini, which the waitress took and gracefully placed atop her tray. "I'll be out on the terrace - I'm sure you can find me."

"Right away, mum."

The woman turned back to her colleagues as Tracer slid away, through the crowd, drink on a small tray. "Any sign of 'em yet?" she subvocalised over comms hidden in her ear.

"Non, ma chérie," came Widowmaker's reply from the roof of the recently-rebuilt Maternity Hospital, less than a kilometre south. "If they're outside, I do not have them."

"They're here, somewhere. I've spotted the driver," came Oilliphéist's voice, from atop a fully-rented B&B on the hill to the northwest. "No sign of targets yet, though."

Trader handed the glass over to the Canadian bartender working with the English-speaking waiters. "She says she wants a 'better' one," and the mixologist nodded. "I saw. More vodka?"

"Given how she's been drinkin'? Probably."

"Gimmie a sec, there's a rush." She dumped the glass and queued a double as Tracer turned around and leaned back against the end the bar, coolly surveying the £11,000-a-seat crowd, a mix of celebrities, the 'rich,' and the actually-rich, some few actively caring about the Brazil Grand Prix - those, mostly out in the heat of the pavilion overlooking the track and pits - mixing with a larger number there more to party on their parents' money. The rest hustled and toadied, currying favour with all of the above.

All these bloody 'luxury grandstands' look the same to me, Lena thought, still scanning the glittering crowd, as her supervisor stepped up with tray full of cocktails. "Oxton, do a circuit. I'll take care of the outdoor delivery."

"Gotcha," she said, looking over the drinks. Damn, she thought. No mojito. As her supervisor vanished with the double martini, she leaned back to the bar. "Chloe, priority mix me a mojito for this tray? Please?"

"Why?"

"I've had a bloke on me for one, he's really annoying." A small lie, but only a small one, and she absolutely wouldn't do a circuit without Sanjay Korpal's favourite drink. "Heavy on the mint."

"Right."

"I have him," came Emily's voice in Lena's ear. "Oh, better - I have them both."

"Where?" breathed Widowmaker.

"Behind too much glass. Tracer, second tier, third window from the north."

Lena smiled at Chloe as she added the drink to her tray, and stepped back from the bar. "Thanks," she said, to both the bartender and her counterparts. "On my way."

Sanjay smirked, the right side of his mouth twitching up, as he watched the action on the track, actually interested despite himself. He wasn't sure what he liked about it - the noise, the smell, the chaos, everything so utterly unlike everything Vishkar stood for, at least, in theory.

"Reyes has always been volatile," he replied, eyes not leaving the cars tearing their way down the track. "This is not the first time his paranoia has run away with him."

"Half my agents have gone quiet. I don't think this is paranoia."

Sanjay shrugged, having seen it all before, when Akande went to prison. "I don't pretend nothing is going on. I just know the best way not to be involved is... not to get involved. It will blow over." He wondered whether what really kept him on edge was the possibility of a fiery crash and explosion. Even the qualifiers - like the race in front of him - were more than their fair share of dangerous, and his pulse quickened a little as two cars bumped tires during an attempt to pass.

"Boisson, madame? Boisson, monsieur?" A brown-eyed waitress with curly walnut hair and a fleet of cocktails stepped to the small serving table between and behind the box seats, and Sanjay looked back at the tray. "I don't suppose you..."

"English? Of course, my apologies," Tracer said in her carefully-coached French accent. "Cocktails, sir? Madame?"

"Water," said the older woman. "If you have it."

"Of course, madame." She reached forward and across, her hand on the back of the woman's chair, and placed a small cocktail napkin on the table, along with iced water. The small tracking device attached to her collar was as complimentary as the drinks, of course.

"You wouldn't have a... oh, is that a mojito?"

"Yes, sir. But if there is something specific, I would of course be happy to fetch..."

"No, I'll take that." He reached and leaned over to grab it himself, and Lena insured the tray toppled in a way that made it clearly his fault, the drinks cascading into their chairs.

"Oh, for... Sanjay!" Kishori glared at the other Talon board member, as she dodged alcohol, extracting herself from her seat.

"Monsieur, madame, I am so sorry, it is entirely my fault! Please, allow me..." She dabbed carefully with a large cloth napkin, leaning forward as she had with his viewing companion, tracker number two attached as had been tracker one. "It appears that for the most part the... damage is to the chairs. I will summon cleaning staff at once. Would you like me to bring your drinks to your outdoor box?"

"That," Sanjay said, embarrassed, "might be the best idea. Kishori?"

"My seat is soaked, thank you - I'll be outside." She picked up her glass. "But I'll take my own water."

"Very good, madame. Monsieur?"

"Just get me another goddamned mojito," he snapped.

"Vous avez renversé de la vodka sur, ah, I, there is a bit of vodka on your sleeve, here, I have remover..."

"He's fine," Kishori interjected. "Let's go, before you embarrass yourself any further."

"I will bring your replacement drink to you. Would you like an escort to the outdoor grandstand?"

"No," he snapped. "I know where it is. Extra mint."

"Very good, sir," she smiled contritely and bowed a bit, backing away. "I will bring you your drinks presently."

She watched from the bar - cleaning staff already alerted, replacement mojito queued - as the two Talon board members fussed a bit more at themselves, and at each other, before picking up and heading towards the terrace. "Packages en route," she subvocalised. "Trackers," not tracers, she thought, amused at herself, "in place."

"Your accent has improved," Widowmaker said, into her ear. "But you would not fool a native French speaker."

"Yeh, yeh," she subvocalised. "Good thing they're from India, innit. You got 'em?"

"Signals are clear and locked..." said the Widowmaker. "Movement tracking verified. Both trackers confirmed live and functioning."

"Nice work, luv. How much vodka you dump on him? He won't change before going out to the afterparties tonight, will he?"

"Nah - he'll be fine. Everything else ready?"

"We can go as soon as you slip away."

"Gotta get 'em their drinks first," Lena smirked. "Wouldn't want 'em t'go thirsty."

"'course not," Oilliphéist snickered.

"Very well. I will watch for your departure at the gate."

"See y'soon."

"I'm not going to waste any more time with this stupidity," Kishori snapped. "The cars are bad enough, now you want to go boat racing?"

"I don't expect you to come along for the ride. You're perfectly welcome to stay inside and be grumpy at potential backers."

"You promised ... ah," she dropped a small hologrammatic card, made a frustrated noise, picked it back up, and glared at it. Even at a distance, Tracer could clearly see the yacht club's logo. "This nonsense is a complete waste of my time. I am leaving."

Bugger all,, thought Tracer, now all in black with the wig long gone, backing the slightest bit away as Sanjay ran after his ally. "You hear that, luvs?" she asked, over comms. "She's leaving early. Should I track 'er?"

"No - stay with Korpal," the Widowmaker replied from her position in Parque Guarapiranga, across the water, but with an excellent view of the club's boat launch. "Oilliphéist, do you have her?"

"Not yet, but I certainly will," replied her counterpart, chuckling, from the playfields to the south.

"Are you tracking her?" clarified Widowmaker, dryly.

"Tracking signal clear and strong," Oilliphéist confirmed. "Mind if I have some fun? Different methods would cloudy the picture..."

"I cannot imagine you doing anything less. Go."

Tracer worried a bit at the idea of Emily letting herself have fun. "Don't let's make a mess, Oilliphést."

"Oh, Tracer, don't worry. I'll be careful."

"I don't mean, that, I mean, just..." She felt conflict rising inside her as opportunities began to realise themselves. "...don't draw it out."

"What do you... oh!" She heard a bit of laughter over the comms. "Don't worry! I'm not going to torture her - though it's not like she hasn't directed her own fair share of that. No, no, I'm just going to make it... interesting! For me. It's not as much fun without a challenge, is it?"

"Ricochet shot?" asked the senior assassin.

"Maybe! But we'll see. I'll improvise."

"As long as she goes down," Widowmaker stressed.

"I'm on mission, sweet. She'll go down."

"Perfect."

"I don't care!" Sanjay shouted, regaining Tracer's attention. "Just... send the car back to pick me up when you're done." Lena watched as he waved his arm after Kishori, frustration clear in the motion, before turning back towards the yacht club, where he presented an invitation to the tuxedoed man at the door.

"Don't suppose we've got one of those holograms?"

