Chapter Text
She finds beauty in the smallest of things, you think, watching her hands cup stray cusps of dust filtering through the hot, stifling air. A breeze carrying the heady scent of feces washes across your face, and you wrinkle your nose in obvious distaste, pinching your nostrils shut in a feeble attempt to turn away the foul smell.
Satya turns and sees your despairing expression. There are little bits of dirt still stuck to her open palm, and her smile only widens upon meeting your eyes. Forget the tiny, indescribable details of the world - she is beautiful, and your breath catches in your throat at the mere thought of saying so to her face.
You are no coward. There are simply things better left unsaid - a lesson you’ve repeatedly learned over the years.
Vishkar, for example, is racist, disgusting, underhanded, fascist, controlling, abusive, and more. You need not list their crimes to know the truth behind false smiles and temporary handshakes, to see through the quiet facade to the curling menace underneath.
But does Satya know? Oh, she questions, for sure - Satya questions everything. She questions the dimples at the corners of your mouth, the little quirk of your tongue when you’re concentrating, the sharp lift of your eyebrows at the mention of Overwatch or Talon. You try not to think of yourself as a book, but she’s tried to devour every page of you ever since you’d met two years ago.
You remember the way she had cocked her head slightly, warm brown eyes growing cold upon seeing your tense stature, the uneven slope of your lips, ready to bare your fangs. Old habits die hard; revenge flows through your veins like a lifeline, steadily pumping in and out your beating heart in a desperate attempt at escape. It is retribution, not revolution, not redemption, that you desire, and you are willing to wade through the harrowing pits of death to achieve it.
Satya ruminates over a limp flower, fingering the dull white petals with her prosthetic arm. You always continue to mull over your choices, but the past is the past. Let bygones be bygones, Captain Amari had quoted after a particularly grueling session with Strike-Commander Morrison. Learn from the day.
You clear your throat. “We should hurry,” you say, but your voice betrays your true intentions. Satya laughs, low and sweet, and rises. She places the flower in your hair, marveling at the sight.
You flush red. She does a little half-shrug, and you put your face in your hands. “Don’t be embarrassed,” she chides, and you copy her tiny shrug with as much contempt as you can with your face still in your hands.
“I’m glad I had the opportunity to work with you,” you murmur, and Satya hums in agreement. Has she always been like this, so happy and free? You do not remember, cannot remember. She had always been somewhat of an enigma.
“I, too, am glad.” her words come out stiff, not like herself, but she means it. God, you’re going to miss her.
“I’m going to get my stuff. Flight’s in a few hours.”
Satya’s eyes gleam in the failing light. Was it sunset already? “Keep in contact.” she pauses, and you swear you see her breath hitch. “Please.” She reaches out a gentle hand and squeezes your own, uncurling them from your face. It’s the closest thing to a hug you’ve ever gotten from her, and you can’t help but grin.
“I will. See you, Symmetra.”
She blinks blearily. You smell honey and cinnamon on her tears. “And you as well. Good-bye.”
It’s a forlorn farewell. An unsaid will I see you again? on closed lips.
The curtains draw to a close, and you never see Satya Vaswani again.
-
You lied.
It’s been, what, three years since that day?
And now she’s...she’s here , in front of you, weapons out and face contorted in furious, indignant, righteous rage - oh, shit , she’s looking at you -
You did not sign up for this. You can’t even take the damn mask off! Who designs masks like this? It’s barely a helmet! You’re going to die because of some dumbass engineer who can’t design uniforms for shit.
Satya might be slightly appalled at the fact you’ve developed a bit of a potty mouth, but hell, she’s going to kill you, so might as well go out with a bang, right?
Two words, one company: Volskaya Industries. After leaving Vishkar for greener fields, you chanced upon a nice job in the Russian company and settled in quickly and quietly. No more fieldwork for you, you’d thought, all cooped up in a comfortable office someplace off the United States’ east coast. No more drama and all the ladies and gentlemen and those in between at your disposal. You were going to get a date.
Performing well was supposed to land you raises, not...unreasonable requests. Demands, really, from the higher ups. You’d hidden your past history for a reason, and you did not appreciate how much dirt Vishkar managed to dig up. They must’ve brought it to Volskaya...fucking...damn, the old burning heat of vengeance wells up in your gut and you have to push it down to face Satya.
