Chapter Text
“You’ll be meeting with Overwatch directorate. We organize by assembly, so if you’re looking to make accords you’ll need to prove to each of the ranking officers that this is a worthy alliance. Considering the gamblignant’s…role…that may be difficult. Overwatch is motivated solely in taking down the Empire, they’re less than pleased with a the fleet’s sordid history of piracy.” All the while your goldbooded guide tells you this, a twisting whirl of psionics keeps him several feet off the ground. Just. Floating.
You lean into Lynx’s ear and whisper, “he always do that?”
“Not while we worked together, no,” they say idly. “We all pick up new hobbies, it seems.”
“So you two were like, what?” you mutter. “Assassociates?”
“Matesprits, actually,” Zenyatta corrects, and you jump a little. He’s stopped in front of an impressive set of double doors with the distinctive sealant of a pressure locked room. He’s still just floating. “Can I offer any other advice before you meet the officers?”
“You have already been very helpful Zenyatta,” Lynx assures. “Thank you. And its good to see you on the far side of the white woodspike containment.”
Zenyatta shoots an absolutely dazzling smile at you all. “As to you, Lynx Seventeen. Good luck you three.”
The last of the aforementioned three lifts her head from the papers Lynx had previously shoved in her face and says, “uh, yes. Good luck to you too.”
This time his smiles is more of a smothered chuckle, and he nods one final time before gliding away on flickering charges of psychic power.
“Matesprits?” you ask, this time making sure Zenyatta is out of earshot. “Really? You’re meeting up after sweeps without seeing each other after both independently defecting from the Empire and all the angst you got for me here is water cooler conversation?”
“You were a member of the bureaucracy too, once upon a time,” they remind you. “You of all people should know the importance of concupiscentions born of necessity?”
You shuffle uncomfortably. In the way this little revolution has played out, it’s become apparent that you and Lynx Seventeen are the only true defectors. Everyone else left Alternia as fugitives, or never had the option to join up in the first place. Lynx is probably the only person on the Talon with your shared experience, but yet they’re the one troll you feel most distanced from.
Well, you suppose Moira shares that experience too, in a fashion. But Widow bristles every time you try to hang around her, and when even Sombra has found someone she wants to avoid, you know better than to press both your leaves’ limits.
Shrugging, you say, “I guess. Was that really all there was to it?”
They tilt their head. “When one finds someone they can tolerate, drumming up the barest minimum of flushed feeling is perfectly attainable when one’s survival is on the line.”
They make it sound so simple, when your dealings with quadrants have been anything but. The idea that someone could just choose to feel sounds improbable. As unlikely as choosing not too feel.
When you realize you’re probably holding up these Overwatch representatives with your chitchat, you lean over and snap your fingers in front of Zarya’s face. “Hey, Aspirant. We going to this meeting or what?”
She blinks at being disturbed from her reading, no doubt pages of homework Lynx has compiled so she has at least a general idea of who this strange group of freedom fighters is, and why they’ve reached out to the rebellion. You skimmed it, briefly. It’s a good amount of knowledge for an organization no one knew existed until last perigee. That can probably be thanked to Lynx’s inside man. Thanks weird floaty mustard.
Zarya nods. “Of course. The negotiations.”
Planetside architecture is always baffling to you. Stone or wood instead of metal, where those materials are abundant and you don’t have to worry about taking hull leaks into mind. Still, it’s more the fact that you’re on world at all that has you nervous: there’s only so many habitable planets in the galaxy. Living on a hunk of rock instead of the statistically more plentiful empty space paints a big red target on your back. Still, you’re not going to tell them where to put their base.
You have no idea what to expect, except that you (probably) won’t be backstabbed as soon as you walk through the door. Illicit reports hacked from the latest frigate the Talon took indicated that this group has been wanted by the Empire for a while, operating against their interests and in line with yours. Now it’s all about whether they want to be friendly or not.
That’s why you’re here, you guess. Officially you’re a “bodyguard” but if anyone needs your impotent protective instinct is certainly isn’t Zaryan. The fuchsia might as well be made of pure titanium for all she has to fear from a bunch of imperial washups. No, it’s more the intimidation factor. Ever since Moira reconstituted your entire body into a mixture of self-crystallizing nanodes you’ve been wearing this sick new outfit to keep them all inside, and you’ve got to admit it’s pretty terrifying.
When the doors finally slide open, you are greeted to a round table of staring masks, each director dressed down until their caste is indiscernible and their motivations more so. Lynx and Zarya stream past to join the table, their matching capes flaring out behind them as they part around you. You know the capes were probably going for “refined,” but you think Sombra had the right of it when she referred to them as “adorable.”
So you are left to stand guard at the now closing door, a stoic watcher with your arms folded and your face hidden. A good plan. However, any aspirations of stoicism are dashed by the fact that there is a giant fucking lusus in the room. You’re a little gobspacked.
You are even more gobsmacked when the lusus open it’s mouth and says, “Overwatch welcomes you, Talon. Please, take a seat.”
The delegates, no questions asked, leaving you standing here like a nugbone while no one can see your mouth flapping open under your mask.
“We appreciate your hospitality,” Zarya says, discreetly peeking at her papers under the table, “…Winston.”