"I'm afraid not, cherie."

"Right. Long 'way 'round it is."

"Be careful not to wake the capybaras on the beach."

"I'll do my best, love."

As it turned out, he was not. Instead, he presented a small teleporter-like device, which projected a hardlight foil racer, similar in size and shape to the two traditional boats already in the water. She could see him grin and nod at other two pilots, who argued with him noisily, one in Portuguese, the other in Mandarin.

"Please tell me you're gettin' some of this," she said, quietly, in comms.

"I have a little of the Portuguese - I believe they're saying he cannot be an entrant, but he may demonstrate his, I think, toy?" She snorted. "From their tone, they have decided he is... gauche, I think."

Tracer smirked, but kept it quiet. "Looks like a closed cowl from here. Can you shoot through that?"

"Almost certainly, though it is difficult to be sure, with hardlight. It would be better if I could get him on the water, without so many close witnesses. He may have many enemies in this city, but it is still worth complicating any investigation, if we... ah, look."

"Yeh, I see it." Korpal guided his craft into the water, climbed aboard, the ship's cockpit sealing itself as he settled into the pilot's seat. He rolled the little boat, foils retracted, demonstrating that he could, and gunned the quiet - but not excessively quiet - engine. The Portuguese-speaking woman made a disgusted noise and walked away, back towards the club, but the other man laughed, jogged over to his racer, jumped in, and cast off.

The two boats roared towards deeper water, and the glittering crowd in the catering tent turned to look at the two sleek ships slicing through deeper water, matching manoeuvres one to one, and Tracer grinned, wickedly.

"...I've got an idea," she said, and, carefully but almost impossibly quickly, made her way to the second launch.

"I... hm, yes. You can...?"

"I can pilot anything, love," she replied, slipping into the Portuguese racer and casting off, following the first pair. "I think it's time for a boating accident."

Oooh, playing rough? I like it, he thought, grinning and bumping back, before spinning round, already past the park, heading northeast, both carbon-fibre craft slower than his 'round the turn.

I'm faster in the straights, Lena thought, calculating. He's got the edge in manoeuvrability, but I'm faster. As she caught up, she shoved him west, port flank against starboard, hard. The Shanghai craft caught up as well, getting into the game, standing off just a bit before gunning past them on the starboard side, the pilot apparently quite happy to let the other two slow each other down. He reached the third buoy in the clear lead, and spun tightly and precisely around it, back down the temporary racing lane, off again before the other two could even get 'round.

"Enjoying yourself, cherie?" came Widowmaker's voice over comms.

"Honestly?" She grinned like a madwoman. "Yeh. I am. This is fun. Think you can do something about the SYC's steering?"

"I believe I can damage the starboard foil. If you could make that engine roar again..."

She did, and there was a little bit of an extra bang, but nothing that sounded like a gunshot, and the Shanghai Yacht Club-flagged craft slowed, veering just a little, slowing to compensate. The Vishkar and São Paulo craft closed, quickly, then passed, as the Shanghai pilot veered off the course, heading back towards the launch.

"I like that," Tracer said. "Ready for your shot?"

"I am, as always, ready."

"I'm gonna ram 'im again. See if you can nick his foil at about the same place?"

"I understand." As they rounded the southern buoy again, Tracer slammed her ship hard into Sanjay's hardlight craft, sending it west, towards the park, where Widowmaker waited, and fired, and Korpal's craft veered the slightest bit further to port, almost exactly at the same point.

He bhagavaan!, thought Sanjay, as his craft shook, and he moved to reset the foil. Something's in the water. Or is it that damned...

"Well, guess that's answered. I'm gonna hit 'im again. You ready?"

"Of course," the assassin purred, as Tracer threw her ship's prow directly into the Vishkar foils. Sanjay's ship flipped, rolling, and as he panicked, Widowmaker sighted, targeted, and fired, the hardlight canopy dissolving like so much candy floss in the water, and Sanjay Korpal's head with it.

"Perfect," she purred into comms, as Lena spun her craft around.

"I think we made a bit of a splash tonight, don't you?"

Widowmaker chuckled, darkly. "Agreed."

"Care to shoot this one's engine? It's combustible..."

"Acknowledged," she said, firing, seeing the craft catch fire, slowing, as light flashed from the cockpit and then beside her, copper eyes now glinting in what would be the darkness. "Oilliphéist, target one down. Check in."

"Oooooh, I saw," came Emily's voice, liquid, thick with ecstasy. "Beautiful. That was lovely work, hon. You too, Tracer - gorgeous."

"Thanks," Lena said, still grinning, for just a moment, before not. "I... I..." she shook her head. "Uh. How's your... target?"

"Oh, she's taken care of. A mugging gone bad, I'm afraid. The area around the track is awfully sketchy, and always has been... really, she shouldn't've gone back there on her own like that."

Emergency sirens blared in the distance, as the burning SPYC craft drifted, sinking, following the Vishkar boat underwater. "We should go," said Widowmaker, sternly. "Rendezvous point one, immediately, yes?"

"On my way. This has been the best date. I'm so happy."

Tracer's smile returned, as she replied. “Yeh. See you soon.”

This chapter is most probably worksafe, but contains brief discussion of past sexual activity. [AO3 link]

"Heya...?"

Lena's uncharacteristically quiet voice came from the bedroom door, as the two blue assassins lay curled up with each other in Emily's bed, tired from lovemaking, but not quite taken by sleep, not yet.

"Mmmm?" said Oilliphéist, rolling over, just a bit, looking towards the sound.

"What is it, cherie?" asked Widowmaker, scooting up a little, propping herself up against the headboard. "Is something wrong?"

"Nah, it's..." The nightshirt-clad Overwatch agent looked down, not at her feet, but not entirely not at her feet either, and hesitated.

"We keeping you up, luv? We're done in for the night, if we have, so..."

"Yes," added Widowmaker. "If you wanted to join in, I can't say I'd object in general, but you're a bit late. I think we're both fairly well sated," She smirked, but affectionately. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait 'til tomorrow."

You absolute tease, Lena thought, snickering. "Nah, that's not it either. I'm... just..." She make a little noise, one made of air, and embarrassment. "I'm... lonely."

"Gordon Bennet, you're worse than me!" Emily giggled, softly. "Lonely? Really?"

"I know," she said, hastily, "I sound like a bleedin' five year old kid, don't I? I'm just... I'm used to hearin' people. To people bein' around, either at Gibraltar, or my apartment, or on mission..."

"These apartments are very well soundproofed," agreed the Widowmaker. "I find it relaxing."

"I can see that, but I just can't, I just can't... not tonight." She steeled herself. "Can I sleep with you? Just, y'know, sleep? So it's not so..." she waved her hands, a little. "...isolated? I don't like feelin' alone. S'got bad associations for me."

"Sleep, you mean... with both of us?" Emily asked.

"Yeh, just... ah, this is daft, I didn't realise how quick I'd get used to not bein' in bed by myself. I'm fine." She made a little noise of frustration pointed at no one but herself. "I'm sorry, luvs, I don't even know what I was thinkin', I'll..."

"No," her lover said, quickly. "Come, cherie," Danielle continued, moving aside the bedcover on her left. "Please - sleep with us."

Lena blushed a little but hopped immediately over to the side of the bed. "Y'sure? You don't have t'say yes, I..."

"I am fully aware of that, and yet, I am saying yes. Get in."

"This all right with you, Em?" Lena said, sliding under the covers as Widowmaker rearranged pillows.

"Not afraid I might kill you in your sleep, then?" Emily needled, shifting over just a tad to make more room.

Tracer snorted softly, a single, small laugh as she settled in. "Nah, luv. I'm..." She looked a little amused at the idea herself. "I'm really not."

"We've already been through that once," Widowmaker interjected, quietly, settling back down between them. "She is, I think, over it."

"Yeh," Lena said, softly, laying her head by Danielle's shoulder, kissing it once, a gentle touch. "I think I am."

Emily smiled less euphorically than was her wont, and reached over, running her hand through Lena's hair, petting her. "Good. I'm..." She thought for a moment. "...I'm glad."

"I am, too... oh, that feels really nice," She breathed, nuzzling, a little, at Oilliphéist's fingers and palm.

"I know."

"Hoooooo, this is better," she said, tension draining from her voice as she settled in. "Thank you."