You remember. It comes up in a heated flash of indignation. Started seven weeks ago. The CEO herself stares at you, all hunched up and miniscule compared to the hulking size of Aleksandra Zaryanova. You raise a timid hand in greeting, faking a smile, but the woman doesn’t smile back. Expected, but hey, you tried.
She talks to Zaryanova first. You don’t catch much of their conversation, but considering the way Zaryanova’s expression goes from pleased to undeniably pissy in the span of a few seconds, you’re going to get an even worse assignment. If it makes the big, bad, buff pink lady mad, it’s going to drive you up the wall.
Zaryanova leaves. She looks at you once before she exits, clapping on firm hand on your shoulder in a sign of complete solidarity. All right, the clap says, your turn, time to get fucked in the ass for the upteenth time.
Volskaya gestured for you to sit, so you do, all priss proper like in the old movies. “Time is of essence,” she says. You gulp inaudibly. Whenever Reyes started with something like that, you got the short end of the stick mucking up cold corpses in some back alley. She continues, either not hearing your obvious displeasure or ignoring it entirely. You’re not sure which would piss you off more. “I’ve been informed of your...skills. And, though it pains me to say it…” her eyes turn to a set of photos on her desk.
Children. It’s her daughter she’s looking at. That hardened expression softens at the sight of the laughing child, as if melted straight off by some unseen force. Yeah, that’s what love does to you, alright, you know, yadda yadda, get to the point.
Hey, Internal Monologue™, you think. Tone down a bit, please and thank you. You’re depressed enough as it is.
She turns back to you, ice queen returned. “We are in dire need of them. I know this is a sudden request, and you wish to keep out of the public eye...but as an employee of Volskaya Industries - no, as a world citizen, I ask you to help me keep this country safe.”
Uh-huh. Not the first time you’ve heard that bullshit. Hello, Morrison! When did you come back from the dead to start spewing your patriotic humdrum all over my carpet floor? I just cleaned off all your indoctrinated puke!
You nod once. You don’t trust yourself enough to talk yet.
Volskaya seems relieved. “Thank you for understanding.” she hands you a small slip of paper, tiny, printed writing scrawled neatly over the pale lines.
You squint to read the writing. You realize this is no printed copy - Volskaya herself wrote it out for you. You commend her for the perfect penmanship, at least.
Your stomach sinks as you read, and you fold the paper into four halves before slipping it into your pockets.
“Do you understand, then?”
“Yeah,” your voice is raspy, unused, and mildly terrified. “I get it. Got it.”
Infiltrate Talon.
Not an easy first step...and that wasn’t even all of it.
You really fucked up. Big time.
-
Your head clears just as Satya fires a blast of semi-hardlight energy out of her photon projector. Dodging to the side, you run past the ball of energy and leap over a metal fence, ignoring the screams of the locals around you. Alarm bells go off in your head as Satya turns to face you again, her eyes blazing glorious, red-hot fury.
A crash from behind you signals a retreat. You whip around only to see three of your supposed comrades get obliterated by the swing of a huge hammer as tall as yourself. Reinhardt was here, oh god, and there was Tracer and -
Was that Fareeha?
Your AI friend peeps up inside your helmet.
CONFIRMED TARGETS: SATYA VASWANI, WILHELM REINHARDT, LENA OXTON, FAREEHA AMARI.
Mmmm, just great. You can almost smell your own death. Ana Amari was going to choke you out in the afterlife for even thinking about shooting her daughter, even if it wasn’t to kill.
You charge forward. Reinhardt reacts first, reaching his hammer out to smack you upright. You’re nimble enough to pounce to the side toward Lena, who pops out of timespace to thwack you over the head with one of her pistols, but you grab her arm and - well, she’s gone. Timey-wimey shit is unfair .
Meanwhile, Fareeha Amari, codename Pharah, tackles you from behind. She can’t use her missiles in a tight-knit civilian area (thank god, you’re definitely converting to a religion if you survive this), but she sure as hell can pack a punch. Several, in fact. Your bruised ribs crack underneath the weight of her armored fists, and you barely push her off with the help of a few other Talon members. They fire bullets into her Raptora suit and she escapes with a flourish of her jetpack systems.
