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Angela let out a long sigh as the medbay door sealed behind her.
There had been too many sleepless nights already, she thought as she shook her head and felt her way in the dark to her temporary workspace. But one more wouldn’t kill her. Just because Overwatch was an underground vigilante organization these days was no reason to neglect her paperwork.
If anything, it was more essential than ever that she keep her records in perfect order. If she missed the smallest sign, made the slightest error in judgement, failed to note a single item that might hold the key to a recurring pattern, there was no one else here to catch the mistake.
God, she was so tired.
She took a deep breath, shook herself, and gave the monitor a gentle tap to wake it. Even with the brightness turned all the way down she winced as her half-finished reports blinked blinding-white into existence, and glanced aside to turn on the desk lamp.
Her only warning was the sudden burn of a blood-red glare in the darkness.
Air sucked between her teeth as a patch of empty blackness suddenly heaved, but before she had a chance to scream rough leather clamped down over her mouth and nose. Her right hand instinctively went for a weapon she wasn’t wearing; too late, she cursed muscle memory and herself for not hitting the panic button under the desk instead, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Her attacked grabbed her wrist before she could have reached either of them, twisting it behind the chair’s back as she tried to fight free. Her teeth bit down on the thick glove smothering her, to no effect.
“Quiet.”
The gravelly command, rasped into her ear, coincided with the pressure being released from her nose or Angela wouldn’t have been able to register it through her panic. She sucked oxygen into her lungs, trying to turn her head to her assailant.
“I said calm down, Doc.” His grip on her wrist didn’t loosen, but he relaxed the angle and took some of the pressure off her shoulders. “I didn’t come to cause trouble.”
Still unable to speak, Angela gave a violent snort to convey her opinion of that assessment. Unmoved but apparently satisfied by the fact that she’d stopped struggling, her unwanted visitor released her. A moment later, the overhead lights switched on.
Angela cringed again, shielding her eyes in an automatic reflex; but no attack came. Her guest had turned his back to her completely, arm clamped to his side. His heavy, painful steps as he limped across the room and all but collapsed against a bed were unexpected after the swift, silent attack. A doctor’s instinct kicked in without permission as she looked him over. Broken ribs, almost definitely; his right leg was wounded, he was dragging it slightly...the taste of salt made her lick her lips idly, and where his hand had covered her mouth she tasted blood.
None of which stopped her from reaching for the alert button.
“Don’t bother,” the man said flatly, without turning to face her. “I disconnected that. You’re sloppy with your security. Athena should have raised the alarm when it was disabled.”
Angela’s eyes narrowed. Oh, she’d been frightened, certainly. But she did not take kindly to intimidation tactics.
“I’m sorry,” she said crisply. “Was there a point you intended to make?”
There was a long silence.
“Heard you were in the neighborhood,” the man answered, turning and lowering himself slowly to sit on the empty bed. If he looked at her, the metal visor over his face made it impossible to tell. “Took more of a beating than I can handle. I’m not as young as I like to think sometimes.”
Angela raised her eyebrows, incredulous.
“You,” she informed him, “Assume too much.”
The wounded soldier gave a low, mirthless chuckle. “World got you too, hey, Angela? In the good old days, your oaths meant something to you.”
Angela bristled. “Doctor Ziegler, to you, seventy-six,” she snapped. He half-looked around, straightening slightly at the number, and she crossed her arms. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that jacket you’re wearing.” What was left of it, anyway; it was more rips and stains now than fabric. But it was instantly recognizable, and anyone who watched the news was at least passing familiar with Soldier 76 and his exploits. Robberies, bombings, weapons theft, gang violence—and the media had the gall to compare him to people like Fareeha and Winston. “You are an unstable menace. A common thug who uses fear and force to prey on innocents.”
He gave a low snarl, and she ignored him, low heels clicking as she crossed to a cabinet and entered the security code to open it.
“I am a doctor,” she informed him briskly. “If you need healing, it is my duty to provide it. But do not mistake this for endorsement or approval.”
“I never asked for your approval,” he ground out.
“That is for the best,” she responded through her teeth. “I do hate to disappoint.”
He didn’t answer.
“Take that off,” Angela ordered him. “I will see what I can do.”
The next hour passed in terse silence as she patched up her unexpected patient. Ethics and professional pride more than her own honor meant that she was as careful and thorough with him as if he had been a member of her team. Cleaning and applying stitches over the deep knife wound in his side was the most immediate concern; his leg injury was less serious than she’d expected, particularly once he’d confirmed he was shot. All the bullet graze, and the countless other cuts and scrapes and bruises—some older, some painfully fresh—required was bandages and time.
She couldn’t resist the twitch of a smug smile at her lips.
Or perhaps, no time at all.
“Hold still,” she instructed, the first words spoken by either of them in a long time. Seventy-Six bared his throat as she flicked the needle on a syringe of nanobiotic stimulant that would not only make his recovery time nonexistent but also reverse the damage of some of his older, half-healed wounds. Angela did not oblige him, instead jabbing the stimulant a bit harder than absolutely necessary directly between his ribs.