Widowmaker hummed, a satisfied sound. "You are welcome. Now, both of you - it is late. Go to sleep."

"Good night, Lena."

"G'night, Em."

Emily snuggled in against her lover, and looked across at the copper-eyed woman opposite her, as her eyes closed. I was ready to kill her just a few weeks ago, and yet... she's so easy to get along with, like I've known her all my life... she's so much like...

She opened her eyes again, suddenly not quite so sleepy, not quite so asleep. She is, isn't she. It's subtle, but... she is like... me. Just a bit. Is that why Widowmaker fell for her? Or...

She reached over, gently cupping Lena's face in her palm, and Lena, already asleep, nuzzled into her hand, again, reflexively, just a little.

I wonder... how long that's been so.

Oilliphéist frowned, something she didn't do often, not anymore, but gave her aunt a chance. "Explain that."

Moira smirked. "It's entirely straightforward. I wouldn't think you'd need an explanation."

"Humour me," said the assassin, still frowning. She didn't like how it felt, but that didn't stop her, either.

"My, you are annoyed, aren't you? Come on, dear, think it out. What do you and she have in common?"

"Widowmaker."

"...true, but, not what I meant. What else?"

She thought about it. "Being English?"

"Half, in your case, but..."

"Raised in England."

"Wrong track, dear."

She thought about it again. "Eyes."

"Ah," came the reply, "now we're heading down the correct road. Go on..."

"...eyes..." Oh, she thought, realising. "...and nervous systems."

"See?" Her aunt smiled. "Hardly so complicated after all, is it?"

"They're that similar?" she asked, surprised.

"It's the same set of upgrades, and I can't imagine why you think I'd vary the parameters for no reason - at least, not beyond the obvious changes for medical compatibility with her individual physiology and genetics."

"Huh," said her niece, neutrally.

"It's not surprising in the least you're seeing similarities. All of her smallest movements have certainly shifted, just a bit. Yours did, and in the same ways... so of course you're now just a bit more alike. Widowmaker, as well. You're seeing things in each other that you'll never see in anyone else - at least, anyone else who hasn't been similarly upgraded."

"And that's all it is," Emily replied, uncertainty in her voice.

"Well, I can't speak to that. But anything else you're seeing, I'd have to think you'd've seen it before."

"That's..." And suddenly, she thought back, to that night in Lena's apartment, those weeks ago, with Oxton unconscious underneath her. I see what you see in her... she remembered saying. "...huh. Maybe... maybe I did. A little. When we took her in, I remember..."

"Exactly. And now, you're just that little more alike. The burrs everyone has on their edges smoothed off, I suppose, just for the... three of you. The slightest bit - and please don't relate this to your sex life, I have no interest in hearing about that - additionally compatible. Complimentary, even."

"Yeh," nodded Oilliphéist. "I remember, when I..."

"You said how well you thought you'd work together, as a team - as a triad. You told me about it, and I complimented you on your vision."

"Yeah," she nodded. remembering. That... yes. I remember that.

"If there's a little smoothing out of abrasive edges as a side-effect of the upgrades, and that smoothing helps... so much the better, wouldn't you say?"

Emily looked deeply thoughtful, contemplating. It all makes sense, she agreed. But... it's just... awfully neat, isn't it. Awfully, awfully neat.

"I'd be lying if I said I hadn't considered the possibility this might happen. Truth be told, I'm glad it did - I've told her outright she'd make an excellent agent on our side, after all this is over, and being friendly with you wouldn't exactly hurt anything in that effort. You'd like that, I'm sure, wouldn't you?"

Emily smiled, and chuckled. "I'd ... yeah. I would. I wouldn't want to be on the opposite side of a fight with her. Not if I could help it."

"Well, she turned me down flat, of course - as you'd expect. But who knows - over time, she may revisit that decision."

Oilliphéist snorted. "I doubt it. I just hope we can work something out amongst the three of us."

"Fair enough," nodded the Oasis minister of genetics. "Well, then. That's answered. Is anything else bothering you?"

She shook her head. Aunt Moira's always been there for me, she thought. Why not here, as well? "No, I... no. I think I'm fine."

"If anything else bothers you, niece, bring it to me. I'll always want to know."

"Of course, auntie. Absolutely."

Dr. O'Deorain shifted in her chair. "On my end, I have good news - our analysts have seen the wisdom of some rather substantial time off. They've been working so hard for so long, it seems they've decided they've earned a vacation."

"Oh? Where are they going?"

"Bora Bora and Tahiti. They're going to spend a month and a half sailing around the islands and exploring tropical beaches. It should be lovely."

"Well, good on 'em, then."

"Indeed. I'll have your next mission plan ready by the end of the week. Tell your ... counterparts to be ready."

"I will."

"Good. Moira out."

The research doctor arched her fingers against each other, leaning back in her chair, frowning, as the connection dropped. She shouldn't've noticed that, she thought. It's too soon. I've underestimated her... but fortunately, she's on my side.

She closed her eyes and thought deeply about the next six weeks. I'll need to accelerate the rest of this plan, but I can do that. I'll need to inform Kamaria... and Jabari. They will both need to know. Everyone else should not be a problem.

Nodding to herself, she reworked actions in her head, thinking about what could, and could not, be moved, stacking the many individual pieces into a slightly new, and slightly more compact, order. It's all for the best, regardless. Emily will be entirely happy about it, once all's said and done.

Yes. Yes. That will do. She opened her eyes, new changes all thought out, and gave herself a thin smile. They'll all be very, very... happy.

I was going to post another chapter of Old Soldiers today, but this is ready, and that chapter needs to sit a little more, so you get this instead.

This chapter is worksafe. Canon-level violence, at most. [AO3 link]

"Well well," the doctor said, as the door closed, muffling the sound of flight engines revving up. "It's been a long time since I've seen that particular emblem on anyone's shoulder."

Lena, all in black, smirked. "Seemed fitting, mate, if I'm workin' with th' likes of you."

They'd found the old Blackwatch armour Tracer now wore while looking through storage at Gibraltar. Tracer had gone looking for her locker not long after the recall, and found it empty, but the storage closet at the end of the row had held all sorts of surprises.

"It won't slow you down, will it?" Oilliphéist asked, already settled in next to pallets of boxed cargo. "All that extra weight..."

"It's not so bad, luv," Tracer replied, "Lighter than it looks."

"But not as light as mine," pointed out Widowmaker, making room next to Oilliphéist, and further room for Tracer, on her opposite side. "We should find a way to get you something made of the same material."

"Might do," Tracer nodded, sitting down next to her lover, "later. But," she smiled at Widowmaker, "maybe somethin' with a bit more to it. Maybe you don't feel the cold, but I sure do. Particularly places like where we're goin'..."

"Be glad it's autumn," Widowmaker noted, "and not winter."

"Got that right." She felt the aircraft launching forward and up. "Hup, we're off!"

"I brought blankets," Emily said, smiling while pulling one over.

The pressurised - but not entirely climate-controlled - cargo hold in which the four women sat wasn't the worst transport Tracer had ever been on, but it wasn't a day in Spain, either. Officially, all four of them were "machine parts," which Emily in particular found strangely funny.

"Well, we're all here now - let's hear it," the Overwatch agent said. "Where're we going, other than 'north'?"

Moira tipped her head in acknowledgement. "Tiksi. It's the closest remaining inhabited city - if you can call it that - to the Siberian Omnium. From there, we're going to Kyusyur, which is both uninhabited, and closer still. It was held as military outpost early in the previous war, before being abandoned. If my information is correct - and I'm quite certain it is - there will be a small cluster of abandoned computer storage devices containing files showing how our analysts stole a rather substantial portion of defence data for resale." She handed out three disposable PADDs. "Maps, with all routes and relevant locations. Memorise them."

"How'd y'find out about this?" Lena asked, dubiously.

"They ended up selling it to us, dear. I've met the charming couple. Unfortunately for them, they like to tell stories - including the one of their daring escape from the Omnics."

"'Course they did," she snorted, flipping through pages on her device. And now you're betraying 'em. "So if you've got the sale, why not... oh, I get it, y'need proof of theft, 'cause that wasn't you."

"Proof of a high crime connected in no way to Talon," the doctor nodded. "Exactly."

"And you're along 'cause..."

"Because I'm the one who can confirm the data. But surely you wouldn't turn down a field medic on assignment, would you?"