Infantry like you are meant to die. You’re the leader of this ragtag squadron, and they know . Overwatch isn’t dumb. They go after the alpha, head of the pack, first.
You wonder why you accepted the position in the first place. Too late to regret it, anyways.
Licking your lips, you feel hot sweat trickle down your cheeks. “We’re retreating. Fuck this, I want to live long enough to retire.”
A young woman in your squadron responds to the communicator call. “You won’t have enough in your damn savings to retire if we come back like this.”
“Rather alive than dead, cadet. Won’t be able to act like hot shit if you’re a smoldering corpse on the ground.”
“That is the equivalent of ‘hot shit’. Literally.”
You sigh. Your sides hurt like hell, like liquid fire. Who knew it would be Fareeha that’d pummel you into a bloody pulp? You thought it’d end up being either McCree or Morrison. “We. Are. Retreating. Bye, I’m out. Take the windows by second base, the little fire trail Tracer left when she came in. Then get out. Call Reaper while you’re at it.”
The woman splutters. “ Reaper? He’s not gonna respond.”
You grit your teeth. “Tell him that he’s going to get all of us killed, including the teenagers, if he doesn’t show up and shoot up the place.” Bad choice of words, good meaning.
That does the trick. You hear the cadet make a hurried call from the other end of the line, and it connects.
Police are already swarming outside. Fine. The kids need to get out. You know there’s so much corruption everywhere - it’s seeped into the skin of children all around the world, tugging them into an overflowing abyss of underground filth, the only way for so many to survive - and you hate it. You detest it all, but you revel in it. The irony hits you like a bag of bricks.
Blackwatch will haunt you until you draw your final breath. It will follow you into the deepest, darkest, dampest corners of existence, and you feel your sins crawling up your spine.
You see a wheezing recruit a few yards away, hiding behind the destroyed remnants of an office desk. They’re young, or maybe around your age - you’re not sure. Half their helmet has been blown off to reveal brownish strands of hair caked in blood.
Ah. There it is: the guttural embrace of an uneasy death. Half their face has practically been torn away by bullets or explosions. You vaguely recall a classic book from the late twentieth century, something about wars being like glaciers. Might as well be anti-glacier if you’re gonna be anti-war. It’s always gonna be there.
So it goes.
“Hey. Are you awake?” There’s a lull in the fighting as you lean forward, taking the kid’s hand in your own. They’re barely breathing, wheezing out puffs of useless air that does not reach their lungs.
The Swiss HQ was like this, too, surrounded by dying bodies sucking in tepid breaths. You speak quickly and smoothly, holding a hand to her feeble heart. “Easy, now. It’ll be quiet soon. Over in a flash. Maybe you’ll get to meet Einstein. Maybe you’ll get to sock your pa’s murderer in the face. You can do that, you know. Go easy, I’ll take care of you.”
The girl’s remaining eye flickers toward you. She rattles one last breath, the trepidation before the end, and goes limp.
You wish someone was by Ana’s side when she died, too, but let bygones be bygones.
Too late to regret, anyways. You leave the recruit’s body and make a break for freedom: the sounds of gunfire ricochets around you, the police having arrived on scene, but you’re deaf to it all. You’re so, so tired.
But no. You know what happens when you sleep.
There was a reason you didn’t die at HQ.
Overwatch is still not officially sanctioned, but the police force doesn’t seem to care. Talon soldiers (fodder) fall to the ground, gurgling blissfully, and most die in the firefight. Reinhardt looks godly in the limelight, his roars echoing around the airport, charging against an onslaught of rapid assault.
You clutch your chest. The miniature chemical chamber that was entrusted to you is still there. God, you’re working for a bunch of terrorists, but there were so many children there, too.
They’re still after you. You hear their cries from across the smoldering wreckage. Tracer’s peppy voice is distinguishable among the rabble. “Hey! There they are! Go, go!”
Reinhardt responds heartily, the feedback of his hammerstrike reaching your ears. “We cannot allow them to reach the middle sector! Lena, hurry!”
Beliefs intersect. Volskaya asked you one thing; Talon begged the other. You’re not too sure where your loyalties lie anymore. The receiver in your chest beeps like a heartbeat.