Winston rumbles appreciatively, except that name is vaguely familiar and you do not remember the briefing mentioning the invitation was sent by an ape lusus. That’s the sort of thing that, you know, sort of jumps out at you. Then again, you were reading it while Widow was fussing with your new armor and Sombra was putting it back out of place every time she turned her back, so maybe you were a bit distracted………………..shit.
Winston smiles genially. You didn’t know an ape could do that outside of cartoons. “This is the first time we’ve had an opportunity to make progress, or even contact outside our organization in…ever.” All the chargebeast excrement formalities sour immediately as his next words form in his mouth. “Of course, as grateful as we are for answering our call, we’re cautious about offering a full alliance considering-”
“Cut the shit,” the troll at the far left of the table barks. “Are we going to sit here complimenting each other or are we actually going to start issuing ultimatums?”
Soldier: 76, you deduce. You remember that much at least, and it appears he has just a low tolerance for posturing as you are. You hate him already.
“I actually was hoping to see who could boost the other’s ego the largest,” Lynx says as they rest their chin on their hands, “but if you have a more pressing matter…”
Winston clears his throat. “What Soldier means to say,” Winston shoots the visor-clad troll of indeterminate hue a piercing look, “is that there’s a bit of an elephant in the room.”
“We’re not working with Doomfist,” Soldier bites.
Zarya immediately stiffens. “The Successor is our general and tactician. He is not- you cannot negotiate individual parts of Talon, nor of this revolution.”
“Not really a revolution though, is it?” the troll to Winston’s right pipes up, though not nearly as bitterly as Soldier. And unlike him, her eyes can be seen shining through the goggles fitted over her gas mask. This one’s Tracer then, infamous in every imperial report you’ve gotten your hands on, known for having a drone killcount in the thousands. “Just sort of playing pirates, no major tactical raids or anything. Overwatch had big goals, and we want to know you’re er…Well, it doesn’t seem like you lot are really serious.”
Through this, the Shrike has said nothing. The last member of the Overwatch directorate poses as Lynx’s mirror: hands folded, chin resting atop, her featureless black mask staring blankly at the proceedings. Except, now that you’re looking harder, you realize it’s not actually all that featureless. The Shrike has permitted a single aspect of anonymity, leaving her sign as a projection across her face, which watches in lieu of her invisible eyes.
The longer you look the more you see. There’s something familiar about it, you’re sure you’ve seen it somewhere…those three unconnected lines with the dot in the center…
Oh fuck.
The dickering of moral grandstanding is cut short as you rush forward and flip the table.
There is a brief commotion as you bring the mealplane up in the best cover you can while Zarya demands, “what in Sufferer’s name are you doing?”
“This whole thing’s a trap!” you shout over the sound of Overwatch scrambling to their feet. “The Shrike, she’s an Imperial Captain, and we’ve walked right fucking into it.”
Zarya affixes you with a blank stare as she processes that, but you don’t get to see whether she believes you since in that moment Soldier: 76 comes barreling around your half-erected cover and tackles you to the ground.
“Reaper!” Zarya barks as the two of you go skidding across the room.
Soldier freezes mid-pin, but you don’t let him recover from his hesitation before kneeing him in his biliary gland and standing up past him. The lusus—Winston—has climbed over the table and this really isn’t a fight you can win without guns especially since neither Lynx nor Zarya seem to want to actually help you as they gawk at the proceedings-
“Stop it. Both of you.”
The familiar wave of Ana’s psionics hits you right in the sleep bone. It doesn’t knock you out cold, but you wobble until your knees hit the carpeted floor and exhaustion threatens to overwhelm you.
76 swaggers to stand over you. “So you remember Ana but not me. I’m hurt, Reaper.”
He says your name so bright and poised that sweeps of memories inside a tin can floating through space come busting through for the second time in as many minutes. “Jjaakk?” you hiss in disbelief.
But he’s already gone back to treating you with that self-righteous indifference, as familiar as Ana’s consciousness in the back of your pan. He turns to Zarya and says, “it appears there’s been some confusion, Ma’am. This one,” he jerks his thumb at you, “is the real imperial loyalist. Shrike and I used to work with him before we defected.”
“Me?” you bark through your fogging mind. “You two are so damn loyal you died for the Empire. Or didn’t, it turns out. Mind explaining that one to me?”
This time Soldier just ignores you. Ana comes forward and says, “sleep Gaberl. We’ll sort all this out.”
She takes another stab at your psyche, but still you resist the yank into unconsciousness. She can’t make you go there anymore. You’ve learned all her tricks.
The table has fallen back into place, and the other two members of Overwatch look as uncertain as your own supposed allies. Zarya glances between Soldier and Winston before saying, “it appears we have some previously unknown interpersonal issues that have affected our diplomatic relations. Again.” She sighs. “If you will forgive us, I think we should end the proceedings for the day here. It might be best if we sort this out…not in person.”
Winston rumbles, “yeah. I think you might be right.” When nothing happens for a moment, he glares at Ana.
She withdraws her sleep psichosis, and the pressure on your mind finally lifts. Lynx carefully helps you to your feet, but you can still feel her and Soldier glaring daggers at you through their respective disguises. Talon might be retreating for the moment, but you aren’t done with them. Not by a long shot.