"If it's you, I might."

"Well, then, also consider me an observer. I need to see how the three of you work together in practice, not just theory."

Emily smiled, hopefully. "We might see some action?"

"I'd be surprised if we didn't. Kyusyur is officially abandoned and demilitarised, but I think we all know better than that."

"Omnics, then?" asked Tracer.

"Better than nothing," said Emily.

"NT-5s? Really?" replied Tracer. "Null Sector had a lot of those on their side in London. There're still up and running?"

Widowmaker nodded. "Running well enough to appear in my sights, at very least." She touched the side of her headdress, transferring the data to their PADDs.

Oilliphéist chortled. "Do you think they're aware the war is over?"

Tracer snickered. "Good question. Guess we'll find out!" She shook her head. "No, wait. These... aren't actually in the way?"

"No," said the sniper. "If we are stealthy, we should be able to retrieve the data without alerting them."

"Then we ought," said Tracer.

"Ah, well," sighed Oilliphéist. "Another boring mission. Omnics aren't as much fun as humans anyway."

"You weren't there for Null Sector, mate. Don't underestimate 'em," Tracer warned, but Oilliphéist just shrugged.

"I will take this tower," Widowmaker indicated the highest point on the map. "It will give me a good view of the building on the two sides closest to the Omnic presence. Oilliphéist, you take the other side, on the roof of the low building just northeast. We'll maintain tight contact. Tracer, you and Moira can enter the facility together and acquire the data, yes?"

"Gotcha," said the teleporter. "I can jump ahead, make sure the coast is clear before the rest of you move in."

"Then let's not waste any more time," Moira said. "Go."

Tracer teleported ahead, jinking faster than any eyes other than Oilliphéist's, Widowmaker's, or her own could follow, reaching the back of the target building in under half a second. "Nothing on the southeast side," she said, waiting for recharge. "Tower looks clear and sound."

She jinked around the building, verifying ground level all around. "Wids, move in?"

The quiet chain of the Widowmaker wasn't quite silent, and Tracer watched as her lover launched herself up, onto the top of the abandoned lookout tower. "Tower clear," she said, scanning the surroundings. "No additional Omnic activity detected. Northeast building appears clear; Oilliphéist, move in."

Oilliphéist ran half the distance, than teleported the rest of the way to her designated rooftop, laying low to the surface. "Position clear and held. Moira, clear to move in."

Tracer jumped as Moira appeared next to her from a small cloud of black smoke. "That's even creepier when you're the one doin' it, y'know that?"

"I should add sulphur to my field kit to complete the impression, don't you think?"

Lena grimaced, and pointed. "Door. Open."

"Of course." The Talon director pulled a small device from her coat pocket and placed it over the disabled lock and hit a small red button. Coils inside induced power to the circuit; the lock reactivated, and she punched a very old security code into the keypad, and the door politely opened just enough to slip inside.

"Neat gadget," admitted the teleporter, looking into the darkness. "Widowmaker, anything?"

"Not yet. Still watching."

"Follow me," said Moira, lighting a very dim lamp as she stepped into the hallway. "This should not take very long."

The two women walked quickly down the empty corridor. Most of the doors remained closed, as Tracer presumed they would've been at abandonment. A left turn, then a short right. Another closed door, a replay of the previous lockbreaking, and they were in.

"This should be it," said the Irish woman, looking at the small workspace, with its sensor equipment, radio gear, desk, rotting chair, and most importantly, Omnic War-era computer system, sitting where it had been abandoned, all those years before.

Tracer stood guard at the doorway and watched over the corridor back out as Moira worked to take apart the antique computer. "So, Lena - how do you feel?"

"No time to feel anything, mate. Guarding a hallway. Creeped out, a little, maybe."

"No difficulties with your vision, then?" She pulled open an access panel. "You've clearly adjusted to your improved reflexes and nerve speed. You haven't encountered any problems?"

Lena frowned, eyes flickering back to the Talon doctor for just a moment, before turning to her primary task. "...nah. Everything works fine."

"Good." Moira pulled a set of storage elements from the case, and started plugging them into her padd's special interface, one at a time, as it scanned for data on each one. "Is Angela satisfied? She was always so conservative. It has always held her back."

"Most of Overwatch is a little afraid of me, thanks to you," the teleporter replied, quietly, with a hint of a hiss. "If this wasn't so damned important, I'd probably be helping hunt you down right now, not Akande - Ministerial position or no."

"So suspicious, all of you! You'd think I'd sent you back cold and blue, not copper-eyed and warm." She flipped through more storage elements. "Even we wouldn't've kept you locked up so long - Talon knows a good thing when it sees it."

"Y'mean, like you saw Amélie Lacroix?" Tracer did not hide her hostility.

"Exactly like we saw her - and who she could become." She smirked. Ah, there's the first half... She pocketed the card, and moved to the next. "It would have been so much easier to condition her to assassinate first Gérard, and then herself. But we saw who she could be. You see it, too, or you couldn't be in love with who we made."

"Dangerous ground, mate. Watch it. I could still change my mind about all this."

"I'm sure you could," she agreed, a hint of amusement in her voice, "but our purposes are aligned, so why would you?" She moved to yet another card. "It's too bad, though - you'd make a wonderfully effective Talon agent. Should this work out - and once we've eliminated the threat of war - I'd hope you'll consider it. Humanity does need to improve, and you'd fit in well."

Ugh, Lena thought, shuddering. "Now you're just bein' mean. You done yet?"

Ah, the doctor thought, there we are, as her padd confirmed the missing data's integrity. "Yes." She pocketed the second matching card.

"Movement," said Widowmaker's voice over comms.

"Did we trip something?" asked the teleporter. "A silent alarm?"

"I do not think so. They are moving out, but not quickly."

"I've got them - heading northeast, away from us," reported Oilliphéist. "Maybe just a patrol..."

"Possibly. We should evacuate immediately, nonetheless," continued the senior assassin.

"Yeh," Tracer replied. "We got what we came for."

"That we did," agreed Moira, packing the last of her toolkit, and heading for the hallway. "Let's make for the flyer."

Widowmaker's voice appeared again on comms as the two women slipped through the exterior door. "Drone incoming! Omnic. Armed. RO-12." She shot it out of the sky with a single shot as it approached Oilliphéist's position. "Move!"

Oilliphéist appeared beside Tracer in a puff of black smoke. Somehow, it didn't seem as creepy to Tracer when she did it. "C'mon, girlfriend-in-law, let's don't dawdle..."

Tracer nodded, pistols already out, scanning the sky for another drone. "Looks clear, but eyes up, people. Wids, join us at your..."

"Patrol has changed course. Incoming hostiles." She threw herself over the tower railing, then reached back with her chain and launched herself high into the air just before touching down. At apogee, she fired. "First OR-14 down."

The three women on the ground jogged towards their flyer which lay hidden in the wide, frozen ravine to the southwest. "The OR-14s aren't fast, but they have good range, and those troopers can make pretty good time..." Tracer said, as bullets flew overhead, and all three women teleported further along, catching up with the landing Widowmaker.

"Nice shot, love," Tracer said, as the sniper fired another round.

"Second OR-14 down, but the troopers are closing upon us."

Moira frowned at Oilliphéist. "I said you should've let me give Widowmaker teleportation."

"Sounds like now's the time to see how we fight together, Em," Lena said, and Oilliphéist grinned broadly. "About time! Moira, you and Wids keep going."

"No. There is a third OR-14, I will continue to provide cover."

"And I am your field medic." Moira launched a strange, yellow sphere towards the oncoming troopers. "I will take care of you."

Oilliphéist and Tracer nodded, and separated, left and right, flanking the incoming group of NT-5s as single-person pinchers, dividing the group into forward and rear halves, five a person.

They're so much slower than I remember, Tracer thought, as she emptied clips into Omnic heads, smashing sensor arrays, destroying processors, dodging lagging fire. Must be the cold.

At least these old models explode prettily, Emily thought, smiling, as she smashed chassis with the hilts of her fangs, alternating rifle shots with body blows. Smell awful, though. Must be the electrics.

The two women met, back to back, in centre, unharmed, and finished their last remaining opponents almost simultaneously, Oilliphéist with a shot to a primary sensor array, Tracer with a set of shots separating a head from its body, and they turned their heads and looked at each other.