Tracer appears before you in a bright flash of blue, guns at ready. She fires in quick succession, and you feel the wind knocked out of you at impact. The armor you wear is strong, stronger than most, but it dents and bends underneath the rain of pulsefire.
You barely manage to sprint at her before she blinks away, continuing her attack on your sides. The AI in your helmet blips in warning, your shields dangerously low.
Fareeha materializes behind you. You know this because a missile explodes only feet away, engulfing you in scorching heat and pain. You flinch away, your rifle trembling in your hands, and you take a few steps forward.
You must look odd, walking away from wounds that should kill. It isn’t the first time.
You’re so useless. You hate it when it comes to the end: entrusted with everything, given nothing in return. What did they expect from you?
Reinhardt hovers above your blurring vision, eyes watering. Your helmet is still on, funnily enough. Satya comes up beside him, and you see her hardlight turrets secured around the general vicinity, all trained on you.
Tracer - Lena - steps in front of you. She’s cautious. “Hey,” she says. “Are they gonna blow or are we safe?”
“Winston did not say what they were carrying.” Fareeha’s face is hidden underneath her Raptora helm, resembling a blueish hawk with golden tints.
Satya looks at you, hard. “I have a feeling,” she says, slowly, terribly, and you’ve never seen her so disappointed.
The turrets take aim. You’re blissfully unaware of anything else other than the tender moments before you close your eyes, finally.
A grunt. You open your eyes to see Reinhardt throwing up his shield, the turrets shooting lasers at the group surrounding you. Lena dodges, temporarily blipping out existence, and Satya ducks behind Reinhardt’s shield. Fareeha, on the other hand, soars in the sky, aiming to avoid the brunt of the turret assault - they seemed more focused on Reinhardt at the moment.
You blink.
Three turrets turn from Reinhardt and aim for Fareeha’s boosters. She lets out a startled sound of confusion before she’s falling out of the sky - even turrets aren’t supposed to have that precise aim - and Lena rams into her to soften her fall. It’s a mess, uncoordinated, and you understand why Overwatch is still floundering in its infant stage.
The heroes aren’t yet connected. So it goes. Old and new don’t always mix well at first.
Shotguns sound behind you, and Reinhardt whirls around the block the new foe. Reaper sighs, an owlish gesture, and takes one of your arms in his own. “Widowmaker,” he grunts. Sniper support pins the group down, and the turrets begin aiming at individual targets.
“We’re retreating,” Reaper tells you, and you nod through your muddled haze of consciousness. He ghosts, appearing yards away, and you barely register that your supposed to be running - but your body responds. Or the armor does, anyway, and it moves your legs by itself, dashing from the scene and following Reaper out of the compound.
Widowmaker watches you through her scope as you pick your way through the destroyed site, waiting patiently by the helicopter. Reaper leaps on first, followed by the sniper, and you jump. One leg twists before you do, and you feel yourself falling.
Something catches you. A neon-purple arm. It’s quite pretty.
They drag you into the helicopter, which is already revving its engines to make a getaway. Somehow, you’re not surprised: was this all a ruse to pick the best of the bunch? Overwatch did the same. Blackwatch did the same.
“They need medical attention,” Reaper mutters.
The woman in front of you - the one in neon purple, blue, and a stylish overcoat that could probably pay for your entire retirement fund - laughs. “You’re a cute one, aren’t you…” she trails off when she notices you nodding off, eyelids far too heavy for your liking.
She gently taps the nose of your helmet. “Well. Hopefully we’ll be seeing each other again - you were fun to play with.”
“You could always ask.” Widowmaker says, cleaning her sniper rifle. She doesn’t even glance in your direction. “Talon would gladly give you a useless soldier to toy with for your experiments.”
“Sombra.” Reaper turns, half-growling, half-amused.
“I know, I know. But it was interesting!” Sombra whirls around in her seat, leaving you alone to your thoughts. “They have such a nice body.”
Reaper sighs. Widowmaker makes no response other than the repetitive squeak of her rifle cleaning.
You know you cannot last any longer. Your consciousness is slipping faster than Morrison’s pants when Reyes was around. The last thing you remember is the gleam of lavender eyes against a backdrop of black, like a cat stalking its prey.