The soldier yelled in equal parts pain and anger. Angela sniffed. If he wanted to walk around with broken ribs longer than necessary, that was his prerogative. But he ought to have said so.
He grunted as he ran a cautious hand over the injection site. It was already glowing slightly, golden light spreading under his skin as the bones began to knit back together.
“Always an impressive trick, Doctor Ziegler,” he said. “Guess it’s about time for me to clear out.”
I could not agree more, she was about to say, but then frowned. She somehow hadn’t noticed the ugly bruising along the side of his face, but it was serious enough to at least merit closer inspection, and she reached a hand out to detach part of her patient’s visor.
His hand lifted first, pushing hers away firmly. “Leave it,” he rumbled. “Just a knock.”
“I will determine that.”
“I said leave it, Mercy!”
“Honestly,” she snapped, and detached the face mask with a twist of her fingers. The man stiffened as she lifted it free and set it aside, and she rolled her eyes as she examined the bruising. The skin had not been broken, and more than likely an ice pack would be the only thing necessary for the swelling. Just to be certain, she clicked a penlight active and flicked it between ice-blue eyes. Normal pupil response, and he showed no other sign of concussion.
Without the visor, he looked like any other soldier she’d healed on the front. Angela felt a wave of grief, looking at him. He was only a man.
For the sake of whatever human qualities he might have left, she gave him a slight smile.
“Honestly,” she repeated, more gently and in better humor as she turned away to gather her equipment to be sterilized. “I would call it male insecurity, but Fareeha can be just as difficult sometimes.”
The soldier gave a low, gruff huff of laughter.
“Figures,” he said. “Must take after her mother.”
Angela snorted, then froze.
The familiar ease with which he’d used her name, his casual mention of Athena, the authoritative snap of her callsign when he’d gotten angry, she’d written them all off, but…
She turned back to him.
“How do you know…” she demanded, but halfway through her sentence something clicked into place in the back of her mind and suddenly she recognized the face and the eyes looking back at her, and Ana Amari’s name became a strangled “Schafseckel!”
Jack Morrison gave a dark mockery of his old wry grin. “That any way to talk about Captain Amari, Doctor—”
“Häb die Frässä!” Angela was aware that she was a little hysterical, but her former commanding officer had just come back from the dead to assault her in her office and bleed all over her bedsheets, so she was excused. “You—died. This is a trick I will not be party to, Morrison, you—Reyes?”
“Not sure. I’ve got my suspicions.”
He was just watching her, looking vaguely regretful but not showing signs of real distress or remorse, just...frowning slightly, like he was irritated with himself. Oh, yes, it must be such an inconvenience that his friends might learn he was alive.
Friends.
“Seven years, Jack,” she forced out, hating the way her voice shook, the tears—of joy, of anger, of terrible pain as the realization finally set in. “Seven years you let us believe...”
Another of those terrible non-smiles. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“The world decided it didn’t need us anymore,” he said. “It was better for me to just disappear.”
Angela’s eyes widened, and a cold fury began to settle in over her turbulent emotions.
“Do you have any other injuries?” she asked, voice clipped.
“I’ll be fine, Angela.”
“You’re sure? No pain?”
“I’ll be fine .”
She gave a clinical smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Good.”
And then she punched him in the face.
“Better,” she repeated as he cursed and clutched a hand over his nose while blood escaped through his fingers. Her voice was frigid. “It was easier, I think you mean—feiger hund, verdammt nochmal, we mourned you!”
“The job’s not over, Mercy. Someone has to finish this.”
Mercy fought the urge to swear again and lost. “Then you should have had the courage to stay and finish it,” she hissed. “You took advantage of us to live out some...some vigilante fantasy, hiding behind a mask, committing whatever crimes you please while we defend your good name to the press, do not look at me and claim it was a noble sacrifice! I held Lena while she sobbed at your funeral!”
The first hint of a true smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Tracer,” he murmured. “Saw her on the news awhile back. Never knew if she’d make it this long.”
“You would have known, if you had half her integrity.” If he’d stayed instead of running, leaving them reeling and lost while everything started falling apart. When he’d been needed most.
“She’s a good kid,” he said, standing and stepping into Angela’s space. She refused to step back. “But that’s not gonna be enough anymore. The world doesn’t need angels, Mercy. It needs results.”
“Get out,” she said, voice low and cold. “Do not come back. And if you so much as think about contacting any of them…”
His mask clicked back into place. Angela felt a swell of vicious satisfaction at how gingerly he performed the maneuver.
“Something we can agree on,” he growled. “It’s better that way.”
She flinched like she’d been struck—but the thought of Lena’s face if she learned, of how that disappointment would destroy Winston when they needed him to continue being the solid, dependable leader she’d thought they once had in Jack Morrison…
She closed her eyes. Quietly, in her heart, she let her commander die again.
He was still collecting his stolen pulse rifle when she opened them. Angela Ziegler turned on her heel, sat down to finish the reports she was responsible for, and did not look up to watch him leave.