"Wow," Tracer said. "That was..."

"...fun," grinned Oilliphéist. "Nice shooting, by the way."

"Nice punching. Didn't know you had that."

"It's nice to get up close once in a while."

Lena found herself smiling back at Emily. "Yeh. It is."

Widowmaker smirked, rifle at her hip, not so far away. "Third OR-14 down, if you were wondering," she said, over comms. "We should still not dally, reinforcements are almost certainly en route."

The two younger fighters teleported back to the group, and Moira smiled a thin smile as she bathed them in her biotic healing field. "I admire your efficacy. Do you realise that took you all of 18 seconds' time?"

"18... seconds?" blinked Tracer. She'd felt unhurried.

"I know, coulda been faster," Oilliphéist grinned. "I was just enjoying the dance."

"I enjoyed seeing it, as well," replied her creator. "But fun time is over. Widowmaker is correct, we have accomplished our mission." Oilliphéist relaxed, subtly, at those words. "We should depart."

Moira watched out of the side of her eye as Oilliphéist and Tracer joked with each other, and Widowmaker smiled, almost softly, at them both. That went well, she thought, as she quietly disabled the omnic intruder alarm she carried in her coat pocket. No need to bring in any more enemy troops - not now that I really do have everything I came for.

This chapter is worksafe. [AO3 link]

Lena strapped herself into the pilot's chair and hit the fastest takeoff sequence she'd ever hit, jetting away from Oasis airspace at the best speed her flyer could manage. She checked tracking on Oilliphéist's flyer, headed towards Vienna, and found it still en route, as promised.

Next to her, Widowmaker sat, contemplative, calculating silently for several minutes. Finally, she turned to Lena and said, "I agree. It is the safest way."

Lena reached over and touched her hand, gently, then took it in her own. "I know this is a lot to ask. I know what it means. Thank you."

She pulled up Overwatch comms, and gave her lover another worried glance. "They sure aren't going to expect this..." She hit transmit, and thumbed the manual microphone switch. "Overwatch, Overwatch, this is Tracer Delta Echo Four Five, declaring emergency, do you read? Overwatch, this is Tracer Delta Echo Four Five, declaring emergency, do you read?"

Nothing. She repeated the call. Nothing again, until, "Tracer Delta Echo Four Five, this is Winston, Lena - is that you? Really you?"

Lena took a relieved breath. "At least he's answering." She hit comms again. "Winston, this is Tracer Delta Echo Four Five, we are declaring emergency. We are outbound from Oasis at best speed with good fuel supply. We have just got away from Moira O'Deorain and we need..." She swallowed. "We need destination and arrival protocol for any facility capable of immediate force quarantine on touchdown. Something that could hold me... and Widowmaker both."

"Understood. Do not approach Gibraltar under any circumstances. Please confirm - do not approach Gibraltar. We will fire. Can you provide a locator beacon?"

"Locator beacon active. Do not approach Gibraltar... confirmed and understood."

There was a long wait, and they were almost to Greek airspace when they finally got another response. "Tracer Delta Echo Four Five, this is Winston. Prepare to receive destination and approach information."

"Winston, Tracer Delta Echo Four Five ready."

The data streamed in. She looked at it twice, and then again. "Overwatch from Tracer... Winston... this takes us back to Oasis."

"Tracer Delta Echo Four Five, that destination is correct."

"But..."

"Tracer Delta Echo Four Five, this is Mercy. I have special facilities at Oasis."

"But... Moira!"

"You may not like to hear this, but... she was with Overwatch, once. We have an agreement. She stays on her part of town; I stay on mine."

Lena didn't like it - but the channel was valid, and the encryption was solid, and she swallowed, and accepted it. "Overwatch, Tracer Delta Echo Four Five acknowledged. Setting course and flight plan."

"Thank you," replied the doctor. "Now - tell me everything you know about the last two weeks."

Tracer and Widowmaker stepped out of their flyer, both with hands behind their heads, fingers interlaced, the unloaded Kiss on Lena's back, Lena's accelerator turned off, Lena's new pistols - and her old ones - in plain view, leaning on the wall next to the hatch behind them.

"Are you unarmed?" they heard, from behind the bright lights greeting them. Lena couldn't help but smirk a little, as she discovered Moira hadn't lied about her new vision - she could see everything, bright and dark, even if it was a bit low-contrast.

"We're unarmed, as agreed," she replied, looking directly at Dr. Ziegler. She leaned a little to her lover, and asked, quietly, "You always seen the world like this?"

"I imagine so, yes," Widowmaker replied, just as quietly. "Despite everything, it is... pleasant that we now share the view."

"Please stop talking, and walk forward single-file, Tracer ahead of Widowmaker. You will be sedated but will not be harmed. Do not resist, or we will open fire."

Winston watched the two women walk forward from behind the shields, catching the copper glint of Tracer's eyes in the spotlights' glare.

I failed you, Lena, he thought, shuddering. I guess the only question is... whether anyone in there will let me beg your forgiveness.

"Physically, we're focusing mostly on the brain and nervous system changes, of course. Both of their nervous systems have been extensively reworked - my staff and I think that would've required that week they're missing."

"And... psychologically?" Winston asked, trying to keep himself as clinical as possible, and only partially succeeding.

"Tracer" - Angela wouldn't call her 'Lena,' not yet - "has been taking a series of psychological profile tests and memory examinations. So far, she's giving the same results she gave before. But these would also be the easiest to fake."

"And Widowmaker?"

"We know far less. Obviously, she doesn't score similarly to Amélie at all, and biologically, she's ... not human. But we have the scans I took when we granted her sanctuary, and those are fairly detailed. We're seeing changes, but so far, nothing out of line with what they both described."

"Well, that's good, at least."

The doctor shook her head. "It's expected. No, if they've done anything not obvious, we'll have to dig for it. Probably quite deeply."

Widowmaker - very much not Danielle, not here - nodded. "So, physically, I seem to be largely the same as I was two weeks ago?"

"Yes," concurred the doctor, through 20cm of transparent barrier. "Other than the nervous system changes. Are you noticing any differences I have not yet found?"

The assassin smirked, and reached over for a pair of dice from one of the board games they'd been allowed in their room - at least, she thought, they're letting us be together - and rolled the numbers two through 12, then 12 through two, then odd numbers, then even, all in rapid sequence. "I could already do this, before, but it's much easier, and more reliable. They'll never allow me at the craps tables in Monaco again."

Tracer looked at the doctor and her friend Winston through copper eyes. "So I'm not bugged?"

"Or in any danger of vanishing," Winston replied. "I'm still studying what she did, both to you and to the accelerator vest, but on the whole, it's still all my work, just componentised." Keep it clinical, he reminded himself. Nothing... personal. Not yet. "I'd even thought of moving the core like she did, after Numbani, but I'm not certified for medical devices."

"Much of it is surprisingly conservative, for her," added Dr. Ziegler. "The lung function improvements are meaningful, but known technology, already applied to people with damaged brachial systems - the only advancement is that it's now part of your genetics, and will grow back if damaged. The eye work..."

"What she said about my retinas, was that true?"

Angela snorted. "Not entirely untrue - statistically, with your history, there is a ten percent chance of what she described. But I could repair it, outpatient, in under an hour - and grow you an entirely new retina in a day. It was an excuse."

Tracer nodded. "I could see everything, at landing. Even in the bright lights. I could see the lenses in the lamps, and I could see you, and the guards, in shadow... so... there's that, at least."

"That work is largely her own. But it's much the same as Widowmaker's - and you aren't 'bugged' there, either."

"Well, that's a start."

"As for the nerve conductivity... we're still studying that. Can you do Widowmaker's dice trick?"

The pilot smirked, picked up a bunch of dice from one of the games, and threw them into the air in front of her. She bounced them around on her fingertips for a couple of seconds, fingers moving at blinding speed, keeping them all airborne, until she let them land.

16 dice from a Boggle set landed in a line, spelling TRACER OWNS THE SKY.

"Luv," said the former test pilot, "You have no idea."

Lena and Widowmaker looked up from their dinner at a soft knocking at the clear glass wall.

"I thought they were finished with us for the day," said the sniper.

"So'd I," replied Tracer, nervously.

"Relax - it's just me," said a familiar voice - Winston's - over the speaker. "I'm not really supposed to be here, but I'm not really not supposed to be here, either, so..."

"Hey, big guy," Lena said, turning to the window, surprised when the room behind it lit up fully. "What's up?"

"I couldn't..." Winston looked at Lena's copper eyes, and managed not to flinch. I'll never get used to that, he thought. "I couldn't go another day like we have been," said the scientist. "I had to talk. Just... talk."

Widowmaker raised an eyebrow. "I would offer privacy, but obviously, I cannot."

"No... Am... Widowmaker, you're included. I failed you too, after all. McCree and I both. We were your backup, and we weren't there when we needed to be... in your case, twice."

"No," said Widowmaker. "Only once, for myself. Once also, I suppose, for Amélie, but - that was her."

The gorilla nodded. "Either way - an apology won't cut it, it's not good enough. I reached the apartment ... not even a minute too late. Maybe not even 45 seconds. But still too late."

"Wouldn't've helped," said the teleporter, "if you'd got there sooner. The video from Guillard wasn't even half of it. She and Moira would've taken you down in a second flat."

"Maybe, or, maybe not," he insisted. "I'm pretty hard to knock out - all this hair has some real advantages. A neck dart wouldn't even reach my skin."

"In which case, Oilliphéist may well have killed you," said the assassin. "She's fully capable, and was on mission - with her current conditioning, that would've overruled everything else."

He frowned. "She could try."

"Don't underestimate her, luv," said the teleporter. "We did, and, well, here we are."

Winston's head fell, and he chuffed, quietly. "I saw the flyer leaving - not clearly enough to get a registration number, but I knew you both had to be on it." He closed his eyes. "I tried to pursue, but..."

"Diplomatic vehicle?" asked the assassin.

"Yes."

"Figures," nodded the teleporter. "Given where we ended up."

"There's so much I'm not supposed to say... so much I wish I could say. But I can't. Not 'till Angela's team is done with you. But I can say I'm sorry."

Lena walked over to the window, and put her hand against the glass. "I know, big guy. It's not your fault - we all underestimated them both. But... thanks."

Winston put is hand up opposite Lena's, and said nothing.

"So... how's Jesse? Wids told me Moira left him alive."

"Or so she said, before I was sedated."

Winston did not grimace, or frown, but also did not smile. "Can't talk about that, yet. Sorry. I don't know why, but it's off limits."

"Well, for what it's worth, I have t'tell ya, from my end... I feel same as I ever was."

"As do I. I choose to think Emily's protection had weight. She certainly thought it did."

"I am desperately hoping all three of you are right."

"So'm I, luv," Lena murmured. "So'm I."

"This is actually the eighth time we've let you out," the doctor said, breezily.

"Wot?" said Lena, confused. "I don't remember..."

"You wouldn't. I've been keeping you from making long-term memories. I'm sorry, but... we had to see how you'd react to a variety of scenarios. Just because I couldn't detect anything..."

Lena nodded, glancing over at Widowmaker, who was just putting on her boots.

"This time's for real, though. We've got a welcome-back dinner..." she looked at the woman who had been made from Amélie Lacroix, "...and in your case, a welcome dinner. You've helped bring Lena back to us, and we are grateful."

The blue assassin smirked, and then, relaxed just a little, and almost smiled. "I... admit I am surprised. But thank you."

The three women made their way outside the cell, and down the hallway, towards the dining hall. Angela's personal research institute wasn't an Overwatch facility - not technically - but it had a lot in common with one.

"Lena!" Winston bounded over to the small woman as she lead the way into the mess hall. "I'm so glad you're finally out. We've been so worried."

She hugged the big gorilla and fuzzled his hair. "Oh, us too, luv. When we found out we'd been out of it for over a week... hoo."

"I've gone over and over what she's done to your accelerator - particularly the distance-teleport functionality. It's not a bad solution, I have to admit. I could build a variant of it into our drop ships. As an area effect with main drive power behind it, you could teleport at will, as long as you stayed in range." He scratched his ear. "I wish I could've done it myself. But trying to rebuild the core into a medical-safe housing - well, like I said. It's not my area of expertise."

Lena grinned and noogied her friend, and looked around the table. Wow, everyone turned up! She ran from person to person, as Widowmaker stood in the background, a little afraid to come forward until Lena made her. "I can't believe you've all made it all the way out here - Ana, you too?"

"We're not so far from Egypt, and it was worth the trip," said the older sniper. "Hello again, Widowmaker. Or may I call you Danielle? Your codename has... unpleasant associations, for me."

"I am well used to it, so..." she shrugged. "If it makes you feel better, then I do not mind."

Halfway through dinner, Widowmaker realised she couldn't remember what she'd had to drink. She looked over at Tracer, externally calm, and asked, "...do you remember the first course?"

Lena blinked, and looked down at her food. What had she eaten? Wait. How'd we get here from containment? What... She blinked, scared, and looked around.

Dr. Ziegler sighed. "Ah, you've noticed. I'm sorry, Lena. I lied. This is the eighth scenario. You won't remember it either, but if it helps, it was the last. The next time will be for real."

Over dessert, Tracer realised she couldn't remember what she'd had as a main course. She looked over at Widowmaker, suddenly afraid. "...do you remember the entree?"

Widowmaker blinked, and looked down at her wine. What had she eaten? And what is this wine? "...how... how did we get here from our cell?"

Dr. Ziegler nodded. "It took longer for you to notice than usual. I'm sorry, Widowmaker, but - I lied. We're testing your reactions to various Overwatch personnel in various situations, and this is the fifteenth scenario. You won't remember it either, but... if it helps, it was the last. The next time will be for real."

"We've definitely beaten them back on our side," Tracer said into comms, Talon agents retreating to their ship. "They're in full retreat. Widowmaker took out their... uh... when they... um..." She shook her head and looked up to her sniper, three stories above, who was looking just as confused. "Hey..." she looked around. "How'd we get out of..."

Mercy flew over in full Valkyrie mode, healing field enveloping them both. "Tracer, Widowmaker - I see you've started dropping memories. I'm sorry; I lied, before. This has been a simulation; we're testing your reactions to various situations, and this is the 21st scenario. If it helps... we're done. The next time you wake up, it'll be for real."

Over her latest pint, Tracer realised she couldn't remember how many she'd had. She didn't think it was that many, and she looked over at Widowmaker, confused. "...how much have I had to drink?"

Widowmaker blinked, and looked up from her sherry. She didn't usually drink sherry, but this wasn't bad. But... "...how... how did we get here from containment?"

Dr. Ziegler, sitting next to them, leaned across. "I'm sorry, Lena, but - I lied. We're testing your reactions to various Overwatch personnel in various situations, and this is the 24th scenario. You won't remember it, but... if it helps, it was the last. The next time will be for real. And this time, I actually mean it."

"...how many times have you said that?" asked Lena.

"I've lost count."

"I've got a few more scenarios to run, but after that, I think I've done everything I can do."

Winston nodded. "She seems all right to me, given everything. Same old Lena." He'd started to let himself hope.

Angela leaned forward, looking down a little, and tapped a finger nervously against the conference table's white surface. "To me, as well... I think... But there is something my grandmother used to say, from when she worked in computer security, and it is - what is the expression? Chewing on me?"

"I thought your whole family were biologists or doctors," said Mei-Ling, surprised.

"Most of them," Angela replied. "It is something of a family tradition. But my father's mother was an early computer developer. And a long time ago, in the old days of the Internet, they had a saying - "you can never know, for sure, that you haven't been hacked. You can only know, for sure, that you have."

"And you think that applies here." Morrison pondered the implications of that.

"It clearly does. At least they were not held long - that limits what could've been done. I can say that I am confident they will not turn on us, at least, not quickly, but... we should not take ours eyes off either of them. Not for some time."

Ugh, thought Lena, waking up on her and Widowmaker's bunk. At least it was shared. She reached over and touched her lover's shoulder. Two weeks. As cells go, it's comfortable, but I'm goin' nuts.

She heard a knock outside the cell, and the chime of the intercom. "Are you awake yet?" Winston said, over the speaker. "Or, I guess, really, are you... decent?"

Widowmaker blinked herself awake, and had the presence to reply, "Never, Winston - at least, not if I can help it. Are you bringing breakfast?"

"Lena, Danielle, please be serious," came Dr. Ziegler's voice. Danielle? thought the Widowmaker. "I am Danielle again?"

"Yes," returned the intercom. "You don't remember, but you said that was acceptable. I apologise for that - and shouldn't've used it before showing you the video. May we enter?"

Lena sat up, slowly, shook her head, and pulled on a tank-top. "Wids?" The blue assassin still had her bedshirt from last night, put it on, and nodded. "C'mon in - not like we could stop you anyway..."

The door unlocked, and it opened, and Winston and Angela did not step in. Instead, Winston had a big grin, the one he used when he was trying to be happy, and was, a little, but not as much as he wanted to be, contrasting against Angela's smaller, but more genuine smile. "Get your clothes and come on out. You're cleared."

"...What?" blinked Lena. "We've... checked out?"

Angela nodded. "I've done everything I can, and we've run you through ... a lot of scenarios that you do not remember. But I have video of all of them, so you can know all of what happened."

"Why... why don't we remember them? What'd you do?" asked the Overwatch agent.

"Kept you from forming long-term memories, so we could run each trial fresh. Welcome back dinners, nights out at a bar with the team and with individuals, emergency situations, even a few combat trials, to make sure you wouldn't change targets... a lot of tests. But nothing else was blocked - just the tests."

Widowmaker scowled, as Tracer nodded, slowly. "Hoooooo... that's scary, luv, gotta say it. But... if it's what y'had to do, it's probably for the best y'did it. Particularly," she said, stepping out into the hallway, "...given what I'm gonna to propose we do." She grimaced. "Despite who we'd be working with."

"You just viscerally dislike Dr. O'Deorain, don't you. It's a physical repulsion. I've never seen you react like that to anyone else."

Tracer snorted. "As soon as I met her. Can you blame me?"

"No." She shrugged. "I've always found her rather personable - it's her ethical standards I can't tolerate - but had she put me through the same things, I'm sure I'd feel the same way as you."

"I've never liked her," Winston added. "So I'm on your side of this one."

Lena grinned at her friend and exchanged a quick fistbump with the gorilla as Widowmaker appeared behind her at the doorway. "Must Lena still retain custody of my Kiss, while on site?"

"I'm sorry, but yes, and it remains unloaded." Tracer reached over, and squeezed Danielle's hand, as the doctor continued. "Also, Lena... for the moment, your pistols need to stay on the flyer. It's not that we don't trust you, it's that... well... we want to give that more time before deciding there won't be any surprises."

"Na, luv, I get it. S'long as nobody shoots at me if we get raided by Talon and I grab my guns."

"Do we have authorisation to resume contact with the outside world? Emily - Oilliphéist - is expecting to hear from us."

"Absolutely. Except for weapons, you're cleared for the facility. You may use the same transmitter as you used before."

"Thank you. Lena, we should do that."

"Yeh. Winston, you comin'?"

"Sure," said the scientist. "Breakfast first? The whole team is here. Everybody's waiting in the dining room."

Lena shook her head - that sounded almost familiar, somehow - and looked at Widowmaker inquisitively, and her partner shrugged. "Why not?"

"Then - yeah!"

This chapter is worksafe, with the possible exception of some moderately strong language. [AO3 link]

Lena Oxton bolted upright in her bed, leapt vertically, and jinked across the room. Where am I?! She grabbed at her chest, missing the weight of her accelerator, pawing at herself, terrified until she slowly realised that she wasn't slipping out of time - she'd teleported, without even thinking.

Looking over next to a closed door, she saw her accelerator - or a smaller, thinner version - resting on a charging station not unlike her own. What the bleedin' hell...? How'd I do that? Is this a Slipstream world?

Looking down, she realised she was in front of a window, dozens of stories above the ground, and standing on a dresser. She stomped at the piece of furniture - quite solid, quite real. Looking back at the bed from which she'd leapt, she realised, suddenly, Widowmaker?! as the assassin sat up, blinking, looking over to Lena, confused, then remembering, looking around, afraid... and then, less so, as she saw the Kiss, unloaded, but quite intact, by the nightstand next to their bed. She grabbed her, reassured herself with her presence, and placed her back down, nearby.

"Looks like we've got first class accommodations," Lena said, quietly. "And they were kind enough to keep your counterpart close. Thanks, invisible room monitor." She walked quickly over to Widowmaker, leaning her head against her lover's, whispering, "Do you remember anything after my apartment? I don't." "No," the defector replied, just as quietly. "But clearly, time has passed. Your eyes are..." she looked closely, to be sure, "...copper. They are beautiful, but they are new."

Lena paled as the room's door opened, and Oilliphéist came rushing in. "You're awake! Finally!" She wrapped herself around her lover, who found it took everything in her to push her back away. "You lied to me!" Widowmaker shouted.

"No! Yes! A little!" replied Oilliphéist, standing off, giving her counterpart her space. "It was horrible, and I hated it - I didn't want to, but I had to get you home! But that's the only thing I lied about, and Moira's agreed I'll never have to do it again."

"What's she done to us?" demanded Tracer.

"Nothing! Well, nothing much. Why, do you think I should?" interjected Dr. O'Deorain, as she stepped into the room, following Emily by some seconds.

"You call this nothing?!" Lena pointed at her eyes and snarled at the infamous doctor, a spike of instant loathing for her running across her body.

The doctor laughed. "Nothing psychological. Yes, I... fixed a few things for you, while you were here. I was, after all, an Overwatch medical officer, and you are a member of Overwatch, and I am, still, a doctor. You'll like it, once you know. Here, see?"

She reached over, and turned off Lena's chronal accelerator. Lena shrieked, and failed to teleport, but did back quite quickly into the wall behind her, which remained as substantial as ever.

"I thought you might appreciate a little insurance against incidents like the one in Numbani last year."

Lena reached around her, touching the wall, the bed, the wardrobe - all still entirely solid. "...how?"

"The anchor core was separable, and easily powered. It's part of you, now."

"...you implanted it?" She didn't trust it, or any part of it. Get it out, get it out, get it out...

"It runs off your own glucose - a far better solution, I think you'll agree, than before. You'll need to eat more, but not too unreasonably more, and you'll still need the vest for teleporting and time jumps. But you no longer need to be wearing it for that, and you'll get more jumps per charge."

"Yeh - I'll believe that when Winston verifies it, and not before. How'd you make room... inside me?" She shuddered at the thought.

"Easily enough done. Your lungs are slightly smaller, but vastly more efficient; you've come out ahead, I assure you. But let's skip the Q-and-A, shall we?"

She held up a hand, and started counting on long, long fingernails. "Thanks to all the head trauma you've suffered, your retinas were going to disintegrate well before you turned 40. Now, they won't." A second finger. "While I was in there, I got rid of your blind spots. Also," a third finger, "you'll see better in both darkness and extreme light." A fourth; "And, I have this wonderful new technique for improving nerve conductivity, so I threw that in as a bonus. You're even quicker, now, and more dextrous." She flipped her hands open, palms up, and took a little bow. "You're welcome."

Lena just stared at the doctor, the fear in her mind rising as the list grew. "Bleedin'... anything else?"

"Welcome to Oasis?"

The Overwatch agent glared in silence, trying not to shake.

Through all of this, Widowmaker had been inventorying her mind. She didn't feel reconstrained, but she knew from previous conditioning that she never did - she always felt like herself. She looked over to Oilliphéist, who still looked so beautiful, so perfect, and to Tracer, who still looked so perfectly annoying, so perfectly foolish, and yet, so perfectly... wonderful. If nothing else, she has let me keep this, she thought.

"And me, docteur?"

Dr. O'Deorain gave her an exasperated look. "My niece would barely let me touch you. You can't ghost, like she can, which is a bit of a shame. But she did at least allow me the nerve conductivity - you're now her equal in speed, though neither of you can keep up with your diminutive... friend... here."

I'll never trust my quickness again, thought Tracer, enraged. Fuck. Fuck you, doc. Fuck you.

Emily walked back over to Widowmaker, and knelt beside her on the floor, by the bed. "I'm really sorry she made me lie to you. But she swore she wouldn't touch you, not the real you, not your mind, not ever again, and I've stayed awake the whole time, making sure." She reached up, offering her hand. "Forgive me?"

Widowmaker hesitated, then took Oilliphéist's hand, and nodded, once. "Oh, god, I've missed you," the newer creation repeated. "It's so good that you're home." And Widowmaker smiled, relaxing, resting her head against Emily's and running her hands through her beloved's hair. "It's... so lovely to be with you again," she whispered. I wish we could do an associations check, she thought, but that is not a tool we should reveal here...

"How long we been out, luv?" Lena asked Emily, kindly, a little touched at the scene, despite herself.

"A little over a week," the once ginger replied, sleepily. "I've been watching over you both, worrying, night and day. I really need a nap."

"Why don't you take one, dear," said the doctor. "I owe our guests an explanation, and I do have a proposal to make."

Emily crawled into bed next to Widowmaker and held her, so tightly, and this time, Widowmaker didn't push her away, and didn't even want to. She smells so nice, she thought, sliding aside and off the bed as Emily curled up to sleep. And she feels so wonderful. But then... she always did.

"I imagine you're both hungry. Lunch?"

"No," said Tracer, as her stomach growled. "Well... maybe."

They were both back in their "guest room," Oilliphéist still asleep, the two of them at a small round table with four chairs, surrounded by windows overlooking the city. Tracer had turned her accelerator back on at first opportunity, not taking any chances.

Widowmaker nodded. "He has - or, at least, a few weeks ago, had - every intent of doing exactly that. All my most recent orders had involved helping him consolidate his power - I made a particularly lovely shot to kill a rather... more pedestrian... member of council, interested only in money, and not politics. A common criminal, risen far above his level, but at least he died beautifully."

"Killing Mondatta was part of the war effort, wasn't he." It wasn't a question, and Widowmaker did not treat it as one.

"Yes, absolutely."

Lena snarled, but considered the repercussions. "Seems t'me this kind of infighting must really weaken Talon. It happen often?"

The assassin smirked, wryly. "How do you think Akande went to jail?"

The door to the guest room opened again, and Moira appeared, with afternoon tea. Lena glared at the minister, who smiled in return. "Checking on my information? Good - that's only the proper thing to do. Tea?"

"No. Well... what kind?"

"A nice tippy assam, I find it good in hot weather. I'll go ahead and be mother, it seems only fitting," said the doctor, as she sat down and began pouring cups for the table. "And yes," she tilted her head just a little to Lena, "we'll share the same pot. We can even swap cups if you'd like."

"I insist," said Lena, after the cups had been poured.

Moira waved at the tea set, and smiled a tiny smile. "At your pleasure."

"You did it," Widowmaker said to Moira, as Lena swapped cups around. "She's... wondrous."

Dr. O'Deorain smiled the least-ungenuine smile Tracer had yet seen her manage. "She is. I always backed her petitions for enhancement. I have no idea why the rest of the board was so hesitant." She added just a hint of sugar to her tea, and took a careful sip.

"What else did you do to her?" demanded the senior assassin.

"Other than the obvious?" she laughed. "Very little. There were reasons she was the template, after all." She looked over to her niece, still asleep in bed. "She is more mission-focused, now. If it makes you feel better about what happened, I'm certain that's the only reason she was able to lie to you about the meeting. She even fought me on it. Honestly, I was surprised."

"She wasn't always floatin' about in a little cloud of euphoria, was she?" Lena asked. "Doesn't seem your type, love."

"No. That is also new," replied the Frenchwoman.

"And not my doing. I gave her everything she wanted, everything she'd ever dreamed, and it all actually worked just like she'd always hoped. What did you expect, depression?" Tracer glared, but Widowmaker laughed, just a little. "But... as you have demonstrated, the mind has a way of rebalancing itself to a kind of neutrality over time, and I've enabled her to avoid that fate, if she chooses. You can hardly blame me for wanting to see my niece be happy, can you?"

"Mate, I could blame you for saving an orphan from a runaway lorry."

The doctor laughed. "I can't blame you for that, right now. But I do hope that over time you'll forgive me this little incident. I couldn't exactly ring you up for a teleconference, could I? Not with what you know."

The minister put her tea back down, and leaned forward. "Look, I'll be direct. Akande is a danger to the entire world, and needs to be stopped. I do not have the political power within Talon to do it, which means it is time for a short, vicious, but small war, to prevent a long, disastrous, and genocidal war. I intended to go into it with myself and my two most brilliant creations, but I would prefer to go into it with you on my side, as well, and with Overwatch specifically deciding to keep its distance. If we lose - no loss for you and yours, it's all on us, and no "heroes" are implicated. But if we win... everyone wins."

"I don't believe you, mate," glared the teleporter, putting sugar and milk into her tea. "Somethin' else is goin' on."

"Something else is always going on," the doctor agreed, picking up her teacup. "Akande is shorting my budget within Talon, and it is affecting my work. Nothing matters more than that - nothing - and I will not stand for it. Renewed Omnic incursions would absolutely target this city, and, therefore, my facilities and experiments, and I will not have that, either. The chaos would set my research back years." She sipped her tea. "There. Is that selfish enough for you? I do not pretend to be otherwise."

"What's this 'small war' involve?" She almost growled the question. Bloody hell, you irritate me, she thought. No wonder Ziegler doesn't like you.

"Widowmaker will be familiar with kind of actions needed - distance assassinations, close-up killings, some theft, some intelligence gathering for blackmail, all the nasty covert games Overwatch pretends to hate, but did so very much of the first time around." She placed her cup back in its saucer, and added a little more tea. "This time, Overwatch wouldn't have to be involved, not directly. But you... you'd make a lovely addition to our little task force, and with your personal involvement with my two favourites, you can see why I had to ask."

"I'm not agreein' to anything," Lena said. "Not here, not like this." She sipped from her teacup, and looked down at it. Huh. A bit light for my tastes, but... not bad.

"You're free to leave, you do realise that?" asked the minister.

"Am I? Really?"

"Yes."

"Then where're my pistols?"

"Did you check the dresser?"

"...you serious?"

"Absolutely," the doctor said, adding just a little more tea to her cup.

As Lena arose to check the dresser - where her guns and wrist braces had been neatly put away in the top drawer - Emily stirred, muttering, "...pistols?" She sat up, blinking. "Pistols? Oh! Yes! Pistols! Lena, I have presents for you!"

"...wot?" replied the teleporter. "You..."

"Your old pistols are terrible! " She smiled, and shook her head ruefully. "Awful balance, erratic kick - how did you ever hit anything? " The armourer yawned, broadly, and stretched.

"Emily, you should get some more sleep. You've been up for days."

"I know, but..."

"You can give her your presents in the morning, dear. That's an order."

Emily muttered, and rolled back over, wrapping her arms around her pillow. "Fine..." she said, and closed her eyes.

Lena had snapped on her wrist holsters, and popped her pistols free, spinning them in her hands. Loaded, she thought, more than a little surprised. She pointed them straight at Moira's face. "So I can leave whenever I want, then?"

"Yes. But I wouldn't recommend shooting me first. Assassination of a government minister is frowned upon, here in Oasis."

Tracer flipped back her pistols. "Leave... alone, abandoning Wids here to be monkeywrenched? Not hardly, mate."

"You too," she said, turning to the former Talon assassin, waving her right hand airily. "At any time."

"And Emily?" asked the assassin.

"She should stay, at least a few more days - I'm not sure you remember this, Widowmaker, but the first months after your upgrades, you required extensive adjustments and maintenance, so that..."

"I remember," said the senior assassin, abruptly. "It was... extraordinarily painful."

"I learned a great deal from creating you," said the doctor. "It will not be so, for her. And less will be required." She sighed. "I'd've done it already, except she refused to sleep."

"Then," Widowmaker said, "we will have to wait, until that is finished. And I will watch you, every single moment, while you work on her, and if you do anything - anything - to her mind..."

"Bullets?" offered the doctor. "I know she's empty," she said, gesturing to Widowmaker's rifle. "Here." She reached into her jacket and pulled out a standard set of sniper rounds. "Just stay out of my way, while I work. You know how much I hate interference."

Widowmaker nodded, and took the rounds, inspected them, validating them as real, and loaded the Kiss. "Lena?"

"I don't like it, but - I'm not leaving without you, and I'm not gonna ask you to abandon her."

The assassin reached out, squeezing the teleporter's hand tightly. "Thank you."

"I take it, then," said the Irish doctor, "we're all in agreement?"

Lena nodded briefly, and the Widowmaker echoed her, a moment later, more slowly.

"We are agreed."